Cosmopolitan 1925-07: Vol 79 Iss 1

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| Hest International combined with © he I ide iad iy + anata i sities a : we Stories Mime Vivid New Novel by B Cynthia Features % Stockley Novels

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Jie BATH SOAP _ Enjoy Your Dinner —Tonight! A TER an exhausting day—when you are hot, tired, nerves all frazzled, and appetite doubtful —before you sit down to eat—try the revitalizing tonic of a bath. Read what Dr. Edmund C. Gray, noted authority on natural hygiene says: . « Slip into the tub or under the shower for aminute or two. What a difference then! You’re cool, fatigue has vanished, nerves calm, appetite returns full force, because the fatigue poisons are carried quickly to the lungs, kidneys and skin by the quickened circulation—and thus thrown off.” You feel like a new being —rested, refreshed! Ready for your evening meal. The soothing bath has quickened circulation of the blood and relaxed tired muscles. Fairy Soap is a great aid in stimulating skin activity. Its creamy, penetrating lather as-; sists Nature to throw off fatigue poisons and , waste matter. It helps to regulate the pores! Fairy Soap is an absolutely pure soap, made; especially for the bath. thi SS ES ‘a atogenee® fy Spe ee Sopp sarod Ee i ee oe ip soci SPECIAL OFFER—LUXURY BATH TOWELS FAIRY SOAP DIVISION, Dept. Q, 239 West 30th St., New York City / enclose 3 Fairy Soap carton fronts and....c for which please send me, postage paid, the bath towel which I have oo below with an X in the square. ry Bath Towel, 20 x 38, thick, soft and absorbent. 35c.with 3 Fairy Soap fronts.Worth 6Sc. <Choiceof{ PS. [_1eiier Luxury Bath Towel for the guest room, 25 x 45; Super quality. 65c. with 3 Fairy Soap fronts. Worth $1.25. Choice of border Copter L]ihite Street Address

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Ge~ ““- COSMOPOLITAN @GHe will de- clare he can scarcely wait to get one like it— This . - | ae N O ONE in the world can irritate me so much as O. O. McIntyre. He’s been one of my closest friends for twenty-five years, but in that twenty-five years, I’ve vowed at least fifty times never to speak to him again. Yet I not only speak to him; I welcome his company as I do that of few men. Which sounds paradoxical, I grant. To understand, you must first understand why he irritates. McIntyre not only breaks engagements, he makes engagements intending to break them. If you ask him to go somewhere, or to do some- thing, he'll agree because he’s afraid he’ll hurt your feelings if he refuses. The mere fact that he may throw your dinner party entirely out of line means nothing to him compared with the feeling that if he tells you at first that he doesn’t want to come you'll think he really doesn’t want to come. He will praise a new suit when he knows it fits badly; he will declare that he likes your new hat so well that he scarcely can Hearst’s INTERNATIONAL Combined with JULY 1925 —when he knows he wouldn’t wear one on a bet. eMe—But I Like Him By Ray Long wait to get a duplicate, when he knows he wouldn’t wear one on a bet. You conclude that he is the most insincere of men. And then, just when your anger grows warmest, you realize that, in his own way, he is the most sincere. He knows that his methods cost him misunderstandings, even friendships; but in his heart he means to be kind. He really prefers discomfort, misunderstanding, enmity if necessary, to hurting some one’s feelings. He feels that so. many of us knock when we feel like knocking that for one of us to boost whether he feels like it or not sort of evens the score. That if his peculiarities cause some wounds, they heal more. I’m not sure that he isn’t right. I’m not sure that I’m not too frank, too brusk in saying yes and no, too quick to refuse to be bored. Possibly his fault is a virtue I might copy to advantage. Most of all, I’m inclined to think that there’s a middle ground between us which might be better for both of us. 23

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MODERN FLAPPERS GET FAMILIES OF THEIR OWN

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Beginning A Novel of the African Veld Even More Dramatic Than ‘Ponjola’ "e és - : Tho mkuna ‘Tree UGUST in Africa, that is to say late winter, when the keen dawn is preceded by a wraithy grayness that comes stealing across the veld and entering human habitations like a ghost seek- ing shelter from the coming day. Thus it stole up to and over Spitzkoppies, silvering the sloping thatches of the huts, enveloping the long stoops of the ranch- house with vapory arms, straining through the larkspur curtains that hung at Cathreen Valmond’s open windows, and filling her bedroom with a vague blue gloom. She lay very still in her bed, the sheet drawn taut to her chin, her eyes wide and wistful, star- ing into the shadows. It was that delicious moment when sleepers wakened only to snuggle more luxuriously between the sheets for another dim hour’s dreaming before the kiwis began their cheerful shrieking and the bubble-birds and pigeons made the surrounding bush echo with their calling. But Cathreen, always awake at this hour, stayed so, alert, listening; cold and hungering in the soft warmth of her bed; sensible of other things besides the dawn entering her open windows—the scent, heady yet clean like a husband’s kiss, of clove carnations growing along the garden path, and the sound of a sleeping man’s breathing, regular, tranquil, serene. That sound and that perfume, mingling with curious per- sistence, reached her breast like a sword secretly sharpened. A weight of intolerable heaviness pressed upon her heart. She began to cry, silently, her eyes filling, brimming over, filling again. 26 : r, * we ‘ ee] The dawn always brought her this sorrow for one more night gone without the touch of love’s lips and the clasp of love’s arms. At twenty-seven, to some women at least, nights without love seem singularly bleak, and the feet of time cruelly fleet. It was Kit V almond who slept so serenely in his camp bed on the veranda; Major Kit Valmond, M.C., late Royal Engineers, a strong, handsome, blue-eyed, perfectly healthy, eager, amusing man, at life’s fullnoon. But so was Cathreen his wife healthy, strong and eager; amusing enough for none to guess she had a grief; and sufficiently attractive—some even called her beautiful; at life’s full noon too; though in a woman, that is not so well: especially when it has become a habit to weep alone at dawn. Some slight change in the sounds outside sent the tide of her tears suddenly receding. A break had come in her husband’s even breathing, and she held her own breath to wonder if he had awakened, and whether this was to be the dawn of dawns when after the long break in their love-life, he would come back to her arms. With hope electric in her veins she sprang out noiselessly to the mirror, caught up a comb and the eau de Cologne for hasty obliteration of tears, and almost directly was back again on the pillows, pale and rare like a woman made of moonlight against her dark clouds of hair. But hope is only the heroic form of despair and does not guarantee fulfilment. Nothing happened. Time passed. The room grew lighter. Sounds began in the kitchen. A chopping of wood was heard in the open. Later the scent of wood-smoke Sa Rete ate IER SR RATAN so eB a made tea, a He A gre echoi Th rubbe the p as to stand husbz a dog somet gling fell u passe Im yelpi went thorn it wa pleast more strivi She The «

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5 TIE _ SRP 8a? ST Reba ate Beaten ae ee ene i lllustrations by Walt Louderback ‘| Cynthia Q.Cathreen might by some have been considered a reasonable distraction from worrying natives; but not so did it seem to strike Kit Valmond. made itself known. Jalus the cook boy rattled the cups for early tea, and out on the front veranda Kit Valmond yawned. He was not a lazy man, and no sooner awake than stirring. A great shout for ‘“Dansa!”’ rang through the house, then an echoing answer from the boys’ compound: ‘“‘Jnkos!” [Chief.| There followed presently the rustle of Dansa’s bare feet on the rubberoid floors, and some sarcastic comments in Sindebele as to the proper place for a dressing-gown and slippers to be placed so as to be of best use to their owner. Cathreen did not under- stand Sindebele very well, but she knew every inflection of her husband’s voice. He was a man who rarely struck a servant or a dog, but he took it out of them in humor and sarcastic remark, sometimes in bad language. The boys in the kitchen were gig- gling now at Dansa’s discomfiture, but a silence as of the dead fell upon them a few seconds later, when strong rapid steps passed through the house and the Inkos appeared in the yard. Immediately arose an uproar of barking, rattling of chains and yelping of joy. If the dogs were not fastened up at night they went off hunting buck, returning in the morning covered with thorns and ticks. But Valmond never chained up a dog himself; it was the duty of one of the boys to do that; their master’s pleasure to release them. This naturally made them adore him more than ever, and his wife could hear them now straining and striving to lick his face as he undid them. She lay listening as the clamor of barks and yelps grew fainter. The cavalcade was moving away to the top well. Kit always visited that first thing in the morning, to see how much work the night shift had done. On account of the severe drought raging throughout Rhodesia, farmers had been obliged to start well sinking operations, with boys working day and night, to get water for the relief of the cattle. The moment he reached the well a magpie chattering bro' e out—native voices explanatory, plausible, anxious—but domi- nated immediately by the English voice, pitched rather high, very clear, disdainful, abusive. Better than any in the world Cathreen Valmond loved that voice; it made her quiver now, and turn her face to the wall. But a few minutes later she was smiling him a lazy, “Good morning!” He came in, on the stroke of seven, behind Pansy with the tea, and several cats strolled in after him and took up positions, purring and looking hopefully at the tray. Polo, the half grown great Dane, at once attempted to get on the bed and had to be lugged off. Kit seated himself by his wife’s bedside to pour out her tea and drink his own. This pleasant habit he had estab- lished on her arrival in Rhodesia three months before, and he was a man who clung to his habits, good or bad. He began to relate the state of affairs at the two wells. “Those blighters at the top well have barely got down another foot! It appears that at midnight Makomene had a bit of rock— about the size of sixpence, I expect—fall on him, whereupon he decided to knock off work and come up to die. Then Milk got a smack with another bit and also came up to die. Out of aaa |

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28 . 2 for these expiring heroes, the rest of the shift got drunk on Kafiir beer kindly supplied by some passing lady friends. As they were cheeky as we'l as drunk, I fired the lot.” He poured nimself out another cup of tea, and fondled Polo. He always got a lot of fun out of the natives. So indeed did Cathreen listening to his crisp, racy phrases, and watching him. His were the good looks that at once filled the eye with pleasure, especially the English eye, so typically Anglo-Saxon was he with his clean reddish skin, clear, rather insolent blue gaze, powerful physique and handsome clean-shaven features. His profile would have made for fame on the stage, yet no one could mistake him for an actor, or anything but an outdoor man, bred in some wolds or fells of England. In point of fact, they were Yorkshire Dales whence his ancestry had sprung, and when he was older and heavier and redder, his full-lidded blue eyes a little congested perhaps by the good old English habit ofshearty eating and drinking, his full-lipped, finely cut mouth grown somewhat jowly, he would be a typical sporting old Yorkshire squire, but still handsome and wholesome enough, no doubt, to fill some woman’s eye as he filled Cathreen’s now. it 1. put down his cup, felt in his pocket for his pipe, and with the other hand thoughtfully scratched Polo’s head. Cathreen’s dark-fringed gray eyes regarded him wistfully, her hands clasped behind her head. Lying there with her delicate cameo face, she might by some people have been considered a reasonable dis- traction from worrying natives, and a counter-attraction to cats and dogs. But not so did it seem to strike Kit Valmond. To him, ap- parently, she existed mainly as a listener with whom to discuss the curses of ever-accursed Africa, and all the daily nuisances that crop up and have to be dealt with. Some one too with a witty understanding. But there it seemed her gifts and uses broke off short. Un- fortunate for a woman who not only possessed quite a number of other attributes, but happened to love her husband. But this was the situation she had found on rejoining him after a gap of three years in their married life—a wife who dwelt upon her husband’s hearth but not in his innermost house. And she had faced it ever since, without question or protest; Cathreen Valmond might not be cold, but she was proud. Certainly she knew him to be a man who clung to habits, good or bad, and doubtless that twenty-year-old one of dossing alone beneath the stars had come back to him, sweet as breathing, when he returned to Africa after the war. Yet during their brief honeymoon in 1917 when Long Bertha was pitching her shells about Paris, he had seemed to find something piercingly sweet in his wife’s companionship. And afterwards in London, where she had taken a tiny Chelsea Cottage, his cherishing of every moment of “leave’’ seemed no less intense than hers. But then, in those incredible days, the love relation between men and women had reached a poignant ecstasy never felt before—or since, perhaps. Cathreen remembered a morning when she had, strangely, felt less a wife than a mother whose son was being wrested from her by some relentless monster; and Kit, lingering to the last moment, fostered the illusion by snuggling close to her like a child for shelter, muttering: ‘Don’t want to go back to the bloody war. Sick of it! Want to stay with Cathreen!”’ It was laughter that shook him while she held him close, close, aching with despair, but his blue eves when he drew away had that red suiiused look which is the nearest some men get to tears. Twenty minutes later, he was slinging his suitcase and himself into the waiting taxi with a gay, ‘‘This way to the bloody war!” While she, left behind, drooping and broken agai-st the closed door, listened in agony to the wheels that carried him away, perhaps forever . And now—this! When they parted a few months after the armistice, it had been with the clear understanding that she was to come out to Rho- desia the moment he had fixed up things comfortably enough for her on the farm. But no sooner had he landed at the Cape than he began to find reasons against her rejoining him, ‘“‘yet a while.” His letters were delightful, and he recounted the drawbacks of Africa wittily—but with firmness. The veld was no place for a woman like her, accustomed to the soft things of life. When she protested, he answered by the next mail that she did not realize the monotony of it all—the damphoolishness of nigger servants, the heat, the mosquitoes, the discomforts of a farmhouse that had never been anything but a bachelor’s home. He spoke warningly of snakes; he even mentioned bugs (though Cathreen had never seen sign of either of these hoodoos). His The Umkuna Tree arguments were endless and unfailing, and not one of his letters held a single note of longing. Once she had written desperately—‘The years are fleeting by, dearest; presently we shall both be old, and so little time spent together!’ But it was herself she thought of as growing old. Impossible to connect the cold finger of age with hardy red English Kit, a man who had never lost a tooth, whose clear blue eyes could see for miles, who could lift a young calf or colt like a feather, laugh like a boy, and kiss a dog as if it were a child. At last the question of her coming had been settled by a cir- currstance quite uncontrolled by either of them. A bad specu- lation on the part of Cathreen’s doddering old lawyer resulted in the loss of nearly five of her eight hundred pounds a year, and she hastened to proclaim this an adequate reason for a change. Three hundred a year in post-war England, she wrote, was an impossible income to live on, but on the veld added to his re- sources, it might help to provide some kind of comfort. This being an argument to which Kit had no glib reply, or not glib enough at any rate to stop her in time, she took ship for Africa. Unfortunately she chose the East Coast route to travel by, and, for economy’s sake, one of the smaller boats that spend long spells in small hot ports, and whose cold storage accon modation is not of the best. Between the heat, then, and too long pre- served food, she managed to contract ptomaine and nearly died. As a result, when Kit met her at Beira he hardly recognized the wraith of a woman for the wife who had kissed him good-by at Waterloo three years before. Of course he was all concern immediately, horrified to think how ill she had been, tremendously solicitous to arrange things for her comfort. But sometimes she would catch him staring at her as if she were a stranger. And from the first it was as if they had never shared any relation except this kindly one of a man minding a sick woman—or taking care of his mother. For a while she had not minded it too much. She was really ill and knew that she must go slowly if she meant to get back to the splendid health which she had always enjoyed. But all the time she had been getting better, Kit had been getting further away, putting her more and more into the background of his life. A pleasant and acceptable place for a sister perhaps, but not for a wife—not for Cathreen with quick red blood in her veins and a heart breaking with love for the man she had chosen. ie if ever a man looked the picture of contentment with things as they were, it was Kit Valmond lighting his pipe at his wife’s bedside and laughing as he rose: “If you’re having a woman’s tea-party this morning, my name is walker. I’m off.” “Not really a party. Just Toppy Teviot and Mrs. Keene fs “The Queen Cow!” chuckled Kit. “Coming out for eleven o’clock tea, and Mrs. Venner said she’d walk over and stay for luncheon.” Kit, almost out of the room, halted to ask idly, “Are you going to make a friend of Sheila Venner?” **A friend? Oh! I don’t know.” Cathreen hesitated, but quickly added, ‘I could of that darling little child of hers, though. I’m hoping she’ll bring her.” “She won’t do that,” said Kit decidedly. “Well, I must just see if the car is 0. k. before I dress.” He went away whistling. Cathreen also arose and began to collect her things for the bath. This meant a walk to a hut across the yard which was really no more than open veld from which the bush had been razed for a couple of acres, but stayed clustering beyond the barbed wire fence waiting for an opportunity to get back. She wondered why places in Africa were so much more satis- fying than people. This lovely spot, with its thousand tints of amber, red and green on grass and tree, enfolding a sense of peace and freshness—how much better she liked it than any of those three women coming this morning! Wood-smoke from outdoor fires spiraled against the morning skies, and the voices of the “boys” squatting round them, eating breakfast from three- legged pots, sounded a homely human note. How mild and sweet it all was! The natives, though she did not have to pass very near them, modestly averted their eyes at sight of the In’osikas—the wife of the chief! But after she had closed herself into the bathroom they discussed her freely. Funny people, these white ones— these Makiwa! Constantly washing themseives all over! Strange! they never looked dirty, yet they could mt };: content till they had set apart a hut in which to perform thi, daily washing act; like sacrifice to a god! A hut, only to wash in, if you please! Huts for everything! One to eat in, one to cook in, one to keep food in. Fantastic! Cath one of her fav seeds. sages, | on the yellow Look garden

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Kit was horrified to think how ill Cathreen had been; he hardly recognized the wraith of a woman for the wife he had kissed good-by three years before. Cathreen, back in her bedroom, put on a short serge skirt and one of those smocks she wore in the morning, of larkspur blue, her favorite color, with big pockets for her garden scissors and seeds. By the time she was dressed an appetizing odor of sau- sages, bacon, toast and coffee was floating through the house, and on the front stoop Jalus had laid breakfast, with a big bowl of yellow hunnemania blossoms standing amongst the blue mats. Looking out from between the pillars of the stoop at her garden, at the purple distances of Somibula forest beyond, at the peeping tops of the three little cone-shaped hills, or kopjes, that gave the farm its name, Cathreen sighed. How happy she could be in such a place! If only it made Kit happy to have her here it would seem as though they had the whole earth to them- selves. In no other country had she felt such a sense of exhilarat- ing space, life-giving to the spirit as well as the body. As for the sunshine, she used it like her daily bread. And the trees, the trees, how she loved the trees—full of gay birds, darting, calling, singing. Kit had a passion for ee 7

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knew the names and could imitate the calls of every one, and get answers back from them; but Cathreen loved trees best of all. In the distance some miles away could be seen the tops of an im- mense tree with masses of glossy, dark foliage. This was one of the boundaries that marked the line where Spitz- koppies touched the Venners’ farm, Lark- dale, and a point of Binnie Ronalds’s farm, Kingston. The three farms, each some 20,000 acres in ex- tent, lay side by side, with Spitzkoppies in the middle. The rest of the surrounding country for a radius of many miles consisted of native res- ervation land, with no other white farmers thereabouts. |, RONALDS was a bachelor. The Ven- ners, a married couple with one child, repre- sented one of the trage- dies of the war. Theirs had been one of those ardent wooings and matings of the first year, when the flower of England was spilling its blood to make the pop pies bloom brighter in Flanders fields; and though, as a surgeon, young, vigorous and brilliant, Charles Ven- ner’s chance of seeing the war through was an even one compared to the hundred-to-one chances of an ordinary officer, fate had been cruel, and the war had seen him through in- stead. A German shell on a field hospital, some human wreckage rescued under fire—and that was the end of Doctor Venner’s career. Returned to his wife’s arms a broken and dis- figured man, science had done its not very successful best to rebuild his face, but it is not in the power of scientists to give back to a man his pride of life, and the glory of youth and hope that once beat in his veins. Poor Venner’s spirit was smashed as well as his face. Believing himself to be so unsightly as to make the practise of medicine and surgery impossible, and having, perhaps unfor- tunately, a sufficient private income, he had “chucked” his pro- fession for good. Larkdale, the farm of a fallen Rhodesian, was in the market, and the veld appealing to him as a good place to hide in, he had bought it, and brought out his wife. By a coincidence, the same boat that carried them also brought back the two men whose farms adjoined Larkdale. Kit Valmond and Binnie Ronalds had thus got to know the Venners very well. Both were sorry for and sympathetic with Sheila, but described Venner variously and unflatteringly as a “morose brute” and a “bitter beast.” 30 a eS, G, Cathreen had felt Sheila’s charm; but this was Kit, in his rude and ruddy health, was specially down on what he called Charles Venner’s morbidity, not only in hiding himself away, but in condemning his wife to a similarly unsociable mode of life. “Who the deuce cares that he’s marked up with a few scars?” he remarked impatiently when first speaking of their neighbors to Cathreen. “He got them honorably, when in the act of trying to save human life, and that ought to be enough. It wouldn’t worry me if people didn’t like the look of my face.” Cathreen quite believed it; at the same time she saw the point of view of the disfigured, embittered man too, and thought it not altogether unnatural for a sensitive nature to shrink, under such circumstances, from contact with people. “T don’t agree,” Kit replied curtly. ‘Anyway, by general con- sent people let him alone, and I believe he spends his time beetle collecting. Nice use for a man with a scientific training,” differe he ac amus “oe memlk arat of tw lovel towal a ench baat 3 sausa

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5 different; with the advent of Kit and Binnie she blossomed out like a rose. he added contemptuously, amusement for his wife.” “Her child must be a comfort,” membering the first time she had seen Sheila at the races, driving a rather battered old car, with a small, golden, blue-eyed daughter “but pretty thin in the way of Cathreen had remarked, re- of two beside her. “Africa and the veld have brought them one lovely consolation at least.” To which remark Kit had made no manner of reply. He came in now, looking tremendously strong and fresh and clean, in his silk shirt and white ‘‘bags.”’ “What were you thinking about?” he asked as they moved towards the table and sat down. “T was thinking about trees. What is the name of that big, enchanted-looking one on the boundary line?” “I dunno its native name,” said Kit, carefully inspecting the sausages and bacon, “but it’s a sort of wild plum; bears about every third year—mas- ses of little dark plums like sloes, but not so sour. The natives make a kind of wine with it not a bad imitation of champagne.” Cathreen, pouring coffee, added foamy milk and cream, and murmured half aloud: “T think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.” Some men might have been bored with poetry at breakfast, but nothing concerning na- ture ever bored Kit Valmond. He looked at his wife with one of those intense glances of his that made her realize he had deeps that she had never touched. Strangely enough he was thinking much the same thing of her, but he only said, doling out the last sausage: “T’d give anything if there were real robins in Africa. They’re such homey little chaps.” “Robin would be a lovely name for a little boy,” said Cathreen dreamily, then flushed a deep red. Her secret and passionate desire for a child of her own had been denied to the early days of marriage —and now it seemed she would never have one. She thought that Kit was staring at her, but did not dare make certain by looking, and was thankful to hear a loud and shamelessly unmusical whistling ap- proaching, quite unlike anything done by a tird. “Barney Google” was the favorite air of Binnie Ronalds, and no one could render it more tunelessly. “T bet he’s coming to get a lift to town,”’ “You'll hear that his car has developed engine trouble. Binnie was computed to be one of the richest men in the country because he never spent any money but made a point of using other people’s cars, horses, boys, petrol, wagons and whisky. His cattle were always straying on other men’s land, notably on Spitzkoppies, and he “dipped” them at the Venners’ farm, because to build a dip cost forty pounds and he was too economical to spend on amount. Economical was not exactly the word applied to him in the Bangwelo Club. There they frankly called him not only a miser, but a minesa, from his habit of stating with or without invitation, “Mine’s a whisky!’ The natives also had a name for him, Sitchaunt, meaning “the man who comes round at sundown”; (Continued on page a 3 was Kit’s dry prophecy. ”

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@.Karl H. von Wiegand HAVE seen that queer streak in human nature break out in many disguises. From my box seat as European correspondent I thought Iwas fairly familiar with most of the characters it might assume. But I was mistaken. In Central Europe, and Germany in particular, there is just now a back-to-Adam movement which gives full rein to that queer- ness... This time, however, it is completely undisguised. After witnessing my first scene from the “Return to Nature” play I was forced to admit that here was a social phenomenon quite as sensational and perhaps more important than the revolutions, ultimatums and abdications that scramble the map of Europe. I had heard a casual mention of a certain cult of the nude. I knew there were people in Germany who believed that by dis- carding all clothing and living as near the old Eden ideal as pos- sible they would bring in an era of health and happiness—as well as holiness. That was as far as my knowledge or interest went until one day I happened to be sitting with the usual four o’clock crowd in a café on Vienna’s famous old Ring. The air was blue with smoke. Waiters rushed here and there with huge trays of pastry and cups of coffee stacked high with whipped cream, a Viennese specialty. An orchestra over in the corner was tinkling out the thin, sweet melody of the “Beautiful Blue Danube.” Its leader, a violinist with hair like a corn shock, swept his bow widely. Quite suddenly I noticed the hum of conversation around the table had shut off into silence. The violinist’s bow clattered to the floor. Tie S frangest Cult in the World There, silhouetted against the red velvet curtain before the door, stood a young man, stark naked, a cigaret drooping from one corner of his mouth. After a paralyzed moment the shock-headed musician started the orchestra off again like a man trying to make conversation to hide an embarrassing slip of the tongue. The young man walked the length of the silent, craning room and sat down at the only vacant table. An old lady got up and stalked out indignantly. Sevcral young ones giggled and their escorts flushed and wondered what to do. Everybody started whispering. Two waiters looked wise and put their fingers to their lips as if to warn the crowd not to anger the crazy man. The young fellow smiled, ordered his coffee, and the waiters bustled obediently as though to fill the order. One of them slid a tray of coffee under his nose while the three others pinned his arms from behind. Cooin- something like, ‘Here, here, my boy, we’re not going to hurt you,” they led him to the cloak-room. In a moment policemen came and took the smiling prisoner away. I followed up the case of the bold ex~lorer. In one of the Viennese psychiatric clinics where the specialists can prove almost anyone insane, the patient passed a series of intelligence tests brilliantly. He explained that he was a crusader for Nacktkultur, the cult of the nude. And that he had been entertained in jails and in- sane asylums all the way from London to Rome. Despite his troubles he still believed that in nakedness lay the salvation of the race, and was willing to die for the cause. That was my introduction to Nacktkultur. In a few days I had talked with representatives from every wing of the movement. The wild young cnthusiasts declare there are 3,000,000 persons obsessed with the worship of the nude in Germany alone. The more conservative leaders tell me that half a million would include everybody. Some of the cult stand for nakedness all the time, everywhere, to the very limit allowed by law and climate. Others would restrict it to athletics and sports, particularly in the open air. Many believers also stress vegetarianism, no alcohol and no tobacco. Split up into warring individual clubs and groups as they are, they agree on but one thing. “Mankind, rise up naked and face the sun” is the half mys- tical cry which unites every disciple of the cult of the nude. In these words they challenged the ‘‘old’’ social order with its war, poverty and disease. I choose at random the names of some of the outstanding leagues and clubs as an indication of their character. Among the best known are: “The Saint George League of Master Fidus,” Berlin; ‘The True Alliance for Soaring Life,” with headquarters at Stuttgart, led by Richard Ungewitter, one of the veterans who set the country agape years ago by calmly skiing over mountain and down dale in the snow, naked and complacent; “The Band of Sun Friends” in Munich, where all Nacktkultur has hard pulling be- cause of the conservatism of church and state; ‘“The Up to the Light Circle of Friends,’ headquarters at Chemnitz; “The League of Determined School Reformers,” with battle-ground anywhere and everywhere. The oldest single group is the ‘““German League of Clubs for Life and Health in Conformity with Nature.” Its propaganda sheet is the ‘“‘Nature Doctor” which has a circula- tion of 200,000. —O ese = ors 5 5s 'o Pe et OO Oe CU

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The Story of 3,000,000 People who Believe Man's Salvation Lies in Doing Away with Clothes by Rar! oH. von Wiegand The German League alone has 800 district clubs with a member- ship of around 150,000. It is working to: . Simplify life through a plain diet, abstinence from alcohol and tobacco. . Foster cleanliness by giving skin and lungs a chance to breathe in sunshine through nude life in the open. 3- Rear the young to strength and purity through wise and early ex- planation of sexual matters. 4- Reform housing conditions by building back-to-nature colonies. . Spread the gospel of cure by bath- ing in sun, air and water, with ab- stemious diet, hard work and in- telligent recreation. ~ nN mn Not all of this program has remained mere theory. I have a report of their ac- complishments since July, 1920, showing that Ger- man League members have built 180 com- munity garden colonies; 9,000 model truck gar- dens with play- grounds; 380 fresh air baths with picnic grounds; 15 vacation colonies; 31 steam and sun bath-houses; 800 club libraries where the literature of Nacktkulitur may be found; and 500 institutes for the loan of bathing apparatus and the dissemina- tion of the League’s propaganda for the nude. The self-appointed head of the yeasty heaving mass of three millions is banded together under the imposing name of ‘Working Fellowship of the German Alli- ance of Crusaders for the Light.” Its mission is to direct, to whip into’ shape, and to provide re- @. Master Fidus in his studio near Berlin The Crusaders have leased the natural park around Motzensee, a small lake in the vicinity of Berlin, for a play- ground. There on Christmas Day of 1924 I watched a crowd of the cultists dance the old folk dances and run fleet- footed and sure along the sandy beach. All were naked in the face of a chill east wind. The woods rang with songs and the tinkling of guitars. Roaring camp- fires sent red flames licking up into the icy air. To one side the lake whipped tiny white-crested waves over the sand. Hardy young swimmers took their dives and came up puffing out of the cold water. Others played hand-ball, or ran races, or swayed to the vigorous measures of the ‘“Reigen,” that primitive dance sprung from the soil of old Germany. A motley group—men and women, gray- haired and young alike—they were gathered from every rank of society. It was the older ones who made the losing fight against the cold. The odds were too heavy against them. Girls of high school and college age stood up to the test with all the sponsible representatives for Nackt- @, Adolf Koch, one of the strength of their youth. Solid and muscular they fol- kultur in politics and_ society. leaders of the Nude Cult lowed the panting leader, and it was only with shamed On the shoulders of one Fritz faces that they ran shivering to the fire. H. Thies, president of the The middle-aged followed the old and one by one Crusaders, rests the task of setting the pace for his huddled near the comfort of the blaze and took gratefully to the followers. Thies has spent much of his life in the African protection of their clothes. I shivered in sympathy with them. colonies. One Brunhilde, determined to let no (Continued on page 153) 33

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By IRVIN S. Cobb The Black Duck Illustrations by Dalton Stevens S ARULE strangers who speak together in commonplaces where we may see them while we hear them, do not particularly interest us. But let the condition be such that we overhear what the strangers are saying without being able to see them and at once our attention becomes riveted and our ears are strained. There has to be a reason for this. There has to be a reason for practically all things done mechanically. In this case the reason must be that the in- visibility of the speakers invests them with an attraction per- haps unwarranted by their words—that the sound of their voices sets us to wondering how they appear to the eye, even puts us to the job of building up personalities for them. But in the case of a certain person who now, at this moment, was listening to what passed between two persons under the win- dow of his chair car, there was a special and particular reason. It was a part of his business, a very important part of his business, to listen to what people might be saying. It led to things. So this passenger slid himself down in the seat, bringing his head closer to the netting that was set crosswise in the partly raised window. Evidently these other two were stationed right alongside and beneath him. Above the small clatter of sounds on the station platform just beyond, and the ’scaping of the halted locomotive, the voices rose quite clear and quite distinct. “Oh, Officer Hart,” one was saying. “It is Hart, isn’t it?” “Ves, sir, that’s me,” the second answered. “You know who I am, don’t you?” went on Number 1. “Well, I seen you here at the depot often—your face is familiar enough. But right off I can’t say as I place you.” “My name’s Drake. I own the old Shettler place down the Shore Road.” “Oh, yes, sir, now I place you; Mister T. J. Drake, ain’t it?” “That’s correct. I’ve been looking for you or your partner. We're closing up our place; going back to the city.” “That’s too bad, sir.” “Oh, we’ll be back in the spring; it’s only temporary. We’ve fallen in love with this section.” “Most people do, if they got sense.” “Quite so. I’m waiting now to catch the ten-three into town. My family and the servants went down this afternoon on the 4 ~The girl screamed a piercing five-forty-five. SoI just wanted to ask you to keep your weather eye on my place for the next twenty-four hours or so. There’ll be a couple up tomorrow night sometime that are going to stay on through the winter as caretakers—at least I hope they'll stay. That is to say, the husband will be up here then; I don’t think his wife is due until the next day. Anyhow, he’ll be along on one of the late trains, probably on the one due here at ten- forty-eight. So if you should happen to see lights in the house or see a man around the place, it’s all right.” “T get you. What does this here party look like?” “T’ve never laid eyes on him myself; haven’t seen either of them, in fact. I’m taking them on the recommendation of friends— they worked for them three years over across on Long Island near Oyster Bay. The chap’s name is Jansen—Henry Jansen. All I know about him is that he’s supposed to be a steady, reliable fellow. But you'll pass the word along to the rest of the force that the place will be unoccupied between now and the time when he gets here—will you, please?” “Tt’s just as good as attended to now, sir. Only, I won’t have to do much passin’. There’s only the three of us on the job, policin’ this here village. Me and the day man and the Chief. We could use another man easy but you know yourself how the taxpayers are in a little burg like this.” “Yes. Well, good night and much obliged to you.” “Don’t mention it, sir.” “By the way, do you ever smoke? Here’s a couple of cigars I can recommend.” “Thank you, Mr. Drake. I’ll smoke ’em after a while. We ain’t supposed to do any smokin’ round the streets.” “Good night, then.” “Good night, sir.” S se anna tena Tt oe pall an alll on olka Elen elt wana eo) 3 wt m+ gd? OoOos cc

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scream as the Black Duck, with Mrs. Swazey’s pearls in his grip, flexed to leap and throttle her. There was a scrape of departing footsteps. The occupant of the chair raised his head and peeped out and down beneath the lowered curtain, straining his eyes in the poor light. One of the late speakers had vanished altogether, but through the half-dark he could make out the retreating figure of the other. This one, plainly, must be the policeman. His back was toward the halted train, but the man aboard saw the shape of a uniform cap and the square set of a good broad pair of shoulders. As the cars slid by the station and the engine gathered speed, the name showed for an instant on a signboard fixed against a gable-end and in that flash was read off and mentally card-indexed. So this was Brant Harbor? I HE eavesdropper straightened up, grinning to himself. Technically speaking, and literally too, he was just exactly that— an eavesdropper. Eaves figured in his scheme of things—eaves and dormer-window catches and locks and trap doors, likewise roof gutters and rain pipes. In the vernacular of the police he was a second-story worker. In the jargon of his own fellow crafts- men he was a gun on the prowl. He was one of the best in his line, too, an expert and an acknowledged success. Why he grinned was because of the triple coincidence. This unseen householder being named Drake, which is a name for a male duck, and this town being called Brant, which is the name of a migratory fowl related to the duck family—the brant part of it is—and he who now grinned being the Black Duck. It was funny, when you came to think about it, wasn’t it?—the three of them getting mixed up together that way. Subconsciously, the Black Duck stored the incident away in the back part of his mind for future reference. This town of Brant Harbor—and it mainly a town of wealthy summer resi- dents with only three hick harness bulls to patrol it, and house- keepers going away and leaving their property unguarded for twenty-four hour stretches—this was a situation ordinarily calculated to appeal professionally to the traveler. But at present he had larger concerns in prospect; a much larger town was where he got off. He had an hour or two to put in before he got there; might as well get a little nap. Lightly, like the predatory animal that he was, he slept until the engine slowed for the yards entering New Haven. Instantly then he was awake —to look at him, just one among the run of those who were getting off here—and was gathering up his light overcoat and his plain black suitcase. The Black Duck did not owe his ‘“‘monaker” to any bodily peculiarity. To begin with, there physically was nothing about him to suggest a duck. Nor was he swarthy, having sandy hair and light blue eyes like shallow disks of moss agate that seemed to catch their glancing light from without rather than to derive it from within his skull. His pale but thick eyebrows peaked up into twin tuf.s, lynx-fashion. The mink and the bobcat; these, you would have said, were the chief totems on his ancestral pole. There was an older crook, a cracksman of note, who differed from many crooks in that he was country bred and not city bred. Also his notions of a sporting life differed from those of most of his guild. Instead of spending his leisure and his takings on women or liquor or on drugs or on other rogues’ thimble-rigs—faro or stud-poker or what not—this curious individual preferred a blind in the swamp and a pump-gun, or a camp in the woods handy to dependable bass waters. In his way he even was some- thing of a naturalist; he knew the habits and wiles of the creatures he hunted. And he loved to discourse on the same. ‘a 5

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One night in the back room behind the Sweet Caps Kid’s place this eccentric felt moved to proclaim the merits of the dusky member‘ of the mallard tribe. By his telling, this bird was the wisest and the wariest and the hardiest and therefore the most desirable of all the web-foots. Excepting the wood- duck, it was the only one of the ducks that nested here, there and anywhere; all the rest went to nesting places far north. And the wood-duck, which moved south in the fall, was-so nearly extinct that the govern- ment finally had to put it per- manently on the protected list, whereas the black duck win- tered often where it was hatched, or anyhow near there; and defied ice storms and bliz- zards and hunters and hawks and such-like vermin, and next spring multiplied again and held its own in number. But what mainly glorified it, according to the oldster, was its smartness. It avoided decoys for which its cousin, the green-head, fell. It had sharper eyesight than the teal; keener ears than the pintail, even. He was of the opinion that it could also smell a danger; frequently it behaved as though it did, and suddenly would whirl away from the craftiest ambush and the proximity of the well-hidden, absolutely motion- less gunner. And he was sure that before coming in on the feed- ing beds and the roosting beds at night the flocks sent a lone spy on ahead to look over the ground and then report back to the main bodies waiting out in the bay or the open river. And there were big solitary drakes with great red legs and heads forever on the turn, this way and that, that never ventured within gunshot of anybody while the daylight lasted, and probably died at the last of old age. “That’s Mr. Black Duck,” he said admiringly, ‘and there ain’t none nowhere to match him.” “Then that goes for Gabe here, too,”’ said Jake the Fits, a younger safe-blower, who owed his name among the hard- boiled people to a proneness for epileptic seizures which in in- . opportune times had interfered with the handicraft of its victim. “That’s Gabe Guffey all over—slicker than snake-spit and likin’ to do his prowlin’ by hisse’f, winner take all.” And the senior yeggman and the company present—pick- pockets, sneak-thieves and lesser gentry included—agreed that it was so and from that hour Guffey the Lone Hand was Guffey the Black Duck. He was set down in the Gallery at Head- quarters by both names and by sundry others. But the flattering title which Jake the Fits had given him that night was the one which he, personally, liked. He took the black duck as his token and his charm. It became a part of his superstition and to him was a small secret fetish. Once he made a private excursion up to the Museum of Natural History to look at one that was mounted—a full-necked specimen in a glass cabinet, whose aspect he did not thereafter forget. To him the thing was no joke, no laughing matter. It was serious. It gave him luck in his undertakings. It ought to give him luck in the present one. Climbing off at New Haven he thought back on the coincidence and called it a favorable sign. As “George H. Gill, Newark, N. J.,”’ he booked at a second- rate hotel on a side street. Mr. Gill was a traveling salesman. He took care the clerk on duty should remember that; he men- tioned it while he was registering and again a moment later when he asked if there were special rates for traveling-men. This trip he was checking up on a crew of canvassers who'd been out in this section for his firm, which was Reis Brothers, notions and novelties. Mr. Gill was satisfied with a two-dollar room. There, very comfortably, he spent the night. On the following morning after breakfast he again approached the clerk’s desk, where a different man stood watch. “Gill’s the name,” he said. “TI’ll be scouting out today and I may not get back tonight. I don’t know yet how far I’ve got to go. I may not get back until sometime tomorrow. But I don’t want 36 to check out, understand? I want to hold my room—it’s 408—until further notice. I’m leav- ing my grip up there and just taking along a tooth-brush anda clean collar in case—get me?” On that he walked forth, his overcoat over his arm. At the door two cabmen hailed him but he shook his head. His connec- tion with this hotel was fixed now to endure, probably without misgivings on the part of anyone, for at least thirty-six hours, perhaps for longer than that. Even so, there must be a complete break in any chain of sequential identification which conceivably would later be linked up. He was perfectly willing, did suspicion arise later in this quarter, that search should be made for a vanished person calling himself Gill and answering to a certain description; that contingency, by diverting the hunt along confused ways, would give him more time should he need it. First, though, the trail must be twisted; a blind end to it provided. So HE turned the first corner to the south, the next one to the east and, for a flat rate, hired a cruising taxicab driven by a stupid-looking negro youth—purposely he chose that youth for his looks—and was driven to a spot in the lower outskirts of New Haven. There he paid off the negro, adding a modest tip to the amount of the fare, tarried until the car had turned back toward the city and disappeared, and then stepping along briskly, he proceeded for a mile along a sparsely settled suburban street, to a small, dingy, tavern-like building advertising itself as an inn. Approaching this building, he noted that the premises seemed deserted. This did not surprise him. Any casual road-house was likely to be quiet at this hour in the forenoon; notably this road-house would be quiet, it being a way-station on a rum- running route and its manager a silent partner in that and other illicit enterprises. Night time would be its time for waking up. At the back, behind a garage, he entered a disused barn, un- doing its padlocked door with a key from his pocket. Within stood a plain automobile of a familiar make—one of the most familiar of all makes—painted black and bearing Massachusetts license plates. There were spatterings of dried mud on the plates. With another key he unlocked the car. From a feed bin in a corner he lifted out an imitation-leather valise and opened it. Along with various lesser contents it yielded to him a suit of a rougher and cheaper texture than the one he stood in, a soft cap, a pair of dusty unpolished tan shoes, a soft-collared, dark blue working shirt and a set of blue jeans overalls showing signs of hard wear. These garments he exchanged for those he had on, stuffing his into cert but muc nail. clais a p brez mac said spec pocl mig the mad aris stab alon

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When the pursuer was almost upon him, the Black Duck gave the wheel an abrupt turn—and heard a crash. his discarded gear into the valise, then tossing the valise back into the rear seat of the automobile. With it there he placed certain other articles which the oat-bin gave up to him—a small but dependable flashlight shaped like a fountain-pen and not much larger than one, a long-handled hammer, small sharp wire nails in paper containers, a heavy sheaf of printed tin signs pro- claiming in stamped block letters of white on red the merits of a popular brand of smoking tobacco. He made sure that the breast pocket of his overalls contained a set of forged credentials made out in the name of Gustave Golightly and certifying the said Golightly to be a representative of such-and-such a company, specializing in outdoor advertising. He made sure also that neither this pocket nor any other pocket of his harbored any object—letter, trinket or card—which might serve even remotely to bond him, in his present réle, with the late George Gill. Gill’s wardrobe might subsequently be made use of, provided the necessity of switching disguises should arise. That mainly was why he was taking it along. Presently, in his new embodiment, he backed the car out of the stable, straightened it about and was off, traveling southward along a road running with the Boston Post Road. He stopped frequently to fit nails into the perforations of his tin signs and then to fasten them against wayside tree trunks or against fence posts, as the case might be. At noontime, keeping in character, he lunched on frankfurters and pop at a hot doggery. Through the mild October afternoon, still posting advertisements, he moved southward. But about half past five o’clock he swung eastward and shortly was traversing a shaded avenue running toward the Sound. Just before dusk he turned his car into a dirt lane leading back in through a considerable area of unfenced virgin timber. Where he finally halted it, faced about behind a thicket of sumach and briar and saplings, it was not to be seen by anyone passing along the road, yet a hard twist of the steering-wheel to the left almost instantly would bring it back into the tire ruts. Twilight was gathering in swiftly by now. The Black Duck bided on, though, until the darkness had settled down, completely hiding the bulk of his car. Then, having possessed himself of his little flash, he made off to the right through the bushes, stepping briskly in the manner of one negotiating a path with which his feet are quite familiar. Almost immediately he was squatted (Continued on page 171) 37

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(Belle Livingstone dressed for the races in Paris, and (right) in the famous princess gown. HE good ship St. Louis steamed up Southampton Water on Derby Day. That same night found me and my luggage in an antiquated four- wheeler, behind a still more aged horse, crawling across London to a little hotel off Cavendish Square— now called the Dysart, but then run by three Irish old maids—which had been recommended to me as a good place for a young woman traveling alone. Before leaving New York I had determined that, with my $150,000 to help me, I would extract every fraction of a good time that it was possible to have in London. To this end I secured a few letters of introduction to people who could aid me. The first of those I addressed who called was a Mr. Thomas Asten, the head of the American Tobacco Company in England, to whom I had been given a letter by Mr. Duke, the tobacco king. Mr. Asten’s immaculate frock coat, shining top-hat and gold- headed cane were in strange contrast to the simple sitting-room in which I received him, under the careful chaperonage of one of the old maids. Although I was twenty years old, I looked much younger, and I was amused to watch his impression, which plainly showed that he did not quite know what to do with so much youth. At last he ventured to ask me if I would like to go to Earl’s Court, and he added, “‘We can also dine there.”’ I did not know or care what or where Earl’s Court was, and I quickly answered “Yes.” My part in the whole conversation, in fact, was limited to saying “Yes,” and I went on yes-ing while we were in the hansom and even after we arrived. Earl’s Court was then the annual exhibition center of London —a kind of unglorified Coney Island. After we had played about for an hour or more, poor Mr. Asten asked me if I would like a nice cool drink. At last, I thought, the poor man was waking up, and the thought of a glass of sparkling champagne made me “Yes” in real earnest, so we went to what was called the Welcome Club. 38 The . ea By of The Autobiography of “The Most Dangerous After finding an obscure corner, Mr. Asten carefully hid me in it —much to my surprise. Giving me a chair and his hat another, my host sat down himself and respectfully asked me if I would like—some ginger beer. : The question, hung on an interrogation point, put an end to my yes-ing and, leaning over, I told him to take another look and say if I really looked like ginger beer. This little speech brought the first glad look I had seen in his face that afternoon. He immediately called the waiter to give us a table in the center, and as if by magic three friends appeared from nowhere and joined us; and we had one of the merriest evenings I ever remember. That party was the beginning of five friend- ships that have lasted for many years. One of those present, Harry Hobson, became a general during the war. Tom Asten was the first man to propose marriage to me in Europe, but I had fortunately learned in New York the gentle art of sending a suitor away happier than if I had accepted him, which enabled him to be still en- joying today both his old age and his well- deserved fortune. In the interval since Ready for a ride, in the days when admirers sent around a victoria instead of a bouquet.

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Belle Livingstone My LIFE the Woman They (Called Woman in Europe” then he has been best man at one of my weddings and godfather to one of my children. In the week after our first meeting, I asked my new friends to meet Edna May and her sister and Edna Powers. (Edna May was then taking all London by storm in “The Belle of New York.”) The luncheon was given at Prince’s. On the follow- ing Sunday I was invited to tea at Edna May’s lovely little house in Regent’s Park. She was then the rage, as I have said, and all the smart world of London was angling for an invitation to her house. To be summoned by this stage queen made me eligible for all bohemian court functions in London, and henceforward my pathway in London was “roses, roses all the way.” My humble hotel soon seemed too modest for the social whirl in which I now found myself, and I secured an ideal ground floor apartment in the Walsingham Hotel, in the heart of the West End of London, where the Hotel Ritz now stands. These rooms were the scene of numberless happy in- formal gatherings, and never before or since have I seen such disinterested generosity. % QIn the famous Paris Exhibition '‘prize dress’’ that was celebrated with a unique dinner. h, @.When she won $20,000 with an $8 bet at Monte Carlo, and (left) when she fist “hit”? New York. The presents I received were too wonderful for words. This was not because I was amusing, and beauty I had none, but simply because in those days it was the fashion for men to be generous and because, thanks to the unprecedented success of “The Belle of New York,’ American women were popular in London. My flesh was endowed with all the human affections of a real woman, but I was too full of fun to be regarded as any great temptation by the many men around me. I continued, therefore, to warm my heart over all the different flames without even scorching it. My admirers insisted that I sort of syndicated my smiles, as it were. Why shouldn’t they, I retorted, in future syndicate their gifts to me? Before the week was out I received an invitation, signed by ten of the world’s most influential financiers and mining men, of which London was full at that moment, asking me to dine with them at Willis’s Rooms. The West Australian boom was on, and these men were all interested in it. Nearly all of them— for the moment, at any rate—were millionaires. Among them were Whitaker Wright, who financed the London tubes, until the London Stock Exchange went gunning for him and brought him down. His collapse culminated with a sentence of penal servitude, which he escaped by committing suicide in the precincts of the court—with the aid of a cigar which had prussic acid concealed in its tip. Others were Yerkes, Whitaker Wright’s associate in the tube undertaking; Frank Gardner, whose photograph was then being published as that of one of the seven richest men in the world; Horatio Bottomley, who owned a large proportion of the brains at the back of the West Australian boom, and who eventually promoted himself into penal servitude; John Hays Hammond, the king of mining engineers, whose income was enormous. I had made the acquaintance of all these wealthy men after my arrival in London, and most of them were frequent visitors to my apartment in the Walsingham Hotel, largely because it was so conveniently arranged. It had (Continued on page 214) 3

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Hermann B. Deutsch Illustrations by Dean Cornwell LL of Louisiana is a maze of tiny waterways, from Bayou d’Arbonne in the red clay hills of the north to Bayou Queue de Tortue—Turtletail Bayou—which drains the level Calcasieu rice-fields across the far-flung Mermentau marshes into the Gulf. Between these two, and on all sides, are bayous without number. But when, in Louisiana, you speak of “the” Bayou, you mean Bayou Lafourche, which: wanders out of the shadows of Papa Mississippi’s levees, crosses the famous sugar-bowl country, and finally loses itself through Pass Fourchon among the tide marsh islands that rim the great Gulf on the north. It is all one pleasant village street, that Bayou. For more than eighty miles, house is set down alongside of house, plantation along plantation, on both the Bayou’s banks; with here and there, like whorls of buds set at intervals along a very slender twig, the clustered little brusles or villages. Hence they are all neighbors who dwell along ‘‘the” Bayou, and most of them are blood rela- tives, one way or another. ‘‘Jacque’s cousin’s boy, he’s marry a sister-in-law of my wife, him,” Jean will explain carefully in court, when called for jury service in a case involving Jacque’s grand-uncle by marriage. About midway of the Bayou you will find the church of Father René Latannier. Father René Latannier is an old priest, and very wise. The Bayou folk of his parish all but worship him; he has made smooth and plain the stony path of life for many and many a couple. When trouble visits a home along the Bayou, there is no talk of technical infidelity or attorneys. by is, instead, a visit to the jasmine-clouded garden that The an eA Story from the surrounds Father Latannier’s rectory, and then there is a home restored. That is why, when it seemed that the happiness of Octave Planchet must suffer bitter blight, he turned straight to Father René Latannier. But it was Octave, and not the good priest, who solved that problem after all. Octave Planchet was one of those individuals who seem to be born to solitude. An only child, orphaned when he was but a few years old, he had flocked by himself at school, and had been well content in his detachment. He preserved this isolation as he grew up, and though his very reluctance to mingle with his fellows was enough, along the neighborly Bayou, to set him apart as something strange, no one ever thought of him as remarkable on that account. The Bayou folk among whom he lived simply learned to dis- regard him, and the quite natural consequence was a general idea that he did not matter in the least. Octave, keeping his own coun- sel, was wholly untouched by this point of view. He was busy and contented, and what went on in the world about him troubled him not at all. He tilled the fields of his truck garden industriously; no fields along the Bayou were better tended. He hunted and fished, roaming the bayous and swamps alone, when the fields did not Ls claim boast | But consec the su have | perhay him a Oct into a even count did ni possi A. farm, unto where subje Carn raisec

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5 ila 3 G,"‘If I had not come to love Octave, father,’ ’ said Adorée, gg iil — = i **the deceit would not trouble me at all.’’ Who Did Nor Matter Louisiana Bayous claim his time; the whole length of Bayou Lafourche did not boast a keener woodsman or a truer shot than Octave Planchet. But in the eyes of his neighbors he was simply a person of no consequence. The Bayou folk did not concern themselves with the superman tradition. Otherwise, unquestionably, they would have regarded Octave as directly the opposite—as an inframan, perhaps; that is, if they had taken the trouble to think about him at all. Octave had gone through school without ever being forced into a fight. Now that he had reached man’s estate, no one, even in the fiercest political campaigns where every ballot counted, ever asked him how he was going to vote. It simply did not occur to anyone that anything Octave might do could possibly be of interest or importance. Aw so when Octave, who was prospering well with his truck farm, his pigs and his poultry, discovered that he wished to take unto himself a wife, the Bayou showed no signs of interest; whereas ordinarily the mating of the younglings is the principal subject of the gossip of the elders.. Though it was to Adorée Carnouille, one of the reigning belles of the Bayou, that Octave raised his eyes, there was no comment. Of course Octave’s wooing was not an obtrusive affair. It was never he who purchased two tickets for the Saturday night movie at the brusle and piloted Adorée to a seat in the theater’s resinous darkness. It was never he who brought Adorée in state to the Bayou dances. But during the hunting season the Carnouille table never lacked a brace of fat mallards, or enough quail and doves for a tooth- some pie. Sometimes there were a dozen grasset—literally trans- lated, ‘“‘fatties’—stuffed to bursting with the scarlet magnolia seeds they had eaten. At other times it was a haunch of young venison, or perhaps a string of freshly caught green trout or sac-d-lait. And whenever Octave took a boatload of thumping big watermelons or highly polished purple eggplants through the canals and across Lake Salvadore to New Orleans, he never re- turned without bringing for Adorée the finest box of candy to be purchased in the Old Town, or perhaps a carved ivory comb from one of the antique shops in the French Quarter, or some such trifle. These gifts Adorée accepted with the impersonal good nature with which she would receive the tail-thumping, frisking homage of her collie. Through friendless orphaned boyhood and solitary youth, Octave had grown up in ignorance of the ways of the world with a maid. Ever had the girls passed by Octave, unseeing and un- seen. And as so. negative a quantity did the voisins regard him, that along the Bayou, where everybody knows everyone else, there were no sly, leering glances or whispered comments upon Octave’s celibacy. Not even upon the night when Octave came 41

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in solitary state to the first—and only—dance he ever attended, did the Bayou take note. There had been a great political rally at Brusle d’Hemicourt that afternoon. Three candidates for sheriff, two for clerk of court, and even one seeking reelection to the State senate had delivered addresses, fiery or funny, as was the wont of the orators. There had been two barbecued sheep and a huge wash-boiler full of fish and oyster jambalaya after the ‘speaking,’ and from ay AMA wh G,''You heard all—everything?”’ said Adorée. She was mysterious sources appeared jugs of home-made wine, so that there was a great feast in the gathering purple dusk beneath the hairy live oaks and the giant pecans by the Bayou bank. Octave moved about through the crowd, keeping to himself; a quiet and very contented figure. Upon the still night air broke the premonitory and slightly tubercular cough of the portable electric light machine which was to furnish illumination for the bare and sticky dance hall

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te ae we frightened—so terribly frightened. ‘I heard only,”’ said Octave hi of unseasoned pine. Yellow radiance from unshuttered windows streamed out into the purple night, and all the brusle folk strolled indoors to see the opening of that great dance, with a five-piece orchestra of negroes brought all the way from Thibo- deaux to furnish the music. Adorée and the candidate for the State senate led the grand march; but when the march swung into a correct trot, the candi- date surrendered her readily to a lissome youth, ’Polyte Tass Bi ais a : ee eee a ® skily, ‘that you did love me.’’ whose hair was sleekly pomaded and whose body seemed to have far more joints than nature vouchsafed to ordinary mortals. That, at least, was Octave’s thought. Octave, of course, did not dance. It looked rather grotesque to him, and when Adorée and ’Polyte glided by him to a slurring waltz tune, cheek parked to cheek and eyes half closed, he was conscious of a hammering pulse in his temples. Contentment fled him utterly, yet he (Continued on page er 4

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lilustrations by T. E. Powers Soft Hats,

lawing, Qf Mansfield ever ac- age a neck-ache, it was ry looking down—not up. SALVINI, HIS was told to me by Booth Tarking- ton. He had written “Monsieur Beau- caire.” It had been dramatized and Richard Mansfield was playingit in New York. “Tark” went on to see the play and was invited by Mansfield to attend a dinner at which sev- eral notables were present. Not the conventional ‘prom- inent citizens,” but real head- liners. Among the whales were Grover Cleveland, Wil- liam C. Whitney, Pierpont Morgan and Joseph Jefferson. Mansfield and Tark rode home together after the din- ner. Tark said to Mansfield, “T am very grateful to you for giving me an opportunity to meet all those distinguished men.” The imperious Mansfield turned on poor Tark and drenched him with sarcasm. ‘Do you think I have done you a favor?” he demanded. “Did you permit yourself to become awe-stricken in the presence of those celebrities? Didn’t you feel, all during dinner, that you were the biggest man at the table?” Tarkington has always been modest and self-effacing and he was even more so years ago, having so recently come into litera- ture from Indiana, by way of Princeton. “Well, to tell you the truth, I—I didn’t,” he replied. “Then I am disappointed in you,” said Mansfield, and the great actor gave the abashed young author a scathing lecture on hero-worship and being deceived by labels. If Mansfield ever acquired a neck-ache it was by looking down at Irving, Coquelin and Salvini. It is not on record that he ever looked up at anyone. It you are not a Mansfield, having been born with a plume in your ego, you are bound to have a case of the trembles when you find yourself in the immediate presence of a title. No matter how often you have played poker with a man, you have a hesitancy about slapping him on the back after he has been elected to Congress. And the quickest transfiguration on record occurs when an ordinary every-day lawyer is politically endowed with the aureole of “Judge.” In all of the autobiographies which I have been devouring recently, the authors do not try to conceal the fact that they have hobnobbed with the high and mighty. Example 1: “The President asked me to call at the White House and when I arrived he dismissed all other callers. He came toward me, smiling, with his hand extended and said, ‘Well, as I live and breathe,’ ” et cetera, et cetera. Example 2: ‘Just before the curtain rang up, I learned that Mme. Bernhardt was in a stage box. “Naturally I was ner- ‘Whu! As J Live , AND BREATHE!!* ee: ; that my performance was not up to mark, but after the first act the Madame stood up in the box and applauded for five min- utes and after the per- formance she came to my dressing-room and wept on my shoulder,” et cetera, et cetera. That’s the kind of copy I want to turn out when taking liberties with the capital “I,” and I will do so if I can recall the name of some one really eminent vous and it seemed to me ee

| HIT| }] Hi | (| ee

G. ‘The President asked me to come to the White House.” 44

igh who became at all excited over me. Once I rode across the prairie to a political rally, seated along- side Benjamin Harrison, who was elected President of the United States later on. I was ten years old. Mr; Harrison was short in stature, but he had a towering dignity. Also he wore gloves, and anyone who wore gloves in Indiana in 1876 was under suspicion. My most vivid recollection of Benjamin Harrison is that, during the ride of twenty- five miles in a creaking family carriage, he did not speak to me once. He had no way of knowing that some day I might want to get out. an autobiography. Albert G. Porter, Governor of our State and later Minister to Italy, and Schuyler Colfax, Vice-President under Grant, came visiting at our house when I was a small boy. They were giants to us juveniles and we approved of them because they were so amiable. I worked my way into a carriage ride with Governor Porter. The rig became stuck in a lob-lolly and all of the pas- sengers had to “‘shin” a board fence to get back to dry land. I think I was a little surprised to learn that a great and good Republican such as Albert G. Porter couldn’t spread his wings and fly out of that mud-hole. Schuyler Colfax had represented our district in Congress and was idolized by his party. He had a tuneful voice, a winning smile and an appealing manner. I remember that he wrote in my autograph album that quota- tion from Lincoln beginning “Let us have faith that right makes might.” I was very proud of that page in my album. I wish I could reproduce it in facsimile, but I cannot do so because it was stolen from me by some other ardent young Republican. I recall that I sat under the soft maples in the court-house yard and listened to Thomas A. Hendricks during the feverish campaign of 1876. I knew that he was telling a pack of lies, but he was so ingratiating and earn- est and plausible that finally I had to get up and go away. I felt myself slipping. We believed that the Demo- crats wanted to pay the Confederate war debts and put the negroes back into slavery, so it was felt that anyone who helped to break up a Democratic rally was serving his country and getting into a class with Paul Revere. While I was a sophorr ore at Purdue a lot of eager young patriots planned a counter- demonstration while Daniel W. Voorhees was mesmerizing a crowd in the court-house square at Lafayette. Our attempt to howl down the famous orator was denounced by the Democratic press as “diabolical.” Later on I met Dan Voorhees and had friendly talks with him and fell under the charm of his suave dignity and musical cadences, but I never owned up to him that I had been one of the hoodlums pursued by the police at Lafayette. In bragging about the statesmen and rulers that I have seen with my own eyes, probably it will be better if I list them alphabetically from now on and condense my wealth of reminis- cence; otherwise this piece will expand into a book. Q, Benjamin Harrison was under suspicion in Indiana—he wore gloves.

this after he has been elected to Congress.

ALFONS Hotel in and I th crowd. BLAINE a speakin sulking 07 canoe, at Benjamin their way During t monster | battle gr tion at a cance. I appe< fact I wa front of | sway the of a male We see multitude

The vice ove: sition op land cam his ordez stood on It was a‘ An icy smiting 1 which ws A mer tee with | out on t a waiter which w some ki “It is said the thought somethi: Presid committ use this two int incident that Gi cere an much s¢ Dano went on

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its ALFONSO, KING oF Spain. He was entering the Meurice Hotel in Paris. The Hapsburg chin was well extended and I think he was using it to bump his way through the crowd. BLAINE, JAMES G. In the campaign of 1888, Mr. Blaine made a speaking tour of the Middle West to prove that he was nat sulking over the nomination of Harrison. The battle of Tippe- canoe, at which General William Henry Harrison, grandfather of Benjamin, proved to Tecumseh and his followers the error of their ways in 1814, was fought seven miles north of Lafayette. During the ‘Tippecanoe and Tyler too” campaign of 1840, a monster political demonstration was pulled off at the historic battle ground, and’ in 1888 Mr. Blaine was the chief attrac- tion at a meeting which was to rival it in size and signifi- cance. I appeared on the rostrum with Mr. Blaine. As a matter of fact I was ahead of him on the program and stood directly in front of him. My object in appearing on the platform was to sway the multitude. Permit me to explain that I was a member of a male quartet. We seemed to accomplish our purpose. I am almost sure the multitude swayed while we were singing. At any rate it was restless. I was second tenor. A second tenor bears the same relation to vocal music that a notary public does to the execution of laws. George Barr McCutcheon was our basso profundo. He was a Democrat but he wanted to a sing and we had the only Bowes male quartette in sight. We responded to a noiseless en- core and then, as we left the stage, I smiled pleasantly at Mr. Blaine, who seemed pale and drawn. Next morning he was quite ill at the old Reynolds House in Lafay- ette and the speaking tour had to be abandoned. I have always wondered. CLEVELAND, GROVER. When the Columbian Expo- sition opened in Chicago in the spring of 1893, President Cleve- land came on from Washington to assist in the dedication. One of his ordeals was to review a parade. He and Secretary Lamont stood on a temporary platform in front of the Union League Club. It was a cold and blustery day. An icy wind came gushing around the corner of the building, smiting the two heroes who stood there watching the procession, which was just as tedious and meaningless as all other processions. A member of the local commit- tee with a heart in his chest walked out on the platform, followed by a waiter who carried a tray on which were two glasses containing some kind of compact beverage. “It is very cold out here,” said the committeeman, “and I thought possibly you might want something to warm you up.” President Cleveland said to the committeeman, “‘Lamont doesn’t use this stuff.” So he poured the two into one. It was a small incident, but it helped to prove that Grover Cleveland was sin- cere and candid, and had too much sense to catch cold. DaHomeEY, K1nG oF. In 1905, I went ona cruise of theWest Indies. The Colonel followed my ad- vice and was elected by an overwhelming majority. GI once appeared on the rostrum with James G. Blaine. I was second tenor. At Fort de France, Martinique, a group of giggling tourists went to the outskirts of the town to visit the King of Dahomey, who had been dragged away from his importance in Africa and exiled to this French col- ony. We found the court established in acluster of thatched houses. Before meeting the King we had a parley with the Lord Chamberlain. We had to chip in and buy a box of cigars for the King before we were permitted to stand in the royal presence. The King was the only one who comported himself with any dignity. He had lost his African kingdom but he retained a large chorus of wives, or rather a chorus of large wives. One of the attendants held a cuspidor and stood conve- niently near his Majesty. The King wasa very good marksman. G, ‘Lamont doesn’t use this stuff,”’ said President Cleveland. So he poured the two into one. Chie KinG OF ENGLAND. It was when the present King was Prince of Wales that we met at a railway station in London. I say we met. What I mean is that he passed very near to me and I had a chance to look at him. He impressed me as a young man who would give ten million dollars, if he had it, for the privilege of going about unobserved. He wore a tweed suit which could have been purchased anywhere on the Strand for twenty dollars, and if the baggage porter had not become excited and huskily called my attention to the royal personage, possibly I never would have been permitted to relate this throbbing incident. Japan, Empress or. It has been twenty years since a little company of us watched the outdoor festivities in connection with the marriage of the Prince Imperial of Japan, heir apparent to the throne. We were especially interested in the bride. The story we heard about her was that of Cinderella, much improved upon. When it came time for the Prince to marry, the court physicians decided that, as he had been in fragile health, the wise thing to do, from the standpoint of eugenics, was to select for him a girl who would be a perfect physical specimen. They found the girl they wanted in a southern province noted for the upright carriage and the bodily vigor of the women. After the wise physicians had selected the bride, they were con- fronted by the fact that under the Imperial statutes a member of the ruling family cannot marry outside of the nobility. It would have been a violation of all tra- ditions and precedents if the Prince had married some one not of royal blood. The court met the problem in a manner which would have delighted W. S. Gilbert, who wrote ‘The Mikado.” By a decree which came direct from the throne, the young woman was made a Princess, and the moment she became a Princess she was of royal blood and so, of course, the Prince had a right to go ahead and marry her. We saw her in a carriage. She never had (Continued on page 170)

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By Carl Easton Ou (an LIVE ’ As Long As You OO bad about C. E. kicking off so suddenly,” said my friend. “Yes, at fifty,” said I, “with his best work still waiting to be done.” “And yet,” mused my friend, “it’s a mercy that one doesn’t know when it is coming.” “That’s the one thing one ought to know. Barring automobiles, you ought to be able to figure your own obituary date within about three years. I have.” My friend gave me a searching look. ‘‘Huh! Are you one of these eggs who are going to live a hundred years?”’ I shook my head. “Not by about fifteen years.”’ “Then your date is-——” “March fifteenth, 1965. Born March seventh, 1880.” “Say, how do you get that way?” And then I explained. You, reader, for example, have a certain destiny in respect to length of life. Will you fulfil! it? Or “make room”’’ thirty years too soon? If your logical obituary date is a favorable one, far away, then plan your life so that you will make it. But if your logical “expectation” is not so favorable, and the date too near, then make it your business to postpone it, as probably you can. It is—at least in part—a thing to be managed. But how does one figure it? Life insurance tables, it is true, will give you a so-called “expectation” at any given age, but this is the average, and really means nothing in your own individual case. There are, however, several indices which when taken together will enable you to make a rough forecast. For instance: How old was grandpa? When did—or will—you reach middle age? Are you holding your youthful bodily weight? Have you any scheme of keeping fit, through walking, right eating or right living, which would justify your hope of fulfilling your life destiny? Have you a long life psychology? Let us take our first rule, “How old was grandpa?” Make up a little chart showing the length of life of your ancestors and their families, so far as known; then st-ike an average of the ages of those who escaped hanging, drowning, war fatalities and the other casualty lists of those early days. Probably you would be justified in including small-pox and other epidemic diseases in your list of exceptions. This average ought to give you a fairly good key to the family grip on life. So if it appears that your family is inclined to die in the fifties or sixties—possibly from preventable causes —it means that you will have to watch your step. On the other hand, if many of your folks have been able to stick around into the eighties and nineties, then you can proceed to make dates a long, long way ahead and expect to keep them. And it will be pretty nearly your own fault if you don’t keep them. In fact, you are fairly likely to linger on more or less irrespective of what you do. Take, for instance, the case of General B., who has survived Civil War service by about sixty years, and still seems as tough and vigorous as ever. If he has not defied all health rules he has at least ignored them, and has never refused a drink. When I saw him last he looked just the same as he did when I saw him first, twenty-five years before. d “Though in his eightieth year,” says his son, R., “with all vital organs functioning perfectly, smoking as ever eight to ten cigars a day, drinking and eating all that is offered—he has never taken any exercise beyond ordinary meager walking, and for the last twenty-five years his house and office have been in the same building. Nofads! Nostunts! Nostints! Thoroughly sedentary life. I never knew him to do even so much as drive 46 a tack. His exercise consists in taking the telephone receiver off the hook, lifting a fork and a cigar to his mouth, walking up-stairs to his bed and down-stairs to his desk. He has a complexion like a boy’s and not a wrinkle in his face.” John D. Rockefeller keeps life and health through playing golf and eating milk; but General B. does the same apparently through his tranquil psychology and eating everything. The average age of eight of his immediate ancestors was over seventy. It is justa tenacious family. Of course, what one means in speaking of inherited longevity is really the inheritance of a body machine of a high quality of strength, free from defects and possessing resistance to bacteria, which is guaranteed to keep going longer than others in the face of usual wear and tear and abuse. Scientifically speaking, you can check up on this fact of inherited longevity by consulting the studies of the late Doctor Alexander Graham Bell (of telephone fame) based on the Hyde genealogy, including 2287 persons of known birth and death dates. His figures showed that those whose parents both lived beyond the age of eighty, lived on an average twenty years longer than those whose parents both were under sixty. Meanwhile Karl Pearson, through elaborate excursions into statistics and mathematics, has reached the conclusion that half or more of the general death rate “is determined fundamentally by factors of heredity and is not capable of essential modification or amelioration by any sort of environmental action.” Which means, if we take his word for it, that half or more of us do live out the expectation that was born in us, whereas the rest of us— by inference—would live longer than we do by avoiding bumps, bacteria, banquets and bootleg booze. Ox THE other hand, one finds many instances of long life in unsanitary periods and in unsanitary countries—the survival of the toughest. Our first ten Presidents were virtually octo- genarians, averaging seventy-eight years, as Cleveland Moffett recently reminded us, and yet they lived without today’s sanita- tion. Our last ten Presidents to die averaged sixty-three. We have added years to the average length of life by saving babies, but through that very fact have also and inevitably in- creased the mortality in later periods of life. Mortality in middle age is increasing. Bacteriology and sanitation have accomplished miracles in saving our children and in protecting us from epidemic disease, but they do not save our hearts and kidneys and digestive and nervous systems from breakdown. That is up to us, not to the doctors. “But who wants to be old? I don’t want to live that long.” I recall an instance in which a young woman made this rather popular comm<nt, and then startled me a moment later by saying that no member of her family had “ever lived to be over forty-five.” Now it happens, fortunately, that this girl’s case was an unusual one. And just herein lies, for most of us, the hopeful factor in the situation, namely, the fact of our considerably mixed ancestry. Each one of us has eight great-grandparents, sixteen great-great-grandparents and so on, the number coubling with each generation back. And yet we are not a blend of all these ancestors; we do not in ourselves reproduce all of these saints and sinners. If we did, we'd be all alike. But we are a mixture of the traits of some of these ancestors—no telling just how many. We do not even know, as a rule, which ones we “take after” or which of their qualities we have in us. And so, if one grandfather died young and the others died “late in life,” you can always hope, or assume, that you take after the long life side of the family. And

the char this poss for exam Another evident 1 lived for lives. Of cou by war, | or strep their ow! practical you tos is why 0 expectat well as v For - When di age? | ‘postpon Look sixty-on standings still has He did 1 forties. flexible, fences. Presi: has vis the las will ché years m “hygier in eatir all thin; and we! he has not cra Defe youth, ability things age. F could jj he wou Anot unchar ways | keep 1 touche weight of kee our fou The to live you g laying kidney table? nervoi what yours¢ a thor twice

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Williams Want the chances are usually in favor of this possibility. The present writer, for example, makes that assumption. Another hopeful factor arises from the evident truth that many of our short- lived forebears did not live out their lives. Of course people get “bumped off” by war, banana skins, runaway horses or streptococci, but more often by their own indiscretions in eating. The practical point is that it is now up to you to see that you don’t. And that is why our other rules for finding your expectation of life are important, as well as very much within your control. For instance, the second rule. When did—or will—you reach middle age? Deferred middle age means postponed old age. Look at Henry Ford. He is now sixty-one, but he has the slender, up- standing figure of a boy because he still has much of the activity of a boy. He did not get “soft” in his thirties or forties. He is still lean and hard and flexible, and he can still run and jump fences. President Coolidge, now fifty-two, has visibly changed only a little in the last fifteen years and therefore will change only a little in as many years more. He is not intentionally a “hygienist,” but in his abstemiousness in eating, his extreme moderation in all things, including smoking, his poise and well-disciplined strength of mind, he has a make-up that assuredly will not crack, no matter what the strain. Deferred middle age means retained youth, and one good test of this is the ability to do at forty-five or fifty the things that one could do at half that - age. Farmers used to say that if aman could jump over a shock of oats at fifty he would live to be eighty. I believe it. Another test of retained youth is unchanging weight. People who “al- ways look the same” are those who keep their youthful weight, which touches our third rule. But normal weight is a part of the general matter of keeping fit, which has to do with our fourth rule. The question here is, are you going to live until you naturally die, or are you going to kill yourself? Are you laying an excessive burden upon your kidneys through self-indulgence at the table? Are you breaking down your circulatory or digestive or nervous systems through various other abuses? Do you know what you are doing? It is your duty to your family and to yourself to find out. Make it your business from now on to have a thorough medical examination on each and every birthday, or twice a year if there are suspicious developments. You may Photograph by Campbell Studios @.Carl Easton Williams “feel all right” with one foot in the grave. Ignore how you feel. Have an examination. But just how much can you lengthen your life by right living? I think the answer is to be found in some unique evidence offered by the late Sir Hermann Weber, M. D., F. R. C. P., an eminent British authority, consulting (Continued on page me ) /

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ae ee Bk CHAD UES DATS Ca Ke ono EET ne G.''I know the rent here is ten thousand a month,’’ said Mary Ann, ‘‘but maybe I'll pay a day of it.” Y SYMPATHY has always been with the unprofit- able servant who laid the talent away in the ground but returned it to his master on demand. Myself, if given John D.’s roll, would lose it on the wheel; I wouldn’t even bury it; my pocket would be picked. So why blame the unprofitable servant to whom the talent was given according to his ability? I can see the poor boob staring at the talent, saying to himself: “If I put it in stocks, the bottom will drop out of the market; if I buy a bond, the interest will be defaulted; if I soak it in the bank; the directors will abscond. I can only hide it in the old sock and be ready to give it back when my lord demands it.” Besides, maybe there was no one around who played a game the servant understood. Plenty of faro players won’t look at a wheel, and many a bridge player goes broke at chemin de fer. A man can only play his own game, and, if no one is dealing it, he’d better wait until some one fixes the cops and opens up a 48

A Love Story of A Department Store Salesgirl Illustrations by plaice. But when it is your game—bet ’em! . . Like Mary Ann McCabbee. I would like to tell you a little about Mary Ann. To begin with, an impudent rascal named Finnegan, sorely beset by King George’s troops, stumbled across the threshold of Squire Mansfield’s house. The Squire was a famous Tory; the Irishman was a notorious rebel. But Jane Mansfield looked once into his blue eyes, noted thé curl of his red hair, and defied her father, her upbringing, her own convictions; she forced the Squire to aid, harbor and abet the enemy to the King, and later she was wedded to the penniless—but gallant—soldier of fortune. This rascally Finnegan—tradition tells us—was a most loving husband until his death, which occurred on those same Weehaw- ken Heights where Burr slew Hamilton. Mary Ann McCabbee had in her veins the blood of the Finnegans and the Mansfields. The McCabbee part of her was Scotch, and yet, looking at her lustrous black hair, her glowing black eyes, one instantly thought of that tribe of the Asmoneans, later called the Maccabees, those tough Jewish patriots who revolted for religious freedom. Perhaps Antiochus the Fourth, having made peace with the Maccabees, invited some of them to Syria. As I have remarked, they were tough. Perhaps, tiring of luxury, they wan- dered north, perhaps in Roman legions, to settle finally in Scotland. There is a certain hard thriftiness in both Jew and Scot. Who knows anything about genealogy anyway? But with New England Yankee, Irish ad- venturer, Scotsman and, as I have hinted, a possible touch of the gamest blood in the world, the Jewish . . . Youdon’t believe me? Look at the ring! Mendoza, Attell, Benny Leonard! Read history; glance at the Bible. With a world at war against them, victims of persecutions, tyranny, massacre, they haven’t quit yet. Give me an Irishman for dash, a Yankee for nerve and a Jew to stick around till hell freezes. Here, then, we have Mary Ann McCabbee, and if I’ve said her eyes were black and her hair was jet, I haven’t told you the half of it. You’ve seen those mouths whose upper lips faintly protrude, that are always dewy like a bud; you’ve seen eyes that always swim in moisture; you’ve seen pure olive skin through which the red dimly peeps; and you’ve seen those boyish figures that never fool you for a second? Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mary Ann McCabbee. Hartigan’s Department Store is on Fourteenth Street; you know, that cross-town roadway which you traverse on your way to tea at the Wellington-Smythes’, on Washington Square, north; of course, north. Yes indeed, there are shops there, patronized by people from Jersey and Brooklyn, no-account folk who pay their bills and hush up their scandals and never get into Town Topics.

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em! Aary ‘med rge’s juire nous But yes, her ons; abet was dier tion | his aw- the ‘Ids. yet, ying ribe for an- ny ito Who Lost Her Job Charles D. Mitchell Mary Ann McCabbee sold lace in Hartigan’s. Some day, you who think the workers are insolent and overpaid and un- aware of their place, talk to Mary Ann, and discover that some of the best blood in this country can be found in an East Side tenement, and that folk whose ancestors made history are slaving in humble jobs. And don’t pity Mary Ann. Selling lace is a lot better than wrapping up bundles, just as wrap- ping bundles is better than going to school and never having any pennies for luncheon or dimes for movies . Not that Mary Ann, at this moment of our acquaintance, has any dimes for movies. Her mother had died, and the undertaker wouldn’t take the body from the two-room flat until the cash was in his hand, and Mary Ann is still paying the usurer who took a chance on her earning capacity and staked Mary to the undertaker’s demands. An orphan, remotely conscious that her birth was as good as anyone’s and vaguely resentful at her fate, neither the remote consciousness nor the vague resentment were notable in her manner. She was healthy; poor food and bad air had not injured her. She liked a good time. To put on her one decent dress and the one pair of slippers, and accompany some slicked-haired, loud-voiced but good-humored boy to a dance palace on Broadway was the best thing she knew, of her own experience. Bu: she read the newspapers; she knew that there were better things than this, things that money bought. Per- haps they differed in degree, not in kind, from her plea- sures, but—they were better. She wanted them. It may be wondered that, if she is as good-looking as I’ve declared, she didn’t market her good looks in the theater. Oh, you sophisticated ones who think that the only requisite for such success is beauty! Once she got as far as a manager’s outer office and an insolent attaché looked at her shoes and laughed. Just laughed, that’s all. Ithink Mary Ann would have been justified if she’d stabbed him with a hat-pin. She never tried again. You had to have clothes, and oh gosh, where would she get them on twenty-two dollars a week? No, she could see no easy way to fortune, if—which she sometimes doubted—acting was so very easy. And marriage? She used to get an almost raucous note in her bell-like voice when some new acquaintance, being gallant, would remark that she ought to grab off a millionaire. Where would she meet him? In Hartigan’s? True, million- aires undoubtedly came in there. There are plenty of rich people who do their trading on Fourteenth Street, but have you ever seen them? Whiskers, and Congress shoes—on my oath! But the boss of the store? Sorry, friends, but Hartigan is a grandfather, his sons-in-law, who run the business, love their families, and flirtation between upper and lesser employees is strongly discouraged by the whole Hartigan clan. Besides, there wasn’t a man in Mary Ann’s scheme of things. Maybe some day she’d meet some one . . . But because a lad was a good hoofer didn’t mean that Mary Ann cared to park her head on his shoulder. Yes, she’d been kissed; she’d given a few, just like the rest of you girls who read this history. But they hadn’t meant anything, save perhaps a warm impulsiveness of the moment. No, Mary Ann had decided that no one was going to boost her up the ladder; she knew that she’d have to climb By Arthur Somers Roche i | ee é. @At once the clerk’s insolence, Grade A, was subordinated to courtesy, Grade B. every rung unaided. And her feet were on the second or third rung already. She was in charge of counter 22, aisle 14, on the second floor, and there was to be a vacancy in the buying department. It ran through her head, waking and sleeping, like a melody: “They’ll have to have a new buyer, they’ll have to have a new buyer, they’ll have to ha-a-a-ave a ne-e-e-w bu-y-y-yer—early in the year.” Casey—Miss Emmeline Casey, fat, forty and able to tell with her eyes shut, by merely running her fingers across the stitches, the difference between Point de Venise 4 Réseau and Réseau Rosace—was going to St. Petersburg, Florida, to battle with arthritis. Tough on Casey, but it opened up the gates of paradise to Mary Ann McCabbee. For the ladder of her opportunity was work. She knew lace. Incidentally, don’t be mistaken about Hartigan’s; lots of un- fashionable people buy fashionable things, and Hartigan’s supplies them. 49

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Yes, Mary Ann knew lace. Not as well as Casey, but a lot better than most buyers, and infinitely better than any sales girl. Needlepoint, parchment, Irish crochet, Lacis, Mer- letti a Piombini, Brussels, Valenciennes, Mechlin— the old and new, Mary Ann knew them all. And Hartigan’s was the kind of store that believed in rewarding faithful work; it advanced its own em- ployees, and didn’t rob other stores of the people the other stores had devel- oped. So—here was the chance of a lifetime. She was confident, assured as she passed into the private office of Samuel Kearney, the husband of Marietta Hartigan, and by virtue of that fact—and business acumen—general manager of the big store. He heard Mary Ann’s plea for the job of buyer with grave courtesy. He questioned her as to her knowledge of lace and was most favorably impressed by her mastery of the subject. “But, my dear young lady,” he said gravely, as she finished, ‘Hartigan’s must send abroad, not merely one who knows lace, but one who will represent the best traditions of the house. Weare not fashion- able’—he smiled wintrily —‘but we are solid. Hart- igan’s must be represented by—well, a woman of the world, like Miss Casey.” “Listen,” said Mary Ann McCabbee. “Casey is a dear, and I hope she licks her arthritis to a fare-ye- well, but—while Casey was making an aide-de-kong, I’d be dancing with the prince himself.” ‘*Exactly” said Mr. Kearnev. “And princes aren’t buyers of lace, or sellers.” “No?” Mary Ann’s lips pursed. Have I suggested that she was slightly sophisticated? “But they have lady friends who require lace. But that ain’t —isn’t—the point, Mr. Kearney. I didn’t mean that I’d do any jazzing. I meant that I could ride on a train that carries Casey and maybe grab a better seat.” Mr. Kearney bowed. “I implied nothing discreditable to you, Miss McCabbee. What I mean to say is that Hartigan’s re- quires, in its foreign representatives especially, a certain dignity, a thriftiness. How much did that blouse cost?” “T bought it with my own jack, less the house discount to em- ployees, and I went without lunch for four weeks in order to get it,” said Mary Ann indignantly. “Exactly,” said Mr. Kearney. “The little frippery was more important than your health.” “Say, ain’t—aren’t laces fripperies?”’ countered Mary Ann. “You ought to have some one in laces who /ikes fripperies.” “We won’t argue, Miss McCabbee.” Kearney grew slightly stiff. ‘‘I have watched your work, got reports on you. You are an able saleswoman, and you understand lace. But you—are— er—too frivolous a type to represent us abroad.” 50 @,''Am I fired?’’ Mary Ann asked "As a lace buyer, you've cost me— That was that. Blind with unshed tears, Mary Ann McCabbee left the general manager’s private office. Because she. liked to dance, wore good clothes .. . “T got backbone enough to starve myself so I’ll look good, and then—they blame me for that. Oh, I hate this job!’ she wailed to Emmeline Casey. “Girlie, I put in a swell plug for you, but the old boy likes them middle-aged and saving, like me,’’ said good-hearted Casey. “You're a dear, Casey,” said Mary Ann. “Me in there telling how I could outshine you——” “Why wouldn’t you tell him that?’ demanded Miss Casey. “T’m all through. Me and ol’ rheumatiz goes south tomorrow— well, kid, stick around.” “Where else will I go?” mourned Mary Ann. “T’ll be sticking around for the next forty years. Oh gosh, and I did want to blow into Pauly’s place in Venice and watch those dames. Think of them, Casey. Those girls will sit at the same table doing the same stitch for all their lives. I used to pity them when I thought of them, those poor Venetian lace-makers. But how about me, sticking in the same job, doing the same thing?” Mage almos Ch as mu night foreig frivol starv' to sh He Perh: he tu

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ara i ae ‘J \t Qa geste BBX TOW Magenty. ‘You certainly are!’’ he said. almost as much as a wife, by golly.” Character, or what some one thought was your character, had as much to do with success as your brains, Mary Ann mused that night. She knew lace; she had the ability to be Hartigan’s foreign buyer, but because she liked fripperies, she was unstable, frivolous. Kearney thought a girl was frivolous because she starved herself to buy decent, pretty clothes. Lord, she’d like to show Kearney what real frivolity was! He sent for her the next day; her heart beat at the summons. Perhaps he had reconsidered. But, despite the smiling face which he turned to her as she entered, he had not changed his mind. “Well, well, Miss McCabbee,” he began, with that heavy good humor which employers adopt toward employees, ‘‘who’d have thought that one of our girls was an heiress!” Mary Ann caught at the back of a chair. “Name it, quick,” she said. But Kearney was not the kind to rob himself of the opportunity for a bit of eloquence. It took him fifteen minutes to tell Mary Ann that, after litigation involving three hundred people and continuing over sixty years, the Mansfield farm in Yonkers had been divided. It was now the site of business blocks and apartments, and a firm of lawyers had written him asking if he employed a girl of her name, and—well, anyway, there wasn’t much question about it. If she produced her birth certificate and her mother’s marriage license, she’d collect twenty-seven hundred dollars. “From far back Colonial days this little fortune comes to you,” he said. ‘‘A heritage of character must also be yours. Oh, Miss McCabbee, realizing the sturdy stock from which you came, how can you be frivolous? You have a good position here, with sure advancement. If you invest this money in good five percent bonds——” “After settling the rest of mother’s debts I’ll have two thousand,” she cut in. “That’s a hundred a year, at five percent. In twenty years that’s another two thousand. Nothing doing.” He frowned. ‘You sound as though you intended being reck- less with it,” he said disapprovingly. “Huh! Reckless is as reckless does,” she said. “I’m going to buy me some regular clothes, give myself a party-———” “Miss McCabbee, I’m afraid that Hartigan’s will not be able to promote you.” “Hartigan’s won’t have a chance,”’ she laughed. ‘Do you think that, with two thousand bucks, I’m going to work?” “Remember the unprofi‘ able servant,” he warned her. “He buried his talent——”’ “But I won’t bury mine. I’m going to scatter it. Say, you turn me down because I’m human. You won’t let me buy your lace because I buy myself nice things. Well, take a last long look at a live one. Mary Ann McCabbee was built for speed and Hartigan’s is an ice-cart. You owe me three days’ pay. Put it in the bank for little Oscar Hartigan Kearney, with Mary Ann’s love. Buried “We will not give you a reference,” he gasped. | talents, hey? Mine’ll drift along the winds of Broadway.” Me pirouetted. “What would I need a reference for? To light a fire with? Put this form in the proper rags, shade these burning eyes under the correct hat, and— good-by, Mr. Kearney. Maybe I’ll drop around some day and buy a few pins from you.” Tam not extenuating Mary Ann’s conduct. It was reprehensi- ".e, almost wicked. Kearney had never done her a wrong. But don’t forget. She’d studied lace the way most of you girls study men, and been refused a job she deserved because of a decent, healthy liking for being well-groomed. She’d counted on pro- motion, and knew the promotion she wanted was not for her. So, with a little security ahead of her, she quit her job. And who can quit a job without tossing a few scornful words into the situation? Not Mary Ann. How could you expect her to, she who is Yankee, Irish, Scotch and maybe, though I’m not an ethnologist, Hebraic? Her mother’s debts amounted to six hundred and forty-three dollars. Mary Ann had left, then, in round figures—money figures, like girls’, must be round to be pleasant—two thousand dollars. “Not enough to make Muriel McCormick jealous,” she said to Miss Casey. ‘‘Not big enough jack to save; not little enough jack to guard carefully.” “TIn-between dough,” suggested Miss Casey. “Like I’ve been an in-between girl,” said Mary Ann. “I’ve felt too good for a sales girl, and Kearney thinks me too bad for a buyer. Well, this in-between girl isn’t anywhere. Out of a job and not in one. This money isn’t important enough to get a job, and it isn’t working now. Ta-ta, Casey. Did you ever see Aileen Riggin dive? Well, it wasn’t anything a-tall, sweetheart. Here am I diving from the second floor of Hartigan’s, and where I'll come up even Neptune couldn’t tell.” At Langdon’s, that modiste’s where they grade their insolence according to your bank roll, a clerk used Grade A on Mary Ann. Eying the blouse which had seemed too expensive to Mr. Kearney, the saleslady shook an ironed head. “T’m suah,” she said, “that we’ve nothing in stock——’ Mary Ann patted her on the shoulder. ‘‘Put back that ‘r’ in sure, little girl,” she said. ‘Forget that you’re a lady in reduced circumstances and try and remember that you’re dealing with a lady in enlarged circumstances. I know the rent here is ten thousand a month, but maybe I'll pay a day of it. Stranger things have happened kid. Take a look at this.” “This” was a thousand-dollar bill, and Insolence, Grade A, was subordinated to Courtesy, Grade B. Not the courtesy that a big charge customer gets, but good usable (Continued on page 177) > ’

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By All MY Have EOPLE who read my novels—some millions in my own country and quite a few in America—tell me that I have an almost unique knowledge of women. Personally I have always doubted this; but if it is so, the Lord knows I have paid my price for the knowledge in question. My father, one of the shrewdest, most lovable, but most reticent of men, had a pet saying which ran, ‘My son, avoid artificial complications.”” And when I reconsider that saying of his nowadays, I am perfectly certain that it was only his reticence which prevented him from altering it to, “Avoid women.” For women—at least as I see them from my forty-year-old viewpoint—are the supreme complication in every really virile young man’s existence. Take my own case. I am going to admit right away that my present marriage—my second and last—is a supremely happy one; and all the more happy (since I happen to be one of those peculiarly constituted individuals who cannot bear children about me—there are many such, though few with the courage to admit it) because it is childless. My first marriage, however, and practically all my other rela- tionships, sentimental and otherwise, with that which used to be known as the “‘fair sex,’’ have not only hindered me at each and every turn of my career but have been in effect utter and absolute miseries. I am, you see, as most creative artists, supremely an egoist. And the very first thing which the fair sex demands of its suitors or lovers, more especially if they be creative artists, is a surrender of personality, a giving up of one’s ego. Practically all women—at least practically all those with whom I have had the misfortune to come into contact—are at heart vampires. Their demands on the egos of their lovers are blood- demands, insatiate and insatiable. To maintain, as a writer in this magazine recently maintained, that women are men’s play- things, is the illusion of a bachelor. But the converse, that the lover is the plaything of his lady, is utterly true. There is a play running in London and New York at the moment called “Fata Morgana.” In the first act of that play an innocent boy is led into an affair by a married woman of ripe years and even riper experience, who happens to be staying in the house of the boy’s father. My own first experience of the sex began in exactly the same way. I am not going to write much about that first experience, be- cause the memory of it is still unpleasant to me. I resented, violently as only a boy can resent, the whole business, the whole subordination of my own wishes to the wishes of a female. And I resented it all the more, I remember, when, some six months later, I failed in a most important college examination, and realized that my failure was due, solely and simply, to the lack of concentration that first woman had engendered in me. Nevertheless, that realization did not prevent me from con- tinuing my experiences. On the contrary, it stimulated one of the deadliest of all emotions a young man can experience towards the sex—curiosity ; and by the time I was nineteen, I was already regarding a great many of the women with whom I came into daily contact as sex problems, all capable of a similar solution. It followed as a perfectly natural consequence that my curiosi- ties about the sex did not go unsatisfied. To put the matter crudely, I sowed my wild oats whensoever, wheresoever and how- soever opportunity presented a field for sowing them. But gradually I began to come to the conclusion that the sort of life I led out of office hours—I was already making my way towards the top of my father’s tobacco business—was very much not worth while. Champagne of an evening, headaches till mid- day, and occasional telephone messages from unnecessary females during the afternoon were—I finally felt certain— jeopardizing, if not actually destroying, my efficiency. ? OMe Gilbert Frankau roubles From Tilia All of which, no doubt, would have been a very excellent lesson for my youth, had I not developed, simultaneously with my re- volt from wild-oat-sowing, an even more deadly emotion towards the sex—the emotion of romantic sentimentalism. The remedy of sentimentalism proved a thousand times more lethal than the disease of curiosity. Because, owing to it, I Jeaped straight from the frying-pan of wild-oat-sowing into the fires of matrimony. It is always a little difficult to analyze a twenty-year-old motive. But I am still quite certain that it was mainly the sheerest, most romantic, most chivalrous and most absolutely idiotic sentimentalism which lured me to the altar on that long- ago foggy morning in December, 1905. I believed in my youthful ignorance that for me there would never be any more headaches, heartaches—I had had my heartaches, needless to say, some of them lasting as long as a week—revolts, resentments or any other of those thousand-and-one difficulties which I had both sensed and experienced in my relationships with the sex. Whereafter, of course, I awoke from sentimentalism to realize that my main difficulties with the sex had only just begun. Iam not writing this in condemnation of my first wife. Itisa habit of mine to avoid self-pity; and I bear her no ill-will what- ever for having married me. Also, I can imagine no more hor- rible fate for any woman than to be married to the boy that I was at the age of twenty-one. Yet the fact remains that, for me—as well as for her—marriage evolved itself into one long experience of unimagined and unimaginable disasters. I WAS in love, of course—that is to say in so far as any creature of twenty-one, male or female, can be deemed capable of that particular emotion. But the love did not last; nor, from the very outset, was it capable of blinding me to the fact that I had bar- gained away, for a mess of sentimentalism, the only thing which had really made my life worth living—independence. Do not misunderstand me! Marriage need not necessarily imply the surrender of a man’s independence. But this one of mine did; and from the very beginning I resented it. My father was dead by this time. If he had not been (I said, didn’t I, how difficult it was to analyze a twenty-year-old motive?), it is just possible that I should have avoided matri- mony. As the potential head of the firm, however, marriage and a home of one’s own seemed distinctly indicated. Because my real dream then, as apart from my sentimental dream, was “big business.” I spent my honeymoon, as it so happened, in New York, Palm Beach and Havana. And that too stimulated my real dream. So that, by the time I returned to England, I saw myself in imagina- tion already ten times riches than my father, equally shrewd but far more ruthless, a power in the land. Possibly, if that dream had turned to reality, my marriage might have proved moderately successful. But in my case the dream. did not materialize; and accordingly—barely eighteen months married—I found myself already confronting the oldest of old business problems. My father had left half a million dollars. I wanted to make that half-million dollars into five million. To do so, I should have invested the profits of my business in plant, machinery and mer- chandise. Instead, I had to invest those profits—if you can call it investing—in furniture, servants’ wages, food bills, dress- makers’ accounts and millinery. Again do not misunderstand me. I blame no woman—least of all my mother (partner in all my businesses), for whom I was also providing during the period now under consideration—for spend- ing as much as she can get. Spending is woman’s one abiding complex; and no properly constituted woman has any patience with lack of money. She may bear with that lack; but in her 52 Copyright, 1925, by Gilbert Frankau in Great Britain and her Dependencies

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thotograph oy Malcolm Arbuthnot @Gilbert Frankau, azthor of “Gerald Cranston’s Lady,’’ “‘Men, Maids and Mustard-Pot’’ secret soul she never ceases to detest it. Moreover, except in the very rarest cases, she cannot help despising the husband, lover, son or parent who fails to provide her with at least as much as the other woman, and if possible with a little bit more. And since I personally happen to be one of those men who sympathize with this complex in woman; who realize better than most that without her itch to spend every dollar she can get, half the wheels of our commerce would cease revolving; I was, as I have said, faced, practically from the start of my matrimonial career, with the question, “‘Where shall I grudge?” Somewhere, you see—either in my own home, in my mother’s home, in my office or in my factory—I ought to have grudged money. And that'I did not grudge it, either here, there or any- where, is, I am convinced, the one reason why, when I was invalided out of the Army in February, 1918, I possessed no businesses, some six hundred dollars (Continued on page 156) eo )

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oA Novel More Thrilling Tias “The Mat’? 54 b. 9f a4 R Fa *» : q The C {* The Story So Far: ROM the beginning William Porter had a feeling that he had no right to rent Twin Hollows—reputed to be haunted and under the baleful influence of the red lamp—to unsuspecting strangers. But common sense had prevailed, and Mr. Bethel, a half paralyzed old man, and his secretary, pasty-faced, cigaret consuming young Gordon, had lived there during astrange and ter- rifying series of events that had shocked the neighborhood. The sheep killing—half a Loamp dozen sheep at a time would be found on near-by farms with their throats cut—began before Mr. Bethel’s arrival. Then Bob Carroway, one of the patrol against the sheep killer, had been murdered and his body tied to an anchor thrown ‘nto the bay. Next, Warren Halliday, who lived in the Porters’ boat-house and was in love with Edith, Porter’s niece, was attacked by a man to whom he had given a lift in his car. The stranger had appar- ently planned to make him unconscious with ether. In thestruggle the car was overturned, and the stranger escaped. A few days later Maggie Morrison disappeared, and no trace of her had been found. Then Gordon, returning home late, was knocked insensible and, bound hand and foot, was left on the porch of Twin Hollows. Professor William Porter, a gentle and scholarly teacher of English, had through a series of unfortunate accidents become entangled in the affair, and Greenough, the detective, suspected him of all of the crimes except the attack on Halliday. Halliday, consequently, had taken up the pursuit of the killer with double ardor; he wanted the large reward and he wanted to clear his sweetheart’s uncle. In some ways Porter did not fit in with the description of the sheep killer or the murderer, as even Greenough admitted. For instance, the man was apparently of muscular build and had a knowledge of sailor’s knots and possibly also of surgery. Even the finding of the criminal did not promise to solve all the puzzling events—Jane Porter’s uncanny visions of warning before each event, the appearance of apparitions resembling Uncle Horace Porter, and the burning of the red lamp at the main house when Porter knew it was locked away in the attic. Porter made up his mind to talk these things over with Cameron, a fellow professor who was in- terested in psychic matters. Mrs. Livingstone, a neighbor and a believer in spiritualism, was sure that Uncle Horace had ‘“‘come back.” In support of this was the unfinished letter he was writing when he died, Q.There was a faint rea glow; then a face that moved and disappeared. which threat he att Hall him te out in and a writte that C Pro! Hayw: ether; he wa occasi But under every tience clothe cold i But closet our 0: Edith Livin; No! last 1 Mr. I them as m show! at nig Mr she h gentl altho Bu of th night walki figure mour of ev Ha It evide firma looki At pebb close my V I

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‘ith 30b een ay. use lan ar- gle Lice 7as he ne ed y, le is pyeMary Roberts Rinehart Illustrations by W. D. Stevens which referred to the ‘enormity of the idea’ and threatened the unknown addressee with the police if he attempted to carry it out. Halliday had made some discoveries that caused him to suspect Gordon. For one thing, Gordon went out in the car clandestinely at night. He had a knife and a coil of rope in his room. He had a note book written in a peculiar cipher. Against this was the fact that Gordon himself had been attacked. Professor Porter suspected Doctor Hayward. Hayward was out at all times of the night; he carried ether; he was strong and had a knowledge of surgery; he was on the spot very promptly on at least two occasions of crime. But whoever was guilty, the professor was under surveillance by the authorities, and every day entangled him further. The Story Continues: Avgus: 9 EONARDO DA VINCI said: “Pa- tience serves as a protection against wrongs as clothes do against cold. For if you put on more cloth as the cold increases it will have no power to hurt you.” But I have put on all the extra patience I can find in my mental closet, and I am still uncomfortable. Whether Jane has noticed our ostracism I do not know, but I have, and so I think has Edith. So marked has it become that today I greeted Mrs. Livingstone with a warmth that slightly puzzled her. Nothing else new today. Halliday watched the main house last night, but no one left it. Annie Cochran reports that Mr. Bethel is suspicious of Gordon, and that the feud between them still continues. He declines the secretary’s assistance as much as possible. That he is not certain, however, is shown by the care with which he now has the house locked up at night. Mrs. Livingstone was slightly ruffled on her arrival. It appears she had tried to leave her cards and Livingstone’s on the old gentleman, but was finally compelled to put them under the door, although she could hear voices in the library! But she recovered sufficiently to tell us a new story, illustrative of the general state of the local mind. She says that three nights ago Hadly, who keeps the hardware store in Oakville, walking past the cemetery where Carroway is buried, saw a figure walking slowly past the grave. It stopped, looked at the mound and then moved on, fading into nothing at the clump of evergreens beyond it. Hadly seems to have made no further investigation! It is unfortunate, however, that Edith’s story appeared today, evidently syndicated and receiving wide publicity. The con- firmation is sufficient to send off most of the summer visitors, looking back over their shoulders, like Hadly, as they run. AUGUST I0 At midnight last night Halliday wakened me by throwing pebbles against the screen of my window. He was standing close underneath, and asked me to put on something and work my way quietly toward the other house. “What’s wrong?” I asked. QI will swear that I had no more intention of firing at that figure than I had of leaping down the stairs a/ter it. “‘He’s getting ready to go out, I think. He put his light out at eleven, and turned it on again a few minutes ago.” Halliday moved away, and as’ quickly as possible I dressed and followed him. He was under the trees, waiting, when I joined him, and together we worked quietly across the garden and toward the garage, coming out beyond it toward the lane. Here, while concealed ourselves, we had a iull view of the house, but the light was out again and for a time ic looked as though nothing more were to happen. Halliday’s plan was as follows: In case Gordon took the car, I was to follow it on foot at a safe distance as he went along the lane, while Halliday himself ran for my car. He would meet me at the fork of the road, and I would be able to tell him which of the two roads Gordon had taken. We stood together, well hidden in the shrubbery, for some time. Halliday, who has not had much sleep for a night or two, fell to yawning, and I was not much better off, when I heard some sort of stealthy movement in the woodland to our left. I touched Halliday on the arm, to find him rigid and bending forward, staring toward the house. “He’s coming,” he said. “Quiet!” The boy was raising his window screen, with all possible caution. Even when it was accomplished he stood so long, probably listening and watching, that I began to think he had changed his mind and gone back to bed, but as events showed, he had done nothing of the sort. Up to this moment I had not suspected the use of the rope, although I believe Halliday had But now I heard a faint 23

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scraping against the wall of the house itself and realized that he was coming down by means of the rope. His coming was as stealthy as the pre- liminaries had been. He was probably half-way down, coming hand over hand, before I had in- terpreted the sound. I was not even aware that he hed reached the ground, when I saw him, a blacker shadow among other shadows, near at hand. But he did not come directly toward the garage; he walked along under the walls of the west wing to the gun-room window and stood there. Then, with extreme caution, he raised it an inch or two, as if to reassure himself that it had been un- locked from within, and closed it again. From there, with somewhat less caution, he moved to the corner of the house. We had our only real view of him then, as he stood sil- houetted on the top of the rise. (Note: The main house stands, as I think I have already re- corded, rather higher than the remainder of the property.) But sud- denly something alarmed him. Neither Halliday nor I saw or heard anything, but evidently he did. He dropped to the ground. So unexpected was this, or rather his sudden disappearance, that I gasped; it was not until I heavd him creep- ing along the ground that I understood his maneuver. He lost no time in his retreat, nor did he attempt to use the rope again. He raised the unlocked window, crept over the sill, and closed it again, and sooner than we could have ex- pected we heard him drawing up the rope from his room overhead No interpretation of this is possible without taking into con- sideration the really horrible stealth of the boy’s manner. He was engaged on some nefarious business of his own, whether we can connect that with the crimes or not. As to the extremely dramatic manner in which he chose to escape from the house, when he had already unlocked the gun- room window, Halliday is divided between two theories, of which he himself favors the second. “He may be merely dramatizing himself; you’ll find a certain type of degenerate mind which is always acting for its own benefit. Or—and this is more likely—-our old friend Bethel is suspicious and is watching him. The old man’s door com- mands his. Gordon locks his door from the inside, uses his rope, and is free to go where he pleases. “But,” he added, after a pause, “he unlocks the gun-room window, too, so he can beat a retreat if he has to. That’s the best I can do, and if it isn’t correct it ought to be!” Today I am convinced beyond doubt that Gordon is our criminal, and I think even Halliday is shaken. I am no detective, 26 QI heard Edith, holding a match, say: ‘And the cabinet but it seems to me that the boy, coming here during the height of the excitement about the sheep killer and young Carroway, found the way already paved for a career of secret crime, and adopting the methods and the symbol of some still undiscovered religious maniac, has carried on, one may say, under his banner. My psychiatric friends have discussed with me the neurotic aftermath of the war; the search for the sensational, the wooing of fugitive and secret pleasures, often brutal and violent; and the apotheosis of the criminal. They quote, too, von Krafft-Ebing’s theory that the instinct to kill is purely a legacy from the past, atavistic and more or less non-deliberate. It would, accepting that, be possible to see in young Gordon the heir, not only to his own past, but to the crimes which preceded his arrival here. Certainly one fact at least supports the idea. Halliday may be right, and the attack on him not have been made by Gordon. But there seems no reason to doubt that, sometime on the day before we got back, he crept into my garage and put the infernal symbol where we found it. We have discussed today at some length the desirability of notifying the police once more. But our recent experience with them is not reassuring. On the other hand, I feel strongly that Mr. Bethel should be warned. But Halliday argues against it. “He knows something already,” he says. “He is on guard,

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C ¥ 5 C S VevVS we was there?’’ ‘‘In the corner,’’ said Halliday. 1 am no eavesdropper, so I turned away. yy iy and the boy knows it. Then you have to remember that the game so far has been to strike in the dark andrun. That is, if you are correct, Skipper, and it 7s a game without motive.” Probably he is right. But I am very uneasy tonight as I make this entry. I have not Halliday’s easy optimism that Gordon “‘won’t get away with any- thing without our knowing it.” AUGUST II "Beas is bright and sunny, and I am in a better mood. Edith came down this morning to an enormous stack of mail, and stared at it incredulously. : “Great heavens,” she said, ‘“‘not bills!” As it turned out, however, they were not bills. Her article has brought out a curious fact; almost everybody has a ghost-story, and is anxious to tell it to somebody else. And a visible per- centage of these victims of thrills and shivers have written to her about the ghost in the light tower. She and Halliday are reading them on the veranda at this moment. Each has a heap of them, and such bits as this are to be heard: “Here’s a wonder,” says Halliday. ‘Hold my hand, won’t you, while I read it to you? There’s some ghostly thing touching , my neck at this very minute.” “It’s a spider,” says Edith coolly. “You can wait. Listen to this!”” And soon . Which reminds me that I had a visit last night from “Cuckoo” Hadly, our village Don Juan, who sells hard- ware over his counter to pretty village ma- trons, and who was dubbed ‘‘Cuckoo’’ some years ago by a summer visitor who saw a resemblance to Byron in him, and evidently knew the quotation. (Note: ‘“The cuckoo shows melancholia, not madness. Like Byron, he goes about wailing his sad lot, and now and then dropping an egg into some one else’s nest.’’) Hadly was slightly sheepish. He knows, and he knows I know, that his road home at night lies nowhere near the cemetery. “IT guess you’ve heard the story, Mr. Porter,” he said. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever hear the last of it. But there’s a mistake being made, and I thought if Miss Edith was going to write it up, we'd better haveit straight.” It appears, then, that it was not near Carroway’s grave that Hadly saw the figure, but in the old part of the cemetery, and that there are some facts which he has not given out. The cemetery is sur- rounded by a white fence, and inside it is shrubbery. Hadly, it seems, was not alone, but was standing in the road, “talking to a friend,” as he said. It was the “friend” who saw the light, and who accounts for the suppression of this portion of the tale. It shone through the shrubbery, a small blue-white light about two feet from the ground, and directly in front of the headstone of one George Pierce, who died in the late 1700’s. Hadly did not see the light, but the “friend” persisting, he crept through the shrubbery to take a look around. It was then that he saw the figure, moving slowly and deliberately toward the trees. He seems to have no doubt that he saw an apparition, or that the information belongs to me. The reason he gives for the latter being that George Pierce is the gentleman who was, accord ing to local tradition, shot and killed while attempting to escape the excise in the old farmhouse which is now a part of Twin Hollows. I have entered this here because the day seems given over to the supernatural. We have breakfasted with the spirit world, and seem about to lunch with it. Everything continues quiet at the other house .. . Jane and I today returned the Livingstones’ call. Although it seems absurd, I have never quite abandoned the hope of finding, in Uncle Horace’s unfinished letter, a clue to the present mystery. I therefore took it with me, (Continued on page 131)

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When / Fee VEREATING, to me, is one of the major crimes. I almost believe it causes half the unhappiness in the world. It’s the direct father of bad temper and irritation—rather, auto-intoxication is, and auto-intoxication is just a fancy word for either overeating or improper eating. When I feel ill-humored and cross I stop eating. I have made it a rule to fast at least twenty-four hours every four or five weeks. And once I went a full seven days without touching a morsel of food. That was at the famous watering resort of Karlsbad. Now per- sonally I had always regarded cure-resorts as a joke. So far as I could gather, people went to Vichy, to Wiesbaden, to Aix-les- Bains in order to see other smartly dressed people and pretty shop windows, and the real object of going, a cure, was as far from their minds as is the ocean or the Mediterranean from the habitués of Deauville or Monte Carlo. Most European countries have a goodly stock of these curative springs, but although it is among the smallest of countries, Czecho-Slovakia seems to have more than its share; and if you examine the country closely you discover that about every third town or village has a curative spring of some sort, used regularly by the local inhabitants if by no one else. The most important of these watering-places are the three baths of Charles, Marien, and Francis—that is, Karlsbad, Marienbad, Franzensbad. Charles’s bath might well be re- baptized Charles’s drink, so much has the ancient system of treatment indicated by the name been superseded. Karlsbad appeared on my first visit to be a huge laundry for the cleansing of human interiors. As the jovial livers of Prague said, ‘We go there to wash our stomachs, so we may eat as much as we like for another year!” There were two rival camps, I discovered. In one were the doctors who treated in the regular way—five or six glasses of the water taken at intervals during the day, regular meals, with no restrictions on the amount of food consumed, but with recom- mendations for fruits and apple sauce at night. In the other camp were a great number of patients and only one physician, Doctor M., who made them go without eating. I chose this severe school. None of us had ever been without food before. We had read always with the greatest sympathy of the famished in India and the hunger-striking Lord Mayor of Cork. But when we saw Lord B. trip blithely down for his glass of Brunnenquelle on his twenty-third and last day of fasting, we began to feel that our short stages of a few days were not so formidable as we had thought. My farewell meal was a light supper at five on Saturday after- noon. The first day, Sunday, I went very easily without eating, and as I walked down the hill to the springs in the afternoon, that is after twenty-four hours, I felt as buoyant as though I might expect one of my headaches the following day. Mealtime is a habit, so strong a habit that Doctor M. permits a cup of tea at meal hours if the patient wishes. I took no tea that first day, however. The second day, Monday, when I got out of bed I could scarcely stand. I wasa long time dressing because my arms felt weak, and in addition it irritated me to feel weak. I did not see how I could possibly go the five days which the doctor had suggested. Once out in the bracing air of September I found I could walk slowly, but at the daily massage I told Doctor M. that I really felt too exhausted to continue the fast. Doctor M. explained to me then that I was not weak from loss of strength, but from auto-intoxication. That it is on the second and third days after a fast that the intestines begin to be freed of the poisons which our generally bad habits of eating have formed in a thick coating on their walls. The daily abdominal massage, while the Karlsbad waters drunk in considerable quantities are in the abdomen, permits this coating to be dissolved and eliminated instead of being absorbed slowly into the system. 58 Cross / Stop By (Countess cise The sudden stirring up of this auto-intoxicative coating fatigues and irritates, which is why a hungry man thinks he is dying of starvation long before he really is. But if a man has water he can go a considerable time without eating and still keep his strength; that is, the man at Karlsbad or at home, going voluntarily without food, and taking but a slight amount of exercise each day. A man adrift in an open boat would un- doubtedly have other sensations. It was, therefore, the sudden stirring up of these poisons which was the cause of my fatigue. Doctor M. told me that I might eat if I wished, but that it was a pity to do so, for tomorrow I would feel better and not worse. This hardly seemed possible, but I decided to stick it out one more day. That afternoon I became even more nervous and irritable. I met a friend, a charming lady whom I like very much usually, to whom I was so disagreeable that I finally rushed away lest I should say something irrevocable. I knew I was not my- self; it was as though I were under the influence of some drug. I took the two cups of tea allowed, and thought constantly about food. On Tuesday, the third day, I waked cheerful. Dressing was no effort, nor was walking up-hill. I knew then that what the doctor had said was exact, and that the worst of my poisons had been eliminated. That afternoon I was able to sit at a well-filled tea table and watch others eat without being tempted myself beyond the usual cup of tea with a lump of sugar but no milk. The five glasses of Karlsbad spring water which were prescribed per day completely satisfied my thirst. September in the mountains is not warm and I was taking little exercise. By Wednesday, the fourth day, I had regained my normal feeling of strength, that is for walking about, but I felt more alert and gay than on eating days. I no longer thought of eating at all; in fact the idea of food rather disgusted me. I went out to the park to watch the tennis and did a little shopping. Ox THURSDAY, the fifth day—I had not eaten since Saturday at five—I felt like a gamboling lamb which cannot restrain its leaps, and I even skipped and hopped a bit on my way to the springs when no one was looking. I wondered if I should like my food the next day, for this was the suggested limit of my fasting. But when the physician saw how well I felt, he said that one more day could easily be done, and I agreed with him. On Friday, the sixth day, I felt equally well, although I was satisfied with merely walking and not skipping. I again went to watch the tennis and to part of a concert. Doctor M. found that I had gone sufficiently long without food for my weight and general condition and that on the seventh day I might eat. He said that I should begin lightly, but with anything that I really wanted. I had lost four pounds. On Sunday noon then, that is seven days, lacking a few hours, since I had last eaten, I ordered my first meal, which became a sort of ceremony to which many friends were invited. I asked for a soft-boiled egg, buttered toast, and hot milk. It sounded very appetizing to my ears and I expected to attack it ravenously and wish for more. But when it was there before me, outdoors in the hotel garden, I was not at all in a hurry for the first morsel. I could haye left it untouched without the slightest effort. I finally ate it all very slowly. I suppose I spent an hour over this first luncheon. There were no ill effects following it, and dur- ing the afternoon I developed a normal hungry interest in the approach of dinner time! I dined early, and equally lightly, on cold ham, for which Prague is famous, hot milk, creamed potatoes, and a cake. On the following days I ate what I pleased, continuing the Karlsbad water and the daily abdominal massage, and in five days had regained my lost four pounds, but I followed the very firm recommendation to avoid fruit and vegetables at night. For, it appears, they are not digested in the stomach, but in the int eat the poi of : goc bef she it 1 sist fisl reg hu He cal he the fey the the

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de Lauzanne GThe Countess de Lauzanne intestines. And the intestines belong to a sort of labor union and do not work at night. Vegetables, salads and fruits, therefore, eaten at night, lie waiting until morning, and during this time they ferment and become auto-intoxicative. It is this sort of poison, which we put there ourselves, that explains the difficulty of some to wake in the morning, and the lack of appetite for a good breakfast if one has eaten a heavy dinner the evening before. Bisa M. advocates hearty breakfasts. Then is when fruit should be eaten. Luncheon too should be a substantial affair, as it was in former times. Dinner ought to be light, and for such as myself, should con- sist of stomach-digestive dishes such as the macaronis, cheeses, fish, meat, potatoes, eggs. And then, just to keep from losing the habit, once a week eat a regular heavy dinner of anything you like. I find that very human for a physician to advise. His chief experimental work, he told me, came during the war. He was in charge of a military hospital for digestive disorders caused by dysentery, wounds of the abdomen, et cetera. But he had no light foods for his patients and the coarse food made them worse. So he told them that if they had the courage to goa few days without food, in order to rest the over-fatigued organs, they would then become strong enough to digest the coarse food of the hospital. The results were so satisfactory that he had no difficulty with these patients thereafter. As for the “paunch” which arrives so often with middle age, Doctor M. regards it as quite unnecessary. The “paunch” means that the stomach has stretched downward, he says, that the liver is too large, and the intestines have become distended and flabby. A person’s cheeks and eyes are the mirrors of the tissues of the abdomen. If the whites of the eyes are not clear, if the cheeks are not hard and pink, the intestinal walls have lost their elasticity. For most of us eat more than we can assimilate. In the old days Doctor M. himself was a portly gentleman, after the tradition of the region. Now he is as slim and active as an American business man. Beginning at dawn in May, he sees a patient each fifteen min- utes until late at night. He leaves Karlsbad in October a very much overworked man, and goes to visit his mother, rests, and fasts twenty days to put himself in trim for his winter of labora- tory research in Vienna. Of course Karlsbad is not accessible to all, but it may be that the simple rules of rational eating are. Summed up, the creed which I learned there is: to eat lightly at night, avoiding vegetables, salads and fruits at the evening meal; when tired, not to eat at all; and once in four or five weeks, to take a twenty-four-hour fast, beginning it with a dose of the Karlsbad salts which are light and healing and can be found every- where. Thus can one keep trim and elastic, and what is more important, keep in good humor! Bad temper and irritation, I proved to my own satisfaction, are the outward manifestations of auto-intoxication. When I feel cross, I stop eating! Fe 5°

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T IS the morning of July 5, 1898. The scene is Gallipolis, Ohio. Our little hero sat in grandma’s rocker on the front porch. A bandaged foot rested on the carpet stool that Aunt Soph made for grandpa. Our hero was pale. But his was not the pallor of pain. It was the paleness of the conqueror who had dared and won. He feigned a sad and forlorn look for grandma’s watchful eyes. Grandma was not in the best of humor. And she was making sugar cookies that day. Our hero tingled with a certain strange joyous- } ness. He had plumbed the depths of sentimental- AA & ity and was rhapsodizing over a sore toe. The Qo“ night before this intrepid soul had lighted a Little Giant, No. 2, cannon cracker, calmly placed his foot on the unlighted end and stood, in a Na- : poleonic pose, until it exploded with a mighty AST bang. Six little girls in ginghams and bright hair rib- bons had watched him, screamed their warnings, then turned and hid their faces in their arms as the fuse sputtered. And the hero—for it was none other than myself—turned away with a benumbed and blistered foot and whistled his quixotic way over Court Street to his home. That had been the end of a glee-or-ious day! How feeble seemed his other daring exploits. He smiled rather pityingly at his skinning-the-cat from the second branch of Maxon’s cherry tree, at his parachute drop with an umbrella from Carl’s hayloft, and he even smiled at that magnificent hour when he rode with the calliope player at the tail end of a circus parade. For this indeed was the top-side of his hour. Grandma applied the arnica to his benumbed foot and the hair- brush some place else—making two numbnesses whereas there had been only one before. He stirred rather restlessly in his rocker. It was time for the twelve- fifteen Hocking Valley. He wanted to limp up Second Street and past the post-office corner where all the little girls came for the noonday mail. “You move off that porch and you'll get a dose of birch tea you'll remem- ber,” called grandma from the kitchen. Our hero—always the little gentle- man—merely replied in a very tired voice, ‘“Yessum.” @Uncle Enoch always expected it every Fourth, but he just couldn’t keep awake. 60 aes are those glorious, reck- less Fourths o lirious madness everywhere. 0. 0. MceLN TIRE ri. (SeEe. or-10US Illustrations by So the invalid sat and watched the passers-by—General George House, the men from the spoke factory going to midday dinne;x, McCormack’s railroad hack drawn by a white horse and a black mule, Aaron Frank in his phaeton and little Archibald Bradshaw, aged thirteen, immaculate in his starched white collar and velvet suit. What did Archibald know of life? Gone are those glorious, reckless Fourths of July! No longer do triple sets of Jackson crackers sputter in the Presbyterian church belfry. Little boys do not appear at breakfast the following July --a de- morning with powder-speckled faces and drenched with wich- hazel and arnica. Sanity and sanitation—twin sisters of youthful despair—have robbed Boyville of its most enduring glamour. We who are galloping toward the fifties can truthfully say, “The Fourth isn’t what it used to be!” Es Fourth dawned auspiciously in our town. At sun-up the cannon boomed in the public square. Uncle Enoch, the old darkey with frizzed white hair, who sunned and dozed on a bench on the north end of the square, had been jostled out of his dreams by a giant explosion. It had been placed under his bench by revelers from Varney’s saloon. Uncle Enoch always expected it every Fourth of July, but he just couldn’t keep awake. Harry Maddy, who never missed running to a fire, didn’t work on the Fourth. He was kept too busy. Sometimes he would have a record of three awnings, two barns and a henhouse before noon. Along maple-lined Third Street timid little girls were being chased by their braver brothers with fizzlers. Down in the Third Ward Bill Geppert and his gang were building a monster bonfire to be touched off at dusk. Now and then Doctor Parker and Doctor Cromley could be seen racing through town in their buggies. Excitement everywhere. A report that the bridge had been dynamited near Harring- ton’s Mill, east of town. Jud Harkness on a hell-roaring drunk had fired three shots through the bar mirror in Archibald’s saloon. Some one had tossed a can of powder in the base-burner stove in the Riverview Hotel— then touched it off. ¢ gone Shot mad sons in tl] boy Star ‘ a cling licke om | % » In Uhri Gille to T Sim rear, and WM on B as B Pi red, burs a sel B: Park fillec lock hous D twel gist linin Li celel day! T July no | top. tem] Tl with

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OURTH Worth Srelen Constable Jack Dufour’s dog with fire-crackers to his tail had gone mad and bitten a little Lasley boy. Blooey! Blooey! Shotguns firing from Alum Rock across the river. A delirious madness everywhere. America on a bust. Yip-ee! The noonday dinner lull. Harried mothers. And feverish sons. In the afternoon the patriotic speech from the band-stand in the public square by Attorney Bob Switzer—lanky Bob the boy orator of the Chicamaugua who later went to Congress. The band concert afterward with Pawsey Lawson playing “‘The Star-Spangled Banner’’ for a solo on his slip-horn. “Somebody stop her!” A rush to the street. Kent Thivener clinging to the back of a run-a-way horse and yelling for help as it lickety-splits down the main street. And then the falling dusk. Re- turning picnickers struggling up the levee from the side-wheeler Iron Queen with empty baskets. Tired, whimpering children. Evening church bells. And the hectic night to come. In Aleshire’s Hall the fife and drum corps is collecting—Pete Uhrig, the twin Jenny boys and Phister Martin with “Tough” Gillespie in charge of the baton. The march over Court to Second, up Second to Pine, over Pine to Third and down Third to the free bean supper at Red Kraus’s. Sim Purday, who never missed following a parade, was in the rear, his patched coat over his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear and bowing low to the tittering ladies. \ Voss pyrotechnic displays lighted up the heavens! The best on Banker Henking’s expansive lawn on Fourth Avenue—known as Back Street until he moved there. Pin-wheels, snakes in the grass, nigger-chasers, red, green and blue fire, sky-rockets with their bursting sprays, varicolored Roman candles and a set piece imported from Cincinnati. By eleven o’clock it was reported around the Park Central Hotel corner that the lock-up was filled and that Chief of Police Ed Martin had locked up two roysterers from Bladen in the tool- house in Court House Alley. Dog Ham, across the railroad tracks, had had twelve fist fights and two cutting affrays. Drug- gist John Shallcross had to get a fresh supply of liniment and bandages from Point Pleasant. Long after midnight an occasional boom still — the glorious, dying Fourth. What a ay! That little boy who sat on grandma’s front porch July 5, 1898, with a bandaged foot is a little boy no longer. His hair is graying and thinning on eh top. Telltale little crow’s-feet are sprouting at his temples. The little girls who watched him “show off’ with the giant fire-cracker are now mothers of Q.How feeble seemed his other daring exploits. This indeed was the top-side of his hour. half grown children. Fireworks no longer sputter. The sare Fourth has come to Gallipolis. And just as he sentimentalized then over that sore toe, he is sentimentalizing now over vanished youth. Old scenes, old faces, old friends tumble pell-mell about him. H. WONDERS if Bud Thompson ever achieved his ambition to become a circus acrobat. If One-Eyed Cooper ever caught the ghost that haunted the ice pier. If Eli Evans Klinger still drives the big furniture wagon. If Captain Barrows pilots the Neva to the mouth of the Kanawha. If the drummers still sit out along the curb in front of the Park Central at dusk. If the mysterious old lady on Grape Street lives up-stairs over the ice- house and if the rusty tin cup hangs to the same old brass chain at the pump in the public square. How consoling are those memories! What wouldn’t he give to turn back the years and hear grandma call from the kitchen just once again, ‘““You move off that porch and you'll get a dose of birch tea you’ll remember!” Dear old grandma! She was always promising punishment she never gave. Life, too, is a little like that. Grandma had applied arnica to his foot and the hair-brush to some place else. 6l

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By Adela Rogers at. Johns The L ast Affair 7 re Chang cA Story of a Woman who Loved Too Much Illustrations by John La Gatta HE thing is all over now, and the very few people who knew anything about it are apt to say, with an amused smile, that it did very little harm, and after all, what can you expect nowadays? The worldly among them probably say that Jim Croswell was an extremely lucky young man and let it go at that. As it happened, not many people did know about it. Lalun Chang had almost no friends in Hollywood. She was not popu- lar. And although Hollywood watched her with an avid and inauspicious eye, she could be amazingly discreet, in her own furious fashion, when occasion demanded. But even those few who knew or suspected could have no glimpse of that last desperate, polite struggle between the two women. The strange antagonists; for what women so alien to each other as Lalun Chang, with the distilled fruit of the tree of knowledge sweet upon her lips, hotly and spicily sweet, and clear, cool young Virginia, whose innocence had. the color and heat of flames? And, not being Lalun’s friends, none of them saw the back- wash of tragedy upon her face.. For Lalun had many masks, and she wore them well and gaily. Oddly enough, it is being told, this story, in the hope that one woman will read it. She does not enter into the story, this woman. And she is a rather tiresome woman too, when you come right down to it. Not a woman you would particularly like, perhaps. But somehow it seems only fair, clamorously fair, that she should know what came to Lalun Chang. For she is a good and upright woman, and a true and faithful wife, and Lalun Chang bowed her head in the dust and trampled upon it with her little dancing feet. So it is for her, in part, that this story clamors to be written. So that she may know that Justice at least is blind and cannot be bewitched by Lalun’s seductive eyes and dancer’s body. To prove to her, in her own homely phrase, that a woman cannot have her cake and eat it too. 62 @,"'Can I,”’ Lalun spat at Charles, ‘'go to And there was that boy poet of England, who mixed Lalun so strangely and sweetly with his songs of battle. That poet who christened her the Beloved, if you remember, and who died, some people say, because he could not bear those things he came to know of her. He does not come into this story either, since it happened long after the dross of him had become ashes, but perhaps, wherever he is, he would like to know that at last Lalun of the many lovers came to believe what he had sung and she had mocked— the gorgeous, crucifying immortality of love. It began, as so many other things have begun, with that bore- dom of Lalun’s, which was not like other people’s boredom, being red-hot and devastating instead of putty-gray and lethargic. “The trouble with me,” said Lalun bitterly, ‘is that I am bored. Bored? I die—I expire of ennui.’ She shot one tight little fist into a gold cushion, which happened to be the handiest thing just then. ‘‘And why should I not be bored? What is there to do in this—this place? Nothing.” i She stared at the man, her Egyptian eyes smoking under the straight, thin brows. “Can I, Lalun Chang, go chasing a little white ball around on a green lawn?” She spat the words out of her angry red mouth. “Can I go to these cat parties and sit around all evening with nothing but women? Can I go where all the people are married and speak of nothing but the stop-up in the sink or the wages of the cook? Bah! It is too much.” Her little feet, in scarlet slippers, began to beat the devil’s own tattoo upon the black satin coverlet of the big day bed. “And otherwise what does one do in this wicked, terrible Hollywood?” She positively lashed it with her sneers, her sarcasm. “I tell you, one more week like this one and I go back to Paris.” She stared at the tall man lounging about the sitting-room of her dressing bungalow. Stared belligerently, furiously, with the lashes down straight over her yellow-gray eyes. The sheen was [ worn Sof it doe that creep I do. the w So de Yo billbc u, SO so th the s WI danci they An

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these cat parties where they speak of nothing but the wages of the cook? Bah! It is too much.”’ of the coiléd, straight black hair and the odd, unwavering stare of those cat-eyes made the man think of a black panther he had once seen in a zoo. “You need a love affair,” said the man casually. Lalun made a sound between her sharp little teeth. A soft and sweet little snarl, bitten off to give place to her words. “Ah, so?” she said. “Are not you wonderful, Mr. Charles Hayden? But of course I need a love affair. Every woman needs a love affair. It is the fountain of youth. But with whom in this Hollywood do you suggest that I, Lalun Chang, should fall in love? Just tell me,’”’ she coaxed him, hands flung at him like open ivory fans, ‘‘and I fall in love with him quick. Then naturally I shall not be bored.” “T can only begin by offering myself,” he said gracefully. N qv yellow cat-eyes took him in slowly, from the hair that was prematurely silver to the distinguished and just sufficiently worn shoes. Softly: ‘‘No, you are my friend. And that is very nice. But it does not save me. I desire to be in love, in love, in love. So that my blood once more may run through my veins, and not creep”—she pantomimed it—‘‘along like an old lady. Now— I do not care what happens next. I do not care to wake up in the morning. What doI do, eh? I eat and I work and I sleep. So does a cow. Is that a life for me—Lalun Chang?” You who have only seen that name in gigantic letters upon the billboards should hear her say it. With her mouth rounded to the u, so that it has the dove’s coo, and a soft breath behind the a, so that it melts in the hot red cavern of her mouth. And then the spiced fillip of the Chang. When she first appeared upon the Hart lot, lured from her dancing triumphs in many cities by the glitter of much gold, they had asked her about that name. An odd name, they found it. “U-um,” said Lalun, purring, while her amused gaze rested upon the head of the publicity department, who stood most humbly in her dressing-room. “‘U-um. You wish to know about my name? What about it, then?” “But is it your own name?” said the head of the publicity department, with his ingratiating smile. “Whose name should it be?”’ Lalun had asked. “But what nationality is it?” he persisted, and then she laughed at him, her almost soundless laugh that was like a fairy music-box played very far away. “U-mm, let me see,” she said. ‘‘I do not know exactly. Maybe it is a mixed-up name, like me. They call me the great Russian dancer in this America, eh? Well, I was born in Russia, that is true. At least, so my mother told me. I do not remember about it myself. My mother was French. And my papa, he was Hungarian. The Chang—’way back somewhere, there is in my family a Chinese ancestress. Why not? That is what makes me maybe different. Oh, a very little bit, it is so far back. Like the bitters in a cocktail, you know? My mother named me Lalun. She found it in a book—an Indian book. I think it is a Hindoo name. So—I am born in Russia, of a French mama and a Hungarian papa, and a Chinese great-great-great-grandmama, and I have an Indian name. Now what will you put down on your little paper?” She stood in front of him, hands upon her slender hips, her gorgeous body that was like a violin for her use swaying with laughter. “Good Lord!’’ said the head of the publicity department. “Well,” she said, in her biting tone, “if you cannot make stories out of that, I do not know what you will do. The re- porters that came to meet me at the boat, they liked very much my stories. Besides, they are all true.” But the publicity department had no cause to complain of lack of copy where Lalun was concerned. She breathed it. There was about her that quality of the sensational that some few 63

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64 The Last Affair of Lalun Chang women carry. She said the most outrageous things, absolutely unable to understand certain fundamental standards in the American mind. Once or twice they averted real disaster only by the narrowest margin. First when the ghost tale of the boy poet’s suicide crept out of its hiding, and Lalun was moved to tell the truth about the matter, saying what was probably true enough, that it was a most interesting love story. And second, when she had almost been named by Mrs. Basil Hallward as corespondent in her divorce suit. This was that Basil Hallward who had been famous for many years for his portrayal of great Western parts. “But what is that, a corespondent?” said Lalun Chang when they came to her tearfully, imploringly. They told her. “U-mmm,” said Lalun Chang. “Well, what is all this fuss about? What canIdoabout it? Ifshe cannot hold her husband, is that my fault? Do you expect a man will go on and love his wife when she looks like a—a bale of hay tied in the middle? Then you are very stupid.” And as they continued to talk and talk, she banged her fist down upon the table in a fury. “You drive me crazy,” she said breathlessly. ‘What is it she wants? That I should give him back? - But certainly. I give him back gladly. Ido not want him any more. He bores me something terrible. It was all fake anyway, that cold, cruel way he looks. Tell her she can have him back, of course. Sure.” Then Hollywood wives said unkind things about Lalun for which one could not blame them. They said that they hoped that some day she would meet a man who would make her suffer as she had made other people suffer. Lalun was a little bewildered by the sharp gust of their hatred. And then she shrugged and made a little wise face. “They are jealous,” said Lalun. “Poor things.” Which, being repeated, stung as only such sympathy can sting. Oh, there is no defense for Lalun in such matters. Hits now, as she lay restlessly, as she leaped up and went to stare at herself in the mirror of her dressing-table, one could not very well defend her. For her words showed quickly enough of whom she was thinking. - “Soon,” she said to her réflection, “‘you will look old and dried up. And then I shall hate you.” The man poured himself a high-ball from the tray on the table. “Poor little Lalun,”’ he said, mocking her very gently, “and in all Hollywood you cannot find anyone to fall in love with?” “Well,” said Lalun, beginning to prowl back and forth like a Persian cat in a strange room, ‘‘who is there? Can I fall in love with an actor? They do nothing but make gestures. They must always act. Even in the beginning, which is the divinest of all moments, they make you feel that the end is just around the corner. That is too much.” Hayden laughed at her. “Is there no one else?” “But,” said Lalun, her very shoulders questioning him, “who is there? Fat producers and fatter directors. Every director I have had so far, he is the shape of a barrel. And he has a wife who comes and sits all day upon the set.” “Does that matter to you, Lalun?” “Tt bores me. They watch me. It makes me nervous and I cannot act. As if I—Lalun Chang—would have their fat, soft, silly old husbands. No. I want a man who will love me fiercely, tenderly, strongly. I want to be swept away once more, as I shall sweep him away, like that great fall of water I went to se “You expect too much,” said the man. ‘You have had too much experience of love already. Better leave it alone, Lalun. It is not a thing to play with. In the end, it may burn you.” Her eyes threatened him. ‘“No—no,” she said harshly. ‘“We all must die, but I am not ready to die. And to me it will be death when I can no longer make men love me, when I can no longer love. That is all there is in life fora woman. And I— I am out of love. Out of love.” He watched her as she went back to the satin day bed and flung herself on her back. And he wondered. For while he had known many men who made a game of love, who prospected for gold in love, going from one field to another, he had never known a woman who looked upon love and life so. They had not called her the Beloved, in Paris, altogether by way of compliment. And knowing what the end of those men had been, he wondered much about this woman, so lawless, whom he greatly loved. It had grown very dark in the dressing bungalow, and Lalun reached up and switched on the purple lamp. “Well,” she said viciously, “do not sit there drinking high- balls and looking at me. If I cannot find a man to love, I must amuse myself in some other way. What do you suggest for my amusement, Mr. Charles Hayden?” “Well, there’s the New Year’s Day football game tomorrow.” “What is that—a football game?” said Lalun, a little wearily. He told her. Mentioned the names of the two great colleges whose teams were to play. Described to her a little of the game itself. She sat up to listen, breathless as a child. That was one of her many charms, that breathless, self-forgetting way she could listen and lose herself. “Like this,” she said, bringing her two hands together hard, one small palm fighting the other. “I see. Now that is some- thing I have never seen—a football game. Yes, I think that is an excellent idea. We will go.to that football game, and now I will go home and sleep; since I am very tired.” hee Rose Bowl was full.of people upon that New Year’s Day— a vast dark circle of them, packed tensely together, magnetized by the white-lined field in the center. The roar of the crowd swelled and vibrated, like the noise of many waters It was like youth rampant, that great Bowl, waiting for the two teams, one from the East, one of the West; it was as though everyone there had brought with him his youth, had dug it out of the lavender and moth-balls and flung it forth for the grand occasion. Lalun Chang sensed it as she came through the tunnel, sensed it and stood a moment, her chin flung up, her breast lifted on a quick, intoxicating breath of it. The hand that held her rough, smart sports coat, with its big fur collar, tightened its grip. They spoke her name as she passed down the aisle. ‘There goes Lalun Chang,” they said. And Lalun, child of the people, flung them back a greeting in her swift, eager smile. She understood crowds—Lalun— and loved them. She said so, swiftly, to Charles Hayden, who strolled beside her, almost too self-possessed, almost too well-groomed. It antagonized faintly, that poised superiority, until one was startled into sudden pity by the eyes—those slave eyes, pathetic, beaten, pleading, fixed always upon Lalun Chang, i in her rakish hat with the scarlet feather that was like a pirate’s hat. Perhaps everything built to that climax that was to sweep them all in its torrent—Lalun, and clear, cool Virginia, and young Jim Croswell. The entrance of the teams, red and dark blue. The crowds gone utterly mad at sight of them. The yells rocketing up. The game itself. In stunning flashes. A menacing run against the red team that Lalun had picked for hers since it belonged to the West: The terrific tackl= that stopped it. A big man in a red sweater, tearing holes through the dark line as a swimmer dives through water. The ball, sailing up and up, wobbling toward the goal posts and missing, with the mixed groans and cheers that went crazily into the air. The charge of the four dark- sweatered backs that seemed like overwhelming lightning. A thin red line of heroes that somehow stiffened and held—miracu- lously, in the very shadow of the goal posts. Lalun was pale with it. Crimson with it. Faint and then mad with it. They were so close to the field that they could hear the gasping breaths, the smashing contact of bodies, that swift impact of the ball. It was toward the end of the game that it happened. Charles Hayden afterwards was never very clear about it. A long pass, hurtling through the air like the shot from a cannon. Straight into the heart of the enemy. All dark sweaters there, not a gleam of red. And suddenly, from nowhere, a slim crimson figure leaping into the air behind the goal line, arms flung up like a diver’s. Two men actually upon him, leaping with him, three men charging him. Yet somehow from the mass of them the crimson figure won that flying ball. It had an odd quality, that picture, as though one looked at it upon canvas. It stayed in the eye, in the mind, in the memory, perfectly etched, so that long afterwards when people thought of great football plays, great football games, they saw that slim crimson figure leaping upward from the pack of dark sweaters, outlined against the sky. As the players came back to the center of the field, Lalun said, “Please give me the glasses.” T like scre belo hot stra aga

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+h rest Mi 3 GQ Jim Croswell caught some rich and heady perfume. ful,” purred Lalun Chang. _ That note in her voice. There was no other voice in the world like Lalun’s for that mellow, sobbing sweetness. She looked through the powerful binoculars, holding them screwed against her face so that all Charles Hayden could see below the piratical hat and the dark rim of glasses was her dry, hot little mouth—half open, deeper and deeper scarlet. Through those glasses Lalun Chang was seeing one face—a straight, virile young profile, straw-colored hair, wet and rumpled against his head. Above the crimson sweater, the column of “You were so wonder- “I have never seen anyone so wonderful.’’ his throat, young and brown and muscled. The rugged boy chin set almost cruelly with the strain. She could see him strain for breath as though his lungs ached for it. Could see the sweat that smeared the grime upon his face and his hard brown hands. She gave Charles Hayden back his glasses with a hand that shook a little. She opened the big white program, and he saw her eyes go from the number upon the sweater to the (Continued on page 144)

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What I Learned From ELEVEN Years of STRUGGLE ana Poverty Francisco, in New York, in Paris and in Rome. He too had carried off prizes and scholarships and the warm praise of his instructors. The branch of art that interested him mo: was sculpture, and a sculptor he expected to be. For two or three years after our marriage we scraped along, my husband doing odd jobs of illustrating and modeling, I teaching French in one of the New York evening high schools and writing frivolous stories for frivolous magazines. We grew to loathe this life. A friend of ours had come of a family of Kentucky landowners. Her mother still owned a seven hundred acre tobacco planta- tion in that state and was looking for some one to take it on a lease. Jaded by our drab existence within the walls of a dingy and stuffy little New York flat, we were wild with enthusiasm at the thought of a Kentucky farm, and my husband leased it without delay. He went down to the farm in January. I followed in April with my two children. I don’t know just what I had been expect- ing, but I received a sharp impression of more than surface change when on getting off the train at one of those dismal sheds which serve the small towns of the South as stations I was greeted by a man in a full beard and a pair of muddy overalls. His manners and ways of speech were different. Raised in his youth on a prairie wheat ranch, my husband had now reverted to type. @Edith Summers Kelley | CALEVEN years ago my husband and I decided to leave New York—to go back tothe land—tobe “free.” We had no good reason other than the restlessness which overtakes young people for whom life has not fulfilled its promises. The struggle for existence, with two young children to care for and support, was be- coming a grind, and we were impatient of the grind. Up to our marriage fortune had favored us. Throughout my four years at college I had won most of the honors in the department of modern languages, and my teachers had hinted that they expected me to be heard from some day. I came to take it for granted that I was one singled out from the herd. My husband, son of , an Oklahoma pioneer, had studied art in San Mr. Kelley, who wanted to be a 66 §

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Ds he aS ze ld 1g rh or Il 1- aS rao oO — = ee ee ae oe he — os By Edith Summers KELLEY Who gave up “Everything” to become a Farmer He hoisted my trunks into the back of a farm wagon drawn by two heavy plow horses, and perched on the high front seat, with our little girl between us and the baby on my lap, we started for our new home. I was not prepared for what awaited me. I was city-bred and my slight knowledge of the country had been gained from a few short visits to the Berkshire Hills, where farm- houses are roomy and quaintly beautiful. What I found here was a flimsy board shanty of three rooms with a sagging porch, the flooring of which had mostly rotted away from the nails. There were no closets, no cupboards, in each room nothing but four stark walls. Fortunately I am of a temperament that takes joy in the break- irg of habit and the shattering of conven- tion. I packed all my city clothes in the bot- tom of a trunk, put on calico and was ready to become a farmer’s wife. My husband undertook my education. He taught me how to milk a cow, how to skim big pans of milk, how to churn and work the buttermilk out of the butter, how to hoe the WANN Wii @.The New Jersey cottage was picturesque—in summer. »/"£ hy vegetables and take care of the chickens. I took kindly to these activities; the blood of my Scotch peasant ancestors who had later become American pioneers whispered to me that these had been the occupations of the women who had passed on to me the gift of life. The women of the neighborhood came to see me. They were lynx-eyed, secretive, curious and hostile, yet possessed of a deep underlying kind- liness and a wistful groping of the spirit. They walked into the kitchen without knocking. When they found me dressed like themselves and doing the same things that they did every day, they accepted me as one of them. All of the children within walking distance came and wandered wide-eyed through our three rooms. They stood in awed contemplation before a few books ranged on a rough set of shelves and wanted to know if we were going to keep a school. They looked in amazement at our sup- ply of groceries and asked if this was going to be a store. The men usually came on horseback, remained in the saddle and called you out with a peculiar musical sounding halloo. But if they came on foot they too walked in without knock- ing. From far and near these men came to our farm, curious to see what a man from New York looked like. When they found that like themselves he was fond of a drink, could handle a plow on a steep hillside and was not afraid of horses, they ceased to regard him as a curiosity. Our barnyard became the favorite loung- ing place of the neighborhood. The summer began full of promise. I remember with delight the delicate garment of young green that lay over the earth during those spring days, the smell of locust trees in bloom and the songs of happy birds. I reveled in the sunshine. But my wish for sunshine was granted in too full measure. After the middle of May no rain The Kelley babies liked Kentucky. fell; the corn and tobacco shriveled and died; sculptor, and his tenant, driving cattle in Kentucky. the vegetable gardens blew away in dust. The streams dried up and (Continued on page 150) 67

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THE HOUSE OF ORME The Story So Far: LD Hannibal Orme was a fallen Sam- son in more senses than one. Once a rich South Carolina _ plantation owner with patriarchal instincts, he was now a blind, deaf, partially paralyzed old man, shorn of his power, shorn of his wealth. Only his Herculean strength was left—he could break a silver dol- lar in two with his fin- gers; that and a small bag of money which he kept always in his hand, and counted over in his eternal darkness when he was alone. The great Orme plantation re- mained, but it too had gone to ruin. Hannibal Orme kept no servants, but he had a slave—his son David. David- was intelligent, energetic and straight- forward. . He was a graduate of an agricul- tural college, and could have earned enough money to keep his father in comfort. But the old man, who was ava- ricious and cruelly set in his ways, would neither give him the money to start farming himself, nor let him go to work elsewhere. So as some one had to be with the blindman, David stayed, and tended him like a baby, and did housework. Only one thing could David do for himself — tend a small patch of cotton, with the idea of breeding a Jong-staple strain of seed with which he could some day start a plantation of his own. And he dreamed—dreamed as a lonely youth will of a beautiful woman and a family of his own. The third living Orme was Brant, David’s brother. Handsome and brilliant, Brant was at heart as cold as steel. He spent a good deal of his time and money on drink and gambling and women. His reputation was highly unsavory. Yet for some reason he was the favorite of his father, who bought him a part- nership in the firm of Sims and Sims, cotton brokers, in the neighboring town of Balestier. Brant promptly speculated in cotton on margin for himself, and lost everything including an additional thousand dollars he wheedled out of his father. But he just missed making a fortune. This further embittered him against society in general. He — sold his dead mother’s jewels—part of which really "It ain’t no use argu- ing,’’ said the Sheriff. ‘You'll be manhandled and taken by force.”’ belonged to David—and wasted that money. Then he stole an automobile and disappeared. The Sheriff, a local character, called on David looking for him. One day David received word from Brant. It was a telegram brought by Jimmy Crisp, a young ne’er-do-well with some lovable characteristics. Brant was married and was bringing his bride to Orme. Suddenly David felt his heart warming towards this unknown girl and going out to her in pity and sympathy. “There’s one thing this old house needs,” he thought, “and that’s a woman to run it.” So he and Jimmy started housecleaning for the guests, expecting them to arrive any minute along the county highway, an old road which was then being rebuilt by a gang of the convicts from Balestier. The Story 66 2 Continues: EEMS funny to think of Brant getting married,’ said Jimmy. David nodded. ‘He never does what you’d expect. I wonder how they’ll get here from Gunpowder? Know anything about the road? I haven’t been over it since I was a kid.” “Tt wouldn’t be so bad this time of year,” said Jimmy. “Most likely they’ll drive over. But maybe they’ll ride.” As they passed through the garden to the house David cut some roses and camellias to fill the vases in his mother’s room. He did not like the idea of installing the married pair in that particular room, but Brant was the elder and had commanded it, and David did not wish to raise any issues. In the hall Hannibal Orme once more slept. David had the impulse to wake him and tell him the news, but thought better of it. “If I tell him,” David thought, “he’ll think it’s all wrong; but if Brant breaks the news, he’ll think it’s all right.” They redded the habited parts of the house as well as they could, and prepared a supper which could be heated in a few minutes. Then Jimmy Crisp, who had lingered for as long a period as he felt could be explained to his father, departed. The old man wakened and said that he was hungry. David lighted the fire and the candles in the dining-room, fetched a basin of warm water, soap and a towel so that his father could wash his hands, and they had supper. After supper, while David was washing the dishes, Hannibal Orme once more fell asleep in his comfortable chair by the stove.

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sy Gouverneur Morris A Novel of jf eA Man Who Loved His Brother’s Wife David tried to read; but solitary men are easily ex- cited. He could not get his mind on his book. What would she be like? She might well be a little flashy. That was Brant’s fancy. David hoped not. He found himself longing for a_ sister-in-law who should have sense and dignity, who would reform Brant, keep him interested at home and make him do his share towards re- vitalizing the family fortunes. David wished that they would hurry up and come. Something must have de- layed them, for it was pretty late. A number of tines he stepped out on the veranda and listened. But he could hear only mysterious sounds of the night. When they did come it was all of a sudden, and just at the moment when David had given them up and had determined to wake his father and help him to bed. The somewhat dim yel- low light in the hall was suddenly brightened by a strong white ray from without and there was the sound of a motor chugging up the avenue. Brant was driving it; but David noted with keen relief that it bore no re- semblance to the stolen car which the Sheriff had described. This, for its times, was a sporty looking roadster of a deep wine color, or so it seemed by artificial light, with bright brass trimmings. The bride looked first at the front elevation of Orme. lt was at once forbidding and beautiful. looked at David. She had, it seemed to David in that first glance, a very little, very white face, with very dark eyes. He opened the door of the car and helped her out. “My brother David,” said Brant. ‘“Davie—this is Nora,” and he added, ‘‘Hope you'll be friends.” Nora Orme left her hand in David’s. She did not seem to know that he was holding it. She seemed tired, frightened and in- attentive to persons and surroundings. “Nora’s all in” said Brant. “The road pretty nearly bumped us to pieces.” Then she turned and "You put down that gun,”’ said Brant, “and then let’s talk about manhandling.”’ Illustrations by James E. Allen He climbed out on his own side of the car, and remarking that he himself was stiff as a poker proceeded to release two valises. ‘Mind carrying those,” he said, “while I find a shed to stick this buggy in? The night air isn’t good for ’em.” “Come in where it’s warm,” said David to his sister-in-law, and lifting the two valises from the ground he followed her up the steps and through the open door of the house. Hannibal Orme had not moved. “Father,” David explained, “sleeps most: of the time. He was asleep when Brant’s telegram came, and he doesn’t even know about the wedding. But I suppose Brant has told you all about father.” 69

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She nodded, but it did not seem as if she had heard him. “When were you married?” David asked. “When? Why, this morning.” “Tt was a great surprise to me,” said David. “I didn’t even know that Brant was engaged. He’s not much on letter writing.” ‘“‘We weren’t exactly engaged,” said Nora, ‘‘and I don’t think that I ever really expected to marry him. It just happened . . . What a marvelous old house this is!” Her eyes roamed over the white panelling and beaded moldings. “Tt will be much more marvelous now—with a woman to manage it.” “T would love to live in a house like this,” said Nora, “but I don’t think that Brant intends to stay very long.” “T am very sorry to hear that.” “T think we are to go away in the morning— west, I think.” David found himself unreasonably depressed. He had felt at home with his sister-in-law. She had the most gentle and trusting eyes he had ever seen. It would have been so easy to be friends with her. And she looked a little tired and frightened, and as if she needed a long rest. “Would you like to see your room?” he asked. “You might like to unpack while I heat up some supper.” “‘Are you the cook?” “T’m a little bit of everything. It’s straight up the stairs—the first door on the left.” He noticed that she was wonderfully light on her feet, and that her feet were wonderfully small. | ae since receiving Brant’s telegram, David had kept a fire burning in the room that had been his mother’s. It was delightfully warm now, and the old mahogany glowed pleasantly in the flicker- ing light. David put down the valises and lighted candles. “T didn’t have much time to get things ready,” he apologized, ‘‘and wherever I’ve slipped up, I hope you'll think that I didn’t mean to and take the will for the deed.” Nora ran her forefinger lightly along the mantel- shelf. “There isn’t even a speck of dust,” she said. “T try to keep this room in order all the time,” said David. “It was my mother’s. That is a picture of her. I think that she was the sweetest thing that ever lived. Brant and I were both born in this room . . . And now I better get after that supper.” “But I want to help. I don’t want to unpack now.” She spoke eagerly. And it seemed to David al- most as if she dreaded being left alone. He said, “Good for you. I need help.” In the meanwhile Brant, having stowed his car for the night, had returned to the house, and after a quizzical look at his sleeping parent, had helped himself twice from the decanter of whisky that stood on the side table. He had then made an effort half playful, half serious to disengage the canvas money bag from his father’s hand. But the strong hand had tightened, and the sleeper had stirred. These phenomena nettled Brant. He reached into his trousers pocket and produced one of those thick pen-knives which unfold a large assortment of minute and miscellaneous tools. He opened the scissors and cast a careful and calculating look at the money bag. It seemed possible to him to slit it and extract at least some of the money. But at that moment the sound of Nora and David descending the stairs disturbed him, and when they discovered him, he had turned his back on his father and appeared to be trimming the rough edge of a finger nail. He gave them one of his most engaging smiles. ‘Got anything to drink?” he asked. “Right there,” said David, “on the table,” and he noted that the level in the decanter had already been lowered. “Who'll join me?” said Brant. a and David shook their heads. G.Nora found herself in that little “You must anyway, Davie. You must drink the bride’s health.” “That’s a different matter. I’ll drink the bride’s health with pleasure, and long life and happiness to you both. Perhaps father would like to join us.” “T wouldn’t wake the old man,” said Brant in his most solici- tous voice. “It’s going to be so hard anyway to make him under- stand what’s happened—poor old boy.” Meanwhile he had poured a drink for himself and one for David. Then bowing and with a bold archness, he said, ‘“To the bride long life and happi- ness, and may her tribe increase.” That toast seemed in bad taste to David, but nevertheless he clinked glasses with Brant and drank it. Brant made no difficulty about Nora’s helping David to get supper. He would stay with his father in case the old man should wake, he said; only hurry up because it had been a long day and he was hungry. The moment they reached the kitchen, Nora, to David’s horror and surprise, showed him a pair of eyes that were over- flowing with tears. “Nora!” he exclaimed in concern, “what is the matter 5”) Sev hin fat sq tel fo wl wa tri sh ne

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The tears began to run down her face. He coaxed her to tell him her troubles, which he imagined to be composed entirely of fatigue and excitement. He took her hands between his and squeezed them hard. He was discovering in his heart an immense tenderness for her. Presently she began to speak in jerky broken sentences. He gathered that she had married Brant because she was sorry for him, that Brant had coaxed and wheedled as only Brant could when the mood was on him; that the moment the brief ceremony was over Brant had undergone a change, had shown flashes of his true character, domineering and bullying. She wished now that she had died before making such a cruel mistake. “T want to run out in the woods,” she said, ‘and hide and never be found.” “We couldn’t let you do that, Nora. And surely Brant loves you. He had made her think so. But she had a little property, and when Brant had found that it could not be converted instantly into cash, he had grown very angry. Brant had made her believe that love meant everything to him, money nothing. He had undeceived her very quickly and very cruelly. ey z = i o B , s ; 4 *> rr fo bg ‘a 5. 8 Ki ; i i ie 9 ‘ , 8 A ne "seventh heaven which is unknown to men, while David waited patiently and eagerly for her costumed appearances. a a — “He was furious, David. He said that I had fooled him.” She began to get hysterical, and David spoke to her sharply. “This won’t do, Nora. Go over to the sink and put some cold water on your face. Crying never helped anybody.” But it was a sudden far-off stentorian shouting of David’s name that startled Nora out of her hysterics. “Father’s calling me,” said David. ‘Wait here,’ and he ran out of the kitchen. David ran straight to his father and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. The shoulder was trembling, not with fear, but with anger and excitement. “There’s a man in the house, David. He’s after my money.” David cast his eyes about the hall. He noted that the level of whisky in the decanter was lower than ever. Then he per- ceived Brant in a far corner. Brant looked white and shaky. He had his forefinger at his lips and he scowled at David and shook his head violently. David leaned down and shouted in his father’s ear. “You dreamed it. There’s only two men in the house—you andme. Only you and me. Nobody (Continued on page 202) 71

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JAMES WONT GMiapy Tt fa? G,'‘Be careful, don’t make no noise —Billy’s sleeping!’’ says Mary. S THAT fine old song goes, ‘‘Blood wiil tell, but a feller with good blood don’t.” In other words the main drag can see him pass by but not know all his business, and even their guesses will be mostly grapefruit. What I mean to say is that a clever guy, the same as myself for a sample, will keep his face strictly shut at all times excepting only mealtimes. And this is especially true in the moving pictures, which I been in over a year now, and more abundance! maybe I couldn’t tell the babies that are running the very biggest concerns a few things. I don’t very often, and when I do, there really ain’t none of them fellers intelligent enough to take my advice. If Mr. Silvermount, the president of our company, now, had trusted me about trick dogs in the first place, and seen how I was fully capable to judge one, why, all that trouble he had over them would of been avoided. But Mr. Silvermount, honest, I don’t know how he got to be the head of that lot anyways, excepting that onc’t in a while he — a grain of sense, such as when he signed up that wonder UM B A story of a Man and pulled Illustrations by boy of mine, Billy, the now famous child actor. Then on the other hand, when I first come out here to Hollywood in order to give him the chanc’t to get a real sheik, why, he wouldn’t even give mea test. And asa result, the amount of dirty cracks I had to stand for from that sister-in-law of mine, Mary McCree, who come along to look after Billy, on account of my wife having died, well, the cracks the nuts in a salted almond factory gets was nothing compared to what was handed me by her. Of course when that darn kid of mine accidentally wan- dered out onto the lot and did his stuff, and they fell for it, and when I seen the contract they offered him, why, I sacrificed my own career to my child’s by making them boobs tuck in a clause where I was to be his personal man- ager at a grand per week, and refusing to sign up for the young one until they did. And from then on I really been perfectly content to be in the business end. Ever since my pop started me working the first time, as a manicurist in a garage, and the boss seen inside of a week where I was too big for the position, why, executive ability has been my specialty through forty-eight different jobs. Oh, I have lived! I know the world! I know men and women, and now I guess I can say I know dogs. Really, Big Benny Silvermount had the right instinct about me and them after all. “Eddie Softer,” he says to me once, “the more I see of you, the more I think about dogs.” L was a funny thing, but that very night after he said it, when I come home to the magnificent Spanish type dwelling out in Golden Gables, which I had got with Billy’s first salary, there out in the vacant lots behind our place was that darn kid of mine, and he had picked up some kind of a mut. I don’t care for dogs; personally, myself, I would rather keep a canary, one that don’t bite. And undoubtedly this was the wors?-looking dog in the world. I guess he was part Australian noodle-hound, part hot-dog, and the rest of him looked like a cross between a door-mat with the welcome sign wore off it and a well used floor mop. Billy and this pooch was racing all over them lots playing with a ball, right where the neighbors and anybody could see them, and honest, in my conspicuous place in the pictures, that ain’t the kind of thing my dignity can stand for. And more abun- dance, in addition there was a feller on crutches sitting out there on a old box. He was kinda a bum in sloppy.clothes, and this bird had elected hisself a regular bleachers for Billy and the hound. Naturally I marched right up to that darn kid of mine and I give him the cop’s rush. “Lookit here, Billy!” I says. ‘‘What’s the matter you can’t play in your own swell yard?” I says. ‘‘Whatter you mean, running out loose, picking up strange animals of various kinds?” ““Aw, pop!” says Billy. “I found the pooch in the alley be- hind Groomer’s restaurant eating out the garbage can,” he says, “and I got him some real eats outer our house, and now me and him is pals.” “Well, he ain’t no dog for a boy like you to have, Billy,” I says. “Hey, make him quit smelling of me,” I says. “Aw, pop, I wanner keep him!” says Billy. ‘Please don’t chase him, pop!” Well, just about then the lame bum had to go and butt in. “Why not let him have the poor stray thing?” he says “After all, a boy and a dog sort of belong together, and your youngster tells me he hasn’t had one until today.” Bu and t we gc down right Tr mayb whick didn’ credit at hi the p that | when Los A It use 7 real i Mc sec. ¢ woul busin mean Ev releas gonne So in my the ( parke to ou as no ti getti We down “N “MW long youn, nor n willin We of ‘it, says, Fo at me WV time,

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| By Noina Wilcox Putnam who put in his Foot out a Plum James Montgomery Flagg “Aw, go tie up a noodle!” I says. ‘I don’t need any loafers giving me out advice about how I should handle my family,” I says. Well, the feller shut up at that and got his crutches together. ‘‘Good-by, Billy,” he says tothe kid. “I hope your father will change his mind about your other new friend.” “Good-by, Mr. Limp,” says Billy. ‘I hope your crutches get well soon.” And then the feller went away, and I dragged off that darn kid of mine, followed by that nasty mut. “Go on, tell the dog to get out of here,” I says to Billy. “He don’t seem to understand my language,” I says. But Billy wouldn’t. He had commenced crying and hollering, and the more he done so, the more the dog followed us. Finally we got inside our gate and shut the nasty brute out. Then I sat down on the terrace and I gave Billy a good talking to. And right about then I got a big surprise. ¢ me was a wall of stucco around our exclusive place—it was maybe ten feet high. And what in the world, if that darn dog, which it had been howling at the gate ever since we come in, didn’t crash the big barrier! He come over that wall like he had creditors after him, and in two seconds he was up to Billy, licking at him. So it ended in me having to get the servants to chase the pooch, and then I carried Billy up to his suite, where luckily that sister-in-law of mine, Mary McCree, found us pretty soon when she come in from the public stenographer office down in Los Angeles, where she works. It was lucky she come home when she did and left me free to use my executive ability, on account on the hall table I found a real important letter. More abundance! This letter was from Mr. Al Goldringer, sec. of the Goldringer Productions, Inc., and he says where he would like to see me at my earliest convenience. Well, my -business experience taught me just exactly what that letter meant. Ever since that wonder boy of mine had made his first big release, I had known where some other producer was eventually gonner bid for him. So next day, after I had took that darn kid of mine to work in my big special body Crane-Simplex, why, I trotted around to the Goldringer lot. Mr. Goldringer with his usual cigar was parked behind just the same kind of fortified desk we have over to our lot. “Come right in and set down, Mr. Softer!” he says, wasting no time. ‘‘That ain’t a bad kid you’ve got. How much is he getting a week over to Silvermount?” Well, naturally I wouldn’t tell him that Billy was only pulling down a couple of grand. “Never mind that,” I says. ‘“What’s your bait?” “Mr. Softer,’ he says to me, “I have been in this business a long time, and I know that kid of yours can act. He’s a great young one. Naturally I wouldn’t want to break his contract nor nothing like that, but when it’s finished with, I am perfectly willing to sign him up around, say, five thousand.” Well, that wasn’t exactly bad news, but there wasn’t enough of ‘it, so I merely says, “Well, I might consider that for Billy,” I says, “but what do I get, Mr. Goldringer?”’ For a moment he didn’t say nothing, but just sat there looking at me and shifting gears on his big cigar. _ “Mr. Softer, I have been watching your leisure for quite some time,” he says finally, “‘and I want to be frank to confess we ve ‘ GI was sick at heart over - the poor little feller. couldn’t use you on our lot. I am willing to give your kid real money, but as far as you are concerned, all we can offer you is a lot of time to yourself.” Well, very few of them big fellers can appreciate a valuable man when they see one. And Mr. Goldringer sat there looking right through me. But my business experience taught where if he was to give me his offer for Billy in writing, my executive ability could un- doubtedly make use of it at some future time. “Well, Mr. Goldringer,” I says, “I got so many outside business interests I could hardly attend to anything for Billy over here anyways. But I want some time to think about your suggestion, and if you was to put this offer in writing, it would give me a chanc’t to consider what would be best for my wonder boy.” Well, Mr. Al Goldringer rung for his steno and dictated the letter right then, and when I left him I had that valentine all billed in the old bill-folder, where I could draw it quick when the time come. More abundance! This was just what I wanted, on account I had for a long while now been feeling that Billy, after the big success I had made of him in the pictures, had ought to have his own unit—a separate production organization, like Gloria Swanson, Estelle DeLux and them other big people. _ /

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naturally I intended to be in charge, as I can set around in a solid mahogany private office as good as anybody. Before, I hadn’t hardly liked to take the matter up with the Silvermount people, but now I felt sure he would listen to reason. Well, that darn kid of mine always gets fed a hot meal noontimes over to our lot; I never have to bother about that. And so this morning, after I come away from Goldringer’s, although I had intended dropping into the studio and watching him work for a while, I decided to make a slight detour instead and hesitated at the real estate office of a feller I had been talking to. It was them vacant lots back of our house out in Golden Gables that I was considering. Not that I actually had the cash, even for the first payment on five thousand husky ones. But it was a handsome office, and I enjoyed to stop in onc’t in a while and encourage the young feller that was running the place. “How are you, Mr. Softer?” says the bright-haired boy realtor, cordial, as I come in. “I hope this visit means you have decided on the Blake property—it’s a wonderful buy, Mr. Softer, and I’m sure you will never regret it!” “Don’t rush me, boy!” I says. “I just been putting over a battle with Al Goldringer and I’m wore out. He’s trying to persuade me to come with them, but although he offered big money for me and the boy both, I have practically promised Mr. Silvermount to take charge of a special unit for Billy, and I would hate to disappoint him.” “That’s a big step foward for the youngster, even with all the hit he’s made,” says Mr. Wendy. ‘And it must make you feel wealthy, so what about those Blake lots? The chances are you'll be able to turn them over to good advantage inside a month—your own judgment must tell you that.” “Well, I'll tell you, buddie,” Isays. ‘There is one thing makes me kinda hesitate. It’s all them nasty little cheap shacks on the next property. Could you get me that piece too, so’s I could control the whole shooting match?” “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Softer,” says he. “That be- longs to a bunch of early settlers and they won’t let go. I don’t know if anything short of condemning those buildings could make them loosen up. I'll try if you say so, but it would cost you a lot of money.” “Oh, it ain’t the money that counts with me,” I says. “Tt’s a matter of controlling my own neighborhood.” “Well, Pll get our manager working on it at once,” says the ground-grabber. “By the way, I would like you to see him. I believe you two have met some place before. I'll call him.” Bu that wasn’t necessary, on account from the inside office, which the door to it had been standing open all this time, come a feller that I knew from the days when I was manicuring in the garage. He was chauffeur to the garage elevator, and about the time I left the boss there flat, this bird, Bob Dorman, got promoied to the parts department. I hadn’t seen him since, but I knew him right away. “So you are the same Eddie Softer!’ he says, shaking hands. ‘Well, I thought it must be you, but I wasn’t sure until I commenced listening to your line in there.” “Pardon me!” I says. “I do seem to remember you some place.” “Same old bluff!’ he says. “Come on, Eddie, quit ear-oiling me! I suppose you got about as much real intention of buying that Blake property as you had of purchasing our old garage.” Well, naturally this got my goat. This feller Dorman was always picking on me when we was working together, and I seen it was gonner be very bad business policy to leave him think or even guess where I was not in a position to go through with any- thing I commenced. He very likely knew all about me running that hot-dog stand when I was in business for myself, and Helen, my wife, was alive and able to do the cooking end of it. I wasn’t gonner have him go blahing all over Hollywood about things that was nobody’s personal business but my own, and just to show him where he got off, I decided to take a option on them Blake lots right that minute. I had five hundred dollars o- in my pocket, half my next week’s salary, which I had drew WSs * G,What in the world if that darn out on account my tailor was kinda hounding me. But my entire reputation was more important just then than a mere tailor’s bill. I drew out the roll and flapped down the smackers. “So you think I ain’t in earnest?” I says. ‘Well, Dorman, just give me a receipt for this, will you, and a written thirty-day option en them lots?” Well, that unsettled his mind, all honkey-tonkey, and his manner got entirely different. ‘Step right into my private office, Softer, please,” he says. “And have a cigar while I have the girl get that option ready!” As soon as he come inside I spoke at him in a low voice. “Say, Dorman, me and you may do considerable business in the future,” I says, ‘on one condition. If you want I should buy my bigger real estate propositions through you, just lay off any free advertising about the garage and my hot-dog place and so forth, get it? I am one of the most important fellers in the motion pictures now, see, and you know I gotter stand on my dignity!” afte was “cc I sz nes whi Th a W kid be eno lot hay anc

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‘n re n, is o ~ Ox < 5 ~

dog didn’t come over the wall like he had creditors after him and in two seconds was up to Billy. “My mistake!’ he says. “I’m sorry, Eddie, honest. But after I remembered the old days, it was hard to get the idea you wasn’t nothing but a bluff.” “T accept the apology in the spirits in which it is preserved,” I says. And then parking my written option in the same cozy nest as Al’s letter, I walked out and left him flat. A sensation which, although it had cost me money, was well worth it. Oh, I have lived! Besides, although all that bunch of jack had left its poppa for a while, I should worry! I was gonner get a unit for that darn kid of mine, and a salary which would put me where I could soon be saying no, take them ten-carat stones away, they ain’t large enough. And right after I eat some lunch, I beat it over to our = to inform Mr. Silvermount of the good luck he was about to ave. Well, Mr. Silvermount wasn’t in his office, he was out to lunch, and inside the lot there didn’t seem to be very much doing this day. That darn kid of mine had gone off some place on a loca- tion, and so, it appeared, had pretty near every working com- pany. So I fooled around a little while and then give myself a steer back in the direction of the office building, taking a short cut across stage number four to do it. This stage wasn’t even dressed, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. And then, when I was about half-way across, what would I see but the Silvermount dog, Prince, that famous police-dog actor, and he was trotting towards me with a mean look in his eye. It was a funny thing, but ever since I first come on that lot that damn brute had took a dislike to me. Naturally I would kick him onc’t in a while to show him where he got off, but up to now there had always been folks around. I don’t like dogs, they are a low animal, but this one was getting pretty near as good a salary as I was, which made me like him even worse. So when I seen him coming this time, and I was there all alone, I at once let out and give him (Continued on page 122) 7 2

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Q.Half-way between the two villages, Baob and his friends met Negangala followed by her whole village, com- ing to pay tribute to so rich a man as Baob. ‘@, f ' fl } ey’ ’ a ‘be. a ink HE heart of Kilongo was aflame with love, and now, at the first flush of dawn, he was on his way through the tropical forest to the hut of Ngangala. His step was light and his legs had the springiness of fine steel. His whole body glowed with health, and when a chance sunbeam, piercing the thick foliage, fell upon his shoulder or thigh, there was a gleam like that of burnished bronze. His bare feet ploughed through grass wet with dew, instinctively avoiding thorns and sharp edges of stones. Around his loins he wore a skirt woven of bark fiber, and this was held by a belt of blue glass beads. On his neck was a chain of similar beads. His wrists were adorned with bracelets of smooth metal wire, and on his right ankle he wore the ancient tribal emblem of strength and fidelity, a cunningly wrought ring of brass, representing two elephants’ trunks grasping each other. In his left hand Kilongo carried a bow decorated with tufts of long monkey hair, and in his right a bundle of poisoned arrows, sharp as needles. His head, held high, was newly shaven, except for a crest of thick hair which ran diagonally over his crown. This was the badge of the warrior, which showed that he had passed the tribal tests with bow and spear, and was a man :esponsible for his own deeds. Monkeys were chattering in the tree tops, jesting perhaps at the awkward ape who habitually walked the ground. Humming- birds fluttered in the underbrush, their wings gleaming like polished metal. White butterflies flew by and settled on some log, like a bouquet of daisies. Upborne by tall pillars, the green canopy of the primeval forest sheltered animal and plant life from the burning sun of the tropics. 76 ungle But monkeys, squirrels, and antelopes were in no danger of Kilongo’s arrows, because his thoughts were elsewhere. They had darted ahead to the grass hut where Ngangala lived with her mother. Ngangala had been his playmate. They had frolicked as children will. He remembered how he had teased her, and how more than once he had caressed her when she had cried because of some thorn in her foot. Ngangala was a child no longer, nor was she quite a woman. Round-limbed and lithe, she had not yet crossed the threshold to maturity, and was at that very moment of life when a woman is the most alluring prize to a lover. Kilongo had resolved to act without delay, lest some rival might win her. There was his elder brother Baob, who also had been her playmate. What intentions Baob had, Kilongo did not know. Fortunately, the brother had been sound asleep when Kilongo slipped out of the hut. The morning was cool with dew, and the dying night wind played its last harmonies through the branches. Kilongo, in the full zest of his physical vigor, made a detour through the forest in order to walk off his excess energy. His nerves tingled and he rejoiced in the perfect mechanism of his body. His breast meeti At. dogs beyon Th conic: the su pounc whic Her f coun¢ Wi sittin with usual her r grace beaut to hi was |

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ee ee i Dé ED a Mi haicin s,s. Prince’ OVC breast swelled with emotion, and he relished the anticipation of meeting Ngangala in the réle of wooer. At last he was near the edge of the forest. He could hear the dogs of the village barking. Soon he emerged into a corn field beyond which lay the little village. There were only a few huts, set in a half-circle. The huts, conical in shape, were built of grass which had turned yellow in the sun. Within the circle sat the men smoking, while the women pounded bark or corn in the mortars. The largest hut of all, which sported a door of braided straw, was the home of Ngangala. Her father had been the sage of the village, and had presided at all councils. When Kilongo entered the open space, he discovered Ngangala sitting on a little stool outside the door, engaged in conversation with some man whom he did not at first recognize. She wore the usual ornaments of Bantu women. A thick iron ring was about her neck and many rings of polished brass wire encircled her graceful arms and slender legs. She had never seemed more beautiful, more desirable. Kilongo hailed her eagerly and then, to his utter astonishment and chagrin, he saw that the visitor was his brother Baob. Illustrations by Herbert M. Stoops WILLIAM of Sweden who explored the hearts of simple people as well as the trails of big game in Africa ‘‘What are you doing here?” Kilongo bellowed immediately. The other made no reply, remained quietly seated, and looked off into the distance. “What are you doing here? You, who couldn’t strike an ele- phant with your spear even if he were standing in front of you.” Then Ngangala smiled her sunniest smile, her teeth shining like pearls. “He tells me that He has come on a very important errand, but he does not say what it is. Perhaps you can help him.” “Yes, but I too have come with something serious to say.” “Very well. The two of you may sit here in the shade and I shall listen. You may help each other.” “T need no help,” declared Kilongo, searching the face of Baob, who kept his, eyes on the girl. “I can manage my own affairs. One becomes a man in the forest. It may be all well enough for you to sit and gossip in the huts with the women, but it is better for me, a warrior, to roam alone. Listen, Baob, you are older than I, and have a right to the first word. But if you don’t hurry, you’ll lose your chance.” Baob remained silent, but there was a new fire in his eyes, and his face bore an expression which made Kilongo fear him as a ~~“

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Q‘‘He who gets the ring gets the woman,”’ ak, said the soothsayer. ‘'Spe ‘“‘What’s the matter?” teased Ngangala. “Has some evil spirit made you dumb? Hurry up! I have corn to grind.” “I was going to——” began Baob, but he suddenly stopped. The brothers looked steadily into each other’s eyes, and each knew that the other knew. 78 Though they were so different in Aramu, speak!’ temperament, they had had their childhood experiences in common. They had shared their joys and sorrows. In fact, they had been such good pals that others had teased them about it. But during later years, Kilongo had hunted through the forest alone, while Baob stayed at home and smoked his pipe.

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‘Each had secretly looked to Ngangala as his mate, and now the ipaths of their desire had crossed. .. “You talk;” said Baob. “You are more skilled in speech than I.” * Then Kilongo began. But there was a note of sadness in his voice. He was heavy of heart because he knew that his elder -brother was a rival. “‘Ngangala,” he said, “the Great Spirit who is everywhere, though no one can see him, has sent us both here ‘at the same time and on the same errand. If the evil spirits had not bewitched my feet, I should have been here first. But Baob came first. Ngangala, you are old enough to come to a man. I need ‘a woman to bear my children, to plant my corn, and to prepare my food. Baob has the same need. You have been our playmate, but a man wants love. We both want you. We now lay our fate in your hands, and beg you to choose.” Kilongo glanced at his brother, who nodded gravely at the end of the long speech, which he could never have delivered. Yes, choose,” he said. TN ow she knew that the matter was serious. The smile left -her lips, and her expression was no longer that of a child. The woman had awakened. She realized that she had aroused the ‘yearnings of these two men, and she was melancholy and elated by turns at the thought that their bliss or despair was to be ‘determined by her choice. She looked at her suitors. One was solid and heavy, somewhat -slow of movement and of a pensive mood, but he was a good, reliable man, and his face, if brooding, was handsome. The other had the fine bearing of a warrior, a quick, firm step and a frank, spontaneous nature. His whole body suggested the unconquer- able wilderness. She did not know how to choose, because both !were equally dear to her. She might make a mistake. Whichever one she took, she might find herself longing for the other. Whatever her choice, her happiness would be marred by the constant memory that she had made a loved one unhappy. Little Ngangala had never ‘been placed in a more difficult situation. She pondered over the -problem, and felt that something must be done immediately. Suddenly the gloom lifted. She had made a decision. But there was a quaver in her voice when she announced her plan. “T love you, Baob, and I love you, Kilongo. I do not love any other man, and no other man shall ever be my mate. You, Baob, have the birthright, the calmest mind, the richest in- heritance. You, Kilongo, have the agility and strength of the warrior, the healthfulness of the forest in your blood, and the sunshine in your soul. Which one is the better for me? I do not know. There is only one person who can tell—he who reads the future. Go to the soothsayer and let him tell by magic. I promise to abide by his decis.on, and I demand that you do the same.” “Yes,” said Baob simply. “It is well. I promise.” “T shall keep the promise,” said Kilongo. ‘We shall go to him when the moon is new.” The brothers went home together. “T owe you my thanks for this,” said Baob, after a long silence. “T would not have got in your way,” said Kilongo, “if I had known that you wanted her. Ngangala is right. It is best to ask the strange old man on the mountain. But what will happen to the one of us who loses?” “He must move to another village,” replied Baob. “No, into the forest.” “We'll see.” “T shall never see,’’ muttered Kilongo, whose heart was full of evil foreboding. A few days later the thin crescent of the moon hung above the tree tops. That night the two brothers, with trembling knees, took the path that led to the mountain. The way was long and almost impassable. The men carried torches, but their light could not shine far-along the overgrown path, and on either side was the deep, menacing and terrifying darkness of the primeval forest. In that forest dwelt the evil spirits which came by night to harass human beings. No man ever ventured out alone at night, especially not beneath the new moon, when the spirits were most active. Even with a companion, a man could not feel safe. But Baob and Kilongo had given their promises, and their word could be depended upon. Not even such a night with all its terrors could keep them from pursuing their quest. At last they stood upon a high plateau. The hut of the con- juror was surrounded by a bamboo fence, interwoven with cactuses and acacia twigs. From its outward appearance a stranger could not have told that this was the house of a man who had dealings with spirits. There he sat in front of’a fire, smoking his pipe. In the flickering light his face seemed.deeply furrowed. His sharp chin was covered with a straggling gray beard. Around his neck was a string hung with amulets—horns, human teeth, lion’s claws, pieces of bones and glass beads; while over his back and one shoulder was a skin, edged with white shells. His face and legs were stained white so that; seen from a distance, they did not seem to belong to his body. The two brothers approached this dreaded man with fear and trembling. Once within the gate, they threw themselves to the earth and crawled toward him on their knees. The old man did not stir, but gazed steadily into the fire, and puffed away at his long pipe, which was covered with cabalistic signs. Kilongo was about to state the purpose of their coming when the soothsayer interrupted him. “You want a decision by magic. I can read that in the flames.” His voice was shrill and without emotion and its very sound made a cold sweat come over the men. Evidently the old man already knew what they wanted. They were ready to believe everything they had heard about him—that he could see right through a man and read his secret thoughts, that he could make rain and read the future, that he could heal wounds and cure diseases, and that he could commune with the spirits of the air. At last Kilongo picked up enough courage to speak. “We love the same woman and she loves us both. But she will mate with only one, and has sent us to get a decision by magic.” Without getting up, the conjuror spoke: “And what gifts do you bring to propitiate the spirits?” “A goatskin full of corn, two squirrel skins, and a jar of fresh milk.” “Tt is well. The lot shall be cast.” He detached a piece of bone from his string of amulets, took a pinch of seed from a bag and strewed it upon the fire, and placed the bone as near the fire as possible without burning it.. Then he put a deep earthen bowl between his knees and laid-a green banana leaf at his side. The fire blazed up with sharp sizzling flashes. There was a shower of sparks in the smoke, which became thicker and thicker until the conjuror was veiled from sight. But they could hear his shrill voice speaking words of incantation. He stirred the fire again and again, and threw more powdered grain upon it. The next moment a clinking sound was heard as the bone struck the bottom of the bowl. y Vice the smoke cleared away, they saw the man holding the bowl with the banana leaf completely covering its top. “Baob is the older,” said the soothsayer, shaking the bowl and rattling the bone against its sides. “Baob gets the ring, and he who gets the ring gets the woman. Speak, Aramu, speak!”’ The old man stopped shaking the bowl, set it down, pronounced some weird incantations and pulled aside the leaf. ‘See,’”’ he said. ‘Aramu has spoken.” The brothers looked into the bowl and saw a curious ring- shaped mark on the bone. Then Kilongo felt as if a spear had pierced his side. He uttered no word, but simply stared at the amulet which had conjured all happiness out of his life. “Take it,” said the soothsayer to Baob. “Hold it in your hand while I speak the last magic word.” Baob seized the bone, but writhed as he felt it burn his hand. “Tf you take a woman, you must learn to endure pain, for love burns deeper than a glowing coal, and hate is more fierce than a prairie fire. Woman is the torch, and man is the grass which it sets fire to. But you have your own torch which you can match with hers. It is only when the flames from both torches mount together to the skies that love is perfect. Go now with the seal in your hand, which will prove that the spirits have spoken.”’ When Baob dropped the bone, he saw the outline of a ring branded deep in his hand, a token which would stay there for life. But Kilongo, who felt a great gloom roll over his soul, said: “What is to become of me? I cannot live without her.” The old man looked at him and read his thoughts as if they had been written in characters of fire. He saw the seed which might have grown into a great love, and he saw the despair which was already beginning to spread weeds where flowers had been grow- ing. He took pity upon Kilongo and said: ‘Go, when the moon is full, to the place of offering on the other side of the river, and pray to the spirits of the air for the great fire. Perhaps they will hear you.” Then the old man left his visitors and entered the hut. They lighted their torches and started homeward. In one heart was the splendor of love, in the other the darkness of despair. ™

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80 thin silver crescent of the moon sank beneath the horizon before they reached their own hut. Great revelry had been planned for the day of the marriage, because Baob was the son of a chieftain, and his tribe was the most honored in the region. Every hut was trimmed with fresh twigs, and a bunch of lilies hung over the door of the bridegroom. Ngangala was followed by her whole village, coming to pay tribute to so rich a man as Baob. He had more cows than any- one else in the country, and he had fabulous stores of copper wire and glass beads. Some said that he kept these treasures concealed in his hut, but others declared they were buried in the forest. Half-way between the two villages, Baob and his friends met Ngangala, their loins covered with new skirts of bark fiber and their bodies shining with fresh oil. Musicians with flutes and tom-toms accompanied them. Women and children, waiting in the village, showered the bride with rice and blossoms. ne came smiling and beautiful, sparkling with glass beads which made a pattern like a shifting mosaic against her bronzed skin. Coil upon coil of beaded bands were wrapped around her head. Rings of shining copper wire adorned her beautiful bare arms and legs. Her lower lip had been pierced and wore a ring of braided straw to show that she was a married woman. About her shining waist was a narrow belt of fiber, hung in front with pendants of glass beads. Behind she wore a decoration of fiber and grass, resembling the flowing tail of a high-bred horse, which swayed gaily with her light step as she walked. Toward evening came the tribal wedding dance around the fire. Old and young had drunk their fill of corn wine, and the orgy in honor of the new mating rose in intensity. It stopped only when the revelers were physically exhausted. Men and women crawled drunkenly into the huts of their friends, or lay down beneath the open sky. Slowly the cool of the tropical night enveloped the village. The full moon sailed high through the velvet softness of the sky. In the doorway of their hut lay Baob and Nganga- la, wearied from their revels. The woman’s beads and ornaments lay in a heap, sparkling in the moonlight. Presently she sat up, twined a string of beads about her fingers and said: “Beloved, just so shall my love be twined into your life. My eyes shall sparkle like these beads whenever you search their depths. And as these beads tinkle, so shall my words tinkle and find an- swer in your heart. But there is one thing that distresses me. I wonder if I dare She paused, hiding her face on his bosom. “Speak out,” replied Baob. ‘On such a night as this there must be no question between you and me.” “Tt is this,” she faltered. “I have not seen Kilongo all day. Do you know where he is?” “No,” said Baob with a look of anxiety. ‘He has been walking around like a dreamer the last few days. All day long he roams the forest, and late at night he slips into the hut as silently as a spirit. I have tried to talk with him, but he will not answer.” “T feel so sorry for Kilongo—just as I would have felt sorry for you if the soothsayer’s bone had fallen on the other side.” G,"‘I love you, Baob, nd I love you, Kilongo,”’ said Ngangala. ”? Jungle Love “But it fell right. The old man said that the ring was mine. And here you see it.””, He showed his hand branded by the red seal of the gods. “Yes, yes,” cried Ngangala, holding the branded palm to her soft cheek. “You and no one else, no one else but you. We two, Baob, can wish for nothing more. But it is a pity about Kilongo, because the way to our happiness has gone over his heart.’’ “We cannot help that,” muttered Baob. “But Kilongo may make his home with us until he finds himself a woman.” They sat silently watching the fireflies dancing in the grass. “T suppose he will come tonight,” said the woman, glancing at the Southern Cross, which was now sinking behind the trees. “Tt’s late.” “And if he doesn’t come?” “Then he doesn’t come. Perhaps it is better so.” “Look,” cried Baob,. pointing toward the forest where they saw a tiny tongue of flame suddenly flitting about. ‘What can that be?” “Spirits,” whispered Ngangala.° ‘Let us shut the door and strew rice on the ground.” “But wait. Such a beautiful flame must be the work of a good spirit. One can hear but cannot see the evil spirits.” The flame rose higher. It became a slender shaft of shimmering bluish white. It broadened and blazed more brightly, standing like a pillar of fire. Baob observed that its position was directly over the place of offering across the river, and he recalled the woids spoken by the soothsayer. Although he had not grasped their mysterious meaning, he suspected now that they referred to this phenomenon of fire. He whispered, ‘‘Beloved, Kilongo is there.” “Where?” He pointed at the pillar of flame which now seemed to sway slightly from side to side. It seemed to have a texture made up of particles of varying brigitness, which streamed constantly upward. Then the light began to fade at the base of the pillar. Soon the column seemed to separate itself from the earth. It hovered for a few moments in the sky and then floated upwards to the stars. The night was dark again. The moon was down. The tiny torches of the fire- flies were out. The silence was broken only by the chorus of the frogs. “What was it?” said Ngangala, press- ing closer to Baob. e will tell you what the soothsayer said.’ They went into the hut and closed the woven door tightly. When their nuptial night was over, Ngangala and Baob arose and wandered out across the river to the place of offer- ing. All nature seemed alive with glad- ness. The tall lobelias nodded gracefully in the breeze. The humming-birds twit- tered above the blossoms. Butterflies with blue and white wings flitted about. A squirrel chattered from a safe retreat in a branch, and high beneath the sighing leaves a monkey fled with long leaps. But the lovers were not distracted by either the beauty or the wonder of the forest. They went straight on in search of the offering-stone. And as soon as they saw it from the distance, they knew that they had found the scene of the strange pillar of fire. The green grass had been singed in a wide circle around the stone. There was a thin layer of white ashes, and the ghastly skeleton of a human being, partly turned into cinders by the flames. Around one of the long slender bones was a cunningly wrought ring of brass repre- senting two elephants’ trunks grasping each other, the ancient tribal emblem of strength and fidelity. They remembered the words of the soothsayer to Kilongo, and they knew that it was love—the great, eternal fire—which had consumed its victim. Silently they went down to the river and bathed. When they had reached their home again, they ate no food for three days, because their hut had become taboo. But on the fourth day they went out into the sunshine again and were glad of love and life. ” bar i there had v forma Supre court: judge triflin again Ih thoug alway lawye Th defea ness, It wa: as the to lea pract from founc All T had how natio law, years la unde vagu I hee devo tidin, must whicl thing | ie: it in dreat flowe So of im yard table and ¢ into story this ° I co read At I say

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can ind ing ing tly the ed lat ed ve nn And Sol § sipon Away bf). OCHO A YEAR By Edgar Lee Masters who at 46 gave up a successful law practise to follow the urge of his youth and become a poet P TO the year rors I was as well-known at the bar in Chicago as any lawyer of that city. Here and there it was sometimes hinted that in my school days I had written verses, as Melville W. Fuller had done in his formative years, before he became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. But as I was handling big cases in the courts and writing briefs that won the admiration of judges and adversaries, it was not supposed that the mere trifling of composing verses would ever take hold of me again. I had worked night and day as a lawyer for years; and though I was making $20,000 a year by 1914, there was always in my mind the feeling that I had made myself a lawyer and that I was not born one. The doubt of myself was not periodical with my legal defeats, but somehow ran through my deeper conscious- ness, out of my memory of myself as a boy and as a youth. It waskept alive by my imperishable interest in poetry ; and as the years went by, and I had not accumulated enough to leave the law for literature, I wondered if my plan to practise law until I had a competence and then retire from it and write, was not utterly misguided. For I had found that the law and poetry would not mix. All along I kept unusual memory of my boyhood, how I had felt and dreamed; and in order that it may be clear how I entered the law, and how the faculty of imagi- nation finally asserted itself fully and took me out of the law, I trace myself briefly from the time I was twelve years old. I am already given to moods and griefs that I do not understand, and have no explanation for to this day, so vague and subtle and mysterious are they. Sometimes I hear a piano play, or an organ under the hands of a devotee of the lugubrious hymns which the “glad tidings” have given expression to; and then I feel that I must get away, that I must return, that I must find the lost things which I cannot make concrete to my mind, in addition to the lost things of the years in another town. I am beginning to be hurt by music, as later I discovered that it intoxicated me, or sometimes drugged me, and brought me dreams as vivid as those that come to the lover of the poppy flower. So I am in a new house, and building about me a new world of imagination. Across the way is a large frame house, in a great yard of trees and lilac bushes, and snowball bushes, and a vege- table garden at the rear of the lawn, where tomatoes are growing, and a man daily hoes and works. And in this house was a window, into which I could look as I sat at my window in the second story of our new house and read Grimm’s “Fairy Tales.” By this window every afternoon sat a woman, her cheeks so red that I could see their color from where I was, and she was always reading and rocking. At that time I had not read Hawthorne; but later when I did I saw this woman reading and rocking at the window when I Photograph by Pirie MacDonald @.Edgar Lee Masters, author of “The Spoon River Anthology,’’ et cetera read of Hepzibah. Then she made me think of George Eliot, who I learned was a woman, not a man; and besides at the end of the street the burning sunsets could be seen; and always I thought, ‘Day is dying, float, O song, down the western river,” which are words from ‘““The Spanish Gipsy.” Before I graduated from high school, I had written verses, some about that house where the woman sat reading and rocking —that is about the imaginative essence of that house, as it came through a haunting sense that the house was a place of mystery or wonder. At about sixteen years of age, in emulation of Franklin whose life I had studied in the encyclopedia, I had begun to learn the printer’s trade; and I did learn it at last, and became a journeyman. My father objected greatly to this, as he feared for me on account of my lungs, and the smell of ink and chemicals, and the close air of the print shop; but I was fascinated with the work, particularly as an indulgent editor allowed me to write items for the newspaper; and after my oration had been printed in all the town papers, he permitted me at (Continued on page ar 8

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The Baron’s servant: Jealousy was as char- acteristic of Pietro as fire is of a volcano. HE first time I saw Pietro I was struck by his extraordinary expressive- ness. Many Italians are expressive. But Pietro stood out among Italians. He was half Sicilian. His mother was a native of Catania. That fact perhaps accounted for the almost volcanic force which at times smoldered, or gleamed, in the large eyes, under the densely thick eyebrows and the rather bossy forehead. Pietro’s hair, too, was densely thick, so thick that it looked to me almost unnatural like an exaggerated wig fitting closely to his head. As to size, he was rather short, and when I first saw him slim, agile, cat-like in his agility, well-knit and vigorous. Now he is broader, bigger altogether, and looks consequently shorter. He was then, as he is now, the body-servant of that Russian from the Baltic Provinces, Baron de Stahlberg. I call him a body-servant. But he was really more than that. He could turn his hand to almost anything and was ready to—for the Baron. ' The trouble with Pietro, a common enough trouble with Italian servants, was this—he had to come first. He had an immense sense of his own importance as a privileged servant. And he meant to see to it that he was privileged. If it were in- evitable that Baron de Stahlberg be robbed, then no one must have the right to rob him but Pietro. He may have been, he may be now, strictly honest. I know nothing about that. I merely give this robbery-right as an instance of Pietro’s con- sideration of what was his due. As such it is exact. Jealousy was as characteristic of Pietro as fire is of a volcano. He must have been jealous in the cradle. He will certainly be jealous to the grave. Most Italian servants are easily jealous. I have known a Roman lady who told me that she never dared to say a kind word to another servant in the presence of her maid. Pietro—his master once spoke of it to me—was ever on the look- out lest other dogs should come in at his master’s gate. And of 82 ~The atch eA Story of him it might be said with truth, I am certain, that his bite was much worse than his bark: Oh, I’m certain of that. His bite could be terrible. It was in Rome that f first saw Pietro. I met Baron de Stahlberg at a dinner given by a Roman friend of mine in the Piazza dell’ Independenza. He was a young man then, but big, broad-shouldered, even bulky, and full of that bonhomie which often seems to go with bulkiness. Shyness he knew nothing whatever about. Explain it as you would, you could never have got him to understand the real meaning of self-consciousness. H. was a buoyant creature then. His rather pale gray eyes laughed easily under his pince-nez. His big white hands gesticu- lated energetically. Although not at all good-looking—many people called him an ugly man—he had, probably has, even now, a great deal of fascination. An almost boisterous humanity seemed in those days to exhale from him. He had a Russian charm mingled with something of German romanticism and intellectuality. Excellent company he was and we got on together immediately. I always like Russians and I liked Stahlberg at once. We walked away from the Contessa’s together and decided to see more of one another. He dined with me at the Excelsior—old Count Greppi was at the next table, I remember—and then he asked me to lunch quietly with him in his flat. And at that luncheon I first saw Pietro. He waited on us at luncheon. He also let me in at the door when I arrived. It was like being let in by a thundercloud. The impression was immediate and immense. When I was confronted by that dark ferocious face, by those enormous and, on that day, tragic eyes I was confounded, and as I gave up hat and stick seemed to hear my mind exclaiming, “Dio mio! What a servant to have about one!” He lowered over the luncheon as storm lowers over the sea in tropical regions. There were moments when I thought that the hurricane was upon us. But the Baron chatted on apparently quite unconcerned, and I tried to escape from the impression of imminent disaster. Being unfortunately horribly sensitive to all influences, however, I couldn’t escape, and the Baron evi- dently noticed this, for when we were presently alone together in the drawing-room, which looked over the Spanish steps, he said in his jovial, rather thick voice: “My Italian fellow rather overwhelmed you, eh?” ‘“‘He’s got a tremendous individuality,” I said, casting about for something to say which would not seem like criticism. “Rather like Etna and Vesuvius combined. But he’s a wonder- ful servant and devoted to me like a dog. I picked him up in the Provincia di Napoli. I meant to keep him, perhaps, for a few months. But now he’s mine for life.” I fancied that for a moment a certain uneasiness came into the Baron’s voice as he said that, and I wondered whether the faithfulness of this remarkable servant was, or might become, a burden. “Why does he look so desperately unhappy?” I said. “Probably he’s lost a lira, or he may have caught a slight cold.” “You're laughing at me!” “Indeed I’m not.” “T feel sure there’s some tragedy in his life.” The Baron laughed. “When I first had Pietro in my service and didn’t know him at all well,” he said, “che came in one morning looking as he does today, only more tragic. I was horrified by his appearance and inquired what was the matter. ‘Niente!’ was Pietro’s reply. cA All that The ne: was the “Whe in this enmity, couldn’ to ashe said In “And SAt | nothing stomact couple | a in a hot deal in Stahlbe an excel artistic. theatric round n He and droppec Pietro. It is: one ma servant he likes dislikes to knov came tc into his Wher him the thunder! me on t him. | with ch still hea Signorti even w shiny s But s or hea‘ Then h enemy tack, a died aw barely | was qui out of | Ther he look As I berg b more. very fr Some had uf suppos¢ Baron

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Doc eA Man Who Feared All that day he brooded over my life, engulfing me in his gloom. The next day things were worse. I begged him to tell me what was the matter. I only got ‘Niente/’ again. “When on the third day my poor existence was still involved in this pestilence of profound despair and apparently acute enmity, I couldn’t stick it any longer. I got angry. I said I couldn’t have my life laid waste, my natural exuberance changed to ashes and mourning, without any explanation whatever. I said I must know the truth, however horrible it might be.” “And did he tell you?” “At last he did. He said—in Italian of course; he speaks nothing else—‘I’ve got a slight upset in the stomach.’ A mild purge was applied, and in a couple of hours he was dancing the tarantella.” l was living in Rome at that time and had rooms in a hotel in the Via Veneto. I went out a great deal in Roman society, and I met Baron de Stahlberg everywhere. He was a good dancer, an excellent bridge player, fond of music, literary, artistic. He hunted. He joined in private theatricals. In fact he was emphatically an all- round man and popular with almost everybody. He and I became very good friends. I often dropped in at his flat, and nearly always I saw Pietro. It is not possible to treat an Italian servant as one may treat an English servant. An Italian servant insists on being thoroughly human. If he likes you he behaves to you as a friend. If he dislikes you—well, you very soon get to know it. Fortunately Pietro soon came to like me, and I was received into his good graces. When things were going well with him there was no trace in him of the thundercloud which had so startled me on the first occasion of my seeing him. His handsome face gleamed with cheerfulness and gaiety. I can still hear, as I write, his ‘Buon giorno, Signorino!’ and see his two rows of even white c2eth showing in a sun- shiny smile of greeting. But sometimes he looked ferocious, or heavy with brooding sulkiness. Then his eyes gazed at you as at an enemy whom he might presently at- tack, and every trace of geniality died away from his manner. He was barely civil in such moments, and it was quite impossible to get anything out of him. There were times when I thought he looked dangerous. As I got to know Baron de Stahl- berg better he opened out to me more. And one day he spoke to me very frankly about Pietro. Something had happened which had upset the harmony usually, I suppose, reigning in the flat, and the Baron seemed seriously ‘“‘put out.” By ‘Robert Hichens His Servant “These Italian servants are the very deuce!” he exclaimed. “Russians are bad enough. My brother had a valet who got very drunk and potted at him five times with a revolver. Luckily he was a poor shot and missed every time.” “And what did your brother do?” I exclaimed. - “He had to pension the man off. It was too dangerous to have him about. But Dmitri—that was his name—was easy-going compared with Pietro. After all he only tried to shoot my brother on one occasion and then he missed. But Pietro—my dear fellow, take my advice, never get into the hands of a servant, especially of a servant who’s an Italian.” The Baron’s wire: “Although I’m half French,’ she said, m ry American blood cries out for perfect freedom.’’ 83

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34 “But how do you mean? Surely——’ I began, when he interrupted. “T know what you’re going tosay. But youdon’t know. They get hold of youinsensibly. And how? By affection, by devotion; by a devotion Northerners have no conception of. You know Marchese San G (He mentioned a famous Sicilian senator.) “His mother had a butler who’d been in her service all his life. The other day the old Marchesa died. What d’you think the butler did?” “What?” “Went straight out of the palazzo and drowned himself in a well in the courtyard. But you may be sure he tyrannized over the old lady up to her very last moment.” “You surely don’t let Pietro tyrannize over you?” “T don’t let him—but he does it.” “Why permit it?” “Tt’s very obvious, my dear fellow, that you have never experienced Southern devotion coming from one of the ‘popolo.’ Pietro would die for me. But I’ve got to live for him, it seems. His jealousy is beyond all bounds. What is he? A ‘Servitore di confidenza,’ if you please. He watches over me like a guard dog. He’s always ready to bite. He warns me against people. He tells me of my weaknesses. He explains to me what a mistake I have made in doing so and so, and how much better it would have been if my behavior with such and such a person had been the reverse of what it was. He sets himself artfully to eliminate from my existence anyone whom he thinks I might possibly get to like or have special confidence in. I had a splendid cook, as you know.” “Had? Has Giovanni gone?” “He has. Pietro’s got rid of him!” “T can’t think——”’ “Of course you can’t! But you’ve never had anyone in your service who’d die for you.” I couldn’t contradict that, so I merely said, ‘‘Of course I noticed at once that Pietro’s got a terrifically strong personality.” “Too strong! A servant has no right to be so impressive. A Tribune of the people, an emperor, a marshal, the head of a religion may be like that, but a valet—no! It’s unsuitable. It’s almost incredible. Pietro gives out atmosphere as Etna gives out smoke. His power of infection is beyond any I’ve ever met. I really—I really think I shall have to get rid of him. Eh?” He looked at me just then out of the tail of his eye. “Get rid of Pietro!” I said. “Ah! Then even you can’t imagine that as a possibility!” I confess that the idea had thoroughly startled me. I looked at Stahlberg. I thought of Pietro. No; I couldn’t conceive of the one giving what is called ‘“‘warning” to the other. The Baron spread out his large hands and shrugged his big shoulders. “You see! You see!” he exclaimed. yee this outburst I began to pity the Baron. I was glad that such a watchful and jealous devotion was not accorded to me by anyone, least of all by a servant. Pietro, I realized, would be a difficult person to get rid of. Baron de Stahlberg evidently made no attempt to get rid of him. For when I left Rome, after living there for two years, they were still together, and when, after another interval of two years, I happened to run into Stahlberg in Paris and asked after Pietro, the Baron said: ‘‘Oh, he’s all right. He’s with me, of course. He’ll be with me to the day of my death.” As he uttered the words I saw a frown pass over his face, and his gray eyes looked suddenly uneasy, I thought. “You may or may not hear something about me very soon which will possibly surprise you,” he said, after a moment. “Really?” I said, interrogatively. I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was alluding to. “Yes.” He hesitated obviously. Finally he said, “If you’ve nothing special to do, shall we go over the way to the Café de la Paix and have a drink?” “By all means,” said I. When we were sitting on.two straw chairs in front of the Café with a couple of drinks—I forget what they were—in front of us, Stahlberg said abruptly, “I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you at once myself. I’m probably going to be married.”’ He had said I might possibly be surprised. - I was surprised, very much surprised. But I didn’t know why then, and I don’t know why now. “T congratulate you,’ I said. “Thank you. But I only said probably.” “Tt isn’t quite settled, then?” The Watch-Dog “No. But I want very much to marry, and I’ve every reason to believe she would accept me. But—no, it’s not settled.” From the way he spoke I inferred that there was some obstacle in the way, and that he was thinking of it, wondering about it. He put out a large hand and fidgeted with his glass. Then he lighted a cigaret. “You may possibly know her,” he then said. ‘She lives mostly in Paris, but she’s been a lot in Rome. It’s Miss Van Stein.” “Miss Van Stein!” I exclaimed. And at that moment Pietro’s face rose up before me, like a face rising out of the crowd of the passers-by—Pietro’s face as I had first seen it when he opened to me the door of the flat in the Piazza di Spagna. Pietro—and Miss Van Stein? “T do know her, but only slightly,” I said hurriedly, and cursing myself for my exclamation. ‘‘She’s very charming and very accomplished too. You’re fortunate. She’s one of the most delightful American girls in Paris.’ I noticed that his eyes were on me. , He was turning his glass round and round with one hand. ‘‘You—why did you seem so astonished, or—or startled when I told you?” he asked. “Did I?” “T thought so. And then it seemed to me that you—that you stared——” “T was looking at an extraordinary old woman who was just passing in the crowd.” “Oh! Well, of course it may not come off. One can’t tell yet. But I want very much to marry her. As you say, she’s one of the most charming girls in Paris.” l sAw by a curious, almost tremulous expression that passed over his face as he said that, that Stahlberg was very much in love. “My dear friend,” I said. ‘I wish you luck with all my heart.” “Thank you,” he said. “And you have—have you the feeling, intuition, whatever you like to call it, that I shall marry?” “Why not?” “Ah, that’s just it!’ was his curious rejoinder. And almost directly after that we parted, exchanging our addresses. As I walked towards the Louvre, near which I was staying at that time, I thought of two people, a very lovely and intelligent and rather wilful girl, fair, with violet eyes full of sensibility and laughter, and a man with unnaturally thick hair, volcanic eyes and an expression of fierce force, of brooding determination—Miss Van Stein and Pietro. If—how on earth would they get on together? For with an Italian servant it’s distinctly a matter of getting on or not getting on. There is no middle way, or, if there is, I have never found it. Miss Van Stein! She was, perhaps, a typical product of our so-called civilization. American with a French mother, she had been brought up almost entirely in France. Her father, who was already dead at this time, had been one of those American men who, marrying rather late in life when the necessity to work was over, had spent his remaining years in Europe. His only child was—what shall I say?—an accomplished European, very cultivated, nevertheless a little barbarous, very pretty, often kind and genial, selfish, self-centered, capable of generous im- pulses, of ardors, courageous. Perhaps too courageous? Wasn’t she? so. Adéle Van Stein! She married Stahlberg. I wasn’t at the wedding, but I met her a few days before it took place. Stahlberg asked me to meet her in the afternoon at the Ritz. Her mother, a tired-out but wonderfully elegant Frenchwoman, was with her—one of those women who would look elegant in the Morgue. An old-fashioned adjective, I know, but it applied to her then and to her radiant daughter. That afternoon Stahlberg seemed to me to be in a very peculiar state of mind. As I have said I had never known him to be shy or self-conscious. But on that occasion he was not his usual self. He was excited and showed it. And that was exceptional, for he was a thorough man of the world, and though, like all Russians, he was natural, yet he was natural in the way the world demands of us. But he was more than excited; he was distinctly nervous. He looked to me like a man determined but anxious, suffering from strain but resolved, as we English say, ‘“‘to see the thing through.” He was obviously desperately in love. His usual lack of composure, only partially hidden by the habit of the world, contrasted almost sharply with Miss Van I have often thought . Stein’s easy self-possession. “Serg strung u “A mi “You “Ves; “Ther I saw in our d “He ¢ Serge’s | “Ts he

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ce G.The maid had left the Baroness reading at twelve o'clock. “Serge is a great boy!’’ she said to me. ‘“He’s as excited and strung up as if a man and a girl had never been married before.” “A man in love,” I said, “‘loses his varnish.” “You knew him in Rome, didn’t you?” “Yes; very well.” “Then you know the marvelous Pietro,” she said. _ I saw Stahlberg, who was talking to her mother, turn his head in our direction. ‘Yes; I know Pietro very well too,’ I said. “He and I have made great friends,” she continued. ‘“He’s Serge’s watch-dog.” “Is he going to be yours too?” No one in the palace had heard a shot . “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m not sure I want to have a watch-dog. Although I’m half French, my American blood cries out for perfect freedom. A dog is all very well. But a watch-dog —I don’t know!” After a moment she added, “I can imagine getting to dislike being watched. Looked at—that’s different!” “Very different!” “But Pietro and I are great friends,” she said again. “T’m glad to hear it. He’s a valuable servant.” She looked at me rather earnestly, I thought. “Don’t you think Pietro could be a good enemy?” I noticed that she slightly lowered her (Continued on page 192) 85 ” Then she said,

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By Theodore Dreiser (Chauncey MN. th. And What He Thinks About Life After Almost 100 Years of Living . HAUNCEY DEPEW, national and even international figure, has always interested me. I first encountered his name in the Chicago Daily News in 1886. I was then but fi‘teen and he fifty-two. Later, in 1897, when I was twenty-six and he sixty- three, I came upon him in person at Tiffany’s, then in Union Square, New York. He was at the zenith of his career—a character of the first order. He had been candidate for the United States Senate several years before that; and he was president of the New York Central and principal voice and legal and social guide for the enormous Vanderbilt interests, a ranking member of the Four Hundred, no less. His name, his diplomacy, his social graces, his flashing wit and humor were being blazoned upon the pages of quite every American newspaper. And by that time, I may add, he had run for Lieutenant-Governor of New York, received the New York nomination for President, and been offered the Secretaryship of State under Harrison, and the post of Minister to Japan. Young and an impecunious scribbler myself, as I was at the time, I instantly conceived of hin as “copy” and as quickly had him—in my own mind—‘‘sold” to one of the lesser magazines as an article or interview. Subsequently I called him up and asked if I might interview him and was permitted so todo. In the town house which he still occupies I was received between a dinner and a midnight after-dinner sveech. And in spite of his multitudinous affairs, he had all of an hour to give me. Imagine on the one hand the cou.tesy and simplicity, and on the other the youthful effrontery. . Recently—twenty-seven years later—I found myself with another opportunity to interview him. Because of my lifelong suspicions and curiosity regarding him, I seized upon the privilege with pleasure. It meant for me a more favorable and balanced opportunity to study a man whom I still hold to be inextricably involved with our railroading and social, if not so very significantly with our political history. For as Garfield once said to him: “If only you would stop telling funny stories, you could easily be President.” But he never really stopped telling funny stories. And he is now ninety-one. And unless I miss my guess, or the flu or some- thing rages too severely during the next year or two or ten, here he will be—still telling funny stories, still chairman of the Board of the New York Central lines, still a figure in society and a popular after-dinner speaker—the most remarkable specimen of a nonogenarian that it has ever been my good fortune to look upon. His only trouble was and remains, I fear, that he has small respect for any save those who manage to accumulate shares in something or other—the materially and financially secure. The rest (he does not say so—I am deliberately labeling him with this attribute) are sillies, nizzies, zanys, clowns. And they are and ought to be used for what they are worth in connection with the affairs of men who do think and plan and order. And to an ex- tent I think he reasons soundly but not far enough. For they are the billions. And but for them neither Mr. Depew and his honors nor those whom he still so much respects would be here to guide; there would be no audiences to sell to or control, no government to operate or direct secretly or openly, no masses to contemn or, in turn, to adulate him or them or envy them either. And so, at least as I see it, one must look upon them with a large measure of charity or, as Lincoln did, with sympathy. But let that be as it will. For the miss is due perhaps to some kink or twist in his temperament which compels him to be a subaltern rather than an independent leader. For again I think he is unescapably of that type of exceptional man who still works best in leash to others. You know the type. Seward, Pitt, Disraeli, Machiavelli, Richelieu. Born in England, most cer- tainly he would have been Victoria’s favorite prime minister. 86 In America he preferred or was compelled by his temperament to represent the New York Central and the Vanderbilts. Indeed, as he said to me during the passage of this very recent encounter when I asked him why he had not championed the mass as against those of his class, with the purpose of American leadership in mind, he replied: ‘Thank God, my salvation lay in having to earn my own living. That saved me.” But did it? I had no trouble in reaching him at all. From his office in the New York Central came the voice of his secretary, ‘“He’s gone to Briarcliff for the day. You can find him there.” ‘ : arrived in Briarcliff at ten-thirty and he saw me without elay. The same bland, diplomatic face of twenty-seven years aro. A few, but not many of the devastating marks of time on it. The same erect, and as I see’ it now, amazingly well-preserved vigorous figure of a man about sixty-five or thereabouts—but still some odd suggestion of an old man about him. Yet not a tremor of the hand, not a shade of quiver in the voice. At the same time I was interested and even impressed by the commonplaceness of the room—small and not very happily furnished. And he a quondam leader of the Four Hundred, the favorite of American society as well as of kings, you see. “ [| HAVE a long list of questions,” I announced. “I want several hours of your time.” “What are they?” “Politics, society, old age, the United States and the world at large, the future of America, wealth, the flapper, fame. A few little things like that.” I rattled them off quickly. Seating himself in a small yet comfortable-looking rocker, while waving me to a divan, he began to rock back and forth, American—lI almost said country-jake—fashion. And then he began to tap on his right knee with his right hand, as though that were some cabalistic method of invoking thought. “The future of America. What about it?” “Well, you have seen ninety years of America’s history. You ought to be able to say whether things are changing for the better or worse with us.” “For the better, I think,” he pronounced finally, and then, without a shade of hesitation, went off into a long and unbroken and unfaltering address which I felt to be one of the most interest- ing and illuminating that I had listened to in years. Some points in it were these: Our nation sprang from a world of conflicting theories and dreams. All shades of notions were abroad, from those of Hamilton who did not want to trust the people at all to those of Jefferson who wished to trust everything tothem. The result was, as Depew sees it, a happy compromise. In explaining the temperament of the homespun American of different days he cited his father, who lived—1834 on—at Peekskill and was a conservative of the Hamiltonian variety. Being most old-fashioned and reactionary, he hated the Yankees froni Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont and elsewhere, who, strangely as we see it now, were looked upon as radicals. And in turn the anti-slavery abolitionists looked upon the Southerners, their slaves and views, as anti-American and hence disloyal and dangerous. Depew’s father quarreled with him because he was an abolitionist—hence a radical. Imagine! Then the Civil War. And the economically unsuccessful began to look upon the capitalistic geniuses who were setting out to build up the great, all-essential economic utilities as money barons, wreckers of the Constitution; and they—not the money barons, as I could tell by Mr. Depew’s manner and phrasing— were the next undesirable group of agitators, the dreadful socialists and anarchists. Photog: Then after a Great \ But th Depew. comfor all har termini

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Photograph by Campbell Studios @,Chauncey M. Depew especially photographed on the eve of his 91st birthday, April 23, in his New York office. Then came the late Great War. The old-time agitators seemed after a fashion to have been disposed of by that. But after the Great War appeared the “reds,” the communists, the aliens et al. But they will never triumph in America. (I am quoting Mr. Depew.) The ideals of America are still those of the fathers—a comfortable fusion of those of Hamilton and those of Jefferson, all happily blended into a third thing—an economic self-de- terminism, I should call it, whereby the strongest wins, as usual, Mr. Depew is still at his office every day in the week. and the devil takes the hindmost—only all legally and patrioti- cally as it were, with the Constitution and flag over all. At this point it was, however, that I interrupted him to ask: “Tf everything is as sound as you seem to think, why are only one-fourth of the voting population going to the polls?” “Because, just as I am telling you, three-fourths of the voting population are satisfied with things as they are. They know the present methods are best. But if a (Continued on page 183) 87

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By Belle Burns Gromer cA Story of a (Cold-Blooded Beauty Illustrations by Walter J. Biggs HE only sign of life be- sides the wind-driven smoke that scudded from the chimneys of the homes along Officer’s Row was the slender figure of a woman walking steadily through the rain. The beat of the storm was like gray waters flowing relentlessly to depress her already doubting mind. Over and over she asked herself, “Will any- one find me out? Will anyone who may take the trouble be able to trace me as the sender of that telegram?” Only two more houses to pass. Despite her umbrella, her skirt and the black cloak she wore were sodden. She hadn’t cared to chance taking a taxi at the ferry. She had walked through the Navy / Yard gate with a group of workmen; * the Marine on guard had only glanced at the bit of red cardboard that was her pass; he hadn’t read the name; she had held it upside- down on purpose. In Seattle, where she had sent the telegram, the operator had never seen her before and certainly could not identify her later. On the ferry to Bremerton she had seen no one whom she knew even slightly. Yes, she had handled the situation very well. She was sure that she would never be found out. She walked steadily up the path to the entrance of her quarters. The shapeless cloak, the dotted veil over the plain black turban, completely shielded her identity. She paused a space as if to wait for some one to answer her ring. She could hear the bell pealing through the silence of the dusky rooms. She knew that Annunzio the Filipino cook and Claros the house-boy were out. Aunt Fran, too, wouldn’t be home until Thursday from her visit to old Madame Mills at the Ammunition Depot at Keyport. However, a chance watcher mustn’t think that it was one of the family entering. After an interval, she slipped the key into the lock and passed through the doorway as if some one had opened to her. Later she came up from the basement where she had put the cloak and the black turban and the veil on the hot coals in the furnace. She was entirely composed now. She went on up the curving stairway to her room, where she changed into a tea- gown. It was a soft green with fur at the wrists and about the neck. It always quieted her to wear this dress; it became her so well. Masses of sandy red hair and long green eyes were best set off by just this shade. Cary liked her in green. Cary—her husband . . . Her heart gave a little twisting leap. By now he would be receiving that telegram in San Diego. What would he say? What do? Would Cary be in the depths of misery? She would give anything she possessed to be a hidden watcher—a fly on the wall—to see his steady eyes when he read the message. Would it break that composure of his? Would he cry out in his anguish? Would he weep? Would she at last have touched him to the quick when he read the words that would tell him that she, Leila Thayer, his wife, had been killed in a motor accident? In the library she lighted the fire that was ready laid and settled herself before the dancing flames. Claros had brought in 83 é QLeila had been shocked when McKayn came in. He had stared until she wanted to scream. an armful of russet chrysanthemums from the garden in the morning. Their tangy fragrance blended with the wreaths that hung in the windows; it was the breath of the Christmas season. The woman’s strange eyes mirrored 8 the glow of the flames; they seemed to me Rg ee gleam like red glass. She wondered ae how long it would be until Cary’s frantic wire to Aunt Fran would arrive. Almost any moment now. By tonight he would be on his way home. Of course Cary would think the message was from Aunt Fran; she had signed her name. She wondered how in the first place she had conceived such a fantastic scheme—to send Cary a message that she was dead. It had come to her in the night as so many wild fancies did. She wanted to hurt him; she wanted to make him suffer terribly. He shouldn’t have left her with the holidays approaching. It was beastly of him. Selfish. He was rather given to considering her desires, but this time he had said that it was his duty to go to San Diego. Duty! Shouldn’t his love for her come before duty? Bob McKayn, his best friend, needed him. Cary’s eyes had been steel-like when she had tried to shake his determination —like the gray battleships that lay at the wharves below the hill. Leila’s mouth twisted into a wry scarlet line. She had dis- liked that friendship from the first. The two men had been roor bon Car coul and the defe ow has has tod tak exp defe

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The Woman Without A Heart PR cay roommates during their four years at the Naval Academy; the bond between them was a thing that she had been unable to make Cary relinquish. And now Commander McKayn was being court-martialed on a charge of “conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.”’ Cary hadn’t hesitated after he had heard the news; he had wired offering his services as counsel for the defense and had left on the first train tor San Diego. “Whatever it is that old Bob’s in for,” he had said, “I know he has done nothing that can’t be justified. Rotten shame how he has gone to pieces in the last year. He was never one who cared to drink until recently.” Cary had been trained in the Judge Advocate’s office and had taken his Bachelor of Law at George Washington; with his experience and the friendship he felt for the accused officer, his defense would have been convincing. Even through her resent- ment a little glow of pride in her ownership of Cary thrilled Leila. Her husband—the one person in her life who had ever inspired her with more than a cold tolerance. She had never known a particle of affection for any other person until he had come. There were times when she wondered if it was because he attracted all wo- men and was quite uncon- scious of the fact; or was it because there was a thread of doubt in her mind, be- cause she felt some barrier % that eluded her? Were either of these the reason that she was so bound to Cary? This was the little black devil that tortured her in the night so that she could not sleep; this was the gad that caused her to do the unkind things that made her husband’s eyes take on a clouded grayness. Cary was a silent man; inarticulate in his feeling for her. What a relief to have him explode to swear—even to strike her. Yes, she thought, per- haps that would give her proofthat he cared deeply — intensely —as she would have him care. The moaning storm filled her with depression. It had been thus with her from childhood, this lowering of spirits when the wind blew high. She had been a thin, bitter little thing who was never really happy. There had been no affection in her heart for her parents. They were a kindly pair who had always seemed commonplace to her. She would have preferred a mother who would flash before her vision in vivid satins and luxurious furs and black pearls. An epidemic had taken Leila’s parents when she was twelve. Aunt Franceska Armsby, the widow of a navel officer and her mother’s only sister, was living abroad; with her, in Paris, the child had grown to young ladyhood. From the day that she had entered the walled garden of her aunt’s tiny house in a suburb of the French city, she had striven toward the accomplishment of a vow that she had made, a vow to beauty. Nothing whatever that might add to her physical attraction was neglected. Until she was weary to the bone, she practised fencing for her figure’s sake; because she gave promise of pos- sessing the beautiful Wordman ankles and slender feet, she spent hours a day with her dancing instructor; she was not gifted — 8 ,

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a keen appreciation of music, but because her hands were small and white she learned to play the harp. In after years, some of her most successful first impressions had been made by the effective use of the great golden instrument. Even now as she sat alone the habit of affectation asserted itself. She had wrapped the folds of her gown snugly about her knees; the train trailed out from her chair in a graceful line; the hem was raised sufficiently to show the exquisite Wordman ankles. Her hands, delicate and helpless looking as two bits of molded wax, lay relaxed on the arms of the lounging chair, the sleeves of her frock dropped back enough to give a hint of fragile wrists. Cary—why hadn’t he answered the telegram by this time? Of course he must have. The delay was in the delivery. By now he would be aboard the train racing for home. How she would glory in seeing the joy in his eyes when he realized that she was well and very much in the land of the living; how she would show her indignation at the ruse that some one had perpetrated upon him! She rose and walked to the window. The Yard stretched below in the dusk. A shrill whistle blew; workmen like scores of black beetles began to pour from the shops. Quarter to five. The door-bell should ring at any moment. _ As she turned back to the fire a log dropped down into the coals; in the bright light her gaze met the picture of Cary that stood on the table. For a space the eyes of the likeness seemed to hold hers in an unbreakable hypnosis. She knew an instant’s terror; it seemed that it was really Cary and not the photograph that was there judging her. A sort of chilling shiver shook her. “Just then some one walked over my grave,” she told herself and tried to smile. In the days when she and Bob McKayn had been always together, he had taught her all that old lore—the old Southern beliefs. Bos . . . she wondered what he would do now that Cary was hastening homeward and would not be there to defend him in the morrow’s court-martial. She was sorry of course that Bob had seen fit to make a fool of himself, but she had no respect or patience with a man who dulled his mind with drink. It had been decent of him never to tell Cary of her relations with him. Strange how it had all worked out. When she was nineteen, she and Aunt Fran had left Paris so that the girl might return to Washington for her début. Mrs. Armsby had lived very quietly during her years in Paris; the old friends to whom she would introduce her niece were not quite so smart as Leila could wish. Then, too, there was the affair of young Cortson, who was an attaché at the embassy; he was a youth whom nature had endowed with a charming exterior and a rather low and petty mind. Once when he had called on Mrs. Armsby, who had been a schoolmate of his mother, he had met the strange child, Leila. She was sixteen then. The young man had gone quite out of his head about her. After that he came every afternoon when the older woman was at home to her friends. Without the aunt ever suspecting, he managed to convey to the niece that he was madly in love. His story had interested Leila. Quite impassively she had taken his heart to pieces to see what it was made of. In this process her delicate fingers had been a trifle smirched. When young Cortson had discovered that it was only curiosity that had motivated the girl’s apparent interest in him, he had lost his head. Under a pretext he had induced her to slip out of the walled garden and go for a motor drive with him. Then he had been foolish enough to try to carry her off, and by com- promising her had attempted to force her to marry him. His plan had been successful only in a certain sense. The motor had broken down so far from the city that the suitor had not been able to return the young lady to her frantic aunt until the following morning. She was quite unharmed and the suitor was no longer ardent but very bewildered. He had been frozen by the girl’s insolent indifference. Later, his hurt pride had burned so heatedly that it had melted his torpid passion and had welded it again into a hatred of the tawny-haired creature who had dared to laugh at him. Young Cortson was that sort of man. He whispered here and there a hint of the adventure that was by no means unflattering to himself. And so Leila thought it best to come out in Washington where the names of Corwin, Wordman and Armsby were an open sesame to the lovely exotic that she had made herself. When she was twenty-nine she had met Bob McKayn. A ‘naval officer with a splendid record, of an old Baltimore family, 90 and with a rather handsome inheritance from his mother, he had seemed in every respect a desirable match. There had been many men during those years, but Leila had never found herself responding in the least until Commander McKayn had appeared upon her horizon. It had lasted but a while though, this im- agined interest of hers. All the same, she had decided to marry him. It was time, she felt. Their engagement, however, she had insisted should be an absolute secret. She shrugged with distaste as she thought of the day when any particle of admiration she might have had for this man had died. She had been playing to him, something haunting—a Russian boat song, she remembered. Looking up suddenly, she had seen the man’s eyes. A stark soul had been laid bare for a moment; all the love and adoration that a man can offer a woman was there for her to see. She recalled that she had had difficulty in keeping her mouth from twisting into a sneer of contempt. What a fool to love any woman as he had, she thought. It was the following spring that the realization came to Leila that her lure was waning a bit for everyone but the infatuated Bob. Asa married woman she could impress anew her personality upon her world. Aunt Fran was giving a large dinner for a group of old friends. The affair would serve to announce the betrothal. She had been rather more than usually lovely that night of her engagement dinner. She soothed herself with this soul-satis- fying knowledge as she swayed along the stairs. Aunt Fran was arri inch that saw to p her him that him lear just but inte whe orn She Mc mar hati

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was already in the drawing-room. The Cranstons were just arriving. Leila knew that the Admiral had asked Aunt Fran to include his aide in her guest list. She had not met him before that night, since he was a new-comer to Washington. Then‘as she saw him coming through the doorway the world seemed suddenly to pause when her eyes met Cary Thayer’s. Just before dinner was served she had asked Bob to come with her to the small reception room. She hadn’t been able to give him any satisfactory reason, but she had made him understand that their engagement must not be announced that night. “Just a while longer, Bob,”’ she had smiled wistfully up at him. “Tonight—somehow—I am not in the mood. You must learn to bear with these strange fancies that rule me. I am not just an ordinary girl, you see.” ia had managed to meet Cary Thayer frequently after that, but she was never satisfied. Always before, the men who had interested her had fallen victim to her charm. But here was one who was indifferent. For the life of her she could not tell whether or not she impressed him. A sudden fever seized her in its grasp. She was obsessed with a desire to make him want her. The Admiral’s aide was not so handsome as Commander McKayn, nor yet so wealthy or well-born. He was a tall, slender man who carried himself well. His manner was delightfully natural. Men teok to him and women were forever looking Q Now she knew, Leila thought, how much Cary Thayer had cared! She couldhave known all a- long had she not been blind —a fool. up into his face as they chatted with him, trying to make an impression. Leila learned that he played a crack game of golf; that he was keen on hunting; that he was fond of dogs, especially pointers. As far as hearsay went, he had never had a love affair. He always seemed pleased to see her when they met at various homes; but after a first call he had not sought her. A thing that worried her was his friendship for Bob McKayn. She was uneasy with the fear that her fiancé might confide in this man who had been his roommate at the Navai Academy and his best friend, the news that he was soon to marry the unapproach- able Leila Corwin. To add to her disquietude, he was becoming more and more insistent that their engagement’ should be an- nounced. Almost her poise left her; she felt as if she were being hounded into a corner whence there was no escape. If it were beyond question that she could not attract Cary Thayer, then she would go through with this marriage. She must cling to Bob until she was sure; she knew that if the other man had the slightest inkling of her engagement he would never allow her to enmesh him with her lure. The woman heard some one stirring in the back of the house. Claros and Annunzio returning. Why did not the messenger arrive with the expected telegram? It must be six o'clock. Claros came into the doorway; she motioned for him to put more wood on the embers and light the lamp. The fire leaped high again after he had gone. She turned Cary’s picture so that it faced her. There was no more the effect (Continued on page 186) 91

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@,"'Mr. Clarke surely came through against him- self,’ said Joan, “‘and for Ket and me...” OAN DAISY spread her sheets and blankets over the couch which Mr. Clarke had pulled out for her. She dropped off her dress and lay down without slipping under the bed- covers while she looked about, wide-eyed with realization of how nearly it had happened that she never would have seen this room again. She arose and opened, softly, her mother’s door, seeing as she expected that Dads was absent and mama soundly slept. She closed the door, and with her hand on the knob, her mind fol- lowed Mr. Clarke to a hospital. How nearly it had happened that he was never to return to that old home of his in Massachusetts where the hollyhocks grew so straight against the white fence and his mother stood so calm and dignified in the garden! How nearly it had happened that mee, in this next room, and the calm, straight-standing mother Concluding Edwin Balmer’s Noovel of Mystery and Love Illustrations by of Calvin Clarke were to have received the same news from a ditch outside Chicago! Joan Daisy undressed and went to bed but lay wide awake with her thoughts leaping through the events of the night, of the trial, of her meetings with Calvin Clarke in the empty court-room, in the automat, and here, in her room, on the night of her arrest. Now he knew himself to be wrong, all wrong about her; and wrong, too, about Ket. So he will free Ket tomorrow. Her mind went to Ket, who lay tonight in his cell in jail, not knowing that, whatever the jury voted, he was sure to be freed; she thought of him on his cot, wide-eyed in the dark and clutching his blanket as he im- agined, as surely at moments he must, that the State, Mr. Clarke’s State, would sentence him to death. She wished that she could get word to Ket at once. Then she thought of him freed tomorrow and demanding her, seizing her, as at the door here he had embraced her on the night of his arrest. Joan Daisy turned upon her side and gazed out at the sky, too spent to feel or think; too spent to sleep. And so, waiting, waiting, she watched the dawn. Calvin, at dawn, had returned to his rooms after a visit to a hospital where he had had his collar-bone set and his right arm strapped across his chest to hold it in place. Desiring to avoid fuss, he had reported his injury as due merely to ‘an automobile accident” and he had not again communicated with the police. Consequently they and the State’s Attorney’s staff had lost track of him, so Ellison went to Clarke’s apartment and was there when Calvin arrived. “Well, you have been at it,’”’ Ellison welcomed him and helped him out of his coat with a personal concern which surprised Calvin and pleased him, although he denied recognition of it. “H’m. Heard from that car?” he asked. “She got Baretta,”’ announced Ellison. “Got him?” “Completely.” “When did you hear?” “Half an hour ago. They drove the car into the city; evidently he didn’t last long so they left him in the street about a block from his house. The idea, of course, was to have him found as if shot in a hold-up, going home last night. That’s what the patrolman who found him actually reported to the man we sent to Baretta’s house.” “Who else was there?” asked Calvin. “Nob wife.” “Bare “The mented Palm B “Yes, up yet? Elliso doubt w “Whe Elliso three w Royle g “Quit characte “Lool ‘“ Sur Calvin « knew w consider and to |] feel it o coherent sively. “ “Oh lig half the attack « others. tomorro culated Why, he twice as “H’m Arm you, old “Bare night, “ seen so_ lot of t trouble, your DL I want | bad Se s fully. ‘ threaten Calvir his prot

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That | Royle Girl R. F. Schabelitz “Nobody at the house but Baretta’s Filipino butler and his wife.” “Baretta’s?” asked Calvin. “The butler’s. Mrs. Baretta does nothing so déclassé,”’ com- mented Ellison, “‘as to spend the winter in Chicago. She’s at Palm Beach.” “Yes,” said Calvin absent-mindedly. ‘Has Zenn been picked up yet?” Ellison nodded. “He has such a beautiful alibi that there’s no doubt whatever he was in that car.” “Who else have you?” Ellison repeated several names, adding: ‘Probably the first three were along with Zenn; they have the same alibi. The Royle girl’s all right, is she?” “Quite,” said Calvin, looking away. character completely—completely.” “Looks as if she told the truth about the man in the window.” ? “T had mistaken her “cc = told what was essentially true throughout,” corrected Calvin emphatically. ‘She was trying throughout for what she knew was right. She’s an unusual person, Ellison. When you consider what she came from and what she had to see around her, and to look past to see Schubert’s and Mozart’s names—and to feel it out and work it out for herself,” he continued, none too coherently. “I’ve never met her equal,” he summed up impul- sively. ‘“Never.” : “Oh!” said Ellison uncomfortably, though he suspected not half the inward tumult and supposed that Clarke had a severe attack of conscience over his responsibility for wrong done to others. ‘Well, she’s no worse off; and she’ll have Ketlar free tomorrow. He won’t be damaged; after today’s papers are cir- culated he’ll just have been advertised. We've raised his value. Why, he’ll drag down twice as much at the Echo and he’ll look twice as good to her.” “H’m,” muttered Calvin, turning his back. “Arm bad?” asked Ellison sympathetically. you, old man.” “Baretta,” said Calvin, concentrating upon the affair of the night, “Baretta never knew who shot him. He couldn’t have seen so he couldn’t have told it to Zenn or anyone else; but the lot of them knew she was along. Somebody might give her trouble, Ellison. Send a man up to her building for me, won’t you? Don’t let anybody bother her—not even newspaper men. I want her to sleep, Ellison.”’ “T’ll see to it,” assured Ellison, regarding Clarke more thought- fully. “I believe I’ll detail a man to look after you too,” he threatened as he departed. Calvin reclined upon his pillows, imagining Joan Royle under his protection; and this feeling that he guarded her supplied him “Let me help GAs Joan said it Dads saw deep color spread from her fore- head to her throat. a small, ephemeral satisfaction. Tomorrow, in the morning, Frederic Ketlar will be freed; tomorrow, in court, Calvin Clarke himself will ask his release. Whereupon Ketlar will turn from the judge a free man and no guard of Calvin Clarke’s can keep Ketlar from her. Ellison returned in the forenoon. “Slept?” he inquired. “Not much,” admitted Calvin, who as a matter of fact had not closed his eyes. ‘‘What’s happened?” “About what you’d expect,” reported Ellison. “Zenn and the rest of the living are sticking to their alibis; and there’s also an alibi for the late lamented. I am given to understand that George Baretta was a model man last night. He had merely been at Tut’s Temple, where also were many other estimable citizens; about the time you left for your ride into the country, George started home and was about a block from his quiet residence when two bold, bad persons unknown—absolutely unknown—shot him.” “That’s to be the story!” “That is the story. Of course if the Royle girl could swear that she recognized Baretta at the ditch x “Miss Royle,” interrupted Calvin, “did not recognize him, so she will swear only to what already has been stated.” 93

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94 “Then,” said Ellison, regarding Calvin with increased wonder, “their story probably will stick. The waiting world will likely always lack legal assertion as to the identity of the person Miss Royle shot. The Temple gang have to deny that Baretta was at the ditch, in order to protect themselves. However, the late lamented’s personal difficulty over Adele Ketlar has become con- siderably less confidential—George being reliably deceased.” “How about the jury?” asked Calvin. “Dutifully deliberating. You surely lashed that Greek to the mast of the ship of state,”’ Ellison recollected admiringly. “‘We were wrong, but on the evidence in court—for you know, Calvin, that the Royle girl, I mean Miss Royle, was gorgeously lying— we ought to have a conviction. Anyway, you inspired that Greek at least with the good old American sentiment. He’ll die but never surrender. Of course we’ve nothing to send to the jury; but Ketlar has heard the cheery word of new developments.” “His mother,’ reminded Calvin. ‘Somebody ought to see her.” “‘She’s been seen,”’ Ellison assured him. ‘“There’s nothing to the case any more. A little hard work now will put us in perfect shape to move a nolle pros, if your Greek patriot is still holding the ship tomorrow.” Calvin welcomed the work, imposing it upon himself for the dis- tracting torment of it, in preference to his thoughts in idleness through the day. By night he was prepared and went to bed certain of Ketlar’s release in the morning. le prospect, indeed, was apparent to everyone who read the early editions of the Monday morning papers which were sold at down-town street corners on Sunday evening; Dads purchased one and immediately telephoned to reassure himself that Joan was safe, before he hurried home to disperse the party which was gathered in Joan’s room—Hoberg, and several youths and girls. Joan could not feast and celebrate, Dads knew; and tactfully, but only the more promptly for it, he cleared the room. Confronted by many dishes to be washed, mama wilted as soon as the guests were gone and retired to her refuge in bed. “Simply pile up the dishes tonight,” Dads bade Joan Daisy grandly. “T’d rather be doing something,” she replied as he followed her into the kitchenette. ‘But you stay here, Dads.” “Certainly, m’dear,” he said, putting forth a hand, not to aid in dish-washing, but for her clasp. She clung to his hand for a few moments and he felt her quivering. “Dads, it wasn’t Ket!’ “No doubt whatever about that, m’dear.”’ “Mr. Clarke will free him at ten o’clock tomorrow. I'll be there.” “You'll not be alone, m’dear; far from it.” “No,” she said, withdrawing her hand quietly. “You'll have plenty of company,” pursued Dads, leaning against the wall beside the sink and watching as she looked down concentrated upon the sight of the water running upon the dishes. “You'd like it alone?’”’ he inquired of her gently. “Everybody’ll be in court,” she mused. ‘‘Mr. Clarke and that Mr. Ellison and Mr. Elmen——” ; “And plenty of ladies. Miss Lola Nesson,” Dads particular- ized, observing Joan with exceeding closeness. “Yes . . . He told me he was wrong, all wrong, Dads.” “Ketlar?” “No; it was about Ket he was wrong. Mr. Clarke, I mean. He was under the car,” related Joan Daisy, suddenly seized with need to talk, although with everyone else she had begged off men- tion of the matter. So she told how Mr. Clarke had called her back, after she had started from the car, to tell her that he had been wrong. ‘That was funny, wasn’t it? Especially in him; for if anyone can keep things inside himself, that man can. You'd have thought he’d have figured this would keep till I got back with help; and if I didn’t ever get back, what would be the difference?” “You'd have known it for a minute at any rate, if you were killed the next.” “Yes,” said Joan Daisy, nodding. “I stood by him when he telephoned the police and he certainly came out and said he’d been wrong,” she related; and Dads, watching, saw deep color spread from her forehead to her throat. “He surely came through against himself—and for Ket and me . . . It would have been a queer wind-up for the Clarke family, wouldn’t it, Dads?” “What would?” he inquired, aware that she had been thinking so a that she had not noticed that she had ceased speaking to him. That Royle Girl “Oh, if that car had turned over a little harder or the bullets had got us. I was thinking of a rotogravure section printing a picture of a flivver upside down in a frozen corn field for the finish of the Clarke family—after Queen Anne’s War and General Knox’s staff and Antietam.” “Seen him today?” ventured Dads. “No. He telephoned about the man I shot—Baretta,” answered Joan Daisy, carefully wiping a cup. “I asked him to; I wanted to know.” “That,” said Dads, firmly grasping her arm, “that’s nothing to think of.” “T’ll think of it, Dads!” she said, raising her head. “TI did it; so I'll think of it. I'd have to anyway.” She put down the cup and with a forefinger tapped the edge of the sink and then tapped at a point a foot away and twelve inches off, again. ‘They put bullets into us like that, Dads,” she explained. ‘Into the bottom of the car, I mean; but they meant ’em for us—Neski and Mr. Clarke and me. Baretta did it, we know; but even after he’s dead, we can’t get anyone to say so. They’ll only talk about Adele now. It gives you an idea of what the State is up against. I don’t mind so much the way Mr. Clarke went after me on the stand ...<” é When Joan awakened ‘next morning Ket filled her mind; for there were sounds in his apartment. His mother had come to dust and sweep in preparation for him; and Joan and Dads and Mrs. Folwell went together to the court, where women blocked the doors, where Max Elmen and his son Herman and Weigal, of the Echo, with musicians from the orchestra and several men whom Joan did not know, crowded the rail in the court-room. Ket had not been brought in; nor did she see Mr. Clarke. The judge’s bench was empty, as also was the jury-box. Oliver was there with the other reporters who had written of the case; photographers banged their blinding flash-lights as at the start of the trial. Hoberg put himself proprietarily beside Joan Daisy, but Max Elmen cleared only two seats, one for her and one for Mrs. Folwell. “Have the chair,” urged Max, reassuring Joan with a soft clasp of his long fingers. ‘“‘It is all but over. There is nothing for you to do but look.” She felt Dads’ hand upon her shoulder as she sat down; for Dads displaced Hoberg and remained behind her, patting her when she most noticeably trembled. The witness chair stood empty before her, reminding her of her cross-examination by Mr. Clarke. The jury filed silently to their places; the Judge suddenly appeared; Ket was within the doors and Joan Daisy arose hot with triumph at the sight of him. For they had won, he and she! They had proved and justified themselves. This court, before which she had fought for him, must in a moment dismiss him! “Order,”’ commanded a voice sternly. ‘“There will be order in the court.” oe was making none of the disturbance; she was just standing and staring at Ket, who saw her and smiled at her, drawing his shoulders straight; he passed a hand over his smooth flaxen hair and touched his tie, adjusting it slightly. His clear skin glowed pink with his pleasure at the excitement and he nodded, as he used to do at the Echo when dancers clapped and called out to him. She saw Mr. Ellison and then Mr. Clarke. How pale he was! She raised herself to tiptoes to see his shoulder; and since he made no display of bandages, she thought for a moment that she must have borne a distorted memory of the night before last and that he had not been hurt. She succeeded in discerning, however, that his right sleeve was pinned and his coat buttoned over his right arm. Mr. Ellison stayed at his right, carefuly avoiding jostling against him. The Judge recognized them and spoke to the jury. Immediately Andreapolis, the foreman, replied, reporting disagreement. The Judge’s voice again; other voices. Joan Daisy stood down from tiptoes, losing sight of Mr. Clarke except as she caught glimpses of his pale face as others between him and her moved aside. She heard the Judge’s voice distinctly and knew that the jury was dismissed. Everyone turned, then, to Mr. Clarke. “Your Honor, the State asks leave,” he said in his clear voice, “to nolle prosequi.” “The motion is allowed,’ announced the Judge, and Mr. Clarke turned away. “That is all,” said Max Elmen’s triumphant tones. “You are free!” :

“Ord order in Some waited and wh clasped

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“Order!” commanded the loud, stern voice. order in the court!” Some one kissed Ket. She was not his mother; for his mother waited beside Joan Daisy. It was Lola Nesson who kissed him and who clung to him when he turned to them. Two other girls clasped him, and a man—it was Weigal—grabbed Ket’s hands. “There will be Calvin did not know how to go about it well—like Ket. ‘‘My heart, Joan,’’ he began, ‘‘must always have known what you were. . .” ~~ Joan Daisy dropped from tiptoes and waited with hot waves of blood warming her face and limbs; Ket’s mother waited also for these others to release him. But they did not and he could not, or did not care to, put them off; so they all pressed together to the doors. A bailiff followed, carrying Ket’s overcoat and hat, and when they reached the hall, Weigal (Continued on page 105) ; 95

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6 es 7, Walter Franklin Prince, Principal Research Officer of the American Society for Psychical Research : By ¢ Actual LL my life I have been engaged on puzzles, historical, psychological, psychical. Careful investiga- tion, the accumulation of details and inspection as with a microscope is my besetting passion. In consequence there are whole classes of occult claims which to me have no validity. These lie mostly in the field of physical phenomena, although there are also very many pro- fessional mediums of the mental type who are fraudulent. But I have reached the conviction, from years of study and investigation, that certain types of supernormal facts exist. To prove that this has not put me in the company of those who can no longer tell a hawk from a handsaw, I may mention some of my reports of the last four years. The most lengthy and analytical exposure of spirit- ‘photograph frauds was written by me. The spirit slate- writing swindle which imposes upon thousands was blasted by the most comprehensive treatise ever written on the subject, in 1921. The ‘“‘Great Amherst Mystery,” wherein a noisy ghost cut up tricks which puzzled readers for forty years, was solved by. me through analysis of the records in the light of what we now know. of abnormal psychology, with the result that the ghost is demon- strated to have been one and the same as the girl sup- posed to be tormented. ‘The famous Antigonish ghost was inspected on the spot by me and a chain of circum- stantial evidence gathered with the same result. And yet a natural detective bent, the acquired skill of experience and merciless analysis have not enabled me to reach a normal solution in. certain cases, nor, in my judgment, is such a solution in those cases possible. Of course but few examples can be given. I HAVE never seen a ghost, but I have heard one walking. It was in Montclair, New Jersey, in a house that was my home for several years. A three-story frame structure with a mansard roof, set back from a quiet residential street in the midst of a generous yard filled with greenery, we had found it a comfortable place to dwell. The well of the staircase from the first to the second floor was cut into the front half of the house. The flight of stairs from the second floor into the attic was not superimposed over this but was so arranged that as the steps mounted they retreated to the rear wall of the house so that it was an awkward matter to step from the top to the floor of the attic because of the close juncture there of the slope of the roof and the back wall. One night I and the members of my family heard some unaccountable raps. They began suddenly, alarming one of the young members of the household. For hours I sat and moved about, studying the phenomenon. I had plenty of opportunity to do so, for the noises per- sisted for months. I had lived in twenty-six houses and had never heard anything like them. They sounded in a desk, they sounded on a table by my bed where I lay alone, they sounded on my dressing-table in the morning. They were never heard Saturday nights so long as I had a Sunday lecture series. As soon as the lectures stopped, the noises occurred on Saturday nights also. Not only raps but bangs were heard in the house and cellar. As a scientific man, it was my business to suspect my wife and foster-daughter as readily as I would anyone else. I tested to see if either was playing tricks on me, but the sounds came at times when they were out of the house and I was alone there. I always pursued my investigation as remorselessly, as unemotionally as I might have looked for cockroaches. I satisfied myself that the house was free from rats and mice. I made hous withil each foot ¢ the h first fi tinct heard of a | ing d from daugt heard step, one, heavy Six. and | steps, ever i stepp thick secon and more. We but t ing 1 could I had huma ing i stairs was I Th parti: Ido: Fo evide fact succe other anyt why I; many

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— eS. Ue SS , | [WALTER FRANKLIN PRINCE I Gould NCOT Catch careful tests to satisfy myself that the sounds were not referable to the creaking of furniture or boards, expansion or contraction of wood, the effect of wind or other physical causes. Then one night my foster-daughter heard what she described as footsteps coming down from the attic. “Tt is a lame man, papa,” she told me. “One leg is shorter than the other.” Not long afterwards, while Mrs. Prince was away on a visit, I too heard these footsteps. My daughter and I were alone in the house, standing within three feet of each other near the foot of the stairs in the hallway on the first floor. Then dis- tinctly we both heard the sound as of a lame man com- ing down the steps from the attic. My daughter said she heard it as a heavy step, then a light one, heavy, light, heavy, light, until six. Then a-pause and then six more steps, when what- ever it was seemingly stepped onto the thick carpet of the second floor hallway and we heard no more. We went up-stairs but there was noth- ing there that we could see, although , I had never heard a human being walk- ing in heavy shoes more distinctly. ~ “Tt’s a lame man, papa,” insisted my daughter. I did not care to contradict her that time, but I was not frightened. I was tremendously interested. : We knew nothing of any persons who might have died in the house in the years before we had gone there to live, but not long after the occurrence I have described I met a lady who owned it. She lived in another town. Jocularly I told her what we had seemed to hear. “But it is true,’ she exclaimed with intense emotion, and ex- plained that her brother, who had been afflicted with a deformed leg, had died on the third floor, in what we knew as the attic. Personally I doubt if there was actually vibration from the stairs, but consider that what I have described as sounds heard was really an eifect upon consciousness supernormally caused. That house is still standing in Montclair but nowadays it is partially devoted to trade. I will not identify it further because I do not wish to cause the owner any annoyance. Formerly entirely skeptical, I am now convinced that the evidence, and the logic of the evidence, points definitely to the fact that consciousness survives bodily death and sometimes succeeds in manifesting itself to those still upon earth. The only other explanation is an all-embracing mind telegraphy beyond anything proved or likely. It would take too much space to show why this is so. I have discussed it elsewhere. I shall not take time to enumerate the long list of scientists, many of the first rank, who have become convinced, since 1870, ee |Experiences of an Expert in the Supernatural of spirit communication. They include many shining names, par- ticularly of Great Britain, France, Italy and Russia, a much smaller percentage being found in this country. I have exposed scores and scores of frauds, but when all is said and done there remains a residue of evidential matter, of strange happenings, that I cannot explain by any material means. An explanation of all of these would be found, however, in the survival of a human memory able to express itself through the organism of an entranced person, as the faint electric pulsations of the ether these nights is expressed through the me- chanical contriv- ances we call radio receivers. Who can say what a thought is? Who can deny that a living brain may be sensitive enough to receive vibrations that did not originate within the body that main- tains it? I WAS called to Mexico City in 1921 to investigate the cese of a Woman pos- sessing an unac- countable power to see visions of the past. I shall not identify her further than to call her Senora Maria Reyes de Z. Upon my ar- rival in the Mexican capital I found Doctor Gustav Pagenstecher, a Ger- man and one of the most prominent physicians there, convinced that, as Huxley admitted, there is something in the universe transcending matter and force. He seemed half amused to see himself in a different camp from that which he had occu- pied for forty years, led by conclusions from the facts observed which he did not feel that he could evade logically or honestly. Sefora Maria Reyes proved to be a woman of good education and good family. She was the mother of several children, but her health was frail and it was this circumstance that had brought her into contact with Doctor Pagenstecher. She is the daughter of a former divisional general of the Mexican federal army and governor of the State of Michoacan. In seeking means to rebuild her st attered health the physician employed hypnotism to overcome insomnia, putting her to sleep by holding a polished metal disk or button about eighteen inches in front of her eyes. During one of these treatments he discovered that the woman when in a hypnotic state was peculiarly sensitive to occurrences about her and that she even seemed to know what was going on in parts of the house shut off from his own gaze by thick walls of masonry. With that for a basis he began to experiment and these experiments had taken an amazing character when I arrived in Mexico. Among those who witnessed some of the experiments with Sefiora Maria in Mexico City were the late J. Starr-Hunt, an American lawyer whose home there was across the street from the private residence of the murdered (Continued on page 149) / Q.This letter, found in a bottle, was used in a strange “psychic”? expert- ment which Doctor Prince witnessed.

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QLIf anyone had told Mathilde that she looked different than she had the night she stood, fright- ened and confused, on the floor of the Club Biarritz, she would have laughed, though her mother would have seen the change immediately. The restlessness, the brittle facility of expres- sion had gone. Her face dreamed; there was a new softness to her youth and her eyes were tender. lay on outlin which side o} depths nous ¢ her ha ing it It w breeze poem | casket velvet string ninete her m with h Mathi Thr tissue Phyllis “M: Am Ano ceded of the and he Mat eel ately. liker t! cost m thousa “Phil’s me thé little ¢/ it all, | again. more. Birt occasic their 7 table | Mat aristoc their g “Lo greetir dog!” Phy you li gentle

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By ELISABETH COBB CHAPMAN daughter of Irvin S. Cobb, who hereby Proves herself a chip of the Old Block athilde ‘ Diterent Illustration by Harrison Fisher ER face buried in the pillows, Mathilde Leveringe lay on her tumbled bed. Every soft line of her sprawling body outlined beneath the sheet expressed an exasperated petulance which ill-befitted such curves. One slim arm dangled over the side of the bed and the hand viciously stirred the tissue paper depths of a beflowered box. Tumbling from it, with its diapha- nous chiffon awry, was a dress. A dream of a dress. As gold as her hair, as delicate as a butterfly, its spotless buoyancy proclaim- ing it virginal and unworn. It was the early morning of a perfect summer day. The little breeze, fragrant from its trip across the flower beds, caressed the poem of a frock. On her breakfast tray lay one of those discreet caskets in which jewelers entomb their treasures. Against its velvet lining, their creamy whiteness accentuated, nestled a string of perfectly matched pearls. It was the morning of Mat’s nineteenth birthday and the dress and pearls were the gifts of her mother. Joy should have sent her running to this mother with her thanks, but the expression on the tiny visible portion of Mathilde’s face was of severe disapproval. Through the open door of the adjoining room came a rustle of tissue paper and then a squeal of delight. Mat’s twin sister Phyllis was awake and audibly rejoicing. “Mat, have you seen your dress?” called Phil. A muffled snort from her twin was the only response evoked. Another rustle of tissue paper and a smothered ‘‘damn”’ pre- ceded the whirling entrance of Phyllis draped in the exact replica of the exquisite frock that lay on the bed, her gold hair tangled and her bare pink feet an invitation to the sly little breeze. Mathilde sat up and looked at her twin. “That’s the prettiest dress I ever saw,” she said dispassion- ately. ‘‘And you look simply too glorious in it—even if we are liker than two peas, I say it.” “Then come on and thank mother. Have you seen the pearls? Come on.” And with a whirl of chiffon around the bare pink heels, Phil disappeared. Mat sat and gazed disconsolately at the dress. “Tt’s a darned shame,” she admonished the recumbent garment severely. ‘You are the loveliest dress I ever saw in my life. You cost much money. Just my color, the color only one blond in a thousand can wear. But darn, darn, damn!’ Mat exploded. “Phil’s got one just like you!’ Then, plaintively: “It seems to me that on my nineteenth birthday I might have one thing, one little thing different. But not at all. I was born a twin and, darn it all, I dress a twin and I’ll die a twin.” She flung herself down again. “I want to be different. I don’t want to be a twin any more. I won’t be a twin any more.” Birthdays in the Leveringe family were always something of an occasion. So on their nineteenth birthday the twins were given their pearls, and that night there was a dance in the big hospi- table house. Mat and Phil were exquisite. There was something delicate, aristocratic about them always, and tonight the subtle lines of their golden frocks set them aglow like slim fragile lilies. “Look, Phil”—Mathilde squeezed her sister’s arm as they stood — their guests. ‘Here comes Roger Dalzell. Hot diggedy og!’ Phyllis, startled, looked at her sister. ‘Why, Mat darling, do you like him?” There was both surprise and trouble in her gentle face. “You’re darned right. I could take a flip for him just like— that!” Mathilde snapped a finger lightly. “T wish you wouldn’t use that horrid slang—and I wish you didn’t like Roger Dalzell.” Phyllis was plaintive. Mat laughed. ‘The slang is the only way we can be told apart —and I adore Roger.”’ And Mat joyously waved to that young man. It was a delightful party, as all Mrs. Leveringe’s were. The library had been thrown open into the large drawing-room for the dancers. The hundred-odd young people either availed themselves of the excellent music or were spilled into the lap of the lantern-hung gardens through the French windows of the drawing-room. “Goodness!” gasped Mathilde, breathless from spinning round and round the room with a small boy whose one step consisted in furiously rotating as fast and long as his partner could stand it. “Goodness, Roger, I’m took all of a ’eap.”’ Dalzell, who had just cut in, smiled down at her knowingly from the heights. “Come out into the garden with me and rest. You’ve done your duty. You’ve danced twenty times with every one of these snakes, and I want to talk to you.” Mat’s heart went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat. They danced to the windows, and disentangling from the warm embrace that is per- fectly proper on the dance floor, stepped decorously out into the moon-swept night. By the swimming-pool they found an unoccupied seat and Mathilde, thrilled into silence, threw her face back and silently held it up to the moon. A faint breeze stirred her soft curls, and her face, moon-bathed, was siren sweet. The boy, silent too under the spell, watched her for a moment, then kissed her square on the mouth. “You’re the most wonderful girl in the world’”—breathlessly. “T love you. Oh, darling, sweet little Phyllis!” Mathilde jumped out of his arms and to her feet. ‘‘Phyllis!’’ she cried. “Oh, you dizzy bird! I’m Mat,” and ran swiftly toward the house. From the edge of the pool she called back, ‘Phyllis wears sapphires, I wear emeralds. Remember that next time.” A breath of laughter was thrown back to the boy, mopping his brow and groaning, “Oh Lord!” Mat stopped for a moment, hidden by shrubbery. There were tears in her eyes and her hands were tight clenched. “That ends it,” she muttered. “That ends it. From now on I’m going to be different if it kills me.” Fe the remainder of the summer Mathilde made her resent- ment oral and emphatic, asking—no, demanding—an opportunity to express herself. So the fall found the sisters separated for the first time in their lives. Phyllis departed alone for the school in Virginia to which they both had gone the preceding three years, while Mathilde entered Madame Descartes’ French school in New York. Madame Descartes was a spiritual lady who affected draperies, a lorgnette anda manner. The poor woman had only been forced to run a school for three or four years and still retained some belief in human nature. She had thirty girls in the school, (Continued on page 167) 99

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Jane was oddly silent at the coun- try club. ‘‘I mustn’t lose my head,’’ she thought. ‘‘Even with Kent, I mustn’t be too frank.”’ The Story So Far: UANITA had thought she was the daughter. of Sefiora Espinosa. But the Sefiora on her deathbed confessed to the girl that she was only a waif, brought to the Espinosa rancho in babyhood. Only a certain Sidney Fitzroy, the Sefora said, could clear up the mystery of her parentage. Juanita must find him— but she must tell no one his name. And the old sea-coast rancho, decayed but very dear to Juanita, was left not to her but to rich Espinosa relatives. While Juanita was still heartbroken over all this, young Kent Ferguson came to see her. She had talked with him a few days before as a casual stranger passing the rancho, and they had liked each other with the spontaneity of youth—Juanita, indeed, with something more than that. Now she told him of her troubles, and he was all sympathy and interest. She told him, too, of a myste- rious woman who had called on the Sefiora just before her death, and whem Juanita had seen leaving at dawn in an automobile. What was the meaning of that strange visit? And Kent had confessed that he too had caught a glimpse of the woman, for it was the day he had been there. Now Kent suggested that Juanita apply for a position as private secretary to a Mrs. Chatterton, by whose husband he himself was employed. So Juanita went to San Mateo, and secured the position provisionally, Mrs. Chatterton being away; and for a few days she was very happy in the great Chatterton mansion, playing cribbage with elderly Mr. Chatterton, learning her new duties, talking with Kent, and meeting young Billy Chatterton—who immediately developed a youthful “crush” for her. Then Mrs. Chatterton came home—beautiful, superb Jane Chatterton, whose one ambition was to make her way to the top of the social ladder. And at once a curious thing happened. For she was almost hysterically upset when she saw Juanita Espinosa, and immediately took steps to send the girl away. 100 Copyright, 1925, by Kathleen Norris ‘/ Nov worshi of it. up th somew with h she m what away Billy. shoul and t The Chatt watch toag

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‘ KATHLEEN NORRIS Now Kent Ferguson was in love with Jane, in a hopeless and worshiping sort of way, and she knew that and enjoyed the thrill of it. Next day as they lunched téte-a-téte, he casually brought up the question of Juanita’s going; and Jane confessed to him, somewhat feverishly, that Juanita was connected in some way with her own younger life, when she was disgracefully poor, before she married Carwood Chatterton. She did not tell Kent just what the connection was, and she said she was sending Juanita away only so that there would be no complications with young Billy. But she agreed with Kent’s advice that the departure should not be too abrupt, and decided to keep the girl for a while and then offer her a position with friends going to Manila. Then came New Year’s Eve and a great dance at the Chattertons’, Juanita and Kent stood in an upper hallway watching the gay crowds below. Suddenly Mrs. Chatterton said to a guest: ‘“That’s—I’m afraid—gquite out of the question!” Illustrations by Marshall Frantz “Kent,” cried Juanita, “that’s what that woman said—at the ’ ~ ’ rancho! I’ve found her, anyway! It was Mrs. Chatterton!” yway The Story Continues: N THE first morning of the new year a late silence reigned in the Chatterton house. It was nearly nine o’clock before the maids and men began their work down-stairs, noise- lessly carrying away dust-pans of confetti and paper ribbons, broken horns and clackers, letting out the close, cigar-scented air, letting in the cold, clean sunshine of a windless winter morning. They folded card-tables, pushed chairs into place, brushed, dusted, straightened. Miss Espinosa and Mr. Ferguson came in, ruddy, cold, starving, after a walk to church, and had their breakfast on the end of the 101

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(Kent imagined life had suddenly become simple, and he and Juanita were married . pantry table, wishing everyone a happy New Year, apparently in high spirits. Even Dudgeon, the head butler, was won over from his sense of outrage at their familiarities to a sort of grudging good nature as he went majestically back and forth with the silver and crystal, the maids were openly hilarious, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Murdock, bustled about in motherly fashion among them all, delighted that all had gone so well the previous night, and inclined to be complacent this morning. Kent pushed his chair back and said significantly to Juanita: ? “‘You’re going to see Mrs. Chatterton this morning? Can it do any good? If she really is that friend who came down to see your mother, she apparently doesn’t want you to know it. Don’t risk—antagonizing her.” “But why,” Juanita asked bewilderedly, ‘‘should she keep me in the dark? She might know something about the man, you know, the man my mother told me to find. Kent,” the girl added, “I thought of this this morning while we were at breakfast: do you think it is possible that she is trying, deliberately, to get rid know th Juanita “She straight walked eveni

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of me? You see, this Miss Peters, vyho was to come from Wash- ington, hasn’t written or sent any message, for I would have been the one to get it. I don’t believe there is any Miss Peters!” “But why?” he asked, watching her closely. “Well, that’s what I thought I’d ask her—try to find out.” “T wouldn’t,” Kent said slowly. “Wouldn’t!”’ she echoed incredulously. “No, I wouldn’t. She’s evidently interested in you; she wants to be your friend; she couldn’t do more for you than she has promised to do; and if I were you I’d let well enough alone.” Juanita frowned, staring beyond him into space. “Well, if she tries to send me away,” she said finally, “I shall know that she knows something! Because she really needs me,” Juanita added, with a little pride that made Kent smile. “She might,” he suggested doubtfully, ‘feel that you were just as well out of Billy’s way. His father has great hopes for Billy.” The girl flushed, laughed indifferently. ‘Oh, nonsense! He’s a boy. He does that sort of thing with every girl he meets.” “Does what sort of thing?”’ Kent asked, with some little appre- hension. He was glad Jane was not hearing this. “Oh, flirts,” Juanita answered, a little vaguely. “Does he flirt?” .“Oh, well, you know what I mean. girl smiled serenely. “H’m!” Kent mused. ‘Well, his father might object to that.” “Well, he needn’t!”’ Juanita assured him, with spirit. ‘‘There isn’t any danger in that direction!”’ And with her back very straight, and her coat and hat and gloves in her hands, she walked proudly away. Billy had not put in an appearance this morning. The clocks struck ten, then it struck eleven, and as vet there was no summons from either the master or the mistress of the house. Carwood Chatterton had not retired until almost three, and that after a long evening of talking, eating, drinking, laughing, sharing all the hilarity of his guests, stimulating and Says nice things.”’ The encouraging it. For years confined to a rather limited diet, he had “‘fallen off” last night, had found himself munching cakes, canapés, chocolates, sipping strong drink, smoking too much, advising a pretty woman as to a Mah-Jong play, guiding a male friend to the little bar in the library. It had all been successful, delightful, everything that he could wish it to be, and his wife, in her creamy satin, her Juliet cap, her pearls, had been a picture of matchless beauty, the center of all the gaiety throughout the evening. But it had been a strain. And he was tired. He lay in bed, with his papers and his mail, sipping coffee, adjusting his glasses, now and then staring up at the ceiling with a thoughtful, dignified “Hem!” The beautiful mistress of the house kept her room this morning too. At ten o’clock her rich, dark, curled head turned rest- lessly in all its little embroidered baby pillows, and Jane said “Oh dear!” in a desolated voice, and sat up, clutching more pillows upon which to prop her shoulders. ‘Awake, Madame?” Justine asked respectfully, solicitously. “Oh, Justine—I’ve been awake for an hour, trying to go off again!” Jane answered. ‘No use! Oh dear!” “The hot bath—the coffee ” Justine suggested sympatheti- cally, raising shades and adjusting curtains. “Oh, not yet.’ Oh!” said her mistress, locking her slim bare arms behind her head. “I’m dead. Quarter past nine, and I meant to sleep until noon! Any message from Mr. Chatterton?” “Except that Waters said that he was asleep, Madame.” “Well, that’s a solid gain at any rate,” Jane said. ‘Have you seen Mr. Billy?” “He did not come in until six o’clock, Madame. must be also asleep.”’ ‘‘Well—you might bring me the papers, and any letters there are.” Jane sat up, raised a large hand glass from the bedside table, looked at herself with a faintly wrinkled brow and a bitten lip. The need of serious and constructive thought was heavy upon her, but she was tired. It seemed impossible to bring to her wearied head the problems of yesterday, reconstruct them and give them her attention. At all events, the dinner had been a brilliant and unqualified success; so much was satisfactory. It would bea long time before society stopped talking about the Chattertons’ New Year party; the supper-room lined with snow-powdered, tinseled Christmas trees, the English carol singers outside the library windows, the hundreds of silver-glinting cotton snowballs with which the merry war of horns and confetti had been augmented when the mid- night bells began. Jane told herself that she knew when a dinner was merely expensive, top-heavy and dull. And she knew a I think he success when she saw it, too! But now it was over. One more triumph, but already in the past. And meanwhile there was today’s tangle. It had been a long time, she reflected, since she had indulged in the childish mood of wishing the present gone, wishing the cal- erdar already well into next week, but she was conscious of that old cowardly wish this morning. Once the girl was well upon her way to Manila, once Billy safely back in college, then everything would straighten out. It was time, only time, that any problem needed. Presently she had her bath; at eleven o’clock she was back in bed again, considerably cheered by the contents of her breakfast tray. She glanced indifferently at the newspapers, glanced at a new magazine, lay for perhaps twenty minutes staring thought- fully into space, and finally sent a summons to Miss Espinosa. Mrs. Chatterton would like to speak to her, please. The message had no sooner gone than Billy lumbered in, tousle-headed, bunched into an enormous (Continued on page 157) 103

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No wild horses Sam had sworn wild horses couldn’t drag him to the show. were seen about the theater that night and so it couldn’t have been Sam who was tinglingly conscious of Joan’s first appearance on the stage—a flash of draperies about dainty knees, a bit of Helen of Troy, Cleopatra and all the ladies who have made men a little mad, epitomized in movement to music.

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This Ts eA Story of a Man Who Did Not Approve of (Chorus By Royal Brown OVC irls Illustrations by Leslie L. Benson OVE, according to some of our best poets, is an estimable and lyrical emotion worthy of celebration. This may all be true, but any poet who had tried so to persuade Samuel Sylvester DeWitt this May afternoon would have had not only his trouble for his pains but, it is to be feared, pains for his trouble. As a lawyer, Sam DeWitt would have curtly assured the poet that his argument was irrelevant, immaterial and incompetent. As an individual, had the poet still persisted, Sam would have probably punched him in the eye. This although to him the so-called tender passion was an im- personal matter. Love, to Sam, was something Johnny Ames got drunk on regularly. It had on Johnny precisely the effect strong drink has on other men. Johnny simply couldn’t take it or leave it alone—which was Sam’s way. When Johnny fell in love he fell in all over. Figura- tively speaking, he rolled in the gutter. Then, a soberer but only transiently wiser man, he would come to his senses and expe- rience a drunkard’s remorse. Presenting himself before Sam he would, in effect, sign the pledge. “Never agiin,” he had solemnly sworn the last time. “Get me out of this this time, Sam, and I give you my word I'll be a regular what-you-call-it sybarite.” “Sybarite,” Sam had answered, “‘is what you'll always be, but I suppose anchorite is what you mean. Well, who is the lucky lady this time?” The ladies were lucky because only a poor man could afford to fall in and out of love the way Johnny did. Johnny had millions. He was a moth before the footlights’ flire; a student of the drama as expressed by lilting music, bright lights and twinkling toes. Lovely ladies—if you like them that way—called him “kid” and “dearie.” They also addressed Sam so and even tried to vamp him. Until, that is, the chill in his eyes penetrated. Then they called him ‘‘Mister Buttinski” and things like that. Eventually they agreed to release Johnny—for a consideration. Which was that. And, so far as Sam was concerned, also a fair example of that estimable and lyrical emotion known as love. This particular May afternoon found Johnny once more in Sam’s office. They confronted each other. Johnny, metaphori- cally in sackcloth and ashes, was actually a rather fat and florid young man impeccably attired. Sam, who was neither fat nor florid, might from his manner have been clothed in judicial ermine. But he, in turn, wore plus fours. It had been his intention to devote the rest of this bright May afternoon to a pleasant little foursome. But the minute he had seen Johnny’s face he knew that was all off. Now he eyed Johnny without enthusiasm. “And just where can this Joan Winthrop be found?” he de- manded. “I don’t mean what theater, though I suppose that would be one place I could locate her.” “She’s with the show that’s at the Puritan,” Johnny confessed. “How long have you known her?” “T never saw her up to the night of the first performance a week ago Monday.” “You worked even faster than usual this time,” commented Sam. ‘But go on; when and how did you meet her?” “‘Well—she does a specialty dance in the second act. she was a whizz. I never saw such grace. And pep, too ’ Sam, ” “If you told the lady so, she should have been flattered; vou speak from a large experience. And vou were so impressed by her grace—to say nothing of her pep—that you sent a note around back at the end of the second act.” “T went around myself. I know the man at the stage door.” “As a regular patron I suppose you have earned special privileges. And so you met the lady in question and had a little dinner somewhere?” “No, she turned me down flat, Sam. Looked at me as if I was something the cat brought in. Said that lobsters disagreed with her digestion.” “T hope she wasn’t personal!’ commented Sam crudely. “Personal? What do you mean?” demanded Johnny, puzzled. “Nothing—go on. The lady turned you down. What hap- pened next?” “Sam, she was a perfect peach. The sort you see stepping out of limousines on Fifth Avenue——”’ “All sorts of peaches step out of limousines on Fifth Avenue— including the sort you are addicted to. But go on; there was something about her that— “Sam, there was! I refused to take no for an answer. I swore I'd have her eating out of my hand before I finished with her——” ‘And now she has bitten the hand that fed her. You fed her, of course?” “Ves, she changed her mind about that later.” “T would like to believe that that was your fatal fascination, Johnny. I suspect though that the lady looked you up in Bradstreet’s——”’ “Sam!” Johnny’s voice was anguished. “It’s all me. doesn’t care a hoot about my money. She says so herself.”’ “Tell that to the marines—they’re young and innocent,” hooted Sam. “She means it!’ wailed Johnny. ‘She says that I’ve been spoiled by money. She is going to give it all away when we are married and live in Greenwich Village.” “Calm yourself!” suggested Sam. ‘‘What are you going to live on—even in Greenwich Village—if you give away your money? Has she spoken of that?” “Yes, we'll live on poetry,” said Johnny. “Poetry?” echoed Sam, incredulously. “Whose?” “Hers and mine 4 “Yours! Have you ever committed poetry, Johnny?” “T wrote her some,” admitted Johnny. “Worse and more of it,” groaned Sam. “Tt wasn’t so bad at that!” defended Johnny. “It was a darn sight better than the stuff she writes anyway. I kept a copy of it—it seemed rather good to me. I’ve got it here somewhere = “Hand it over,” commanded Sam, and Johnny complied. She is read Johnny’s copy of his masterpiece: When first I saw you on the stage My heart beat like a bird in a cage. I’ll never rest until you are mine, To which I sign, just “ever thine.” “There are two rhymes in the last line,” Johnny pointed oui then. “Rather clever, don’t you think?” “Set it to music and you’ll have a second ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas Today,’ ” Sam assured him. “But thank heaven you didn’t sign it, anyway a “But I had to,” protested Johnny, bewildered. would she have known who it was from?” “Or a jury,” commented Sam. “I should say that there may be money in poetry, after all. To buy back the original of this verse will cost you something.” “Else how 105

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106 “You can’t buy it from her,” stated Johnny positively. “(Money won’t tempt her. She says she treasures it. You’ll—you’ll have to try some other tack this time, Sam.” “Ves? And what would you suggest?” ‘“Well—you might tell her that there was insanity in the family.” “Tf she hasn’t already seen that, I doubt my success. Does she say that this’—Sam indicated Johnny’s effusion—“‘proves you are a poet?” “No, but she thinks I can be. She says all great lovers are poets.” “You’re a second Milton then,” agreed Sam. ‘Have you any samples of her poetry with you?” Johnny shuddered. “T wouldn’t be found dead with ’em on me,” he said enthusiasti- cally. ‘On the level you never heard such rot,Sam. She says one must always have the mot juste, whatever that means i “Tt’s French for the right word,” contributed Sam. “Well, it’s always the wrong word! The stuff never makes sense. It makes my head spin. I couldn’t believe such stuff was ever published until she showed me a magazine with some in it. I—Sam, you’ve simply got to get me out. I swear y “Tt’s my turn to swear,” Sam cut in. “If this Joan Winthrop is as much of a nut as you make her out to be——” “She’s worse, Sam,” Johnny assured him gallantly. “Words fail me. She—she says she will make me a free soul. She says I’m only a tailor’s dummy, but that she will make me over. She” —Johnny shuddered anew—“‘wants me to wear one of those flowing ties such as artists wear on the stage ad Johnny gagged there, but Sam eyed him without sympathy. “She,” Johnny managed finally, “bought one yesterday. She made me put it on and—Lord, Sam, I looked like Buster Brown!” a however, merely lighted a cigaret. “Two weeks!” he commented, between puffs. “At first she turned you down flat, and now she’s putting flowing ties on you. What happened in between?” “Well, I went back the next night. Sam, you ought to see her dance. You’d never suspect that a girl like that would write poetry. Or wear horn-rimmed spectacles. Or have ink smudges on her nose is “You're off the track again. She turned you down flat—and then?” “T wrote her letters.” “You would,” commented Sam. “She didn’t answer. So I started the old caveman stuff. I . waited outside the stage door every night. The first time I thought she was going to calla cop. But she didn’t. And then one night she let me take her to dinner.” “And that was the night you told her that you were going to marry her, come what might,” suggested Sam. “JT guess I may have given her that idea. Anyway, I told her I would follow her to the ends of the earth and she’d never shake me until she promised to.” “When did she promise to?” “Last Tuesday.” “And you were the happiest man in the world Sam sardonically. “For about ten seconds. And then, before I could even kiss her, she began to talk about her plans. About making a man out of me and all that. That—that was too much, Sam. I—I can’t stick it.” “Tt would probably be a painful process, but why didn’t you tell her so?” “T tried to, Sam. Or at least I tried to make her listen to reason. Told her money wasn’t such a bad thing after all. But it was no go. She said I was like a little boy who wouldn’t have his tooth pulled, but that when it was over with I’d be glad. That 1’d really begin to live. Sam, I’d rather die!” Sam glanced at his watch. The afternoon, so far as golf was concerned, was irreparably ruined. “T suppose I might as well see her and get it over,” he said wearily. “Put it to her strong, Sam,” begged Johnny. ‘Tell her that I have epileptic fits. Tell her—oh, tell her anything!” But Sam, ignoring him, was telephoning for a taxi. Now this was May, May at its brightest best. The spring of the year when, if you believe all the poets say, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. But Sam was not that sort of a young man. Not only this afternoon, but ever. Or, at least, hardly ever. 1? commented So This Is Love And that was Johnny’s fault. Now and then Sam saw some girl who looked good to him. The sort that, in the course of time, he might have learned to love. But always, at that point, it had become Sam’s painful duty to interview some girl that Johnny had learned to love in haste, only to repent at leisure. As a result there were times when the very mention of the word love gave Sam a stomachache. As he sat in a taxi which was bearing him toward Johnny’s latest, this was one of them. May sunlight penetrated the taxi, but not his mood. Once, he was thinking darkly, he had hoped to become a good all-around lawyer. Now, at twenty-eight, he found himself still functioning as Johnny’s nurse-maid. This he had Johnny to thank for. Or rather Johnny’s mother, who at sixty had gone to wherever saints receive their halos. She hadn’t, it is true, resembled a saint. At least, not a stained glass saint. But she had won her martyr’s crown, both as the mother of Johnny and as the wife of Johnny’s father. “Johnny,” she had told Sam, as she lay on her death-bed, “‘is a fool. He always will be where women are concerned. He takes after his father. I always knew when his father was beginning another affair. He’d bring home pink roses. And I always knew when it ended. He’d talk wildly about the need of retrenching.” The paling lips had parted in a grim smile. At sixty and dying, she could see the humor of that. “T want you to keep an eye on Johnny,” she had goneon. “I’ve appreciated all you’ve done for him, and I’ve remembered you in my will. Also I have appointed you an executor of the estate, at five thousand a year—no, don’t interrupt, please. Witherspoon and Netherby are going to take you into the firm. I’ve spoken to them.”’ And she had. In precisely the way Sam suspected. “You’ve handled my affairs for years,” she had told Witherspoon and Netherby, eminent barristers. “Now if you want to continue to do so after my death, you'll do as I say.” They had seen fit to do as she said. The connection had proved valuable to Sam; he had prospered beyond his deserts. But this afternoon he was too jaundiced to admit that. The taxi paused before an ancient brownstone front that had seen better days. A listless-eyed woman permitted Sam to enter. “Second floor front,” she said, answering his question. ‘Go right up.”” Sam went right up. “Come in,” suggested a blithe voice from behind the door of the second floor front. Sam obeyed. He looked like a personable young chap in plus fours, but at the moment he felt like Daniel about to enter the lioness’s den. room he found himself in was vast, with dark shadows even in mid-afternoon. The girl he,had come to see sat at a table placed between two windows. He knew it was she because she wore horn spectacles and was busy with her pen. Authorship evidently had her in its grip. “Sit down,” she commanded, without even looking up. ‘Don’t even speak until I tell you you may. I’m searching for le mot juste i Her voice trailed off. A lovely voice—and alive. Sam, ata loss, found a chair and sat in it and then proceeded to study Joan Winthrop. The westering sun sent slanting shafts of light through the windows, silhouetting her profile. This was like her voice, lovely and alive, with added hints of strength and stubbornness and—he thought—of humor. This was his first impression of her. His second was wholly involuntary. Even though he viewed her with prejudice he could see what Johnny might see in her. But—good Lord—what could she see in Johnny? From the window she spoke to him, while he still wondered. “Stay where you are, Johnny. I’ll read you what I have written.” Sam bestirred himself. “T hate to disappoint you,” he said, “but—I’m not Johnny.” Sam thought he knew women. But he didn’t. Otherwise he would not have wondered why she instantly removed her horn spectacles. A woman could have told him why. “But,” he added, sensing that he had her at a disadvantage, “‘if you would like to read me what you have written, I’ll be glad to listen.” “T fear from your tone that my efforts would not meet with the sympathy they need,” she retorted, rising and moving toward the wall. Light flooded the room as she turned an electric switch. She stood, looking toward him, a graceful figure with the lovely slender lines of the modern girl.

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“You aren’t,” she suggested hopefully, “‘the bold, bad daylight burglar I have been reading about, are you?” “No,” said Sam. ‘‘I——” ‘ “T feared as much,” she interposed regretfully. “The only other possibility is that you must be the friend Johnny has spoken of so feelingly.”’ “T am flattered is “You have no reason to be,”’ she said. he—send you to see me?” Sam nodded. “And what,” she commented, ‘‘do you make of that, Watson?” No one could question her allure. ‘‘Well?” she demanded, her gray eyes calm, yet suggesting a challenge. Sam cleared his throat. She was a new type for Johnny— and for him. “I don’t know just how well you know Johnny,” he began, feeling his way. She gave him a leisurely glance. “Gracious!”’ she remarked. ‘Didn’t he tell you how well?” “He did say that you had an idea he was going to marry you.” “T like that! I actually believed the idea originated with him.” In spite of himself, Sam smiled. “You look much better that way!’’ she commented. Sam stopped smiling at once. “It usually does originate with Johnny,” he said. ‘But he never guessed then that you would want to make another man of him.” “Did GI think that even you are a poet at heart!’ said Joan. ‘‘Me?”’ echoed Sam. I'd rather be shot!’ A malicious little dimple appeared at one corner of her mouth. “T’ll tell you a secret,’’ she said. “A man is never a finished product until some woman has changed him all over. It was that way from the beginning. God made Adam, but it was Eve who put the finishing touches to him.” “T’ll say she did! He was never the same afterwards.” “T’ll bet he was happier, just the same,”’ she maintained. This, Sam realized, would never do. He (Continued on page 179)

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The Bys ER N ES F:+P 0 OLE“ hadow #a the Dar eA Story from the Caucasian Mountains Illustration by Forrest C. Crooks NTIL the door opened the room was dark, and I thought that all the excitement was over and done with for the night. The large old-fashioned double room with lofty curtained windows had been hot and full of smoke from two or three hundred cigarets; but on going to bed I had opened the windows and let in the fresh salt air from the Black Sea which lay below. I was in a small hotel in Batum; I was a youngster at the time, making my first trip as a magazine correspondent abroad in the Russian—Japanese War. Up there in Russia, in snow and ice, I had been watching the first attempt of the Reds to throw off the yoke of the Tsars; and now with a Russian companion I’d come to the Caucasus, far down south, a wild and mountainous region also seething with revolt. On a Black Sea steamer the night before, far up in the bow we had stood with a crowd of young Caucasian students coming home from Odessa to fight. As their beloved mountains loomed vast out of the sea, they had started singing a gay little war song. Then over the water just ahead Venus had risen, warm and bright. And the boys had cheered, and had toid me then about their Georgian women and girls— ‘‘the diamonds of Russia,” they were called. Glamourous stufi—and glamourous, too, had been the long exciting meeting here in our hotel room tonight. For our student friends had kept coming in with local revolutionists; and a tall, swarthy waiter in a long black gown had brought up Caucasian wine and delicious Russian cigarets. One of the stories they had told was still so vivid in my mind that I could almost hear my interpreter’s voice as, in his broken English, he translated it to me: “The Russian Cossacks, they play hell with village people up in mountains. There is one village high, high up in a little valley— very steep. Cossacks ride up to that village—try stir people up to fight. But they won’t fight. They Dukobors. Pacifists. But they hate Russia—wish be free. So they become so. They do nothing to break law and they pay Russian taxes still, but they won’t come to Russian church or school or law court. They refuse have one damn thing to do with Russia. “So Cossacks come and try stir up those people, make a fight. They grab some girls and treat them bad. And now those people try to fight, but they get only killed themselves, for they have only few old guns. So Cossacks laugh and take more girls. “One young girl there, she very nice—she sixteen and very small and beautiful—black hair and eyes. Young Cossack lieutenant, he come in the night. He come alone and climb in window, grab that girl and take her off on horseback down to Cossack camp, and never has that girl come back. And now whole village very mad. Pacifists no more! They try get guns!” The revolutionists had gone on to tell how one consignment of rifles had arrived the week before from a firm in New York, shipped via Brazil, in huge crates marked “Grand Pianos.” They were hoping to get more. They appealed to me to send home stories of the Cossack atrocities. The revolutionists were all gone now, and the room was dark, but still I could not get to sleep. In his bed near mine my big Russian companion was slumbering peaceful as a child. Then with a start I opened my eyes—and saw that the door was Opening too. It was at the other end of the room. It was opening slowly, without a creak. Sharply I sat up in bed. Against the light in the corridor loomed a tall shadow, very black. As this tall phantom, without one sound, came slowly on straight toward my bed, my poor young scalp began to prickle. “Who the devil are you, and what do you want?” I de- manded fiercely—huskily. 108 In answer, to my relief, came a low rough voice in the Georgian tongue. So it wasn’t a ghost! Only a Georgian! But the next moment the shadow drew closer; and as I in- stinctively threw out my hand8, into one of them was placed one of the coldest little guns I’ve ever felt in all my life. My startled cry was so acute that even my placidly slumbering Russian awoke and sat violently up in bed. “Turn on that light!’ I commanded. He did so. And then he asked me, in surprise, ““‘Why for you wish to shoot the waiter?” For the light had revealed that our visitor was the man who had served the drinks this evening here; and that he had pre- sented the gun with the barrel pointed toward himself! “T don’t want to shoot him,” I snapped; and in less time than it takes to tell, my nervous hand had thrown open the breech. The revolver was empty; but the waiter now presented me with a little cloth bag of cartridges. Once again I was profane. Then —‘Why is he giving me this gun? Ask him,” I said. My companion obeyed. “He say it take time to buy a gun. It will cost you much money,” the Russian explained. ‘All guns here against the law. If Russian gendarmes find you with gun, they will put you in prison sure.” “But I don’t want a gun!” I retorted. My big companion paid no attention to this remark. He was again listening to our new friend. “He say this gun will cost you nothing.” “Except my young life. Thank him!’ I said. g Russian did so, and the tall Georgian bowed and smiled. Then he talked some more, and the Russian translated: “He say he glad to hear you speak tonight with students against Cossacks. He glad you hate Cossacks too. He say you go with me to mountains. Cossacks there by tens of thousands. You shoot many as you like.” The quiet twinkle in the eyes of my large interpreter made me throw the gun at his head. He caught it and went serenely on, ‘‘He say it will be quite safe for you because you are an American.” “Then tell him,” I replied, “that my passport says nothing at all about shooting up the Tsar’s mounted police. This is his country; it isn’t mine—and if he hates the Cossacks so, why doesn’t he shoot a few himself?” “T shall ask.”” Once more my huge companion translated to our waiter friend; and instantly our visitor, standing perfectly motionless there, began to pour out in a low sharp voice a crack- ling volcano of words. “He has a girl,” the Russian translated, reaching for a cigaret. “Ts that all he said?” I impatiently cried. ‘Suppose he has? What has the lady to do with this gun? Let’s get down to the bottom of this!’ When you have been lying awake for hours, and your nerves are all on edge, it isn’t soothing to have a revolver suddenly poked into your hand. “The bottom is far up in the mountains where we are going,” the Russian said. ‘The girl is there.” He turned, and our visitor talked again. “In a little village high up near the snow. She live with her family in nice little house. He live when boy in house close by. She milk the cow.” There came another torrent of words. ‘That girl, she very nice looking, too. He crazy about her.” The flood of eloquence broke again. ‘She have black hair.” Another torrent. ‘Also eyes,’’ the Russian said and then he lighted his cigaret. The tall young Georgian was now excitedly walking the floor, but his speech, though fast and furious, was in a voice as low as before. There were government spies in this hotel. face stor girl: felle you why and him She witl any so k he, sho’

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(‘Young Cossack lieutenant he take one young beautiful girl off on horseback down to Cossack camp and never has that girl come back. A look of sharp enlightenment broke on my companion’s face. “Ah, now I understand,” he said. ‘‘You remember that story we hear tonight about Cossack lieutenant who grab young girl? Well, now we see that this unfortunate waiter is the fellow whose girl was grabbed.” “All right!” I said. “Then why doesn’t he go and get the young Cossack lieutenant himself?” “T shall ask He say it take time to buy a gun——’ “Yes, yes, we’ve heard all that before! But now that he has it, why doesn’t he use it instead of wishing the job on me?” Our visitor grew more impassioned than before. A pleased and interested smile came upon the Russian’s face. _““He hear more news from that young girl. He hear she love him not any more. She write to him, ‘You are only a waiter.’ She love young Cossack lieutenant now. And so he say to hell with her. He won’t go and get himself shooted by Cossacks for any faithless one like that. He hate all Cossacks as before, and so he want you killa few. He still think you can do it safe. But he, if he do it, will surely be shooted. And: he ask you why should he die for such a bad young girl as that?” , Now whole village very mad.”’ Our handsome young visitor broke in again and_ talked in an utterly different tone. New life and joy leaped into his face. “He ask you why he should die for her when now he have an- other girl?- This girl, he say, she very nice.”” From the waiter came one last volley of words. ‘He is crazy about her,” the Russian said. ‘She have black hair. And also eyes.” “Oh, tell him to shut up, and get to thunder out of here!” “Very well, I shall try.” For a few moments longer the Russian talked on; but instead of taking any offense the waiter looked pleased and satisfied. Bowing and smiling, he left. Then suddenly I noticed the gun still in my companion’s hand. “Why didn’t you give it back?”’ I demanded. “Oh,” replied my placid friend, “I know somebody up in the mountains who is not pacifist at all.” He turned out the light and was soon slumbering. For a little I lay there sleepless still, with revolution, abduction, seduction, all a jumble in my poor head. But the peaceful breathing of my huge companion gradually had a hypnotic effect, and I dropped into unconsciousness. 109

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E’S an only son, and like most only sons he’s terribly spoiled.” That was my maternal grandmother’s estimate of me at the ten- der age of seven. I dare say she had formed it earlier, when I had a father to spoil me as well as a mother. But it was not until after his death and our coming to live with her that she proclaimed it. It has come to be regarded as a truism that only sons rarely amount tomuch. And it would seem that the only son of a widowed mother is doubly handicapped, and_ especially when there is more or less of a financial equipment to ward off the actual necessity of earning a living. Overindulgence, under the circumstances, was more or less inevitable. My grandmother, as I have already indicated, had little patience, much less sym- pathy, with her daughter’s anx- iety concerning my health and ; happiness. Well-meant as this eS maternal care and effort were, q es I came later to see that its | a effect was exactly contrary to i its purpose. One of my earliest ee @, The author as recollections has to do with he is today. my mother’s obsession that for me to get my feet wet meant practically sure death. Over- shoes were a necessity at all seasons. In fact every sort of precautionary measures were used on me. I must avoid a draft as I would a hurricane. I must hug the shadows lest I suffer sunstroke. I must not go near the water for fear of being drowned. I must wear heavy wool underwear in winter, a lighter flannel in the spring and fall, and cobwebby stuff in mid- summer. My diet too was care- fully chosen and my exercise limited. Yet despite the greatest care, I contracted about every ailment that childhood is heir to from measles to mumps. Second only to this watchful care as to my health was her en- deavor to cater to my desires and foster my contentment. Her in- come was by no means large. But no wish of mine within reason ever went ungratified. Tied as I was to my mother’s apron-string, so to speak, it was inevitable, I suppose, that I should be shy, timid, retiring and lacking in initiative. For a brief period in the last year of my father’s life I had gone to a day school in the neighborhood. There

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I found myself much behind other G, ‘To me she always was and always will be the ideal mother.’? children of my age, and that, 110 si 1 Was A Spoiled together with my reluctance to make friends, fretted me. Fatherless, my mother released me. Following this we moved to another part of the city and I was enrolled at a Friends’ school in the double sense of that term. It was conducted by the Society of Friends and a friend of my mother’s was a teacher there. 1 <isliked it from the first. It was musty with age and the princip. | was a doddering old man that appeared to have been transplanted from a Dickens novel. One day, because of my failure to answer correctly a question in the day’s lesson, he caned me. When recess came I took my books under my arm and walked home, never to return. Even had I been willing to, my indignant mother would not have permitted it. Yet I was not quite the pusillanimous mollycoddle a mother’s petting had been inclined to make me. I was a weakling enough, God knows. I was painfully bashful. And it was this bashfulness that cut abruptly short my education two years before finishing my high-school course. I simply could not force myself, in an- ticipation, to mount the lecture-room platform and face six hundred fellow scholars in an effort at elocution. ; At the age of twelve I had been taken by my mother to the then popular phrenologist, Fowler, for advice as to the career for which I was best fitted. Oddly enough, as we thought then, he hit at once upon the only pursuit for which I had shown any irclination. “This boy,” he said, “should be an editor. But’”—ah, how we both hung on that “‘but”—‘‘but I doubt that he will ever attain to such a position. For to become an editor he must first be a re- porter. And he lacks the reporter’s primary requisites: cheek and nerve.” The phrenologist’s ‘‘but,” however, was sufficient to quench my journalistic ambition now that I was actually at life’s cross- roads seeking employment. Just how I came to find myself a so- called assistant bookkeeper in the office of a miner and shipper of bituminous coal, I do not clearly remember. Yet. it is pretty safe to hazard the guess that it was through my mother’s in- fluence. After a very short time, however, the deadly monotony of copying car numbers and the weight of their contents be- came practically insufferable. Moreover, the office was overheated and badly ventilated, which gave me headaches. Spring was here. Summer—vacation time—just ahead. The maternal in- stinct sensed what I hesitated to utter. Though my mother’s part in securing the position for me may be open to question, there can be no doubt as to her relieving me from it. June found us together in the country, each happy in the other’s com- panionship. On returning to the city in the early fall of that year I ventured to express a doubt as to the in- fallibility of the Fowler prognosis. Cheek or no cheek, I wanted to be a newspaper man. And yet I had no faith in my ability to find such a position for myself. So it was again a case of mother. She knew a family, the head of which was cashier of one of our foremost dailies. She went to him. He went to the city editor. And the city editor agreed to give me a trial minus salary. The trial lasted for three months. Then I suggested that a pay envelop each week would be acceptable. Whereupon he en- dorsed the phrenologist. My mother’s faith in ulti- mately finding the ideal place for yyy

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C Pe me L Ghited By Charles Stokes Wayne me in spite of these early failures never wavered. She believed in her son. Believed in him notwithstanding his seeming unfitness to cope with the world from which she was so consis- tently shielding him. And, oddly enough, out of this apparent failure I stepped on the first rung of the ladder of my rather moderate success. From a friend she gathered the fact that a British visitor to the coming exposition was boarding with his sister and was in need of a secretary. Perhaps I could meet his demands. And, as fortune would have it, I did. For the first time in my life I actually made good. For three years I remained in this man’s employ, and I was very happy in it. However, when he failed, mother and son lost no time in returning to their original habitation. Meanwhile, however, I had learned in some way that a distant kinsman of mine was an editor and part owner of one of the evening newspapers there, and to him I had addressed a letter. Tomy great joy he promptly found a place for me, and to my still greater delight I very speedily made good. I had now passed the adolescent period and at- tained to my majority, and though I was still under the maternal eye I did achieve a measure of independence. Not that my mother’s love and care for me were lessened in any degree, but that she appeared to realize that the time had come for me to fend for myself and to fashion my own future. As I look back at it I can see very clearly that her only mistake was one of delay. Had she thrown me upon my own resources earlier, say at sixteen or seventeen, I should probably have gone further and been less selfish. For, having been brought up to lean upon her, it seemed never to occur to me that the situation could be reversed and that as we each grew older I should become the sustaining power. There were times when my income must , have at least quadrupled hers that I squandered it for unneeded luxuries, frittered it away in dissipation or lost it through ill- advised speculation, with never a thought of buying her a present or providing her with comforts she could not afford herself. Selfishness was one of the ills that spoiling wrought upon me, but the most disastrous of all, I think, were throttled ambition and a tendency to indolence. My mother apparently had no fixed aim or aspiration for me. My health and happiness alone engrossed her. Fortune, position, honor—none of these seemed ever to have entered her mind in regard to myself. My whole trouble, indeed, has been that life was made too easy for me. My mother began it and what we call an all-wise Providence apparently saw fit to keep it up. For years, as managing editor of a weekly periodical, I had four days of idleness to three of work. Had I used three of the four to some purpose I should probably have a very different story to tell. But instead of that I devoted them to the pursuit of. pleasure and often to dissipation which unfitted me for the duties for which I was drawing a liberal salary. In one of my rare fits of despondency not long ago I wrote an old friend of my early newspaper days deploring my indolence G, Charles Stokes Wayne at the age of sixteen. and adding that I’d never accomplish anything if my wife didn’t keep after me all the time. Ah, what a blessing old friends are! Back he came at me with: “It’s all right for Palma to keep behind you, but I doubt that you ever were lazy. You like your own way of doing things and always did, but it is not in my recollection that you ever failed to turn out your work and lots of it.” For a while I flattered myself he was right, though deep down in my heart I knew better. No, I am all that I have said of myself. And yet, save very occasionally, I really have no regrets. I am, I imagine, just what God meant me to be. If my mother failed to instil in me a desire for honors and wealth she did what was, I am sure, far better. ‘Good, religious woman that she was, she implanted the seeds of right thinking and right living, and they have blossomed and flowered into a contentment that the aver- age Midas might envy. B. C. Forbes, in his in- troduction to ‘““Men Who Are Making America,” furnishes us with the sta- tistical facts that of the fifty men he groups un- der the foregoing title, twenty-four were born poor and seventeen in moderate circumstances. For me the facts concern- ing George Eastman, of Kodak fame, were interest- ing in that he like myself lost his father when about seven years old and was left to the care of his widowed mother. “Dread of the wolf,” though, in his case appears to have haunted him day and night and awakened in him a determination not only to work hard but tosave. And, to quote from the author’s preface, this urge to earn was common to them all. ““My study of the careers of these men,” he says, “has impressed me with this fact: Most of them had to pay the price of success. They . . . practised more self-denial and overcame more difficulties than those of us who have not risen so far.” And further on he admits that “the dollar has been used almost exclusively as the yardstick in measuring success.”’ Quincy’s mother, history tells us, was one of the best a boy ever had. ‘So careful was she,” says his biographer, “‘lest her fondness for her only son should cause her to indulge him to his harm, that she even refrained from caressing him, and in all that she did for him thought of his own welfare first, and of her own pleasure last or not at all. To harden him she used to have him taken from a warm bed in winter as well as summer and carried down to a cellar kitchen, and there dipped three times in a tub of cold water. She even accustomed him to sit in wet feet, and en- deavored in all ways to toughen his physical system.” It is held, I believe, that because of this strenuous rearing Josiah Quincy attained to the overripe age of ninety-two years. I should regard such longevity as a curse rather than a blessing. There was nothing of the Spartan in my mother and I am both glad and proud of it. If she was over-anxious for me I cannot see now that it harmed me in any way. If during a few years I gave her unhappiness late in her life, I at least redeemed myself in the end, as she alone believed I would. To me she always was and always will be the ideal mother. With Abraham Lincoln I can say: “All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to her.” Rol MHAQAL lil

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The Joi, Good Ke llow cA Story of One Difference Between Men and Dogs IRST we must establish the town, then the man and then the dog. The town was—and, for that matter, still is—'n a Middle Western state. It contained about five thousand souls, more or less. The man was Peter Warne, clerk of the Eagle Hotel. He was of a type as common in this country as the town itself. It is the type of hale-fellow-well-met, bubbling over with jollity and hearty cheerfulness, and yet creating in the mind of a shrewd observer the suspicion that these amiable qualities were some- what superficial and that, beneath them, lay a calculating and selfish nature. Peter Warne was popular with those with whom he came in contact. He did all he could to keep from contact with such as he did not like. He was about twenty-eight years old, somewhat short and stout, with rosy cheeks and blue eyes that sparkled gaily at times and stared icily at others. The dog was a nondescript mongrel whose ancestors must. have included nearly every known species of the canine race. He was small and spotted with many colors. In some affray with one of his superiors he had lost half an ear. One of his hind legs dragged. His only heritage that attracted your attention was a pair of fine, soft, caressing bro-vn eyes. When he gazed affectionately into your face you beheld in those eyes a light of loyalty and devotion that touched your heart. There you have the three of them. Peter Warne belonged to the town. The dog belonged to Peter. No one knew whence the dog came or why he had ever taken it into his head to adopt the Eagle Hotel as his home. He had just drifted in. Peter kicked him out half a dozen times but the dog always came back, wagging his stub of a tail in the friendliest fashion. Willie, the freckle-faced boy who served as bell-boy, waiter, porter, errand boy, duster and scrubber, snickered one day. “‘He’s adopted you, Pete,” he said. ‘You can’t shake him.” Peter saw the truth of it and grinned. “All right,” he said, “T guess I'll have to let him hang around.” Shortly afterward a traveling salesman entered the hotel and approached the desk to sign the register. ‘‘Front!” cried Peter. With a joyous bound the dog leaped from under the stove and stood before the desk, wagging his little tail. “That your bell-hop?” asked the traveling salesman, laughing. The dog’s name dated from that day. And when Peter’s day’s work was done and he went for a stroll through the town, Front was invariably at his heels. People thought he was fond of the dog and lauded his kind-heartedness. In towns of this kind the bank presidents, the lawyers, the higher office-holders, the newspaper owner and the aristocracy of residents who live on their income usually form one social stratum; the small shopkeepers, clerks, livery-stable proprietors, traveling salesmen who drift in and out, the newspaper reporters, bank cashiers and the railroad station agent form another; while all the rest, from the hack drivers to the factory workmen, form the third and, from the view-point of the others, the lowest. Peter Warne belonged to the second stratum. He envied the first and despised the third. Came now the wooing of Edna Goodsall, daughter of Sam Gocdsall who owned the Delmonico Restaurant of the town. Edna was a slender, brown-eyed, pink-cheeked and pretty mem- ber of stratum number two. It is true that Frank Westerly, the son of the president of one of the banks, Artie Clark, the son of the president of another bank, and Willie Ransom, whose father was judge of the superior court—and whose sister Alice, by the way, was the belle of the highest social stratum of the town— all recognized Edna’s attractions and winked at her occasion- ally, yet they did not recognize her as one of their own order. They felt that the thought of marrying her, if they could, was not exactly the proper thing. The thought of marrying Edna never entered the head of Peter Warne until he observed that Jack Hadley, a reporter on 112 the local newspaper and a bosom friend of his, was assiduous in his attentions to her. In his jovial, hearty way Peter set about to cut out his friend. This, you may say, hardly comes under the head of friendship. But Peter had such a laughing, jolly way with him and slapped Jack on the back so cheerfully that the latter, like most of the others who looked on at the progress of the little drama, actually considered it a joke. Until the day came when Jack proposed to Edna and observed that she shook her head. “Ts it anyone else?”’ Jack asked and the girl nodded. “It can’t be Pete Warne!”’ he exclaimed, wondering. Whereat the girl bridled and demanded to know why it couldn’t be Pete Warne. And then Jack realized that his bosom friend was of a different timber than he had supposed him to be. Their friendship ceased. I THE gloaming, on the river’s bank, Peter sat leaning against the trunk of a willow tree, placidly smoking a cigar. It was Edna, sitting beside him, who was the more caressing of the two. Her arm was around his shoulder and from time to time her hand stroked his cheek. Front, the multi-spotted mongrel, moved about restlessly. Occasionally he snuggled against his master’s side and attempted to slobber over his face, but each time he was repulsed with a good-natured pat of the hand and a push. The two talked the customary idle chatter of lovers. “Do you really think I’m pretty, Pete?” “Tsure do, Babe. You know it.” “As pretty as any other girl in town?” “Prettier. You can count on your Uncle Pete picking the best.” “D’ye think I’m as pretty as Alice Ransom?” The dusk had deepened, and she could not observe the momentary tightening of his lips. Ill 2 wet wit the We coc do; no} sin bu

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we ious set mes ing, ally S a. i oe Ea Illustration by T. D. Skidmore @,Then, in a low whisper: ‘'Aren’t you going to kiss me, Petey boy?’’ said Edna. “Well, I should say so. She’s too stuck-up to be pretty. I haven’t any use for her.” Followed a long silence during which Edna purred con- tentedly. Then, “When d’ye think we ought to announce our engagement?” “T dunno, Babe. But there ain’t any hurry. I got to.save a little more money.” “What d’ye think you’re gonna do? You ain’t gonna stay at that hotel forever, are you?” “T should say not. I got an uncle out west and I wrote to him the other day to ask if he could get an opening for me somewhere. I’m sick and tired of this burg.” Another long silence. Front had curled himself alongside his master with his neck stretched contentedly across Peter’s lap. Then, in a low whisper, “Aren’t you going to kiss me, Petey boy?” His duties as clerk of the Eagle Hotel, his nightly game of pool, his study of men’s fashions in New York through the medium of weekly periodicals, an occasional drinking party with a half- dozen of his cronies, the business of maintaining his popularity with those of his own social stratum, the feeding of Front and the flirtation with Edna—that was about all there was to Peter Warne’s life in those days. Front gave him little trouble. Peter had arranged with the cook to chop up some of the left-over meat twice a day for the dog. But the cook was an old, taciturn German woman who did not like Peter’s everlasting jollity and did not believe in his sincerity. As a result, she compromised by preparing the meat but left it for Peter to fetch from the kitchen and give to the dog By Bruno Lessing —which annoyed Peter but pleased Front. It was a great philoso- pher who concluded that the only thing which is sure in life is the unex- pected. The unexpected came to Peter Warne. In- stead of replying to his nephew’s: letter, his uncle turned up in person. What was even more impressive, he turned up in a magnifi- cent limousine and an- nounced that he intended to spend the rest of his days in that small town with his beloved nephew. Peter really had known very little of his uncle, Alexander Warne. The bent, nervous, gray-haired individual who presented himself at the desk of the Eagle Hotel and inquired for Peter Warne aroused no recollection in his mind. “So you're Pete’s boy, eh? And your name is Pete, too? Well, Pete, I’m your Uncle Alexander. And I’m pretty well fixed with everything except my liver. So if you'll let me have a room in this dinky hotel for the night and then hustle around tomorrow to find a nice little house for me to rent, I think I'll hang around for a few years and keep you company. What I want is comfort and quiet. I’m tired of wandering, tired of everything.” That was his introduction and his greeting. Delivered in a rather jerky, furtive fashion but with a genial smile and a direct, friendly gaze from blue eyes that were curiously like Peter’s. ‘tin got on well together. Uncle Alexander rented the cot- tage that Mrs. Elwell, the wealthiest widow of the town, had been trying to lease for more than a year; found himself in her good graces; found, too, that he had immediately taken his place in the upper stratum of the town’s society, and “not caring a darn” about it, as he expressed it to his nephew, proceeded to ignore his social distinction and devoted himself to his love of quiet and the care of his liver. Peter, on the other hand, did care a darn about it. In fact he cared a great many darns. Because, unexpectedly and without preparation, Peter Warne found himself suddenly transferred from the second to the first stratum. And he was a jolly good fellow. With astonishing swiftness he found himself on terms of equality with the “best people” of the town. Peter gave up his position in the Eagle Hotel and lived upon his uncle’s bounty. Uncle Alexander opened a bank account for him and gave him a generous allowance. Alexander stuck firmly to his determination to remain quiet. “T’ll leave all the society business to you, Pete,” he said. “We don’t want to be conspicuous by living like a couple of old crabs. You look after the gay and merry, and I'll foot the bills.” 113

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114 Peter accepted his duties cheerfully. He bought himself a small automobile and a lot of new clothes. He was elected to membership in a club that he had seen only from the outside before. And within a month his bosom friends were Frank Westerly, Artie Clark and Willie.Ransom? : Freckle-faced Willie, took ‘Peter’s place as clerk of the Eagle Hotel. Front found a place for himself in the yard behind Mrs. Elwell’s house and hung about all day long for a glimpse of Peter. The severance of the ties that bound him to his former social stratum was easier than he had anticipated. In most cases it required merely an icy stare or a look of forgetfulness in response to a cheerful greeting in order to shatter in an instant a friendly relation that had existed for many years. Perhaps it was that the roots of these friendly relations were not as deep as Peter had imagined. At any rate, stratum number two dropped Peter Warne as promptly and as completely as he wished to drop it. With the exception of Edna Goodsall and Front. With Edna it was the old story. His neglect of her made her unhappy. She could not believe that’ his good fortune had changed his heart. She wrote to him but received no reply. And then one day she met him on the street and asked him point-blank, ‘‘What’s the matter, Pete? Don’t you care for me any more?” Pete laughed cheerfully and heartily. “Why, Babe,” he exclaimed, “‘is that the way to talk to an old pal? Of course I like you. I'll always like you, Babe. But you know how it is. I’ve got my uncle on my hands, and I’ve got to live up to our position. -Ain’t that right? It’s lucky we weren’t engaged. Regularly, I mean. Because te Whether it was the look that tame into her eyes or the sudden whitening of her face that brought his words to an end, no one can know. At any rate, for an instant he was dumb. “Lucky—we—weren’t—engaged! Peter Warne!” Her eyes were wide open and her lips were parted. She stared at him as if he were a person whom she had never seen before. Then she turned and walked away. She never bothered Peter again. The only other exception was Front. He refused to be dropped. In fact, he did not know that he was dropped. A barrel in the back yard of the house served as his home and there were always scraps in the garbage pail to serve his appetite. When Peter went out for a walk by day or night, the dog followed him. Occasionally, in a moment of absent-minded kindliness, Peter would pat Front on the head or scratch his back with the point ofa cane. Peter now carried a walking-stick. There were many méinbers of stratum number one who admired Peter for his lé¥alty—so they called it—to a mongrel that he had owned be- fore he came 2 into his good fortune. When, now and then, the afice jonas vent ij Hearts a kick upon the dog. When Peter went out for a ride in his automobile, Front would’ leap and frisk about his master until he stepped into the car. Then he would stand, gazing pleadingly into Peter’s face, until the car started. Then with a yelp he would dart after it and disappear in the dust. But as the dust settled, Front would ‘always: reappear. He would stand in the road, forlorn, gazing.at the spot upon the horizon where the car had vanished. Aiuce Ransom frankly disliked Front. Peter’s campaign against the citadel of Alice Ransom’s heart was a comparatively simple matter. Possibly because Alice Ransom, while still the belle of stratum number one, was now in her twenty-fifth ye a, time when intelligent belles begin to think of ‘sérious business. In her stratum it was pretty well known just how much money Uncle Alexander kept on deposit in each of the town’s banks. It was also well known that he had a box in the safety vault of each bank. It is true that, from time to time, the elder members of this stratum speculated as to the source of this wealth. But, inasmuch as Uncle Alexander kept entirely to himself and Peter was in no position to throw light upon the various guesses, such speculation soon faded away. But to Alice Ransom, Peter appeared as a rather. desirable “catch: - He did not work; he had ample means; he was, evi- dently in his wealthy uncle’s good graces; and above all he was a jolly, heart-free companion. And her father, who was a bank president, did and said nothing to change this impression. Alice and Péter becanie friends; then good pals and then—they entered that “spooning”’ stage which is on the threshold of marriage. “Dear Petey” birthday. so ran the note. “Congratulations on your Please accept the English bulldog which bearer is The Jolly Good Fellow bringing. We have six of them on the farm, you know, and two belong to me. His name is Buttons, but he’s young yet and you can change the name if you don’t like it, without hurting his feelings. Maybe you’d like to call him Pete. But for heaven’s ‘sake, get rid of.thateawful mutt that’s always following you around. He gets on my nerves. He’s about as swagger as an ash-can. See you soon. ° Alice.”’ With the exception of a black patch over one eye, the skin of Buttons was as white as snow. Peter, with a broad grin upon his face, led the dog into the yard. There stood Front, yelping with joy at the sight of his master and wagging his stump of a tail at a tremendous rate. At the sight of the new arrival, his yelping ceased instantly. The vibrations of his stubby tail grew less and less until finally they ceased entirely. The bulldog, with set jaw, strained at his leash. And then, with a faint whimper, Front turned and scampered out of the yard. Peter laughed. ‘“‘You win, Buttons,” he said. “I guess we won’t see much of Front from now on.” He was right. Peter saw very little of Front after that. Be- cause bitter experience had taught the mongrel the wisdom of keeping away from snow-white, carefully nurtured English bull- dogs. Yet Front hung about the house by day and night, keep- ing always out of sight of Buttons but hardly ever taking his eyes from the door. In the hope that Peter would come out. Aw that is the story that I set out to tell. Yes, the whole story, excepting the simple ending. It happened exactly that way. A dog whose heart held more love and a purer loyalty than the average human being can grasp was thrown back into the world of homeless, hungry mongrel outcasts because it was not within his power to adapt himself to his master’s sudden rise in the world. How Front lived and where he found his food for the next few days, no one will ever know. It was in those next few days that the ending came. Uncle Alexander must have been rather important in his field of endeavor because, when the law closed in upon him, it seemed necessary to enlist four Secret Service men who were interested in the violation of the postal laws, three state detectives who had unraveled a tangled web of larceny and defalcations and two expert accountants to check up his financial resources. They swooped down upon Uncle Alexander in a solid band and even guarded the local jail in which he was temporarily locked up. Within forty-eight hours it was known that his bank accounts had been attached and that, no matter how much money he had left, it was not enough to make adequate restitution to his victims. Uncle Alexander passes out of the picture. It is hardly worth while to say that Peter Warne staggered under the blow. For forty-eight hours he was so dazed that he could not fairly grasp a sense of his own situation. He no longer laughed. His jollity had vanished. On the morning after his uncle’s arrest he wandered into the yard behind the cottage. His thoughts were in a turmoil. He approached the snow-white bulldog and failed to observe that the dog did not rise and did not wag his tail. He held out his hand to stroke him—and did it unthinkingly. He was fortunate enough to withdraw it in time. The dog had snapped at him. On the following morning, even before the sun had risen, Peter Warne left the town with its three strata of social standing, forever. The officers had overlooked his roadster. Peter loaded it with all the clothes and furnishings and knick-knacks that he was able to rescue from the wreck. As he walked from the door to the car and back again, he gave not the slightest heed to the mongrel dog that with feverishly wagging tail and hungry eyes was following every step that he took. The car was finally laden. With a last look around to sky, to house, to the deserted street, to a hill behind the town upon whose top stood a splendid mansion—in every direction, in fact, except toward a mongrel dog that stood nervously watching him, Peter stepped into the car and drove off. Faster and faster: Front stood in the middle of the road, gazing after the depart- ing car. For a minute or so his little stump of a tail continued to wag. It wagged more and more slowly. It ceased to wag. A few seconds more he stood there, his little body quivering with excitement, his one whole ear and the remnant of his mangled one standing out tensely. Then, like an arrow from the bow, he flashed down the road after the vanishing car. The town still stands, but neither the man nor the dog was ever seen there again. Hee

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115 found it impossible to tear himself away from the place. It was with relief that he noted, a little later, that Adorée was no longer among the dancers. Heavily he considered that such goings-on must have been distasteful to her, for he noticed she danced no more that night. He tried to find her, to mumble the usual words of greeting. In the course of his meanderings, he saw a couple leave the hall for the star-laden shadows of the scented night, and he heard two of the young bloods of the back brusle snicker as this couple passed. “He’s pretty hot in de hall tonight, yes,” chuckled one. ‘Philippe an’ his girl—they goin’ outside to cool off, them. Hein?” This meant nothing to Octave, who con- tinued his search through the crowd for Adorée. _ Failing, he walked solemnly out to the ancient hitch rack where his flivver was parked, and went home. He had reached the conclusion that he cared nothing for dances. There were too many persons there, and Octave would never learn to care for the crowds. So, though he continued his unnoticed and un- flagging wooing of Adorée Carnouille, he kept to himself more than ever. That was why he heard nothing of the gossip that wormed its way along the Bayou. A huge wild turkey gobbler slung across one shoulder, Octave one day trudged down the Bayou road toward the Carnouille home. This was a prize worth while, and one fit to be laid at the little feet of Adorée. He did not ex- pect to find the girl at home, for this was Sunday night. But he would leave the gift there, and Adorée would understand. He thrilled, for an instant, to a wonderful, over- whelming sense of apprehension, that yet seemed to warm his very heart, at the thought that she would understand He turned into the Carnouille lane, where the Carnouille flivver had worn deep ruts into the sodded roadway. His glance brightened percep- tibly, and a wide grin illuminated his features, for he could see Adorée seated at the top step of the gallery, and he noted in the same glance that there was no mass-meeting of swains cluttering up the place. Octave beamed his happiness in a direct and unaffected way as he = ag Nag Adorée the fat gobbler. he’s a fine one, him—fat like a pig,” alae Octave, in an unusually eloquent conversational outburst. “But he ain’ too good fo’ you, no.” Octave’s forest-trained eyes were not apt enough in the reading of emotions to attach significance to—or even to recognize—the un- happiness which showed in Adorée’s mien. Quite suddenly the girl realized this; realized, too, that Octave would not have heard the gossip—the malicious, whispered tales . . . Before Octave left the Carnouille gallery that night, Adorée had promised to be his wife. Octave went quite delirious with rapture when he discovered the depth of Adorée’s love for him. She had even insisted that there be no long engagement, but that they be married by Father Latannier the very next week. While the wedding guests danced and reveled in the Carnouille garden after the cere- mony, Octave and Adorée stole away. unob- served. There was much blunt badinage when their absence became known. It tickled the Bayou immensely that Octave should have been noticed so little as not to be missed even at his own wedding dance. These jests, of course, would not have troubled Octave in the least at any time. But now the Bayou’s attitude would have touched him less than ever, for his mind, to the exclusion of all else, was filled with a delicious fear of the wonderful one who walked beside him through the night, toward his— i He could not bring himself to look at her. Stolidly he plodded along, eyes fixed straight ahead, lips sealed. He tried once or twice to clear his throat; indeed he tried. Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 The Man Who Did Not Matter (Continued from page 43) That, at least, would have sounded as though he might have said something if he wanted to. But no, my old ones! It could not be accom- plished. So they came in silence to the whitewashed picket fence, where their steps lagged. And then they were standing by the lichen-grown gate that pierced the fence and gave access to the domain they were henceforth to share as man and wife. Octave was trembling so that his fingers fumbled vainly at the latch, and Adorée waited, her face averted. At last the gate creaked open. Octave passed through first. Adorée remained poised outside, just an instant—a wild instant in which, had it been possible to observe her, one would have said she contemplated flight. Then she turned toward the open gate, passed through, and heard the latch click behind her. The path from the gate to the house stretched away interminably ahead of them, and their slow steps grew slower still, until, when half the distance had been covered, they halted, standing irresolute. Octave was quaking with the delicious fear that was tingling through him; while the stars above the twain nudged each other, and chuckled, and tried to shout encouragement across the intervening light years. But what they said was inaudible, of course; perhaps that was just as well. Scuffing at the ground with the toe of one shoe, like an abashed schoolboy, Octave turned slowly toward his bride. And in that turning something strange was consummated. The flooding, tingling fear vanished, and in its stead there came an exulting sense of dominance under whose urge he opened wide his strong arms. ‘There was no need for speech then. Adorée’s timidity ‘dropped from her as though it were a cloak that had been loosed from her slim shoulders and had fallen all unheeded at her feet. Trustfully she came to him, her eyes upon his. But when his arms enfolded her, some clutching terror seemed to lay hold upon her, and she clung to him suddenly as though she were afraid—so terribly afraid. In a land where practically every dwelling is the home of contentment, it was but natural that Octave should look forward to happiness in his marriage. But not even he had hoped for the joy that now settled over his home. He had scrubbed the cottage until, in his eyes, it shone again. Thus had he fitted it for the bride he was to install there as mistress of the household. But when Adorée examined the place, she gave little French exclamations of horror, and promptly detonated into a sort of sustained explosion of housecleaning that stranded Octave on a bench beneath the huge live oak that arched protecting branches across his rooftree. From this vantage point, during the first week of their marriage, Octave noted accretions of trash lugged from unsuspected crannies and retreats; saw spotless curtains of white come into being at new-washed windows; beheld the blossoming of such unknown luxuries as table linens. And each new manifestation of house- wifely energy on Adorée’s part drove him a trifle more beside himself with wonder and joy. It was some days before Adorée signified that she now had the cottage remolded nearer to her heart’s desire; wonderful days they had been, too. Octave hung about the house each morning until Adorée literally drove him forth. And even then he would go for a time to his retreat beneath the live oak, aching with a strange new pride that seemed to sustain and to overwhelm him by turns. Finally he would tear himself away for the fields or the woods. And Adorée, who had been watching him secretly up to this point, would inevitably appear in the doorway then, with a tablecloth to shake out or some such matter, and the shaking would develop into a gay wave of farewell to Octave and that always sent him up the road dizzy with rapture. Swiftly he learned, too, that when he returned at night there was great need for caution, because it was necessary that he find out, immediately upon his home-coming, what fresh marvel of transformation Adorée had wrought during the day, and that was some- times a problem. Of course, on the evening when he had returned to find the brightest of new chintz draperies all about the bedroom furniture, like the paintings in the household magazine, with a brave ruffle of the same material about the tester of the ancient four- poster bed—well, that had been easy. But suppose, my old ones, it were—as it had been once—the acquisition of some new aluminum kitchen ware? Something the keenest of for- est-trained eyes might pass a dozen times without noting! And that too when failure to note would promptly cast Adorée into the very deeps of dejection! So, treading carefully, and frowning a little in tremendous concentration, Octave would enter the door at eventide, and would call dramatically for Madame my wife. Madame his wife would flutter in with words of greeting to Monsieur her husband. Together they would proceed for supper to the kitchen where—wonder upon wonder!— the table and the chairs which were used as dining furniture had been enameled a gleaming white. Aha, my old ones! Not even a dullard could miss so cataclysmic a change, and so Octave fell back, shielding his eyes as though from the light of the very sun. “What has this? What has this, Madame my wife?” he demanded in hushed tones. ‘Is it that you think yourself wed to the director exalted of a bank?” Adorée clapped her hands in delight. “But I painted them myself!” she cried, “so that the cost was of the littlest.” And then her tone changed to a decided tinge of dismay. ‘But oh, it has seemed to me,’ she continued, ‘“‘that I have made a mistake of the gravest. I should have put a blue line about them at the edges, and perhaps a little more of the blue here—and here—like the furnitures one sees in the windows at Thibodeaux. Tell me, do you not think that would have been far prettier?” Octave gave consideration to this with a solemnity that all the justices of the Supreme Court at New Orleans rolled into one could not have matched, while Adorée waited anxiously for the momentous decision. Solemnly Octave waggled his head from side to side. “No,” he finally announced, “you are wrong. I am desolate indeed to say it, but you are wrong. Blue would spoil it because—be- cause——’’ then, triumphantly, “because they would then no longer be white. And now that I behold these furnitures in their whiteness so dazzling, I do not know how I endured to live with them all the years when they were not white.” Of course that made everything all right and settled the matter, so Adorée became radiant at once. Perceiving her delight, Octave naturally opened his arms and Adorée crept into their embrace so that he could feel her heart flutter, when he held her close, like the heart of a frightened little bird. And Adorée nestled swiftly still closer to his protecting strength, clinging to him as though some terror had laid numbing fingers upon her. Not quite six months after the marriage of Adorée and Octave, there came certain stressful hours to the Planchet cottage. The doctor’s battered old flivver stood parked by the lichen- grown picket gate. Octave had been relegated to his old retreat on the bench under the live oak branches. It was an unhappy time for Octave; a time of flinching from the agony that a dear one must endure. Once when, in the midst of her striving, Adorée cried out: ‘‘Oh, please, please, doctor—can’t you do something for me?” Octave cowered and raised his arms as though to ward off physical blows. Hea -meaereedaedcdnas

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Hearst’s International—Cosmopohtan for July, 1925 © Why shouldn't she be prou NY Naptha! You can tell by the smell Fels-Naptha is more than soap. It is splendid soap and naptha—two safe, useful cleaners in one golden bar, working together to save you work, and to save wear-and- tear on clothes. Isn’t this extra help worth a penny more a week? Use water of any tempera- ture with Fels-Naptha. Boil clothes with Fels-Naptha_ if you prefer. You are bound to get good results any way you use it. real naptha in Fels-Naptha makes the dirt let g0, no matter whether the wateris cool, lukewarm or hot. e sure to include Fels-Naptha in your camp kit this Summer. It makes shore work of cleaning clothes and dishes, 2) How a mother delights in keeping her children’s clothes ready for critical eyes! Spick-and-span! So beautifully clean that people look twice in admiration. If you want a new experience watch how quickly, how easily, how safely Fels-Naptha brings back the original brightness to children’s soiled dresses and rompers! With Fels-Naptha you can get this same deep, sparkling cleanliness in all your wash—because it has extra washing-value that you cannot get in any other form. That’s why nothing can take the place of Fels-Naptha! There’s a very good reason why Fels-Naptha gives you this extra washing-help—why it cleans so thoroughly and quickly, yet so gently and safely. Fels-Naptha is splendid soap and naptha—two safe, useful cleanezs in one golden bar. By working together you can readily see how they help each other to do quicker work. Isn’t this extra help worth a penny more a week? When you are convinced, you will want to tell your neigh- bors about Fels-Naptha. Women like to do each other a real kindness. Millions of housewives wouldn’t be without Fels-Naptha— not only for the weekly wash, but for general household cleaning. Whether you do the washing yourself, or have it done for you, the extra helpfulness of Fels-Naptha is sure to be felt in your home! Get a bar or two from your grocer today, and share Fels-Naptha’s benefits! TEST the extra washing-value of Fels-Naptha. Send 2c in stamps for sample bar. Address Fels-Naptha Soap, Philadelphia. Such a convenience when board- ing or keeping an apartment! Fels-Naptha does thorough work with the little in-between washes, whether hot water is convenient or not. The original and genuine naptha soap in the red-and-green wrapper. Buy it in the convenient ten-bar carton, FELS-NAPTHA THE GOLDEN BAR WITH THE CLEAN NAPTHA ODOR © Fe: © Co. /

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118 Then perhaps the cries would cease for a time, and at such intervals a strange new feel- ing of fulfilment possessed Octave, and there stole upon him a contentment that made him for the moment master of the placid stars that had been halted in their dim courses to await the momentous consummation. The door was opened at length, and the doctor came out into the night. “Boy!” he announced explosively, as Octave leaped from the bench. Then the physician abruptly halted the new-fledged father’s rush for the open doorway. “Hold on there, son,” he commanded. “That little wife of yours has just wound up a darn hard job of work and she’s got a right to be good and tired. Also she’s got a right to rest. She just dropped off asleep, and if you go in there before the nurse tells you she’s waked up, I’ll skin you.” Crestfallen, still inarticulate, Octave sub- sided once more upon the bench beneath the oak. But he didn’t remain crestfallen long. Intangible fingers were tickling his ribs. A son! A manling, my old ones! You dis- tant stars up there beyond the oak leaves, you can go on about your ordained courses now. Octave has a son—did you hear? Let the solar system resume its interrupted business, All’s well with the world. Octave slapped his thigh noisily in response to those invisible tickling fingers and began to chuckle, until the doctor’s admonition about not doing anything that might wake Adorée from her well-earned sleep struck him into an ecstatic silence, which he maintained until the old woman beckoned him into the house. Like a battle-flag, flaunted ever so gallantly against pain and death and all that is finite, the gay chintz about the tester of the ancient four-poster bed waved in the light draft that swept the bedchamber when Octave entered. Adorée lay wanly pillowed on the wide down tick, and there was something so strange about her that Octave halted uncertainly. Those great dark eyes, still misty with recent anguish, and the wax-white features that had not changed when he approached, they frightened him. But a vague shadow passed over the features then—a visible effort that finally became the merest ghost of a smile. Octave’s heart drummed and pounded in his bosom and he hurried to kneel by the side of the old four-poster bed. ‘Mother of my son!” he whispered brokenly. “Mére de mon fils!” His head was bowed over a thin white hand that he held pressed close, close to his cheek, and he could not see that the great dark eyes looked frightened—so terribly frightened. The busy tongues along the Bayou, the edge of whose gossip had been somewhat dulled during the half-year since Octave’s marriage, were set a-wagging again when the Bayou learned of the baby’s arrival. And because the butt of all the rare jest was Octave—Octave, who was proud as a peacock over the fact that Adorée had presented him a son with so little delay—the wagging was overt. Octave misun- derstood the broad import of some of the sallies he heard at first. Later he pretended to mis- understand them. And finally he determined to seek out Father Latannier. In the crook of his left arm, as he plodded along the Bayou road, Octave nursed a beautifully kept shotgun. This caused no comment among those who saw the stocky figure; Octave so often went a-hunting that one rarely saw him without his shotgun. But had anyone been sufficiently interested to vouchsafe him a second glance this day, that glance would have shown an Octave whose face was lined and drawn, as though it had been aged in some fierce artificial process of forcing. Steadily he forged on toward the good priest’s garden, through the mild, sunlit after- noon, so out of keeping with his thoughts. These were of the most somber, save when he thanked Heaven that Adorée had not been at home. For he might have burst out at his Adorée, mother of his manling, his little, his Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1025 precious. And he must not do that; every fiber of his being thrilled to her, worshiped her, loved her. So they dared intimate that because of that marvelous little’s arrival—that wonderful whose very cry was lustier than any infant wail ever before heard along the Bayou—they dared to say, even in jest, that Adorée had been —bad? Well, he, Octave, would slay them; for they lied. But how if they did not lie? What did he know of such things? How could he face the Bayou again? Ah well, there must be an ac- counting of sorts, that was all. Further, if it should be that they had not lied, he would not face the Bayou again. That taunt he would not endure. Ah no, not that. He would go away—far, far away—no mat- ter where—somewhere where he could be alone again. He would leave Adorée. He would leave the little one. About the one and only thing he knew that he, indifferent as he might be to his surroundings, could not do was to continue to face the Bayou if the Bayou thought ... The drawn look of bleak pain deepened about him; but he did not slacken his pace until just as he drew within sight of Father Latannier’s garden, dense shrubbery screen- ing the path where fallen oleander blossoms gleamed white upon the washed brown gravel. He drew back then, suddenly afraid. After all, was not any uncertainty, however harsh, better than the truth in the event those searing gibes had not been lies? Adorée need never know that he had heard—or understood; and if he quietly let it be known that he would shoot on sight the next person who uttered the slander, that would soon stop those poison- ous tongues. The reaction was inevitable. Octave real- ized hopelessly that he would not let himself live among these folk if they thought such things about his man-child, even though the thoughts were unspoken. He knew that hence- forth every smile he saw would be invested by him with dark and hidden meaning. Best to have it over with. Let us have done with the ghastly business by all means. Let there be no more flinching. Shoulders back and head up, Octave! Face what it is necessary one shall face, my old one! Forward, then! See, we are here at the corner of the garden. Only a few steps more. Father Latannier will know, and he will tell you. But Octave came to a sudden halt, none the less. Father Latannier had a visitor. He could hear the voices plainly beyond that screening wall of shrubbery. And one of those voices Octave knew well—so well! It had been—it still was—the sweetest voice in all the world. And the voice sounded troubled, catching now and again with a sob. What was Adorée doing in the garden of Father Latan- nier? This, then, was why she had not been at home. She was here, and—— He crept closer, so that he could hear quite clearly what she was telling Father Latannier. “Tt was the madness, my father. The strength and the weakness that come together so that one does not know. We were dancing, and then we went out into the night, and our arms were still about each other—and then I was weeping bitterly and walking homeward. And I did not love him; it had been the mad- ness. When the madness passed and I was at home I prayed the Virgin to let me die.” “And the Virgin did not answer that impious prayer,” interrupted the deep voice of Father Latannier. “No, I think perhaps she did not even hear it. If she had heard it at all, the punishment would not have come. For it came. I knew that for my sin I was to bear a child. And when I learned that, I resolved—indeed I did; see, father, I am telling you everything—I resolved that I would answer the prayer myself.” “You mean that you——’ “Yes, I would kill myself, so that none should know. All that day I prayed. I told Them > in my prayers what had happened, just as I have told it to you. And I pleaded with Them to save me from the shame of the sin | repented so truly. But I told Them too what I planned to do if They failed me. “And that was the evening Octave came to me. I was sitting alone on the gallery. It was to have been my last night, father, and I was thinking of all the beautiful things I would have to leave behind—when Octave came into the garden. Father, father, do you not see? Ina flash I understood that here was the answer to my prayers. For I knew that Octave cared for me most deeply.” “But, my daughter, did you care for him?” Adorée’s voice was so low that the eaves- dropper hardly caught the words. “No, father, I did not. Not then. But I knew he was good and kind. And if I must be wed, I thought, let it be tohim. And you know, father, that we were wed.” “That was a grievous wrong you did. It was a wrong to yourself, it was a wrong to your husband, and a wrong to your God.” Octave could hear Adorée break into a storm of sobbing. “Well do I know it now, my father. Let me tell you that when Octave asked me to marry him—verily in answer to my prayers—then and there I made a vow to Saint Rita that I would make him a better and a truer wife than any man along the Bayou ever had before. And truly have I kept that pledge. Yes, father, I have been a good wife. Wherefore, too”— this with a tenderness that drove straight to the listener’s heart—‘the has been most happy, that Octave of mine.” The good priest’s voice sounded puzzled. “But in that case, why is your own spirit so sorely beset? Is it that the sacrifice is proving too great—the cross too heavy?” “But no; the opposite, my father. The cross grows far too light; so light that—it is—no longer—a cross—at all.” “Then still I cannot understand.” “He has been so good, Father Latannier; so gentle, so kind, so loving. No woman could be with him, father, as I have been, and fail to love him. Love him? Why, I would die gladly if I thought in doing so'I could give him pleasure. Days I sit at home and await his coming. In the evening, if he will only let me be near him so that I may touch his hand now and again, then lam happy. That is why I have come to you, my father. Had I not come to love him as I do, the deceit I have practised would trouble me not at all. I would feel that in making him a good wife, I had balanced the reckoning. But now—and if he should discover it—from others—what would I do!” Octave’s grip about the gun had tightened until the knuckles showed white against the tobacco-brown tan. As though from a great distance the priest’s next words came to him. “Yes, I knew of course about the baby; but I had thought Octave had righted a wrong of his own doing when he married you. never dreamed—well, well. See now, my daughter, what sorrows evil passions can bring upon the world.” Octave remained to hear no more. Noise- lessly he backed away from that jasmine- clouded garden and turned and ran. Over the levee’s crest along the Bayou he sped, and then flung himself down on the batture where, safe from observation, he tried to reassemble his scattered world about and beneath him once more. So it was true, what they had said. All true. And he, poor dolt, had been the only one not to know it. Small wonder, then, that they had laughed at him. Above him the tiny swallows of the Bayou couatry were foraging back and forth through the radiant blue, in dizzying zig-zags of flight. Without conscious volition, he followed one of these birds with his eyes, catching the glint of metallic green from the ruff as the feathered hunter flashed this way and that. He would have to leave Adorée, of course. That had all been settled. But she loved him; she was his dear, good wife. Dimly he tried to look ahead through a vista of cheerless years Hea ak N’ ir Bost dazzlin Was tantes- tocracy Phil: world | How care of to kee] It was tions t among We Amc sixty d Facial populz tantes. the de more, soap; seven | “T use ing eff “Tt im relieve. “Moth makes H Firs: your | Soap surpht slight lather Ap pores and ¢ water face fi Thi freshe it. M: see a! Copyri

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rry Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 19025 This soap is 7 times as popular as any other - - for the care of the skin EW YORK’S lovely debutantes, in- imitable for chic, daring, vivacity— Boston’s debutantes, girls with the dazzling freshness and grace of flowers— Washington’s, Baltimore’s debu- tantes—charming descendants of an aris- tocracy famous for beautiful women— Philadelphia debutantes, with their old- world beauty and breeding— How do all these young society girls take care of their skin? What soap do they use to keep their skin soft, smooth, flawless? An overwhelming majority prefer this one soap It was to learn the answer to these ques- tions that we conducted an investigation among the debutantes of five leading cities. We discovered these facts— Among New York’s one hundred and sixty debutantesof the season, Woodbury’s Facial Soap is more than three times as popular as any other; among Boston debu- tantes, nearly five times as popular; by the debutantes of Washington and Balti- more, preferred six times over to any other soap; and among Philadelphia debutantes, seven times as popular as any other. “I use it because of its pleasant and soften- ing effect on the skin.” “Tt imparts a smooth glow to the skin, and relieves an oily condition.” “Mother insists it is the best toilet soap; it makes my skin feel nice and smooth.” HOW TO CORRECT AN OILY SKIN First cleanse your skin by washing in your usual way with Woodbury’s Facial Soap and luke-warm water. Wipe off the surplus moisture, but leave the skin slightly damp. Now work up a heavy lather of Woodbury’s in your hands. Apply it to your face and rub it into the pores thoroughly, always with an upward and outward motion. Rinse with warm water, then with cold. If possible, rub your face for thirty seconds with a piece of ice. This treatment will make your skin fresher and clearer the first time you use it. Make it a nightly habit and you will see a marked improvement. Copyright, 1925, by The Andrew Jergens Co. “It improves my skin (i. e. blackheads and large pores).” These are characteristic comments made by the Philadelphia debutantes, in telling why they use Woodbury’s Facial Soap. A skin specialist worked out the formula by which Woodbury’s is made. This formula not only calls for absolutely pure ingredients. It also demands greater refinement in the manufacturing process than is commercially possible with ordinary toilet soap. Around each cake of Woodbury’s Facial Soap is wrapped a booklet containing special cleansing treatments for overcoming com- mon skin defects. Get a cake of Wood- bury’s today, at any drug store or toilet goods counter! A 25-cert cake lasts a month or six weeks. 119 REE Awmonc Philadelphia’s lovely young debu- tantes of the season, Woodbury’s was found to be seven times as popular as any other soap, for keeping the skin smooth, soft, and flawless. TL OFFER A GUEST-SIZE SET, containing the new large-size trial cake of Woodbury’s Facial Soap, and samples of Woodbury’s Facial Cream and Facial Powder. Cut out the coupon and send for the free set today! Tue Anprew Jercens Co. 1607 Spring Grove Ave., Cincinnati, Ohio Please send me FREE The new large-size trial cake of Woodbury’s Facial Soap, samples of Woodbury’s Facial Cream and Facial Powder, and the treatment booklet, “4 Skin You Love to Touch.” If you live in Canada, address The Andrew Jergens Co., Limited, 1607 Sherbrooke St., Perth, Ont. English Agents: Quelch and Gambles, Ltd., Blackfriars Road, London, S. E. 1 Name.. Bn EEOC ECEET City... $ SOMOS oa oc ts

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120 Is there really a climate-proof smoking tobacco? Mr. W. L. Peers is an aviator who cer- tainly has “flown wide,” to borrow an expression from his own pleasant letter. He writes us that he has smoked Edge- worth under practically every climatic condition in seventeen sections of the world, outside America. He says: 3olling Field, D. C. Messrs. Larus & Bro. Co., Richmond, Va. Gentlemen : Having been a constant user of your excellent Edgeworth for approximately twelve years, and having smoked it under practically every climatic con- dition in the following countries: England, France, British West Africa, South Africa, German East Africa, Mesopotamia, Persia, Palestine, Egypt. India, Afghanistan, Beluchistan, Wazi- ristan, Ceylon, Burmah, The Straits Settlements, and China, I feel it an honor to go on record as a supremely satisfied user of this tobacco. Of course it was not always possible to obtain the “Old Blue Can” in all of these countries, but where this diffi- culty was encountered, my fondness for Edgeworth could not be satisfied by an inferior product, so I arranged with my people in Richmond, Virginia, to purchase a dozen or so cans at a time and forward it to me by parcel post. I was considerably gratified on my arrival at this field to find that the majority of the men here, both com- missioned and enlisted, who smoke pipes, are veteran users of Edgeworth. I consider that this shows excellent taste on the part of the men at this station. May your organization and your Edgeworth always “Fly High, Wide and Pretty.” Yours for pipe satisfaction, W. L. PEERS Let us send you free samples of Edgeworth so that you may put it to the pipe test. If you like the samples, you'll like Edgeworth wherever and whenever you buy it, --fer- it never changes in quality. Write your name and address to Larus 4-G South 21st : wy rn 1 h ) ') i? 7 Street, Richmond, Va. Edgeworth is sold in various sizes to suit the needs and means of all pur- chasers. Both Edgeworth Plug Slice and Edgeworth Ready-Rubbed are packed in small, pocket-size packages, in handsome humidors holding a pound, and also in several handy in-between sizes. We'll be grateful for the name and ad- | dress of your tobacco dealer, too, if you care to add them. To Retail Tobacco Merchants: If your jobber cannot supply you with Edgeworth, Larus & Brother Company post a one- or two-dozen carton of any size of Edgeworth Plug Slice or Edge- worth Ready-Rubbed for the same price you would pay the jobber. Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 without her, and as the echo of her confession of love for him rang in his memory he felt again the warm glow that the mere thought of her nearness always brought to him. The more he considered the thing, the more deeply he became involved in bewilderment, though many things were made clear, too. The dance after the big speaking, for example. Yes, he remembered that. And other things, bits of gossip he had heard unheeding. But ,that was all in the past now. Poor Adorée! No wonder he had sensed vaguely, at different times, that she seemed to be so terribly frightened. But she loved him. Surely she would not have lied to the priest; and she did not know that he, Octave, was eavesdropping. Round and round in a circle. Still only the same two thoughts. One, a slaying. The other, he would leave Adorée, the man-child, and the Bayou. Or both the slaying and the departure. Merely threatening to slay would accomplish nothing now; for though they might hold their tongues, the Bayou folk would none the less know. That was the thing he could not face. And so it went while the sun dipped lower and more low. Adorée loved him; loved him, too, as though no one else had ever existed. Knowing this, how could he leave that dearest of dear ones to face the shame alone? But it was true, what they had been saying. How, then, could he fail to leave her? How could he face the Bayou folk? He wondered then, too, what Father Latan- nier would advise her to do. What was it the priest had said there at the last? Some- thing about that he thought Octave had righted a wrong of his own doing—something like that. If only the Bayou folk could be made to—quite without knowing how or why, Octave began to ponder that sentence, going over and over the words, while the little swal- lows shuttled their dazzling flight patterns above him. It was the old Octave—stolid, unassuming, the Octave whom the voisins were accustomed to regard as a nonentity when they regarded him at all—who rose from the batture, crossed back over the levee to the road, and headed in the direction of a store where there was always gathered, at this hour of the day, a knot of the Bayou folk from near by, come to shop and to gossip. But before he reached the place a little automobile which came stuttering toward him engaged his attention. He even smiled when he recognized the car. ““Mo’ better so,” he murmured in English, and stepped into the path of the approaching vehicle, right hand upraised. The car ground to a halt. “I’m mos’ glad I’m seeing you, ’Polyte,”’ said Octave, putting one foot on the running board. “I been waitin’, me, fo’ a li’l talk with you.” He paused absently, though noting with satisfaction that ’Polyte was accompanied by two other young fellows who were employed in one of the big rice mills near the river end of the Bayou. It pleased him that there should be others to repeat what he was about to tell Hippolyte Tassin. That would be the equiva- lent of a page advertisement in the parish newspaper, so far as spreading the news .went. “All right, Octave,” said ’Polyte good- naturedly. ‘“‘What’s on your mind? Shoot.” “Shoot? Sho’ I can shoot—me! I think I’m mos’ nearly de bes’ shot on de Bayou. Watch close, ’Polyte—close-close.”’ He raised the shotgun to his shoulder, pointing the muzzle skyward where the swift swallows were darting like flashes above them. Almost without taking aim, Octave fired. His gun was but a twenty-gauge weapon, and | the smokeless shell made no heavy report; but a broken little thing, glinting metallic | green about the ruff, tumbled out of the air will gladly send you prepaid by parcel | and dropped into the roadway. Hippolyte Tassin’s lips had grown suddenly sticky, and he tried vainly to moisten them with a tongue that felt curiously dry. “Some shot, Octave!’ he croaked in a voice he hardly recognized as his own. And indeed, it had been a rather remarkable shot. “Oh, da’s noathing, dat,” returned Octave placidly. ‘I could shoot ’way mo’ better’n dat, me, if I might have to. But w’at I been wantin’ to tell you, ’Polyte—I been hearing some fonny t’ings w’at’s been say different places like, bout me’n my wife. Now I don’ like no business like dat, me. Look, w’en I get married wit’ Adorée si He broke off. He must be careful to get the wording exactly as it should be. So, when he resumed, it was in French; for it was in French that he had heard Father Latannier speak certain words earlier in the afternoon. “Tf, in marrying Adorée, I have righted a wrong, why then I have righted a wrong of my own doing. You understand me well, ’Polyte?” Once more Octave put the stock of his gun to his shoulder and raised the muzzle high. Once more he fired, apparently without taking aim. Once more a shattered fluff of green- glinting feathers plopped down softly in the hard white road. “So I think I tell you "bout it, ’Polyte, me,” continued Octave, relapsing into the ’Cajan patois of the back brusles. “If Adorée was h’angel enoff fo’ to marry me after w’at I do, da’s noathing fo’ nobody to get fonny wit’, no. An’ I doan’ wan’ to talk ’bout dis no mo’, me. Da’s all, ’Polyte.” For the last time Octave raised his gun, and for the last time, with the crack, there tumbled down a torn little feather ball that, an instant before, had been a darting, zig-zag- ging swallow. “You got me all wrong, Octave,” ’Polyte began a tumbled expostulation. “Listen, boy, I haven’t said a word, and I don’t aim to. Anybody tells you different, they’re lying on me, that’s all.” “Oh, da’s all right, yes,” said Octave. “I know you goin’ do wha’s right, you.” Cheerily he waved his hand and started away, while the little car resumed its journey in the opposite direction. Octave was not displeased with himself. As long as the Bayou believed that—that he had righted a wrong of his own doing, why, all that mattered really was that Adorée loved him. Had she not just confessed that to Father Latannier? As for leaving Adorée and that so wonderful little, what need of that now? He was at this moment returning to them. Darkness had settled down by the time Octave turned in at the lichen-grown picket gate that led to his home. Adorée was waiting for him by the bench beneath the great live oak. One unshuttered window let a flood of golden radiance out upon the purple night. Adorée rose at his entry. Methodically he set down his shotgun, the more readily to embrace Madame my wife. But Madame his wife drew back. “T went this afternoon to see Father Latan- nier,”’ she began bravely. Octave scuffed at the ground with the toe of one shoe like an abashed schoolboy. “I know,” he said. ‘I went to see him too.” Adorée flinched. One hand sought her throat. Frightened—so terribly frightened— she stared unbelievingly at her husband. “Did he—did you—did—what did he—he told me that it should be I—and not he— who would ” she faltered. “T did not see him, for as I approached the garden, I heard you when you spoke.” “You heard all—everything?” Octave stepped swiftly forward and caught her in his arms, drawing her close. “Oh my ‘adorable, my sweet!” he said huskily. “TI heard only that you did love me, and when I heard that, why it was—I do not know what. I cannot say it.” So he bent his head and whispered tenderly: “Meére de mon fils! Meére de mon fils!” And Adorée crept closer, closer to him in that embrace. There was nothing of fear, nothing of terror, in her bearing. Here and there a dry leaf, cast adrift on the caressing current of the breeze, came swaying down the thin. starlit lanes and rustled to rest at their feet. “Our | besides trouble cake m was go' had an

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_— ee ia oe Ne “Our EIGHT-YEAR-OLD GIRL would lose four or five weeks of school work, besides being incapacitated while she was in school from attacks of stomach trouble. I decided to give Fleischmann’s Yeast a trial. I began with half a cake mixed with peanut butter on bread, and then as I found that the yeast was going to succeed, I served it in many different ways. My child has never had another attack of stomach trouble since I gave her yeast.” Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 WS A MQk{CC WOT AMAA S WA 4 or eit ae “ pO EH Cw eT od “ AFTER I GAVE BIRTH to my child, I felt very much ‘run down.’ Had constant trouble with my stomach, and what troubled me most—I suffered from terrible sties. Finally an eye specialist prescribed Fleischmann’s Yeast. After two months there wasn’t a trace left of the sties. My complexion improved won- derfully. I no longer have an aversion for food. And I manage to keep and look young with the help of Fleischmann’s Yeast.” Mrs. G. A. ViELE. Costa Mesa, Cal. What Everybody Knows The danger of clogged intestines The evils of digestive troubles “InvatipeD from Royal Navy with chronic constipation. Went to India. . . . Advised to try Canada. Was just able to get into army, but after two and a half years in trenches was as sick as ever. Returned to Canada totally unfit and pensioned. In 1919 I gave Fleischmann’s Yeast a fair trial, thank God. Six months afterward I passed for life insurance and my pension stopped. I am now absolutely fit and never need a laxative; and this is after over 20 years of suffering.” Hersert J. Parrott, Calgary, Alta. OT a “cure-all,” not a medicine in any sense—Fieischmann’s Yeast is simply a remarkable fresh food. The millions of tiny active yeast plants in every cake invigorate the whole sys- tem. They aid digestion—clear the skin— banish the poisons of constipation. Where cathartics give only temporary relief, yeast strengthens the intestinal muscles and makes them healthy and active. And day by day it releases new stores of energy. Eat two or three cakes regularly every day before meals: on crackers — in fruit juices or milk—or just plain. For constipa- tion especially, dissolve one cake in hot water (not scalding) night and morning. Buy sev- eral cakes at a time—they will keep fresh in a cool dry place for two or three days. All grocers have Fleischmann’s Yeast. Start eating it today! And let us send you a free copy of our latest booklet on Yeast for Health. Health Research Dept. K-30, The Fleischmann Uecltddiiddddaa THERE are many delicious ways of eating yeast —dissolved in water, fruit juices or milk, spread on crackers, or eaten plain. Company, 701 Washington St., New York. Mrs. Saran Sreinuarpt, New York City s the tragedy of lowered vitality and disfiguring skin eruptions “T am in the real estate business; built up a hustling organization; kept the force always keyed up, watchful of every opportunity. The high pressure did its work; the reaction set in, and I found myself slowing up. I needed something to restore the old vitality—the old punch. At last I hit upon Fleischmann’s Yeast. The result was marvelous: the mid- afternoon fag disappeared; I was again keen and alert. My color took on a clear and health- ful glow. And I was again the leader of my or- ganization—thanks to Fleischmann’s Yeast.” James F. Brown, Allentown, Pa.

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122 FREE 10-Day Tube Note Coupon Dazzling White Teeth Why you may already have Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Maybe your teeth, are glori- ously clear, simply clouded with a film coat. Make this remarkable test and find out. them—and yet not realize it Make this unique test. Find out what beauty is beneath the dingy film that clouds your teeth O you seriously want dazzlingly clear teeth? — teeth that add immeasurably to your personality and attractiveness? You can have them, if you wish. That’s been proved times without number. But not by continuing with old methods of cleansing and of brushing. Modern science has discovered a new way. A radically different prin- ciple from old ways; and based on latest scientific findings. This offers you a test, free. Simply mail the coupon, How to gain them—quickly There’s a film on your teeth. Run your tongue across your teeth and you can feel it. Beneath it are the pretty teeth you envy in others. 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It gives better protection against pyorrhea, of tooth troubles both in adults and in children. Ten days’ use will prove its bene- fits. And that 10 days is offered to you as atest. Why not make it then —have prettier teeth, whiter teeth? Send the coupon now. Canadian Office and Laboratories: 191 George St., Toronto, Canada FI rM the worst enemy to teeth ' You can feel it with your tongue Qe ree eee ee see ee eee et ee Ke eee eK ee eee ee sees ‘FREE Mats fe: t Pepsodent i ~ f i 1 THE PEPSODENT COMPANY, : & ! Dept. 741. 1104 8. Wabash Ave., The New-Day Quality Dentifrice 4 ; Chicago, Ill., U. S. A. Endorsed by World’s Dental Authority 1 { ; Send to: t E 1 1 Name. A ' t : Phare aoa ha Na i a oe : 1 Only one tube to a family. 1828 4 Dumb Luck (Continued from page 75) a yell. ‘“Gaw’n, get out of this!” I says. ‘Go chase yourself! Go tie up to a noodle!” But the dumb fool didn’t appear to get me at all. Instead he advanced all the quicker. And so I beat it up the stage as fast as I could. It was a long one, over four hundred feet, but the hound gained on me every minute. Then all of a sudden I seen what todo. There was a trap door right in his line, and I was close by the lever. And the minute he set a paw on the trap I let her go. The dog give a yelp of sur- prise, but down he went, safe into the pit, and I was safe also. “You darn brute!” I says to myself. “I'll learn you to come smelling around me like I was a beefsteak!”’ And then I calmed down and went over to see was Mr. Silvermount back. Oh, I have lived! When I got into Big Benny’s office, he greeted me:real cordial. ‘Well, well, Softer!” he says. “Glad to see that you are actually on’ the lot for a change,” he says. ‘Of course there ain’t anybody else working here today neither, but . still, it does me good to see you on the job every so often.” “Apple sauce, Mr. Silvermount!” I says. “All apple sauce! It is mighty kind of you to say them flattering things, but honest, I don’t really feel I have done anything much for the concern so far, outside of signing my wonder boy with you.” “Coming from you, Softer,” says Benny, moving over to the edge of his chair, “that is a remarkable statement. There must be some- thing out in back of it.” “There is, Mr. Silvermount,” I says. “And me and you both is both too good business men for us to go beating up any bushes un- necessarily,” I says. ‘‘Now the big panic is this, Mr. Silvermount. I been feeling for several months where Billy, that wonder boy of mine, had really ought to have his own unit —the whole works, with all production facili- ties. So I have come here today to put this up to you, and to offer you my services as director of the unit.” Well, I could easy see where I had Big Benny stunned. He would never of thought up that kinda thing his own self. “Eddie Softer,” he says, ‘things is too soon to talk like that. There is no reason why Billy can’t work on the lot the same as most of our stars. And even if he was to warrant a unit, I wouldn’t no more give you charge of such a proposition than I would give it to Prince, our prize dog.” “Well, Mr. Silvermount,” I says, ‘four con- tract with this concern has got a little ways to run, but if you ain’t careful it might get outa breath,” I says. “I got something right here in my pocket may give you a little interest in life. Read it, and then leave us talk.” With which I flashed Al Goldringer’s letter on him. Big Benny wears his eye-glasses on the half- shell, and all he done was look at me over the vacant half. ‘Very interesting!’ he says. “I kinda sus- pected other producers would like to get a- hold of Billy,” he says, “but I don’t see any mention of what they are offering you personally, Mr. Softer. Would it be rude to inquire?” “Never mind that,” I says. “The point is, whatter you going to do about the unit and a raise for me?” Silvermount parked his cigar back in the right garage and smiled. “Eddie Softer,” he says to me, “I don’t believe them fellers over to the Goldringer lot has offered you anything at all for yourself. So you got about as much idea of pulling your freight from here as I have of spending the summer on the moon. However, with the kid it is different. How much I can bid I don’t yet know. We are in kind of a critical point with his stuff, and a lot depends on the picture he started making this week, which you ain’t seen yet. It’s very original stuff, and if it is He

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Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1025 123 MA~-REPUTATION ~founded on years and facts HERE is nothing spectacular about the public acceptance of the Buick motor car except its tremendous extent. The conviction of Buick superiority has risen gradually, but surely and substan- tially. ( Overnight, or even in a year, Buick could not have estab- lished itself so firmly in public faith, nor could anyone else. But in twenty-one years a motor car can prove its character beyond all argument. The reputation of this famous motor car actually represents the accumulated experience of a generation. (In the twenty-one Buick years, the finest of engineering thought has had ample opportunity to test and prove Buick design before giving it to Buick owners. ({ Metals and materials of the whole world have been examined to add sturdiness to Buick structure. ( The hands of Buick men have been trained and drilled to the finest standards of fine workmanship. {{ And in countless other ways Buick has seen to it that Buick motor cars are honest and fine—that each one is an example of how well a motor car can be built. (The Buick reputation is founded on years and facts. It is a most certain guide to motor car satisfaction. BUICK MOTOR COMPANY, FLINT, MICHIGAN Division of General Motors Corporation CANADIAN FACTORIES: McLAUGHLIN-BUICK, OSHAWA, ONT. Branches in all Principal Cities . . Dealers Everywhere Pioneer Builders of Valve-in-Head Motor Cars

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124 a complete success I will maybe bid against Goldringer. When this present picture is made we will discuss a new proposition—not before.” “Mr. Silvermount,” I says, supporting my- self with my new yellow cane I had won throw- ing balls out to the beach, “leave me tell you one thing. Some day you are going to change your mind on this proposition, and when you do, more than likely it will be too late.” “Say, Softer,” says he, ‘‘did you ever use a door? Well, there is one leading to the outer office. Let us find out how expert you are.” Of course when a guy pulls a gag like that there is only one course to take—the geography one. So without another word I walked out. As the sweet old song goes, “There is no place like the home that mother used to stand for.’ And this very same evening ours was certainly very homelike when that darn sister- in-law of mine come in from work. In the first place, after I had put my car out in the garage and walked back to the kitchen door for a short cut, what on earth would I notice but that dirty mut I had chased off the place before. I was all set to give him the unwholesome hoof when out come Mary. “Oh, Eddie Softer!” says she. “If I was ever to tell you what I think of you! Leave that dog be!” “Nothing doing!” I says. “You chase him away.” “Say, Eddie, listen,” she says, getting me inside. ‘Never mind about the dog just now,” she says. “I got something lots more im- portant to talk to you about.” Well, we went on into my handsome parlor and set down, and then Mary looked at me real serious. Somehow when she does that, with them clear blue eyes of hers, sitting so kinda quiet in her plain dress, it gets under my hide. “Eddie Softer,” she says, “just before I left the office this afternoon, Miss Lewis, one of the filing clerks, made me acquainted with her boy friend, Mr. Blake. And I hope to tell you that what I heard from him has pretty near caused me to take out a accident insurance policy on you,” she says, “on account I might acci- dentally do you some damage. You have been in the Security Realtors, Incorporated, place, kidding them along as per usual,” she says, “and they have wished a bunch of bum lots onto you. Now you got to promise me that you will march right down there the first thing in the morning and tell them you ain’t gonner buy that mob of worthless property, or else I will do it for you on my way to work.” “All right, all right, I will,” I says. “And I am certainly obliged to learn where it is a bad buy. If you hadn’t tipped me off, I might of gone in for it. Thanks a lot.” “Thanks about six lots!’ she says, cool, giving me a funny look in the most serious meaning of the word. ‘““There sure must be something very wrong when you give in that easy. I’m scared there must be something in back of it.” Well, naturally I didn’t care to carry no such discussion any further, so I let it drop flat. Next day, the very first thing I done after I had taken that darn kid of mine to work was to make a run over to the Security Realtors. Bob was there all right and invited me to use up as much of the private office as I cared to. But just as quick as I told him about how I had changed my mind on that Blake property and would be obliged to get my option money back, he put on a manner which reminded me of the iceman taking in his box-office receipts. ‘You signed an option on them lots, Softer,” he says, “and we expect you to give it the proper exercise within the specified time. Or else, well, I ain’t lost the use of my tongue— see?” Well, I seen in a flash where there was no use in arguing with a man of the low mental type which Bob had undoubtedly shown him- self to be. So I merely says, why, all right, Bob, some day you will regret this, and with that I walked out and left him flat. Well, more abundance! The very minute I put a ankle outside, who would I see but Miss ? Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for. July, 1925 DeLux, one of our most imported stars. “Oh, Mr. Softer!’ she says. “Do you know that Mr. Silvermount wants to see you? He’s been yelling all over the lot for you today.” There is a old song which has got words to the effect ““Wait twelve hours and the tide will turn.” And when Miss DeLux give me that message from Benny, why, naturally I seen at once that he had been thinking over what I had said about my wonder boy having his own unit. I stepped into my handsome special body Crane-Simplex, stepped on the gas, and 3314 of an hour later I was out at the lot and stepping into Big Benny’s ofice. Well, the first few minutes I was there he didn’t seem able to say nothing. He was trying to wear a path onto the carpet, but it was a good carpet, far better then the kind of a temper his ma had left him grow up with. However, his yes-man, Mr. Cohen, was sitting there, calm and collecting, and he opened up the subject of why I was wanted. “Mr. Softer,” he says, “a very serious thing has occurred,” he says. ‘Slow don’t get too alarmed—nothing has happened to Billy personally. He is as healthy as anything. But as regards his new picture, the situation is something terrible!’ “Cohen,” says I {r. Silvermount, in a sudden rush of words to the head, “‘pretty soon I shall fire you for weakness of language!’’ Then he turned on me. “Softer,” he says, “I don’t know what to do with you, honest I don’t. I’d like to turn you over and lick you right on the seat of learning, but it wouldn’t do you no good at all. If only Billy was old enough to sign his own contracts, I’d retire you at once and give you free oats for life, the same as we do with the company’s other mules. What and the dickens did you do that to Prince, our prize dog, for?” “T didn’t do nothing to him,” I says. “Yes, you did too,” says Mr. Silvermount. “You must of been crazy, Softer. That dog is insured for a hundred thousand dollars, but that won’t mend his leg.” Well, I must say where that remark cer- tainly give me kind of a sick feeling. But even so, I at once seen where it would be awful bad business policy to let on anything. “Mr. Silvermount,” I says, “I don’t know what you are talking about. I done nothing to your ham of a dog!” “Oh, yes, you did!”’ says Mr. Cohen. “You thought you were alone, Softer, but there was a stage hand seen you when you sprung that trap.” “Well, what of it?” I says. “It was purely self-defense. The dog attacked me in the first place.” “T don’t care which place he attacked you,” says Mr. Silvermount. ‘You are pretty near- sighted at any time, but I would of at least expected you to do nothing which would interfere with your own boy’s picture, and maybe get yourself a chance to sign up with Goldringer.”’ A funny kind of cold feeling come over me. “Whatter you mean, interfere with my son?” I says. “You know I wouldn’t do nothing to prevent that wonder boy of mine from working, for nothing in the world.” “Well, Prince was playing acrost from him in this new picture,” says Mr. Silvermount. “In fact we was gonner bill them together. The picture can’t no more be made without that dog than it could be made without Billy. And now you’ve gone and broke Prince’s front leg, and more then likely he won’t be able to act for a coupla months. The loss to us in time and money alone is a mighty serious matter, Softer.” “Of course,” I says, “I am sorry Prince got hurt, but if a dog is all you are worrying over, why, I will gladly furnish this concern with a far handsomer animal then Prince.” “You will?” yells Mr. Silvermount. “Say, I suppose you got a whole kennel of them kinda dogs? Softer, there hasn’t never been but two great dog actors—Prince, and a dog named Tatters, which we lost a coupla years ago, and just to show you the value of him, the five thousand dollar rewarg4ve put out for him at the time still stands good, altliough nothing ain’t never been heard from him.” “Now, Mr. Silvermount, don’t get excited!” I says. “If you all consider I was responsible for Prince getting injured, naturally I will replace him. Just leave it to me.” Mr. Cohen and Mr. Silvermount paired up looks at that, and then Mr. Silvermount tried out the mahogany of his desk with his fist. “Softer,” he says, “what you say is all fool- ishness. And to prove it, I am going to promise you something. If you get me a dog as good as Prince, I am going to give Billy his own unit, like you asked, and put you in charge of it at three thousand dollars a week. That shows how easy I think you can do it.” I give the buttons on my vest a little extra pressure at that, it was so plain I had the drop on the big egg. If he didn’t know where the pound was, I could easy find out, and as for kennels, why, the advertising pages of any good magazine was full of them. “Have I got your word of honor on that, Mr. Silvermount?” I says. “Absolutely!”’ says Mr. Silvermount, a kinda sarcastic note in his voice. “And now don’t let us detain you no longer. Since you thor- oughly understand what you have done, you better go attend to your bigger affairs.” Well, naturally I appreciated their realizing I was a pretty busy man, so I got my new straw kelly and my yellow cane and excused myself to them two with a wave of the mitt. “Well, ta-ta, boys!” I says. ‘Don’t worry about the dog—I’ll get you a high-class purp within the next few days.” When I put up my car that night, first thing I heard was Billy yelling and laughing at the top of his voice, and more abundance, that wasn’t the only voice which was going strong either. The other voice was a bark. I stepped out around the garage, and there sure enough was that mut again. I grabbed Billy by the ear and dragged the boy inside. “Don’t you remember what I told you the other day about that pooch?” I says. “But I didn’t promise to give him up, pop,” says Billy. ‘And I won’t promise, because if I do I'll have to keep it. He’s a friend of mine and him and I love each other.” “Well, any time I find him on this property I’m gonner see that he gets kicked off, under- stand?” I says. And that was the last we heard about that low animal in quite some days. In the mean- time I commenced using my executive ability to get a real good dog for the Silvermount. Naturally with the stake I had for a reward, well, that was worth a lot of hard work. And so I would get out my car early in the morning and put in practically all my time sitting in the lobby of the Alexandria, getting acquainted with various fellers who knew about dogs. I guess I seen every kind from these here Mexican Chawawa, them little fellers that appear to shave every day, up to them big woolly St. Sam Bernards. But no pooch showed up that wasn’t strictly kosher—in other words there wasn’t a ham among them, although I did point out one real handsome collie that had ought to of done credit to any picture. However, evidently the test they made was no good, on account Big Benny merely sent me a note and the dog back. “Beautiful and dumb. I hope you are still the same. Yrs. truly, B.S.” And then, after pretty near a week of slaving myself to death, why, if Mary McCree didn’t go adding to my troubles. She had somehow run acrost the fact that I had already paid out a option on them lots behind our house, and she was so sore she wouldn’t speak to me. Just what there is about that girl, I dunno, but I can’t endure for her not to talk, even though most of the time she pretty near hens the life out of me whenever she is speaking. So one afternoon when she met me at the door and spoke without hesitation, I at once realized something must be up. “Thank goodness you are back at last!’’ she says. “I thought you’d never get here!” Hear. ee

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Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1025 | Well, old dear, it’s nice to hear your sweet voice again,” I says. “Believe me, I miss it, | girlie.” “Eddie Softer, shut up and don’t be any more of a fool then you actually have to,” she says. “I’m just as sore at you as ever, but I got to talk to you. Billy is sick.” “What?” I says, sitting down on the nearest | hall chair, all weak-like in my legs. “He’s running a high temperature,” she says, “and I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever, al- though the doctor says it’s probably measles. And of course the one time all the servants was out, you’d have to be fooling around down- town in the only car we got, with the telephone out of order in addition.” “My Lord,” I says, “my boy sick! How on earth did you get the doctor? Did you walk *way over there?” “Not much!” she says. ‘Billy wouldn’t let me leave him, and I was scared to anyways, on account he was kinda out of his head. So I sent that blessed dog.” “What dog?” Isays. It commenced to seem like every place I turned these days, all I heard was dogs. “What dog?” says Mary. ‘Poochie, of course. That’s Billy’s name for him. I wrote a note and told him where to go. He’s been there lots with me when I go to see the doctor’s wife. I took the dear mut’s face in my hands and told him Billy was sick and that he must understand. Then I give him the note and pointed where to go. Smart as the hound is, I hardly dared to hope he’d make it, but he done so. When the doctor come in less than half an hour, bringing the dog with him, it seemed like a miracle, Eddie,” she says earn- estly. “I really and truly believe that dog thinks the same as a human.” “Aw, go tie up a noodle!” I says. “It was a accident. A lucky accident, sure, but that was all.” Mary didn’t say nothing to that, but she follered me up the stairs, I naturally being headed for Billy’s room, and so sick at heart over the poor little feller I could of used a doctor myself. “Be careful—don’t make no noise—he’s sleeping!” says Mary as I opened the door. So I went in real quiet, and there lay Billy, his face all red and kinda swollen looking, flat on his back, his eyes closed and one hand out- side on the cover. Next to him was that darn pooch, and he had his funny looking snoot laying alongside the kid’s hand. “Now leave him be!” says Mary. “Don’t you touch a thing. I’m going down and fix up a cup of tea; I got a headache.” She went on back down again, and I pulled up a chair real cautious and sat where I could see my kid, and what thoughts went racing through my head, why, I couldn’t hardly tell them. But one thing I felt sure. Billy was gonner get perfectly scientific treatment, and I knew dogs wasn’t sanitary. So, for the boy’s sake, I took a chance and lifted the pooch away and set him outside, closing the door. Then I come back to the bedside, felt of Billy’s little hot hand, and thought, O my Lord, what’ll I do if my young one cashes in? You see this was the first time he had ever been sick in his life, and more abundance, I sure felt terrible helpless. Oh, I have lived! For a little while that darn mut scratched softly at the door, but pretty soon he got dis- couraged and went away. I set down again, wishing to heavens I could do something, and in about three minutes it looked like a job was all cut out for me, on account somebody was trying to get in at the window. There was a sloping roof outside, and the fly screens, which in our house are strictly high-class like everything else we got, was the kind that raise up easy, like a window. Well, this screen was being slowly. raised. It was a black night and the room was dark, so I couldn’t make the feller out at first. But I got | on my feet and was all ready to swing a chair |at him when [ seen it was that mut again. | He had someways or another got up on the | roof, found the window and raised the screen up with his nose. Then he jumped in very quiet and went right back to Billy. This show give me such a jolt I left him be, and even shut the fly screen for him. But when Mary come back up, I didn’t say a word to her. The dog mightn’t never do another smart thing, so why hand out the chance for an argument? During the next few weeks we got such a scare over that young one, however, we didn’t have no time nor thought for arguing over anything at all. On account Billy had the scarlet fever, and he had it good and plenty. And one day, right when things was at their worse, what would I get only a call from Bob Dorman, the big bum. When I got down to his place, which I done so on account I had to pass there anyways on a ice-bag hunt, he lit into me very nicely. “Say, listen, Eddie,” he says, “my client is anxious to close on them lots, and I got some bills of my own to pay. So we’d like a little action, or I’ll have to call in the newspapers and give ’em a good Sunday story.” “All right, all right!’ I says. ‘Only I can’t stop to attend to it now.” And I beat it with one more nervous worry on my mind: And then, just to cheer my morning up a little, when I got home with the ice-bag, who would stop me on my own front steps, right where anybody could see us, but that bum which used to stick around them vacant lots of mine, only now he had got rid of the crutches and was going along with a cane. “Oh, Softer, just a minute, please!” he says, hobbling up to me. “I hear the boy is ill. How is he getting on?” “‘He’s darn sick!” I says. “Well, I brought him this baseball bat,”’ he says, holding out one. “I made it myself, while I was sitting around doing nothing. He said he wanted one. Perhaps when he feels a little better he will enjoy having it on his bed. You know how boys are.” “Thanks, mister,’ I says. “But if you don’t mind, come to the back door next time. I gota certain position to keep up, d’you understand?” “Why, I believe I do,” he says. ‘At any rate, I hope the child recovers shortly.” Well, naturally I could see from his language where this feller was undoubtedly some poor old broken-down guy that had been good once, but the dope or something had maybe got him. And I took the bat on inside. Up- stairs in the boy’s room there was Mary, which it is the God’s truth she had never left Billy since he first was sick, and she had a smile on her face for the first time in many a day. “The fever is broken!” she says. “Oh, Eddie, he’s gonner get well!” Well, I don’t know how it come about, but when she says that, first thing I knew I had my arms about her, and she was hanging onto my neck, and I had give her a kiss, and the two of us was crying like a coupla fools. Then she drew off and laughed a little, real soft. “There!” she says. “Ain’t we dumb, though? Come on, let’s see what you brought. The job of curing him ain’t over yet!” Well, when she says that, I reached over for the package I had brought from the drug store and touched that darn old mut, Poochie, which he was there as usual, and hanged if he didn’t give my hand a lick. Well, then a voice spoke I hadn’t heard in quite some time. It was Billy, in the bed, very weak, but like his old self again. “Hey, pop!” he says. ‘“Lookit the baseball bat. I want it, pop!” he says. “Tt’s kinda heavy, darling,” I says. Billy turned his head, and spoke to the pooch. “Go bring me that bat!” he says, pointing. And actually before I could inter- fere the dog had done it, laying it on the cover real careful. Billy put his hand out and patted it. “It’s a grand bat,” he says. “Thanks, pop.” “You're perfectly welcome, son,” I says, and then he fell into the sleep where his real healing commenced. Well, all the time Billy was sick, naturally pretty near everybody in the world had sent out floral tributes and toys, and I had thought Hear. Bui ~ —_—- A A A Com; (fee)... 0) it

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in’t ver the ity. 1eir ‘om wn had t is yme ttle ers in’t rith \nd tle, uld ere ich ine, was Lys, ill. he elf, He eels his yn’t ota thet age oor ood ybe ich illy Oh, but had nto the hen gh? [he for ore hie, ard ed, pall the YS; ter- ver ted ind ing lly ent ght Built by the Paige-Detroit Motor Car Company Detroit. Michigan Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, TO % in The fastest-selling Paige we ever built —only $30 more than open car price! There’s reason for its popularity! A smart enclosed Paige for hundreds of dollars less than cars equaling its power, size, comfort! It’s the ablest performing Brougham the world aftords — at the lowest per mile cost of any luxurious, big car! Put it to your own tests for fine performance! You've silent and able as the big 70 h. p. Paige motor. Riding comfort? Just feel the gentle action of Paige’s rear springs, more than 5 feet long, its 131-inch wheelbase, and balloon tires. See this Brougham! It’s the finest looking Paige we ever built— the most admired car eonbare this reige as others have and you’ll see why it sells. Use this blank probably never handled a motor as smooth, on the road today. car. The lower the resulting figure the greater the car’s ability QUALITIES ~ be ~ WHAT THEY MEAN __ - PAIGE U lly k n BEAUTY A matter of personal taste pemespinane Ph car SIZE ___| Long wheelbase adds to riding comfort and appearance era ~ 43linches Ample power means unstrained ability—hence long life and freedom from care. “ POWER Cubic inches piston displacement measures power 331 cu. in. WEIGHT Pounds of weight mean pounds of strength 4200 Ibs. f POWER FOR WEIGHT Divide those 331 cu. in. of power into 4200 Ibs. of car weight. Do that for any 12.6 lbs. PERFORMANCE Test the car’s ability in traffic, on the open road, hill-climbing, pickup, getaway "Holds world’s stock chassis records REAR SPRINGS SIZE This means riding comfort. Paige’s long rear springs account partly for its remarkable comfort 61 inches LONGEVITY Hundreds of these late model Paiges have run 50,000 miles and more, with up- keep costs that are almost unbelievably low SERVICE Good service here and wherever you may go “2000 Paige dealers Ask our owners FINANCIAL STABILITY Surety for you that the car you buy will not be an “‘orphan’”’ Assets over $15,000,000 #-DOOR CLOSED CAR PRICE The basis of determining value _ $2195 at Detroit __Taxextra__| (560-A)

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128 where the height of appreciation certainly must of been reached. But all that was mere Woolworth compared to what happened the day Billy was well enough to run over to ‘the studio. Mary was down-town in Los Angeles at the time, she having by then gone back to her job of managing that public stenographer office. And Billy, like any kid, I guess, was kinder restless, and not knowing what to do to amuse him, why, I felt this was really a pretty good time to make our entrance. So I got Big Benny on the wire and told him we was gonner be right over for a short visit if the lot was crowded, and to be sure and have plenty of still cameras ready when we arrove. “All right, Softer,” he says. “I will be so glad to see our boy outdoors once more. Be- lieve me, I am going to have a brass band for him especial. We got one working in a café set over on number four anyways.” Well, I give the newspapers a hint, dressed myself and the boy appropriate and got out my car. And then, just as we was all set to start, what would come out the gate and make a dive for the bus but that blame Poochie. Naturally I couldn’t make a well staged en- trance onto the Silvermount lot with that funny-looking mut trailing me, and so I grabbed him out the car. “Aw, pop!” says Billy. ‘Let Poochie come along with us, pop. I wanner show him the studio.’ es “Nix!” I says. “Nothing doing! So long as nobody don’t see him, you can keep him. But he’s the family secret so far as taking him any place is concerned.” Well, I hadda throw the mut out of that car six times before we got away clear, and then I stepped on the gas. When we got over to the lot I parked, picked up the kid, who was kinda weak yet, onto my shoulders, and started in. Well, I had figured on quite a reception com- mittee, but what we got was bigger then any- thing I had dreamed over. Everybody on the pay-roll seemed to be waiting at the gate. The band was there and when they seen us they commenced doing their stuff. But in a minute they might as well not of on account the cheering. “Billy!” the folks yelled. ‘“What’s the matter with Billy? He’s all right!” They yelled this a coupla times and then another name commenced to get mixed up with it, my own apparently, so I was bowing here and there as good as I was able, hampered like I was by the child. And then as I come up the steps leading to the main entrance, what on earth would I see but that darn mut right at my heels. Someways or another he must of managed to jump back in the rear of the car without me noticing. And here he was follow- ing us in with everybody, including Big Benny. Well, before I had even a chanc’t to give the brute a good kick, Benny come running down towards us, and it was just then that I caught the other name the mob was yelling besides Billy. It wasn’t my name after all. They was calling “‘Tatters, Tatters!”’ First off that didn’t mean nothing to me, and then all to onc’t I remembered where Mr. Silvermount had claimed a dog named Tatters was the only one in the pictures as good as Prince, and I also remembered him saying there was still a five thousand dollar reward out for him. And the way that fine dog leaped on Mr. Silvermount and recognized him right off, why, a person could tell at a glance how intelligent he was. As for Big Benny, posi- tively when he looked up from petting the pooch there was tears in his eyes. “Well, Softer, you promised us a big after- noon, and one has certainly been provided,” he says. ‘Not alone do you bring the dear child back to us, but Tatters also, the finest dog actor in the world!” “Well, boys and girls,” I says to the crowd that was clubbing up about me, “leave it to me and be sure to make your wills legal!” As the old sweet song goes, “Strike while the iron is hot, if you belong to the laundryman’s union.” Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1025 And I followed this old nursery rhyme at once. “Mr. Silvermount, you and Mr. Cohen here will remember our agreement, I am sure,” I says in a loud, firm voice. “And I want all these friends assembled around us should hear the announcement of. it. Mr. Silvermount promised me that if I could get him a dog as good as Prince, Billy was to have his own unit, I to be in charge of it at three times what ’'m pulling down now. A very wonderful, generous offer, friends, and I certainly have earned it. Heavens knows, the pains I been at to recover this marvel dog, Tatters, couldn’t be described. But here he is.” “Well, Softer, you win!” Mr. Silvermount says. “I gave my word and I don’t give it to Indians, as the saying goes. You shall get the unit and the salary—the only thing is, when we sign the new contracts there has got to be a clause where it says you do no actual work. Only executive stuff, where you will give orders, but they can accumulate in the office.”’ “Just as you say, Mr. Silvermount,” I agreed. “And now if you will just slip Billy the five thousand reward for the return of the dog, I guess I will take him back home. To be perfectly honest with you, one and all, it was really through Billy we got hold of the pooch, I having always taught him kindness to animals. So I want him to have the money, see?”’ Well, naturally that got a hand, and Mr. Silvermount actually insisted on sending around to the bank and getting the dog reward in cash. Then I took my wonder boy home before he got too tired, and laid him on the bed, laid the cash in my pocket and went to the phone, there being a urgent message on the stand for me to call up the Security Realtors office and ask for Mr. Dorman. Now ever since I got into that deal for them lots, Bob had pestered the life outa me for the money, and this time his voice was real sharp. “You come right on down, Softer,” he says to me. “I got to see you tonight without fail, and I'll keep the office open until you get here.” “All right!” I says. “Tl ankle right along. I got something to tell you myself, see?”’ Then I hung up. What I was naturally figuring on was that with the new contract I would be getting I could now handle this bird pretty well, and at the same time protect my reputation. So out I started without no more delay, and there on my back doorsteps, as I was headed for the garage, what would I meet up with but that same bum I had bawled Billy out for being with, the feller which had crutches at first, then a cane, but was now walking around pretty good without even the aid of a home-made baseball bat. “Good evening, Softer,” says this pest. “I was crossing those lots over yonder and I thought I’d stop by and inquire how my young friend was getting along. I trust he is almost well?” “He is,” I says. ‘So you can just lay off this property. We got all the inquiries he needs right now.” “Look here, Softer,” says the bird, ‘“‘why are you so unpleasant to me? I have never done anything to you that I know of—except, per- haps, fail to introduce myself. My name is Howland—Plain Ed, they call me, the Mayor of Golden Gables. Of course I knew you at once, but perhaps you didn’t recognize me?” Well, of course I had all along felt there was more to this feller than appeared in his clothes and so forth, and naturally I put out my hand and slapped him on the back to kinda put him at his ease, see, and pulled my famous smile. “Why, Mr. Mayor, of course I knew you!” I says. “Say, can’t you take a little kidding onc’t in a while? Why not come in a spell?” I says. “I got a little of the old pre-war stuff left, and I sure would be honored if you would join me.” “Thanks, no, I never use it,’’ says the Mayor. “And I can’t stop now, I have an important meeting of the City Council. But I am very glad there is no hard feeling between us. You see, it was really because of your boy and his playmate, the dog, that the city decided to buy the park at all.” “What park?” I says, a very peculiar feeling coming over me. “Oh, didn’t you know?” says the Mayor. “Tt was in this afternoon’s paper. Why, the city has decided to buy these lots directly back of your house, and to condemn those ugly shacks adjoining. Then we will turn the whole thing into a beautiful park. It was my own suggestion, and I was first attracted to the spot by your little son and that amazing dog. I was recovering from a rather severe accident, as you may remember, and at first I would come and sit there merely to watch those two. Then it began to dawn on me that the place had the exact sort of natural beauty we had been looking for, if it was developed right. The deal will go through at once, and we may call it Softer Park, after that delightful boy of yours. I’m so glad he is better. Well, I must be going now.” “So must I,’”’ I says, to myself, “and in a hurry, too!” When I reached the Security Realtors, Inc., it. was all lighted up like Merry Christmas or something, and no wonder. I wasn’t kept on any mourner’s bench until Mr. Dorman could see me; in fact he saw me first and had me in his own office before I could get my hat off. “Say, Ed,” he says, ‘I been thinking that little matter of the Blake property over,” he says, ‘‘and I got to remembering old times and how we used to work together and all,”’ he says. “And I have decided to let you out of that option after all.” “No, thanks,” I says. ‘I just been out driv- ing the Mayor of Golden Gables all around that stuff, and you can’t tell me a thing. I’m keeping my option.” “Ts that so?” he says. ‘Well, do you realize where it expires in two more days, and once dead, nothing ain’t gonner revive it?” “T should fret!” I says, putting my hand into my pocket and the middle of Billy’s re- ward. “I’m exercising that option right now.” And I set the money on the edge of the table. Well, for a minute my dear old college chum couldn’t say nothing. Then he said quite a few remarks, but while they wasn’t exactly sacred, I wouldn’t care to pass them along. “Have a heart, Ed,” he says finally. “All right, how much will you take for that option?” “Fifteen thousand cash,” I says. ‘Tonight. Gimme a check’and I’ll take back my gold and we'll call it square.” “Call it square—it’s crooked as a ram’s horns!” But he reached for his check-book just the same. That night when my sister-in-law, Mary McCree, come home, she was pretty near having a fit. First on account I give her Billy’s reward, every nickel of it, and then because of some news she had. “Oh, Eddie, what a day it has been!” she says. “And I missed it practically all! First Billy’s wonderful reception at the lot. Then finding out that the dog was Tatters. And now this latest thing which my girl friend that has been working in the Security Realtors told me. Oh, Eddie,” she says, “T got to apologize to you about them lots,” she says. “You know how sore I was when you got tied up for them, and now this girl tells me where she knows for a fact the city is prepared to pay sixty thousand dollars for that land. And isn’t it wonderful, you having the option?” Well, we got strong chairs out at my house. And a good thing, too, on account just about then I felt I needed one. But as soon as I had set down I had a answer. “Ah, but, Mary,” I says, “I wouldn’t hold up my city like that!” I says. ‘In fact I sold the lots today for fifteen thousand. Of course if Bob Dorman wants to go ahead and stick the government, why, I can’t prevent it. I was talking to the Mayor only this afternoon and being friends with him, why, I couldn’t mix myself up in no such dirty graft. As far as that’s concerned, I’d just as soon of given the land to the city , on account I have arrange to have the park called for the boy, and that is reward enough for me!” Hear. hoping | Livingst was thel we left. awry, I But it to what Livingst flushed, verge of window, and rem his finge soon to No E Tomo see Gree that he But I innocen¢ Greenou guilty. buried i broken 1 My o Greenou the step: put him Suppe make m it to hin and expl This © early e\ Cochran and aske “T’m don’t lik stand th “Wha “Done watchin; stairs bu He’s goi You ma it; he’s s There carefully room, bi left it. | do with night, a1 and hov beneath enough said. ‘ Mr. B him, bu Gordon | finding } “BS watch o expect.”’ hat and “He’s “He ¢ went.” She w said as a I drove I tried | ploymen that we It was to find t through converse increase would h: of hims« At te parture, and Ed: wandere the boat as the c

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nc., ; or on uld > in hat he ind LS. hat riv- ry ear her she rst len nd rat old ize Ow m, ws ty se. yut ad aid ad Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 The Red Lamp by Mary Roberts Rinehart Continued from peg 57) hoping for an opportunity to show it to Mrs. Livingstone. But none came. Doctor Hayward was there when we arrived and remained after we left. Perhaps, because my own world is awry, I think the universe is so. But it seemed to me that we were shown in to what almost amounted to a situation; that Livingstone, usually dapper’ and calm, was flushed, and that Mrs. Livingstone was on the verge of tears. The doctor, standing by the window, hardly acknowledged our entrance, and remained standing, glowering and biting his fingers, until we left. He is, I understand, soon to leave for a holiday. AUGUST 12-13 No Entry. AUGUST 14 Tomorrow Hayward says I shall be able to see Greenough; the first intimation I have had that he is back in the neighborhood. But I feel that my consciousness of my own innocence will be as_ nothing against Greenough’s sheer determination to prove me guilty. And yet, guilty of what? Of a bullet buried in the floor of my own house, and a broken window! My only hope, apparently, is to convince Greenough that I saw this thing; to show him the steps by which I was led to fire the shot; to put him in my place for an hour or two. Suppose, like a lawyer preparing a brief, I make my statement here, and tomorrow read it to him? At least I can make this entry full and explicit. He may be willing to listen This is the fourteenth. It was, then, the early evening of the eleventh, when Annie Cochran stopped at the lodge on her way home and asked to see me at the kitchen door. “T’m leaving, Mr. Porter,’ she said. “I don’t like to make trouble for you, but I can’t stand that secretary.” “What has he done, Annie?” “Done!” she said, and sniffed. ‘“He’s watching me, for one thing. I never go up- stairs but he’s at my heels. But that’s not all. He’s going to make trouble for Mr. Bethel. You mark my words. And Mr. Bethel knows it; he’s scared tonight.” There had been a quarrel, she said, at dinner, carefully camouflaged while she was in the room, but breaking out again the moment she left it. So far as she could make out, it had to do with the secretary’s leaving the house at night, and his insistence that he go out when and how he liked. But there was something beneath that, she thought. “That wasn’t enough for the fuss they were making,” she said. ‘There was murder in that boy’s face.” Mr. Bethel, she thought, was trying to quiet him, but he refused to be quieted. ‘Finally Gordon got up and flung open the pantry door, finding her inside it, and he said, according to her: “Listening, are you? Well, you’d better watch out, or you’ll get something you don’t expect.”” Then he went into the hall, got his hat and slammed out of the house. “He’s gone? Where?” “He didn’t say. He just took the car and went,” She was uneasy; she had construed what he said as a threat against her of a serious sort, and I drove her into Oakville myself. On the way I tried to persuade her to return to her em- ployment for a time at least, on the ground that we might need her, and she agreed. It was perhaps nine o’clock when I returned, to find the rector and his wife calling and to sit through an hour and a half of gently unctuous conversation, while my uneasiness constantly Increased. If we had warned the old man he would have been at least prepared to take care of himself in emergency. At ten-thirty our visitors took their de- parture, and leaving Jane preparing to retire and Edith to answer some of her letters, I wandered with apparent aimlessness down to the boat-house. Halliday was not there, and as the dory was missing I knew he must be somewhere on the water. After waiting until eleven, my restlessness was extreme and I walked up and around the main house, to find the garage doors open and the car still out. Had there been any indication of life in the building, I think I would have wakened Mr. Bethel and warned him; stayed with him, perhaps, until that murderous young devil was safely settled for the night. But his room was dark and his windows ciosed, so I thought better of it. But I did ascertain that the g’n- room windows were locked, and that if the boy effected an entrance at all, it would be by some less surreptitious method. Thus reassured, I went back to th> boat- house, and soon after Halliday rowed q-ictly in and tied the dory. He had rowed up, he said, to see if the boat was still there. It had not been disturbed, so far as he could tell. I told him my story, but he was less anxious than I had expected. “Tt’s not the game,” he said. “If Gordon is the killer, we’ve got to consider that he doesn’t kill out of anger. That’s different. He’s cool and deliberate; he plans his stuff ahead and goes through with it. I don’t even think he gets any-thrill out of crime itself; the real secret joy is in baffling discovery. And he knows this: after the quarrel tonight, if old Bethel fell down the stairs and broke his neck, he would be blamed for it.” But he thrust his army automatic in his pocket nevertheless, and we started toward the house, with no particular plan in mind, but a fixed determination to protect Mr. Bethel “in case of any trouble,” as Halliday put it. We had almost reached the end of the walk over the marsh when he halted suddenly and stared to the right. “There was a light over there,” he said. “Tn the woods. Wait a minute; maybe it will show again.” It did show, above the head of Robinson’s Point apparently, in that strip of woodland which leads to the hiding-place of the boat. (Note: In explanation of our conclusion, that we had seen one of the lights of the car as Gordon drove down through the trees, I can only give again the difficulty of distinguishing at night a small light comparatively close at hand from a large one some distance away.) Halliday watched it, and then passed his revolver to me, first taking off the safety catch. “Don’t fall over anything,” he warned me. ‘And don’t shoot until you see the whites of his eyes! I’m going over there, Skipper.” He set off on a steady lope, heading for the light but obliged to make a long detour around the marsh. I myself, holding the revolver gingerly, started on to the house. I was feeling, comparatively speaking, re- laxed. I felt, as did Halliday, that Gordon was near Robinson’s Point; my duty, as I saw it, was simply to stand guard until Halliday returned and we could make some plan; in case of trouble later to get into the house, if possibl>. This thought, that we might want to get into the house, bothered me. My keys were at the Lodge, and I could hardly hope to secure them without disturbing Jane. I made, as a result, another round of the windows, and was brought up short by the fact that one of the gun-room windows, certainly closed and locked before, now stood open. It was the more startling because I had but that moment ascertained that the garage doors still stood wide, and that the car was still missing. I dare say every man has occasional doubts of his physical courage. But I dare say too that every man has a sort of spare reservoir of courage, on which he can draw in the emer- gency, when it comes. Yet I shall not pretend, even to myself, that I pulled up my shoulders, examined my weapon, and then boldly entered that window. I crawled in, with knees that shook under me. I had no doubt whatever that Gordon had returned, and the very fact that he had come without the car made that return sinister. I 13] groped for the door into the passage and stood there listening, but there was ro sound what- ever, save the leak of a tap; I remember that as I passed the open door of the shower room I looked in, and a gleaming eye nearly lost me my equilibrium, until I remembered Edith’s piece of phosphorescent wood. All this was in complete darkness. I reached the dining-room without incident, and there a new thought struck me. Suppose the old gentleman saw a strange figure emerge from his dining-room and start up the stair- case? It seemed to me that he would have every right to shoot me first and investigate me afterwards. It was while I hesitated there, near the side- board, that I was first conscious of a cold air blowing around me. So distinct was it that my first thought was that some stealthy move- ment had opened the door to the passage be- hind me. Almost immediately on that there was a tremendous crash, as though some heavy object had struck the dining-room table, and following that the door into the hall burst open, slamming back against the wall outside. This was followed by complete silence. So shaken were my nerves by all this that my next consecutive thinking found me once more in the gun-room, ready to beat a retreat. But here I managed somehow to pull myself together. Convinced that the slamming of the door would have roused Mr. Bethel—if indeed anything were to rouse him again; and by this time I was pr. parc d for the worst—the main stair-ase was not fcasible. I made my way, therefore, into the passage again to the servants’ stzircase and crept up it, with the revolver clutched in my hand. I have no idea how long all this took. Pos- sibly ten minutes from the time I entercd the house. Perhaps even more. I was subcon- sciously aware, I know, that it was too soon to look for Halliday’s return. At the top of the kitchen staircase was a door, opening on the main hall, and this I cautiously opened. Save for the ticking of the tall clock on the staircase landing the house was entirely silent. The silence and the closed door gave me back my ebbing courage, and I advanced a step or two along the hall. Here I was close to Gor- don’s room, and I felt for and tried the krob carefully. It was locked, and listening outside I could hear no movement from within. The relief I gathered from this was erormo’s. There remained, I figured, merely to ascer- tain that Mr. Bethel’s door was closed and locked, and I could beat a retreat which I felt was by no means ignominious. I made my way, therefore, to his door and tricd it. It was fastened also, and I heard him move within; the heavy creak of his bed-spring, no coubt. I hesitated there, wondering whether to call to him and tell him he was not alone and he!p- less. But there were ro further sounds from bevond the door, and I turned away. It was then that I became cons-ious of a light somewhere blow. Not a light, rather, but where before had been absolute darkness there was now something else; a faint illumina- tion which outlined the staircase well, and which was reddish in color. (Note: It is worthy of consideration that when, later on, Halliday and I made our experi- ment with the red lamp, lighting it in the den and opening the door into the corridor, we secured much th¢ same efiect, save that in the experiment the resulting glow seemed stronger than the one recorded here.) And I will swear that a figure was standing at the foot of the stairs apparenily facing toward me and Joo!:ing up. Or rather, not a figure, but a face; the light was so faint that ro portions of the body were visible. I will swear that it moved, not toward the dining-room and a possible exit by the window of the gun-room, zs Halliday suggests, but, still upturned, toward the library, and that within a foot or two oi that door it disappeared.

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132 i Your Million Dollar Face Ts high-priced faces aren’t all in Holly- wood. Would you take a million dollars for yours? Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships, but your countenance will launch 5,000 shaves in the next 14 years. Until you start using Mennen Shaving Cream you won’t be treating that face of yours in a manner befitting its value. It has taken ten years to perfect Mennen’s, but your skin will know the difference in three minutes. The razor blade will cut the whiskers as close as a Scotchman, and your face won’t realize it’s being shaved. That’s because Mennen dermutation (absolute beard soft- ening) takes all the fight out of whiskers. Your valued visage feels like a million dollars afterwards, because a suave lotion (Boro-glycerine) is an ingredient of Mennen Shaving Cream. If you’re addicted to the rub-in habit, or a secret slave of hot towels, Mennen’s will emancipate you. I have tried to find a brand of water that doesn’t mix perfectly with Mennen’s. I’m still looking. The weather man can’t produce heat or cold intense enough to affect Mennen’s. If you don’t make Mennen’s a life-long friend after a week’s use, the price of the tube is on me. In the new capless tube—50 cents at druggists. The perfect shave is topped off with Mennen Talcum for Men—a real man’s talcum in scent and color. Blends with he-hide and doesn’t show! 25c buys it. base (Mennen Salesman) 4 MSNASN SHAVING CREAM | could have been noiseless. Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 And I will swear that the red glow persisted for a moment or so after that disappearance and then slowly faded away. And I will also swear that I had no more intention of firing my revolver at that figure than I had of leaping down the staircase after it. Mr. Greenough would have done no less in my situation. The first knowledge that I had pulled the trigger came with the sound of the shot itself. I was certainly not aiming at the figure. If Greenough examines the mark left by the bullet, he will find, as Halliday and I did, that my bullet went almost directly down, and is embedded in the baseboard of the hall, near the den door . . . As a matter of fact the whole sequence of events, ending with the shot, had stunned me. I heard Mr. Bethel in his room, calling out, and some one outside shouting from the terrace. Almost immediately there was a crash of breaking glass in the library, as* Halliday smashed a window with a porch chair, and the next moment was inside the house and fumbling for the light switch inside the library door. When he ran into the hall I told him what had happened, and he immediately set about his search. As Mr. Bethel was still demanding, beyond his door, to know what was wrong, I went back to reassure him, but it required some time to induce him to unlock the door. Thus it was Halliday who made the first investigation down-stairs. He is confident no one escaped from the | library, unless in that brief time while he was feeling for a light. But it is to be remembered that the floor near the window was covered with broken glass; no escape by that method At the same time, any theory of departure by the windows of the den is impossible, since we found all these windows closed and locked on the inside. I am convinced that the intruder was not the secretary. As a matter of fact, he drove in a half-hour later, saw the lights in the house and hammered for admission, and surveyed our group in the hall with an amazement which, under any other circumstances, would be humorous. And I am also convinced that it was not the doctor. Mr. Bethel showing signs of collapse, Halliday telephoned to Hayward. He replied at once. Had he been at the house that night, he could not have madeit ... I have no explanation whatever of the fact that Halliday and Hayward later on found the gun-room window closed and locked, save that the intruder may have entered by it while I was working my way into the dining-room; and that the cold air, the crash at the table, and the bursting open of the door may have marked his passage through the room. At the same time, no statement of the situa- tion that night should fail to point out, loath as I am to believe in the supernatural, that for many years this house has had a reputation for similar phenomena; the bursting open of the door and the cold wind are merely repetitions of many similar unexplained occurrences. So also is the reddish color of the light I saw. The disappearance of the figure and the black darkness which followed that disappear- ance are difficult to account for, under any natural law at present known. I am not a spiritist, but it is to be remembered that only a second or so elapsed between Mr. Halliday’s entrance by the broken window and his turning on of the lights. Neither he nor I heard in that interval any movement. (End of memorandum for Mr. Greenough.) AUGUST 15 Up today, but not allowed out of my room. Jock spends most of his time with me, whether from devotion or interest in the appetizing trays Jane sends up, I am slightly uncertain. Edith reproaches me bitterly for my faculty of getting myself into difficult situations . . . Greenough has come and gone. What he thinks of things now I cannot say, but at least I am, as I have had occasion to record here, still at liberty. The fact that the revolver was Halliday’s, and Halliday’s supporting statement no doubt, is in my favor. At the same time it is clear that, although he listened carefully to my preliminary statement relative to our suspicions against Gordon, Greenough was not greatly impressed by it. “How did you and Mr. Halliday reconcile that theory with the sheep-killing?” he asked, “He wasn’t here then, was he?” “No. .That has puzzled us, of course.”’ “Then again,” he went on, eying me, “he himself was knocked down and tied. I don’t suppose you accuse him of that, too?” “T’ve told you,” I said impatiently, “that we haven’t a case; it’s a theory. That’s all, Take for instance that ro i “Oh, come now, Mr. Porter! I’ve slipped out of my room at night over a wood-shed; so have you, probably.” » Coming down to the night of the eleventh, he listened to my written statement without comment, save that he smiled somewhat over what he called my “ingenious conclusion.” He also passed lightly over my picture of what followed; of Halliday’s entrance, of Bethel brought down and sitting huddled in a chair in the library, somewhat dazed and showing signs of collapse. And of Gordon’s return and our sudden realization of my predicament. “Just what predicament?” “T was in the house because I knew Gordon had a rope and a knife in his room. If we let him up there, and he did away with them, it left me in pretty poor shape.” “So you kept him down-stairs! By force, he says.” “T wouldn’t call it force. to his one, of course.” “In other words, you telephoned to the doctor, but you didn’t telephone.to Starr until Gordon came in and found you there.” “Tf you want to put it that way, yes.” “You broke into the house and found some- body there who had no business there. But you didn’t think of calling on the police?” “What I felt we needed was not a policeman, but a medium.” He condescended to smile at that, but he was back to the matter again like a needle to the pole. ‘Graham says that Hayward and Halliday went off somewhere; after telephon- ing Starr, and that you held the gun on him. Is that correct?” “T still had the revolver. I didn’t point it at him, if. that’s what you mean. As for Halliday and Hayward, they were going through the house. That’s all.” “And they found the gun-room window closed and locked?” “So they say. I wasn’t present.” “How do you account for that, if that’s the way you entered?” “T don’t account for it.” “T suppose you have keys to the house?” “T have.” “But you entered by this window?” “Great heavens, man!” I said impatiently. “T don’t carry those keys with me. I wasn’t trying to get into the house. I went in because the window was open. And if you think I liked doing it, I’m here to tell you I didn’t.” “You can’t account for the window being locked later?” “T cannot. Why should I have locked it, if that’s what you are trying to intimate? I had to get out again.” He abandoned that for the time. “The point is this, Mr. Porter,” he said. “You and Halliday have laid considerable emphasis on that knife. It was because Gordon had it that you were in the house, I understand.” “Had it and might use it,” I amended. “Tt was, in your opinion, either on him or in the room up-stairs. But as it turned out, it was neither on him nor in his room. He denies ever owning such a knife.” “Halliday saw it. He’s lying.” “Tt’s your belief, then, that on this mur- derous errand of his, which was to end up at the house, he disposed of the very weapon which you had expected him to use?” “T haven’t said that, but I think it probable.” “Why? Why should he? He could have But we were three Hear: | > = te Bal loon ti in mil Acc larges' and a mile t tained sands throug Firest if Cords the F satura’ cord

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134 had no idea the house was to be entered or his room searched. He came back smoking a cigaret, I understand, to find you and Halliday in the hall, a window broken and a bullet im- bedded in the floor. That doesn’t sound like a man who has been out hiding the evidences of his crimes.” He asked me abruptly after that how long I had known Halliday, and his relationship to the family. Then he attacked Halliday’s statement that he thought he had seen the lights of a car by Robinson’s Point. “Mr. Halliday,” he said, “‘says that he be- lieved that this car was Mr. Bethel’s and started toward it, giving you his revolver and leaving you alone; that he found no car there and turned back. To support this statement, he says that a boat, lying in the creek there, had excited his suspicions because the oar- locks were wrapped. Muffled oar-locks are not uncommon things.” “The position of the boat was suspicious.” “Perhaps,” he said. “But that was a matter for me to determine, not Mr. Halliday. As to the strips he maintains were wrapped around the oar-locks, I am not saying they were not there; but I am saying that they were gone when I went over the next morning to examine the boat.” What he had hoped to gain by that I do not know. He shifted rapidly, perhaps in the hope of somehow trapping me; our reasons for hop- ing to connect Gordon with the crimes, since one of them had taken place before his arrival; when I had first missed my fountain pen; exactly where I was standing when the re- volver was fired; when I had taken off the safety catch; where I was when Halliday broke the window. And from that, without a pause, back to the gun-room window and had me repeat my story about finding it open, and entering by it. “Vet you thought,” he said, “that this boy, whom you‘consider a degenerate and a mur- derer, was inside. In a few minutes you ex- pected Halliday back, but you did not wait for him. Is that right?” “itis.” “Then you thought, in all probability, that the boy had this knife with him.” “T didn’t think about it at all,” Isaid. “If I had, I’m not sure I would have gone in.” ‘But later on the boy returns, and you won’t let him up-stairs because the knife is there. Is that right?” Looking back over the interview, he seemed to be anxious to break down my story rather than to be following any idea of his own. Halliday stated it fairly well when I reported the examination to him. “He’s got nothing,” he said. “Nothing but you. And that’s where his system breaks down; it might work if you were guilty, but it isn’t worth a tinker’s dam, since you’re not.” One rather curious thing he added, in view of Greenough’s questions about the knife. (Note: I was not present when Starr fol- lowed by Gordon, Halliday and Doctor Hayward went up-stairs to examine Gordon’s room. During the interval of waiting for the constable I had been conscious of an approach- ing nervous chill, the beginning of the illness which laid me up for three days.) “Gordon was as surprised as I was,” he says, “‘when Starr didn’t find the knife. It was too good to be true; he could hardly believe it.” AUGUST 16 Down-stairs today for the first time. As I had expected, Mr. Bethel intends to give up the house. He has so notified Thomas and Annie Cochran, and has sent me a note asking me to see him tonight. ‘The note was left by Gordon, and as I hap- pened to be in the hall, it was I who received it. He stiffened when he saw me, it being our first encounter since the other night. “Mr. Bethel sent this,” he said briefly, and started to go. On the veranda he turned around. ‘Pretty dirty work the other night,” he said, watching me. ‘‘And I’m not forgetting + 4 ” Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 He waited, apparently expecting a reply. On receiving none he stood studying me for a moment. Then he smiled his sneering smile. “T’m not afraid, you know,” he said. “TI can take care of myself. I’m not worrying.” I have learned today that he is leaving Mr. Bethel, and has gone to the city to look for a position. The boy puzzles me. Here I am, more or less a specialist in boys; but here is a new type. He is, one would say, almost too weak to be vicious. But nature apparently gives to these otherwise defenseless creatures of hers a sort of low cunring with which to protect them- selves. He has that cunning. : He is not in love with Edith, I think. He is interested in her as the only young and feminine creature within his present milieu; for the same reason he hates Halliday, quite apart from the other night, as representing what he is not and would like to be. At the same time, he hates the world because he feels himself in- capable of coping with it. But just how far does he carry this secret longing of his to escape his own inferiority? Can he make his possible dream of being a master criminal come true? I think not .. . Other things go on much as_ before. Greenough, after three days of no further dis- coveries, has gone again. The situation at the main house the other night has, thank God, not reached the press. Our lovers move about their ordinary duties with an eye out, as one may say, each for the other. Vague as the future is, they have each other, and only this morning I saw Edith with a basket of mending, from which looked forth what greatly resembled a masculine under- garment in need of buttons. Shades of twenty years ago, when each sex politely assumed that the other went undergarmentless! They cannot turn the clock on. But there are times when there is a sort of despair in Halliday’s face, and sometimes I see Edith sitting alone, her hands folded, looking three or four years ahead with a sort of tragic patience. So much, she seems to think, may happen in three or four years. And the reward, on which she had so blithely counted, seems as far away as ever. As far away as her dreams of earning a fortune with her pen. She has had another rejection or two, and the heart has gone out of her. But she has had her moment. Mail still continues to come in. Which reminds me that she received a curious letter yesterday. Be- cause it may be construed to have a bearing on our situation, I record it here, but as a matter of fact, one must make certain allow- ances; Edith’s article used my name in full, and a small amount of investigation by the professional mediumistic underground would supply some of the remainder. The Jane, for example, is quite easily accounted for. But the remainder leaves me considerably puzzled. The boat, for instance. And that strange condition of Mr. at the end, a heart which is normal apparently failing him, so that he would have fallen had he not been caught. For all the world as though —but I must pull myself together. The letter from Salem was not authentic; why should I believe this? Evanston, Illinois. August 12, 1922. Dear Madam: I have read with great interest your account of the strange occurrence at the lighthouse at Robinson’s Point, and would like to tell you of something which occurred here that same night and, al- lowing for the difference in time, at about the same hour. I am not a spiritualist, but following a small dinner here, it was suggested that we try table levitation, and against my husband’s protests, this was arranged for. My husband, I may say, is not psychic in any way, and was greatly bored with the proceeding. We were not surprised, therefore, when after sitting in darkness for ten minutes or so, he fell asleep. I tried to rouse him but was unable to, when the opinion was given that he was in a trance state. As none of us were familiar with that condition, and as he began to groan heavily, I was greatly alarmed. There was a doctor in the party, however, and on his saying that his pulse was all right, we sat quiet and waited. He then said “Jane, Jane’’ in an ago- nized voice, and as my name is not Jane there was some amusement, especially when he added: “She is asleep. I cannot rouse her.” Almost immediately after that, however, he said “‘Robinson’s Point,” and something about a boat there. (We think now that the allusion may have been to the lighthouse you mention.) After that he was quiet for a time and I begged to be allowed to waken him, but just as we had turned on the lights again he got up, with his eyes still closed, and leaning over the table, seemed to be star- ing at the gentleman across from him. ' (A Mr. Lewis, a very ‘nice man, with whom my husband plays golf a great deal.) “T have not changed my attitude,” he said, in a really terrible voice. ‘I repudiate you and all your works. I am not afraid of you. The thing is monstrous, and society should be warned against you.” I have forgotten to say that he had kept his right hand closed; as though he had something in it. He made a gesture as though he threw this something away, and then looked at Mr. Lewis again and said: “I have warned you; I shall tell the police.” He seemed to be in a state of great ex- citement and hardly able to breathe. He fell back into the chair, and our doctor friend reached over and felt his pulse. He says now that, although his heart is per- fectly sound, it had almost stopped. In- deed, he would have fallen had the doctor not caught him. In a short time he came around and seemed to think he had been asleep. He felt, however, very wretched the next day. This may not interest’ you, but the mention of Robinson’s Point in your article, and the similarity in time, has struck me as a strange coincidence. I am signing this in full, as an evidence of good faith, but I must ask you not to use it for publication. (Note: I have since secured the writer’s consent to the use of this letter, on condition that I withhold the signature) . . . What a joyous time little Pettingill would have with all this! Trotting about, a note-book in hand, adding up a glimpse here, a look there, until he had a complete panoramic view of all eternity. But the real question is, what would Cameron say? Not for him the amorous Hadly in the churchyard, nor a tea kettle moving about. His the coldly scientific method; the medium in a box, tied hand and foot; scales of weighing; cameras; note-books; witnesses. Not for him Pettingill’s wide view into eternity, but a narrow slit, guarded by little bells on strings, through which the poor ghost must creep if he come at all. I wonder what would happen if I could induce him to come here? AUGUST 17 One lives and learns. Mr. Bethel last night lifted a small corner of the mystery and showed me a few of the wheels within. With the net result that we are where we were before . . . He telephoned me at nine o’clock last night, the first time I have known him to use the telephone, and asked me to see him. d (Note: I have, I think, not mentioned in the Journal that the three buildings, the lodge, main house and boat-house, are on one tele- phone line. As this fact plays an important part later, it requires explanation.) : I found him alone in the library, but with He« line of j tic Wo

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136 SAVE with SAFETY DRUG STORE Vacation time OR dashing mermaids — a new SWIM-KAP. This gay triangle of marbelized rubber ties about your head like a Spanish bandanna. It goes on in a moment, and stays on in the breakers. Your Rexall Store is the place to buy SWIM-KAPs, pure gum AVIATOR DIVING CAPSand BEACHMILLINERY. OU can dash off a note, on the train, at the beach, if you have a LORD BALTI- MORE PORTFOLIO. You need no desk; for 50 sheets of fab- ric finished paper and 24 en- velopes to match are packed for you in a substantial and good looking blue writing case. Sold only at the Rexall Drug Stores. “There is one near you” THE UNITED DRUG COMPANY BOSTON | especially in the dining-room. 1 h | could account for, but they upset him still Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 certain changes from the last time I had seen him thus. The windows were closed and locked and the heavy curtains drawn across them; both the rear and front doors in the hall were bolted, and when I was finally obliged to ring, I could hear the old man dragging himself slowly into the hall and there stopping. “Who is it?” he called. “Porter.” I was on the terrace, and he opened that door for me, working laboriously with his single useful hand. Once inside, he left me to close it for myself and went back into the library. When I followed him it was to find him seated, with the revolver close at hand as before. He was a strange ‘figure as he sat there, but when he spoke it was as the querulous invalid of our first meeting. “T don’t like your house, Mr. Porter,’ he barked at me, without preliminary. “T don’t like it myself,” I admitted. “I am thinking of adding to the insurance and then setting a match to it. After you are out, of course,” I added. That brought a sort of dry chuckle from him, but the next moment he was back to the attack. He supposed he was responsible for the balance of the rent, but wasn’t I morally responsible if he couldn’t live there? I had known the stories about the house, and yet had let it to him. There was a question there. “There is no question,” I said. “I have no idea of holding you up for the balance.” It seemed to me, however, that he hardly heard me. He was listening again, as he had | before, and when he spoke it was on a totally | different matter. “You find me rather on guard,” he said. | “T am alone in the house.” “Where’s Gordon?” “He went into the city this morning. He has not come back.” ‘““You mean that he has gone for good?” “No. I wish to God he had.” There was fear in that, and I realized then that all the place showed fear. “T am afraid of him, Mr. Porter,’ he said. “T think he means to kill me.” “Nonsense!” “T wish it were.” “Can’t you get rid of him?” “Don’t you suppose I’ve tried?” His story, if story it can be called, broken into by his fits of listening, even once of send- ing me out to take a look around, is as follows: He had picked the boy up in the city, knowing little or nothing about him, and from the time they arrived he had not quite trusted him. After a time, too, he began to suspect that he was getting out of the house at night, and possibly using the car. “Not guilty in itself, perhaps,” he said, ‘‘but it left me alone, for one thing. And it is not a house in which one cares to be alone.” He glanced at me. “And for another—well, I needn’t tell you what has been going on.” But he was not, at first, really suspicious of these night excursions, save for his resentment at being left there, alone and helpless, with a killer loose in the neighborhood. He kept a watch, therefore, not so much over the boy as over the house and himself in his absence. “Tf he left a door or a window open,” he said, “I was at the mercy of anybody who chose to enter.” And this, he says, was the situation on the night of the twenty-sixth of July. He had gone to the boy’s room and found it empty, and had after some debate decided to work his way down-stairs and lock him out. “And myself in,” he said. It took him a long time to do it; he says too that he was very nervous; there were sounds, Nothing he further, and by the time he reached the kitchen le was in a bad way. He had to sit down there. It was while he was sitting there that he heard sounds on the porch, and somebody at the door-knob. From then on he says he was beyond coherent thinking, but he had no doubt in the world, because of the stealthiness of the movement, that the thing he had feared was happening. It seems never to have occurred to him that it was Gordon. He dragged himself to the stove, found the poker, and as the door opened struck with all his strength. “Tt was only when he made a leap for the bell that I knew what I had done.” He was stricken. He felt the boy’s pulse and knew he was not dead, but off somewhere near the sun-dial he heard some one moving. “A man never knows his cowardice,” he said wryly, “until he is put to the test. I have very little idea of what I did next; my only clear recollection is of finding myself in my room. I don’t remember getting there.” But—and this is the point—the boy sus- pected him. He was sure of it. There had been a complete change in his attitude since that time. And watching that change, he had felt that something underlay all this. In other words, gradually he had begun to associate the boy with the other crimes. “He is weak,” he said, ‘‘weak and vicious. And there is that curious mental state called identification; the weak see the crimes com- mitted by the strong, admire them, admire the criminal. Then they begin to ape them, as Gordon may have aped your sheep killer, finally even identifying himself with this unknown, adopting his symbol.” I listened carefully, trying to fit this new light on Gordon’s injury with the evidence as I knew it. True, the weak link in our chain against him had been that he himself had been attacked. And this was now solved in a per- fectly matter-of-fact manner. But there was some discrepancy there, something which eluded me until I had gone over in my mind the events of the night of the twenty-sixth. “But what about the man the boy saw enter by the gun-room window?” “Pure invention, I feel certain. Had he accused me he knew the matter of his night excursions would come out. That was the last thing he wanted.” It was my next remark, however, which has left us just where we were before. “You haven’t said anything about the rope, Mr. Bethel. That has always ig “Rope!” he said slowly. ‘What rope?” ‘‘He was tied hand and foot when I found him.” He glanced at me, and then down at his help- less hand. ‘It’s a very long time since I have been able to tie a rope,” he said quietly. I remained with him until an hour or so after the last train from the city had arrived, but there was no sign of Gordon. I offered to remain for the night with him, but he de- clined. He would not go to bed and I left him there at last, his revolver within reach . . . Of that later talk there is one matter of real importance to record. The night young Gordon flung out of the house, the same night I saw the figure at the foot of the stairs, Annie Cochran had come to him before leaving with a key in her hand. “T thought you might like this, sir,” she said. “T find it fits Mr. Gordon’s door.” Then she had gone, and he went to the room and entered it. The knife and the rope were there, and he took them. “What was I to say that night, when the constable came down and reported nothing there? In ten minutes, or an hour, you were going to leave me here with him. He was watching me; he knew.” And I dare say he was right. No matter what statement had been made relative to the rope and the knife, there was no reason for Gordon’s arrest that night. In ten minutes, or an hour, they wouid have been left together, and who knows what might have happened? Avucust 18 Gordon came back early this morning. I invented an errand to the house soon after breakfast, but found that Mr. Bethel was still sleeping and that preparations for tomorrow’s departure were well under way. While Gordon was busy on the lower floor, Thomas and I made a tour of the house with Hear The At puebl play comn man dent the t seem. that lends has . Sout! a blo disco rims Tt loc anoti

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SE OO we” ae Se) Se. ee © —ew Dime ew TN "3 ” aw” O oO — yf 1e e re e ig re S CIhe The Peregrinations of the Pecks At one of the New Mevrican pueblos Jim finds an opportunity to play good Samaritan. With the common sense characteristic of a man who carries fire, life and acci- dent insurance, he started out on the trip with two spares. As there seems, however, to be small chance that he will need either, he gladly lends one to a fellow motorist who has spent an hour in the broiling Southwestern sun trying to repair a blown-out shoe, and who has just discovered that, fortunately, his rims are the same size as the Pecks’. It looks as though Jim were making another Kelly customer. Hearst's International- Cosmopolitan for July, 1025 REE, FLEAIB LE CORD pa J ee gesica: e HE construction of the Kelly Flexible Cord is differ- ent from that of any other tire on the market. It is this difference—the building of the bead as an integral part of the tire instead of as a separate unit fastened in —-that for the first time makes possible a tire that is both rugged and flexible. The ruggedness means mileage. The flexibility means easy riding. That is why the Flexible Cord is by far the best tire Kelly has ever built. KELLY~SPRINGFIELD TIRES

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138 Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Delicious and Refreshing THE COCA-COLA COMPANY, ATLANTA, GA. Millions say it has the finest flavor they ever tasted ~ This and all other descriptions mean the same thing~ that it is “delicious and refreshing” RE-FRESH YOURSELF/ FIVE CENTS. tS _7RE PRICE a view to closing it. I have instructed him to paint and put up the window boards which close the windows on the lower floor; I shall know no peace until the place is sealed and left to its demons or its ghosts. But I took advantage of my legitimate presence on the upper floor *to examine the locked closet in which I had stored the red lamp. It is still there, and apparently has not been disturbed . . Halliday today adv ised for me a period of masterly inactivity. Not that he calls it so, but that is what he means. “T have an idea, Skipper,” he said, “that this calling Greenough off the case was sheer bluff. Every move he made was being watched, and unless I miss my guess you'll find he’s at Bass Cove, or some place near-by, under an- other name. I thought I saw his car a night Or sO ago.’ What I finally gathered is that Halliday wants to eliminate me from the case for my own sake. “Just now,” he said, “y9 ou are sitting very pretty. But one more bit ‘of bad luck and he’s ready to jump.’ Although he smiled, I have an idea that he is deadly serious; that he knows Greenough is not far away, and that for some unknown reason he expects another bit of bad luck. His face is thin and haggard these days, and from the fact that he sleeps a great deal in the day- time, I am inclined to think that he sleeps very little at night. Between him and Edith, too, I surmise some sort of mysterious understanding. At the same time, there is a noticeable absence of those three-angled conferences in which, some little time ago, we were free to air our various theories. Willy nilly, I am consigned to innocuous desuetude. Hayward started yesterday on his vacation. AUGUST 20 Four a.m Mr. Bethel was murdered be- tween eleven o’clock and midnight last night. Gordon has escaped . . Seven A.M. Jane is at last asleep, and I have had some coffee. Perhaps if I record the evens of the night it will quiet me. After all, one cannot forget such things; the only pos- sible course is to bring them to the surface, to face them. But I will not face that room. Murder. The very word is evil. But no one has ever known how evil until he has seen it. Such things cannot be written; they should not be seen. They should not be. We have had this murder. We have gone over inch by inch the scene of it. We have been spared no shock; the evidence of the struggle is on the walls, the floor, the furniture; we have the very knife with which it was com- mitted. We have even gone further than that. We have followed it outside, along the drive to the garage, and from there by the car to the salt marsh beyond Robinson’s Point. And yet, according to Halliday, until we have gone stil! further, we have had no murder, according to the law. Ever since daylight, I have been struggling to see the justice of a law where, when Gordon is found—and Greenough believes he will be found—we cannot convict him unless we also find that bit of old flesh and blood and bone which was once Simon Bethel. Is it only necessary, to escape justice, that a criminal artfully dispose of his crime? And by how narrow a margin he did escape it; a matter of minutes. Between my calling Halliday on the telephone and my meeting him at the terrace, perhaps even between that and our entrance into that wrecked room. A matter of minutes. In one thing only did he make an error, and even that may not have been an error. He may coolly have abandoned his suitcase, packed and hidden in the shrubbery; may have stood there a second or so, considering it, and then decided to let it lie. The most grievous thing to me is that I should have given him the warning. And the most terrible picture I have is that, when I

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ut er ut 1- it iy y — wert IB TIQ eo — DOD. © called Halliday, he stood listening in at the telephone, craftily calculating: “Can I make it? Can I not?” With that behind him. . . Crafty. As old in crime as crime is old, for all his youth. Out on the bay disposing of his horrible freight, and watching the lanterns as they searched for the boat; seeing them scatter, looking for other boats with which to follow him, and then quietly heading back into the creek again, and escaping through the wood. Crafty beyond words. AUGUST 21 The excitement is still intense. I have hardly seen Halliday since our trouble; he is working with the police, of whom a number have come to assist Greenough. Curious crowds stand outside our gates, which we have been obliged to close and lock. A few of the more adventurous, gaining admission by the lane, are turned back there by guards who are on duty day and night. Thomas, standing at the gate, has orders to admit only the detectives and duly accredited members of the press. On the bay we have once more the familiar | crowd of searching boats. Off the Point drag- ging has been going on, but with no result. Owing to the fact that no guards were placed by the boat, a large portion of it has already been taken away by morbid individuals who will place their trophies, I dare say, on tables or mantelpieces, and gloat over them. And so far, nothing. Nothing, that is, which leads to Gordon’s apprehension. From the time he turned back in the boat and landing, made his escape into the woods above Robinson’s Point, he dis- appeared entirely. Here and there a clue has turned up, only to end in disappointment. Greenough believes that he cannot escape the police drag-net, but Iam not so sure . . . Although almost forty-eight hours have - passed Jane has not yet opened up the subject of the telephone, and because of her morbid reserve on such matters, I have not told the lice. Asked how I had happened to be at the telephone and thus receive the alarm, I have replied that the bell rang, that I went to the instrument, and was immediately aware that one of the receivers was down, either at Halliday’s or at the main house; that I heard a crash over the wire, followed by a second and nearer one, and after that a silence. That following that I heard, near the receiver, the sobbing breath of exhaustion, and that im- mediately after that the receiver went up, and I called Halliday frantically. And that, on his replying, I told him my suspicion that some- thing was wrong at the main house, and to meet me there at once. But there is a discrepancy here-which may cause me trouble if they come back to it. A telephone such as ours does not ring if one of the receivers is down. And the plain fact is that our telephone did not ring that night. As I have not yet recorded the events of that tragic evening in their sequence, I shall do so. Halliday had dined with us, and had been | more like himself than for some time past. The news that the house was to be given up had seemed to relieve him, for some strange reason, and I remember he said something which puzzled me at the time. “After all,” he said, “we can’t undo what has been done. And it may be the end.” After dinner he and Edith sat on the veranda and going to lower a shade, I saw that she was holding a match while he drew something on abit of paper. But the match went out almost at once, and I would have thought no more of it, had I not heard Edith say: “And the cabinet was there?” “Tn the corner,” he replied. I am no eavesdropper, so I drew the shade and turned away. He left at something after ten, and Edith joined us. She was very quiet, and sat watch- ing me play solitaire while Jane sewed. At half past ten or thereabouts, Jane suddenly said: ‘The telephone is ringing.’ Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 to let this dirt/remain i like edges a ménace to ease germs your home—its glass- life; its myriads of dis- ith The Hoover rugs are kept beaten, suctioned immaculately clean. Choose ur Authorized Hoover Dealer will deliver er complet¢ with dusting tools upon pay- ment of only $6.25 down. he HOOVER It BEATS:-.as it Sweeps as it Cleans *TO PROVE RUGS NEED BEATING: Turn over a corner of a rug; with the handle of an ordinary table-knife, or something of equal weight, give the under or warp side 15 to 25 sharp taps and watch the dirt dance out from the nap depths onto a piece of paper. Feel the destructive character of this grit. This is the dirt your pres- ent cleaning methods have missed, and that beating has dislodged. Correct use of The Hoover causes this embedded dirt to be vibrated to the surface by the rapid, gentle ~ of the Hoover brush, as powerful suction lifts the rug from the floor and draws all the beaten-out, swept-up dirt into the dust-tight bag HOOVER COMPANY, NORTH CANTON, The oldest and largest maker of electric cleaners The Hoover is also made in Canada, at Hamilton, Ontario THE OHIO

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140 Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 comes without them.” cause someone to praise. quarters you wi cars. INIA NA AAA ARAAAARAARAAAAAARAAARARA RAR AAA, “TI never hire anyone because of recommendations,” said Joseph Pulitzer, “but I am suspicious of the person who Possibly you never bought a particular make of tire be- happened to speak well of it, but you would be suspicious of a tire that no one ever seemed It would interest you in this connection to keep an ear open for comments on Mohawk. We know what you will hear because we know what Mohawks do. And if ‘you should happen to make inquiry in the proper discover this: Bus almost unanimous in conceding first place to the famous Mohawk Flat Tread Cord—available, too, for passenger This is praise from Caesar, for these men enter their mileage on books—and they can’t pick their boulevards. ine operators are MOHAWKS AA Go Farther. / THE MOHAWK RUBBER COMPANY , AKRON , OHIO NA? 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Lake St., Chicago THE CHICAGO DAILY NEWS School and College Bureau OFFERS YOU ITS SPECIALIZED SERVICES IN CHOOSING A SCHOOL Last year the School and College Bureau of The Chicago Daily News saved many Busy parents and questioning boys and girls both time and worry by sending them prompt, reliable information about just the kind of school they wanted—personal requirements as to location and tuition charges being considered in each individual case. Again this year many young people will be perplexed by the problem of finding the right school. Why not let us help you? The Chicago Daily News maintains this service absolutely free of charge to you. No need to hurriedly select a school on mere hearsay when expert advice can be obtained by telephoning, writing, or calling for a personal interview at THE CHICAGO DAILY NEWS School and College Bureau Dept. C. 15 N. Wells St., Chicago, Illinois ‘escape, by calling Halliday. To take orders for the famous Blancke | Both Edith and I looked up in amazement; | the instrument was in the small hall, not ten | feet from where I sat; it would have been im- | possible for it to ring without our hearing it, | and we had heard nothing. “You’ve been asleep, Jane!’ Edith accused her. But I glanced at her, and I remember now that she was oddly relaxed; her face looked white and her eyes were slightly fixed. “It is ringing,” she said thickly. And that is how I happened to be at the telephone that night. And how, too, I gave the alarm which enabled the murderer to “Get your re- volver and meet me at the main house,” I said. “There’s something wrong there.” I know now that had I not rung the tele- phone, had I gone for Halliday instead, we would have caught the criminal. But to ring the one house was to ring the other; he may still have been standing there gasping. He had, for all he knew up to that time, the rest of the night in which to finish his deadly work; to dispose of the body, to gather up his suitcase, waiting outside, and get away. But I called Halliday, and he listened. He knew then that instead of hours he had only minutes. He must have worked fast in that ghastly shambles of a room; the car was prob- ably already out in the lane. He may even have stood there at the corner of the lane, the engine turning over quietly, and watched Halliday running up toward the house. And perhaps he laughed that secret laugh of his. Then—he simply got into the car and drove away. Cool and crafty to the last. No body, no murder. He made for the boat. He left behind him only two real clues— the knife, which Annie Cochran identifies as one taken from the kitchen, and his packed suitcase. Not intentional, this last. He must have needed clean linen. And certainly that diary of his, in cipher—he would not want that in the hands of the police. But what would the diary matter if he himself escaped? ‘ AUGUST 22 As time goes on the case is complicated with the eagerness of all sorts of people to bring in extraneous circumstances which they consider important. For instance, Livingstone’s butler, the one who bought the knife in Oakville and caused so much excitement by so doing, has been over to get a description of Gordon, preserving an air of mystery which under other circumstances would be vastly entertaining. Another story concerns a middle-aged man |of highly respectable appearance and of a . Makes Fords run on 94% air. ; / pg otal | ea , square and heavy build, who was seen walking ps Rrra ii oncight because saree $100 every | uncertainly along the main road near the r Uber fs LICENSE. Experience not necessary tosell this |_ivingstone place at one A. M. the night of the ness; dud make $280 to $8000 a month promt. z . ie murder. A passing car, seeing his state, stopped and asked if he was in trouble. He replied that he had been struck by a car an hour or so before, and had been lying by the road ever since. His condition bore this out, as he was stained with blood and dirt. He accepted the offer of a lift, and was left at the | railroad station at Martin’s Ferry to catch the | express there for the city. Of clues of other and lesser sorts there has been almost an embarrassment. Both the library and that portion of the hall near the telephone have furnished finger-prints. But as Greenough says: “Finger-prints do not dis- cover criminals; they identify them.” Nevertheless, great pains have been taken to preserve them. On the white marble mantel a very distinct imprint in blood was photo- graphed without difficulty; others, less clear, were dusted with black powder before the | camera was used. Detailed pictures were made | of the library and hall, before any attempt to put them back to order was permitted, and | these prints have been enlarged and carefully studied. One of them with a strange result. Greenough, handing it to me today, said: _ | “This print is defective. You can keep it | if you care to.” ; | But I wonder if it zs defective. There is ‘what Greenough calls a light streak in the Hea lower tion tc of a fe faint | [ha One violen: Bethel he evi have | search not ye One on wi Annie script hvrary house manus locatec But of any interes Larkin disclaii “An mine. viction and hi terrace Halli ough’s it went “Of a case have sc what t Bethel some t the boy gun-ro¢ finds tl in the | hand t Gordor at least

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Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 14] lower corner, but it requires very little imagina- | tion to give to this misty outline the semblance | of a form, and to the lower portion of it the faint but recognizable appearance of brocade. I have said nothing. WhatcanIsay? .. . One thing which puzzles the police is the violence of the battle; it seems incredible that Bethel could have made the fight for life which he evidently did. At the same time, they have two problems to solve which repeated searching of the house and wide publicity have | not yet answered. One is the disappearance of the manuscript on which Bethel had worked all summer. Annie Cochran has testified that this manu- script was kept locked in a drawer in the hvrary desk; when Halliday and I entered the house this drawer was standing open and the manuscript was missing. It has not yet been located. But perhaps the most surprising is the failure of any friend or relative of Simon Bethel to interest himself in the case. Cameron’s note to Larkin before Bethel rented the house expressly disclaims any previous knowledge of him. “Here is a possible tenant for Mr. Porter’s house,” he wrote, ‘of which he spoke to me some time ago. I have no acquaintance with Mr. Bethel, save that he called on me a day or so ago, in reference to a statement in a book of mine. I imagine, however, that he would be a quiet and not troublesome tenant.” Halliday brought up this curious situation yesterday, in one of the rare moments he has given us since the murder. “Has it occurred to you, Skipper,” he said, “that it is strange that no one belonging to Mr. Bethel has turned up?” “T dare say a man can outlive most of his contemporaries and most of his friends.” “He wasn’t as old as all that.” And he asked, apparently irrelevantly, a moment later: “The two evenings you saw him and talked to him, how did he impress you? I mean, his state of mind?” “The last time, of course, he was frankly frightened. He said as much.” “And before that?” “He didn’t say so, but he was more or less on guard. He had his revolver. Of course, those were rather parlous times.” As a matter of fact, the case is anything but a clear one against Gordon, as it develops. Greenough has been, all along, as convinced of Gordon’s guilt as he had previously been of mine. But Benchley is more open to con- viction, and a conversation between Halliday and him this morning, on the lawn near the terrace, is still running in my mind. Halliday had been protesting against Green- ough’s method of “following a single idea until it went up a blind alley and died there.” “Of course,” he said quietly, ““you can make a case against Gordon; it’s all here. But you’ll have something left over that you won’t know what to do with. We know that it was Mr. Bethel who hit Gordon and knocked him out some time ago, but who tied him? Where’s the boy’s own story about seeing a man at the gun-room window? Mr. Porter here later on finds that same window open, and sees a man in the lower hall. Who was that? The same hand tied the boy that tied Carroway, and Gordon hadn’t even seen this place at that time. What are you going to do with that?” “Then where’s Gordon now?” Benchley asked, practically enough. “T don’t know. Dead, maybe.” Benchley stood thinking. “T think I get the idea,” he said. “The fight, you think, was between Mr. Bethel and this unknown of yours; the boy either saw it and got mixed up in it, or knew he’d be suspected and beat it. Is that it?” “Well, I would say that a man about to com- mit such a crime doesn’t pack his suitcase with the idea of escaping with it.” A thought which, I admit, had never oc- curred to me until that moment. As a result of this conversation, Benchley has advanced a theory of his own which accounts at least for the failure of any relatives to make | FACTS ABOUT A FAMOUS FAMILY Above is a map of General Motors private “proving ground,” which occupies many hun- dred acres in the rolling country near Detroit. The sketch is from a photograph of one of the test roads, A great "proving ground’ On a large tract in Michigan, General Motors has reproduced the roads of the world. Every sort of road—with every sort of curve and grade—on which its motor cars and trucks are called upon to travel. There a resident staff of engineers tests every General Motors product in order toknow that it is right in every way. The road tests involve endurance, speed, acceleration, fuel economy, hill climbing, braking, cooling and riding qualities. This common“proving ground” symbolizes General Motors—a family of many compa- nies, each contributing to the others and benefiting from their combined strength. GENERAL MOTORS Buick - Capittac + CHEVROLET - OAKLAND OtpsMositeE * GMC Trucks General Motors cars, trucks and Delco-Light products may be purchased on the GMAC Payment Plan. Insurance service furnished by General Exchange Corporation.

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142 inquiry. This is that the old man was in hiding under an assumed name; hiding from some implacable enemy who had finally caught up with him. How he reconciles this with the Carroway murder and the disappearance of Maggie Morrison I do not know, but certain facts seem to bear out this idea. He was, in one sense, a man of mystery. His accounts were paid in cash; the automobile in which he ar- rived had been bought at second-hand a few days before by the secretary and in the same manner. And all identifying marks had been carefully removed from his clothing. In addition to all this, there is the puzzling report on the knife itself. Examination under the microscope shows fibers of linen as well as fragments of cellular tissue. But it also reveals minute particles of tobacco leaf, showing it had gone through a pocket. But Mr. Bethel was not a smoker. At some one time, then, Bethel clearly se- cured the knife and wounded his assailant. Not seriously, evidently, since after that he was able to do what he did do, but sufficiently to turn the minds of the police toward the man who claimed to have been struck by an automobile. This clue, however, has developed nothing. The night was dark, and his rescuers have no description of him, save of a heavy-set figure and a dazed manner of speech. They carried ‘him to Martin’s Ferry, but the conductor of the night express remembers carrying no such passenger . Greenough today showed me Gordon’s diary, rescued from the suitcase. It has at some time been dropped into water, and certain pages are not legible. If indeed that word may be used where nothing is legible; where each page presents such jumbles of large and small letters as the following sentence, which I have copied as a matter of interest: “tm g.K. GTRgg UnMT aot LmGT MotrT.” The record is not a daily one, but apparently was used for jotting down odd thoughts or ideas. It continues, however, at intervals, for the entire period of his stay at Twin Hollows, the last entry having been made on August seventeenth. Certain entries are neat and methodical. The one on July twenty-seventh, however, after his injury, is by hand, and shows certain erasures and changes. Once or twice in August the record is long, covering more than a page, while the July entries are all brief. On the last page, however, and without comment, he has drawn in, rather carefully, a small circle enclosing a triangle. Greenough, while attaching a certain interest to it, has not yet sent it to be deciphered by the code experts of his department. As a matter of fact, I suspect him of holding it out, with the idea of being able to claim the reward if he finds Gordon. Which reward, by the way, now stands at ten thousand dollars. AUGUST 23 Halliday saw a red light in the house the night Bethel.was killed. He has just told me. He ran out, after I telephoned him, and from the foot of the lawn he saw it. It was gone almost at once. He has asked me to experiment with him tonight, using the lamp from the attic closet. I have given him the keys. Apparently what he wishes to discover is the approximate location of such a light. I have no idea of his purpose .. I understand that the guards who have been watching the house at night have been with- drawn, ‘and that hereafter only such watch will be kept as will suffice to keep away the curious crowds in daylight hours. Today Annie Cochran and Thomas have been putting the house in order, preparatory to its final closing. I shall never open it again. Thomas has already painted the window boards Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 and put some of them in place. Let us pray that they keep inside what should be inside, and outside what should be out! AUGUST 24 “The strings of small bells, fastened across the closed and shuttered windows, frequently vibrated as though a hand had been drawn across them.” (From “Eugenia Riggs and Her Phenomena.’’) Any coherent record of our last night’s ex- periment is difficult today; not only do last night’s alarms always seem absurd in today’s sunshine, but I am not at all certain now that I did not build up, out of my recent reading and what I knew about the house, a bugaboo of my own. And yet—what a night! A man is a fool who, preparing to spend a night in a haunted house, where a terrible crime has been recently committed, reads during the early evening the idiotic imaginings which other men have conjured out of their own disordered fancies. Last night I must needs pick up a book which should be suppressed, or sold only to large ladies of a lymphatic type, to read with a box of caramels. And with it fill myself with elementals, hideous masses of matter given temporary life and strange forms; demons, summoned by the diabolical.rites of the Black Mass; and ghosts of foul crimes come to seek revenge on their slayers! Even before I started, the untimely ringing of Clara’s alarm clock up-stairs set my nerves to jangling. And there was also a certain psychological preparation for me in the very steps I was obliged to take in order to get out of the house. For a man of my age to put on his pajama coat, and retire into his bed other- wise fully dressed, was an act of deception nerve-racking enough in itself. But when Jane came in after I had retired, tardily re- membering a missing button, and demanded the shirt I was still wearing, I broke into a cold sweat. It was with difficulty that I got her away, shirtless, and settled down to wait until the house was quiet . . Halliday had opened the house, and the red lamp was already in the den. Owing to the fact that the windows were boarded from the outside, we had no scruples about lighting it; but although it was better than complete dark- ness it added very little to the general gaiety. Halliday was quiet and somewhat strained, the house itself hot and airless, and with all outside sounds cut off, depressingly still. I lighted a match and glanced into the library; it was a ghost of a room, the floor bare, the furniture and pictures swathed in white. Only the prisms of the glass chandelier reflected the light and seemed, as it flickered, to be quietly in motion. Halliday had little to say. “T would like,” he explained, “to reproduce conditions as nearly as they were the night you saw the figure here.” He smiled. “I don’t suppose you really want to go up and stand at the head of that staircase, Skipper, but I’m going to ask you to just the same.” The question in his mind, he said, was this: I had said that, a second or so after the shot and the disappearance of the figure, the red light had died out in the den. If, as he be- lieved was possible, this glow came from the lamp up-stairs, brought down for some reason, or from a similar lamp, this required that the man I saw had time to go into the den, ex- tinguish the lamp and conceal it (since it wasn’t in evidence later on), get back to the library, and be ready to leave by the broken window before he, Halliday, had turned on the light. “Tt’s a matter of time,” he said. “I was by the terrace when I heard the shot. I figure it took me ten seconds to pick up the chair, run to the window and smash it.” It was nervous work going up the staircase, but I managed it. He stood below. I fired—theoretically—and he did what the figure had done; moved toward the door, still facing me, turned and went into the library. I heard him moving about and the light went out. Then in the darkness he ran into the library again, where he struck a match. “Twenty seconds,” he called. His voice trailed off; his shadow extended through the open doorway into the hall, and as I watched it it shows the condition of my nerves that it did not seem to be his shadow at all, but something quite different. For all the world like an old man in a dressing-gown. Then the match went out and I heard him coming out into the hall again. “Did you move a minute ago?” he asked. “Move!”’ I said. “I wouldn’t move for a million dollars. Strike a light.” “Funny,” he said. “I thought I heard something.” He groped his way back to the den, and the red lamp looked actually cheerful after the complete darkness. I heard him go into the library again and apparently stand there and listen, and very shortly after he reappeared and asked me to change places with him. “See how you can make it, Skipper,” he said. I came down rather more rapidly than I had gone up, and Halliday took my former position. I had never had any particular stomach for the business, and now my one idea was to get it over. I did as Halliday had done, moved to the library door, turned and then, more or less holding my breath, dived into the library and through it to the den. I brought up there, close to the red lamp, caught my foot in the cord and jerked it from the socket. Instantly we were in darkness again, and in absolute silence. Halliday, I believe, was still leaning over the stair-rail, waiting for me to complete the movement, and the sudden plunge into darkness had startled me more than I care to remember. But I do remember that in a sort of panic I got down on my knees to feel for the con- nection, and that at that moment, whether due to overstrained nerves or not I cannot say, I distinctly heard a soft movement in the library. Trying to analyze that movement today I find it difficult. It was as though the linen cover- ings in the library had been set in motion, a soft and quiet motion, like that perhaps of a woman with a fan, and above that the faint clink of the prisms on the chandelier, like the ringing of small bells. But whatever had caused it, it was dying away when I noticed it. As if somehow the extinction of the light had taken away its source of power. (Note: It is to be observed that we secured this phenomenon later, during the séances. As no explanation of it has ever been given, it remains a portion of that unsolved factor in our equation to which I have referred previously.) I knelt there, my face covered with a cold sweat, staring in the direction of the library door. I felt that if I looked away, if I were to lower my guard for an instant, something would come through that door. I was, in effect, holding it back with my eyes! And Halliday had made no sound. He too, I now know, was listening. This, as accurately as I can record it, was the situation last night when the next move came. The house was absolutely silent again. Halliday was up-stairs, and I was watching the door into the library, when the location of the sounds changed. Protected by my eyes in front, I was attacked from the rear, so to speak. At the window above and behind me, some- thing was trying to get in. I could hear its hands slide slimily over the wood of the shutter, and keep on that blind and dreadful groping, until finally some sort of hold was secured and the shutter was shaken. And with that every last ounce of my self- control left me, and I leaped into the hall as if I had been fired out of a gun. “Halliday!” I shouted. ‘Halliday!’ You will find that the Thing that scratched at the window has much to do with the solution of the murder mystery but not until Porter has gone through his most dramatic experience—in the August instalment Hee

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Hearst's International—-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 same number on the white page, to the name opposite. No. 5—Jim Croswell, end. “U-mm,” said Lalun, and she looked very much, as she sat there, like a woman who has had her own way all her life, who has done unconventional things all her life, who would dare, if she should happen to want anything very much, to do anything at all to get it. A | flame was in her. She looked terribly alive, young, irresistible. Though she held herself so still, she seemed charged with life, as when she danced for the multitudes.

Jim Croswell. Young Jim Croswell—All- American, captain of a great losing football team, one of those sporting idols about whom columns are written and who make up the chief topic of conversation wherever Americans or Englishmen are gathered together. He was the kind of a man whom other men called handsome. When a discussion arose as to the good looks of certain screen stars, other men always said: ‘‘Now, if you want my idea of a good-looking man, take Jim Croswell. That’s what I call a handsome man.” And the women, taking Jim Croswell opti- cally at least, after a few palpitating seconds, usually agreed. They could hardly help it. For he was tall and lean and bronzed, and his eyes were set very wide apart and they were quite shy for all that impression of strength he gave you. If you can remember the boy you loved at sixteen, he will be something like Jim Croswell. Usually, too, he was smiling, one of those shy, sweet smiles which upon the face of a handsome young man of twenty-four or there- abouts always make you think of your favorite dance tune, played softly, with the saxophone just showing through in bits. But on the night after the New Year’s Day | football game, he was not smiling. Anything but. Every once in a while he would all but burst into tears, and then he would say, “O Lord!” He would turn to the gang that gath- ered in the big supper room of the Huntingdon and say: “Well, fellows, never mind. It’s all in the day’s work and I bet they know they’ve been in a football game, anyway. If only I hadn’t taken the ball away from Swede on that second buck!” Or, “If only I’d tried a place kick instead of that last pass.” And then he would grin very gallantly, with the tears in his eyes, and say, “O Lord!” again. For you cannot expect the captain of a great football team that has just lost a great game upon which the eyes of the nation were cen- tered, and lost it by one touchdown at that, to be very hilarious about it. It was when he was feeling quite the lowest, and when his bruised and tired young body was beginning to ache insufferably, and when, having broken training after many months, he had toasted the winning team in champagne, as becarie a good loser, that he became con- scious of a lady standing before him. To Jim Croswell all women were ladies, so he made no distinction where Lalun Chang was concerned. He knew so little about women, having been very busy always, what with football and the Olympic games—and Virginia. There were a number of women in the big room, though the reunion had started out to be a stag. But little by little mothers and sisters and wives of the men who had played on teams of yesterday drifted in, consolingly, and were not denied. But this lady who stood directly in front of Jim Croswell was altogether different. So fair she looked, standing there smiling at him, in a gown of pale gold tissue that left her back and shoulders and arms and throat all bare, that he shut his eyes once, and then opened them, to be syre she would not disappear. He thought that he recognized her, but it seemed that his | brain must be playing him some dizzy trick.

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The La st Affair of La lun Cha ng (Continued from page 65) But she was very real. He caught some rich and wonderful perfume that poured from her fine pale skin. It was entirely new to him, that luscious, heady scent, and as a matter of fact very few women use it because it is so extraordinarily expensive. “You are so very tired?” said Lalun, pur- tingly, huskily, in that foreign, fascinating way she had with the English language. “But of course you must be so very tired. And you were so wonderful. I have never seen anyone so wonderful. I will tell you—let us slip away now, and go and sit quietly in my car and talk, and you can smoke a cigaret in peace. Shall we do that?” As she stood upon the step of the big, ex- pensive car, her eyes and her mouth were exactly level with his, for she was a little thing and he was so very tall. And suddenly, with- out warning, she kissed him. A kiss that held like a chord paining to be delivered into some divine ‘melody. The first of many kisses, that kiss. And now we come to Virginia. Two weeks later—two weeks and some days and hours over. “Virginia could have told you exactly how many. Virginia, on the window seat of her room, in the weather-beaten brown shingle sorority house that from its knoll faced out over the rolling, oak-covered campus. On the white bureau in a big silver frame was a picture of Jim Croswell. Virginia finished the last page of the letter —there were many pages, scrawled, blotted, agonized—and she folded them with a steady hand and put them back in the envelop, whose special delivery stamp had swung before her eyes a very flag of disaster an hour before. It had taken Virginia an hour to read that letter. The other girl, mending woolly stockings in a corner, watched her. In that little stream of sunshine from the bow window, it seemed to Martha that Virginia was like nothing so much as a radiant scarf worn in the helmet of a knight of fair repute. Which was nice of Martha, for Martha was what is known as a plain girl, and Virginia was the belle of the campus. But Martha had lived in that little room with Virginia for two and a half years, and she had for her the sort of love that men feel for their bunkies. Virginia laid the letter down. ‘Well,’ she said, and if you have ever known a girl like Virginia, you know how she said it, in that matter-of-fact, careless voice, “Jim isn’t coming back to college.” Martha let fall the woolly stocking. ‘Not to graduate?” she cried in amazement. “So he says,” replied Virginia. She went and stood before the small, none- too-perfect mirror of her bureau, combing out her short, thick, curly hair, her eyes carefully avoiding the picture in the silver frame. “But——” Martha had begun to cry. She cried easily, being a tender-hearted old thing, but even a stony heart might have wept before that little white, swaggering smile upon Virginia’s lovely face. “But, Virginia,” she said weakly, “what about you?” “Me?” Having combed her hair very care- fully until it lay as smooth and glossy as the coat of a red setter, Virginia destroyed its peace once more with a swift hand. ‘Oh, I dare say I shall do very well. I can graduate without Jim. And then—then I shall go home. There’s nothing much else to do after graduation.” “But you were to be married in June, you and Jim,” wailed Martha, ‘and I shall simply die if you don’t tell me what this is all about. Don’t look like that, Virginia.” “Very well, my dear,” said Virginia gently. She went back to the window seat, watching through the window the winding path bor- dered with marigolds along which Jim Croswell

Hea had be in love he says case, tl marriec stances these it about, Hollyw “His She 1 that hi Marthe 39 ip began woolly “Her Furti as she enough her fair mad, st today yesterd “Wel smart, about r Jim cou A mov someth Oral and try though her mii was not “Ves I'd do.’ “But turning is such it will thing i trailed one else Jim! ways. thing tc and of San Fre been m It was No mat from m fun to else in But 1 of then It ha it was trembli station, In hi throug] She lay thinkin realized membe man Ji them o had ma

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Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 145 had been wont to come to her. ‘Jim has fallen in love with a movie actress. Really in love, he says. And he rather thinks, that being the case, that it would be a mistake for us to be married in June. Probably, under the circum- stances, he’s right. It’s lucky Jim is one of these independently wealthy youths you read about, since he means to settle down in Hollywood. “His letter isn’t much—like Jim.” She tried to make out that it was a chuckle that had broken her words, just there. But Martha knew better. “A movie actress!” gasped Martha, and began wiping her kind brown eyes with the woolly stocking. ‘“But—who—Virginia?” “Her name, I believe, is Lalun Chang.” Furtively Martha remembered Lalun Chang as she had seen her upon the screen. And enough of the thing dawned upon her to make her faintly sick. Just a hint of what gorgeous, mad, strange hours separated Jim Croswell of today from the Jim Croswell of Virginia’s yesterdays. “Well,” said Martha slowly, “I’m not very smart, Virginia, and I don’t know anything about men, or life, or Freud. But I just know Jim couldn’t Jove that woman. The very idea! A movie actress. If I were you, I’d—do something.” “T suppose you want me to go down there and try to bring him back?” said Virginia, as though that was the very furthest thing from her mind, but Martha knew suddenly that it was not. “Yes,” said Martha, “that’s exactly what I'd do.” “But I couldn’t, could I?” said Virginia, turning her dove-gray eyes to Martha. ‘There is such a thing as pride, although what good it will be to you when you have lost every- thing in the world, I don’t know.” The voice trailed away. At last, “But if Jim loves some- one else Jim! Jim, who had loved her so dearly. Al- ways. As she had loved him. It was no small thing to be the belle and beauty of that campus, and of the old and rather exclusive circle of San Francisco in which she moved. There had been many other men who had loved Virginia. | It was her comradeship, they said, that did it. No matter what it was, from tennis to dancing, from morning until night, it was always more fun to do it with Virginia than with anyone else in the world. But there had never been any hope for any of them. It had been Jim, always, quite simply, with- out tricks or subterfuge. “He does not love some one else. You know he doesn’t,” said Martha. ‘And if you heard Jim had smallpox you’d go to him, wouldn’t you? And you’d go now. You wouldn’t let him get all—scarred and marked for life with it, would you? What’s pride? And when a man like Jim Croswell writes you a letter like that”’—her gaze shunned the poisonous thing —‘“‘he’s just like a man with some terrible disease. That’s all.” Virginia put both hands over her face for a moment. Then, “I wonder if I can get a berth on the Lark,” she said calmly, though it was plain enough to Martha that she was trembling all over. ‘Would you phone the station, dear?” In her berth that night, as the train sped through the darkness, Virginia lay sleepless. She lay very still, hands locked above her head, thinking. It was necessary for her, when she realized this thing that she was doing, to re- member with all her strength what manner of man Jim Croswell had always been. She told them over in her thoughts—those things that had made her love him. “T think,” said Virginia to herself, very solemnly, very gravely, “I think, my girl, that you are probably about a hundred to one shot.”’ | You see, even Virginia had heard a great deal said upon the theory that a good girl has no chance with the men nowadays. And it is not the nicest thing in the world ca : 4 tite ee 4 - & ge oy Be : . : ; “A = ‘ 1 ; XA we ee P eo ‘ a ed 3s Sr ee" HAT bright red column of the Boyce Moto-Meter today stands guard for more than five million motorists. Fifteen to twenty minutes before serious motor trouble can develop, it signals them to stop and investigate. It prevents burned out bearings, scored cylinders and overheated motors. It keeps your car out of the repair shop; conserves fuel and prolongs the life of your motor. The cost of a Boyce Moto-Meter on your radiator cap is much less than one unnecessary repair bill—not to mention the touch of beauty it adds to your car. Leading engineers here and abroad recommend it. A model for every car $350 t $1500 The MOTO-METER COMPANY, INC. Long Island City, N. Y. THE MOTO-METER COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD., Hamilton, Ontario Manufacturers of Industrial Thermometers and Boyce Moto-Meters exclusively OTO METEE TRADE MARK NEG The name ‘‘Moto-Meter’* is the registered trade mark and the exclusive property of this Company 66 our car deserves one’—too

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146 for a girl to lie in the night hours wondering what the man she loves is doing. Knowing that he is with a woman like Lalun Chang. He was in the big drawing-room, cluttered after Lalun’s fashion with this and that, in many colors. He waited, very tall and young in his dinner clothes. A little smile on his lips. From the stairs a maid said, “Will you come up, Mr. Croswell? Madame is late from the studio and she is not yet quite ready.” So Jim Croswell went up the stairs to Lalun Chang’s boudoir. Now there are no words in the world that can make new the thing that had happened to Jim Croswell. Lalun herself, with all her cleverness, could not even give it a particularly new setting. The half-lights. The scented air. The white bear rug. The heaps and heaps of cushions, on the floor, on the great bed, on the chaise longue. All as old as sin itself. But all new to Jim Croswell. It quickened a hot pulse in him, that low-lighted, perfumed room, with its silly, exotic cushions. And then Lalun herself. She came in, fresh from her bath, wrapped in some sort of pale gold chiffon, her hair tied down by a lace scarf. No woman ever lived who possessed as ° Lalun possessed that genius for expressing all the feminine things that men love. The ex- traordinary daintiness of her. There was no weapon, no trick of feminine allure that Lalun did not know—and not one that she scrupled to use. At sight of him, her lips parted a little. Something came into her face, very softly. It was that something that was puzzling Charles Hayden, that puzzled him later when they all sat down to dinner—Lalun, and Jim Croswell and half a dozen of those people whom a Lalun must always gather about her. For Lalun was a woman who liked an audience, even for her love affairs. Perhaps it was that hopeless love of his, quickening him, that made Charles Hayden yearn over Lalun that night. So soft and sweet she was. So full of childish gaiety. Her laugh flung up like confetti of a thousand colors. So eager to prostrate herself. So instantly trembling at the sound of the boy’s voice. Her eyes glowed at the miracle of the things he said. And she could no more resist touching him than she could resist breathing—her hands upon his arm, her lips brushing his hair, her feet straying toward him. “And so, Lalun,’” Charles Hayden said afterwards, when she sat at the piano, chords melting under her fingers, her eyes on Jim Croswell where he stood by the fire talking to the other men, “and so you’re in love again.” Her face darkened. ‘Not again,” she said hotly. “I hate you to say that ‘again.’ I am in love for the first time in my life. Oh, Charles —Charles—if you knew! I cannot tell you what he is like. The sweetness! The strength! So different frem all other men.” Her hands broke a chord in two and she ran over to Jim Croswell, fiercely, and clutched his coat, and pulled his head down for a swift kiss. And at that Lalun’s Greek chorus laughed. But Jim Croswell did not laugh. He flushed redly—with embarrassment. It had reminded him of something said that afternoon about Lalun Chang—by a man who had forced Jim Croswell to defend her very hotly, and to break forever with that man, who had been his friend. But then a man cannot enjoy a Lalun Chang without paying some sort of price for her wisdom. In the middle of the morning, Jim Croswell- answered the telephone in his hotel bedroom. “Hello,” said Jim Croswell. And his voice was not what the voice of a young man who has been captain of a great, though losing, football team should be in the middle of a very sunny morning. It was almost a haggard voice. “‘Jim—and how are you Jim Croswell’s eyes closed. 2 “Hello,” he said again. “I thought “i ‘“‘And you were quite right,” said the bright, Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 sweet, comradely voice. “But I said, how are you? J am very anxious to know, not having seen you for such a very long time. Are you well?” “T’m quite all right, thank you. Are you— here, in Hollywood?” “Well, I haven’t got as far as Hollywood— yet. Do you think they’d have me? I have been told that I photograph well, en profile. At present I’m staying with Geraldine. She has such a cunning apartment. So—bridal. But, not knowing that I was coming, she had a luncheon engagement, and to be very vulgar about it, she has left me flat. I wondered, Jimmy, if you’d care to come and have luncheon with me?” “Did you get my letter?” “Letter? Yes, dear, I got your letter. But —we could still have luncheon together, couldn’t we, since I am in town and very lonely, and we are such old friends?” She met him at the door. Mornings were very kind to Virginia. And she wore a little white silk pleated skirt, and a jumper of that shade of pink which you would have sworn that, with her hair, she simply could not wear. Over the simple little luncheon table, with its gay cloth, Virginia said, “Jimmy, I want you to come back to college.”” She tested the electric waffle iron, and then, very daintily, filled it from the yellow bowl beside her. And as he started to speak, she said, making a funny little face at him: “Waffles, Jimmy. I just thought you might like some home- made wafiles. Now—about college. You must graduate. For the sake of—the other fellows. You know what you’ve always meant to them, Jim. You know how they’ve kept you on a pedestal as a sort of—knight sans shame and sans reproach, or whatever it is. You stand, to them, for all that the dear old coll stands for—decency and honor and fair play. You’re the symbol. That’s why you’ve got to come back.” Deftly—she had such charming, strong, fragile hands, Virginia—she removed the wafide and covered it with honey. “It’s silly not to,”’ she said, very reasonably. “Because after all—you don’t need to see any- thing whatsoever of me, if that’s what’s worrying you. And after all—it’s only a night’s ride to Los Angeles. And only a few more months until June.” Jim Croswell got up and went back into the friendly, sunny living-room. And when he had turned away and could no longer see, Virginia’s smile tore to shreds upon her face. “For God’s sake, Virginia ” he said. She followed him, making now no pretense about this thing that lay between them. Only, as their eyes met, he saw in the dove-gray ones how her spirit wept over him—over this thing that had happened to him. “Jim,” she said, quite gravely, “you don’t love Lalun Chang. You love me. And I can- not, cannot let you make such a mistake. Too many times people write their own wrong endings because they are too proud, or too stupid, to uncover the lies. I know you so well. When the end came, shame would keep you from me. But it shall not.” Her young shoulders were heaving, but otherwise she was like a still flame. “Do you know why I cannot compete with Lalun Chang?” said Virginia surprisingly. “Because I will not. Because I do not choose to. Could I not do all the things she does? Could I not use my body, as well as she uses hers, to torment and to dazzle?” He looked at her, white-angry, shocked. “But I have not. I will not. The man who loves me must love me first and wait for those kisses that in my woman’s soul I know I can give as well as Lalun Chang or any other woman, to the man I love. “But I am not a bargain counter, Jimmy. I don’t stack my wares on the counter and stick up flaring scarlet signs. I haven’t a lot of left-over shopworn emotions to sell. I haven’t sold already my real treasures for a— diamond, or a poem, or a new sensation. “But I dare say I could. “Why are you men fooled like that? Can she give you anything I won’t give you, once I belong to you?” Arrogantly she said it, this Virginia who had always been so humble as to her beauty, And in her eyes was the wise, deep knowledge of all mother-women for their men, be they sons or lovers. “T know,” she said, “I know. Sometimes you get tired of being reasonable and sensible and only buying—values. And you go on a mad spree, and you buy a lot of tinsel junk, and afterwards it all has to be burned up in the furnace. Only—remember this, Jimmy. Take me with you—on your spree. Because, loving you, loving you madly, as I do, I can sell you tinsel junk too—only it will be new tinsel.” His eyes were on her face desperately. And slowly a deep, terrible blush, that began just above the peach-pink jumper, began to gush over her face, and her lips trembled, and she could not keep her lids from drooping over her dove-gray eyes. “Virginia!” cried Jim Croswell. A great cry, torn from him, a cry that had been waiting in him, perhaps, all the years he had known Virginia. And when he kissed her, he had forgotten Lalun Chang. But this is Lalun Chang’s story. In spite of Virginia, it is Lalun’s story. And so it must end where it began. In that sitting-room of Lalun’s dressing bungalow. Only perhaps we need not look too long upon Lalun, there on the floor, her fingers stretched to touch the feet of the man who had just told her good-by. For Lalun was so much more Lalun, so much more beautiful, when she stood upright, danc- ing, burning a flame toentice the moth of love. “Don’t leave me,” said Lalun_ brokenly. “Don’t leave me. I love you—I have never loved anyone but you.” Once she came to her knees, her arms reached out, up to him, and her face that was wrecked with weeping looked up almost sightlessly at him, so blind was she with her tears. “Why?” she cried, and again, “Why?” But, in his silence, she knew. The word shopworn was not in her English vocabulary, but she knew. She had never seen Virginia, but she knew. Perhaps that was her penalty. Charles Hayden found her there much later. Like a trampled flower. She was not a woman of restraint, Lalun. ““My poor dear!”’ he said achingly. Like a child she leaned against him, tearless now, bewildered, helpless. “Well,” she said, and she tried to say it as Lalun Chang had been wont to say things, “everybody would be most happy to see me now, I guess. I get mine, eh? For what I have done, I suppose. I try to make love my slave, and—poof—he turn around and kill me. One man, he make me pay for all the others— and it is because of those others I cannot have him. You and——” The names were bitter, each one whipped like a lash across her shoulders, but she said them. “T shall never be—out of love any more, Charles,”’ she said, one little hand creeping out weakly toward the door through which Jim Croswell had passed. “Is not that funny? I do not need to worry now. I shall always— be in love, now. And it is breaking my heart. It is breaking my heart.” And if they could have seen her then, her insolent black head bowed upon his knees, I do not think even the wives of Hollywood could have gloated much. For a woman like Lalun may, in the end, I suppose, love as well as another woman. Had she seen her then, even the woman for whom this story was written, the woman whose head Lalun bowed in the dust, she must have felt just a little sorry that Lalun, like other women, could not have her cake and eat it too. Hea presider prietor by Ame of note: these s! Pagenst After an ivory} tips of and cer have be the obje Spanish She de: forest; 1 the tre Curious about. describe that api the elep trunk ¢ crushing pressive A pie None it a mom the ma rested s! Sefiora’s tips of | ‘Do Pagenst “Not liquid te “As § smell or “Yes’ “Whe “Not “Wha “Tt is “Why “Beca “Do j “Tt is “Wha “Betv “Do “Man “Wha “The “Wha This | the usu in front 0. A gentl visicn. brow; hi Now he turns t The pec why. ] Now for Mr. “T he confusic There is toward the pap takes a paper ir it agai overboa The | to trem! face wa: had bee Wher scribed been a of flam against conclud stateme I ca seemed perienc:

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Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Ghosts I Could Not Catch Continued from page o7) president, Madero; Thomas Gore, the pro- prietor of the Hotel Genéve, largely occupied by Americans; Doctor Monjaras, a physician of note; and others of like calibre. Some of these sittings were in the office of Doctor Pagenstecher in 5, Avenida Hombres Ilustres. After the Mexican lady had been hypnotized, an ivory paper-cutter was placed between the tips of her rigid fingers. She could not see it and certainly a normal sense of touch would have betrayed little about the composition of the object. Immediately she began to recite in Spanish the things she was seeing as in a vision. She described elephants moving through a forest; negroes armed; monkeys chattering in the trees. ‘Then one of the elephants fell. Curiously, in this vision, the monkeys loitered about. The woman with terror in her voice described the antics of one of the monkeys that approached nearer and nearer to one of the elephants until it was seized in the flailing trunk of the dying beast and hurled with crushing force against a tree. That was im- pressive but not completely convincing. A piece of paper was placed in her hands. None in the room had ever read it. Only a moment before it had been taken from the many-sealed envelop in which it had rested since it had been sent to Mexico. The Sefiora’s eyes were closed. Merely the stiffened tips of her fingers touched the paper. “Do you feel anything?” asked Doctor Pagenstecher, speaking of course in Spanish. “Not yet.””. The woman’s reply was in a soft, liquid tone free from evidence of emotion. “As soon as you commence to see, hear, smell or feel anything, you will tell me?” “Ves”—faintly. “Where are you? Inaroom? In the open?” “Not yet. I do not know yet. I feel cool.” “What else do you feel?” “It is moving. I believe I am on a ship.” “Why do you believe so?” “Because I am seasick.” “Do you see anything?” “Tt is night.” “What hour is it?” “Between two and four in the morning.”’ “Do you see anything?” “Many people.” “What are the people doing?” “They are frightened.” “What is in front of you?” This was a formula question put because of the usual relative importance of what was seen in front of the medium. “Un senor,” responded the sleeping woman. A gentleman was in the foreground of her vision. ‘‘A very large scar is over his left eye- brow; he is rather stout, black hair, black eyes. Now he tears a leaf from a little book. He turns to write against the wall of the cabin. The people scream and weep. I do not know why. I hear an explosion.” Now her words were coming too fast almost for Mr. Gore to take them down. * “T hear commands in English; there is great confusion; people are putting on life-preservers. There is a rattle of shots. He that writes turns toward the sea. He turns and writes more on the paper. Now he rolls up his paper. He takes a bottle from his pocket. He puts the paper in the bottle and corks it by pounding it against the cabin wall. He throws it overboard.” The woman, whose right hand had begun to tremble violently, emitted loud cries and her face wes a mask of horror. A minute later she had been awakened. When she was somewhat composed she de- scribed more that she had seen. There had been a second explosion. Red and blue lines of flame were engraving signals of distress against the sky of the early dawn. The Sefiora concluded her graphic story with the simple Statement, “I sank with the ship.” I can testify that it was days before she Seemed fully recovered from her vicarious ex- Perience, before her palsied shaking ceased. What was this piece of paper that was placed in her hands? I was told then, and since then I have had time to investigate its origin. It had been taken from a bottle picked up at the Azores by fishermen, turned over to officials there and forwarded to a woman in Havana whose husband was a political exile. She had heard nothing from him after getting a letter telling of his plan to leave the United States for Europe. The details of that widow’s story, the es- tablished facts concerning the manuscript make up a thick tablet in the proceedings of the American Society for Psychical Research. I have not the space, nor-do I think that it is necessary for me to go further into details here, except to record a translation of the paper that inspired the vision. It read: The boat is foundering. Good-by, my Luisa. Take care of my children. See that they do not forget me. Your Ramon. Havana. May God protect you and me likewise. Good-by There were many other experiments with Sefiora Z. A bit of marble from Rome brought up a picture of the ruins of the forum; a piece of Chinese porcelain was placed between her finger tips and she described people with sharp- pointed straw hats on, naked to the waist, wearing trousers of white drilling, working about a furnace; and again with appropriate objects she described the interior of a Mexican silver mine. I may sum it all up by saying that when I. left Mexico I was persuaded that this Mexican woman, almost an invalid, was possessed of a supernormal power that I could not explain. I cannot explain it now. No more can I explain something that oc- cured in the lives of Laura E. Osgood of 17 Myrtle Avenue, Plainfield, New Jersey, and her foster-brother, Osgood Sewall, on a June day in 1918 while America was at war. All that I can say is that I sought by every means in my power to go deeply into the facts of an odd cir- cumstance, and having done so, I remained persuaded that I had investigated a rare type of collective visual hallucination. What super- normal energy caused these two sympathetic persons in widely separated places on the earth to believe they had seen an apparition of Miss Osgood’s father, dead for several years, I may not say. If I knew, I should possess the key to one of the most fascinating secrets of the universe. I shall not bother here with the affidavits of all concerned but simply tell as a narrative what seemingly happened. It was the latter part of a hot afternoon on June 25, 1918. Miss Osgood was resting on her bed, half dozing, perhaps, after reading “Over There with the Australians.” It was natural that her mind should be filled with remembered pictures of her foster-brother, the only representative of her family who was participating in the war. As she thought of him and longed for his safe return she believed she saw before her, her brother and her dead father. The vision lasted some seconds and as she watched them each completely absorbed in the joy of being with the other, she found herself saying aloud, “I’m here; I’m here; but you don’t see me.” She was as powerless to reach them as if she had been clothed with invisibility and her voice was no more than a soundless wish. She was deeply moved by the experience, for, naturally enough, she felt that it might have been a presentiment of something she hesitated to put into words. When her mother heard, however, she interpreted it as a foretelling of the death of the foster-son. The daughter kept alive a feeling that Osgood Sewall was alive and well. It was not until late August that they heard, and then it was a message from Norfolk, Virginia, saying his ship had landed and he would be home in a day or so. When he came home his mother and Miss Osgood and a married sister, Mrs. Grace Osgood Haff, wanted to hear all that had happened to him, wanted to share his ad- ventures, and on the porch of their home he told them what he had seen of the war. He had been one of the armed guard on a little lake steamer used to carry T. N. T. between Norfolk and our naval base in Scotland. On one of these trips the steamer met a submarine. He was not on deck at the time but heard the call and came into the open to see one of the ships of the convoy go down and the gray luster of a submarine’s back rise from the water. “That night,” the young seaman told his women-folks, “I had the most wonderful ex- perience of my life.” Sensing the importance of what he was about to say, his sister interrupted him to ask him when the experience occurred “Tt was June twenty-fifth at half past nine at night,” he replied. “I shall never forget that day as long as I live.” The sister asked him what the difference in time was between Plainfield, New Jersey, and the coast of Scotland. He told her it was about five hours, and added, “It would have been about four-thirty in the afternoon here.” ‘“‘And father came to you,”’ interjected Miss Osgood. “That is just what happened, but how did you know?” he said with amazement. “T was there but you did not see me,”’ was all that his sister could offer in explanation. The other sister was incredulous until the mother confirmed the story. As I said, I cannot explain that, but I am confident that none of these people would violate their sacred memories of their dead husband and father by telling anything but the absolute truth about such an occurrence. Who can explain it? In order to avoid the spiritistic hypothesis we would have to suppose that not only did the young seaman in a state of emotion have a pathological vision of his foster-father, but also that his emotion trans- mitted over some 5,000 miles of sea and land not simply his own image but that of his pathological fancy. It is a long story of my own three tremen- dously vivid dreams which were coincidental with after events, two of them in most com- plex fashion. And I blush to refer to them though pleading that I am not really responsible. I shall here describe only one, which was of seeing a woman about thirty years old who bore from a distance a warrant for her own execution. She said to me, “I do not fear to die, but while I am dying will you hold my hand?” It became dark, her hand clutched mine and I found that her head had been cut from her body, and felt with my hand the blood on her hair. Then came the most blood-curdling part of the gruesome scene. Her teeth opened and closed gently on my hand several times, giving me the awful feeling that the head was alive though severed from her body. The afternoon before that dream a woman in a demented state wandered from Manhattan to Long Island, where I lived. She was thirty years old. At midnight the night after the dream she lay down on the railroad track six miles from my home and her head was cut off as by an ax, unmutilated. Her name was Hand, paralleling the recurrence of a hand in the imagery of the dream. And most re- markable of all the paraljlels was the fact that she left a letter saying that her head would be living after it was cut off. My dream was told to two persons before these events occurred. There are other cases, other examples of the unexplained that I could tell you about, but it seems to me enough to say that my work as a scientific investigator of psychic phenomena has shown me that Shakespeare expresses volumes when one of his characters says, “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.”

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150 Avivo FO Seen ta r0e og urd UikKe- food in The Cnwnde Eldevod.c poner ‘ Wapsds POKRS YA AES Casan PEOD «’ Whidden Sample. No. 190-HB No. 190-2B No. 190-F (very soft) (soft) (firm) The round NOLAT PRADO -the master a voor pencil DIXON—PENCILS, Dept. 201-J, Jersey City, N. J. The wise . traveller always has Beeman’s- deliciously flavored— its use is Pepsin Gum AMERICAN CHICLE CO. Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Eleven Years of Poverty (Continued from page 67) thirsty cattle had to be driven long distances to water. In late August when everything was gone beyond saving, the rain came down in torrents. It was the year that saw the outbreak of the Great War. Our neighbors, most of whom were also our tenants, patiently ate dried beans, corn-meal and coffee. We did the same, for the upkeep of the farm took every cent that we could scrape together and there was nothing left over with which to buy canned vegetables. For- tunately for our children we had a cow, but most of our tenants did not. With the ad- dition of the meat of a butchered hog, we had little more than this throughout the winter and far into the following spring. Yet we enjoyed our meals and had no great sense of depriva- tion. It was, however, a holiday event for us when in the spring the hens began to lay. I had thought that I could not endure monotony; and indeed in the city I could not. There I had constantly felt the need of pleas- ures and diversions. Yet during that first winter on the farm from November to April I never went beyond the barnyard. My hus- band was always away, for on a big farm there is much to see to even in winter. Though I had occasional fits of despondency I was on the whole not unhappy. Sometimes a neighbor came in and talked, poor soul, of the hard times. Sometimes looking out ‘of the window I would see one of the tenants going by, walking three miles to the nearest village to sell a half-dozen eggs or a single rabbit that he had shot. Surely it was in my blood, this capacity for patience which I had never before known that I possessed. The following summer was the wettest for many along year. During long periods when it was impossible to cultivate the heavy clay soil, the weeds grew faster than the corn and tobacco. However, we had pretty good crops that year, and it was hoped that on account of the war tobacco would bring a good price. I must explain that the price of tobacco was a purely arbitrary thing. The buyers, who appeared to be many and to bid against each other but were in reality only one big buyer, paid just enough to keep the tobacco grower producing from year to year. The market usually opened with a good price, then dwindled, often dropped with calamitous sud- denness. Toward the end, when there were only a few loads coming in, it rose again, usually to its highest peak; and the allurement of this last bit of bait persuaded the “poor fish” to bite once more. During the autumn and early winter my husband spent all day in the saddle going from one tenant to another wheedling, exhorting, encouraging, trying to get them to have their crops ready for the early market when the price would be good. But the apathy born of gen- erations of privation and hardship is a slow but powerful current, and the swimmer who pits his strength against it goes in the end with the stream along with the other chips and straws. So it was late in the winter before our tobacco got to market and the price was little more than half the opening price. When our rent was paid we had only a few hundred dollars left and a few head of stock. We were through with tobacco raising. We decided to migrate. I recoiled from the thought of going back to New York. Where then should we go? My husband still cherished the idea of becoming a sculptor and wanted to be near New York. We looked on a map of the United States and saw Sussex County, New Jersey. I had heard that Sussex County was wild, beautiful and full of cheap farms. We looked again and saw Newton, the county seat, only about seventy miles from New York. We decided to go to Newton. My husband rented a freight-car, put into it our household goods, two horses, three cows, a couple of hundred hens, and with our dog who had become a member of the family started on the trip to Newton. I took the children and went on a visit to some relatives, There I tasted beef and mutton for the first time in two years. It was nearly three weeks before my husband wrote me that he had arrived in Newton and had found us a place. I packed my trunk and took the train for Newton. He met me at the station and during the drive to our new home, which was ten miles through heavy mud and slush and half melted snow banks, he showed me a clipping from the Newton weekly in which was reflected the impression made by him and his car upon the sober inhabitants of Newton. He was no longer a man from New York—he was a man from Kentucky; and a man from Kentucky was as strange an object in Newton as a man from New York in Kentucky. He was described as a swaggering, great-hatted man, his good quiet beasts of the plow as “Kentucky thorough- breds” and his decent mongrel as a “bristling and powerful hound held firmly on a strong leash.” Thus was he made to live up to New- ton’s conception of Kentucky traditions. We laughed merrily over this village flight of fancy. But I did not feel so merry when I surveyed our new home which, far back in a wild, wooded country, clung as if ‘for dear life to the foot of the mountain range that separates New Jersey from Pennsylvania. The place was picturesque, to be sure, but with a picturesqueness which is likely to be most appreciated in the houses of others, a picturesqueness that touches with pathos and beauty the dwelling places of those who have long been poor, lonely and dis- heartened. Youth and health can indeed work wonders even without much money; in a short time our place was habitable. The old outbuildings were torn down, the barn roofed, the house shingled, the inside walls mended and papered. Out of the big room beyond the kitchen, where lingered the chilly ghosts of horsehair furni- ture, we made a charming living-room. But it remained always empty,-for neither of us had any time to live in it. My husband lived in the barn and the field, plowing, harrowing, mending fences, cultivat- ing corn, searching for his cattle that had broken fence and strayed away. I lived in the kitchen doing all the things that must be done by a mother of small children on a poor farm. It took two years of the hardest kind of ex- perience to convince us that it was impossible to make a living on that stony, run-down farm. But we had no money whatever to make a start elsewhere. We had put into the place all the money we had and an enormous amount of work; we did not feel that we could afford to walk away and leave it. We conceived the idea of taking summer boarders. The summer boarder business went with a bang. By selecting the right advertising medium we secured people who had much in common with ourselves. They were thought- ful men and women, most of them well edu- cated, many of them gifted in one or other of the arts. They were of simple tastes and easy o please. The neighborhood was charming with blue lakes, forest paths, sweet smelling pastures and alluring lanes. Our boarders were satisfied, some even rapturous. Of course for me the boarding season con- tained none of these soothing stimulants, but was instead one frenzied whirl of clean sheets, dirty towels, pancakes, stewed chicken, black- berry pies, hot biscuit, steam and seething heat. Still I was happy, because at last we were doing something that was not a failure. There was much about this country that I loved. But I became weary of the toilsome summers, the cold, dismal winters. I longed for freedom and sunshine. The thought of these two things became an obsession with me. It was at the end of our third boarding sea- son that a gorgeous pamphlet was dropped into our mail-box. I showed it to my husband and we were at once aflame with a glorious idea. Hea We larges' world. lating land « last fr might gaudy merce we th enthu: We worth of our fashio’ everyt cheris! ready Imper We silent childré wrapp hands days | sunshi sky. that w the ca bustle A fi buy. of sixt the M Int to rais room | for wi simple blue, gorgec desert Unc have 1 heavy in a fe twent: and fil All band knowi The t ten, a dred ; where fell de alkalit quant noon | we fal and fe It v flies. crawle feet. causec one pi All Valley who fc milkec suffere the x amon; ing as a war about learne could It y write growe thous: and it free fr and f nurse! ing th many people One writiz

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st ie Se SS vVsS VS ™ Pt a oe eS ee ere We would go to the Imperial Valley, the largest and richest irrigated district of the world. There was something vastly stimu- lating about the thought of this strange new land of sunshine and perpetual summer, this last frontier, reclaimed from the desert by a mighty feat of engineering. We pored over gaudy booklets got out by chambers of com- merce of the Imperial Valley towns. The more we thumbed these alluring leaves the more enthusiastic we became. We sacrificed our farm for less than it was worth to a buyer who astutely took advantage of our anxiety to be gone. We had a big, old- fashioned “‘vandoo” at which we auctioned off everything but our books, pictures and most cherished trifles. Thus disencumbered we were ready to hit the long transcontinental ties for Imperial Valley. We left the lonely old farm lying gray and silent under a cold November drizzle. The | children—there were three of them now—were wrapped in heavy coats with mittens on their hands and scarves about their necks. Five days later they ran about barefoot in the hot | sunshine that streamed from a brilliant blue sky. Vividly in contrast with the lonely decay that we had left behind, this town of FE] Centro, the capital of Imperial County, was full of life, bustle and newness. A friendly little bird whispered to us not to buy. We ended by renting an alfalfa ranch of sixty acres which lay only a few miles from the Mexican border. In this strange new country we settled down to raise alfalfa. Our little house had only one room and a porch, but we did not mind that, for we had long since mastered the art of simple living. The days were still, warm and blue, the mornings and evenings aflame with gorgeous color and quickened with a tingling desert chill. Under normal conditions we would doubtless have made our rent and a Jittle more. But the heavy post-war slump took place that year and | in a few months the rent of land dropped from twenty-five and thirty dollars an acre to ten and fifteen. We saw that our money was lost. All through the heat of the summer my hus- band worked in the alfalfa and kaffir corn knowing that he was losing money every day. The thermometer climbed to a hundred and ten, a hundred and fifteen, sometimes a hun- dred and twenty. If it was left in the sun where the men had to work it broke. Horses fell dead on the roads and in the fields. The alkaline ditch water that we drank in enormous quantities was luke-warm. In the early after- noon when nothing could endure the cruel sun we fanned, gasped, dripped with perspiration and felt as if we were about to suffocate. It was impossible to keep out the swarming flies. Big red ants, denizens of the desert, crawled onto the porch floor and bit our bare feet. We developed desert sores. These are caused by the alkaline water and spread from | one part of the body to another. All the people who made money out of the Valley had left it for the summer. But those who followed the plow and stacked the hay and milked the cows remained to suffer as we suffered. There was no escape from the heat, | the sores, the insect pests. Yet as I went | among these people I heard no such complain- | ing as I would have heard in a summer resort on | a warm day. They had something to think about besides their own comfort. They had learned how to endure. I was proud that I could count myself one of them. It was during this summer that I began to write a novel about the Kentucky tobacco | growers. That spring we had set out forty thousand grape-vine cuttings in a nursery bed, and it was part of my job to keep these cuttings free from weeds. I used to get up between three and four in the morning and go out to the nursery bed to hoe. My mind was active dur- ing those early morning hours and I thought many thoughts about the poor and simple people among whom I had lived. One morning I was possessed with the idea of writizg a novel in which I would picture the Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Acquire the eJ Its Beneficial Effect is Guaranteed! A simple, easy way to keep your motor clean In 1924, after two years of testing and experimenting, I introduced to the mo- toring world a new method for keeping motors permanently.at the peak of ef- ficiency, by adding to gasoline a new ingredient called Boyce-ite. . Hundreds of thousands of car owners, using Boyce-ite regularly and consist- ently found a new motoring economy and enjoyment through its means. But Boyce-ite must be used regularly to get results. I would rather you never used a single drop of it than to use it in a luke-warm, half hearted fashion. 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152 Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925

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Kentucky I knew as it really was. I would por- tray in simple language the lives of those peo- ple, their bitter losing struggle, and I would purify the soul of the reader with pity and fear, Looking down at the unwanted life. that I was destroying with the hoe, it came over me that I could give the book no better title than “Weeds.” From that moment I thought of nothing else and in the latter part of August I began to work on the book. I used to go out very early before the heat of the day to a big cottonwood tree that grew beside our horse pond, and there with my head in the shade but my bare feet stretched out in the sunshine I would write in longhand for two or three hours. The book was easy to write and grew rapidly. At the end of our year we left Imperial Valley with less money than we had when we left Kentucky, came to the ragged edge of San Diego among the slaughter-house workers and Jap market gardeners and gentle, thieving Mexicans and settled upon a small chicken ranch. Here I finished “Weeds,” doing my writing in an old abandoned house; here I saw it published, saw it become a great success of esteem and a complete financial failure, and here we still live as impecunious as ever. Would anybody after reading this article de- sire togo back totheland? Probablynot. And yet Iam not sorry I went. Perhaps that is be- cause I am inclined, like all of us, to make a virtue of necessity. Perhaps it is for a deeper reason. After “Weeds” was published, people who were considered something better than working people began to seek me out. They said that they were interested in “Weeds” and in me; but with an occasional exception I found that I had little interest in them. Their hard, bright chatter bored me. My eyes, cleared by the life I had lived, saw easily through their affectations. I had nothing to say to them. It was the keenly observant La Rochefou- cauld who said that whatever might be the ap- parent difference between fortunes there was always a certain compensation of good and evil which rendered them equal. I am in- clined to believe that this is true. I can no longer look upon myself as one singled out from the herd, but I have learned much by being merged with the herd. I know that though extreme poverty is a blight and a curse, yet the greatest satisfac- tions are not those which can be bought with money. ‘This sounds like sour grapes plati- tudinously expressed, but it isnot. It is a deep truth which I have learned by observing both the well-to-do and the poor at close range. I have learned too how comparatively valueless are possessions as contributors to human happiness. I find on looking into myself that my inter- ests are no longer the interests of eleven years ago, that I have lost most of my old standards and values and have formed new ones. I no longer have to be amused and diverted. I am no longer in the least concerned with trifles, and so small annoyances have no power over me. Because I have looked into the well- springs of greed and intolerance I have learned to try to be tolerant even of these most dan- gerous of human frailties. During eleven years spent among people who are at grips with reality I have learned to know humanity as the sheltered and prosperous can never know it. I have listened too long to.the great abiding undertone of life to be deceived by effervescent optimism or any kind of mock heroics. I feel that I am on the way to establish a solid basis of judgment, to know and to know why I know the flimsy from the substantial, the true from the sham in art and in life. I think I have learned*to look at the problems of life calmly, dispassionately, without the optimism that blinds or the despair that para- lyzes. Without doubt there are many minds big enough to attain to this wisdom without the prod of too bitter experience, but I fear that mine was not one of them. For this then I think that my eleven years among the poor has been well spent.

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wea eS ow ee ee eee CL aS ee eS eS es, ee On The Strangest Cult in the World (Continued from page 33) aspersion on the valor of her sex go unchal- lenged, raced so strenuously that she fell and broke an arm and two ribs. And thus she became a heroine, for a broken bone or two was not amiss as a sacrifice in the hame of the cult. At last only the young men, strong and with muscles hardened through systematic training, wrestled and raced and made good their claim of kinship with the old Greeks in the games at Olympia. About fifty years ago this thing—I don’t know whether to call it organization, religion, philosophy or just plain human obstreperous- ness—had its timid beginnings. But not until the turn of the century did it take in more than a few deluded individuals. Once in a while a little impractical colony would form on some lonely mountainside, where the pioneers lived out their ideas of reform in marriage and in community life. In those days Nackikultur demanded only that its adherents make a fetish of nudity, bask in the sunshine and each one be a law unto himself. Settlements of the present day are in sharp contrast to their original predecessors. In my visit to a Sun colony near Dresden, I found the Adamites digging in the soil and cultivating such handicrafts as weaving, wood-carving and metal work. This modern addition of toil, and hard toil at that, leaves not too much time for the intensive worship of the nude. Aside from police raids and blistered hands and backs, the main trouble these Sun adven- turers have had so far is to fight off starvation. With a very limited market for their wares, it would seem to be almost impossible to earn a sufficient income to cover the expenses of community existence. Though not a creation of the Nacktkultur leaders, I found many devoted followers of the cult harbored in the community poetically called “New Eden” just on the outskirts of Berlin. There more than a hundred families live in little model cottages and work in their truck gardens and orchards. No popular feeling against nakedness hampers those who feel it their duty not to wear clothes. In my one tour over the premises the grown-ups were all protected from the cold by ordinary loose working garments. Whether this was for my benefit or not, I do not know. But-a raft of stark naked children ran around with a great deal of unconcern, and stared at the strange visitor from realms out- side Eden. A main tenet of the cult of the nude is to train the young to look upon clothing as unusual and immodest, instead of the other way around. The moral exhaustion of the Germans after their defeat may have been an important fac- tor in the sudden and fanatic growth of Nacktkultur. Years of emotional drain left the population receptive to any propaganda for an improvement in living conditions, however fantastic. ; _ Herr Thies at the head of the nude army says it is a triumphant outgrowth of the much talked of and puzzling Jugendbewegung or Youth Movement which began in Germany about 1905. In the year following the armistice, the re- bellion of the young which for more than ten years had been personified in the Wandervégel, or Wandering Birds, bloomed suddenly again. Boys and girls by the tens of thousands took French leave of their homes at the beginning of the summer vacation, and with knapsacks slung on their backs and guitars on their shoulders, fared forth on the open road. They slept in haystacks and ate where any- one gave them food. Reacting from the de- Pression of defeat, thirsting for escape from the Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 ‘That's something : no battery'll stand Look out for your battery when the charging indicator does that. It’s summer now—the time batteries get over- charged. We're putting it mildly when we say that over-charging plays ducks and drakes with batteries. No battery made will stand a continuous over-charge, and not have its life shortened. Insulation usually lets go, first. You know what that means. A bill for new separators—delay, too. We can save you this bill with a Willard Threaded Rubber Battery, for we'll sell it to you with the under- standing that its insulation will last for the entire life of the plates. What’s more, if you will let us inspect it occasionally, we can protect you against continuous over-charging, and insure you full measure of uninterrupted battery service. Keep this in mind for the future. In the meantime we'll be glad to help you get all the possible service out of your present battery. One of us right in your neighborhood. We service all makes and sell Willards for all cars The Willard Battery men

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154 raw realities of war, these youths went back to bathe in the springs of romance. I have seen hundreds of these wanderers sitting around big camp-fires at the summer solstice, relearning the folk lore of their race. From them I have heard songs first sung by Minnesingers to tribal chiefs along the Rhine. When youths of this caliber took up Nacktkultur they at least brought their share yf rebellious spirit to the movement. During the brief flowering of the German summer young girls sworn into the mysteries of the cult wander like Eve through the woods with wreaths of wild flowers in their flaxen hair. Youths who at any other time would be sweating students peering through thick- rimmed spectacles, emerge as nude Siegfrieds in search of high adventure. They say that modern men and women and children must become so accustomed to the sight of the naked body in its primitive rela- tion to trees and flowers, sky and sun, that nudity will be taken as a matter of course. To the girl used to camp life in the open with the Wandering Birds, the new cult furnished a welcome means of more radical expression of her bubbling adolescence. Her vacation wan- dering made it easy to announce to her father and mother that she had joined a gymnasium class in which boys and girls together took their exercises nude. The majority of German women, however, are taught from childhood to care for and develop the body. Many Frauen Turnvereine had classes in the nude long before it became a cult. The large number of schools where pupils are first put through rigorous gymnastics and then taught rhythmic dances—all in the nude—are among the most profitable peda- gogical undertakings in Germany now. In the Deutsche Hochschule fiir Leibesii- bungen, a state-endowed institution for the teaching of physical culture in all its branches, many of the courses are taught naked pupils. Here the classes for men and women are kept separate. A former instructor in the Hochschule, Frau Kunnigunde Petz von Wicht, now instructing women in New York in her system of physical culture, says that the German woman takes her dance and exercise as much for the pleasure of it as from a sense of duty. Mrs. America, though, wants to lose twenty pounds in ten weeks, or she wants to cover her bones at the rate of an ounce an hour. Would Nacktkuliur have a chance in America? I take in reply the words of this teacher, member of an aristocratic old German family, who has taught nude pupils in Germany and clothed ones in New York: “T wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing in the United States!” I consider hers the most refreshing and least morbid aspect of the whole movement. She and her associates are people who have work to do, and who because they believe it efficient, convenient and esthetic, strip off all clothing. Nevertheless, they retain the customary seg- regation of the sexes as not only expedient but desirable. My latest bit of education at the hands of the Nacktkultur people was an invitation to a private showing of the moving picture called “Sun Children.” There I saw a picked au- dience taking in the Utopian story depicted on the screen. The actors and actresses, all fanatical nature worshipers, did not seem to be worried over having left all their clothes at home. Arrests by the thousands have made no appreciable dent in the enthusiasm, success or popularity of the cult. At present the legal position is that being naked at a reasonable distance from the public does not constitute a misdemeanor. Not until some one appears before a magistrate and declares his sense of decency has been jolted will the police invade the private.grounds leased for air baths and sport fields. The placards neatly tacked around all Nacktkuliur premises warning strangers away put the person who would com- plain in a delicate position. Injuries to the Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 moral sense incurred through peeping over a board fence or snooping through private woods leave small footing for complaint. Attempts to introduce unclothed gymnastics into the public schools have met with harsh opposition. Much publicity was given the movement through the activities of Adolph Koch, instructor in athletics in the Berlin- Moabit city school. Teacher Koch and a woman assistant were charged with responsi- bility, and accused of demoralizing the young. Koch was suspended from service for an in- definite time. He is now teaching privately. The cultists believe they have been com- pensated for Koch’s defeat by chalking up another victory over public censors. The “Club of Rhythm Seekers” has engaged the Stadion, Berlin’s big coliseum, for night classes in naked gymnastics. Two hundred and fifty men and women make up the first section. The program is something like that of the workers’ physical culture courses held by the Y. W. C. A. and Y. M. C. A. in America. Yet what a difference! No person in garments of any sort may pass the inner door-keeper, whether as spectator or participant. So I can only report on the success of this undertaking from second-hand information. The chief magazine which voices the ideas of the cult is “Die Schénheit” or “Beauty.” It was founded in 1905 and remains the most zealous disseminator of the creed. One of “Beauty’s’” tasks which it has enthusiastically fulfilled is the photographing and publication of nude “studies.” In the archives of the company, headed by Richard Giesecke at Dresden, there are 25,000 nude photographs by professionals and amateurs. And for every one seized by the police a dozen new ones are made. For years I have seen the magazine and its supplement, “Ideal Nakedness,” a richly illustrated brochure for sale at virtually all news-stands in Germany. Its photographs may be inspected in the show windows of every book dealer. Books treating solely with nudity are a profitable side-line for the company. Collec- tions of selected photographs are loaned for lecture courses in the clubs which profess allegiance to Nackthultur. With the years, many devoted followers felt that ““Beauty” began to grow decadent. Last year a group of dissenters started a publication of their own and immediately took half of the 50,000 circulation away from the older journal. “Joy” is the name of the new periodical and the editor is an artist, Magnus Weidemann. Now a merry war is waging between the armies of “Beauty” and “Joy.” The chief quarrel of the “‘Joy’’ people with the “Beauty” crowd is a section devoted in the older magazine to such little advertisments as these, which I have selected from its files: Sun girl, fair with deep blue eyes, beautiful in body and soul, full of the exulting joy of life, with free, sunny dis- position and highest education, longs with her whole heart for a life companion whose ray of sunshine she might be. He must be a free soul with whom she may wander over the high mountains and live in harmonious contemplation of nature. A true German seeks the acquaintance- ship of a sun-glad, wander-loving, blue- eyed maid. Up to twenty-eight years old. Which noble, proud, fair and _blue- eyed German maid will be a loving helper and companion for a lonesome Thuringer (twenty-one years old, teacher) in the coming summer days, on the new path to Beauty and Sun Happiness? A young friend of Beauty, who had to flee home and position because of his be- liefs, seeks a noble maid in whom he may find sympathy for his interests and who will provide him with a bit of fortune and a home. Investigators from the “Joy” camp tell me they have followed these advertisements time and again and found them the means of bringing undesirable characters into the clubs. Yet up to date they remain a profitable source of in- come to the publishing company. As defense against the apostasy of the “Joy” group, the “Beauty” prophets put up a brand-new league to draw disciples back, “The Beauty Alliance,” as it names itself, is organized as a secret lodge with unknown con- stitution, passwords and all the other para- phernalia of exclusiveness. They have a “Soul Doctor” whose duty it is to settle quarrels and keep out disreputable characters. A wide gulf divides these proponents of nudity and those who have given Berlin night life its reputation as the most unsavory of any world capital. Genuine enthusiasts for artistic nakedness triumphantly cite the post- war evolution in cabaret programs as proof of their claim that complete nudity is a sedative rather than a stimulus. Proprietors of Berlin cabarets found it so. Today only the Nachtlokale resorts which, staying open illegally after the police closing hour of one o’clock, depend exclusively for their trade on transients from the provinces, advertise nakedness as an attraction in itself. But in the sophisticated places, around the Zoo in Berlin’s fashionable Westen, the dan- cers long ago had to put on their clothes to keep a bored public from yawning itself to sleep. A surprisingly short time sufficed to prove the tediousness of complete nakedness to spectators in “this-is-the-life” resorts. Shortly after the war the dancer Celly de Rheidt startled the bloods by leading a chorus clothed exclusively in song. She claimed to have brought “art” to the cabaret, and her man- agers advertised “a clean show where family men may take their wives,” The mode swept the city. This lasted a few months. Then the public became surfeited and turn- ing to one another asked: “Is that all?’ The old style chorus in silk and lingerie had to be supplied. The public demanded it. An intensely Teutonic and national strain is apparent in the truly obsessed nude cultists who hope through their practises to attain again that purity of which Tacitus the Roman historian wrote in his description of the barbarian Germans in the first century A. D. Tacitus praised the strength, beauty and morality of the German women, comparing their Roman sisters unfavorably to them. Men and women bathed unashamed then together, as they do'in Japan and Sweden today. Clothes were worn solely for protection against the raw climate. How did civilized man come to look upon clothing as an unassailable necessity? I leave this branch of research to the professors who hold exclusively to the theory that clothes were first worn as ornament and enticement. Their thesis is that the bad habit started when vain savages first painted and tattooed themselves. Even medieval society, however, still con- sidered clothes more as ornaments and pro- tection than as adjuncts to modesty and morals. The latter view became a creed first with modern times. No creed exists without its protestants. The Nacktkulturists of Germany today find their Martin Luther in the English Lord Monboddo. This gentleman, in the year 1795, frightened his family by beginning to speak Greek, bathe stark naked in public brooks, lie frequently m the mud, and wear nothing but a coat of olive oil about the house. For these quaint reasons he said he felt as young at eighty as he had at twenty. And from the lack of sufficient evidence I suppose we must let his declaration stand.

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Nor, except in the case of my mother, still my holiest memory, and for whom (as she for me) I made all sac- rifices gladly; and except for the vague pos- sibility referred to in the beginning of this article that I may have thereby acquired some knowledge of the sex; can I see any purpose to have been served by my failure. But to return to my main subject. I said some way back that I started marriage by re- senting the sacrifice of independence which it entailed upon me. How that resentment grew, till finally, after seven years, it became the dominant factor in my life, is too long a story to tell. You must imagine me, if you can, chafing at it—chafing and chafing—chafing as a horse chafes against an ill-fitting collar. My father was temperamentally a Puritan; my mother, though wiser in her generation, a great stickler for the outward proprieties. There had never been a divorce in my family. Divorces were a scandal, an outrage, a lesion of the domestic decencies. Accordingly, no such way out of the coil ever crossed my mind. And then came a chance—just one mirac- ulous chance—of a whole year’s freedom. I am making no excuses for myself in this article. That I had no earthly right to take that chance which presented itself to me; no moral excuse for leaving my home, my children, my mother—these two points are abundantly clear to me as I recapitulate the occurrence. But the urge of a whole year’s freedom, coupled with the certainty that a world tour of my various agencies was the only way of saving the factory, proved too strong for any other considerations te weigh. I went on that tour in December, 1912. And never, so long as I live, shall I forget the tremendous uplift of my sensations on the day that I finally broke loose from domesticity. It was the same uplift, the same crazy joy which a boy who is unhappily schooled feels when he returns home for the first day of his holidays. Only I—I was not returning home. I was leaving it. Shortly before that year began I had found time—goodness only knows how—to write my first book. And I cannot help thinking that, back of my mind as I started on that trip, was the desire to get “copy” for another book; to find out, by personal experience, the workings of that very wide world outside London. Instead—let us be quite frank about the thing—I found, or rather refound, only women. Lured to them, I imagine, by the same old vice of curiosity, I went back to my wild-oat- sowing. And even as I sowed, so did I reap. All through that year, however, I somehow or other managed to keep my head. Yet even keeping it, I could not quite keep from the same old vice of sentimentalism. [I still had my dreams, you see—those dreams of boy- hood which make every woman a creature to be revered, worshiped, taken care of and generally petted by that superior animal, man. Also, I am not quite sure that I did not fall, during this period of my existence, into the same delusion as the bachelor who recently maintained in this magazine that women were men’s playthings. That last paragraph represents, pretty fairly I think, the attitude of the man nearing thirty who returned in February, 1914, to England. He did not return, that particular | man, any more unhappily, rather less so, in | fact, than the schoolboy who returns to his school. He had had his good time; had no re- grets about it, and was now prepared to re- ' tackle his various problems of finance and domesticity. And I honestly believe that he might have tackled the first of those problems successfully had it not been for two entirely incalculable circumstances. These two circumstances were my mother’s health and the outbreak of the war. My mother, I realized the moment I set eyes on her, was a dying woman; and the mere _pos- sibility of her death struck me with such a terror that the other side of my life—the domestic side, I mean—went utterly by the board. All my other feelings were wiped out in a sudden up-gush of filial love. It seemed to me that I had now but one duty, the duty of devoting all my days to her. But duty, as I was soon to realize, is always comparative; and somewhere between August the fourth and August the thirtieth, 1914, both my mother and I (she first !) comprehended that no consideration of any kind whatsoever can be allowed to weigh with a healthy man of military age once his country is in danger. Accordingly I volunteered for service; got my commission; went first into training, and aoe eight months later, to the _firing- ine. Women in war-time are, I feel, a special sub- ject. I could write half a dozen articles on that subject and still have a million words to say. In my own case, it must suffice that I found them, generally speaking, in war as in peace, a distraction from work and a bar to efficiency. Because from the very moment that I put on uniform and let my imagination play with the possibility of getting killed, maimed or blinded, I felt—with results one need not put on paper—that the more one had of women while one could, the better. A great many other men, of course, felt precisely the same. But in all the war litera- ture I have so far read, I have never yet found one man who would confess it. However, since the confession has been made, I may as well go on with it. The war smashed my first marriage; smashed it to rags and tatters; tore away the last least illusion, not about my wife but about myself, which I possessed. I felt then, as I know now, that for anyone as selfish as I am to attempt marriage at the age of twenty-one is about as sensible as an attempt to swim the Atlantic. For marriage—and this is the only reason why I have consented to write so frank an article as this—is an art. And like every other art, it requires, supremely, technique. Mar- riage is not a natural but an artificial condition; a petty form of friction which civilized men and women have established for the avoidance of a greater—the friction of free love. Nor— the human animal being what it is, essentially changeable—can any civilized man or woman contemplate the making of marriage laws with- out the making of their complement, laws of divorce. My own divorce—my first and last—took place some time after my mother’s death and shortly after the conclusion of the war. It should have taken place some ten years earlier. If it had, all the parties concerned would have been a good deal happier. Everybody’s life, however, is a mass of mis- takes; and at the age of forty I do not propose nourishing any regrets about mine. Since my divorce I have married again; and am, as I said in the beginning, more than content— experience, not of women but of marriage, having taught me its greatest lesson, tolerance. Also, my present wife and I happen to be in love with one another. A happy ending, you will say. Quite so. But why wasn’t I taught, why aren’t all young men taught that work must come before woman, and that to regard women either as a sport, as a satisfaction for sex curiosity or as an objective for romantic sentimentalism is about as safe as playing hide-and-go-seek with a troupe of female jaguars? Fathers know such alot. They tell such a little. air w in thi Sund: Wher day— CW Miss afterr sweet i” able 1 these femin of im The | seeme SOW dress¢ dear? “H aah" smile, woma her a under a then « bb '! He | clutcl “M voice. “GC tiona’ more AY Mr maga smile: “O in th New pecta T hav for y The « Iam Juz facin;

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The Heart of Juanita (Continued from page 103) dressing-gown, pale and yawning. “Oh, mother, my Lord, what a night!” “You horrible smelly infant,” she said, with | her kiss. ‘Are you dead?” Her mind worked rapidly, behind the leisurely affectionate tone. He mustn’t see Juanita. There must be no hitch here. “No,” he answered, sunk into a chair and Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925

apparently going to sleep, with his head | 4 bowed on his knees. ‘“That’s the trouble.” “Black coffee, darling?” “Oh, help, no!” “Headache?” “Oh, my Lord 3 She nodded to Justine. The maid presently held a white tablet and a small glass of hot clear water at Billy’s elbow, and he gratefully gulped them down. “Have a good time yourself, mom?” “Oh, marvelous! One of the best. There wasn’t a hitch or a break—I never gave a better party.” “You never looked more utterly gorgeous,’ he said sincerely. “Why, thank you, darling. gown.” “Mother,” he said haggardly, looking up, “do you realize that in exactly one hour I am supposed to join those Hamilton girls for a hundred-mile run down to Del Monte? I can’t do it.” “Oh, yes, you can!” she assured him cheer- fully, over a feeling of ice gripping her heart. “Take your bath, drink some coffee—you’ll be all right. You know, they’re probably pretty well tired this morning too. “T’d be for calling the whole party off,” said Billy darkly. “Oh, darling, you can’t do that! The fresh air will do you all good; you'll get some golf in this afternoon and tomorrow and be home Sunday night feeling like a different creature. Whereas, if you mope about in the house all day——” “Why not you and I and Kent, and maybe Miss Espinosa, if she’ll go, take a walk this afternoon?” he suggested. ‘“She’s an awfully sweet girl.” It had come. The thing she had not been able to face even in her own thoughts for all these years. It was here. This was no feminine bit of foolish apprehension, the fruit of imagination and nerves. No, it was here. The room turned slowly dark. Billy’s voice seemed to come from infinite muffled distances. “‘Well—suppose you telephone when you’re dressed and see how the Hamilton girls feel, dear?” “How do you feel about a walk, mom?” “You know how Id love it, Billy.” Her smile, he thought, was that of an overtired woman. She looked wan, now that he gave her a real scrutiny; there were deep shadows under her eyes. “Funny,” she said slowly, “I had a sensation then of dizziness, almost of nausea. Horrible!” “Well, I'll get out, and you go back to sleep!” He leaned over to kiss her again, and she clutched at him with an agonized hand. “My darling!” she murmured, in a strained voice. _ “Good old mom,” he muttered back affec- tionately. And gathering his bathrobe once more about him, he was gone. A few moments later Juanita came in. Mrs. Chatterton, deep in an illustrated magazine, looked up, a little surprised, and smiled. _ “Oh, good morning. How fresh you look, in this household of jaded revelers. Happy New Year!” Jane said, settling herself ex- pectantly. “TI sent for you, my dear, because T have a little program in my mind, arranged for you, and I want to talk it over with you. The difficulty—alas!—is time, and that’s why Tam not losing a second about it. Sit down.” Juanita sat down, in a chair near the bed, facing her employer.

’ I liked my

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158 “That’s right. Justine, I wonder if you would draw those shades—thanks. And get your luncheon, will you?—for I am going to be lazy today. Now this is my plan,” Jane con- tinued comfortably, when she and Juanita were alone. “I have a very dear, sweet little friend named Elise Coleman, Mrs. Judson Coleman, who is sailing for Manila a week from tomorrow.” She added the last four words deliberately, and after a slight pause. But Juanita, who could see no possible connection between them and herself, continued to regard her gravely. “Elise is an adorable girl—she was a Vander Wyck,” resumed Jane, encouraged, ‘‘and she has the most adorable baby. The husband is an army man, and a fine fellow, stationed in a post outside of Manila for two years. Elise— and this is where you come in—has been desperately trying for months to find a com- panion. Not a servant—those places swarm with servants,” she added; “not a nurse, for the baby will have a native nurse, of course— they are wonderful, everyone says. But a companion, a girl who will enjoy the trip, enjoy the place, be a member of the family. Mr. Coleman will naturally be away a great part of the time; he wants to feel that some one is always with her. Now, the point is this— would you consider such a position?” “T?” Juanita said, her eyes widening. “Vou.” “To go—to the Philippines?” the girl mused rather than asked, her brows knitted. And in a flash her words to Kent this morning came back to her: “If she sends me away, I shall know that she knows something about me.” A sort of fear, excitement and hope fluttered in her heart; she felt herself beginning to tremble. “Tt is an opportunity in a lifetime, for the girl who can take it,’”’ Jane observed, watching her closely. “But you said—a week from tomorrow?” “A week from tomorrow afternoon, January eighth.” Juanita was young; she had never traveled. She had a dazzled vision of the trackless ocean, steamer decks, strange ports and yellow faces. “Mrs. Chatterton,” Juanita said suddenly, almost as much to her own surprise as to that of the other woman, ‘why do you want to send me away?” Jane merely looked at her steadily, and the rush of emotion that had prompted Juanita to the daring speech died under that quiet, astonished stare. “What did you say?” “Mrs. Chatterton,” Juanita pursued des- perately, frightened now, but too deeply in- volved to escape, “do you know anything about me? Won’t you tell me? Did you know my mother?” “Your mother?” Jane echoed, her eyes not moving from Juanita’s face, a faint incredulous accent on the last word. “The Sefiora Espinosa, of the rancho de los Amigos,” Juanita said, forlorn yet eager. “Didn’t you know her—weren’t you ever down at Solito?” The girl had not talked to Kent. She knew nothing, Jane’s thoughts said, tumbling over each other in a mad moment of panic. She knew nothing. She was only guessing. “At Solito? And where is Solito?” she asked sympathetically. And she fixed upon Juanita a kindly encouraging smile, as if she were trying to help an incoherent child to make her- self clear. “Some woman came down there—one day last fall,’ the girl said. “I ask you because there is a sort of mystery about my name,” Juanita plunged on, beginning to be ashamed of herself. “My mother told me the name of a man I must find x “A relative?” “Oh, no—or at least she didn’t say so. She told me only the name. Ht doesn’t matter much to anyone else, I suppose,”’ the girl added proudly, fighting a sudden agonizing inclina- tion to tears, “but it does matter to me. And —and I can’t find him!” Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 “What is the name?” Jane asked. “She asked me, ‘for everyone’s sake,’ she said, not to tell it, Mrs. Chatterton.” “T see.” Jane lay silent for a moment, looking at her steadily. ‘Let me understand you, my dear child,” she said presently. “Why do you think I may know something of this?” “You weren’t, ever, down at Solito? You didn’t go there last fall, and get caught by the tide, and stay with my mother—with the Sefiora, overnight?” Jane fumbled under her pillow for a wispy handkerchief, touched her nose with it, snified and dropped the handkerchief on her table, without ever moving her eyes from Juanita’s face. “Tell me all about it,” she invited suddenly, as to an excited child. “‘There’s nothing to tell,” Juanita said slowly and forlornly, all the courage that had spurred her to this point ebbing suddenly. “A woman came to see my mother—if Sefiora Espinosa was my mother!—and I saw her just once, for she was veiled, and heard her voice just once—but it was your voice—it was your voice, just as you spoke last night when you came down-stairs! You said, ‘That’s quite out of the question! Never. Never!’ And I re- membered it just as if it had been yesterday!” Her own earnestness had dried the tears that had started when she commenced to speak, and after she finished there was a brief silence, while Jane continued to study her thoughtfully, with a kind and interested ex- pression in her fine dark eyes. “But now tell me—I’m still in the dark. This woman, you think, knew your mother? Didn’t your mother ever mention her?” “She never mentioned anything!’ Juanita confessed, in a distressed burst. “But among her letters, or in her address book?” the older woman suggested. “The Sefiora didn’t write letters, and she had no address book. If she had any papers,” Juanita said, ‘‘they were all burned!” “All?” Jane asked slowly. “Oh, every line! And until I find somebody —somebody,” Juanita broke out, in despair, “T shan’t even know who I am—or what my name is. There was a man, a man my mother knew, and I think he knows—but I can’t find him.” “Your mother never told you these things?” Jane demanded sympathetically. “Never. Never anything!” “And what makes you think that there is any mystery about it?” “Because my mother,” Juanita answered, upon a sudden rush of tears, “my mother knew how I loved the old rancho, that it was home to me—the only place in the world I want to be. And she left it, her will said, to her ‘nearest of kin’—to the Espinosa cousins of Mexico City.” Jane Chatterton frowned, pondering, for a few moments, while Juanita, ashamed of her emotion, ashamed of her effrontery in troubling her employer with her obscure little problem, walked to the window and stood staring out, with swimming eyes, at the bare wintry garden below. “They wouldn’t sell it?’’ Mrs. Chatterton suggested presently. “Oh, that’s it,” Juanita said, wiping her eyes, gulping and returning to her seat by the bed. “It is for sale. They want thirty-five thousand dollars for it—but that’s too much, Kent says,’’ she added, off guard. The clear bright eyes so near her narrowed a trifle, and Mrs. Chatterton said in a slightly changed voice: “Kent?” “Mr. Ferguson,” Juanita amended, flushing scarlet. “I talked to him a little about it——” “Does he know the name of the man you are trying to find?” Jane asked. “Nobody but myself knows it.” ‘And what steps have you taken to find it?” the other woman presently asked. “T’ve hunted through directories; I went over the records at the old Mission of San Esteban. There doesn’t seem much else to do.” “No, does there?” Jane murmured. And for a moment she lay still, thinking. Then there was a knock at the door. It was Billy, in his big coat, and with-a cap pulled over his eyes, to say good-by. The Hamilton girls had been as fresh as paint this morning, he dis- gustedly explained; they had laughed down his hints of postponing the trip. So he was off for a couple of days at Del Monte—hang it, he added frankly. He kissed his mother and nodded ruefully at Juanita, who could not help laughing at his manner of a sulky little boy. When he was gone again, Jane breathed a deep breath of secret relief. At least Billy wouldn’t be here to complicate the affair that must be settled in the next few days. To have even so much of her program work smoothly somewhat restored her confidence in herself, and it was with something of her usual superb manner that she said pleasantly: “Well, will you think over the Manila project? I must go into town early Monday morning anyway, and could take you with me. We can talk about clothes just as soon as you make up your mind. I shall have luncheon in a day or two with Mrs. Coleman, when you could meet her, and I’m quite sure you would like each other.” “Thank you,” Juanita said slowly, standing up. “I'll think about it,” she promised. Left alone, Jane lay still for a long time mus- ing. In little more than eight days, she mused, the big Japanese liner would be upon her way, steaming slowly out of the Golden Gate for the far Orient. Eight days! And in that time she must obtain Juanita Espinosa’s consent to making the trip, smuggle her out of the house without any particular ostentation, get the girl’s trunk and herself on board, meanwhile Junching with Elise, chattering, laughing, as if nothing more serious than the good-natured accommodation of a friend was afoot. It would be a strain, but it could be done. Jane had managed worse than this in her time. Risky, but then risks were nothing. At Billy’s age three months—six months of separa- tion were miracle workers, especially as his graduation and his first trip to Europe since childhood would be included in those six months. The one real hitch in the plan lay with the girl. Jane dared not bribe her; that would be to arouse her worst suspicions. She dared not bind her to silence; to ask her not to mention the mystery in her own story would be simply madness unless Jane could give a reason, and she had none to give. Suppose she partly confided in Juanita, temporized? Suppose she said frankly to the girl: “I do know something of your history, my dear, and as soon as I may, I will tell you all I know. Meanwhile, will you promise me never to mention what you have asked me, or told me, to anyone, and I will see that your needs are generously supplied.” No, this would be to court danger. Not but what every path led to danger. For the cataclysm had come; the thing she had been afraid to formulate even in her thoughts was here. It only remained now to fight to the end, perhaps in a losing fight. The chances of a safe issue now were small indeed. But Jane would not think of what she might lose. She centered her activities upon what she must save: Billy, his father, her own place in the sun. Nothing but utter courage, utter daring, mad chances would avail now, and she must be prepared for them. One shivering temptation shook her. Might she go to Carwood now, find him the adoring, admiring husband of last night, tell him every- thing? With him behind her, she would be afraid of nothing. But as the phrases she must use came to her, a sick revulsion weakened every fiber of her being. No, she couldn’t risk that, even though she risked everything else. She put her finger on her bell. “Justine, I’ll dress now. Mr. Chatterton and I are riding at one, and we’ll lunch at the club. Ask Miss Espinosa to bring my letters here at about six o’clock.” “Madame has had a good rest,”’ Justine observed, in satisfaction. “Splendid,” Jane assented. te. Nt t TT

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Surely it is a boon to know you are sweet and fresh, re- gardless of circumstances. completely Deodo meets your needs. The best way is to try it. It is sold at most druggists’ and toilet goods counters—or I will gladly send you a minia- ture container, free. Please mail the coupon today! A MULFORD PRODUCT prevents and destroys body odors FREE—mMalIt coupon now! H. K. Mutrorp Companr COS. 7-25 Mulford Building Philadelphia, Pa. Please send me the free sample of Deodo. Name. Street. City. State Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 | She looked her most beautiful self as she went | down-stairs in her riding clothes half an hour |later. In Carwood Chatterton’s eyes, as he joined her, she read his admiration. The old man presented a gallant figure too; he looked the picture of an English squire as he mounted | his big dappled gray. | Luncheon at the club, where wood fires blazed and a constant joyous clatter of voices |was heard, was really late breakfast, with | sausages and waffles and silver pots of coffee. | Everyone was in sporting clothes; there was no formality. When Jane came in she carried her gold-mounted crop and stood for a while at the fireplace, the center of a spirited group, looking with amusement and appreciation at the faces about her, sometimes raising a ques- tioning eyebrow, sometimes touching her boot with the little leather loop of her whip. | But she was oddly silent. It all seemed like a dream today, a dream that might dissolve, like Cinderella’s ball, to find her flying out of the palace in the old rags again. She was not consciously frightened now. But she felt herself an actress in a familiar part; the indifferent glances, the little French expressions, the casual acceptance of their adulation, were quite conscious today. How little it mattered after all whether she were here or somewhere else! One lived—that was all. The adoring girls, paying court to her, imitating her, circling eagerly about the lovely, | the admired, the imitated and envied Mrs. Chatterton—how utterly unimportant they were! Twenty years of hard, slow climbing, to stand here at the country club in her riding breeches, listening and smiling. She asked herself if it was worth it, and had to answer no. But then what was worth anything? It had all been agreeable enough, exciting, entertaining enough. Breakfast leisurely; much chatter, many cigarets. And then in the cool, brief after- noon, bridge and Mah-Jong in the game room, one’s beauty unquestionable, one’s husband all devotion, one’s life ideal, even one’s luck in- vincible on New Year’s Day. “Tf she sails to Manila—if Billy really has no fancy for her at all—if the weeks begin to go by, and we pack for Washington, for Europe——” ran her thoughts. “It must be so, it shall be so! I must keep cool, that’s all—I mustn’t lose my head—even with Kent, I mustn’t be too frank.” “Draw for your flower, Jane.” “T beg your pardon! I was miles away.” Juanita, in the quiet of the deserted house |as the dull afternoon hours wore on, went I want you to know how | quietly down-stairs, quietly peeping in that door and this, in search of Kent. She found him idling over the papers in the library. “You’re going walking, eh?” he asked, with a suggestion of a stretch and a suggestion of a yawn. For Juanita wore her belted coat, a small hat well pulled down, and her shabby little gloves. ‘Wait a minute,” he added. “T’ll go with you. I’ve been indoors all day.” They let themselves out at a side door and mounted toward the low range of the hiils; the ground fell away behind them, and they could look down upon the massed roofs and chimneys of the house. Presently they were crossing the orchard toward the woods. There was a sharp tingling sweetness in the air, a smell of earth and rotting leaves and bark and wet foliage. Juanita drank it in joyously, breathing deep, eagerly facing the low, rounded rise of the hills, where the great blanket of sea fog was sweeping solemnly in, veiling the world in gray shadows, pearl shadows, white shadows. “JT want to ask you something,” she said, when they were on a deep-rutted, long, de- serted road that lay like a shelf along the gradual slope of the hills. ‘‘Mrs.. Chatterton wants me to go to Manila, to start a week from tomorrow. Would you go?” The simplicity of the little question made him smile; the kindly, dark smile that so brightened his face. ‘Would you like to go, Juanita?” he asked. His voice shook her heart. The exquisite happiness of walking slowly here beside him, talking to him so easily, knowing him to be her friend, made it difficult for her to answer intelligently. “Well, I suppose so,”’ she said, with a side- wise, questioning smile. ‘‘Wouldn’t you?” “So much so,” he answered, “that if you do go, I’ll probably follow. I’ve been almost long enough in one place. Oh, that reminds me—I sent a Christmas gift this year, and I have had a New Year’s gift in return,” he said. He fumbled in his pocket and Juanita looked at him expectantly. “I wrote my mother,” he said, “for Christmas. You remember you sug- gested it?” The girl’s face was radiant. “Oh, Kent— I’m so glad!” Was she delighted?” “T think she was. Anyway, I got this tele- gram today.” He opened the yellow sheet. Juanita looked at his face, looked down at it eagerly. “My darling, God bless you. You have given us all a happy New Year,” she read. “Oh, Kent,” Juanita said, looking up happily, ‘‘isn’t that wonderful! And she signs it ‘Mother,’” she added, reading it again. ‘Kent, why did you write?” “J don’t know,” he answered unencourag- ingly, putting away the message. “You do one thing in one mood, another in another.”? And he -walked along in silence for a moment. “Well, about Manila?” he asked. “But don’t you see,” the girl said, “that Mrs. Chatterton is trying to get rid of me, just as I said she was this morning?” “Well,” Kent commented, “what of it?” ‘What of it?” Juanita echoed in astonish- ment. “Yes. If it means a wonderful trip for you, it seems to me I’d take it.” “You would?” Her voice fell a little blankly, in disappointment. “Well, wouldn’t it be a great experience? What good is there in staying here if she doesn’t want you?” “But that’s just it. Why doesn’t she want “Oh, I don’t know—she might have a score of reasons,” the man surmised idly. “You mean,” Juanita summarized it, after a brief pause during which they had walked along on the crisped oak leaves and hard muddy ruts, “that you would bundle off at a day’s notice, to be gone—months?”’ “Tsn’t that the way to do things?” “T suppose it is,” she agreed a little dis- contentedly, after a pause. They were walking rather fast now, upon a chance down grade, and Kent saw that her cheeks were hot like those of a child, the damp gold hair caught up in flyaway wisps against her rough small hat, her coat fallen open, her hands in her pockets, her whole aspect deli- ciously young and earnest and sweet. The effect of her presence had troubled him strangely before this; he felt it more strongly now than he had ever felt it. When he was with her, he had an odd sense of freedom, cleanness, simplicity. The unhappy heaviness of what he felt for the other woman, an emotion that had never been mixed with anything so definite as hope, with any constructive or con- fident feeling whatsoever, seemed to blow away here; the fragrances that were of beautiful drawing-rooms, of boudoirs, the shine of soft lamps and jewels, the shimmer of exquisite gowns and the cadences of a low, trained, thoroughly self-conscious voice, all vanished. Instead, walking here beside Juanita, on this quiet, foggy, cool New Year’s Day, he imagined that life had suddenly become simple, that he and she were married, roam- ing the oak woods for the hour before dinner, presently to go into some low-browed door- way—the old hacienda, for choice, to chatter over the washing of hands, over the serving of soup. Wonderful thing, a girl, Kent mused, eying the fine strong young wrist, the slim ankle in its brown wool stocking, the soft cap of gold Heat hair un the cle: normal, clatter, happen: kittens, childrer their br A wi a write sketche: find a | environ garden, among blossom spring splinter Even without wise in | gent, re He like rounded firm, sq the text eyebrow Life ha like he flashing conceive valuable belted c her shal too. Bu tive sou The r aman t! toanoth in Kent, was hak dreamin woman | they acc of beaut self a c white hé a studie read, th which s languag tense sel Perha she drev of her bi somethil Juanit such pro herself « seemed 1 was livir stop to « about he Yet al good dea say, int view. E Sunday prising ¢ himself t It was —the k quietly | colors, s« evidenth: the mys woman i So he | quite cc terminat her in M “But credulou

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hair under her little hat, the clean line of jaw, the clear, wide-open eye. A good woman, a normal, sensible, sweet woman in the making was a pretty thing to see, he thought. Nothing spoiled here, nothing subtle or surfeited. Everything ahead, everything to hope and to expect, from such a girl as this. He thought of himself as a writer, with one | of the old rooms in the hacienda cleaned out | for his workshop. There would be a healthy clatter, heard below stairs, wherever Juanita happened to be—servants, bawling calves, kittens, dogs, perhaps some day small insistent children stumbling and protesting and catching their breath in baby laughter. A writer—supposing himself to be really | a writer, supposing the book of newspaper sketches upon which he was working were to | find a publisher—would be in an enchanting environment, so placed. Books, horses and a garden, with the autumn sunset slanting red among the old farm buildings, or the apple blossoms snowy against a dubious, soft, gray spring sky, always with the sea booming, splintering on the shore below the cliffs. Even all that would be nothing, of course, without this companionable, eager, simple girl, wise in her own way, gay and friendly, intelli- gent, responsive, beautifully and finely made. He liked everything about her—the slender rounded arms, the bright flyaway hair, the firm, squarely set little shoes and slim ankles, the texture of her white skin, her oddly dark eyebrows above the earnest blue of her eyes. Life had never before brought him a friend like her, a person whose quick comment, flashing smiles, sudden seriousness upon every conceivable topic of conversation, seemed so valuable and so true. She wore her brown belted coat like a child; her little mashed hat, her shabby little sturdy gloves were childish too. But the heart, the quick mind, the sensi- tive soul belonged to a woman. The mental or spiritual processes by which a man transfers his allegiance from one woman toanother woman totally dissimilar were active in Kent, although he was unconscious of it. It was habit now to set himself deliberately to dreaming of Jane. She was, obviously, a woman for men to desire; she expected it and they accorded it. She lived in an atmosphere of beauty-making, creating of her own lovely self a continual picture, every jewel on her white hand, every tone in her haunting voice a studied, perfected thing. The books Jane read, the plays and poems and operas about which she talked, her little affectations of languages, of cults, were all a part of that in- tense self-culture that had produced her. Perhaps she did not give much. She took; she drew from all their sources the accessories of her beauty, her ego, and she made of them something that few men could resist. Juanita, on the other hand, gave herself no such prominence in her own scheme. To dress herself effectively, and to pose, would have seemed to her not only affected but dull. She was living too vitally, developing too fast, to stop to consider exactly what anyone thought about her. Yet already Kent found himself thinking a good deal about her, wondering what she would say, interested in her fresh, honest point of view. He found himself anticipating the early Sunday morning walk to church with a sur- prising glow at his heart. And today he told himself that he would miss her if she went away. It was a happy prospect for any girl, though —the long, bright days at sea, steaming quietly toward all the jumble of smells and colors, sounds and sights of the Orient. It was evidently a solution for Jane too—whatever the mystery; Jane did not want the younger woman in her path. So he encouraged her idly, and dwelt, with a quite conscious quickening of his own de- termination, upon the possibility of his seeing her in Manila. “But why,” she asked curiously and in- credulously, “‘why should you come, Kent?” “Well, why not? I’ve always wanted to go | to Japan—India. I’ve never been.” | Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 “Who is that Beautiful Girl?” “Bur you know her already, Tom,” replied the hostess. “That is Virginia Carter.” “Oh, come ; Virginia Carter was the plainest little girl in all the world.” “Just the same, Tom, she really is the Virginia Carter you used to know —but isn’t she beautiful now!” She had learned from Madame Jeannette how to enhance her best points and how to develop a new beauty by selecting the proper shade of Pompeian Beauty Powder and applying it correctly. Mme. Jeannette’s Beauty Treatment First, a bit of Pompeian Day Cream to make your powder cling and prevent “shine.” Next, apply Pompeian Beauty Powder to all exposed portions of face, neck and shoulders. It will give your skin that lovely effect of rose- petal softness. Lastly, just a touch of Pom- peian Bloom to bring the exquisite glow of youthful color. ? WMACIAK OO AT Shade Chart for selecting your correct tone of Pompeian Beauty Powder: Medium Skin: The average American woman has this type of skin, and should use the Naturelle shade. Olive Skin: This skin generally accom- panies dark hair and eyes. It is rich in tone and should use the Rachel shade Pink Skin: This is the youthful, rose-tinted skin, and should use the Flesh shade. This type of skin is usually found with light hair, or red hair White Skin: If your skin is quite without color,use W hite Powder. Only the verywhite skin should use White Powderin the daytime. At all toilet counters, 60c. Compact, $1.00. (Slightly higher in Canada.) Mone feast en Bei Get 1925 Panel and Four Samples This new 1925 Pompeian Art Panel, ‘Beauty Gained is love Retained,”’ size 28 x 74. Done in color by a famous artist; worth at least soc. We send it with samples of Pompeian Beauty Powder, Bloom, Day Cream and Night Cream for only toc. With these samples you can make many interesting beauty experiments. Use the coupon now. Beauty Powder “Don’t Envy Beauty— Use Pompeian” vie ods eh ehen accel 1 Fh TEAR OFF, SIGN AND SEND Madame Jeannette, Pompeian Laboratories 2705 Payne Ave., Cleveland, Ohio Dear Madame: I enclose 10c (dime preferred) for the new 1925. Pompeian Art Panel, ‘“Beautry Gained is Love Retained,’’ and the four samples. Name Adame 3... = City . Shade of powder wanted?__._ Beenie

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Lurr Com- PANY, New York. Your ler’s name will be ap- breciated. Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 “But what of your job?” Juanita suggested. “Ves, I[know. But I’m not crazy about this job. I think I may go home and see my mother, and then cruise my way down to Nagasaki.” “And where is your mother?” “Baltimore.” “Qh?” She pondered, walking down-hill now, with the stately spreading roofs and porches of the Chatterton mansion just visible below them in the rapidly vanishing light. “T’ll be done with Chatterton pretty soon,” Kent said. “I suppose you know what my job is?” “Secretary, isn’t it?” “Well, ina way. But what I’m really doing | is helping the old man get everything in line for |the new Sun building. The main trouble |is clearing the titles of property. The Sun |—which really is Mr. Chatterton—owns a lot | of property in Mission Street; they want to | put a block-square newspaper building there, | and they have every piece of property in the | block except two—and one of those an estate is holding up, and we have an option. The other piece, a key lot, worth—oh, I suppose sixty or seventy thousand—hasn’t a clear title. | The idea is for me to clear that title without | letting the Star men find out what we’re about. | Some of the property is improved now; most of | the lots have stood vacant since the big fire. Chatterton’s going to put a million dollar building there.” “Where are the Sun offices now, Kent?”’ | | “Down in some sheds in the north end of Sansome Street—awful places, tumbling down. | The art department is on the top of an ice- | house, Sunday rooms in an old loft, and so on. | I merely had a job on the paper; I was drifting | along, not particularly interested, when the | city editor sent for me one morning and they asked me to sit in at this directors’ meeting— they were discussing the new building. They want to own every inch of that block before anyone knows what they re about. And that’s why my job is, in a way, confidential. I’ve hunted up widows with half interests, and heirs under age—you never saw such a mess. Now, since—oh well, for three months maybe, I’ve been on the track of one man, the fellow that owns this last lot, and when I get hold of him I'll be done.” “And when will that be?” “Well, any time now. The property was left to him in a will by an old fellow who died in San Francisco some time ago, Fred Choate. The thing is to find h'm. The chances of the Star people finding him first are slim, and at the same time it would be darned awkward for the Sun if old Ross, who owns the Star, got hold of that corner lot.” “Why, what could he do, Kent?” “Oh, some sort of spite work. He could hold the lot for a terr.ble sum and threaten to put a glue factory or a half-hour whistle on it.” “And suppose this man who inherited the property won’t sell?” “Oh, he’ll sell fast enough,’’ Kent assured her, “if we can find him. And the funny thing is,” he added, ‘“‘that it was in Mr. Chatterton’s house, and most unexpectedly, that I ran across a clue to him.” “How could you?” Juanita asked, with a serious, incredulous look. “Well, I did. I was going through some of the store-rooms, up-stairs and at the back, to overlook the men when they were storing some old engravings. Well, I was wandering about and I got to turning over any quantity of old music—old books of bound songs, you know— some of them funny. I was glancing through them when I saw my man’s name—written on a flyleaf.” “Why, how could you!’’ Juanita asked. “Well, that was just it. How could I? I puzzled over it and worried over it and tried to work it out. So I did a little investigating and |found out that those books had been Mrs. Chatterton’s—belonged in her family anyway. Either she knew this man before ‘she was mar- ried, or in some way she got hold of a piece of music belonging to him. Funny, wasn’t it?” “Funny! Did you ask her?” “No, I didn’t, not directly. It was just before she left for Washington last fall. But I brought the man’s name into a conversation, to try out the old man, and I took care that she heard me. Knowing that this fellow must have sung, for there was his name on the music, I asked old Chatterton if he had ever heard the name of such-and-such a singer. He said no, and he wasn’t acting either. She glanced over from her book—it was in the library, last September—and said sort of carelessly, ‘Where did you hear that name?’ I said I happened to see it on an old book of music up- stairs when we were storing the engravings, and she shrugged as if she had lost interest in it, and that was all there was of that.” “Isn’t she mysterious, Kent?” Juanita asked, almost admiringly. “Lots of women are, I suppose. I mean, they have secrets, don’t they?” he asked, so doubtfully, so youthfully, that Juanita laughed at him delightedly. “Take these Western families,” Kent pursued; “there isn’t one of them that hasn’t its secret. This one, some horrible early days scandal; that one, an irregular marriage.” “Why shouldn’t she be frank?” Juanita mused, a little impatiently. “It’s my opinion that most women like to play a lone hand,” Kent offered. “There seems to be so much more safety in keeping every- thing dark.” “T suppose so,” the girl conceded thought- fully. “But I am just as sure now as I was last night that she is the woman who came down to see my mother last fall,” she added, with sudden conviction. ‘Of course her affairs are her own business. And of course she can send me away—and she is most generous to arrange it as she has. But why?” she demanded, pathetically. “She denied that, did she?” “Oh, absolutely. She had never heard of Solito, nor of my mother, nor anything!” “And I suppose it has occurred to you,” Kent asked, in his kind, lazy voice, “that if you had seen her there then, spoken to her, and she chose to deny it now, you would be no better off than you are this minute?” Her eyes, luminous in the: twilight, met his with a little reluctant frown. ‘Yes, I suppose so,” she conceded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, of course that’s so. But there is such a thing as truth in the world, Kent,” she added, with a little wistful glance. “Yes. But one might put the happiness and safety of those one loved—I’m all mixed up in that cursed third person, but you know what I mean,” Kent said. “You can’t always tell the flat truth. You don’t want to.” “She mightn’t,” Juanita conceded un- graciously. ‘Has it occurred to you,” he pursued, “‘that this might easily be the explanation? The Sefiora bears a child, not her husband’s child, and goes to her closest friend, Jenny Davis, and tells her about it, and asks this friend to send that child down to the rancho a few weeks later to be brought up as a foster-daughter.”’ Juanita had stopped walking and was facing him now with reddened cheeks and troubled, rebellious eyes. ‘“‘But my mother—the Sefiora —was married!” she said, a little awkwardly. “This is merely an hypothesis,” Kent went on. “T am merely supposing that some trouble you don’t know about came to her. True, she was married. But it might have been that her hus- band was away—that he would know this child was not his.” “Ah, you didn’t know her!’’ the girl said, with an angry sob. “No, I didn’t, of course. But you must sus- pect that something was irregular, Juanita,” Kent said sensibly, “when you find yourself disinherited—with a pretty strong hint that you are not an Espinosa at all. In such a case, you can easily see that Mrs. Chatterton would not want to distress you,” he said. ‘And yet the thought of Billy might make her, as a good mother, uneasy. She doesn’t want him to fall in love with anybody—yet. She knows that some love affair or some traged , pr ~haps, came ‘Hear.

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Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Hard to believe AYBE you won’t believe what we’re going to tell you right now. If you don’t, we invite you to make this test yourself: Rub a bit of fresh onion on your hand. Then douse on some Listerine. The onion odor immedi- ately disappears. That’s the kind of a deodorant you have in Listerine, the safe antiseptic. And that’s why so many men and women are now using Listerine as a perspiration deodorant. Just apply Lis- terine clear when you don’t have time for a tub or shower. Note how clean and refreshed it leaves you feeling. Also, it is non-irritating and will not stain garments. We pass this along to you as another important use for Listerine we thought you’d like to know about.—Lam- bert Pharmacal Co., St. Louis, U. S. A. Please remember—Listerine is never sold in bulk. Always in the original brown package—14 oz., 7 0z., 3 oz., and 1% oz. ERINE ERES 1M 1.5. PATENT QOEE ot pAms E Ry PHARMACAL COMPANY Sy. LOUIS MO USA LISTERINE Throat Tablets are now available. Please do not make the mistake of expecting them to correct bad breath. Rely on the liquid, Listerine. Containing all of the antiseptic essential o1ls of Listerine, however, they are very valuable as a relief for throat irritations —25 cents.

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164 to the Sefiora. She never has mentioned it— she won’t mention it now. But when, by the most extraordinary coincidence, she finds you in her house, she does exactly what one would expect—takes steps to get you out of the way, and yet promises to stand your friend.” “You think she was that woman who came down,” Juanita said accusingly. “I can tell you do!” “Yes,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I think she was.” “And that she won’t admit it?” “‘And that she sees nothing to be gained by admitting it.” For a few seconds Juanita looked stunned. She had won her hard-fought point, to find that it brought her no gain at all. She shrugged her shoulders despairingly and began to walk slowly toward the house. The garden was almost dark now; tunnels of bright light shone boldly out in the service region, and between the almost drawn curtains that were the library they could see a soft pink glow. The early night air was cold and heavy. “You think I am. making too much of this whole thing, Kent,” Juanita suggested. “Well, yes, in a way I do,” he answered frankly. “I can’t see why you don’t just for- get it, go on your way rejoicing. Surely it isn’t every girl who has a trip to Manila thrown in her way. If Mrs. Chatterton fer some reason can’t be frank, why harass her about it?” “You’re quite right,’’ she said quickly, with a little shame. “Tt almost seems to me,”’ Kent added, witha kindly sidewise smile, “that I would say to my- self that the way of least resistance is the sensi- ble way, for the present.” They were at the ivy-framed side door, a little door in a Norman arch, through which Juanita often slipped in her: comings and goings. She glanced up at the bulk of the big stone walls that rose so imposingly above it, the mellowed lights that shone out from deep- set windows here and there, the impression of solid and permanent power and beauty that Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 they gave in the winter dusk, and a sense of her own utter unimportance amused her suddenly. “T think that is good advice,” she said, with asigh of relief. “I am going to Mrs. Chatterton at six with her mail. And shall I say that of course I’ll go with Mrs. Coleman, and be glad to go?” “TI would,” he approved, standing close to her, a step below her, for she had mounted the single great stone that formed the threshold. “Just give up the whole search and mystery and everything else,”’ she mused. “Well, something may turn up some day. Meanwhile, wouldn’t you be happier?” “Perhaps.” “You sail?” he asked, slowly. The girl laughed delightedly. “Tt sounds thrilling!” she confessed. “A week from tomorrow.” “Before that time—say next Sunday, when the Chattertons will be away,” Kent asked suddenly, “‘would you go on a picnic with me? There’s a roadster here I can use.” Her heart was beating fast with happiness. “T’d love it.” “All right then, I’ll arrange it. A sort of good-by party. Juanita ” Kent said, and paused. “Kent?” she asked. “Nothing,” he said confusedly, almost roughly. “You have no idea,” he began, and stopped again. ‘Nothing! No matter,” he added. “Except that—I’ll be sorry to have you go. And I hope it will be a wonderful time for you.” Darkness had fallen; the garden behind him was black and chill. But Juanita had opened the door and was silhouetted against rosy warmth and light. “Oh, thank you,” she said, her voice trem- bling a little. “You may find the man you’re hunting for as well in Manila as anywhere,” he added, de- laying her. “T suppose so. I suppose so! I didn’t think ” of that. And you,” she said, smiling, “you might find the man that Mission Street prop- erty was willed to—you might find your man there too. Honolulu or Manila or Japan, for both of us, may be the Port of Missing Men!” “Wait a minute,” Kent said, “no hurry!” For she was turning away. “If I find my man and come out to Manila, shall you be glad to see me?”’ he asked, in an odd sort of voice. He was surprised to find himself holding her here, for these awkward boyish inanities, yet oddly, strangely unwilling to have her go. “So we go on a picnic Sunday?” he added, before she could answer. “Tt would be lovely,” she agreed, a little touched, a little bewildered at his manner. “And you'll write to me?” ‘And you to me!” she said eagerly, by way of answer. ‘To tell me if you find your man.’ “Oh, T’ll find him and clean the whole thing up,” Kent said carelessly. ‘“You know,” he added, “‘old Choate, who left him the property, had two married daughters in the East, and if this fellow doesn’t show up pretty soon, ‘they’ re going to petition the courts to declare him legally dead, and sell the property anyway.” “Funny,” she said, amused and off guard, “that you are hunting a man and I am hunting aman. We both have our Sidney Fitzroys!”’ “Our what?” he asked sharply. ‘‘Where’d you get that name?” “That,” she answered blankly, “és the name.” “Ts what name!” he exclaimed. “Why, the name of the man my mother told me to find, Kent. The man I’ve been talking about!” She trembled a little, involuntarily laid a hand on his sleeve. “Why, do you know it?” she asked. “Know it!” he echoed. And for a second, staring at her in stupefaction, he was still. “That’s the man I’m looking for too,” he said then. “The man whose name was on the music book, here in this house. We’re on the same trail, Juanita. Perhaps we’d better stick together and hunt down this Sidney Fitzroy!” However, even the strange mystery of Sidney Fitzroy is dwarfed Next Month when Juanita is startled by a discovery regarding Kent that changes the whole course of her life You Can Live physician to the National Hospital for Con- sumptiv es at Ventnor. Writing at the age of ninety -five he was able, in his book on “Longev- ity,” to give complete life and family histories of some of his patients. His own father and mother died at sixty, and his father’s family for several generations died under seventy-one. Yet Weber himself, through careful diet, the practise of walking and general hygiene exceeded all of his family standards by twenty-five years or more. The case of A. C., as given by Weber, is interesting and typical not only as representing in a startling way the hereditary factor in length of life, but also the possibility of appar- ently defeating the hereditary tendency by right living. A. C.’s parents and four grand- parents died between the ages of forty-nine and fifty-six years, with an average of exactly fifty-two. On top of this and running true to form, four brothers died between forty-nine and fifty-six years of age, and three sisters died under fifty-six. Extraordinary uniformity! But A. C. and one sister, patients of Weber, by right eating, walking and good habits, managed to live to the ages of seventy-four and seventy-five respectively. Other patients of Weber’s did the same thing. All very illuminating. It means that if one’s family has been of the apparently short-lived kind, he can probably extend his life by one- fourth or one-third, possibly more. That is to say, he will not really extend his destined lifetime, but he may through rational living avoid cutting it short as half of the people do. If your big idea is that of “a short life and a merry one,” it may work out that way. eee ACO] cen as Long as You Want (Continued from page 47) For simplicity of living and the psychology that goes with it are conducive to durability. But men who retire from active business often die a year or two later. Apparently retiring is bad psychology. One has no incen- tive to live. And yet there is another possible interpretation. May it not be that the man who retires, only to die soon after, is impelled to his retirement by the ebbing of his vital forces? He is tired, and there is not much more life left in him. In any case, when a man retires—look out! It is well to cultivate hobbies, other active interests. Long life psychology should include, proba- bly, a certain faith in the expectation. I mean real faith, not Couéism; not teasing oneself with affirmations, but a deep, even sub- conscious faith. Which comes close to the speculations of Bernard Shaw in “Back to Methuselah,” in which he has a group of people with the “will to live” for three hundred years, in contrast with the other short-lived people like ourselves—who don’t live long enough to learn anything. But we have a parallel in our present race, with octogenarian and nonogenarian strains in contrast with short-lived families. Of course we complicate the matter by con- tinually mixing short-lived and _ long-lived strains. We mate through propinquity, romantic impulse, sympathy, business or soci advantage—for almost any reason other than improving the human breed. It should be possible, however—indeed, it is possible— through intelligent marriage selections to produce results in the way of healthy and long-lived people, somewhat approaching the situation in Shaw’s possibly prophetic play. A “eugenics conscience” need not take the ro- mance out of love and marriage; it might make it more romantic, in a larger way. But there is another biological basis for optimism in some evidence that death is not a natural necessity. The notion that death is a complementary part of life has no more validity than the notion that the night is a complemen- tary part of the day, which it isn’t—if you go far enough north in the summer-time. Your stomach, liver and brain may be good for a hundred years, or heaven knows what, but if your heart blows up at fifty, then the other parts—and you as a whole—go with it. We cease to live only when we get bumped hard enough or because we break down in some part or other; and not because there is in us any essential scheme of “dust to dust” as an inherent purpose. And this makes Shaw’s vision of a longer life more plausible. Some day we may learn better how to avoid the causes of organic breakdown, eliminate strain, keep cleaner through better elimination, sidestep isons, including those self-generated, and— y learning how to live—keep on living much, much longer than we do. We have not yet learned how to live. But we are here to stay—as long as we are able, and until we break or get bumped. Life, after all, is all we have. Art, civilization, temples, business, money, glory—there are no such things unless we have life. Life is not every- thing, but without it there is nothing. So let us live, and plan to live, through to the very end of the journey. And that is just as far away as we are able to make it. Hearst Ma housed in the east S were thirt) to spend | days with to Friday They had | end they c ment, Mac be proper! The mi complacen who let the would me college bo} corner an course the were neith unfortunat escorted al Mathild recognized She had pe thought he had more with. She Leveringe. said, “She Mathild And the: the rumb! Mathilde h arrogantly. dethroned Her two informal a New York and fog, th Fifteen bo do, lay spr: A flicker Milly Eng! ture and a young Eng lay infatua Large pi ing-table. believe tha im. All Trowbridg the silver scowled Re Mathild “Look hi der and a1 “Here is ar an artist h A snort « “Well, it dignant. | place in J] baronet. — when he w the title so “Apple s “Just loc iper. “) ow it’s t Mathild She really looking an that she w elaborately “handsome A choru: “All rig trieving h just bet yc can’t go to with him.” Mathild “That’s ea “And yc fall for hin “Of cou don’t worr The first set in a ga Tom a ma

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Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 167 Mathilde Is Different by Elisabeth Cobb Chapman (Continued from page 99) housed in three narrow-shouldered houses in the east Sixties, and as a matter of fact they were thirty little devils. Madame allowed them to spend Friday nights, Saturdays and Sun- days with friends in New York. Sunday night to Friday afternoon was a long, arid waste. They had to stay at school. But every week- end they could be dropped at a friend’s apart- ment, Madame sublimely sure that they would be properly chaperoned. The misses who were not so fortunate in complacent friends bribed the school butler, who let them out, and in, the back door. They would meet their escorts, for the most part college boys in town for the week-end, on the corner and then they too were free. Of course there were maidens in the school who were neither popular nor audacious, and these unfortunate damsels during week-ends were escorted around New York by the teachers. Mathilde had a gorgeous time. She was recognized as one of the elect immediately. She had perfect command of fashionable slang, thought herself tremendously sophisticated and had more beaus than she knew what to do with. She had immense prestige. She was a Leveringe. She was pretty. And the girls said, “She is wonderful—so different!” Mathilde was living. And then one dull February afternoon came the rumbling premonition of disaster. If Mathilde had known . . . But blithely, nay, arrogantly, she entered into the scheme that dethroned her. Her two roommates and she were holding an informal and very bored reception. Outside, New York was washed by a steady cold drizzle, and fog, thick and dark, hung low over the city. Fifteen bored young ladies, with nothing to do, lay sprawled about the big bedroom. A flicker of interest was aroused by young Milly English, who appeared with a new pic- ture and an article on Basil Trowbridge—the young English actor—under whose spell they lay infatuate. Large pictures of him reigned on every dress- ing-table. He was the rage. They really did believe that they were all madly in love with i All except Mathilde. She scorned Trowbridge. On her dressing-table, between the silver brushes and the perfume bottles, scowled Rachmaninoff and Lloyd George. Mathilde was grimly being different. “Look here,” said Milly thickly, talking un- der and around a caramel, large and sticky. “Here is an article all about Trowbridge. What an artist he is and what a gentleman.” A snort of derision from Mathilde. “Well, it says so right here.” Milly was in- dignant. “He was born in a wonderful old place in England and his grandfather is a baronet. The grandfather disinherited Basil when he went on the stage, but he will inherit the title some day. It says so right here.” “Apple sauce,” said Mathilde. “Just look at him, Mat.” Milly held out the paper. ‘You only have to look at him to know it’s true.” Mathilde took the magazine indifferently. She really did think Trowbridge was good- looking and she would have enjoyed thinking that she was in love with him, but she yawned elaborately, murmuring something about “handsome ham actors.” A chorus of protests answered her. “All right, Miss Smarty,” said Milly, re- trieving her magazine indignantly. “I will just bet you next month’s allowance that you can’t go to see his show without falling in love with him.” Mathilde spoke scornfully from the bed. “That’s easy money. Done!” “And you will play fair and admit it if you fall for him?” “Of course”—even more scornfully. don’t worry. I won’t fall for him.” The first act of Basil Trowbridge’s play was Set in a garden where a young prince, runaway from a marriage with a neighboring princess, “But comes in disguise and meets the princess, also in disguise and runaway.. They meet. They love. The cotton hollyhocks bloomed ’neath the calcium moon and the comedy vapored on while kings and villains and ladies-in-waiting trooped up and down the marble steps back- stage, and a prince and princess kissed to the tumultuous applause of a packed house. The play was a slight and sentimental thing but Trowbridge’s performance had lifted it to the importance of an authentic romance. Thousands of hearts throbbed when he jumped the garden wall with those lovely, shiny brown boots on his beautiful slim legs. Always he wore romance lightly, like a cloak, and no matter what were his parts, women’s hearts hailed him as the prince in disguise. Mathilde saw the play the last night of its year-long run, with five other young ladies, all worshipers of Trowbridge and all jealously interested in her attitude toward their idol. They were accompanied by a chaperon, a stout lady who taught French literature. The five girls watched Mathilde like five hawks—they had all seen the play from three to five times anyhow; but from the rise of the curtain she presented them only with a delicate profile, her gaze firm on the stage. She had forgotten them. Trowbridge’s legs had done it. Some people liked him for his face, that engag- ingly handsome face, and some for his art and some for his laugh, but Mathilde loved him for his lean legs. She dreamed of swift rides across open country, the horses racing the clouds and Trowbridge leaning from his saddle to smile in her eyes. She dreamed of windy weather and sun-swept hilltops with Trowbridge striding by her side. “T love you,” he breathed to the princess on the stage, and Mathilde was all one great vicarious thrill. Then the lights came on in the reluctant fashion peculiar to theaters, and Mathilde, all flushed with dreams, found her- self back in the cold, cold world with five pairs of mocking eyes probing her love-torn soul. “Well?” The eyes held. Mathilde gasped. She could not have lied if she had wanted to. “He is divine. I don’t blame you Milly was triumphant. ‘What did I tell you? I knew you’d fall, just like the rest of us. It was a good pose, Mat darling, but you aren’t so darned different after all.” Mathilde felt a sudden deep distaste for Milly. She shook her head seriously. “T fell all right. But it may be just infatuation. Wait until the play is over.” For the remainder of the performance she sat half in an ecstatic dream and half hoping, wildly, that Basil Trowbridge would do or say one awkward thing. And then she would mentally beg pardon. Riding home from the theater, desperately wanting to be alone, she was subjected to a hail of merciless teasing. Finaily she turned a flushed and indignant gaze on them. “Tt’s no disgrace to love Basil Trowbridge even if the’ rest of you do, is it? The only fault I can see in him is that you like him. I wish you would all shut up.” They laughed. “All right,” snapped Mathilde. “T’ll show you whether I am like everybody else in this dumb-bell school. You have all been crazy about him for four months, I for only four hours. But have any of you met him? No! Well, I will.” “Be yourself!” cried Milly. him, I don’t think!” “Will you take a bet that I won’t?” There were five joyous takers and within an hour of their arrival at school there were thirty, for Milly and her backers spread the glad tidings from room to room. Mathilde, with burning cheeks and fiery eye, had locked herself in with her more or less sympathetic roommates and once in bed, thankful for the dark, lay in a little huddle. yp? “You'll meet “How can I ever meet Basil Trowbridge?” she thought sadly. “I haven’t a chance. Not a Chinaman’s chance! I don’t know anybody on the stage, I don’t know anybody who knows him. I’m sure he wouldn’t answer a mash note even if I would write one. Oh, Basil, what am I going to do?” That was a Wednesday and for the next three days Mathilde endured some more merciless teasing. By the time Saturday came she was thinking of herself as a brave little martyr, looking on her erstwhile companions as so many pests. So when her roommates and a selected few planned a party for the evening and invited her to come along she refused, haughtily resigning herself to spending her first Saturday in the school. By noon it had practically emptied; her enterprising friends had departed, leaving her to nurse her sulks with one teacher-and two dismal maidens who spent all their Saturdays being forlornly herded around New York by the teachers. Mathilde had luncheon with them in the big dining-room, usually merry with girls. Then she escaped with some limp excuse, and fleeing, sought refuge in her deserted room. As usual it was untidy, but today it was not only un- tidy but depressing. She was lonely. The long afternoon fairly crawled by. “Everything is going wrong,” she sighed. “This would be the first Saturday that no one has called me up. Everybody has gone away and forgotten me.” Dinner that night was a repetition of luncheon, only worse. Then, just when Mathilde had decided that she could not stand these girls one more minute, the butler came in to tell her she was wanted on the phone. She upset a chair getting away from the table. Young David Bromwell was on the phone asking her to go dancing with him that night. She assented instantly, without further parley. Up-stairs in her room again, after a short conference with the priceless butler, during which he agreed to let her out and in, she dressed carefully, as anticipatory as if she were about to be released from prison. “T don’t remember this Bromwell very well,” she ruminated, intent on a hot curling-iron. “Guess I met him at Princeton last fall. He said something about it. Anyhow, he is a life-saver.” At ten-thirty that night she slipped out of the service entrance and, hugging the shadow of the houses, ran down the block to the corner of Fifth Avenue, where a taxicab and a coon- skin-coated figure waited. There was a hurried greeting while Mr. Bromwell held on to the door and swayed slightly and then Mathilde jumped in the cab. She babbled on gaily as they rode down the Avenue and out over to Broadway. The boy beside her seemed very nice, if quiet, and an answering pulse in her veins responded to the blaze of lights that met them at Forty-seventh Street. The lights and the people and the music toward which they were traveling were as wine in the blood of Mathilde at nineteen! She ran in the discreet door of the Club Biarritz, clutching her hair from the assaults of the wind, and it was not until she was in the elevator with Mr. Bromwell standing beside her that she had a look at him. She had remembered him instantly as she climbed in the taxi. They had met at an early game at Princeton, but with horror she now recognized that recently and extensively he had been looking on the wine when it was red and the gin when it was white. He was swaying a little, wearing an inane and vacuous smile. “Goodness,” said Mathilde, under her breath, “I don’t know the face very weil but the breath is familiar.” ‘What say?” asked Bromwell. “Oh, nothing.” Mathilde tried to summon a smile in return and the half frozen result stuck. ‘Great heavens,” she thought, “what am I going to do with him?”

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Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 The Club Biarritz was not crowded until after the theaters emptied. This early in the evening there were perhaps a dozen parties scattered at the little tables, no more. “Charley”—Bromwell’s eyebrows lifted in knowing questioning—“‘lil’ table f’r two?” “Charley,” who conformed, more to the popular conception of a bank president than a head waiter, favored him with a quizzical look and led them to a very bad table where they were as nearly hidden as was possible in this obvious room. Bromwell walked with the dignified sway of a sailboat on a rolling swell. Mathilde seated herself with icy gravity. She was furious. The orchestra returned from one of the infrequent intermissions and began to play. Mathilde desperately suggested they dance. “Perhaps,” she said severely, “it will do you good.” Inwardly she prayed that movement would keep him awake until the theater crowds would start pouring in and she might encounter friends. “Bes’ lil’ dancer in N’ York,” said Bromwell gravely. “Delighted, ’m sure.” They rose from their table and with difficulty negotiated the tortuous path in and out of the tables to the dance floor. Bromwell danced exactly as he walked, with a stately swaying, but Mathilde managed to keep him from colliding with everyone else on the floor and with the bass drum. They maneuvered around the room twice, to the ruination of Mathilde’s little satin slippers and, she feared, her feet; and then just as they were safely past the drum again Bromwell gave a lurch, his foot slipped from the edge of the dance floor, which was raised an inch or so above the surrounding carpet, and, still gravely, he fell. His head cracked on the edge of the orchestra platform and he lay still. Indignant waiters surrounded him at once and he was lifted and carried away, waving one hand feebly to Mathilde as he left. It was the last time she ever saw him. She was left standing by the edge of the floor with the amused glance of the entire restaurant fixed on her. The tears came crowd- ing into her eyes and desperately she tried to choke them down. “Keep a stiff upper lip,” she whispered. “T’ve got to get back to my table without another scene.” She started to edge across the floor, trying to reach her half hidden table as inconspicuously as possible, finding it difficult to dodge in and out of the curious dancers, when some one stopped her with a bow. It was a young man. “May I take you to your table?” he was say- ing, offering an arm. Mathilde hesitated, con- fused, miserable. “I saw your friend’s ac- cident. As there seemed to be no one to help you, I venture to put myself at your service.” “Thank you,” answered Mathilde simply. She liked his voice and without looking at him took the proffered arm. “I’ve never trained for football and one would have to be an all- American back to cross this floor without interference.” How tall he was, she found herself wonder- ing, and then she was safely off that terrible floor and the amused eyes had dropped her. “Oh, thank you so much!” she murmured as she reached her table, and for the first time she looked at her rescuer. It was Basil Trowbridge. Mathilde gasped and sat down. He was hesitant. “Is there anything that I can do?” he was asking. “Telephone?” Mathilde clutched at her poise. ‘You are very kind,” she said. “If you would be so good as to take me down-stairs and call me a taxi?” (“This is worth anything, anything,’’ she thought triumphantly.) “Certainly—I should be delighted!” He helped her on with her wrap and they started. Out in the street again she drew a deep breath. It had started to snow and the cold on her face was grateful after those.hot, miserable moments up-stairs. In a second Trowbridge hailed a cab, put her in it and then quietly got in himself. “Where shall I tell the driver to go?”’ he asked.

“Oh, but you mustn’t do this!” Mathilde waved agitated hands. ‘You have a party back in there, and I can get home all right alone.” She was deeply thrilled just the same. To be riding home with Basil Trowbridge! “Nonsense,” he laughed. “You can’t go around New York alone at this time of night and it is no trouble at all. In fact I am glad that I can be of service.” “Well, then,” said Mathilde, “tell him to drive to the corner of Sixty-first and Fifth’ — settling herself and half turning towards Trowbridge so that she could see his face. What a story this would make for the girls! He smiled at her. ‘Will you forgive the informality and permit me to introduce my- self?” he said. ‘My name is Trowbridge, and I am an English babe-in-the-woods astray in New York.” “Oh, I recognized you, Mr. Trowbridge,” Mathilde smiled back at him. ‘Everyone knows you here, you know, and I—I am Mathilde and deeply grateful to you.” For almost the first time in her life Mathilde was shy. Being so close to her idol was breath- taking. The blocks seemed fairly to race by and the perverse taxi was hurrying her home faster than taxi had ever hurried before while she sat in miserable silence and let the precious minutes fly. They were at Fifty-ninth Street, nearing Sixtieth, and Trowbridge was as quiet as she. “He is bored,” thought Mathilde desperately. “Oh, what shall I say! I’ve just got to get a date with him.” The cab drew up toward the curb and still the silence held. Suddenly she leaned nearer to him, “I can never thank you enough,” she murmured. ‘And I can never see you again.” He looked a trifle surprised. He had not sug- gested that she ever should. “T will always cherish the memory of your gallantry,” she went on. ‘My life has had so little of that and it is very precious. On my difficult, dangerous path I will never forget it. Thank you.” He looked even more surprised. The cab stopped with a final lurch. . Trowbridge helped her alight and then offering him her hand, in a soft whisper she murmured, ‘“‘Good- by and thank you.” He retained her hand ‘while she almost visibly palpitated. ‘Will you not overlook the unconventionality and let me see you some- time?” he asked. She withdrew her hand slowly. “I should have loved to have seen you again,” she said, “but it would not be fair to you. It is too dangerous—for you and for me. My life is dedicated—but yours—you must not risk it for a strange girl.” (‘I wonder what he thinks I am talking about,” thought Mat. “I wonder what the deuce I am talking about? But I had to interest him some way.’’) “T am sorry,” he said. He looked it. Mathilde moved closer to him and said, ever so faintly: “Don’t ever come here again, and don’t look at which house I enter, I beg you. But you are the first person who has been kind to me in a long time and I hate to hurry away so ungraciously, so if you are at the Newport next Friday afternoon at four o’clock I will try to evade my watchers and be there. Sometimes Icandoit. But I cannot promise. And please, please do not look where I am going. It would be dangerous knowledge. That way madness lies.” (She remembered reading that line some- where. It fitted beautifully.) She intoned the ominous words dramatically. She turned away as he said, “I promise-—and I will be at the Newport at four Friday.” | She ran down the street and just before turning into Madame Descartes’ service door, saw him get in his cab and drive away. Mathilde, knocking softly for her friend the butler to let her in, performed a war dance of triumph on the snowy step. H “Did I get a date with Basil Trowbridge? she giggled. “I’ll say Idid. And oh, isn’t he a darling, darling!” j Safely up-stairs in bed she lay awake just one tremendous thrill from her head to her toes. “T wonder,” she thought, “what the deuce he thinks Iam. It wasa silly line—but it worked,

Hear. and I sa young g am an mysterio She st her roor o’clock whispers h ad.” T received except t themsel’ the darl they wo air of su That before t school curiosity impertu! morning complim for tea 2 “Sorry Anne is going she prot loop. V Mathi tell a sot day of x tomorro school is lavishly Oriental flower e€ stairs sl fairly fl wait th which sl as a par up the / “Goo open-fac herself | Madam him, wt very eI Mathild her lon; hard. When the Ne nervous tent s e thre’ pretty ¢ she pai dignity, look arc yet con wanted entry al not yet expecte: She s lookout the flo leaves < perfect costum room t intently pressio1 calcitra the left replacit nose, s iously | Tar of h

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le ly 1e le 1S t le st J we eS EE ee ee | Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 and I saw he wasn’t a bit interested in a stray young girl. Maybe he will be if he thinks I am an adventuress or a spy or something mysterious.” She stayed awake, too stirred for sleep, until her roommates came tiptoeing in about two o’clock in the morning to regale her with whispers of the “perfectly slick time we’ve had.” They commiserated with her. Mathilde received this quietly, saying nothing at all except that she was glad they had enjoyed themselves, but if they had not undressed in the dark and could have glimpsed her face, they would have wondered at her mysterious air of suppressed excitement. That air radiated from her all week and before the next Saturday came around the school was seething with irritation and curiosity. Mathilde went serenely on her way, imperturbable and mysterious, until Friday morning, when she refused a most pressing and complimentary invitation to a picked gathering for tea at the Newport. “Sorry—I’m busy,” she told Anne. Anne looked at her wonderingly. “But this is going to be the best party we’ve ever had,” she protested. “It’s going to be a great big loop. Why don’t you come, Mat?” Mathilde leaned to her, whispering: “Don’t tell a soul, Anne, but this is the most important day of my life. I can’t ¢ell you about it until tomorrow. Keep it under your hat, but this school is going to get a surprise that will just knock its eye right out.” “Oh, Mat!” Anne wailed. ‘“You’ve just got to tell me more than that.” Mat shook her head, deaf to entreaties, and Anne retreated, consumed with curiosity. “Guess I’m not some little conspirator,” said Mat to herself. ‘“Now Anne will tell every- body she sees there is something up—and wait till they know!” Cheerfully she helped her roommates dress that afternoon. The instant they had gone she hurried into her best clothes, anointing herself lavishly with Mabel’s perfume, a heavy Oriental scent, in preference to her own delicate flower extract; then slipping down the back stairs she hurried out into the street. She fairly flew to the corner. She was forced to wait there a moment until a taxi drove by, which she hailed, sinking into it with relief just as a party of girls and Madame came trudging up the Avenue. “Good heavens,” said Mat, “this is the most open-faced taxi I ever saw’’—hastily settling herself on the floor so that she might pass Madame unseen. ‘‘What am I going to say to him, what am I going to say to him?” The very engine seemed to hum those words. Mathilde leaned “back against the seat with her long legs curled under her and thought hard. When the taxi finally drew up at the door of the Newport she was still wondering, as nervous as a kitten tangled in wool; but the eeent surprise on the face of the cab starter as e threw open the door and helped this very pretty girl climb off the floor steadied her and she paid her fare and entered the hotel in dignity, without haste. She took one quick look around the lobby, but Trowbridge had not yet come in and she was almost glad. She wanted a few more seconds in which to plan her entry and for all her desperate thinking she had not yet decided how an adventuress would be expected to talk. She stopped for a minute, keeping a brisk lookout the while, and bought a gardenia at the flower stand; the creamy yellow of its leaves and its heavy scent she considered the perfeci finishing touch to her golden brown costume. Then she hurried to the dressing- room to pin it on. There she studied herself intently, took her hat off and with an ex- pression of deep distaste pinned back a re- calcitrant curl, put the hat back, tilting it to the left, studied the effect, took it off again, replacing it tilted to the right, powdered her nose, smoothed her eyebrows, examined anx- ously a small freckle, threw the soft fox col- lar of her coat back from her face, and preening Girls ! Women | win. *3000 in cash prizes and a part in a Patheserial > { ~~ % i at 100 a week. 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Contest open to women and girls only, who are not now acting on the stage or in motion pictures. Name and address, printed plainly, must ap- pear on back of photo and at the top Pathé Exchange, Inc. 35 West 45th Street, New York Pid eas ae t of letter. Pathé reserves right to pub- lish photos submitted. Mail photo and letter early enough to reach our office ON OR BEFORE AUGUST 15, 1925. Address it to “Editor, Sunken Silver Contest” at Pathé Exchange, address below. Don’t let this remarkable oppor- tunity slip away from you! Do not delay, do not hesitate. Send in your photograph NOW! Ask when“Sunken Silver” comes to your theatre! You should see every one of the 10 big weekly chapters of this enthrall- ing, amazing Pathéserial. See the lovely Claire Standish (Allene Ray) in her heroic fight among tropical jungles for the fortune that is right- fully hers. 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170 in front of the pier glass, reconsidered and gathered it up closely under her chin. Finally, picking up the flower, she studied herself and it, placing it tentatively on her collar, at her belt, on her shoulder. Then slowly a light as of pure inspiration lighted her face. She kissed the flower to her own reflection, laughing as she turned from the mirror with a backward kick and swirl of skirt. The Newport was crowded. All the tables in the tea-room were filled with beautifully dressed women. Mathilde hurried by the tea drinkers, rounded the corner and with heart in quick acceleration saw Trowbridge. He was standing by the magazine stand, watching the crowd leisurely, yet with an air of attention. He saw her almost as soon as she saw him and started towards her with outstretched hand and welcoming smile. There was something almost shy about him, he seemed so glad to see her and yet diffident. “Oh, the sweet!” thought Mathilde. She walked swiftly towards him, turned her head as though for an anxious glance behind her and looked him coldly in the eyes. Quickly she thrust the flower she carried into the outstretched hand, whispering, “I am followed. Tomorrow, here.” And without further pause rushed by him through the lobby and leaped into a taxi. “Oh, glory be!” cried Mathilde, hugging her- self gleefully. ‘Now I know he thinks I’m an adventuress. They are always doing things like that. Hot cats!” Trowbridge, in the hotel, stood perfectly still where she had left him, hand outstretched clutching the little flower. Then he leaned against the magazine stand as though in need of support. “Great heavens,” he muttered, “what have I got into!” He studied the flower for a moment, then with a whimsical smile tucked it into his buttonhole. “By gad,” the magazine girl heard him say, “I didn’t think she could do it. She’s too perfect!” The next morning as Madame Descartes’ | young ladies filed out for breakfast they found Mathilde standing by the door. ‘Come up to my room, dear,” she said to this one and that. “Have a seat,” she said gravely when they had all crowded in. They arranged themselves on the beds and the floor watching, bewildered, this new and austere Mathilde take a large book and a small pencil from her desk. “Ladies, roommates and friends,” she an- nounced formally, “I believe you ladies bet me not long ago that I would not be able to get a date with Basil Trowbridge. Am I right?” “You are,” they chorused. “How much did you bet me the other night, Milly? Five dollars? Oh, fifty cents—I see I was mistaken—right.” She entered it in the book. “And you, Anne? And you, Imogene? And you? And you?” She wrote them all down gravely. ‘And now,” she continued, “if you want proof, I will ask that two or three of you be in the lobby of the Newport between four-thirty and five. Milly, will you go and take some one with you?” “T will, you know!” said Milly. “And I'll take Anne and Mabel and Emily.” Mathilde bowed gravely. “Right.” They filed out, buzzing excitedly and skeptically. In the Newport that afternoon Mathilde again came round the corner past the tea-room to meet Trowbridge’s welcoming smile. While she shook hands with him, out of the tail of her eye she was conscious of Milly and her three assistants watching this meeting, seem- ingly so casual, so natural, with the faint, sickening realization that they had been sold. I am glad you are not going to run away today,” he said. “T am glad too,” she smiled up at him. “I was sorry yesterday, but I did not know how to warn you—and it was impossible. They were right behind me.” He studied her for a minute quizzically. “Shall we have some tea?”’ he asked. Mathilde agreed. ‘‘Up-stairs or in the grill?” She reflected. Down-stairs there would be twenty people who knew her and ladies of Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 mystery were not usually hailed enthusiasti- cally as “Mat” by college boys and sub-debs. “T think it would be nicer to have it up here,” she decided. ‘Then we can talk.” The head waiter deferentially gave then a front table and Mathilde with. coat thrown back, lighting a cigaret while Basil Trowbridge leaned over the table to smile and talk to her, saw the four girls file past with eyes fixed. They looked as though they had just been hit hard with rather a large brick. She bowed distantly. They sat at their little table for a moment, smiling at each other, pleased and yet sky, neither one of them quite sure how to begin the conversation to which they had both looked forward. Mathilde rallied first. “T saw the last night of your play,” she said. “And I think it is a shame that it has gone, for I should have liked to see it again.” He brightened visibly. ‘Did you really like it? I’m afraid it was one of those plays that everyone you don’t know sees.” Mat laughed. ‘Everyone I know saw it— several times.” “You know,” Trowbridge said, “the critics panned it terribly. But I am convinced it was a good play. It wasromance. Romance is not fashionable with the critical crew, but princes are as authentic as street cleaners and a play about them can be as important and as real.” Mathilde considered for a moment before answering. She had never been called on for critical opinions before, but she was determined to play up. “You mean,” she said, “that there is such a thing as fertilizer-—but that there are also—gardenias?” “Exactly! That’s just what I mean.” leaned closer towards her, interested. Mat took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be so hard after all . . . The minutes sped by in a delightful glow. “And may I see you soon again,” he asked. Mathilde looked at him thoughtfully. If he had tried to flirt with her, if he had become per- sonal at all, she would have said “No.” Her bet was won and the thought that she really did not know this man, her remembered scorn for girls who “picked up” men, would have forced her to refuse him. So she said, ‘Well, if you would really like to see me again, make it next Friday here.” He put her in a cab. “Good-by, Galahad,” she called. “Good-by—Cinderella.” He watched her cab until it turned the corner. ‘The little devil,” he said. That first tea party and the ones that fol- lowed made a great change in Mathilde. Of course it was gradual, but as she began to see more and more of Trowbridge, parties with the girls and with boys, old friends and new alike, grew stale, uninteresting. She stopped going out dancing with a crowd; she and Trowbridge found a little restaurant where they danced beautifully and quietly together and that was so much more fun. They went to tea. They went for long walks in the Park, sweet with the first green of spring, stopping to gasp at the flame of the cherry trees’ gallant early blos- soms. He took her to rehearsals of his new play and listened earnestly to her criticisms. “Why, I am a real person,” said Mathilde. He was sweet to her, solicitous, considerate, but he never made love to her. She did not miss that at all. When they were together their relations were too simple, too natural, and she was too happy; it was only when she was back in school remembering that in a few weeks she would be going back home that she wished she knew whether he loved her or not and her cheeks would burn at the thought. When Phyllis came home from school on her Easter vacation, Mathilde with pride looked forward to introducing her to Basil. Phyllis had always been her confidante. She missed her more than she would admit and yet deep within her a cold little voice said over and over, “I hope he doesn’t like her as much as he does me—I do hope he doesn’t.” Dauntlessly in spite of this tremor she arranged a party and had Phyllis come in from the country to He spend a week-end with her at school, for their vacations did not come at the same time. Phyllis and Mat and Basil and a young English friend of his met at the Newport, which by now, for Mathilde, was hallowed ground. As the girls came into the lobby they were as alike as the proverbial two peas in a pod. They were dressed exactly alike from their silver slippers to the combs in their hair; Mathilde, with an unwonted grimness, had seen to that. If Basil knew them apart dressed like that . . . “Tf he actually knows you,” Phyllis had murmured wistfully as they dressed, “I’m liable to be jealous. Nobody else ever did.” They saw the two men waiting for them as they came flying through the revolving door. Mathilde with a nervous fluster of mingled hope and dread took Phyllis’s arm in hers and demurely the two advanced towards their waiting escorts. “Remember,” whispered Mathilde fiercely, “I’m an adventuress and don’t for goodness’ sake give the show away.” Basil greeted them with a twinkle of amuse- ment in his eyes. He bowed gravely, and then after one swift glance at Phyllis’s shy, blushing manner and at Mathilde, as always the gay little conqueror, he knew at once the tremen- dous difference between these two. “Good evening, Mat,” he said, shaking her enthusiastically by the hand the while. “I told you that I would know you from your sister. You aren’t the least bit in the world alike.” Mathilde shot a triumphant glance at Phyllis smiling with a sympathetic thrill; then with the air of one whose wildest dreams have suddenly come true, she took Basil’s arm. “TI told you so,” she whispered gaily to Phyllis. She tried to visualize him in that home among her other sisters—those tall, dis- tinguished girls—and with her mother. She knew that he would respond to her delicate humor and that she would appreciate and value his charm and assurance. Mathilde decided that he would fit perfectly. He was one of their kind. She was glad they were behind her, all those generations of gentle women and cul- tured men. He had told her of the home in England that would be his some day. He was gentry, at home. The pride of race, to which she had never given a thought through her careless nineteen years, stirred within her and she was glad that she was gentry too. Gentry, old, smug word, meant something after all. If anyone had told her that she looked different than she had the night she stood, frightened and confused, on the floor of the Club Biarritz, she would have laughed, though her mother would have seen the change immediately. The restlessness, the too brittle facility of expression had gone. Her face in repose dreamed; there was a new softness to her youth and her eyes were tender. So things drifted until the last of May. Then on a Saturday afternoon when spring had set- tled to a pleasant deceptive warmth for the day, they walked, languorously—it was no time for action—through the Park. There were other couples there and as dusk fell the Park was as magic as the vale of Avalon. They had stopped to rest on a bench by the reservoir and the lights had come on as they waited so that all around them, through the soft, thick dusk, the Park was girdled with jewels. “Oh, Basil,” said Mat, tranced and at peace, “how lovely it is!’ He watched the lights pick out a slender tower and nodded. “I’m glad it’s lovely,” she added. ‘This is our last walk together here.” He turned quickly to her. ‘Mat, dear, what do you mean?” “I’m going away.” She tried to smile a little, wistfully, hoping that he would care. “Mat, Mat’’—he leaned towards her over the little iron rail that divided the seat—“‘you can’t do that! Why, I—I—love you!” Then author- itatively, “You must never, never go away.” She shook her head. ‘Very soon now.” “TI love you. Why, dearest, I’ve always loved you, I think. I’ve been looking for you all my life. I want to marry you.” Hearst’s eh 1 and there ‘o looked sudden deep was radiant, | der. “Oh, m mured. “Do don’t even kr “Oh, yes, sweetest chilc “Oh, but, adventures, . I’m just a lit ing a game w mile laughed knew that? Descartes’ th “How did amazed. “My kid c I'm an old fri “Then you you the garde horror in Ma what a fool } He kissed | the cleverest | ‘Well, you had to intere: “You didi Se.” He pu fom it han opening it, f r picture eo r “M Horse Show. saw it and the Mathilde | intently. The “it’s a mista] That isn’t m Phil.” Ther “Oh, darli could only b The (Ce behind a he of the privet sion of brick eminence in The western For her nc To stand gi went wrong, out incrimir asuccessful ity un abated, the Rotice and | tion second unimpeacha ih some ot would be N up to him. For this ¢ the visit no tail hour. | reg obse t be te the meal, v were late fo While th

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eir ing rt, red ey ed sir Hearst’s International—Cosmopolhitan for July, 1925 Mathilde, with her heart singing, put up her face and there, shamelessly, he kissed her. She looked at him, tears in her eyes and a sudden deep tenderness within her. His face was radiant, the face of a lover, infinitely ten- der. ‘Oh, my dear, my very dear!” she mur- mured. ‘Do you love me like that? And you don’t even know who or what I am.” “Oh, yes, I do,” he said. ‘You are the sweetest child in all the world and I love you.” “Oh, but, Basil,” she cried, “I’m not an adventuress, I’m not even anybody interesting. I’m just a little school-girl who has been play- ing a game with you.’ He laughed. You baby, don’t you think I knew that? I saw you go into Madame Descartes’ the first time I took you home.” “How did you know, then?” she asked, d amazed. “My kid cousin went there two years ago. I'm an old friend of Madame.” “Then you knew all along, even when I gave you the gardenia and all that line?” There was horror in Mathilde’s voice. He nodded. “Oh, what a fool you must have thought me!” He kissed her again. “I thought you were the cleverest girl I ever met,” he said. “Well, you see ”—Mathilde, subdued—“I had to interest you somehow.” “You didn’t need to worry about that. See.” He pulled a wallet from his pocket and from it handed her a clipping. Mathilde, opening it, found herself looking at a news- paper picture that had been taken the summer before. ‘“‘Miss Mathilde Leveringe at the Horse Show. I’ve kept that ever since I first saw it and that was long before I ever met you.” Mathilde lifted the picture and studied it intently. Then, “Oh, my goodness,” she wailed, “t’sa mistake! The reporter made a mistake. That isn’t me. That’s Phil, my twin sister Phil.” There were tears in her voice. “Oh, darling,” he cried, “don’t cry! There could only be one Mat—and I love her!” The Black Duck (Continued from page 37) behind a hedge and, through the interlacings of the privet, peering toward a rambling man- sion of brick and stone that was set on a gentle eminence in the midst of a landscaped acreage. The western wing of the main house, all dark above but showing lighted French ’ windows along its lower frontage, was on practically a direct line with him and by straight distance across the sward, not above sixty yards from where he stooped. Here at a half crouch he stayed until he got his advices. A small window in the end of the wing toward him became a square of light, then was blotted out, then flashed in again as some one in a buttery or closet or perhaps a pantry flipped an electric bulb alternately on and off. That of course would be Nannie on the job, yon gp ae the coast was dear. Trust good old N For her now there taka al little to be done. To stand guard down-stairs and, if anything went wrong, flash a warning if she could with- out incriminating herself; or in the event of asuccessful outcome, to stay on in her present capacity until the hue and cry had somewhat ted, then give the customary two weeks’ notice and betake herself, a capable combina- tion second maid and kitchen helper, with unimpeachable references, to some other berth M some other wealthy establishment—that would be Nannie’s part to play. The rest was up to him. For this occasion the Black Duck had timed the visit not for the dinner hour but the cock- hour. He had observed—it was his busi- hess to observe—that while some house- -guests might be tardy about coming down-stairs for the meal, very few, in these Volsteadian times, were late for the cocktails. While the signal was flashing, he wriggled Zinc-O-Lith PURE WHITE ng bernie rétains its glossy finish, and at the end resents a ees surface for repainting, se that you h Dealer in yout a gladly tell you more d better white paint—-see him when you’re ready 171 PAINTS — VARNISHES — STAINS ae ENAMELS it easy for you to paint this ry We have inaugurated a time } OM an ] eS payment plan which will make summer. You pay only 20% down and have 10 months to pay the balance. Let us tell you more about it, or see the Zinc-O-Lith Dealer. Linn Boge. President The Glidden Company - - Cleveland Heath & Milligan Mfg. Company - Chicago Adams & Ehing Company - Chicago Campbell Paint & Varnish Co. - St. Louis T. L. Blood & Company - - Se. Paul The American Paint Works - New Orleans Twin City Varnish Company -_ St. Paul The Forest City Paint & Varnish Company - + Cleveland The A. Wilhelm Company - - Reading Nubian Paint & Varnish Co. Chicago In Canada: The Glidden Co., Limited, Toronto, Ont.

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the hot kitchen—a banigh of, stale air and cooking odors— the sweet fragrance of violets of pine—all this is yours through the, magic of Vantine’s Incense! ! For each room in the house there. is an appropriate Vantine fra-, gtance. Bring the clean freshness of outdoors into yourliving-room| and kitchen; a woodsy, appetizing, aroma into the dining room; for the bedroomsasoothing, Oriental) fragrance. In 25¢ and 50¢ pack-/ ages, at your favorite dealers. Pine, / Rose, Sandalwood, Wistaria,Lilac, Orange Blossom, Lotus, Violet. A sample package containing six different odors sent on receipt of 10 cents A. A. Vantine & Co., Inc. 71 Fifth Ave., New York

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Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 through a gap previously provided in the hedge. For safety’s sake he kept himself behind cover as he crossed the property, flitting from one clump of ornamental planting to another. The precaution seemed unnecessary. There was no moon, the stars were none too bright, and the lawn under his feet was so much black velvet. Still, taking unnecessary chances did not pay. Although he moved through an opaque void, a void denser even than the void of out- doors, the Black Duck knew where he was. Thanks to a competent partner he carried in his head a plan of the upper floor living quarters, its hallways, its layout of rooms, its connecting doors and all. Unless he had made a mistake, he must be in the room he was looking for—the mistress’s bedroom. So with all due stealth he groped his way diagonally across the ob- scurities from the window by which he had entered, his pale eyes narrowed into slits like a cat’s, until his outstretched hands met the solid resistance of a piece of furniture. He felt out its contours. He had made no mistake. From the hip pocket of his overalls he brought forth that handy pocket torch of his, squeezed the bulb on it, and by aid of its steady lance of brightness saw what he sought at the exact spot where he had been told to seek for it—a minute metal boss painted to match the wood- work and set in the ornamental beading just below the flanged overlap of the dressing-table midway of its breadth. He pressed the camou- flaged knob and the false center panel became a diminutive concealed drawer which slid for- ward. He fetched a deep and heartfelt sigh of satisfaction Three silent cheers for good old Nan! Here, lustrous and shimmery and luscious-looking under the focused beam, were the goods. His clutch closed on them. There was no hint, no warning, no rustle of garments nor sound of footsteps to reach his vigilant ear. Yet just all at once that sixth sense for danger which many wild things have and some few humans, made him turn tense and thumb off the electric. Then he whirled about, confounded and blinking, and stood so in a bath of brilliant radiance with Mrs. Randolph Swazey’s fifty-thousand-dollar string of matched pearls dangling where it was twined in his grip. Not ten feet from him in the door- way leading to the hall, a young girl in evening dress was poised rigidly, her eyes widely gaped, her finger still on the wall push-button which so silently she had found, her lips opening for their outburst. She screamed a piercing scream as he flexed to leap and throttle her. So with that he changed his mind and sprang nimbly back and: away from her across the room. She screamed again with a shrillness fit to rouse the dead and while he plunged out of the window and slid over the rail of the small stone balcony upon which it opened, her cries were taking on the shape of formed and rational words. “Thief! Burglar! Robber!” That’s what she was shrieking there at his back. ‘Here in your room, Mrs. Swazey! Oh, he’s got your pearl necklace! Now he’s jumping out of your front window! Catch him there, down-stairs! Head him off! Oh, quick, quick, everybody, before he gets away!” And next and instantly arising from below came exclamations, alarmed whoops, men’s startled voices and women’s. For the fractional part of a second he clung, half-way down the trellis which had served him for his ladder, his body pressed flat into a black mass of ivy, shaping his plan for retreat. But there was only one route to take—the quickest one and the straightest one, but lying along the front of the house. So he dropped to the earth and scudded, at a stoop, on by the opened west ' door and by the line of opened windows be- ' yond. What he counted on was gaining the covert of shrubbery before anybody with the | wit for prompt action ran forth to intercept im. What he did not count on was that some belated arrival should at this very moment drive an automobile up the winding stone driveway; nor that the curving of the car to the curve of the road should bring its unmasked headlights to glare directly along his line of flight, momentarily dazzling and bewildering him so that for a measurable space, before he swerved sidewise and gained the bushes, his figure clearly was outlined not only to the occupants of the approaching machine but to those who by this had swarmed out upon the veranda at his rear. Unless they were all blind they must have seen the very hairs bristling on his neck. “There he goes! There he goes!’ He plunged through the hedge, scratching himself in a dozen places, and their shouts were thick- ening into a confused overlapping chorus be- hind him. ‘“He’s making for the woods, Follow him—oh, follow him! Run telephone the police . . . and the state troopers! Turn that car around, Larry—we’ll cut him off where he comes out! Oh, don’t ask fool ques- tions, man, he’s got Mrs. Swazey’s pearls— Madge saw him! . . . Anybody got a gun? Anybody got a gun? Anybody got——” ' The vocal phases of the tumult were blanked out, but the diminishing roar of a motor driven at top speed came to him as he crashed into the deeper dimness of the thicket and while he set his own car going. This was no time for careful driving. A stump or an upthrust root hit an axle and almost capsized him; he mis- calculated the width of the free way in the rough aisle down which he sped, and caromed against a tree. Luckily the tree was a young one and its slim trunk yielded to pressure. But it took a mud-guard as pay. Not that the Black Duck then or thereafter during that night lost his head. For proof of which, at the very outset of the chase, he did this: When almost out to the junction point of the wood road with the public road, he halted dead short and harkened. A hun- dred yards ahead of him and at right angles to him a big car shot past heading west—the same car, he figured, whose lights had picked him up five minutes before on the Swazeys’ lawn and doubtless the first one to take up the pursuit. So he gave it a good two minutes, then ran out on the concrete and followed it till at the end of a half-mile he came to another paved highway going north and south. South he went, aiming to keep to the east- ward of the Post Road until after he crossed the line below Greenwich. Once inside the New York boundaries he would bore inland again, his intent being to reach the Bronx by way of Central Avenue and the back wards of Yonkers. If any order had come out of all the cursed hullabalooing and yelling that those swell Janes and Johns raised back yonder, the whole country behind him must by now be up and stirring. He gave the engine every ounce there was in her. Those cars he met, he dodged, those he overtook, he careened past. The country in front of him was up, too. He found that out after he lost his bearings, which he did within the next fifteen minutes. In this thickly settled country a puzzle of unfamiliar roads—streets really was what most of them were—threw him off his compass points and he bore farther to the left, toward the shore line, than he had intended to bear and pretty soon was defying the speed laws through a succession of villages bordering the Sound; which was the very thing he meant not todo. Here one town merged into another and here, very shortly, was he offered the evidence that the word had been carried on in advance of his passage. Two mounted state troopers barred his course at a crossroads where the lights of a service station made a patch of illumination. They were stopping all south-bound travel; he realized that when he was right upon them and saw a string of held-up cars almost blockading the way and saw them spur out from behind the huddle and throw up their arms authorita- tively. He was moving at top speed, of course. He did not check or swerve. He shot between the pair and before they could get their startled horses under control and their guns

Hearst’ unholstere¢ ing like eaptied th sounding f. none of the Then, in motor-cycl a stone wal ambush an over his sl to the cent almost upo an abrupt wheel, hea’ rear, and 0 two separa the ditch— other its ric Unless he broken to s This tow another w there anyt! one confou! accountabl engine to 1 She was | She stoppe road not a! station, or of those bu fugitive cu Where | shielded hi nation fraz of it was c station, if scrap of gc bad luck. His case matching | many hig! would it be And, set < avoid the all down t He peer to read the was aware fifty feet sing; that below. H something houetted s steep gabl sky-line, t nearermos' that flash He was | was out of had been 1 into a tans his overco the outdo commercia the botton ridden dur up the ye longings of ings wer the south below the and it was He trus or an across the pilot of th which mu: the bagga and still upon the smoker, it of the file. side. A connectio1 with his f so that th on him fri

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2 & r to ked > of ring his the t to the lind ling Hearst’s International—-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 . 173 unholstered, was a hundred yards away, ing like a bat out of the Bad Place. They emptied their automatics, the racketing volley sounding faint, but so far as he could judge none of their bullets passed near him. Then, in the outskirts of the next village a motor-cycle cop whisked out from the corner of a stone wall where he must have been lying in ambush and overhauled him. Looking back over his shoulder, the Black Duck held true to the center of the road until the pursuer was almost upon him, then gave the steering gear an abrupt turn. He braced himself at the wheel, heard the crash, felt the jar from the rear, and out of the corner of his left eye saw two separated dark objects whirling off into the ditch—one the crumpled motor-cycle, the other its rider, and he also probably crumpled. Unless he was an iron man he ought to be broken to scrap after that smash. This town was sundry miles behind him and another was: massing ahead of him—wasn’t there anything in this blasted country except one confounded town after another?—when un- accountably his car began to lose speed and his engine to miss and sputter and choke. She was out of gas—that was what ailed her. She stopped, dead as nits, at the side of the road not a hundred yards from where a railroad station, or something of like aspect, marked what evidently was the head and the beginning of a village’s main street, lying parallel to the railroad tracks. It might have been that one of those bullets had bored into the tank. The fugitive cut off his car lights. Where he was then, the friendly darkness | shielded him. The nimbus of communal illumi- nation frazzled off before it got that far; part of it was cut off altogether by the intervening station, if that’s what it was. This was one scrap of good luck in the midst of a prevalent bad luck. His case already had been hard enough— matching his cheap car against no telling how many higher-powered ones. Now how long would it be until the pack caught up with him? And, set afoot, what chance did he have to avoid the watchers who would be abroad, all down the line to Greenwich? He peered over the low windshield, striving to read the riddle of what lay just ahead. He was aware that the rails stretching alongside fifty feet away were beginning to hum and sing; that meant a train coming up from below. He was aware of something else—of something vaguely familiar about the sil- houetted shape of the station, the slope of its steep gables as revealed against the starred sky-line, the curious slant in its roof at the nearermost end. Ah, now he had it, and in that flash of having it, had a notion. He was out of the car and almost as quickly was out of those blue overalls, and the overalls had been tossed over the railroad guard fence into a tangle of weeds and he was getting into his overcoat and was exchanging the cap of the outdoor advertiser for the soft hat of the commercial traveler from Newark and, from the bottom of the car where it had fallen and ridden during that wild runaway, was catching up the yellow handbag containing other be- longings of the mythical Mr. Gill. While these things were being accomplished, the train from the south was pulling in from behind a turn below the village. It was a passenger train and it was slowing down to stop. He trusted that no one—the engineer in the cab or any citizen—saw him as he scuttled across the right-of-way, almost touching the pilot of the panting locomotive; that was a risk which must. be taken. He ran down alongside the locomotive and its tender, then alongside the baggage car, hugging close up to these, and still unobserved—so he hoped—climbed upon the platform of the first coach—the smoker, it was—and made himself the rearmost of the file of passengers descending on the inner side. A flagman was there, straddling the connection between this car and the next one, with his face to the station platform, though, so that the hunted man in crossing over came on him from behind. Thin..crispy..sugar shells ‘stufé” with pure..luscious fruit-jams.. Nuts and Marmalades!..... IANA ‘‘Stuft’’ Confections have the sweet dis- position and the appetizing, crispy freshness that are the first requisites of a traveling companion. We originated Diana ‘‘Stuft’’ Confections to fill the need for a summertime candy. These thin, crispy shells are “stuf? with imported nuts and pure fruit-jams and marma- lades which we make ourselves from fresh selected fruits. Every ingredient —nuts, sugar, etc.. measures up to the Bunte Golden Quality Creed. For a«nost 50 years we have made the 1200 Bunte Candies to meet this high standard. Good stores everywhere carry Diana ‘‘Stuft’? Confections in 214, 4, 9 or 16 ounce purity jars, and 2, 3 or 5 pound tidy tins. The packages are air-tight. —The candy reaches you fresh and pure. Each package contains twenty-one vari- eties. Keep some on hand always. Be sure—say ““Bunte.”’ BUNTE BROTHERS, Est. 1876, World-Famous Candies, Chicago DIANA STUFT Confections Golden Quali CANDIES

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174 “Ts this Brant Harbor?” asked the Black Duck, in the manner of one somewhat confused. “Sure.” The flagman pitched the answer over his shoulder without looking. ‘“Didn’t you hear me callin’ her?” “T must have been asleep.” “Well, hustle off quick, then, and keep your ears open next time, bo. All aboard!” The Black Duck went down the steps and stood in counterfeited irresolution on the platform. He had green traveler written all over him. Hesitatingly he approached a lounging person whom he took to be a native. “To you live here, mister?” he asked. “Ve aed “Where’ll I find a policeman name of Hart— Dart—something like that?’ “His name’s Hart—Ches Hart. He oughter be round here somewhere now.” The inform- ant pivoted on his heels, then pointed toward the northern end of the station. “There he is yonder—fellow with the uniform cap on.” At the touch of a timid hand on his shoulder the blue-coated man spun about sharply. ‘“‘Well?’”’? he asked shortly. “Man right back there says you’re Officer Hart.”? The Black Duck flirted with his thumb. “Tam. What of it?” “Well, my new boss—gentleman I’m goin’ to work for, name of Drake—I seen him this mornin’ at his office and he spoke to me about you and he says for me to look you up when I got here. And I just got in on that there train that’s just pullin’ out now. .And——” “Oh, I get you. You’re Jansen, eh?” “Yes, sir, that’s me—Jansen. We’re goin’ to be the caretakers for him—me and my wife. But she ain’t comin’ till tomorrow and so ? “T know. Mr. Drake he told me about you last night, standin’ right over there. But seems like he said you wasn’t due until the ten-forty-eight.” “Yes, sir, but I made the earlier train. And so “The eight-fifty-two, eh?” “Yes. And so he told me to speak to you and ask you to show me about where his house is, me bein’ a stranger.” “Well, any other time I’d be glad to,” answered the policeman, “but I can’t leave here now.” The policeman sank his voice discreetly: ‘There’s been a big robbery job pulled off up the way tonight and we just a little while ago got wind of it over the long distance. The news ain’t got round town yet or you’d see a crowd out. Chief’s orders is to keep it kind of dark. They think the fellow that done it is maybe comin’ this way and if it got out he might have some pal somewhere that’d dust out to tip him off or somethin’.” “What kind of a robbery?” ‘The questioner’s tone was innocent but interested. “Joolry. Feller in blue overalls is the one; he’s supposed to be drivin’ a cheap black car. There’s a reward up already. The state police got it by telephone, too—a couple of them are hustlin’ over to the Post Road now.” “T’d like to be in on that reward.” “Who wouldn’t? I’m only just tellin’ you so’s you’ll understand why I can’t go ’long with you and show you Mr. Drake’s place. But it’s easy enough to find—’tain’t over half a mile from here.” He gave directions—down Railroad Avenue past the Monument and the fire engine house, then two blocks east on Adams Avenue to the Shore Road, thence south again along the Shore Road to a kind of a biggish frame house set back from the sidewalk about a hundred feet, with two big pine trees on each side of the gateway going in. “Youll tell it by them pine trees,”’ he added. “And if you fall down ask anybody where the old Shettler place is—they might know it better by that name.” “Well, I’m much obliged,” said the new ar- rival. “I guess I can find it all right. And I hope you’re the one that gets that there reward.” He clumped off across the tracks. The temp- tation was to hurry but he held himself to a sedate trudge all the distance to his destination. Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, t925 Well, he was inside the house, easily in and unsuspected. Not that he expected to stay long. The main thing was that his hunch had stood up. He was safely through the cordon. To be sure, this sanctuary must be a tem- porary one. Inside of an hour, giving himself a plentiful margin of security, he would clear out of here, wearing the inconspicuous ward- robe of his original réle, and sift along toward the big town. There was a good snug hangout in New Rochelle; he’d probably drop off the rattler at New Rochelle and den in there awhile. And the best of it was that he had hung onto the goods. Against his skin, warm and snug, he could feel fifty thousand dollars’ worth of matched pearls where he was carrying them around his neck under his shirt collar. He looked about him at his surroundings. He had entered by a rear window. That part had been a pipe; the window wasn’t even latched, and it was the second one he tried, too. He had come on through then to the front of the house, snapping on lights as he came. Hanging from a nail in the jamb of the front door he had found a heavy brass key. It fitted the lock, so he unlocked the door, leaving it unlocked, and as a further detail of his plant, leaving the key in the keyhole on the inner side. Any suggestion of concealment from any curious investigator, official or otherwise, was for the moment to be avoided; everything must seem open and aboveboard. The door opened directly into the living-room and it was in the living-room that he now stood. It was a large room, rather simply fur- nished, and made ready for a period of disuse. The shades at the windows were drawn; the open fireplace was muzzled by a screen; rugs were rolled and bestowed in a corner. Most of the ornaments were covered with cloths and newspapers. But as the intruder’s eye fell on one bit of decoration his face split into an appreciative and recognizing grin. On either end of the high mantel-shelf stood a wild fowl mounted, according to some taxi- dermist’s notion of a natural attitude, on a small stand. One was a thing with a red head and a whitish breast; it meant nothing in his life. But the other did, for it was a male black duck—his own bird, he its namesake, it his totem. What could that mean except good fortune, continuing and piling up? He stepped across to it and was in the act of reaching up to stroke its back—for more luck—when he heard something which froze him stiff. He heard feet just outside; heavy- shod feet stumbling up the steps of the front porch. He heard a voice speak, too. He didn’t stay frozen then. He knew that voice or thought he did. In the intervening seconds between the first warning clunk-clunk without and the turning of the knob in the front door, he jerked the coiled strand from about his throat and thrust it well up under the stiff sheathed wing of the stuffed pelt. It was an instantaneous impulse partly born of his superstition, partly of a sudden determina- tion to get the necklace off his person and bestowed in a hiding-place where none would think to seek it. If this proved a false alarm he could reclaim it. If, on the other hand, it meant detection and a pinch, the loot would stay where it was until he got clear and came back for it, or failing in that, until he sent a trusted pal for it. The whole transaction was accomplished in less time than it has taken to describe the motive behind it. He swung about and relaxed into a posture of slouched indifference as the door opened and his policeman acquaintance, Hart, stood on the threshold regarding him with a puzzled and somewhat hostile look. “Hello,” said the Black Duck casually. ‘Well, I made it all right.””, He went forward a pace or two. “So I see,”’ said the officer. He repeated the words meaningly. “So I see.” He shot forth a leading question, hard and straight like a steel-cased bullet: “How did you get in here?” “Why, with a key—how else would I?” countered the prowler, simulating surprise. “Where'd you get a key?” “Why, my new boss, Mr. Drake, he handed it to me when I seen him this mornin’ at his office. It’s stickin’ in the door there now.” Hart glanced down swiftly. “So I see,” he ‘commented. “Well, that counts one for you and one against the other feller.” “What other feller?” “Don’t worry. I’m goin’ to show him to you right now. Goin’ to show you to him too.” Without taking his eyes from the other’s face he moved his body slightly aside and jerked out a command: “Step along in, you. I want to see you both in a good light.” Obedient to the order, a short, middle-aged round-shouldered blond man scrooged past him and advanced with diffident steps to the center of the room, confronting the original occupant with a troubled, confused stare. He betrayed that he was perplexed, ill-at-ease, but a sort of stubborn defiance likewise re- vealed itself from within him. “There, that’ll do!” bade Hart, biding by the door. ‘Now we’ll get at the bottom of this funny business. Which one of you is on the level and which one is a lyin’ faker?” “IT don’t get you,” said the Black Duck, sidling for position nearer the one means of egress but masking the stealthy move under rey of a rising petulance. ‘What’s the ig idea? I don’t know this man.” “T don’t get no part of it yet,”’ stated Hart. “But I aim to. Now here’s the way it stands: I’m told that a guy named Jansen is due up here on the ten-forty-eight tonight. All right. But you”—he pointed at the Black Duck— “you drop off the eight-fifty-two nearly two hours ahead of schedule, claimin’ you’re the man. You look all right to me, though, so I don’t think nothin’ about your gettin’ here so early and I send you along over here. “So far so good. But not ten minutes later you’’—he indicated the second stranger— “you show up with a story about havin’ got a friend of yours in the truckin’ business be- tween New York and Bridgeport to give you a lift up this far on his truck, so’s to save car- fare. Well, that part might be all right, at that. But, by Jings, you tell me your name is Jansen too, so naturally I get leary. So I leave the important case I’m on and bring you over. Say, which one of you is Jansen—if either one of you is him?” “T told you more as twenty times—Henry Jansen, that’s me,” protested the later arrival. The Black Duck, still moving doorward by almost imperceptible degrees, shrugged his shoulders. ‘Take a look for yourself, Officer, and then decide,” he said. “I don’t know this fellow’s game but I know who I am—Jansen. Who else could I be? I ask you. Didn't I have a key to get in with?” He dealt a bold stroke: ‘“Where’s his key?” “That’s just it,” confessed Hart. “He pulls a spiel on me about comin’ away in such a hurry that he forgets to stick the key in his pocket that Mr. Drake gave him, but his wife’s bringin’ it up tomorrow, so he says. And then I ask you where you’re aimin’ to spend the night if you ain’t got any key?” He was addressing the blond suspect again. “And you say you guess you’ll have to rent a room for the night. But you don’t say that until after I’ve spilled it to you, me bein’ taken by sur- prise with all this mix-up between you two, that there’s already one guy on the spot claimin’ to be Jansen. That don’t make it look good for you, old-timer—not that I’m satisfied about either one of you yet. Well, then, if you ain’t got no key, have you got anything else on you to help prove up for you—letters or papers or references?” The accused, in evident distress, shook his head. .“‘My wife—she brings all up tomorrow in her trunk,” he said lamely. : “Huh!” Hart’s grunt was a grunt of in- credulity. “Well, then, you first feller to blow in—how about your credentials?” He seemed to like the larger and more official- sounding word and used it again: ““That’s the ticket—lemme see your credentials a minute— if you’ve got any?” Sparring for time, craftily shifting on his feet, Hea

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Write Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 making ready for the spring for outdoors, the Black Duck cleared his throat. ‘Well, you see, Officer,” he began, “‘it’s like this——” The genuine claimant broke in eagerly: “T got it, Mister Policeman,” he exclaimed. “Now out it comes.” He took the center of the picture—wagging a finger at the Black Duck. “If you are me and I ain’t me, just you tell me this: Where did this here Mr. Drake which you say you saw him this mornin’ —where did he tell you the keys to the servants’ wing was put away at inside this house?” The Black Duck laughed ironically. “T suppose I have to tell you that?” “No, you don’t even have to try to tell be- cause you don’t know,” proclaimed his ad- versary. “But myself, I know and only me. Look, policeman, now I show you something: I show you where those inside keys are—I guess that proves, eh? My new boss he says to me where I should look, in which room.” He glared about him, then took decisive steps over to the spot just vacated by the maneuver- ing Black Duck. “Look, policeman, please. He says to me that right under this here bird, the dark-colored one, on this here corner of this mantel, I——” His clumsy hand closed on the neck of the stuffed drake and he jerked it down. And from under its wing there fell, lustrous and shimmering, and with a soft tinkle on the bare floor, Mrs. Randolph Swazey’s string of matched pearls—and the Black Duck made his leap. At the arraignment of the prisoner, he show- ing plain signs of the struggle which had taken place before Patrolman Hart of the Brant Harbor force, with the aid of Mr. T. J. Drake’s new caretaker, succeeded on the night previous in overpowering him, the county judge, having highly complimented both the arresting officer and the assistant civilian Jansen, next ad- dressed the defendant: “In committing you to the county jail to await the action of the grand jury on these several charges against you, I wish to say that I do so with pleasure,” began his Honor. “Because our information from the police authorities of New York shows you to be an habitual criminal and a repeated offender against the law.” He consulted a Rogues’ Gallery file on his desk. ‘And so, Gabriel Guffey, alias Gillespie, alias Gill, alias Go- lightly, alias the Black Duck——” “Just a minute,” interrupted the battered prisoner, standing at the rail between two under-sheriffs. “As a favor, Judge, cut out that last part, will you? I’m off the Black Duck stuff for life!” Soft Hats, High Hats & Coronets (cont. from page 45) been in Tokyo before. She never had been in European clothes before. She was just be- ginning to become acquainted with the bride- groom. She was very pleasant-looking but, it seemed, a trifle bewildered, and of course she was out of place in those terrible European duds. The native costume of the Japanese girl is probably the most glorious combination ever devised. The wearing of European clothes should be a capital offense in Japan. Jouor, SULTAN OF. Just below Singapore, and down toward the tip end of the Straits Settlement, there is a little principality called Johor. The Sultan of Johor is one’ of the few native rulers who has been permitted to retain his territory and control his own fi- nances. Two of us went down to look at his palace. The Sultan had been traveling for several years and had brought back with him a lot of tasty ingrain carpets, some Grand Rapids furniture and a talking machine. Also he had a pool table. We stood in a doorway and saw him put a ball into the side pocket from a very difficult angle. This visit to his Royal Highness provided one of the most exciting days spent near the equator. ROOSEVELT, THEODORE. It was in 1904 that I first talked with the Colonel, down at Oyster Bay. I say I talked. As a matter of fact I answered questions. The first question he asked was, “What do they think out your way of So-and-So,”’ mentioning a Democratic leader whose private character was above re- proach and whose intentions have probably been good at all times. I happened to remem- ber what a Hoosier neighbor of mine had said about this same man, so I borrowed his mate- rial. I said: “Out our way we think he is the kind of man who would be taken along on a Sunday-school picnic for the purpose of put- ting up a swing for the children.” That reply seemed to establish me at once as a comic, but the Colonel was always looking for serious advice. He led me into another room and pointed to a picture on the wall. It was a half-tone of Roosevelt himself. The Colonel wore a riding costume with high, close boots. He told me that the National Committee had printed a large number of these pictures and had arranged to send them out, but that some of his timorous friends had advised against the distribution of the pictures for the reason that he, the Colonel, was wear- ing a riding costume which would lose him thousands of votes in the Middle West. It was urged that out in the corn belt the voters would feel that anyone who wore a British riding costume was either an Anglo-maniac or a dude. ‘What do you think?” asked the Colonel. “T think you are the one man who could get away with it,” I replied. ‘It would be fatal to Henry Cabot Lodge. It would be ridiculous in the case of Bryan. It would be criminal for almost any Congressman. But it is just the rig for you. Let the pictures go out.” My advice was followed and the Colonel was elected by an overwhelming majority. Many times after that I saw him and always he spoke about the man who was taken to the picnic for the purpose of putting up the swing. Which proves that when you hear anything good it is sometimes a bright idea to work it over by putting in an additional word and a comma or two and calling it your own. WirtHety, formerly Kaiser. It was at Venice in 1898. The Kaiser, on board the Imperial yacht Hohenzollern, was on his way to Constantinople to promote that gigantic deal with Turkey whereby the railroad was to be put through to Bagdad and Turkey was to be made an ally, and everything was to be all set for attacking British India from the north. A few of us chartered a gondola and paddled out to look at the yacht, which was about the size of a battleship. As we moved alongside we saw a distinguished looking member of the royal party standing by the rail, looking out toward the Lido. Then we saw the Kaiser himself come up from a companionway and approach his friend on tiptoe and give him a swinging blow in the back which almost knocked him overboard. When the assaulted party turned around and looked at Wilhelm, the latter roared with laughter and the Baron, or whatever he was, had to join in. It was apparent, even in 1898, that anyone who had that kind of a sense of humor might eventually hit the wrong man on the back. Possibly I should include in this list of notables who have stood in my presence, the Maharajah who was in our hotel at a watering- place in Europe and whose wife had been a Spanish dancer and had given up dancing but was still very expert with the toothpick. It strikes me, however, that real reminiscences should not come down to Maharajahs. You never can absorb greatness by swimming around with tadpoles. When you are penning recollections, don’t let it crop out that you ever consorted with hired help, low-brow neighbors or relatives. wors: at th Yc odd | dine dinne room sixty Tips- quar twen twen two ] knee looke Mi digni touck time. depai as th Wash matt mone Sincl. blous in all be as! lookir their their me lion,” in he

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Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 The Girl Who Lost Her Job (Continued from pom 51) stuff, run of the mill, so to speak. The thousand dollars lasted long enough to pur- chase one street dress, one dancing frock and one plain cloak. “Chic, ravissante, trés jolie,” said the clerk. “In other words, rather jake,” said Mary Ann. “I think so myself, kid. Only, a dab of lace on the collar of this frock——” “Mais non, pas du tout—but you are all wrong,” said the clerk. ‘Lace is not worn at all this season, especially on a frock for the dancing.” Mary Ann eyed her with gratitude. “Pulling : the French on me makes out that I’m a fashion- able customer, girlie, and I’m sure much obliged. But whether they’re wearing lace or not makes no difference to Mary Ann McCabbee. If you’ve got honest-to-god olive skin, a little touch of white around the shadowy throat, right where the seductive hollow is, never does a bit of harm.” She glanced about the salon. There was a show-case near-by, and in it, on cushions, re- posed bits of lace. “I want that piece there,” she announced. Grade B courtesy, substantial stuff as it is, can stand only a certain amount of strain. A thousand dollar customer uses it up quickly. The clerk smiled. “Have you any idea what we charge for that lace?” she asked. Mary Ann smiled. ‘That’s seventeenth century, pillow-made Brussels lace,” she said. “You’d probably soak a Park Avenue rube nine hundred dollars for it. _But you’ll make a sweet little profit selling that tiny bit to me for about two-twenty-five. I have another thousand dollar bill right where the dimpled knee nestles in its silken sheath. Do we trade?” There was a consultation. Langdon’s rarely sold lace, save when some eccentric customer demanded such trimming. Mary Ann got the pillow-made bit of seventeenth century Brussels. Three evenings later there was a party at the Blenheim, that fashionable hotel on Park Avenue where the best gathers to sneer at the worst, and the worst has many a hearty guffaw at the best. You can’t get a long way with seven hundred odd dollars when you invite fifteen people to dine at the Blenheim. Ten dollars a head for dinner—one-fifty. Seventy-five for the private room—two-twenty-five. Thirty cocktails— sixty dollars. Total so far, two-eighty-five. Tips—fifty dollars. Three-thirty-five. Five quarts of champagne—ninety dollars. Four- twenty-five. Musicians, one hundred. Five- twenty-five. Still, Mary Ann McCabbee had two hundred dollars in the pouch beneath the knee when the guests sat down to table. She looked them over approvingly. Miss Casey, though still a maiden, made a dignified chaperon with her gray hair and the touch of arthritis that kept her seated all the time. And Benny Touchley, from the cashier’s department of Hartigan’s, had as stupid a face as though he’d been born on the right side of Washington Square. He looked class. matter of fact, all of them looked like ready money. Mamie Halligan, of notions; Minnie Sinclair, of handkerchiefs; Dotty Traynor, of blouses; Bill McGann, of toys—take them all in all, and they were 0.k. One didn’t need to be ashamed of any of them; the girls were good- looking and prettily dressed; the men wore their dinner jackets with assurance and carried their liquor nicely. _ “Certainly wonnafil you inheriting a mil- lion,” said Jenny Lucas, without a bit of envy in her voice. “Huh,” laughed Mary Ann. million, Jenny.” “Who cares what it was??? demanded curly- haired Raoul Pantone, of the shipping de- partment. “It was enough to give a swell party. Hurrah for Mary Ann!” Only Casey tossed a drop of cool water on the proceedings. “Where do you go from here, Mary Ann?” “Tt wasn’t a As a° she asked as the guests were saying good night. Mary Ann shrugged. ‘Lord knows, and I don’t care, Casey. Was it a swell affair?” “Tt was like a movie,” said Casey enthusi- astically. “But I can’t help worrying about you. No job—your dough blown eS “Can’t you see Jim Haggerty is waiting to take you home, and the taxi he’s ordered has | counseled Mary | ” a busy meter? Run along, Ann. “And where are you going?” asked Casey. Mary Ann grinned mischievously. “I’ve always wanted to have breakfast brought to me in bed. I’m spending the night here,” she declared. And it was even so. You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and you might as well be broke as have two hundred dollars. Mary Ann figured it this way: “T’ve had a wonderful time, been rich for one evening. I have to get a job. Very well. Two hundred might keep me five or six or even eight weeks. All right. Supposing I didn’t get a job then. I’d be broke and I’d do a lot of worrying in that time. Whereas this way, stopping at the Blenheim, [’ll know where I stand in a few days. My chances of getting a job at the first place I ask are just as good as my getting one at the twentieth. Mary Ann, | enjoy yourself.” You ring the telephone when you wake up; the instrument is right by the head of your bed. Gosh, you don’t even have to turn over; just stretch out the slim fingers and ask for “room | service.” You order orange juice, buttered | toast, coffee and one egg boiled exactly three | and one-half minutes. Then you slip from beneath the silken coverlet, stretch the pajama-clad limbs luxuri- | ously and toddle into the bathroom. You just | soak and soak and soak in steamy water until you hear them setting up a breakfast table; then you turn on the cold water, lie there a moment, then climb from the tub, rub your- self and enter your bedroom, hungry as a wolf. You feel that the deferential waiter is eying your silk peignoir with approval. You assure him that everything is as Madame requires, and you drink your orange juice, taste the coffee, pick up the morning paper . . . Oh gosh and some more goshes. Later you take a tiny little cat-nap; waking, you spend thirty or forty or one hundred and twenty minutes at your dressing-table. You manicure, you rouge daintily . . . Then you look over the street costume; that same bit of lace that became the dancing frock so well looks charming on the more severe walking dress. You attach it, with a bit of thread and a needle, adjust the rakish hat and walk to the elevator. In the hotel lobby Mary Ann was conscious of many a discreetly approving glance; she didn’t ignore them; women never do. In many a subtle way they say much obliged. But she was not flirtatious, was discreet, sweet- seeming and unapproachable. “That,” said James J. Magenty, of Spokane, Washington, “is just the sort of woman I came to New York to find.” He was address- ing the assistant manager of the Blenheim, Mr. Robert Ferguson, who laughed. “T don’t blame you, Jimmy, my boy. She’s a peach.” “You New Yorkers make me sick,” said Magenty. “You always dope us Westerners wrong. I’m a _ hardened bachelor, thank heaven. What I mean is, if Magenty’s Big Store had a woman like that a | “As assistant manager I could introduce you, | maybe,” suggested Mr. Ferguson. “What good would it do me? She’s probably a society swell—for the love of Mike, look at the piece of lace! seen anything like it in town. like to ask her——” Behold Mary Ann McCabbee lunching with | Mr. Magenty, of Magenty’s Big Store, It’s beautiful, and I ain’t | Say, Bob, I'd | 177 “Always Smiling” HERE'S no finer tribute to Dr.West's Tooth Brush users! ““Always smiling” they are—and always their smiles disclose sound, white teeth. Dr.West’sTooth Brush was designed tofitthehiding places of decay. Its convex brush- ing surface fits the INSIDE contour of your teeth as no other brush can. It cleans thoroughly all OUTSIDE sur- faces. Its bristles, tufted and trimmed into wedge-shaped “brooms, penetrate the inter- dental spaces and keep them clean. Millions protect their teeth and insure their smile with this correct tooth brush. Get iVd yours today at your dealer's. |g Prices: Adult's, soc; Youth's, /fE# 35¢; Child's, 25c; Gum Mas- //e sage,'75c. 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Structural Engineer ca ....Business Manager .-. Steam Engineer ....Cert. Pub. A re ....Accountant & Auditor .. Sanitary Engineer .... Bookkeeper ... Surveyor & Mapping ....Draftsman & Designer ....Tel. & Tel. Engineer ....Electrical Engineer ....High School Graduate .... General Education .... Wireless Radio ..Personal Analysis . .Undecid ee paper Re Mach Shop_ Practice AG. Shop Superintendent DOE coos ce Bion obs oo 0 veiny.ce.y ss opie aptbbine puiconisns Pine 6.5 5 525066 oi Sic s TaN cna es Coke eae hee cae Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Spokane, Washington. All very discreet, very proper, very nice. “And you want to employ me as lace buyer for your store?” said Mary Ann, as the salad was being served. “Well, to get a lady like you, who knows laces like you do—— Ain’t it amazing that I should run into you? You wanting just what | I got to give—when can you sail?” Nine weeks later James J. Magenty looked “at the report before him. Briefly, it stated that while Mary Ann McCabbee knew lace as well as anyone on earth, hers was the knowl- edge of an artist, not a business woman. She was paying too much for what she bought, not buying the right kind for the patrons of the Big Store. “T better write her. No, I better cable her. No, I better see her,” said James J. Magenty to himself . . He sent up his card, and in her pretty salon in the Lotti, in Paris, Mary Ann McCabbee received him. “T got your cable to stop buying,” “and—and—am I fired?” Magenty’s big mouth hardened in decision. “You certainly are, Miss McCabbee,” he declared. ‘You’ve cost me—almost as much as a wife, by golly. And if I have to pay any such extravagant price, I think I ought—well, I ought to have a wife. Fired? You bet. How can I keep discipline in a store when everyone she said, knows that my foreign lace buyer is driving me into bankruptcy? Say, have you ever been to Spokane? It’s the swellest town— makes Paris look like a dump. This town of Paris is all well enough to visit and you and me will have some great times, but to live in— give me Spokane.” “You’re proposing, I take it?” said Mary n. “Girlie, I’m crazy about you since I first saw you.” “Man, I was for you at the same time,” said Mary Ann McCabbee. Buried talents? How can you tell? Maybe the unprofitable servant thought money was nothing and so hid it. Maybe if his lord had tried him out in some other way, the servant would have made good. I don’t know. But I do know about Mary Ann Magenty. Everyone thought she’d buried or thrown away her talent when she blew her money. But her talent was not to hoard and save. And her talent wasn’t for lace. She thought it was, but it wasn’t. And if she hadn’t thrown away her false talent—her money—she’d never have come into her real talent. Maybe the rest of the parable about the unprofitable servant, if we knew it, would tell us that he made good on another job. Because Mary Ann did. You see, her talent was for love and wifehood Ask James J. Magenty. So This Is Love (Continued from page 107) must not be diverted from his purpose. “Johnny,” he said bluntly, “much prefers to remain as he is.” The dimple at one corner of her mouth deepened. “Men always do,” she agreed coolly. She paused, and then added reminiscently, “I’ve yet to marry a man who didn’t say the same thing. You see I’m more honest than most women. I always tell them that I’m going to change them.” ‘““You’ve been married before?” gasped Sam. ‘Married before?” she echoed, her gray eyes wide. ‘Didn’t Johnny tell you I had been?” “He didn’t mention that little detail,” Sam assured her. “Tt may have been my fault,’ she confessed. She pondered. “I can’t remember at that whether I ever told him.” “Perhaps,” suggested Sam, “it did not occur to you that he would be interested.” The sarcasm was obviously lost upon her. “T suppose he would have been,” she con- ceded. ‘Men are apt to have such funny notions on that subject. I don’t see why. I'll say this for my husbands. They were all per- fect gentlemen. And I don’t know one of them but what speaks highly of me to his present wife.” “All of them?” echoed Sam, aghast. “Oh now, I’ve given you a wrong idea. There were only two of them. And they were both much older. I think a young girl always prefers older men at first, don’t you? She has yet to learn that they aren’t plastic and resent change. That is Johnny’s great virtue. He is plastic, don’t you think?” “If you mean that he falls in love one minute and out the next——” “Qh, that is because he has never met the right woman. He is something like me, a born experimenter. I don’t mind his previous affairs, truly.” “TJ should say you had no reason to,” said Sam—to himself. To her, he said: “I may as well be perfectly frank. Johnny wanted me to tell you that——” ‘“‘He’d rather not marry me after all,”’ she cut in. “I know, he has tried to tell me so. But that doesn’t worry me a bit. I wonder if all men don’t feel that way at some time. I know my first husband did. He was a manu- facturer of pants. I don’t know whether you ever heard of him——” “T’m sure I never did,” Sam cut in hastily. “Probably not,” she acquiesced, “although he is prominent in the trade. I told him I could never marry a manufacturer of pants and that I was sure he was a poet at heart. Don’t you think most men are, really?” “No,” said Sam, with absolute finality. “You’re wrong then. I think that—that even you are a poet at heart!” “Me?” echoed Sam, startled. ‘Good Lord, I'd rather be shot!” “That’s what my first husband said!’ she announced triumphantly. This Sam ignored. He could not fathom her and so he returned to the subject of Johnny. “Let me make myself clear,” he said. “Johnny does not want to marry you. What are you going to do about it?” “But he has promised to—in writing!’’ she retorted. They eyed each other for a moment. “In other words you have a legal hold on him,” commented Sam. “A court might award you a certain amount of money. Are you going to court?” This seemed to amuse her. was businesslike enough. ‘Are you speaking as Johnny’s lawyer now?” “Precisely. I believe he has written you some poetry and possibly some letters.” “Both. And even the letters are poetic. Would you care to have me read them to you?” “Heaven forbid!” replied Sam. “You might have a better idea what their value is,” she persisted. “How much do you want?” demanded Sam. Ever so briefly she pondered; a slender fore- finger to her lip. Then: “I suppose I should feel—or at least /ook insulted,” she commented. “But why bother? Isn’t ten thousand the customary sum in such cases?” “Nothing stirring,” said Sam. “I might give you a thousand.” “Shylock,” she retorted, with a charming smile. ‘“I’d get more free advertising than that out of a suit, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if the management gave me a better part even!” Sam came abruptly to his feet. He was accustomed to bargaining with the lovely ladies that Johnny got himself entangled with, yet now, somehow, he felt outraged. As out- raged as she should have been—but wasn’t! “You aren’t going to leave it at a thousand, surely,” she protested. But her reply gener met h a girl Nev little | where make go of | tion k ardor, Anc worth retorte to be select | “Sai my life we: other | a fairl; what p austere wander This and con sometin savory | a detec itself t necessa1 was eup clerk. Now, on a cal “This he told | ai | ge card. ‘ wit. Sa “Offic And questior deploral as John: when Je day, wa: Joan Wi ew w Jenkins’ “But proteste: am first.” This |

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Sam considered. Then: “I'll make it twenty-five hundred,” he said. “Not enough,” she said, shaking her head. “Think it over,’ suggested Sam frigidly. “Even if a jury awarded you five thousand, | your lawyer would take at least half of it.” “So young—and yet so wise!’’ she com- mented. over. Isn’t that sweet and generous of me?” And actually she managed to look sweet and | generous—and even ingenuous—as her eyes met his. a girl who could bargain the way she did. Nevertheless, she was beyond question a little bird of prey who, having got Johnny just where she wanted him, was determined now to make him pay through the nose before she let goofhim. What was more, there was no ques- tion but what, thanks to Johnny’s erstwhile ardor, she could do just that. And so Sam took a vicious pleasure in inform- ing Johnny the next morning. @‘Ten thousand!” bleated Johnny. “Good Lord, Sam, what did you say?” “That your affections were, at the outside, worth not more than twenty-five hundred,” retorted Sam, and he added coldly, “You want to be sure next time that the chorus girl you select isn’t a clever business woman as well.” “Sam, I never was so deceived by a woman in my life,” wailed Johnny. ‘“I——” “T imagine,” Sam cut in cruelly, “that if her other husbands pay her alimony, she must pay a fairly fat income tax.” “Her other husbands? what do you mean?” “She forgot to tell you that she had been married twice. They were older men, however, and she found that she couldn’t make them over. She said that you were younger and more plastic and that she felt sure——”’ “Good Lord, Sam, pay her ten thousand. Pay her anything,” pleaded Johnny. ‘“I—great Scott—I can’t believe it, even now. You’ve seen her, Sam. Would she strike you as that sort of a girl?” “Absolutely!” said Sam. Now that may have been so. But long after Johnny had been ejected on the grounds that Sam had other things to attend to this morning, Sam sat at his desk, his brows knit and his mouth grim. Then he pressed a buzzer. “Send Jenkins in,”’ he told the office boy. Eventually Jenkins appeared. Good Lord, Sam, up to meet it. Various outsiders who saw him about the outside office of the firm wondered what possible business he could have in that austere atmosphere. He looked as if he had wandered in by mistake. This was not so. Even firms as respectable and conservative as Witherspoon and Netherby sometimes find it necessary to delve into un- savory matters, such as suggest the services of a detective. But such a firm could not bring itself to admit that a detective was ever necessary to it. In the office, therefore, Jenkins oe peers referred toas a confidential clerk. Now, as he waited, Sam wrote Joan’s name on a card. “This girl is in the chorus at the Puritan,” he told Jenkins. “A full report on her, please.” “I getcha,” replied Jenkins, glancing at the card. “Personal?”? This was Jenkins’s idea of wit. Sam resented it. “Office routine,’’ he said curtly. And of course it was. questionable past and her unquestionably deplorable present were of interest to Sam only as Johnny’s attorney. The impatience he felt, when Jenkins failed to submit a report the next day, was wholly due, naturally, to the fact that Joan Winthrop was trying to outbluff him. He knew what was in her hand but he hoped Jenkins’s report might put an ace in his. “But you didn’t say you were in a hurry,” protested Jenkins. “And Mr. Witherspoon ~ a matter to be looked into and I put that oe.” This was at noon. The twenty-four hours Hearst's [nternational—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 “Supposing I suggest you think it | Tl give you—oh, twenty-four hours. | She looked—well, anything but like | As usual he | wore a derby over his left eye and a cigar jutted | Joan’s more or less | | | | The General Electric Company is working with the electric light and power company which serves you to make America’s homes, offices and factories, better placesin which to live. How to Keep Cool With millions to spend on luxury, the princes of India found no better way to keep the air cool, and to ward off gnats and flies, than the creaking, feeble “punkah” pulled by hand. You can have a much better breeze for a tiny fraction of the cost. You can get a General Electric fan for a few dollars and you can keep it running all day for 5 cents. GENERALELECTRIC consult 119 West Fortieth Street, For reliable information about schools and colleges Tue Cosmorouitan Epucationan DEPARTMENT New York City Become Com‘! Kiec. 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180 Joan had accorded Sam would not elapse until five. He had made up his mind to let them elapse. At the worst she could no more than see a lawyer and put the matter in his hands. When she did so, the lawyer would naturally get in touch with him. They could talk it over. Sam felt sure he could handle Joan’s lawyer better than he could her. So he had decided. And then at three o’clock his telephone buzzed. “Darn!” said a feminine voice. ‘“What’s the matter with you, central?” Sam recognized the voice immediately. “Mr. DeWitt speaking,” he cut in. “Oh—it’s you,” said the voice. “This is Miss Winthrop speaking. Have you reached a decision yet? I know I gave you twenty-four hours but 4g “JT have not decided to give you ten thousand if that is what you mean.” “T suspected you wouldn’t; you looked as if you’d die first. So I asked one of the girls who lives in Boston if she knew of a good lawyer, and she told me to go straight to Billy Gradine. Have you ever heard of him?” “Good Lord!” groaned Sam to himself. Had he heard of Billy Gradine? “Everybody says he’s a wonder,” the voice went on. “Of course I'll keep my word and not do anything for twenty-four hours—but I think I’ll make an appointment with him for five just the same.” Sam thought furiously. Billy Gradine! A past master of the art of publicity as well as of his particular phase of the law. Young, brilliant and unscrupulous, he would be per- fectly content to fight this case in either of two ways. In the newspapers and before a jury, or to a settlement that would squeeze Johnny to the limit. “Would it be possible for you to see me here first?’’ Sam asked. “Tt would be, but not at all convenient. I think you had better come to see me.” This Sam swallowed, without caring for its taste. ‘Where are you now?” he managed. “Tn a telephone booth—but I’m afraid you’d find it rather cramped. I do. Why not come tomy room? I'll be at home from four to five.” “T’ll be there,’ promised Sam, though it gagged him. “Would you care to have tea?” she suggested blithely. “T’d much rather not,” said Sam forthrightly. Nevertheless, he found it waiting for him when he presented himself. “One or two lumps?” she asked. “Do say two. I think you need them. And don’t look so glum. It’s not your money but Johnny’s, you know. I realize you want to drive as hard a bargain as you can, but you are rather up against it, you know. And tea is tea and Iam me—why not make the most of us both?” Her voice was indolent, yet provocative. But Sam refused to be beguiled. “No sugar at all, if you please,” he said, ever so distinctly. The hand that offered him his tea was slim with tapering, competent fingers. Most of Johnny’s ladies had had stubby fingers. They sipped their tea, presenting a charming picture. No one, to see them, would have be- lieved them adversaries. At the most one might have surmised that the unperturbed young woman had just refused the glum- visaged young man. When they had finished with the tea she rose and crossed the room. From the mantel over the ancient firefront she produced cigarets and offered him one. He refused it. “All business!” she commented. “You wished to say something to me?” “How did you happen to go on the stage?” he demanded abruptly. The question popped out, surprising him. But if she was surprised she did not show it. “Why—I always had been interested in dlancing. I suppose I ought to say I support a widowed mother—or am putting a sister through college. But actually I’m not, thank heaven. I’m merely earning my living by doing the one thing I seem best fitted for. Is Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 the question important?” asked Joan slowly. “No,” admitted Sam. He added, without preface. “TI’ll give you five thousand for Johnny’s letters—and a release.” “Five thousand dollars,”? she commented thoughtfully. “I suppose I should hold out. I’m sure Billy Gradine would tell me so. And yet—the strong should be merciful to the weak. I——” She paused and the corners of her pretty mouth quirked. “If you would say ‘please’ very prettily, I might say ‘yes.’ ” _Fair enough, this—save that her eyes mocked im. “J——” replied Sam violently, “will be hanged if I will.” “Poor Johnny—and stubborn you!” she murmured. “Kipling only gets a dollar a word and I offered you five thousand for one. And you won’t say it. Oh, well!’ She shrugged her pretty shoulders. Sam swallowed something. After all, what difference did it make? “Please!” he managed to say. “T said prettily,” she protested. “It’s not so much what you say as how you say it. Try again. Think of how Billy Gradine would say it ” Sam struggled with himself for several seconds. Then: “Oh, don’t strain yourself so!’’ she said. “I do believe you have done the best you can. You need practise but —I'll take the five thousand. Will you send it or bring it?” From his bill fold Sam drew a check all filled out. “Tf I had known you were so sure of me, I might not have given in!”’ she commented. Sam hadn’t been so sure of her. But he had told himself that if he produced the check she might be tempted to take it From the table she picked up a package and handed it to him. “Johnny’s effects, allof them,” shesaid. ‘On my honor!” “You were ready, too!” he commented. “To take them to Billy Gradine,” she assured him sweetly. She turned, picked up her horn spectacles and added, “Give those to Johnny too, please.’ “What for?” he demanded, puzzled. “To remember me by.” “T don’t understand——” “You wouldn’t.” She studied the check he had given her. “What a lot of umbrellas for rainy days!” “Tf all your matrimonial adventures turned out as well, you must be well provided for in that respect,” suggested Sam inexcusably. But she refused to be prodded either to anger or self-defense. “T do believe that you think I am merce- nary!” she said, smiling at him. “But truly I have always been—more married against than marrying.” She dropped her eyes and studied her slim fingers pensively. “And think,” she murmured, “what a com- fort it is to me to know that nobody can ever say of me, ‘She was often a bridesmaid but never a bride!’ ” Lovely and lawless, self-assured and shame- less she mocked him still. He came swiftly to his feet, a pulse hammering at his temple. “Going?” she asked. “I suppose—you must. But truly, in spite of everything, I’ll always think kindly of you. I wouldn’t have missed meeting you for—five thousand dollars.” She offered him her hand but he preferred not to see it. “Thank you,” he said violently, reaching for his hat. And that, so far as Sam was con- cerned, was the end of Joan Winthrop. Yet not quite the end, after all. On his desk the next morning Sam found Jenkins’s report. Attached to this was a clipping from a Boston newspaper, embellished with a picture of Joan herself. This gave Sam an awful start because it was so that Billy Gradine most often prefaced the presentation of his breach of promise suits to a jury—a picture of the heroine, appealing and charming, accompanied by a news story of her heart’s anguish. A second glance reassured him. The newspaper clipping was plainly devoted wholly to Joan Winthrop’s connection with the show at the Puritan. This Sam scanned swiftly. Press-agent stuff . . « “Miss Winthrop is of an old New York family . . . Started in amateur theatricals and then became a professional at the death of her father, a well-known New York lawyer . .” His name, Sam noted, not given. It never was. “The usual piffle,” decided Sam and turned to Jenkins’s report. This he read once. Then he read it again. Then he summoned Jenkins. “Got it right?” echoed Jenkins, his profes- sional pride stung to the quick. “Say, did you ever know me to fall down on a job? Well this was as easy as rolling off alog. Why, you could have got the info yourself!” And Jenkins, feeling that a mere junior had been put in his place, withdrew. Sam read the report through again. Then he got up and walked to the window. Then he sat down at his desk, read the newspaper account again and sank back in his chair, absolutely baffled. Eventually it occurred to him that inasmuch as he had already paid Joan Winthrop five thousand dollars, she was a-closed chapter so far as he, acting as Johnny’s attorney, was con- cerned. And that, being so, there was no sense in wasting his morning endeavoring to fathom fresh riddles. The logic of that was impeccable. Accord- ingly, he thrust Jenkins’s report aside, and that again was the end of Joan Winthrop so far as Sam was concerned. It wasn’t, therefore, Sam who went to see the show at the Puritan that night. Sam had sworn wild horses couldn’t drag him to the show when the idea had again and again sug- gested itself to him. No wild horses were seen about the Puritan that night and so, though it wore Sam’s clothes and Sam’s face, it couldn’t have been Sam who, having purchased a ticket from a speculator at a scandalous price, was tinglingly conscious of Joan’s first appearance on the stage. This man who couldn’t have been Sam saw Joan the moment she stepped out from the wings though she was but ‘one of a dozen girls, similarly attired. It was his impression that Joan stood out. In the second act she surely did. She had her moment then. A flash of draperies about dainty knees, a bit of Helen of Troy, Cleopatra and all the ladies who have made men a little mad epitomized in movement to music. After that applause, an encore and a flushed, lovely figure bowing to the audience. Then the after theater throng in the street. Laughter and light, the whir of sleek motors. An alley with a bald light and a stage door at its end. Now Sam had never waited outside a stage door in his life and he never would. To him a man who so waited was a “Stage Door Johnny” and no man at all. Accordingly, the man who found himself waiting outside the stage door not only couldn’t have been Sam but actually wasn’t. It was a brand-new Sam. The old Sam had never been aware of his existence. Yet Joan recognized him at once. She was among the first to appear. And this new Sam moved toward her as inexorably as a plummet falls to earth. He had, so far, not the slightest idea what he was going to say. “T think,”’ was what he did say, “that we can find a taxi.” Joan glanced at him. He knew he must have taken her by surprise. Yet all she said was: “Do you? And if so—why?” “Let’s find one—and then I'll tell you,” he said briefly. They moved toward the head of the alley. A taxi driver saw them coming and flung open the door of his cab. But Joan asserted herself. “T really prefer to walk after the show,” she said. It was then that she saw it wasn’t Sam, after ~~ ePInan

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d it le or ly Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 181 oa As pioneers in the field of oral hygiene, we believe that the makers of Listerine are logically qualified to introduce this new and drastic note into dentifrice 2 advertising. And we believe that a very definite public benefit will result from this endeavor to make the nation properly con- scious of the disease dangers that may result from tooth abscesses. —Lambert Pharmacal Company. PN al al ad a, Peat Meat Maat” eat Mead” eal test Waal Neal” Meal tad” ad nel inl Maal al ad inal Ml Me as aah sal Matt as Maal taal Mal Maal at a, Nadal Mead el el el al Ps eS LMM el had The drawing at the left was made from an authentic X-ray photograph supplied by a leading New York X-ray laboratory which serves many dental surgeons in their study and treatment of diseased teeth— WHAT DO YOU SUPPOSE YOUR X-RAY WOULD SHOW? Hidden wells of poison Back of beauty may lurk dread disease It’s a fact: back of many a lovely smile and even gleaming teeth may be hidden wells of poison—tooth ab- scesses.. And often unknown to the person so afflicted. Meanwhile, these poison pockets at the base of the teeth may be gradually undermining the health. They seep their deadly bacteria through the entire system and bring on any one of many serious and oft- times fatal illnesses. According to eminent dental authori- ties, 78 out of 100 adults today have tooth abscesses: usually they do not know it themselves and very often such abscesses directly or indirectly cause many dread diseases. Diseases that result Among the diseases so caused are rheumatism and joint diseases; heart and kidney trouble; stomach and in- testinal derangements; to say nothing of more minor disorders ranging from simple headaches to insomnia and nervous affections. In spite of these grave dangers that lurk in tooth abscesses, relatively few people today ever think of visiting a dentist until pain drives them there. Whereas, only a good dentist can really place you on the safe side. Protect yourself You are probably like most other human beings; so while at this moment you realize all these dangers you, too, will very likely put off going to your dentist. In the meanwhile, however, you owe it to yourself to take one simple pre- caution: There 7s a dentifrice that will do very much to keep your teeth and gums in a healthy condition. Consequently, more and more dentists are today recommending Listerine Tooth Paste. Because Listerine Tooth Paste, and this tooth paste only, contains all of the antiseptic essential oils of Listerine, the safe antiseptic. These healing ingredients help keep the gums firm and healthy and discourage the breed- ing of disease bacteria in the mouth. Quick results—and safe! This is an age when people want quick results. Listerine Tooth Paste is so formulated that it cleans your teeth with a minimum of brushing, calling for much less effort than is ordinarily required. Also, this paste cleans with absolute safety. The specially prepared cleanser it contains is just hard enough to dis- courage tartar formation, yet not hard enough to scratch or injure tooth en- amel. And, of course, you know how precious tooth enamel is! Finally, Listerine Tooth Paste is sold at a price that is fair—large tube 25 cents—the right price to pay for a good tooth paste. Try it. Enjoy really clean teeth. But don’t forget the im- portance of seeing your dentist regu- larly.—Lambert Pharmacal Company, Saint Louis, U. S. A. If your dentist has not already handed you our booklet on tooth abscesses and a sample of our dentifrice, you may have both of these by addressing a postal to the Lambert Pharmacal Co., Saint Louis. HIDDEN WELLS OF POISON IN YOUR MOUTH? © 1925, Lambert Pharmacal Co.

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_all. At least not the Sam she thought it was. The brand-new Sam, this, whose eyes, meeting hers, almost took her breath away. But that she had no intention of letting him guess. “How masterful you are!” she commented, as he placed her in the taxi. ‘Are you often taken this way?” “Where to?” interpolated the taxi driver. “Oh—Coolidge Corner,” said Sam on the spur of the moment. “T’ve heard of a President of that name—but never a corner,’”’ she protested. ‘May I ask what all this means? I am not under arrest, am I?” Sam turned toward her. The light of a street lamp was transiently on her audacious, lovely face. Audacious—yet oddly defiant now. ‘Have you cashed the check I gave you?” demanded Sam. Their eyes met. Hers dropped first. ““No,”’ she confessed, as if against her will. “Are you going to?” he persisted. “Do you doubt it?” “Ves,” said Sam. “Why did you suggest it in the first place?” “Tt was you who suggested it,’”’ she reminded him. “You demanded a guid pro gquo——” “Oh, that was because you seemed to expect me to. You did expect me to demand money, didn’t you? And it suddenly occurred to me that I could use it—and that it would be a good thing for Johnny, too. He deserved it, truly.” “For refusing to marry you?” “No—for threatening to make me ridiculous. He did, you know. He said that he would follow me wherever the show went. So I— determined to cure him as quickly as possible. To—to scare him off, if you see what I mean.” “You certainly succeeded. Are you really addicted to poetry?” She shook her pretty head. “Do you customarily wear horn glasses?” “T should hope not!” Sam drew a deep breath. There was some- thing in the atmosphere, indefinable but potent, that was going to his head. “Why did you tell me you had been married before?” he demanded. Ever so briefly her eyes met his. “Because I—I felt like shocking you.” “Do you always try to shock people?” “Only when they deserve it—and you did!” “Are you going to give me back that check?” “No,” she said stubbornly. “I’m—I’m going to turn it over to the Actors’ Fund. I don’t care what you think——” The taxi veered sharply at that instant, thrusting her against him. He caught at her and drew her to him impetuously. “Hasn’t Johnny’s experience scared you?” she interpolated swiftly. “Of course I am only a chorus girl. Yet, as Johnny discovered——” Sam had, actually, forgotten even Johnny’s existence. But now the mention of that lamentable young Lochinvar’s name stung him. “Did you ever let Johnny kiss you?” de- manded Sam fiercely. “Oh, often!’ she retorted serenely. “You know Johnny.” Sam did. And she had let Johnny kiss her. The thought was intolerable. He released her instantly. “Coolidge Corner,’’ announced the driver. “Going to get out here?” “T am,” announced Sam. “The lady——” “Ts no lady,” said Joan. “And the gentle- man is—no gentleman. The least you could do is to give him my address and see me home.” Sam hesitated, then acquiesced. The taxi driver grinned. “Came out for a little petting and she gave | him the ha-ha,” he thought. ‘Oh well, he’s | learned about women from her!” If you had told him that Kipling had written | that, however, he would have set you right. | He had seen it in the movies only the night | before. Now philosophically, he turned back | toward the city. And for a time, only the whir of the engine broke the silence. Then Joan stole a glance at Sam’s profile. It looked as if it was carved from stone. Being Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925

a woman she experienced an unholy thrill. “Tt was this way,” she began meekly. “Johnny seemed to think that inasmuch as we were engaged it was his right. I told him I thought kissing was awfully unpoetic and that I had vowed never to let anybody but my hus- band kiss me. But he was so set on the idea I—I compromised.” “You mean,” said Sam savagely, “that you let him kiss you. How could you?” ‘‘Well—I always washed my hand as soon as he had left!” Sam turned to her. “Your hand?” he gasped. “You mean——” And then again he caught her to him. And there was silence save for the whir of the motor. “Gracious!” gasped Joan, after a time. “What gave you that idea?” “Tt just came to me all of a sudden, the way all great ideas come,” explained Sam, showing no inclination to release her. “And I thought you were perfectly safe!” she lied. * “You don’t know me!” “And that you knew I was determined never to be kissed except by my husband——” “That’s all right—I’m it,”’ Sam assured her. Then, suddenly, he had a doubt. “T am, am I not?” he demanded anxiously. The taxi stopped. “Here you are,” announced the driver. “Three dollars and forty cents.” “Hang!” said Sam and, searching his pockets, found a five-dollar bill. He thrust it at the driver. ‘Keep the change,” he said. “And—and beat it!” The taxi rolled away, leaving them standing there, under the soft May stars. The soft May stars whose power the poets sing. “You haven’t answered my question,’’ Sam reminded Joan. “Don’t you think,” she parried, “that you are taking a lot for granted on rather short acquaintance?” Sam looked down at the lovely audacious face uplifted to his. She was right, of course. Every man who saw her must love her! What reason had he to think that this madness that had come upon him so irresistibly could have touched her too? “T—I suppose I am,” he confessed miserably. “But—won’t you give me a chance?” In her heart, which was behaving repre- hensibly, she knew the answer to that. She had mocked and bedeviled him, yet all along, with a woman’s surety, she had known this moment was to be hers. And that she might . surrender . . . sometime. But not too soon. Being a woman it was both her privilege and her desire that he woo her. And that was what she had every intention of mak- ing him do—until her eyes met his. Ever so briefly then her teeth held her traitorous lips in check. But it was too late. It was May—and she was a little mad too. “Oh, I know,” she protested, impulsively, “that I shouldn’t tell you so but—but I’ve had the funniest feeling all along that you were going to be my first husband. I——” He caught her to him. “Your first—and your last!” he said huskily. Presently she looked up at him. “J—I do believe you mean it,” she breathed. “Tli—I’ll bet that right now I could even per- suade you to wear that tie that filled Johnny with anguish.” “Right now,” he assured her, “you could make me wear a dog-collar.” So this was love—the estimable and lyrical emotion that the poets deem worthy of celebration. As Sam strode down across the Common, repressing a strong desire to burst into song, he realized that he had been all wrong. Love was all that had been claimed for‘it. Any- one who tried to persuade him otherwise would have had not only his trouble for his pains but, it is to be feared, pains for his trouble. To Sam it had become a highly personal matter.

he was of the in his thinke: that } still t Hamilt individ hence ¥ him lur a thing the shr public first is else is and by But was Mi this ve Mr. D subalte me to there?’ Tres me and “We them, < He s proceec not to “Het in the the bri interna period our na when a the the him. “Yes thinkin But | then a: but stil could n her hus I loo! “Wel ing at | he said too dir peared thing st opportu And at his ‘ And on strengt We r Cheape too mai in named the first Mrs. W first M; The « bers of

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‘Y gs 1? er e- 4 1s at ot er id K~ Chauncey M. Depew! ( Continued from page 87) proposition threatening the security of any of | these should arise, you would quickly poll the entire vote. They would turn out en masse.” (Indeed, I thought.) “And the only danger that I see now,” he went on, “lies in the ‘bloc’—the agricultural and labor blocs or groups formed in the last congress to look after their special interests as opposed to those of the country at large.” (Their special interests!) I could not make sure, as I sat and listened to Mr. Depew, whether he was altogether serious at all times or not—whether at moments he was not talking more as the executive head of the New York Central and with his tongue in his cheek, rather than as an unbiased thinker. What I did gather most clearly was that Mr. Depew, as in the beginning, is still temperamentally and intellectually a Hamiltonian. He is still convinced that the individual without any particular skill and hence without money is not much—the mass of him lumped into such a thing as the proletariat, a thing of muddy brain and negligible; while the shrewd individual who is able to erect some public utility or service which will profit him first is the only one who is worth while. All else is nonsense—poetry, art, the little ways and by-paths of the world. But just then the telephone bell rang. It was Mrs. Depew who demanded to know when this very serious interviewing was to cease. Mr. Depew turned to me with the air of a subaltern and announced: ‘‘My wife wants me to stop talking. What more have you there?” I restated about five of the issues still before me and untouched. “Well, let’s see if we can get through some of them, anyhow,” he observed. He sat down again and began to rock and I proceeded to thumb my notes swiftly in order not to be cut off in my interviewing prime. “Here’s one. American society. You were in the thick of that.” I was thinking of the brilliant multi-millionaire, palace-building, international yacht-racing, royalty-marrying period that colored and excited New York and our national cosmos between 1885 and 1910, when as suddenly it disappeared again. And ~ thought of this now appeared to interest im. “Yes, I was. Just what phase of it were you thinking of?” But we were destined to get no further. Just then a door opened and Mrs. Depew, irritated but still attractive, appeared. The interview could not goon. It was too much ofa strain on her husband. I looked at Mr. Depew. “Well, suppose we make it tomorrow morn- | ing at my office in New York at ten-thirty?” he said brightly and helpfully without looking | too directly at his wife. And while she ap- peared but dubiously to agree, still there the thing stood—your unconquerable diplomat and opportunist winning out as usual. And so the next morning we two met again at his office and the interview was resumed. And once more I was impressed by the amazing strength and energy of the man. We returned at once to society and I resumed at the point where we had been interrupted the day before. _ “What has become of the society that flour- ished between 1884 or 1886 and 1910? Where does it live now?” “Gone. Broken up for the most part. Cheapened and made a little too common by too many admissions. No leaders such as they had in the days when it was at its best.” He famed an important company—Mrs. Astor, the first, Mrs. Paran Stevens, Ward McAllister, Mrs. William Astor, the daughter-in-law of the first Mrs. Astor, William C. Whitney. The enormous wealth of the different mem- bers of this group permitted them to do Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July,-1925 New York Philadelphia Earn liberal income weekly retouching photos. Men or women. No selling or canvassing. Je teach rea: supply you with work and furnish working outfit free. Lim- ited offer. rite to-day. SRAFT STUDIOS, Dept. 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184 rvyvvyvvvvyVTVvVvVvVvV"TVVVVVVY. dont do unnecessary work Ir 1s not necessary to scrub the toilet bowl. Sani-Flush will do this unpleasant job for you. And it will do it better than you can by any other means. Sani-Flush cleans and sanitizes the toilet bowl. Marks, stains and incrustations disappear, leav- ing it spotlessly white. It cleans the hidden, unhealthful trap. It destroys all foul odors. Simply sprinkle Sani-Flush in the toilet bowl—follow directions on the can—and flush. It will not harm plumbing connections. Always keep Sani-Flush handy in the bathroom. Buy Sani-Flush at your grocery, drug or hardware store, or send 25c¢ for a full-size can. Sani-Flush Cleans Closet Bowls Without Scouring Tue Hycienic Propucts Co. Canton, Ohio ruUVeCeVCC CCU CCU CUCU CUCU UCU UCU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UU UC UC UCC CCC VCCVCUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCT™ i i i i i hi hi i ho ha ha ha ha ha hi hi ha i hi ha ha hi a ha ha hi a ha Ln ha ha ha hi ha ha ha hi ha ha ha ha ha ha hi ha i ha ha ha he ba ho hi he he a he he hb hp hp bp he i i tp ip i i i VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVvVvVvVvVvVvVY as ‘the BRIDES Frankly, it was simply because she used her brains, Dorothy was prettier, more highly accomplished, and much wealthier ; but t simple little points of man's psychology which make him like wax in the hands of a nice girl who knows how to manage him—and the young clubman chose her instead. She learned thisimportant psychology in a wonderful book en- OMANHOOD. She could just as easily have fascinated any other man. This book is at your come mand also, if you want it. It deals with the pure laws of psy- chology —not sex. Just mail us this ad with your name and 10c, and we'llsend you, in plain wrapper, a little booklet outlining these revelations. Knowledge is power. Send your dime today. Gladys understood those titled FASCINATING THE PSYCHOLOGY PRESS 117 So. 14th St., St. Louis, Mo. — Dept.42-U Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 whatever they did ona more elaborate scale than most any other group in any other country, apart from royalty. This served to attract attention to them. It served to arouse am- bitions in the breasts of many the world over to be a part of it. Among the excluded it served to arouse competition and to give form to their ideas as to how things should be done. And these, as they obtained more money, became more sig- nificant until finally their principal or most outstanding figures could scarcely be excluded anywhere. After a time the original leaders here died. Others like Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish were not so conservative—more Bohemian. They began to admit the leaders from other cities. And pretty soon these brought others. In the long run the walls fell. The outside groups had grown too power- ful, you see. ‘ One could not help but be seriously interested in this personal description of that period. For here was-one who had been part and parcel, of all that he was discussing—one of its most interesting figures and mentors even. And here he was discussing its decay. I could not help thinking how odd life must look to him in retrospect. ; “Tell me,” I said. ‘You were certainly a vigorous and intimate part of it—did you find it extremely interesting or fascinating or valuable to you?” “As a spectacle, a diversion of sorts, yes. You see, I worked very hard then—sixteen hours a day—and it was my relaxation to go here and there.” “A rather exotic form of relaxation at times, I should fancy, judging from the reports of the doings for the period I have in mind.” “Of course. Not a few of the very rich at that time worked hard, and when they played, they did so in an exotic and vigorous way. Most of them had no talent or taste for any- thing that might be called intellectual or artistic. Take Ward McAllister, for instance. He was opposed to anything but dinners and dances. He wouldn’t even sanction a literary reading or a lecture of any kind by a serious person. I remember sitting down with a group of the managers of the Four Hundred one day to discuss some way of making society a little less flippant and shallow, more con- cerned with the intellectual and artistic side of things such as then concerned the salons of Europe—introduce an element of seriousness into it somewhere. And I recall one lady say- ing, ‘Well, it looks as though we would have to invite the freaks.’ ” He stopped and laughed long and loudly at the memory of it. “‘And who were the freaks?” I asked. “Oh, Mark Twain, William Dean Howells, Augustus St. Gaudens, Bret Harte and fellows like that.” Again he went off into a peal of | laughter. “Do you seriously consider the type of society we have just been discussing of any real importance to any country?” “Except for the purpose of relaxation and self-entertainment, no, I don’t.” The matter of society and its merits having thus been disposed of in this intimate fashion, I turned to some of the other questions that had been interesting me in connection with | him, a score of things which I thought might serve to elucidate the range and force of this very diplomatic mind. And I must say that at the end of the long series of questions I came away quite astonished. After we had been speaking of the railroads and of immigration, and so of population, I decided to ask him about birth control. It is one of my favorite reforms, really, but there are so many of the rank and file, especially when colored by religion, who see it as anathema, that I hesitated. Nevertheless I went on: “Speaking of population, do you believe in birth control?” Without a moment’s hesitation he replied: “Yes, it is absolutely necessary to keep the world from being overcrowded, I think. It js one. of those things that some people—the intelligent—just naturally understand. Others not. The French have practised it, for economic reasons, for years. Of course those who are opposed to it preach against the immorality of it. They fear the spread of such knowledge would lead to much immorality among unmarried people. And the churches oppose it because they believe that the world should be replenished.” ‘Well, then, do you believe that it should be generally taught?” I persisted. “Well, that is difficult to say, but I do believe that there should be some method of enlight- ening the people.” A very courageous and valuable contribu- tion to the cause at this time, I think. And next on my list was the problem of great fortunes and the present day possessor of one. “How do you account for America’s chang- ing attitude toward money—the multi- millionaire—‘the malefactor of great wealth, tainted money’—or do you believe that there is any change?” “Yes, there has been a great change,’ Seventy-five years ago or so, men like Commodore Vanderbilt, John Jacob Astor and others of that type were looked upon as public benefactors. Mothers and fathers cited them to their youthful offspring as perfect examples of what one could make of oneself if one would persevere.” He smiled wisely and his eyes twinkled. ‘Then about the time of the Civil War when huge fortunes were becoming more numerous, the newspapers began to attack the possessors of them—the means of acquiring money was criticized and each man felt his right to share in it. But since the World War, I believe the public attitude has again changed and is now tolerant toward the rich men. It has seen that the communist in Russia, Mussolini in Italy, de Rivera in Spain, Kemal Pasha in Turkey are more autocratic than the millionaire in America. In fact,” he added with a broad grin, “I think that England, France and America will have to make democracy safe for the world.” And from men of great fortune we turned to great men, mostly without fortune. Some- where I had read that he had said there were no more great men—that this last war, for instance, had not produced one Lincoln, one Bismarck, one Napoleon. And in answer to my inquiry as to that, he reiterated that there were no great men today. “What of Ford, Rockefeller, Lloyd George, Edison, our distinguished President, Calvin Coolidge?” I inquired, offering a casual selection from the outstanding personalities of the American and British scene. Faced by this question, he proceeded in the most graceful and interesting and com- plimentary fashion to describe Mr. Coolidge’s rise from a small-town boy to his present and to him very exalted position. And he did it carefully, dramatically, artfully, as I saw it, with the most delicate stress upon the inherent merit that at point and point must have drawn to Mr. Coolidge the favor and hence op- portunity which befell him. But I should say here that at that time a presidential election was close at hand—and—well, we must not forget the dear railroads. However, when all had been said by him that could be said and I might have exclaimed, “Wonderful!” I merely repeated my original question. And this very sound artist in the matter of making one’s way in the world, after looking very solemnly at me for a moment, replied: ‘I am compelled to think that he is a great man!” And that with- out the tremor of a smile. Yet in respect to Mr. Edison he would not say that he was a great man. He was a great inventor—a very different thing. In respect to Mr. Ford, he considered him enormously use- ful—nothing more, apparently. As for Mr. Rockefeller, his genius as displayed in build- ing up the Standard Oil Company and his sub- sequent benefactions, he described’ as very intelligent and humanitarian—nothing more. An chan, perio state sy is a gene! SN alwa: the condi ment attitt tact natu! pend more little

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925 Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 185 It's And he would not call him great. In regard fA —the to Mr. Lloyd George, he characterized him fps RP REFS « QF RF CRP eA \thers . as an opportunist and hence not great in oy ( a the sense that Franklin, Washington, Alex- i “ e hea ander Hamilton and Daniel Webster were My Secret oO Loveliness a | t the great. ; + f One of the greatest, if not the greatest man {| aie of all time, he considered to be one William a touch of henna >| irches Shakespeare, no less, ‘for the fullness and the t4 ° h (| world vision of his mind—the depth of his under- in the s hampoo ‘| standing and the accuracy of his estimate of \ ald be all things human’’—a statement which caused to set off every woman’s charm y me to return in thought to his estimate of Mr. z - ie an Coolidge. with the richness of lustrous hair.” 4 Se light- And then we turned to women—the great SEES TE ae change from the outwardly ultra-conservative | An interview with a Fifth Avenue beauty specialist \ tribu- period of thirty years ago to the reported loose | state of affairs today. 3 , LL New York society finds its beauty. I have treated thousands of ff om of _ “What about the flapper? Do you think she £\. way to her for she is an artist blondes and thousands of brunettes. sor of is a radical departure from the girl of other in making women beautiful. Every one has retained her own natu- . generations? 5 wee “Tell me,”I begged,” your oneruleof tal type. But the touch of henna in the hang- eo Amer es girl he Langs 7 saacigoed beauty that willgiveeverywomancharm."’ shampoo has given their hair a new and a Te a ie eet at | By Matetebar itr chew, muro miqceand this benty * s y er, g % ' . ‘ec a ° ” ew appeal. there conditions with their opportunites for employ- — y, oaverte o> autem eigol oe s e ) i ad-ot tee public toned Magy Pagan have such wonderfully lustrous hair!” HE TOUCH OF HENNA in the clear, lange, ct with na gure a ths tad ee ee “You are mistaken. A// women can delicate, fragrant liquid of Henna- 4 like indie Mae tee « taew ond cannes ea r: fj haveitandthecharmitgives.Inevery foam Shampoo is treated to bring out vu benden my Bi hide. ‘They now geet men ona $ womens _ isa pers of lustre she Fp Yi "an pay mabe “sils . 2 as never dreamed o " ais it is blonde, brown or brunette. them fittle ee oe aeons fon omen “And the secret ofbringingitout—” | Hennafoam Shampoo blends the mples re pee . Prcema dag R ’ “Simply — @ touch of henna in the touch of henna with the pure vegetable would in one seanie ah 2 is ‘all rieht’?” shampoo. Ah, youdonotknowhenna. oils which stimulate the hair and scalp Cuil “Yes,” : ‘i | yo egy, . 7 conta ies its pce 9 the hair soft and full. The {& vl ace te Loess tawbacks. Artfully used, it is magic touch of henna reveals the gleaming Bays yaad es of ‘| | —so swiftly does it reveal the bril- brilliance of each separate hair. s -k the Steg rom bi eo tay mW Bence plarm liance in a woman’s hair.” If you would discover all the lustrous A a at pe ieociage vege ape a mage abe tg “But, is there no change—?” loveliness of your hair, begin using Henna- : War a cieka ican waved Ye tale entorved be- L None, save a change to greater foam Shampoo today. 3 anged cause of the appetites of the-people themselves, A n. It their desire to accommodate themselves at the j h \ en — of the other fellow and their ability to CnnaA O am amp OO F n the In other words, he believes in keeping ” P added a little pressure—not too much—on the in- Paap the Seocdoas Goo. 910 wee anrie wean sland, dividual in connection with this business of : make drinking. ee Te oped Core Ne Tne Se DTC TREO “And the high cost of living?” —_ ed to “Demand is the cause, of course. I do not Some- believe that high prices will ever fall to the old were level. The working man gets more and can r, for spend more and so creates a demand for , one expensive things. The real sufferer is the rer to white-collar man. I would like to see him get a there better deal, but I can’t see how it is to be done at present.” orge, “What about fame, Mr. Depew? Do you — ‘alvin eek it has any value or not to the possessor t 3 ° ‘asual or the public?” IT / alities “Fame is not futile. It is the passing salute 1s or1tous to exceptional ability. The ideal of every od in youth should be fame, fairly earned—in open com- competition with others. The Olympic games to e Te e idge’s of today typify to me the finest type of com- t and petition—the ideal of human contest and om superfluou hair did it adventure. The better man, working to fit fr fl . w it, himself as best he can beforehand, wins. And Every year hundreds of thousands of women revel in this joyous, new-found erent oan one Se Ps ,val — freedom —the freedom from awkward self-consciousness caused by superflu- — Street?) y iets P ous hair. And they thank Del-a-tone for it! d say “And now about the worth-whileness of Summer sports, filmy frocks, gossamer hose — these have made absolutely necessary ction effort or activity in old age. Have you found the removal of the greatest of all beauty blemishes, unwanted hair. With Del-a-tone t not any workable schemes for prolonging and en- it is as easy as it is delightful to enjoy a smooth, dainty skin, free from the slightest sug- when joying old age?” gestion of hairy growth. No wonder that every year, for fifteen years, more women have d and “No, I haven’t found any scheme for pro- turned to this old reliable beauty aid, Del-a-tone, the scientific, safe hair remover. verely longing life outside that of diet and activity. You will find Del-a-tone as easy to use as it is delightful in results. Just spread on in very pe that last, : _ a 2 ac Ng — as smooth paste; rinse off in a few minutes — and marvel at the wonderful difference in 5 way : ean mental activity, although a certain ur a . Quick, sure, harmless. Insist on ly at ; amount of physical activity is necessary. The siti hci led to brain has muscles as well as the body and if The Depilatory for Delicate Skin with- they are not exercised they will become flabby and useless. So I believe in exercising the 41 not brain. As for enjoying old age, it can be made a vd great ely beautiful if treated right. A man ect to ould not retire from active business life sud- ° - use- denly—merely cut down his activity without Removes Hair Mr. ceasing it or retiring completely. That’s the At drug and department stores, or sent prepaid in plain wrapper for $1.00 yuild- way. Free pamphlet, “The Whole Truth About Depilatories,”’ for the asking ; sub- “And,” he concluded,“every man should have THE SHEFFIELD COMPANY very ahobby. Mine is after-dinner speaking and Dept. 57, 536 Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Ill. more. —being interviewed.”

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{ 186 invitation at the wrong time The shadows of past experience flashed through her mind. She knew she’d feel tired out, uncomfortable, draggy. But— what was it Grace had said? “It’s your own fault if you let your old-fogey notions interfere with your own comfort! Nobody else does.” Well, she’d try it, this once. So she accepted! * * * * * * Women who keep physically fit have learned that a rub-down with Mifflin Alkohol solves the problem of those times when bathing is inconvenient or otherwise impracticable. Simply moisten a sponge or washcloth with Mifflin Alkohol and rub it over the body. It is refreshing and invigorating. It re- moves body odors—especially odors of per- spiration. It leaves the skin cool and smooth. Mifflin Alkohol also relieves tired, aching feet; it is splendid for sprains or muscle- strains; it is an efficient antiseptic for cuts and scratches. Cools you instantly on the hottest days or nights. MIFFLIN ALIKOHOL The External Tonic At all druggists in the handy-grip, full pint bottles. Sample bottle sent for 4c; booklet free on request. Mirriin CHemicat Corp. PHILADELPHIA, Pa. Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 of life in the level eyes. The strange fancy that she had had a while ago had been a trick of the firelight. She heard “four bells” strike aboard the ship in dry-dock. Six o’clock and still no word. She stirred impatiently; a sharp blow came against the window-pane; her eyes darted that way. For a passing instant she had the im- pression of a white feathered form. Perhaps it was a gull blinded by the light. She felt again the sickening shudder. A bird against the window-pane meant death. Death... She smiled uneasily. Only a mock death in this case. She turned the emerald and platinum band on her slender finger. Cary seldom made wed speeches, but once he had told her that er hands were like those of Greuze’s maidens. It had taken her quite by surprise that spring night in Washington when Cary had followed her out into the Cranstons’ moonlit garden, just as she had hoped he would when she had | stolen there, and had told her that he loved | her. It had been so simple and sincere. At | the same time his repression had maddened | her. He had asked nothing in return. He | seemed to think it was quite beyond believing wee she might care for him. It was some weeks before he had actually asked her to } marry him. She had hated the inevitable scene with Bob | McKayn. She had broken the news to him in | the library. She had been dressed in black for | the part she was to play. There were tea- | roses in a silver bowl on the table; she had | always disliked their fragrance since that night. | Bob had been so full of the joy of living when | he had come into the room. After she told him | her news, he hadn’t said much; just looked at her. After a while he had put his head down on his arms and sobbed in great racking gulps. Leila did not remember how she had made her way out of the room. She had been sick to the core. Sick with contempt. She had been nearer happiness than ever before when she and Cary were settled in. their new quarters in the Western Yard. It was far away from her world; cut off from all of Cary’s old friends. The waters of the bay, the fir- covered hills beyond, the snow-clad Rainier that loomed into the sky to make a playground for the sunset’s colors; all these seemed to hedge them in—to give her Cary to enslave at her leisure. It was weeks before the realization came to her that beneath her husband’s evident love for her there was an iron strength of will that she could never hope to conquer. He seemed always anxious to please her, to satisfy her de- sires; but it was his will to do as she wished and not her power over him which caused him to do her bidding. Slowly she became pos- sessed with a determination to break this strength that he would keep from her. After that she was forever seeking proof of his feeling. Frequently when he had a particularly attractive foursome at golf planned for the afternoon, she would mention the forest drive—find some excuse to keep him. “I’m glad that you are playing this after- noon, dear,” she would say. ‘I have a beastly headache and would be poor company for you. What a perfect day it must be under the firs by the shores of the canal. It almost quiets the pain to think of it . . .” He had never hesitated to telephone to the club house to his friends who waited and to send for the car; but as they drove along the shores of the canal there was the maddening feeling that he had seen through her ruse and perhaps was laughing a little to himself. She glanced slyly at him through the rim of her thick lashes and burned inwardly at the thought of his possible mirth. If only he were a bit more stupid! And then had come the day when Cary had brought her the news that Bob McKayn’s ship was in. They were giving a dinner that night | and he wished to ask Bob to join them. Leila The Woman without a Heart (Continued from page 91) had made some hasty excuse, but it was not - accepted. “Bob is the best friend I have, dear,” her husband had said. place for him. old chap since before our marriage. I’m eager for a sight of him. It’s odd, but I had thought that you two were great friends. Now you seem not to care for him.” She had been shocked when Commander McKayn came into the library before dinner, He was still a very handsome man, but there were lines of dissipation about the eyes that used to laugh. There was no smile in them now; they seemed dead. He had stood still and stared at her until she had wanted to scream, so frightened was she that her guests might notice and comment. As the evening had worn on and no one seemed to notice Commander McKayn’s strange manner, Leila felt herself relax a bit. She could see in her sidelong glances that though he was not staring rudely, his gazé was never far from her. She began to feel more secure. Bob was a gentleman; he would never reveal to Cary how she had broken with him. He made her furious with that silent, accusing stare, though. She began to flaunt her happiness in his face. When she was sure that he was watching, she touched Cary’s hand and coming close for an instant had rubbed her cheek with a little caressing gesture against his coat sleeve. Again, she had smiled up into her husband’s face in a most provoking manner as if she were daring him to kiss her. Bob saw that, too, as she had intended. The last of the guests gone, Cary had stood in front of this very fireplace and _ stared thoughtfully into the dying embers. “I can’t get over old Bob,” he had told her. She had seldom seen him so moved. ‘He’s gone to the dogs, and in so short a time. I can’t make it out. At the Academy and as a J. O., I’ve never known him to touch a drink. He hated the stuff. And then to see him tonight.” He threw out his palms and let his hands drop to his sides. “Poor old chap! I hope it doesn’t ruin him. I must have a talk with him one day. He’s always listened to me.” Leila had come close to him and slipped her arm through his. “Cary’”—she had seemed very earnest— “you haven’t the right to interfere here. Bob will work out his own salvation and be a stronger man for it. Promise that you will say nothing to him. Just act as if you had not noticed anything amiss. You will gain his confidence. I am sure that mine is the better way.” He had only smiled down at her but she was sure that he would consider her advice. She wished that she had the power to say to him: “T do not like this friendship of yours for a man like Commander McKayn. I wish that you would have nothing further to do with him. Prove your love for me by doing what I ask.” That was what she wanted. Proof of Cary’s love. She wanted to know beyond the shadow of a doubt just how much he cared. To relinquish an old friendship would have meant much. But of course she had not been quite sure enough to make such a demand; she’d take no chances of refusal. It was several months before they had heard of Bob again; then had come a frantic letter from a classmate of Cary’s. “Old Bob’s in trouble,” he had written. “‘There’s more to it than appears on the sur- face, but he won’t make a move to defend himself. He’s in for a general court-martial a week from tomorrow. Struck a man at the club and the Admiral was present and was forced to take action. Bob was as sober as a judge when he started the row and I’m sure that there were extenuating circumstances. The fellow he hit was a rotten little cad named Cortson who has been on a diplomatic mission to Mexico. “Surely you can make a” I haven’t had a word of the | Hears “Gossif ong i at ah. didn’t lik provocati down het aboard sh been seen he was sol he did it. prepare a get down to reason Leila h her pride angry anc “Can’t desperate! hate leavi Christma: T'll have one of th can’t let I pull him | can see tl Still sh mant. Jt straight _ “Cary—C strangely. the feelin; Oh Cary, something Don’t go Don’t go! He had most she | Her heart and then from her : This m and in tl Telegraph make hin for treatir her close i her stark serve, the not fathe how mucl it was tl blind ado: it matter career Tu discarded. Surely it message \ impatient but this muscle ty her neck. hot stop. She he: of the hou of exciten the telegr: She ca random. twitching heard the steps, he: moment | It seer doorway tray. Sh sent to | Just as sh beat high be on hi: would get She rai sealed fla the envel a long me Strange— began to ing; she d chair, Sy

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91) not her a” the iger ight you der ner, 1ere hat lem still | to ests feel uld vith ont, ace, she ttle ve, 1d’s rere , as 0d red in’t 1ad the e it ted 1 ite rop n’t ith iat nd ve ter

Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 “Gossip says that he made a disparaging re- mark about the wife’of a naval officer, some + that Bob was once head over heels in love with. He won’t admit this. Says he just didn’t like Cortson and struck him without provocation. Well, Bob has been hitting it up down here for months; never on duty nor aboard ship, you understand, but where he has been seen. He’s going to have to prove that he was sober when he pulled this stunt and why he did it. We can’t get a word out of him to prepare a defense. I’m sure that if you could get down this way you could make him listen to reason and plead his case besides.” Leila had exerted every wile, had lowered her pride to weep bitterly. She had been angry and piteous in turn, but to no avail. “Can’t you see, dear’”—Cary had been so desperately anxious to convince her—“that I hate leaving you? But I’ll be home again by Christmas Day. And who knows—perhaps [I'll have saved old Bob from disgrace. He’s one of the best officers in the service and I can’t let him go down without making a try to pull him out of this hole. Surely, Leila, you can see that I must go.” Still she had fought, but he had been ada- mant. Just before he had left she had stared straight into his eyes and spoken slowly. “Cary—Cary!” her green eyes had narrowed strangely. She was posing her best. “I have the feeling that you may never see me again. Oh Cary, if you leave me I seem to sense that something terrible will happen. I feel it. Don’t go. Stay with me. I need you so. Don’t go!” He had held her very close in his arms. Al- most she had thought that he was weakening. Her heart was beating high with her triumph and then he was gone before she could recover from her astonishment. This morning he had arrived in San Diego and in the night had come this wild plan. Telegraph to Cary that she had been killed; make him return. Make him suffer agonies for treating her so. He’d be so happy to have her close in his arms again, when he’d thought her stark and cold, that he’d forget that re- serve, that hidden something that she could not fathom. She’d know beyond a doubt how much he loved her. She’d know whether it was the complete thing she craved—the blind adoration she was greedy for. What did it matter if Bob McKayn was disgraced—his career ruined? He was a weakling to be discarded. The lights were twinkling at the Old Sol- diers’ Home and at.Port Orchard across the bay. Claros would soon announce dinner. Surely it would not be much longer until the message would come. She was getting very impatient. She had been quite calm for hours, but this waiting was fraying her nerves. A muscle twitched maddeningly at the nape of her neck. She rubbed the spot, but it would hot stop. She heard a noise on the path at the front of the house. Her heart gave a sickening thud of excitement. That would be the boy with the telegram. She caught up a book and opened it at random. The words were blurred and the twitching muscle in her neck quivered. She heard the boy stand his bicycle against the steps, heard it slip down with a clatter. A moment later the bell in the kitchen rang. It seemed hours before Claros stood in the doorway with the yellow envelop on a silver tray. She stared at the address. It had been sent to Mrs. Franceska Wordman Armsby Just as she had known it would be. Her heart beat high; her plan had worked; Cary would on his way home. In this message she would get a hint of his anguish. She ran her finger beneath the carelessly sealed flap, then took the yellow paper from the envelop and spread it flat. It was quite along message. She glanced at the signature. Strange—it was signed by Bob McKayn. She began to read. Her eyes grew wide and star- ing; she drew taut in the hollow of the lounging chair. Swiftly—unbelievingly—a second time

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Then slowly her tense figure sank back until it seemed only a huddle of clothes. The paper floated down to the hearth and lay in the firelight. The muscle was pounding maddeningly now. Once or twice the woman tried to wet her white lips that were dry—parched. She tried to lift her hand to brush it across her dull eyes; it trembled so that she rested it against the chair arm. Her brain was quite clear, though. If only it would grow dim—fade out! Like a cinema thrown upon a screen her imagination pictured the tidings that were borne by this scrap of paper. Cary had arrived aboard ship in the middle of the afternoon. A while later, it must have been, the telegram telling of her death had been brought to him. Now she knew how much Cary Thayer had cared! She could have known all along had she not been blind—a fool. Her hands twitched like the claws of a creature inagony . . . After he had read the message her husband had gone quietly to the room that had been assigned him. He had seemed to have a grip on himself, the message read. But a few moments later they had found him the paper crumpled in his fingers—a bullet through his heart . . . After all, she had been his weakness; he had not cared to go on without her. Her head swayed vaguely. A bird against the windoy. pane meant death. Death. Cary—her lover— was dead. She sat erect at the dawning of the dread knowledge that the only thing she had ever cared for besides her worthless self was gone—and never through the waste of years that lay ahead would she have the courage to follow him... Claros stood at the door. “Dinner ees serve, Mees’.”’ And So I Threw Away $20,000 a Year (Continued from page 81) | times to essay descriptions of fires or wrecks, and to express myself, as well as the paper, in editorials on the tariff. What joy to see what I had written in type! After two or three years’ residence in the new town, my father was prosperous enough, and there was no need for me to earn money, and he remonstrated with me for the ways in which I worked and managed to get it. But I loved to make my own money; and I was al- ways wanting books that I knew he would not buy for me. I hungered to read Seneca, and Marcus Aurelius, and A‘schylus, and Hesiod, and the Homeric Hymns; .and if I had asked him for the money to buy these he would in that way be apprised of what I was up to and so be prepared to circumvent me by binding me down to “Blackstone’s Commentaries,” since he had destined me for the law, and meant to make me a lawyer whether or no. The years of study went on, and I had one year at a small college in Illinois, where with fierce application I learned Greek, as well as improved my Latin and my German. But all the while the law was waiting for me. A sudden turn of affairs threw me into the law. I couldn’t bear to teach school, and I found myself back in the town with nothing to do—but study law. I did so, and _at twenty-two was admitted to the bar. After another year, during which I was in partnership with my father, I went to Chicago, impelled to that step by changes in my as- sociations in the town, by loneliness, by rest- lessness and by adventure. There was no question but what I could make my way. I could set type, I could write, and I could do something at the law even though I was diffident about my legal ability, not because I didn’t know the law, but because I was so timid that only to think of addressing a court or a jury filled me with such terror that my heart thumped in my throat. Yet in a few years, and just because I set my will to overcome my fears and my lack of forensic control, I became one of the best known advocates in Chicago. But it was several months before I opened an office, in the meanwhile trying to get on a newspaper and failing, and all the while needing money. That need descended upon me in two weeks after arriving in the city, and it was met ina curious way. I was told by a man named Johnson at the boarding house where I was staying that the corporation for which he was working needed a collector. So I went down and got the job. When I came to Chicago I was ill in body, for I had overstudied for years; and this job brought me to rugged health, whatever it did to my sensitive feelings. I reported for duty every morning at eight-thirty, and from then till five-thirty in the evening I walked from place to place collecting bills. Through the slush and the snow, through heat and cold y and down Chicago, from the south to the north side and to the west side, covering miles every day, I walked; bawled out, cursed, quarreled with, ordered out of saloons which refused to pay, until at night I was so weary physically, so depressed that I sank upon the bed almost as soon as I had dinner and fell into profound sleep. I couldn’t read and I couldn’t write. ButI was gaining in health; for I was outdoors all the time and my diet was better. * I had been a sufferer from dyspepsia up to this time; now my slender means forced me to have a care. So it was that I took to the free lunch and beer, where for five cents or at most ten for beer, I could have roast beef sandwiches, radishes, celery, cheese and sometimes soup. I have never seen an automat where you could fare half so well for ten times as much; nor where there was anyone half so smiling and obliging to poverty as the old time bartender. I was in this job because I couldn’t get into the law; I was out of literature because my energies were consumed by the job, and be- cause the conditions were so much against poetry. Chicago was then the noisiest Gadara in the world; it was haunted and tortured by black devils, by swinish influences, as if the souls of all the hogs slaughtered’ daily at the stock- yards were loosed to plague the town. To be sure there was the Press Club where cynical wastrels composed parodies and played poker, and sometimes I went there. There was a club where a few who affected sculpture and fiction and were in touch with the East, met behind closed doors and said “Om” to their own personalities. But of this place I did not know. Then consider how much a beginning poet can make today, and consider what the chances were then. I was also full of self- critical judgments derived from my reading. I was wont to say to myself, quoting Goethe: “There is just one unhappy man, and that is the man possessed of an idea which he cannot put into action or expression.” To myself I seemed that man, although I had brought with me from the country 4 manuscript of several hundred poems, written some of them before I was twenty, and all of them before I was twenty-four. I was“ur happy on account of the gradual defeat into which I saw my poetry sinking. But with all that was bad with me I ‘hada glorious time, and more and more as time went on. Chicago at that time was all that I have painted it; but it was also the most colorft the most riotous city in America. It had quaint and inviting chop-houses and gay gardens, outrageous variety theaters, and_prizefights and race-tracks, and gilded halls for roulette and faro; and against these sons of Belial wert arrayed the clergy and the reformers, just as had seen it in the country town; so Heai Chicag: not dif and int One thoroug my mil for itse Isat de Profess« later in poetry, another months a chanc tise of I: to succ miscella ing of \ “Helen Memph 1893. better f lawyer | and fea exhaust Myon had bee read. | wanted knew h didn’t w last he gether | making house h: the day in the be My boo another the whe This : elect, fo would h never p and hau thus pos of the |: self of a Myr I got i devour thing re line as : 1902 Wi name, i lawyer. up as | demons politica book w At last 1 away fr to praiss I foll 1908; t poems 1 quarter: pseudor of holdi law, wa bilities. tions of ing it c

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1925 creature message, om that emed to ead. But nd_him, ‘a bullet 5 he had ler head window- t lover— 1g of the she had self was of years urage to ar cold up he north es every uarreled fused to ysically, 1 almost rofound . Butl rs all the ia up to d me to the free at most dwiches, eS soup. ou could ich; nor ing and rtender. get into use my and be- against a in the y black souls of > stock- b where | played lere Was ure and ist, met to their did not ginning hat the of self- reading. Goethe: that is cannot ough I intry 4 written d all of yas “un- at into [ ‘had a 1e went I have olorful, quaint ns, vefights oulette al were ist as I O

Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Chicago was only a place of more people, but not different people, or different alignments and interests. One night I went to my _ hall bedroom thoroughly tired and discouraged. Somehow my mind began to wander off, and to build for itself a protecting castle of imagination. Isat down and wrote “Helen of Troy,” which Professor Boynton more than twenty years later included in his collection of American poetry, and which he has highly praised in another book. But now having been nine months in the work of a collector, and having a chance to start advantageously in the prac- tise of law, I opened an office, and bent my will to succeed. I did not, however, give up my miscellaneous studies, nor my occasional writ- ing of verse; but I rarely published anything. “Helen of Troy’? was taken by an admirer to Memphis and there printed in a newspaper in 1893. But who knew of it? Life was now better for me materially. I made money as a lawyer from the start, and went about playing and feasting with all the ardor of youth and exhaustless vitality. My manuscript, my several hundred poems, had been taken by a sympathetic friend to read. He came back with glowing eyes and wanted me to publish a book, and he said he knew how it could be done. I was dubious and didn’t want to disturb my law business; but et last he prevailed upon me and we went to- gether to a Chicago house which was then making a specialty of fine publishing. This house had my manuscript for two years and on the day that it was ready to be listed and placed in the bookstores, bankruptcy overtook the firm. My book by the dray load was hauled over to another publishing house which had purchased the whole bankrupt stock. This succeeding house was publishing for the elect, for the inner circle of Chicago, and they would have none of me. So my first book was never published. Later I went to this house and hauled the whole edition to my basement, thus possessing myself, in the words of Thoreau, of the largest library of books written by my- self of anyone in America. My reputation as a lawyer began to mount. I got into the political game, and began to devour American history, and to read every- thing relating to economics. This was in my line as a lawyer; and though I did venture in 1902 with a play in blank verse, under my own name, it fell dead and did not harm me as a lawyer. So with this I dived under, and came up as a lawyer and nothing but a lawyer, demonstrating the fact by a book of essays on political and constitutional subjects. This book was well received, and sold respectably. At last my forte! So those who had warned me away from poetry came to congratulate me and topraise themselves for their advice. I followed this path for the most part until 1908; though in 1905 I published a book of poems under a pseudonym, which was in some quarters favorably noticed. This matter of a pseudonym on my part, which was a feeble way of holding to poetry and not relinquishing the law, was dictated by respect for my responsi- bilities. But neither these nor the satisfac- tions of a steady income, nor fears for disturb- ing it could extinquish my passion for poetry. _ The year 1908 was a critical time with me in the external life of the country, for there was then a sort of disgust with the liberal movements which had shrunk to insignificance and defeat. So it came over me for both inner and outer reasons that all these studies and writings on the tariff and money and the Con- stitution were as clearly out of my line as they were a waste of time. I needed a re-birth. But dare I have it? My daily life now began and ended nowhere. 1 to sleep and exercise, walk and swim in | order to keep up my strength for the daily | battle of the courts, I had to be in my office by nine o’clock, and stay in it until five in the evening, and often till late at night. Then re were the defeats and the disappoint- Ments, the stupidity and the dishonesty of judges, the hopes that failed because the other |

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VVUVONYOAOASUAVAAAASOOUANODEEDDBUUTAT AURA UUATOERUAU At UTE AANA Rtn by at oXeyalaaakeme Cole kegs] Keeps WrinklesAway side was stronger, not in law, but in money. All of this day after day, week after week; and at the end of every month a half-day spent in drawing checks to pay for rent, light, clerks and living expenses, which took out of the bank almost all I had put in during the month of unrelished toil. These were the labors of Sisy- phus—the rolling up a steep hill of a great stone, and rolling it up again after it had rolled down, ready to crush me if I did not grab it and roll it up again. And there were—worst of all—the visions: the woman at the window, the song of the meadow lark, and sudden dreams out of imaginative music to the inner ear. The labor of the law, great as I was laboring these years between 1908 and 1914, did not account for my incredible weariness. A thwarted and suppressed gift was revenging itself perhaps even upon my body, by produc- ing out of dissatisfaction and a guilty realiza- tion that I was neglecting the best that was in me, the germs of fatigue. . To recur, then, about 1908 I began to writé poetry again, and to publish little books, one in 1910 and one in 1911; but under a pseudo- nym as of old—Webster Ford it was—in order not to disturb my professional life. In no case would it do for me, known as a hard hitter and a tough antagonist, to be identified as the singer of songs of Abelard and Heloise, and of sonnets on the divine passion! Besides and always, my responsibilities. I had two little daughters, as exquisite as the cherubs of Raphael, and a son to whom I wanted to give what I had not had. It was now 1914, and I was working like a Corliss engine. I was trying to help the waitress girls of Chicago to win a strike for better wages and conditions against the united restaurants of Chicago. The employers have unions too! And resort to conspiracies to ad- vance their interests. Something about the contact with these women, some of whom were as fine of spirit and character as any women I have ever known, something also of the excitement of that long battle for them, which extended over many months and into January, 1915, threw into the field of my creative mind, and made plastic to my creative hand, the material and the living of all the past years, and so had as much to do with the writing of Spoon River as any other immediate influence. All that I had seen, suffered, all that I had known others to endure, all of my youth, all of the intervening years, all of my life in the town to which we moved, from the day of the woman at the window until the day I stood and took my father’s hand in fare- well when I went to Chicago, came to me in molten form under the humanizing influences of that battle for the waitress girls of Chicago. While I was in this state of keen and sunlit spirituality, my mother came to pay me a visit; and on the day she left we talked of the old days, the house in the old town, the woman at the window, the people curious, wayward, befooled and defeated that we had known. And after I took her to the train I returned to my room and wrote ‘The Hill,” the first poem of “The Spoon River Anthology.” So from May on of that year and during all that summer I worked for the waitresses and wrote Spoon River. Pretty-soon William Marion Reedy, who published them in the Mirror, began to send me letters which he was receiving from literary people in praise of the work, from all parts of America and at last from England. And these correspondents were asking him, ‘‘Who is Webster Ford?” The magazines and the newspapers were quoting and parodying my work. A kind of terror entered into me. I had habituated my literary life, such as it was, to secrecy; and when I thought that I might be discovered as the author of this work a thrill of fear and apprehension took possession of me. At the same time my impenetrable anonymity made me merry; I was elated as one would be who is hiding and peeks at the delight of people for whom he has prepared the surprise of a feast or gifts. Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Reedy went to England that summer, and when he returned he came to Chicago to see me, At first I did not know what he had come for, He entered my house, and after we had retired to a room he sat and looked at me steadily for long minutes, just as if he were trying to make out what was the matter with me. I felt as if he suspected some strange power in me, or some possession in control of me, arising out of an overwrought imagination, perhaps. At last he broke the silence by asking me Pon much more of the Spoon River will there er “As much more as you want,” I replied, “Why?” “Well,” he explained, “if you’re done, it’s time to announce you as the author; and if you’re not done, you should be announced anyway, for the curiosity about the poems, the authorship and so forth, is raging and demands to be appeased, and when you are known as the author it will give impetus to the rest of the poems, in view of your various activities, and the fact that you have been a lawyer of such tumultuous energies. So next week I am going to spread your name.” “You'll do nothing of the sort,” I exclaimed, He threw back his head and laughed. “Why not?” he asked. “Because it will ruin my law business.” ‘“‘“Nonsense!”’ he said. ‘‘Nonsense! It won't do anything of the kind. And if it did, what of it? You are already ruined, if this means ruin, which it doesn’t. For this thing will leak out, and when it does it will explode. I don’t be- lieve you know what you have done. You have opened long-pent flood-gates in yourself, and you have flooded the country. This is a new note in American literature which will influence everyone and everything profoundly.” I shook my head to express my determina- tion. Luncheon was announced, and we dropped the subject— for the time. “Well, what do you say, Lee?” Reedy asked when we came to the porch for a smoke after luncheon. “Tsay no,” I replied. I told him that a writer could not have his whole mind on the law, and clients had the right to expect the whole mind of the lawyer to whom they entrusted their interests. He didn’t believe that. He argued that a reputation asa poet would make me friends, and that if I possibly lost business in one quarter, I would make it up in another. I told him that there was the matter, too, of the satiric and advanced character of the Spoon River, its attacks upon laws, institutions and courts; upon i customs and the worship of dead gods, which would embitter or prejudice the magisterial mind and the conservative community. “What did you write this for?” he asked with a laugh; and he added the prophecy that my work as a lawyer might be over, and that there were possibilities ahead of me in literature which would balance the loss of my professional income. At last I said, “Have your way, I wash my hands of the whole thing.” In a few days a long article in the Mirror, about me and the Spoon River, was broad- casted in a dispatch all over the country; and at once I began to notice the evidences of a changed life. My name began to appear constantly in the press, in magazines, in editorials, in the columns of the columnists; and I began to see that in restaurants, in lobbies, wherever I went, eyes were turned upon me, eyes both of those who had always known me, and of those to whom I was pointed out. The elevator boy, the mail carriers, the janitors, as well as my associates at the bar, the judges too, hailed me and said, “I saw your name in the paper,” oF “T saw your picture in the paper.” And pretty soon I found myself keeping away from my ol haunts, from the old lunching places, from every place where I could be noted. At last the waitress case, which had. been dragging its wounded length along, ended after a Delphic decision which seemed a victory for the women, but was a defeat for them whenever

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lily for ) make It as if me, or out of ng me, ll there eplied, ne, it’s and if ounced ms, the ‘mands 1 as the of the es, and of such n going u have If, and a new fluence rmina- nd we r asked e after ive his ad the vyer to didn’t on asa it if I would t there vanced Ss upon social which isterial asked y that d that erature ssional sh my Mirror, broad- y; and s of a in the nthe to see ver I oth of F those yr boy, as my led me or,” oF retty a old from | been 1 after ry for enever unfavorable judges were called upon to inter- pret and enforce the decree—other judges, I mean, than those who heard the case in full. It was in January, 1915, that I stood up all day and argued with a hostile judge and sparred with two lawyers who had been freshly added to the force against me. That night I was spent. The next morning [ not only awoke tired, but the flood of life did not come to me during the day. The next day it was the same, and the next day. In a few days I sank into pneumonia. It came like a stroke of paralysis, as swiftly and as terribly. When I came to myself the proofs of my book were on the table by my bed. I could not bear to look at them. They had to be cor- rected and returned; but I could not do it. Harriet Monroe came at last and corrected them for me. After several weeks I crawled back to my office. Changes had come. My associates had fallen into disharmony; my organization was impaired. I had work to do, but no strength to do it. Besides, my book was out, and the newspapers were full of me, and there was something daily to be lived with reference to that book. The days and the weeks went on and I had nothing new to do, and I was sure that the prophecy I had made to Reedy was in process oi realization. One day I met an old friend who had sent me much profitable business in the past. I men- tioned to him that I had been ill, but was back at my office again. thought you had given up your office,” he said. “Not at all,” I replied with spirit. “Why, some one told me the other day that you were out of the law and getting ready to move away,” he went on. “Not a word of truth in it,’”’ I assured him. | “Well, that’s the talk everywhere.” So I had to live this down! I had to win my practise back by Herculean effort; for what I had had was gone. In May, however, a loyal friend, knowing my predicament, sent me a case which required more labor than any I had ever had in all my laborious career; and in this state of mind and health I had to buckle to. It took me two years to finish it; and by that time its profits were heavily eaten into by the bills of the interval. Nothing else of moment came to me. The result that I had foreseen had come to pass! What was worse, my lawyer mind was impaired and needed to be constantly built up and re- stored from the mood of poetry. I saw that I could not write and practise law. I was forced to kill what was in me to write, and then to resurrect my lawyer self from the dead. The prospect of trying it loomed before me like an unsurmountable hill; and if I climbed it at last, what would become of my writing time and power? On my shelves were twenty-one volumes of briefs, each of several hundred pages, briefs that I had written or had preserved because I was familiar with the litigation in which they were used. These volumes stood trans- formed to my new life. They were no longer statements and arguments; they were the records of human tragedies, sorrows, ironies and fates. They called to me to be reduced to the quintessence of poetry, by extracting their gold from the slag and rock of legalistic idiom and insignificant fact. They were ready for me; and my hands were ready for them. 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192 Hearst's International—Cosmofolitan for July, 1925 The Watch-Dog by Robert Hichens Continued from page 85) voice as she said that. “Oh, those Southerners are generally in extremes,’ I said casually. “But Pietro’s a most faithful; devoted fellow.” And then Stahlberg, who had several times been looking towards us, plunged into our conversation and drew Mrs. Van Stein with him. He was distinctly excited that day. Miss Van Stein’s reiterated statement that she and Pietro were great friends was, I be- lieve, perfectly true, in the way she meant it, and limiting the statement in time. I saw Pietro in Stahlberg’s Paris flat just before the wedding. (I couldn’t be in Paris for the wed- ding as I had work to see to in London.) I went to see Stahlberg by appointment, but he was a little late, and I was welcomed by Pietro, who of course thought it proper and natural to fill up the interval of waiting with conversation. He followed me into Stahlberg’s sitting-room, and at once began to speak about Miss Van Stein and his master. “E una bellissima donna!” he said. Like all Italians Pietro was very susceptible to charm and beauty in women, and I realized that Miss Van Stein had made a conquest of him. She had taken the trouble to do that. Would she go on taking trouble? As I looked at Pietro’s enormously expressive face I won- dered about that. On that evening he was looking excited. And his excitement, like every other quality in-him, suggested power, fire. There was a burning force about it. And again, after two years, I was struck by his extraordinary expressiveness. He was a valet, yet one felt—perhaps absurdly? I don’t know —that he should have been in some capacity a great man. “Madonna! Com’ é bella!” he said of Miss Van Stein. And he went on talking about her and about his master as if they both belonged to him. And I listened and remembered Miss Van Stein’s words: “I’m not sure I want to have a watch-dog. Although I’m half French, my American blood cries out for perfect freedom.” And I thought of Stahlberg’s strange air of a man suffering from strain, but determined to see something through. Stahlberg came in while Pietro and I were talking, and when Pietro had left the room I said cheerfully: “Miss Van Stein’s made a complete conquest of Pietro.” “Yes,” he said. “Yes.” He rummaged about for a cigar and put one hand up to his collar. ‘She’s been most awfully nice to Pietro,” he said. ‘I only hope her maid will be as nice. We’re going to travel after our mar- riage. Next winter we shall be in Rome. Are you coming there?” “T shouldn’t wonder. Where shall I find Piz ‘“‘We’re taking an apartment in old Rome, in the Piazza Paganica. The house is the Palazzo Canonici Mattei.” “Close to the Caetani Palace?” “That’s it. We’re taking it furnished till we’ve made up our minds where we mean to settle down permanently. You must come and see us next winter.” “T hope to.” That evening was the last time I saw Stahl- berg as a bachelor. When he came with me into the lobby of the flat to see me off, Pietro appeared from the door which led to the ser- vants’ quarters. His large eyes looked full of smoldering watchfulness. “T hope to goodness he’!l hit it off with Miss Van Stein’s maid!” I said to myself as I walked away. In November of the same year—Stahlberg had been married in the spring—I decided to go to Sicily, and to spend a little while in Rome on my way. I had heard nothing of the Stahlbergs since their -wedding, of which I had read the accounts in the papers. They had gone on their travels with Pietro and the maid, and no doubt were now settled in Rome. Stahlberg and I were excellent friends, but we had never bothered to write letters to one another. Women are the true letter writers. But though I had not written to Stahlberg I had very often thought about him, and about his wife, and about Pietro. Specially about Pietro! The fellow had an extraordi- nary faculty not only of making himself felt, strongly felt, but also of making himself thought about, and strongly thought about. I arrived in Rome—I remember it was on the seventh of November and a bright morning —and put up at the Windsor Hotel close to the Piazza Barberini. In the afternoon I re- solved to pay a call on the Stahlbergs. I had been to luncheon at the Grand, had met several friends, and- had already heard that the Baron and Baroness were to be seen everywhere. “Quelle jolie femme! Quel mari dévoué!” Merry indeed as a marriage bell seemed to be their common life. Evidently the union was a success so far. And Pietro? How was he getting on? I found my thought fastened on Pietro as I walked across the Corso and made my way towards the “Botteghe Oscure.” I arrived at the Palace, found the Stahl- bergs’ apartment and rang a bell. After a rather long wait the big door was slowly opened and I was confronted by Pietro. He looked terrific. That was my impression as he stood before me in the rather dim light. Evidently he was in one of his morose moods. “Evidently,” I said quickly to myself, “he has lost a lira or got a slight cold.” It must be so since overpowering tragedy emanated from him and swept about me like a miasma. “Buona sera, Pietro!’’ I said. He stared at me with his great eyes. “Buona sera, Signor Roberto,” he said. His expression did not change. There was no friendly greeting for me. He knew me and acknowledged that he knew; that was all. I inquired if the Signora Baronessa was at home. The answer was no. I then asked for the Signor Barone. He was out too. I gave Pietro my cards. He took them without one word. I said: “A rivederci, Pietro!” He replied, “‘A rivederci, Signorino.” And that was all. The great door slowly shut and I turned to descend the staircase, feéling chilled to the bone. “‘He’s lost a lira,” I said to myself as I went: downwards. “He’s lost a lira. That’s all. Or he’s got a slight upset in the stomach.” But it wouldn’t do! I felt tragedy in the palace, tragedy in my friend’s apartment. When that big door had opened, gloom and even horror had swept heavily out upon me. Such was the strength of Pietro’s personality. Late that evening, when I was in my hotel, I received a telephone call from Stahlberg. His voice sounded cheerful as he welcomed me to Rome and expressed his regret at having been out when I called. He said everything was going “splendidly” with him and his wife, that they loved their life in Rome, that they were perfectly happy together. And I felt that he was forcing his voice to sound cheerful, and after each happy assertion a voice within me said, ““That’s a lie!’”’ He ended the short con- versation by asking me to luncheon on the morrow, not at the palace but in the restaurant of the Grand Hotel. I accepted of course and went. I found a luncheon party—Romans, Ameri- cans, a secretary from the British Embassy. Stahlberg seemed almost boisterously cheerful. He looked older, paler, bigger than when I had seen him last. To me his cheerfulness didn’t ring true. There was a new self-consciousness about him. His eyes were furtive at times, I thought. He looked like a man who had got into a habit of secret watchfulness and couldn’t release himself from it. The Baroness was in great good looks and seemed to be in splendid spirits. But I thought I detected in her, too, a certain malaise which she was, in the main very ety: trying to hide from the eyes of the world. When the luncheon was over I expected to have a little talk with Stahlberg.. We hadn’t seen each other for a good many months. We should surely. have a great deal to talk about. But he managed, with easy cleverness, to avoid a téte-d-téte with me and yet to seem abun- dantly cordial. I was so certain that he de- liberately avoided it, however, that I said good-by to him without suggesting another meeting. When I went up to his wife to say good-by to her she asked me how long I was staying in Rome. I told her for not longer than a week at the most. “T must have a talk with you before you leave,” she said. “I'll telephone. It’s the Windsor, isn’t it?” I said it was. As I went away I saw her looking after me with a curious expression in her violet eyes, an expression which seemed to me of desire and hesitation mingled. I knew she would telephone and she did, but only on the last day of my stay in Rome. Meanwhile I had seen nothing more of her husband. The Baroness asked me to come to see her at five o’clock in the afternoon. I went at that hour and rang the bell outside the big door of the apartment. When it was being opened I expected to see Pietro. But I was admitted by a woman, obviously French, about thirty I should think, with a good though rather round figure and dark, very intelligent eyes. She looked very angry. I guessed at once that she was the Baroness’s maid. She took me into a small drawing-room opening out of a larger room. In this small room I found the Baroness alone. We had a long and very strange conversation together. As I had expected, she had something which she wished to say to me. She had probably hesitated whether to say it or not, but if so she overcame her hesitation. She was tre- mendously frank. The subject of her com- munication was Pietro. She complained to me bitterly of Pietro’s dominance in the household, and of the “im- perious” manner in which he sometimes be- haved. His moods, she said, suffocated her. (She used the-word “suffocation” more than once in connection with Pietro.) She acknowl- edged that he was a devoted servant to the Baron, and had at first been ‘“‘very nice” to her. But she declared that she had gradually come to feel his eternal watchfulness as a heavy, indeed an intolerable burden. “All this sounds to you very absurd, no doubt,” she said. “But it’s like living with an immense weight suspended over you which may fall at any moment. You can have no idea what the force of that man’s personality is when you have it perpetually with you at close quarters. He’s only a servant, but he might be an emperor, one of the tyrants. Nero, let us say!” She tried to laugh, but she couldn’t. “My maid’s leaving me because of him,” she said. “The woman who let you in.” “T’m sorry.” “But the worst of it is that I feel as if he were shriveling me up, making me small, diminishing me a little bit every day. I can’t stand it.” “Have you told your husband so?”’ I asked. “No; not yet.” “Why not?” Her answer was startling, coming from a woman so spoiled and wilful as she was. “T don’t think it would be any use,” she said. “But he loves you!” “He adores me. It isn’t that!” “And Pietro?” “He doesn’t like me now. He did at first.” “But why doesn’t he now?” “He knows I have changed towards him.” “What do you mean to do?” “T intend to get rid of Pietro.”

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I can’t tell you what the color is, but it’s full of those tiny dancing lights that somehow suggest auburn, yet which are really no more ac- tualcolorthansunlightis. It’s only when the head is moved —_ you —_ auburn suggestion— the fleeting glint of gold. You have no idea how much your bob can be improved with the “tiny tint” Golden Glint Shampoo will give it. If you want a bob like that I have in mind, buy a package and see for your- self. At all drug stores, or send 25¢ direct to J. W. Kosi Co., 614 Rainier Ave., Seattle, Wn. Golden Glint SHAMPOO Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 When she said that I felt danger in the air. “But how? You say. it-would be no use speaking to the Baron.” “T haven’t decided yet. But I shall find a way. I’ll force Pietro to go without speaking to my husband. I’m certain Serge would be thankful if he went.” “T shouldn’t try to force Pietro if I were you,” I said. “Why not?” “JT couldn’t tell you. But I’m against it. I —I feel it wouldn’t be very safe to do that.” She stared at me for a moment. “D’you think I’m afraid of a servant?” she then said. I didn’t answer. “Pietro must go,” sne said. ‘Ana tnen I shall be able to breathe. He takes all the air away from me.” “Do you think,” I asked, “that Pietro has the slightest idea of your intention concerning him?” “Oh, no! He can’t have. You’re the only person I have mentioned this matter to. But I felt I must speak to somebody. And you know my husband and Pietro so well.” When I was bidd’ng good-by to her she asked me, ‘When will you be passing through Rome again?” — “Not before April.” As we touched hands she added: “When you come back you won’t find Pietro here.” “Be careful!” I said. | When I heard of Baroness Stahlberg’s suicide | in February of the following year I was staying | with some friends just outside Palermo. I | came into my hostess’s morning-room a little | before luncheon time, and found her with an | Italian paper in her hand. “There’s some horrible news from Rome!” she said, looking up with a grave face. “Tt’s about Baroness Stahlberg!’’ I said. “Did you know?” “Nothing.” “But then “Tell me! I simply had an intuition.” “The poor Baroness has shot herself,’’ she said. “Look!” She handed me the Tribuna. As I took it she added: “And when we were last in Rome, at the end of October, she seemed radiantly happy. And Stahlberg is such a good fellow. What can have induced her to do it?” “Some mystery, I suppose,” I said. I was shocked. Yet somehow I wasn’t sur- prised. I remember perfectly that I had no genu- ine feeling of surprise. I soon gleaned the facts that everybody knows now from the paper. The Baroness had apparently been in her usual health and spirits. Her husband had gone to Milan alone for one night on business. She had had three friends to dine in the apart- ment and to play bridge after dinner—Princess San Gemignano, Salter Wade of the American Embassy in Rome, and Captain Wagram, an English friend from the Grand Hotel. Her guests had left the apartment at half past eleven. The Baroness’s maid, an English girl called Ellen Phipps, had helped her mistress to go to bed, and had left her in bed at twelve o’clock reading with an electric lamp beside her. In the morning, when this woman had gone at about nine o’clock to waken her mistress, she had found the electric light still on, the book the Baroness had been reading lying face down- wards on the floor, and the Baroness dead in the bed with a small revolver beside her on the eiderdown. She had shot herself through the right temple. The revolver was one which she was known to possess. In fact it had been given to her by her husband. It was like a pretty toy; she had taken a fancy to it in Paris when they were engaged to be married, and he had made her a present of it. : No one in the palace had heard a shot. The Baron’s servants all slept in quarters separated from the main apartment by padded double doors. None of them had been startled by any cisturbance during the night. The doctors who were called in said the Baroness had probably been dead for about eight hours when the maid found her. She must therefore have committed suicide about one o’clock in the night. Such were the facts stated in the papers. I saw in no paper that I read any suggestion of a possible crime. But my hostess remarked that it was very odd a woman should be reading apparently up till the moment when she de- cided to commit suicide. And that seemed odd to me, too. I didn’t tell my hostess of a conviction which I had, and which was this: that if the Baron had taken Pietro with him to Milan that night this tragedy would never have happened. Of course I wrote at once to the Baron ex- pressing my grief and sympathy. I had no reply for several weeks. Then I got a letter of thanks from him, written in London. In it he wrote: “Of course I gave up the apartment in Rome at once. At present I’m here with Pietro in ahotel. I can’t go to Russia. I can’t bear the idea of Paris now. I don’t know what I shall do or where I shall settle.” For a long time I saw nothing more of Stahlberg. When I returned to London from Sicily he had already left with Pietro for some unknown destination abroad. Until last Sep- — I had no idea what had become of im. Then, to my great surprise, I met him on the golf course at Biarritz. I was just coming in from a game and he was just starting out alone to play a practise round. He was greatly altered. He looked many years older. His air of genial bonhomie had vanished. He had the eyes of a cowed, a haunted man. We had a little talk, and he told me that he had hired one of the small houses on the Plateau du Golf beyond the course, and was living there and playing golf every day. The house was the Villa Vincent. He said nothing about Pietro. I was walking home to the Hotel du Palais that day and I took the way of the cliff, and presently saw on the garden gate of an un- pretentious little house the name “Villa Vincent.” I stopped, hesitated, then walked up the path to the front door and pressed the bell. In a moment the door was opened by Pietro. When he saw me he started violently. He was evidently tremendously surprised. “Signor Roberto!” he exclaimed. I don’t know what induced me to do it, but the impulse came to me, like a thing which had long been waiting its opportunity, and I caught Pietro by the arm. “Pietro!” I said in a low voice. “I know! You did it!’ é Pietro stood quite still for a moment. He didn’t change color, but his whole face seemed to darken, and again I saw what I can only call his terrific look. Into his big eyes there came a momentary expression that was like a fierce avowal. Then he moved, shifted away from my hand, and said in a heavy, dull voice: “Si, Signorino, I brought my poor padrone here. He must be somewhere. And he thinks it does him good to play that English game.” And that was all. I saw Stahlberg several times while I was at Biarritz. He never alluded to his wife. Pietro seemed to watch over him and see to his com- fort with the deepest devotion. But Stahlberg never spoke to me about Pietro either, though I was in the house on the Plateau on two oc- casions. I think they are in Germany now, at Munich. There’s a horrible question which I put to myself sometimes. It is this—does Stahlberg know? I may be wrong—I hope to God I am wrong; but I can’t help suspecting he does. He osten ane ( rit f for tk “ t and § teasil Jo? ” “HV old ti

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That Royle Girl (Continued from page 95) ostentatiously, and calling attention to his action, thrust bank-notes into the overcoat kets, whereupon Ket laughed and shook him- | self free of the girls and reached with one hand | for the coat and with the other to his mother. | “Come along, mamsie!”’ he invited grandly and gazed down at Joan Daisy and demanded | teasingly, “Well, what’s the matter with you, | 9)? “Matter, Ket?” she replied, transported to | old times with him when she, by not throwing herself upon him, provoked him as none of the others. “Yeh! Aren’t you glad you got me out, now that I’m out?” he jibed her. “I suppose you | figure you’re through; you’ve got a lunch date elsewhere today.” | “No; I haven’t,”’ she replied, very seriously, and he chuckled, looking her over with! exuberant anticipation. “Then you’re coming with me. And it’ll be | some lunch in your life, Jo. I’m going to buy a meal!”’ he boasted, only more flattered by the | obvious consternation he bestrewed over the girls whom he otherwise ignored. | Elmen reached them and Ket offered his hands, with his elbows now linked with his mother’s and Jo’s. She glanced away and dis- | covered Calvin Clarke near the elevator shaft; she slipped her arm from Ket’s and worked her way to him. “How is it today?” she inquired, looking up into his intent eyes. He seemed paler, when she was so close to him, and he kept his lips very | straight. | “It is all over,” he replied. ‘That charge | can never come up again. On the other | matter ” he added after a moment. “What other matter?” she asked, stirring spots of color in his cheeks. “The matter when we—the matter at the ditch,” he amended. “Oh! I meant, how’s your shoulder?” “It is no trouble. The matter of the ditch— that is, the investigation of it will be arranged without requiring you, at least for today.” She felt Ket’s hand under her arm and Ket asked, genially enough but not speaking directly to Mr. Clarke, ““What’s on his chest now?” Calvin turned to the elevator, which had just risen empty, and he said to the operator, “Take these people down by themselves.” The car descended swiftly, and with Ket and his mother and Herman Elmen and Weigal, Joan went out to the street. “Lord!’ exulted Ket, looking up and filling his lungs deep with the fresh air. He jerked Jo and his mother closer to him, pushing his way to the curb where Weigal was holding a taxi. “Much obliged.” Ket accepted it grandly, and thrust Jo in, pushed his mother after her and, blocking off Weigal, who tried to enter, jumped in and slammed the door. “Beat it!” he commanded. “Where to?”’ the driver asked. “Beat it!’ yelled Ket, more loudly, when Lola Nesson came to the curb and spoke to the driver. “Beat it! Then I’ll tell you where.” Joan Daisy drew into her corner as he plumped himself between her and his mother; he settled back with an arm around each as the cab started. “Just don’t you turn by that —— —— jail!” he called and Joan remembered him in it and gave no resistance to his arm. Suddenly his mother lost all restraint and cast herself upon him, sobbing. “Why, I got the world by the tail, mamsie!”’ he boasted, patting her. “I got the world by the tail,” he repeated but began crying himself, all the while hugging Joan close to him. “South!” he shouted direction to the driver, at the halt before the boulevard; his mother kissed him and sat up, drying her eyes, and he released her but kept Joan Daisy embraced. “Tl get out here, Frederic,” his mother offered. “You won’t,” said Ket in a tone which told

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MILK WEEL CREAM Today it is either a sign of neglect or of improper care to have a skin marred by blackheads, enlarged pores and similar complexion faults. Wéith proper treat- ment these unnecessary skin defects can easily be corrected. In the past thirty-five years, millions of women the world over have found that | Ingram’s Milkweed Cream not only quickly relieves these annoying troubles, but when used regularly prevents their feQ) reappearance as well. Cleanses, Protects, Corrects Ry Ingram’s Milkweed Cream is more than a thorough cleanser, more than a protec- tion and powder base. It combines cer- tain remedial properties which correct blackheads, blemishes, roughness, tan, freckles and such imperfections. The purpose of these nourishing, beautifying properties is not to cover up defects but to remove them. Understand Your Skin Then Give It the Proper Care There is a booklet “Health Hints” wrapped around each jar of Ingram’s Milkweed Cream which tells you how to use Ingram’s Milkweed Cream most effectively in treating these common skin faults. This booklet is written by specialists to make sure that you get from Ingram’s Milk- weed Cream the fullest possible benefit. Go to your druggist today and buy a jar of In- gram’s Milkweed Cream in the fifty cent or the economical dollar size. After the first treatment you will find these troublesome defects begin to disappear. Start at once to improve your com- plexion. Frederick F. Ingram Company : Established 1885 Windsor, Canada. 240Tenth St., Detroit, Mich. A new idea in rouge perfection. Mail two-cent stamp for liberal sample of American Blush.

Qin S§ Milkweed r B, 1Cam Keeps Complexions Clear

lagi

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196 EARLE E. LIEDERMAN The Muscle Builder Did Your Mother Ever Lick You? Remember how she told you over and over again not to do a certain thing and still you went on doing it? One day she gave you a. good licking and then you stopped. You deserve another licking right now. You have been abusing your body for years. You have been told time and again that it is going to kill you if you don’t cut it out and start building yourself up, but you won’t pay attention to anyone. You have grown up now, so you say: ‘‘No one will punish me—I can do as I please.’’ Sure you can do just as you please. But don’t think you will escape punishment. Nature takes care of just such cases as yours. You think you are getting away with something. But are you? Some morning you will wake up and find yourself in the grip of a wasting disease. It will then ‘be too late. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m only giving you the truth, because no one else has the nerve to tell you. Get Wise If you could only see what’s going on inside of you, I wouldn’t need to talk to you this way. Your cells are breaking down one by one and you’re not doing a blame thing to replenish them. There’s only one life to lead now that will give you a come-back. Give up this careless living at once and start the physical culture life. The kind that changed Teddy Roosevelt from a tubercular prospect into a big, strong specimen of manhood, You Need Guidance Just any kind of exercise won’t do. A lot of other fellows thought they could do it themselves and got in wrong. This is my job. I’ve studied it. My hundred thousand satisfied pupils are proof that I know how. want you and if you are wise you will come to me. Remember, I’m the man who guarantees results. You take no chances with me. I’m going to put at least one full inch of muscle on your arm before the next month is up—yes, and two inches on your chest in the same length of time, But that’s nothing, I’m going to broaden your shoulders and pep up your spine. I’m going to strengthen every muscle in and around your vital organs. I’m going to fill you so full of pep and life you'll feel like tackling a wild cat. Sounds good, doesn’t it? You’re darn tooting, it’s good. Well, come on. Time flies. Let’s get going. Are you with me? Atta boy! Make it snappy. Send for my new 64-page book “MUSCULAR DEVELOPMENT” It Is Free It contains forty-five full page photographs of myself and some of the many prize-winning pupils I have trained. Many of these are leaders in their business professions to-day. I have not only given them a body of which to be proud, but made them better doctors, lawyers, mer- chants, ete. Some of these came to me as pitiful weaklings, imploring me to help them. Look them over now and you will marvel at their present physiques. This book will prove an impetus and a rea] inspiration to you. It will thrill you through and through. All I ask is ten cents tc cover the cost of wrapping and mailing and it is yours to keep. This will not obligate you at all, but for the sake of your future health and happiness, do not put it off. Send to-day—right now, before ycu turn this page. EARLE E. LIEDERMAN Dept. 8007 305 Broadway New York City (SPOSOOOSOHOSOSOOHSOSSOSESOSSHSOSOSOOSCCOOOOS EARLE E. LIEDERMAN Dept. 8007, 305 Broadway, New York City Dear Sir:—I enclose herewith 10 cents for which you are to send me, without obligation on my part whatever, a copy of your latest book, ‘‘Muscular Development.’”’ (Please write or print plainly.) It’s wonderful. Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 | that he did not want her; so she caught her | breath and insisted. | “Ti take you down-town first,” he said | generously. “Where are you going?” She named the boulevard corner at Madison | Street; and when the cab stopped, he got out and from a pocket abstracted a bank-note. | ‘“Here’s a twenty that Weigal wished onto me,” | he announced and made his mother accept it | before he let her out. “I want you to spend every cent of it on yourself today,”’ he ordered | grandly, and led her a few steps down the sidewalk. Joan Daisy watched him from the cab, per- fectly aware of his intentions in regard to her self. She was on the side of the seat farthest from the curb and her hand went to the latch of the door with an instinct of escape which she | denied even before he turned back toward her, | lifting himself on his toes as he stepped as though, having left his mother, he was light- ened of his Jast restraint. As he directed the driver to a south-side hotel, he looked in at Jo and saw that she pressed at the farther edge of the seat; and he pulled her nearer as he got in. “See here!” he announced, handling her. “You and me are going to have a show-down. right now.” “Yes, Ket,’ she said. That was it; that was why she had waited. “H’m-h’m,” he murmured, gathering her beside him, with his arm inside her coat. “You can’t pull any funny s‘uff on me now.” “Funny stuff?” “About me married.” “No,”’ she said. Through the window beyond him appeared Orchestra Hall, and by her hab’t whenever she passed the building her eyes sought the names carved in stone—WAGNER BEETHOVEN Mozarrv. “‘What’s out there?” demanded Ket. “Mozart!” she cried and he shook her. “You got a swell chance of pulling that stuff today! Mozart!’ he laughed, letting the idea amuse him. “Say, I got the wor d by the tail. ‘Jail Jazz’—say, that name’s a knock-out—will print half a million. And, oh papa, the radio and records! Did you see Weigal this morning? Did you see him? The poor fish! He thought he could stick Henny’s name in the lights and the ’lectric current would make Henny me. The Echo! It’s flopped to a whisper. I'll make it yell!” He required his hands to display trium- phant'y the tribute wh.ch Weigal had crammed into his pockets and he discovered that, whereas his employer had wrapped the rolls with twenty dollar gold notes, the stuffing was mostly one dollar greenbacks. “The cheap bum! That’s Weigal for you! I'll leave him flat for that! Or I'll make him pay for it. He’ll wish he’d stuck in centuries. He’ll pay in grands! But at that I guess we got enough for a trip, eh? And more in the bank, you bet! And more coming. Huh! I couldn’t stop it, "less I locked the door. Watch ’em walk to me!” His hands, after smoothing and counting his money, returned to her and she endured his embrace so dully that again he shook her, com- plaining:- “What’s the matter with you? Where’s*your pep, Jo?” “T guess I’m tired, Ket,’’ she evaded. “Then wake up!” “T guess—I guess, Ket, I’ve gone stale.” “Stale! You mean, on me!” “Yes,”’ she replied, in a whisper, toppling his vanity. He pushed her away into her corner, where she sat huddled. Gradually a beat of rhythm began to stir and thrill her; it increased and approached and she realized that she was hearing the strike, strike of a tire chain on the fender of a passing car; but by shutting her eyes, she made it the measure of Elgar’s great march as she had in the car with Calvin Clarke beside-her when she had told him that Ket, if not like Mozart, would be- come like Elgar or Schelling and that he would go to a conservatory like Sowerby. | She straightened and sat up, incited again to | her dream. “That’s showing some of the old pep,” Ket approved. ‘Come over here.” “No, Ket.” So he seized her, demanding, “Say, what’s come over you?” “Nothing,”’ she replied, still evading; for did she know yet, of herself? “I’ve not slept a lot the last nights.” “Haven’t you, kid? Of course you haven’t,” he said, with a sudden turn of considerateness for her which made her look up quickly and surprise the speculation in his eyes. Should he waste more of his great, triumphant hours with her? his eyes said. Had he not better let her go and find for himself another girl? She could not speak to him; her mind re- fused to be forced to his affairs. It flew to the field wherein Neski’s car, pursued, had over- turned. Had not Ket heard of what had happened at the ditch? she wondered, staring at him. Yes; he had been told; he knew how she had gone to Tut’s Temple to identify Baretta in his cause and how, from the expedi- tion with Oliver and from the fight in the ditch, he had gained his freedom. “Kid, you certainly came through for me,” he touched her gratefully. “I didn’t think you was so done up yet.” “T am, Ket.” For a few moments, while he considered her, he was silent. ‘Then why’d you come along?” he asked. At this she refused further evasion. “I’m not done up,” she contradicted herself, opposing his hands with all the strength of her own. The struggle of her against him pleased and roused him; he laughed and played with her before holding her helpless, hot and breathless. “You're all right, kid! D’you think I’d put over a low-down on you? Not on your life. I’m marrying you, Jo.” “Marrying me!” “That’s what I said. You’ll be my wife after lunch.” “No Ket.” “Sure you will! You bet you will, kid! So kiss me good.” She gasped and, himself breathing hard, he ordered: “You kiss me good.” Instead, she burst into tears and pushed her- self from him. Baffled, he released her and let her huddle by herself in her corner of the seat, crying. “Why, I mean it, kid!’’ he puzzled over her. “T mean it.” Soon he warned her: ‘“Here’s the hotel.” She sat up, dabbing her eyes, and patted powder on her cheeks. “All dandy now?” asked Ket, relieved. She nodded and got out after him, and while he was paying the driver, she fled into the hotel and took refuge in the women’s room, where she dropped into a soft rest chair and closed her eyes. Her temples, her finger-tips, her whole body throbbed. He meant his offer of marriage, she knew; he meant, before taking her away with him for the night, to buy a marriage license and stand with her for five minutes or so before a magis- trate or a minister and make her his wife— after luncheon. He would do it; she had merely to go out and meet him in the lobby and tell him ‘Yes,’ and between luncheon and dinner, she could become his wife. A maid, in attendance, asked her: ‘Are you Miss Royle?” and told her that her gentleman was waiting; so she arose and went to the mirror and out to Ket. “You’re a knock-out,” he approved her appearance and praised also the hotel. “I take to this shed. We'll come back here. I got our rooms already—swell ones, up-stairs. Want to look ’em over?” “No, Ket.” “Hungry? You bet I am.” He led her into the dining-room and to a table where ice clinked in glasses of brown liquor. He touched her glass with his own and drank. “Go to it!” he bade her; and, to please him,

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1025 | Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 197 »,” Ket she sipped and thought of the last time she had | drunk with him in his room and he had tried to | whail detain her. Me Jo,” h a , | 73 , rhat's “I’m crazy about you, Jo,’”’ he made love to her across the table in the same words as on | #, Vease dont dance for did that night; and the proposal which he ag : »t a lot her seemed to her the same as on that night. “ 99 got the swellest suite in the shed for us!’’ he any more, dear! ven’t,” told her with a confiding exultation which al- 9 bi ateness most made her cry again. “Thirty a day; but ly and what’s thirty a day to me?” he asked, as though | E was tormented by the thought of another's uld he his fortune was become incredible to himself. | nearness to her glowing young cheek. He rs with He was offering her his best and himself at begged for a stroll in the shadowy moonlit garden. let her his best; yes, at his very best. That was what She smiled happily at his ardent words. How she had felt when she had sat, all athrob, in the well she knew the secret of her radiant charm! ind re- rest-room; that was why she had come out to Pert Rouge could always be depended upon to to the him to tell him honestly: : keep her cheeks aglow with natural rosiness. | over- “Ket, I can’t marry you.” : Again, she had the flattering proof that PERT it had “Why not?” he demanded. “What’ve you stays on, indefinitely. Its lovely tint had not been staring done?” affected by perspiration or constant powdering. w how “T can’t, Ket.” The slightest touch of her moistened finger spread lentify “You mean you don’t want to even marry its creamy greaseless base, blending it so perfectly xpedi- me?” Z with her natural coloring that it left no definite ditch, “We shouldn’t marry, Ket. outline. She knew it would vanish only at the “Huh? What are we goin’ to do?” touch of cold cream or soap. ’ 6“ See Ap ae on go on, Ket This triumph had convinced her also of the 1K you ve efficacy of another little trick for increasing the “Like we’ve been.” “For heaven’s sake, the friend stuff! That’s beauty of her complexion. After tinting her cheek with cream Pert, she had powdered it lightly. - Paes ‘ ; Pena i ve a nage y Ts i eer Faete your teen Then she applied Pert Compact Rouge to heighten ong : “Yes K et.” the warmth of her glow. Both forms of rouge are “Dm “The friend stuff!” he cast at her, and swore waterproof. —_ in his neg 8a Midis to pull = To her friends she recommends: sth o on me today. ou wont: m gonna tis ahah de Rito id tine iead happy. I wanta be happy and I’m gonna be inhi d and happy today. What do you suppose I got out Fe : medium skin, dark orange cream Pert and blush pee See ompact, h her of that iel = = e bs ‘ : My a For an olive skin, rose shade cream Pert and rose Compact. thless. To hear you spiel about ozart now your For enhancing the beauty of the lips, Pert waterproof d put line; I read your book; and it’s crazy. D’you Lipstick. y r life. know where it is? I left it in jail with a loon Rouge and Lipstick, 75e. U. S. and Canada RO a : that’s just arrived for burglary. He’s crazy Be cn wiaceeite elt oer ae too. D’you know what Weigal told me? To Mail a coupon today with12cforagenerous \ street after write my own ticket—my own ticket. And I’m Se. Ba wed ae: ends. Another 12c certainly goin’ to write a good one. I got the ( world by the tail and I’ll marry you, you poor ROSS COMPANY ! So kid. Sure I will.” 240 West 17th Street New York “No, you won’t, Ket.” d,he . “Then what’s your big idea for the day?” P : She arose and he sat glaring her until she se was several steps away, when he jumped up \ or e 1 her- and rushed after her and past her to the en- r Ou id let trance where, grandly, he called a cab for her | seat, and, pressing a bank-note into the driver’s | palm, commanded: “Ride her home or any- — r her. where she tells you.” [ere’s She chose home; and, since mama was out » ad and Dads did not return, she was alone, un- : att i i h t of the day. F | og) (ae oy disturbed, during the rest o e day or | Woven into a genuine everyone supposed her with Ketlar, who had : completely disappeared even from the knowl- while edge of the newspaper men, until a Waukegan No more tight belts or hot suspenders in summer CASH WOVEN LABEL ° : M here’s a device which holds your trousers up ° hotel correspondent called the office of Oliver’s and your shirt down wwithout binding you in any way. Sewed to Clothing & Linen yhere naper late in the afternoon. Whereupon | | clothes loose at the belt and prevent your shirt Saves Laundry Losses and ! : near X out, 43 LOS — Oliver discerned that it might, after all, be | | gin aise waist feet mest fegeaiie: They Are inviable, . marks your Individuality! her | worth while to ring the Royle number. —__ | | ssgy adit 20/Pe[awstars Get tle real cool summer com. aw J&J.CASH Inc “Hello; there’s where you are!” he hailed | | fort, order your Sta-ons today: Nickel plated: 35c, pair. With 3 Dor‘? e 9002252 v; he Joan Daisy’s voice in reply. “Then you are in | | THE LINRAL COMPANY, Dept. 27, St. Louis, Mo. 6 ~ “20° 55th St., So. Norwalk, Conn. 43 . *3e0 1 for town!” . aeininniee : = tand “Yes; I’m here,” replied Joan Daisy. “I’m ae agis- home.” ife— “How long you been there?”’ inquired Oliver, rely in a tone combining the privileged concern of | | tell an old, established friend and the ingenuous- | ner, ness of an utterly impersonal collector of news. | “I mean, when’d you leave Ketlar? That is, atte ie Mec if you left him. Did eral Say, what happened | impossible. Federal Students man between him and you? are making this much. Many the “Nothing,” said Joan Daisy. a are earning $3500, $4000, “ 8; ” . 7; } $5000 and $6000 yearl ‘Oh, come along,” persuaded Oliver. “You ») | ee ee oo = ne and his mother went off with him. He canned | Kaisa io. Ge el Gag Fhe his mother down-town—we know that. He} our gtay hair in Federal Course has !produced ° * | kabl Its for others— - - goes off with you and the next thing we get a | APPLICATION why shouldn't it for you? Get airs. call from Waukegan that a justice of peace is cted by salt water bathing, 7 | hoi Deane ides arcane this practical, individual com- mercial art training makes in- comes grow amazingly. State yourageand present occupation. Federal School of pronouncing Fred Ketlar and somebody else perspiration, oils, hair tonics, shampoos man and wife. What went wrong with him and or previous dyes. Will notstainscalporrub § you? When did she cut in? You were the one | § off. Composed Henna and Herbs; Harmless. to a doped to marry him.” Eonly anaes athome. 14Shades. P.P.$1.60 § | L al of og - 8H dor White H: for lightenin: : \. Commercial Designing own So Joan Daisy learned that Ket was married De rare soniye oe Bg a cena a mg eee | 210 Federal Schools and she heard it with no sense of shock at all. | Dept. U, 21 W. 39thSt.,New York sacBttilding ink. Of course he would be married today. Her | B. PAUL, ‘At All Boauty Sheps, Drug & Dept. Stores % | gee a im, mind roved the gallery of girls in his room, | Gpesp/—_ssss—n:Aee gus \/gueOi aig

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198 Vie iy Yanted: Women TO LEARN A BUSINESS. OF HAPPINESS Earn $4,000 to $20,000 a year HE: happiest occupation in the world is showing women how to, improve their ap- pearance.” It brings*happiness to them— untold happiness. It brings satisfaction and fortune to-you. ~ ¥ou can learn_this business of happiness in a. few’ weeks of. fascinating work. ~ First we teach you how to improve your own personal appearance. ~ That brings happiness to you. Then. you learn“how to improve the appearance of.others, . That ‘brings happiness to them. Only school teaching Beauty Culture by the New Method of Visual Iristructions ‘which en- ables you to see just how,Facial and Scalp treatments are given. Expert teachers super- vise these classes as well as those in Permanent and Marcel Waving. Electroiysis“and Hair Tint- ing. During instructions all students receive FREE cosmetics, lotions, ete. “Attractive sur- roundings. Easy Terms. You get both practical and theoretical train- ing; a big advantage over the shop taught operator. A shop taught pupil is like a home- made dress, lacking finish. Our course of training is scientifically recog- nized and prepares you to pass all state examinations. The time is past when women have to be contented with meager earnings. just because they are women, In every section of the country we haye Marinello Shop Owners earn- ing from $4,000 to $20,000 a year in this highly respected calling. More salaried posi- tions are open for trained Marinello graduates than we can fill. Right now decide to look into this business of happiness—it is the opportunity of a life- time. Write for catalogue and complete booklet to nearest school. National School of Cosmeticians Affiliated With RINELLO 7.N 5th Ave., New York City 808C Tower Court, Chicago 808M LaSalle Ave., Minneapolis 121 North Broad St., Philadelphia “Marinello Beauty Aids’’ used all over the World. CM es ae Se ee ee ee { CS DEP Se SEED + Se me Sp» Sp SD - SS - SS SD - Sa Ew 7 OO nd a ete aia —— Reduce a pound every day Natures Way EUROPEAN discov- ery makes it possible to reduce weight as nature f herself reduces. Flora- 5 zona, actually washes away excess flesh through the pores. Don’t risk your health with starvation diets, heart-straining ex- ercises, internal drugs. Simply empty a package = of fragrant Florazona in your bath. Stay in for fifteen minutes; and from 8 ounces to 1 pound of weight melts away. RESULTS GUARANTEED Thousands of successful users; hundreds of eminent Physicians recommend this natural way to reduce. Con- tains no epsom salts, no alum. Absolutely pure and harmless. Simple, safe, sure, natural. Convince yourself that Florazona will reduce your weight 8 to 15 pounds im only two weeks! Guaranteed to reduce or your money back. Two weeks treatment only $3.50 postpaid. At drug and department stores, or direct from FLORAZONA CORP., Dept. 57 100 5th Ave., N. Y. C. — ee oe Se ee Fiorazona Corp., Dept. $7, 100 Fifth Ave., N. Y. C. 1 enclose $3.50 for two weeks’ Florazona treatment (14 baths). If I do not reduce with this treatment you will refund my money. at EERE RY rT eT E Ee eT eee Print Name and Address fi OE ET EE Te ee ee ys re oe, EEO ce, CUE ET PE ee ee Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 wondering-whom he sought after sending her home; or whom he had happened across or who had found him. “Who is she?” Joan asked Oliver. “Then you didn’t know!” “J don’t.” “Tt’s Lola Nesson; and they were married *bout half an hour ago. They drove up to Waukegan and after the ceremony,” continued Oliver, unconsciously quoting the phrase of news-writing, “they started back to Chicago. What you got to say?” For a moment she could say nothing; she was wondering whether Ket had kept the suite, the swellest in the shed, which he had engaged ‘|for him and herself, and was taking Lola Nesson to it. “Please don’t say anything for me,” begged Joan Daisy, out of her extensive recent ex- perience with reporters, “except ‘I hope they’ll be happy’-or something Tike that.” “Tl fix up something good for you,” promised Oliver, both the perfect reporter and the eager friend. ‘‘But say, slip me the straight of it‘and I'll use it only in a nice way. You threw him down; you must’ve. Why?” “T didn’t throw him down,” denied Joan Daisy. ‘We went off to luncheon to—to talk over the trial. He wanted to thank me for what I did with you.” ‘Apple sauce!” graphically interjected Oliver but, getting nothing better out of her, he as- sured her, “‘That’s all right with me, if you don’t tell the other papers what happened.” She did not, though many other reporters telephoned. Nobody else called; none of the neighbors; nor did Mr. Hoberg call; for the news from Waukegan reached Chicago too late to be included in the evening editions. So Hoberg was counting Joan Royle out of his calculations; and mama, after shopping, dropped into a tea-room for the refreshment of hot chocolate and frosted cakes, confident that Daisy was Mrs. Frederic Ketlar and sure to be exceedingly prosperous, at least for a while. Dads, alone among Joan’s friends, nourished a contrary conception. No one else, upon that evening, so firmly fixed in his mind the belief that Joan Royle was Ketlar’s wife as did Calvin Clarke; no one dwelt with the idea comparably. He shut him- self in his rooms and tonight not even his work distracted him, nor could he, by driving him- self to routine tasks, disguise the turmoil of his mind. How had he not seen, at the very first, the soul of Joan—Ketlar, he had made himself add the name in his thought? Why had he denied and put down impulses to trust her which had seized him, momentarily, through- out his association with her?—when she had shown him her stars in the sand; when she had tried to awaken her father and mother; when she had asked him to buy the Barsoni book; at a dozen other times. He had imagined that he, if anyone, dealt in the simple spirit and that he made the soul, not the trappings, the essential. Tonight, miserably, he saw himself as a slave of trap- pings and accoutrements. What else were his ideas of tradition, of family descent and in- heritance, of formal, fixed education and of “home”? She had none of these; and because of this he had distrusted her—and condemned himself to miserable loneliness for life. Where was she now? He recalled his mind from that. The Greek, Andreapolis, who had been foreman of the jury, intruded upon his thought. The Greek, in distinction from the Americans whom Calvin Clarke had approved, had tried to rea- son from the evidence and had stood to the end for his conception of right. Calvin Clarke would accept another Andreapolis for a jury tomorrow, though he had twenty peremptory challenges in hand. Calvin Clarke, if he were aroused tonight by some one shaking him and told to go to Wilson Avenue, and if he found another Royle girl—no; that could not be That was over; he had lost his chance. Her | like never could he find again; not one like her. Tingling from scalp to toes, Calvin stood and strode back and forth, utterly miserable. When his mind resorted to the developments of the day, he reviewed defeat. For the State had lacked competent evidence with which to im- prison Zenn and his companions; the State could prove only the possession of weapons, disorderly conduct and minor offenses. So the gunmen had paid fines or furnished bail and all were free again. The inquiry into the circumstances of Baretta’s death was continued; but the police testimony was concluded so that Baretta, returned to his friends, was lying in state tonight in a coffin of ebony and mahogany with plates and handles of silver and gold. Garlands drooped over him; sweet peas and roses enshrouded him; sprays, stands, wreaths of hot-house flowers, violets, narcissi, gladioli, carnations, orchids and bay-leaves surrounded him and heaped the front rooms of his house. Ceaselessly, with guards of his own gunmen, his friends filed past in respect to him; a fast train from Palm Beach bore his wife and her maids to his funeral tomorrow. For tomorrow his friends planned a pageant for his interment; they prepared a cortége, of a like never seen in Chicago, to flaunt their puissance and their defiance of the State. Awakened by the bright dawn of the sunlit day which was to witness the incredible cortége paraded to the honor of George Baretta, Joan arose to resume the ordinary daily round and to proceed at the usual hour to Mr. Hoberg’s office. She dressed, break- fasted in the kitchenette, washed the dishes and restored her bed to its aspect of a davenport, without disturbing the silence of the sleepers beyond the bedroom door. Silent was the room below, as it had been throughout the months of Ket’s imprisonment; tonight or next week or never again it might be tenanted by Ket and his wife. Joan Daisy reckoned the alternatives with hardly a pang; no longer was that room endowed with a dream. Upon a cushion of the couch, as she bent over to push it into place, a tear fell; she stood up, smiling at herself, but she gulped a little too, like a child laying away a book of cherished fairy tales no longer to be believed. A beat of rhythm ran through her which became the measured, methodical firing of pistol bullets into steel and wood. Thus sud- denly, without her conscious will, she returned to the ditch with Calvin Clarke beside her. How is he? Where is he this morning with the sun gleaming upon this city wherein gunmen murder and go free? She knew, from last night’s newspapers, that Frankie Zenn and the others who had been arrested had been released yesterday; but until she purchased a morning paper at the street corner, she did not anticipate the pageant which the gunmen arrayed to do honor to their fallen chief. The phrase was that of the newspaper which proclaimed in enormous head-lines the prep- arations for the parade, of which Joan read with queer, frightened rills of wonder. For the fallen chief was George Baretta; and though there was yet no legal proof of his presence at the ditch, she believed that it was he whom she had shot—he whom thousands of people today would honor. Joan Daisy sat in the elevated train with her paper before her, her head awhirl. Gunmen, gangsters, hi-jackers, sluggers, safe-blowers—so the newspapers plainly named them—gathered not only with impunity but prepared today a great parade. She heard talk of it beside her and discerned that several of the passengers were taking a holiday to view the amazing spectacle. They seemed to have informed themselves where to go and, with never another thought of Mr. Hoberg’s office, Joan changed trains and followed the people bound for the funeral pageant. From the elevated station, where she alighted, Joan descended to a street lined with cars parked fender to fender. Uniformed traffic police, aided by mounted men and a motor-cycle detail, kept open a narrow lane in the center of the street wherein cars crawled, [lea scrapi sides pushir in all the pc of the stood. Joai A hi her wr recogn crowd. “Kr halted SY 0 didn’t “Th You o} “Wi “Soi “Ne remem her. “Co and w: stoppe order her, a ceased smash “The | this m “Wi “Su or St. pictur you ge “Yo people “Sol “Ts | “He “WI Wit! his pro rid of did no Clarke Barett Royle Caly withou page o would not be mary, laconic five ho never other | arrest, freedo! The the ga men’s deliber until y down- his roc manne marrie breath gratitu Ketlar into o before. thereu; Caly minde Clarke "Co strip w his po mind him th Ellis him fo “Vo challer look sc Caly

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125 Then the im- tate ons, the and slice ‘tta, tate vith and iths ioli, ded len, fast her row ont; n in heir nlit ible rge our ak- ind ort, ers [earst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 scraping on one another. The walks on both sides were black with crowds skewing and pushing forward in the direction in which heads in all the windows turned. Spectators packed the porches and porch steps and the balconies of the buildings; even upon the roofs, spectators stood. Joan saw thousands and thousands. A hand, with the grasp of authority, clasped her wrist and a man whose features she vaguely recognized signaled her to follow him out of the crowd. “Know me?” he asked her, when they halted. “You watched me for Mr. Clarke once— didn’t you?” “That’s right. What are you doin’ here? You oughtn’t to show yourself here.” “Why not?” “Somebody’ll see you.” “Nobody ever knows me,”’ she denied but remembered how Baretta and Zenn had known her. “Come along,” he bade, refusing to argue, and was leading her farther away when he was stopped by a swelling outcry and sudden dis- order in the crowd; he spun about, re'easing her, and ran a few steps when the uproar ceased as quickly as it had begun. “They smashed ‘nother camera,” he conjectured. “The photographers sure are makin’ ’em mad this mornin’.”’ “Why?” “Suppose you was wanted say in Cincinnati or St. Paul, would you hand the papers your pictures? You see how they get excited. Now you get away.” “You're police,” said Joan. ‘Are the State’s people here, too?” “Some.” “Ts Mr. Clarke?” “He’s one.” “Where is he?” With this, her escort discerned a solution of his problem of remaining at his post and being rid of her; he signaled a passer-by, whom she did not suspect to be of the police. ‘Tell Mr. Clarke of the State’s office—he was up by Baretta’s house a minute ago—lI’ve got the Royle girl here.” Calvin had breakfasted alone at his rooms without turning to the column, upon the second page of the newspaper beside his plate, which would have informed him that Joan Royle had not become Ketlar’s wife. In the news sum- mary, over which he had glanced, stood the laconic report that Ketlar had married within five hours after his release from jail; and Calvin never imagined that Ketlar had married any other than her who, from the moment of his arrest, had fought for him and finally won his freedom. The front page was replete with portrayals of the gang ‘wake’ for Baretta and of the gun- men’s preparations for this day; and Calvin deliberately confined himself to this subject until word was brought him that Ellison was down-stairs. At the last minute before leaving his rooms, Calvin determined to learn of the manner in which Joan Royle and Ketlar had married; and, after he read, he stood with pent breath and eyes closed, bowing his head in gratitude at being able to think of her—not Ketlar’s wife. Incredulousness alarmed him into opening his eyes; and there it was, as fore. She had parted from Ketlar, who thereupon married Lola Nesson. Calvin’s bell rang and Ellison’s voice re- minded him, “No need for you to come, Clarke; but if you are——” “Coming,” replied Calvin and tore out the strip which told of the marriage and put it into his pocket, feeling a satisfaction, which his mind discerned to be childish, at carrying with him the printed fact. _Ellison had a car and Calvin got in beside him for the drive to the street of the cortége. “You sure you ought to come?” Ellison challenged him, before starting. ‘You don’t | look so awfully steady.” Calvin was not; he quivered with an Other Timely Uses: Sore Muscles Sunburn Insect Bites Children’s Hurts A Vacation Necessity” 199 Have you been dancing— in Cinderella’ glass slippers? — or do your feet just feel that way? YOU almost hate the women who dance gaily on to “home-sweet-home’”’. 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Dent & Co., Detroit PARKERS HAIR BALSAM REMOVES DANDRUFF STOPS HAIR FALLING @Sfas been used with & AND FADED HAIR > 60¢& $192 at all drugdists HISCOX CHEMICAL RKS Wh i pnt s ¥ itary ag chases woe Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 uncontrollable dread that Ellison had learned something to refute the account in the paper and would mentionit; but when Calvin insisted he was steady, Ellison merely said: ‘We may be mighty busy or may be nothing for anybody to do today. Some are saying they’re going to shoot it out at the graveyard; some say they’re all calling quits today.” They, as Calvin well knew, were the gang fac- tions of the late Considine and the late Baretta. “Of course Zenn knows who got Baretta,” chatted Ellison. “But he chalks it against the Considine bunch, figuring Baretta wouldn’t have been got if they hadn’t squealed. By the way, our friend Ketlar didn’t lose much time, did he?” “No,” said Calvin, reasonlessly quivering. “T see he married Lola Nesson at Waukegan.” ‘“‘H’m,” nodded Ellison, without denying it. “And she wasn’t even along—was she?—when he drove off after court.” At half a mile from Baretta’s house, the traffic was congested; and the newspaper spectacle of the street. Ellison parked his car far from the focal square and Calvin and he proceeded on foot, escorted by police, to a point from which they could not only observe the multitude in the street and in the surround- ing windows and upon the roofs, but whence they had a view of the endless lines of favored individuals filing in and out of the house. Calvin thought to himself and soon said aloud to Ellison: “It might be the funeral of the first citizen of the city.” “Tt is,” retorted Ellison. ‘Ask the man on the street—or on a roof, if you prefer. It’s his idea exactly.” “Tt can’t be!” “Then what’s the attraction? Why’re they here? We’re on business; but they’re not.” “Curiosity,” argued Calvin, against himself as well as against Ellison, who agreed. “There’s some of that; but curiosity doesn’t fill two houses with flowers for the sake of seeing them; and only some of them came here. Twenty trucks, the boys say, went to the ceme- tery. Ever see a street crowd in tears from curiosity?” Not all of the street crowd, not even most of | the street crowd were in tears; but many people were, Calvin saw. By thousands, they bared their heads; and the police, who circulated through the crowd searching the most sus- picious characters for pistols and slung-shots, desisted momentarily as the coffin was borne to the hearse. Behind the actual bearers marched, in double file, a selected party of men. “The honorary pall-bearers,” Ellison. “Honorary!” “Certainly he has them, like all great men. They’re listed in the papers; look ard see—the real names without aliases.” “That’s a joke, Ellison.” “Then this crowd’s a joke; the music and flowers aren’t there. You haven’t got it yet, Calvin. They’re burying a big, successful man. Ask the man on the street or on a roof, I say. Get him to tell you why he’s here. He'll tell you it’s because George Baretta made himself somebody, got power and influence for himself and a mint of money. Now that’s the fact; didn’t he?” “But——” “What is the fact?” insisted Ellison. “Didn’t he? So you see exactly what you see.” In the street, the cortége took form, inte- grating itself from the crowd and drawing away, trailing a procession of motor-cars end- less to the limits of sight and sucking in sup- porting streams from other streets. Ellison grasped Calvin’s left arm with a firm and totally serious pressure as they turned away. “It’s not only you and I that have a job before us in this country, Clarke; so have our children’s children.” ~ Calvin walked silently, with his mind for the moment following old, habitual channels ex- | tending to the dwindled ranks of Clarkes and Websters and Barlows beside the Merrimac to whispered prophecy proved no adequate forecast of the. muster trustworthy recruits to the task; and he considered his mother and cousin Harriet Melicent and the Barlow who was in the Connecticut asylum, and himself. It was Ellison who looked about and go caught sight of Joan Royle. She was standing near Ellison’s car, where the plain-clothes man had brought her after failing to locate Mr. Clarke in the dispersing crowd. She might have returned by herself to the elevated station, since her escort did not actually detain her, but she wanted to wait for Mr. Clarke and see how he was affected by the amazing demonstration of this morning. She saw Mr. Ellison and at the next second Calvin Clarke’s face. Mr. Ellison spoke to her and glanced quickly around. Mr. Clarke merely hastened to her, looking at her. “You’ve seen it?” she said to him, sense- lessly. She knew of course that he had seen it. ‘ “How long have you been here?’’ he asked er. “T don’t know. I guess half an hour.” “Who came with you?” “Nobody.” “We'll take you back; get into this car.” “I’m going back by the elevated,” she op- posed him by an instinct which suddenly governed her; and she realized that, suddenly, she was white as he was very white, as he asked: “Why?” “I want to,” she replied, whereupon he turned from her to Ellison and said: “T’m going back with her.” “Tl take you both,” offered Ellison. “T’m going back by the elevated,” repeated Joan Daisy, feeling herself queerly unsteady and therefore speaking more positively. “T’m going with her,” iterated Calvin, also too emphatically, and Ellison gazed from him to her and to him. “Oh, all right!” said Ellison, and together they moved away, Joan Daisy Royle and Calvin Clarke, leaving Ellison beside his car. She had become suddenly seized with strange, possessive pangs when on the stairs to the station some one jostled Calvin Clarke; she wanted with her hands to fend others from him; she wanted with her bare fingers to feel that his shoulder was in place. How had she ever let him accompany her in the cab Sunday morning before he had been bandaged? She could not bear it now. “Will you tell me where you are going in town?” he asked as they waited upon the plat- form, facing each other. “To the office,”’ she told him; and these were their sole words, yet their relations had become amazingly closer since they had left Ellison on the street. No one upon the platform recog- nized them, and when they boarded the train and some one gave her a seat, Calvin thanked him and clung to the strap before her, looking down at her and at no one else. She wished he would take the seat but she dared not suggest it more directly than by accusing herself, saying, “I ought to have gone along with Mr. Ellison.” “What?” asked Calvin and she flushed hotly and put her hand to the edge of his coat, explaining, “I mean, we ought to have gone in his car.” “No, we oughtn’t to have,” Calvin denied, accepting with slight emphasis the intimacy of her “we.”’ “I prefer this. Don’t you?” “J like it,” admitted Joan Daisy happily, and looking up at him she remembered his mother in the garden and the home of his which went back through Antietam and the Revolu- tion for two hundred and fifty years. “Your mother knows?” she asked him suddenly. “What?” he said, starting; and when she did not answer, he repeated, ‘““My mother knows what?” “How you were hurt,” she said; and that was what she intended to say; but it was not all that wasin her head. Did his mother know that he was here with Joan Daisy Royle? Of course his mother could not know it, Joan realized; what she meant by this to herself was, did he know what he was doing, he of the mother in H. Fer! mot furt sure

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025 ind he arriet, n the nd so where after ersin, self te d not rit for »y the econd to her oking sense- en it. asked e op- denly lenly, sked: n he eated eady also - him ether and ar. with irs to ; she him; it his r let ning | not g in plat- were ome n on COg- train iked _ she 1 by yone otly oat, e in vied, y of oily, his hich olu- ‘our she ows was ‘hat urse 1 he rin Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for Jwuy, 1925 the garden, he of the old home at Clarke’s Ferry? So she had made that mention of his mother to remind him of himself before he went further with Joan Daisy Royle. She must have thus reminded him, she felt | sure; but she saw no sign of alteration toward | her as he answered: “I telegraphed her that | the newspapers exaggerated my injury. I | have not written her yet.” Joan looked down from him. Yes; he knew what he was doing; and she knew. He wanted her; and with him, to want a girl was to want to marry her; also with him marriage must be a very different idea from what it was to Ket or to Hoberg or to any other man she knew. She did not look up to him again but sat very still until they arrived at the station for Mr. Hoberg’s office. She had no wish whatever to go to the ofiice; she could not imagine herself returning, even if Mr. Clarke left her; but she arose and he went from the car with her and ‘down to the walk and to the very door of the building before they discussed the matter. “Don’t go in,” he begged her. “What will we do?” she asked, with that intimate “we” on her tongue again. “We,” he took it and repeated it, “we'll walk along.” “Where?” “T don’t know. I don’t care much. Do you?” he asked her so humbly that she looked up at him quickly and saw beyond any doubt that he knew what he was doing and wanted to do it. “T don’t care,’ aflutter. “Would you like luncheon somewhere?”’ he asked her. “At an automat?” she flung at him and struck him so fiery red that she flushed from contrition. “I didn’t mean that,’ she said. “You should have. I deserved it.” “Do you really want luncheon?” she asked. “No; do you?” “No.”’ So Calvin Clarke, of Clarke’s Ferry, Massachusetts, and Joan Daisy Royle, walked along the city street. He sought, as she very well knew, a place to be alone with her, but he was totally untrained in the technique of obtaining privacy for a girl with himself in the city. Her home would not do, for Dads and mama would be there; and he could not sug- gest a house of his friends, as he had the other night. So they passed block after block until they came to the lake-front park at the Art Institute. It was a pay-day and not yet noon, so he realized that within must be many rooms where no one wandered. ‘‘Come in here, Joan Daisy,” he asked and with trembling fingers he paid their admission. Old articles and paintings, reminders of the past, surrounded him as he walked with Joan Royle to a remote and empty room. He could not possibly forget the past of his people, she thought, yet here he was alone with her and his meaning was to ask her to marry him. He did not know how to go about it well; that was, he did not at all as Ket or Hoberg or any- one else. He stood with his hat in his hand, and it was his one good hand, speaking to her; and she did not hear what he said for her watching his eyes. Sometimes she looked at his hair, which was soft and brown, as she always had noticed, and now it was become amazingly tempting to her touch. She had never wanted to touch a man’s forehead and hair; never Ket’s and never Hoberg’s; the idea, in contrast, re- pelled her; but she wanted to touch Calvin Clarke’s hair; and still unsatisfied, and more so than before, was her need to feel his shoulder. He was repeating something over which he was very serious; it was how he had taken her East with him, to his home, when he had gone away in November. He wanted her to believe this because he said part of him—“people call it the heart—my heart, Joan, must always have known what you were . . . I came back > she said, with her breast to the court that night to see you. . . I ERI RER RAL RES, he remembered was — unloveliness! When a handsome man meets a beautiful girl, the magnet of mutual attraction just naturally begins to draw. But what is the matter, when after one brief meeting, the magnet of her beauty no longer draws him? A beautiful face so soon forgotten—all he remembers is unloveliness! 5 5 7 It is a known scientific fact that odor, through the olfactory sense, has a power to waken memory ashasno other of the senses. Lavender, violets, honeysuckle, pine—how their fragrance makes you remember! This is something that enters into the calculations of the socially successful wom- an. She will be remembered by sweet, subtle scents. She will run no risk of ever having an unlovely odor associated with her person. And she knows that on this score she must be alert against one disastrous thing —underarm odor! The danger of this is— it is so easy to offend unknowingly! As for perspiration moisture—no woman needs to be told that those horrid rings of stain under the arms wreck her 201 appearance. She knows too well what ex- cessive moisture costs in ruined clothing and self-respect. The troubleis— people donot realize that soap and water are perfectly powerless here. Perspiration annoyance can be cor- rected only through regular special care. This care 3 millions are now giving with Odorono, the underarm toilette! Because it was formulated by a physician they know they can depend on its safe, sure, scientific action. Odorono is just like a dainty toilet water to use. And the best of it is, you need use it only twice a week. One application is effective for at least three days. Nurses and physicians use Odorono in hospitals as an antiseptic corrective for both perspiration odor and moisture. Don't run the risk of underarm odor; of staining your frocks and lingerie beyond the power of the most expert dry cleaning! You can so easily protect your person and your clothes with Odorono! Enjoy its safe assurance. 35c, 6oc and $1 at all toilet counters or sent by mail prepaid. 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When bf, lazin sunshine steals the ‘Precious Moisture” rom your skin In the morning, soft, white skin. And at night, arms, neck and face of angry sunburn. A pitiless sun dries the natural“ Precious Moisture” from your skin just as it dries clothes. Then the parched skin becomes red and painful. To relieve sunburn, use Frostilla Fragrant Lotion which furnishes your skin with a‘ Precious Moisture” just like Nature’s. Your thirsty skin absorbs it eagerly. All soreness disappears. Better yet, use Frostilla Lotion before the skin is burned to prevent irritation. Two size bottles—35 cents and $1.00 (the latter is more economical—contains more than three times the smaller bottle). Sold everywhere. THE FROSTILLA COMPANY ELMIRA, N. Y. (Established 1873 by the late Clay W. Holmes) Selling Agents: Harold F. Ritchie & Co., NewYork and Toronto Frostilla CJragrant [ption © T. F. Co. Sun dries the moisture from your skin as it dries clothes on the line. | count, ought it? | marriage, isn’t there some way to get it went to the automat to see you... I’ve kept, I’ve kept. . He dropped his hat and fumbled in an inner pocket for a folded bit of paper. “See,” he pleaded. “What is it?’ And as he fumbled with one hand to open it, she helped him. At his touch burning blood flowed in her fingers and she saw that the paper was only a scrap upon which she had written a list of books for Ket, beginning, “‘Barsoni $3.50.” “Where’d you get that?” she asked. “T kept it.” “Why?” “Tt meant you to me—your dream, even when I didn’t let myself believe it—your will, you.” “Tt was silly,” she said. ‘Just my dream of Ket. What was there to it?” “Can you ever get such a dream of me?” “Oh, my God!” she cried, seizing him with both her hands. “Think of comparing you and Ket! . . . Kiss me! Kiss me!’ “T mean to marry you, if you will. to marry you!” “Never mind . ... I mean, of course I want you to... But never mind, kiss me . . . How soft your hair is! . . . Does it hurt your shoulder?” Calvin brought Joan home to her flat so late in the evening that mama already was in bed THE I mean Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 and unwakably asleep, but not late enough for Calvin to see Dads; for Dads had resumed his usual habits. Finding lights out when he returned, Dads entered quietly; but Joan heard him and sat up excitedly. “I’m awake, Dads.” ‘ ‘Just awake?” asked Dads, after gazing at er. He was sober tonight. “Dads, come here. I’m going to marry Calvin Clarke.” “H’m!” said Dads. “H’m. H’m, little Joan. Well, I thought so. We'll be going to Cleveland,.your mama and I. We'll be out of the state.” “No, Dads. No.” “Not when you’re married. I mean after- wards, Joan. I'll be going along the same, Joan—and I’m not one to live with a State’s attorney. Told your mama?” She had not; but Calvin was then engaged in telling his. He was writing with great paticnce with his left hand and he spent half the remain- ing hours of the night at his letter; for it was no easy and simple message he had to send his mother. He knew, indeed, that however care- fully he explained, he could never make her understand what had happened to him here when she read his letter upon the hooded bench under the beams which were old when Massachusetts was a colony. END The House of Orme (Continued from page 71) else. Nobody. Dreaming. Mistaken.” And after some time his negatives seemed to penetrate. “T tell you it was mighty real,” said the giant, “mighty real. I made a grab for him, but he got away.” David gave his father’s shoulder a reassuring pat and walked over to Brant. “You fool!” he said. ‘Don’t you know that if he’d got hold of you and not recognized you in the excitement, he might have pulled your head off your body?” “T didn’t go near him,” said Brant. David looked straight into his brother’s eyes and saw lies in them. He turned on his heel without another word and strode back to the kitchen. ‘‘A fine mess Nora’s got herself into!” he thought. ‘A fine mess!” Still he tried to make excuses for his brother. But his words fell on deaf ears. “Have you ever felt,” she said, “that the world was too hard for you and you just couldn’t go on?” “Often.” “Well, what do you do when you feel like that?” “Do? I goon. Have to.” “Oh, David,” she said, “I want to get out of it. Isn’t there any way?” “Why, honey,” said David, “I don’t know offhand. Do you mean you’d like to get a divorce?” “T couldn’t do that. And besides there isn’t any divorce in South Carolina. But when a marriage isn’t a marriage . . . What I mean is, we both made a mistake—he thought I had money, and I thought that he had love. We were both wrong. So it ought not to When a marriage isn’t a ” She hesitated for the word, and David supplied it. ‘Annulled?” “Yes. Annulled.” “T don’t know. Honestly I don’t. Maybe a judge would have that power, if you and Brant could show him that you’d made a mis- take, that you hadn’t meant to get married. But I reckon it would take a lot of time and money, and in the meanwhile there’s nothing you can do but—but keep away from him.” “Couldn’t I hide somewhere, David? And you could tell him I’d run off, and then maybe after a while he’d take pity on me.” “You’re afraid of him, aren’t you, Nora?” “T know he doesn’t love me, David. But I know he thinks I’m pretty—I don’t want to be at his mercy.” “T know—I know,” said David. you don’t.” “But lam—I am. And there’s no way out.” It was horrible—a poor frightened child like that to be at the mercy of a man who did not know the meaning of the word love. Mingled with the pity and concern which David felt for her was a certain element of anger. Why had she got herself into such a fix? Meanwhile the supper was hot and they carried it into the dining-room. They had formed no plan, come to no conclusion. David felt a little as if he were witnessing a deliberate murder which he was without power to prevent. Brant was in an extravagant and reckless mood. This was induced by the desperate state of his finances, and by the alcohol which he had been putting into his circulation. He took the head of the table and placed at his right hand the half emptied decanter of whisky which he had carried in from the hall. His eyes, always more brilliant than the average eye, had a look of satanic irony. The supper which David had prepared with Jimmy Crisp’s help was not very appetizing. The larder had not contained the makings of anything more savory. “We Ormes,” said Brant, “always set a fine table. We are especially noted for our wedding feasts. For making a bride feel cheerfully at home among us there is nothing like a can of salmon and a cup of coffee with condensed milk in it.” “There was no time to rustle round and get anything better,” said David. ‘‘We’re a long way from market.” “T have childish memories,’ ’ said Brant, “of wild turkey, terrapin and canvasback duck served over this very mahogany. You won’t believe me, my dear Nora, when I tell you that this table, now sadly in need of polishing, was once a festive board. It used to groan!” He winked an eye and attempted an imita- tion of a festive board groaning. If his imita- tion had been good- natured, it might have been funny. But it was not good-natured. It was bitter and sardonic. “Father must enjoy his rations,” he said. “Half the time,” said David, “he doesn’t seem to know what he is eating.” “Of course

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INECTO, Inc. 33-35 West 46th Street Harold F, Ritchie & Co., Ince Sales Representatives New York Hearst s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 a. “Father has almost gone the way of all flesh,” said Brant. ‘He is now sans eyes, sans ears and sans taste. Oh, the world we live in that spends perfectly good money to keep alive the old and the insane and the useless! If I had my way, only those who were able to enjoy life—and I’m one of them, children, and don’t forget it—would be allowed to live . . Say, David, how much money do you suppose father has got in that sack of his?” “T hope there’s enough to keep things going while he lives.” “The chances are,” said Brant, “that when father dies I won’t be around, and I never will | know about the contents of the sack.” This deliberate insult was a little slow in | reaching David’s understanding. The back of | his neck then flushed and his face got very white. But Nora flung him an appealing look across the table and he said nothing. “What are you going to give us for break- “What’s left over from | fast?” asked Brant. the salmon? I see that Nora can’t eat it.” “There’ll probably be some eggs found in the morning,” said David quietly. ; ‘We have to make an early start,” said Brant. “Have breakfast about five, will you?” “T’ll get breakfast,” said Nora hastily, “‘if David will show me where to find things.” “T’d hoped that you were going to make us a nice long visit,’ David said. ‘Where are you going?” “We are going a long way—a long way out of this cursed second-rate port of the world. West, maybe—to grow up with the country. All it needs,” said Brant, “is a little capital and a little patience and the ability to stick. All of which I flatter myself we’ve got. Haven’t we, Nora?” “If you say so, Brant, why of course we have.” For the first time during supper Brant seemed to take a little interest in his wife’s existence. He looked at her now intently, his brows lowered and a smile on his lips. “She’s a little beauty, David,” he said. “That’s why she had to become an Orme. One look was enough for me. I said, ‘She’ll be mine or she won’t be anybody’s.’” He rose a little unsteadily from his seat, and walking to where Nora sat, put his arm around her, and leaning his head close to hers said, ‘“Give’s a kiss.” Nora turned a submissive cheek. “I didn’t say give’s a cheek to kiss,”’ said Brant. “T said give’s a kiss.” Painfully embarrassed, David looked away. He heard the faint sound of the kiss, and Brant’s voice, almost a purr, “‘That’s the girl.” Nora resembled a poor little fly that has been caught in a spider’s net and has stopped struggling. Brant continued to make love to her openly and almost shamelessly. David was sick at heart. He wished that the nightmare would end. Supper was over. Brant, his arm around her waist, escorted Nora into the hall. Hannibal Orme still slept. ‘We can’t tell him about us till tomorrow,” said Brant. “Explanations and introductions would mean a lot of shouting. I’m not up to it.” With a cold glance at his father, a less cold glance towards the money bag, and a jaunty “Night-night, Davie,” he drew Nora towards the stair. David heard the sound of their door being opened and closed, and of the key being turned in the lock. He had never in his life felt more utterly miserable and depressed. Then there came to David out of the upper part of the house the sound of a little choking | voice: ““No—no, Brant—no!”’ | A broken cry of pity was torn from David’s | throat, and he made a ‘ong threatening step | in the direction of the stair. At the same | moment there came an imperative knocking | upon the front door of the House of Orme. Upon entering the room which had been his | mother’s, Brant locked the door and then | heaped light wood upon the fire. 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204 Lost Twenty Pounds a Month Marjorie Crawford was ‘‘good looking’ even when she weighed 235 pounds. She had the same features she has today, but not the same figure. Today she is beautiful, as fair of form as of face. A miracle, no, but a complete transformation of an overweight bulky body into a form slender and graceful as any woman could wish for. This great reduction of 85 pounds was accom- plished easily, in less than four months, by a pleas- ant method, without the use of drugs, turkish baths or starvation methods, and Miss Crawford will tell you that she never felt better in her life. She has a figure any woman might envy, wears stunning gowns and once more gets real enjoy- ment out of living. She gives Wallace and his music method full credit. “Your system is all I u: Mr. Wallace,” she says in a grateful letter just received. She tells of the real fun she had going through the simple movements and the feeling of elation and physical well being that came after every lesson. The method is just as good for those who wish to lose but a few pounds as for those greatly over- weight —it reduces to normal—no more. By this system the waist grows slender, hips straighten out, broad shoulders and oversize bust take on new shapeliness. Arms and limbs, too, lose all signs of ungainly fat and ankles become slender and graceful. No woman need carry a single pound of excess weight if she will write Wallace. Write Miss Crawford if you wish confirmation of her story—her address is 6704 Merrill Avenue, Chicago; but better still, take advantage of Wallace’s Free Offer For those who doubt and wish to test at home, Wallace has set aside a thousand first lessons, records and all, which he will gladly mail for a free trial, if you will send name and address. There’s nothing to pay—no post- age—no denosit. He wants you to prove for yourself that you can reduce, just as Miss Crawford and thousands of others have done. —— a oe pee eee pe pee ee pee eee ee pee ee ee ee eee Wallace, 630 S. Wabash Ave., Chicago, Ill. 573 Please send me free and postpaid, for a week’s free trial, the Original Wallace Reducing Record with all in- structions. This trial is not to cost me one cent. eS Le rT rey Pee TT eT re eee ET RIE o.oo 5:55 tcc o ab aioe mikes hae ais oa pt service for the protection ae oe em of your sae, Booklet of information, advice and form for disclosing idea, _ c arias RICHARD B . OWEN, 4 Owen Bidg., Washington, D 1 C Park Row, N ' City ; s s Ganlete Conservatory PU ESUIN ~ Course by Mail Fal Home yin Goreed by Paderewekt, i, Masterteachers guide and coach you. ye ‘a marvel of si; tmngiicity end completens ness. a hy Instrument in:Piano, een ca blicSchool Music, Violin Cornet. Mar CATAL naLOG’ SEND for it NOW! University Extension Conservatory, 176 Siegel-Myers Bldg., Chicago Every bottle of Carbona Cleaning Fluid has this absolute guarantee printed on_the_label: Guaranteed not to contain Benzine, Naphtha, Gasoline, and to be Non- Combustible and Non-Inflammable For Safety's Sake-demand CARBONA UNBURNABLE Cleaning Fluid REMOVES GREASE SPOTS Without Injury to Fabric or Color 20« 30¢ Gc & 1. Size Bottles at all Drug Stores Hearst's International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 ashes and ran out upon the hearth-stone. “That will be nice for you to undress by,” said Brant, and he stood with his back to the fire and smiled steadily at her. Nora began slowly and automatically to unpack her valise. ‘A tall screen of stamped leather panels shut off the wash-stand from the rest of the room. After a time, her tooth- brush and paste in one hand and her night- dress in the other, Nora disappeared behind the screen. Brant’s face looked like that of a man who is laughing, but he made no sound. He seated himself in an easy chair and in a leisurely way started to unlace his shoes. One lace had got itself into a hard knot and caused him to swear under his breath. “How you getting on, Nora?” he asked. She did not answer, and he put the question again in a slightly different form. Again she did not answer. He jumped to his feet angrily and one shoe-lace still knotted and in place and the other whipping about his foot, he strode to the screen and moved it bodily to one side. Nora had sunk to her knees and appeared to be praying, her face buried in her hands. Brant heaved her unceremoniously to her feet, faced her about and shook her as if she had been a naughty child. Then he said, “As you don’t seem to know that you are my wife, young woman, you'll have to be taught.” Then he jerked her against his breast and kissed her savagely. She fought free for a moment, and it was then that David heard her despairing cry of protest, “No—no, Brant— no,” and at the same time heard the knocking. He had the door open in a second and found himself face to face with the Sheriff of Balestier and half a dozen deputies. “Your brother home, David?” asked the Sheriff. “Yes,” said David, “why?” “He’s wanted for the theft of an auto- mobile,” said the Sheriff. “I’ve a warrant for his arrest.” “‘He’s up-stairs,” said David, and that piti- ful cry of Nora’s still ringing in his ears, he added, “‘For heaven’s sake, hurry!” The Sheriff spoke a word to his deputies, who promptly vanished this way and that in the darkness, and he himself entered the house of Orme alone, and followed by David went swiftly up the stair. In tense moments men do not always do their own or their best thinking. Subconscious- ness has a way of stepping in. David’s sub- conscious mind was not concerning itself with the theft that had been committed but with the automobile which had been stolen. It was not the automobile which the Sheriff had for- merly described. David did some quick think- ing of his own, which had the effect of quieting his subconscious ego and which happened to be the truth. “Maybe,” he thought, “he traded the one he stole.” It did not for a moment trouble David that he was conniving at and even aiding the arrest of his brother. He thought that Nora ought to be saved from that brother at any price. “In here, Sheriff,” he said. The Sheriff knocked on the door, and had no answer. He knocked again, heavily, and at once tried the lock. Then he said, “Stand away from the do’—I’m going ter shoot the lock.” He cocked his six-shooter and prepared to do so. Then Nora called: “Don’t shoot. I’ll open the door.” A moment later she had done so. She was alone in the room. One of the windows open- ing upon the second story veranda was wide open. The curtains stirred in the night air. ‘“‘Where’s Brant?” asked the Sheriff. Nora simply pointed to the open window and turned a frightened and appealing face to David. The Sheriff moved close to the window and stood listening. David put his arm around Nora and said, “Try not to worry. They say Brant took an automobile that wasn’t his.” Interrupted in his attempt to teach Nora that she was his wife, Brant it seemed had escaped into the night. 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for a few moments. Finding the house sur- rounded she’ turned’ back: to his room and found hifnself looking into the muzzle of the * Sheriff’s old-fashioned six-shooter. The Sheriff lifted an old bone whistle to his lips and blew once, long and shrill. “What’s all this?”’ Brant blustered. “ve a wa’nt fo’ yo’ arrest.” “For what?” “For takin’ an automobile that belonged to somebody else and trading it in Gunpowder for another automobile that didn’t belong to the man you traded with.” “Why, Sheriff,” said Brant, “the whole ~thing’s a joke. Just let me talk to the man who says I took his car.” “You are going to have that chance.” “But I don’t have to go with you now, do I? A man doesn’t get married every day, Sheriff.” “You'll have to come now, Brant.” Brant turned to David and said: “Sheriff’s a good friend of yours, Davie. Do something.” “They ain’t nothing Davie can do,” said the Sheriff. ‘It’s outer his hands.” “You know perfectly well,’ Brant pro- tested, “that it’s just a case of waiting till morning. There’ll be no trouble about bail. Why can’t I stay here tonight? You can stay and keep guard if you like. I won’t run. And there’s plenty of good liquor in the house.” “Tt ain’t no use arguing,” said the Sheriff. “And suppose I refuse to go?” “You'll be manhandled, Brant, and taken by force.” Brant turned white as paper and his eyes glared dangerously. ‘You put that gun down, Sheriff,” he said, ‘and then let’s talk about turally - “4 manhandling! The Sheriff did not put down his gun, and onabaas Brant perceived that he had to do with a + 4 thoroughly determined man and that his case =, Dente was hopeless. He shot then at David a glance sapee of the utmost malignancy and hatred. ICAGO “T shan’t forget,” he said, “that you never lifted a finger to help me.”’ He turned to Nora. “The same for you,” he said, and then, “Very well, Sheriff. Lead on.” But the Sheriff said, “‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll follow.” Brant shrugged his shoulders and led the way. : Hannibal Orme had begun to stir in his sleep. Brant made a quick step towards his father. But David was quicker, and got between them. “There’s one thing I can do for you, Brant,” he said. “I can keep this from father.” “Tl tell him if I choose. He wouldn’t go back on me.” “You'll not tell him,’ said David, ‘and no- body has gone back on you. We'll do what we can. But there’s nothing to be done now. I’m onds sorry.” ED “The you are sorry!’’ exclaimed Brant, e dis. and turning to the Sheriff with sudden fury, nk pre he said, “‘Get me out of this house quick.” % Soon after Brant had been taken away, the ICES old man waked. He insisted that he had heard uy! z voices. He thought that he had heard Brant’s ties and voice. Had Brant come home? e lower David leaned close to his father’s ear and did nee You _ agreat deal of shouting. Brant it seemed had not come home. But there was news of Brant. ; Brant had been married, and he had sent his wife home to them to be taken care of while he Of himself had gone on a business trip. onds, At the end of five exhausting minutes, the Silver old man began to understand. Presently her oe hand was put in his and he let go his money bag long enough to “see” her face with his vEEK other hand. He touched her here and there 3 with the greatest delicacy. She reminded him A of some one he had known in his youth who had been very beautiful. She was welcome for nae her own sake, and for Brant’s. va ja “We need a daughter in the house,” he said, "50. and it took Brant to find us one. Brant ORIG- always knows what to do to please his father. ELERS} David, he’s. different. He won’t look at a co, TL pretty girl.” ties But at that moment David was looking at one. He was indeed, according to a time- honored phrase, devouring her with his eyes. Hannibal Orme was delighted with his Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 We FIN G EGOS WI WHGK SGML WEY “@ LY) XQ dy Wi Uf NG ZA seeeteeeereenenees CHANGE OF NAME ...--e-eeeeeeees SZ : In future, ENO’S Fruit Salt-Derivative Compound will be : 4 : known as TRADE E NO MARK : ~ ° The World Famed Effervescent Salt ‘ : The proprietors positively guarantee that no change whatever has been 3 made in the ingredients or manufacture of their preparation. ° ° J. C. ENO LIMITED, LONDON, ENGLAND Pee eee PCE ee eee eee Cee eee ee ee eee eee ee ee eee eee ee eee ee eee ee eee ee eT | SC XG YOXUCKCARNG Ae) (( Xe WARK (CX 7 Z OO FX ( x @S A 5 4 G)) THE WORLD FAMED &ffervescent Salt TAKE IT ON YOUR VACATION Changes of climate, of food and of water have marred many vacations. A “dash” of ENO in a glass of water, hot or cold, on arising may obviate such troubles. It will tend to promote the elimination of waste and poisonous matter, to minimize many discomforting conditions of the stomach and intestines, and to increase that feeling of happy health so necessary to the en- joyment of a vacation. Many experienced travellers, knowing this, take ENO as an aid to well-being, both on land and at sea. Its absolute purity, agreeable taste and effective qualities render it desirable for and acceptable to young and old alike. It is so gentle in action and so pleasant and refreshing in taste that one may enjoy a draught of it at any time. At All Druggists 75c and $1.25 Sales Agents: HAROLD F. RITCHIE & CO., Inc. 171 Madison Ave., New York Toronto Sydney Wellington . (( y, (C) (CX @. 7 & oO (@. KG IK CXC) SEO CICI S wr Sa =, Prepared only by J.C. ENO Limited London, England LHS . eal 3 wy ~ \ ENO Sirst thing in the morning Yy3 3 OAS lamX\9|9 COCO OD OOOO DOOVOOOOOSHS

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206 They'll make it— thanks to Glazo Only fifteen minutes to curtain time. The car’s waiting. John’s getting impatient. But she still has time to make her loveliness complete with the Glazo manicure. Glazo is the liquid nail polish that fashionable women everywhere are adopting for their personal mant- cures. It takes only a few seconds to apply—it spreads evenly and smoothly—it brings you nail loveli- ness and distinction attainable in no other way—the smart, shell-pink lustre that fashion and good taste demand. Glazo does not crack, ridge or peel, is not affected by soap or water, and needs renewing only once a week. Separate remover for best results Glazo is the original Liquid Polish. It comes complete with separate re- mover, which not only insures better results but prevents the waste that occurs when the Polish itself is used as a remover. Get Glazo today at your favorite toilet goods counter. It will mean lovely nails always, with the mini- mum of exertion and expense. 50c at all counters. Nails Stay Polished Longer No Buffing Necessary Try GLAZO Cuticle Massage Cream It shapes the cuticle and keeps it even and healthy (ee ene paren ene a ee For trial size complete GLAZO Manicur- ing Outfit, write name and address in margin, tear off and mail with 1oc to The Glazo Co.,44 Blair Ave.,Cincinnati,O. Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 new daughter-in-law, and because of her presence in the house appeared to undergo a definite though very slight rejuvenation. He appeared to take a genuine delight in Nora’s beauty. Often he said, “Come here, my dear, and let me look at you.”’ He would then, when she had come to him, touch her face here and there with his finger-tips, touch it with in- finite lightness and delicacy, and praise it. During such ordeals Nora would blush di- vinely, and cast deprecating and appealing glances at David, and at such moments David thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The old man had his moments of gallantry. One day he rummaged about in his bureau until he had found a pair of old-fashioned gold bracelets, very yellow gold with an intricate pattern of black enamel. These he gave her. They were too big for her, and too heavy for anyone; but when she conversed with hin, if a few shouted interchanges of commonplaces can be called conversing, or when, alone or with David, she helped him to take a walk in the garden, she always wore them. He was always feeling to see if she had them on or not. Brant was the usual subject of their con- versations, and upon this subject Hannibal Orme liked to exchange confidences. First, however, he must be sure that David was out of sight and out of hearing. He liked to tell of all the bold, reckless, high-spirited things that Brant had done in his childhood; he liked to hear of all the wise, brilliant and showy things that Brant was going to do now that he had married and settled down. He liked to hear how much Nora loved Brant, and why. And it was Nora’s painful duty to lie to him at the top of her lungs. It was also her duty to receive short love letters from Brant, and to read them aloud to her father-in-law. David helped her compose them. It was necessary for Nora to drive into Balestier a number of times. Unless she could raise money on her property in Gunpowder, there was no way of paying the expenses of Brant’s trial or giving to his lost cause the sup- port of her presence during that brief and one- sided ordeal. She did all that a wife should do for a loved husband who had been wronged. But Brant seemed to think that she was the cause of his misfortunes and that she took pleasure in them. Every day of the trial she rose at dawn, drove into Balestier, attended the long nerve- racking session in the court-house, sultry and smelling of tobacco juice, and returned there- after to Balestier in time for a late supper. Hannibal Orme was satisfied with the explana- tions that were made for these absences. Nora had a little property and she was making it available for Brant, who only needed a little capital. Nothing, the old man thought, could have been more wifely or sensible. Every night she drove the old horse to his stable instead of to the front door of the house. And there she would find David waiting to do the unhitching and to hear the news. Always she looked white and tired. And David felt his heart wrung with pity. From the time of Brant’s arrest to the end of his trial, Nora and David came to know each other’s qualities of heart and mind pretty well. And it was wonderful how quickly they were always agreed upon the varied emergencies of those trying days. But beyond those interests which were mutual and of the moment they had little opportunity to venture. Of Nora’s life up to the time of her marriage to Brant, David learned nothing and asked nothing. In turn he told her nothing of that career for which he had been so carefully trained, and of how he had been sidetracked. But from the old man she learned a little. What she learned, however, was not favor- able to David. Large sums of money had been wasted on his education. Where was the re- turn? Look at him now, living off his father; hanging around waiting to get what was left of the money when that father should die. Why didn’t he make something of himself? There were moments when, if Hannibal Orme had had normal hearing, Nora would have flown out at him and given him a piece of her mind. She sometimes wondered how a man who, by all accounts, had once been able-minded and respected for his force of judgment, could be so wrong-headed about anything or anybody. Nora had never known anyone so gentle as David, so thoughtful or so steadily good- humored. He kept the tragedies of his life deeply buried. None of them showed in his face. He was devoid of any outer bitterness, And when at last he actually did tell her the whole story of his ambitions and disappoint- ments, it was in an unbiased detached way. Tt was as if he were telling her about the difficulties of some other young man in whom he was interested. One night Nora came home a little earlier than usual; but David must have had some premonition, for he was already waiting at the stable door. It was a still night and very black. By the light of his lantern on her white, tired face, the dark eyes looking extraordinarily deep and large, he knew that she was the harborer of bad news. And while he was help- ing her out of the buggy she began to tell him what had happened. “Mr. Squires simply had to give up,” she said. “All he could do was to ask the court for mercy.” “T was afraid of that,” said David. ‘Has he been sentenced?” “Six months, David.” To David this seemed an unusually light sentence for the theft of an automobile, and Nora explained. “The judge,” she said, “found extenuating circumstances—Brant was drunk when he took the car, and didn’t know what he was doing. And the owner, who’s been so bitter against Brant all through, changed over all of a sudden and begged the judge to make the sentence as light as possible.” “T bet you had something to do with that,” said David. “T only talked to him in the corridor while the jury was out, and I think he felt sorry for “T didn’t know you could get as little as six months for grand larceny,” said David, “but I’m glad that it’s so . . . Just let me put the pony up and then we’ll have some supper. And remember, Nora, everything is always easier when you know the worst.” , Nora told him the worst. ‘The sentence,” she said, “is at hard labor.” David felt a sudden burning from head to foot and a swelling of his throat and temples. He thought that it was anger, but it was some- thing besides. It was pride of race. An Orme —blood of his blood—on a chain gang! The fit passed and he pulled himself together. “Nora,” he said, “you and I are also sen- tenced to six months at hard labor. It won’t be hard to keep this from father; but we’ve got to keep it from ourselves. That won’t be easy. I’m so mad at Brant I could kill him.” From the moment of Brant’s arrest to that of his sentence they had drifted. But now there were six definite months that had to be faced as a whole. And the first thing was to invent some story which should account for Brant’s being away so long. And they decided upon a somewhat glittering opening for him in Chicago. Nora was short of clothes and, the trial having made a heavy inroad on the money which she had been able to raise, did not wish to buy any. Though she had never made any, she was determined to try, but when she told David that she must go to Balestier to buy materials, he laughed at her. “‘No one sees you but me,” he said, “and I’m not interested in fashions. In fact I like the old fashions better than the new. There’s just one thing that I can do for my sister-in- law, and that is to dress her very beautifully in all the fashions that have ever been in America. Once you’ve had a good rummage in the attic, you’ll agree with me that the ladies of the Orme family never threw anything away.” ness shay attit foot shay of hers unk: mitt look a wi pati

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Pe 25 duld e of wa een > of out e as 0d- life his eS. the int- vay. the hom rlier ome the very iite, ily the elp- him she t for s he tic,

Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 Nora made her first visit to the vast attic, and realized that what David had said was true. Nothing seemed to have been thrown comment was _ practical. “David,” she said, “do you know anything about the value of antiques? Did you ever realize that this old house is a perfect museum —a regular treasure house? The silver and the porcelain alone is worth a small fortune. Why don’t you get in touch with a dealer?” “Everything belongs to father,” said David, “except mother’s things.” “T’}l talk to him!” exclaimed Nora, sure of her influence with the old man. David laughed at her and said she was greedy and that at the moment she looked just like Hetty Green. “Just like Hetty Green,” he said, “‘when she was young and beautiful.” Nora defended herself. She was interested only in others. She hated to see things going to waste. At the head of the attic stair was a battered tin basin nearly full of keys. Among them they found the means to unlock some of the trunks and chests. The first chest that they opened was full of old letters, and represented, if they had only known it, a small fortune in rare postage stamps. Over the contents of the second chest, which was of camphor-wood, was folded a Spanish shawl. It was as if they had opened the chest and found it filled to the brim with gorgeous and impossible flowers. Nora had a moment of complete forgetful- ness—a moment that was absolutely free from any anxiety or vexation. She threw the shawl about her shoulders, and struck an attitude, and tossed her head and stamped her foot. And then she perceived that the first shawl had hidden a second. The chests and trunks were a treasure house of materials and fashions. And Nora found herself in that little seventh heaven which is unknown to men. But David at least was per- mitted to stand just without the boundary and look in. That is, having pulled a screen across a window and made a dressing-room for Nora, he sat in a rush-bottomed chair and waited patiently and eagerly for her occasional cos- tumed appearances. For the most part the old silks and brocades reminded him of the soft bright plumage of tropic birds; Nora of a little child playing grown-up. It was hard to realize that she was instead a destitute mar- ried woman very badly in need of clothes. The crinolines were equally becoming to her, and in a few days she had learned to manage them beautifully, and to float about the house and garden in them. David thought them a beautiful fashion and wondered why they had ever been abandoned. Almost every morning Hannibal Orme walked in the garden, sometimes alone, but more often with Nora for a companion. When David could spare the time he went with them. The old man knew the garden like a book. He was seldom at a loss for a turn of the path or the position of a plant. His bloodhound sense of smell helped to guide him. But he complained sometimes that the garden was monotonous and that he was tired of it. They would guide him then in some other direction. But one morning, having left the house by the front door and started in the direction of the hollies, he came to a sudden halt and stood for a few moments with lifted head and dilated nostrils. Then he laughed, and said, ‘“Con- victs. Let’s look at ’em,” and made off, rapidly for him, down the straight avenue of live oaks which led to the front gate. The reconditioning of the county highway had advanced to within a hundred yards of this gate. And perhaps fifteen couples of convicts i striped suits were at work. The old man insisted on getting close to them. He wanted to ask some questions of the overseer. After all € road was an important thing for Orme. Much against their wish and taste David and Nora were obliged to humor him and accom- pany him. Every morning after that he insisted upon being taken to “watch the convicts work.”

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This old brick barracks stood in the outskirts of the city and was one of the most unsanitary and unsavory prisons in the whole of the United States. His constitution resisted the malodors of the prison; his wind grew long and his hands hardened. He extracted such nourishment as was necessary from the vile prison fare. And his brain became a swirl of vengeful mur- derous thoughts. He began to lay the whole blame for his evil fate on David and Nora. One morning just at dawn Brant formed part of a little procession of twelve convicts which was marched out of the gate. He himself with the negro to whom he was chained brought up the rear of the procession and took the dust kicked up by the shuffling feet of those ahead. Brant had not made himself popular with his fellow prisoners. He had given himself airs. And now he was to suffer for it. The convicts, it seemed, knew all about him, and they made his life a perfect hell of insult and innuendo. Comparisons were made between David and Brant. It was the unanimous opinion of the convicts that given her choice, no sane woman could fail to choose David. Brant ought to see the way she looked at David. He would. Nearly every day they brought the old blind- man out to see how the road was coming along. Brant knew enough of human nature to believe that a man in David’s position, a young man who for years had lived under a stern and unnatural restraint, might well succumb to the continuous and intimate companionship of a young and pretty woman. In David’s shoes he himself would have taken every possible advantage of the opportunity. Well, if what hs companions hinted so broadly was true, he would have satisfaction out of David. Nora had borne herself with great cheerful- ness until she began to realize that one of these days her husband’s term of punishment would end and he would come to Orme to claim her. There was no escaping that fact. And the same thought was continually in David’s mind. But in conversation the subject was avoided by both. Nora worried herself sick, and David’s heart was wrung with pity. One morning as Nora sat with a basket of mending in a shady corner of the veranda, she saw the old man come out of the house, feel his way down the steps with his cane and shamble off toward the front gate. She put down her basket and ran to find David. He was splitting and stacking firewood. ‘Your father’s on his way to the gate,” she said. ‘Hadn’t we better go with him?” David put down his ax at once and reached for his coat. ‘“‘He’s been teasing to see the con- victs again,” he said, “and I put him off. I suppose he’s in one of his stubborn independent moods. Yes, we’ll have to go along.” So they hurried after Hannibal Orme, but he had not gone very far. There had been rain in the night, and the heat of the sun on wet shrubs and flowers filled the air with fresh and delicious perfumes. Every few steps the old man came to a full stop and stood drawing in long breaths through his nose. Now and then he would follow some peculiarly enticing odor to its source. A bloodhound could not have been more accurate. He would smell his way to the heart of a rose, to the tiny axillary cluster of flowers among the tea olives. He crushed rosemary leaves in his hands, and thyme and lavender, the better to smell them. But as he neared the gate his pleasure changed and he began to move faster. It was at this point that David and Nora caught up with him. “I’m going to see how they are getting on with the road,” he said. “I’ve made up my ‘| mind that it’s the best thing that ever could have happened. It will make me rich.” When he felt Nora’s hand under his arm the old man stopped tapping with his cane and suffered her to guide him. David, moody and impatient, walked on his father’s right. A little-used footpath, winding among clumps of broom straw and young specimens of the long-needle pine resembling gigantic shaving brushes, followed the road and brought them to a point from which, at an advantageous height of a few feet, they could look down on the work of repair. To the convicts the trio by now were a familiar sight, and ordinarily their appearance would have occasioned only nods of greeting from the guards and from one of the less sullenly disposed of the prisoners. But on this particular morning the arrival of the old giant with his grave son and his pretty daughter-in-law occasioned a distinct if momentary cessation of work. Smiling and expectant eyes stole looks at Nora and at a broad-shouldered strapping young convict who worked with his back to her and who alone of the entire gang was going on with his work as if there had been no interruption. He swung his pick with a slow and monotonous rhythm until the negro to whom he was chained touched him on the arm and said: “Folks ter see you, boss.” Brant Orme left his pick sticking in the clay, straightened his back and looked over his shoulder. When he perceived his wife and his father and his brother, he turned completely around and faced them. Hannibal Orme had been explaining some- thing to Nora. In the silence his loud flat voice of a deaf man was perfectly audible. “You can always tell it’s convicts by the smell,” he said. ‘‘They smell different.” In the midst of this statement Nora found herself looking straight into Brant’s eyes. For a moment it seemed to her as if her knees had turned to water and she must fall. Brant’s look had changed to a glare. He turned it on David. “Take that old devil away,” he said. Somebody snickered. ‘Take that old devil away now,” said Brant, “and keep him away. And take yourself away, and take that woman away. And keep away.” There was something so menacing and terrible in Brant’s voice and in the glare which he now turned upon his companions in misery that the chuckling and snickering died away into silence. The old man broke it. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll have a chair fetched so I can stay longer.” Somebody laughed nervously. Nora was pulling impatiently at the old man’s arm and David shouted in his ear, “Got to go. Got to go.” “T won’t go if I don’t choose,” the old man shouted back, but yielded nevertheless to Nora’s pulling at his arm and turned away. David leaped down from the bank and held out his hands to Brant. ‘For heaven’s sake, man,” he cried, ‘“‘what have we done but stood by you?” But Brant clenched his fists and took a step forward. ‘What have you done?” he said, and his voice was icy cold and cutting. ‘Every man here knows what you’ve done. You worked your pull with the Sheriff to put me where I am, and then you made my wife what she is.” David spoke quietly to his brother and in a low voice. “Brant,” he said, ‘‘you’ve given yourself heaps of excuses for being ashamed, but the best excuse you ever gave yourself was what you just said. I never did you any wrong in my life. I never will. And you know it.” The cords in Brant’s forehead and neck had swollen until they were purple, and he an- nounced between clenched teeth: “I saw the way you looked at her. Don’t tell me. And now get out of here before I kill you.” Beyond control, he made a murderous lunge at David, and was tripped by his leg iron and heavily thrown. There was a burst of laughter, and the guards, realizing that they had been derelict in duty, began to shout at the convicts to get on with their digging. Seeing that David lingered, one of the guards approached him and said: ‘No use hangin’ roun’ here, Mr. Orme. You can’t get blood outen a stone.” David glanced at Brant. This one had got

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ng ns tic Id ar, Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 209 to his feet and, his back turned, was once more swinging his pick. “Js there anything I can do,” David asked, “to make things a little easier for him?” “Tt’s better for him to have jes’ what the others has,” said the guard. “T suppose that’s right,” said David, and then it occurred to him that if the hearts of the guards could be softened, things might become a little easier for his brother. “It must be a pretty tough life for you, too,” he said. “Why don’t you drop up to the house when you get an hour off? I’ve some good Bourbon. Pass the invitation on to your friends, will you?” And David walked off feeling that he had had a good thought and that already it had softened at least one callous heart toward the Orme family. He did not hurry back to the house. His nerves were somewhat in the shape of a clock which an inquisitive if not mechanically gifted child has taken to pieces. He did not wish to see Nora at once. He did not know whether it would be best to tell her what Brant had said or to keep it to himself. But the injustice of it so rankled that he longed to tell her. It is deeply human that the more innocent we are of an accusation the more desperate is our need to explain that we are innocent. Upon entering the hall he found his father fuming and roaring at the world in general, Nora lying on the floor in a dead faint, and young Johnny Crisp on his knees beside her excitedly fanning her with his hat. David felt no surprise at finding Jimmy Crisp. He would have felt no surprise if Jimmy Crisp had been the President and the King of England and the Pope. The fumings and roarings of Hannibal Orme fell upon deaf ears. David’s whole thought was for Nora. With an exclamation of pity and concern he lifted her from the floor and laid her on the sofa. At the same time he ordered Jimmy to get water quickly. While Jimmy was on the run to the kitchen and back, David slipped two cushions under Nora’s head and a third under her feet. He had read somewhere that a simultaneous elevation of the head and the feet is a good emergency relief for faintness. But he did not even know that Nora had fainted. He only knew that she looked like a dead thing, and that she was the only thing in the world that he had ever loved or was ever going to love. Love and grief and fear stormed his reason. At that moment Jimmy Crisp returned with the water and Nora opened her eyes, and seeing David’s face first of anything, smiled. “T’m all right,” she said, and perceiving Jimmy she said, “Hello, Jimmy.” Although she assured them that she was all right, that the sun and “everything” had brought on a dizzy spell, they insisted on bath-" ing her forehead and temples with cold water and giving her a drink of the water with some whisky in it. “Td just got your father into his chair,” she said, “and was going back to the door to see where you were when it happened. Everything swam around and I began to fall and somebody caught me.” Jimmy Crisp blushed with pride and self- consciousness. It was he who had caught her and who, not being strong enough to lift her easily, had at least been able to lower her gently to the floor. David now tore himself from Nora’s side and succeeded in pacifying and quieting his father with shouts of ‘“Nora—fainted—hot sun,” several times repeated. The old man expressed concern and took the blame upon himself. David returned to Jimmy and Nora. “What I’m trying to puzzle out, Jimmy,” said David, “is how you happened to drop out of the clouds just in the nick of time.” “TI came on foot by the back way,” said immy. “On foot!” “Paw’s mad at me and wouldn’t let me have the horse, so I said I’d walk. And he said he reckoned that walkin’ or anything in the nature of work would kill me and I’d never be any Misty Gowns and Filmy Frocks Wear them now in security, without a second thought This new way in solving women’s oldest hygienic problem has changed wo- men’s hygienic habits : throughout the world in a NEW way ... 3 unique features you will appre- ciate. be charming, exquisite, beyond all doubt, Yox’]] appreciate these 3 factors every minute, every day! Do you seek the peace of mind, that knowing you are will bring? Modern science has supplanted the old-time sanitary pad in a new way .. . a way different from any you have ever known. 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Youmere- you use it with absolute assurance ly spread it over the surfaces to be _ that hair will not come back thicker treated thenrinseawaytheoffending and coarser than before—as it does hair. No other method is soconve- _ after shaving. . . . Following its use, nient and so rapid and satisfactory, note the whiteness of underarm in especially for the larger surfaces of contrast to darkened skin where the legs and arms—to remove hair from razor has beenused. Should your the entire forearm takes but a few _ favorite store for the moment be out minutes. To hundreds of thousands _ of Neet, send fifty cents with name all around you, it has brought unex- _ andaddressforfullsized tube bymail. pected loveliness, beautyandcharm. —_ Hannibal Phar. Co.,655 Olive, St. Louis, Mo. Very Special es Ask your Neet dealer for IMMAC also. IMMAC is the dainty, snow-white Cream Deodorant that rids under- arm perspiration of all odor and insures personal fragrance. 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CO., Dept. 1-C-7 JOS. DE ROY & SONS, 1034 De Roy Building 503 Fifth Avinaas New York Only Opposite Post Office Pittsburg, Pa. trouble to anybody no more. But I just had to come. It’s about Brant. He’s been put to work on the road, right outside the gate, and I knew you’d want to know.” “That was mighty thoughtful of you, Jimmy,” said Nora, ‘‘and mighty white to take so much trouble.” “T’d do more’n that for you, Miss Nora.” David clapped the boy on the shoulder, “Now that you’re here,” he said, “you'd better stick around till your father gets over being mad.” Jimmy shook his head and his lower lip trembled, though he tried to make his speech cheerful and even cynical. ‘Paw,’ he said, “said he thought it all out, and the next time he got mad at me he’d made up his mind to stay mad. This here is the next time.” Even Gouverneur Morris has seldom reached so intense a climax as you will find in August—when Brant Orme comes home from ’ prison to face Nora and David $1 fo ——_> The Umkuna Tree (Continued from page 31) showing that his habit of drinking at other people’s expense had not escaped their observ- ant eyes. To have the reputation of never having bought anyone a drink in your life is somewhat unique; and in Rhodesia you could hardly say a worse thing of aman. Neverthe- less, Binnie, who certainly was unique in lots of ways, had managed to laugh it down, and much is forgiven to the man who can laugh not only at life but at himself. Sure enough, he was seeking a lift into town. “My blessed car has a pain in the neck and won’t budge,” he declared. Kit gave a sly glance at Cathreen who, pre- tending not to notice, asked Binnie if he would take a cup of coffee. He accepted with a de- lightful smile and great charm of manner. Binnie would take anything. He was a short, strong-looking man, not dark, but burnt very brown, with very light blue rather mad eyes. Kit Valmond and he had bought their farms at the same time years before, left them together to go to the war, and returned together on the same ship in 19109, though not by design, for they had never seen or heard of each other during the whole four years in France. In spite of this close associ- ation, and that they called each other by Christian name, Cathreen had an impression that there was no great love lost between them. She did not know how she got the im- pression unless it was because Kit said to her one day, of the other, “Cunning fellow, Binnie!” in anything but a tone of admiration for that quality. And he often threw ironical jeers at Binnie’s meanness into Binnie’s very teeth. But though some men might have resented these, they slid easily enough off Binnie. He only laughed, and continued in and out of Spitzkoppies with the constancy and familiar- ity of an old and valued friend. Cathreen liked him and was amused by him, pitying his lonely bachelor existence in the bare uncom- fortable house at Kingston. The two men began to talk about cattle. All farms thereabouts were devoted exclusively to cattle. N-t a very lucrative business, to be sure, with beasts selling at two pounds a head, when you could sell them at all. Still, anything for a quiet life is the Rhodesian motto, and there is considerably less worry in letting a couple of thousand head of cattle graze your land than in trying to grow maize or make ex- periments with cotton. So Kit Valmond bred Lincoln Reds, the Venners had a fancy for led Anguses, and Binnie would have noth- ing to do with any breed but Shorthorns. “Oh, look!” cried Cathreen. Two snow- white birds had alighted in the garden.

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had t to idI you, ake der. ud ver lip ech aid, ime | to QR. = Fa. we her ver is uld he- ots nd 10t he nd re- ld le- er. ot Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 211 “Tick birds!” cried Kit joyfully. “The first I’ve seen for months! That confounded dip is poisoning them off rapidly. By gad! I am glad to see them!” He spoke as if some one had given him a handsome present. “Sure sign of rain, too.” Binnie was equally exultant. ‘Aha! The drought will soon break now. Then you’ll know all about the delights of the veld, Mrs. Valmond.” “How do you mean?” “Tied to the farm for weeks by bad roads and a full river, English mail held up in town, provisions running short, et cetera, et cetera. Cars are not much good then, are they, Kit?” Kit shrugged. “One always manages.” “But how do you cross when the river is full, Kit?” asked his wife, realizing for the first time that there was no bridge or ferry over that wide, dry waterway that lay between them and the town. “Swim it,” was the laconic answer. Binnie Ronalds laughed. ‘“Sometiries!” he jeered, “and sometimes not. I defy even you to swim the ’Ngamo when she really boils up, old man.’ “In that case,” said Kit carelessly for his wife’s information, “one simply shoves the car into the shed on the other side and goes to sleep in it till she boils down.” “T see,” said Cathreen thoughtfully. But, without being a nervous worian, she did not think it was a particularly engaging plan. “Surely one manages not to be away from home at such times,” she ventured. “Can’t always help it,” said Kit. ‘The river sometimes comes down in flood from rain a long way off. However, it doesn’t often happen, and of course one doesn’t take risks.” “Tf he should be held up any time and you are nervous, Mrs. Valmond, you can always send a boy over for me,” Binnie proffered. “Oh, I am never nervous!” Cathreen had caught a fleeting expression of coldness in her husband’s eyes at Binnie’s suggestion. Neither did she care for him to feel that he was tied to the farm by a frightened woman. “We shan’t be held up today anyway,” remarked Valmond, rising from the table. “Not a hope of the rains breaking for another week at least. Only wish there was.” After they had gone she got her hat and gloves and went to the garden. She always gardened an hour or so after breakfast, and meant the grounds round Spitzkoppies home- stead to blossom like the rose before she had finished with them. The toot of a strange motor horn apprised her of the arrival of her town visitors, and a few minutes later a car prowled in through the yard. Cathreen hurried out to welcome and shepherd in Mrs. Keene, the owner of the car, and Mrs. Teviot, her constant crony. “But why, oh why, should you live so far out?” complained Mrs. Keene’s baby voice, and Toppy Teviot was full of lugubrious sympathy for Cathreen’s dull life. “It’s septic enough in town, but at least one can dance occasionally and get a game of — What a shame of Kit to bury you out ore.” “But I like it!” Cathreen had said it dozens of times before, but they considered it affecta- tion on her part. Grace Keene had said to Toppy, driving out: “She thinks herself superior to us, my dear, and keeps aloof—that’s it. I know the type.” But she didn’t. She had no more conception of Cathreen’s fastidious and poetical nature than she had ever made acquaintance with Shelley, Browning or Francis Thompson. Neither had Toppy Teviot, for that matter, ” but that restless, discontented little creature | at least was devoid of malice towards other women, and would in fact have liked to know Cathreen more intimately. Cathreen, however, had not yet found any woman in Rhodesia with whom she desired to become intimate. Certainly not with Mrs. Keene. For Toppy she was sorry, as one is sorry for the undeveloped who don’t know what is the matter with themselves. Toppy was married to a canny Scotch banker who “Both gir!s left their rouge at home, but one had used Jarnac and didn’t worry!” A Natural Color at last, for both Cheeks and Lips MOIST Rouge! “I wish I could find the right rouge!” How many Neither perspiration nor powder affects it. No dab, dab, all the day—with Jarnac! The soothing, healing, essential oils in Jarnac pass every pure food test—you could eat it down! 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Charming fellow, Bill Teviot, but “tight,” as people said. Every- one knew that while Toppy insatiably hungered for ‘bags of money” to spend on clothes, she had to dress on what she could sneak out of the housekeeping money. The first thing she did on entering the sitting- room was to take off her home-trimmed straw hat, pitch it on the floor and give it a vicious kick. “That’s what I’d like to do to Bill,” she said, and Mrs. Keene laughed. Cathreen did not think the incident very amusing, but already she had grown used to Toppy’s grievance and believed it to be pose to a great extent, and that Toppy secretly adored her stingy, charming husband. The friendship with Mrs. Keene, however, was a mistake, and only fed poor Toppy’s grief, for the former possessed a husband who sent her home every year and smothered her with gifts. Derek Keene, a rich cattle owner, specialized on a strain of large, blond, sleek beasts, and Mrs. Keene, also large, blond, and sleek, was known—behind her back, of course— as the Queen Cow, or more politely, the Q. C. One of those women whose hair has gone quite white while she is still young, she had a round baby face, and those pretty, kittenish, helpless airs that so often conceal a thoroughly shrewd and selfish personality. “‘We met your husband and Binnie Ronalds, driving in very gaily,” she said with her little trilly laugh, “‘no doubt on urgent private and important business that will keep them en- gaged at the Club all day.” “Gossiping with my husband, I dare say,” girded Mrs. Teviot. ‘Men are the only ones who get any fun out of life anyway.” “They said you were expecting Sheila Venner.” “She may turn up, but we won’t wait. You must be longing for tea after that dusty drive. Put the tray here, Jalus, and make another pot as soon as the other lady arrives.” “Yes, Inkosikas!”’ “Tt was dusty—and a frightful road! But the car goes like a dream, doesn’t she, Toppy?” “Beautiful,” assented Toppy, her mouth full of scone. She had no car of her own. “I'd sell my soul for one like her—if I could find a buyer.” Mrs. Keene’s laugh bubbled out, while her eyes wandered searchingly round Cathreen’s charming room: creamy walls with flat black paint, Delphinium curtains, tall brass Crom- wellian candlesticks, and row upon row of books. “I suppose the Venners are rather a wash-out as neighbors, aren’t they?” she said. Cathreen answered indirectly. “It is nat- ural, I suppose, that he should not care to go about much.” “OQh—I don’t know. I sometimes think she is the unsociable one, not the Doctor at all.” “She scarcely strikes one that way. Such a beautiful, accomplished woman. But of course that only makes it more lovely in her to devote herself entirely to her husband.” “T shouldn’t put it as strongly as that,” said Grace Keene dryly. ‘‘Some people think it’s only the child she’s devoted to. And when I said unsociable, I meant as far as women are concerned. She likes men well enough. I’ve seen her having some pretty good times in Bangwelo, spite of poor hubby languishing at home. Haven’t you, Toppy?” ‘Rather,’ assented Toppy indifferently. “She does everything so awfully well,” said Cathreen, “dancing, riding, golf, tennis—that it would be difficult not to enjoy doing them. But to be happy—with that tragedy at home!” “Oh well, if it comes to that, who of us is happy?” Mrs. Keene’s voice was complacent. “Have you ever seen Charles Venner?” she asked Cathreen. “No, never. And I hope I never shall, since he minds so much.” ‘“He’s awfui,” affirmed Mrs. Keene. “A mass of scars and burns. The only untouched thing in his face is a sort of purple lid to the left eye, a birthmark in his family for generations. Ironical that should be left, isn’t it?” Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 “A mercy little Alannah didn’t inherit it!” said Toppy. “Yes; it’s not so bad in a man, though, and must have given him rather a sporty look in his handsome days. I’ve often watched him, when they stayed at the hotel in town before they got possession of the farm, and tried to re- construct what his face must have been like before the accident.” Cathreen felt an inward shiver, looking at those striped pussy-cat eyes that were always seeking information and collecting facts. No wonder the unhappy man had wished to flee towns and hotels, to hide on a farm. Fortunately a period was put to a distressing topic by the arrival of Mrs. Venner herself, a golden woman dressed in thin brown muslin with a swath of yellow round her brown Bankok hat. The fairness of her skin, which seemed tightly strained over high cheek-bones and an ex- quisite little nose, was almost dazzling. She had a winning manner and great light brown eyes that met your glance with an open, half smiling stare. Yet it was those lovely pools of golden light that disconcerted Cathreen, by the suggestion of some quality that would not be good in friendship. There were gay general greetings when she came in, and an immediate settling down to news and gossip over fresh tea and scones. The three visitors knew each other better than Cathreen knew any of them. Or was likely to be known by any of them. For even in charm- ing, accomplished Sheila Venner, Cathreen had already recognized another of those persons who made her turn with relief to places. She did not exactly know why. Moreover, Kit was right: Mrs. Venner had not brought her little daughter, though it had been almost a promise that she would. However, she presently explained to Cathreen how it was. “She’s toddling about the veld with Chas this morning, and I hadn’t the heart to take her from him. He’s miserable if she’s away for an hour even”—she smiled rather sadly—‘‘and after all it’s not much to ask of me.” One of the things Cathreen liked about Sheila Venner was that she always spoke very compassionately about her husband. “What will you both do when Alannah has to go away to school?” said Mrs. Keene with one of her probing looks. To Cathreen’s astonishment Sheila’s bright color paled a little at the very suggestion. “Oh—that won’t be for a long while yet!” she said quickly and nervously. ‘Besides, I could get a governess for her.” “That’s never much of a success,” Mrs. Keene persisted. ‘Once children are at the taking-notice age, it never does to keep them about a farm, what with snakes and rivers and natives. Do you remember that case where a dismissed nigger shot all three children before their mother’s eyes?” “Oh, don’t!” cried Sheila and Cathreen. Toppy Teviot tuned up once more through the smoke of her cigaret: “I tell you, it’s a ghastly country—and ghastly things happen in it. You'll discover that for yourself yet, Mrs. Valmond.” Cathreen felt she could not have stood either of them much longer, and was thankful when they began to collect their hats, veils and cigaret cases for a move. When they had gone Mrs. Venner remarked: “J don’t understand the women who spend their time abusing the country they live in, do you?” Cathreen smiled. ‘Toppy’s is entirely a domestic grief, Ifancy. But with Mrs. Keene and many others it’s a pose—or want of im- agination. They don’t realize what a good time they have here compared to people of the same position at home. Here they are somebodies, whereas at home they’d be no- bodies; and they’d terribly miss the warmth and color and human interest of every-day life in a country like this.” “Do you like it so much?” asked Sheila with an elbow on the mantelpiece and curiosity in her sherry-brown eyes.

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oP Rb oa ” —w i en NP ee Bi et Dee Se ah “J love it,” said Cathreen warmly. “I could be perfectly happy here . . .” She hardly realized what she was admitting until the words were out, and she saw the waiting expression on Sheila’s face. Then she finished lamely, “Of course there are heaps of little difficulties.” Little difficulties! When she knew that only one big essential mattered to make her life as happy as any human being is meant to be. She felt a hypocrite in her own words; and a sen- sation of being seen through by Sheila was instantly confirmed. “There are always ‘ifs,’ aren’t there?” smiled the other enigmatically. “And always will be, I suppose—in this world of quicksands, and battle and murder and sudden death!” As if to hide the shadow that fell across her face she turned to the photographs on the mantelpiece, and taking one up stared at it intently. “What a topping-looking man Kit is,” she said lightly. ‘Did you fall in love with his looks or his brains?” “Do you think any of us really knows what it is we fall in love with?” Cathreen countered, smiling. She was not going to discuss that. Besides, the query sounded somewhat like the old catch: “Do you still beat your wife?” “T have never seen this photograph before. It’s the best he’s ever had done! I should like somuch .. .” “Tt was done during the war—specially for me,” said Cathreen briefly. “Will you excuse me now while I go and see what Jalus is doing about luncheon?” She felt certain that Mrs. Venner had been on the point of asking for one of the photo- graphs, and, though she was not so silly as to mind another woman’s possessing Kit’s photo- graph, that one happened to be specially sacred, having been taken just before he left her to go back to the trenches, after their honeymoon. However, when she returned from the kitchen, Sheila was reading the Tatler and nothing more was said on the subject of photographs. They spent a quiet hour loitering through luncheon in the cool dimness of the dining-hut, and indulging over coffee and cigarets in a real good talk about books and clothes and people. Cathreen was a little older than Sheila, but both had frequented much the same musical, literary and social circles at home, and a really quite good foundation for intimacy existed between them. Certainly they were never bored for lack of subjects of conversation; but their great com- mon interest, and one that had brought Sheila today, was gardening. Cathreen wanted her advice about a landscape garden she intended to lay out at the foot of the present garden, a sort of tropical wilderness of blazing colors and fantastic form, that would act as a background to the more modest arrangement of paths and beds round the house. Sheila took a great interest in the scheme, and having learned a good deal during her three years in Rhodesia, she was only too will- ing to give Cathreen the benefit of her experi- ence in the matter of native plants. After the siesta, which in all hot climates naturally succeeds the midday repast, the two women put on hats and gloves and went down to the new acres which were already in process of “scruffing”; a squad of boys being busy tearing up all grass and useless bushes, and leaving nothing but certain beautiful trees marked off by Cathreen. Mrs. Venner was rather disdainful of these, saying she hated wild trees and that they brought disease to cultivated gardens. “But this isn’t going to be a cultivated garden,” Cathreen retorted. “I want to keep it as wild as possible, and towering above all I'd like to have a big tree like that one on the boundary. Do you know the name of it?” “No, I don’t. But Chas may. He likes wild things and finding out their native names from the boys. I’ll ask him for you if you like.” She was able to suggest all sorts of beautiful trees and creepers and plants from down country, and proved herself original in ideas as Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 to the arrangement of vistas and the natural grouping of trees and rocks. They were so im- mersed that before they realized how time had passed the sun recorded knocking off time, and the boys “downed tools” as promptly as a squad of English navvies. Sheila sighed and remarked that she must be thinking of getting back home after a cup of tea. She had walked over, and, though it was a matter of two anda half miles between the two homesteads, spoke quite casually of returning as she came. But Cathreen demurred. “You must not dream of walking both ways. Wait till Kit gets back and he’ll drive you. I think I heard the car just now.” When they got back to the house, tea was laid in the sitting-room, and the two men were waiting hungry as hawks, and fresh and hearty after a wash-up. With their advent Sheila seemed to blossom out into sudden loveliness, like a rose opening in awarm room. She had been sweet all day, and so practical and kind. Cathreen had felt her charm. But this was different; her looks now, her whole person emanated something that was more than charm and was not for Cathreen. Not that she left Cathreen out. No, every- one was welcome to come into the rays of the fire she had lighted. But it was the men who specially basked there, happy and fascinated in the golden warmth that came not only from her eyes, but from her gracious person, so full and round and curving. The thin brown mus- lin of her dress seemed insufficient to hide her white arms and firm bosom. Cathreen had not noticed it before, but now the consciousness of the men made her aware of it. Not that there was anything to shock, or Cathreen one to be easily shocked. But if one were quite so voluptuously shaped as Sheila—she had not noticed that till now, either—would one be so very—er—frank? But she did not want to be unjust to Sheila, and put the question out of her mind instantly. At all events it was perfectly clear that this was a very gay tea-party, with the men laugh- ing, jesting and capping each other’s remarks. Cathreen had never known Kit more crisply humorous, or Binnie so waggishly amusing. It seemed a pity that Sheila should break it up, but time was getting on, she said, and rose to put on her hat. An argument at once began as to who was to see her as far at any rate as within sight of her home. “You’d better toss for the distinction,” Sheila said, and instantly Kit produced a half- sovereign he carried for the special purpose. “Tails!” called Binnie as the coin spun in the air, and: “Heads it is—I win!” cried Kit triumphantly as it came down. But Sheila smiled mockingly at him. ‘You ought to know by now that I always back the loser. Binnie—you’re for a five mile walk, my friend.” She turned to Cathreen. “Look at Kit pretending he minds—and all the time secretly rejoicing.” “No, I’m not, but I like fair play and no favor,” said Kit. Under his impassive sim- plicity it was impossible to discover whether he minded or not. “Favor!” Sheila, jamming her hat down on her bright hair, made a face at him, laughed derisively, and turned to the mantelpiece as if in search of a mirror. Immediately she added, “T’ll favor you if you like by taking your photo- graph”—pointing to the one she had admired. “Tt’s the nicest of you I’ve ever seen. Do say I may have it, Kit!” There was a second’s silence, while Cathreen was wondering indignantly if she could be- lieve her ears, and Kit appeared to be hesitat- ing; then: “Of course you can have it,” he replied carelessly. Instantly and firmly Cathreen said, “I’m afraid she can’t.” Her lips were pale. Perhaps Sheila did not notice this, for she insisted mischievously, “Oh, but he’s given it to me!” and took the picture from the shelf. “No,” said Cathreen very low and clear, and the next moment it was standing back in its 213 HEFE-3 By BENNY LEONARD Undefeated Lightweight Champion of the World F Fate has jabbed you in the solar plexus—HIT BACK. If Nature has been unkind to you, has laid you low with sickness or cursed you with a frail, weak body—HIT BACK. Are you content to lie down like a yellow dog and whimper, just because you were not born with a strong physique, with big muscles, broad chest, brawny limbs? Are you satisfied to go shuffling wearily to your work with run down, half-dead body? Are you willing to admit defeat—to allow your unfitness to keep you forever down and out, just struggling for a bare existence—scorned by your boss, a disgrace and a hindrance to your wife and family and shunned by society wherever you go? If you are, then you are doomed to misery and failure. You are destroying your chances for EALTH, HAPPI- NESS, SUCCESS. My message to you is —Snap out of it old man. HIT BACK! I can tell you of no better example of this feasoning than my own life. I was a skinny, frail young- ster. They called me_ the “powder puff kid.” But I didn’t accept that as my fate. My climb to the highest rung of physical suprem- acy—the championship of the world—was begun. the day I decided to HIT BAC From that day to this I haven’t stopped hitting back. And here is the way I’ve done it. By scientifically studying the human body and actually working out the theories with my very own body. I have perfected a method of physical de- velopment that has proven a real knock-out blow to friend Satan, the old boy who plans all our misfor- tunes and physical shortcomings. Thru my system, I have licked every competitor in sight. So many people wrote and asked how they might use my methods—and so many did adopt them with such great success that I am now devoting practically all my time to spreading my invaluable lessons in muscle and body building to all the people I can possibly reach by letters. If you want the very last word in physical culture, if you do not believe in old fogey ideas, if you wish to adopt the best methods of this day, of 1925, if you want to gain the love and respect of women, if you want to make good in your job and reach the top in whatever you hold nearest your heart, then tnere is only one way, my friend, and that is HIT BACK— HIT BACK like Yours with a punch, Full of interesting reading. No obligation. aut discoverer and conductor of the famous BENNY LEONARD HOME COURSE OF MUSCLE AND BODY BUILDING 123 West 31st ST.. NEW YORK CITY MAIL THIS COUPON NOW A a a a a BENNY LEONARD i 123 West 31st St., [Dept. 28H] New York, N.Y. | Sounds to me that your booklet, entitled “Now I Can Tell | You” must contain some mighty interesting reading matter. 1 Will you please send me a copy? enclose 10c [either stamps or coin] to help cover costs of getting this book out J and sending it. There's no obligation. I OR RN IES COE SIE PEE ey Ops RAPE ee i SE PS Se Serre Te Cee ee : Me Go sae acest aden ad ee P eererrer ie ee i

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place. Impossible to see how she did it, so swift and hawk-like was her movement. There was nothing for Sheila to do, of course, but laugh it off as good-temperedly as she could manage. “Oh—my mistake! I thought Kit owned his own things.” But Kit, looking very red and stiff, did not respond. The only response came from Cathreen. “Tt just happens to be mine,” she said equably. She was now the most self-possessed person in a room full of embarrassment. Binnie’s eyes were wide, while the silence of the other two might have been attributed to almost anything except rapture. Since the hostess showed not the slightest sign of re- lieving the strain, it was fortunate that Jalus chose that moment for an entry with tumblers, a bottle of whisky and the soda. The hour for sundowners had mercifully arrived. Thought- ful Jalus! Kit looked at him approvingly. “A little one before you go, Mrs. Venner?” “Thanks, I’d love it.” ““Mine’s a whisky,” Binnie remarked. “Rhodesia, the land of dreadful thirst!” said Kit. “A spot for you, Cathreen?” “Please.” One of Kit’s fixed habits from which he de- parted not was to take three drinks between sundown and dinner: one now; the second be- fore his bath; the third just before sitting down to dinner. He now negotiated the first—a rather heftier one than usual. Binnie, having swiftly flattened his, was advancing upon an- other, but Sheila cried out at him: “Oh, come on, Binnie, or I shall go without you!” With a quick gesture of farewell she went out, complaining, “I shan’t get home be- fore midnight at this rate.” Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 “And I shan’t get any dinner,” grumbled Binnie, following. Cathreen went to the door and called after him: “Come back and have some with us, We'll wait for you till eight.” Kit at the sideboard, already fixing his second, was outraged at this plan, and curtly addressed his wife’s back. ‘What do you want to ask him for? I’ve had a bellyful of Binnie today.” Kit when cross could be coarse. Cathreen returned slowly into the room. “T thought he would be company for you, as I have a headache and am going to bed.” ““Oh—a headache, have you??? He sounded ironic, and his eyes were hard. “At any rate you managed to make me look pretty foolish just now.” There being no reply to this, he continued though more mildly, ‘Rather a fuss to make about a photograph!” “Do you think so?” she said evenly. “I happen rather to prize it.” “Dunno why—there are plenty of others.” “But not of that one. And if you don’t know why—and can’t remember”—her voice trembled slightly, and she turned away again— “T—well, I wish I had let it go.” “So do I,” he said, and repeated tersely, “It made me look rather a fool.” Cathreen swept round on him then, white, but with a blaze in her eyes. “And that’s all you think of—all you re- member or care about—your vanity!” She flung the words out passionately, and left him. He stared after her, mute with astonishment, and as he stood staring, there rang through the house a sound never before heard at Spitz- koppies—the sharp snap of a key turning in a lock. It shocked him into the abrupt breaking of quite a good rule. Reaching for the whisky, he hastily poured out his third and drank it. The incident of the locked door and the incident of the photograph each leads to drama—one toward happiness and the other toward—but let Cynthia Stockley show you Next Month in a scene you will never forget

The Story of My three entrances. Big business men could meet there to arrange deals in perfect security from prying eyes and make their get-away unob- served when it suited them, without a word of their plans leaking out. Many important deals were carried through in these rooms. Towards the close of the dinner one of my hosts—I fancy it was Mr. Yerkes—rose and, in a very pretty little speech, thanked me for all the gaiety which I had brought to the syndicate from my land in the West, and put into my hand a white satin box containing a wonderful string of pearls. It was at this dinner that I first met Lord Kitchener. He was then Sirdar, or Com- mander-in-Chief of the Egyptian Army. He happened to be sitting at the next table to ours, and as people in both parties knew each other, the two joined up. Towards ten o’clock we all adjourned to my apartment, where we spent the rest of the evening. Thus began a strange and unique friend- ship between the great soldier and myself, which endured through all my three subse- quent marriages. In 1912, when I returned to Paris after my last honeymoon, Lord Kitchener crossed the Channel expressly in order to con- gratulate me and meet my new husband. This was only one of many ways in which he proved that if ever he took the trouble to like a person, his friendship lasted across the years. Let there be no misunderstanding, however, about my friendship with Lord Kitchener. It was a friendship ‘between a man of great brain and of world-wide renown, and a bohemian who happened to be a woman—and that was all. We were just friends, and this curious friendship is perhaps my most cherished memory. It has been said that Kitchener was a woman hater, but I think rather that the publicity

that was always focused on him made him Life (Continued from page 39) super-sensitive to any feminine advances, and that is why he slipped away from the lime- light and came to sit with a bohemian like myself. Kitchener, as I knew him, was distinctly talkative and very humorous, while, to the contrary of the popular impression, he was as gentle in his thought as he was terrible in his despotic expression. I chaffed him one day on his usually stern expression, and he gave me the explanation of its origin. He told me that as far back as 1874, when he was on a surveying expedition in Palestine, he found that when he flashed a reproof from his blue eyes with their overhanging brows, it acted like a lash on the servile natives. He there- fore, when giving orders, assumed the im- moderately severe air which was afterwards supposed to be characteristic of him, and it soon became habitual. “And you continue the method down to today!’’ I said, with a laugh. “Except when I come here!” he retorted. Frequently, after a state dinner or some other function, Lord Kitchener used to tap at one of my windows and would come in and spend an hour or two in complete relaxation. I remember that during this period there was a very young and sentimental youth who was sheepishly in love with me—just wallow- ing in love, as it were, all by himself. For a very long time this young man brought and gave to my maid every morning a bunch of lilies of the valley. One day, when he had called for tea, he mustered up courage to ask me where I had been the night before. I un- truthfully replied that I had “been to bed.” I saw by his face that he knew differently. While dressing that evening my maid told me that he had been in the habit of sticking a postage stamp on my door every night; and sure enough, when I returned from supper at

the S tale s apart

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the Savoy a few hours later, there was a tell- tale stamp on my door, which had to be torn apart before I could enter. After that, rather than have him feel unhappy, my maid kept a special supply of postage stamps and became very adept at leaning out of the window and replacing any stamp that might have become torn through my late return home, with another exactly similar. I mentioned the incident to Lord Kitchener, and while we were talking the maid came in and announced that she was out of the particu- lar kind of stamp with which my door had been sealed that evening. Kitchener remarked that it seemed a pity the youth, when he brought his lilies in the morning and saw the violated stamp, should have his whole day tor- tured. He accordingly went round to his club and procured the necessary pink stamp, which he affixed to my door. “Good night, prisoner,” he called to me with a chuckle as he turned to depart. It was soon after this incident that Kitchener left London to return to Egypt, but before he did so it was arranged that I should pay a visit to Cairo that same winter. It was thanks to Lord Kitchener’s help that I became interested in a weird and wonderful proposition which was brought to my notice by one of my financial friends. It concerned the historic mines of the Pharaohs in Arabia, where I was told turquoises could be shoveled up by the bucketful if only some one would dynamite the desert off them, after securing the necessary concession. I immediately saw myself covered with the blue and precious stones, and the turquoise mine affair simply fascinated me. I talked to+ Kitchener on the subject, and he warned me that dynamiting sand would be about as profitless a job as ploughing it—which later proved only too accurate a view. He promised to help me secure the concession, however, and he kept his word; with what results to me I shall set forth later. This turquoise mine venture, by the way, was by no means my only financial effort, for my miliionaire City friends rendered it almost impossible for me not to benefit from their acquaintance. Curiously enough, as I have regretted since, I seldom took advantage of the opportunities [ had to enrich myself merely by listening to their conversation. However, on one occasion, for some un- known reason, I followed the advice of one of my friends and netted a profit of $40,000 by a deal in Boulder Main Reefs, and I remember harvesting $15,000, to my great surprise, as the result of a flutter I took in connection with some other mining shares. And there were other similar incidents which I have forgotten. A very delightful episode during my first season in London was a chance encounter with King Edward VII, then still Prince of Wales. I had gone down to Sandown Races with Lord William Beresford, and while we were on the lawn he suddenly remarked: “Here comes the Prince!” And there before me, accompanied by the Marquis de Soveral and Lord Lonsdale and two other men, I saw the most popular figure in England advancing towards us. As they approached, Beresford said: “T am going to present you “Good gracious!” I said. “Tell me quickly what I am to do!” “Be yourself!” was the retort. “You are certain to say something that will amuse him.”’ By this time the Prince was upon us, and I barely realized what was happening before the actual presentation was over. Then I heard a question quite usual on any race- course being asked: ‘What horse are you backing, Beresford?” and the calm reply: “Ocean Rover.” Then the Prince, with a twinkle in his eye— no doubt enjoying the democratic handshake had given him—remarked to me with a smile: “You should play that horse also, be- Cause you are what his name implies.’ Just then a lady, with her lorgnette to her 199 Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925

eyes, as if she were an empress reviewing her

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place of Robinson Crusoe. citizen better. 3. The Pacific Coast and the Great Southwest, 4c. . The Canadian Rockies and “I 8. National Parks of Colorado | and California, 6c. Northwest National Parks, 6c. Courtesy of AMERICAN-ORIENTAL Mai Ling Travel and Ideals enna may rule the world but ideals make living in it worth while. Deep- rooted are the ideals of youth. As a child the hero or heroine of your favorite book was your ideal. Or maybe it was your Mother.- You longed for and reached out after the supreme excellence as pictured in the stories you read and the thrilling tales you were told. Leaving childhood’s happy hours you embraced manhood still cherishing your ideals. They were of another sort indeed yet equally vivid. Ideals of personal conduct, social relations and business dealing. Roosevelt took the Travel makes it easier to live up to your ideals. Contact with other peoples and their environment gives you new enthusiasm for your own advancement. Travel is ever associated with the betterment and broadening of the indi- vidual. New moons, other sunsets of golden hue, crystal mountain-snows with blue violets peeping through—silver birches, and winding paths in the countless regions you have not yet explored—all these will help you toward your manhood ideals. Travel strengthens the moral fibre and makes a good In seeking strength for your ideals by travel write Cosmopolitan Travel Service. Whether you plan to cruise Round the World or in the blue Medi- terranean waters—scale the American Rockies, visit Europe or span the peaceful Pacific to Oriental climes—we will help you. COSMOPOLITAN TRAVEL SERVICE offers you help A complete set (12) of our travel brochures for 75 cents. Use the coupon for one or all. 9. 4. The Orient, 4c. | Cosmopolitan Travel Service 6. That Trip to Europe, 10c. } 119 West 40th Street, New York City 10. New England and Adirondacks, Enclosed find. ..... cents in stamps. Please 6c send me booklets Nos...........esseeee0 s (If you care to give the following additional 11. New York and Surrounding information tt will help us to help you.) Resorts, 6c I plan to travel in (Names of countries or aA SarttGneD «oo sq cous Paseo een eee 12. Around the World Cruising, How many are Going? «sos 6. pics ccc ve ee 10c. By D, E. Lorenz, Ph.D. gue Se TINE ose Sk Pie acaene 13. Mediterranean Cruising, 10c. BN on Fs'vis been ey os eet w rea emene By D. E. Lorenz, Ph.D. pS EPR eS Rare pene SC ae . South America and Central . Southern Europe and the The Great Lakes and St. Lawrence Valley, 6c. America, 4c. Mediterranean, 4c. —— Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 troops, led one of our group to remark that Lady —— was looking “‘very county, as usual.” I asked the man next to me what this meant. “It means,”’ he replied, “that her pearls are real, but her hair is always badly done. The remark did not escape the Prince, who went off into a laugh that filled all England, let alone Sandown Park. When he got over it, he asked me how I liked Englishwomen. I replied that the very few I had met always seemed to be in the act of taking their smile off the ice, for use when they met Americans. The Prince laughed again, but he was ap- parently in such good spirits that day that I am sure he would have laughed no matter what was said or who said it. . I was riding on the top of the wave, dreaming of new worlds. Suddenly I realized that I had met the Prince of Wales and _ practically everybody else worth while in London, and the idea struck me to go on to Paris. To wish for anything in those days was to have it, and twenty-four hours later I found myself established, with my maid, in a com- fortable suite at the Ritz. In Paris, the first morning after our arrival, I suffered one of the bitterest disappointments of my life. On awakening, eager for breakfast, I was dis- gusted to find that no one in the hotel was able to understand either my maid or myself. As soon as I was dressed, I went forth, filled with my own unimportance, my one desire being to learn French. I shipped my American maid back to the States, while I engaged two French maids to take her place. My plan was to talk them out in relays, so that when one was exhausted there was always another ready. ~ In the spring, when I felt I could stand alone without clinging to a book, I decided to leave my cloister and become a woman of fashion again. With this idea in mind, the first thing to be done was to buy some dresses. After long hours spent in fitting rooms, I acquired a dozen new dresses with which I promptly went back to London to try their effect on my masculine admirers there. The lure of Paris during that first visit, however, had seized me for its own with a grip that will certainly not be loosened while there is still breath left in me. After a little rush around London, I eagerly seized the opportunity that offered a few weeks later to cross the Channel for the Grande Semaine. During that week there is racing every day around Paris, and the display of dress is only approached, but by no means equalled, by that at the great society race meetings at Ascot and Goodwood in England. The rush on the Paris dressmakers for weeks before the Grande Semaine is fierce. Knowing this, on arriving in the city I made a bee line for Beer’s, to order the dresses I needed. At that time there was no eight-hour law, and dressmakers and milliners during the period before the Grande Semaine worked night and day to meet their customers’ needs. There was nothing unusual, therefore, in the fact that it was not until after dinner one evening that I went to Beer’s for the first fitting of the robe I had ordered for the “Drags,” which is the great race meeting of the year specially identified with the ladies. The “Drags” is so called because on that occasion a score or more of huge four-horse private coaches, owned by the cream of French social leaders, assemble in the Place de la Concorde and drive out to Longchamps, amid the blare of old-fashioned post horns. Music, flowers and exquisite gowns combine to make the day of the “Drags” the most brilliant and expensive of the whole social year. I was escorted to my fitting by six very tall and good-looking Englishmen, and while I was being fitted they chatted and laughed with the numberless pretty girls employed by the firm. My dress had to be finished before the morn- ing, as it must be worn the following day; therefore that night, after supper at the Café de Paris, we all trooped back to Beer’s for 4 second fitting. This time we were followed by a waiter, loaded down with cakes, champagne and glasses. My Englishmen had resolved to He give other Th with flowe lows, staff perie morn eye t got t show hats, sold being Th and e at Cu Chan Tsar’ We celeb: enjoy drove night a hoz road had 1 nized the / called atC and 1 vitati Th it wa the c great Joe I self si Suc our ¢ Tose 1 decla1 nothii as we street heard extra some himse Th full s\ inad of Be prize. asked love 1 liver | bougl with | dresse inte to Lo my tu Du in cor quois at m centri less a He by th & Co partn mine huma tion 1 explo’ £4 obsta the man’s Taised An: satisf higge: who ° carry’ dubio effect we wi

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it ” -~ OG OS ee IS o> eT aon ee, — ™ ™ ee SVS me oe eel Oe Oe ie ee Se oe Se ee. ee give the girls who were working on my and other women’s dresses a good time. That night the big workroom overflowed with champagne, while the showrooms over- flowed with a little army of splendid good fel- lows, clinking glasses with the girls on Beer’s staff and thoroughly enjoying this novel ex- perience of fitting on dresses at three in the morning. The saleswomen, always with an eye to business, enjoyed it also, for when I had got through my ordeal and returned to the showrooms I found an enormous assortment of hats, parasols and scarfs, all of which had been sold by them to the revelers with a view to being presented to myself. The next day was crowded with festivities and ended with a supper given by Harry Thaw at Cuba’s, then a very smart restaurant in the Champs Elysées which was owned by the Tsar’s ex-chef, whose name it bore. We had been summoned to the evening’s celebration in an extraordinary manner, while enjoying the cool breeze from the woods as we drove through the Bois de Boulogne. ‘“To- night at twelve at Cuba’s!” I suddenly heard a hoarse voice proclaim, apparently from the road beside my carriage. I turned to see who had made this curious excitement and recog- nized Harry Thaw. Then, all up and down the Avenue des Acacias, friends laughingly called to one another, “Tonight at twelve at Cuba’s, and see that you are there!” and most of us were, for the mysterious in- vitation had aroused our curiosity. The tables had been laid in the garden, as it was a beautifully warm moonlit night, and the company, after the day’s racing, were in great form. Fanny Ward and her husband Joe Lewis, and the Duc de Morny and my- self sat at the same table. Suddenly, when we had just settled down to our coffee and cigars, Harry Thaw, our host, rose with a very angry look on his face and declared the party was finished. There was nothing for us to do but take our departure, as we had been practically turned into the street. In the confusion of our dismissal I heard some one say that the reason for Thaw’s extraordinary action was that he had seen some one in the large gathering of guests help himself to a handful of cigars. The Paris Exhibition of 1900 was then in full swing, and I became immensely interested in a dress that was exhibited there, a creation of Beer’s, which had been awarded the first prize. The next morning I went to Beer and asked him to sell it to me. He said he would love to let me have it, but he could only de- liver it after the exhibition closed. I at once bought a wrap sufficiently handsome to go with it, and then, after ordering several more dresses for both Cairo and Monte Carlo, where I intended to go that coming winter, I returned to London in order to make my plans to visit my turquoise mine in Arabia. During my preparations to leave for Arabia in connection with the exploitation of my tur- quoise mine, an amusing incident occurred at my flat in the Walsingham in which the central figure—perhaps the victim—was no less a personage than Mr. Herbert Hoover. He was then one of the engineers employed by the great mining firm of Bewick, Moreing Company, or rather, I believe, one of the partners, and his firm had the matter of my mine in hand. I was determined, if it were humanly possible, to accompany the expedi- tion that was to be sent out to start up the exploitation of the mine. I found, however, that some mysterious obsiacles were being put in my way, and that the question of the undesirability of a wo- man’s accompanying the expedition had been Taised. Anyway, I did not find much difficulty in Satisfying myself that Mr. Hoover was the nigger in my woodpile, and that it was he who was putting obstacles in the way of my carrying out my cherished idea. He was dubious, it seemed, as to the demoralizing effect the presence of pretty petticoats—for Wwe wore petticoats in those days—might have Hearst's International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 217 . Book: Cadillac THE BOOK’CADILLAC HOTEL, DETROIT WASHINGTON BOULEVARD AT MICHIGAN AVENUE Room Comforts — HE luxury and comfort that character- [4 ize the public rooms of the Book- @- Cadillac extend also to each of the 1,200 guest rooms. Every bedroom has private bath, circulating ice water, individual bed lights and lighted mirrors. All have full outside exposure. Beds are without foot-boards, adding greatly to their attractiveness and comfort. Thoughtful, yet unobtrusive service is every- where apparent to guests of Book-Cadillac. It revealsitselfin many unexpected courtesiesnot often encountered outside of private homes. 1200 Rooms With Bath $4 and up 475 rooms at minimum rate and *5.00 Parlor Suites: $14, $16, $18 per day Sample Rooms: $5 and $8 per day THREE MAIN RESTAURANTS Cafeteria Service in Coffee Shop on Ground Floor 18 Shops and Broker’s Office in Building THE BOOK-CADILLAC HOTEL COMPANY:DETROIT ROY CARRUTHERS, President f , , ] Y Y Y Y f f Y Y Y Y f Y f Y Y f Y Y Y f f f | , , , Y , , Y Y , Y Y f f f f f

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on his impressionable young engineers in the Arabian desert. As I had been instrumental in securing the concession, I did not see why I should fade out of the picture because of young Mr. Hoover. Besides, I had become aware that Mr. Hoover’s opposition to my plans was not only due to the fact that I was an American actress who was not working and had no need to do so, but because he had the idea that I was not respectable, which was not only worse but sillier. I decided to make this arbitrary young man capitulate. To this end I resolved to play the part of one of Henri Fabre’s most vicious spiders and get my fly into my parlor; in other words, I telephoned Mr. Hoover to dine with me at my flat. He accepted for the following evening. I saw at a glance, as he entered, how he was hating himself—just as he did twenty years later when I saw him at the Hotel Crillon, during the Peace Conference in Paris; only then he had more reason as he had accumulated an exceptionally admiring following. I found him easier to tame than I had expected. I was wearing a very lovely dress, marked “Paris” all over; and knowing, as we women do, that one side of our faces is better than the other, I turned my best side towards him. It was evident within a few minutes of his arrival that although it was he who had come and seen, it was I who had conquered. The fun I directed at myself melted him into smiles, and he not only withdrew his objections but expressed the intention of accompanying the expedition himself. This change of attitude was so marked, indeed, that I thought it just as well to ring the bell for dinner to be served at once, and thus brought to an end what looked as though it might become an embarrassing téte-a-téte. At that moment, however, my black maid came into the drawing-room and announced Mr. Henry Downe, who is now one of the main pillars of social and commercial life in Paris and who was then a tall, handsome man, a frequenter of the smart bohemia of London. Poor Mr. Hoover had no sooner heard the name than he jumped to his feet as though he had received a shock. “Great Scott!’ he ex- claimed anxiously. ‘He must not see me here alone with you!” This exclamation and all that it implied so infuriated me that I determined he should pay for it. Grabbing his hat and stick as though I sympathized with him in his predicament, I whisked him at top speed through the door at the opposite side of the room from that by which Mr. Downe must enter. This door opened into a small passage, where I opened another door on the right and showed Mr. Hoover through into the darkness inside. Although Mr. Hoover did not know it at the moment, he was in a cupboard under the stairs, in which were stored brooms and pails, old newspapers and all the odds and ends one throws into a glory-hole. I returned to the drawing-room and thanked Mr. Downe for having accepted my invitation at such short notice. As I had not as a matter of fact invited him at all, he naturally looked rather surprised. “But didn’t you get my telephone message?” I asked him, and he very truthfully replied, “No.” Just then the butler announced that dinner was served, and without further discussion Mr. Downe sat down and ate Mr. Hoover’s dinner. Some friends came round shortly afterwards, and it was nearly ten o’clock before I could get the party to go on with me to finish the evening at the Palace Theater, and thus enable the maid to release Mr. Hoover. The cream of the joke was that the cupboard was unlocked all the time, so that Mr. Hoover could have escaped with perfect ease. The third door in the same passage opened directly into the street and by simply passing through it he could have left a house where he was in fear his respectability would be in peril. In- cidentally, also, by this means he could have avoided going without his dinner. I now crossed to Paris for a week’s shopping, Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925

and to collect the outfit I had ordered on my previous visit for my Egyptian trip. On reach- ing Cairo, I drove direct to the viila belonging to his secretary which had been ient to me for my stay by Prince Hussein—who afterwards met his death in an automobile crash on the road between Paris and Deauville. The villa was typically Egyptian in con- struction. The interior was so completely different from anything I had ever known, and the large and lofty rooms were kept in such uncomfortable order by melancholy Arab ser- vants, who crept over the marble floors in mosque-like silence, that I seized the oppor- tunity to learn the life of the Nile in a much more interesting way than I could possibly have done in an up-to-date tourist hotel. My bath was a carved one of marble, made in the form of an antique barge. The walls and mosaic floor of the bathroom were done in a color scheme of dreamy, lustrous greens. The only brilliant note in the room was a huge peacock, whose tail, composed of many vary- ing shades of green and blue velvet, fell in folds on a couch of repose. A palm completed the permanent appointments of the bathroom. With the fragrance from great open bowls of rose leaves and the fumes of rare incense, I always had a murmur of perfume about me. Among my letters of introduction was one to David Garrick Longworth, whom thousands of Americans know. Born ina circus, “Daddy” Longworth lived under the big tent for many years, until he went to England with the Haverly Minstrels, where he soon became the King of Step and Wing Dancing. After tour- ing every part of the globe, he went to Cairo, where he founded the Sphinx, a weekly news- paper. From there he went to Nairobi, in British East Africa, where he made known to the world the beauties of Uganda, cr the Kanye Colony as it is now called.°. He accompanied President Rooseveli on his African shooting expedition, and was thanked by him for the successful arrangements he made for the trip. Nowadays he is free of the Savoy, the Imperial or any other place where he ap- pears in London. Last year Lord Dewar gave a large banquet in Daddy’s honor, for no other reason than that so many people have loved him for so many years. Finding I had not gone to Egypt to see any- thing but Egyptian life, Daddy Longworth informed me, after some reflection, that he thought the best thing he could do would be to introduce me to his friend Ibrahim Bey Chérif, whom he was certain could stage me a thrill. On the following day Mr. Longworth brought him along to my villa, and my program was arranged for me. The first item was a coach drive out to the Sphinx. When the coach called for me I found it had six instead of the usual four horses. Everything was double, and we dashed off to the strains of two post horns in place of the customary one. Ye gods, what a drive that Bey gave me! The camels and other slow traffic of every description scattered like frightened fish before us as we dashed over the Nile bridge and along the Ismail road—which was built almost over- night to please one of the Knedive Ismail’s concubines. We galloped the whole of the way out to the Pyramids and up the heavy incline to the edge of the basin of desert sand. After returning to my villa to dress, most of the party went to the Bey’s palatial home for dinner. Twenty covers were. laid. The party consisted mostly of Egyptians—princes, beys and doctors, and the usual sprinkling of smart men who are found at similar gatherings everywhere; for in Egypt the British rarely mix with the natives socially. I was the only woman present, for in Mohammedan countries the women are isolated from all men except their own husbands. After a wonderful dinner, I had my first glimpse of an Egyptian harem. When the cigars had been served our host rose and, giving me his arm, said, ‘1 will now take you to see my ladies.”’ On leaving the dining-room we followed a passage which led to a narrow

said I thing and sé brazie The and at moutl Some the fle Suppo: after § Sent a court,

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ne fi bridge that joined, as it were, the two houses. The door at the other end of the bridge was guarded by a pompous black servant who lifted the heavy draperies for us to pass. On going through a small anteroom, I found myself in a spacious apartment which was decorated with too much gold. The carpet was red, with great yellow flowers shrieking out the welcome the Bey’s wives omitted to give me, for they were all lazily reclining on the gilded couches. Every woman was munching sweets, of which she had a supply on a tabouret beside her; on which there was also a perfume lamp, cigarets and the eternal coffee-cup. They all half sat up when I was presented to them. One of them clapped her beringed hands and at once, if not sooner, the faithful coffee boy of the establishment appeared with a beautifully jeweled cup containing sugared grounds, which he gave to me, while another brought one to his master. The Bey, the supreme lord and master of all these wives— there were at least seven of them—was a medium-sized man with an olive complexion. I was disappointed to find that the women were not nearly as handsome without their yashmaks, the veils with which they cover the lower parts of their faces when liable to be exposed to the gaze of any man except their own lord. Most of them had poor teeth, which was doubly disappointing to an American woman. All my illusions as to bewitching Oriental women were destroyed. All the women gleamed with filigree jewelry, in which was set a wild assortment of variously colored precious stones. They found nothing of the slightest interest in anything I said. The only things about me that appeared to excite their attention were my jewels and my dress. The latter was of silver gauze material over gold, the white gauze ribbons, which were bor- dered with diamond-studded sequins, floating from the waist over the skirt and long train. With this dress I wore only diamonds; and I had been told to wear as much jewelry as pos- sible during this visit, when it was known that I intended to associate principally with native | society. My outfit pleased these childlike harem women. They examined every stone minutely. One of them raised my skirt ever so little, to see if it were pure gold to the skin. I was rather glad to have the inspection in- terrupted by the Bey, who took me to a room on the inner court where at least a hundred dervishes had assembled. Grouped in a large ring, they had been sitting there for eight hours when we arrived, ceaselessly swaying to and fro and moaning loudly while they worked themselves up into a state of religious frenzy. A dozen torches threw a weird light. After the rest of the party and myself were seated with our host on a low balcony over- looking the court, a servant emptied a large basket of snakes into the midst of the circle of dervishes, where the slimy things darted here and there in search of an escape. At a given word, apparently, one of the der- vishes leaned forward as he sat and seized one of the snakes. Putting it to his mouth, he bit off the reptile’s head and threw the squirm- ing body back on the ground. Others followed his example, until soon headless snakes were turning and twisting about everywhere, while swarthy Arab jaws, dripping with pale blood, were trying to masticate the horrible delicacy. “Now they have had their hors d’euvre,” said Ibrahim Bey, “I shall order them some- thing from the grill.” He gave an order to one of his attendants, and servants brought into the court a red-hot razier, in which were sticking several swords. These were handed round to the dervishes, and at once the men held the weapons to their mouths and began licking the white-hot blades. Some of them passed the sharp points through the flesh of one cheek and into the other. The odor of burning flesh was sickening. I Supposed I looked all I was feeling, for our host, after glancing at me, ordered the swords to be Sent away. Then, going down himself into the Court, he crossed to a cactus plant. Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 19 | Room Manaéers in Bid Demand 1 J ! est river scenery — all palatial Day Line flyers. Delights of the Daylight Sail RIGHT summer days find Day Line trips on the Hudson of universal appeal. Cool breezes, sparkling waters, the magic of America’s these are best enjoye Six splendid steamers. Luxurious day parlors. Select orchestras. Superior cuisine. Rail tickets New York to Albany and Albany to New York accepted. Service daily including Sunday. Write for illustrated literature. Hudson River Day Line Desbrosses Street Pier, New York and- from in comfort and luxury are equal to the finest Atlantic Liners. Promenade and Sun Decks of un- usual width; large Grand Salon and Lounge Rooms; Observation Roof Garden. All Staterooms and Parlor Rooms are outside rooms with windows or ort-holes. Bath and toilet in connection with Parlor 110 W. Adams Street Chicago, Iil. peksCr A sight-seeing De Luxe trip of over 2000 miles on Lakes Michigan, Huron, St. Claire, Erie and Georgian Bay (30,000 Islands) —stopping at all points of interest—historic Mackinac Island, the quaint Canadian village of Parry Sound, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, with a full day at Buffalo (Niagara Falls)— a chance to gaze in wonder at the world’s Greatest Cataract. The Great Oil-Burning White Liners North American and South coms and convenient to all Staterooms. Excel- | Semi-Weekly Sailings from Chicago, Buffalo, Detroit, Cleveland, & Return Tickets bearing rail routing between Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland and Buffalo will b ored for transit upon additional payment. Call or write for pamphlet at any Railway Ticket Office or Tourist Agency or Chicago, Duluth & Georgian Bay Transit Company W.H.BLACK,G.P.A. W.E. BROWN,Gen'lAgt. 13 S. Division Street Buffal . ¥. ising Great Lakes and Georgian Bay American lent meals daintily served. For those who enjoy gaiety there are deck games,entertainments, music and dancing with a social hostess to look after the enjoyment of the guests. Open air playground screened in with attendant for children. e hone io, Hundreds of new Tea Rooms, Cafeterias, Mo- tor Inns and Coffee Shops now opening are ealling for trained managers. Shortage acute. We receive daily calls for Managers, Assistant Managers, etc. Big salaries paid to trained ’ executives. Fortunes are being made in this new industry, whether you open a tea room ©: your own, or manage one already going, We teach ou entire business in a few weeks, at cost of Buta few centsa day. Send for FREE BOOK, “Pouring Tea for Profit.’’ “Now for the vegetable course,” he said Lewis Tea Room Institute, Dept. T-216,Washington, D.C. TEACH YOUR CHILD at Home by famous Calvert School methods and give him a better education in this way than he can get at most Write day schools. Calvert School, + aa St. Baltimore, Md.

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Your car, re- gardless of size will accom- modate the Gordon Motor Bassinet. Removable while baby — Useful for other fresh-air p . Wo “ 4 more than a baby cab at less than one-third its cost. Sold everywhere, or sent pre aid. Satisfaction guaranteed. Send for illustrated older and dealer’s name. For the e of baby’s comfort and mother’s pleasure doit today. GORDON MOTOR CRIB CO., 9-G, 1519 Wabash Ave., Chicago Ask about the Gordon Motor Crib for Open Cars st Hearst’s International-Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 with a boyish laugh, and, cutting off several sections of the thick, hard, spiky leaves, he threw them to the dervishes, who chewed them up greedily. Finally the dervishes had their dessert, which consisted of a’ number of thick glass tumblers. These they smashed on the tiled floor and then fed themselves the jagged frag- ments. We left them munching the broken glass with apparent relish. “You’ve won,” I told my friends who were accompanying me back to my villa. “That is the most infernal spectacle I have ever seen. Daddy Longworth promised me the Bey would give me a thrill and I’ve certainly had it, but I know when I’ve had enough!” The time soon came when it was necessary for me to leave on my luckless expedition to my turquoise mine. Mr. Hoover did not form one of the party after all, as it was placed under the care of a Mr. Goldstone, the representative of Messrs. Bewick, Moreing & Co. He took with him an assistant engineer, and as a precaution a doctor accompanied us. I took with me a single maid, whom I dressed in a crash linen cowboy suit, like my own. Thanks to a word from Lord Kitchener, who was then all-powerful in Egypt, the directors of the Suez Canal company lent us a small steam yacht in which to cross the Red Sea. We were put ashore on the flat beach of Arabia Petraz. The sun was by this time too high up for us to dream of setting out under its fierce heat, and we spent the rest of the day in such little shade as the crumbling walls of a tumble- down hut afforded. Finally the welcome twi- light came, and we at once got out into it on our camels. Eventually we reached the alleged mines, where we pitched the tents in which we were to live for the time being. Operations could not be commenced, however, until the arrival of the Sheik a few days later. My only occupation during those days of waiting and afterwards was swatting flies with a home-made fly swatter. I was swatting flies when our Sheik arrived. He was a patri- archal Arab chief, who came riding in on his Arab steed, accompanied by his several sons, all clothed in flying white burnooses. No sooner had the Sheik arrived than our engineering staff began preparations to carry out the necessary blasting work that was, as we fondly hoped, to blow the superfluous sand off my turquoise beds and lay them open to exploitation. Dynamite cartridges were in- serted where they would be likely to do the most good, and soon all was ready. I was still swatting flies when the crucial moment came. I called it swatting flies, whereas I was really swatting and breaking up all kinds of useful household articles in suc- cession without killing a single fly. The Sheik, who was out in front of my tent rearranging the trappings of his desert steed, looked up from time to time to note what I had destroyed. I had just smashed a whole trayload of glasses when the dynamite was “touched off,” and the poor old Arab patriarch was so flabber- gasted with the explosion that with a yell like a crazy camel he dropped flat on the sand and screamed to Allah to blacken all our faces. So far as I was concerned Allah answered his prayer, for it was over an hour before I could get mine clean again. By that time my engineer friends had returned and were telling me how they had blown up the mine, and that now there was no more mine left worth speak- ing about. The last thing they had seen when the explosion occurred, they said, was the un- happy goat we had brought with us, soaring heavenward like a rocket, turquoise studded from stem to stern. Whether the goat took with her all the turquoises in my mine I never ascertained. But I know that her removal reduced us to a cheese diet. The whole business, as Lord Kitchener pre- dicted would be the case, had proved to be a fiasco, and we at once commenced our prepara- tions for a wearisome homeward journey. On reaching my villa in Cairo, I found a letter from Helen Dupont, that very beautiful and accomplished New York girl who achieved such enormous success as “‘The Queen of Comic Opera” in “The Belle of New York,” both in America and in England. Helen wrote me that she was on her way back to England in the yacht she had chartered for a cruise in the Mediterranean, and could take me as far as Monte Carlo. We arrived at Monaco just as the first of the evening lights were appearing like bright jewels here and there along the coast. I went direct to the Hermitage, where I had engaged rooms. In a very short time my servants had replaced the hotel bed furnishings with lace sheets and pillows of my own, while a riot of yellow satin pillows and floor cushions quickly made its work felt. Lace which I always car- ried with me was thrown in wild profusion everywhere, and through it all shone a shimmer of satin of a color which matched the room. I always made a practise of stepping out of a beautiful frame. I had never been in Monte Carlo before, and I was determined to leave nothing to chance. ‘Mr. Lewis, perhaps the best known milliner in the world, met me at the entrance to the Ca- sino and took me to arrange for the admission ticket which is necessary for all. Once inside the great gambling room, he pointed out some of the notables and left me in charge of James Gordon Bennett, the owner of the New York Herald, whom I caught sight of when he was in the act of wishing good night to Pierre Lorillard. As we strolled through the almost religious quiet of the rooms, broken only by the me- chanical voices of the croupiers, I noticed that Bennett paid no attention to gambling. I did not then know his strong objections to gam- bling, any more than I knew at that time the difference between one game and another. I stopped at one of the tables in the last room and asked him what they were playing. “Trente et quarante—thirty and forty.” “How do you play it?” I asked. “You put your money down and they take it!’ was the ferocious retort. I told Mr. Bennett I must try my luck. Seeing that his caustic remarks had in no way damped my desire to have a flutter, he took my arm and said: “Come and have some champagne—you will find that a lot better than gambling!” With that we moved away from the tables, but not before I had taken a couple of gold pieces from my purse and given them to a . croupier to put on black. Bennett fairly bustled me away from the table before even the cards were laid out. At that time the sparkling consolation water was served from a little bar in the atrium, which necessitated our passing back through all the rooms. In the atrium we met Victor Bethell, the younger brother of Lord Westbury, and after chatting with him and others for a few moments, we strolled back. Around the table where I had left my two gold pieces an enormous crowd had gathered. Something exciting had happened, and we pushed forward. Then there was a wild yell. “La voila! La voila!’ There she is!” “They mean you!’ explained one of my party, and then I was almost mobbed by people who surged forward to see who had won the enormous heap of money lying on the table on which I had staked my two poor little louis. “There has been a run on the black, Madame,” a beautiful Frenchwoman informed me, while an English-speaking man told me all that gold and notes were mine. Before I had grasped the fact the chef de jeu, or chief official at the table, confirmed his statement. The next turn red came up, and the crowd yelled again to see that I had got away with my winnings just in time. Mr. Bennett was so annoyed that he walked clean out of the rooms and I found him after- wards in the lobby, too cross with me even to say good night. , The officials offered to change my gold into notes of higher denominations, but I wanted to keep all my gold pieces just as I had re- ceived them. They then loaned me a basket,

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ind ce. Sa- ion ide me nes ork in US ne- at lid m- the om ke Be. ay ok ou id ret Hearst’s International-—Cosmopolitan for July, 1925 into which I pushed the whole glorious heap, and carried it back to the hotel on my arm, escorted by a crowd of people who were un- willing to lose sight of such a lucky person. What had happened was quite simple. The louis was then practically equal to four dollars, so that I had staked as nearly as possible eight dollars. There had been a long run on black, and I had had the good luck to have placed my eight dollars on black the second time it had come out. As I did not claim my winnings, it had automatically doubled every time black came out. I wonin all about $20,000. Such a run of luck could not occur to the same extent today, because the rules regarding unclaimed money have been changed. After 12,000 francs is reached, the sum is withdrawn and if not claimed it is given to a special charity fund. On reaching my rooms, I emptied my basket filed with money on my dressing-table and turned in, thinking no more about it until the maid drew the curtains the next morning. Then there was such a dazzling orgy of golds and yellows that I could hardly keep my eyes open. In my dressing-room I found a mass of beautiful yellow roses and a note from Gordon Bennett. He wrote, with characteristic sav- agery, that he hoped I should find as many thorns in my handling of the gold as there were thorns in the roses, and concluded by saying he thought it was sad that I should have con- tracted an incurable malady the night before. He was right in describing the malady as incurable, for I am free to confess I have been an inveterate gambler ever since, and probably shall be until I die. I soon lost the twenty thousand and a great deal more besides. Since that year I have gambled recklessly at Ostend, Aix-les-Bains, Vichy, Deauville, Nice, Cannes, and always at Monte Carlo, as well as on every race-course round Paris. And everywhere I have left feathers behind— except once at Enghien, the little Monte Carlo which formerly existed just outside Paris and where in 1920 I won $100,000, which I had no opportunity to lose back again, because the French Parliament very opportunely passed a law shutting down all casinos within sixty miles of Paris. Before I was cured by ad- versity I had even gambled away my poor father’s and mother’s home—but that is a story for another occasion. My first visit to Monte Carlo was at the height of the season. All the restaurants were crowded with Russian Grand Dukes, who drew exquisite and wonderfully jeweled women in their wake. Among these were the dazzling Otero and Liane de Pougy. The famous beauty of those days held a peculiar position that no longer exists. Otero’s following were mostly Russians; Liane de Pougy, now Princess Ghika, had the cream of the French nobility in attendance upon her; Anna Robinson, the American woman, attracted the smart English- men; while Cavalieri, then in all her beauty, was generally appreciated by the wealthy and noble Italians. One evening while playing I had the shock of my life. I looked up and saw directly oppo- site me a woman in a dress which was the fac- simile of the one I had purchased for $600 off the wax figure in the show-case at the Paris Exhibition! On the following evening I saw another woman in my “‘first prize’ dress, at the Hétel de Paris; and at the opera the same evening there was yet another, this time worn by a very fat woman. Evidently there was a veritable rash of prize dresses! Gordon Bennett was always telling me his troubles, so I went off straight away to find him and have him in turn listen to mine. The Commodore, however, saw in the matter only a huge joke, and he swore that, if I could produce the necessary other women, he would give a “prize dress dinner” for us at Ciro’s. Anna Robinson had been one of the other pur- chasers of my prize dress, and a very beautiful Englishwoman, who was an authentic favorite of King Edward, had been another, while the fat wearer of the same “model” was the wife of a sinfully rich but quite undistinguished man from Peoria, the Middle-Western town. To the last I had to introduce myself and say how much I admired her dress, and how much I desired a friend of mine to see it. sented immediately. Bennett was delighted when I told him that the chorus had all been engaged, and hadI not waited for Anna Robinson to dab her already perfect face just once more with her rough little paw, I should not have been late in picking up Mrs. de Peoria at her hotel. However, we tumbled out of the landau at the Galerie Would she | dine with me the following evening? She con- | Charles and hurried along to Ciro’s, where | Gordon Bennett and Ralph Hickox and the other two men, whose names I do not remem- ber, were waiting for us. The servants took our wraps, while Ciro him- | self hurried us to our places so fast that the joke did not have its full effect until we all stood about the table ready to sit down. Then and then only it dawned upon my three fellow victims that all four of us were dressed exactly alike, while each had down to that moment fondly believed that she alone had acquired the only copy of the prize dress in existence. All those present in the restaurant laughed as well as ourselves; but Beer up in Paris, who had fingered our pounds and dollars, laughed best, for he had both the first laugh and the last. On another occasion, Gordon Bennett sent me word that he wanted to see me. He was annoyed with Ciro for some reason or another, and he had conceived a fiendish way of taking his revenge, and he wanted metohelphim. The Commodore confided his plot to me: he wanted me to carry some wild geese into the restaurant and let them loose in the middle of dinner. “Now mind,” counseled the crafty million- aire, ‘and hold them tight by their throats so that they won’t squawk!”’ My partner in crime was Jimmy Mead, whose only known occupation for thirty years had been the reporting of the Monte Carlo pigeon-shooting matches for the New York Herald. It fell to him to fetch the geese, which ° had been left in a coop near the cemetery. At nine o’clock, robed in long cloaks, like the conspirators we were, in order to conceal the geese from sight, we skirted the long gallery leading to Ciro’s. Jimmy ascended to the un- used musicians’ gallery in the restaurant, and I crossed to my appointed place down-stairs, where I at once let the birds go. My pair soared upwards, while Jimmy’s simultaneously took a nose dive downward, bringing the chandelier with them on the way. One of the birds charged full tilt into a mirror. Pandemonium followed. Broken glass showered upon the tables, 221 Lake iC f WATERWAY COacations CHICAGO SLAND Cc aad MACKINA The Summer DETROIT CLEVELAND | BUFFALO A FALLS Disa Scenic Wonder Mackinac Island, the land of rest and beauty, is calling to every vacationist. It ts a summerland of charm and freshness. Plan now to take your vacation via the D. . Waterway. BETWEEN DETROIT and BUFFALO— 2new mamm iners,“‘Greater Detroit” and “Greater Buffalo,” largest liners of their type inthe world, Lv. Detroit 5:30p. m. and Buffalo 6 p. m. daily, time. Low rates—$6 one way, $11.50 round trip. BETWEEN DETROIT and CLEVE- LAND—the giant liners “City of Detroit III” and “City of Cleveland III” Lv. Detroit and Cleveland daily 11:30 p. m. Eastern time. Fare—$3.60 oneway, $6.50 round trip. Day- light trip during July and August, Tues., Thurs., Sat. Lv. 10:30 a. m. Eastern time. while crystals from the overhead lights fell like | Kansas hailstones on the diners. were the shrieks of the frightened women, who turned over in their flight tables laden with china and glass, which smashed with a roar on Added to this | the floor; while an army of waiters and sports- | men vociferated all over the restaurant their | theories as to the best mode of capturing wild | geese in a dining-room. Had he witnessed the scene, I don’t think Bennett himself would have complained that the deztruction wrought by the maddened birds was insufficient to pay off his grudge against Ciro. The latter had the greatest difficulty in preventing his waiters from fetch- ing their guns and going wild goose shooting in the midst of the wreckage. It was a costly affair for Gordon Bennett, and until I left I heard that poor Ciro was complaining about “that Mr. Bennett, how ire do me annoy!” With this escapade, my !osses at the tables and the advance of spring, I decided to return to London and take for the season a house which Fanny Ward had recommended to me. The crash that lost me my fortune—and how I started around the world on a bet, with $25 in my purse—told by Belle Livingstone in August, in a chapter that reads like romance BETWEEN DETROIT, MACKINAC ISLAND, ST. IGNACE, and CHICAGO —From June 25th to Sept. 7th liners Lv. Detroit Tues., Thurs. and Sat. 1:30 p. m. Eastern time. Lv. Chicago Mon., Thurs. and Sat. 12:30 noon, Central time. Round Trip Fares includi: BETWEEN Ports | _Lower Berths and Meals Lperse | 2 persons| 3 perso’ * Spee **Upper = $4 less. For reservations make application to R. G. Stoddard, Gen. Pass. ., Detroi ich. Parlorsextra. Rai Tickets accepted on all divisions except eeoent Mackinac Island. all liners. May w Cie a beautiful illustrated pamphlet upon sessile’ of 3 cents? Schedules subject to change without notice. Detroit & Cleveland Navigation Co. A. A. Schantz, Pres.and Gen. Mgrs J.T. McMillan, Vice-Pres.

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Hearst’s International—Cosmopolitan for July, 19259 TDhe Toll of Water HREE little ships weighed anchor in the harbor of Palos, Spain, four hundred and thirty-three years ago and set sail upon a perilous adventure; 88 hardy, hopeful souls faced the unknown. Had Colum- bus and his men gone down who can say what the his- tory of America would have been? Imagine a fleet of 68 Santa Marias, 68 Pintos and 68 Nifias—204 ships in all— going to the bottom of the sea with every one of their crews drowned! Then you will have some idea of the number of persons who per- ished last yearin the United States from drown- ing accidents. More than 6,000 drowned—and of these 6,000, more than half in the four months of June, July, August and September! Day after day, all through the summer, your news- paper tells the tragic story of death by drowning. Some one dares a beginner to swim out to the raft. He tries—and fails. Or perhaps there.is a high wind and the water is too rough for safe swimming. Even the strongest swimmers have met death by taking unnecessary chances. “Go ahead, be a sport” has brought disaster to more persons than ever will be known. Don’t Be a “Sport’’—Be a Sportsman There is a vast difference between a sport and a sportsman. The sportsman is courageous and will- ingly hazards his life for others—but he is not a daredevil He is brave—but without bravado. He is ready for emergencies—but does not challenge danger. The sport, showily daring, is a poor imitation of a sportsman. The sport is the one who does stunts in the water to dazzle onlookers—who dives with- “Imagine a Fleet * * *” aoe armas the — water or what lies beneath ” its surface—who swims — out beyond his depth distal garding the danger of une © known currents, undertow — and cramps. Learn to swim if you don’ 4 know how—not alone be- | cause swimming is joyous | recreation and splendid © exercise—but so that you © can save your own life and © the lives of others if called — upon. Deaths by drowning ~ occur even on park lakes © where there would seem to © beevery likelihood of rescue. : Some thoughtless person | rocks the boat—and then |} Swimming is not at alla difficult accomplishment. — Once learned it cannot be forgotten. It becomesal ~ most asautomaticas walking. Goodinstructorsmay 7 be foundalmosteverywhere. It is of highest impor- © tanceto be well taught. There are many self-taught ~ swimmerswhowouldbeof littleuseinanemergency. = Your Chance to Save a Life There is one thing that you and everybody, young ~ and old, should know how to do—revive © the apparently drowned. Often they are not j dead though life seems to be extinct. ’ Patient, persistent manipulation of the right kind would bring them back to consciousness. It is heart-breaking to think of the lives that could have been saved if some one in the crowd, stand- ing paralyzed with horror, had but known the simple manipulations neces- sary to rekindle the vital spark. Thissummer, be prepared. Nevercourt danger but be ready to meet the great hazard that sometimes lurks in water sports. During the months of July, August and September, deaths from accidents lead all other causes—except heart disease and tuberculosis— among the 22,000,000 policyholders in the Met- ropolitan Life Insurance Company. eaths from drowning are at their height during these months. In July 1924 the number of deaths among Metropolitan policyholders from drowning was about twice as many as from typhoid fever and diphtheria together. It is the duty of parents to have their children instructed in swimming and the art of resuscitation, so that the danger from drowning attending sum- mer vacations may be minimized. The Metropolitan has prepared abook- let “ Artificial Respiration »” which shows by diagrams just how to restore breathing by manipulation of the ap- parently drowned body, as well as what to do in the case of gas suffocation or electric shock. Carbon monoxide poi- soning claims an increasing number of victims each year because it is not gen- erally known that artificial respiration, applied in time, will restore life. The information contained in this booklet is valuable and may be wanted any e booklet will be iled free. Send for ic. HALEY FISKE, President. Published by METROPOLITAN LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY~ NEW YORK Biggest in the World, More Assets, More Policyholders, More Insurance in force, More new Insurance each year

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