Strictly Business, More Stories of the Four Million
by O Henry

CONTENTS

I. STRICTLY BUSINESS
II. THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED
III. BABES IN THE JUNGLE
IV. THE DAY RESURGENT
V. THE FIFTH WHEEL
VI. THE POET AND THE PEASANT
VII. THE ROBE OF PEACE
VIII. THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT
IX. THE CALL OF THE TAME
X. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
XI. THE THING'S THE PLAY
XII. A RAMBLE IN APHASIA
XIII. A MUNICIPAL REPORT
XIV. PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER
XV. A BIRD OF BAGDAD
XVI. COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
XVII. A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA
XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT
XIX. PROOF OF THE PUDDING
XX. PAST ONE AT RODNEY'S
XXI. THE VENTURERS
XXII. THE DUEL
XXIII. "WHAT YOU WANT"

I

STRICTLY BUSINESS

I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've
been touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper
criticisms and the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the
chorus girls and the long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a
condensed list of your ideas about the mysterious stageland would
boil down to something like this:

Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no
better than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus
girls are inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All
shows walk back to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties.
Irreproachable actresses reserve the comic-landlady part for their
mothers on Broadway and their step-aunts on the road. Kyrle
Bellew's real name is Boyle O'Kelley. The ravings of John
McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first sale of
the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H. Sothern;
but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.

All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink
champagne and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the
moving pictures have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.

Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did,
the profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look
askance at the players with an eye full of patronizing superiority--
and we go home and practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in
front of our looking glasses.

Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new
light. It seems to have been divulged that instead of being
motoring bacchanalias and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are
businesslike folk, students and ascetics with childer and homes
and libraries, owning real estate, and conducting their private
affairs in as orderly and unsensational a manner as any of us good
citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of the gas, rent, coal,
ice, and wardmen.

Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the
true one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this
little story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you
only the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door
of Keetor's old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push
of gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch--
and where I last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into
her nest, on time to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.

The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. But
Hart had been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits
for four years with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three
lightning changes with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated
imitators, and a buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of
approval from the bass-viol player in more than one house--than
which no performer ever received more satisfactory evidence of
good work.

The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In
order to give himself this pleausre he will often forsake the
sunniest Broadway corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth
to attend a matin'ee offering by his less gifted brothers. Once
during the lifetime of a minstrel joke one comes to scoff and
remains to go through with that most difficult exercise of Thespian
muscles--the audible contact of the palm of one hand against the
palm of the other.

One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and
got his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.

A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces
and passed into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into
gloom. Others of the audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and
applauded; but Bob Hart, "All the Mustard and a Whole Show in
Himself," sat with his face as long and his hands as far apart as a
boy holding a hank of yarn for his grandmother to wind into a ball.

But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H
was the happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in
Character Songs and Impersonations. There were scarcely more
than two bites to Cherry; but she delivered the merchandise tied
with a pink cord and charged to the old man's account. She first
showed you a deliciously dewy and ginghamy country girl with a
basket of property daisies who informed you ingenuously that
there were other things to be learned at the old log school-house
besides cipherin' and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er Kept
Me in." Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings,
she reappeared in considerably less than a "trice" as a fluffy
"Parisienne"--so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin
Rouge. And then--

But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw
somebody else. he thought he saw that Cherry was the only
professional on the short order stage that he had seen who seemed
exactly to fit the part of "Helen Grimes" in the sketch he had
written and kept tucked away in the tray of his trunk. Of course
Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor, grocer, newspaper
man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play tucked away
somewhere. They tuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of trees,
desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults,
handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call.
They belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.

But Bob Hart's sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He
called it "Mice Will Play." He had kept it quiet and hidden away
ever since he wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his
conception of "Helen Grimes." And here was "Helen" herself,
with all the innocent abandon, the youth, the sprightliness, and the
flawless stage art that his critical taste demanded.

After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office,
and got Cherry's address. At five the next afternoon he called at
the musty old house in the West Forties and sent up his
professional card.

By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with
her hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry
might have been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon's
daughter, in the great (unwritten) New England drama not yet
entitled anything.

"I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his
card carefully. "What did you wish to see me about?"

"I saw you work last night," said Hart. "I've written a sketch that
I've been saving up. It's for two; and I think you can do the other
part. I thought I'd see you about it."

"Come in the parlor," said Miss Cherry. "I've been wishing for
something of the sort. I think I'd like to act instead of doing
turns."

Bob Hart drew his cherished "Mice Will Play" from his pocket,
and read it to her.

"Read it again, please," said Miss Cherry.

And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved
by introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting
the dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with
the pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of
Helen Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart
yielded to all her strictures without argument. She had at once put
her finger on the sketch's weaker points. That was her woman's
intuition that he had lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was
willing to stake the judgment, experience, and savings of his four
years of vaudeville that "Mice Will Play" would blossom into a
perennial flower in the garden of the circuits. Miss Cherry was
slower to decide. After many puckerings of her smooth young
brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of a lead
pencil she gave out her dictum.

"Mr. Hart," said she, "I believe your sketch is going to win out.
That Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip
to a handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the
colonel of the Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers' Bazaar.
And I've seen you work. I know what you can do with the other
part. But business is business. How much do you get a week for
the stunt you do now?"

"Two hundred," answered Hart.

"I get one hundred for mine," said Cherry. "That's about the
natural discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few
simoleons every week under the loose brick in the old kitchen
hearth. The stage is all right. I love it; but there's something else I
love better--that's a little country home, some day, with Plymouth
Rock chickens and six ducks wandering around the yard.

"Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If
you want me to play the opposite part in your sketch, I'll do it.
And I believe we can make it go. And there's something else I
want to say: There's no nonsense in my make-up; I'm _on the
level_, and I'm on the stage for what it pays me, just as other girls
work in stores and offices. I'm going to save my money to keep
me when I'm past doing my stunts. No Old Ladies' Home or
Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.

"If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
nonsense cut out of it, I'm in on it. I know something about
vaudeville teams in general; but this would have to be one in
particular. I want you to know that I'm on the stage for what I can
cart away from it every pay-day in a little manila envelope with
nicotine stains on it, where the cashier has licked the flap. It's
kind of a hobby of mine to want to cravenette myself for plenty of
rainy days in the future. I want you to know just how I am. I don't
know what an all-night restaurant looks like; I drink only weak
tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance in my life, and I've
got money in five savings banks."

"Miss Cherry," said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, "you're
in on your own terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted in my hat
and stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I
always see a five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long
Island, with a Jap cooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen,
and me with the title deeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket,
swinging in a hammock on the side porch, reading Stanleys
'Explorations into Africa.' And nobody else around. You never
was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?"

"Not any," said Cherry. "What I'm going to do with my money is
to bank it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the
salary I've been earning, I've figured out that in ten years I'd have
an income of about $50 a month just from the interest alone.
Well, I might invest some of the principal in a little business--say,
trimming hats or a beauty parlor, and make more."

"Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right,
anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at
all who couldn't fix themselves for the wet days to come if they'd
save their money instead of blowing it. I'm glad you've got the
correct business idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and
I believe this sketch will more than double what both of us earn
now when we get it shaped up."

The subsequent history of "Mice Will Play" is the history of all
successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
business, changed the lines, restored 'em, added more, cut 'em out,
renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a
dagger for the pistol, restored the pistol--put the sketch through all
the known processes of condensation and improvement.

They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the
rarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour
would occur every time exactly half a second before the click of
the unloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the
thrilling climax of the sketch.

Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge.
Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish
skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the
private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her
father, "Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king,
owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad
Lands or Amagensett, L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob
Hart) wears puttees and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and
gives his address as New York, leaving you to wonder why he
comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case may be) and at
the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want
puttees about his ranch with a secretary in 'em.

Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind
of play, whether we admit it or not--something along in between
"Bluebeard, Jr.," and "Cymbeline" played in the Russian.

There were only two parts and a half in "Mice Will Play." Hart
and Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part
always played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a
Tuxedo coat and a panic to announce that the house was
surrounded by Indians, and to turn down the gas fire in the grate
by the manager's orders.

There was another girl in the sketch--a Fifth Avenue society
swelless--who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack
Valentine when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third
Avenue before he lost his money. This girl appeared on the stage
only in the photographic state--Jack had her Sarony stuck up on
the mantel of the Amagan--of the Bad Lands droring room. Helen
was jealous, of course.

And now for the thriller. Old "Arapahoe" Grimes dies of angina
pectoris one night--so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat
whisper over the footlights--while only his secretary was present.
And that same day he was known to have had $647,000 in cash in
his (ranch) library just received for the sale of a drove of beeves in
the East (that accounts for the price we pay for steak!). The cash
disappears at the same time. Jack Valentine was the only person
with the ranchman when he made his (alleged) croak.

"Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed--" you sabe,
don't you? And then there are some mean things said about the
Fifth Avenue Girl--who doesn't come on the stage--and can we
blame her, with the vaudeville trust holding down prices until one
actually must be buttoned in the back by a call boy, maids cost so
much?

But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she
can be, is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that
Jack Valentine is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at
one fell swoop $647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles
in the sides like the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever
patient is enough to make any perfect lady mad. So, then!

They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted
elk heads (didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?),
and the d'enouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in
the run of a play unless it be when the prologue ends.

Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to
take it? The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the
orchestra hadn't left their seats; and no man could get past "Old
Jimmy," the stage door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier
or an automobile as a guarantee of eligibility.

Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack
Valentine: "Robber and thief--and worse yet, stealer of trusting
hearts, this should be your fate!"

With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.

"But I will be merciful," goes on Helen. "You shall live--that will
be your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent
you to the death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the
mantel. I will send through her more beautiful face the bullet that
should have pierced your craven heart."

And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants
pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet--the actual bullet--goes
through the face of the photograph--and then strikes the hidden
spring of the sliding panel in the wall--and lo! the panel slides, and
there is the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and
bags of gold. It's great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for
two months at a target on the roof of her boarding house. It took
good shooting. In the sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three
inches in diameter, covered by wall paper in the panel; and she
had to stand in exactly the same spot every night, and the photo
had to be in exactly the same spot, and she had to shoot steady and
true every time.

Of course old "Arapahoe" had tucked the funds away there in the
secret place; and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his
salary (which really might have come under the head of "obtaining
money under"; but that is neither here nor there); and, of course,
the New York girl was really engaged to a concrete house
contractor in the Bronx; and, necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in
a half-Nelson--and there you are.

After Hart and Cherry had gotten "Mice Will Play" flawless, they
had a try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch
was a house wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that
inundates a theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the
orchestra seats, being dressed for it, swam in tears.

After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and
pressed fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars
a week was what it panned out.

That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry
good night at her boarding-house door.

"Mr. Hart," said she thoughtfully, "come inside just a few minutes.
We've got our chance now to make good and make money. What
we want to do is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all
we can."

"Right," said Bob. "It's business with me. You've got your
scheme for banking yours; and I dream every night of that
bungalow with the Jap cook and nobody around to raise trouble.
Anything to enlarge the net receipts will engage my attention."

"Come inside just a few minutes," repeated Cherry, deeply
thoughtful. "I've got a proposition to make to you that will reduce
our expenses a lot and help you work out your own future and help
me work out mine--and all on business principles."

"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York
for ten weeks--rather neat for a vaudeville sketch--and then it
started on the circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it
was a solid drawing card for two years without a sign of abated
popularity.

Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor's New York houses, said
of Hart & Cherry:

"As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the
circuit. It's a pleasure to read their names on the booking list.
Quiet, hard workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to
the minute, straight home after their act, and each of 'em as
gentlemanlike as a lady. I don't expect to handle any attractions
that give me less trouble or more respect for the profession."

And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel
of the story:

At the end of its second season "Mice Will Play" came back to
New York for another run at the roof gardens and summer
theatres. There was never any trouble in booking it at the top-
notch price. Bob Hart had his bungalow nearly paid for, and
Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank books that she had
begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment plan to hold
them.

I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can't believe it,
that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
ambitions--just the same as the man who wants to be president, or
the grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is
anxious to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I
hope I may be allowed to say, without chipping into the
contribution basket, that they often move in a mysterious way their
wonders to perform.

But, listen.

At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was
nervous. When she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty
on the mantel, the bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then
striking the disk, went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck.
Not expecting to get it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry
fainted in a most artistic manner.

The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a
tragedy in which the principals were married or reconciled,
applauded with great enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always
graces such occasions, rang the curtain down, and two platoons of
scene shifters respectively and more or less respectfully removed
Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn went on, and all went
as merry as an alimony bell.

The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who
was waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The
doctor examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.

"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had
been two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid
artery as far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back
Again. As it is, you just get the property man to bind it up with a
flounce torn from any one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home
and get it dressed by the parlor-floor practitioner on your block,
and you'll be all right. Excuse me; I've got a serious case outside
to look after."

After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where
he lay came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line.
Vincente, a solemn man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs
at home, sent toys and maple sugar home to two small daughters
from every town he played. Vincente had moved on the same
circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their peripatetic friend.

"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse.
The little lady is wild about you."

"Who?" asked Hart.

"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were
hurt; and we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls
to hold her."

"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She
wasn't feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no
hard feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on
the job again in three days. Don't let her worry."

"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined
face, "are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's
crying her heart out for you--calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with
them holding her hands and keeping her from coming to you."

"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes.
"The sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the
doctor says. She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was
an accident. What's the matter with her?"

"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The
girl loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the
matter with _you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear
her call you."

"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on
which he lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."

"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.

"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's
impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."

"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it.
She's wild for love of you. How have you been so blind?"

"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's _too late_.
It's too late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must
be wrong. It's _impossible_. There's some mistake.

"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you
she's fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare
to raise the curtain. Wake up, man."

"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell
you it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been
married two years!_"

II

THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED

A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It
bores you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your
conscience. Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with
it. All is not gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the
stopper in his bottle of testing acid.

Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by
George the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of
that quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman,
'you can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I
walks."

Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two
streets where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little
tropical warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this
precinct is "El Refugio," a caf'e and restaurant that caters to the
volatile exiles from the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia,
the rolling republics of Central America and the ireful islands of
the Western Indies flit the cloaked and sombreroed se~nores, who
are scattered like burning lava by the political eruptions of their
several countries.

Hither they come to lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit
funds, to enlist filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and
ammunitions, to play the game at long taw. In El Refugio, they
find the atmosphere in which they thrive.

In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to
the palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must
halt the story thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary
subterfuges of the Gallic chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only
will you find a fish--bluefish, shad or pompano from the Gulf--
baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes give it color,
individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon it zest,
originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and
mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence.
Around it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--
hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and ddelicate that
only the Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do
not say that garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise
than as if the spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that
lingers in the parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in
life, "by hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And
then, when Conchito, the waiter, brings you a plate of brown
frijoles and carafe of wine that has never stood still between
Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!

One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55
Gen. Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from
Cartagena. The General was between a claybank and bay in
complexion, had a 42-inch waist and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du
Barry heels. He had the mustache of a shooting-gallery proprietor,
he wore the full dress of a Texas congressman and had the
important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.

Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to
inquire his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he
reached that neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-
brick house that read, "Hotel Espa~nol." In the window was a
card in Spanish, "Aqui se habla Espa~nol." The General entered,
sure of a congenial port.

In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was
amiability, and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed
the floor with his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of
Spanish, the syllables sounding like firecrackers gently popping
their way down the string of a bunch.

"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.

"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak
the Spanish. The advisment in your window say the Spanish he is
spoken here. How is that?"

"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm
sure I can't."

At the Hotel Espa~nol General Falcon engaged rooms and
established himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to
view the wonders of this roaring city of the North. As he walked
he thought of the wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is
here," said the General to himself, no doubt in his own language,
"that one shall find the most beautiful se~noras in the world. I
have not in my Colombia viewed among our beauties one so fair.
But no! It is not for the General Falcon to think of beauty. It is
my country that claims my devotion."

At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General
became involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender
of one upset him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab
driver missed him an inch with a hub, and poured barbarous
execrations upon his head. He scrambled to the sidewalk and
skipped again in terror when the whistle of a peanut-roaster puffed
a hot scream in his ear. V'algame Dios! What devil's city is this?"

As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a
wounded snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two
hunters. One was "Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport
required the use of a strong arm and the misuse of an eight-inch
piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of the asphalt was "Spider"
Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.

In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade
the quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr.
McGuire.

"G'wan!" he commanded harshly. "I saw it first." McGuire slunk
away, awed by superior intelligence.

"Pardon me," said Mr. Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled
up in the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up
the General's hat and brushed the dust from it.

The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General,
bewildered and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his
deliverer as a caballero with a most disinterested heart.

"I have a desire," said the General, "to return to the hotel of
O'Brien, in which I am stop. Caramba! se~nor, there is a loudness
and rapidness of going and coming in the city of this Nueva
York."

Mr. Kelley's politeness would not suffer the distinguished
Colombian to brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At
the door of the Hotel Espa~nol they paused. A little lower down
on the opposite side of the street shone the modest illuminated
sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to whom few streets were
unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago joint." All
foreigners, Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of "Dagoes"
and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid
foundation.

An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a
table in the conspirator's corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses
were between them. For the tenth time the General confided the
secret of his mission to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he
declared, to purchase arms--2,000 stands of Winchester rifles--for
the Colombian revolutionists. He had drafts in his pocket drawn
by the Cartagena Bank on its New York correspondent for
$25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were shouting their
political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was as loud as
the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine; he
roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the
table.

"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of
yours is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United
States, though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us
Columbia, too, sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you
butted into me to-night. I'm the only man in New York that can
get this gun deal through for you. The Secretary of War of the
United States is me best friend. He's in the city now, and I'll see
him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer, you keep them
drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you to-morrow, and
take you to see him. Say! that ain't the District of Columbia you're
talking about, is it?" concluded Mr. Kelley, with a sudden qualm.
"You can't capture that with no 2,000 guns--it's been tried with
more."

"No, no, no!" exclaimed the General. "It is the Republic of
Colombia--it is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of
the South. Yes. Yes."

"All right," said Mr. Kelley, reassured. "Now suppose we trek
along home and go by-by. I'll write to the Secretary to-night and
make a date with him. It's a ticklish job to get guns out of New
York. McClusky himself can't do it."

They parted at the door of the Hotel Espa~nol. The General rolled
his eyes at the moon and sighed.

"It is a great country, your Nueva York," he said. "Truly the cars
in the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts
terribly makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Se~nor Kelley--the
se~noras with hair of much goldness, and admirable fatness--they
are magnificas! Muy magnificas!"

Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up
McCrary's caf'e, far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.

"Is that Jimmy Dunn?" asked Kelley.

"Yes," came the answer.

"You're a liar," sang back Kelley, joyfully. "Your'e the Secretary
of War. Wait there till I come up. I've got the finest thing down
here in the way of a fish you ever baited for. It's a Colorado-
maduro, with a gold band around it and free coupons enough to
buy a red hall lamp and a statuette of Psyche rubbering in the
brook. I'll be up on the next car."

Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the
confidence line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he
scorned knockout drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before
an intended victim but the purest of drinks, if it had been possible
to procure such a thing in New York. It was the ambition of
"Spider" Kelley to elevate himself into Jimmy's class.

These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's.
Kelley explained.

"He's as easy as a gumshoe. He's from the Island of Colombia,
where there's a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and
they've sent him up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the
thing with. He showed me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one
for $5,000 on a bank here. 'S truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with
him because he didn't have it in thousand-dollar bills, and hand it
to me on a silver waiter. Now, we've got to wait till he goes to the
bank and gets the money for us."

They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; "Bring him
to No. __ Broadway, at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."

In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Espa~nol for the General.
He found the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with
Mrs. O'Brien.

"The Secretary of War is waitin' for us," said Kelley.

The General tore himself away with an effort.

"Ay, se~nor," he said, with a sigh, "duty makes a call. But,
se~nor, the se~noras of your Estados Unidos--how beauties! For
exemplification, take you la Madame O'Brien--que magnifica!
She is one goddess--one Juno--what you call one ox-eyed Juno."

Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by
the fire of their own imagination.

"Sure!" he said with a grin; "but you mean a peroxide Juno, don't
you?"

Mrs. O'Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her
businesslike eye rested for an instant upon the disappearing form
of Mr. Kelley. Except in street cars one should never be
unnecessarily rude to a lady.

When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the
Broadway address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour,
and then admitted into a well-equipped office where a
distinguished looking man, with a smooth face, wrote at a desk.
General Falcon was presented to the Secretary of War of the
United States, and his mission made known by his old friend, Mr.
Kelley.

"Ah--Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was
made to understand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficutly in
that case. The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He
prefers the established government, while I--" the secretary gave
the General a mysterious but encouraging smile. "You, of course,
know, General Falcon, that since the Tammany war, an act of
Congress has been passed requiring all manufactured arms and
ammunition exported from this country to pass through the War
Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be glad to do
so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in absolute
secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard favorably
the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will have my
orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the warehouse."

The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T.
on his cap stepped promptly into the room.

"Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory," said the
Secretary.

The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary
studied it closely.

"I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there
is shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered
by the Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his
order. Our rule is that legal-tender must be paid down at the time
of purchase. My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall
have this lot of arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer's price.
And you will forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am
expecting the Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every
moment!"

As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to
his esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary
of War was extremely busy during the next two days buying empty
rifle cases and filling them with bricks, which were then stored in
a warehouse rented for that purpose. As still another, when the
General returned to the Hotel Espa~nol, Mrs. O'Brien went up to
him, plucked a thread from his lapel, and said:

"Say, se~nor, I don't want to 'butt in,' but what does that monkey-
faced, cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?"

"Sangre de mi vida!" exclaimed the General. "Impossible it is that
you speak of my good friend, Se~nor kelley."

"Come into the summer garden," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I want to
have a talk with you."

Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.

"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can
be purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one
year with this garden so lovely--so resembling unto the patios of
my cara Colombia?"

"And dirt cheap at that," sighed the lady.

"Ah, Dios!" breathed General Falcon. "What to me is war and
politics? This spot is one paradise. My country it have other
brave heroes to continue the fighting. What to me should be glory
and the shooting of mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one
angel. Let us buy the Hotel Espa~nol and you shall be mine, and
the money shall not be waste on guns."

Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of
the Colombian patriot.

"Oh, se~nor," she sighed, happily, "ain't you terrible!"

Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms
to the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the
rented warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting
for his friend Kelley to fetch the victim.

Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Espa~nol. He found
the General behind the desk adding up accounts.

"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day
buy the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the
General Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame
O'Brien."

Mr. Kelley almost strangled.

"Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered,
"you're a swindler--that's what you are! You've bought a boarding
house with money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it
is."

"Ah," said the General, footing up a column, "that is what you call
politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best
that one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable
to keep hotels and be with that Juno--that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what
hair of the gold it is that she have!"

Mr. Kelley choked again.

"Ah, Senor Kelley!" said the General, feelingly and finally, "is it
that you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame
O'Brien she make?"

III

BABES IN THE JUNGLE

Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West,
says to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy,
and get too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to
New York. In the West a sucker is born every minute; but in New
York they appear in chunks of roe--you can't count 'em!"

Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of
the Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left
ear; so I knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice.

I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up
Broadway. And I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up
in a spacious kind of haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and
rubbing the half-moons on his nails with a silk handkerchief.

"Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him.

"Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to
me that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness.
I've been saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down
trick to take things from these people. They only know this and
that and pass to and fro and think ever and anon. I'd hate for my
mother to know I was skinning these weak-minded ones. She
raised me better."

"Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
does skin grafting?" I asks.

"Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win to-
day. I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the
members of Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of
whom has volunteered to contribute a portion of cuticle toward
this rehabilitation, may as well send their photos to the _Evening
Daily_.

"I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers
every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows
an O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and
kick when you are the least bit slow about taking money from
them. Come up in my room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town
together, Billy, for the sake of old times."

Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant
objects lying about.

"There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan
hayseeds," says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston,
S. C. They'll bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em
commute. The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of
cognizance they have. Why, didin't a man the other day sell J. P.
Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's
celebrated painting of the young Saint John!

"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's
gold mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in
two hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People
fought to buy it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to
the station-house, and then I took it off the market. I don't want
people to give me their money. I want some little consideration
connected with the transaction to keep my pride from being hurt. I
want 'em to guess the missing letter in Chic-go, or draw to a pair
of nines before they pay me a cent of money.

"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to
quit it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an
anchor on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I
was Admiral Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on
him for a thousand, but I didn't know my uncle's first name. It
shows, though, what an easy town it is. As for burglars, they won't
go in a house now unless there's a hot supper ready and a few
college students to wait on 'em. They're slugging citizens all over
the upper part of the city and I guess, taking the town from end to
end, it's a plain case of assault and Battery."

"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have
Manhattan correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt
it. I've only been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me
that it's ours with a cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe
about it to suit me. I'd be a good deal much better satisfied if the
citizens had a straw or more in their hair, and run more to
velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms. They don't look easy
to me."

"You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New
York's bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a
foreigner. You'll be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the
people here because they don't send me all their money in laundry
baskets, with germicide sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the
street to get it. Who wears the diamonds in this town? Why,
Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride.
New Yorkers can be worked easier than a blue rose on a tidy. The
only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break the cigars in my vest
pocket when I get my clothes all full of twenties."

"I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had
been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of
farmers is never so short out there but what you can get a few of
'em to sign a petition for a new post office that you can discount
for $200 at the county bank. The people hear appear to possess
instincts of self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are
not cultured enough to tackle this game."

"Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East
River ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of
Broadway who never saw any kind of a building except a
skyscraper in their lives! A good, live hustling Western man ought
to get conspicuous enough here inside of three months to incur
either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's displeasure."

"Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system
of buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by
applying to the Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen
Gould's doorsteps?"

"Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got,
Billy?"

"A thousand," I told him.

"I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of
business. There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't
know how to begin."

The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all
sonorous and stirred with a kind of silent joy.

"We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I
know in the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He
says he likes to meet people from the West."

"That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr.
Morgan."

"It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few
finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with
strangers."

The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein
brought his Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr.
Morgan" looked some like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel
wrapped around his left foot, and he walked with a cane.

"Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous,"
says he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial--"

"Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you
gents; I take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from
Little Rock. I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If
either of you guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I-
-"

"Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!"

"Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I
sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of
you never knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around
Little Rock? He lived in Seattle, New Mexico."

Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with
his can and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone
of voice.

"They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street,
Pierpont?" asks Klein, smiling.

"Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent
to Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day
that it ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for
that picture--yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing
it. I cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De
Vinchy to--"

"Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the
De Vinchy paintings."

"What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as
big as the side of the Flatiron Building."

"I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says
Morgan. "The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's
Idle Hour.' It represents a number of cloak models doing the two-
step on the bank of a purple river. The cablegram said it might
have been brought to this country. My collection will never be
complete without that picture. Well, so long, gents; us financiers
must keep early hours."

Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and
Silver talked about how simple and unsuspecting great people was;
and Silver said what a shame it would be to try to rob a man like
Mr. Morgan; and I said I thought it would be rather imprudent,
myself. Klein proposes a stroll after dinner; and me and him and
Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue to see the sights. Klein
sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his admiration in a pawnshop
window, and we all go in while he buys 'em.

After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at
me and waves his hands.

"Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?"

"What?" I asks.

"Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that
pawnshop, behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein
was there. It's the article sure as you live. The girls are as natural
as paint can make them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if
they had any skirts, and they're doing a buck-and-wing on the
bank of a river with the blues. What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give
for it? Oh, don't make me tell you. They can't know what it is in
that pawnshop."

When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was
standing there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit
to buy a drink. We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-
chains.

"That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there,"
remarked Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse
over the girl with the shoulderblades and red bunting. Would an
offer of $2.25 for it cause you to knock over any fragile articles of
your stock in hurrying it off the nail?"

The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-
chains.

"That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian
gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,'
and it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time
expired, and it became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of
chain that is worn a great deal now."

At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker
$2,000 and walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with
it and started for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for
him. In two hours Silver comes back.

"Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for
it?"

Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.

"I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's
been in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is
this: The department stores have all got that same picture on sale,
framed, for $3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone--
that's what I can't understand."

IV

THE DAY RESURGENT

I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it
comes to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial
conceptions of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in
number.

First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may
have free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the
proper number of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour,
the well-known model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher,"
or whatever it was that Trilby called it.

Second--the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework
of lilies. This is magazine-covery, but reliable.

Third--Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.

Fourth--Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw
hat, happy and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.

Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
higher criticism has hard-boiled them.

The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our
conception. It belongs to all religions, although the pagans
invented it. Going back still further to the first spring, we can see
Eve choosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree _ficus
carica_.

Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you
follow in the footsteps of Danny McCree.

Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place
on the calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5:24 the sun
rose, and at 10:30 Danny followed its example. He went into the
kitchen and washed his face at the sink. His mother was frying
bacon. She looked at his hard, smooth, knowing countenance as
he juggled with the round cake of soap, and thought of his father
when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder between second
and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in Harlem, where
the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front room of
the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe,
with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still
clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two
years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off
without permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the
reason that they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy
having the news read to you from an evening newspaper unless
you could see the colors of the headlines?

"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.

"Scramble mine," said Danny.

After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning
costume of the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock
coat, striped trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across
front of vest, and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow
from Schonstein's (between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit
stand) Saturday night sale.

"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man
McCree, a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well,
it's fine spring weather. I can feel it in the air."

"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his
grumpiest chest tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a
horse? One day of rest my team has a week. Who earns the
money for the rent and the breakfast you've just eat, I'd like to
know? Answer me that!"

"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me
two eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a
Sunday out. There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the
windy. I have me tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad.
Times I wish your mother had larned to read, so I might hear the
rest about the hippopotamus--but let that be."

"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked
Danny of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. "Have you
been taking him to the Zoo? And for what?"

"I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day.
'Tis little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I'm
thinkin' they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of
grease without stoppin' for the most of an hour. I looks to see if
there's lard burnin' in the fryin' pan. There is not. He says I do not
understand. 'Tis weary days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a
blind man, Danny. There was no better nor stronger than him
when he had his two eyes. 'Tis a fine day, son. Injoy yeself ag'inst
the morning. There will be cold supper at six."

"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of
Mike, the janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.

"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis
the only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages
that I've not been compained to about these two days. See the
landlord. Or else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in
the lease? No, then?"

"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's
nothing in it."

Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck
northward into the heart of the district where Easter--modern
Easter, in new, bright raiment--leads the pascal march. Out of
towering brown churches came the blithe music of anthems from
the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving parterres of living
flowers--so it seemed when your eye looked upon the Ester girl.

Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands.
The windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the
most opulent creations of flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.

Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned,
walked Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.

"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter? I know it comes the first
you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March--but
why? Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor
appoint it out of politics?"

"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York. It
extends up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One
Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion 'tis not political."

"Thanks," said Danny. "And say--did you ever hear a man
complain of hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I
mean."

"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and
there was wood alcohol in that."

Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying
simultaneously a Sunday and a festival day was his.

The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so
often that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-
made garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find
in the griefs of the common people their most striking models.
But when the Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of
Melpomene, herself, attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny
set his jaw hard at Easter, and took his pleasure sadly.

The family entrance of Dugan's caf'e was feasible; so Danny
yielded to the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a
dark, linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still
groped after the mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.

"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"

"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new
one? All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it
up. What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"

From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed
to stir in him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made
a wrong diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.

A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church.
They pumped hands on the corner.

"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's
wrong? Come away with me to church and be cheerful."

"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.

"Why, it's Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin'
you might come around to go."

"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily.
"Nobody seems to know."

"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit. "You haven't
even looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it's when all the girls
put on new spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with
me?"

"I will," said Danny. "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought
to be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain't a
beauty. The green roses are great."

At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding.
He spoke rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early
Sabbath dinner; but he knew his business. There was one word
that controlled his theme--resurrection. Not a new creation; but a
new life arising out of the old. The congregation had heard it
often before. But there was a wonderful hat, a combination of
sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth pew from the pulpit. It
attracted much attention.

After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with
pique in her sky-blue eyes.

"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked. "But don't mind
me. I'll get there all right. You seem to be studyin' a lot about
something. All right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr.
McCree?"

"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning
and crossing the street.

Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly.
Danny stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in
his pockets, at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a
graven image. Deep in his soul something stirred so small, so fine,
so keen and leavening that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It
was something more tender than the April day, more subtle than
the call of the senses, purer and deeper-rooted than the love of
woman--for had he not turned away from green roses and eyes that
had kept him chained for a year? And Danny did not know what it
was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his dinner, had
told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow the
drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.

Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of
delight.

"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar. "Well,
how is that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know
what he was driving at now.

"Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a
year since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at
469 B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't
have guessed what he was trying to get out of him."

Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his
labor supported.

Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe
lay on the sill.

"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.

Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
outset of committing a good deed.

"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?"
he snapped, viciously. "Have I no right to come in?"

"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh. "Is it
evening yet?"

Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled
in gilt letters, "The History of Greece." Dust was on it half an inch
thick. He laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a
strip of paper. And then he gave a short roar at the top of his
voice, and said:

"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"

"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree. "Many and
weary be the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I
took a great likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a
fine day outside, lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have
gotten used to me chair by the windy and me pipe."

"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
hippopotamus," said Danny. "The war began there. It kept
something doing for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy
named Philip of Macedon, in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece
by getting the decision at the battle of Cher-Cheronaea. I'll read
it."

With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man
McCree sat for an hour, listening.

Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs.
McCree was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were
running from old man McCree's eyes.

"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said. "There is none finer
in the land. My two eyes have come back to me again."

After supper he said to Danny: "'Tis a happy day, this Easter.
And now ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough."

"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?"
said Danny, angrily. "Have I no right to stay in it? After supper
there is yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C.,
when the kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of
the Roman Empire. Am I nothing in this house?"

V

THE FIFTH WHEEL

The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold.
They were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta
of Fifth Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their
freezing feet, looked at the empty benches in Madison Square
whence Jack Frost had evicted them, and muttered to one another
in a confusion of tongues. The Flatiron Building, with its impious,
cloud-piercing architecture looming mistily above them on the
opposite delta, might well have stood for the tower of Babel,
whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the winged
walking delegate of the Lord.

Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the
north wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents
bought you a man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the
recording angel gave you credit.

The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. he had
looked over the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and
had assumed for himself the task of putting to bed all who might
apply at his soap box on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday.
That left but five nights for other philanthropists to handle; and
had they done their part as well, this wicked city might have
become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all might snooze and
snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and the rent
man and business go to the deuce.

The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General
Worth's monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously,
carelessly, or with conscientious exactness one would step forward
and bestow upon the Preacher small bills or silver. Then a
lieutenant of Scandinavian coloring and enthusiasm would march
away to a lodging house with a squad of the redeemed. All the
while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms beautifully devoid
of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative monotony of
truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must hear
one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that
night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in
the world.

_"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."_

Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to
the Potter's Field.

A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of
his coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still
showed signs of having flattened themselves beneath the
compelling goose. But, conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's
apprentice who reads this, expecting a Reginald Montressor in
straits, to peruse no further. The young man was no other than
Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for drunkenness one
month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the one-
night bed seekers.

If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe
family carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot
bays. The carriage is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it
reclines an old lady Van Smuythe holding a black sunshade the
size of a New Year's Eve feather tickler. Before his downfall
Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays and was himself
driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is one of
the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty
commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of
any Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas's physical troubles were not
few. Therefore, his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost
lady's maid than it was by the fancied presence of certain non-
existent things that his racked nerves almost convinced him were
flying, dancing, crawling, and wriggling on the asphalt and in the
air above and around the dismal campus of the Bed Line army.
Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and a diet limited to
crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a psycho-
zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by
phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and
intercourse.

The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his
own age, shabby but neat.

"What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with
the freemasonic familiarity of the damned--"Booze? That's mine.
You don't look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I
was pushing the lines over the backs of the finest team of
Percheron buffaloes that ever made their mile down Fifth Avenue
in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how do you come to be at this
bed bargain-counter rummage sale."

The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy
ex-coachman.

"No," said he, "mine isn't exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow
that Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the
opinion of my unforgiving relatives. I've been out of work for a
year because I don't know how to work; and I've been sick in
Bellevue and other hospitals for months. My wife and kid had to
go back to her mother. I was turned out of the hospital yesterday.
And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."

"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all
right. But I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."

Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid,
so red, so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed
regulations that it drew the attention even of the listless Bed
Liners. Suspended and pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.

When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire
became loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in
the wake of the flying car.

Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place
among the Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the
rolling tire, swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly
after the car. On both sides of the avenue people were shouting,
whistling, and waving canes at the red car, pointing to the
enterprising Thomas coming up with the lost tire.

One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that
so grand an automobilist could offer for the service he had
rendered, and save his pride.

Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown,
muffled chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a
magnificent sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.

Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman
manner and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was
meant to be suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and
receptive up to higher denominations.

But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman
received the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-
coachman, and muttered to himself inscrutable words.

"Strange--strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have
fancied that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be
possible?"

Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and
hopeful Thomas.

"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask
you, if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van
Smuythes living in Washington Square North?"

"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."

The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.

"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."

Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A
seat in a motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed
Line. But after the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the
auto had sped on its course, the peculiarity of the invitation
lingered in his mind.

"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots
of these swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess
he'll dump me out when he gets to some joint where he can get
cash on his mug. Anyhow, it's a cinch that I've got that open-air
bed convention beat to a finish."

Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed,
himself, to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing!
strange!" he repeated to himself constantly.

When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies, it swung
eastward a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped,
brownstone-front houses.

"Be kind enough to enter my house with me," said the sealskinned
gentleman when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure,"
reflected Thomas, following him inside.

There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through
a door to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute
darkness. Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone
faintly in the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas
more splendidly appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage
or read of in fairy tales.

The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
porti`eres of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars.
The furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-
coachman's feet sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts.
There were three or four oddly shaped stands or tables covered
with black velvet drapery.

Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment
with one eye. With the other he looked for his imposing
conductor--to find that he had disappeared.

"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop.
Shouldn't wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights'
adventures that you read about. Wonder what became of the furry
guy."

Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the
illuminated globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his
eyes a brilliant electric glow.

With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette
of Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at
the terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went
over with a crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room
was flooded with light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls
and ceiling. The gold porti`eres parted and closed, and the
mysterious automobilist entered the room. He was tall and wore
evening dress of perfect cut and accurate taste. A Vandyke beard
of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy hair, smoothly
parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave him a most
impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive a Russian
Grand Duke in a Rajah's throneroom advancing to greet a visiting
Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his manner.
But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t's_ to be mindful of
his _p's_ and _q's_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and
somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.

"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap. I
hope I didn't break anything. But I've nearly got the williwalloos,
and when he threw them 32-candle-power-lamps of his on me, I
took a snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that
stood on the sideboard."

"That is merely a mechanical toy," said the gentleman with a wave
of his hand. "May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I
brought you to my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor
be in sympathy with the psychological prompting that caused me
to do so. So I will come to the point at once by venturing to refer
to your admission that you know the Van Smuythe family, of
Washington Square North."

"Any silver missing," asked Thomas tartly. "Any joolry displaced?
Of course I know 'em. Any of the old ladies' sunshades
disappeared? Well, I know 'em. And then what?"

The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.

"Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe
in the Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you," he
continued, "that there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I
can promise you that very good fortune awaits you. We will see."

"Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his
old professional pride in his voice. "I'll promise to cut out the
booze and do the right thing if they'll try me again. But how did
you get wise, doc? B'gee, it's the swellest employment agency I
was ever in, with its flashlight owls and so forth."

With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused
for two minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to
the chauffeur, who still waited with the car. Returning to the
mysterious apartment, he sat by his guest and began to entertain
him so well by his witty and genial converse that the poor Bed
Liner almost forgot the cold streets from which he had been so
recently and so singularly rescued. A servant brought some tender
cold fowl and tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous wine; and
Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop him. Thus half an
hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned motor car at
the door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with another
soft petition for a brief absence.

Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the
front door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down
the hall through another door to the left and into a smaller room,
which was screened and segregated from the larger front room by
heavy, double porti`eres. here the furnishings were even more
elegant and exquisitely tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid
rosewood table were scattered sheets of white paper and a queer,
triangular instrument or toy, apparently of gold, standing on little
wheels.

The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her
cloak. She was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other,
young and plump, took a chair a little distance away and to the
rear as a servant or an attendant might have done.

"You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco," said the elder woman,
wearily. "I hope you have something more definite than usual to
say. I've about lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not
have responded to your call this evening if my sister had not
insisted upon it."

"Madam," said the professor, with his princeliest smile, "the true
Art cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch
sometimes requires time. We have not succeeded, I admint, with
the cards, the crystal, the stars, the magic formulae of Zarazin, nor
the Oracle of Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic
route. The Chaldean Chiroscope has been successful in our
search."

The professor's voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief
in his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little
more interest.

"Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my
hands on it," she said. "What do you mean?"

"The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his
full magnificent height: _"By the fifth wheel of the chariot he
shall come."_

"I haven't seen many chariots," said the lady, "but I never saw one
with five wheels."

"Progress," said the professor--"progress in science and mechanics
has accomplished it--though, to be exact, we may speak of it only
as an extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion.
Madam, I repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I
can not only answer the question that you have propounded, but I
can produce before your eyes the proof thereof."

And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her
poise.

"O professor!" she cried anxiously--"When?--where? Has he been
found? Do not keep me in suspense."

"I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes," said Professor
Cherubusco, "and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of
the true Art."

Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread
and fowl when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.

"Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
welcome and restoration to favor?" he asked, with his courteous,
royal smile.

"Do I look bughouse?" answered Thomas. "Enough of the
footback life for me. But will they have me again? The old lady is
as fixed in her ways as a nut on a new axle."

"My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for
you everywhere."

"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical
domedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class
coachman like myself; but I'll take the job back, sure, doc. They're
good people to be with."

And now a change came o'er the suave countenance of the Caliph
of Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-
coachman.

"May I ask what your name is?" he said shortly.

"You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my
name? You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the
Central Office gumshoers. I'm Thomas McQuade, of course; and
I've been chauffeur of the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year.
They fired me a month ago for--well, doc, you saw what I did to
your old owl. I went broke on booze, and when I saw the tire drop
off your whiz wagon I was standing in that squad of hoboes at the
Worth monument waiting for a free bed. Now, what's the prize for
the best answer to all this?"

To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This
was opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one
heavy, disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous
Arabian's shoe.

As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.

"Crazy guy," was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist.
"Just wanted to have some fun kiddin', I guess. He might have
dug up a dollar, anyhow. Now I've got to hurry up and get back to
that gang of bum bed hunters before they all get preached to
sleep."

When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the
ranks of the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten.
He took the proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear
rank. In a file in front of him was the young man who had spoken
to him of hospitals and something of a wife and child.

"Sorry to see you back again," said the young man, turning to
speak to him. "I hoped you had struck something better than this."

"Me?" said Thomas. "Oh, I just took a run around the block to
keep warm! I see the public ain't lending to the Lord very fast to-
night."

"In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself
of the proverb, and both begins and ends at home."

And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last
hymn of petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners
whose windpipes still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and
tunelessly joined in.

In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming
straight toward him from the opposite sidewalk. "Annie!" he
yelled, and ran toward her.

"You fool, you fool!" she cried, weeping and laughing, and
hanging upon his neck, "why did you do it?"

"The Stuff," explained Thomas briefly. "You know. But
subsequently nit. Not a drop." He led her to the curb. "How did
you happen to see me?"

"I came to find you," said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh,
you big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you
here."

"Professor Ch-- Dont' know the guy. What saloon does he work
in?"

"He's a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found
you with the Chaldean telescope, he said."

"He's a liar," said Thomas. "I never had it. He never saw me have
anybody's telescope."

"And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or
something."

"Annie," said Thoms solicitously, "you're giving me the wheels
now. If I had a chariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And
without any singing and preaching for a nightcap, either."

"Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she'll take you back. I
begged her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the
house to-night; and your old room over the stable is ready."

"Great!" said Thomas earnestly. "You are It, Annie. But when did
these stunts happen?"

"To-night at Professor Cherubusco's. He sent his automobile for
the Missis, and she took me along. I've been there with her
before."

"What's the professor's line?"

"He's a clairvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He
knows everything. But he hasn't done the Missis any good yet,
though she's paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the
stars told him we could find you here."

"What's the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?"

"That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked
enough questions. Come on home, you big fool."

They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas
stopped.

"Got any dough with you, Annie?" he asked.

Annie looked at him sharply.

"Oh, I know what that look means," said Thomas. "You're wrong.
Not another drop. But there's a guy that was standing next to me
in the bed line over there that's in bad shape. He's the right kind,
and he's got wives or kids or something, and he's on the sick list.
No booze. If you could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get
a decent bed I'd like it."

Annie's fingers began to wiggle in her purse.

"Sure, I've got money," said she. "Lots of it. Twelve dollars."
And then she added, with woman's ineradicable suspicion of
vicarious benevolence: "Bring him here and let me see him first."

Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily
enough. As the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse
and screamed:

"Mr. Walter-- Oh--Mr. Walter!:

"Is that you, Annie?" said the young man meekly.

"Oh, Mr. Walter!--and the Missis hunting high and low for you!"

"Does mother want to see me?" he asked, with a flush coming out
on his pale cheek.

"She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see
you. She wants you to come home. She's tried police and
morgues and lawyers and advertising and detectives and rewards
and everything. And then she took up clearvoyants. You'll go
right home, won't you, Mr. Walter?"

"Gladly, if she wants me," said the young man. "Three years is a
long time. I suppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street
cars are giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug
team of bays we used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them
yet?"

"They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten
years from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus
is one hundred and forty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just got
my reappointment five minutes ago. Let's all ride up in a surface
car--that is--er--if Annie will pay the fares."

On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a
nickel to pay the conductor.

"Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large
sums of money around," said Thomas sarcastically.

"In that purse," said Annie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall
take every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor
Cherubusco, the greatest man in the world."

"Well," said Thomas, "I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe
off things the way he does. I'm glad his spooks told him where
you could find me. If you'll give me his address, some day I'll go
up there, myself, and shake his hand."

Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully
felt an abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.

"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last
dreams of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in
authomobile with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles
and arc lights. He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked
me down the front steps. If it was the _d t's_, why am I so sore?"

"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.

"If I could find that funny guy's house, said Thomas, in
conclusion, "I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."

VI

THE POET AND THE PEASANT

The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close
communion with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an
editor.

It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.

When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a
beefsteak dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the
comment:

"Too artific