Cosmopolitan 1911-04: Vol 50 Iss 5

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re ya With or without the wrapper, this is the cake that users and dealers recognize as the standard of accom- plishment in the household. APOLI cleans when others fail, does the most work for the least money. A plain, sturdy servant that never gets tired, that lightens and_ brightens longest, that Cleans, Scours, Polishes. Works Without Waste. L LORE EBSA

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IN THE DAY OF THE HARVEST By EDWIN DAVIES SCHOONMAKER YE have plowed, ye have sowed, and the harvest shall be of its kind; What ye sowed ye shall gather and grind; What ye grind ye shall bake, saith the Lord, and, or bitter or sweet, In the days that shall be ye shall eat. I am He that looks over the fence. I see, saith the Lord, How ye gather the fruits for your board. And the mills of my patience run down. I wil come, I will come, And the mirth of your feast shall be dumb. Did ye deem that the Lord was far off? I have seen how for gain Ye have dammed up my rivers of grain Till the poor in the cities have moaned. I have heard me the cry That for justice hath come up the sky. And a patter of feet hath come up through the roar of your mills, Where childhood hath gone to your tills. Ye shall be as the hiss of the foam that hath died on the sand; Ye shall be no more in the land. Did ye deem that my wrath was a cloud that had thundered and gone, Swallowed up in the smile of the dawn? Clouds return, saith the Lord. Have ye heard, when I éalled over France, How the Terror joined hands in her dance? In the day that ye eat I will pour ye the wine, saith the Lord; I will come in the night with a sword. And your towers shall be as a reed in the breath of my might When I come, when I come in the night. And ye that have drained off the laugh from the mouths of the poor, Ye shall know that my coming is sure. And ye that have poisoned the strength of the children of men, What caverns will cover ye then? I will come with a roar, saith the Lord. I will rouse up the slave Till he win back the soul that I gave. I will toss with a shout into battle the rich and the poor. Ye shall know that my laws they endure.

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WHERE IGNORANCE SQ IS BLISS 5 BY REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN ' DRAWING BY CHARLES A. WINTER a I iY ~ ——————— The torch-bearers of knowledge have ever been resisted by the word ard deed of those who were con- tent in ignorance. But ignorance is never bliss. It is always pitiful, cowardly, or criminal 580

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@ HAT he doesn’t know won't hurt him.” That is the excuse we give for not telling our neighbor an unpleasant truth about his own affairs. It is what the quack says of the unsuspecting sufferer from en obscure but fatal malady. And it is a lie. “What his majesty does not know,” said the advisers of Charles I, “he should not be disconcerted by”; but he was worse discon- certed at Whitehall. That Duke of Newcastle who was for twenty- four years an English minister for the American colonies addressed his letters to “ The Island of New England"”—and the result was the Revolution. The courtiers of Louis XVI decided that their king's ignorance was blissful, and so their king's education could not be started until the fall of the Bastille, and was not ended until the fall of the guillotine. Good things for mankind, these? Certainly. But there are examples in your own experience where the silence of friends has been bad both for the individual and for society. According to the con- ventional standard, the deceived husband is a menace to all his wife’s acquaintances. According to any standard, the deceived buyer sets a premium on crooked salesmanship. The whole voting-world over, the deceived elector is the first aid to misgovernment. A process toward a general wisdom in regard to disease is pain- ful, but it ends the need of cure by the presence of prevention. Only ten years ago there were men who said that muckraking was a folly —as, indeed, it proved to be for most of the men who said so. There was also a time when polite Puritans did not think it quite respectable to discuss the darker evils of chattel slavery; but discus- sion brought emancipation. In like manner, if the women of this country knew the cruel facts about prostitution, the evils accruing from prostitution would be lessened by twenty-five per cent. in five years; and if the workingmen of this country went through the un- pleasant ordeal of learning just what it is that makes labor a scorned thing, in a quarter of a century labor would become the honored ele- ment that demagogues now proclaim it to be. Ignorance is never bliss. It is always pitiful, cowardly or crim- inal. He that deserves the truth can bear it, and whoso can't bear it should be broken by it as kindly, but as quickly, as possible. What you know is not yours to keep: it is yours only to give away. WHERE IGNO- RANCE IS BLISS

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Cosmopolitan Vol. L COPYRIGHT BY THE CHRONICLE PUBLISHING COMPANY The latest spectacular feat with an aeroplane. On January 18th Eugene Ely, in a Curtiss biplane, left the with the officers, and then flew back to land. The New Wonderful Feats of An up-to-the-minute story of the almost unbeliev- cast by two of the best known experts in aviation of By T. R. MacMechen HE passenger-aeroplane is here. It has come as unexpectedly as man’s first flights, four years ago. But the public has not yet real- ized its arrival. Intent on the feats of the single flying man, it has failed to note the aeroplane, toy of the past four years, giving place to Farman’s capable machine, which flew twelve miles with four passengers; to Sommer’s sturdy craft, which made a trip of thirteen miles, from city to city, with six travelers; to Major von Parseval’s huge German machine, which carries four to eight men from two to four hours—a flying range of 136 miles. These are startling achievements—new, up to the minute; and the change from long flights by one man to the reliable transportation of several per- sons has taken place as quietly as has each phase of progress in human flight. 582 COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY

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1 @ ese a st 2a 1911 aviation field in San Francisco, flew over the city and bay, landed on the cruiser “* Pennsylvania, photograph shows him starting on the return flight the Wizards No. 5 * lunched of the Air able progress of the world’s bird-men—with a fore- the surprises in store for us within the next few years and Carl Dienstbach That we are near the time when the com- muter can board an aeroplane bound office- ward, or a business man make a real flying trip from New York to Philadelphia, is al- most as hard to believe as that the first flights were more than the short-lived tricks of a few daring men; but in one year and a half popular skepticism, first shaken when Bleriot drove his machine over the English Channel, has changed to popular expectancy, so that McCurdy’s recent and far greater exploit of flying ninety miles over sea got hardly a ripple of applause. Paul- han’s convincing journey from London to Manchester and Curtiss’s trip from Albany to New York were both overshadowed by Chavez’ lofty, though fatal, passage of the Alps. But, after all, were these fragile, one- man machines, dependent upon favorable 583

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584 New Wonderful Feats of the Wizards of the Air weather, really practical conveyances for every-day use? Did they promise complete conquest of the air? Or have Ely and McCurdy simply been developing a very limited flying-auxiliary to warships at sea and a fast mail-carrier for short distances? That kind of an aeroplane is popularly dis- appointing; it fails to measure up to the modern idea of travel transportation of many persons together; and for doing this the immense advantage of the dirigible over the aero- plane still goes unchallenged. The aero- plane of com- merce must carry either a few passen- gers at tre- mendous speed, or many pas- sengers at a moderate speed. How will it do this? Less than four years after the Wrights first soared, Major von Parse- val, the designer of famous German dirigibles, foreseeing all the details that go to make a real aerial conveyance, has built a huge aeroplane of steel. Its two pilots, one en- gineer and one navigator— dividing the duties that have caused the single aviator’s blunders—handle this craft safely, even in winds. A motor of 120 horse-power, the most powerful that has driven any aeroplane, sustains the two-ton machine on a single spread of wings fifty-five feet wide, larger than any that have lifted men on the air. The specified passenger capacity of Parseval’s big monoplane is four men, but, for a short time, it has easily transported eight, “and, packed like the smaller Farman and Sommer machines, it could carry ten. To do this regularly for four hours will simply CHROMULE PUBL 5 Eugene Ely landing on a specially prepared platform on the deck cf the “ Pennsylvania.” Ropes were stretched between the bags of bal- last and, being caught by hooks on the wheels, helped to stop the air- ship.—Ely in an improvised life- preserver for use in case he fell into the water mean building a machine twice the size of this one: four tons can fly as well as two. Even in 1892, before men knew how to fly, Sir Hiram Maxim’s four-ton aeroplane, with a wing-span of 102 feet, rose into the air, at a speed of thirty-eight miles, and sustained a ton of cargo. handle a easily as two do Parseval’s, Three trained men could four-ton mammoth as which shows that the aeroplane’s_ develop- ment is leading us right back to Maxim’s once ‘impossible ’’ colossus. In fact, General Brun, the French minis- ter of war, now demands machines half the size of the Maxim, be- cause they must be able to carry three men and cover 136 miles without land- ing. This is Parseval’s radius of action. And, like the German inventor, the French general finds that one man is not a safe pilot, being too quickly confused and exhausted in winds. Two pilots, work- ing in relay, will handle dupli- cate controlling-levers. These are already in use on the rg11 Wright biplane; the reserve pilot corrects the other’s mis- take if their craft begins to upset. Two pilots and a two- ton machine to transport one military observer safely! What must be the size of the aeroplane that safely—and comfortably—carries its crew and two or three mere travel- ers, in a cabin? Evidently the size of Maxim’s “impos- sible” aeroplane. More significant is the French minister’s statement that he will be satisfied with a speed of only thirty-eight miles an hour. The passenger-aeroplane will not be faster He may well be satisfied.

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T. R. MacMechen and Carl Dienstbach 585 Forty miles an hour is fast enough in the free air- way. The only gain in a giant racer is that a crew of three men should safely handle it in astorm. These giant machines will safely land. Since Eugene Ely has demonstrated such marvelous control in alighting, with a small machine, on a battleship’s deck and Roger Sommer with six pas- sengers—one and a quarter tons, in all—has come down with perfect security on his sturdy trucks and wheels, it is evident that the largest machine, with whole rows of these trucks, will safely alight. The comfort and protection of the airship’s pilot will command increas- than the big machines already tried. The public has been grievously misled by aerial racing-toys. Bleriot’s spectacular monoplane is simply a toy, packed with a freak engine— and fuel that gives out in one hour. Apply its speed of sixty miles an hour to a huge aeroplane: this would be driven only one hour, because it also must be crammed with fuel. For sixty minutes it will carry more passengers, but to {ly longer some of them must remain behind in favor of more gasoline. On Bleriot’s own scale, amonoplane witha wing-span of sev- a enty to ninety feet, and ; ¥ motors of ¢ . one thousand horse-po wer— designed to make seventy-four miles an hour—will trans- port three men only a half- hour longer than his racing- toy, and cover but 120 miles. From the stand- pointofeconomyand Three photographs weelulness, this ig 26S. s08 = #7 ing attention: he must not be left at the mercy of the weather. After protecting himself in a boat-like body, Farman flew for eight , hours in suc- ‘ wf cession. But now, at Darmstadt, Germany, August Euler’s military biplane has the first enclosed cabin with pointed ends to permit of cleaving the air with- out retarding the machine’s speed. The cabin extends showing the progress— from front to rear in protecting the aviator across the center of 7 De from the intense cold which he so often encounters. . . absurd. The W rights Archie Hoxsey entirely un protected—numbness from cold the wings. Inside, a waste . i. may have caused his death: Henry Farman with an improvised ilo and a scout, te no tim e wind-shield; and John B. Moiscant in the latest development. pil ta on racing-machines. ‘a- coekett comfortably seated,

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586 one behind the other, are entirely protected from wind and cold; in front of the scout is a small desk, for sketching and holding navi- gating-maps. That is not all—a machine- gun, fired by pressure of the foot on a lever, projects past the pilot. All this indicates the flying-machine’s growing weight and size. Yet ten passengers will not be stowed away in a single Euler compartment, in the center of the wings; this centralized load would add tons of unnecessary weight. The ma- chine will be differently arranged. PASSENGERS WILL RIDE OUT ON THE WINGS The present machine’s. wing-span is en- tirely empty except for the ridiculous heap of men and engines on its center. The Wrights and Farman will not carry crowds of passengers in that fashion. Farman is now developing his big biplane for regular trans- portation; Henry Weymann, on this ma- chine, piloted himself and three passengers thirty-seven miles across country in one hour. The Farman’s large wings have, indeed, carried five passengers for twelve miles. But they were huddled behind the pilot, to keep from impeding the speed; if comfortably seated all along the wing’s edge, the machine could hardly cut through the wind. If still separated in this way, each passenger will be encased in a long, cocoon-like compartment—rather small for comfort at first, perhaps, but cleaving the air as easily as Euler’s cabin. Gasoline- tanks are at present being carried out on the planes. Moreover, the Wrights have al- ready placed an engine, two propellers, and two men wide apart on the wings, because they find that by distributing their cargo in this way the aeroplane gains capacity, as the air, spreading-out evenly beneath the wings, gives equal support everywhere. In fact, there is no other way that the greater burden of passengers and engines can be lifted, since the machine’s strength does not increase as its weight. Army experts in Europe, and this country’s mili- tary observers abroad, have all reported that the biplane will be much more effec- tive in full crews, guns, and ammunition than the faster monoplane—even in mile- age. (On a Farman biplane, Lieutenant Cammerman and a scout have flown for 147 miles without landing.) Now the biplane has always carried more simply be- cause the effect of its load—even on the center—is scattered over two pairs of wings, New Wonderful Feats of the Wizards of the Air instead of the monoplane’s one pair. When these two types are of equal strength and wing-surface, the biplane is twice as light for its size. And if the monoplane were not less than half its slower rival’s bulk, it would be too heavy to fly at all. So it is easily seen that the biplane will gain much more by scattering its load. Passengers, ma- chinery, and fuel-tanks can be as easily dis- tributed all over its ample wings as wheel- barrows are strung over a bridge, on the same principle that a bridge, to sustain numerous wheelbarrows, can be safely strong, yet lighter than a span supporting one heavy truck. Aeroplanes 100 feet long, 120 feet wide, and fifteen feet in depth-of wings will be common. Over such a mam- moth, on the Wrights’ own conservative scale, four tons can be scattered. In short, from the persistent demand for serviceable flying-machines and practical flights, it is reasonably certain that within three years biplanes will carry nine passen- gers and crews of four. The same crew should handle a thirty-passenger craft. These flying colossi will have ample margin for instruments, baggage, and supplies to make trips of two to three hundred miles. With fewer passengers, but more fuel, they should cross the Atlantic. Not to impede their flight, travelers must ride in five narrow, torpedo-shaped shells, of artifi- cial mica, fore and aft. These close quar- ters, with transparent tops, sides, and bot- toms, will be lightly ventilated by a blower when on the ground; in the air, this will be supplied by the wind, diminished in passing through a valve, and variably warmed by the motor’s exhaust. NINE PASSENGERS AND CREWS OF FOUR These shell cabins will be placed midway between the upper and lower wings, the central and end ones around bars connect- ing the front and rear uprights, and support- ing the motors, the other two along the rudder-poles. As the shells will pierce the wind half-way between the wings, they can- not impair their supporting power. The cabins along the rudder-poles will each house three passengers, seated canoe-fashion in cushioned cradles, with head-rests and foot-braces, their heads in transparent hoods along the tops of the cabins. One passenger can be accommodated in each of the other cabins, with the propelling-machinery in the rear—fuel-tanks and three muffled motors,

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Turning from the toy to the machine monster machine, which is driven and has planes covering 1000 graph reveals the massiveness of each of sixty-five to eighty horse- power. One pilot- engineer will be with each motor, the captain in the central shell. Telephones, work- ing without re- ceiver or trans- mitter, will place all _the occupants of the The largest aeroplane ever built. of tonnage—Lieutenant Seddon's by two eighty-horse-power engines fquare feet. The center photo- the motor part of the machine — : cabins on Bin en easy TMHLL| speaking terms; illuminaticn will ‘be by lights out- side. A small dining-shelf, like Euler’s sketch- ing-desk, a locker and his baggage behind him, will complete the passen- ger’s comfort. The A ta Sir Hiram Maxim, in 1892, constructed a four-ton machine with a wing span of 102 feet, which rose into the air and carried a ton of cargo. The practical aeroplane of the future will approximate this one in size

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588 motors will furnish enough power quickly to shift the large rudders and balancing-tips. As the heavy Wright and heavier Farman plow more easily through gusts than does the smal! Bleriot, it is evident that a huge machine, swinging very slowly in the wind, will give its pilots more time to balance. In France, the military helmsman’s hands are full in merely keeping his craft balanced, by instinct. But ona ten-ton aeroplane the pilots, instead of simply “feeling” the list of their machines, must ascertain this by many instruments. Offhand, these might seem easy to provide; but a capsizing aero- plane always turns so sharply about that a pendulum flying out sideways still appears to the pilot—suspended in space—to be hanging straight down; an air-bubble level acts on the same principle. The gyroscope, best driven by electricity, indicates cor- rectly at the outset, but less reliably while the machine keeps on swaying; during quiet periods, the pendulum will correct or “ cali- brate”’ the gyroscope. These several duties settle beyond question that an aeroplane of substantial tonnage must be operated by a trained crew. A HUGE SHIP: A TRAINED CREW Even better safeguards must be provided before the aeroplane is legally permitted to operate in public service. Balancing in gusty winds is the same as sighting a gun on a rough sea, a trick solved by one gunner serving side-direction, the other elevating the piece. Two pilots, one handling noth- ing but the front elevating-plane, while the other works only the side levers and the rudders, will be more likely to prevent gusts from upsetting the aeroplane. Helmsmen will be spared all worry about machinery; an aid, seated near the motor, will adjust defects that. now often stop flights. Two men, dividing the machine’s control by levers handled from any seat, are expected to develop a skill in flying that now seems fanciful; and three in a way that is almost past belief. The present machine has a few “muscles” —rudders, balancing-tips that help the pilot’s levers to control it—but it has no “nerves” in its wings. Now, the sense of touch in its outspread pinions tells the bird how to maneuver to outwit swirls in the air; Charles K. Hamilton also finds that the secret of flying in the wind ismot in correct- ing, but in forestalling the machine’s tilting. New Wonderful Feats of the Wizards of the Air Something of this bird-craft has been learned by him and Louis Paulhan, whose front guiding-planes “feel”’ a gust a wink before it strikes their wings. Fingering the levers as lightly as a billiard-cue betrays, through the vibration, the strength and direction of coming gusts. But this constant strain soon exhausts a pilot, who then attempts to right his machine after the wind has played its prank, which is often too late. The ad- vantage is all with the bird; it feels the exact weight of air on every part of its wings. But soon the aeroplane will have ‘‘ nerves” almost equaling the bird’s. Wind-gages have shown that a gale’s force varies on every part of a building; Professor Ludwig Prandtl, of Géttingen University, Germany, has made charts of these pressures against airship models having a series of small holes connecting rubber tubes with the gages. This device, connected with the controlling-levers, is being adapted for large aeroplanes, where it adds little weight. Small gages all over the wings indicate the shifting air-pressure on a dial right in front of the pilot’s eyes. Wind-gages, on slender rods projecting out from the aero- plane like long antennz, feel a gust less than half a second before it strikes a wing. This is indicated on the same dial—a miniature of the wing. Red, white, and blue disks, directed by the gages, flash anywhere over the dial. In quiet air, these tiny disks, over- lapping at the center, tell the pilot that his machine is perfectly balanced. “HOLES IN THE AIR” Sailing the passenger aeroplane will re- quire great instinctive knowledge of the ways of the winds. An aeroplane making thirty-eight miles an hour, in almost quiet air—like an unruffled sea—suddenly meets a gust traveling ten miles an hour. As the machine cannot instantly slow down, this faster wave lifts the aeroplane out of its level flight like a ship climbing a comber. As with the troughs of ocean waves there is a lull between gusts. The machine, now with less than enough speed to support it in still air, dips; this dropping has given rise to the phantasy of “holes in the air.” Ac- cording to weather conditions, these waves may be Jong or short, as on a rolling or choppy sea. Aeroplanes have often been dashed to earth when pilots laid their course near the ground without allowing for steer- ageway.

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T. R. MacMechen and Carl Dienstbach 589 replacing shimmer- ing currents rising from the heated Pali- sades. Toavoid these, Curtiss flew close to the water, where he knew that the air lies quietly. The best pilots are learning that winds are depend- able where the ground is not badly broken up. But in front of a single house or hill they expect an up- ward, on the other side a downward, flow of air. Massed obstacles, like villages and forests, are danger- ous; over these, aviators The Clement-Bayard which crossed the English Channel. It is equipped with the latest steer- ing-device, the “* aeroplane” rudder Even in “calm weather” little hills,valleys and streams of air may be felt, a new world of elastic scenery. In 1909, at Heliopolis, on the edge of the Sahara, the air bubbled with tiny whirls in which Bleriot monoplanes danced up and down, like gnats. Hans Grade, a German aviator, found the eddies strongest when he flew along the margin of sunlight and cloud-shadows. The part of his wing that first entered the shadow heeled over. To right the aeroplane, its balancing-tips at the wing’s edge had to be turned up in a flash. This did not happen when he flew boldly across the shadow or entirely avoided it. He found that heated air was rising from the baked desert, at the outer edge of the shadow, while inside of it, heavy, cool air, in descending, had pressed down his wing. _ Similar symptoms were met by Glenn H. Curtiss while flying down the Hudson Val- The Clement-Bayard of 1908, showing the former ley, on a calm day after rain-storms. The cumbersome steering-apparatus—four smaller gas- cool gullies poured forth heavy air that was bags attached about the stern of the main bag

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590 are continuously rocked like a boat in a surf. The practical aeroplane,which must not only ride these billows, but keep its course against wind-drift, and fly in night and fog—far above the ground for safety—is not like an automobile, but like a yacht. It will be navigated by nautical methods. A BIG MACHINE’S EQUIPMENT To fly from Paris to London, without knowing the route, was declared by the best French experts impossible. But John B. Moisant, the American, did this by adjust- ing a compass to successive landmarks on his horizon, in this way unerringly keeping his course over a perfectly strange country. That trip has induced G. Dolaz, a French technicist, to invent a compass dial on which acamera-lens throws a running picture of the ground over which the aeroplane travels. Parallel lines traced on the dial convert the picture into a moving map, which indicates both the true course and the speed... But other instruments are now required to hold the machine to its work. That settles the huge size of a fully equipped practical aero- plane, which will have: a statoscope, to show if the machine is falling; a barograph, to give its height; an inclinometer, to indi- cate horizontal flight; a gyroscope and a pendulum, to show position in space; a magnetic indicator of latitude; a Dolaz compass, to show course and speed; an anemometer, for logging; a sighting-com- pass, to check the measurement of speed over the ground; astronomical localizing instruments (Marcuse quadrant and azi- muth compass); and a wireless outfit to receive reports of winds and the weather. At present all this is done chiefly by mere instinct, which cannot be trusted on a passenger-aeroplane. For instance, Hubert Latham and others find that above patches of cloud or in a fog they lose their “feeling of the horizontal.” Leonardo da Vinci would have been a master of modern aviators. With wonder- ful intuition, between March 14 and April 15, 1505, he wrote, in his treatise on “ Nat- ural and Artificial Flight’’—dealing almost entirely with balancing in the air, “The [mechanical] bird should always fly high, to better reckon the country below, and to escape the peril of the wind’s eddies about mountain gorges which are always full of disturbances and vortexes; besides this, if the bird turns over, he has a longer time New Wonderful Feats of the Wizards of the Air to right himself before he reaches the ground.” This is exactly the situation to-day. Men are not flying simply because aeroplanes can leave the ground. Natural conditions are the same as in the fifteenth century. Avi- ators are learning this through broken limbs’ and smashed machines, showing that they still try to ignore natural conditions. To avoid the earth’s eddies, all long, military flights, in both France and Ger- many, are being made at not less than six- teen hundred feet. Not long ago to propose to fly regularly that high was considered worse than foolhardy. The steadier aero- plane of heavier bulk, with a crew to balance and navigate it, should fly safely even in the air-surf near the earth. At the higher alti- tudes now being used as a safe roadway, its crew will guide it as safely as an ocean-ship. This was convincingly shown by Ralph Johnstone, who, at Belmont Park, in an im- proved Wright biplane, flew for an hour and a half, in a hurricane of eighty miles, at a height of four to five thousand feet. Above two to three hundred feet the pilot usually finds a rapid current of steady air, giving such natural support that it almost seems like the mysterious soaring of birds on im- movable wings. Orville Wright, descending one day, discovered at one thousand feet that he had stopped coming down. When he reached the earth hesaid: ‘‘I thought I would never get down. If I had shut off my power, I feel certain that I could have soared up- ward without the least power to lift me.” THE GREAT AERIAL ROUTES That strong winds do afford great natural support was not believed until Leon Morane and Georges Chavez first climbed to eight thousand feet. Still, the most advanced in- vestigations of birds’ flight have begun to indicate that the sustaining power of steady winds is not entirely due to rising air- currents; for on steady winds at greater heights, the aeroplane always travels farther —at forty-nine hundred feet, going with the wind, Captain Bellanger, of the French mili- tary aviation corps, flew from Vincennes to Mourmelon—one hundred miles—in seventy minutes. This indicates that when passen- ger-aeroplanes can travel a mile high, they will cover greater distances in faster time than they will ever be driven by engines alone. Some time ago Gabriel Hénataux, former minister of foreign affairs of France, and a

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DRAWN BY H, M. PETTIT Drawing to illustrate the principle huge aeroplanes of the future. In are shown fastened together. but not their weight. The aeroplane occupying the space It is serviceable underlying the construction of the the forward patt five Demoiselles” This increases their effectiveness. rear part shows the single of five of the present type. and airworthy member of the French Academy of Sciences, commented on the future as fol- lows: ““ We donot know the atmosphere _ better than the ancients knew the ocean. We have to study it. Before long, and first of all, the great aerial routes of the future must be laid out.” This exactly states the situation of the air-navi- gator’s relation to his new ocean. Of what practical use is the air-craft that lives in high winds, but can travel only, say, ten miles an hour, because it is driven against the wind? In its broader meaning navigat- ing the air is knowledge of the direction of all air- currents and embarking on those that carry toward a goal. This use of the forces of the air seems to be nearer than ever before. The last Six years have seen the new Leon Morane, scout, and passenger in a Bleriot monoplane, showing the cramped positions aviators now assume.—Detail of a Santos-Dumont * Demoiselle ™ science of aerology created, by sounding the highest air strata with small balloons and kites, carrying reg- istering-instruments. Several thousand ascen- sions have given valuable records that are compiled in France, Germany, and other European countries, and in this country. But the Ger- man Federation of Aero Clubs has now appointed a commission to observe the atmosphere systematically over the entire German cm- pire. Inthepresent year, one hundred spherical manned balloons will frequently ascend from various places at the same moment, during cyclonic weather, all to be maintained at the same level for a certain period. Then, for the first time in the his- tory of man, it is expected that the true movement of the upper air, at various levels, will be revealed. 591

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592 New Wonderful Feats of the Wizards of the Air Throughout the year sixteen hundred manned balloons QL. will be sent up from dif- ferent points in Europe during similar weather over the entire continent. All this promises to cpen a real future for human flight. Nature seems to have provided both the facility and the power for traveling in the air, if this power is intelligently applied by men. Much of the theory of the air has been con- 7 firmed by small, rickety toys; far greater knowledge should be gained by larger and stronger machines. One thing is certain, the perfected aero- plane must be enormous to carry relatively few passengers, while the dirigible airship’s capac- ity for passengers and engine- room increases. by leaps and bounds, as it becomes larger. It can no longer be held that either air- ships or aeroplanes cannot live in high winds. In the case of the air- ship, this was con- clusively shown by the recent voyage of the mammoth British dirigible, Morning Post, from Moisson, France, to Aldershot, England. It crossed eighty miles of sea, in a wind so strong that the ship was forced to make headway while quartering against the wind, at an angle of forty-five degrees from its course; its ability to -hold itself in that position in the wind, yet move toward its desti- nation, places it ona foot- ing with the ship on the water; ig The Clement-Bayard, the first dirigible to cross the English Channel. Octoher 16, 1910, it flew from near Paris to London, a distance of 195 miles, in six hours. It is designed to carry thirty-nine passengers in addition to the crew, and has carried thirty passengers.—Top photograph, the machinery of the Clement-Bayard.—Cabin of the Zeppelin dirigible, which was wrecked after mak- ing several passenger flights. It had all the appointments of a Pullman

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The “ Baby Wright,” the fastest aeroplane seventy miles an hour at the Interna- Brookins, its driver, who, with John- ing trio who flew the Wright and Hoxsey have besides, the craft arrived at Aldershot, “S and landed in a twety-five-mile wind. A. Clement, the designer of the Clement-Bayard IT, after its remarkable voyage. from Compiegne, near Paris, to London, discussed the comparative merits of airships and aeroplanes, like this: “The relative values of the aeroplane and the dirigible have often been discussed. I say simply this: the Clement-Bayard IT has not taken more than a trifle over six hours to make the passage between Paris and London, with seven on board. We could have carried twenty if we had not wanted to reduce our weight to a minimum for such an important trip. We had all the space we needed to promenade the deck, and make observations. We could have carried a wireless outfit, as we did in the recent mili- tary maneuvers at Picardy, and several officers to observe the country. These are facts that speak for themselyes.”’ The dirigible is all the better the larger; the aeroplane gains nothing with size. Above twenty, economic factors seem to make its operation approach the prohibitive stage. Professor Newcomb was right when he spoke of the narrow limitations of the aeroplane, because he was speaking of it in the larger, modern meaning of travel; the day of stage- coach travel, with its small number of pas- sengers at one load, is forever passed—the world’s business moves too fast. The vital part that wind plays, with aero- plane as well as airship travel, is best shown in the world, which flew at the rate of tional Meet at Belmont Park.— Walter stone and Hoxsey, composed the dar- machines last season. Johnstone since been killed by an imaginary trip across the ocean, with an aeroplane. From west to east, with the general drift of the air, in these lati- tudes, the trip would be favor- able for ‘‘an aeroplane of tonnage.”’ With a reserve of fuel, oil, and food for at least one-third more than the estimated time of the trip, the ma- chine might fly with a speed of seventy to eighty miles an hour. This would mean get- ting over sea in forty hours. If traveling at one and a quarter miles, where soundings showed that the stronger air-currents had an aver- age movement of forty miles an hour, the crossing would take thirty-three hours. The aeroplane’s own speed, in the thinner air at high altitudes, is more than near the water. It would attempt to fly over estab- lished steamship or airship routes, to sum- mon assistance, by wireless, if it had to alight on the water. Accurate bulletins of the weather would enable it to make the best of the wind situation. The adventure could be accomplished with a minimum of five skilful operators. This number is enough to allow combinations in relay work. Duplicate controls being in every cabin, each of the travelers would have a cabin to himself, and thus spend the time of the long trip in comparative comfort. But this trip shows the advantage of the dirigible airship over the most highly perfected aeroplane, as a means of that comfort which the modern public demands for long travel.

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DRAWN BY CHARLES E. CHAMBERS The conductor, whose name was O'Connell, turned red in the face. “ You tell Mr. Falls that I directed him to go to the devil!” he roared (‘ Zhe New Adventures of Wallingford")

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THE NEW ADVENTURES OF Get - Rich - Quick Wallingford The enormous success of these Wallingford stories has been the talk of the magazine world ever since we began publishing them nearly a year ago. You will not be disappointed in him. In this story he sees a chance to get back at a man quaintance of Wallingford, begin now. merry rascal and excellent company. If you have not made the ac- He isa who ‘‘ played’ him fora piker, takes the chance, and, in his usually happy fashion, wins out By George Randolph Chester Author of ‘‘Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford,” ‘‘The Cash Intrigue,” ete. Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers UMBER TWENTY-ONE, round- ing the curve at Buzzard Bluff, came to such an abrupt stop that the heavy gentleman who was the sole occupant of the parlor-car was jerked to his knees, a position so novel and so out of the range of his experience that he chuckled at himself as soon as he realized it. Being a calloused traveler, he merely rescued his hat from the floor, brushed the lint of the carpet from his carefully creased trousers, rang the bell for the porter, whom he knew would not come, and went outside to see what was the matter. In the private car of President Falls, just behind the parlor-car, there was a trifle more of consternation, for certain hissing glasses upon the whist-table were over- turned, completely destroying two decks of cards and one lavender-tinted waistcoat, the latter belonging to young “Benssy”’ Falls, a tall youth so handsome as to be pretty, who, like the well-cultivated gentleman that he was, pushed back his chair, rang for the butler to clear away the mess, and excused himself for long enough to change his waist- coat to another of the same hue, this be- ing his lavender day. Perfect as were his manners, he nevertheless did allow an ex- pression of impatience to escape him. “How very annoying!” he observed, but his dimples showed immediately that he had regained his usual agreeable spirit. “Not wishing to criticize your gov’nor’s road, Bense, but it’s rotten careless of some- body, I should say,” drawled Rickey Saun- ders, a pink young person with a mustache which had been blighted in infancy, with an incurve from his collar-button to his knees, and with a father who had been con- siderate enough to die before he lost his third fortune. “Father wouldn’t be offended if he heard you, I’m quite sure,” responded Benson. “He knows this road to be perfectly in- excusable, but he won’t spend any money on improvements just now, because he ex- pects to sell his stock immediately after the next dividends are declared.” The three other whist-players were silent for a moment after this complicated state- ment, and then the shrill little falsetto be- neath the sparsely bristling Kaiser Wilhelm mustache of Buelow von Humperdinck sud- denly announced the solution. “T see the reason!” it declared excitedly. “By that course the dividends will be larger and he can secure a better price for his stock,” and the permanent creases which passed for thought deepened in Von Hum- perdinck’s fragmentary brow. “T say, that’s really clever,” lisped Reg- inald de Puyster Haugh, whose still hateful surname was only one generation removed from Haw, and whose thick lips and broad, shiny face still denied all that mere god- fathers could do for him. “By the way, Benssy, I wonder what the blooming row’s about, anyhow?” “Some one should have a good ragging for it,” declared the black-freckled young man with the nose, who had been a mere onlooker at the whist-game. “Absolutely beastly damage has been done. Look at Benssy’s model!” On the floor by a table near one of the broad windows lay a once wonderfully neat, but now pitifully bent and broken paste- 595

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596 board model of a small house, the work of Benson Falls’s own white hands. There was a general chorus of polite dismay upon the discovery of this catastrophe, but young Mr. Falls, whose skill at needlework and crape- paper creations had made him the hit of every charity fair, dismissed the matter lightly, although he heaved the sigh of a distressed artist as he stooped to examine the damage which had been done to his pretty handiwork. He had just replaced it upon the table when Shamasuka appeared after the third ring. “You’re an annoying long time in coming, Sammy,” protested Mr. Falls. “I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the Jap, “but I thought you might like to know the cause of the delay, and I hurried out to investigate.” “Very well, you may tell us,” Mr. Falls graciously consented. “Thank you, sir,”’ responded Shamasuka. “There is a heavy rock-slide on the track just ahead of us. The engineer made a very good stop, but unfortunately snapped a driving-rod in doing so.” The eyes of all four of Mr. Falls’s friends turned to him expectantly in this emer- gency. He was equal to the occasion. “You will tell the conductor,” he di- rected in the voice of authority, “to repair the driving-rod, clear the track, and pro- ceed immediately.” “Yes, sir,” said the Jap, in a tone almost of solemn gratitude, but when he reached the platform he grinned. The heavy gentleman from the parlor- car, who was already excellent friends with the crew, was discussing ways and means with the conductor when Shamasuka came out with the message. “T beg your pardon, sir,” said Shamasuka to the conductor, “‘but Mr. Falls directs me to tell you to repair your driving-rod, clear the track, and proceed immediately.” The conductor, whose name was O’Con- nell, turned red in the face. ‘You tell Mr. Falls that I directed him to go to the devil!” he roared. “Yes, sir,”’ said the Jap with pleasure, and when he regained the platform he permitted himself another grin. The heavy gentleman turned to the con- ductor in perplexity. “You must be tired of your job,” he suggested. “Me? I love it,” responded O’Connell, smiling. “But you don’t think I’m sending The New Adventures of Wallingford that answer to President Falls, do you? It’s his saphead son back there, and he’s been giving me fool orders ever since we picked up his souse-car at the junction. If the Jap only carries him my little speech, and the cub only reports it to his old man, I’m in line for promotion.” “TI guess you're right,” laughed the big fellow. “I know Falls. I wish he were in that car. That’s the only diner on this train, and we’re likely to be stuck here for three hours.” “Maybe longer,” admitted O’Connell with a frown. ‘It’s eight miles back to the nearest telegraph station and ten forward.” A savage dissertation upon the road in general was presently interrupted by the arrival of Benssy Falls, attended by his quartet of friends. The son of the presi- dent wasted no time in parley, but stalked straight up to the conductor. “T demand an apology,” he said, his dimples interfering sadly with his severity. “You get back on your car,” ordered O’Connell. ‘You can do what you please there, but I’m running the rest of the train.” “You will either apologize or I shall be compelled to ask you to fight,” declared young Mr. Falls very sternly. “That’s what I call sportin’,”’ announced Rickey Saunders, with such keen delight that his stubble of mustache thinned visibly with the spread of his lip. ‘‘ Aye, fellows?” “Magnanimous of Benssy, considering the difference in class,’”’ murmured thick- lipped Haugh, once Haw, whose father had been a dry-goods clerk until he married an impressionable rich customer, and devel- oped a genius for being lucky at other stock- and bond-gambling. O’Connell looked over the shoulders and arms of young Mr. Falls appreciatively, and a twinkle came into his eye. “Far be it from me to commit assault, battery, or mayhem upon the son of my bread and butter,” he stated; “but even if you were your own father, Mr. Falls, I'll bet a month’s pay I’d defend myself. if struck— if struck!” “As the insulted party I have the right to the first blow, but I waive it,” returned Mr. Falls with dignity. ‘Kindly come into the car. Sammy, get out the gloves. Con- ductor, you may choose your second.” “T’ll go you if I lose,” said O’Connell with a grin, “and for my second I'll take

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Mr. What is your name, brother?” and heturned tothe heavy passenger witha wink. “Wallingford,” responded the heavy pas- senger, answering the wink with a chuckle, “J. Rufus Wallingford. Ill accept the office with pleasure.” Upon this Mr. O’Connell introduced Mr. Wallingford to Mr. Falls, who, in turn, introduced him to Mr. Saunders, Mr. Humperdinck, Mr. Haugh, and Mr. Ring- gold Cash, the black-freckled young gen- tleman with the iron-wire hair, who, drop- ping behind with Rickey Saunders as they proceeded to the car, confided to his friend his fears that Benssy was leading them into te ae & 3 ae rd * Of course Benssy Falls, Benssy with the dimples, sailed in and “licked “ Conductor O'Connell George Randolph Chester 597 a rather questionable set of companions. “Good sportin’ blood, I call it,”’ insisted Rickey. “And why not mix in with a few outsiders? Take this corpulent party, for instance; he may be a bounder and all that, looks like a man in trade, you know, but he can’t hurt us any.” “No,” admitted young Cash, whose great-grandfather had been a junk-dealer; ““we don’t need to know him afterward, of course, but still one can’t be too particular. One owes something to one’s family.” Il BEnssy FALLS emerged from his com- partment with his torso stripped to his sleeveless lavender silk undervest, surveying his own velvety biceps with complacent respect, and sat upon the leather-cushion dining-chair placed for him in the corner by Rickey Saunders. Rickey patted him en- couragingly upon the round shoulders. “You c’n whip your conductor chap, old top. Don’t become fretted about it,” he said, and plucked complacently at the pluckless mus- tache. Across in the opposite corner, Conductor O’Connell, disdaining to sit in the chair the urbane Wallingford had provided for him, stood without coat or hat, and his blue shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealed his brawny and hairy forearms. He was grinning sheepishly. Mr. Haugh presented Wallingford with a pair of gloves. Mr. Cash performed a like service for Mr. Saunders, and the two seconds care- fully assisted their prin- cipals to tie on their deadly weapons. “‘Are you ready, gen- tlemen?” inquired Bue-

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598 low von Humperdinck, better known in this coterie as Humpsy. “Just a moment,” interrupted Rickey. “Anybody bettin’?”’ “T’ll go a hundred on my man,”’ offered Wallingford quietly, and he did not make the mistake of making any motion to dis- play the money. “Done,” returned Rickey quickly. “ Any- body else?” The black-freckled young man with the nose critically surveyed the contestants as he rolled a cigarette. ‘‘You won’t take it as deserting your colors, Benssy, if I book Rickey for his next hundred, will you?” he inquired. “Certainly not,” replied Benson courte- ously. “‘Use your own judgment, Ring.” ‘‘Jus’ sportin’, that’s all,” declared Rick- ey in further polite consent. ‘You're on, Ring. Anybody else?” Reggie Haugh immediately offered Von Humperdinck a bet upon Benson, but the very thoughtful gentleman, finding room, somehow, in his brow for a third crease, im- mediately declined. “Referee can’t bet,”’ he explained regret- fully. “A hundred to you, Ring,” offered Reg- gie, but Mr. Cash, notoriously cautious with the congenital avarice of his junk-dealing ancestor, shook his head. “T’m unlucky when I scatter my bets,” he hedged. “‘No fair,” complained Reggie, pouting his fat pout. “T’ll call the police and stop the match if I don’t get a bet down.” Wallingford, studying the group with grave interest, hesitated for a decent length of time. “If it would not be-considered forward of a stranger, and nobody else cares to accommodate the gentleman, I will,”’ he ventured. “That’s sportin’ blood,” approved Rickey Saunders, and not only himself, but all his companions, surveyed Wallingford with new interest. He was a big man and a cheerful man, and his round face bore the color which could only come from years of fastidiously selected food and drink; moreover, his haberdashery, though striking, was correct and up to the minute, and there was no disputing the fact that he employed a tailor who was an artist. “Thanks, old chap,” said Reggie grate- fully. “Ready?” again asked Von Humperdinck. The New Adventures of Wallingford “Ready,” replied Wallingford and Saun- ders in a breath. “Shake hands,” directed Von Humper- dinck, the creases in his forehead tightening until his bristly pompadour seemed to slide over and half-way down his forehead. The principals performed the evolution to which they had been bidden, young Falls quite gracefully and O’Connell quite clum- sily. “Time!” called Von Humperdinck, snap- ping his stop-watch. Of course, after all this elaborate prepara- tion, Benssy Falls, in his lavender silk under- vest, Benssy with the dimples, sailed in and “licked” Conductor O’Connell; “licked” him thoroughly and completely, in three fast rounds, in which O’Connell, the victor of a hundred rough-and-tumble fights, slammed and banged and delivered tre- mendous blows upon thin atmosphere, while Benssy Falls, who once had donned ladies’ clothes, rouge, powder, and wig, presided at a fancy-work booth, and won the majority of votes in the beauty contest, danced around him and punched him at will, with good swinging right and left blows which had real steam behind them! “T’m ashamed of myself,” acknowledged O’Connell, when the victory went to the young man of the dimples. “I thought boxing was more like fighting. You win, Mr. Falls, and for the rest of this trip you’re running the train. I'll repair the driving- rod, clear the track, and proceed imme- diately,” and, taking his coat upon his arm and his cap in his hand, he bowed awkwardly and started for the door. “You'll have a nip of something before you go, won’t you?” invited Benssy hos- pitably. “No, thanks,” replied O’Connell. “I haven’t taken a drink in ten years, and I’m in a hurry anyhow. I want to go out and pick a fight with my brakeman. I can lick him.” “You'll have something, won’t you?” asked Benssy of Wallingford, who was pro- ducing two crisp hundred-dollar bills from a long, red pocketbook. “With pleasure,” replied Wallingford. “Losing a bet is always dry work for me,” and he handed a bill each to Rickey Saun- ders and to Reginald de Puyster Haugh, with smiles which made them vote him a good, game loser. Shamasuka, upon order, replaced the

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table in the center of the apartment, brought bottles and glasses and six chairs, and the moment came for which Wallingford had longed. His acute nostrils had detected “sportin’ money” in this crowd. The first thing to do, of course, was to make himself agreeable, and he did this to such good ef- fect that within fifteen minutes his host had asked him to remain to dinner. He sat among them in smiling ease, a gentleman of experience, a world-traveler, an all-’round good fellow, one who knew the vintage of wines by the taste, and told rare stories with rarer discretion. Also he appreciated the pretty little pasteboard house when it was accidently brought to his attention. “Rippin’ fine thing, it is,” Ricky Saun- ders boasted. ‘“‘Benssy’s the architect and builder because he’s such a clever chap with his fingers—embroiders the monograms on his own underwear, and all that sort of thing, you know—but we’re all in on theinventin’.” “It’s a portable house for a fishing trip we contemplate,” young Falls modestly ex- plained. ‘The gov’nor’s opening up a strip of land through upper Wisconsin and Mich- igan which is full of small virgin lakes, and he’s given us permission to fish them out before his construction gangs go through.” Wallingford winced. He knew that strip of land quite well. He had once owned it, and its loss to Falls senior was the one big blot upon his own financial escutcheon. Falls had been a bigger thief and had stolen Wallingford’s swag; that was the answer. And so E. H. was going to build a road through there, after all! He would make a mental note of that. “And so you’re building a wind-proof, dust-proof, rain-proof, and snow-proof port- able house?” he suggested. “Also heat- and cold-proof,”’ added Rickey. ‘You see, we couldn’t find a good portable house, so we invented one on our way back from inspecting the happy hunt- ing-grounds. Stunning, the amount of brains we found in the crowd! Benssy in- vented the hollow walls, air-space, and that sort of thing, youknow. Reggie figured out how to turn the table and benches into cots with real spring mattresses in them. Reg- gie’s long on eating and sleeping. Humpsy, who is no end of a clever mechanic, de- vised the simplest sort of a collapsible cook- stove with a telescoping pipe. Cash dis- covered the method of making the roof ridge water-tight, and I worked out a fancy clamp George Randolph Chester 599 to bind the corners together; but, after all, the real rippin’ brains of the thing is Bens- sy’s. The hollow-wall idea was his. Came to him just in a flash. Never wasted a mo- ment of thought on it.” Benssy colored slightly. “Very ordinary idea, I’m sure,” he said with becoming modesty, the dimples appearing for just an instant, then coyly vanishing. “Anyone could have thought of it.” “Clever scheme,” declared Wallingford, admiring the really good model with the practised eye of a born mechanic, as Benssy deftly took it apart and demonstrated how it was to be packed and shipped and re- assembled. “Quite clever indeed.” The opening for which he had been groping came to him, in a flash as inspired as that which had brought to Benssy Falls the stunning device of the hollow walls. ‘This is more than clever, gentlemen,” he went on, his tone changing to one of grave earnestness which commanded instant attention. “It is worthy of serious commercial considera- tion. It would be a pity to allow so perfect an article of manufacture to go to waste.” “Well, of course, you know, none of us are in trade, and we wouldn’t care for that sort of thing,” announced Reggie Haugh loftily, with a shrinking thought of the original thick-lipped Haw. “T don’t know, old chap,” mused Benssy. “Why wouldn’t it be a ripping good novelty for us all to go into trade? We’ve tried everything else.” “That’s what I call sportin’,” Rickey Saunders enthusiastically. for anything Benssy starts.” The ridged ribbon which did Von Hum- perdinck service as a brow underwent sucha series of contortions that anyone who knew him would have known that he was about to think. “The Kaiser and the King of England are both in trade,” he advised them, “and my cousin, the Baron von Hum- perdinck, himself owns a brewery.” “We don’t need precedent,” insisted Benssy patriotically. ‘We are democratic American citizens, and, as such, have a right to enter trade as our fathers did.”’ That one speech showed the daring nature of Benssy, it being considered indelicate in this circle to mention fathers, and posi- tively indecent to mention grandfathers. A shocked silence followed his anarchism, Reggie Haugh’s lips, however, watering profusely in his agitation. It was Rickey stated “Vm

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600 Saunders who came loyally to the support of his friend. “Hear! hear!” he cried. Ringgold Cash, frowning moodily at the black freckles upon his sallow hands, and regretting for the millionth time their size and construction, which had descended from his push-cart forebears, slowly raised one of them and stroked it down his lean face, let- ting it close as it slid off his chin, as if his jaw had sported the wiry beard of the original junk-dealing Cash, whose name had been Kashowski. “Do you think there would be a good return for the money in- vested?” he asked, addressing Wallingford directly, and waiting with quiet eagerness for the answer. Wallingford turned to him quickly and studied him with great care before he re- plied. “‘There’s a fortune in it,” he declared, with a deliberately rising enthusiasm. “Of course you gentlemen are not commercial. Iam. I know a good commercial opening when I see one,” and he smiled to himself as he looked into the faces of the eagerly inter- ested group around the table, and studied the good commercial openings he saw be- fore him. ‘‘ Your marvelous portable house should be your gift to your fellow sportsmen at about twenty-five per cent. dividends; and I, who am strictly a business man, am so favorably impressed that I should be de- lighted to take twenty-five or fifty thousand dollars’ worth of the stock myself.” “Thank you,” said Benssy gratefully, his cheeks dimpling with pleasure. “I con- sider that a great compliment, I’m sure.” “‘Nothing of the sort,” returned Walling- ford sedately. ‘It is only my cold business judgment which is speaking, Mr. Falls.” Reggie Haugh had been flapping his thick lower lip with his thick forefinger in jealous thought. A thing like this, don’t you know, should be kept more exclusive. This Wal- lingford person was admittedly a mere tradesman, and probably of no family what- soever, had no money but that which he made himself, and one must be careful of one’s associates. “Only trouble is,” he objected, “that all the rest of us have had a share in the in- venting, which makes it a sort of family affair, don’t you think?” Wallingford was instantly ready for that emergency. “So far as that is concerned,” he observed in smiling confidence, “I in- vented inventing, though I am far too mod- The New Adventures of Wallingford est a man to so state,” and he laughed jovially, closing his eyes and shaking his big shoulders to show them that this was a joke. “Even while we have been talking, I have discovered a radical defect in the construc- tion of your portable cottage, and have in- vented a way to overcome it. You are making your hollow walls in straight sec- tions which merely abut upon each other. Warpage and shrinkage will draw them crooked and leave wide cracks over which you will be compelled to nail permanent cleats, which is entirely foreign to your idea of portability.” Benssy Falls looked with dismay upon his exquisitely accurate model. ‘How very annoying!”’ he murmured. “What we must do,” went on Walling- ford easily and confidently, “is to make the hollow sections like this,”’ and he deftly and ruthlessly cut open, upon alternate edges, one of Benssy’s beautifully perfect little sections, telescoping the two parts upon each other slightly so as to show the plan of overlapping, and then reversing them to show how much space they saved in nesting for shipment. There was a general chorus of polite ex- clamations, which covered unlimited genu- ine admiration. “That surely makes Mr. Wallingford one of the family, Reggie,” declared Rickey. “T vote him in, fellows. Now! One, two, three—” “Aye!” gently and courteously shouted his friends in perfect unison with him. “JT thank you,” said Wallingford, rising and bowing gravely. The gentleman’s manners were perfect; there was no gain- saying that. ““There’s one difficulty of which none of you have thought,” declared Mr. Cash, rubbing again, in reflection, the beard of his ancestors in the hollow of his cheeks. “‘Who’s going to run the company? None of us have the time nor the taste for that sort of thing.” “TI have,” offered Wallingford. “Of course my other interests are so heavy as to prevent my giving my entire time to it, but, if my partners will permit me, I will organize the concern, set it going, and see that it is properly conducted without charg- ing a penny for my services.” “That’s what I do call sportin’,” de- clared Rickey, rubbing his incipient mus- tache the wrong way in his enthusiasm.

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“I said the whole affair was none of your butt-in,” said Blackie firmly, rising and resting his knuckles upon the table, and looking squarely into the blue eyes of his heretofore much better half “Tt’s more generous than fair,”’ objected Benssy. ‘‘We’d be delighted, I’m sure, Mr. Wallingford, to have you accept the bothersome management of the thing, but we can’t possibly think of it unless you would accept remuneration of some sort.” “Oh, if you insist upon it!” and Walling- ford waved his hand easily, as if the question were too trifling to be considered among gen- tlemen. “I won’t accept a salary, but if you want me to have some additional stock for my services to avoid feeling under obli- gations, you may make it over to me.” “But, I say,” protested Reggie, his fat lips protruding in dissatisfaction; “if we all take the same amount of stock, and we give Mr. Wallingford some extra, he’ll have the most, and, as this is our joint invention, we must share alike.” “That’s true,” Wallingford hastily ad- mitted. “We’ll just throw that idea aside. We won’t need a stock company anyhow, for we shall not want to sell stock or admit anyone else into the business. We can make it a simple partnership, putting in just what we need to begin with, and assess- ing ourselves as much more from time to time as the business actually justifies. We shall not need over fifty thousand dollars to start with.” “Then, fellows, here’s the sportin’ idea,” announced Rickey. “Fifty thousand dol- lars makes ten thousand for each of us five. Mr. Wallingford’s services should be worth at least as much as one-sixth of all our money, and I vote that we admit Mr. Wallingford to an equal partnership with us and not permit him to pay any assess- ments. Now! One, two, three—” “Aye!” voted his associates in unison. “Gentlemen,” intoned Wallingford, ris- ing solemnly and smoothing down his broad waistcoat, “I accept your generous offer. If this were brought up to me as an ordi- nary business proposition I should be com- pelled to decline it instantly, but I have taken quite a fancy to you boys. I have, moreover, become fascinated with the port- able house and intend to make it one of my most successful ventures. I shall at once draw up partnership papers, which we will discuss and sign, right here, while we are waiting. Then we will select officers, hold a board of directors’ meeting, take all our papers to an attorney when we arrive in the city, and make our action legally binding. To-morrow I shall have patent papers and drawings prepared, and as soon as they are ready will call another meeting for us to sign them. In the meantime, I 601 islet inetsceide earnendnmearsneusetamniemeaessenstneiiastasssanseemceneaneacrane-cameeeearteatarae eon a eT ene

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602 shall see if we cannot rent a factory already equipped, shall have working drawings prepared, purchase materials, secure work- men, and start upon some sample houses, including the mahogany and the bird’s-eye maple one which you are to take upon your fishing trip.” Striking while the iron was hot being one of Wallingford’s specialties, he immedi- ately drew up, on delicately tinted and evasively scented mauve stationery pro- vided him by the fair Benssy, an impres- sively worded partnership agreement, where- by it was set forth that the six undersigned gentlemen were to be equal sharers in the profits of the Speckled Bass Hollow-Walled Portable Bungalow Company, and that five of the undersigned were to share in all its losses and provide all the money needed, J. Rufus Wallingford being exempt from any share in that end of the business by virtue of his perpetual managership. It was a neat and nifty document, and the boys were justly proud of it, and of them- selves as well, as they appended their scrawling signatures to it. It was deuced blooming fun, after all, this thing of going into trade. Quite sportin’! Their innocent joy over this stage of being in trade was as nothing, however, compared to their dignified gratification, when, with Benssy Falls presiding hand- somely, and as rippingly at ease as if he were pouring tea, they selected Benssy as president, Reggie Haugh as first vice- president, Von Humperdinck as second vice-president, Rickey Saunders as secre- tary, and Ringgold Cash as treasurer. In their newly acquired and rapidly growing feeling of fellowship with Wallingford, they were urgently anxious to elect him to a third vice-presidency, but, with becoming modesty, he declined that honor. “No, gentlemen,” he said, first rising and respectfully addressing the chair, as he in- variably did when he had anything to say in this meeting, ‘‘such honors are not for me. I cannot deny that I am heartily pleased that you should offer to make me an equal with you, but, nevertheless, I do not deserve it. The original conception is yours, and to you exclusively should belong the honors and titles of office. Moreover, I am only a plain business man. If you insist upon voting for me, however, you may make my small managership a matter of election and official title.” The New Adventures of Wallingford “That’s what I call sportin’, eh, fellows!” exclaimed Rickey enthusiastically, and shook hands with him. So they unanimously elected J. Rufus Wallingford official manager, which, while it did not, of course, give him the importance of a real office in the company, made his mere trifling post at least seem a shade less insignificant. He was deeply grateful for it. Ill A SMALL BOY, so thick with freckles that they looked painful, sat in Wallingford’s runabout at the station, with both chubby hands firmly upon the big wheel. He straightened up and his face lighted as he saw Mr. Wallingford in the midst of the dis- persing board of directors, and with shrewd and twinkling eyes he observed that prince of diplomats bidding adieu to his newly found friends and business associates. “Hello, boss!” hailed the youngster as Wallingford joined him, and he shook hands with grown-up gravity. “Gee, you made a hit with that bunch of Willies!” “It’s a shame to do it,” confessed Wal- lingford with a grin. “Where’s the chauf- feur, Toad?” “He stopped for a stew, and he got it,” replied the boy. “But it wasn’t the kind that has any oysters in it, so I fired him out of the car and sent him home to sleep it off.” Wallingford laughed as he climbed into the runabout and took the wheel, a pro- ceeding which met with a vigorous protest from the boy. “Sorry, Toad,” insisted Wallingford, “but I’m afraid they’d arrest you if I let you run this car by yourself. How are you getting along with young Jimmy?” “Sometimes I don’t know,” responded Toad with a sigh; “he’s a smart kid, and he’s got more sand than I thought he had. First I thought I could lick him with both hands tied behind me, but now I guess I'd have to have one loose anyhow. Yesterday I had to hand him a wallop, and he never cried a mouthful; he just stood still for about a minute, and then he tried to throw the cat through me.” ° “And how does Mrs. Wallingford take all this?” asked Wallingford, secretly gratified that young Jim showed promise of develop- ing traits which had been a trifle lacking in himself. “Well,” confessed Toad with a slight

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Cae frown, ‘‘of course she’s a woman an’ don’t understand. Tell you what she done; she humped me out to sleep with the stable- hands, an’ makes Jim play with the girls in the next house. Say, ain’t you goana start a business soon so I k’n have a real job? I don’t like to play with kids.” Wallingford sighed. His own opinion was that his son needed the companionship of Toad, even at the expense of an occasional black eye; but, if Fannie was set against it— “ How would you like to wear a brown suit, with red stripes and brass buttons,” he sud- denly asked, “and serve drinksina factory?” “To you an’ Blackie? That’d be great!” said Toad with vast enthusiasm. ‘You know Blackie’s home, don’t you?” “Ts that so!” exclaimed Wallingford, and unconsciously threw more speed on the car. “When did he get in?” “Yesterday,” replied Toad. “I was so glad to see him that I licked the stable-boy twice in an hour; an’ he’s a tough kid. Wallingford, remembering well that “tough stable-kid,” laughed appreciatively, and he chuckled all the way home. He laughed again when Violet Bonnie Daw kissed him fervently for old sake’s sake, and after that operation calmly rerouged her lips. His friend Daw he found supremely happy, for Blackie was now permitted a more liberal pocket allowance than he had enjoyed since his marriage. “On the level, though, Jim,” he ex- plained in the quiet confidence of the study, over the siphon and cigars, “the charming Violet B. Daw is making a mistake when she hands me too much coin. Being barred from wine, women, and song—oh, well, of course, I can have a little wine and all the singing I like—how can I spend it?” “You ought toknow whatacinch that is,”’ laughed Wallingford, pouring and mixing for both. “All you have to do to get rid of it is to buy some of the mining stock you used to sell, or hunt up a brace roulette game, or buy a few thousand bushels of margin wheat.” “T wish I could be a sucker,”’ confessed Blackie sadly. ‘Why, Jimmy, many and many a time I’ve looked at a gentle come-on being led up to the harpoon and envied him the happiness in his face.” “Never mind, Blackie,” soothed Walling- ford, “you’re not dead yet, and as long as a man’s alive he has a chance to be the biggest sucker in the world. By the way, I met the ’ George Randolph Chester prize lollop club to-day. They threatened to stand off six feet and throw papa’s money at me, and I’ve arranged, no matter how painful to me, to let them do it.” “Will you never quit it, Jimmy!” pro- tested Blackie, really a trifle worried. ‘‘ You have a good real-estate business that you’ve picked up since Fannie came home, and with that money we copped off from the Live- forever Sanitarium, you ought to have about a hundred and fifty thousand cash besides this house.” “You’ve just about guessed it,” agreed Wallingford, but with very little enthusiasm. “Everything, property and bonds, is in Fannie’s name; and I did intend to stick with the straight game. I’m making money out of it. But do you know who opened his guard to me to-day? Benssy Falls and his delicately scented pals.”’ “How careless of Benssy!’’ commented Blackie. “But I like ‘this flossy name. Who is he?” “Don’t you remember?” indignantly de- manded Wallingford. “Oh, yes, now I know. He must be the son of Old Man Falls.” “‘Some time, old pal, your frivolous na- ture will drive me to murder,” replied Wal- lingford with little dents in his nostrils. “This Benssy lollop is the son of E. H. Falls, the railroad king who led me into a genuine ground-floor manipulation, and then pulled the ground from under the floor. He annexed the only half a million dollars I ever had safely banked in my life. Honest money, too!”’ “Tt’s funny how easy they take that kind away,” mused Blackie with a slow smile. ‘You were right about every man being a sucker some day.” “Tl get it all back with interest,” de- clared Wallingford savagely; “‘every cent!” Blackie threw away Wallingford’s heavy cigar, lit a cigarette, and stroked his perky black mustache in smiling reminiscence. “Poor little Benssy,” he said. “Still, I should think you’d rather take it out of the old man direct.” Wallingford squeezed his cigar between his fingers until it broke. ‘‘ Never mind E. H.,” he snapped. “ Your part in this is the long- distance expert. You are to be Mr. Bezaz- zum, of Bezunk, Michigan, Mr. Cazizus, of Cazak, Ontario, and Mr. Penawpus, of Penap, Arkansas; to be in all three places at the same time, and answer my letters.” 603 } \ { ‘

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604 The New Adventures of Wallingford “What I want to know,” inquired Blackie after mature reflection, “‘is whether or not I wear whiskers.” “Three pairs at a time if you have a yen for them,” agreed Wallingford, “for nobody cares, excepc when you get your cue to show up at the factory.” “* Aye, aye, sir,” consented Blackie with the proper salute, and the matter was settled. With Violet Bonnie, Wallingford had scarcely more trouble. “Vi,” he began, as they all sat at dinner, “T got you to let me have fifteen thousand dollars to invest for you once in a railroad scheme, and I lost it for you.” “Sure you did,” she admitted with a frown; “also I broke my voice in the midst of my greatest success, ‘The Little Warbler’; but why talk about bad luck? It brings more.” Wallingford shoved his oyster-fork deep into the ice, and braced himself for the shock. “Because I want you to hand me another fifteen thousand,” he stated. Violet Bonnie, with characteristic exag- geration, climbed upon her chair, drew her skirts about her, and screamed three consec- utive times, to the eternal scandalization of Wallingford’s new butler, who gave no- tice the fcllowing morning. “If you tell me you don’t mean it, Jimmy, I'll come down and finish my dinner.” “‘T don’t mean it, Vi,” declared Walling- ford solemnly. “I only want to borrow the money.” “T can listen to that,” returned Violet, “because if I give it to you I quit worrying about it right then; if I Jend it to you I only have to worry for fear you'll die before you pay it back; but if you invest it for me I'll be tottering around making faces at little children inside of a week.” “All right, Vi, we'll call it a loan,” re- plied Wallingford with a chuckle; “just so I get the fifteen thousand. And, Fannie, I’m going to ask you, one day this week, to make over to me your bonds, and to put as heavy a plaster on the house as it will hold.” Mrs. Wallingford, more beautiful in her matronhood than she had ever been in her girlhood, and more charming in her reserve than she had ever been in her vivacity, turned now with a quick, apprehensive glance toward the guests at her table before she turned animploring one toward her husband. “Speak right out, Fannie; don’t mind us,” invited Violet. “If it was Blackie made such a proposition he wouldn’t have a whisker left in his face. Why, Jim Wal- lingford, I think you must be crazy! The last time you did that you was worth near half a million, all in Fannie’s name. You got her to let go of it, then you tied it up in a nice little bundle and blindfolded old E. H. Falls so he wouldn’t know what you was going to do to him, and slipped the pretty little package in his pocket along with my fifteen thousand; then you stepped back and giggled.” Mrs. Wallingford looked at her husband. His lower lip had protruded slightly and was squared. She knew that if he meant to have this thing, no tears or protestations would turn him, and no earthly argument move him. “Tl go down with you to-morrow, and sign anything you think best, Jim,” she said quietly. Contrition seized him for a moment, and he longed to take her in his arms and reas- sure her; he would have done so had it not been for the presence of the Daws. Never- theless, his contrition in no way obstructed his purpose, as his wife, knowing his counte- nance so well, immediately recognized. Violet Bonnie, however, insisted upon be- ing the conscience for the party, and now took Mrs. Wallingford severely to task. “Honest, Fannie, you don’t know the first principles of training a husband,” she charged. ‘ You’re too easy.” “Violet,” protested Blackie sternly, “this is none of your funeral.” “Well, I'll be jiggered!”’ declared that lady, positively aghast at Blackie’s temer- ity. “What did you say?” she demanded, recovering her poise. “T said that the whole affair was none of your butt-in,” announced Blackie firmly, rising and resting his knuckles upon the table, and looking squarely into the blue eyes of his heretofore much better half. For a solid minute and a quarter the blue eyes resisted, then they dropped. Fifteen minutes afterward Violet Bonnie stood con- tentedly behind the chair of her husband, stroking his hair. IV THE grand opening of the factory of the Speckled Bass Hollow-Walled Portable Bun- galow Company was a function long to be TR a tae

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remembered. Fully one-third of the front of the remodeled factory was given over to offices befitting such a distinguished set of officers. Entering a spacious vestibule in Dutch tiling, one saw surrounding him a number of beautiful glass doors, leading into the office of the president, in white and gold; of the vice-president, in mahogany and ebony; of the second vice-president, in rosewood and silver birch; of the secretary, in walnut and cedar; of the treasurer, in redwood and bird’s-eye maple; and of the manager, in plain oak. Besides these, there was an arched and groined directors’ room, which was a triumph of ceramic art; a buffet stocked with more varieties of liquids than a dye-shop; and a small boy, proud in so many gold buttons that in the sunlight he was one solid blaze. Behind all this there was a simple factory, with the shafting care- fully gilded and the belting fluttering with kaleidoscopic ribbons; workmen, grinning foolishly when unobserved, in snow-white uniforms; and the very cleanest of clean The officers shavings scattered everywhere. George Randolph Chester 605 of the company brought hosts, and flocks, and bevies of women, some young and some old, and all so beautiful by art that nature, out of pure spite, had wasted no gifts upon them. These ladies, taught carefully from infancy to be charming, were charmed into ecstasies by everything they saw, without discrimination, unless they discriminated in favor of Wallingford himself, whom they voted to be a most charming manager, as did the board of directors next day at their first regular meeting in the new quarters. “You see, fellows,” declared Rickey Saunders, “it’s not only sportin’ but rippin’ what this chap Wallingford’s done. He’s made it possible for each fellow to entertain in his own offices with all the resources of a club, and all the privacy of his own quarters; and yet it doesn’t need chaperonage, be- cause it’s a bloomin’ factory office. Won- derful business man, I call him.” “Remarkable,” agreed Benssy. ‘I never saw a line of liquors and wines selected withso nice discrimination. Boy, tell Ike to make us another of those absinthe puffs.” Toad laughed until he was faint, and Blackie, throwing him upon a couch, was compelled to apply serious restoratives

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606 The New Adventures of Wallingford “Yes, sir,” said Toad Jessop. “T should say that we should vote to in- crease our manager’s salary,” suggested Von Humperdinck, his little pompadour bristling backward with the happy thought. “TImpossible!’’ declared Ringgold Cash, rubbing his left hand with his right as if he would rub off the black spots. ‘‘He has no salary, if you will remember, but it would be perfectly proper, I thisk, to render him a vote of confidence.” This the board of directors did; and Mr. Wallingford, called in to receive it, was gratified almost to death. He was dressed that day with faultless precision, and his costume bore in it the combined traces of a social favorite, a business magnate, and an efficient maitre-d’hétel. “You cannot imagine, gentlemen, how proud and pleased I am,” he told them, smoothing down his frock coat over his more than well-developed figure, so as to increase the impressive breadth of him. “It has been my ambition to create for you a model factory, one of such appointments that gentlemen of the finer instincts might feel it not only profitable but pleasant to be connected with it; and I think that if the sordid aspects of buginess were kept a trifle more in the background, more of our young men of means might be induced to bring their needed taste and refinement into trade.” “Hear! hear!” interpolated the enthusi- astic Rickey, and the others, following his lead, clapped their hands. “‘ Allow me now to turn to stern business, and to lay before you a synopsis of our prog- ress during the two months and a half since we organized our company. Our fac- tory you have seen. You have, I think, seen the circulars and catalogues mailed you from time to time as they were received from the printer’s. I now have the pleasure of presenting to you the most promising of the replies I have had from our advertising. The first one of these, requesting us to make a price on three hundred of the portable bungalows, is from a Michigan cranberry monopolist, who expects to house his pickers right where the picking is good. The next one, from Ontario, wishes prices on a hun- dred and twenty-five, and this one, from Arkansas, asks for a quotation on a hundred of the portable bungalows. You will note, gentlemen, that all these letters speak most enthusiastically of the Speckled Bass Port- able Bungalow, and I must confess that if we can book the orders for these five hun- dred and twenty-five bungalows at a gross return of over two hundred thousand dol- lars, I shall feel not only encouraged, but flattered.” “Hear! hear!” shouted Rickey Saunders, and the others clapped their hands. Wallingford laid down the letters and took up two other packages. “TI have fur- thermore to report,” he went on, “‘that we have received our joint patent from the government at Washington, granting us the exclusive right to manufacture our article in the United States.” He held up the document in question, ex- hibiting its gaudy ribbon and seal, then pro- duced five more copies and passed them around the table, so that each one of the proud patentees might see his own- name upon the grant and have it for keeps. “* Also I have to report,”’ he continued, this time with solemn impressiveness, ‘the pro- curing of six patents in my own name for six more or less trivial improvements in port- able houses or bungalows. These are, of course, my own invention and my own prop- erty; but it is only my decent duty to offer them to the Speckled Bass Portable Bunga- low Company at the nominal price of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, cash! Here are the copies, gentlemen, and I shall retire without recommendation of any sort while you consider them.” A stillness of the weight and inflexibility of a Pullman blanket fell upon the board of directors immediately after the retirement of Mr. Wallingford. Ringgold Cash, being the calmest as well as the most deadly about money matters, was the first to recover his nerves. “Seems to me this Wallingford chap’s too good a business man for us. You see, it’s like this; to begin with, the fellow has no right to invent portable-house improve- ments after we had perfected the article.” “That’s it! It isn’t sportin’!” declared Rickey, much disappointed in Wallingford. “That’s because the fellow’s of no family at all,” agreed Reggie Haugh, with sorrow so deep that his big lips glistened like glass. ‘Ring said, the first day we met him, that we owed it to our families to be quite careful.” “‘We must think,” Von Humperdinck re- minded them gravely, and immediately bent his creases into waves of intellect, at the same time beckoring to Toad Jessop. Wa scat

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Benssy Falls at this moment proved his generalship by tapping upon the table with the pretty silver inlaid gavel with which Wallingford had provided him. “No alco- hol, gentlemen, please,” he protested. “This is too serious a moment. Boy, kindly provide the gentlemen with vichy, or their choice of mild drinks. Now, members of the Speckled Bass Portable Bungalow Com- pany, I beg to remind you that there is no motion before the house,” and Benssy Falls stood there in a perfect attitude of manly determination, without a single dimple in his cheeks. “Hear! hear!” exclaimed Rickey. “I move a vote of appreciation for our capable and resourceful president”’; and in spite of Benssy’s blushing protest, they carried that motion. It was during the enthusiasm attendant upon this official action that Von Humper- dinck proved his right to his Kaiserlike mustache and the three creases in his brow by solving the mighty problem offhand. “Mr. President, Mr. First Vice-President, Mr. Secretary, and Mr. Treasurer; Gentle- men of the Board: I move you that we table Official Manager Wallingford’s proposition!” “Rippin’!” shouted Rickey, jumping up. “Three cheers and a tiger for Humpsy. Now, fellows. One, two—” The gavel of President Falls fell almost rudely. “No indecorum, please, gentle- men,” he begged. ‘There is a motion, and a very important motion, before the house, and I have heard no second to it.” “T beg your pardon, Benssy,” apologized Rickey abjectly. ‘‘You’ve got the sportin’ idea of bein’ a president all right.” “Thank you,” returned the president graciously, but still with a trace of sternness; “nevertheless, I have heard no second.” “Right you are, old top,’ confessed Rickey still more contritely; ‘and just to help you out, I second.” “I also second,” announced Reggie Haugh, removing his hand from his pendu- lous lip to do so. At this juncture Ringgold Cash was deliv- ered of an idea equally as bright as Von Hum- perdinck’s. “Question!” he demanded. Even the ordinarily self-possessed Benssy was startled by this new manifestation of how much capability and brains they had in their organization. “Jove!” he exclaimed. “I am proud of you boys. It has been moved by Mr. Sec- George Randolph Chester 607 end Vice-President Von Humperdinck, sec- onded by Mr. Secretary Richard Saunders and Mr. First Vice-President Reginald de Puyster Haugh, and the question ordered by Mr. Treasurer Ringgold Cash, that we lay upon the table Mr. J. Rufus Walling- All , ford’s proposition to buy his patents. those in favor will please signify by rising.’ They arose toa man. “Thank you, gentle- men,” continued the president; ‘‘the mo- tion is carried unanimously, and I propose a toast in vichy, to Second Vice-President Von Humperdinck, who was the father of this happy idea.” Standing, they clanked glasses and drank. It was a great day for Toad Jessop. V AN unexpected development was so very grave that the official manager was com- pelled to call a special meeting of the board of directors, and he made the call so urgent that two of the members of the board were forced to break social engagements of the most imperative nature; one of these en- gagements, held by Reginald de Puyster Haugh, being with no less a person than the sensational second girl from the end, front row, in the “Follies of Forever” company. Nevertheless they all came, and Walling- ford sadly pointed out to them that, while the gentlemen from Michigan, and Ontario, and Arkansas were willing to pay the high price asked for the Speckled Bass Portable Bungalows, the Speckled Bass Portable Bungalows did not seem to offer sufficient quality for the money. Opportunely enough, the gentleman from Bezunk, Mich- igan, a Mr. Bezazzum, visited the factory while the meeting was in progress. He wore felt boots, corduroy trousers, a canvas coat, a sweater of gorgeous hues and won- drous pattern, and a broad-brimmed felt hat. As for his countenance, it was lean and bony, with the most absurdly sprawled black mustache imaginable, and a little tuft of chin-whiskers which began neatly, as if it had intended to be a goatee, and ended in all directions, as if it had sud- denly become intoxicated. His eyebrows were equally black, and beneath them glowed a pair of black eyes which alter- nately twinkled with mischief and flashed with hawklike intensity. There was that in his bearing and ease, however, which forbade levity or ridicule,

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608 and which made the board of directors, to whom Wallingford introduced him, take him as seriously as he took himself; but Toad Jessop, after one good look at him, went out into the stock-room, where he leaned over a barrel of nails and laughed until he had the stomach-ache. “Well, yuh see, gents,” said Mr. Bezaz- zum in objection to the company’s product, “T’m a-willin’ tuh pay thuh top-notch buh- danged price fur thuh very best buhgosh port-table houses what can be coaxed to- gether, and I got thuh buhjing money,” and here he slapped his pocket meaningly. “Bu--u--ut I don’t notice from your cata- logue: enough new-fangled doodads, din- guses, and hickeys tuh seem tuh chahm thuh dollahs out’n these corduroys.” “I’m very sorry, Mr. Bezazzum,’’ re- turned Mr. Wallingford, “but I am sure that our catalogues do not do full justice to the Speckled Bass Portable Bungalow. You must come out into our factory and inspect one which is complete and ready for shipment.” It was a masterful manner in which to treat such an emergency, and the board of directors were strong in their admiration of it. The board followed into the factory, much interested, to see the demonstration. With all his suavity, Wallingford strove to prove to him the excellence of the Speckled Bass Hollow-Walled Portable Bungalow. But Mr. Bezazzum was obdurate. While admitting the superiority of the article be- fore him, admitting it in such flattering terms that each and every one of the board of directors was pleased until he ‘writhed, still, the thing would not quite do. The official manager sithed. The mem- bers of the board of directors looked at him anxiously. What would this commercial genius do in such an emergency? He dis- played his hand, and in unison they sighed with relief. “You have not seen the improvements upon the Speckled Bass Bungalow,” said Wallingford, holding up his hand impress- ively, and the mere manner in which he said it, his round, pink face graven into solemnity, and his broad chest expanded to its full capacity, was enough to inspire confidence in any man. “Allow me to show you the improved portable-house weather- strip; the improved portable-house lightning- rod; the improved portable-house venti- lator; the improved portable-house down- The New Adventures of Wallingford spout; the improved portable-house door- knob; and the improved portable-house burglar-alarm.”’ Deftly and quickly the official manager dispiayed these wonderful attachments protected by the six Wallingford patents. Mr. Bezazzum was in ecstasies, nor was his voluble ardor cooled when Mr. Walling- ford announced that these improvements would add twenty-five dollars to the cost of each bungalow. “T wouldn’t buhdang mis; havin’ them improvements if they cost fifty plunks a throw,” he declared enthusiastically. “Yuh can jes’ book mah ohdeh faw thr-r-ree hun- dred hollow-walled bungalows with all them there improvements, and I'll slip you ten per cent. of thuh entire bill, in cash, right now. Yo’-all can ship the balance C. O. D., and you can write or telegraph anybody in Bezunk, Michigan, about thuh credit of ole Pete Bezazzum.” He looked so defiant upon this, that Benssy Falls hastened, with all the courtesy of a gentleman to a stranger, to assure him that they had no doubt whatsoever as to his financial standing. Official Manager Wallingford bent upon the luckless presi- dent of the company en offended and, at the same time, reproving glare. “Of course, Mr. Bezazzum, I shall be compelled to investigate your standing, as a matter of form, but in the meantime I should like, before booking your order, which is rather a large one even for us, to consult with my board of directors. I am only the manager here. Boy, take this gen- tleman into my office and see if he will not have some refreshments. Mr. Bezazzum, I shall not detain you over two or three minutes. Gentlemen, will you kindly ac- company me to the board room?” With awe-stricken faces the directo: filed in with Wallingford, while Toad Jes- sop, his lips tightly compressed, his cheeks puffed, and his face so red that his orange freckles were afloat on a sea of maroon, led Mr. Bezazzum into the manager’s room and, being entirely speechless, made signs for the gentleman to-give his order. Mr. Bezazzum, instead of stating his wishes in the liquid line, held up one lean forefinger. “Toad,” said he quietly, “whistle ‘Hot Time.’ ” It was then that the explosion came, and Toad was useless for the next half-hour. He laughed until he was faint, and Blackie,

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throwing him upon a couch, was compelled to apply serious restoratives. Meanwhile Wallingford discussed grave matters with his board. The directors were all for bargaining with him at once for the complete control of his patents, but unfortunately, their minds were at work upon a suggestion made by Ringgold Cash, to acquire the patents upon aroyalty basis, and, perceiv- ing the impos- sibility of set- ting these particular minds at work upon any two thoughts at one and the same time, Mr. Wallingford led them gen- tly but firmly away from the entire subject. “We must be cautious,” he said. “I would not have you hasty in acquiring these patents, nor in booking the order of Mr. Bezaz- zum. I shall require a week or ten days in which to look into the gen- tleman’s cre- dentials. In that time I shall discover, with your per- mission, whether the Wallingford improve- ments will do anything toward securing the Ontario and Arkansas orders. If they do, of course the company will need, and must have, the Wallingford patents, and, in that case, my price will be a hundred and twenty- five thousand dollars, cash!” VI On the day Mr. Wallingford received his one hundred and twenty-five thousand At precisely eleven, Toad Jessop ushered into the office of the official manager a spare, nervous, leather-faced man their systems George Randolph Chester 609 dollars, he started work upon the three hundred portable houses for Mr. Bezaz- zum; he also booked the order of the gen- tleman from Arkansas, and gloated for a moment over the order of the gentleman from Ontario, booked four days previously. This hour’s work was all he did in the office that morning, for, immediately upon the receipt of his check from the genial secre- tary, who seemed more concaved than ever from col- lar-button to knees by the unearthly hour of ten A.M., Mr. Walling- ford hurried right out to turn that check into cash, and did not return un- til the next day. From that time on, how- ever, things moved, in that dress-parade factory, with a suddenness and decision which sur- prised the uni- formed rank of the Knights of the Wooden Ribbon until they had washed out every giggle in with honest perspiration; for Wallingford, when he suddenly dropped the mask of the factory dilettante, proved to be what the men within a week declared, a “regular man- ager.’’ He seemed to have but one obses- sion in life —to make portable houses as quickly as they could be made, as cheaply as they could be made, and as good as they could be made; and he knew precisely how to utilize waste material, save labor, and keep men good-natured while getting from | i / ) |

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610 them the last possible ounce of effective man-power. So forcefully he worked that all three of his big shipments were ready within the time-limit, for a delivery date had been part of the contract with each of the three orders; and the men were cheer- ful about sending out so much work at once, since they knew of at least one more order for a hundred houses, which Benssy Falls had secured from his father. Deuced fine thing, the securing of that order, and it revived the interest of the board somewhat, though only for a few days. Their interest had flagged woefully of late, for Wallingford had made them feel that life was real, life was earnest. He called a special board meeting on every possible and impossible occasion, and, more than that, by the sheer force of his persenality he made them attend, until the mere sound of his inexorable voice over the ‘phone, or the sight of an envelope bearing the neatly embossed factory monogram, was enough to make them all call feebly for their smelling-salts. Wallingford, with a grim, secret humor, kept the board of directors’ functions as elaborate as ever, but he allowed, which was entirely foreign to his nature, a sameness to pervade the very elaboration, and a death- like pall crept upon the meetings. In the meantime the work never flagged. The three orders were made ready in record speed, and the three shipments were so timed as to reach their destinations upon the same day, as nearly as possible. Upon the day of the last shipment Wallingford tele- phoned to a lawyer friend of his, who im- mediately *phoned the information to a lawyer friend of his own, that the Speckled Bass Portable Bungalow Company was at last engaged in actual business, having made shipments. Upon the next day the lawyer friend of Wallingford’s lawyer friend filed a suit against the company in the name of the National Hollow-Walled Portable House Company, for infringement of patent and damages, the bill also praying an injunction. The official manager immediately called a meeting of the board, by ’phone. He al- most called in vain, for only Rickey Saun- ders, ever loyal, would admit that he was in town. Upon making known the intense gravity of thesituation, Wallingford, through Rickey, secured the others. They came most painfully, and the official manager allowed the attorney for the opposition to Walling- talk them into a sapphire funk. The New Adventures of Wallingford ford, however, masterful, resourceful man that he was, stood firmly as a rock, defying the attorney, who threatened to put them out of business, annex their private fortunes for damages, and disgrace them forever. Wanly, yet professing deep if almost de- spairing faith, they clung to their friend J. Rufus, even in the face of the lawyer’s de- parting threat to bring suit at once; but on the fourth day after, there came an agonized telegram from Mr. Bezazzum, that an in- junction had been served upon him, for- bidding him to pay for and remove the portable bungalows consigned to him. Wallingford called a board of directors’ meeting. On the following day a similar telegram came from the gentleman in Ontario. Mr. Wallingford called a board of direc- tors’ meeting. On the second day after that a similar telegram came from the gentleman in Arkansas. Mr. Wallingford called a board of direc- tors’ meeting. On the second day after that, again, Mr. Bezazzum himself came into the factory, clad in the most violent silk sweater procur- able. Mr. Wallingford not only called a board of directors’ meeting on this special occasion, but he spent an entire day in a taxi and brought them to it, limp and pitiful as they were. Mr. Bezzazum, more violently inflamed than his unspeakable sweater, was a tornado of righteous wrath, whom Mr. Wallingford endeavored, with no success at all, to placate with soothing words and fond promises. “No!” shrieked Mr. Bezazzum. ‘Oi’ll have the law on yez, begob. You promised me delivery on a certain date. I have me three hundred min engaged, and no houses to put them in. I could have had the houses elsewhere; but, by cheminy, I blace my confidence een diss skinner concern an’ they trun me down. I’m agin you; see? To-morrow, by heck, I'll stack you up in front of a two- hundred - thousand - dollar damage suit, so help me! And that goes!” Wallingford, in a panic at Blackie’s audac- ity, but appreciating far less than Blackie how much the panic of his numbed board of directors could safely be trodden upon, and jerked to bits, and gorily juggled with, just did save himself from an attack of heart failure and drew himself together for his cue.

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George Randolph Chester “But, my dear man!” he expostulated. “My dear Mr. Bezazzum! You must real- ize that, so far as intent goes, we are entirely innocent in this affair. We delivered the goods to you on time, and we cannot be held for anything on that score. In a spirit of fairness, however, we will do this much. We will pay the freight both ways, take back the three hundred portable houses, and repay your ten per cent. advance deposit, in cash. Isn’t that fair, Mr. Bezazzum?”’ “Hear! hear!” cried Rickey Saunders, in a tone which tried to be exhilarating. “That’s a sportin’ offer, Mr. Bezazzum.”’ Mr. Bezazzum’s answer to that sportin’ offer was immediate, picturesque, and vio- lent. He had a contract calling for the delivery of the goods to him within a certain specified time, and delivery to a carrying agent from which he could not secure the goods, upon the proffer of the agreed price for their release, was no delivery to him, in fact, common sense, or law. In the mean- time, relying upon this company, he had, in good faith, hired a regiment of men for whose operations, in his behalf, these port- able houses were necessary; and these men, under contract, looked to him for their pay. He had a good and valid claim for damages, sustainable in any court, for a sum so large that it staggered even Wallingford when Mr. Bezazzum had the careless impudence to mention it. Mr. Bezazzum intended to press his claim in the highest courts in the land, so help him Moses; and there was no possi- ble compromise! Hold on, though! There might—that is, it was just barely possible that there might—be a way out. Hope, dim, vague, distant, glimmering hope, the barest flicker and spark of hope blushed faintly upon the far-distant hori- zon for five disconsolate gentlemen in trade. It might be barely possible that, if the Speckled Bass Company, retaining his ten per cent. advance payment, were to relin- quish the goods in settlement of Mr. Bezaz- zum’s damage claim— Well, gentlemen, there you were, and what were you going to do about it or stand suit, buhgosh! The dense silence was broken by Von Humperdinck, the three creases in whose brow were now so tightly drawn that they seemed one blurred, black line of founda- tion for his spikes of hair. ‘Did I under- stand the gentleman to say that he offered a compromise?” he queried in tones of in- tense thought. 611 ‘Mr. Wallingford, apparently hopeless and despairing, put the compromise into intel- ligible terms. “At last there’s somethin’ fairly sport- in’,” Rickey plucked up his spirits enough to announce. ‘‘Is it correct, gov’nor, that this gentleman will just take the three hun- dred portable houses and go back home to Bezap, or Bezibber, or wherever it is, and never—er—never molest us again?” “That’s his only term,” vociferated Mr. Bezazzum. “Then it’s perfectly easy,” declared Rickey, so relieved that he could pluck with interest at the mustache which would not come. ‘‘We don’t want the bloomin’ bungalows, do we, fellows?” The unanimous assent to this was a closely concerted groan; but the groan was emphatic. “Then,” went on Rickey, still brighten- ing, “I vote, fellows, that we accept the bloomin’ compromise and thank the gen- tleman from Bezam for having made his rippin, good, sportin’ offer.” “Just a moment, gentlemen,” warned Wallingford solemnly. ‘We are setting a dangerous precedent. We have customers in Ontario, and in Arkansas, who will be claiming the same terms.” “Move we let ’em all have the terms,” returned Rickey promptly. “Move we let ’em all have ’em. That’s sportin’, eh, fellows? Somebody second the motion.” A savage second came from Reggie Haugh, who was pouting a pout of record thickness. He had just lost the second girl from the end, first row, because a man who would Jet business interfere with an engagement with her was a piker. Even Ringgold Cash, who would just as lief lose money as part with his eyesight, hearing, speech, and sense of taste, was frightened enough, and disgusted enough, to help make that motion unanimous; and, striking while the iron was hot, Walling- ford called in a messenger-boy and immedi- ately wired the gentlemen in Ontario and Arkansas the terms of the compromise. By some remarkable coincidence, the at- torney for the National Company just managed to happen in upon them at this juncture. The attorney for the National Company was very severe. He had just received fresh information regarding an in- fringement incorporated into the Speckled Bass product, but. not mentioned in the

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612 Speckled Bass patent, and this infringe- ment gave the National Company an addi- tional crushing legal weapon. The com- pany he represented was not disposed to be harsh, however. It would give the Speckled Bass Company its choice of two courses. It could continue business under a prohibi- tive royalty, or it could quit business en- tirely and forever. It took the board of directors just forty- three seconds to accept the proposition to go out of business entirely and forever; and immediately thereafter it departed in a body, declining even to take a parting drink in the hideous marts of trade. “Well, Jimmy,” said Blackie, after even the attorney for the opposition had de- parted, “let’s crack a bumper and count the profits. You made a hundred and twenty-five thousand clear on the patents, which coin belongs to you individually, and we have five hundred and twenty-five portable houses, free of all encumbrance, except freightage to points of good sale, and worth two hundred and twelve thousand dollars, which cost us twenty-one thousand two hundred. It was a fine and dandy re- venge, Jimmy.” “Revenge!” half shouted Wallingford, leaning over suddenly and pounding upon the table with his big fist. ‘Would you call this piffling little amusement revenge? You’re never serious enough, Blackie, to understand what that word means, but I do! Did you see me call young Benssy back? Well, I sent a message by him which will bring me a revenge worth while, at eleven o’clock to-morrow. What are you laughing about, kid?” “Never mind,” said Toad witha wave of his freckled hand; “I’m on. You two is too slick to rest well nights; but the booger man’ll git you sure.” Wallingford looked at him with not at all unfriendly eyes. ‘‘You’ve a lot of nerve, talking to us like that,” he declared with an assumption of gruffness. “Oh, I ain’t afeared,”’ retorted Toad con- temptuously. “You fellows like me, an’ I like you fellows, even if you ain’t on the square an’ the level, as my Paw always says. But the booger man’ll git you jis’ the same, “The booger man, eh?” repeated Blackie, smiling. “‘I didn’t know you stood for such stuff, Toad.” “Well,” replied Toad soberly, “my Maw The New Adventures of Wallingford always said that your worst booger man was your own self.”’ “ Holy Cripes!”’ ejaculated Blackie. “Get out of here and bring us that champagne or you'll drive us to drink.” VII At precisely eleven, Toad Jessop ushered into the office of the official manager a spare, nervous, leather-faced man, whose beard sprang black an hour after a shave. He hung slouchily in his good clothes, and his step had no elasticity, but there was an unquenchable fire in his eyes; and a vast unnumbered army of men, from ditch-dig- gers to millionaires, would tremble if E. H. Falls were to do so inconceivable a thing as to roar. He shuffled into Wallingford’s office and sat quietly in a big chair, shrink- ing into his clothes, almost as if he were in dread of his antagonist—and he waited! Wallingford proved the weaker man in the start, for he began the struggle. ‘Well, I suppose your son has told you of the iniquitous manner in which he was robbed,” began Wallingford gloatingly. ‘“‘He did nothing of the sort,” said Falls. “Tf he had been robbed, he would have crawled under the porch and licked his own wound until it was well. I never yet heard Benssy whine. Was he robbed?” “Well, I wouldn’t just say robbed,” re- turned Wallingford, with the ugly laugh of a man who sees his moment of revenge on the way and thirsts for it. ‘I wouldn’t say robbed, because that might be taken as a confession. He just proved himself a sap- head, that’s all.” The shrunken figure in the chair straight- ened up with surprising elasticity. ‘‘ You'll kindly drop any mention of Benssy,” he said with a snap of his jaws. “I can put Benssy in a turning-lathe, trim off a thou- sandth of an inch of careless artificiality, split him up, and make of him six better men than most of his recent associates. I know what’s in the boy, and I am highly pleased to allow him to be utterly care free, and an outward fool if he likes; but if I ever need him, I’ll skin him, and have a real man standing by the side of me. Now, what cid you want to see me about?” “The Lake Michigan and _ Pacific,” blurted Wallingford surlily, for so far his attack had been a boomerang. The eyes of Falls lighted with immediate

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EX EB, CHAMBERS Wallingford hung his head. Toad had been right. The booger man had got him

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614 interest. ‘“‘So you are the one who has the balance of stock hidden away?” he com- mented. “You bet I am!” declared Wallingford, leaning forward in sudden anger, and hold- ing his fist tensely upon the edge of the table. From that moment Falls lounged back in his chair, and listened, and never moved. ‘‘ You bet Iam!” repeated Wallingford. ‘‘ Benssy, your unskinned man, let out to me when I first met him that you are actually going to build the connecting line between the Chi- cago and Manhattan and the Lake Michigan and Pacific railroads, and create the new Pacific trunk line upon which you made me lose the only real fortune I ever had.” Wallingford’s face had reddened, and his voice grew husky with emotion as he went on. ‘Yes, you did! I came to you witha proposition to sell that connecting strip of land for stock in the two roads, which were bound to advance in value when they were consolidated; and you led me into a wild mess of margin speculation, which cost me half a million dollars, all I had in the world. Now I’m going to get it all back, with inter- est. Do you hear me? With interest! The minute I found that you were actually going to slip this road through, which you had denied that you would ever build, I mortgaged everything I possessed, borrowed everything I could, raked and scraped to- gether until I had a little over three hun- dred thousand dollars. With this I quietly bought outright all the loose stock I could find of the Lake Michigan and Pacific, knowing that you were doing the same, that you would not go into the open market for fear of boosting the price, and that you felt your operations to be so secret that you had plenty of time to secure control.” Wallingford mopped his brow. He was hoarse now. Falls sat quietly regarding him, but did nothing so dramatic as even to light a cigar. “Well, after I had invested all that I could, I showed W. D. Fishbacker your order for one hundred portable houses, and called his attention to the points to which they were to be delivered; and Fishbacker struggled with you for the rest. I notice that you ran up the price quite a bit before all the stock was shaken loose. There isn’t a share of it to be had, Mr. Falls, except from Fishbacker or myself, and you know how much chance there is for you ever to do business, on any basis, with Fishbacker.”’ The New Adventures of Wallingford His voice was very hoarse, now, but even above the hoarseness it arose to a queer caricature of an angry shriek, and his face was purple with passion. “I hold control, which you must have; and you must come to me for it; and you must pay my price!” There was a moment of silence, in which Wallingford tremblingly reached for a glass of water, and, finding the glass empty, set it down; then, still needing a drink, picked it up and held it foolishly. Falls crossed over the other leg. “Tt seems that you have me,” he pleas- antly admitted. ‘‘How much do you want for your three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stock?” “A million and a quarter,” snarled Wal- lingford, leaning forward and looking closely into the eyes of the only man he had ever held as an enemy. Falls produced a check-book from his pocket, produced a fountain-pen from an- other, wrote a check, and arose. ‘‘There’s your million and a quarter, Mr. Walling- ford,” he observed in so quiet and even a tone that there must either be hatred, con- tempt, or, worse than all, complete indiffer- ence behind it. ‘Deliver your stock to my office before the banks close, and you will find that check perfectly negotiable. When you get your million and a quarter, go out and buy a cigarette with it, and smoke it up, and be broke again, and start back working the county fairs. I know you'll do it, Wal- lingford, for a piker always finds his level.” Somehow Falls emerged from Walling- ford’s office unanswered. The truth seldom meets with an adequate reply, except in its own kind. Well, Wallingford had the million and a quarter for which he had played; enough to give Fannie back her house upon the avenue; enough to furnish himself with all the luxuries and indulgences which he craved; enough to give back to Violet Bon- nie her fifteen thousand dollars, with two or three hundred per cent. interest; but still he was not quite satisfied. Why? Be- cause of one simple word. Falls had called him a piker,and had proved it. The gleam of a broken pattern of brass buttons, seen through the door as Toad Jessop returned from his obsequious atten- tions to the departing railroad king, gave Wallingford’s thought another tack, and he hung his head. Toad had been right. The booger man had got him. The next story of ‘‘Get-Rich- Quick Wallingford’’ will appear in the May issue.

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COPYRIGHT BY T eighty-three years of age Mrs. Margaret Olivia Sage is preparing to take her first vaca- tion since she began to give away the millions her husband had accumulated. Thirty million dollars are her largess, which removes her from the position of the world’s richest woman and gives her the leadership of those who would cure our bad social conditions. She always tries to strike at a cause, rather than to cure a consequence. She believes that the best way to relieve the unavoidable misery of the world is to help people to help them- selves, and is ready to test her faith. For instance: Her automobile overtook a ragged tramp on the road to her home at Cedar- hurst. ‘Get in,” said Mrs. Sage briefly, opening the door of the limousine. ‘I have some work for you.” And she had. The tramp was fed and clothed, and then he was put at work and kept at work. By the time he had paid for his new clothes he had developed a new set of habits and a new outlook. A Giver in Millions Hitherto lished daguerreo- types of Mrs. Russell (left), at the age of ecight- een,andher mother, te: Joseph Slocum Recent portrait of Mrs. Sage, who believes in phi- lanthropy, not charity unpub- Sage MELEN b, VAN EATON When Mrs. Sage learned that by the will of her husband million dollars had been thrown upon her shoulders, she did what almost any other conscientious, simple- minded, duty-loving woman would have done. She sat down and cried. Since then she has administered the estate as she believes he would have. There has been no waste in lit- tle things, but millions have been given for the lasting benefit of humanity. Of a vigorous New England family of notable English ances- try, Margaret Olivia Slocum became self-sup- porting when she graduated from the Troy Female Seminary when she was seventeen years old. She taught school from 1847 until she became Mr. Sage’s second wife in 1869, and even when hersalary was but $200 a year she gave a tenth to charity. Perhaps it was at the teacher’s desk that she gained the somewhat humorous viewpoint that has enabled her to say of those she has aided, “Only one in ten has thanked me; but the other nine have also been helped.” the weight of seventy © j | | | | | |

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DRAWN BY JOHN ALONZO WILLIAMS “A fool and his money are soon parted!” remarked my husband. “It’s a pity, sir, that, instead of throwing away your cash, you don't try to lift some of the load from the shoulders of the father to whom you have been an expense all these years ~ (‘Why I Left

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you will be interested in this story. It suggests a Why I Left My Husband If you are a long-suffering wife or a long-offending husband, or if you know of any such person, ‘ ‘way out’’ even when the law cannot help By Virginia Terhune Van de Water Illustrated by John Alonzo Williams OT long ago a woman was talking to me of an acquaintance whose husband was miserly, ill tem- pered, ill bred, yet whose wife was uniformly patient with him. “She can stand it all,” remarked my friend, “because her husband has always been faithful to her. He has never talked love to, or looked love at, another woman.” The remark set me to thinking. Are there women who can forgive all that a man may do so long as he remains faithful to the letter of his marriage vows? Is the sin of infidelity the only one that the average woman cannot condone? Perhaps that is true, but, if so, I am not like other women. For my husband was faithful to me, as the world counts fidelity. He certainly never made love to any other woman, nor did he care particularly for the society of the oppo- site sex. One of the wearing things about a sorrow or a mistake is that one goes over it in her mind, again and again, always with the same wondering thought, “Suppose I had done this or that, might not the result have been different?’’ Who that has suffered does not know the torture of such futile con- jecture? So I, in reviewing my marriage, find myself wondering if, as a girl, I had been trained differently, I might not have been a more judicious wife and made a better husband of the man I married. But my parents were affectionate, old- fashioned people whose one law of life was that of love. “Bear and forbear,” I was told, was the rule for a happy marriage. To efface oneself, if need be, for the sake of the dear one was right. The plan worked well with my parents and in their home. We were a singularly happy and devoted family. So when I married the man I loved I de- termined to smooth his pathway through life, and to sacrifice my own wishes when they conflicted with his. This gave him happiness for a few years, and made him selfish. I had not learned that a wife is, to a certain extent, responsible for the char- acter of the man she marries as well as for the characters of the children she bears. The old adage,“‘ Marriage makes or mars a man,” is sadly true, and the pitiful part of it is that in trying to make a man comfort- able a wife often mars him. For the first five years of our wedded life we were tolerably happy. My husband’s income was sufficient for our wants. We lived in a pretty cottage in a suburban town, and my babies and home kept me confined so closely that I had no time for outside interests or ambitions. My father had given me a musical education, and before my marriage I was known as a rather re- markable pianist. As a wife and mother I kept up my prac- tising. That I did this in spite of mother- hood cares and housekeeping responsibili- ties was, perhaps, evidence that I was one of the musicians who really love their art. My husband was fond of music, and some of the happiest hours I knew were on stormy evenings when my two boys were tucked snugly to sleep in the nursery up-stairs and I sat in the firelight playing for Alfred. Money matters cause more marital un- happiness than all the conjugal infidelities which are supposed to fill the divorce courts. At first the one point of painful feeling between my husband and myself was the financial situation. He made the money, of course, and he felt that it was his and his only, to do with as he pleased with- out consulting me. As a girl I had had an allowance, for my parents had a theory that if one would teach a woman to manage her own affairs, one must supply her with money with which to learn. So, at fifteen, I was given a stated allowance which I was not 617

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618 Why I Left permitted to overstep, and with which I clothed myself. I had learned through some trying lessons how to buy to the best advantage, how to save in certain ways, how to make my own wash-dresses and trim my every-day hats, and how to lay aside a few quarters each week. With mar- riage, I found myself where I had to ask for every cent I spent. I do not mean that my husband was stingy. During the early years of our wed- ded life he was willing to have me order such clothes as I needed and send the bills tohim. He was safe in doing this, for I was not extravagant. Alfred paid the wages of our one servant, settled the housekeeping accounts, wrote out a check for the tailor who made me one handsome street-costume each year, but he did not give me money. When we had been married some months I spoke of this to him. He laughed lightly. “Why, dear girl,” he said, ‘“‘don’t I give you all that you want? You know I am willing to get you any little things that you ask for. I can’t see what use you have for money beyond car-fare and postage- stamps.” I flushed uncomfortably. I could not explain to him that I disliked having to ask my husband for every cent I spent. But I tried to explain. “Well, it is embarrassing not to have a penny. Suppose I want to take a ride on the street-car, or suppose a friend asks me to go walking and proposes that we take a cab home—it is uncomfortable not to have a cent in one’s pocket.” “‘Ah-h,” he said slowly, “you want your friends to think that you have money of your own? I understand. Hereafter I will hand you a couple of dollars when you want it for car-fare and similar trifles. As I have an account at the stable, have the cab charged to me if you need one. Let me know when you require money for stamps and cars—and take this now!” He laid a two-dollar bill on the table and went off to the station to catch the train that would carry him to his office in town. This was the first time that I had ever been out of temper with my husband. Of course there had been little moments of vexation, but now I was angry, and away down in my heart I knew that I felt that he was small and petty. This was my first suspicion that the way to keep him happy was to let him feel that he was essential to My Husband me for everything, and that his will was the supreme law in his house. As the day wore on my temper subsided, and the training I had had in unselfishness asserted itself. If I loved my husband, and could make him content by molding myself to his ways, was it not my manifest duty to do it? So when he returned in the evening I met him withasmiling face and tried to make him forget the little tiff of the morning. At another time my husband was plan- ning to be away for several days, and I told him, stammeringly, that I had no money in the house “if anything should happen.” He gave his smile of amused and slightly wearied patience, and drew forth a roll of greenbacks. Drawing out three one-dollar bills, he gave them to me with the remark: ‘Here, take these to use as you please in case ‘anything should happen,’ as you say. Remember I gave them to you, however.” His speech left me with an uncomfortable feeling when he told me good-by and went totown. As he was not to be back for three days, he had suggested that I ask an old schoolmate of mine to make me a little visit during his absence. She arrived that noon. In the afternoon she and I went for a stroll down the one business street of our little town. Our only drug-store was an agency for a popular candy firm. My friend called my attention to this fact, adding, “Let’s get some caramels—I’m candy- hungry!” She tried to pay for the pound of sweet- meats, but as she was my guest my ideas of hospitality interfered with my allowing her to do so. I laid one of the dollar bills my husband had given me on the cashier’s desk. What would Alfred think? I wondered with a little thrill of apprehension. I was soon to know. When I reached home I found a telegram from Alfred saying he had received a letter at his office which made his trip unnecessary, and that he would be home to dinner. We were in our own room that night be- fore he spoke of the money. “By the way,” he said suddenly, “I will need some change to-morrow morning, and have only large bills with me. Let me have those three ones I gave you this morning, will you? I will give them back to you before I go on my next trip,” he added teasingly. And then I had to admit that I had used sixty cents. He asked for what I had

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Virginia Terhune Van de Water needed it, and I felt like a naughty child when I murmured guiltily, ‘‘Caramels.” The humor of the situation did not strike me then. Even now I cannot smile at it, for I remember his contemptuous laugh. “You said you wanted to have money on hand ‘if anything happened,’”’ he remarked. “And candy was what happened. I fancy that is the silly kind of thing that would often occur if you had the handling of the family purse.” : When the elder of our two boys was five years of age, the firm employing my hus- band failed. He had little trouble in get- ting another position, for he had engaging manners and personal magnetism, and was 619 ‘ popular with his business acquaintances. But the new position made our moving into the city a necessity. At least my husband thought it did. My heart ached at leaving our pretty cottage and the quiet of our little town, but I did not say so. I remem- bered that a wife should be unselfish, and I held my peace. My husband did not like the idea of an apartment, so we decided to take a house, although our income really did not warrant it. JI opened my eyes in horror as I heard what the rent would be, but Alfred, always sanguine when prompted by desire, assured me that I had no need to worry, as that was his business, not mine. “If I can stand it I guess you can,” he said shortly, and I was silenced. But I soon learned that he could not meet all the expenses incidental to a city resi- dence. He became morose, unhappy, and, at last, when I begged him to confide in me, he burst forth with: “Our family costs too much! Somehow other men can get on with a salary like mine. But we can’t! I sup- pose you feel now that you’re in town you must make a splurge, for your bills are half as much again as they used to _ be. You have ordered new 1 pleaded with my boys for their father, explaining that he had business troubles, that he was not well, that he loved them truly and they must not mind his irritable ways. But I knew that I was not honest with them

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“~y ERE te RI CRRA ae tS ets 620 Why I Left My Husband carpets, new hangings, and new curtains, while in the country you were satisfied with those you had.” I saw he was in one of his unreasonable moods, but I tried to explain. “My dear Alfred,” I pleaded, “I told you that it would cost a great deal to furnish a city house, and I wanted to make the things we had out in the country go as far as they would, but you insisted that I get the car- pets, rugs, and hangings of which you speak. Yet I did not get as handsome articles as you suggested.” “Oh, that’s it!” he exclaimed. “Say, ‘I told you so!’ but the fact remains that I advised you to get what was necessary, and, of course, to buy good things, thinking that you would have sense and judgment enough to go slowly and easily. The result is but another proof that you have no idea of the value of money. It serves me right for thinking that you had!”’ Yet, the next week, he proposed that we engage a second maid. I showed him how much this would increase our expenses, but he said he knew where the money was com- ing from, and insisted that I hire a girl who should be waitress and chambermaid. The maid-of-all-work thus became cook and Jaundress. Oh, that first winter in town! How hard it was! Burdened with the sense of lone- liness in a great city, with the knowledge that we were living right up to our income and not saving a cent, that my boys missed the country air and the freedom to run out of doors and play as they used to on our quiet suburban streets, I would lie awake far into the small hours, listening to the wind moan about the house, and longing for the little cottage thirty miles away. True to my theory of unselfishness, I told my husband nothing of all this, but I tried to make him love his new home. When bills were large he would regret that I “‘could not be content in the country,” for- getting that I wanted to remain there, and that he had insisted on our coming away. But, little by little, the city life attracted him, and at last he joined a fashionable club, after which he complained less of the “barren town life.” He told me little of his business affairs until one day when he came to me and asked me if I would go to a notary public with him, as he wanted to have me sign my name with his, so that he could get some ready money. “But I don’t understand,” I said, “what my signature has to do with it!”’ Then, in a sudden impulse of confidence, he told me that he had not the money for the rent, and wanted to borrow something on his life insurance, and, as he was insured for my benefit, my signature was necessary. It was at this juncture I determined I must do something to increase the family income, so, without mentioning my plan to my husband, I went to a professor of music with whom I had been acquainted for years and asked him if he would tell me how to get a few pupils. He knew of my musical ability and recommended me to several wealthy persons who had children to be taught, and who were able to pay the prices which he told me to ask. When, after some months, I had made two hun- dred dollars by this work, I confessed my secret to my husband, just when he was again in financial difficulty. I had hoped the fact that I could hand him some money would lift a load from his mind. To my astonishment, he became furiously angry. “To think that you, my wife, should demean me by earning money!” he ex- claimed. “It is a part and parcel of the whole thing nowadays! You are not satis- fied to live simply, to economize and help your husband as the dear, old-fashioned women used to, but you must get out into the world and hustle, just as men do!” There was much more said. I apologized and told him I only meant to help him. At first he would not forgive me. Then, sud- denly, his whim changed, as unexpectedly and quickly as a weather-vane will veer about in a southerly gale. “Poor girl!” he said, putting his arm about me. ‘What else could I expect?—I, a man who cannot supply his wife with the luxuries most women have! What a failure Iam! No wonder that, seeing other women with handsomer homes and more pleasures than you have, you should use your talent to get these things!” I hastened to reiterate my statement that my desire was to be of assistance to him, and, to prove it, I pressed upon him the money I had earned. He protested at first, then took it to please me and “just as aloan.” He never offered to return it, and I never asked for it. And here I acknowledge that I made the greatest of blunders. This is one of the things over which I ponder and say, “Jf I

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had acted otherwise.”’ But such specula- tion is useless. I appreciate that what I then called my unselfish duty was a sinful error. I should have allowed Alfred to be independent of me, since he claimed to be. I might have been happier. For by this time I appreciated that I was not happy. I had my children, my two bonny boys, and it was for their sakes that I had tried to make myself believe that their father was all that I wished him to be. Yet his attitude toward them was one of the things that widened the breach between us. He loved his boys in a certain way, espe- cially when I paid little attention to them. But he was jealous of my devotion to them, and, when angry, was very severe with them. I have a theory that parents should seem to agree in the management of their children, so when Alfred was unjust to the boys I said nothing at the time, but after- ward my sense of justice would lead me to explain the circumstances. Such explana- tions irritated my husband. I remember one afternoon when he came home and found lying on the table in his room his favorite meerschaum with the mouth-piece broken. David, our elder son, then a lad of ten, chanced to be passing the door. His father called to him. I knew from his voice that he was angry, and I hastened to the scene. He had the child by the arm and was asking, ‘Who laid that pipe there?” “TI did, father,” replied the boy. “I picked it up from the floor where—”’ He got no further, for his father struck him across the face. ‘‘Of course you picked it up from the floor after dropping it there!” “But, father, I did not drop—” “No lies, sir! See here,’’ turning to me, “what this puppy has done! Little cur! Little liar!” I interposed gently, ‘“My dear, perhaps he did not break the pipe. Did you, son?” I asked of the frightened boy. ““No, mother, I only picked it up when I saw it lying on the floor.” His father gave a derisive laugh. ‘And I suppose it fell down of itself from the pipe- rack and broke itself,’”’ he sneered. “But, father—”’ ‘Go to your room!” ordered my husband, and, as the lad turned to obey, he caught hold of his arm and shook him roughly. I kept silence until the door of the boy’s room shut behind him, then I said: “ Alfred, Virginia Terhune Van de Water 621 ‘you are behaving foolishly. How do you know David broke the pipe?” But he was past reasoning with, and answered me with a flow of sarcasm that was so pitifully weak and silly that, as I listened to him, to his railings and childish fury, I found all respect for him dying with- in me. I do not know just what he said, only there was a good deal about my loving the boys more than I did him, about my “siding” with them against him, about his being only a superfluous man, good enough as a bread-winner, perhaps, but even then not able to supply the wants of a luxury- loving wife and her adored children. When he paused for breath I went to my own room. Later I descended to the kitchen and interviewed the maids, asking them if they knew who had touched my husband’s pipes that day. The chambermaid remem- bered that she had knocked one out of the rack when dusting. “Do not forget to tell the boys’ father of it,” I said, “for he thinks one of them did it.” I was in the dining-room when the maid made her confession. She was sorry, she said, but it was an accident. My husband remarked that he was sorry, too, as the pipe was a valuable one, but that he knew “acci- dents would happen.”’ He never apologized to his son, nor referred again to the matter. Yet what could I do or say when my boys would come to me after such a scene and express their indignation? It taxed all my ingenuity to seem to explain their father’s attitude. I pleaded that he had business troubles, that he was not well, that he was nervous, that he loved them truly, and that they must not mind his little irritable ways. I knew that I was not honest with them. But he was their father, with whom they must live, with whom I must live. When the younger boy was fifteen, my mother died. To me, her only child, she left enough money to buy the house in which we dwelt, and to lay aside something toward my boys’ education. I did not tell my husband what the small amount was, only that it was not much. I was sure that if he knew the real sum he would some day come to me with a complaint of the cost of living, and that I would weakly help him out by letting him use my money. In jus- tice to my boys, I had no right to do this. When my mother died, my father came to live with us. That was my mother’s

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SA se ERROR a TSE ee 622 Why I Left wish, and my husband agreed willingly to this plan, for I was in great sorrow. At such times he was always considerate. He was one of those people who are ever ready to be sympathetic in the face of a crushing grief, but who weary of the daily demands upon their courtesy and gentleness. Had I always been in the throes of a fresh be- reavement, my husband would have been gentle with me always. The same might be said of him in cases of illness. If one of the boys or myself was severely ill, he would worry, but if one was able to be up and around, the suffering of such a per- son did not appeal to him. When one of the boys was half sick, it irritated his father to see him ‘‘moping around the house.” Yet I suppose he loved his children —in his way. I had thought the situation trying before my father came to live with us. After that it was well-nigh intolerable. I was, year after year, the cloth between the two sides of a pair of shears. My elder son called me, in private, ‘‘the family flatiron,” de- claring that my chief occupation was that of smoothing out altercations. There was much truth in this, and I learned to see an impending quarrel or discussion, and to change the subject, to talk nonsense so fast that my husband would have no opportu- nity to speak the angry word I saw rising to his lips, to attract my father’s attention so that he would not notice Alfred’s ill humor. Nobody in this world knows what my boys were to me at this period of my life, nor how tender they were in their appreciation of the efforts that I made to keep their home bright and attractive, and to have in it an atmosphere of peace and cheer. My father’s health was not strong, and I had to watch his diet carefully, and see that he did not overexert himself. There never was a more sweet-natured man than he, nor a more loving parent. He must have seen the difficulties in my path, for he tried, in little unobtrusive ways, to make things easy for me. All these small acts of thought- fulness Alfred would resent, for he was jeal- ous of my love for anyone but himself. I remember his anger when father made me a present of an easy chair, upholstered in a color which my husband did not like. When he came home that night I called him into the library to see father’s gift to me. For- tunately the donor had gone up-stairs to get ready for dinner and did not witness My Husband my husband’s dark looks as he surveyed the piece of furniture. “So you like that, do you?” he sneered. “Well, I suppose, as the immortal Abe said, ‘if people like that kind of thing that is the kind of thing they like.’” “But, Alfred,” I faltered, “it is very handsome.” ; “Perhaps you think so. For my part I think it is hideous, and an unnecessary ad- dition to the house.” “But father meant to please us,’ I re- minded him. “To please you, perhaps,” he replied. “I beg you to remember that any addition to this house is not a present to me, nor is it made for my benefit. The house is yours, you know—yours, by the right of purchase with your mother’s money, and I have no claims here. You are careful to remind me of that by buying things without consulting me, and your father aids and abets you in it by sending home furniture which J do not like, and which J shall never use.” I recalled my father’s look of pleased anticipation as he summoned me to inspect his latest gift, and the tears of pity for him rushed to my eyes. At that moment I almost hated my husband. But I only said, with forced calmness, although my voice quivered: ‘“T must ask you not to let father suspect your feeling about this. I know it would hurt him cruelly.” Again the sneer I dreaded came to his face. “Oh, of course you are looking out for his comfort. You always have time to think of what he and the boys would like, but I am nowhere. It is always what your father wants, what the boys want, what will please everybody on God’s earth but me, your husband!” At this moment my father entered, and, with a curt nod as he passed him, my husband left the room. I can still see my father’s expression of apprehension as he asked me: ‘‘What’s the matter? Isn’t Alfred pleased with the new chair?” The pathos of the situation rushed over me—the dear old man’s joy and pride in his gift, his expectation of the glad surprise that it would be to us all, and the deprecating, startled way in which he asked this question. I threw my arms about his neck and burst into tears. “Oh, yes, dear!” I exclaimed. “Alfred

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just /oves the chair, and it makes me cry to think how dear you were to give it to us!” Surely that lie will not be set down to my account! Of course father must have noticed that my husband never spoke of or sat in the chair. But I told the boys to praise it, and they made a great deal of fuss over the beauty of it, and the comfort of it, but they were wise enough not to mention it in their father’s presence. They did not know what he had said, but they had learned to know his nature. During all these years Alfred’s income increased steadily, but we had no more money to spare than when he drew a smaller salary. Our expenses kept pace cruelly with our re- sources. Ever since I had earned the two hundred dollars which I had lent to my hus- band he had taken it for granted that I had some way of making money, and he de- pended more and more upon me to add to the family in- f Sf “ That is just what any com- mon washwoman would do for her day-laborer husband!" he declared. “ Do you think you deserve credit for that?” Virginia Terhune Van de Water > ea > iA rte 623 ‘come. I still gave private lessons in my own home to a few advanced pupils, and I asked and received high prices. I wrote several books on music, and composed some music for which the publishers paid me well. Little by little I found that I was expected to buy my own clothes, then my boys’ clothing; several times Alfred came to me to help him out when his insur- ance or some note he had given fell due. My father paid me board, and to his weekly check he often added a small sum, “just for extras,” as he said. In this way I had money to meet the constant demands made upon me. As we owned our house, there was no rent to pay, and at last it dawned upon me that Alfred was putting into the household less than when his salary was one-half of what it was now. I wondered what he did with his money. To this day I do not know. I do not want to produce the impression that Alfred was always surly. There were times when he was genial and demonstrative in his affection, but I had learned to feel bitterly that caresses or soft words cannot wipe out the memory of injustice. To me, love meant service. When my husband offered me a caress, or called me a pet name, I wondered, if he loved me, why he did not acknowledge that he had been unjust in his harsh comments, why he did not try to make life a little pleasanter for me. As the boys. grew up he was almost proud of them when they did well at college, but was cruelly severe and sarcastic if they fell short in their marks or “flunked” in an examination. He never made companions of them, and jnever won their confidence. One of the ‘hardest things I had to bear dur- ing the last winter of my father’s life was my hus- band’s resentment of my care of him. The disease that was killing the el- i} derly man made him weaker each month, but to the last he kept up and about and dreaded to give trouble. He in- sisted upon paying higher board to me, as he said that he knew the delica- cies he must have to suit n

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624 Why I Left his weak digestion were an added expense. He had a nurse come in and attend to him each night and morning to relieve me of care. Yet my husband would fly into a temper whenever I spent ten minutes with the sick man while he was at home. One evening my husband and I were going to dinner at the house of Alfred’s employer. I dressed rather early, as did Alfred, and, being en- tirely ready, I went into my father’s room to tell him good night. AsI came out of his door my husband stood at the head of the stairs awaiting me. He asked me, stiffly, to come down to the library. I went with him, silently, for I knew there was a storm brew- ing. Closing the door behind me, he said: ‘‘May I inquire if you intend to make a slave of yourself to your father’s whims for the next ten years? He may live as long as that, you know.” ‘He cannot live very long, Alfred,” I said. “I hardly think you appreciate how serious his condition is.”’ ‘Well, you appreciate it enough for two,” he said, with the curl of the lip that always exasperated me. ‘‘Where do J come in in this deal?” He was so petty, so smail in his spite, that it took all my self-control to enable me to ask, dispassionately, “What do you mean?” “T mean that I, your husband, might have a little consideration and a part in your life. What do you ever do for me? What thought do you give me? What has your father ever done for me?” The scales fell from my eyes, and I saw how, through years of folly, I had fostered this man’s selfishness, how I had grown old trying to keep him contented and to hu- morhim. I remembered the sacrifices I had made unmurmuringly, and I spoke slowly and calmly: “Alfred, since you ask these questions, apparently in good faith, I think I should answer you in the same way. You ask what I have done for you. I have tried to make you happy; I have been a dutiful wife to you; I have tried to care for your home as you wish to have it cared for.”’ “ And that is just what any common wash- woman would do for her day-laborer hus- * banid!”’ he declared. “Do you think you deserve credit for that? Considering that I am your husband, it seems to me that is the least that you could do for me. But what evidence of love have you ever showed me?” My Husband My voice was still steady, even hard, as I replied: “For fifteen years I have clothed the children; I have paid the servants’ wages; I have helped you many times when you were straitened; I have dressed myself entirely; I have paid the boys’ way through college.” As I looked into his face I knew that even now I had not touched his pride. He had taken all this as a matter of course. ‘“‘And may I ask,” he sneered, ‘‘why you should not do all these things? Lord knows I have put into the concern which you run all the money I could spare! As this is your house, the least you can do is to run it; as the children are yours, you hardly deserve credit for clothing and educating them; as you like fine clothes and have the money to buy them, why shouldn’t you pay for them?” “Because,” I said, ‘‘the average husband considers it his place to provide for the family he has taken upon himself.”’ “Yes, and the average wife feels herself obliged to show a man some consideration! Your one idea of your duty is paying bills! You think of those things so much that you have no thought of love, of sympathy, of companionship. Yet you can give that kind of thing to your father fast enough! I think I have shown great patience in hav- ing him here all these years.” “He has cost you nothing!” I retorted. “And his money has made it possible for me to run this establishment.” He was pale with rage. ‘There you go again—money, money, money! You care nothing for me because I am not rich; you despise me because I cannot hand you thou- sands each year. Now that one of your boys is making money, and paying you board, I suppose that you love him better than ever. The -other one will soon be through college, and, when he is self-sup- porting, I suppose you will have no use on top of the ground for me, because you can make more out of them. I shall be a squeezed -out orange-rind! Oh!’’ — drop- ping his hand on my shoulder—“you’re the hardest, most overbearing, most selfish and self-satisfied woman that ever lived!” I tried to quiet him by looking him stead- ily in the eyes and speaking calmly. ‘“Al- fred, you do not mean all this. You are overtired, overstrained, and do not know what you are saying. I have tried to be a good wife to you. I have tried to help you

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carry your burdens. If I have made mis- takes I am sorry.” “T hope you are!” he said brutally. “But you’re not! You are a conceited, brainless money-maker, and that’s all. And the old fool lying back in an easy chair up- stairs is another just like you, d—— him!” I had time to wash my face in cold water to steady my nerves a little be- fore the cab in which we were to go to dinner was announced. During the drive to our destination not a word was said by either my hus- band or myself. I knew that when he was with our hosts and their guests he would show to them his company face and man- ner—the face and manner that made him popular everywhere, that almost justified the expres- sion for which I had sharply reproved my elder son when, in an outburst of indig- nation, he had said bitterly, am “Father is a street angel and a home devil!” Yet I was hardly prepared for the toast which my hus- band offered when, toward the close of the dinner, our host laughingly challenged each man todrink to that which he loved best. Alfred sprang to his feet, holding his glass of champagne high above his head. The candles lighted up his handsome, beaming face, his fine eyes, the gleam of his teeth as his brilliant smile flashed forth. “Gentlemen!” he exclaimed, “stand up, every one of you! For I drink to the dearest thing in life or death to me—my peerless, beautiful wife!” When the toast had been drunk amid loud applause, my hostess leaned toward me, tears in her honest eyes. “Oh, my dear!”’ she said, “it is worth while to have lived to win such a love as that!” Three months after the scene I have de- scribed, my father died. I could not weep Virginia Terhune Van de Water Alfred sprang to his feet. dearest thing in life or death to me,” he ex- claimed, “ my peerless, beautiful wife!” 625 as I stood by his open grave, but Alfred, burying his face in his hands, shook with sobs. The officiating clergyman told me afterward that my husband “felt as if he had lost an own father.”’ Six months later my elder son married the girl of his choice. He had accepted a position in Colorado, and, after the wed- ding, the young couple went West to their new home. The house was sadly quiet during the long winter after my son’s departure. His brother was now through college and doing night work on a newspaper. He had but one evening off a week, and in- sisted on devoting that to me, although I begged him to make calls or seek young society. But he had always been a “mother’s boy” and was, he said, happier with me. My husband spent most of his evenings at his club, coming in late. He had bought himself a handsome _ saddle- horse, and, after of- fice hours, would take long rides with his friends. Sometimes he would dine with these friends before re- turning home. I al- ways ordered dinner for the usual hour, on the chance of his coming in, but half of the time I sat down to the table alone. The loneliness and strain began to tell on me. I was thin and nervous and so far from well that my son insisted I must have some rec- Sim Bice ots nw ¢ * | drink to the

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626 Why I Left reation. His “evening off” was Saturday, and, one week, as a surprise to me, he got theater-tickets for that evening, and ap- peared at the door of my room about five o'clock in the afternoon to tell me to dress to go out to dinner with him and to the play afterward. He kissed me as I exclaimed with pleasure. “Tt is so long since I have had any little fun like this!” I said. “Well, you shall have it any time I can give it to you, mother mine. I wish I could be with you all the time.”’ Then I remembered my husband. ‘But suppose your father comes home to dinner?” I said hesitatingly. “T can’t help it if he does, mother. I have kept count, and out of seven evenings he has been at home to dinner just three times, and you have, for the other four nights, dined alone, and spent the entire evening by yourself. This kind of thing has got to stop. If he does not consider your convenience, you need not consider his.”’ I laid my hand on his lips. ‘‘ Don’t talk like that, dear!” I begged. ‘“‘ Your father has always done as he pleased, and I have encouraged him in it. He is master in this house and has a right to go and come as he chooses. I do not want to be selfish.” “And I want you to be just this once. I do not believe that father will come home, anyway. And if he does, he should be glad that you are out having a good time.” “T will leave a little note of explanation for him,” I said. So I wrote the note, saying that as I had not been well, and, as his returning to dinner was doubtful, Donald had begged me to go out with him, and that I had agreed to do so. I told him that I had charged the maids to give him his dinner at the usual time should he return, and that I hoped he would not mind very much. We had a lovely time, Donald and I. It made me feel almost young again to sit opposite the good-looking boy at dinner, to hear the music of the orchestra, and to have to make no effort to please anybody. My boy always understood me, and if I talked he was pleased; if I was silent, he did not mind. The play was “Peter Pan,” and I was as much charmed by it as were the children in the audience. We chatted happily of the events of the evening all the way home. As we reached the front door I saw a light in the library windows and knew that my husband My Husband was waiting up forme. A glance at his face showed me that he was angry. I tried to ignore his manner and to tell him cheerfully what a pleasant time we had had. ; ‘Who paid for this nonsense?”’ he asked sharply. “It was Donald’s treat,” I said, before my son could reply. And I tried to smile. ‘“‘A fool and his money are soon parted!” remarked my husband. “It’s a pity, sir, that, instead of throwing away your cash, you don’t try to lift some of the load from the shoulders of the father to whom you have been an expense all these years.” I tried to check my son’s reply, but he was no longer a child, but a man, and answered hotly: ‘I was not aware, father, that you were burdened by my support. I have watched this ménage for many years, and, so far, I cannot see that Dave and I have been an expense to anyone except mother.” ‘And who do you suppose supports her?” roared my husband furiously. ‘“T will if she will let me!” pected rejoinder. But why recall all the painful scene that followed? Until my husband and my son faced each other in anger that night I had never known actual terror. I feared that Alfred would strike Donald, and, knowing how ungovernable my husband’s rage was, I trembled for the result if he did. The climax was reached when the father ordered the son to “leave the house to-morrow morn- ing and never set foot in it again.” In the silence of my room in the early morning hours I determined to leave my husband. I would sell my house and take an apartment where Donald and I could have a quiet little home together. By the terms of my father’s will I had enough to live on economically for the rest of my days. I would be a burden to nobody. I knew that my husband’s income was sufficient to sup- port him in luxury. He did not need me; my son did. Ino longer loved my husband. I could not stand life with him another day. Alfred and I had been married for twenty- seven years. When I left him my uncle asked me if, after enduring the condition of affairs for over a quarter-century, I could not have borne it to the end of my life. I asked him whether, if a life sentence had been pronounced upon him, he would have refused, after twenty-seven years, to have the sentence commuted. was the unex-

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TDD TEE <del ize. sll The Tempter Wind By Berton Braley

WIND that harries the budding trees, Wind that hurries the clouds of spring, g You rob my heart of its winter ease ' And tear content from its anchoring. x Tramp of the world and the warming skies, # Rover of roads | too have known, f Why do you summon me, tempter-wise, When my fields are plowed and my crops are sown 2? For I had steeled me to hold my place, To sow and reap as the others do, But you toss a challenge into my face, And I'm back to the careless trail with you!

DRAWN BY G. H, MITCHELL

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SS) / i / i = DRAWN BY CHARLES DANA GIBSON “Don't do it, Valerie!" said Rita, in a low voice. “Do what?” asked the girl in astonishment. “Fallin love. . . . You're on the edge of doing it, child, and it isn't wise. It won't do for us~ (“Zhe Common Law’’)

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‘The Common Law A STORY OF LOVE AND THE STRUGGLE AGAINST TRADITION By Robert W. Chambers Author of ‘The Fighting Chance,"’ ‘‘The Younger Set,” ‘‘The Danger Mark,” etc. Illustrated by Charles Dana Gibson SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS: his studio bell. Louis Neville, a wealthy and well-known young artist, is disturbed by a ring at Answering it, he finds at the door a young woman, Valerie West, seeking employment as a model. He gives a negative answer, but something about her touches him to sympathy, and he invites her in to leave her name and address. much time can you give me, provided your figure is as beautiful as your face?" is his next question. satisfactory, she is shown into the dressing-room to disrobe. l y She is pronounced practically faultless, and work is begun at once. she is ready for his critical judgment. rapidly on until a gasp of pain from her warns him that she is about to fall, and he rushes to her. He indifferently begins to tabulate her qualifications when her lifted veil discloses an unusual beauty. **How The answer being A long time passes and many tears have been shed before He paints Then he learns that she has never posed before, and is all commiseration as he realizes how much it must have hurt her finer sensibilities to pose as she did. 1 his desire to shield her. girlhood and is starved for a chance to have intellectual friends and make a decent living. left it—because she has principles. The incident puts them on a footing of camaraderie at once, for her education and culture are evident, as is There is luncheon in the studio and a long talk in which she discloses that she has had no real She has tried the theater and Thus begins her career, followed by happy days in Neville’s studio, in posing for friends of his, in gaieties and innocent sentimentalities shared with more or less gay devotees of art. Neville— Kelly, his friends call him—alone is always serious, but as the days pass a’note of tenderness creeps into his talk with her and more than a shade of annoyance when she tells him of associating with other men. He defends her with warmth at a gathering which includes a girl who considers herself engaged to him, goes to the mountain hotel where she is spending a short vacation and where he kisses her under the stars and then flees a situation which he dare not face. combated, grows upon him, and he begins to doubt his future. The summer and autumn pass. A lack of self-confidence, desperately In the meantime his work does not require Valerie, and he sees little of her until their eyes meet across a boisterous roomful of New Year’s Eve celebrants, among whom she is as gay as the gayest. He leaves; she follows. the fact that he loves her, and then he asks her to marry him. L ) \ All his attempts to change her resolution fail; she is moved by neither his arguments lightly but because she loves well. nor his entreaties. VIII (ContTINUED) “ ‘YM afraid that I am not destined to be entirely easy for you, dear, even with love as the only tie with which to bind you. The arbitrary laws of a false civilization are going to impose on you what you think are duties and obli- gations to me and to yourself—until I ex- plain them away. You must come to me in your perplexity, Louis, and give me a chance to remind you of the basic and proved proposition that a girl is born into this world as free as any man, and as re- sponsible to herself and to others; and that her title to her own individuality and inde- pendence—her liberty of mind, her freedom to give and accept, her capability of taking care of herself, her divine right of consider- ing, reconsidering, of meeting the world unafraid—is what really ought to make her lovable.” He answered, “What rotten books have you been reading?” And it annoyed her, particularly when he asked her whether she expected to overturn, with the squab-logic In his studio that night the issue is debated until he comes face to face with Her reply sets conventions at naught, not because she loves of twenty years, the formalisms of a civiliza- tion several thousand years old. He added: “The runways of wild animals became Indian paths; the Indian paths became settlers’ roads, and the roads, in time, city streets. But it was the instinct of wild creatures that surveyed and laid out the present highways of our reasoning civiliza- tion. And I tell you, Valerie, that the old ways are the best, for on them is founded every straight highway of modern thought and custom.” She considered, “Then there is only one way left—to see you no more.” He thought so, too, infuriated at the idea; and they passed a very miserable and very stormy afternoon together, which resulted in her crying silently on the way home; and in a sleepless night for two; and in prolonged telephone conversation at day- break. But it all ended with a ring at his door-bell, a girl in furs all flecked with snow springing swiftly into his studio; a mo- ment’s hesitation—then the girl and her furs in his arms, her cold pink cheeks against his face—a brief moment of utter happiness— * This story began in the November issue of the Cosmopolitan COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY. COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN " 629

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SERED Ricca = 630 The Common Law for she was on her way to business—a swift, silent caress, then eyes searching eyes in si- lent promise—in reluctant farewell for an hour or two. But it left him to face the problems of the day with a new sense of helplessness— the first confused sensation that hers was the stronger nature, the dominant personal- ity, although he did not definitely under- stand this. Because, how could he under- stand it of a young girl so soft, so yielding, so sweet, so shy and silent in the imminence of passion when her consenting lips trembled and grew fragrant in half-awakened response to his? How could he believe it—conscious of what he had made of himself through sheer will and persistence? How could he credit it—remembering what he already stood for in the world, where he stood, how he had arrived by the rigid road of self- denial; how he had mounted, steadily, un- dismayed, unperturbed, undeterred by the clamor of envy, of hostility, unseduced by the honey of flattery? Upright, calm, self- confident, he had forged on straight ahead, following nobody, had battled steadily along the upward path until, out of the void, sud- denly, he had come up against a blank wall. That wall which had halted, perplexed, troubled, dismayed, terrified, him—because he was beginning to believe it to be the boundary which marked his own limita- tions—suddenly had become a transparent barrier through which he could see. And what he saw on the other side was an end- less vista leading into infinity. But the path was guarded; love stood sentinel there. And that was what he saw ahead of him now, and he knew that he might pass on if love willed it—and that he would never care to pass on alone. But that he could not go forward, ignoring love, did not occur to him, nor would he have believed it if it had. Yet, at times, an indefinable unease possessed him as though some occult strug- gle was impending for which he was un- prepared. That struggle had already begun, but he did not know it. On the contrary, all his latent strength and brilliance had revived, exquisitely virile; and the new canvas on which he began now to work blossomed swiftly into magnificent florescence. A superb riot of color bewitched the entire composition; never had his brushes swept with such sun-tipped fluency, never had the fresh splendor of his hues and tones ap- proached so closely to convincing himself in the hours of fatigue and coldly sober re- action from the auto-intoxication of his own facility. Yet that mystericus something which some said he‘lacked had not yet appeared. That something, according to many, was an elusive quality born of a sympathy for hu- man suffering—an indefinable and delicate bond between the artist and his world, be- tween a master who has suffered and all humanity who understand. The world seemed to recognize this subtle bond between themselves and Querida’s pic- tures. Yet in the pictures there was never any sadness. Had Querida ever suffered? Was it in that olive-skinned, soft-voiced young man to sufferp—a man apparently all grace and unruffled surface and gentle charm, a man whose placid brow remained smooth and untroubled by any line of per- plexity or of sorrow. And as Neville studied his own canvas coolly, logically, with an impersonal scru- tiny that almost amounted to hostility, he wondered what it was in Querida’s work that still remained absent from his. He felt its absence, but he could not define what it was that was absent, could not discover the nature of it. He really began to feel the lack of it in his work, but he searched his canvas and his own heart in vain for any vacuum. Then, too, had he himself not suffered? What had that restless, miserable winter meant, if it had not meant sorrow? He had suffered—blindly, it is true, until the truth of his love for Valerie had suddenly con- fronted him. Yet that restless pain and the intense emotion of their awakening—all the doubts, all the anxieties, the wonder and happiness and sadness in the imminence of that strange future impending for them both -——had altered nothing in his work, brought into it no new quality, unless, as he thought, it had intensified to a dazzling brilliancy the same qualities which already had made his work famous. “Tt’s all talk,” he said to himself; “it’s sentimental jargon, precious twaddle—all this mysterious babble about occult quality and humanity and sympathy. If José Que- rida has the capacity of a chipmunk for men- tal agony, I’ve lost my bet that he hasn’t.” And all the time he was conscious that there was something about Querida’s work which made that work great; and that it was

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Robert W. not in his own work, and that his own work was not great, and never had been great. “But it will be,” he said rather grimly to himself one day, turning with a shrug from his amazing canvas and pulling the unfin- ished portrait of Valerie into the cold north light. For a long while he stood before it, search- ing in it for any hint of that elusive and mysterious something, and found none. Moreover, there was in the painting of this picture a certain candor amounting to stu- pidity, an uncertainty, a naive, groping sort of brush-work. It seemed to be technic- ally, almost deliberately, muddled. There was a tentative timidity about it that sur- prised his own technical assurance, almost moved him to contempt. “Lord!” he said, biting his lip. “I’ve been stung by the microbe of the precious! I'll be talking art next with both thumbs and a Vandyke beard.” Still, through his self-disgust, a sensation of respect for the canvas at which he was scowling persisted. Nor could he account for the perfectly unwelcome and involun- tary idea that there was, about the half- finished portrait, something almost dignified in the very candor of its painting. John Burleson came striding in while he was still examining it. ‘“O-ho!” he said in his big, unhumorous voice, “what in the name of Jimmy Whistler have we here?” “Mud,” said Neville shortly—“like Mr. Whistler’s.”’ “He was muddy—sometimes,”’ said John seriously, “but you never were until this.” “Oh, I know it, Johnny. Something in- fected me. I merely tried to do what isn’t inme. And this is the result. When a man decides he has a mission, you can never tell what fool thing he’ll be guilty of.” “It’s Valerie West, isn’t it?’’ demanded John bluntly. “She won’t admire you for finding any resemblance,” said Neville, laughing. The big sculptor rubbed his big nose reflectively. ‘After all,’”’ he said, ‘‘ what is so bad about it, Kelly?” “Oh, everything.” “No, it isn’t. There’s something about it that’s—different—and interesting.” “Oh, shut up, John, and fix yourself a drink.” “Kelly, I’m telling you that it isn’t bad —that there’s something terribly solid and sincere about this beginning—” Chambers 631 He looked around with a bovine grunt as Sam Ogilvy and Harry Annan came minc- ingin. “Isay, you would-be funny fellows, come over and tell Kelly Neville that he’s got a pretty good thing here if he only has the brains to develop it!” Neville lighted a cigarette and looked on cynically as Ogilvy and Annan joined Burle- son on tiptoe, affecting exaggerated curi- osity. “T think it’s rotten,” said Annan, after a moment’s scrutiny; ‘don’t you, Sam?” Ogilvy, fists thrust deep into the pockets of his painting-jacket, eyed the canvas in silence. “Don’t you?” repeated Annan. “Or is it a masterpiece beyond my vulgar ken?” “Well, no. Kelly was evidently trying to get at something new—work out some serious idea. No, I don’t think it’s rotten at all. I rather like it.” “Tt looks too much like her; that’s why it’s rotten,” said Annan. “Thank God I’ve a gift for making pretty women out of my feminine clients, otherwise I’d starve. Kelly, you haven’t made Valerie pretty enough. That’s the trouble. Besides, it’s muddy in spots. Her gown needs dry clean- ing. But my chief criticism is the terrible resemblance to the original.” “Ah-h, what are you talking about!” growled Burleson; “did you ever see a prettier girl than Valerie West?” Ogilvy said slowly: “She’s pretty—to look at in real life. But, somehow, Kelly has managed here to paint her more exactly than we have really ever noticed her. That’s Valerie’s face and figure all right; and it’s more—it reflects what is going on inside her head—all the unbaked, unassimilated ideas of immaturity whirring in a sequence which resembles logic to the young, but isn’t.” “What do you mean by such bally stuff?” demanded Burleson bluntly. Annan laughed, but Ogilvy said seriously: “T mean that Kelly has painted something interesting. It’s a fascinating head—all soft hair and delicious curves, and the charming indecision of immature contours which ought some day to fall into a nobler firmness. It’s as interesting as a satire, I tell you. Look at that perfectly good mouth and its delicate sensitive decision with a hint of puritanical primness in the upper lip!—and the full, sensuous under lip mocking the upper and giving’ the lie to the child’s eyes, which are still wide with the

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632 wonder of men and things. And there’s something of an adolescent’s mystery in the eyes, too—a hint of languor where the bloom of the cheek touches the lower lid—and those smooth, cool, little hands, scarcely seen in the shadow—did you ever see more purity and innocence, more character and the lack of it, painted into a pair of hands since Van Dyck and Whistler died?” Neville, astonished, stood looking in- credulously at the canvas around which the others had gathered. Burleson said, ‘‘There’s something honest and solid about it, anyway; hanged if there isn’t.” “Like a hen,’’ suggested Ogilvy absently. “Like a hen?” repeated Burleson. ‘What has a hen got to do with the subject?” “Like you, then, John,” said Annan, “honest, solid, but totally unacquainted with the finer phases of contemporary humor.”’ “T’m as humorous as anybody!” roared Burleson. “Sure you are, John—just as humorously contemporaneous as anybody of our an- achronistic era,” said Ogilvy soothingly. “You're right; there’s nothing funny about a hen.” “And here’s a highball for you, John,” said Neville, concocting a huge one on the sideboard. “And here are two charming ladies for you, John,” added Sam, as Valerie and Rita Tevis entered the open door and mockingly curtsied to the company. “We've dissected your character,” ob- served Annan to Valerie, pointing to her portrait. “We know all about you now; Sam was the professor who lectured on you, but you can blame Kelly for turning on the search-light.” “What search-light?”’ she asked, pivoting from Neville’s ‘greeting, letting her gloved hand linger in his for just a second longer than convention required. “Harry means that portrait of you I started last year,” said Neville, vexed. “‘He pretends to find it full of psychological subtleties.” “Do you?” inquired Valerie. ‘Have you discovered anything horridin my character?” “T haven’t finished looking for the char- acter yet,” said Sam with an impudent grin. “When I find it I’ll investigate it.” “Sam! Come here!”’ He came carefully, wincing when she took him by the generous lobes of both ears. The Common Law ‘““Now what did you say?” she asked. “Help!” he murmured contritely; “will no kind wayfarer aid me?” “Answer me!” “T only said you were beautifully decora- tive but intellectually impulsive—” “No, answer me, Sam!” “Ouch! I said you had a pair of baby eyes and an obstinate mouth and an imma- ture mind that came to conclusions before facts were properly assimilated. In other words, I intimated that you were afflicted with incurable femininity and extreme youth,” he added with satisfaction, ‘and if you tweak my ears again I'll kiss you!” She let him go witha last disdainful tweak, gracefully escaping his charge and taking refuge behind Neville, who was mixing an- other highball for Annan. “This is a dignified episode,” observed Neville, threatening Ogilvy with the siphon. “Help me make tea, Sam,” coaxed Val- erie. “Bring out the table, that’s an ex- ceedingly nice boy. Rita, you'll have tea, too, won’t you, dear?” Unconsciously she had come to assume the réle of hostess in Neville’s studio, even among those who had been familiar there long before Neville ever heard of her. Per- fectly unaware herself of her instinctive attitude, other people noticed it. For the world is sharp eyed and its attitude is always alert, ears pricked forward even when its tail wags good-naturedly. Ogilvy watched her curiously as she took her seat at the tea-table. Then he glanced at Neville; but could not make up his mind. It would be funny if there was anything be- tween Valerie and Neville—anything more than there ever had been between the girl and dozens of her men friends. For Ogilvy never allowed himself to make any mistake concerning the informality and freedom of Valerie West in her intimacies with men of his kind. She was a born flirt, a coquette, daring, even indiscreet; but that ended it, and he knew it; and so did every man with whom she came in contact. Yet—and he looked again at her and then at Neville— there seemed to him to be, lately, something a little different in the attitudes of these two toward each other; nothing that he could name, but it preoccupied him sometimes. There was a little good-natured malice in Ogilvy; some masculine curiosity, too. Looking from Valerie to Neville, he said very innocently:

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Sy = ; WSs ~ . SS SS SS SS SSS SSS SAAS SS S SSS 5 ——= > = - S S SS Ss = SS = SSS SS ~ Ss = a‘ SSNS = SSSSs SS —Ss ss = a SS SSS == SS SSS SS SSS SSS es eee =s — SS SS SSS SS == —— >= DRAWN BY CHARLES DANA GIBSON For a long while he stood before the unfinished canvas, searching in it for any hint of that elusive and mysterious something, and found none “Kelly, you know that peachy dream with whom you cut up so shamefully on New Year’s Eve? Well, she asked me for your telephone number—”’ “Whatare you talking about?” demanded Neville, annoyed. “Why, I’m talking about Mazie,” said Sam pleasantly. “You remember Mazie Gray? And how crazy you and she became about each other?”’ Valerie, who was pouring tea, remained amiably unconcerned; and Ogilvy obtained no satisfaction from her; but Neville’s scowl was so hearty and unfeigned that a glimpse of his visage sent Annan into fits of laugh- ter, to relieve which he ran across the floor, 633

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634 like a huge spider. Then Valerie leisurely lifted her tranquil eyes and her eyebrows, too, a trifle. “Why such unseemly contortions, Har- ry?”’ she inquired. “Sam tormenting Kelly to stir you up! He’s got a theory that you and Kelly are mutually infatuated.” “What a delightful theory, Sam,” said Valerie, smiling so sincerely at Ogilvy that he made up his mind there wasn’t anything init. But the next moment, catching sight of Neville’s furious face, his opinion wavered. Valerie said laughingly to Rita, “They'll never grow up, these two,’’ nodding her head toward Ogilvy and Annan. And to Neville carelessly, too carelessly, ‘Will you have a little more tea, Kelly dear?” Her attitude was amiable and composed, her voice clear and unembarrassed. There may have been a trifle more color in her cheeks; but what preoccupied Rita was in her eyes—a fleeting glimpse of something that suddenly concentrated all of Rita’s attention upon the girl across the table. For a full minute she sat looking at Valerie, who seemed pleasantly unconscious of her inspection; then almost stealthily she shifted her gaze to Neville. Gladys and her kitten came purring around in quest of cream; Rita gathered them into her arms and caressed them and fed them bits of cassava and crumbs of cake. She was unusually silent that after- noon. John Burleson tried to interest her with heavy information of various kinds, but she only smiled absently at that worthy man. Sam Ogilvy and Harry Annan at- tempted to goad her into one of those lively exchanges of banter in which Rita was en- tirely capable of taking care of herself. But her smile was spiritless and non-combative; and finally they let her alone and concen- trated their torment upon Valerie, who en- dured it with equanimity and dangerously sparkling eyes and an occasional lightning retort which kept those young men busy, especially when the epigram was in Latin— which hurt their feelings. She had just furnished them with a sam- ple of this classical food for thought when the door-bell rang and Neville looked up in astonishment to see José Querida come in. “Hello,” he said, springing up with friendly hand outstretched; “this is ex- ceedingly good of you, Querida. You have not been here in a very long while. ”? The Common Law Querida’s smile showed his teeth; he bowed to Valerie and to Rita, bowed to the men in turn, and smiled on Neville. “In excuse I must plead work, my dear fellow— a poor plea and poorer excuse for the pleas- ure lost in seeing you”’—he nodded to the others—“‘and in missing many agreeable little gatherings similar to this, I fancy?” There was a rising inflection to his voice which made the end of his little speech terminate as a question; and he looked to Valerie for his answer. “Yes,”’ she said, “we usually have tea in Kelly’s studio. And you may have some now, if you wish, José.” He nodded his thanks and placed his chair beside hers. The conversation had become general; Rita woke up, and made a few viciously verbal passesat Ogilvy. Burleson, earnest and most worthy, engaged Querida’s attention for a while; but that intellectually lithe young man evaded the ponderously impending dis- pute with suave skill, and his gentle smile lingered longer on Valerie than on anybody else. Several times, with an adroit care- lessness that seemed to be purposeless, he contrived to draw Valerie out of the general level of conversation by merely lowering his voice; but she seemed to understand the invitation; and, answering him as carelessly as he spoke, keyed her replies in harmony with the chatter going on around them. He drank his tea smilingly, listened to the others, bore his part modestly, and at inter- vals his handsome eyes wandered about the studio, reverting frequently to the great canvas overhead. “You know,” he said to Neville, showing the eternal edge of teeth under his crisp black beard, “that composition of yours is simply superb. I am all for it, Neville.” “T’m glad you are,” nodded Neville pleasantly, “but it hasn’t yet developed into what I hoped it might.” His eyes swerved toward Valerie; their glances en- countered casually and passed on. Only Rita saw the girl’s breath quicken for an instant, saw the scarcely perceptible quiver of Neville’s mouth where the smile twitched at his lip for its liberty to tell the whole world that he was in love. But their faces were placid, their expressions well schooled; Querida’s half-veiled eyes appeared to no- tice nothing, and for a while he remained smilingly silent. Later, by accident, he caught sight of

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Robert W. Valerie’s portrait; he turned sharply in his chair and looked full at the canvas. No- body spoke for a moment; Neville, who was passing Valerie, felt the slightest contact as the velvet of her fingers brushed across his. Then Querida rose and walked over to the portrait and stood before it in silence, biting at his vivid under lip and at the crisp hairs of his beard that framed it. Without know- ing why, Neville began to feel that Querida was finding in that half-finished work some- thing that disturbed him; and that he was not going to acknowledge what it was that he saw there, whether of good or of the contrary. Nobody spoke and Querida said nothing. A mild hope entered Neville’s mind that the something which had never been in any work of his might perhaps lie latent in that canvas, that Querida was discovering it— without a pleasure, but with a sensitive clairvoyance which was already warning him of a new banner in the distance, a new trumpet-call from the barriers, another lance in the lists where he, Querida, had ridden so long unchallenged and supreme. Within him he felt a sudden and secret excitement that he never before had known, a convic- tion that the unexpressed hostility of Que- rida’s silence was the truest tribute ever paid him—the tribute that at last was arousing hope from its apathy, and setting spurs to his courage. Rita, watching Querida, yawned and con- cealed the indiscretion with her hand and a taunting word directed at Ogilvy, who re- torted in kind. And general conversation began again. Querida turned toward Neville, caught his eye, and shrugged. ‘That portrait is scarcely in your happiest manner, is it?” he asked with a grimace. ‘For me’—he touched his breast with long pale fingers— “T adore your gayer vein, your color, clarity —the glamour of splendor that you alone can cast over such works as that.”” He waved his hand upward toward the high canvas looming above. And he smiled at Neville and seated himself beside Valerie. A portfolio of new. mezzotints attracted Annan; others gathered around to examine Neville’s treasures; the tea-table was de- serted for a while except by Querida and Valerie. Then he deliberately dropped his voice: “c rei . _ Will you give me another cup of tea, Valerie? And let me talk to you?” Chambers “With pleasure.” She set about prepar- ing it. “T have not seen you for some time,” he said in the same caressing undertone. “You haven’t required me, José.” “‘Must it be entirely a matter of business between us?” ‘“‘Why, of course,” she said in cool sur- prise. ‘‘ You know perfectly well how busy I am—and must be.” “You are sometimes busy—pouring tea, here.” “But it is after hours.” “Vet, after hours, you no longer drop in to chat with me.” “Why, yes, I do.” “Pardon. Not since the new year began. Will you permit me a word?” She inclined her head with undisturbed composure; he went on: “T have asked you to many theaters, in- vited you to dine with me, to go with me to many, many places. And, it appeared, you always had other engagements. Have I offended you?” “Of course not. immensely.” “Tmmensely,” he repeated with a smile. “Once there was more of sentiment in your response, Valerie. There is little sentiment in immensity.” She flushed. “I was spoons on you,” she saidcandidly. ‘“Iwassilly with you, and very indiscreet. But I’d rather not recall that.” “‘T cannot choose but recall it!”’ “Nice men forget such things,”’ she said hastily. ‘How can you speak that way about You know I like you 5) it? “Because I think that way, José,” she said, looking up at him; but she saw no answering smile in his face, and little color in it; and she remained unquietly conscious of his gaze. “T will not talk to you if you begin to look at me like that,’ she began under her breath; “T don’t care for it.” “Can I help it, remembering—’ “You have nothing to remember except my pardon,” she interrupted hotly. “Your pardon—for showing that I cared for you?” “My pardon for your losing your head.” “We were absolutely frank with each other.” “T do not understand that you are the sort of man a girl cannot be frank with. ’

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636 We imprudently exchanged a few views on life. You—” “Many,” he said, views on marriage.” She said steadily: “I told you that I cared at heart nothing at all for ceremony and form. You said the same. But you misunderstood me. What was there in that silly conversation significant to you or to me other than an impersonal interest in hearing ideas expressed?” “You knew I was in love with you.” “T did not!” she said sharply. “You let me touch your hands, kiss you, “and particularly “And you behaved like a madman—and frightened me nearly to death! Had you better recall that night, José? I was gener- ous about it; I was even a little sorry for you. And I forgave you.” “Forgave me my loving you?” “You don’t know what love is,’”’ she said, reddening. “Do you, Valerie?” She sat flushed and silent, looking fixedly at the cups and saucers before her. “Do you?” he repeated in a curious voice. And there seemed to be something of terror in it, for she looked up, startled, to meet his long, handsome eyes looking at her out of a colorless visage. “José,” she said, “what in the world possesses you to speak to me this way? Have you any right to assume this atti- tude, merely because I flirted with you as harmlessly, or meant it harmlessly—” She glanced involuntarily across the studio where the others had gathered over the new collection of mezzotints, and at her glance Neville raised his head and smiled at her, and encountered Querida’s expressionless gaze. For a moment Querida turned his head away, and Valerie saw that his face was pale and sinister. ** José,” she said, “are you insane to take our innocent affair so seriously? What in the world has come over you? We have been such excellent friends. You have been just as nice as you could be, so gay and inconsequential, so witty, so jolly, such good company!—and now, suddenly, out of a perfectly clear sky your wrath strikes me like lightning!” “My anger is like that.” “José!” she exclaimed incredulously. He showed the edge of perfect teeth The Common Law again, but she was not sure that he was smiling. Then he laughed gently. “Oh,” she said in relief, “you really startled me.” “T won’t do it again, Valerie.” She looked at him, still uncertain, fascinated by her uncertainty. The color—as much as he ever had— returned to his face; he reached over for a cigarette, lighted it, smiled at her charm- ingly. “I was just lonely without you,” he said. ‘Like an unreasenable child I brooded over it, and”—he shrugged—“it suddenly went to my head. Will you for- give my bad temper?”’ “Yes, I will. Only I never knew you had a temper. It astonishes me.” He said nothing smilingly. “Of course,” she went on, still flushed, “T knew you were impulsive, hot-headed, but I know you like me.” “T was crazily in love with you,” he said lightly; ‘‘and when you let me touch you—” “Oh, I won’t ever again, José!” she ex- claimed half fearfully; “I supposed you understood that sentiment could be a per- fectly meaningless and harmless thing, merely a silly moment, a foolish interlude in a sober friendship. And I liked you, José.” : “Can you still like me?” “Y-yes. Why, of course—if you'll let me.” “Shall we be the same excellent friends, Valerie? And all this ill temper of mine will be forgotten?” “T’ll try. Yes, why not? I do like you, and I admire you tremendously.” His eyes rested on her a moment; he inhaled a deep breath from his cigarette, expelled it, nodded. “TI’ll try to win back all your friendship for me,” he said pleas- antly. “That will be easy. I want you to like me. I want to be able to like you. I shall have need of friends,”’ she said, half to her- self, and looked across at Neville with a face tranquil, almost expressionless, save for the sensitive beauty of the mouth. After a moment Querida, too, lifted his head and gazed deliberately at Neville. Then very quietly, “Are you dining alone this evening?” “ No.”’ “Oh. Perhaps to-morrow evening, then?” “T’m afraid not, José.”

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DRAWN BY CHARLES DANA GIBSON “I want you to like me, Jose. I want to be able to like you. I shall have need of friends,” she said, half to herself, and looked across at Neville with a face tranquil, almost expressionless, save for the sensitive beauty of the mouth He smiled, “Not alone ever again?” ““Not—for the present.” “T see.” “There is nothing to see,’ she said calmly. But his smile seemed now so gen- uine that it disarmed her; and she blushed when he said: “Am I to wish you happiness, Valerie? Is that the trouble?”’ “Certainly. Please wish it for me always —as I do for you—and for everybody.” But he continued to laugh, and the color in her face persisted, annoying her intensely. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I do not be- lieve you can be hopelessly in love.” dining “What ever put such an idea into that cynical head of yours?” “Chance,” he said. irrevocably in love. You are ignorant of what love can really mean. Only he who understands it—and who has suffered through it—can ever teach you. And you will never be satisfied until he does.”’ “Are you very wise concerning love, José?” she asked, laughing. “Perhaps. You will desire to be, too, some day. A good school, an accom- plished scholar.”’ “And the schoolmaster? Oh! José!” They were both laughing now, he with apparent pleasure in her coquetry and ani- “But you are not 637

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638 mation, she still a little confused and in- stinctively on her guard. Rita came strolling over, a tiny cigarette balanced between her slender fingers. “Stop flirting, José,” she said; ‘it’s too near dinner-time. Valerie, child, I’m din- ing with the unspeakable John again. It’s a horrid habit. Can’t you prescribe for me? José, what are you doing this evening?” “Penance,” he said; “I’m dining with my family.” “Penance,” she repeated with a singular look; ‘well, that’s one way of regarding the pleasure of having any family to dine with, isn’t it, Valerie?” “José didn’t mean it that way.” Rita blew a ring from her cigarette’s glimmering end. “Will you be at home this evening, Valerie?” “Y-yes—rather late.” “Too late to see me?”’ “No, you dear girl. Come at eleven, anyway. And if I’m a little late you'll for- give me, won’t you?” “No, I won’t,” said Rita crossly. ‘You and I are business women, anyway, and eleven is too late for week-days. I'll wait until I can see you, some time—” “Was it anything important, dear?”’ “Not to me.” Querida rose, took his leave of Valerie and Rita, and went over to make his adieux to his host and the others. When he had gone Rita, as Valerie stood beside her for a moment, said in a low voice, “Don’t do it, Valerie!” “Do what?” asked the girl in astonish- ment. “Fall in love.” Valerie laughed. Querida?”’ Shia?’ “Then what do you mean?”’ “You’re on the edge of doing it, child. It isn’t wise. It won’t do for us. I know, I know, Valerie, more than you know about love. Listen to me. Don’t! Go away— go somewhere; drop everything and go if you’ve any sense left. I'll go with you if you will let me. I'll do anything for you, dear. Only listen to me before it’s too late; keep your self-control; keep your mind clear on this one thing, that love is of no use to us, no good to us. And if you think you suspect its presence in your neighbor- hood, get away from it; pick up your skirts and run, Valerie. You’ve plenty of time to “Do you mean with The Common Law come back and wonder what you ever could have seen in the man to make you believe you could fall in love with him.” Ogilvy, strolling up, stood looking senti- mentally at the two young girls. “‘A—perfect—pair—of— precious—price- less—peaches,” he said; “I’d love to be a Turk with an Oriental smirk and an orna- mental dirk and a tendency to shirk when the others go to work; for the workers I can’t bear ’em, and I’d rather run a harem—”’ ‘““No doubt,” said Rita coldly; “so you need not explain to me the rather lively young lady I met in the corridor looking for studio number ten.” “Rita! Zuleika! Star of my soul! Jewel of my turban! Do you entertain suspi- cions—”’ “Oh, you probably did the entertaining.” “T? Heaven! How I am misunder- stood! John Burleson! Come over here and tell this very charming young lady all about that somewhat conspicuous vision from a local theater who came floating into my studio by accident while in joyous quest of you!” But Burleson only laughed, and Rita shrugged her disdain. But as she nodded adieu to Valerie, the latter saw a pinched look in her face, and did not understand it. IX THE world, and his own family, had al- ways been inclined to love Louis Neville, and had advanced no farther than the in- clination. There were exceptions. Archie Allaire, who hated him, discussing him floridly once with Querida at the Thumb- tack Club in the presence of a dozen others, characterized him as “‘one of those passively selfish snobs whose virtues are all negative and whose modesty is the mental compla- cency of an underdone capon.” He was sharply rebuked by Ogilvy, Annan, and Burleson; skilfully by Querida, so adroitly indeed that his amiable and smiling apol- ogy for the absent painter produced a curiously depressing effect upon Ogilvy and Annan, and even left John Burleson dully uncomfortable, although Allaire had: been apparently well drubbed. “All the same,” said Allaire with a sneer to Querida after the others had departed, “Neville is really a most frightful snob. Like a busy bacillus surrounded by a glass

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Robert W. tube full of prepared culture, he exists in his own intellectual exudations perfectly oblivious of the miseries and joys of the world around him. He hasn’t time for any- body except himself.” Querida laughed. ‘‘ What has Neville done to you, my friend?”’ “To me?” repeated Allaire with a shrug. “Oh, nothing. It isn’t that. All the same, when I had my exhibition at the Monson Galleries I went to him and said: ‘See here, Neville, I’ve got some shoe-trust and button-trust women to pour tea for me. Now you know a lot of fashionable people, and I want my tea-pourers to see them, and I want the papers to say that they’ve been to a private view of my exhibition.’ “He gave me one of those absent-treat- ment stares and said he’d tell all the really interesting people he knew; and the blame- dest lot of scrubby, dowdy, down-at-the- heels tatterdemalions presented his card at my private view that you ever saw out- side an artist’s rathskeller, a lower Fifth Avenue reception, or a varnishing day! By God I can go to the bread-line and get that sort of lookers myself, and I don’t care whether his bunch came from Tenth Street Colonial stock or the Washington Square nobility or the landed gentry of Chelsea or from the purlieus of the Bronx, which is where they apparently belong! I can get that kind myself. I wanted automobiles and broughams and clothes, and I got one sea-going taxi, and the dirty end of the stick! And to cap the climax he strolled in himself with a girl whose face is familiar to everybody who looks at bath-tubs in the backs of the magazines—Valerie West! And I want to tell you I couldn’t look my shoe-trust tea-pourers in the face; and they’re so mad that I haven’t got an order out of them since.” Querida laughed till the tears stood in his big, velvety, almond-shaped eyes. ‘Why didn’t you come to me?” he said. “Tell you the truth, Querida, I would have if I’d known then that you were paint- ing portraits of half of upper Fifth Avenue. Besides,” he added naively, “that was be- fore I began to see you in the grand tier at the opera every week.” “It was before I sat anywhere except in the gallery,” said Querida with a humorous shrug. “Until this winter I knew nobody, either. And very often I washed my own handkerchiefs and dried them on the win- o Chambers 639 dow-sill. I had only fame for my laun- dress and notoriety for my butcher.” “Hey?” said Allaire, a trifle out of coun- tenance. “Tt is very true. It cost me so much to paint and frame my pictures that the prices they brought scarcely paid for models and materials.”” He added pleasantly, “I have dined more often on a box of crackers and a jar of olives than at a table set with sil- ver and spread with linen.” He laughed without affectation or bitterness. “It has been a long road, Allaire, from a stable-loft studio to’”’—he shrugged—“the Van Ry- pens’ grand-tier box, for example.” ‘““How in God’s name did you do it?” inquired Allaire, awed to the momentary obliteration of envy. “T painted,” said Querida, smiling. “Sure. I know that. I suppose it was the row made over your canvases last winter that did the trick.” Querida’s eyes were partly closed as though in retrospection. “Also,” he said softly, “I painted a very fashionable woman—for nothing, and to her entire satisfaction.” “That’s the real thing, isn’t it?” “T’m afraid so. Make two or three un- lovely and unlovable old ladies lovely and lovable—on canvas—for nothing. Then society will let you slap its powdered and painted face—yes, permit you other liber- ties if only you will paint it and sign your canvases and ask them a wicked price for what you give them and for what they yield to you.” Allaire’s ruddy face grew ruddier; he grinned and passed a muscular hand over his thick, handsome, fox-tinted hair. ‘I wish I could get next,” he said with a hard glance at Querida. “I'd sting ’em.” “T would be very glad to introduce you to anybody I know,” observed the other. “Do you mean that?” “Why not? A man who has waited as I have for opportunity understands what others feel who are still waiting.” “That’s blamed square of you, Querida.” “Oh, no, not square; just natural. The public table is big enough for everybody.” Allaire thought a moment, slowly caress- ing his foxy hair. “After all,” he said with a nervous snicker, ‘you needn’t be afraid of anybody. Nobody can paint like you. But I’d like to get a look in, Querida. I’ve got to make a little money in one way or

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640 another,” he added impudently, ‘and if I can’t paint well enough to sting them, there’s always the chance of marrying one of ’em.” Querida laughed. “Any man can always marry any .woman. There’s no trick in getting any wife you want.” “Sure,” grinned Allaire; ‘‘a wife is a cinch; it’s the front row that keeps good men guessing.” He glanced at Querida, his gray-green eyes brimming with an im- prudent malice he could not even now deny himself. ‘Also the backs of the magazines keep one guessing,” he added carelessly; “and I’ve the patience of a tom-cat my- self.” Querida’s beautifully penciled eyebrows were raised interrogatively. “Oh, I'll admit that the little West girl kept me sitting on back fences until some other fellow threw a bottle at me,” said Allaire with a disagreeable laugh. He had come as near as he dared to taunting Querida, and, afraid at the last moment, had turned the edge of it on himself. Querida lighted a cigarette and blew a whiff of smoke toward the ceiling. ‘I’ve an idea,” he said lazily, “that somebody is trying to marry her.” “Forget it,’ observed Allaire in con- tempt. ‘She wouldn’t stand for the sort who marry her kind. She’ll land hard on her neck one of these days, and the one best bet will be some long-faced Botticelli with heavenly principles and the moral stability of a tumbler pigeon. Then there’ll be the devil to pay; but he will get over it, and she’ll get aboard the toboggan. That’s the way it ends, Querida.” Querida sipped his coffee and glanced out the club window. From the window he could see the roof of the studio-building where Neville lived. And he wondered how far Valerie was from that building at the present moment, wondered, and sipped his coffee. He was a man whose career had been builded upon perseverance. He had begun life by slaying every doubt. And his had been a bitter life; but he had suffered smilingly; the sordid struggle along the edges of starvation had hardened nothing of his heart. Sensitive, sympathetic, ardent, proud, and ambitious with the quiet cer- tainty of a man predestined, he had a woman’s capacity for patience, for suffer- ing, and for concealment, but not for mercy. The Common Law And he cared passionately for love, as he did for beauty, and had succumbed to both in spirit oftener than in the caprice of some inconsequential amourette. But never, until he came to know Valerie West, had a living woman meant anything vital to his happiness. Yet what she aroused in him was that part of his nature to which he himself was a stranger—a rest- less, sensuous side which her very isolation and exposure to danger seemed to excite the more until desire to control her, to drive others away, to subdue, master, mold her, make her his own, obsessed him. And he had tried it and failed; and had drawn aside, fiercely, still watching and determined. Some day he meant to marry properly. He had never doubted his ability to do so, even in the sordid days. But there was no hurry, and life was young, and so was Valerie West—young enough, beautiful enough, to bridge the years with him until his ultimate destiny awaited him. And all was going well again with him until that New Year’s Eve; and matters had gone ill with him since then—so ill that he could not put the thought of it from him, and her beauty haunted him—and the expression of Neville’s eyes! But he remained silent, quiet, alert, watching and waiting with all his capacity for enduring. And he had now something else to watch, something that his sensitive intuition had divined in a single unfinished canvas of Neville’s. So far there had been but one man supreme in the New World as a great painter of sunlight and of women. There could not be two. And he already felt the approach of a shadow menacing the glory of his sunlight—already stood alert and fixedly observant of a young man who had painted something disquieting into an unfinished canvas. That man and the young girl whom he had painted to the astonishment and inward disturbance of José Querida were having no easy time in that new world which they had created for themselves. Embarked upon an enterprise in the management of which they were neither in accord nor ever seemed likely to be, they had, so far, weathered the storms of misunderstand- ings and the stress of prejudice. Blindly confident in love, they were certain, so far, that it was love itself that they worshiped, no matter what rites and ceremonies each one observed in its adoration. Yet each

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Robert W. was always attempting to convert the other to the true faith; and there were days of trouble and of tears and of telephones. Neville presented a frightfully complex problem to Valerie West. His even-tem- pered indifference to others—an indiffer- ence which had always characterized him— had left only a wider and deeper void now filling with his passion for her. They were passing through a maze of cross-purposes; his ardent and exacting intolerance of any creed and opinion save his own was ever forcing her toward a more formal and literal appreciation of what he was determined must become a genuine and formal engagement—which attitude on his part naturally produced clash after clash between them. That he entertained so confidently the conviction of her ultimate surrender to convention, at moments vexed her to the verge of anger. At times, too, his disposition to interfere with her liberty tried her patience. Again and again she explained to him the unalterable funda- mentals of their pact. These were, first of all, her refusal to alienate him’ from his family and his own world; second, her right to her own individuality and freedom to support herself without interference or unrequested assistance from him; third, absolute independence of him in material matters and the perfect liberty of man- aging her own little financial affairs with- out a hint of dependence on him either be- fore or after the great change. That she posed only in costume now did not satisfy him. He did not wish her to pose at all; and the eternal discussion immedi- ately became inevitable, tiring both with its earnestness and its utter absence of a com- mon ground. Because in him apparently remained every vital germ of convention and of generations of training in every precept of formality; and in her—for with Valerie West adolescence had arrived late— that mystery had been responsible for far- reaching disturbances consequent on the starved years of self-imprisonment, of exal- tations suppressed, of fears and doubts and vague desires and dreams ineffable pos- sessing the silence of a lonely soul. And so, essentially solitary, inevitably lonely, out of her own young heart and an untrained mind she was evolving a code of responsibility to herself and to the world. Her ethics and her morals were becom- ing what wide, desultory, and unrestrained Chambers 641 reading was making them; her passion for happiness and for truth, her restless in- telligence, were prematurely forming her character. There was no one in author- ity to tell her—check, guide, or direct her in the revolt from dogmatism, pedantry, sophistry, and conventionalism. And by this path youthful intelligence inevitabiy passes, incredulous of snare and pitfall where lie the bones of many a savant under magic blossoms nourished by creeds long dead. ‘To bring no sorrow to anyone, Louis— that is the way I am trying to live,” she said seriously. “You are bringing it to me.” “Tf that is so, then I had better depart as I came and leave you in peace.”’ “Tt’s too late.” “Perhaps it is not. Shall we try it?” “Could you recover?” “T don’t know. I am willing to try for your sake.” “Do you want to?” he asked almost angrily. “T am not thinking of myself, Louis.’ “T want you to. I don’t want you not to think about yourself all the time.” She made a hopeless gesture, opening her arms and turning her palms outward. “Kelly Neville! What do you suppose loving you means to me?” “Don’t you think of yourself at all when you love me?” “Why, I suppose I do—in a way. Iknow I’m fortunate, happy. I’— she glanced up shyly—‘“I am glad that I am—loved.” “You darling!” She let him take her into his arms, suffered his caress, looking at him in silence out of eyes as dark and clear and beautiful as brown pools in a forest. “You’re just a bad, spoiled, perverse little kid, aren’t you?” he said, rumpling her hair. “You say so.” “Breaking my heart because you won’t marry me.” “No, breaking my own because you don’t really love me enough, yet.” “T love you too much.” “That is literary bosh, Louis.” “Good God! Can’t you ever understand that I’m respectable enough to want you for my wife?” “You mean that you want me for what I do not wish to be. And you decline to ’

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The Common Law love me unless I turn into a selfish, depend- ent, conventional nonentity, which you will adore because respectable. Is that what you mean?” “T want the laws of civilization to safe- guard you,” he persisted patiently. “T need no more protection than you need. I am not a baby. I am not afraid. Are you?” “That is not the question.” “Yes, it is, dear. I stand in no fear. Why do you wish to force me to do what I believe would be a wrong to you? Can’t you respect my disreputable convictions?”’ “They are theories, not convictions.” “Oh, Kelly, I’m so tired of hearing you say that!”’ “T should think you would be, you little imp of perversity!” “T am. And I wonder how I can love you just as much as though you were kind and reasonable and—and minded your own business, dear.” “Tsn’t it my business to tell the girl to whom I’m engaged what I believe to be right?” “Yes; and it’s her business to tell you,” she said, smiling; and put her arms higher so that they slipped around his neck for a moment, then were quickly withdrawn. “What a thoroughly obstinate boy you are!”’ she exclaimed. ‘‘We’re wasting such lots of time in argument when it’s all so very simple. Your soul is your own to develop; mine is mine. Noli me tangere!” But he was not to be pacified; and pres- ently she went away to pour their tea, and he followed and sat down in anarmchair near the fire, brooding gaze fixed on the coals. They had tea in hostile silence; he lighted a cigarette, but presently flung it into the fire without smoking. She said, “You know, Louis, if this is really going to be an unhappiness to you, instead of a happiness beyond words, we had better end it now.” She added, with an irrepressible laugh, partly nervous,“ Your happiness seems to be beyond words already. Your silence is very eloquent. I think I'll take my doll and go home.” She rose, stood still a moment looking at him where he sat, head bent, staring into the coals; then a swift tenderness filled her eyes, her sensitive lips quivered, and she came swiftly to him and took his head into her arms. “Dear,” she whispered, “I only want to do the best for you. Let me try in my own way. It’s all for you—everything I do or think or wish or hope is for you. Even I myself was made merely for you.” Sideways on the arm of his chair, she stooped down, laying her cheek against his, drawing his face closer. “T am so hopelessly in love with you,” she murmured; “if I make mistakes, for- give me; remember only that it is because I love you enough to die for you very willingly.” He drew her down into his arms. She was never quick to respond to the deeper emotions in him, but her cheeks and throat were flushed now, and, as his embrace en- closed her, she responded with a sudden flash of blind passion, a moment’s impulsive self-surrender to his lips and arms—and drew away from him dazed, trembling, shielding her face with one arm. All that the swift contact was awakening in him turned on her fiercely now; in his arms again she swayed, breathless, covering her face with desperate hands, striving to com- prehend, to steady her senses, to reason while pulses and heart beat wildly and every vein ran fire. “No,” she stammered, “this is—is wrong—wrong! Louis, I beg you to re- member what I am to you. Don’t kiss me again—I ask you not to—I pray that you won’t. We are—I am—engaged to you, dear. Oh—it is wrong, wrong, now—all wrong between us!” “Valerie,” he stammered, “you care nothing for any law, nor do I—now.” “JT do! You don’t understand me! Let me go. Louis, you don’t love me enough. This—this is madness, wickedness! You can’t love me! You don’t—you can’t!” “T do love you, Valerie.” “No, no, or you would let me go! Or you would not kiss me again.” She freed herself, breathless, crimson with shame and anger, avoiding his eyes, and slipped out of his embrace to her knees, sank down on the rug at his feet, and laid her head against the chair, breathing fast, both small hands pressed to her breast. For a few minutes he let her lie so; then, stooping over her, white lipped, trembling, ‘What can vou expect if we sow the wind?” She began to cry softly. “You don’t understand—you never have understood! “T understand this, that I am ready to take you in your way, now. I cannot live

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=” ol ne ee Robert W. without you, and I won’t. I care no longer how I take you, or when, or where, as long as I can have you for mine, to keep forever, to love, to watch over, to worship. Dear, will you speak to me?”’ She shook her head desolately, where it lay now against his knees, amid its tumbled hair. Then he asked again for her forgive- ness — almost fiercely, for passion still swayed him with every word. He told her he loved her, adored her, could not en- dure life without her; that he was only too happy to take her on any terms she offered. “Louis,” she said in a voice made very small and low by the crossed arms muffling her face, “I am wondering whether you will ever know what love is.” “Have I not proved that I love you?” “I—don’t know what it is you have proved. We were engaged to each other— and—and—”’ “T thought you cared nothing for such conventions!” She began to cry again silently. “Valerie, darling—” “No, you don’t understand,” she sobbed. “Understand what, dearest, dearest?” “That I thought our love was its own protection—and mine.” He made no answer. She knelt there silent for a little while, then put her hand up appealingly for his handkerchief. ‘I have been very happy in loving you,” she faltered; “I have promised you all there is of my- self. And you have already had my best self. The rest—whatever it is—what- ever happens to me—I have promised, so that there will be nothing of this girl called Valerie West which is not all yours —all, all—every thought, Louis, every pulse-beat— mind, soul, body. But no future day had been set; I had thought of none as yet. Still—since I knew I was to be to you what I am to be, I have been very busy preparing for it—mind, soul, my little earthly possessions, my personal affairs in their small routine. No bride in your world, busy with her trousseau, has been a happier dreamer than have I, Louis. You don’t know how true I have tried to be to myself, and to the truth as I understand it—as true as I have been to you in thought and deed. And, somehow, what threatened— a moment since—frightens me, humiliates me.” She lifted her head and looked up at him with dimmed eyes. ‘You were untrue Chambers 643 to yourself, Louis—to your own idea of truth. And you were untrue to me. And for the first time I look at you, ashamed and shamed.” “Yes,” he said, very white. ‘““Why did you offer our love such an in- sult?” she asked. He made no answer. “Was it because, in your heart, you hold a girl lightly who promised to give herself to you for your own sake, renouncing the marriage vows?”’ “No! Good God—” “Then, is it because you do not yet love me enough? For I shall not give myself to you until you do.” He hung his head. “T think that is it,”’ she said sorrowfully. “No. I’m no good,” he said. ‘And that’s the truth, Valerie.” A dark flush stained his face, and he turned it away, sitting there in silence, his tense clasp tightening on the arms of the chair. Then he said, still not meeting her eyes: ‘‘ What- ever your beliefs are you practise them; you are true to ycur convictions, loyal to yourself. I am only a miserable, rotten specimen of man who is true to nothing— not even to himself. I’m not worth your trouble, Valerie.” “Louis!” “Well, what am I?” he demanded in fierce disgust. ‘I have told you that I believe in the conventions—and I violate every one of them. I’m a spectacle for gods and men!” His face was stern with self-disgust: he forced himself to meet her gaze, wincing under it; but he went on: “T know well enough that I deserve youn contempt; I’ve acquired plenty of self- contempt already. But I do love you, God knows how or in what manner, but I love you, cur that I am, and I respect you—oh, more than you understand, Valerie. And if I ask your mercy on such a man as I am, it is not because I deserve it.” “My mercy, Louis?” She rose to her knees and laid both hands on his shoulders. “You are only a man, dear—with all the lovable faults and sins and contradictions of one. But there is no real depravity in you any more than there is in me. Only— I think you are a little more selfish than I am; you lose self-command”—she blushed —“but that is because you are only a man, after all. I think, perhaps, that a girl’s love is different in many ways. Dear, my

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SS na W x Y Wi VY, A sé V7 y ZI -— A Ps EEL Li M ies Sone o YY VAN OK DRAWN BY CHARLES GI N Ogilvy, strolling up, stood looking sentimentally at the two young girls. “A—perfect—pair—of—precious— tendency to shirk when the others go to work; for the 644

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See NAO tt USS Zz \ 5 64. A NSS QS ae RRR BO NE : IW Sree | 3 a Fe WA WWWEE' WS GAA Fane = SO BS rN « 3 8 o iM 4 3 — o —- I v E 3 ei * ) c o 3 = «s - 4 E a 3 a I uv a O & s a ~ 3 ot ~ 3 e o v ao ° - v > ° = ~ i ' \ CQ SSS Sk pi 2 aR SS \ i NS N \\ he said; workers I can't bear “em, and I'd rather run a harem—" priceless—peaches,” 2

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646 love for you is perfectly honest. You be- lieve it, don’t you? If for one moment I thought it was otherwise, I’d never let you see me again. If I thought for one moment that anything spiritual was to be gained for us by denying that love to you or to myself, or by living out life alone without you, I have the courage to do it. Do you doubt it?” “No,” he said. She sighed, and her gaze passed from his and became remote for a moment, then, “I want to live my life with you,” she said wistfully; “I want to be to you all that the woman you love could possibly be. But to me, the giving of myself to you is to be, in my heart, a ceremony more solemn than any in the world; and it is to be a rite at which my soul shall serve on its knees, Louis.” “Dearest, dearest,” he breathed, ‘I know, I understand, I ask your pardon. And I worship you.” Then a swift, smiling change passed over her face; and, her hands still resting on his shoulders, kneeling there before him, she bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. “Pax,” she said. “You are forgiven. Love me enough, Louis. And when I am quite sure you do, then, then, you may ask me, and I will answer you.”’ “T love you enough now.’ “Are you sure?” "we." “‘Then—ask,” she said faintly. His lips moved in a voiceless question; she could not hear him, but she understood. “Tn a year, I think,”’ she answered, forc- ing her eyes to meet his, but the delicate rose color was playing over her cheeks and throat. “As long as that?”’ “That is not long. Besides, perhaps you won’t learn to love me enough even by that time. Do you think you will? If you really think so—perhaps in June—”’ She watched him as he pressed her hands together and kissed them; laughed a little, shyly, as she suddenly divined a new tender- ness and respect in his eyes—something matching the vague exaltation of her own romantic dreams. “T will wait all my life if you wish it,” he said. “Do you mean it?” “You know I do, now.” She considered him, smiling. “If you truly do feel that way, perhaps, perhaps, it might really be in June—or in July—” ’ The Common Law “You said June,” he almost pleaded. “Listen to the decree of the great god Kelly! He says it must be in June, and he shakes his thunderbolts and frowns.” “June! Say so, Valerie.”’ “‘You have said so.” “But there’s no use in my saying so if—” “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, ‘the great god totters on his pedestal and the oracle falters and I see the mere man looking very humbly around the corner of theshrine at me, whispering, ‘ June, if you please, dear lady!’”’ “Yes,” he said, “that’s what you see and hear. Now answer me, dear.” ‘“‘And what am I to say?” “June, please.” “June, please,” she repeated demurely. “You darling! What day?” “Oh, that’s too early to decide.” ‘Please, dear!” “No; I don’t want to decide.” “Dearest!” “What?” ““‘Won’t you answer me?” “If you make me answer now, I'll be tempted to fix the first of April.” “All right, fix it.” “Tt’s All Fool’s Day, you know,” she threatened. ‘Probably it is peculiarly suita- ble for us. Very well, then, I’ll say it.” She was laughing when he caught her hands and looked at her, grave, unsmiling. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, and her lip trembled. “Forgive me; I meant no mockery,” she whispered. ‘I had already fixed the first day of June for—for the great change in our lives. Are you content?” “Ves.” And before she knew what he was doing a brilliant flashed along her ring finger and clung sparkling to it; and she stared at the gold circlet and the gem flash- ing in the firelight. There were tears in her eyes when she kissed it, looking at him while her soft lips rested on the jewel. Neither spoke for a moment; then, still looking at him, she drew the ring from her finger, touched it again with her lips, and laid it gently in his hand. “No, dear,” she said. He did not urge her; but she knew he still believed that she would come to think as he thought; and the knowledge edged her lips with tremulous humor. But her eyes were very sweet and tender as she watched him lay away the ring as though it and he were serenely biding their time.

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“Such a funny boy,” she said, “‘and such adearone. He will never grow up, will he?”’ “Such an idiot, you mean,” he said, draw- ing her into the big chair beside him. “Ves, I mean that, too,” she said im- pudently, nose in the air. “Because, if I were you, Louis, I wouldn’t waste any more energy in worrying about a girl who is per- fectly able to take care of herself, but trans- fer it to a boy who apparently is not.” ‘How do you mean?”’ “T mean about your painting. Dear, you’ve got it into that obstinate head of yours that there’s something lacking in your pictures, and there isn’t.” “Oh, Valerie! You know there is!”’ “No, no, no! There isn’t anything lack- ing in them. They’re all of you, Louis, every bit of you—as far as you have lived.” “What!” “Certainly. As far as you have lived. Now live a little more, and let more things come into your life. You can’t paint what isn’t in you; and there’s nothing in you ex- cept what you get out of life.”” She laid her soft cheek against his. “Get a little real love out of life, Louis; a little real love. Then surely, surely your canvases cannot disguise that you know what life means to us all. Love nobly, and the world will not doubt that love is noble; love mercifully, and the world will under- stand mercy. For I believe that what you are must show in your work, dear. “Until now the world has seen in your work only cold splendor, or dreamy glamour, or the untroubled sweetness and brilliance of passionless romance. I love your work. It is happiness to look at it; it thrills, be- witches, enthralls! Dear, forgive me if in it I have not yet found a deeper inspiration. And that inspiration, to be there, must be first in you, my darling—born of a wider in- terest in your fellow men, a little tenderness for friends, a more generous experience and more real sympathy with humanity, and— perhaps you may think it out of place for me to say it—but a deeper, truer spiritual conviction. “Do you think it strange of me to have such convictions? I can’t escape them. Those who are merciful, those who are kind, to me are Christ-like. Nothing else mat- ters. But to be kind is to be first of all interested in the happiness of others. And you care nothing for people. You must care, Louis! Robert W. The next instalment of ‘‘The Common Law ’’ will appear in the May issue. 647 Chambers ‘“ And, somehow, you who are, at heart, good and kind and merciful, have not realby awakened real love in many of those about you. For one thing, your work has ab- sorbed you. But if, at the same time, you could pay a little more attention to human beings—”’ “Valerie!” he said in astonishment, “I have plenty of friends. Do you mean to say I care nothing for them?” “How much do you care, Louis?” “Why, I—” He fell silent, his troubled gaze searching hers. She smiled. ‘Take Sam, for example. The boy adores you. He’sa rotten painter, I know, and you don’t even pretend to an interest in what he does because you are too honest to praise it. But, Louis, he’s a lov- able fellow, and he does the best that’s in him. You needn’t pretend to care for what he does, but if you could show that you do care for and respect the effort—” ““T do, Valerie—when I think about it!” “Then think about it; and let Sam know that you think about his efforts and himself. And do the same for Harry Annan. He’s a worse painter than Sam, but do you think he doesn’t know it? Don’t you realize what a lot of heartache the monkey-shines of those two boys conceal?” “T am fond of them,” he said slowly. “I like people, even if I don’t show it—” “Ah, Louis! Louis! That is the world’s incurable hurt—the silence that replies to its perplexity, the wistful appeal that remains unanswered. And many, many vex God with the desolation of their endless impor- tunities and complaints when a look, a word, a touch from a human being would relieve them of the heaviest of all burdens, a sad heart’s solitude.” He put his arm around her impulsively. “You little angel,’ he said tenderly. ““No—only a human girl who has learned what solitude can mean.” “T shall make you forget the past,” he said. “No, dear—for that might make me less kind.” She put her lips against his cheek thoughtfully. ‘“And—I think—that you are going to need all the tenderness in me— some day, Louis—as I'll need all of yours. We shall have much to learn—after the great change. And much to endure. And I think we shall need all the kindness that we can give each other—and all that the world can spare us.”

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Lieutenant-General Nelson A. Miles QUESTION whether history affords a parallel to the close of such a fierce, desperate war on such liberal and magnanimous terms. General Grant displayed, at the supreme hour of great re- sponsibility, a tactful delicacy commensu- rate with the difficulty of the extraordinary crisis. It was one in which he had to main- tain the supreme confidence of his army and the loyal patriotic sentiment of the nation; at the same time he touched the hearts of the fallen and welded their respect by his generous and far-reaching magnanimity. It must be remembered, however, that General Grant had at his side, as chief of staff, a man who was both an able lawyer and a patriot of the highest type, General John A. Rawlins. It will also be remembered that President Lincoln was at City Point, immediately in the rear of the army, and no terms could be granted without his direction or approval. Rising from the Ruins of War AN INTIMATE ACCOUNT OF THE POPULAR REJOICING AT THE ADVENT OF PEACE FOL- LOWING THE CIVIL WAR AND OF HOW THE NATION UN- DERTOOK THE PROBLEMS OF RECONSTRUCTION AND TURNED ITS ENERGIES TO BINDING UP ITS WOUNDS By General Nelson A. Miles, U.S.A. ° The Southern troops were required to sur- render their arms and war materials, to give their paroles, to return to their homes, and to remain at peace and obey the laws in force where they were to reside. In the South the continuance of the local and municipal gov- ernments was authorized. At the same time general supervision and control were exer- cised, and the entire country was divided up into districts, departments, and divisions, under the control of commanding generals. I was assigned to the District of Fortress Mon- roe, including the territory of eastern Mary- land and eastern Virginia. Large bodies of troops were returning home through this dis- trict, and an army corps was being organized there for the Rio Grande and possibly for service in Mexico. For services in the closing campaign I was made a major- general of volunteers. The restoration of peace gave universal The first chapter of Gencral Miles’s Memoirs appeared in the December Cosmopolitan 648

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General Nelson A. Miles, U.S.A. gratification to the people of our country, as wellasto the lovers of liberty everywhere. As our army was marching back from Appo- mattox long lines and groups of Confederate soldiers moved along beside the regiments and batteries, sharing the same fare, drink- ing from the same canteen, chatting, and reminiscing, as they journeyed toward their homes. The dark clouds of war had disap- peared; the bright sunshine of peace had dawned to bless every part of our country and warm every heart. It was then that the entire land was shocked and stunned by the most appalling tragedy that could befall any people. That preeminent statesman, exalted leader, wisest and best of men, the great-hearted Lincoln, was cruelly and in a cowardly way assassinated on April 14, 1865. From universal rejoicing the country was thrown into the saddest condition of gloom; the deepest sor- row and the blackest mourning overshad- owed theland. None felt his death so keenly as those who had borne with him the great burden of the nation. In his death human progress was set back many 649 decades. When most needed, his soul was swept to eternity. None needed his be- nevolent sympathy so much as the South- ern people. Had Mr. Lincoln lived, he would have led them back to peace, pros- perity, and loyalty. The feeling with us in the army at the hour of the supreme triumph of our cause, in which he had been the ruling spirit, could not be expressed by language. What the patient, cool, skilful captain is to the mari- ners for whom he has guided the good ship through the terrible storm, what the devoted father is to those dependent upon him, Lincoln was to us. We trusted and revered him with a depth of feeling stronger and truer than ever mortal man was loved. This was the sentiment of those who believed as Lincoln believed, who had toiled for and triumphed in the great cause to which he had devoted his life. Lincoln was above his fellow men, as the giant mountain towers above others. In the sublimity and depth of his char- acter, he was a world-enriching treasure. He came a 4 ca es ‘Gee Pom. The Second Corps of the Army of the Potomac, which included the division commanded by General Miles, marching up Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C., in the great parade of the Federal armies, May 23 and 24, 1865. General Humphreys and his staff are leading.—Crowds in Pennsylvania Avenue waiting for the parade

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650 nearer to us than other eminent men. With him, it was but a step from the tent of the most distinguished general to the side of the wounded soldier, whose last hours he might cheer and last message write. He was more often seen in the hospitals than on the fields of martial display. He possessed a nature large enough to embrace the misfortunes of a race and the welfare of both combatants; he was so sublimely magnanimous that never once in any of the days of triumph did he manifest exultation. When the nation was celebrating its greatest victory, he was con- sidering the advisability of providing occupa- tion for the freedmen in the excavation and construction of a canal across the Isthmus of Panama. .On the last day of his life he said, “The next great question for the Amer- ican people after the work of reconstruc- tion is completed will be the overthrow of the liquor traffic.’”’ His spirit is still shin- ing on. To me, of all the men I have ever known, Lincoln stands first. I have received twelve commissions, from lieutenant to lieutenant-general, yet I prize the one signed by the hand of Abraham Lincoln far more than all the others. “BAYONET RULE” IN THE SOUTH The settlement of the political problem of what to do with the collapsed Confederacy was a matter of most serious importance. Of course everything pertaining to the so- called Confederate government was dis- regarded. Even the state governments were not recognized, and for a time mili- tary control and administration was su- preme. Various methods were suggested, and some tried, for restoring the Southern territory to civil government. Provisional governments were established. Military control became unpopular and had the flavor of being un- American; so much so that thé cry of “Bayonet Rule” was finally raised, and while, in the main, it was conducted with justice and integrity, it began to be not only ‘irksome to the South, but distasteful to the Northern people. This had the effect of creating a feeling of dissatisfaction with the dominant political party of the country, and in the general election for members of Con- gress in 1866 the Republican party, which had held sway over the country since the election of 1860, was defeated at the polls. When Congress convened, it was apparent Rising from the Ruins of War that some decisive measure must be under- taken for the reestablishment of the civil governments in the South. A reconstruc- tion measure was first introduced and ad- vocated by Thaddeus Stevens. It was amended on motion of Samuel Shellabarger, finally passed the House, and was taken up in the Senate. Here Senator Sherman in- troduced a substitute, which modified some of its features materially, and it finally passed both houses March 2, 1867. It was known as the Stevens-Shellabarger-Sher- man bill, and authorized the organization of military districts and empowered the com- manding generals to call conventions at the state capitals for the purpose of framing state constitutions, to be acceptable to the people and approved by the Congress of the United States. In these conventions and in the legislatures and civil governments that followed, the Union element of the South was quite prominent. Many of the men who had voted against the ordi- nance of secession where it had been sub- mitted to the people, and who had remained loyal during the great struggle, took an active part in the political affairs at that time. After being mustered out of the volunteer service, and on the reorganization of the regular army in 1866, I was appointed a colonel and brevet major-general, and in the work of reconstruction I was assigned to the command of the District of North Carolina. My first orders were to reestablish civil con- trol as far as possible, to restore confidence, security, and peace, to conciliate the dis- affected element, to remove as far as possi- ble the existing prejudice between the two races, to encourage labor, and to promote new industries. THE AFTERMATH OF WAR The most unfortunate people at that time were the widows and children of those who had been killed or disabled in the Confeder- ate army. Their sad condition attracted my sympathy, and I took active measures for their relief. They were not only given governmental assistance, but were materi- ally aided by generous people in the North whom I was enabled to interest in their behalf, especially in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. Efforts were made to secure employment for those who were most in need of such support. Every possible assistance was rendered and every encour-

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DRAWN BY W. HERBERT DUNTON FROM A DESCRIPTION FURNISHED BY GENERAL MILES “As our army marched back from Appomattox long lines and groups of Confederate soldiers moved along beside the regiments, sharing the same fare, drinking from the same canteen, chatting, reminiscing, as they journeyed toward their homes ™

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ah J @ / A 5 ie hed lewre’ M earren a, ube min fon CA PRG tees Z KE he és atom iol has Se (ct0 lad, afr efrtr HK thes Von wale Mths Z od Lae. fe ' eked, ce oder oC anol. ee mot (Agta Der Uy 2 ae. f ox Z of SC ten oe i ae <. g pesto _ fom a C Gly, tw of, t i he wo & A, as “eo ‘ , Hin soe bay % aL af AGH erel Chee Pr er ZL. Meher de Lf lhe bailed: Myf oie oi 2 (Che Wesled Meals Aika oe. Gra EE Chorin & lege em ir hs rye a, ea toes oe ae 47 ee th “Wate Hola, We offs vial P fromeae for copiers ao Les Be AO ie lle hh leride of Che! hi nhe, Gad ee toe Cg b hea frllowingg peevmrrld: sw: de Feta & had Dhcdane detlars : Che htifpie2 pcs. wenly ff fe Gh i, Cat J DP Ce Llaere realy = ‘sage & cs be BEE Sa dew CS gt Aree G¢ : J a’ a Zc f' « Sie ATL a PORTRAITS FROM THE COLLECTION 0 Andrew Johnson Facsimile of a proclamation issued by Andrew Johnson, May 2, 1865, offering George N. Saunders, Beverly Tucker, and William C. Cleary, all of whom attempted assassination of William H. Seward.—The portrait of Lincoln agement given those who had lost all save honor and cour- age in the war, and they, with commend- able zeal and forti- tude, commenced to build anew the foun- dation of prosperity and independence amid the very ashes of their desolation. They have greatly developed the resourcesin which their country is abundantly rich, their prog- ress is continuous, and the bright prospects are that in the future the people of that region will equal, if not excel, those in the most prosperous parts of our country. The downfall of the Confederacy left more than three million black people free, but without ground enough to stand upon. They were congregated in large camps or remained in little slave-huts under the shadow of their former masters’ mansions, and continued to toil, in most cases with the promise of some compensation, but no one could tell what their status would be in the future. The black population of the coun- Jefferson Davis 652 try had furnished nearly two hundred thou- sand men who served in the Union army and navy, and who performed their duty with fidelity and fortitude. Their dead and wounded fell on many hard-fought fields, notwithstanding the threat of the enemy of no quarter for the officers and slavery for the men in case of capture. At the close of the war many believed that free labor would be a failure in the South, yet it has proved a success. It has furnished the principal labor element for those states and has developed the great resources of that part of our country. No one can tell what is to be the future of a race that has nearly trebled its numbers in the last four decades, and that, in point of education, general intelligence, and acquired property, has vastly exceeded its increase in numbers. The great problem is yet to be solved, but its solution will be best accomplished if absolute even-handed justice prevails. The race is not responsible for its being here, nor for its present condition. Its future will depend largely upon its own people. After four years of experience in terrible

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i pind anol “den ave t | Liha wr ree a be pei Cates, nian wrly thon iat 3 MS ot Heal opphhout, Je Soo th cmsciagul tad dale © ¢ ps rr ced of SHEE rs 4 Ge leh of MIL Clg, ‘ond llho Uh So“ . a“ OP, fo « ZL tC aenet a alex > 4A wn, Lart-th FREDERICK H. MESERVE, ESQ rewards for the arrest of Jefferson Davis, 4476 7s es Fe 7 Ss ppl! digs 3 PO ts eb SA f- 4 . eta epee a 3 Jf wee str & Pee 43 ZA Sane - so f thee len 4 “¥ ‘ Lob ¢ 1m the a of ’ A diidon ; ¢ Lh tt a - steer Ch Abraham Lincoln Clement C. Clay, Jacob Thompson, were accused of complicity in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the was made April 9, 1865, and is the last living likeness of the great President war and two years amid the sorrow and desolation incident thereto, where chaos had followed violence, and distress and unhap- piness were found in places formerly the scenes of comfort and affluence, it was grat- ifying to see the evidences of peace and prosperity appear again. I was glad to leave that region in much better condition than I found it, and turn my attention to other problems. I was glad to leave the South at the opening of its new era for the new and untried fields of the Far West different scenes, different conditions, and quite different duties. On March 15, 1869, I was transferred to the command of the 5th U. S. Infantry, then stationed at military posts in the unsettled portion of western Kansas and in Colorado. It had been my good fortune the year before to win the love and devotion of the com- panion of my life, Miss Mary H. Sherman, daughter of Judge Charles Sherman and niece of Senator John Sherman and General Sherman. The young lady had been West two years before with her father, who was one of the commissioners of the Union Pacific Railroad, but to me the country was seen for the first time. Our journey then from the balmy atmosphere of the South to our new home in the wild West was indeed an interesting romance. There has been a very marked change in the condition of the country passed over on that journey. The business, wealth, and population of those states have increased in a marvelous degree. Take the city of Chi- cago as an illustration. At that time it had a population of 109,206 people. Now i numbers more than 2,000,000, and its in- crease in wealth has been in greater propor- tion. It is the center or distributing base of the richest valley on earth; its growth is not phenomenal, for the same may be ob- served of hundreds of other towns and cities, as well as of the country of that great Mis- sissippi basin. Our journey took us through Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City to Fort Leaven- 653 J. Wilkes Booth

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654 worth, Kansas, the largest and most impor- tant military station on the frontier. In fact, Rising from the Ruins of War great plains country. These usually started in the spring, and late in the autumn the engineering, scouting, and exploring parties came in to spend the winter months. This brought a large number of engineers and artillery, cavalry, infantry, and staff officers it was the most important depot of sup- plies, a rendezvous, and a station for equip- ping the various expeditions and commands or detachments that moved out across the (© @o all whe -shall) Ne Tom irk Pt . ~~ : : - 2 ; ' \ 3 102, J Mey , nprung 4 brid breast hel cen filer “Hn the feat owlosn, vate n flelaly, aud. NAS A ¢ y Vil lirs ty Valter: the (Miaka Shave re weniaterl wind ty were wilh Me aleve ened corsend Lime sntadeiin: Mos vragen Sf (be lun heard On Ae pre rhe vtfefirsael freru / jt ty » , 7 < “the serine if the United States: 2 suk wo veh fror Me Ab tasy Care LGA : Av ga thie "or" carefully awe NICE i asta tye Ue May ~ sé MAC, J 4 Trot veuil A ony Ag Foe tent ty bho pt hidl P Cs - DPewrsont fy dMevuy wn fir for enel tip hd weenie ‘4 (Uht tgp Vherveursete helena Ht f F Z ‘ y 7 LALDH: tov tly choonpe wred wytFe HOV 4 ® abt Delete rs under has iibiivd lle Ped f a —n, © ‘y io rat te hiserdevs ed Grandi hans siomtle * PoP ine tt 00 chaerer aud flee wich eviomcantae. ; Fy ‘4 4, / fs f Wy ; ‘fy F reelterian from terme te tone, teste atusll COCCUL OCP WCT dae (Meare Kraitteut of the Vite Phittore, f 3 a Car 4 / h, SOG C4 2448657 / / y 4 an Oe wiipstt i best tt Wits “f yer daring Wo feleense st feo Vin weelint the Martel Hates fer leiny x f / f “hy 4 ee 4, LCE ER Thi AOSCOIV ES Y VOOG A Bll POF hem, “oy lens Collis ftlta ened MOMS HA Of” CIVEN ete ary hah at lhe Clef, Hash nglen Mang Pe powr Lend rw thewsawd iaplthendral and Seid: for of th hadyfundena rf the Vllapel Marie : F Wd gt ; ‘ May Soot deen? te thr yout i ‘ Ck ai. wes ei % Facsimile of the commission, signed by Abraham Lincoln, appointing Nelson A. General Miles says of this commission: “I have received twelve commissions, from lieutenant to lieutenant- general, yet I prize the one signed by the hand of Abraham Lincoln far more than all the others."—General Miles Miles to a brigadier-generalship.

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a Hae ea EE ge” Sa fi PORTRAITS PROM THE Stand in front of from which President net, Generals Grant and other well-known generals wit- Thaddeus Stevens (left), Representa duced the first reconstruction measure; Ohio, who offered a substitute meas- General Grant, from a photograph by Mathew Brady, the together. These, with their families, formed a bright and agreeable society, and with plenty of good music by the military bands and the usual amusements and civilities of a large garri- son, the brief season of rest was most en- joyable. Even amid the realities of war, there were occasional flashes of romance. It was.from the banks of the Missouri that many of the exploring expeditions moved out westward—Lewis and Clarke, Bonneville, Pike, Long, Frémont, and many others. To the east of us was the settled portion of nearly one-half of our country. To the west was a larger portion and prac- MESERVE COLLECTION the White House Johnson and his cabi- Sherman, and many nessed the Grand Review.— tive from Pennsylvania, who intro- Senator John Sherman (right), of ure which was adopted; Lieutenant- made near the close of the war official war photographer tically a wilderness. The con- struction of a railway across the continent had been advo- cated by some of the strong- est statesmen, especially by Senator Benton, of Missouri, as a ‘“‘road to India’’; others advocated it as a measure for holding the Pacific states, as their con- dition would be a matter of serious concern in a great crisis where the dissolution of the Republic was threatened. It was therefore thought necessary to bind them in closer communication. Congress provided the means for its construction by a moneyed subsidy over a portion of the route, and also donated a rich zone of land the entire 655

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656 distance in alternate sections of a belt forty miles wide. The transcontinental railroad was being built at the time of our journey. The main branch was being constructed east from San Francisco; the two eastern branches were being constructed west from Omaha and Kansas City. These had been completed about two hundred miles west from the Missouri River. We passed over the Kan- sas Pacific branch as far as Ellsworth, Kansas, then took a construction train and journeyed west some sixty or seventy miles farther. ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER At Fort Hays, the headquarters of the 5th Infantry, I found a splendid regiment composed of very intelligent, efficient off- cers and strong, brave soldiers. A few miles away, in a beautiful valley, was the camp of the 7th U. S. Cavalry, commanded by General George A. Custer, one of the most enterprising and fearless cavalry lead- ers the great war produced. General Custer left West Point early in the Civil War. He was most ambitious and enterprising and soon rose to the command of a regiment, then a brigade, and later commanded, with great success, one of the cavalry divisions. We were very near the same age—rivals in the military profession, but the best of friends. The general’s wife, a superior and accomplished young woman who had “‘fol- lowed the flag” whenever it was possible, was pleasantly located in a beautiful camp, and was the constant companion of her gallant husband, as she was afterward his devoted champion by voice and pen.’ Mrs. Custer and Mrs. Miles became lifelong friends. We all enjoyed the splendid exer- cise of riding over the plains, and Custer and myself frequently went on buffalo hunts together, but at that time it was never safe to venture out of sight of the garrison or commands without a good escort. The land of that country was considered of little or no value. The ground had been for ages tramped hard by myriads of buffaloes, and was almost impervious to water. Even dur- ing heavy rains the water soon disappeared. The streams and rivers were quickly swollen to overflowing and became like mountain torrents, their waters rushing madly toward the sea. It was a pleasure to be relieved of the anxieties and responsibilities of civil affairs, Rising from the Ruins of War to hear nothing of the controversies incident to race prejudices, and to be once more engaged in strictly military duties, a profes- sion to which I was devoted. Every day’s duty was a pleasure, and no company more agreeable than the company of brave men— for indeed they were brave men, self-reliant and independent. They were fond of mili- tary life. Marching, scouting, hunting, ex- ploring, with an occasional campaign and encounter with hostile Indians, it was the best schooling for the military profession. It was in this kind of life that the best military chieftains of the great war—Grant, Thomas, Sumner, Lyon, Sedgwick, Sheridan, Hancock, Lee, Longstreet, Johnston, Stuart, and others—were schooled. When an offi- cer marched over the divide with a com- mand, great or small, he was immediately thrown upon his own resources. He had to think, plan, and act for himself and for the welfare and safety of his command. It was these experiences that brought out the strong elements of character and developed the natural resources of officers. Generals Sheridan and Custer had had, the winter before, quite an extensive campaign against the Indians of the Southwest. They had had one serious engagement with Black Kettle’s band, and had brought up to Fort Hays a few Indian prisoners. It was hoped that this would end Indian hostilities in the Southwest, but it did not, and that spring they commenced their depredations against the settlements in western Kansas and in Colorado. A RACE OF EXPERT HORSEMEN Before the Indians obtained firearms and horses, they were comparatively harmless, dwelt in villages, and in a rude way to some extent cultivated the ground. In fact, the early campaigns of Miles Standish, Church, Saint Clair, “Mad” Anthony Wayne, Har- rison, Taylor, and others were made against the Indians’ villages and fields as much as against the Indians themselves. Equipped only with a bow and spear, their lives were most laborious. To obtain food required endless toil. If they succeeded in taking the deer or other animals for food, the labor of carrying them, often long distances, to the lodge or camp was most difficult. When they obtained firearms, by the avarice of the white traders, the task of obtaining food was much easier, and when they secured horses from the Mexican and white people,

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DRAWN BY W. HERBERT DUNTON FROM A DESCRIPTION FURNISHED BY GENERAL MILES “General Custer and I were very nearly the same age and the best of friends. We frequently went on buffalo hunts together, but it was never safe to venture out of sight of the garrison or commands without a good escort”

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i : 3 i : j : eA i CRIN ARIE HR Fy 658 Rising from the Ruins of War about 125 years ago, their mode of life was entirely changed. They became a nomadic people and roamed over a vast territory with freedom and independence. In fact, they became the most expert horsemen of the world, and their young men went on expeditions, sometimes being absent from their villages for twelve months at a time. They lived by the chase, and thereby be- came most adroit, cunning, skilful hunters. INVISIBLE HUNTERS AND WARRIORS By the use of the skins of animals, the feathers of birds, grass and leaves, they dis- guised themselves in the most artistic man- ner, so that by remaining motionless they would be unnoticed by appreaching or pass- ing game, or they could stealthily get near the wildest before being discovered. In fact, they knew the art of making themselves almost invisible. I have seen hunting or war parties in the spring or summer time, when the fields and trees were covered with rich verdure, with their horses and parts of their own bodies painted green, and wearing green blankets, leggings, and moccasins. Later in the season, when the leaves were turning and the grass was dead, they would be mounted on dun or roan ponies, with clothing or covering of varied colors. In winter they would have snow-white ponies, white blankets, caps, leggings, moccasins— everything about them as white as the driven snow. The wild deer and buffalo gave them food, shelter, and raiment. The flesh of these animals gave them abundance of wholesome food, the buffalo robes made them comfort- able, and the soft, strong buckskin, with their bead and porcupine work and decorations, gave them a bright and picturesque appear- ance. The buffalo and elk hides furnished excellent lodges that were warm in winter and cool in summer, and healthful at all sea- sons of the year. Their wealth consisted of their bands of horses, their a the few appliances for camp life. ; Their religion was universal—they wor- shiped the God of nature, and the Great Spirit was their omnipotent Jehovah. They were grateful for the abundance of the earth —the sunshine, air, water, all the blessings of nature, and believed that all should share them alike. For one to wish to monopolize any part of the earth was to them the mani- festation of a grasping disposition. Often the men of most influence and those most popular in the tribe were the poorest, or those who gave most to others. Moving from one picturesque valley to another or from one pleasant camp to an- other was their agreeable occupation. They were the most democratic people of the world. Their government was dictated by council, where reason and logic held sway. The power of argument developed the best natural orators. Their illustrations were usually from something in nature, and most impressive. Our government often sent members of the cabinet, the Senate, and the House of Repre- sentatives, and other prominent citizens to meet them in council, and these were usu- ally met by native talent of equal force and eloquence. Their songs were legends of war and sentiment, and there was the same romance in their lives—in fact, more than in the lives of people living far remote from the enjoyment of the beauties of nature. They believed that death was a long journey to the Happy Hunting-Ground, and they placed the bodies of their departed upon high scaffolds or in the branches of trees with their richest paraphernalia. THE INDIAN AND THE BUFFALO IN THE WAY While the vast herds of buffaloes, deer, elk, and antelope remained, they were sure of food and sustenance. They were, however, soon to be deprived of their abundant riches. The wave of civilization was mov- ing over the Eastern horizon. Its onward march was irresistible. No human hand could stay that rolling tide of progress. The palefaces moved over every divide; they cordelled or rowed their boats up every river. They entered every valley and swarmed over every plain. They traveled in wagons called prairie-schooners, on foot, or on horseback. Herding their little bands of domestic stock, they built their homes on every spot of ground that could be made productive. One great cause of disaffection among the Indians was the destruction of the vast herds of buffaloes, which to them seemed like ruthless sacrifice. Within a few years millions of buffaloes were killed for their hides, and thousands of white men, the best rifle-shots in the world, were en- gaged in the business. The buffalo, like the Indian, was in the pathway of civilization. Now the same territory is occupied by in- numerable numbers of domestic animals that contribute untold wealth to our en- tire country. The next instalment of General Miles’s Memoirs will appear in the May issue.

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. fragevevorites, \oxcluswely Toseo | || forCosmopolitan > Port 2 =| Violet Heming, who plays the leading woman's réle with Albert Chevalier in the delightful character comedy, “Daddy Dufard “ Portraits posed exclusive'y for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios. New York

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. Love Among the Lions,” who now plays the part of the Hon. Gwendolin Fairfax in “ The Importance of Being Earnest,” a farce by Oscar Wilde Jane Oaker, recently in Portraits posed exclusively for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios

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2a Jane Corcoran, who originally portrayed the cold- blooded actress in “ Mother,” by Jules Eckert Good- man, but who has lately succeeded Emma Dunn in the title role Portraits posed exclusively for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios

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Esther Bissett, one of the younger players now attaining prominence in musical comedy. She is playing the part of Sheila Wragge in * Marriage 4 la Carte,’ by C. M.S. McLellan and Ivan Caryll Exclusive portraits posed by Sarony,. Fifth Avenue. New York

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GZ a SS SS . Billie Burke, the young star who has had a string of successes and is the idol of all those who admire a combination of winsome ways and clever acting. She is now playing the title réle in “ Suzanne ™ Exclusive portraits posed by Sarony, Fifth Avenue, New York

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Louise Gunning, starring in “The Balkan Princess.” She is one of the most capable actresses on the musical-comedy stage and has had a prominent part in several successful plays Portraits posed exclusively for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios

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Ethel Johnson, with Lew Fields in **The Henpecks.” Miss a Johnson was leading woman with Montgomery and Stone for ‘ several seasons, and more recently appeared in * Judy Forgot ; fs - Portraits posed exclusively for the Cosmopolitan by the Campbell Studios

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DRAWN BY GORDON M. McCOUCH Standing at the wheel was the form of old Gantline, gripping the wkcel-spokes with his dead hands (‘The ‘Storm King’s’ Tor

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The “Storm If you like a vigorous, salt-in-the-air sea story, read this one. has followed the sea and tells of the sacrifice of a hero because one man was a cringing coward AMMERHEAD JONES stood on the little bridge or deck forward of his pilot-house and looked back into the gathering gloom of the winter night. The long steel line stretching away to the first barge looked like a spider’s web, it was so long, so thin. The seas washed across it and submerged half its length as the first barge plunged. Far astern the second barge towed, looming black against the white wake of the vessels. It was half a mile from the tug to the second barge, and Jones tried to see if she was tow- ing steadily, for she was the hulk of the Polar Star, the one-time crack skysail- yarder of the deep-water fleet. The gather- ing darkness shut in, the lifting sea from the eastward rose steadily, and the snow-squalls of the winter gale began to shut off all fur- ther sight of the dependent vessels which held to the long steel line. “That’s a hard tow, a rough tow, and we'll have trouble before daylight if it gets worse,’ said the skipper to the mate. “Better blow the whistle for those fellows to let out more line and parcel up for trouble, then let her head off a point or two, say southeast by south. Steady, that’lldo. I’m afraid there’ll be trouble in the wake to- night. Lord send the line holds! This beach is bad enough in an easterly, and it’ll be a dead lee shore before eight bells.” The roar of the siren sounded over the sea as the tug’s head pointed offshore, and the men steering the barges swung them into line, swung them sullenly and slowly until they at last pointed dead in the wake of the Storm King, the giant tug of the coal com- pany, which would hang to them as long as she could and get them down the coast and off that dread Jersey beach. At the wheel of the last barge, the form of old Captain Gantline stood. The cold By Mayn Clew Garnett Illustrated by Gordon M. King’s” ‘Tow It was written by a man who McCouch wind froze the flying snow which struck his beard, and his eyes were red with the chill. He held the wheel-spokes sturdily and bent his eyes ahead to see what the tug would do. Then he relapsed again into the mechanical movement of steering, now and then gaz- ing aloft where once the skysail-yards had crossed and the huge topsails had filled with the winds of the sea. He was very cold. The piercing blast cut through his thin and worn clothes, and his broken rubber boots let in the icy slush which formed at his feet. The fingers upon the wheel-spokes were numb, but he seemed not to heed; his gaze was aloft, and now and then his lips murmured something. It was his ship, his last ship, and he was at her helm as in the days when she was not a hulk—a dirty coal-barge, with one stump of a lower mast left to hold a light. He could see the palm-trees waving in the trade-wind; the low melody of trop- ical sounds came to his ears, the swish of the fronds waving in the sunlight, and the murmur of the surf on the shore. Yes, it was all there before him—the days of his youth, his strength, for he had been master of a good ship. ‘Southeast by east half east,” he mur- mured; “let her go at that. Steady.” And the forms he had known rose up in the gloom of that winter night. He saw them in the sunshine, saw the wife he had loved and who had made many voyages with him; and she was young, a beautiful girl. Then the children—yes, they had gone, one by one: the rustling of the palm-trees told of a place where the trade-winds blow steadily, where the fresh green earth marked mounds. ‘Take a pull in that maint’gallant-brace,”’ his lips muttered, lips blue with the cold. ‘Weather cro’-jack brace,” he said softly. ‘““How’s she heading?” The cold winter sea rose and smote the barge heavily. The 66b/

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The ‘‘Storm wind increased, and the siren of the Storm King came faintly over the water. It roused him for an instant, but he soon relapsed into that state of mind where the cold hurt him little. He was captain of the Polar Star, the crack wind-jammer, and she was going out to sea. The night grew black, the wind roared over the hulk, the snow struck with force, and the eyes of the old man ran little streams of water, which froze upon his beard. It was growing late aboard the tug; two bells struck, but the old captain didn’t know, didn’t hear. He would hold her steadily until Jorgsen, his barge-mate, who was be- low, should turn out and relieve him. He had already stood two watches, but Jorgsen lay easily in his bunk, reading the sporting extra. “To blazes with this life,” he growled as the note of the Storm King’s siren fell upon hisears. ‘‘That’s the answer,’ he muttered; “must be getting pretty bad.” Then he thought of the old captain at the wheel. “‘Let him stand there—he’s used to it. To blazes with a company what’ll send a man out with a half-crazy old fool like him, talk- ing of ’ga’nts’ls, tops’ls, an’ the like, in an old coal-hulk. Let him stay up there.” Old Gantline kept her on her course, though he began to wonder why Jorgsen didn’t come on deck. He knew from long experience that it was time, although he had heard no bells. Instinctively he felt that he was standing double watches, and he was about to call below to see what was the matter—but he would wait a little longer, wait until the bells struck. “Southeast by east half east,’ he mut- tered. “You can take a pull in that weather maintops’l-brace, Mr. Jenkins. I reckon you might as well roll up them topga’nts’ls; it’s comin’ on to blow a bit to-night.” The Polar Star was deep. She was loaded with two thousand tons of soft coal, and her decks were well down. The heavy seas broke now with a dull smash over her waist, and washed white and ghastly across her in the blackness. It was dangerous to go for- ward along that main deck, and Jorgsen knew it. He was not thinking of doing it. He was thinking of the lights of the Bowery, and here he was at sea in an old hulk in mid- winter. Let the old hulk go to the devil— what did he care for the company, a com- pany that would send him out with a crazy old man, an old sailor! There was the Tow King’s”’ Squedink, the first barge. She was manned by Tom Wilson and Jim Hackett, and Hackett had his wife and two lads aboard. All could stand a trick at the wheel in any weather—five of ’em, yes, five; and here he was with old Gantline, the crazy old duffer who talked of tops’ls and cro’-jacks. Well, let the old fool talk—and stand watch. The siren roared out over the sea, sound- ing above the roar of the gale. It was get- ting bad, very bad indeed. Jorgsen turned out with an oath. The light of the cuddy- lamp showed him that it was nearly ten o’clock—long past time to relieve Gantline. Maybe the old duffer had dropped dead— better see; and that hawser—well, it would have to be slacked off and parceled afresh, and it was his job. But he’d let the old sailor do it. He would relieve the wheel until it was done, and then for a quiet smoke and drink below. Let the hulk go to the devil; and the old fossil-skipper, too. What’d he care! He’d quit the whole thing the hour they brought up in Philadelphia. He’d had enough of towing, especially in the winter- time. Jorgsen buttoned down his sou’- wester, pulled on his oilskins, and his rubber boots thumped the companion stairs. The whirl of the wind struck him fairly in the face as he left the hatchway, and a spurt of flying snow took away his breath. He could see nothing in the blackness. He swore loudly and listened. Then he heard the voice of Gantline. ‘Southeast by east half east, steady as you go,” came the voice in a monotone. He strained his eyes into the blackness aft, and as they gradually ex- panded their pupils, he made out the form of the old sailor at the wheel. He went to him. “Pretty bad, eh?” he bawled into his ear; “blowing for line— What?” Gantline gave a start. “Yes, it’s a bad night, Mr. Jenkins. Better get them top- s’ls reefed. What? Blowing for line, the tug, hey? Well, you take the wheel, an’ I’ll go forrads ’n’ parcel up a bit first. South- east by east half east—that’s the course since dark. Headin’ off shore—gettin’ dirty —looks like a heavy easterly to-night.” Jorgsen took the wheel. A mighty sea broke over the hulk, washing white in the blackness, and the dull roar of rushing water sounded ugly. “Tt may be charity to keep an old fool of a skipper in his ship, but it ain’t human,” muttered Jorgsen, peering into the binnacle

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where the faint spark of the lamp showed the lubber’s mark half a point off the course. He rolled the wheel over, cursing. The hulk straightened out, and then another sea swept her with a smash. Gantline struggled slowly forward. He was stiff and half frozen from the long trick at the wheel—probably Jorgsen had over- slept; Mr. Jenkins never did that—but he would parcel that line a bit where it would rest upon the bitts and chocks. Then he would give her all she had. It would be an awful strain, a terrible jerking pull, that it must stand before the sea fell; but he re- membered when the Polar Star towed off a lee shore in just such a gale twenty years ago, towed off and got the topsails on her, driving out to sea when many a stout ship had gone to her end in the storm she rode out. Yes, it was hard to dodge the water, and he clung to the rail while the sea washed waist-deep over him; but it was warm as compared to the air, the bitter air from the northeast. That man Jorgsen was a tough man, he thought, very tough and talked loud of what he did ashore; but he didn’t seem to take to doing routine work. He must see to it. He was captain, he must be a little more severe; it would never do to talk to men in a ship where one was captain. That was probably the cause of all the trouble. Yes, he would stop it. But it was lonely with no one to speak to, yes, very lonely in the old hooker which had held so much that was alive and bright, and which had meant so much to the old man. Sheltered from the seas by the bitts, old Captain Gantline handled the hawser and parceled it properly in a shipshape and sea- manlike manner. It was black dark, but his knowing hands worked just as well, just as accurately, as though the sun had been shining, though the blood from his stiffened fingers soon stained the canvas parceling. And then he gave her the line just before midnight, while Jorgsen stood at the wheel and cursed and swore at the delay, wanting to go below out of the icy storm. What did he care for the old man’s orders? What? Aboard the tug the mate stood near the towing-engine. The wild whirl of water thrust from the wheel roared and foamed astern. The wind snored a dull sonorous note, and the snow-squalls made the night like ink. Hammerhead Jones watched the binnacle and saw that the lubber’s mark stil! Mayn Clew Garnett 669 held on the course. The seas were growing worse, but the giant tug would stand any- thing. She was built for the heaviest work on the coast. A mighty power lay deep within her hull, the power of many hundred horses. The man at the wheel stood silently gazing ahead, waiting for the order he ex- pected from Jones, the order he felt sure would come before his trick was out. The strain was getting terrific, the plunges of the tug wild. She reared high in the air and plunged ahead like a mad monster, and the towing-line was lifted clear of the high seas until it stood as taut as a bowstring across that space of darkness no eye could pene- trate. A few fathoms astern it disappeared into the blackness, but the mate watched it silently, curiously, and his heart felt the chill of the cold storm, felt the responsi- bility resting on that thin line of steel that held the lives of men at its end. “God help the poor devils to lorard to- night,” he muttered. “‘My God, what an awful sea!”’ The rattling clash of the towing-engine sounded loud, sounded above the roar of wind and sea. The line was still holding; the steel thread stretched away astern, and the foam lay almost dead alongside, show- ing that the tow was still pulling back with the strength of thousands of tons. The clattering smash of the towing-engine grew louder. The line gave and came in under the jerks and slacks of the wild plunges. The drum turned more and more under the gigantic effort, the wheeze of the leaking steam grew louder from the cylinder heads where the packing was blowing out a little. But still the thread of steel five inches in circumference stood out like an iron bar, and.the tug drove ahead. The mate seemed fascinated with it, seemed to hear nothing save the smashing roar of the clanking metal, the whirling clash, bang, whir. That was a good towing-engine, a fine piece of workmanship, he thought. The line would not have stood ten minutes with- out it, or the bitts would have been torn out by the jerking of nearly five thousand tons swept by the power of the easterly sea. He watched it, waiting for what he dreaded but knew must come, the order to cut adrift; for the Storm King was now going full speed right into the teeth of the gale, and the foam was lying dead alongside in the blackness, showing plainly that she was not making good, was not driving of shore. And she

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670 The. ‘‘Storm must do it; she had to or— ‘‘God help the poor old captain to lorard,” he muttered again. ‘It’s his last run.” The Storm King met the increasing fury of the easterly gale with her engines going full speed ahead. She was a large vessel, more than a hundred and fifty feet on the water-line—very large for a tug. Her high nose, steel sides, and superstructure made her invincible. Now she rose up on her stern and lunged forward, the line pulling her back, and as she dropped her bow into the sea she disappeared under a storm of flying water, submerged clear to her pilot- house, where Hammerhead Jones waited and calculated and tried to get his con- science at rest, for he was about to send some men to death, send some to save others —and his tug. He was on a lee shore in a wild winter gale, and the barges must go. He might save the crews, but it was not likely. If he held on all must go instead of a few; but it was his duty to hold on to the last, and he stood there silently, thought- fully, thinking of the men, poor fellows, whom he knew he was powerless to save. “See if you can get the bottom, Mr. Salver,” said he to the second mate. “We'll hold on until we strike ten fathoms; after that—” Old Captain Gantline made his way aft on the deck of the Polar Star. He was now very tired, soaking wet, and almost frozen. He reached the wheel where Jorgsen stood holding the wheel-spokes and peering into the blackness ahead. “Vou take her a minute while I git a chew er terbacker,” said Jorgsen. “East half no’th, she’s doin’ now. We're headin’ off shore fer fair, trying to git away.”’ Captain Gantline took the spokes. It was irregular, the master of a ship taking the wheel while a man like Jorgsen went down to get tobacco, but he did it without com- ment. In fact his mind was so hazy now that he had forgotten all about the discipline he had thought to instil into his mate. “East half north,” he said, peering into the dim binnacle. Jorgsen went below. He grinned. What! Would he turn out again right away? Well, not exactly. He would have a quiet smoke, have a drink of rum and water, perhaps two of them, and his feet were cold. He would put on a couple of extra pairs of socks before he thought of going on deck—and there were the lamp and the sporting-sheet. To King's’’ Tow blazes with the old captain, and to blazes with the barge. Lord, what a night to be at sea! He ripped off his sou’wester and threw himself into his bunk, taking up the paper to read again. Then he arose and pulled a bottle from a drawer, taking a long pull of neat rum—it was too much trouble to get water, he would get enough of that on deck. When he got to Philadelphia— The vision of a ship sailing the China seas rose before the old shipmaster standing there at the wheel. The cold had eaten into him so that he was numb, he felt nothing. He saw the figure of a beautiful girl upon the old ship’s deck, his wife, the wife of his youth. Oh, the sunshine, the soft murmur of the tropic wind through the rigging! Yes, he was standing there in the strength of his manhood, the master of a fine ship, the crack ship of the wind-jammer fleet. Even his mate was proud of the vessel. Mr. Jenkins had been captain of a ship before, an East-Indiaman, and he knew a good ship. The mate loved to play with the little chil- dren, his boys, for the wife would not remain ashore and took them with her. ‘East half north,” muttered the old man. “‘Don’t let her go to the northward of that, Mr. Jenkins.” “The old duffer will have a time takin’ in his r’yals to-night,” grinned Jorgsen to himself. He would go on deck in a little while, for the motion of the old hulk was awful below; one couldn’t read with any comfort. And she was straining a bit. He could tell it by the opening and shutting of the seams in the bulkheads. They told the tale. There was no creaking, no groaning as of stout new wood, new timbers working. It was the silent working of an old ship, the quiet pulling apart of rotten wood which gave without a noise, without a sound. He would look to the pumps when he had time, or let the old fool at the wheel— What was that? There was a slight jar. The sea, which had been going over her head on, began to break over her port bow. Yes, she was failing off. The faint roar of the Storm King’s siren told of trouble. What if the line— Good God! The mate of the tug, standing at the towing-engine, watched the crashing smash of the jerking line. Suddenly the Storm King rose upon a sea. The engine took up the slack of the steel with a clatter of metal. Then the tug plunged down an awful slope, down, down, and still down.

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The mate gazed at the bar of steel, fas- cinated. Wouldit hold? Lord, what a line it was! Clang, bang, whir. The engine gave slowly away, gave the line grudgingly. Then it stopped. As it did so the Storm King rose upon a huge crest and dived downward into the trough. With a crash- ing smash, the towing-engine gave line. Suddenly it stopped, and there was a whir of steel. The mate looked apprehensively at the line leading over the towing-rail. It was slack. The end had come at last. The siren roared out its warning, rising, reverberating above the roar of wind and sea. The Storm King plunged ahead, liter- ally driving through a solid mass of water which washed her high, washed clear over her superstructure and squirted down the ventilators, into the depths of the engine- room where, with hand upon throttle, the engineer stood waiting. “Slow her down,” came the signal from above. And while the mate struggled for- ward with the news that the line had gone close to the taffrail, Jones swung his ship to try to save the men, hauling in the trailing hawser as he turned full into the trough of the sea, a mighty sea which drove straight to the Jersey shore, where it broke in a white smother upon the shoals half a mile from the beach. The jar of the parting line roused the old seaman from his dreams of the past. He peered ahead into the flying drift and snow, squeezed the half-frozen water from his eyes, and roared out for Jorgsen to lay on deck. The man was already half-way up the companionway, and he burst into the blackness of the night unable to see or do anything, dazed with the suddenness of the thing. “Get the foretops’l, get the forestays’] on her,” roared Gantline. ‘We'll have to run her in at last. Wheel’s hard up. We'll run her in—beach her. Lay aft here and hold her while I get the lead line. West half south —keep her west half south. Do you hear, you square-head!”’ roared the old man. Jorgsen took the wheel mechanically. The ship’s head paid off slowly, swung off into the trough, and as she did so a sea swept her, bursting clear over her and thundering away to leeward. Again and again she was swept, the flying water going over both men until they could do nothing but wait until she paid off and ran. Gantline watched his chance and made Mayn Clew Garnett 671 his way forward. He would run his vessel in, run her ashore to her end at last. He was fully aware of his fate now; he knew that there was just one chance in a hundred that they would go far enough in to get ashore by means of the breeches-buoy which life-savers would send them in the gray of early morning—if the ship would only hold together a few hours. He didn’t mind. It was best, after all. He was very tired, very cold and miserable; he had run his course. But this square-head must be saved if pos- sible. It was the duty of the master to save his crew, and he would run his ship—yes, his ship—to her end. He would save the fellow Jorgsen. Jorgsen, left standing alone at the wheel, became panic-stricken. He heard the dull thunder of the breakers, or thought he did. The lights of the Storm King came abreast of the weather side before the ship swung, but it was of no use to try to do anything. Jones gave them a parting salute upon the siren, then turned and gazed silently into the binnacle with a moist eye and a choking in the throat. He might get a line to the first barge, but the Polar Star was doomed, and he, wasted not an instant longer. He was saying good-by. Jorgsen left the wheel. Panting, gasping, between the seas which washed over him, he made his way forward before Gantline knew where he was. The old captain, finding the ship broaching to, rushed back to the wheel to find it deserted, and he gripped it himself to hold her dead before the storm. He held her dead true for the beach, calling out orders to his mate, who heeded him not at all, but strove with all his energy to get one of the anchors over the side. The starboard anchor was lashed with twelve- strand stuff, and through the lashing Jorg- sen passed his knife. With a capstan-bar he pried at the fluke. The cable, two hun- dred fathoms of good chain, lay ranged be- low, the end fast, all stowed with Gantline’s care. By superhuman exertion he managed to get the fluke over the side, the rolling of the old ship making it possible to work as she listed away from him. Then it hung at the cat-head. Jorgsen was gasping, half drowned, but he thought that if he once struck the beach it meant his end. He would not heed for a moment the crazy old man aft. Passing his knife through the cat-lashings, the an- chor went over, and as it did so the hand of

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672 the old sailor closed upon the frantic square- head. It was too late. The Polar Star brought up in six fathoms at the end of the long cable, and then she began to go slowly in, until she struck. Had she run in head on she would have gone within fifty fathoms of the beach, and the two men would have been taken off easily. As it was she struck bottom on the outer bar, and for three hours she pounded until she went over it. When she did she was full of water and settled quickly. Gantline made his way back to the wheel, trying vainly to get the ship’s head off before the seas to run her up. He was exhausted, cold, and stiff from the awful exposure. In his mind there was just one thing to do. “Cut away the mainmast, get the fores’] on her,” he roared, his voice growing weaker as the hours passed. Then he would mutter, and his mind would go back to the days of his youth. God, it was a long watch! Would it never end? He was so cold, so tired. ‘Mr. Jenkins, I’m played out. I think I’ll have to take a rest.” In the gray of the stormy winter morning the watch of the life-guard saw the loom of the hulk in the breakers. The cold seas were washing over it, and the decks were under water, the wreck settling on one side, but leaving the forecastle head and the taff- The Shield of Dreams rail clear of the seas. These broke in a roaring smother over her, and all signs of life would have been quickly washed out had the life-savers seen any. They noticed something like the form of a man aft, but it did not move. Still it was their business to go out and take a look. No one could tell what might happen. As the morning wore on they saw with greater plainness, and they launched the life-boat. It was desperate work. There was a freezing sea and a bitter surf to drive through. The captain of the craft was gaz- ing so steadily at the wreck that the men wondered. They were too busy to turn their heads, for they had much to do to keep the sea. Making an offing slowly, the man steering the craft still gazed with a growing expression of wonder. Then they came abreast of the hulk. Standing at the wheel was the form of old Gantline. He was erect. He gripped the wheel-spokes with his dead hands, and the icy covering over his beard and face made him awful looking, terrible to even those hardened men of the sea. He had stood there to the end, giving orders to his imaginary mate, Mr. Jenkins. ““My God, what a death!” muttered the man of the life-boat. ‘We might have saved him if he had run her in on the beach. God, what an awful— Port, there, swing her around, steady.” The Shield dP Diome By Mary Germaine Out of the tissue of my joy I wove a shield of dreams, Like an iris bud on a silver lake Asleep in the moon’s sweet beams. Purple of romance, silver of song, I wove it fair as I walked along The path sweet scented and hollowed deep By the eager tread of life’s young feet. No butterfly of hope, gauze-winged, Found half so gay a quest, As I with the dawn of love in my eyes And the shield of dreams on my breast.

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“Sonata Pathetique” The eternal three—the man, the woman, and the unnecessary one are the theme of this story. If the finer chords of human tragedy and pathos meet a response in you it is a story you will like By Bruno Lessing Hlustrated by William Oberhardt Y day, Schindler made cigars. When the day’s work was done, and after he had supped, he played upon the ’cello. The cigars that he made were of the same kind that were being made in dozens of other tenement- houses at the same time; they all found their way to a big factory, whence they were distributed with gorgeously illuminated bands under a popular name known from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Of course no one who smoked them ever heard of Schindler. Schindler was old, very old—somewhere between sixty and eighty—no one ever knew exactly. In fact, no one seemed to know anything about Schindler at all, excepting that he made cigars and played upon the ’cello. He lived on the fourth floor of a five-story tenement near Ave- nue A, cooked his own meals, did his own washing, iron- ing, and mending, and seemed to be entirely sufficient to himself. The stairsin that tenement were so steep that Schin- dler left his little apartment as seldom as possible, for the climb was a terrific strain upon his strength. The top floor was usually un- occupied—only a per- son in direst straits would ever have will- ingly climbed somany steps. This continuous vacancy of the top floor was quite a boon to Schindler, because there was no one over- head to complain to the landlord when he played late at night. At certain hours the neighbors loved to gather out- side his door and listen to his music. But when ten o’clock came Schindler would always adjust a mute to his ’cello to They began a duet—a duet that Beethoven had never dreamed of, that musical critics had never heard, yet wonderfully beautiful and tuneful 673

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674 soften the sound, and no one could have heard it unless he lived directly overhead. Schindler’s favorite composer was Bee- thoven, and he would play selections from the great master’s works all night long. He would play not only such compositions as had been arranged for the ’cello, but would adapt, himself, themes that had been com- posed for the pianoforte, or for a quartette of instruments, or, even, massive creations that the composer had intended for big or- chestras. Nor would he always play them through from beginning toend. He seemed to prefer to play snatches of this melody and fragments of that, interwoven and con- nected with chords and strains and arpeg- gios of his own composition that harmonized well with the spirit of the master. These original compositions of his were not thought out by him beforehand, but seemed to flow from his bow in a spontaneous creation in- spired by and in harmony with the mood that happened to possess him. The composition, however, that appealed to him most of all was the famous ‘Sonata Pathetique.” He played this with won- derful precision and skill. Nay, more than that, he seemed to give to those vibrant chords a touch of life, sad, perhaps, and crying aloud as though a soul in agony were singing, yet throbbing with life. And when he had played this sonata he would usually pause a while. He would rest his ’cello against the wall and would stand at the window and gaze for a long time across the roofs of the houses opposite into the dark- ness that stretched far, far beyond. Have you ever heard the ‘Sonata Pathe- tique”’? It is very difficult to describe. It seems to speak a “various language.” If you have ever known sorrow in your life or come face to face with keen grief the “Sonata Pathetique”’ speaks to you of it. The desolation of life cries aloud in its chords, and—this is the most wonderful part of it—it brings comfort and peace to you. Thus Schindler lived for many years, speaking to no one, molesting no one, and seemingly interested in nothing in the world save his cigar-making by day and his ’cello- playing by night. And thus he might have continued to live until the end, and there would have been no story to relate had not fate, wakening suddenly to his existence, played one of its queer pranks upon him. One afternoon, while he was working, ‘‘Sonata Pathetique’’ Schindler heard steps overhead. Then he heard loud and heavy noises as of furniture being carelessly thrown upon the floor, and he knew that some one had moved into the apartment overhead. After the first day’s confusion the noises took regular order. Schindler heard them early in the morning and, after that, they ceased until about nine o’clock in the evcning, from which Schindler —without giving the matter much thought —inferred that the occupant of the apart- ment, whoever he was, left early to go to work and returned home late. Whenever he heard the sounds that indicated his neigh- bor’s return at night Schindler played very softly, for he feared that the tenant migl.t complain to the landlord. On the third night of the newcomer’s occupancy of the top floor Schindler was playing a rambling, aimless theme upon his ‘cello when there came a timid tapping upon his door. Schindler stopped playing ab- ruptly, his heart in his mouth. It was past nine o’clock, and he feared that some neigh- bor was about to complain that the music kept him awake. ‘““Come in!” he cried, in the most cheerful voice he could muster. The door opened, and there entered a shriveled little figure of a man, hatless, his long, gray hair falling in a small torrent over his shoulders. His face was weak and pale, and his smile—for he seemed intent upon smiling with the utmost geniality—gave an aspect of weak-mindedness to his counte- nance. His clothes were shabby; his figure stooped deprecatingly. But—what caught Schindler’s eye with the greatest interest— under his arm he carried a violin, and in his hand he held a bow. “You pardon?” he asked, in a thin, hesi- tating voice. “Taube, my name iss—An- ton Taube. Ihave move up-stairs. I hear you blay der ’cello. Maybe—you pardon, huh?—maybe—I t’ink—you like I come play mit you? You pardon? Huh?” Schindler rose with inscrutable counte- nance. “Sie sind Deutsch?” he asked. “Ja, gewiss!”’ cried the other, overjoyed. A slow smile crept into Schindler’s face. “Youplay the violin concerto of Beethoven?” he asked, in German. For answer his visitor grinned, tucked his violin under his chin, and ran nimbly over the opening measure. Schindler nodded, contented. “Let us play it,” he said. And, without another

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Taube peered intently into a darkened corner of the room, and his hand stole out until it rested upon Schindler's fevered one. “The master!" hoarsely. word, they began a duet—a duet that Beethoven had never dreamed of, that musical critics had never heard, yet wonder- fully beautiful and tuneful and ringing and dancing with all the spirit of the original. “Gut!” nodded Schindler when they had finished. nata’?” His visitor nodded, and a moment later they were in the full swing of that wonderful melody. When they had finished, the little, old man smiled and said: “You know Beethoven dedicated that to his countess? ‘Who loves me,’ he wrote, ‘and whom I love!’”’ Schindler smiled, but said nothing. Anton Taube looked at him, with lips parted, as though many thoughts were crowding to his mind, eager for utterance; but something told him—and that was a very curious way “You play the ‘Moonlight So- ** Look! “ he whispered in which Schindler impressed all who met him—that the less he said the more welcome it would be. That night was the beginning of many. As soon as Taube had finished his supper he tapped upon Schindler’s door, and they played duets all the night long. They played a great variety of selections—popular airs, old German songs, selections from operettas, French chansons—every conceiv- able kind of music in which a violin and a ’cello could possibly join—but Beethoven was always their favorite. And the best part of it all was that Taube played the “Sonata Pathetique” almost as well as Schindler. Between the times they played, while they were resting or when they were tuning their instruments, Taube seemed eager to talk. Schindler listened to all that he had to say, but said hardly anything in return. 675

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676 “Sonata Pathetique”’ fragments of conversation were never very complete, nor did they interest Schindler very much. But, in the course of a month, he gleaned from them that Taube worked as day watchman at the pier of a German steamship company, that he was alone in the world, that he had passed his fifty-fifth year, and that his past was shad- owed with sadness. They had played the * Sonata Pathetique” one night—it was, perhaps, for the twentieth time—and Schindler was tuning his ’cello when Taube, wiping the perspiration from his brow, said: ‘How love raises the devil with all of us! I married a beautiful woman when I was She got rid of all the money I had I’ve never been much These young. and then left me. good since. Schindler did he answered: “* guess you won't be the the ‘Second Symphony.’ And yet, despite himself, Schindler could not help gradually learning the whole story of Taube, absorbing it almost unconsciously because he paid very little attention to the old man when he spoke—and there dawned upon him, slowly, the conviction that, whatever it was that had happened to his neighbor in bygone days, it had un- settled his mind. For Taube was not en- tirely rational in speech or conduct. He was incoherent, inconsistent and rambled, in his reminiscences, from one subject to an- other like a man whose mind had become enfeebled. But at the slightest check Schindler had only to frown slightly—his talk ceased, and he became eager to play or do anything that Schindler required of him. Only that smile never left his face—a weak, pathetic, fatuous smile. For nearly a year this companionship Night after night, rain or shine, without fail Taube would tap timidly upon Schindler’s door and, after a friendly “‘Come in!’ would play with him until both were tired. And, with the exception of Taube’s rambling revelations of his own past, noth- ing transpired to bring them closer together or to give either man a closer glimpse into the heart of the other. Until It was in the heart of winter. ‘You look pale,” said Taube. Schindler coughed. “‘‘I am not feeling well,” ‘I have not felt well for several Will you do me a favor?” not even raise his head as You weren’t the first, and I last. Let us play lasted. said he. days. With an impulsive gesture Taube threw himself upon his knees. Schindler smiled at him. ‘It is not as bad as that,’’ he said—there was an air of great languor about him—‘‘but I may be very ill. I feel as though something were going to happen to me. If anything does happen I would like to be sent to a hospital. They take good care of you there. And if the worst comes to the worst ”—he hesitated for a moment—‘ would you mind opening my trunk and mailing a package that I have left on the top? It is addressed to my sister.” - The tears stood in Taube’s eyes. “Do not speak like that,” he said. ‘Come. Let us play something cheerful!” And he started an allegro movement of Beethoven in which Schindler quickly joined him. When Taube tapped upon the door the following night there came no response. He entered the room, timidly, filled with appre- hension. Upon the bed lay Schindler, de- lirious in the fever of pneumonia. Taube went for a doctor, who, after exam- ining the patient, declared it was too late to move him. He prescribed medicines and gave Taube minute instructions as to what to do. For nearly a week Taube sat at Schindler’s bedside, nursing him, and, dur- ing all that time, Schindler grew steadily worse. Taube was dreadfully bewildered and, at times, would sit for hours in a sort of stupor, his violin clutched in his hand and his eyes upon the sick man’s face. Some- times he would play, softly, crooningly, hoping the music would bring strength to his friend. Once when Schindler was bab- bling incoherently Taube played the “So- nata Pathetique,”’ and it almost seemed as if the familiar strains possessed a magic in- fluence over Schindler’s troubled spirit, for his ravings momentarily ceased and he lay quiet. The strain began to tell upon Taube. He grew whiter and thinner, and his little fig- ure seemed to shrink more and more. One night—it was raining and blowing without and the window-panes were rattling in their fastenings—he was playing the “Sonata Pathetique”—and suddenly ceased. He leaned forward in his seat and peered in- tently into a darkened corner of the room. Then, slowly, his hand stole out until it rested upon Schindler’s fevered one. “Look!” he whispered hoarsely. master!”’ ‘The

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as |- O d Schindler’s lips were moving, uttering vague, meaningless sounds, but his mind was far away. Taube did not look at him. His eyes seemed fascinated by the specter that his disordered imagination had con- jured in that darkened corner of the room. Then, slowly, he rose. “Ves, master,” he said softly. my best.” ‘He placed his violin under his chin, raised his bow, and, with a long sweep, entered upon the “Sonata Pathetique.” The melody rose and fell with wondrous purity and sweetness. The player seemed inspired. The sick man’s mutterings ceased, and he seemed to be- comemoretranquil. Taube’s eyes never left that darkened * corner. It was as if some one : stood there, baton in hand, She: beating time and _ infusing ast his own personality into the soul of the player. Taube played as he had never played before. Then, suddenly, Schindler sat 385 up in bed and “2y¢ clutched his (&ox¥% arm. Taube ‘iy looked at : him. Thespell was broken. \ **T will do “Whatisit?” asked Taube in a whisper. Schindler’s lips parted. He, too, was gazing into that darkened corner. “Gretchen!” he whispered. Then, limply, he fell back among _ the pillows, and his breath- ing ceased. When Taube realized that Schindler was dead he swooned away. 3 of a woman Out of his own meager savings Taube provided for the burial of his friend. He moved into his apartment and took great pains that Schindler’s ’cello and all his other belongings remained undisturbed. And every night he played selections from Bee- #0) ott" murmured. A daguerreotype it was, old and faded, Bruno Lessing 677 thoven by himself. A letter came one day for Schindler, and Taube returned it to the post-office unopened. But the train of thought that it aroused reminded him of Schindler’s request, which he had almost forgotten. He opened the trunk and saw, lying at the very top, the package of which Schindler had spoken. As he raised it his eyes fell upon a photograph that lay under- neath—a daguerreotype it was, old and quite faded, of a woman. He stared at it with bulging eyes. Across the bot- tom was writ- ten the name “Gretchen.” Taube took it in his hands «nd devoured it with his eyes. “Gretchen!” he whispered. Slowly and wonderfully as if some magic were at work—the look of weak- ness left his face, was wiped out, and a man’s soul shone from his eyes. And his head moved slowly up and down. **So!l”’ he said, in a low voice. ‘“‘ You were his Gretchen, too!” Then a bitter smile - came into his face. ~ “But he is in heaven,” he “He will not see you again.” He laughed. The light died out of his eyes. The old look came back to his face. “Ha! ha! ha!” he cried. ‘How droll it all is!” He rose and seized his violin. ““Come,” he said, facing the darkened corner of the room. “What shall it be? The old symphony? Or the ‘Sonata Pathe- tique’? The Sonata, you say? Very well. All ready! One—two—three!”’

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TIS SPORTS NSesraneEerenretrseees = me wUresErES The Seismograph Adventure Here is science against superstition. Craig Kennedy unravels a skein of criminal evidence cun- ningly tangled by a spirit medium and her manager. Fifth of the series of unique mystery stories By Arthur B. Reeve Author of “The Case of Helen Bond,” ‘‘Tha Silent Bullet,’ ‘The Bacteriological Detective,’ ete. Illustrated by Will Foster R. JAMES HANSON, Coroner’s Physician, Criminal Courts Building,” read Craig Kennedy, as he held a visitor’s card in his hand. Then to the visitor he added, “Take a chair, Doctor.”’ The physician thanked him and sat down. “Professor Kennedy,” he began, ‘I have been referred to you by Inspector O’Connor of the Detective Bureau. It may seem an impertinence for a city official to call on you for assistance, but—well, you see, I’m com- pletely floored. I think, too, that the case will interest you. It’s the Vandam case.” If Dr. Hanson had suddenly turned on the current of an induction coil and I had been holding the handles I don’t think the thrill I received could have been any more sudden. The Vandam case was the sensa- tion of the moment, a triple puzzle, as both Kennedy and myself had agreed. Was it suicide, murder, or sudden death? “T have read only what the newspapers have published,”’ replied Craig to the doc- tor’s look of inquiry. ‘‘ You see, my friend Jameson here is on the staff of the Star, and we are in the habit of discussing these cases.” “Very glad to meet you, Mr. Jameson,” exclaimed Dr. Hanson at the implied intro- duction. ‘‘The relations between my office and your paper have always been very sat- isfactory, I can assure you.” “Thank you, Doctor. Depend on me to keep them so,” I replied, shaking his prof- fered hand. “Now, as to the case,’’ continued the doctor slowly. “Here is a beautiful woman in the prime of life, the wife of a very wealthy retired banker considerably older than herself—perhaps nearly .seventy—of very fine family. Of course you have read 678 it all, but let me sketch it so you will look at it from my point of view. This woman, apparently in good health, with every luxury money can buy, is certain within a very few years, from her dower rights, to be numbered among the richest women in America. Yet she is discovered in the middle of the night by her maid, seated at the table in the library of her home, unconscious. She never regains consciousness, but dies the following morning. “The coroner is called in, and, as his physician, I must advise him. The family physician has pronounced it due to natural causes, the uremic coma of latent kidney trouble. Some of the newspapers, I think the Star among them, have hinted at suicide. And then there are others who have flatly asserted it was murder.” The coroner’s physician paused to see if we were following him. Needless to say Kennedy was ahead of him. “Have you any facts in your possession which have not been given to the public yet?” asked Craig. ~ “T’m coming to that in a moment,” re- plied Dr. Hanson. ‘‘Let me sketch the case first. Henry Vandam had become— well, very eccentric in his old age, we will say. Among his eccentricities none seems to have impressed the newspapers more than his devotion to a medium and her manager, Mrs. May Popper and Mr. Howard Farring- ton. Now, of course, the case does not go into the truth or falsity of spiritualism, you understand. You have your opinion, and I have mine. What this aspect of the case involves is merely the character of the medium and her manager. You know, of course, that Henry Vandam is completely under their control.” He paused again, to emphasize the point.

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Arthur B. Reeve “You asked me if I was in possession of any facts which have not een given to the press. Yes, I am. And just there lies the trouble. They are so very conflicting as to be almost worse than useless, as far as I can see. We found near the unfortunate woman a small pill-box with three capsules still in it. It was labeled ‘One before retir- ing’ and bore the name of a certain druggist and the initials ‘Dr. C. W. H.’ Now, Iam convinced that the initials are merely a blind and do not give any clue. The drug- gist says that a maid from the Vandam house brought in the prescription, which of course he filed. It is a harmless enough prescription—contains, among other things, four and a half grains of quinine and one- sixth of a grain of morphine. Six capsules were prepared altogether. “Now, of course my first thought was that she might have taken several capsules at once and that it was a case of accidental morphine poisoning, or it might even be suicide. But it cannot be either, to my mind, for only three of the six capsules are gone. No doubt, also, you are acquainted with the fact that the one invariable symp- tom of morphine poisoning is the contraction of the pupils of the eyes to a pin-point often so that they are unrecognizable. Moreover, the pupils are symmetrically contracted, and this symptom is the one invariably present in coma from morphine poisoning and distinguishes it from all other forms of death. “On the other hand, in the coma of kidney disease one pupil is dilated and the other contracted—they are unsymmetrical. But in this case both the pupils are normal, or only a very little dilated, and they are symmetrical. So far we have been able to find no other poison than the slight traces of morphine remaining in the stomach after so many hours. I think you are enough of a chemist to know that no doctor would dare go on the stand and swear to death from morphine poisoning in the face of such evi- dence against him. The veriest tyro of an expert toxicologist could too easily confute him.” Kennedy nodded. ‘Have you the pill- box and the prescription?” “TI have,” replied Dr. Hanson, placing them on the table. Kennedy scrutinized them sharply. “I shall need these,” he said. “Of course you understand I will take very good care of 679 them. Is there anything else of impot- tance?”’ “Really, I don’t know,” said the physi- cian dubiously. “It’s rather out of my province, but perhaps you would think it important. It’s mighty uncanny anyhow. Henry Vandam, as you doubtless know, was much more deeply interested in the work of this medium than was his wife. Perhaps Mrs. Vandam was a bit jealous I don’t know. But she, too, had an inter- est in spiritualism, though he was much more deeply influenced by Mrs. Popper than she. “‘Here’s the strange part of it. The old man believes so thoroughly in rappings and materializations that he constantly keeps a notebook in his pocket in which he records all the materializations he thinks he sees and the rappings he hears, along with the time and place. Now it so happened that on the night Mrs. Vandam was taken ill, he had retired—I believe in another part of the house where he has a regular séance-room. According to his story, he was awakened from a profound sleep by a series of rap- pings. As was his custom, he noted the time at which they occurred. Something made him uneasy, and he said to his ‘con- trol’—at least this is his story: ‘“* John, is it about Mary?’ ‘Three raps answered yes, the usual code. ‘““‘What is the matter? Is she ill?’ “The three answering raps were so vigor- ous that he sprang out of bed and called for his wife’s maid. The maid replied that Mrs. Vandam had not gone to bed yet, but that there was a light in the library and she would go to her mistress immediately. The next moment the house was awakened by the screams of the maid calling for help, that Mrs. Vandam was dying. “That was three nights ago. On each of the two succeeding nights Henry Vandam says he has been awakened at precisely the same hour by a rapping, and on each night his ‘control’ has given him a message from his dead wife. As a man of science, I at- tribute the whole thing to an overwrought imagination. The original rappings may have been a mere coincidence with the fact of the condition of Mrs. Vandam. How- ever, I give this to you for what it is worth.” Craig said nothing, but, as was his habit, shaded his eyes with the tips of his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. “T suppose,” he said, “you can give me the

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680 necessary authority to enter the Vandam house and look at the scene of these hap- penings?”’ “Certainly,” assented the physician, “but you will find it a queer place. There are spirit paintings and spirit photographs in every room, and Vandam’s own part of the house—well, it’s creepy, that’s all I can say.” “And also I suppose you have performed an autopsy on the body and will allow me to drop into your laboratory to-morrow morn- ing and satisfy myself on this morphine point?”’ “Certainly,” replied the coroner’s physi- cian, “‘at any time you say.” “At ten sharp, then, to-morrow I shall be there,” said Craig. “‘It is now eight thirty. Do you think I can see Vandam to-night? What time do these rappings occur?” “Why, yes, you surely will be able to see him to-night. He hasn’t stirred from the house since his wife died. He told me he momentarily expected messages from her direct when she had got strong enough in her new world. I believe they had some kind of a compact to that effect. The rappings come at twelve thirty.”’ “‘Ah, then I shall have plenty of time to run over to my laboratory before seeing Mr. Vandam and get some apparatus I have in mind. No, Doctor, you needn’t bother to go with me. Just give me a card of intro- duction. I'll see you to-morrow at ten. Good night—oh, by the way, don’t give out any of the facts you have told me.”’ “Jameson,” said Craig, when we were walking rapidly over toward the university, “this promises to be an uncommonly diffi- cult case.” ‘“‘As I view it now,” I said, ‘I have sus- picions of everybody concerned in it. Even the view of the Star, that it is a case of sui- cide due to overwrought nerves, may ex- plain it.”’ “Tt might even bea natural death,” Craig added. ‘And that would make it a greater mystery than ever—a case for psychical research. One thing that I am going to do to-night will tell me much, however.” At the laboratory he unlocked a glass case and took out a little instrument which looked like two horizontal pendulums sus- pended by fine wires. There was a large magnet near each pendulum, and the end of each pendulum bore a _ needle which touched a circular drum driven by clock- The Adventure of the Seismograph work. Craig fussed with and adjusted the apparatus, while®I said nothing, for I had long ago learned that in applying a new apparatus to doing old things Craig was as dumb as an oyster, until his work was crowned with success. We had no trouble in getting in to sce Mr. Vandam in his séance-room. His face was familiar to me, for I had seen him in public a number of times, but it looked strangely altered. He was nervous, and showed his age very perceptibly. It was as the coroner’s physician had said. The house was littered with reminders of the cult, books, papers, curious daubs of paint- ings handsomely framed, and photographs; hazy over-exposures, I should have called them, but Mr. Vandam took great pride in them, and Kennedy quite won him over by his admiration for them. They talked about the rappings, and the old man explained where and when they occurred. They proceeded from a little cabinet or closet at one end of the room. It was evident that he was a thorough believer in them and in the messages they conveyed. Craig carefully noted everything about the room and then fell to admiring the spirit photographs, if such they might be called. “The best of all I do not display, they are too precious,” said the old man. “Would you like to see them?” Craig assented eagerly, and Vandam left us for a moment to get them. In an in- stant Craig had entered the cabinet, and in a dark corner on the floor he deposited the mechanism he had brought from the labor- atory. Then he resumed his seat, shutting the box in which he had brought the mecha- nism, so that it would not appear that he had left anything anywhere about the room. Artfully he led the conversation along lines that interested the old man until he seemed to forget the hour. Not so, Craig. He knew it was nearing half-past twelve. The more they talked the more uncanny did this house and room of spirits seem to me. In fact, I was rapidly reaching the point where I could have sworn that once or twice something incorporeal brushed by me. I know now that it was purely imagination, but it shows what tricks the imagination can play on us. Rap! rap! rap! rap! rap! Five times came a curiously hollow noise from the cabinet. If it had been possible I should certainly have fled, it was so sudden

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and unexpected. The hall clock down- stairs struck the half-hour ins those chimes written by Handel for St. Paul’s. Craig leaned over to me and whispered hoarsely, “Keep perfectly still—don’t move a hand or foot.” The old man seemed utterly to have for- gotten us. “Ts that you, John?” he asked expectantly. Rap! rap! rap! came the reply. “Ts Mary strong enough to speak to me to-night?” Rap! rap! “Ts she happy?” Rap! rap! “What makes her unhappy? What does she want? Will you spell it out?” Rap! rap! rap! Then, after a pause, the rapping started slowly and distinctly to spell out words. It was so weird and uncanny that I scarcely breathed. Letter after letter the message came, nineteen raps for “‘s,” eight for “h,” five for “‘e,” according to the place in the alphabet, numerically, of the required let- ter. Atlast it was complete: “She thinks you are not well. She asks you to have that prescription filled again.”’ “Tell her I will do it to-morrow morning. [s there anything else?” Rap! rap! came back faintly. “John, John, don’t go yet,” pleaded the old man earnestly. It was easy to see how thoroughly he believed in “John,” as per- haps well he might after the warning of his wife’s death three nights before. ‘‘ Won't you answer one other question?”’ Fainter, almost imperceptibly, camea rap! rap! For several minutes the old man sat absorbed in thought, trance-like. Then, gradually, he seemed to realize that we were in the room with him. With diffi- culty he took up the thread of the conversa- tion where the rappings had broken it. “We were talking about the photo- graphs,” he said slowly. “I hope soon to get one of my wife as she is now that she is transfigured. John has promised me one soon.”’ He was gathering up his treasures prepar- atory to putting them back in their places of safe-keeping. The moment he was out of the room Craig darted into the cabinet and replaced his mechanism carefully in the box. Then he began softly to tap the walls. At last he found the side that gave a noise simi- Arthur B. Reeve 684 lar to that which we had heard, and he seemed pleased to have found it, for he hastily sketched on an old envelope a plan of that part of the house, noting on it the location of the side of the cabinet. Kennedy almost dragged me back to our apartment, he was in such a hurry to ex- amine the apparatus at his leisure. He turned on all the lights, took the thing out of its case, and stripped off the two sheets of ruled paper wound around the two revolving drums. He laid them flat on the table and studied them for some minutes with evidently growing satisfaction. At last he turned to me and said, “ Walter, here is a ghost caught in the act.”’ [ looked dubiously at the irregular up- and-down scrawl on the paper, while he rang up the Homicide Bureau of the Central Office and left word for O’Connor to call him up the first thing in the morning. Still eying with satisfaction the record traced on the sheets of paper, he lighted a cigarette in a matter-of-fact way and added: “It proves to be a very much flesh- and-blood ghost, this ‘John.’ It walked up to the wall back of that cabinet, rapped, listened to old Vandam, rapped some more, got the answer it wanted, and walked delib- erately away. The cabinet, as you may have noticed, is in a corner of the room with one side along the hallway. The ghost must have been in the hall.”’ “But who was it?” “Not so fast, Walter,” laughed Craig. “Isn’t it enough for one night that we have found out that much?” Fortunately I was tired, or I certainly should have dreamed of rappings and of “John” that night. I was awakened early by Kennedy talking with some one over the telephone. It was Inspector O’Connor. Of course I heard only one side of the conversation, but as near as I could gather Kennedy was asking the inspector to obtain several samples of ink for him. I had not heard the first part of the conversation, and was considerably surprised when Kennedy hung up the receiver and said: ‘““Vandam had the prescription filled again early this morning, and it will soon be in the hands of O’Connor. I hope I haven’t spoiled things by acting too soon, but I don’t want to run the risk of a double tragedy.” ““Well,”’ I said, “‘it is incomprehensible to Then I me. First I suspected suicide.

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682 Now I almost suspect suspected murder. The fact is I don’t a murder and a suicide. know just what I suspect. I’m like Dr. Hanson—floored. I wonder if Vandam would voluntarily take all the capsules at once in order to be with his wife?” “One of them alone would be quite sufh- cient if the ‘ghost’ should take a notion, as 1 think it will, to walk in the daytime,” re- plied Craig enigmatically. ‘I don’t want to run any chances, as I have said. I may be wrong in my theory of the case, Walter, so let us not discuss this phase of it until I have gone a step farther and am sure of my ground. O’Connor’s man will get the capsules before Vandam has a chance to take the first one, anyhow. The ‘ghost’ had a purpose in that message, for O’Connor tells me that Vandam’s lawyer visited him yesterday and in all probability a new will is being made, perhaps has already been made.’ We breakfasted in silence and iater rode down to the office of Dr. Hanson, who greeted us enthusiastically. “T’ve solved it at last,” he cried, easy.” - Kennedy looked gravely over the analysis which Dr. Hanson shoved into his hand, and seemed very much interested in the probable quantity of morphine that must have been taken to yield such an analysis. The physi- cian had a text-book open on his desk. “Our old ideas of the infallible test of morphine poisoning are all exploded,” he said, excitedly beginning to read a passage he had marked in the book. ‘‘and it’s ““*T have thought that inequality of the pupils, that is to say, where they are not symmetrically con- tracted, is proof that a case is not one of narcotism, or morphine poisoning. But Professor Taylor has recorded a case of morphine poisoning in which the unsymmetrical contraction occurred.’ “There, now, until I happened to run across that in one of the authorities I had supposed the symmetrical contraction of the pupils of the eyes to be the distinguish- ing symptom of morphine poisoning. Pro- fessor Kennedy, in my opinion we can, after all, make out our case as one of morphine poisoning.” “Ts that case your opinion on? sive politeness. “Yes, sir,” replied the doctor reluctantly. “Well,” said Kennedy quietly, “if you will investigate that case quoted from Pro- in the book all you base ” asked Craig with exces- The Adventure of the Seismograph fessor Taylor, you will find that it has been proved that the patient had one glass eye!” “Then my contention collapses and she was not poisoned?” “No, I do not say that. All I say is that expert testimony would refute us as far as we have gone. But if you will let me make a few tests of my own I can readily clear up that end of the case, I now feel sure. Let me take these samples to my laboratory.” I was surprised when we ran into In- spector O’Connor waiting for us in the cor- ridor of the Criminal Courts Building as we left the office of the coroner’s physician. He rushed up to Kennedy and shoved into his hand a pill-box in which six capsules rattled. Kennedy narrowly inspected the box, opened it, and looked thoughtfully at the six white capsules lying so innocently within. “One of these capsules would have been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to ‘John,’” said Craig contemplatively, as he shut the box and deposited it carefully in his inside vest pocket. “I don’t believe I even said good morning to you, O’Con- nor,” he continued. ‘‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting here long. Have you obtained the samples of ink?” “Yes, Professor. Here they are. As soon as you telephoned this morning I sent my men out separately to get them. There’s the ink from the druggist, this is from the Vandam library, this is from Farrington’s room, and this is from Mrs. Popper’s apartment.” “Thank you, Inspector. I don’t know what I’d do without your help,” said Ken- nedy, eagerly taking four small vials from him. “Science is all right, but organization enables science to work quickly. And quickness is the essence of this case.” During the afternoon Kennedy was very busy in his laboratory, where I found him that night after my hurried dinner, from which he was absent. “What, is it after dinner-time?” he ex- claimed, holding up a glass beaker and watching .the reaction of something he poured into it from a test-tube. “Craig, I believe that when you are ab- sorbed in a case, you would rather work than eat. Did you have any lunch after I left you?” “T don’t think so,” he replied, regarding the beaker and not his answer. “Now, Walter, old fellow, I don’t want you to be

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DRAWN BY WILL POSTEK i i 5 in the library of her “This beautiful woman is discovered in the middle of the night, seated at pee eae 4 home, unconscious. She never regains consciousness, but dies the following

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684 offended with me, but really I can work better if you don’t constantly remind me of such things as eating and sleeping. Say, do you want to help me—really?” “Certainly. I am as interested in the case as you are, but I can’t make heads or tails of it,” I replied. “Then, I wish you would look up Mrs. Popper to-night and have a private séance with her. What I want you to do particu- larly is to get a good idea of the looks of the room in which she is accustomed to work. I’m going to duplicate it here in my labora- tory as nearly as possible. Then I want you to arrange with her for a private ‘circle’ here to-morrow night. Tell her it is with a few professors at the university who are interested in psychical research and that Mr. Vandam will be present. I’d rather have her come willingly than to force her to come. Incidentally watch that manager of hers, Farrington. By all means he must accompany her.”’ That evening I dropped casually in on Mrs. Popper. She was a woman of great brilliance and delicacy, both in her physical and mental perceptions, of exceptional vivacity and cleverness. She must have studied me more closely than I was aware of, for I believe she relied solely on diverting my attention whenever she desired to pro- duce one of her really wonderful results. Needless to say, I was completely mystified by her performance. She did spirit writing that would have done credit to the immortal Slade, told me a lot of things that were true, and many more that were unverifiable or hopelessly vague. It was really worth much more than the price, and I did not need to feign the interest necessary to get her terms for a circle in the laboratory. Of course I had to make the terms with Farrington. The first glance aroused my suspicions of him. He was shifty-eyed, and his face had a hard and mercenary look. In spite of, perhaps rather because of, my re- pugnance we quickly came to an agreement, and as I left the apartment I mentally re- solved to keep my eye on him. Craig came in late, having been engaged in his chemical analyses all the evening. From his manner I inferred that they had been satisfactory, and he seemed much gratified when I told him that I had ar- ranged successfully for the séance. As we were talking over the case a mes- senger arrived with a note from O’Connor. The Adventure of the Seismograph It was written with his usual brevity: “Have just found from servants that Far- rington and Mrs. P. have key to Vandam house. Wish I had known it before. House shadowed. No one has entered or left it to-night.” Craig looked at his watch. It was a quar- ter after one. ‘The ghost won’t walk to- night, Walter,” he said as he entered his bedroom for a much-needed rest. “I guess I was right after all in getting the capsules as soon as possible. The ghost must have flitted unobserved in there this morning directly after the maid brought them back from the druggist.” Again, the next morning, he had me out of bed bright and early. As we descended from the Sixth Avenue “L,” he led me into a peculiar little shop in the shadow of the “L” structure. He entered as though he knew the place well; but, then, that air of assurance was Kennedy’s stock in trade and sat very well on him. Few people, I suppose, have ever had a glimpse of this workshop of magic and deception. This little shop of Marina’s was the headquarters of the magicians of the country. Levitation-apparatus and ghostly disappearing hands were on every side. The shelves in the back of the shop were full of nickel, brass, wire, wood, and papier- maché contrivances, new and strange to the eye of the uninitiated. Yet it was all as systematic as a hardware shop. “Ts Signor Marina in?” asked Craig of a girl in the first room, given up to picture post-cards. The room was as deceptive as the trade, for it was only an anteroom to the storeroom I have described above. This. storeroom was also a factory, and half a dozen artisans were at work in it. Yes, the signor was in, the girl replied, leading us back into the workshop. He proved to be a short man with a bland, open face and frank eyes, the very antithesis of his trade. “T have arranged for a circle with Mrs. May Popper,” began Kennedy, handing the man his card. “I suppose you know her?” “Indeed yes,” he answered. “I fur- nished her séance-room.”’ “Well, I want to hire for to-night just the same sort of tables, cabinets, carpets, every- thing that she has—only hire, you under- stand, but I am willing to pay you well for them. It is the best way to get a good sitting, I believe. Can you do it?”

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Arthur B. Reeve The little man thought a moment, then replied: “Si, signor—yes—very nearly, near enough. I would do anything for Mrs. Popper. She is a good customer. But her manager—”’ “My friend here, Mr. Jameson, has had séances with her in her own apartment,” interposed Craig. ‘Perhaps he can help you to recollect just what is necessary.” “T know very well, signor. I have the duplicate bill, the bill which was paid by that Farrington with a check from the banker Vandam. Leave it to me.” “Then you will get the stuff together this morning and have it up to my place this afternoon?” “Ves, Professor, yes. It is a bargain. I would do anything for Mrs. Popper—she is a fine woman.” Late that afternoon I rejoined Craig at his laboratory. Signor Marina had already arrived with a truck and was disposing the paraphernalia about the laboratory. He had first laid a thick black rug. Mrs. Pop- per very much affected black carpets, and I had noticed that Vandam’s room was carpeted in black, too. I suppose black conceals everything that one oughtn’t to see at a séance. A cabinet with a black curtain, several chairs, a light deal table, several banjos, horns, and other instruments were disposed about the room. With a few suggestions from me we made a fair duplication of the hangings on the walls. Kennedy was mani- festly anxious to finish, and at last it was done. After Marina had gone, Kennedy stretched a curtain over the end of the room farthest from the cabinet. Behind it he placed on a shelf the apparatus composed of the pendulums and magnets. The beakers and test-tubgs were also on this shelf. He had also arranged that the cabinet should be so situated that it was next a hallway that ran past his laboratory. “To-night, Jameson,” he said, indicating a spot on the hall wall just back of the cab- inet, “I shall want you to bring my guests out here and do a little spirit rapping—I’ll tell you just what to do when the time comes. That night, when we gathered in the transformed laboratory, there were Henry Vandam, Dr. Hanson, Inspector O’Connor, Kennedy, and myself. At last the sound of wheels was heard, and Mrs. Popper drove up 685 in a hansom, accompanied by Farrington. They both inspected the room narrowly and seemed satisfied. I had, as I have said, taken a serious dislike to the man, and watched him closely. I did not like his air of calm assurance. The lights were switched off, all except one sixteen-candle-power lamp in the far- thest corner, shaded by a deep-red globe. It was just light enough to see to read very large print with difficulty. Mrs. Popper began immediately with the table. Kennedy and I sat on her right and left respectively, in the circle, and held her hands and feet. I confess to a real thrill when I felt the light table rise first on two legs, then on one, and finally remain sus- pended in the air, whence it dropped with a thud, as if some one had suddenly with- drawn his support. The medium sat with her back to the cur- tain of the cabinet, and several times I could have sworn that a hand reached out and passed close to my head. At least it seemed so. The curtain bulged at times, and a breeze seemed to sweep out from the cabinet. After some time of this sort of work Craig led gradually up to a request for a material- ization of the control of Vandam, but Mrs. Popper refused. She said she did not feel strong enough, and Farrington put in a hasty word that he, too, could feel that “there was something working against them.” But Kennedy was importunate, and at last she consented to see if “John” would do some rapping, even if he could not materialize. Kennedy asked to be permitted to put the questions. “Are you the ‘John’ who appears to Mr. Vandam every night at twelve thirty?”’ Rap! rap! rap! came the faint reply from the cabinet. Or rather it seemed to me to come from the floor near the cabinet, and perhaps to be a trifle muffled by the black carpet. “Are you in communication with Mrs. Vandam?”’ Rap! rap! rap! “Can she be made to rap for us?” Rap! rap! “Will you ask her a question and spell out her answer?” Rap! rap! rap! Craig paused a moment to frame the question, then shot it out point-blank:

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DRAWN BY WILL POSTER For several minutes the old man sat absorbed in thought, trance-like, then, gradually, he seemed to realize that we were in the room with him, and he took up the thread of the conversation where the rappings had broken it

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“Does Mrs. Vandam know now in the other world whether anyone in this room substi- tuted a morphine capsule for one of those ordered by her three days before she died? Does she know whether the same person has done the same thing with those later ordered by Mr. Vandam?”’ “John”? seemed considerably perturbed at the mention of capsules. It was a long time before any answer was forthcoming. Kennedy was about to repeat the question when a faint sound was heard. Rap! — Suddenly came a wild scream. It was such a scream as I had never heard before in my life. It came as though a dagger had been thrust into the heart of Mrs. Popper. The lights flashed up as Kennedy turned the switch. A man was lying flat on the floor—it was Inspector O’Connor. He had succeeded in slipping noiselessly, like a snake, below the curtain into the cabinet. Craig had told him to look out for wires or threads stretched from Mrs. Popper’s clothing to the bulging curtain of the cabinet. Imagine his sur- prise when he saw that she had simply freed her foot from the shoe, which I was care- fully holding down, and with a backward movement of the leg was reaching out into the cabinet behind her chair and was doing the rapping with her toes. Lying on the floor he had grasped her foot and caught her heel with a firm hand. She had responded with a wild yell that showed she knew she was trapped. Her secret was out. Hysterically Mrs. Popper began to up- braid the inspector as he rose to his feet, but Farrington quickly interposed. “Something was working against us to- night, gentlemen. Yet you demanded re- sults. And when the spirits will not come, what is she todo? She forgets herself in her trance; she produces, herself, the things that you all could see supernaturally if you were in sympathy.” The mere sound of Farrington’s voice seemed to rouse in me all the animosity of my nature. I felt that a man who could trump up an excuse like that when a person was caught with the goods was capable of almost anything. “Enough of this fake séance,” exclaimed Craig. “TI have let it go on merely for the purpose of opening the eyes of a certain deluded gentleman in this room. Now, if Arthur B. Reeve 687 you will all be seated I shall have something to say that will finally establish whether Mary Vandam was the victim of accident, suicide, or murder.” With hearts beating rapidly we sat. There was nothing else to do. Craig took the beakers and test-tubes from the shelf behind the curtain and placed them on the little deal table that had been so merrily dancing about the room. “The increasing frequency with which tales of murder by poison appear in the newspapers,” he began formally, ‘‘is proof of how rapidly this new civilization of ours is taking on the aspects of the older civiliza- tions across the seas. Human life is cheap in this country; but the ways in which human life has been taken among us have usually been direct, simple, aboveboard, in keeping with our democratic and pioneer traditions. The pistol and the bowie-knife for the individual, the rope and the torch for the mob, have been the usual instruments of sudden death. But when we begin to use poisons most artfully compounded in order to hasten an expected bequest and remove obstacles in its way—well, we are practising an art that calls up all the memories of six- teenth century Italy. “In this beaker,’ he continued, “I have some of the contents of the stomach of the unfortunate woman. The coroner’s physi- cian has found that they show traces of morphine. Was the morphine in such quan- tities as to be fatal? Without doubt. But equally without doubt analysis could not discover and prove it in the face of one inconsistency. The usual test which shows morphine poisoning failed in this case. The pupils of her eyes were not symmetrically contracted. In fact they were normal. “Now, the murderer must have known of this test. This clever criminal also knew that to be successful in the use of this drug where others had failed, the drug must be skilfully mixed with something else. In that first box of capsules there were six. The druggist compounded them correctly according to the prescription. But be- tween the time when they came into the house from the druggist’s and the time when she took the first capsule, that night, some one who had access to the house emptied one capsule of its harmless contents and re- filled it with a deadly dose of morphine— a white powder which looks just like the powder aiready in the capsules.

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688 “Why, then, the normal pupils of the eyes? Simply because the criminal put a little atropine, or belladonna, with the morphine. My tests show absolutely the presence of atropine, Dr.’ Hanson,”’ said Craig, bowing to the physician. “The best evidence, however, is yet to come. A second box of six capsules, all in- tact, was discovered yesterday in the pos- session of Henry Vandam. I have analyzed the capsules. One contains no quinine at all—it is all morphine and atropine. It is, without doubt, precisely similar to the cap- sule which killed Mrs. Vandam. Another night or so, and Henry Vandam would have died the same death.” The old man groaned. Two such expo- sures had shaken him. He looked from one of us to another as if not knowing in whom he could trust. . But Kennedy hurried on to his next point. “Who was it that gave the prescription to Mrs. Vandam originally? She is dead and cannot tell. The others won’t tell, for the person who gave her that prescription was the person who later substituted the fatal capsule in place of the harmless. The origi- nal prescription is here. I have been able to discover from it nothing at all by exam- ining the handwriting. Nor does the texture of the paper indicate anything tome. But the ink—ah, the ink. “Most inks seem very similar, I suppose, but to a person who has made a study of the chemical composition of ink they are very different. Ink is composed of iron tannate, which on exposure to air gives the black of writing. The original pigment—say blue or blue-black ink—is placed in the ink, to make the writing visible at first, and gradually fades, giving place to the black of the tannate which is formed. The dyestuffs employed in the commercial inks of to-day vary in color from pale greenish blue to indigo and deep violet. No two give identical reactions—at all events not when mixed with the iron tan- nate to form the pigment in writing. “It is owing to the difference in these provisional coloring matters that it is pos- sible to distinguish between writing written with different kinds of ink. I was able easily to obtain samples of the inks used by the Vandams, by Mrs. Popper, by Mr. Far- rington, and by the druggist. I have com- pared the writing of the original prescription with a color scale of my own construction, and I have made chemical tests. The The Adventure of the Seismograph druggist’s ink conforms exactly to the writ- ing on the two pill-boxes, but not to the prescription. One of the other three inks conforms by test absolutely to the ink in that prescription signed ‘Dr. C. W. H.’ as a blind. In a moment my chain of evidence against the owner of that bottle of ink will be complete.” I could not help but think of the two pendulums on the shelf behind the curtain, but Craig said nothing for a moment to indicate that he referred to that apparatus. We sat dazed at his revelations. Farring- ton seemed nervous and ill at ease. Mrs. Popper, who had not recovered from the hysterical condition of her exposure, with difficulty controlled her emotion. Vandam was crushed. “‘T have not only arranged this laboratory so as to reproduce Mrs. Popper’s séance- room,’’ began Craig afresh, “but I have had the cabinet placed in relatively the same position a similar cabinet occupies in Mr. Vandam’s private séance-room in the Van- dam mansion. “One night, Mr. Jameson and myself were visiting Mr. Vandam. At precisely twelve thirty we heard most unaccountable rappings from that cabinet. I particularly noted the position of the cabinet. Back of it ran a hallway. That is duplicated here. Back of this cabinet is a hallway. I had heard of these rappings before we went, but was afraid that it would be impossible for me to catch the ghost red handed. There is a limit to what you can do the first time you enter'a man’s house, and, besides, that was no time to arouse suspicion in the mind of anyone. But science has a way out of every dilemma. I determined to learn something of the source of these rappings.”’ Craig paused and glanced first at Farring- ton, then at Mrs. Popper, and then at Mr. Vandam. ‘““Mr. Jameson,” he resumed, “will escort the doctor, the inspector, Mr. Farrington, Mrs. Popper, and Mr. Vandam into my imitation hall of the Vandam mansion. I want each of you in turn to tiptoe up that hall to a spot indicated on the wall, back of the cabinet, and strike that spot several sharp blows with your knuckles.” I did as Craig instructed, tiptoeing up myself first so that they could not mistake his meaning. The rest followed separately, and after a moment we returned silently in suppressed excitement to the room.

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In front of me I saw Craig grasping Mrs. Popper's wrists as ina vise. She was glaring at him like a tigress Craig was still standing by the table, but now the pendulums with the magnets and needles and the drums worked by clockwork were before him. “Another person outside the Vandam family had a key,to the Vandam mansion,” he began gravely. ‘‘That person, by the way, was the one who waited, night by night, until Mrs. Vandam took the fatal capsule, and then when she had taken it apprised the old man of the fact and strengthened an already blind faith in the shadow world.” You could have heard a pin drop. In fact you could almost have felt it drop. ‘That other person who, unobserved, had free access to the house,”’ he continued in the breathless stillness, “is in this room now.” He was looking at O’Connor as if for cor- roboration. O’Connor nodded. “Informa- tion derived from the butler,” he muttered. “I did not know this until yesterday,” Kennedy continued, “but I suspected that something of the sort existed when I was first told by Dr. Hanson of the rappings. I determined to hear those rappings and make a record of them. So, the night Mr. Jameson and I visited Mr. Vandam, I car- ried this little instrument with me.” Almost lovingly he touched the pendulums on the table. They were now at rest and kept so by means of a lever that prevented all vibration whatever. “See, I release this lever—now, let no one in the room move. Watch the needles on the paper as the clockwork revolves the drums. I take a step—ever so lightly. The pendulums vibrate, and the needles trace a broken line on the paper on each drum. I stop; the lines are practically straight. I take another step and another, ever so lightly. See the delicate pendulums vi- brate? See, the lines they trace are jagged lines.” He stripped the paper off the drums and laid it flat on the table before him, with two other similar pieces of paper. “Just before the time of the rapping I placed this instrument in the corner of the Vandam cabinet, just as I placed it in this cabinet after Mr. Jameson conducted you 6s9

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690 from the room. In neither case were sus- . picions aroused. Everything in both cases was perfectly normal—I mean the ‘ghost’ was in ignorance of the presence, if not the very existence, of this instrument. “This is an improved seismograph,” he explained, ‘‘one after a very recent model by Prince Galitzin of the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg. The seismograph, as you know, was devised to register earthquakes at a distance. This one not only measures the size of a distant earthquake, but the actual direction from which the earth- tremors come. That is why there are two pendulums and two drums. “The magnetic arrangement is to cut short the vibrations set up in the pendulums, to prevent them from continuing to vibrate after the first shock. Thus they are ready in an instant to record another tremor. Other seismographs continue to vibrate for a. long time as a result of one tremor only. Besides, they give little indication of the direction from which the tremors come. “T think you must all appreciate that your tiptoeing up the hall must cause a far greater disturbance in this delicate seismo- graph than even a very severe earthquake thousands of miles away, which it was built to record.” He paused and examined the papers sharply. “This is the record made by the ‘ghost’s’ walk the other night,’ he said, holding up two of them in his left hand. “Here on the table, on two other longer sheets, I have records of the vibrations set up by those in this room walking to-night. “Here is Mr. Jameson’s—his is not a bit like the ghost’s. Nor is Mr. Vandam’s. Least of all are Dr. Hanson’s and Inspector O’Connor’s, for they are heavy men. “Now here is Mr. Farrington’s’””—he bent down closely—‘‘he is a light man, and the ghost was light.” Craig was playing with his victim like a cat with a mouse. Suddenly I felt something brush by me, and with a swish of air and of garments I saw Mrs. Popper fling herself wildly at the table that bore the incriminating records. In another instant Farrington was on his feet and had made a wild leap in the same direction. It was done so quickly that I must have The Adventure of the Seismograph acted first and thought afterward. I found myself in the midst of a mélée with my hand at his throat and his at mine. O’Connor with a jiu-jitsu movement bent Farrington’s other arm until he released me with a cry of pain. In front of me I saw Craig grasping Mrs. Popper’s wrists as in a vise. She was glar- ing at him like a tigress. ‘“‘Do you suppose for a moment that that toy is going to convince the world that Henry Vandam has been deceived and that the spirit which visited him was a fraud? Is that why you have lured me here under false pretenses, to play on my feelings, to insult me, to take advantage of a lone, de- fenseless woman, surrounded by hostile men? Shame on you,” she added contemp- tuously. ‘You call yourself a gentleman, but I call you a coward.” Kennedy, always calm and _ collected, ignored the tirade. His voice was as cold as steel as he said: “It would do little good, Mrs. Popper, to destroy this one link in the chain I have forged. The other links are too heavy for you. Don’t forget the evi- dence of the ink. It was your ink. Don’t forget that Henry Vandam will not any longer conceal that he has altered his will in favor of you. To-night he goes from here to hislawyer’s to draw up a new will altogether. Don’t forget that you have caused the Van- dams separately to have the prescription filled, and that you are now caught in the act of a double murder. Don’t forget that you had access to the Vandam mansion, that you substituted the deadly for the harmless capsules. Don’t forget that your rappings announced the death of one of your victims and urged the other, a cruelly wronged and credulous old man, to leave millions to you who had deceived and would have killed him. ‘No, the record of the ghost on the seis- mograph was not Mr. Farrington’s, as I implied at the moment when you so kindly furnished this additional proof of your guilt by trying to destroy the evidence. The ghost was you, Mrs. Popper, and you are at liberty to examine the markings as minutely as you please, but you must not destroy them. You are an astute criminal, Mrs. Popper, but to-night you are under arrest for the murder of Mary Vandam and the attempted murder of Henry Vandam.” The next mystery story, ‘‘The Diamond Maker,’’ will appear in the May number.

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The Savior of Babies By Charles Jerome WO portraits rise before me when I think of Nathan Straus. One reveals him astride a camel on the edge of the Egyptian desert. He is sitting erect and looking out over the waste with eager, watchful eyes. With a shawl wrapped about him and a gun in his hand, he would fill the eye as a typical Bedouin. I must confess that I never saw him thus. It is a fanciful portrait eloquent- ly sketched for me by an intimate friend of his. ‘A true son of Abraham, a patriarch watchful and reliable,” said he, “that man was in his true setting on the edge of the desert.” For the second portrait my memory is ool

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692 responsible. The scene is a great hall in Brussels, where an international medical congress is discussing the pros and cons of Pasteurization. The convention is drawing to a close, and the delegates are losing in- terest. A resolution which covers an insidi- ous attack upon his theories has brought Straus to the platform in his fiercest fighting humor. He speaks English, a language un- known to nine-tenths of the delegates, but in some mysterious manner his fighting in- tensity and determination have charged the atmosphere with the message he wishes to convey. The delegates forget their wire- pulling for offices, their plans for amuse- ment, their hopes for a share in the honors which the state will divide among the lead- ers of the congress, and are thrilled into in- terest. The proponents of the resolution remain silent, indifferent listeners of a mo- ment ago become rabid in opposition, the vote sustains the fighter on the platform. Often, when his face is in repose, there is in it an expression of pathos mingled with weariness, which may be to some extent racial, but is also individual. It is the out- ward mark of the fights he Las been waging all his life. The restless soul behind that homely face has been seething since con- sciousness began. Intensity has been the sign of Straus in whatever he has undertaken. At an early age he was forced into the arena to vindicate the family honor and lay the foundations for its material success. Troubled conditions in the South had upset his father’s business in Georgia. The fam- ily came to New York. Nathan, the eldest of the three sons who have since acquired fame and riches, made the first plunge. In a few years the old debts were paid, with interest. Then began the march upward. To the world at large Straus is known as a philanthropist. Everybody has heard or read of his interest in babies; of his personal as well as financial support of Pasteurization as a means of reducing the death-rate among the infants of large cities; of the Straus milk-booths in the public parks of New York city; of his distribution of free Pas- teurized milk through the Health Depart- ment and the doctors of the crowded East Side. Thousands of tenement mothers bless his name. Thousands of babies have grown into men and women through his aid. Chicago, Philadelphia, and other cities in this country have benefited by his experi- ence and his material contributions. The The Savior of Babies same is true of centers in Belgium, Germany, and Great Britain. Surely, in the carrying out of this work there was no room for combat? In truth, it was here that were waged the fiercest and most relentless fights of his life. From time immemorial a hypercritical world has demanded that charity shall be anony- mous. Straus could not see it that way. His scheme was personal and could grow only through his personal attention. To make his force felt, his name had to be in- scribed high on his banners. So his work fell at once under the ban of those who de- clared it an advertising dodge. True, he had divorced from it the names of the busi- ness enterprises in which he was interested, but he stood alone, he refused to put his charity under the supervision of any of the established institutions, to accept money or aid from outsiders, or to pay salaries to figureheads. How far he was really actu- ated by the desire for fame as a philanthro- pist I cannot say. The heart of man is sealed to prying eyes. But if Nathan Straus had put as much energy into any material enterprise as he did into his charity, his wealth would be much greater than it is, and perhaps the unfortunates of the world would be no worse off if there were more seekers after fame of the same sort. In a way his choice of a means for bene- fiting mankind was extraordinary. He had not the advantages of superior education, he had no training in medicine, and yet he launched his scheme when many eminent physicians were in doubt about the value of Pasteurization. That was another ground for criticism, but he was not so venture- some as was thought. A keen judge of men and results, he had consulted some of the most successful and distinguished physi- cians of Europe and America and had made them convince him first of all. The result has justified his decision, for opposition to Pasteurization among the well informed is dying out day by day. For years Nathan Straus has been a familiar figure in politics and sport. He has owned and driven some of the most famous horses known to our generation, including Majolica and Cobwebs. He was a park commissioner, a health commissioner, a candidate for mayor of the city of New York, and a presidential elector. He is in his sixty-third year and still bubbling over with the zeal, spirit, and energy of youth.

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The Trail of the Viper II. How the slimy trail of Mormonism, blazed by Prophet Smith and his political satellites, stretches across the continent into the nation’s Capitol, foreshad- owing the vicious domination of Mormon influence (Cc) BROWN BROS Senator Reed Smoot * Dubois attacked the Mormon Church, and you saw what happened to him. Dubois attempted to unseat Smoot. Smoot is still in the Senate, while Dubois is lost—van- ished—politically destroyed ” IGHTY years ago, when the Mor- mons began their treasons and con- spiracies against this government, the proportion they bore to the country’s whole population was about one in one million one hundred and twenty-five thousand. Now, when this warning reaches you, the measure of Mormon strength is roundly one in every one hundred and twenty-five of population. Comparatively, the Mormon Church grows much more rapidly than does the nation. You recall the anonymous Northwestern senator whom I quoted in my preceding article? You remember what he said of the Mormon power in politics in what states— in the near vicinity of Utah—lie within the threatening shadow of the church? A glance at Senate records, not too remote, will show you how true was his word. Indeed, the in- evitable inference from those records goes far beyond anything our nameless one declared. By Alfred Henry Lewis Sa-feneter Prod T. Dubois Turn tothe Senate, and that four-year-ago effort to unseat Senator Smoot. President Roosevelt, thinking perhaps on nothing better or higher than just party peace and easy Republican sailing for what years— important to himself—lay dead ahead, wrote to the Mormon powers, and “advised” against the election of a ‘Mormon to the Senate.” Thereupon Prophet Smith, his two counselors, and twelve apostles—what old Joe Smith called the “Living Constitu- tion”’—as indicating their full knowledge of their own impregnable position, and by way of exhibiting their quiet contempt for Mr. Roosevelt, or any other mere President who might thereafter presume to insert his uninvited White House finger into the pie of church affairs, elected Reed Smoot. Mr. Smoot was a Mormon, the son of a plural wife, and one of the twelve apostles. So far, however, as the returns were in, he was not personally a practical and practis- 693

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694 ing polygamist. Brigham Roberts, whom Prophet Smith and the church sent to the House of Representatives, had been un- seated and cast into outer House darkness, because of a multiplicity of wives. Prophet Smith and the church decided to avoid that particular rock in the Senate instance of Apostle Smoot. For the rest—his Mormon- ism, his approval of polygamy, and all that —they would put matters to the test. They would measure Mormon strength against the moral feeling of American mankind. To be sure, they had—as say the gamblers —‘‘an ace buried.”’ That moral feeling aforesaid must be expressed through what cowards of politics just then held Senate seats and were wearing senatorial togas; and this, as the Mormons knew, would prove decisively for Mormon advantage. THE FIGHT FOR WOMANHOOD On the back of Apostle Smoot’s election to the Senate —an election dictated by Prophet Smith and the church—a monster petition, large enough to make the cargo of one freight-car, was signed by the decent people of the land, demanding of the Senate that Apostle Smoot be unseated. Also, in that behalf charges were formally preferred. Remembering that Temple oath which he had taken—and still takes—when each year he was “given his endowments, his wash- ings and anointings,’ an oath of never- flagging enmity to this nation which he covenanted he would teach his “children even unto the third and the fourth genera- tion,’’ Apostle Smoot was accused of treason. Likewise his vow of ‘“‘blind obedience” to the commands of Prophet Smith, as head of the church, in all matters, religious or temporal, was cited, as proving he would, should Prophet Smith set up his word against the laws and the Constitution of the country, guide altogether by the prophet’s fiat. The charges went before the proper committee, and subsequently the Senate. The issue, fairly stated, was, ‘‘ Shall Apostle Smoot be unseated?” Upon that issue, how ran the vote? Take—as upholding our anonymous statesman—the roll-call for what senators sat for California, Oregon, Washington, Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Nevada, Colo- rado, and Utah. ‘These states, beginning at the western lines of Kansas, Nebraska, and the two Dakotas, make, with Utah in the center, a solid block of territory which is an The Trail of the Viper empire in itself. But two senators in all that great region, almost if not quite in area a third of the whole country, voted to unseat Apostle Smoot. The bold two were Mr. Dubois, of Idaho, who stood sponsor for the charge of a Smoot treason, and Mr. Newlands, of Nevada, who put his honest action on the ground that Apostle Smoot believed in a church which claimed to be superior to the state. As for the others, Senators Perkins and Flint, of California; Fulton and Mulkey, of Oregon; Ankeny and Piles, of Washington; Heyburn, of Idaho; Clark, of Montana; Warren and Clark, of Wyoming; Nixon, of Nevada; and Sutherland, of Utah, voted to keep Apostle Smoot in his seat. © There were three dodgers, a hidden trio; namely, Senators Teller and Patterson, of Colorado, and Carter, of Montana, who heedfully refrained from voting at all, not daring to take either side. Apostle Smoot, himself, didn’t vote, being too delicate, and, besides, being safe without it. Consider that Senate vote in conjunction with your map, and you will come by some impression of the fell radius of the Mormon shadow. Don’t forget, too, that mammoth petition asking the Senate to unseat Apostle Smoot. Those senators, voting in defense of Apostle Smoot, were not Mormens..’* Fac- ing that huge petition and recalling the evi- dence, they would have preferred to vote the other way. THE MESS OF POLITICAL POTTAGE What held them on the Mormon side? No more, no less, than a lively knowledge of the location of the butter on their political bread, and the conviction that, should they offend against the prophet’s will, the Mor- mon Church could—and would—defeat their own return to the Senate. They knew and felt that they must have Mormon approval and consent in order to succeed themselves. Bend your free brows above that situation —a situation five years old. What was bad then is worse now. The Mormon Church has strengthened its evil grip since then. Also, you must now add New Mexico and Arizona to that ebon muster. Verily, the word of our anonymous statesman, who talked of Mormon power and Mormon plan that Salt Lake City evening as, chairs back-tilted, we sat in front ot our hotel, is justified!

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Alfred Henry Lewis Another matter: I have already put the nose-count of Mormon strength at seven hundred and fifty thousand. Yesterday there came to me a communication, upon that element of a Mormon census, from a gentleman who dwells in Salt Lake City. Like our nameless statesman, the gentle- man asked that his identit) be buried in darkness, and all upon the argument that he “would suffer injury in a business way if it were known.” He has lived twenty-three years in Utah, forty west of the western Kansas line. He is as well able as any other to give a guess at Mormon strength. ‘Guess,’ too, is the term he uses, and explains how the actual count of Mormons is kept “hidden, not only from Gentiles, but from Mor- mons themselves, with perhaps a handful of ex- ceptions such as Prophet Smith, his two counselors, and a select majority among the twelve apostles, including Senator Smoot.” This well-posted gentleman, “guessing,” as he confesses, at a Mormon per cent. of population, but “guessing”? conservatively and not altogether in the : dark,lays down these figures: ‘““Number of Mormons in America: Colorado, 83,000; Idaho, 81,000; Montana, 87,000; Nevada, 22,000; Oregon, 58,000; California, 40,000; Utah, 212,000; Washington, 61,000; Wyoming, 46,000; Arizona, 39,000; New Mexico, 24,000.”” The wise gentleman’s total—unless I’ve figured to one side— unseat Senator Smoot. But two senators in all that great region voted to vote in conjunction with your map, and you will come by some impression of the fell radius of the Mormon shadow ™ 695 reaches 753,000. Not over-far from own “guess” of a round 750,000! My statistical gentleman adds: ‘ You are not to overlook the Mormons outside of the United States. The church has a strong- hold in Mexico, where the Mormon strength is variously estimated to be anywhere be- tween 40,000 and go,0o00. There are, too, my a bunch in Canada, and another in the Sand- wich Islands. These outside Mormons pay their tithes, and look to Prophet Smith and the Holy Twelve for guidance in things spiritual, commercial, and political, and are as much an ele- ment of Mormon power as though residing in the United States. The Mormons in Mexico, Consider that Senate at a word from Prophet Smith, would move across the border into Ari- zona and New Mexico, and ‘colonize’ for purposes of politics whatever town or towns he might designate.” As corroborative of the above, it should be explained that back in the eighties, when the anti-Mormon storm invoked by the

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696 Edmunds Act burst upon the church, the lat- ter, through its leading spirits—the prophet and the twelve apostles—began planting colonies in Chihuahua and Sonora. These were to form a refuge—a fashion of cyclone cellar—to which polygamists, hard bested by federal courts and laws, might retreat. Before establishing these colonies, the Mormons talked with Diaz; and that astute dictator said ‘‘ Yes,’’ with emphasis. Diaz welcomed the Mormons; they might be as polygamous as they pleased. He bade the Mormons come to Mexico, and make a bul- wark of themselves between him and his American neighbors north of the Rio Grande. The Mormons, thousands of them, by command of the prophet, migrated to Mex- ico. There they dwell to-day in many a rich community, as freely polygamous as in the most wide-flung hour of Brigham Young. Diaz smiles as he reviews those prodigal crops of corn and cattle and children which they raise. They make his empire richer in men and money—commodities of which he has only too often felt the want. Once when a Methodist clergyman re- monstrated against that polygamy which he permitted, and spoke of “immoralities,” Diaz snapped his Mexican fingers. “Do you see their children?”’ he cried. “Well, I think more of their children than of your moralities!” ‘PROPHET, SEER, AND REVELATOR” SMITH Let us glance at the two generals who command the Mormon forces against us. Who are they, and what are they? While the Smoot trial raged before the Senate, and Prophet Smith was called as a witness, I had an open chance to study that modern Mohammed. Many think him weak. That was not my judgment of the man. He isn’t strong in the grizzly bear sense; but he is strong—very strong—in the creeping, crawl- ing, coiling, constricting python sense. And when he isn’t ophidian, he is feline. He will catlike—fly. But—catlike—he will also fight. You can see his nature in his down- cast, hateful face, read it in his evil history. Prophet Smith, “seer and revelator,” is essentially furtive, lurking. He avoids the eye, is seldom in the show ring, and then only for a purpose. Few men see, fewer still know, Prophet Smith. He is sly rather than bold, chicanes rather than assails, and when attacked his inclination is to poison The Trail of the Viper the springs and streams and standing water, and retreat to the hills. It is his nature to do with snares what others do by blows; he traps while others hunt. And yet, in a feline way, Prophet Smith likes trouble. Set out a bowl of milk and a bowl of blood, then turn your back. If sure of unobservation, he will lap the blood. But if you stare at him, he dissembles with the milk, purring meanwhile with religious fervor. THE NATION WHOLLY MORMON At heart Prophet Smith is ever the hypo- crite, and knows of no worse fate than mere discovery. Meeting him, you see a man, long bearded, sleek, smirking, lean, gray—in looks a dyspeptic rather than a leader—and over all a vast pretense of religion, of the sort decorous and subdued, rather than the violent camp-meeting kind. His points of power are his egotism, his skill for smug effort, his talent as a trader of politics. But beyond all, his vanity. This last, in a way, is his citadel. He likes to sit before the mirror of events, and contemplate his re- flection as “‘seer and revelator—the First President and Prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.” As he does so-—and remembers his political power, and those golden Mormon millions whereof he is the unchecked, unwatched, unham- pered “trustee in trust”—he licks his vicious lips, and ruminates on a day to come when, before himself, or some succeeding Mormon president and prophet, this repub- lic shall stand bowed, a captive to the Mor- mon bow and spear. More than most men, Prophet Smith has talents for the self-conscious. He makes a cult of Number One, bears the church in mind, and is neither brave nor true when it will tell against him. Pliant to occasion, he is secretive before he is bold, and possesses a genius for merger. The jack-rabbit, when threatened, can seem to sink into the bare, brown earth. The tree-toad will turn the color of whatever it rests upon. Prophet Smith owns in exaggeration these tree-toad- jack-rabbit traits. Also, he can bow in- stantly toevents. Feeling the helm of some sudden new exigency, he will turn at full speed in half his length. Congenitally a Pecksniff, a cradle-hypo- crite, make Prophet Smith safe, with victory not to be revoked, and he would become the soul of arrogance. In all things he would be

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= F forty-Scventh Congress of the Gnited States of America; Begun and li ld at the City of Washington « | | { Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives Facsimile of a part of the title page of polygamy a misdemeanor and paved of the Mormons until, through their polygamous practices, the statehood for Utah.—Senator of the act which bears his polygamous your man of pedestals. He would surround himself with pomps, would support himself by vainest cir- cumstances. With Nero as his crimson model, destruction would be his scepter, cruelty his crown. Now the world sees but the tamer, more peaceful side of Prophet Smith. The country is big, and— he thinks—suspicious. He is cowed, and therefore careful, biding his time. Watching the needs of the church, he is in all things secret and nurses a liking for secrecy. Were At the First Session, { December, one thousand eight hundred and ei; AN ACT of the United States of America in Congress assembled, «. ‘ MMaulce thes Chel the Edmunds Act of 1882, which made the way for federal “persecution ~ promises, soon broken, to cease church authorities secured George F. Edmunds, author name and of other anti- legislation you to ask him the time of day, he would make a mystery of the hour. He so favors the furtive that, dis- covering a thicket, he would crouch there- in for a no better reason than just the thought of being concealed. Fearing to play the berserk, who crowds in close to a foe and comes back covered with blood, Prophet Smith, serving his church, would to-day kill only as the assassin kills —the assassin who creeps at midnight to surprise a foe. He realizes that he cannot 697

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The Trail of the Viper Prophet Smith. *’a man long bearded. sleek. smirking. lean, gray” afford to be warlike, as Richard of England was warlike, or come at noon and blow a bugle and wield a battle-ax. Policy, strata- gem, flight rather than fight—that for a time must be our prophet’s war-creed. With a pulpit face, with a money-chang- er’s heart, the genius of Prophet Smith is to-day perforce all for the diagonal. He becomes a supple apostle of the indirect. Crafty with a tiger’s craft, like the tiger. he will not go toward danger. Make him safe, however, as one day he hopes to be safe, and all this will be ferociously reversed. No Caligula—give him but safety and power would be more crazily cruel, more bloodily inveterate, than Prophet Smith. And is he not, like every other Mormon, also sworn to an unending enmity, an enmity that shall never die, against the American people? Personally Prophet Smith is inoffensive. He assails no one. His mild figure is tall: his head is large; he has steady eyes, a strong nose, a flowing beard like a goat or a patri- arch, and a coarse mouth of vulgar positive width. His short chin confers a vulpine expression, which should of itself set an ob- servant world on its guard. His manner is obsequious, deprecatory, apologetic, plausi- ble. In conversation he presses the soft pedal, accepts no challenge, resents no insult. Prophet Smith is not troubled by tastes for the fine. Books, pictures, music, the talk of learned men, are naught to him. His sole bliss is to make Mormon money, his single fad is the church, his one joy lies in church advancement through political in- trigues. Politics? When it comes to poli- tics, he can tie knots with his toes you couldn’t untie with your fingers. Prophet Smith has no bad, no morally bitter, habits. He neither smokes like a dragon nor drinks like a fish. Likewise he possesses no humor, owns no aptness of epigram, utters no unusual wisdom. In ail respects he is commonplace—all save one. He is uncommon in his intensity, his genius for concentration. On that business of ad- vancing the church and undermining this nation, he can focus his faculties as through a burning glare. There is nothing of the hero about Prophet Smith—nothing fierce or high. His appe- tites are few and scantily simple. He has no extravagances. Life to him begins and ends with the church. The church is his ambition, his horizon, his hope, his fear, his all. It is his idol; he is its priest. By it he

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Alfred Henry Lewis measures his past and bounds his future. Of it, for it, he sits on his throne of Mor- mon and waits until he or his successor, through the church, shall rule the world. Apostle Smoot, by Mormon grace a sena- tor of these United States, is no such menace of aman as Prophet Smith. Apostle Smoot is the born agent, the congenital tool. He is strong only as what he represents is strong. He is by instinct a transmitter. Receiving a shock or a shove, he can pass it on with forces undiminished. The superb aptitude of Apostle Smoot for the réle of tool is visible to dullest folk. One sees it in his eager spaniel eyes so unblinking to watch a master’s face. One sees it in that expression of alert waiting for a principal’s command. These are the signs and marks and surface traits of Apostle Smoot. He can imitate, Reed Smoot (large and standing portraits) centers of the fight to keep Mormon Roberts, the husband of three wives, was an overwhelming vote. 699 but cannot initiate; he can copy, but cannot compose. Furtive, silent, scant of words, he tells nothing, recommends nothing, does nothing without a command. While a politician, Apostle Smoot is not a big politician. He is shrewd; and in a featherweight way he is savage. Also, he can see in the dark. But it is as a weasel, not as a wolf, that he possesses these char- acteristics. Personally, unbacked by Proph- et Smith and the Mormon Church, he would kill nothing so formidable as a public sheep. At the worst he would confine his small rapacities to sucking public eggs. Like- wise, being of a covert habit, he would hide the shells. It is only as the tool of Prophet Smith that Apostle Smoot becomes a public peril. And yet I would be fair. He has one element of sinister strength- he, like his prin- cipal, is a hypo- crite; and his and Brigham H. Roberts, storm- influence out of national politics. excluded from the House in 1900 by Smoot, a non-polygamous Mormon, was confirmed in his seat by Senate vote in 1907, although the Committee on Privileges had voted to unseat him

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FOO hypocrisy is original, a native gift and not acquired. Considered as a hypocrite, I take off my hat tohim. He has not, as a double- dealer, had his superior since hypocrisy found invention. Not wise, not wide, not deep, not strong, still he possesses talents for duplicity, sneakingly formidable, and not to be gainsaid. Above all—and this is what makes him par excellence the Senate man for Prophet Smith—Apostle Smoot has the dog nature, the nature of him who must be owned. Without Prophet Smith Apostle Smoot would not exist. Prophet Smith has made him, and still makes him, everything he is, has given him, and still gives him, every- thing he has. He, as I’ve said, fits into the prophet’s hand like a tool—the prophet, who uses him, succeeds by him, rewards him. The one is master, the other man. Weakness has been the keynote to the character of Apostle Smoot. Most men win victories by being strong. Apostle Smoot, if what has come to him may be called success, exhibits only in his story the triumph of the weak. A CAT’S-PAW OF MORMONISM In appearance, Apostle Smoot is not im- pressive. He would not command the stran- ger’s eye a second time. He inspires no confidence, excites no respect, attracts no regard. There is nothing about him to in- vite one’s trust. No one in the moment of danger would turn to him. With a great work to do, no one would seek him out. He is the last that would be pitched upon to take the lead in a storm. Of ordinary mind, Apostle Smoot is in all things ordinary. Of no profound men- tality, of talents only so-so, of restricted reading, he has no fame as a thinker, a talker, or one learned. Wanting in stark manhood, weak-kneed of principle with the weakness that is general—not special—in its kind, no one was ever known to mention him for either his courage, his honesty, or his strength. In no wise is he a big man. He is a one-story, one-room man, and every brick in the building of him was laid by Prophet Smith. So far from being Senate timber, he isn’t timber of any kind. What the wiliow is to forest trees, so is he to men. In manner he affects the affable, the friendly, and avoids the sour. Weak, he cannot hurt you. Weak, he fears lest you hurt him. Wherefore he beams, puts out his hand, pretends geniality, scorning no one. The Trail of the Viper There, as I see them, are the portraits of Prophet Smith and Apostle Smoot—the two whom the church sets in the forefront of Mormonism to lead its empire from West to East. One might search throughout a long summer’s day, and never find their superiors for the end in view. POLYGAMY THE KEYSTONE OF THE ARCH Let us take up polygamy, and the reason the Mormon Church so clings to it. Mor- monism is not, when a first fanaticism has subsided, a religion that would address the popular taste. It is a religion of gloom, of bitterness, of fear, of iron hand to punish the recalcitrant. It demands slavish sub- mission on the part of every man. It in- sists upon abjection, self-effacement, a sur- render of individuality on the part of every woman. ‘The man is to work and obey; the woman is to submit and bear children. Each is to be for the church, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, knowing nothing beyond the will of the church. Also, the prophet is to be regarded as the soul and voice of the church. That is the lesson taught by Mormonism. And all—among other mat- ters—to defend itself in the practice of polygamy! One would ask why the Mormons set such extravagant store by that doctrine of many wives. This is the reason: It serves ignobly to mark the church’s members, and sepa- rate and set them apart from hostile Gentile influences. Polygamy shuts against the Mormon the door of a possible Gentile sym- pathy. The Mormon women are beings disgraced among the Gentiles; they must defend polygamy to defend their good re- pute. The children of polygamous mar- riages—like Apostle Smoot—are beings dis- graced among Gentiles; they must defend polygamy to defend their own legitimacy. Thus polygamy acts as a bar to the mem- bers’ escape. It serves as a keystone to the arch of Mormonism. Wherefore, Prophet Smith, his two counselors, and the twelve apostles—the ‘‘Living Constitution ”’—pre- serve polygamy as a means of preserving the church. What the Mormon leaders: privily think and feel and say on this keynote question of polygamy—however they may hide their sentiments behind a mask of lies—may be found in former utterances from the church pulpit, utterances which the church still applauds and endorses and puts into the

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U.S. CONGRESs ° * | a | MORMo! “ Apostle Smoot was accused of treason The charges went before the proper committee, and sub- sequently the Senate . . . How ran the vote? Senators Perkins and Flint, of Califor- nia: Fulton and Mulkey, of Oregon: Ankenw and Piles, of Washington; Heyburn, of Idaho: Clark, of Montana; Warren and Clark, of Wyoming; Nixon, of Nevada; and Suther- land, of Utah, . . . voted to keep Apostle Smoot in his seat ~

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The Trail of the Viper hands of its converts as fast as they are made. Apostle Kimball, speaking in the Tabernacle in the later fifties, said: “I have no wife or child that has any right to rebel against me. If they violate my laws and rebel against me, they will get into trouble just as quickly as though they transgressed the counsels and teachings of Brother Brigham. Does it give a woman a right to sin against me because she is my wife? No; but it is her duty to do my will, as I do the will of my Father and my God. It is the duty of a woman to be obedient to her hus- band; and unless she is, I would not give a damn for all her queenly right and author- ity, nor for her either, if she will quarrel and lie about the work of God and the principles of plurality. If you oppose the spiritual wife doctrine, the patriarchal order, which is of God, that course will corrode you with apos- tasy,and you will go overboard. The princi- ple of plurality of wives never will be done away. Goahead upon the right principle, and God bless you forever and ever, and make you fruitful, that we may fill the mountains and then the earth with righteous inhabi- tants.” That, concerning polygamy and wife- hood,is what the Mormon Church and Proph- et Smith and Apostle Smoot believe and teachand urgeand uphold to-day. Likewise, it is but one among a thousand examples. THE PLIGHT OF THE PLURAL WIFE You note in the words of Preacher Kim- ball the Mormon attitude toward woman. The church sets upon her the stamp of moral and mental degradation. Woman is, as an effect of Mormonism, peculiarly made toretrograde. Instead of being up- lifted, she is beaten down. She must not think; she must not feel; she must not know; she must not love. Her only safety lies in being blind and deaf and dull and senseless toevery better sentiment of womanhood. She is to share a husband with one or two or ten or twenty; she is not to be a wife, but the fragment and the fraction of a wife. The moment she looks upon herself as anything other than a bearer of children, she is lost. Should she rebel—and in her helplessness she does not know how to enter upon practical revolt—she becomes an outcast, a creature of no shelter, no food, no friend, no home. Woman is the basis or, if you will, the source and fountain of a race; woman is a race’s inspiration. And what shall a race be, what shall its children be, withso lowered and befouled an origin? The cornerstone of Mormonism was laid in woman’s blood and woman’s tears. It is only by the year-in- year-out destruction of all which is best in woman that the churchcan hope to saveitself. MAKING A STATE TO DODGE A LAW When the Edmunds law was passed, the Mormons made mendacity take the place of murder—for which latter method of ob- jection the church was at that time all too weak. The church stood facing the federal troops, and so it went about to do by in- direction what before it had approached direct. Prophet Woodruff, the then First President, was conveniently given a ‘“‘reve- lation” that polygamy might be abandoned. The church, through its twelve apostles, none the less kept the Mormon mind in leash. The men were still taught subjec- tion; the women were still told that mother- hood and a plurality of wives were their only sure best stepping-stones in crossing to the heavenly shore, missing or refusing which they might be swept away. In secret, also, the heads of the church, Smith, the present prophet, then one of the apostles, Cluff, the head of the Mormon College, Tanner, chief of the Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Association, and others, continued to take unto themselves plural wives, merely by way of setting the herd an example and to keep the practical fires of polygamy alive. True, these criminals ran risks. They took what Prophet Smith, in his later testi- mony during the Senate trial of Apostle Smoot, called ‘‘the chances of the law.” To lower these risks, and diminish them to a point where they would become no risks, the Mormon Church, under the lead of its bigamous president, saw that its best if not its only security lay in making Utah a state. Once a state, Utah would slip from beneath that iron Edmunds statute. The Mormons would then face nothing more rigorous than their state’s own laws, enforced by judges and juries and sheriffs of their own selection —each a copperhead or mule-Mormon—and jails whereof they themselves would weld the bars and hew the stones and forge the keys. Thereupon, every lying promise and pre- tense of purity was put forward at Washing- ton to bring statehood about. Also, money was not wanting. The politicians in Wash- ington yielded to Mormon money and Mor- mon vows. Utah was made a state. The Mormons with that breathed freer. For

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Alfred Henry Lewis had they not escaped that Edmunds statute, which had been as a sword of Damocles above their polygamous heads? Statehood for Utah a fact accomplished, the Mormon criminals were no longer afraid. The Smiths, the Lymans, the Tanners, and the Clufis were wholly safeand knewit. They might have what wives they would. They had gotten the reins into their own fingers, and felt sure of their careful ability to drive ahead by what roads they would, without an upset. Utah a state, the Mormon Church went into politics openly, deeply, flagrantly. All “good” Mormons PORTRAITS COPYRIGHT BY Eagle Gate, the “gateway of Mormon- Young's private grounds.—A. H. Lund President Joseph Smith. These the Mormon Church, were—and are—taught, as among their first duties to the church, that they must vote as the Mor- mon ‘president and his apostles direct. Every Mormon became and is—not only a Mormon in religion, but a Mormon in politi- cal faith, Thus every Utah office was—and is—filled with a Mormon, or with a Gentile blind and deaf and dumb to Mor- mon iniquities. To-day a biga- mist in Utah has no more to fear from the law than has a gambler in Chicago. As evidencing how safe, not to say how honorable, is polygamy, Prophet Smith, by his own confession, or rather boast, is liv- The third and last article by Alfred Henry Lewis will appear in the May issue. 703 ing openly, notoriously, criminally, with five wives. Those five ribs are, variously, Alice Rich Smith, Edna Lamson Smith, Juliana Lamson Smith (two sisters, these Lamsons), Sarah Richards Smith, and Mary Schwartz Smith. Each of the five has her own house, and the prophet “boards ’round.?’ Prophet Smith is not only a mul- tiplied form of husband, but a multitudinous father. He has forty-three children. The eldest is crowding on toward fifty; the youngest—the finishing touch to the family, so to speak—is but three, having been born when its pro- UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD ism, “formerly the entrance to Brigham (top), J. R. Winder, counselors, and three form the First Presidemcy of and represent the Trinity phetic sire had himself celebrated his seventy-fourth birthday. Twelve of these children were born since Utah became a state and the Mormons, pretending to eschew polygamy, promised to be good. In that dulcet matter of many wives, Prophet Smith is not alone. Thousands of his fellow Mor- mons, proud at once and polyga- mous, keep him open company. Let me close this paper here. In my next and last, I shall make plain the Mormon plan for conquering this country by means of merest dollar-heaping, and show how the church sets traps of gold to catch us by the leg. In it he will show how the Mormon Church plans to force its iniquitous practices upon the whole country by dominating the business and politics of the nation.

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By R. W. Gilman Have you ever imagined how it would feel to spend your last night on earth in a death-cell ? keeper, society ? T was the three hundred and twenty- first day of Hargson’s imprisonment. Before the close of the three hundred and twenty-second he would leave his cell, either to begin a life term in the peni- tentiary or to be strangled at the end of a rope. At the thought of hanging he felt of his throat, rose, and walked to the window. In the south jail-yard “Shanky,” the trusty, under the eye of the sheriff was at work taking up some flowers and shrubs. Now, as it was still a full month till frost, the man at the window wondered a little at the proceeding. Could it be that they were clearing the ground for—his fingers again went to his throat. He must not think of such a thing—he would not. In the upper corner of the window was a spider’s web, he would look at that. It was just as it had been the day before—twenty- three circles, sixteen cross-sections, nine guys. No, there was a fresh gnat in the net. That made fourteen in all, two a day for the past week. His friend was living well, that was clear. The prisoner fancied that he could see a change in his walk; he was less agile than of old. He was in the aldermanic stage. Next he would pass to the retired list. Already he limped; it. was the gout. Here the prisoner saw that the sun was trying to sneak unperceived across the crack in the sill. He could count twenty 704 How would you feel toward your judge, your Here is a story of a man who went through the ordeal before it crossed—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Beaten! beaten! beaten! And he had time enough left to wink his left eye twice and wiggle his great toe once. The day before he had won a thousand dollars and a com- mutation of sentence by betting that he could stick out his tongue seventy times before the clock at the court-house ceased striking four. He had also guessed that his bread for dinner would have a black crust. And the day before that he had played checkers on the crossed shadows which the window grating made on the floor. He had driven all his opponent’s men off the board except three and was spurring down the field with his two kings bent on their swift destruction when a fly came to his enemy’s aid; yet against these odds he had tri- umphed. Now he would tap that loose bar in the door, it made such a solemn sound. He re- membered that once, when walking through a graveyard on a January day, he had struck a headstone with a sycamore stick, and it had given forth the same tone. On that same day he had noticed where a mouse had run through the snow and left the print of its tail. He heard it squeak, too, in a tuft of blue-stem that grew up through

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R. W. . wild rosebush. How good his memory was! Was this mouse living yet, he wondered. If he could only go back to see—but that was long, long ago. He must have been a boy then. The place was probably changed now. Perhaps a house had been built there. Well, if it was a white cottage with a porch in front it was all right. A voice broke the thread of his dreams. He looked out and saw the sheriff coming from the court-house. In his hand he car- ried a long, white, official-looking envelope. With him were two men whom the prisoner knew as persons who frequently acted as deputies. Were they coming to see him? Was the letter his? Yes. Its contents the sheriff conveyed to him in the single word, “to-morrow.” This was as Hargson had requested—that his fate be told him but one day ahead. Two guards began the death-watch bhe- fore his cell. Up and down, back and forth, they walked. They would keep it up all the afternoon and night. Their faces seemed to say, as they eyed their charge in passing, “Poor devil, we would pity you if we dared.”” But the condemned man seemed seized of a jocular mood. Humanity is a paradoxical thing. Prisons give birth to dithyrambics just as palaces mother thren- odies. No one can prognosticate the cause or sequence of a mood. In this case, the prisoner’s hilarity was probably the natural reaction after the long days of suspense. To know his fate, to be lifted out of the region of uncertainty and doubt in which he had lived so long, to be rescued from the fearful oscillation between hope and despair —all this gave joy. The road was dark, but he could see that it was dark. Before, he could not distinguish shades. All had been one vast intermix of color. Now his vision was Clarified. He began to whistle a vaude- ville air; it was the first time he had ven- tured such a thing, but the stones flung the melody back on him so mournfully; it was so new and strange a thing in that place, almost like mirth in a tomb; it had been so long since he had heard his whistle; it was so unlike the whistle of outdoors, that he ceased as abruptly as he had begun. At half-past twelve “Shanky” brought dinner, and it was a most wonderful meal— there was fried fish done to a delicate brown, cabbage ‘still steaming from the pot, white bread with yellow butter, a huge piece of thick, home-made pumpkin-pie, chocolate Gilman 405 cake, coffee with sugar and cream, and a golden bottle by way of postlude. They were good to him, now that they had settled on killing him. He laughed, addressed the trusty as ‘“‘waiter,”’ asked him if they had any “grilled cacklers,” if they were “short on napkins,” and finally tipped the man with the last coin he possessed. His jollity seemed: to grow as he ate. The contents of the bottle were exhilarating. But at last, through sheer lack of things upon which to expend his wit, his mood began to subside. Trying to be merry by oneself is slow work. Exhausted by the unusual exertions and the excitement, he sat down on the edge of his bed. The cold touch of the iron under his hand, the regular tread of the guard in the corridor, the sound of the cook scraping a plate at the kitchen door, brought him back to a realization of his state. True, he was no longer the prey of doubt. The awful alternation between death and life had ceased—that had given him a momentary relief. But now he saw open before him that dreadest thing of all, the grave. The sheriff would come at daybreak, bind his hands, tie a rope about his neck, and drop him through a trap-door. He had seen the final decree of the court himself. There was no mistake; the words, ‘‘ Hanged by the neck till dead,” stood before him in scarlet. But how could it be? It must not be. They had taken the sunlight from him, they had shut him from the green fields—all this was bad, almost unbearable; but now they were going to take what remained. He would not submit. He would find a way to thwart their fell intentions. At mid-afternoon a Sunday-school teacher brought four of her boys to see him. As they moved away he caught the phrase, ‘“Bad man.”’ Was it true? The thought of his sins was a new one. He had occupied his mind but little with such things, but now all the hell-fire sermons down to the days of childhood came back to him. How keen his remembrance was! He could see a little tent in a clearing in the woods. There were women nodding and swaying on the benches; in the straw before the altar was a man in agonizing contest with the devil. Above, on a floor of slabs, the preacher swung his arms as he awarded everlasting flame to the impenitent. Horror! horror! Then, as if the future were not lurid enough, a dry- faced fellow in black cloth came and read to him through the door: ‘The wages of

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706 sin is death”; ‘The way of the transgressor is hard’”’; ‘“‘Harden not your heart”; and finally the story of the last judgment. In conclusion the fellow read, seemingly with a great deal satisfaction, ‘‘Ye were in prison and I visited ye,” but the prisoner found it no comfort. At twilight some one—he knew who, for she hardly seemed earthly—came and asked if there was anything she could do for hin Couldn’t she take a word to his mother, if he had one? Couldn’t she read to him, or sing? Would he have some flowers? And she thrust a bunch of pale blue cosmos through the grate. It was the first real touch of the outer world that had come to him since his imprisonment, almost a year ago. He had cared little for flowers, he had scarcely noticed them when he was among them; but now, how wonderful they were! He was almost afraid to touch them lest he soil their cleanness, yet he grasped them firmly for fear they would fade in his hands. The scent from their petals was sunshine. The damp, moldy breath of the stones was warmed. Soothed, he fell asleep. When he awoke it was deep in the night. The street sounds had hushed. The chill air of the night blew through the grating, and with it came a murmur of maples. At the head of his cell stood a kerosene-l: which sputtered in the draft. About it a couple of brown moths were fluttering. One had fallen into the chimney and was being slowly cooked alive. The prisoner listlessly watched it struggle for a moment, then rose and freed it, but it lay passive on the floor. Its wings were burned. Beside the lamp was the bottle out of which he had drunk at noon. Some one had refilled it while he slept. To relieve the dull, heavy sensation in his head, and the ache of his limbs, he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank. From the jail-yard there came a sound of nailing. He shaded his eyes with his hands and peered out. At first only a hazy, white strip of the Milky Way met his view, but as his eyes became accus- tomed to the dark he saw two upright tim- bers standing blackly against the sky. Be- tween the top of them was a cross-arm, and on this a man was seated with his legs dan- gling on either side. The prisoner returned to the bottle: and when he took it from his mouth, it was empty. Sleep overmastered him, and he fell into dreams. He was a child again, and, clad in scarce An Eye for an Eye a pair of blue knee-pants that fastened onto white buttons on his waist, was starting to school. His mother, as she straightened his collar, at the steps, put an apple into his hand. Clutching it in his fist, he marched out of the yard and into the road. At the turn in the road, he saw his mother still at the door, one hand held up to ward the sun from her eyes, the other grasping her r apron. “Don’t play along the way, Tommie,” he heard her call, and nodded in reply. Near the bridge he had trouble. A flock of geese were gathered at the roadside. Part of them were groping in the mud, making a soft smacking sound as their bills opened and shut; others were nipping at the grass. As he passed, one horrible, huge fellow with watery red eyes came out at him with wings lifted and mouth wide open. He ran in affright, stumbled, and fell, soiling the pink front of his waist and losing his apple. On his return, his mother met him at the gate. At her kiss he awoke. He was a man now, back in his cell, a murderer. At daybreak the sheriff would take him out in the jail-yard and hang him. He had once witnessed a lynching, and the picture of it rose vividly before him—how at the edge of the woods he had met the mob, the prisoner riding in a lumber-wagon with three men as guards, while others armed with guns followed on horseback—how the man had begged at the place of execu- tion, and prayed—how one fellow had climbed the tree with the rope and the crowd had pulled the man into the air, tied the rope to the trunk of the tree, and left him dangling there, kicking his feet, and gasping like a fish out of water. He recalled, too, that he had heard it said that at legal hangings the fall sometimes failed to break the man’s neck. In that case, the man must either be taken up and sent through the trap a second time, or left to be stran- gled to death—this sometimes took ten or fifteen minutes. The horror of death came on him. oozed from his pale, prison-bleached face and stood in drops. He clenched his hands and screamed. At the sound, the guards appeared at the door. They had come to take him to execution! He would not go. He would defend himself. Snatching up the lamp from the floor, he cast it at his assailants. It struck the iron with a crash and broke into a thousand pieces. Part of the wreck fell in the corridor, and part in- Sweat

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R. W. Gilman side. The burner, bent, but with wick still blazing, lay inside. The guards, who had stepped aside as he threw, returned. Then the bottle followed the lamp. Another crash. A second retreat of the guard. He could hear them whispering at the end of the corridor. The sheriff, roused by the clamor, joined them. The prisoner, fully aroused, began further preparations for resistance. He picked up the burning wick and carried it to the center of the room. He seized the blanket from his bed and pinned it across the door; now he could work unobserved. Next, he wrenched his bed from the fastening to the wall, separated the woven-wire bottom from the side rail, and set it against the door. The rail itself he swung a few times to test its usefulness as a weapon. It was too long: the low ceiling prevented a full swing. He tried a leg of the cot. They were of gas- pipe, about eighteen inches long. The dis- carded side-rail he set as a prop against the barricade and, weapon in hand, stood waiting. All was quiet. Outdoors the east was beginning to quicken into day. ‘The pris- oner heard the clock in the court-house tower lazily strike five. A cock crew some- where out of the west; one answered from the east. In the jail-barn there was a sound of flapping wings that ended in a crow which filled all the house. Again, a period of silence. Then the distant rattle of a wagon, mingled with the voice of the driver, broke in. The teamster was singing on his way to work. The noise of the vehicle and singer died away, and another period of silence succeeded. It was broken at last by the voice of the sheriff commanding the prisoner to remove the obstructions. There was no response. The sheriff called a second time, but his command went unanswered. The sheriff consulted with his men. The prisoner could hear their voices, but could not distinguish their words. Their mean- ing was soon apparent. There was a jingle of keys, followed by the sharp click of bolts moving in their sockets. The door ground harshly as it turned on its hinges. A year of dampness had rusted the iron. A minute it stayed as it struck the opposing barricade—a minute of awful pause—then, as the sheriff and his men threw their weight against it, it swung wide back. The bed-rail fell clanging onto the stones. The officers were inside. A 707 muffled thud of iron, and one of the guards sank limply down. Undeterred by the fal! of his deputy (to the sheriff a matter-of course event, something to be expected in the line of his duty), the officer grappled with the man. Amid the litter of glass which crunched under foot—amid the wreckage of the bed—they struggled, the one for his life, the other because it was his business. The county paid him twenty-five hundred dollars a year for such work. He would get about a dollar and a quarter for this job. The prisoner would get—well, the law fixed that. In the struggle the superior strength of the officer began to tell. Long inactivity and scant jail-fare had robbed the prisoner of his power. However, his keenness for life was none the less, his dread of death undiminished. Deprived of the use of his arms, he used his teeth. Ah! The spirit of savagery is never quite dead in us. It flares up always. In the presence of death centuries of culture are spanned back. Knees bent before crucifixes find their an cient use. The biped turns quadruped. Late love-kissing mouths open and reveal carnivorous teeth. Hargson, crowded to the edge of the abyss, turned brute. He used the brute’s weapons. His mouth sought his antago- nist’s cheek. As the sheriff strove to crowd back the face, too unpleasantly near his own, they fell. The prisoner regained the use of his arm. Reaching out, he seized the still-blazing wick of the lamp and thrust it into his assailant’s face. There was a sputtering and hissing sound. Then the guard struck down the lamp-hand, added his strength to his superior’s, and in a trice the prisoner was bound. The cell was filled with wreckage. The sheriff’s face was bleeding. In a pool of blood lay a trampled bunch of flowers. The prisoner saw them, and became quiet. An hour later, as the sun was rising over the waking city and in a thousand homes families were gathered for morning prayers, two men, followed by a third clad in black and holding a wooden cross in his hand, marched a limp, stumbling figure across a bare jail-yard and into a high, board en- closure, above the top of which could bs seen two upright posts with a cross-arm between. And this was nineteen hundred and ten years since a-certain Palestine Jew taught the law of love, in a Christian na- tion, in the state of Missouri.

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Robert W. Chambers By Marguerite Mooers Marshall HEY call him the most popular writer in America. But to those who know him he’s something infinitely more interesting, not to say incredible. For Robert W. Chambers is probably the most modest, least self-con- scious celebrity that ever was said or sung. Some fifteen years he’s lived in New York, writing books about it—and about many other things. What have you ever seen written about him? A New York news- paper once sent a seasoned interviewer to secure his “‘life story.’ The interviewer returned to the office with the laconic announce- ment, ‘He says he’s just a plain, ordinary man— most extraordinary thing I ever heard!” Even more extraordi- SPECIALLY POSED FOR THE COSMOPOLITAN nary is the fact that Mr. Chambers actually believes it. He doesn’t think that there’s any especial distinction in being an artist, a naturalist, an expert in historical research, a connoisseur in old books, old china, and old furniture, and an exceedingly well-liked novelist, all at once. No, you probably didn’t know he was any of these things, except the last. But he is. Up near Central Park is a certain studio- building. Pause in the vestibule, if you will, and note a letter-box labeled “‘ No. 20.”’ That’s all, and it’s no use to press the disconnected bell. Instead, climb many stairs, even to the topmost floor. Again a “20,” on the door opposite the landing, but no name-plate. Another bell-button, another false alarm, for it also is discon- nected. But in the central panel shines a perfectly good brass knocker. Sound it The latest portrait of Robert W. Chambers, author of * The Common Law “

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once, twice, thrice; and if you’ve chosen the right time as well as place, Robert W. Chambers will be bowing before you, like the courteous gentleman he is. For it’s his studio, though he hides,it and, incidentally, himself. He won’t even haye a private telephone in it. There he writes and also paints, and the fine f familiarity with studio life displayed in his serial now being published by the COSMOPOLITAN came to him at first hand. He gets almost petulant, however, when one attempts to draw him out on the subject of his painting, “for I never did any work that amounted to anything,” he insists. Nevertheless he has had pictures accepted by foreign exhibitions, and he studied sev- eral years in Paris. If his pictures have not been shown in this country, it is because he has never sent them to the exhibits, and be- cause, in recent years, he has frankly made writing his business. He still paints for his own pleasure—landscapes, figures, and por- traits—and he has even ‘“‘sculped”’ a bit, though that accomplishment is also waived impatiently aside with the remark, “I should rather have been a sculptor than anything else in the world, but I hadn’t the ability.” Only two of his artistic achievements really arouse him to reminiscent glee. Once a year thirty of the junior members of a certain New York club, all excellent friends, make it a point to dine together. The fea ture of the occasion has always been that each of the thirty should find his place by recog nizing a cartoon of himself, which serves as a gigantic place-card. Mr. Chambers regu- larly draws the thirty cartoons, working entirely from memory, and they are always recognized. He admits that he’s gotten into several scrapes through his fondness for cari- caturing on other less seemly occasions. The second artistic feat which he is proud to relate is that he once did a ceiling fresco. It was in one of his own studios, and he lay in bed and worked with a paint-brush tied to a mahlstick. His brown eyes twinkle over tales like these, for he quite refuses to take himself seriously, even as a literary person. - He is not a man with a mission, and writes, first of all, to please himself, though he naively admits that he is also fortunate in pleasing other people. Prolific as he is, his are no slap-dash methods. He simply “digs” on his historical novels, not only for the facts, but for absolute exactitude in all the local Marguerite Mooers Marshall 709 saddle accouterments, house-furnishings. And he never sits wait- ing for inspiration. He gets up in the morning and goes to his studio to work, fre- quently writing steadily till dinner-time. A critical appraisement of things, at once kindly and thoughtful, is my reading of the expression oftenest seen on his clean-cut features. His eyes seem to say “I wonder?”’ even while his lips assent or dissent more positively. He is neither tall nor short, with good square shoulders and a chin to match them. He has an almost boyish trick of throwing back his head and laughing, but his eyebrows are his most expressive feature. They serveall the purposes of a Frenchman’s shrug, and he should wear motor-glasses when he wishes to conceal his thoughts. He knows and loves New York, for he was born here, and for years nearly all his winters have been spent in town. He be- longs to the Century, Metropolitan, Au- thors’, Triple-Island, and Warrenton clubs. But in the summers another side of him comes uppermost. He won’t let that be taken seriously either, and positively re fuses to pose as the mighty hunter, although he has hunted and fished all over Europe and the eastern half of America. His sum- mer place is in the Adirondacks, and there he is first of all sportsman and naturalist. He is consumed with a desire to write a book that shall be the last word on butterflies, illustrated with plates from his own re- markably complete collection. He also yearns to try out a theory that our native game birds can be raised in captivity. There are folk who think some of his best work is to be found in the nature descrip- tions scattered through his earlier books, such as “‘The Maker of Moons.” But in- deed one of his most remarkable character- istics as a writer is his diversity of produc- tion. With the choice of historical novels, society novels, and sheer whimsical fancies, one is difficult to please if one cannot find something that delights. He has opened still a new field in his tale, “‘The Common Law,”’ now running serially in this magazine, and he is generally admitted to have handled a difficult theme with delicacy and skill. But hevwill lift his conversational eye- brows over even this modest tribute. “‘Only what I can do,” he will say; “not what I would like to do.’’ For remember, Robert W. Chambers is the author who believes himself “just a plain ordinary man.” color, the dress,

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The Philanthropist If you were worth a million how much of it would you give to charity? And what do you think would be your motive—love of humanity or just a plain attempt to salve your conscience? to do with solves the problem in a way—for a millionaire—that is almost human In this story a man with more money than he knows what By Richard Washburn Child A on vr ¢ Illustrated by M. EACH, the butler, cast his final glance upon the table set for a lone diner. Being satisfied, he straightened his old frame and coughed, even as he had been satisfied and coughed day after day for many mechanical years. The heavy cur- tain which screened the view from the front room of the city home was drawn back upon this well-recognized signal; Hallam Brimmer, the master, stepped across the threshold from the gloom behind it. He was, perhaps, more than usually pale. To-night his tall frame stooped a little, and his face had lost its customary inscrutable sternness. He always seemed to be made of material hard as glass, to melt which the greatest heat would be necessary, and Leach had suspected him of using every device to in- crease this impression. “Leach,” said he, with his hand on the chair-back, ‘‘I asked the doctor to dine with me.” “Ves, sir.” The servant flicked the ghost of a bread-crumb from his sleeve. He was an old servant, very evaporated, gray and ca- daverous, and had learned to take liberties of this sort. ‘‘I heard him deliver his regrets to you, sir, before he made his departure.” “The doctor is not very fond of me, Leach.” ‘Not fond of you, sir ?”’ ‘““No.” Brimmer laughed with a twiddle of the fingers; he never laughed with his face. ‘*But, you see, on the other hand, I’m not fond of the doctor. ’’ The servant chuckled automatically at the movement of his master’s fingers; he con- sidered it a part of his wage-earning. And now that his master had seated himself before his cup of steaming hot water, which was served in place of soup, the servant became a machine again, performing the consecutive duties of his task without thought. Indeed the dinner hour, in spite of its activity, was a i iv m Hands,” ete. Leone Bracker time for meditation. Leach, the cold philos opher, could now reflect how like the cup of hot water was his master’s life, one as colorless as the other, flat upon the surface. But, on the contrary, the water was hot, the master cold. Leach’s philosophy, confound | it! never reached any conclusion. Except one. This he knew, that the most satisfactory life, after all, was a life of monotony: the pain is all out of it after twenty or thirty years. And with wage-money accumulating each week against inert old age, to-morrow could do no better than be just like to-day. He re moved the cup which had contained the hot water. And the master seemed content with monotony. Goodness knew he might have variety enough with his money and the time left on his hands, now that he had made hi? fortune and had ceased going to the office. ‘Leach,’ said Brimmer so suddenly that the old servant forgot his reflections, “my old friend, the doctor, is pleased to-night.” He broke bread-crumbs over the table-cover reflectively: perhaps he would tell the nature of this satisfaction: perhaps he had better not goon. He raised his head and stared at the old servant, then nodded. ‘‘ Yes, he has found out that I am incurable. So he says, incurable.” ‘““Incurable, sir?” Brimmer nodded again calmly. ‘‘T’m surprised, sir, and sorry, sir. What can be the matter?” He spoke as if they were lines he had learned from an actor’s prompt- book. His master glanced up quickly, astounded that his announcement had made so small a stir of emotions. ‘“‘Well, Leach,” he said, ‘you and I both have livers.” “*Livers, sir?” “We both have them. We cannot live without them, and yet, if one dreads pain and deformity and is to be afflicted with a liver like

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mine, it would be better not to have a liver—it would be better not to have life.” The servant with his long fingers felt of his sides in alarm as if to be sure that his own liver was in no way unbuckled. ‘“‘Poctor Shackford does Leach,” Brimmer went on. ‘‘He believably brutal in his announcement to me. He laid it on. He described ugly details with my trouble. You become swollen, it seems, hideous to look upon. Every two or three days, as occasion requires, they tap you. If unfortunate you live at least two years.”’ He twiddled his fingers again. The ser vant relaxed his stare in order to chuckle; but this time Brimmer scowled irritably, as if the almost silent laugh with its stealthy coming and going did not please him. “Tt is not very funny,” he said coldly. ‘‘A weak man would blow his own brains out, Shackford may think that of me, but I will deny myself that pleasure.’ ‘“Of course, sir,’’ said Leach. For once he had lost his self-possession. Brimmer noticed it, and found himself enjoying the manifestations of astonishment which ap peared on the old sphinx-like face. “Well, Leach?” said he expectantly. “Well, sir, it’s all very, very astounding. I knew you was ailing, sir, this m: iny a day But I might go so far as to say, sir, [ had no idea— No, sir, s, sir, I’m sure ’'m very sorry!” 3rimmer leaned back in his chair. understand, my man, I’ve got to die?” Again he bent forward, his fingers playing on the table-cloth in the little circle of light from the candles. One might say he wore an expression of expectancy as he scrutinized his not like me, was un my goodness ‘You servant. “Yes, sir,’? replied Leach, chin and eyes as a token of having received ‘I’mvery sorry, dropping his bad news from a superior. sir. The look of expectancy passed away from old Brimmer’s face. He was very still, silent, thoughtful. The cardboard upper lip moved little, but made no noise. Leach gazed steadily at the roses in the centerpiece of the one-man table. He was surprised that he could hear the far-away purr of cab-wheels passing over the asphalt. When the will was read it might possibly be that ‘Leach,” said Brimmer, “‘ know that my relatives are few. There’s my cousin, Mrs. Thorpe, and my niece and nephew. ome to see me occasionally.” I suppose you They ¢ Richard Washburn Child He twiddled his long fingers to express humor once more. “Yes, Leach,” he went on, “they are my heirs—my patient, long-waiting heirs. T hey have been ve ry patient with me. I have kept them waiting. They are all I have. I’ve been thinking of it. But, Leach, you and I have lived together under this roof for more than twenty years. Of course you and yet—there is no one else speak to about this matter, no one else who can say He paused. His fingers had found the fork, and now he half lifted a morsel of food from his plate. “That is, who can have any sincere sentiment. are a servant, “ What word, sir?” ‘Sentiment. ”’ ‘Sentiment, sir?” asked Leach, in sur prise, as if a stranger had suddenly appeared on the opposite side of the table. “Senti ment, sir?” “Good God!” breathed the master. ‘ Take ’ this meat away, Leach. Bring the coffee.’ ‘Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, I never hear that word sentiment, sir, without thought of my daughter, sir. She passed away, sir, two years ago.” ‘Daughter?’ said Brimmer .dully. “1 did not know you had a daughter. ”’ “Beg pardon, you never asked, % Brimmer drew down his fom “Well, some one loved her, didn’t they?” he ejacu lated, with his familiar petulance. He seemed irritated at the thought. “Oh, yes, sir. Me, sir, and her husband, sir.”” Leach was puzzled by the question, so he added, “and little Catherine, sir.” “ And now,”’ said the master, “it is I.’ ‘Yes, sir. Ul bring your fruit at once, sir.” He turned away. The other man buried the misery of his expression in his cold white hands. After a moment he straightened him- self in his chair, pulled down his waistcoat, and blinked at the candles. ‘Leach!”’ he called, “‘ Leach!” “Coming, sir.”’ “Leach, you may serve nothing more. Telephone to Doctor Shac kford. He will be at the Calendar Club. Ask him to come at Two blocks, that’s all.” once. ‘You are not ill, sir?”’ ‘No, no. Telephone to the Calendar Club. Do you understand? Shackford will be din- ing there. Shackford is a bachelor.’ “Veo. sig?” “Oh, Leach.” “Sore

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‘I think to-night we will break a long stretch of monotony.” ‘If you like, sir,”’ answered the servant with wonderment. He turned to go, there fore he did not see that his master’s fingers moved slowly down his waistcoat till they followed the chain to the pocket; and now Hallam Brimmer, licking the dryness from his thin lips, drew forth his watch, and now for the first time in many, many years he opened the back. Some picture was pasted within the timepiece upon which he gazed timidly and with awe. Here was self-indulgence in deed—this treat, this eager looking, this trembling of the fingers, this breach of self denial! “Tt’s far away, long, long ago,”’ said Brim mer aloud and dolefully. ‘It’s so distant!” He indicated space with the emptiness of his “As if it were a part of another man’s life.” Almost involuntarily his fingers pressed upon the watch. The back closed with a snap so loud that it seemed to startle the shadow-figures upon the heavy curtains. ‘Not even Leach,”’ said he, smiling cynically at the bowl of roses. “Did you call, sir?” returning. “No.” ‘ Bring the cigars. stare. asked the servant, answered the man at the table.”’ And Shackford ?” “He’ll be here presently, sir. He asked me, sir, if you were very ill, sir. I told him you were dying, sir, as he very well knew, but not at once, Mr. Brimmer. I told him not at once, begging your pardon.”’ His lean face was expressionless, like a face on an ancient coin. Brimmer turned away from it and said brusquely: “Ask him to come in here. His carriage—I hear him at the door.” The servant slipped out with his soft-footed limp. “By George,’’ whispered the master to him- self, “not even Leach. I’ve got to go, and there’s not one single blessed soul in the whole world who cares two pins!”’ The doctor came in, a bit of the night air at his heels. He was a little man with red cheeks cross-hatched with wrinkles. Briskly nervous in manner he scowled about the room until he had fixed his eyes upon Brimmer, then the narrowed lids spread into a surpris- ing roundness. This formidable stare, well known as a characteristic of the doctor, fully made up in the matter of his dignity for his shortness of stature. “H’m—h’m,” he grunted professionally, not only to call Brimmer’s attention to his The Philanthropist presence, but also to emphasize the profes- sional capacity in which he had come. He evidently intended that the situation should be divested at once of all social flavor. “Well, Hallam, what’s up now, eh?” Brimmer raised his head. The doctor, rubbing his muscular hands together in the manner of his kind, noted that his patient had changed in the three hours of their separation. The cardboard upper lip, which had then been so stiff, so hard, and so illustrative of Brimmer’s cold and selfish character, now trembled slightly. The doctor’s stare wid- ened even farther. “Well, Hallam, what’s the matter? repeated. ‘Shackford,”’ said the host, “do you mind having my man Leach stay in the room? Leach, pass the cigars to the doctor.” He turned toward the doctor again. “I called you first, Shackford, because you are the best man in the country on the subject of my in- sides. Ive heard what you have had to say in regard to ’em, but now I want to talk about emotions, about sentiment, and about love.” The doctor had held his lighted match poised in front of his cigar. Now he blew it out and thrust it in among the cut flowers in the bowl. “About love!” he exclaimed. “You want to speak of love ?”’ “With you and Leach,” nodded Brimmer. “For you are frank enough and hate me enough, heaven knows, and Leach is as cold- blooded as a catfish—as cold-blooded as I am,” he corrected himself. ‘‘ People do not love me.” “M’m—m’m!”’ said the doctor, smiling and shaking his head in negation. He thrust his lower jaw forward. “Personally, Hallam, I think you’re the meanest, cold-bloodedest soul that I ever knew well enough to call by his first name. If it hadn’t been for the memories of the time when we were youngsters—” “Now Leach has lived with me a dog’s age,” Brimmer broke in, glancing toward his servant, “but he has no more affection for me than—”’ “ You have for him,’’ exclaimed the doctor tartly. He fingered his scrubby white beard. Brimmer looked up in surprise. His eyelids narrowed as if he were planning to weigh the matter carefully, but the doctor, reddening a little, with unleashed resentment, hurried on with the words which this long-deferred op- portunity permitted him to say. “Damn you, Brimmer,” he said, leaning forward aggressively, “if you have called ” he

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The physician snorted. “ Love somebody? Why, Brimmer, you haven't even ever loved a woman”

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714 me to tell you this you shall have it! I hate you because you have been so successful without following any of the decent instincts. I hate you because you have labored like a slave for yourself—no one else. And with all your money you do not know how to have a good time. I hate you, Brimmer,”’ he went on incisively, ‘‘ because you have been so free from all vices. I hate you because you have never shown a weakness. I hate you because you are what they call a strong character. Confound you, Brimmer, I hate you for your infernal methodical meanness. I hate you because you keep a file-cabinet up-stairs with all your receipts for household bills for eight years back. I hate you because you take pride in being such a just man. I hate you because you are generous only as a luxury to yourself. And I hate you because if you sent a bunch of roses to a sick woman you would remember it as long as you live. You would pat yourself on the back for it. And I hate you!” The doctor pumped his words, and his neck rose and fell in and out of his collar like a piston. He had treated himself to a festival of indignation. His own large heart hated in large measure those of smaller size, and of all he knew Brimmer’s was surely the smallest. “You do not accuse me of dishonesty, of envy, of idleness,” said Brimmer softly, “ or of several other things.” He smiled. The doctor took his cigar from between his lips. He was at his ease again, or else now feigned to be only partly interested. “No, Hallam, I can’t accuse you of breaking any of the rules of conduct as they are laid down for us. That’s one reason I hate you so.” The man across the table raised his eyes to meet the steady blue stare of his physician, then he turned them toward the butler, who, standing next the wall behind the doctor, had been listening open mouthed and pulling at his waistcoat. “Me, sir?” the servant hastened to exclaim in a quavering voice. “Beg pardon, but | can’t say I hate you in no way, sir. Cer- tainly not, sir. I have no complaint, sir.”’ Brimmer snapped his fingers. Three or four fine paintings hung on the wall: he now inspected each one through the gloom beyond the candles’ light. “Well,” said he finally, “perhaps it is all true. At any rate, it isa peculiar thing how the coming of death shows a lonely man how lonely he is. The coming of death,” he repeated, looking at the doctor. “Did you think you would scare me?” The Philanthropist “No,” sneered the other. “You are a strong character. But I’ve seen the time you Ww 7” proud of your loneliness. You boasted of it, in a way. As for me, give me two es ae workingmen hanging on each other’s necks in a saloon. They’re human! Con- found it, I love humanity—weak, dirty, hoping—the whole tribe of fools and blun. derers. They are human! At the bottom they are like me. I love ’em. They love me— some of ’em. Give me that—humanity!” The patient was now gazing back at the doctor wistfully. “He ran his fingers along the gray hair so smoothly parted over his high white forehead. Then suddenly he stood up, leveling a long forefinger steadily at his companion. “How can I have that, Shackford?” he cried. “I must have some before I go!” “Don’t get excited, Hal,” answered the other. “TI can’t tell you how to get it. The thirst for liquor sometimes comes to men of your age for the first time. But that’s only liquor. It’s easy to get. Love and sym- pathy and pity are different commodities. They constitute what you have called weak- ness. Well, sir, I think you’re right. They are weakening emotions. But I don’t know how you will go to work to acquire them now. That’s something I can’t tell you, Hal.” Brimmer felt behind him for the arm of the chair, into which he settled once more. The servant stepped forward to place the cigars within reach. “Do you know, Ed,” said the master, ad- dressing the doctor above the bend of the servant’s arm, “I had considered all that before I sent for you. You are on the hos- pital staff, aren’t you?” The doctor nodded. “They have wards for charity patients, don’t they?” The doctor scratched the lobe of his ear with one finger-tip. “They have wards for incurables?” asked Brimmer. “Of course,”’ said Shackford. “T didn’t know,” Brimmer went on quickly. “I have avoided going into the confounded places.” He made a movement of his shoulders expressing aversion. “I suppose these incurables lie out in cots, side by side, eh?” He paused. “Poor devils! How do they act? Are they always complaining and gloomy ?” “No,” stolid.” said the doctor. “They are just

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e e h iS “They do not smile under pain? They do not keep happy? They do not laugh?” “Just stolid,” repeated Shackford cheer- fully. ‘Sooner or later they all grow stolid —just stolid.’’ Leach, who had resumed his stand by the wall, made a wry face. “But are their diseases manifest? Do many of them show such deformities” — Brimmer examined his own hands and cast a glance down his own body—‘as you say I will show?” The physician raised his eyebrows. ‘Not many of them,” he said, with a note of pity in his voice. “But you will not have to lie out with the others ina ward. You will not even have to go to a hospital. Stay here, of course.”’ The doctor indicated the ceiling with a gesture. “You do not have to be afraid of a hospital,’’ he sneered. Brimmer smiled. “I’m aware of my privileges, Ed. You must think I have ele- mentary notions.” He leaned forward, his hands spread out on the table-cover. “That is not what I am worrying about. . The point is just the other way. I want to go to the charity ward in your hospital, the ward for incurables—where they are—what did you say ?>—stolid. When I begin to get big, you understand”— he put his hand above his liver— “when I begin to swell, when it be- comes evident I am in real and ghastly diffi- culty—then I want to go there.” “Stuff!” exclaimed Shackford. ‘“ You can’t do that. It would only keep some other real charity case out. And we're crowded now.” “You can put up another building at my expense,” said Brimmer impatiently. “Don’t be a fool, Hal,” returned the doctor in a different tone. “It would be a hell for you. The others would not be in your class. You could not have the comforts. Men might die right next to you. They put screens around ’em, but you can see when they come to take ’em out.” Brimmer shuddered. The doctor saw it. “Of course,” said he, “that’s nonsense— a whim!” He tossed his hand upward to dis- miss the idea. “And besides,” he added, turning quickly in his seat, “what would everybody say? They’d say you were crazy or playing a silly melodrama. Stuff!” Leach nodded his head covertly to show by his reflection in the mirror that he agreed with the doctor, but Brimmer leaned still farther forward over the table. Richard Washburn Child 715 “T’ve thought of that, too,” he said, “and -yet there are only three people who will in- quire forme. They are my heirs, Shackford. They will come here three or four times a year to see how old I’m getting, and Leach will tell them I am out. Leach will tell them the truth. It is a difficulty easily overcome, Doctor.” The other man raised his eyebrows once more. He shifted his feet. He examined the ashes that had fallen on the cover. “Another building?” he asked. “Another building,’’ repeated Brimmer firmly. “Hal,” the doctor said, tossing away his cigar, “we need another building. But what—”’ “Just this,” said Brimmer quickly. “I want to go and lie there among the others, the rank and file—humanity. I want them to see me lying there with them, always smil- ing—always smiling from the beginning to the end—smiling and learning—what was your expression ?>—to love somebody.” The physician snorted. “Love some- body? Why, Brimmer, you haven’t even ever loved a woman.” He grumbled other words in his throat. ' “That’s rather hard on me, Shackford,”’ said the other softly. He felt along his waist- coat till his fingers touched his watch. “But never mind,”’ he went on with firm words, “I will just go there and keep smiling. Perhaps some one of them—” “Stop!” cried the doctor, jumping to his feet. “I'll arrange it for you. Don’t say any more.” “Tfonly one of them—” began Brimmer eagerly. “Stop!” Shackford shouted. “I under- stand you. Don’t goon! Good night.” He hastened around the table to the door. “Good night,” he called. His short-legged steps sounded over the hardwood floors of the hall. “Good night.” Leach coughed, self-consciously, into his rheumatic hand. “I fear I don’t under- stand, sir,” he said. “That is, not perfectly, sir. I fear it will be very disagreeable with so many about, for you who have liked to be alone so well, sir.” “Yes,” said the master, looking up, “ hard for one who is not used to it. But God knows, Leach, as the doctor said, I want to love ’em. I want ’em to love me. I want humanity. Do you know, Leach, what I want? Why, before God, Leach, I want to be weak!”

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LILLIAN M. N. STEVENS, presi- dent of the National W. C. T. U., relates an anecdote about a reception gotten up for her by an Alabama Sun- day-school. “One little piccaninny had_ been taught to recite the line from the Mas- ter: ‘ItisI. Be not afraid.’ “When the little fellow came upon the platform, where he was to do his part, he was ashy with stage fright, but with his small voice trembling and full of tears, he managed to say: “Tain’t nobody but me. git skeared.’”’ Doan’ OHN D. LONG tells rather a good joke about an old friend, now dead, who left behind him the reputation of never having been too tired nor too ill to give or take a joke. “During his last illness, a neighbor, knowing his fondness for brandied peaches, sent over a small jar. <A few days later she called. “My dear Louise,’ said the sick man, ‘how can I ever thank you for those delicious brandied peaches?’ “*T thought you would appreciate them, Alexander,’ returned the caller modestly. “*Ah, yes; ah, yes,’ he assented, with a smile, ‘and how much more I appreciated the spirit in which they were sent.’” ICHARD A. BAL- LINGER, sec- retary of the interior, tells of each one for occasions. JOHN D.

©Ghe Story—Telers Favorite Yarns Eprror’s Notre.—Everybody has a “pet” story, and nearly everybody has been the subject of a laugh-provoking anecdote. men and women especially it: will be discovered that at least one good story, either personal or attached to some one equally prominent, is cherished by In the case of noted In this department we strive to print only the

LONG seem to worry him—in fact, he seemed anxious for more. He was taken to the penitentiary, and just before his term ended I got a letter from him. ‘Do you think,’ he asked anxiously, ‘it will be safe for me to come out?’ ” RANT ALLEN relates that he was sitting one day under the shade of the Sphinx, turning for some petty point of detail to his Baedeker.} A sheik looked at him sadly, and shook his head. “Murray good,” he said in a solemn voice of warning; “‘Baedeker no good. What for you see Baedeker?” “No, no; Baedeker is best,” an- swered Mr. Allen. “Why do you object to Baedeker?”’ The sheik crossed his hands, and looked down on him with the pitying eyes of Islam. ‘ Baedeker bad book,” he repeated; “Murray very, very good. Murray say, ‘Give the sheik half a crown’; Baedeker say, ‘Give the sheik a shilling.’” HENRY GEORGE is credited with an amusing anecdote concerning the recent state election in New York. On his way to vote John A. Dix was introduced to the son of an ald friend. “T am glad to meet you, sir,” said the man who that day was to be elected to the highest office in the Empire State. “T have known your father a good many years, but thisis the first time I

AFTER PHOTO (C) HaBKis & EWING RICHARD A. BALLINGER 716

his first law case, which he had at Kankakee, Illinois. “My shingle had _ been hanging out a good while before any client arrived,” he said. ‘Finally, one came. He was a weak, meek being whom three determined women had married in rapid succes- sion, and he was being tried for bigamy. As all of the wives appeared against him we lost the case, and he got a term of two years, but this did not have had the pleasure of see- ing you. I notice, however, that theson isa better look- ing man than his father.” “Oh, come, Mr. Dix,” replied the young man, “you needn’t try to jolly methat way. Idon’t care how the old man votes; I’m for Stimson and the new Rooseveltism.” “T said,” replied Mr. Dix pleasantly, “that the son is a better looking man than his father, but I didn’t say he had as much sense.”

HENRY GEORGE

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— Wa — ee. S(al GS of Famous People est. We want genuinely funny stories as narrated by or told about o 5 2 ‘J ? Fun living men and women whose names are universally familiar. to pay liberally for those that are found available. famous person ask him for his favorite anecdote, or find out the best one about him, and send it to the Anecdote Editor of the CosMopoLiTaN MAGAZINE. MiSs JANE ADDAMS, the brilliant head of Hull House, said at a luncheon the other day: “We women have still much to fight for. Our battle will be long and diffi- cult. Well, let us frankly admit it. There is nothing to be gained by such rose-colored phrases as William White employed. “William White’s brother had killed a man in cold blood. “Well, William, how about your brother?’ a visitor to the town asked him one day after the trial. “‘Well,’ said William, ‘they’ve put him in jail for a month.’ “*That’s rather a light sentence for a cold-blooded murder,’ said the gentle- man. “Ves, sir,’ William admitted, ‘but at the month’s end they’re going to hang him.’” ATTORN EY-GENERAL WICKER- SHAM was recently describing an unfair law. “The people, under this law,” he said, “are very much in the position of a young Washington attaché. ““ As the attaché was breakfasting the other morning, his servant said to him: “*Vou are out of whiskey, sir. Shall I get a bottle?’ “*Ves, I think you might, James,’ the master replied. ‘It’s your turn.’” HE Arch- bishop of Canterbury is known among his friends as JANE “ a aT GEORGE W —_—— ADDAMS WICKERSHAM If you know a truly We are glad Smiling upon the demure maiden, the bishop lifted the latch and pushed back the gate, but, in spite of its size, it swung so easily that he said, “ You’re such a big little girl that I should think you could yourself have opened so nice a gate as this.” “Oh, I could, sir,” she replied, “but then I should have got my hands all over fresh paint.”’ And then the bishop saw that that was just what had hap- pened to him. SENATOR JAMES GORDON, whose brief service as one of Mississippi's representatives in the upper house of Congress was memorable, was dis- cussing the moral responsibility of the negro recently. “They simply don’t understand, that’s all,” he said. ‘‘When I was a small boy my mother had a woman named Martha who went in and out of the matrimonial state without the slightest regard for the statute-law on the subject. When she tired of one husband she would leave him, and when a soul-mate came along she would marry him out of hand. In this way she acquired six spouses that we knew of. “One day after Martha _ had been away for a week I over- heard this conversation in the next room between my mother and the negress: “Well, Mar- tha, you’ve come back.’ eas: me, Ah’m back. I ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY especially partial to two things, children and jokes, and is rather fond of tell ing the following story against himself: As Bishop of London, he was one day walking in the suburbs of the British capital when he chanced upon a little girl who was standing looking up some- what wistfully at a four- barred gate. ‘Oh, please, sir,” she asked, “will you open this gate for me?”’ lef’ Walter sho’ enuf.’ ““Where have you been?’ “*Ah’ve been down to Jim Fisher’s fo’ de pas’ week.’ “Jim Fisher’s? Why, Martha, I thought Jim Fisher was married. Is he a relative of yours?’ ““*No’m, he ain’t zackly no relation, missy. You see, Jim was my firs’ hus- band, but he ain’t no re- lation.’”’ AFTER PHOTO (c) AM. PRESS ARN JAMES GORDON 44

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The Missionary By Grace G. Wiederseim We sing a hymn in Sunday-school ‘bout heathen far away, Who grow so good and gentle just the minute they can pray— So I began to teach my cat and dog the other day. They weren't a bit like heathen—or I didn't start quite right— Tom spit and scratched at Frou Frou, and she gave him such a bite I had to whip them soundly, and the prayers were stopped that night.

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Next day when I began again they acted worse than ever: I just sat down and cried to think how useless my endeavor. Their praying doesn't help one bit! They'll never be good—never ! I'll waste no time on them, but sail to “Afric’s coral strand ~ With prayer-book and umbrella, and a blessing in each hand For the rows and rows of heathen who will greet me as I land.

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Jack London Prints “the Thunder” NE Sunday a country preacher had raised his audience to a high emotional pitch by an offhand address on the Judgment, a ser- mon which chanced to be delivered during a violent thunder-storm that scribbled cryptic characters on the scroll of the heavens outside, and shook the walls of the church as though the pillars of the earth were toppling. A visitor who chanced to be present was deeply stirred, and took notes of the sermon. After the service he thanked the minister for the powerful address, and asked if he might print it. “Yes,” said the minister, “if you can also print the thunder that accompanied it.” Now Jack London has the faculty of printing “‘the thunder” that accompanies his stories. He flashes the landscape, the action, the whole dramatic spectacle, mak- ing every sense seize upon the setting and the movement. By his flooding vitality, he carries us into the heart of the story, and at, times we almost feel ourselves to be actors in the drama. It was this visualizing quality that first made known to the world the work of this writer out on the rim of the far Pacific. Here is a man who owes little to the schools, but who owes well-nigh everything to his thrilling contact with the red rush of life. The crowds have been his teachers and the good green earth his university. He knows the old primitive loves and hates of man, and he knows how to weave them into stirring romance. London's New Series Readers who have known Jack London’s stories of Alaska will await with pleasure the half-dozen of the same electric en- vironment which he is now preparing for the Cosmoporitan. He plans to de- velop a “tenderfoot” into another ‘“ Burn- ing Daylight,” that superman of his last 720 year’s novel who came to so noble an end. The first story will appear in the June issue. A Searchlight Upon Police Villainies AN officer of one of the Florence Critten- ton Missions once showed me a big account-book that had come into his hands from a certain disreputable house in a great city. It contained the jottings-down of the day’s expenses—rent, meat, bread, liquor, police hush-money. The police were paid as regularly as the bread-maker. In this way the women bought their free- dom from the clutches of the law. And the same thing may be said of many another crooked business. A strong series of articles (the first one will appear in June) will deal with the police departments of our big cities, beginning with New York and including Philadelphia, Chicago, and San Francisco. Mr. Sloane Gordon, a painstaking investigator who is satisfied with nothing less than the facts, is now at work securing material for these revelations. The idea of the series is to tell the last word on police graft and bribery, and show how present laws make them possible. There is scandal in every police force in every important city in America. What is the reason? What is the matter with our police system? Is the fault due to the fact that. unworthy men are put on the force through political pull? Is it due to the fact that there is an alliance between the crim- inal element of society and the criminal element of politics? Is it due to blackmail? Is it due to participation in the fruits of crime? And what is the remedy? How can the police force be taken out of politics? How can it be reorganized? Commissioner Waldo, of New York, had a good suggestion. He proposed a special corps to look after saloons, gambling-houses, immoral resorts. The rest of the police force was to do no more than report the ex- istence of such places. The special corps was to be directly responsible for them.

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ieee The articles by Sloane Gordon will de- scribe the conditions as they are. The evil influence of politics will be shown in “ pull”’ and graft, and also in the alliance of poli- ticians with the criminal element for the protection of vice and crime for pay or for corrupt political service. After the corrup- tion has been proved, remedies will be sug- _gested by competent experts. The attempt will be made to have the articles practical and valuable, both in their information and in their proposals of remedies. We believe that this COSMOPOLITAN series will be one of the great magazine features of the year. What Is the Moral Influence of the Wallingford Stories? AM in receipt of the following earnest letter: GALVESTON, Texas, January 12, 1911. Mr. Epwin MARKHAM, Cosmopolitan Magazine, New York City. My dear Mr. Markham: I have just read your “Shop-Talk” on Walling- ford in the February Cosmopo.itan, and also the story, and am fain to say that I do not think either good, wise, or necessary. I do not mean that as regards the literary aspect of either. Mr. Ches ter’s stories are bright, interesting, and clever, and your talk on Wallingford is a nice piece of special pleading. What I do mean is that the “morale”’ of these stories is distinctly bad for younger people. It is all very well to salve your conscience with the last sentence of your last paragraph, but you know, as well as any of us older men do, that the only impression that will be left on the mind of nine- tenths of the younger readers of the story will be the fact that Wallingford “got away” with a very large sum of money, did so dishonestiy and by mean trickery, and nevertheless was able to do so scot-free from the law. It sees him “smart,” funny, a “good fellow” in the eyes of nearly all with whom he has dealings, versed in the newest slang of the street. It sees him on the velvet side only and is hypnotized by the smoothness and “slickness” of that side. It sees him in prominent magazines, hears him spoken of—and often admiringly—until he and his deeds are living and happy and success- ful entities. Youth has little discrimination and lacks the quality of true analysis; in Wallingford’s successful coups they forget the poor he has robbed, the lies he tells, the utter cowardly meannesses he has perpetrated. Mr. Chester appeared, at one time, to have felt some pricking of conscience on this score and started to make what he intended for, or conceived was reparation, by showing Wal- lingford fallen, beaten at his own game and dis- turbed at the instances of heredity in his child; but evidently he (Mr. Chester) did not let those prickings of conscience interfere when he realized that Wallingford, reformed or conscience-stricken, was not as good paying ‘‘copy” as Wallingford rampant! Even if any magazine could have been found to Edwin Markham 721 have published stories in which Wallingford was a reformed character and engaged alike in both repentance and restitution, it is doubtful if the seamy side of either the velvet or the career would have made impression enough to have erased the feeling engendered by the time when “‘it was all to the velvet”—to quote from the hero in his early days. Even supposing that Mr. Chester and the respectable magazines that publish “ Wallingford” would agree to “show up”’ the despicable character and actions of our tricky friend, do you suppose for one minute that the stories would be read be- yond the first one? Do you suppose that they would efface one small part of the impression made by Wallingford’s ‘successes’? And, if they did make an impression it would be of the character of ' that voiced by a bright young boy of my acquaint- ance when the career of a noted predecessor of ‘ Wallingford was under discussion. ) “Yes, der cops got him at last an’ I guess he'll go up—but gee! didn’t he have a good time while it lasted!” ; I think that every parent and every person who has the upbringing of children or the training of youth will agree with what I have written above. The trend of the stories is vicious, demoralizing, and enervating to the virtues of truthfulness and honesty; asa stimulus to sharp practice, as a means to ‘get rich quick” they are worse than the actual successful (?) careers of some of our noted living financiers, because they are elaborately and skil- fully staged and lighted to capture and dazzle; as a deterrent or a “‘warning to thousands” they are about as ineffective as a “ Beware of Pickpockets!” notice. Publish this letter and see if it does not meet the approval of all whose opinion the CosMOPOLITAN should value. Very truly yours, H. S. Cooper. Art, Like Life, Based on the Moral Law Of course in these Wallingford stories, as in the larger works of fiction, the con- flict of good and evil is set forth before the reader. The only question is, Does the author leave us in the end with a hatred for evil and a love for good? The artistic story-teller must not let his personal likes and dislikes obtrude them- selves into his pages. He is not an attorney for either side: he is a portrayer of the facts of life, plus their emotional signifi- cance. Still he will not portray life faith- fully if he fail to make us see that the moral law is the granite of life. He need not de- liver direct homilies: he needs only to let life speak her stern facts. The day’s events Come with their sermons written on their brows. Suppose the story-teller wishes to drive home the horror of drunkenness, he needs only to depict the drunkard as Jack London

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722 Magazine Shop-Talk does in his “‘ Burning Daylight,” or as Regi- nald Wright Kauffman does in his “‘ House of Bondage.’”’ Then the reader becomes his own preacher. And this is the preacher who always has an attentive audience, the preacher whose words go to the mark. Indirection the Method of the Novelist In one of the great European novels of last year the heroine—hapless, homeless, poverty-beset—a woman of many sorrows and many sins, is left at the close of the book married and in a comfortable house with subsistence assured. Hasty critics have declared that this ending rewards sin with benefits, and indicates the author’s wrong conception of moral values. But, looking at the inner truth of that situation, we realize that the author has left the weak and wretched woman vastly poorer than she ever was before. For she has now cast away the ideal she carried in the old des- perate days, and has sunk to the status of the comfortable cat by the chimney. True, she is sheltered and fed; but she is a dead soul. The fact is, the terrible punishments are not those that happen ¢o us, but those that happen 7m us. The Case of Wallingford If Wallingford is not depicted as a ,pro- gressive moral degenerate (as I think he is depicted) then the Chester stories are both inartistic and unethical—they are not true to life. A story that gives the illusion of life must body forth the moral values. This is the mark of the great writers. Nov- elists like Hugo and Thackeray and George Eliot and Tolstoy so order their events and consequences as to show the momentous fact that there are things that matter, and that matter mightily. But the actors in the great novels do not, any more than in life, always get their deserts. Such balances are struck only in the antiquated Sunday-school tale, where the boy who goes fishing on Sunday is sure to get drowned. Nor does the nov- elist draw his moral and preach the right as in a tract. Mere moralizing is for the pulpit and the rostrum. The first business of a novelist is to tell a story. He gives the event, but (if true to his art) he also suggests the spiritual significance of the event. By indirection he registers his testimony for the whole- some and the sane, for the manly and the moral. David Graham Phillips "THE death of David Graham Phillips leaves forever towerless and only half pillared a many-sided structure of American fiction, a structure planned to express, as Balzac’s ‘““Comédie Humaine” does for France, the whole round of our social and political life. As a fictionist, Phillips was growing yearly inpower. Thenovelist and the preacher were yoked together in his mentality. His novels were ribbed with moral purpose. To him the passing show was a drama, the drama of good and evil. Even in his reform articles, he saw good and evil moving asina spectacle or story. But in all his writing, be it artistic or polemic, we feel the fine personality of the man, the fervor of his conscience, the pu- rity of his spirit. He knew no compromise with cant, with convention, with criminal- ity. So as a resistless conqueror (who will leave the enemy no further foothold for war) he swept the field of his contention as with a withering tide of fire. I keenly felt the moral passion of Phillips in my last talk with him a month before his death. Against the follies and futilities of women he broke a daring lance. Against the waste and want engendered by our haphazard institu- tions, against wrong entrenched and villainy enthroned, he flung his splendid strength. And never was his righteous passion at a brighter edge than when, as a political inves- tigator, he wrote for the CosMOPOLITAN his startling indictment, “The Treason of the Senate.” The New York Evening Post bears this just witness to Phillips and to the effect of his bold arraignment of the lawmakers who are also lawbreakers: He had the distinction of provoking an impas- sioned criticism from the floor of the Senate, and of evoking a speech from the President of the United States. Mr. Phillips’s series of articles, “The Treason of the Senate,” brought Senator Joseph Bailey, of Texas, to his feet, and later car- ried him before an investigating committee in his own state. The same articles brought President Roosevelt to the defense of the Senate, and led him to apply the word “muckraking” to the literature of higher exposure. Through the storm that raged around his head, Mr. Phillips smiled in serene con- fidence that he had published only facts. EpwIn MARKHAM.

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Duow ¥ ww | we NS 6 6GClllUfeke CD Sere Oe Cosmopolitan—Advertising Section WHY MAN OF TODAY IS ONLY 50 PER CENT. EFFICIENT By WALTER OTC ANS AOE) F one were to form an opinion fet from the number of helpful, I is inspiring and informing arti- ae = one sees in the “ong press LOrngeet-a and magazines, the purpose Mone of which is to ‘coniai eo efficiency, he must believe that the entire American Nation is striving for such an end— And this is so. -The American Man because the race is swifter every day: competition is keener and the stronger the man the greater his capacity to win. The stronger the man the stronger his will and brain, and the greater his ability to match wits and win. The greater his con- fidence in himself, the greater the confidence of other people in him: the keener his wit and the clearer his brain. The American Woman because she must be competent to rear and manage the family and home, and take all the thought and responsi- bility from the shoulders of the man, whose present-day business burdens are all that he can carry. Now what are we doing to secure that efficiency? Much mentally, some of us much physically, but what is the trouble? We are not really efficient more than half the time. Half the time blue and worried—all the time nervous—some of the time really inca- pacitated by illness. There is a reason for this—a practical reason, one that has been known to physicians for quite a period and will be known to the entire World ere long. That reason is that the human system does not, and will not, rid itself of all the waste which it accumulates under our present mode of living. No matter how regular we are, the food we eat and the sedentary lives we live (even though we do get some exercise) make it impossible; just as impossible as it is for the grate of a stove to rid itself of clinkers. And the waste does to us exactly what the iN ) ) i / THe COSMOPOLITAN ADVERTISER WALGROVE clinkers do to the stove; make the fire burn low and inefficiently until enough clinkers have accumulated, and then prevent its burn- ing at all. It has been our habit, after this waste has reduced our efficiency about 75 per cent., to drug ourselves; or after we have become 100 per cent. inefficient through illness, send for a physician who attempts to rid us of it in the same way—by drugging. If a clock is not cleaned once in a while it clogs up and stops; the same way with an engine because of the residue which it, itself, accumulates. To clean the clock, you would not put acid on the parts, though you could probably find one that would do the work, nor to clean the engine would you force a cleaner through it that would injure its parts; yet that is the process you employ when you drug the system to rid it of waste. You would clean your clock and engine with a harmless cleanser that Nature has provided, and you can do exactly the same for yourself as I will demonstrate before I conclude. The reason that a physician’s first step in illness is to purge the system is that no medi- cine can take effect nor can the system work properly while the colon (large intestine) is clogged up. If the colon were not clogged up the chances are 10 to 1 that you would not have been ill at all. It may take some time for the clogging process to reach the stage where it produces real illness, but, no matter how long it takes, while it is going on the functions are not work- ing so as to keep us up to “concert pitch.” Our livers are sluggish, we are dull and heavy —slight or severe headaches come on—our sleep does not rest us—in short, we are about 50 per cent. efficient. And if this condition progresses to where real illness develops, it is impossible to tell what form that illness will take, because— 37

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Cosmopolitan—Adv ep rtising g Section The blood is constantly circulating through the colon and, taking up by absorption the poisons in the waste which it contains, it dis- tributes them throughout the system and weakens it so that we are subject to what- ever disease is most prevalent. The nature of the illness depends on our own little weaknesses and what we are the least able to resist. These facts are all scientifically correct in every particular, and it has often surprised me that they are not more generally known and appreciated. All we have to do is to con- sider the treatment that we have received in illness to realize fully how it developed and the methods used to remove it. So you see that not only is accumulated waste directly and constantly pulling down our efficiency by making our blood poor and our intellect dull—our spirits low and our ambi- tions weak, but it is responsible through its weakening and infecting processes for a list of illnesses that if catalogued here would seem almost unbelievable. It is the direct and immediate cause of that very expensive and dangerous complaint— appendicitis. If we can successfully eliminate the waste all our functions work properly and in accord —there are no poisons being taken up. by the blood, so it is pure and imparts strength to every part of the body instead of weak- ness—there is nothing to clog up the sys- tem and make us bilious, dull and nervously fearful. With everything working in perfect accord and without obstruction, our brains are clear, our entire physical being is competent to re- spond quickly to every requirement, and we are 100 per cent. efficient. Now this waste that I speak of cannot be thoroughly removed by drugs, but even if it could the effect of these drugs on the functions is very unnatural, and if continued becomes a periodical necessity. Note the opinions on drugging of two me eminent physicians: ; Prof. Alonzo Clark, M.D., of the New Yor College of Physicians and Surgeons, sa “All of our curative agents are poisons, an aS a consequence, every dose diminishes thi patient’s vitality.” a Prof. Joseph M. Smith, M.D., of the same school, says: ‘‘All medicines which enter circulation poison the blood in the manner as do the poisons that produce dis ease.’ 4 Now, the internal organism can be kept ag” sweet and pure and clean as the external and by the same natural, sane method—bathing, By the proper system warm water can be in troduced so that the colon is perfectly cleanse and kept pure. There is no violence in this process —it) seems to be just as normal and nafttal i washing one’s hands. Physicians are taking it up more widely and @ generally every day, and it seems as though® everyone should be informed thoroughly on a practice which, though so rational and simple,” is revolutionary in its accomplishments. This is rather a delicate subject to write of: exhaustively in the public press, but Chas. 4 3 Tyrrell, M.D., has prepared an interest ng treatise on “The What, The Why, The Way” of the Internal Bath, which he will send with * out cost to anyone addressing him at 13) West 65th Street, New York, and mention= ing that they have read this article in Tm Z COSMOPOLITAN. : Personally, I am enthusiastic on Internal Bathing because I have seen what it has done ~ in illness as well as in health, and I believe that every person who wishes to keep in as near a perfect condition as is humanly poe | sible should at least be informed on this sub-” ject; he will also probably learn something” about himself which he has never known > refer. Tue COSMOPOLITAN ADVERTISER through reading the little book to which I | | | j 7

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70 most ’ " w York , Saystane ns, and, hes they e same ter the = € same ce dis- 7 kept as nal and yathing, be in- leansed cess—it Ural as ely and though ily on a simple, S write of believe p in as ly pos his sub- aa ething known which I Bini RAO NS ec asa ae