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Title: McClure's Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 3, July 1908.
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "McClure's Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 3, July 1908." ***

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  [Transcriber's Note: The Table of Contents and the list of
    illustrations were added by the transcriber.
  Hyphenation standardized within articles.
  Quotation marks added to standardize usage.
  Updated spelling on possible typos: ninteenth, beafsteak,
    and embarassed.
  Replaced cañon (with tilde) with canyon.
  Preserved other original punctuation and spelling.
  Passages in italics indicated by underscore _.]


VOL. XXXI    JULY, 1908    No. 3

_Copyright, 1908, by The S. S. McClure Co. All rights reserved_


  ILLUSTRATIONS                                                      241
  GUARDIANS OF THE PUBLIC HEALTH. By Samuel Hopkins Adams.           241
    Our Health Boards and Their Powers                               242
    Our Absurd Vital Statistics                                      244
    The Criminal Negligence of Physicians                            246
    "Business Interests" and Yellow Fever                            246
    Newspapers, Politicians, and the Bubonic Plague                  248
    Fighting Prejudice and the Death Rate in Charleston              250
    Killing Off the City Negro                                       251
    Private Interests in Public Murder                               251
  A LITTLE VICTORY FOR THE GENERAL. By Josephine Daskam Bacon.       253
  AMERICAN IMPRESSIONS. By Ellen Terry.                              263
  THE HERITAGE OF HAM. By Lieutenant Hugh M. Kelly, U. S. A.         277
  THE SINGER'S HEART. By Harris Merton Lyon.                         291
  THE REPUDIATION OF JOHNSON'S POLICY. By Carl Schurz.               297
    The Fourteenth Amendment                                         298
    A Campaign to Destroy a President                                298
    Killing of Negroes at Memphis and New Orleans                    300
    Johnson "Swings Around the Circle"                               301
    New Congress Overwhelmingly Anti-Johnson                         304
    The Movement Toward Negro Suffrage                               304
    Reconstruction Under Military Control                            305
    The Public Fear of Johnson                                       306
    The Fatal Bungling of Reconstruction                             307
  THE THIRTEENTH MOVE. By Alberta Bancroft.                          308
  GIFFORD PINCHOT, FORESTER. By Will C. Barnes.                      319
  CHIEF KITSAP, FINANCIER. By Joseph Blethen.                        328
  THE WAYFARERS. By Mary Stewart Cutting.                            337
  THE CATHEDRAL. By Florence Wilkinson.                              357
  THE NEW GOSPEL IN CRIMINOLOGY. By Judge McKenzie Cleland.          358



[Illustration: Copyright by Arnold Genthe]

[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S KITCHEN



John Chinaman is the logician of hygiene. To his family doctor he says:
"I pay you to keep me well. Earn your money." Let him or his fall sick,
and the physician's recompense stops until health returns to that
household. Being fair-minded as well as logical, the Oriental obeys his
physical guardian's directions. Now, it may be possible to criticize
certain Chinese medical methods, such as burning parallel holes in a
man's back to cure him of appendicitis, or banging for six hours a day
on a brass tom-tom to eliminate the devil of headache; but the
underlying principle of "No health, no pay" is worthy of consideration.

This principle it is which, theoretically, we have adopted in the matter
of the public health. To our city, State, or national doctors we pay a
certain stipend (when we pay them at all) on the tacit understanding
that they are to keep us free from illness. With the cure of disease
they have no concern. The minute you fall ill, Mr. Taxpayer, you pass
into the hands of your private physician. No longer are you an item of
interest to your health officer, except as you may communicate your
disease to your fellow citizens. If he looks after you at all, it is not
that you may become well, but that others may not become ill through
you. Being less logical in our conduct than the Chinese, we, as a
people, pay little or no heed to the instructions of the public doctors
whom we employ. We grind down their appropriations; we flout the wise
and by no means over-rigorous regulations which they succeed in getting
established, usually against the stupid opposition of unprogressive
legislatures; we permit--nay, we influence our private physicians to
disobey the laws in our interest, preferring to imperil our neighbors
rather than submit to the inconvenience necessary to prevent the spread
of disease; and we doggedly, despite counsel and warning, continue to
poison ourselves perseveringly with bad air, bad water, and bad food,
the three B's that account for 90 per cent. of our unnecessary deaths.
Then, if we are beset by some well-deserved epidemic, we resentfully
demand to know why such things are allowed to occur. For it usually
happens that the virtuous public which fell asleep with a germ in its
mouth, wakes up with a stone in its hand to throw at the health
officer. Considering what we, as a people, do and fail to do, we get, on
the whole, better public health service than we deserve, and worse than
we can afford.

_Our Health Boards and Their Powers_

As a nation, we have no comprehensive health organization. The crying
need for one I shall point out in a future article. Our only Federal
guardianship is vested in the United States Public Health and Marine
Hospital Service, which, by some mystery of governmental construction,
got itself placed in the Treasury Department, where it certainly does
not belong. It is, with the exception of a few ancient political
appointees now relegated to unimportant posts, a highly trained and
efficient body of hygienists and medical men, the best of whom have also
qualified as diplomats in trying crises. Any germ-beleaguered city may
call upon this Service for aid. It is a sort of flying squadron of
sanitative defence. When yellow fever broke out in New Orleans, it was
the M. H. S. men who, working quietly and inconspicuously with the local
volunteers, mapped out the campaign which rid the city of the scourge.
In the San Francisco panic eight years ago, when bubonic plague beset
the city, it was the Marine Hospital Service which restored confidence:
and a Service man has been there ever since as the city's chief adviser.
The Federal "surgeons," as they are called, may be in St. Louis helping
to check smallpox, or in Seattle, blocking the spread of a plague
epidemic, or in Mobile, Alabama, fighting to prevent the establishment
of an unnecessary and injurious quarantine against the city by
outsiders, because of a few cases of yellow jack; and all the while the
Service is studying and planning a mighty "Kriegspiel" against the
endemic diseases in their respective strongholds--malaria, typhoid,
tuberculosis, and the other needless destroyers of life which we have
always with us. In the Marine Hospital Service is the germ of a mighty
force for national betterment.



Of the State boards, perhaps a fourth may be regarded as actively
efficient. The rest are honorary and ornamental. Undoubtedly a majority
would be ready and willing to perform the services for which they are
not (as a rule) paid anything; but they lack any appropriation upon
which to work. South Carolina, for example, has an excellent State
board. Its president, Dr. Robert Wilson, is an able and public-spirited
physician of the highest standing; an earnest student of conditions, and
eager for the sanitary betterment of his State. But when he and his
board undertook to get one thousand dollars from the legislature to
demonstrate the feasibility of enforcing the pure food law and of
turning away the decayed meat for which the State is a dumping-ground,
they were blandly informed that there was no money available for that
purpose. It was in South Carolina, by the way, that a medical
politician who served on the public health committee of the legislature
addressed this question to a body of physicians who had come there to
appeal for certain sanitary reforms: "What do you want of laws to
prevent folks being sick? Ain't that the way you make your livin'?"
Which is, I fear, typical of the kind of physicians that go into
politics and get into our legislatures, where, unhappily, they are
usually assigned to the public health committees.

Under the State boards, in the well-organized States, are the county
boards and officers, who report to the State boards and may call upon
the latter for advice or help in time of epidemic or danger.

In certain circumstances the State officials may arbitrarily take
charge. This is done in Indiana, in Maryland, in Pennsylvania, and in
Massachusetts. The last State not only grants extraordinary powers to
its health executive, Dr. Charles Harrington, but it appropriated last
year for the work the considerable sum of $136,000. By the issuance
alone of vaccine and antitoxin, the Board saved to the citizens of the
State $210,000, or $74,000 more than the total appropriation for all the
varied work of the institution. Some vague idea of the economy in lives
which it achieves may be gained from the established fact that death
results in only sixteen out of every thousand cases of diphtheria, when
the antitoxin is given on or before the second day of the illness; 110,
when given on the third day; and 210 when the inoculation is performed
later. The old death rate from diphtheria, before antitoxin was
discovered, ranged from 35 to 50 per cent. of those stricken.



Finally, there are the city bureaus, with powers vested, as a
rule, in a medical man designated as "health officer," "agent," or
"superintendent." What Massachusetts is to the State boards, New York
City is to the local boards, but with even greater powers. Under the
charter it has full power to make a sanitary code. Matters ranging from
flat wheels on the Metropolitan Street Railway Company's antiquated
cars, to soft coal smoke belched forth from factory chimneys, are
subject to control by the New York City Department of Health. The Essex
Street resident who keeps a pig in the cellar, and the Riverside Drive
house-holder who pounds his piano at 1 A.M. to the detriment of his
neighbor's slumber, are alike amenable to the metropolis' hired doctors.

[Illustration: DR. CHARLES V. CHAPIN


The province of the city, State, and Federal health organization is
broad. "Control over all matters affecting the public health" is a
comprehensive term. "All the powers not already given to the school
committees," observed a Massachusetts judge, "are now ceded to the
Boards of Health." In theory, then, almost unlimited powers are vested
in the authorities. But how carefully they must be exercised in order
not to excite public jealousy and suspicion, every city health official
well knows. More serious than interference and opposition, however, is
the lack of any general equipment. At the very outset the loosely allied
army of the public health finds itself lacking in the primal weapon of
the campaign; comprehensive vital statistics.

[Illustration: DR. JOHN N. HURTY


_Our Absurd Vital Statistics_

Vital statistics in this country are an infant science. Yet they are the
very basis and fundament of any attempt to better the general health.
Knowledge of what is killing us before our time is the first step toward
saving our lives. The Census Bureau does its best to acquire this
essential information. For years Director North has been persistently
hammering away at this point. But progress is slow. Only fifteen States,
representing 48 per cent. of our population, are comprised in the
"registration area"; that is, record all deaths, and forbid burial
without a legal permit giving the cause of death and other details.
Outside of this little group of States, the decedent may be tucked away
informally underground and no one be the wiser for it. This is
convenient for the enterprising murderers, and saves trouble for the
undertakers. Indeed, so interested are the latter class, that in Iowa
they secured the practical repeal of a law which would have brought that
State within the area; and in Virginia this year they snowed under a
similar bill in the legislature, by a flood of telegrams. Ohio, the
third largest State in the Union, keeps no accurate count of the ravages
of disease. Probably not more than 60 per cent. of its deaths are
reported. Why? Inertia, apparently, on the part of the officials who
should take the matter in charge. Governor Harris in his January message
made a strong plea for registration, but without result. As for births,
there is no such thing as general registration of them. So this matter
is neglected, upon which depend such vital factors as school attendance,
factory employment, marriage, military duty, and the very franchise
which is the basis of citizenship. It is curious to note that Uruguay,
in its official tables of comparative statistics, regrets its inability
to draw satisfactory conclusions regarding the United States of America,
because that nation has not yet attained to any scientific method of
treating the subject. Patriotism may wince; but let us not haughtily
demand any explanation from our sneering little neighbor. Explanations
might be embarrassing. For the taunt is well founded.

[Illustration: DR. GEORGE W. GOLER


Is it strange that, having no basis in national statistics, our local
health figures "speak a varied language"? We have no standards even of
death on which to base comparisons. But a dead man is a dead man, isn't
he, whether in Maine or California? Not necessarily and unqualifiedly.
In some Southern cities he may be a "dead colored man," hence thrown out
of the figures on the "white death rate" which we are asked to regard as
the true indication of health conditions. In New Orleans, until
recently, he might be a "death in county hospital," and as such not
counted--this to help produce a low death rate. In Salt Lake City he's a
"dead stranger," and unpopular on account of raising the total figures
for the city. They reckon their total rate there as 16.38, but their
home rate or "real" rate as 10.88. That is to say, less than 11 out of
every 1,000 _residents_ die in a year. If this be true, the Salt Lake
citizens must send their moribund into hasty exile, or give them rough
on rats, so that they may not "die in the house." As for the "strangers
within our gates" who raise the rate over 50 per cent. by their
pernicious activity in perishing, the implication is clear: either Salt
Lake City is one of the deadliest places in the world to a stranger, or
else the newcomers simply commit suicide in large batches out of a
malevolent desire to vitiate the mortality figures. The whole thing is
an absurdity; as absurd as the illiterate and fallacious three-page
leaflet which constitutes this community's total attempt at an annual
health report.

[Illustration: DR. J. MERCIER GREEN


St. Joseph, Missouri, claimed, one year, a rate of 6.5 deaths out of
every 1,000 inhabitants. Were this figure authentic, the thriving
Missouri city, by the law of probability, should be full of
centenarians. It isn't. I essayed to study the local reports, hoping to
discover some explanation of the phenomenon, but was politely and
regretfully informed that St. Joseph's health authorities issued no
annual reports. The natural explanation of the impossibly low rate is
that the city is juggling its returns. In the first place, that favorite
method of securing a low per capita death rate--estimating a population
greatly in advance of its actual numbers--is indicated; since the
community has fewer lines of sewers and a smaller area of parks than
other cities of the size it claims--two elements which, by the way,
would in themselves tend to militate against a low mortality. Perhaps,
too, the city has that ingenious way of eliminating one disturbing
feature, the deaths under one week or ten days, by regarding them as
"still-births." Chicago used to have this habit; also the trick of
counting out non-residents, who were so thoughtless as to die in the
city. At present, it is counting honestly, I believe. Buffalo used to
pad for publication purposes. One year it vaunted itself as the
healthiest large city in the country. The boast was made on the original
assumption of a population nearly 25,000 in excess of the United States
Census figures, to which 20,000 more was added arbitrarily, the given
reason being a "general belief" that the city had grown to that extent.

Perhaps as complete returns as any are obtained in Maryland, where the
health official, Dr. Price, culls the death notices from 60 papers,
checks up the returns from the official registrars, and if any are
missing, demands an explanation by mail. It behooves the registrar to
present a good excuse. Otherwise he is haled to court and fined. The
Board has thus far never failed to secure a conviction.

Now, if the most concrete and easily ascertainable fact in public health
statistics, the total of deaths, is often qualified or perverted, it
follows that dependent data, such as the assigned causes of death, as
required by law, are still more unreliable; so I shall keep as far away
from statistics as possible except where some specific condition can be
shown by approved figures or by figures so inherently self-disproved
that they carry their own refutation.

_The Criminal Negligence of Physicians_

This unreliability may be set down to the account of the medical
profession. Realizing though they do the danger of concealment from the
proper authorities, and in the face of the law which, as it gives them
special privileges, requires of them a certain return, a considerable
percentage of physicians falsify the returns to protect the
sensibilities of their patrons. That they owe protection rather to the
lives of the public, they never stop to think. Tuberculosis is the
disease most misreported. In many communities it is regarded as a
disgrace to die of consumption. So it is. But the stigma rests upon the
community which permits the ravage of this preventable disease; not upon
the victims of it, except as they contribute to the general lethargy. In
order to save the feelings of the family, a death from consumption is
reported as bronchitis or pneumonia. The man is buried quietly. The
premises are not disinfected, as they should be, and perhaps some
unknowing victim moves into that germ-reeking atmosphere, as into a
pitfall. Let me give an instance. A clergyman in a New York city told me
of a death from consumption in his parish. The family had moved away,
and the following week a young married couple with a six-months-old baby
moved in.

"What can I do about it?" asked the clergyman. "Mr. Blank's death was
said to be from pneumonia; but that was only the final cause. He had
been consumptive for a year."

"Warn the new tenants," I suggested, "and have them ask the Health Board
to disinfect."

More than a year later I met the clergyman on a train and recalled the
case to him. "Yes," he said, "those people thought it was too much
trouble to disinfect, particularly since the reports did not give
tuberculosis as the cause of death. Now their child is dying of
tuberculosis of the intestines."

In this case, had the death been properly reported by the dead man's
physician, as the law required, the City Board would have compelled
disinfection of the house before the new tenants were allowed to move
in. The physician who obligingly falsified that report is morally guilty
of homicide through criminal negligence.

In Salt Lake City, in 1907, 43 deaths were ascribed to
tuberculosis--undoubtedly a broad understatement. And in the face of the
ordinance requiring registration of all cases of consumption, only five
persons were reported as ill of the disease. By all the recognized rules
of proportion, 43 deaths in a year meant at least 500 cases, which,
unreported, and hence in many instances unattended by any measures for
prevention of the spread of infection, constituted so many separate
radiating centers of peril to the whole community.

Why is such negligence on the part of physicians not punished? Because
health officials dread to offend the medical profession. In this
respect, however, a vast improvement is coming about. Pennsylvania,
Maryland, Indiana, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and other States
are not afraid to prosecute and fine delinquents; nor are a growing
number of cities, among them Boston, New York, Rochester, Providence,
and New Orleans. The great majority of such prosecutions, however, are
for failure to notify the authorities of actively contagious diseases,
such as scarlet fever, diphtheria, and smallpox.

_"Business Interests" and Yellow Fever_

Epidemics are, nevertheless, in the early stages, often misreported. If
they were not--if early knowledge of threatening conditions were made
public--the epidemics would seldom reach formidable proportions.
But--and here is the national hygienic failing--the first instinct is to
conceal smallpox, typhoid, or any other disease that assumes epidemic
form. Repeated observations of this tendency have deprived me of that
knock-kneed reverence for Business Interests which is the glorious
heritage of every true American. As a matter of fact, Business Interests
when involved with hygienic affairs are always a malign influence, and
usually an incredibly stupid one. It was so in New Orleans, where the
leading commercial forces of the city, in secret meeting, called the
health officer before them and brow-beat him into concealing the
presence of yellow fever, lest other cities quarantine against their
commerce. And "concealed" it was, until it had secured so firm a
foothold that suppression was no longer practicable, and the city only
averted a tremendously disastrous epidemic by the best-fought and most
narrowly won battle ever waged in this country against an invading


It is interesting to note, by the way, that this epidemic, with its
millions of dollars of loss to the city of New Orleans, might have been
averted at a comparatively small cost, had the city fathers possessed
the intelligence and foresight to adopt a plan devised by Dr. Quitman
Kohnke, the city health officer. New Orleans gets its drinking water
from private cisterns. Each of these is a breeding place for the
yellow-fever-bearing mosquito. Dr. Kohnke introduced a bill a year
before the epidemic, providing for the screening of all the cisterns, so
that the mosquitos might not spread abroad; and also for the destruction
by oil of the insects in the open pools. The total cost would hardly
have exceeded $200,000. But there was no yellow fever in the city then;
the public had recovered from its latest scare; and the bill was voted
down with derision. I suppose the saving of that $200,000 cost New
Orleans some forty or fifty million dollars in all.

Seldom does a Southern State discover yellow fever within its own
borders. It is always Mississippi that finds the infection in New
Orleans, and Louisiana that finds it in Galveston. This apparently
curious condition of affairs is explicable readily enough, on the ground
that no State wishes to discover the germ in its own veins, but is quite
willing, for commercial reasons, to point out the bacillus in the
system of its neighbor. In 1897 Texas was infected pretty widely with
yellow fever; but pressure on the boards of health kept them from
reporting it for what it was. In light cases they called it dengue or
breakbone fever. Now, dengue has this short-coming: that people do not
die of it. Disobliging sufferers from the alleged "dengue" began to fill
up the cemeteries, thereby embarrassing the local authorities, until one
of the health officers had a brilliant idea. "When they die," he said,
"we'll call it malarial fever." And as such it went upon the records.
Two recalcitrant members of the Galveston Health Board reported certain
extremely definite cases as yellow fever. They were forced to resign,
and the remainder of the Board passed resolutions declaring that there
was no yellow fever, there never had been any yellow fever, and there
never would be any yellow fever as long as they held their jobs--or
words to that effect. San Antonio also had the epidemic; so much of it
that the mail service was suspended; but nothing worse than dengue was
permitted to go on the records. Later a Marine Hospital Service surgeon
was sent by the government to investigate and report on the Texas
situation. He told the truth as he found it and became exceedingly
unpopular. Lynching was one of the mildest things they were going to do
to him in Texas. And all this time, while Texas was strenuously claiming
freedom from the yellow plague, her emissaries were discovering cases in
New Orleans that the local authorities there had somehow carelessly
overlooked. The game of quarantine, as played by the health authorities
of the far Southern States, and played for money stakes, if you please,
is not an edifying spectacle in twentieth century civilization.

_Newspapers, Politicians, and the Bubonic Plague_

But if it is bad in the South, it is worse in the West. To-day
California is paying for her sins of eight years ago in suppressing
honest reports of bubonic plague, when she should have been suppressing
the plague itself. That the dreaded Asiatic pest maintains its foothold
there is due to the cowardice and dishonesty of the clique then in
power, which constituted a scandal unparalleled in our history, a
scandal that, with the present growing enlightenment, can never be

Early in 1900 the first case of the present bubonic plague onset
appeared in San Francisco's Chinatown. I say "present" because I believe
it has never wholly died out in the last eight years. A conference of
the managing editors of the newspapers, known as the "midnight
meeting," was held, at which it was decided that no news should be
printed admitting the plague. The _Chronicle_ started by announcing
under big headlines: "Plague Fake Part of Plot to Plunder." "There Is No
Bubonic Plague in San Francisco." This was "in the interest of
business." Meantime the Chinese, aided by local politicians, were hiding
their sick. Out of the first 100 cases, I believe only three were
discovered otherwise than by the finding of the dead bodies. Sick
Chinamen were shipped away; venal doctors diagnosed the pest as "chicken
cholera," "septemia hemorrhagica," "diphtheria" and other known and
unknown ailments.

In May, 1900, came the blow that all San Francisco had dreaded: Texas
and New Orleans quarantined against the city, and business languished.
At this time two men were in control of the plague situation: Dr.
Williamson of the City Board of Health and Dr. J. J. Kinyoun of the
Marine Hospital Service. Dr. Williamson and Dr. Kinyoun both declared
plague to be present in the city. The business interests represented in
the Merchants' Association appealed to Kinyoun to suppress his reports
to Washington. In return he invited them to read the law which compelled
him to make reports. They then tackled Dr. Williamson, who replied that
he'd tell the truth as he found it, and if it was distasteful to them,
they needn't listen. They went to Mayor Phelan demanding Williamson's
head on a salver. Mayor Phelan stuck by his man. Governor Gage they
found more amenable. He issued a proclamation declaring that there was
no plague. Governor Gage is not a physician or a man of scientific
attainment. There is nothing in his record or career to show that he
could distinguish between a plague bacillus and a potato-bug.
Nevertheless he spent considerable of the State's money wiring positive
and unauthorized statements to Washington. His State Board of Health
refused to stand by him and he cut off their appropriation; whereupon
they resigned, and he secured another and more servile board, remolded
nearer to the heart's desire. Meantime the newspapers were strenuously
denying all the real facts of the epidemic, their policy culminating in
the complete suppression of plague news. Before this, however, they so
inflamed public opinion against Dr. Kinyoun and Dr. Williamson that
these two gentlemen became pariahs. Here are a few of the amenities of
journalism in the golden West, culled from the display heads of the

    "Kinyoun, Enemy of the City."

    "Has Kinyoun Gone Mad?"

    "Desperate, Kinyoun Commits Another Outrage on San Francisco."

    "Board of Health for Graft and Plunder."

    "Our Bubonic Board."

One gentle patriot in the State Senate suggested in a thoughtful and
logical speech that Dr. Kinyoun should be hanged. This practical spirit
so appealed to the Chinese organizations (it was Chinatown that suffered
chiefly from the quarantine rigors) that those bodies put a price of
$10,000 on Kinyoun's head--not his political head, understand, but the
head which was very firmly set on a pair of broad shoulders. Some of the
officer's friends went to the Chinese Consul-General and explained
unofficially that they would hold him responsible for any accident to
Dr. Kinyoun. That personage, supposing that they were suggesting the
slow accounting of diplomacy, smiled blandly and said:

"Gentlemen, I sympathize with you; but what can I do?" "Do?" said the
spokesman, "Why, you can climb a lamp-post at the end of a rope within
one hour of the time that Kinyoun is killed. That's what you can and
will do."

The bland smile disappeared from the Oriental's face. He summoned a
conference of the secret societies, and the reward for Kinyoun's death
was abrogated. Next, the white politicians of Chinatown tried their hand
and organized a lynching bee, but the intrepid doctor fortified his
quarters, armed his men, and was so obviously prepared for trouble that
the mob did nothing more than gather. Arrested twice on trumped-up
charges, threatened for contempt of court, he continued to fulfill his
duties. Governor Gage and the Republican State Committee now inaugurated
a campaign of influence upon President McKinley, which resulted in a
Federal Commission, consisting of Drs. Flexner, Barker, and Novy, all
eminent scientists, being sent to the troubled city; where, instead of
being received with honors, they were abused by the newspapers; insulted
by the Governor; and had the humiliation of seeing the doors of the
University of California slammed in their faces after they had been
invited there. Of course, the Commission found bubonic plague, because
it was there for any one to find.

Thus far the United States Marine Hospital authorities had stood back of
their men. Now they began to weaken. The findings of the Federal
Commission were kept out of the weekly service reports, and data of the
epidemic were edited out of the public health bulletins, in disregard of
the law. Even this subserviency did not satisfy the California
delegation; they wanted Kinyoun out.

And, on April 6, 1901, after a year's brave fight in the face of public
contumely and constant physical danger, Dr. Kinyoun was kicked up-stairs
into a soft berth at Detroit. He resigned. So the M. H. S. lost a brave,
faithful, and able public servant and for once blackened its own fine

There isn't space to give the rest of the plague history; how it cropped
out in other parts of California; how it was shipped to Matanza, Mexico,
and all but ruined that town; how the hated local Health Board, in the
face of the Governor of the State, and the Federal authorities, stuck to
their guns and won the fight, for San Francisco finally admitted the
presence of the plague, and asked for governmental aid. Rupert Blue, one
of the best surgeons in the Marine Hospital Service, was assigned to the
terrified city, and though he has not been able to wipe out the
pestilence, the fact that the smoldering danger has not broken into
devastating flame is due largely to his unremitting watchfulness and his
unhampered authority. "Business Interests" have had their trial in San
Francisco. And San Francisco has had enough of "suppression." To-day the
truth is being told about bubonic plague in the public health reports,
and, I believe, in the newspapers.

Rochester, New York, one of the most progressive cities in the country
in hygienic matters, has established an excellent system of school
inspection and free treatment. But the children who most need attention
lack it through the carelessness or negligence of their parents. Now, it
is this very "submerged tenth" who are set to work early in life. Under
the law, the health officer cannot say, "Unless you are sound, you shall
not attend school." But there is an ordinance providing that, without a
certificate of good physical condition, no child shall be permitted to
work in a store or factory. So Dr. Goler refuses these certificates, not
only in cases of low vitality and under-nutrition, but for any defect in
the applicant's teeth, sense-apparatus, or tonsils, a fertile source of
future debility. What is the result? There is a rush of these neglected
youngsters to the clinics, and the Rochester schools graduate every year
into the world of labor a class of young citizens in splendid physical
condition, unhandicapped by the taints which make, not for death alone,
but for vice and crime. For the great moral lesson of modern hygiene is
that debility and immorality run in a vicious parallel.

As I have said, the most thoroughly organized city department is that of
New York City, and this is so because public opinion in New York, taught
by long experience that its trust will not be betrayed, is, in so far as
it turns upon sanitary matters at all, solidly behind its health
department. Hence its guardians work with a free hand.

_Fighting Prejudice and the Death Rate in Charleston_

But what is the guardian to do when the guarded refuse to bear their
share of the burden; refuse, indeed, to manifest any calculable
interest, except in the way of occasional opposition? Such is the case
in Charleston, South Carolina, where every man aspires to do just as his
remotest recognizable ancestor did, and the best citizens would all live
in trees and eat nuts if they were fully convinced of the truth of the
Darwinian theory. Charleston, lovely, romantic, peaceful Charleston,
swept by ocean breezes and the highest death rate of any considerable
American city; breathing serenely the perfume of its flowers and the
bacilli of its in-bred tuberculosis; Charleston, so delightful to the
eye, so surprising to the nose!

By accident Charleston got an efficient health officer not long ago. A
deserved epidemic of smallpox had descended upon the unvaccinated
negroes and scared the tranquil city. Dr. J. Mercier Green was called
from private practice to tackle the situation. For weeks he waded in the
gore of lacerated arms, and his path through darkest Charleston could be
followed by rising and falling waves of Afro-American ululations; but he
checked the epidemic, and when three months later the city physician
died, he got the place. Now, had Dr. Green been wise in his generation,
he would have been content to keep his municipal patient reasonably free
from smallpox and live a quiet life. But he straightway manifested an
exasperating interest in other ailments. He stirred up the matter of the
water supply, regardless of the fact that all Charleston's
great-great-grandfather had drunk water from polluted cisterns and died
of typhoid as a gentleman should. He pitched into doctors nearly old
enough to be his own great-great-grandfather because they failed to
report diseases properly. He answered back, in the public prints, the
unanswerable Good-Old-Way argument. He opined, quite openly, that there
was too much tuberculosis, too high an infant mortality, too prevalent a
habit of contagious disease, and he more than hinted that the city
itself was at fault.

In the matter of the cisterns, for instance. Charleston now has a good
city water supply, fairly free from contamination where it starts, and
safely filtered before it reaches the city. But a great many of "our
best citizens" prefer their own cisterns, on the grandfather principle.
These are underground, for the most part, and are regularly supplied
from the roof-drainage. Also, they are intermittently supplied by
leakage from adjacent privy-vaults, Charleston having a very rudimentary
and fractional sewerage-system. Therefore typhoid is not only logical
but inevitable. I have no such revolutionary contempt for private rights
as to deny the privilege of any gentleman to drink such form of sewage
as best pleases him; but when it comes to supplying the public schools
with this poison, the affair is somewhat different. Yet, as far as the
Charleston Board of School Commissioners has felt constrained to go, up
to date, is this: they have written to the City Physician asking that
"occasional inspection" of the cisterns be made, and decorating their
absurd request with ornamental platitudes.

With sewage it is the same situation. There is, indeed, a primitive
sewer system in part of the city. But any attempt to extend it meets
with a determined and time-rooted opposition. The Charlestonians are
afraid of sewer-gas, but apparently have no fear of the filth which
generates sewer-gas; said filth accumulating in Charleston's streets,
subject only to the attention of the dissipated-looking buzzards, which
are one of the conservative and local features of the place. I have seen
these winged scavengers at work. It is not an appetizing sight. But with
one exception they afford the only example of unofficial effort toward
the betterment of sanitary conditions, that I witnessed in Charleston.
The other came from a policeman, patiently poking with his club at the
vent of one of the antediluvian sewers, which had--as usual--become
blocked. Yet, despite public indifference and opposition, Dr. Green,
without any special training or brilliant ability as a sanitarian, is,
by dogged, fighting persistency lowering the death-rate of his city.

There is also a non-medical legislator to whom Charleston owes a debt of
unacknowledged gratitude. Mr. James Cosgrove succeeded in getting the
Charleston Neck marshes, wherein breeds the malaria-mosquito, drained.
Since then the death rate from malaria, which was nothing less than
scandalous, has dwindled to proportions that are almost respectable--if,
indeed, it were respectable to permit any deaths from an easily
destructible nuisance like the mosquito. Nearly all our cities, by the
way, are curiously indifferent to the depredations of this man-eater.
Suppose, for an example, that Trenton, New Jersey, were suddenly beset
by a brood of copperhead snakes, which killed, let us say, two or three
people a week and dangerously poisoned ten times that number. What an
anti-snake campaign there would be in that aroused and terrified
community! Well, that much more dangerous wild creature, the Anopheles
mosquito, in a recent year slew more than 100 people in Savannah,
Georgia, without arousing any public resentment. And Jacksonville's home
brood in 1901 slaughtered 90 of its 30,000 citizens and dangerously
poisoned probably 1000 more. New Orleans, by the way, having executed a
triumphant massacre of the yellow fever mosquito (stegomyia) is now
undertaking to rid itself of all the other varieties. And Baltimore's
health bureau has succeeded in obtaining a grant of $10,000 for the
purpose of demonstrating the feasibility of mosquito-extermination.

_Killing Off the City Negro_

Throughout the South, figures and conditions alike are complicated by
the negro problem. Southern cities keep a separate roster of
mortalities; one for the whites, one for the blacks. In so far as they
expect to be judged by the white rate alone, this is a manifestly unfair
procedure, since, allowing for a certain racial excess of liability to
disease, the negro in the South corresponds, in vital statistics, to the
tenement-dweller in the great cities. If New Orleans is to set aside its
negro mortality, that is; the death rate among those living in the least
favorable environment, New York should set apart the deaths in the
teeming rookeries east of the Bowery, the most crowded district in the
world, and ask to be judged on the basis of what remains after that
exclusion. New York, however, would be glad to diminish the mortality in
its tenements. New Orleans, Atlanta, Charleston, or Savannah would be
loath to diminish their negro mortality. That is the frank statement of
what may seem a brutal fact. The negro is extremely fertile. He breeds
rapidly. In those cities where he gathers, unless he also died rapidly,
he would soon overwhelm the whites by sheer force of numbers. But, as it
is, he dies about as rapidly as he breeds. Recent statistics in
Savannah, for instance, showed this curious situation:

Excess of births over deaths among the whites, 245.

Excess of births over deaths among the blacks, 10.

Health Officer Brunner has stated the case, in a manner which, I fancy,
required no little courage in an official of a Southern community:

    We face the following issues: First: one set of people, the
    Caucasian, with a normal death-rate of less than 16 per thousand
    per annum, and right alongside of them is the Negro race with a
    death-rate of 25 to 30 per thousand. Second: the first named
    race furnishing a normal amount of criminals and paupers and the
    second race of people furnishing an abnormal percentage of
    lawbreakers and paupers.

    Is the Negro receiving a square deal? Let this commission
    investigate the houses he lives in; why, in his race,
    tuberculosis is increasing; why he furnishes his enormous quota
    to the chain-gang and the penitentiary. Observe the house he
    must live in, the food that he must eat, and learn of all his
    environments. The negro is with you for all time. He is what you
    will make him and it is "up" to the white people to prevent him
    from becoming a criminal and to guard him against tuberculosis,
    syphilis, etc. _If he is tainted with disease you will suffer;
    if he develops criminal tendencies you will be affected._

Will not the white South, eventually, in order to save itself from
disease, be forced to save its negroes from disease? It would seem an
inevitable conclusion.

_Private Interests in Public Murder_

Always and everywhere present are the private influences which work
against the public health. Individuals and corporations owning foul
tenements or lodging-houses resent, by all the evasions inherent in our
legal system, every endeavor to eliminate the perilous conditions from
which they take their profit. For the precious right to dump refuse into
streams and lakes, sundry factories, foundries, slaughter-houses, glue
works, and other necessary but unsavory industries send delegations to
the legislature and oppose the creation of any body having authority to
abate the nuisances.

Purveyors of bad milk decline to clean up their dairies until the
outbreak of some disease which they have been distributing by the can
brings down the authorities upon them. Could the general public but know
how often minor accesses of scarlet fever, diphtheria, and typhoid
follow the lines of a specific milk route, there would be a tremendous
and universal impetus to the needed work of milk inspection. In this
respect the country is the enemy of the city: the country, which, with
its own overwhelming natural advantages, distributes and radiates what
disease it does foster among its urban neighbors, by sheer ignorance or
sheer obstinate resistance to the "new-fangled notions of science." Such
men as the late Colonel Waring of New York, Dr. Fulton of Baltimore, and
Dr. Wende of Buffalo have repeatedly pointed out the debt of death and
suffering which the city, often well organized against infections, owes
to the unorganized and uncaring rural districts. Reciprocity in health
matters can be represented, numerically, by the figure zero. It
occasionally happens that the conflict between private and public
interests assumes an obviously amusing phase. The present admirable Food
and Drug Department of the Indiana board was not established without
considerable opposition. One of the chief objectors was a member of the
legislature, who made loud lamentation regarding the expense. Up rose
another legislator, all primed for the fight, and asked if the objector
would answer a few questions. The objector consented.

"Do you know the W---- baking-powder?"


"Do you know that it would naturally come to the food laboratory for
analysis, were such a laboratory established?"

"I suppose it might."

"Do you know that the W---- baking-powder is 20 per cent. clay?"


"Would it surprise you to learn that it contained a high percentage of

No answer.

"Are you counsel for the W---- Baking Powder Co.?"


"That's all."

It was enough. The bill passed.

Everybody's health is nobody's business. There, as I see it, is the bane
of the whole situation at present. To be sure, epidemics occasionally
wake us up. And, really, an epidemic is a fine thing for a city to have.
It is the only scourge that drives us busy Americans to progress. It
took an epidemic of typhoid, a shameful and dreadful one, to teach
Ithaca that it must not drink filth. Only after Scranton faced a
thousand cases of the fever did it assert itself and demand protection
for its water supply. New Orleans would probably be having (and
concealing) yellow fever yet, but for the paralysis of fright which the
onset of three years ago caused. Boston's fine system of medical
inspection in the schools is the outcome of a diphtheria scare. Smallpox
is a splendid stimulator of vaccination; so much so that some of the
country's leading sanitarians now advocate the abolition of pest-houses
for this avoidable ailment, and dependence upon the vaccine virus alone.

But epidemics are only the guerrilla attacks of the general enemy. It is
in the diseases always with us that the peril lies. Tuberculosis,
carrying off ten per cent. of the entire nation, and making its worst
ravages upon those in the prime of life, is a more terrible foe than was
ever smallpox, or cholera, or yellow fever, or any of the grisly
sounding bugaboos. Why, not so long ago, three highly civilized States
went into quite a little frenzy over a poor dying wretch of a leper who
had got loose; whereas every man that spits on the floor of a building
wherein people live or work is more of an actual peril, in that one foul
act, than the leper in his whole stricken life. The twin shames of
venereal disease, blinked by every health board in the country (Detroit
possibly deserves a partial exception) are, in their effect upon the
race, in blindness, deafness, idiocy, and death so dreadful a menace
to-day, that consumption alone can march beside them in the leadership
of the destroyers. Typhoid, so easily conquerable, claims its annual
thousands of sacrificed victims. And the slaughter of the innocents goes
endlessly on, recorded only in the dire figures of infant mortality.
To-day, as I write, the whole nation is thrilled with horror at the
tragedy of 150 young lives snuffed out in a needless school panic in
Cleveland. Had my pen the power, perhaps I could thrill the nation with
horror over the more dreadful fact that some 1100 children under five
years of age die yearly in Fall River, the vast majority of them
sacrificed to bad food and living conditions that might better be called
dying conditions. One half of the total mortality of that busy,
profit-yielding city is among children under five years of age,
two-fifths among children under one year. Does no baneful light shine
from those figures?

Yet, over and above the minor discouragements, failures, and set-backs,
looms the tremendous fact of a universal and gathering movement. It is
still, in any general sense, inchoate, and, except in certain specific
relations, invertebrate. But one cannot follow the work of the public
health guardians without feeling the cumulative force of progress. As I
have said, the newspapers have been a vital element in awaking the
public. Associations are being formed the country over for the
prevention of disease. There is a steady increase in the power and
authority of those officially charged with hygienic control. Makers of
deleterious or poisonous foods, and the vultures who prey on the sick
through fraudulent patent medicines are being curbed by pure food and
drug laws. Milk inspection is saving the lives of more children every
year, as meat inspection is prolonging the lives of the poor. Definite
instances of progress are almost startling: the fact that Massachusetts
has so purified its public waters that for a year there has been no
typhoid epidemic ascribable to any public supply; the passage of a
radical law in Indiana which forbids the marriage of imbeciles,
epileptics, and persons suffering from a contagious or venereal disease;
the saving of babies' lives at $10 a life in Rochester by pure milk
protected and guaranteed by the municipality; the halving of the
diphtheria death rate by the free distribution of antitoxin; the slow
but sure and universal yearly decrease in the Great White Plague--all
these and more are the first, slow, powerful evidences of national




Caroline, Miss Honey, and the General were taking the morning air.
Caroline walked ahead, her chin well up, her nose sniffing pleasurably
the unaccustomed asphalt, the fresh damp of the river, and the watered
bridle path. The starched ties at the back of her white pinafore fairly
took the breeze, as she swung along to the thrilling clangor of the
monster hurdy-gurdy. Miss Honey, urban and blasé, balanced herself with
dignity upon her long, boat-shaped roller-skates, and watched with
patronizing interest the mysterious jumping through complicated diagrams
chalked on the pavement by young persons with whom she was unacquainted.

The General sucked a clothespin meditatively: his eyes were fixed on
something beyond his immediate surroundings. Occasionally a ravishing
smile swept up from the dimples at his mouth to the yellow rings beneath
his cap frill; he flapped his hands, emitting soft, vague sounds. At
such times a wake of admiration bubbled behind him. Delia, who propelled
his carriage, pursed her lips consciously and affected not to hear the
enraptured comments of the women who passed them.

To the left the trees, set in a smooth green carpet, threw out tiny,
polished, early May leaves; graceful, white-coated children dotted the
long park. Beyond them the broad blue river twinkled in the sun, the
tugs and barges glided down, the yachts strained their white sails
against the purple bluffs of the Palisades. To the right towered the
long, unbroken rows of brick and stone; story on story of shining
windows, draped and muffled in silk and lace; flight after flight of
clean granite steps, polite, impersonal, hostile as the monuments in a

Immobile ladies glided by on the great pleasure drive, like large tinted
statues, dressed altogether as the colored pictures in fashion books,
holding white curly dogs in their curved arms; the coachmen in front of
them seemed carved in plum-colored broadcloth; only by watching the
grooms' eyelids could one ascertain that they were flesh and blood.
Young girls, two, three, and four, cantered by; their linen habits rose
and fell decorously, their hair was smooth. Mounted policemen, glorious
in buttons, breathing out authority, curvetted past, and everywhere and
always the chug-chug-chug of the gleaming, fierce-eyed motor cars filled
one's ears. They darted past, flaming scarlet, somber olive, and livid
white; a crouching, masked figure intent at the wheel, veiled, shapeless
women behind, a whir of dust to show where they had been a breath

And everywhere, as far as the eye could reach, a thin stream of white
and pink and blue, a tumbling river of curls and caps and bare legs,
were the children. A babble of shrill cries, of chattering laughter, of
fretful screams, an undercurrent of remonstrance, of soothing patience,
of angry threatening, marked their slow progress up and down the walk.

To Caroline, fresh from untrammeled sporting through neighborly suburban
yards, this disciplined procession, under the escort of Delia and the
General, was fascinating to a degree. Far from resenting the authority
she would have scorned at home, she derived an intense satisfaction from
it, and pranced ostentatiously beside the perambulator, mimicking Miss
Honey's unconscious reference to a higher power in the matter of
suitable crossings and preferred playfellows with the absorbed gravity
of the artist.

"See! General, see the wobblybubble," Delia murmured affectionately.
"(Will you see that child turn his head just like a grown person? Did
you ever see anything as smart as that?) Did he like the red one best?
So does Delia. We'll come over here, and then you won't get the sun in
your precious eyes. Do you want me to push you frontwards, so you can
see me? Just wait till we get across, and I will. Look out, Miss Honey!
Take hold of your cousin's hand and run across together, now, like good

Miss Honey made an obedient snatch at Caroline's apron strings, and
darted forward with a long roll of her skates. The road was clear for a
block. Delia, with a quick glance to left and right, lowered the
perambulator to the road level and forged ahead. Caroline, nose in air,
studied the nearest policeman curiously.

"Look out, there! _Look out!_"

A man's voice like a pistol shot crashed behind them. Caroline heard
quick steps and a woman's scream, and looked up at a huge, blood-red
bulk that swooped around the corner and dashed forward. But Miss Honey's
hand was clutching her apron string, and Miss Honey's weight as she
fell, tangled in the skates, dragged her down. Caroline, toppling,
caught in one dizzy backward glance a vision of a face staring down on
her, white as chalk under a black mustache and staring goggles, and
another face, Delia's, white too, with eyes more strained and terrible
than the goggles themselves. One second that look swept her and Miss
Honey, and then, shifting, fell upon the General strapped securely into
his carriage. Even as Caroline caught her breath, he flew by her like an
arrow, his blue eyes round with surprise under a whirl of white parasol,
the wicker body of the perambulator swaying and lurching. With that
breath still in her nostrils, she was pushed violently against Miss
Honey, who was dragged over her from the other side by a large hairy
hand. A sharp blow from her boot heel struck Caroline's cheek, and she
screamed with the pain; but her cry was lost in the louder one that
echoed around her as the dust from the red monster blew in her eyes and
shut out Delia's figure, flat on the ground, one arm over her face as
the car rushed over.

"My God! She's down!" That was the man.

"Take his number!" a shrill voice pierced the growing confusion.

Caroline, crying with pain, was forced to her feet and stumbled along,
one apron string twisted fast in Miss Honey's hand.

"Here, get out o' this--don't let the children see anything! Let's get

"No, wait a minute. Let's see if she's alive. Have they got the

"Look out, there, Miss Dorothy, you just stop by me, or you'll be run
over, too!"

"See! She's moving her head! Maybe she's not----"

Sobbing with excitement, Caroline wrenched herself free from the tangle
of nurses and carriages, and pushed her way through the crowd. Against
the curb, puffing and grinding, stood the great red engine; on the front
seat a tall policeman sat; one woman in the back leaned over another,
limp against the high cushions, and fanned her with the stiff vizor of
her leather cap.

"It's all right, dear, it's all right," she repeated monotonously, with
set lips, "the doctor's coming. It's all right."

Caroline wriggled between two policemen, and made for a striped blue and
white skirt that lay motionless on the ground. Across the white apron
ran a broad, dirty smudge.

Caroline ran forward.

"Delia! Delia!" she gulped. "Is she--is she dead?"

A little man with eye-glasses looked up from where he knelt beside the
blue and white skirt.

"I don't believe so, my dear," he said briskly. "Is this your nurse?
See, she's opening her eyes now--speak to her gently."

As he shifted a leather-covered flask from one hand to the other,
Caroline saw a strange face with drawn, purplish lids where she had
always known two merry gray eyes, and tight thin lips she could not
believe Delia's. A nervous fear seized her, and she turned to run away;
but she remembered suddenly how kind Delia had been to her; how that
very morning--it seemed so long ago, now--Delia had helped her with her
stubby braids of hair, and chided Miss Honey for laughing at her
ignorance of the customs of the park. She gathered her courage together
and crouched down by the silent, terrifying figure.

"Hel--hello, Delia!" she began jerkily, wincing as the eyes opened and
stared stupidly at the ring of anxious faces. "How do you feel, Delia?"

"Lean down," said the little man softly, "she wants to say something."

Caroline leaned lower.

"General," Delia muttered, "where's General?"

The little man frowned.

"Do you know what she means?" he asked.

Caroline patted her bruised cheek.

"Of course I do," she said shortly. "That's the baby. Oh," as she
remembered, "where is the General?"

"Here--here's the baby," called some one. "Push over that carriage," and
a woman crowded through the ring with the General, pink and placid under
his parasol.

"Lift him out," said the little man, and as the woman fumbled at the
strap, he picked the baby out neatly and held him down by the girl on
the ground.

"Here's your baby, Delia," he said, with a kind roughness in his voice.
"Safe and sound--not a scratch! Can you sit up and take him?"

And then, while the standing crowd craned their necks, and even the
steady procession, moving in the way the police kept clear for them,
paused a moment to stare, while the little doctor held his breath and
the ambulance came clanging up the street, Delia sat up as straight as
the mounted policeman beside her and held out her arms.


"General, oh, General!" she cried, and buried her face in his fat warm

The men coughed, the women's faces twisted, but the little doctor
watched her intently.

"Move your leg," he said sharply. "Now the other. Hurt you? Not at all?"

He turned to the young man in a white jacket, who had jumped from the
back of the ambulance.

"I thought so," he said. "Though it didn't seem possible. I saw the
thing go over her. Right over her apron--never touched her. Half an inch

"Please, is Miss--the other little girl--is she----"

This was Delia's old voice, and Caroline smiled happily at her.

"She's all right, Delia--here she is!"

Miss Honey limped across on one roller skate, pale, but conscious of her
dramatic value, and the crowd drew a long breath of relief.

"You are a very brave girl," said the doctor, helping Delia to her feet
and tucking the General, who alternately growled and cooed at his
clothespin, into the perambulator. "You have undoubtedly saved the lives
of all three of these children, and their parents will appreciate it,
you may be sure. The way you sent that baby wagon flying across the
street--well, any time you're out of a job, just come to me, that's all.
Dr. Gibbs, West Forty-ninth. Can you walk now? How far do you have to

The crowd had melted like smoke. Only the most curious and the idlest
lingered and watched the hysteria of the woman in the automobile, who
clutched her companion, weeping and laughing. The chauffeur sat stolid,
but Caroline's keen round eyes saw that he shook from the waist down
like a man in a chill.

"Yes, sir, I'm all right. It's not so very far." But Delia leaned on the
handle she pushed, and the chug-chug of the great car sent the blood out
of her cheeks. The little doctor frowned.

"Look here," he said, "I'll tell you what you'll do. You come down these
steps with me, there aren't but three of them, you see, and we'll just
step in here a moment. I don't know what house it is, but I guess it'll
be all right."

Before Delia could protest, he had pressed the button, and a man in
livery was opening the door.

"We've just escaped a nasty accident out here," said the little doctor
easily. "You were probably looking out of the window? Yes. Well, this
young woman is a sort of a patient of mine--Dr. Gibbs, West Forty-ninth
Street--and though she's very plucky and perfectly uninjured, I want her
to rest a moment in the hall here and have a drink of water, if your
mistress doesn't object. Just take this card up and explain the
circumstances and"--his hand went into his pocket a moment--"that's
about all. Sit down, my dear."

The man took in at a glance the neat uniform of the nurse, the General's
smart, if diminutive, apparel, and the unmistakable though somewhat
ruffled exterior of Miss Honey.

"Very well, sir," he said, politely, taking the card. "It will be all
right, sir, I'm sure. Thank you, sir. Sit down, please. It will be all
right. I will tell Madame Nicola."

"Well, well, so this is Madame Nicola's!" The little doctor looked
around him appreciatively, as the servant ran up the stairs.

"I wish I could stay with you, chickens, but I'm late for an appointment
as it is. I must rush along. Now, mind you, stay here half an hour,
Delia, and sit down. You're no trouble at all, and Madame Nicola knows
who I am--if she remembers. I sprayed her throat once, if I'm not
mistaken--she was on a tour, at Pittsburg. She'll take care of you." He
opened the door. "You're a good girl, you biggest one," he added,
nodding at Caroline. "You do as you're told. Good-bye."


The door shut, and Caroline, Miss Honey, and Delia looked at each other
in a daze. Tears filled Delia's eyes, but she controlled her voice and
only said huskily, "Come here, Miss Honey, and let me brush you off--you
look dreadful. Did it--were you--are you hurt, dear?"

"No, but you pushed me awful hard, Delia, and a nasty big man grabbed me
and tore my guimpe--see! I wish you'd told me what you were going to
do," began Miss Honey irritably.

"And you gave me a big kick--it was _me_ he grabbed--look at my cheek!"
Caroline's lips began to twitch; she felt hideously tired, suddenly.

"Children, children, don't quarrel. General, darling, _won't_ you sit
still, please? You hurt Delia's knees, and you feel so heavy. Oh, I wish
we were all home!"

The man in uniform came down the stairs. "Will you all step up, madame
says, and she has something for you up there. I'll take the baby," as
Delia's eyes measured the climb. "Lord, I won't drop her--I've got two
o' my own. 'Bout a year, isn't she?"

"He's a boy," panted Delia, as she rested her weight on the rail, "and
he's only eight months last week," with a proud smile at the General's
massive proportions.

"Well, he _is_ a buster, isn't he? Here is the nurse, madame, and the
children. The doctor has gone."

Caroline stretched her eyes wide and abandoned herself to a frank
inspection of her surroundings. For this she must be pardoned, for every
square inch of the dark, deep-colored room had been taken bodily from
Italian palaces of the most unimpeachable Renaissance variety. With
quick intuition, she immediately recognized a background for many a tale
of courts and kings hitherto unpictured to herself, and smiled with
pleasure at the Princess who advanced, most royally clad in long, pink,
lace-clouded draperies, to meet them.

"You are the brave nurse my maid told me about," said the Princess;
"she saw it all. You ought to be very proud of your quick wit. I have
some sherry for you, and you must lie down a little, and then I will
send you home."

Delia blushed and sank into a high carved chair, the General staring
curiously about him. "It wasn't anything at all," she said awkwardly;
"if I could have a drink----"

Caroline checked the Princess as she moved toward a wonderful colored
decanter with wee sparkling tumblers like curved bits of rainbow grouped
about it.

"Delia means a drink of water," she explained politely. "She only drinks
water--sometimes a little tea, but most usu'lly water."

"The sherry will do her more good, I think," the Princess returned,
noticing Caroline for the first time, apparently, her hand on the


At this point Miss Honey descended from a throne of faded wine-colored
velvet, and addressed the Princess with her most impressive and
explanatory manner.

"It won't do you any good at all to pour that out," she began, with her
curious little air of delivering a set address, prepared in private some
time before, "and I'll tell you why. Delia knew a nurse once that drank
some beer, and the baby got burned, and she never would drink anything
if you gave her a million dollars. Besides, it makes her sick."

The Princess looked amused and turned to a maid who appeared at that
moment, with apron strings rivaling Caroline's.

"Get me a glass of water, please," she said, "and what may I give
you--milk, perhaps? I don't know very well what children drink."

"Thank you, we'd like some water, too," Miss Honey returned primly; "we
had some soda-water, strawberry, once to-day."

Caroline cocked her head to one side and tried to remember what the
lady's voice made her think of. Suddenly it came to her. It was not like
a person talking at all, it was like a person singing. Up and down her
voice traveled, loud and soft; it was quite pleasant to hear it.

"Do you feel better now? I am very glad. Bring in that reclining chair,
Ellis, from my room; these great seats are rather stiff," said the
Princess, and Delia, protesting, was made comfortable in a large curved
lounging basket, with the General, contentedly putting his clothespin
through its paces, in her arm.

"How old is it?" the Princess inquired after an interval of silence.

"He's eight months, madame, last week--eight months and ten days,

"That's not very old, now, is it?" pursued the lady. "I suppose they
don't know very much, do they, so young?"

"Indeed he does, though," Delia protested. "You'll be surprised. Just
watch him, now. Look at Delia, darlin'; where's Delia?"

The General withdrew his lingering gaze from the clothespin, and turned
his blue eyes wonderingly up to her. The corners of his mouth trembled,
widened, his eyelids crinkled, and then he smiled delightfully, straight
into the eyes of the nurse, stretched up a wavering pink hand, and
patted her cheek. A soft, gurgling monosyllable, difficult of
classification but easy to interpret, escaped him.

The Princess smiled appreciatively, and moved with a stately, long step
toward them.

"That was very pretty," she said, but Delia did not hear her.

"My baby, my own baby!" she murmured with a shiver, and hiding her face
in the General's neck she sobbed aloud.

Miss Honey, shocked and embarrassed, twisted her feet nervously and
looked at the inlaid floor. Caroline shared these feelings, but though
she turned red, she spoke sturdily.

"I guess Delia feels bad," she suggested shyly, "when she thinks
about--about what happened, you know. She don't cry usu'lly."

[Illustration: "'I'VE GOT TWO O' MY OWN'"]

The Princess smiled again, this time directly at Caroline, who fairly
blinked in the radiance. With her long brown eyes still holding
Caroline's round ones, she patted Delia's shoulder kindly, and both
children saw her chin tremble.

The General, smothered in that sudden hug, whimpered a little and kicked
out wildly with his fat, white-stockinged legs. Seen from the rear he
had the appearance of a neat, if excited, package, unaccountably frilled
about with embroidered flannel. Delia straightened herself, dabbed
apologetically at her eyes, and coughed.

"It's bottle time," she announced in horror-stricken tones, consulting a
large nickel watch hanging from her belt, under the apron. "It's down in
the carriage. Could I have a little boiling water to heat it, if you

"Assuredly," said the Princess. "Ellis, will you get the--the bottle
from the baby's carriage and some boiling water, please. Do you mix it

"Mix--the food is all prepared, madam." Delia spoke with repressed
scorn. "I only want to heat it for him."

"Oh, in that case, Ellis, take it down and have it heated, or," as the
nurse half rose, "perhaps you would feel better about it if you attended
to it yourself?"

"Yes, I think I will go down if you don't mind--when persons aren't used
to 'em they're apt to be a little careless, and I wouldn't have it break
and him losing his three o'clock bottle, for the world. You know how it

The Princess shook her head whimsically. "But surely you will leave the
baby," and she moved toward them again. "I will hold it," with a half
grimace at her own condescension. "It seems so very good and cheerful--I
thought they cried. Will it come to me?"

Delia loosened her arms, but tightened them again as the little creature
leaned forward to catch at the swinging lace on the lady's gown.

"I--I think I'll take baby with me. Thank you just the same, and he'll
go to any one--yes, indeed--but I feel sort of nervous, I think I'd
better take him. If anything should happen.... Wave your hand good-bye,
now, General!"

The General flapped his arms violently, and bestowed a toothless but
affectionate grin upon the wearer of the fascinating, swaying lace,
before he disappeared with the delighted Ellis in the van.

"And can you buy all that devotion for twenty, thirty, or is it forty
dollars a month, I wonder?" mused the Princess. "Dear me," she added,
petulantly. "It really makes one actually _want_ to hold it! It seems a
jolly little rat--they're not all like that, are they? They howl, I'm

Again Miss Honey took the floor.

"When babies are sick or you don't treat them right," she announced
didactically, "they cry, but not a well baby, Delia says. I"--with
conscious pride--"screamed night and day for two weeks!"

"Really!" observed the Princess. "That must have been--er--trying for
your family!"

"Worried to death!" Miss Honey rejoined airily, with such an adult
intonation that the Princess started.

"The General, he just laughs all the time," Caroline volunteered,
"unless you tease him," she added guiltily, "and then he squawks."

"Yes, indeed," Miss Honey bore witness, jealous of the lady's flashing
smile to Caroline, "my mother says I'm twice the trouble he is!"

The Princess laughed aloud. "You're all trouble enough, I can well
believe," she said carelessly, "though you particular three are
certainly amusing little duds--for an afternoon. But for a steady
diet--I'm afraid I'd get a bit tired of you, eh?"

She tapped their cheeks lightly with a cool, sweet-smelling finger. Miss
Honey smiled uncertainly, but Caroline edged away. There was something
about this beautiful tall lady she could not understand, something that
alternately attracted and repelled. She was grown up, certainly; her
skirts, her size, and her coiled hair proved that conclusively, and the
servants obeyed her without question. But what was it? She was not like
other grown-up people one knew. One moment she sparkled at you and the
next moment she forgot you. It was perfectly obvious that she wanted the
General only because Delia had not wanted to relinquish him, which was
not like grown people; it was like--yes, that was it: she was like a
little girl, herself, even though she was so tall and had such large red
and blue rings on her fingers.

Vaguely this rushed through Caroline's mind, and it was with an
unconscious air of patronage that she said, as one making allowances for
inexperience, "When you get married, then you'll _have_ to get tired of
them, you know."

"But you'll be glad you've got 'em, when they're once in bed," Miss
Honey added encouragingly. "My mother says I'm a real treasure to her,
after half-past seven!"

The Princess flushed; her straight dark eyebrows quivered and met for an

"But I _am_ married," she said.

There was an utter silence.

"I was married five years ago yesterday, as it happens," she went on,
"but it's not necessary to set up a day nursery, you know, under those

Still silence. Miss Honey studied the floor, and Caroline, after an
astonished stare at the Princess, directed her eyes from one tapestry to

"I suppose you understand that, don't you?" demanded the Princess
sharply. She appeared unnecessarily irritated, and as a matter of fact
embarrassed her guests to such an extent that they were utterly unable
to relieve the stillness that oppressed them quite as much as herself.

The Princess uttered an angry exclamation and paced rapidly up and down
the room, looking more regal and more unlike other people than ever.

"For heaven's sake, say something, you little sillies!" she cried. "I
suppose you want me to lose my temper?"

Caroline gulped and Miss Honey examined her shoe-ties mutely.

Suddenly a well-known voice floated toward them.

"Was his nice bottle all ready? Wait a minute, only a minute now,
General, and Delia'll give it to you!"

The procession filed into the room, Delia and the General, Ellis
deferentially holding a tiny white coat, the man in livery bearing a
small copper saucepan in which he balanced a white bottle with some
difficulty. His face was full of anxious interest.

Delia thanked them both gravely, seated herself on the foot of the
basket-chair, arranged the General flat across her knees, and, amid the
excited silence of her audience, shook the bottle once or twice with the
air of an alchemist on the brink of an epoch-making discovery.

"Want it? Does Delia's baby want it?" she asked enticingly. The General
waved his arms and legs wildly; wreathed in smiles, he opened and shut
his mouth in quick alternation, chirping and clucking, as she held it up
before him; an ecstatic wriggling pervaded him, and he chuckled
unctuously. A moment later only his deep-drawn, nozzling breaths could
be heard in the room.

"He takes it beautiful," said Delia, in low tones, looking
confidentially at the Princess. "I didn't know but being in a strange
place might make a difference with him, but he's the best-baby!----"

She wiped his mouth when he had finished, and lifting him, still
horizontal, approached her hostess.

"You can hold him now," she said superbly, "but keep him flat for twenty
minutes, please. I'll go and take the bottle down, and get his carriage
ready. He'll be good. He'll take a little nap, most likely."

She laid him across the rose-colored lap of the Princess, who looked
curiously down on him, and offered him her finger tentatively. "I never
held one before," she explained. "I--I don't know." ... The General
smiled lazily and patted the finger, picking at the great sapphire.

"How soft its hands are," said the Princess. "They slip off, they are so
smooth! And how good--does it never cry?" This she said half to herself,
and Caroline and Miss Honey, knowing there was no need to answer her,
came and leaned against her knee unconsciously, and twinkled their
fingers at the baby.

"Hello, General! Hello!" they cried softly, and the General smiled
impartially at them and caressed the lady's finger.

The Princess stroked his cheek. "What a perfectly exquisite skin!" she
said, and bending over him, kissed him delicately.

"How good it smells--how--how different!" she murmured. "I thought
they--I thought they didn't."

Miss Honey had taken the lady's other hand, and was examining the square
ruby with a diamond on either side.

"My mother says that's the principal reason to have a baby," she
remarked, absorbed in the glittering thing. "You sprinkle 'em all over
with violet powder--just like doughnuts with sugar--and kiss 'em. Some
people think they get germs that way, but my mother says if she couldn't
kiss 'em she wouldn't have 'em!"

The Princess bent over the baby again.

"It's going to sleep here!" she said, half fearfully, with an inquiring
glance at the two. "Oughtn't one to rock it?"

Miss Honey shook her head severely. "Not General," she answered, "he
won't stand it. My mother tried again and again--could I take that blue
ring a minute? I'd be awful careful--but he wouldn't. He sits up and he
lies down, but he won't rock."

"I might sing to him," suggested the Princess, brushing a damp lock from
the General's warm forehead and slipping her ringless finger into his
curved fist carefully. "Would he like it?"

"No, he wouldn't," said Miss Honey bluntly, twisting the ring around her
finger. "He only likes two people to sing--Delia and my mother. Was that
ruby ring a 'ngagement ring?"

Caroline interfered diplomatically, "General would be very much
obliged," she explained politely, "except that my Aunt Deedee is a very
good singer indeed, and Uncle Joe says General's taste is ruined for
just common singing."

The Princess stared at her blankly.

"Oh, indeed!" she remarked. Then she smiled, again in that whimsical,
expressive way. "You don't think I could sing well enough for him--as
well as your mother?"

Miss Honey laughed carelessly. "My mother is a singer," she said, "a
real one. She used to sing in concerts--real ones. In theaters. Real
theaters, I mean," as the lady appeared to be still amused.

"If you know where the Waldorf Hotel is," Caroline interrupted, "she has
sung in that, and it was five dollars to get in. It was to send the poor
children to a Fresh Air Fund. It--it's not the same as you would
sing--or me," she added politely.

The lady arose suddenly and deposited the General, like a doll, with one
swift motion, in the basket-chair. Striding across the room she turned,
flushed and tall, and confronted the wondering children.


"I will sing for you," she said haughtily, "and you can judge better!"

With a great sweep of her half bare arm, she brushed aside a portiére
and disappeared. A crashing chord rolled out from a piano behind the
curtains and ceased abruptly.

"What does your mother sing?" she demanded, not raising her voice, it
seemed, and yet they heard her as plainly as when they had leaned
against her knee.

"She sings, 'My Heart's Own Heart,'" Miss Honey called back defiantly.

"And it's printed on the song, 'To Madame Edith Holt'!" shrilled

The familiar prelude was played with a firm, elastic touch, the opening
chords struck, and a great, shining voice, masterful, like a golden
trumpet, filled the room. Caroline sat dumb; Miss Honey, instinctively
humming the prelude, got up from her foot-stool and followed the music,
unconscious that she walked. She had been privileged to hear more good
singing in her eight years than most people in twenty-four, had Miss
Honey, and she knew that this was no ordinary occasion. She did not know
she was listening to one of the greatest voices her country had ever
produced--perhaps in time to be known for the head of them all--but her
sensitive little soul swelled in her, and her childish jealousy was
drowned deep in that river of wonderful sound.

Higher and sweeter and higher yet climbed the melody; one last
triumphant leap, and it was over.

"_My heart--my heart--my heart's own heart!_"

The Princess stood before them in the echoes of her glory, her breath
quick, her eyes brilliant.

"Well?" she said, looking straight at Miss Honey, "do I sing as well as
your mother?"

Miss Honey clenched her fists and caught her breath. Her heart was
breaking, but she could not lie.

"You--you"--she motioned blindly to Caroline, and turned away.

"You sing better," Caroline began sullenly, but the lady pointed to Miss

"No, you tell me," she insisted remorselessly.

Miss Honey faced her.

"You--you sing better than my m--mother," she gulped, "but I _love_ her
better, and she's nicer than you, and I don't love you at _all_!"

She buried her face in the red velvet throne, and sobbed aloud with
excitement and fatigue. Caroline ran to her: how could she have loved
that cruel woman? She cast an ugly look at the Princess as she went to
comfort Miss Honey, but the Princess was at the throne before her.

"Oh, I am abominable!" she cried. "I am too horrid to live! It wasn't
kind of me, _chérie_, and I love you for standing up for your mother.
There's no one to do as much for me, when _I'm_ down and out--no one!"
Sorrow swept over her flexible face like a veil, and seizing Miss Honey
in her strong, nervous arms, she wept on her shoulder.

Caroline, worn with the strain of the day, wept too, and even the
General, abandoned in the great chair, burst into a tiny warning wail.

Quick as thought the Princess was upon him, and had raised him against
her cheek.

"Hush, hush, don't cry--don't cry, little thing," she whispered, and
sank into one of the high carved chairs with him.

"No, no, I'll hold him," she protested, as Delia entered, her arms out.
"I'm going to sing to him. May I? He's sleepy."

Delia nodded indulgently. "For half an hour," she said, as one allowing
a great privilege, "and then we must go."

"What do you sing to him?" the Princess questioned humbly.

"I generally sing 'Flow Gently Sweet Afton,'" the nurse answered. "Do
you know it?"

"I think so," and the Princess began a sort of glorified humming, like a
great drowsy bee, all resonant and tremulous.

    Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
    Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.

Soft the great voice was, soft and widely flowing: to Caroline, who had
retreated to the further end of the music-room, so that Delia should not
see her tears, it seemed as if Delia herself, a wonderful new Delia,
were singing her, a baby again, to sleep. She felt soothed, cradled,
protected by that lapping sea of melody that drifted her off her
moorings, out of the room....

Vaguely she saw Miss Honey, relaxed on the red throne, smile in her
sleep, one arm falling over the broad seat. Was it in her dream that
some one in a blue and white apron--not Delia, for Delia was
singing--leaned back slowly in the long basket-chair and closed her
tired eyes? Who was it that held the General close in her arms, and
smiled as he patted her cheek at the familiar song, and mumbled her
fingers with happy, cooing noises?

    My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

The General's head was growing heavy, but he smiled confidingly into the
dark eyes above him and stretched himself out in full-fed, drowsy
content. One hand slipped through the lace under his cheek and rested on
the singer's soft breast. She started like a frightened woman, and her
voice broke.

Down in the hall the butler and the maid sat on the lower stair.

"Ain't it grand?" she whispered, and Haddock nodded dreamily.

"Mother used to sing us that in the old country," he said. "There was
Tom and 'Enry an' me--Lord, Lord!"

The General was asleep. Sometimes a tiny frown drew his eyebrows
together. Sometimes he clenched and uncurled his warm hands. Sometimes
he sucked softly at nothing with moist, reminiscent lips. But on and on,
over and over, rose and fell the quaint old song.

    My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream!

It flooded the hushed house, it spread a net of dreams about the
listening people there and coaxed them back to childhood and a child's
protected sleep. It seemed a song that could not stop, that must return
on its simple refrain so long as there were arms to encircle and breasts
to lean upon.

Two men came softly up a smaller stair than the grand entrance flight,
and paused in amazement at sight of Caroline stretched full length
across the threshold. The older and smaller of the men had in fact
stepped on her, and confused and half awake, she listened to his

"Sh! sh!" he whispered excitedly, "not a vordt! not a vordt! Mein Gott!
but it is marvelous! My friend, vot is this?"

He peeped behind the drawn curtains and withdrew a face of wonder.

"It is nodding but children--and they sleep!" he hissed. "Oh, but
listen, listen! And I offered her fifteen hundert dollars for two hours
only of that!"

The other man peeped behind the curtains in his turn, and seizing
Caroline by the arm tiptoed with her to a farther room.

"What--who--what is the meaning of this?" he whispered hoarsely. "That

Caroline rubbed her eyes. The golden voice rose and fell around her.

"General--Delia," she muttered, and stumbled against him. He lifted her
limp little body and laid it gently on a leather sofa.

"Another time," he said softly to the other man, "I--we cannot talk with
you now. Will you excuse us?"

The man looked longingly at the curtains.

"She will never do more well than that. Never!" he hissed. "Oh, my
friend, hear it grow soft! Yes, yes, I am going."

It seemed to Caroline that in a dream some one with a red face and
glasses askew shook her by the shoulder and said to her sternly, "Sh!
sh! Listen to me. To-day you hear a great artist--hey? Vill you forget
it? I must go because they do not vant me, but you vill stay and listen.
There is here no such voice. Velvet! Honey! Sh! sh!" and he went the way
of dreams.

The man who stayed looked long through the curtains.

As a swing droops slow and slower, as the ripples fade from a stone
thrown in the stream, the song of the Princess softened and crooned and
hushed. Now it was a rich breath, a resonant thread.

    Flow gently, sweet Afton----

The man stepped across the room and sank below the General at her feet.
With her finger on her lips she turned her eyes to his and looked deep
into them. He caught his breath with a sob, and wrapping his arm about
her as he knelt, hid his face on her lap, against the General. She laid
her hand on his head, across the warm little body, and patted it
tenderly. Around them lay the sleepers; the General's soft breath was in
their ears. The man lifted his head and looked adoringly at the
Princess; her hand caressed his cheek, but her eyes looked beyond him
into the future.




_Copyright, 1908, by Ellen Terry (Mrs. Carew)_

It is only human to make comparisons between American and English
institutions, although they are likely to turn out as odious as the
proverb says! The first institution in America that distressed me was
the steam heat. It is far more manageable now than it was, both in
hotels and theatres, because there are more individual heaters. But how
I suffered from it at first I cannot describe. I used to feel dreadfully
ill, and when we could not turn the heat off at the theatre, the play
always went badly. My voice was affected, too. At Toledo, once, it
nearly went altogether. Then the next night, after a good fight, we got
the theatre cool, and the difference to the play was extraordinary. I
was in my best form, feeling well and jolly!

If I did not like steam heat, I loved the ice which is such a feature at
American meals. Everything is served on ice. I took kindly to their
dishes--their cookery, at its best, is better than the French--and I
sadly missed planked shad, terrapin, and the oyster--at its best and at
its cheapest in America--when I returned to England.

_Travelling in America_

The American hotels seemed luxurious even in 1883; but it only takes ten
years there for an hotel to be quite done, to become old-fashioned and
useless as a rusty nail. Hotel life in America is now the perfection of
comfort. Hotels as good as the Savoy, the Ritz, the Carlton, and
Claridge's can be counted by the dozen in New York, and are to be found
in all the principal cities.

I liked the travelling, but then we travelled in a very princely
fashion. The Lyceum Company and baggage occupied eight cars, and Henry's
private parlour-car was lovely. The only thing that we found was better
understood in England, so far as railway travelling is concerned, was
_privacy_. You may have a _private_ car, but all the conductors on the
train, and there is one to each car, can walk through it. So can any
official, baggage-man, or newsboy who has the mind!

There were, of course, people ready to say that the Americans did not
like Henry Irving as an actor, and that they only accepted him as a
manager--that he triumphed in New York, as he had done in London,
through his lavish spectacular effects. This is all moonshine. Henry
made his first appearance in "The Bells," his second in "Charles I," his
third in "Louis XI." By that time he had conquered, and without the aid
of anything at all notable in the mounting of the plays. It was not
until we did "The Merchant of Venice" that he gave the Americans
anything of a "production."

My first appearance in America in Shakespeare was as Portia, and I could
not help feeling pleased by my success. A few weeks later I played
Ophelia at Philadelphia. It is in Shakespeare that I have been best
liked in America, and I consider that Beatrice was the part about which
they were most enthusiastic.

During our first tour we visited in succession New York, Philadelphia,
Boston, Baltimore, Brooklyn, Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Detroit,
and Toronto. To most of these places we paid return visits. I think it
was in Chicago that a reporter approached Henry Irving with the
question: "To what do you attribute your success, Mr. Irving?"

"To my acting," was the simple reply.

We never had poor houses except in Baltimore and St. Louis. Our journey
to Baltimore was made in a blizzard. They were clearing the snow before
us all the way from New Jersey, and we took forty-two hours to reach
Baltimore. The bells of trains before us and behind us sounded very
alarming. We opened in Baltimore on Christmas Day. The audience was
wretchedly small, but the poor things who were there had left their warm
firesides to drive or tramp through the slush of melting snow, and each
one was worth a hundred on an ordinary night.

At the hotel I put up holly and mistletoe, and produced from my trunks a
real Christmas pudding that my mother had made. We had it for supper,
and it was very good.

_Burned Hare Soup and Camphor Pudding in Pittsburg_

It never does to repeat an experiment. Next year at Pittsburg my little
son Teddy brought me out another pudding from England. For once we were
in an uncomfortable hotel, and the Christmas dinner was deplorable. It
began with _burned hare soup_.

"It seems to me," said Henry, "that we aren't going to get anything to
eat, but we'll make up for it by drinking!"

He had brought his own wine out with him from England, and the company
took him at his word and _did_ make up for it.

"Never mind!" I said, as the soup was followed by worse and worse.
"There's my pudding!"

It came on blazing and looked superb. Henry tasted a mouthful.

"Very odd," he said, "but I think this is a camphor pudding."

He said it so politely--as if he might easily be mistaken. My maid in
England had packed the pudding with my furs! It simply reeked of

So we had to dine on Henry's wine and L. F. Austin's wit. This dear,
brilliant man, now dead, acted for many years as Henry's secretary, and
one of his gifts was the happy knack of hitting off people's
peculiarities in rhyme. This dreadful Christmas dinner at Pittsburg was
enlivened by a collection of such rhymes, which Austin called a "Lyceum
Christmas Play."

Everyone roared with laughter until it came to the verse of which he was
the victim, when suddenly he found the fun rather laboured.

The first verse was spoken by Loveday, who announces that the "Governor"
has a new play which is "_wonderful_"--a great word of Loveday's.

George Alexander replies:

    But I say, Loveday, have I got a part in it,
    That I can wear a cloak in and look smart in it?
    Not that I care a fig for gaudy show, dear boy--
    But juveniles must _look_ well, don't you know, dear boy;
    And shall I lordly hall and tuns of claret own?
    And may I murmur love in dulcet baritone?
    Tell me, at least, this simple fact of it--
    Can I beat Terriss hollow in one act of it?[1]

Norman Forbes:

    Pooh for Wenman's[2] bass! Why should he make a boast of it?
    If he has a voice, I have got the ghost of it!
    When I pitch it low, you may say how weak it is,
    When I pitch it high, heavens! what a squeak it is!
    But I never mind; for what does it signify?
    See my graceful hands, they're the things that dignify:
    All the rest is froth, and egotism's dizziness--
    Have I not played with Phelps?
    (_To Wenman_) I'll teach you all the business!



T. Mead (of whom much has already been written in these pages):

    What's this about a voice? Surely you forget it, or
    Wilfully conceal that _I_ have no competitor!
    I do not know the play, or even what the title is,
    But safe to make success a charnel house recital is!
    So please to bear in mind, if I am not to fail in it
    That Hamlet's father's ghost must rob the Lyons Mail in it!
    No! that's not correct! But you may spare your charity--
    A good sepulchral groan's the thing for popularity!

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY


H. Howe (the "agricultural" actor, as Henry called him):

    Boys take my advice, the stage is not the question
    But whether at three score you'll all have my digestion,
    Why yearn for plays, to pose as Brutuses or Catos in,
    When you may get a garden to grow the best potatoes in?
    You see that at my age by Nature's shocks unharmed I am!
    Tho' if I sneeze but thrice, good heavens, how alarmed I am!
    But act your parts like men, and tho' you all great sinners are,
    You're sure to act like men wherever Irving's dinners are!

J. H. Allen (our prompter):

    Whatever be the play, _I_ must have a hand in it,
    For won't I teach the supers how to stalk and stand in it?
    Tho' that blessed Shakespeare never gives a ray to them,
    I explain the text, and then it's clear as day to them!
    Plain as A, B, C is a plot historical.
    When _I_ overhaul allusions allegorical!
    Shakespeare's not so bad; he'd have more pounds and pence in him,
    If actors stood aside, and let me show the sense in him![3]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY


Louis Austin's little "Lyceum Play" was presented to me with a silver
water-jug, a souvenir from the company, and ended up with the following
pretty lines spoken by Katie Brown, a clever little girl who played all
the small pages' parts at this time:

    Although I'm but a little page,
      Who waits for Portia's kind behest,
    Mine is the part upon this stage
      To tell the plot you have not guessed.

    Dear lady, oft in Belmont's hall
      Whose mistress is so sweet and fair,
    Your humble slaves would gladly fall
      Upon their knees, and praise you there.

    To offer you this little gift,
      Dear Portia, now we crave your leave.
    And let it have the grace to lift
      Our hearts to yours this Christmas eve.

    And so we pray that you may live
      Thro' many, many, happy years,
    And feel what you so often give,
      The joy that is akin to tears!

How nice of Louis Austin! It quite made up for my mortification over the
camphor pudding!

[Illustration: MISS ROSA CORDER


_Reproduced from an approved print in the possession of the Lenox

_The Best Ophelia of My Life_

When I played Ophelia for the first time in Chicago, I played the part
better than I had ever played it before, and I don't believe I ever
played it so well again. _Why_, it is almost impossible to say. I had
heard a good deal of the crime of Chicago, that the people were a rough,
murderous, sand-bagging crew. I ran on to the stage in the mad scene,
and never have I felt such sympathy. This frail wraith, this poor
demented thing could hold them in the hollow of her hand! The audience
seemed to me like wine that I could drink, or spill upon the ground....
It was splendid! "How long can I hold them?" I thought. "For ever!" Then
I laughed. That was the best Ophelia laugh of my life--my life that is
such a perfect kaleidoscope, with the people and the places turning
round and round.

At Chicago I made my first speech. The Haverley Theatre, at which we
first appeared in 1884, was altered and rechristened the "Columbia" in
1885. I was called upon for a speech after the special performance in
honour of the occasion, consisting of scenes from "Charles I.," "Louis
XI.," "The Merchant of Venice," and "The Bells," had come to an end. I
think it must be the shortest speech on record:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been asked to christen your beautiful
theatre. 'Hail Columbia'!"

[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING


"_Lonesome Brooklyn_"

When we acted in Brooklyn, we used to stay in New York and drive over
that wonderful bridge every night. There were no trolley cars on it
then. I shall never forget how it looked in winter, with the snow and
ice on it--a gigantic trellis of dazzling white, as incredible as a
dream. The old stone bridges were works of art--this bridge, woven of
iron and steel for a length of over five hundred yards, and hung high in
the air over the water so that great ships can pass beneath it, is the
work of science. It is like the work of some impersonal power.

It was during our week at Brooklyn in 1885 that Henry was ill, too ill
to act, for four nights. Alexander played Benedick and got through it
wonderfully well. Then old Mr. Mead did (_did_ is the word) Shylock.
There was no intention behind his words or what he did.

I had such a funny batch of letters on my birthday that year: "Dear,
sweet Miss Terry, etc., etc. Will you give me a piano?" etc., etc.;
another: "Dear Ellen. Come to Jesus. Mary"; another, a lovely letter of
thanks from a poor woman in the most ghastly distress; and lastly an
offer of a two _years'_ engagement in America. There was a simple
coming-in for one woman acting at Brooklyn on her birthday!

Brooklyn is as sure a laugh in New York as the mother-in-law in a London
music-hall. "All cities begin by being lonesome," a comedian explained,
"and Brooklyn has never got over it."

_My_ only complaint against Brooklyn was that they would not take Fussie
in at the hotel there. Fussie was still my dog during the early American
tours. Later on he became Henry's. He had his affections alienated by a
course of chops, tomatoes, strawberries, "ladies' fingers" soaked in
champagne, and a beautiful fur rug of his very own presented by the
Baroness Burdett-Coutts.

[Illustration: MISS ELLEN TERRY



How did I come by Fussie? I went to Newmarket with Rosa Corder, whom
Whistler painted. She was one of those plain-beautiful women who are so
far more attractive than some of the pretty ones. She had wonderful
hair,--like a fair, pale veil,--a white, waxen face, and a very good
figure; and she wore very odd clothes. She had a studio in Southampton
Row, and another at Newmarket, where she went to paint horses. I went to
Cambridge once and drove back with her across the heath to her studio.

"How wonderfully different are the expressions on terriers' faces," I
said to her, looking at a painting of hers of a fox-terrier pup. "That's
the only sort of dog I should like to have."

"That one belonged to Fred Archer," Rosa Corder said. "I daresay he
could get you one like it."

We went out to find Archer. Curiously enough, I had known the famous
jockey at Harpenden, when he was a little boy, and I believe used to
come round with vegetables.

"I'll send you a dog, Miss Terry, that won't be any trouble. He's got a
very good head, a first-rate tail, stuck in splendidly, but his legs are
too long. He'd follow you if you went to America."

Prophetic words! On one of our departures for America, Fussie was left
behind by mistake at Southampton. He found his way back from there to
his own theatre in the Strand, London.

Fred Archer sent him originally to the stage door at the Lyceum. The man
who brought him out to my house in Earl's Court said:

"I'm afraid he gives tongue. Miss, he don't like music anyway. There was
a band at the bottom of your road, and he started hollering."

_Fussie and "Charles I."_

We were at luncheon when Fussie made his début into the family circle,
and I very quickly saw that his _stomach_ was his fault. He had a great
dislike to "Charles I.," we could never make out why. Perhaps it was
because Henry wore armour in one act--and Fussie may have barked his
shins against it. Perhaps it was the firing off of big guns. But more
probably it was because the play once got him into trouble. As a rule,
Fussie had the most wonderful sense of the stage, and at rehearsal would
skirt the edge of it, but never cross it. But at Brooklyn one night when
we were playing "Charles I.," the last act, and that most pathetic part
of it where Charles is taking a last farewell of his wife and children,
Fussie, perhaps excited by his run over the bridge from New York,
suddenly bounded on to the stage! The good children who were playing
Princess Mary and Prince Henry didn't even smile; the audience remained
solemn; but Henry and I nearly went into hysterics. Fussie knew directly
that he had done wrong. He lay down on his stomach, then rolled over on
his back, a whimpering apology, while carpenters kept on whistling and
calling to him from the wings. The children took him up to the window at
the back of the scene, and he stayed there cowering between them until
the end of the play.

America seems to have been always fatal to Fussie. Another time when
Henry and I were playing in some charity performance in which John Drew
and Maude Adams were also acting, he disgraced himself again. Henry
having "done his bit" and put on hat and coat to leave the theatre,
Fussie thought the end of the performance must have come; the stage had
no further sanctity for him, and he ran across it to the stage door
barking! John Drew and Maude Adams were playing "A Pair of Lunatics."
Maude Adams, sitting looking into the fire, did not see Fussie, but was
amazed to hear John Drew departing madly from the text:

    "Is this a dog I see before me,
    His tail towards my hand?
    Come, let me clutch thee."

She began to think he had really gone mad!

[Illustration: _From the collection of Robert Coster_



When Fussie first came, Charlie was still alive, and I have often gone
into Henry's dressing-room and seen the two dogs curled up in both the
available chairs, Henry _standing_ while he made up, rather than disturb

When Charlie died, Fussie had Henry's idolatry all to himself. I have
caught them often sitting quietly opposite each other at Grafton Street,
just adoring each other. Occasionally Fussie would thump his tail on the
ground to express his pleasure.

_Irving's Strategy_

Wherever we went in America, the hotel people wanted to get rid of the
dog. In the paper they had it that Miss Terry asserted that Fussie was a
little terrier, while the hotel people regarded him as a pointer; and
funny caricatures were drawn of a very big me with a very tiny dog, and
a very tiny me with a dog the size of an elephant. Henry often walked
straight out of an hotel where an objection was made to Fussie. If he
wanted to stay, he went in for strategy. At Detroit the manager of the
hotel said that dogs were against the rules. Being very tired, Henry let
Fussie go to the stables for the night, and sent Walter to look after
him. The next morning he sent for the manager.

"Yours is a very old-fashioned hotel, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, very old and ancient."

"Got a good chef? I didn't think much of the supper last night--but
still--the beds are comfortable enough--I am afraid you don't like

"Yes, sir, in their proper place."

"It's a pity," said Henry meditatively, "because you happen to be
overrun by rats!"

"Sir, you must have made a mistake. Such a thing couldn't----"

"Well, I couldn't pass another night here without my dog," Henry
interrupted. "But there are, I suppose, other hotels?"

"If it would be any comfort to you to have your dog with you, sir, do,
by all means, but I assure you that he'll catch no rat here."

"I'll be on the safe side," said Henry calmly.

And so it was settled. That very night Fussie supped off, not rats, but
terrapin and other delicacies in Henry's private sitting room.

[Illustration: _Photograph by Sarony_


It was the 1888 tour, the great blizzard year, that Fussie was left
behind by mistake at Southampton. He jumped out at the station, just
outside where they stopped to collect tickets. After this long
separation, Henry naturally thought that the dog would go nearly mad
with joy when he saw him again. He described to me the meeting in a

    "My dear Fussie gave me a terrible shock on Sunday night. When
    we got in, J----, H----, and I dined at the Câfé Royale. I told
    Walter to bring Fussie there. He did, and Fussie burst into the
    room while the waiter was cutting some mutton, when, what d'ye
    think--one bound at me--another instantaneous bound at the
    mutton, and from the mutton nothing would get him until he'd got
    his plateful.

    "Oh what a surprise it was indeed! He never now will leave my
    side, my legs, or my presence, but I cannot but think, alas, of
    that seductive piece of mutton!"

_The Death of Fussie_

Poor Fussie! He met his death through the same weakness. It was at
Manchester, I think. A carpenter had thrown down his coat with a ham
sandwich in the pocket, over an open trap on the stage. Fussie, nosing
and nudging after the sandwich, fell through and was killed instantly.
When they brought up the dog after the performance, every man took his
hat off. Henry was not told until the end of the play. He took it so
very quietly that I was frightened, and said to his son Laurence, who
was on that tour:

"Do let's go to his hotel and see how he is."

We drove there and found him sitting, eating his supper, with the poor
dead Fussie, who would never eat supper any more, curled up in his rug
on the sofa. Henry was talking to the dog exactly as if it were alive.
The next day he took Fussie back in the train with him to London,
covered with a coat. He is buried in the dog's cemetery, Hyde Park.

His death made an enormous difference to Henry. Fussie was his constant
companion. When he died, Henry was really alone. He never spoke of what
he felt about it, but it was easy to know.

We used to get hints how to get this and that from watching Fussie. His
look, his way of walking! He _sang_, whispered eloquently and low--then
barked suddenly, and whispered again. Such a lesson in the law of

The first time that Henry went to the Lyceum after Fussie's death, every
one was anxious and distressed, knowing how he would miss the dog in his
dressing-room. Then an odd thing happened. The wardrobe cat, who had
never been near the room in Fussie's life-time, came down and sat on
Fussie's cushion! No one knew how the "Governor" would take it. But when
Walter was sent out to buy some meat for it, we saw that Henry was not
going to resent it! From that night onwards the cat always sat, night
after night, in the same place, and Henry liked its companionship. In
1902, when he left the theatre for good, he wrote to me:

    "The place is now given up to the rats--all light cut off, and
    only Barry (the stage door-keeper) and a foreman left.
    Everything of mine I've moved away, including the Cat!"

[Illustration: _Photograph by Sarony_



_The Old Daly Company_

The Daly players were a revelation to me of the pitch of excellence
which American acting had reached. My first night at Daly's was a night
of enchantment. I wrote to Mr. Daly and said: "You've got a girl in your
company who is the most lovely, humorous darling I have ever seen on the
stage." It was Ada Rehan! Now, of course I didn't "discover" her or any
rubbish of that kind; the audience were already mad about her; but I did
know her for what she was, even in that brilliant "all-star" company
and before she had played in the classics and got enduring fame. The
audacious, superb, quaint Irish creature! Never have I seen such
splendid high comedy. Then the charm of her voice,--a little like Ethel
Barrymore's when Miss Ethel is speaking very nicely,--her smiles, and
dimples, and provocative, inviting _coquetterie_! Her Rosalind, her
Country Wife, her Helena, her Railroad of Love, and above all, her
Katharine in "The Taming of the Shrew!" I can only ejaculate. Directly
she came on I knew how she was going to do the part. She had such shy,
demure fun--she understood, like all great comedians, that you must not
pretend to be serious so sincerely that no one in the audience sees
through it.

[Illustration: _Photograph by Sarony_



As a woman off the stage Ada Rehan was even more wonderful than as a
shrew on. She had a touch of dignity, of nobility, of beauty, rather
like Eleonora Duse's. The mouth and the formation of the eye were
lovely. Her guiltlessness of make-up off the stage was so attractive!
She used to come in to a supper with a lovely shining face which scorned
a powder-puff. The only thing one missed was the red hair which seemed
such a part of her on the stage.

Here is a dear letter from the dear, written in 1890:

    "My dear Miss Terry:

    "Of course, the first thing I was to do when I reached Paris was
    to write and thank you for your lovely red feathers. One week is
    gone. To-day it rains and I am compelled to stay at home, and at
    last I write. I thought you had forgotten me and my feathers
    long ago. So imagine my delight when they came at the very end.
    I liked it so. It seemed as if I lived all the time in your
    mind; and they came as a good-bye.

    "I saw but little of you, but in that little I found no change.
    That was gratifying to me, for I am over-sensitive, and would
    never trouble you if you had forgotten me. How I shall prize
    those feathers--Henry Irving's presented by Ellen Terry to me
    for my Rosalind Cap. I shall wear them once and then put them by
    as treasures. Thank you so much for the pretty words you wrote
    me about 'As You Like It.' I was hardly fit on that matinée. The
    great excitement I went through during the London season almost
    killed me. I am going to try and rest, but I fear my nerves and
    heart won't let me.

    "You must try and read between the lines all I feel. I am sure
    you can if anyone ever did; but I cannot put into words my
    admiration for you--and that comes from deep down in my heart.
    Good-bye, with all good wishes for your health and success.

    "I remain,

        "Yours most affectionately,

                      "Ada Rehan"

I wish I could just once have played with Ada Rehan. When Mr. Tree could
not persuade Mrs. Kendal to come and play in "The Merry Wives of
Windsor" a second time, I hoped that Ada Rehan would come and rollick
with me as Mrs. Ford,--but it was not to be.

[Illustration: _From the collection F. H. Meserve_


Mr. Daly himself interested me greatly. He was an excellent manager, a
man in a million. But he had no artistic sense. The productions of
Shakespeare at Daly's were really bad from the pictorial point of view.
But what pace and "ensemble" he got from his company!

May Irwin was the low comedian who played the servants' parts in Daly's
comedies from the German. I might describe her--except that she was far
more genial--as a kind of female Rutland Barrington. On and off the
stage her geniality distinguished her like a halo. It is a rare quality
on the stage, yet without it the comedian has up-hill work. Generous May
Irwin! Lucky those who have her warm friendship and jolly, kind

_The John Drew Family_

John Drew, the famous son of a famous mother, was another Daly player
whom I loved. With what loyalty he supported Ada Rehan! He never played
for his own hand, but for the good of the piece. His mother, Mrs. John
Drew, had the same quiet methods as Mrs. Alfred Wigan. Everything that
she did told. I saw Mrs. Drew play Mrs. Malaprop, and it was a lesson to
people who overact. Her daughter, Georgie Drew, Ethel Barrymore's
mother, was also a charming actress. Maurice Barrymore was a brilliantly
clever actor. Little Ethel, as I still call her, though she is a big
"star," is carrying on the family traditions. She ought to play Lady
Teazle. She may take it from me that she would make a success in it.

[Illustration: _From the collection of Robert Coster_


Modjeska, who, though she is a Polish actress, is associated with the
American stage, made a great impression on me. She was exquisite in many
parts, but in none finer than in "Adrienne Lecouvreur." Her last act
electrified me. I have never seen it better acted, although I have seen
all the great ones do it since. Her Marie Stuart, too, was a beautiful
and distinguished performance. Her Juliet had lovely moments, but I did
not so much care for that, and her broken English interfered with the
verse of Shakespeare. Some years ago I met Modjeska and she greeted me
so warmly and sweetly, although she was very ill.

During my more recent tours in America, Maude Adams is the actress of
whom I have seen most, and "to see her is to love her!" In "The Little
Minister" and in "Quality Street" I think she is at her best, but above
all parts she herself is most adorable. She is just worshipped in
America, and has an extraordinary effect--an _educational_ effect--upon
all American girlhood.

[Illustration: _From the collection of F. H. Meserve_


_Mary Anderson_

I never saw Mary Anderson act. That seems a strange admission, but
during her wonderful reign at the Lyceum Theatre, which she rented from
Henry Irving, I was in America, and another time when I might have seen
her act, I was very ill and ordered abroad. I have, however, had the
great pleasure of meeting her and she has done me many little
kindnesses. Hearing her praises sung on all sides, and her beauties
spoken of everywhere, I was particularly struck by her modest evasion of
publicity _off_ the stage. I personally only knew her as a most
beautiful woman--as kind as beautiful--constantly working for her
religion--_always_ kind, a good daughter, a good wife, a good woman.

She cheered me before I sailed for America by saying that her people
would like me.

"Since seeing you in Portia and Letitia," she wrote, "I am convinced you
will take America by storm." Certainly _she_ took _England_ by storm!
But she abandoned her triumphs almost as soon as they were gained. They
never made her happy, she once told me, and I could understand her
better than most, since I had had success too, and knew that it did not
mean happiness.

Henry and I were so fortunate as to gain the friendship and approval of
Dr. Horace Howard Furness, perhaps the finest Shakespearean scholar in
America, and editor of the Variorum Shakespeare, which Henry considered
the best of all editions--"the one which counts." It was in Boston, I
think, that I disgraced myself at one of Dr. Furness' lectures. He was
discussing "As You Like It" and Rosalind, and proving with much
elaboration that English in Shakespeare's time was pronounced like a
broad country dialect, and that Rosalind spoke Warwickshire! A little
girl who was sitting in the front of me had lent me her copy of the play
a moment before, and now, absorbed in Dr. Furness' argument, I forgot
the book wasn't mine and began scrawling controversial notes in it with
my very thick and blotty fountain pen.

"Give me back my book! Give me my book!" cried the little girl. "How
dare you write in my book!" she cried with rage.

Her mother tried to hush her up: "It's Miss Ellen Terry."

"I don't care! She's spoilt my nice book!"

I am glad to say that when the little girl understood, she forgave me.
Still, it was dreadful of me and I did feel ashamed at the time.

_Joseph Jefferson_

In November, 1901, I wrote in my diary: "Philadelphia. Supper at
Henry's. Jefferson there, sweeter and more interesting than ever--and

Dear Joe Jefferson--actor, painter, courteous gentleman, _profound_
student of Shakespeare! When the Bacon-Shakespeare controversy was
raging in America (it really _did_ rage there!) Jefferson wrote the most
delicious doggerel about it. He ridiculed, and his ridicule killed the
Bacon enthusiasts all the more dead because it was barbed with

He said that when I first came into the box to see him as "Rip," he
thought I did not like him, because I fidgetted and rustled and moved my
place, as is my wicked way. "But I'll get her, and I'll hold her," he
said to himself. I was held indeed--enthralled!

_The Night of the Great Blizzard_

Our first American tours were in 1883-1884; the third was in 1887-88,
the year of the great blizzard. We were playing in New York when the
storm began, and Henry came to fetch us at half-past ten in the morning.
His hotel was near the theatre where we were to play at night. He said
the weather was stormy, and we had better make for his hotel while
there was time. The German actor, Ludwig Barnay, was to open in New
York that night, but the blizzard affected his nerves to such an extent
that he did not appear at all and returned to Germany directly the
weather improved!

Most of the theatres closed for three days, but we remained open,
although there was a famine in the town and the streets were impassable.
The cold was intense. Henry sent Walter out to buy some violets for
Barnay, and when he brought them in to the dressing-room--he had only
carried them a few yards--they were frozen so hard that they could have
been chipped with a hammer.

We rang up on "Faust" three-quarters of an hour late. This was not bad,
considering all things. Although the house was sold out, there was
hardly any audience, and only a harp and two violins in the orchestra.
But discipline was so strong in the Lyceum Company that every member of
it reached the theatre by eight o'clock, although some of them had had
to walk from Brooklyn Bridge. The Mayor of New York and his daughter
managed to reach their box somehow. Then we thought it was time to
begin. A few members of Daly's company, including John Drew, came in,
and a few friends. It was the oddest, sparsest audience! But the
enthusiasm was terrific.

Five years went by before we visited America again. Five years in a
country of rapid changes is a long time, long enough for friends to
forget. But they didn't forget. This time we made new friends, too, in
the Far West. We went to San Francisco, among other places. We attended
part of a performance at the Chinese theatre. Oh, those rows of
impenetrable faces gazing at the stage with their long, shining,
inexpressive eyes. What a look of the everlasting the Chinese have! "We
have been before you--we shall be after you," they seem to say.

The chief incident of the fifth American tour was our production at
Chicago of Laurence Irving's one-act play "Godefroi and Yolande." I
regard that little play as an inspiration. By instinct the young author
did everything right.

In 1900-1 I was ill and hated the parts I was playing in America. The
Lyceum was not what it had been. Everything was changed.

In 1907--only the other day--I toured in America for the first time on
my own account--playing modern plays for the first time. I made new
friends and found my old ones still faithful.

But this tour was chiefly momentous to me because at Pittsburg I was
married for the third time, and married to an American, Mr. James
Usselman of Indiana, who acts under the name of James Carew.


[1] Alexander had just succeeded Terriss as our leading young man.

[2] Wenman had a rolling bass voice of which he was very proud. He was a
valuable actor, yet somehow never interesting. Young Norman
Forbes-Robertson played Sir Andrew Ague-Cheek with us on our second
American tour.

[3] Once when Allen was rehearsing the supers in the Church Scene in
"Much Ado about Nothing," we overheard him "show the sense" in
Shakespeare like this:

"This 'Ero, let me tell you, is a perfect lady, a nice, innercent young
thing, and when the feller she's engaged to calls 'er an 'approved
wanton,' you naturally claps yer 'ands to yer swords. A wanton is a kind
of--well, you know--she ain't what she ought to be!"

Allen would then proceed to read the part of Claudio: "... not to knit
my soul to an approved wanton."

Seven or eight times the supers clapped their "'ands to their swords"
without giving Allen satisfaction.

"No, no, no, that's not a bit like it, not a bit! If any of your sisters
was 'ere and you 'eard me call 'er ---- ----, would yer stand gapin' at
me as if this was a bloomin' tea party?"





"To be hanged by the neck until dead." Well, no one was surprised. It
was a foregone conclusion. Desertion to the enemy in time of war is one
of the crimes military that cuts a man off from any chance for clemency.
When he lifts his hands against his former comrades, he is as one
already dead; that is, if he is caught. Private Wilson made the fatal
mistake of being caught. The result was inevitable.

Though Private Wilson was expecting these very words, the sound of them,
cutting the absolute silence, sent a cold contraction to his heart, and
his thick lips drew themselves over his white teeth. Doubtless, if it
had been possible, he would have turned pale; but since he was as black
as the proverbial ace of spades, this was out of the question. Private
Wilson belonged to the 19th Cavalry, which, as the initiated know, is a
negro regiment.

There was no movement in the still line of the squadron when the fatal
order was read, except a slight tremor, almost imperceptible, like the
first faint rustling of leaves in the dead quiet that precedes a storm.
Then from the right of "B" Troop there came a deep, indrawn breath, and
the first sergeant's horse sprang sideways, in amazement, against that
of the guidon. The animal was accustomed to being treated as tenderly as
an infant, and now, for no fault whatever, he had received a rough
pressure from his rider's knees, and a sharp dig from the spurs. The
first sergeant was old Jeremiah Wilson, and the prisoner, standing to
the "front and center" in the gathering dusk, and hearing his fate
pronounced, was Jeremiah's son.

Sergeant Wilson was the one man in the squadron who had hoped against
hope, and now that hope was dead. It died hard, and its death was
recorded in that contraction of the knees and dig of the spurs. The
guidon paid no attention. In his heart he believed that the sentence was
just; but his pity went out to the old soldier on his right. His eyes,
however, were fixed on Private Wilson, as were those of the rest of the
squadron. The prisoner had acquired a new status. Here was a human being
within two weeks of the solution of the greatest of all mysteries. He
was worth looking at. The condemned man saw the interest shown in him,
and, upheld by the feeling of self-importance inherent in the negro
character, and always brought to the surface by applause or other
manifestation of unusual attention, bore himself jauntily.

There was nothing of this to sustain his old father. He had participated
in executions before. For him there were no visions of walking to death
with a "firm tread," as the papers say, and "dying game" before the
admiring eyes of soldiers and natives. With him it was steel-ribbed
facts. He could hear the bang of the trap, the snap of the rope, and the
quivering creak of the scaffold. And afterward, the lonely, hopeless
years. Besides, the dishonor of it. What irony to parade with thirty
years of service chevrons on his sleeves, and be pointed out as the
father of a man hanged for deserting to the Filipinos!

The officers went to the front and center and the formation was over.
Private Wilson departed to his closely guarded prison, and old Jeremiah
took the troop to quarters and dismissed it. For the first time in
twenty years he forgot to "open chamber and magazine," and publish the
details for the next day. He wanted to be alone; away from the pitying
eyes of the black men of the troop.

He had honestly believed that there were grounds for hope. He could not
see now, in the face of the evidence, how the court could have given
"Buff" the extreme penalty. He thought he had explained the
circumstances so clearly. Hadn't he told the tribunal of the baleful
influence of Mercedes Martinez? how this _mestiza_, had lured his boy to
his downfall? He thought he had shown positively, by his testimony,
that this woman had terrible "voodoo" powers and had _conjured_ "Buff."
Hadn't they apparently listened with wonder while he related the charms
that had been brought to bear on his son? the devils that had pursued
him; the angels that had beckoned him away to the hills; the divine call
he had received to be the George Washington of the Filipinos, and lead
them to freedom?


The old soldier's pride in his son's physical perfection had always
blinded him to the fact that the private was constantly in trouble, and
was known as a "bad egg." If any one had told him that he was an object
of pity because of his boy's worthlessness, he would have sputtered with
indignation. He never realized that Buff escaped many a "bawling out"
because the officers respected the father's long years of faithful
service and did not want to humiliate him. He knew that his boy flew
high occasionally, but that was because he was "jess nachally sprightly
and full o' devilment." No one could deny that Private Wilson was one of
the finest animals, physically, that ever wore the uniform; or that he
had gained a wide reputation among his comrades and the Filipinos on
account of his terrible abilities in a hand-to-hand engagement. It was
this very notoriety that had attracted the insurgents' attention to him,
and led to his downfall.


The little brown men stood in awe of this black demon, and wanted him on
their side. His military training and reputation as a fighter would be
of inestimable value. With their usual craft the insurgent officials
went about to wean the soldier from his allegiance, and by the aid of
the _mestiza_ beauty, Mercedes Martinez, succeeded in their purpose.
Between retreat and reveille of one July night, Private Wilson, led by
visions of love and a brigadier-general's star, took to the hills. He
longed to emulate the black renegade, Fagan, but having none of Fagan's
"foxiness" or ability, he was soon laid by the heels. Men of his own
squadron took him. He demanded at first to be treated as befitted his
rank; but none of his self-importance went with his black captors.
"We'll brigidiale-gene'al yer, yer black scound'al," they remarked
cheerfully, as they stripped off his tinsel stars. "Yer oughter be

They "Gen'al Wilsoned" him until he was sick of it and begged them to
stop. Then, when they got back to the station, they popped him into the
"jigger" along with privates charged with sassing the cook and other
heinous offenses--a most humiliating experience for a brigadier general.
Now he must die; and it came to him that it was as hard for a general
officer to die as ever it was for a private.


When his son had disappeared, old Sergeant Wilson had borne himself
proudly, even in the face of rumors and insinuations. His boy would not
desert. That he might have gone outside the lines to see some "lady
friend" and been captured, yes; but no desertion. Even when tales of his
lurid doings out in the province began to come in, old Jeremiah had not
faltered in his faith. They were lies, all of them, or it was some other
man. Nor when Buff was taken, with his patent-leather boots and tin
stars, was the old man shaken; for the explanation that the private gave
as to how he had been conjured was easier for Wilson to believe than
that his "baby" had been false to his salt. But now the case was
different. The disgrace of being parent to a "bobtailed" and condemned
criminal was as the bitterness of death.

Up to now, for all his hard sixty years of life, he had carried himself
like a lance. The whiteness of age in his woolly hair was not reflected
in the iron spirit that upheld his wrinkled body. But the shame of those
words spoken on parade had undone that, as suddenly as ashes crumble
before the touch.

The days immediately following the publishing of Buff's sentence were
nightmares of pain and humiliation. The old negro could hardly bring
himself to go to headquarters at first sergeant's call. When he did go,
he moved heavily, like a man asleep, and with his eyes fixed on the
ground, that he might not meet the curious, pitying glances of his
fellow soldiers.

After a week of this, old Jeremiah began to make mistakes at drill and
mistakes in his troop papers; a thing hitherto unknown. Finally
Lieutenant Perkins, the troop commander, lost his patience at some bull
the old sergeant made, and called him down roughly, in the presence of
the troop.

"Look here, Sergeant Wilson, I won't have any more of this. I'll bust
you higher than a kite. I don't care if you've had fifty years of
service. If you are mooning about that worthless boy of yours, you had
better get over it. It's a damn good riddance, and you know it as well
as I do. You'll have to take a brace or something will drop."

If Perkins had not been born several degrees north of Mason and Dixon's
line he would have known better than that; as it was, he did not
understand these negroes. He hadn't the faintest conception of how to
handle these simple-hearted black men. He was not popular with them at
any time, and this unheard-of piece of cruelty cut every tender-hearted
trooper as deeply as if it had been aimed at him personally. This was
the first break, and, as a consequence, something did drop, in a way
that Perkins hardly expected.

The old sergeant made no reply to this reprimand, but simply stood at
attention, though his black, weazened face worked and his lips trembled.
It was the first time since he was a buck private that he had been
spoken to in such a manner. For the first time, the yoke of discipline
galled him. The bitterness of his inferiority and servitude was as
wormwood within him. The harsh injustice of such treatment in this, his
black hour, after years of faithful work, aroused in him a demon of
resentment that made him long to strike back.

The occurrence startled him from his lethargy. He suddenly realized that
his son's few remaining hours on earth were slipping by, and the boy had
not been comforted. When this came to him, his self-reproach cut him
sharply, and he resolved to make amends at once. He obtained permission
from the officer of the day, and that evening, after retreat, went to
see Buff.

He found the general plucked of his plumage. The prospect of death so
close to him had narrowed the black boy's perspective. "The worldly hope
men set their hearts upon" had turned ashes, and it were hard to find "a
man who looked so wistfully on the day" as this doomed soldier. He
wanted to live. Every atom of animal strength in his perfect body was
charged with a desire to exist. This living, day after day, in close
proximity to the grave had tended to a simplification of ideas. He had
harked back to childhood, and when his father came, the prisoner, in his
clanking irons, turned to him as a pickaninny might have done for
protection from some bugaboo.

Old Jeremiah sat on the cot, while Buff occupied a small stool directly
in front of him. They talked in low tones, of ordinary subjects, at
first; then gradually went back through the years. The white-haired old
negro and the young soldier both smiled as they recalled childish
escapades of the latter, 'way back in "God's country." They lost
themselves in reminiscence, and forgot the present, until the wan moon,
coming up, cast the shadows of the bars in the window across them. Then
with a shiver they remembered.

Suddenly the private began to talk of his death, and as he spoke the
terror of it grew on him. This man, known to have killed more than one
American soldier and to be absolutely fearless in battle, quaked with
abject fright. He would contend gladly in a contest against hopeless
odds; but at the thought of his end creeping on him thus, slowly,
inexorably his soul writhed in terror. He leaned forward and pressed his
face on his father's knees.

"Oh, paw, ain't yer gwine ter help me? Won't you do somethin' fer me? Ah
doan' wanter die yit. Tain't my time ter die. Ah nevah meant no hahm,
paw. Ef they'll just give me one moah chanst, ah'll do anything they
say. Honest, ah will. Gawd! paw, yer ain't gwine ter let 'em kill me, is

The soldier raised his head and looked into the sergeant's black face as
though the latter were omnipotent, and only had to say the word to make
him free. Then, with a shivering sigh, he laid his head on his father's
knees again.

"Sh--sh," the old sergeant said softly, "Sh--sh"; and that was all he
could do; but his wrinkled hand wandered tenderly over the prisoner's
black, kinky hair, and tears rolled down his seamed face.

When Buff's panic wore off a bit, he was made to lie down, and Jeremiah,
sitting beside him, crooned softly, as the old black mammies do to the
little children. By the time call to quarters sounded, the condemned
man's quiet breathing told that his earthly troubles were forgotten, for
a time at least.

After this visit, Sergeant Wilson's apparent neglect of his duties
became more pronounced than ever. The simplest orders and directions
received from his troop's commander, he either forgot to perform or
executed in such a bunglesome manner as to drive Lieutenant Perkins'
irritable nature to the verge of hysteria. The latter, with his narrow
sympathies, could make no allowance for the old negro's state of mind,
and his "roasts" became more frequent and rougher with each repetition.
The sergeant took it all with apparent resignation; but within him the
troubled spirit was surging to and fro. How could he be expected to copy
troop returns and muster rolls, with that cry--"Gawd, paw, yer ain't
gwine ter let 'em kill me, is yer?" ringing in his ears, hour by hour?
It was the unfairness of it that aroused his resentment.

If the "ole Cap'n" were only here, all would be well. It was another
cruel stroke that he should be absent on detached service just when
Jeremiah needed him most.

Soldiers are a peculiar breed. They are more nearly like children in
certain characteristics than any other class of men. They are so
accustomed to being taken care of by their officers that they look to
the latter for everything. When they find one who they know will stand
up for them, and whom they can trust, their faith and confidence in him
are absolute. They will follow him through fire and flood, and obey any
order that he may give, in the blind belief that he knows what is best
for them. This is true of white soldiers, and much more so of the
darkies. This is the feeling that old Jeremiah and the men of the troop
held for Captain North, whom they all called the "ole Cap'n."

In all the years these two had served together, since the battle of the
Rosebud, when Lieutenant John T. North earned a medal of honor for
"bringing in Private J. Wilson, 19th Cavalry, who was wounded, under a
heavy fire from the Indians, at the imminent risk of his own life," the
sergeant had never received a harsh word or a rebuke that he did not
know was merited. But the sullen fury that this young prig aroused in
him was unbearable. He felt that his inherent subordination to
discipline was being torn to shreds.

This went on for three days. The discipline in the troop was growing
ragged with startling rapidity, and Perkins felt it. The men, under the
constant abuse heaped upon one whom they respected and pitied, were
growing sullen and restive. Each of these soft-hearted troopers was
gradually acquiring and nursing a personal grudge. They were forgetting
their ideas of the fitness of things. They lost sight of everything
except a clearly monumental piece of injustice.

Instead of meeting the issue fairly, and acknowledging the error of his
position, Perkins became obstinately harsher and harsher. Not only was
he unnecessarily abusive to old Jeremiah, but his treatment of the whole
troop was stern to a degree. Finally, on this third day, after a violent
harangue in presence of the troop, he reduced the old negro from first
sergeant to sergeant.

This was the second break, and when Perkins went that morning to inspect
the old church that served as quarters, he found the men congregated in
little groups in the squad room. There was not the usual loud-voiced
chatter and laughter, but a sullen murmur that dropped to quick silence
when he entered. This was bad. There was nothing specific, but he
instinctively felt that he was losing his hold. He chafed to do
something to "smash these niggers," but there was nothing to seize upon;
so he swore at a man loudly for not having his clothing arranged
properly, and ordered him to the guard-house. When the officer left, the
same ominous murmur arose in the quarters.

It was evident, also, that outside influences were beginning to
work--the sign of the Katapunan. There was hardly a man in "B" Troop but
had his _querida_ or sweetheart among the native women. As one of the
black soldiers remarked: "Ef de gem'men Filypinos had 'a' been as
complacent as de ladies, der nevah would 'a' bin no insurrecshun nohow."
In their off hours the men, in their grim anger, confided their troubles
to these dusky females, and the crafty women began to work upon the
spirit of rebellion amongst the simple colored soldiers.

Why did they submit themselves to such a wretch as this _Teniente_
Perkins? Why didn't they show him that they were men to be feared? Why
did they allow that magnificent black comrade, Wilson, to be hanged,
without making an effort to save him; when doing so would be the one
thing that would make _Teniente_ Perkins wild with rage? They were too
cunning to urge open mutiny, but the seed they sowed gave growth to

The darkies of "B" Troop were, first of all, soldiers. Subordination to
the wills of their superiors was ingrained in their natures. They did
not want to "buck," but it seemed as if the troop commander were trying
to force them to rebel. They endeavored to forget the words of the
Filipino women; but how could they, when all day long old Sergeant
Wilson sat in the corner of the squad room, clasping and unclasping his
straining hands; while on his sleeves were the marks where his first
sergeant's chevrons had been ripped off?

Two more days dragged by, and conditions in the troop grew worse.
Perkins had heard some loud-mouthed private baying forth incendiary, not
to say uncomplimentary remarks; had placed the troop on the straight
ration, and suppressed the pass list. The men wandered about the
quarters with a nervous, preoccupied air. They did not look at each
other. They felt that if they gave rein to their feelings, something
horrible would happen. They did not want it to happen; they wanted to be
good soldiers. But this man was forcing them; forcing their hands. There
is a limit to everything. What he had done was nothing if they had
deserved it. It was the rank injustice that made them furious. They felt
that they must have some escape for their feelings or they would burst
through the bonds. Consequently, when Sergeant Potter broached his
scheme, they hailed it with acclamation. A little conference was held in
one end of the quarters, and after it was over Potter went to speak to
old Jeremiah.

The ex-first sergeant had taken no part in the proceedings--in fact, he
knew nothing of them. He had stayed in his corner, where he had sat for
the last three days, with his eyes fixed on the floor, clasping and
unclasping his hands. Sergeant Potter sat down on a bunk beside him and
touched him on the shoulder. The old man started.

"Look a yere, sarge, yer oughter take a brace. Me and the res' of de
boys is mighty sorry fer yer--we showly is. But yer mussent grieve so,
cause yer showly gwineter be sick ef yer does."

"I'se obleeged to yer, Potter, you and de boys."

"Yes, suh, me an de boys feels mighty bad cause yer got busted, an'--an'
about the other things. Ef yer'll 'scuse me, sarge, fer talkin' about
it, we wondered ef dere wahnt somethin' yer could do fur--fur Buff."

Seeing the drawn look come back to the older man's face, Potter
continued hurriedly----

"Thar now, sarge, I'se powerful sorry ef I'se hu't yoh feelin's, but me
an' de boys thought ef yer'd telegraph to Division Headquatahs, dey
might do somethin'. 'Twon't do no hahm, nohow."

He then went on and talked in such a persuasive strain that, in spite of
his common-sense, a gleam of hope began to burn in Jeremiah's eyes. Yes,
it would cost something, but the boys had got together a little purse to
defray the expenses of the telegram. This could be turned over to the
Lieutenant, who would doubtless have no difficulty in getting the
necessary permission from the squadron commander. The old man had been
inactive and without hope for so long that the idea of any effort
embracing a chance of success aroused in him a fierce energy. Once
persuaded, he was impatient to be at work. If anything were to be done,
it must be done at once. In the next day and the next, Private Wilson's
sands would have run out.

It was apparently a good omen that Lieutenant Perkins should walk into
the quarters while they were talking. Potter and Jeremiah went to him
without loss of time and respectfully broached their request. The rest
of the men stood around at attention, trying to look as though they were
not listening, but straining their ears to catch every word. The officer
heard them through, and then burst out impatiently----

"Well, of all the wild-cat schemes I ever heard of, that is the worst.
The idea, Wilson, of a man of your length of service proposing such a
thing. Hanging is too good for that son of yours, and you know it. I'll
have nothing to do with this, and don't want to hear any more of it.
That'll do now."

The silence that followed these words was silence indeed. Every man in
the room caught them, and there was not one of the fifty present who did
not feel a hot, uncomfortable throbbing at his temples.

In the old sergeant, the last connecting link of discipline was strained
nearly to the breaking point. An angry gleam appeared in his eyes, and
he said in a low, shaking voice:

"Ve'ly well, Suh, I shall go to de commandin' officah."

"All right, you can do as you please about that; but you will hear from
it," and Perkins walked into the orderly room, where he proceeded to
make life miserable for the subdued wretch who was acting first sergeant
of the troop.

In a few minutes the commanding officer's orderly presented the
commanding officer's compliments to Lieutenant Perkins, and informed him
that the commanding officer would like to see him at the office.

Major Don Carlos Bliss, who was known throughout the service as a
splendid soldier, did not think much of Perkins. He had had his eye on
"B" Troop lately, and did not like the looks of things a little bit. He
was a man of strong convictions and never hesitated to express them. He
had known old Jeremiah Wilson for years, and when he learned of the
latter's reduction, his opinion that Perkins was a fool was duly
confirmed. He knew that much of the lieutenant's irritability was due to
"nerves" acquired by a steady and conscientious course of drinking, with
which procedure he had no patience.

Perkins, when he entered, found the sergeant standing at the desk.

"Mr. Perkins," the Major said shortly, "while Sergeant Wilson's request
is a little out of the ordinary, I have no objection to his sending a
telegram through this office. I can put no recommendation for clemency
in it, however, for I consider the sentence a just one. When you get
this message drafted the way Sergeant Wilson wants it, bring it to me,
and let me see it, and," he concluded, looking Perkins steadily in the
eye from under his bushy brows, "I advise you to do it at once."

The telegram went that afternoon. The plea for clemency was based,
principally, upon Sergeant Wilson's years of faithful service, and the
fact that his son was too young to appreciate the enormity of his crime.

Twenty-four hours passed, and there was no answer to the message. In
that time Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson drank deeply of the bitter cup. He
had aged suddenly in the last two weeks. Brooding in the hot, sticky,
tropical days is not good for a man, especially when that man is no
longer young. Shapes and shadows in the brain grow rapidly, and soon
assume enormous proportions. Now the fluctuating tides of hope and
despair gnawed steadily at the weakened foundation of his reason. The
men of the troop were more restless and ill at ease than ever. They had
lost sight of the fact that the prisoner's guilt was as black as the
mouth of the pit. All they saw was a darky soldier clinging tenaciously
to his life, and the agony of that darky's father. Each sympathetic
trooper had begotten a personal interest that ruled him completely.
Besides, the mad hatred they bore Perkins and the hope of backsetting
him led them on. Shapes and shadows were growing in their minds also.

Twenty-seven hours after the appeal was sent to Division Headquarters a
signal corps private walked into "B" Troop's barracks and asked for
Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson. When the latter was pointed out, the man
handed him the familiar yellow envelope, with the crossed signal flags
on the cover, and the burning torch. An instant quiet fell in the room,
as Jeremiah received the crackling paper. He took it deliberately, and
with trembling fingers fumbled for his glasses. Deliberately he put them
on, and deliberately abstracted the message from the envelope, while the
silent troopers watched him with fascinated gaze. He unfolded the paper
and stared at it, then, taking off his glasses, wiped them and stared
again; but it was no use, the mist dimmed the lenses.

"Heah, Potter, you read hit," he said finally with unsteady voice. "De
light's too bad. Ah can't see."

Sergeant Potter took the telegram and spelled it out slowly:

            MANILA, P. I., OCT. 2, 1900.
                           5.30 P.M.

        TR, "B," 19TH CAV.

    (Thro the Commanding Officer Guinibongbong, P. I.)

    The Division Commander will take no action nor grant any delay
    in case of Private B. Wilson, Nineteenth Cavalry. Has no
    objection to laying of case before President provided cable is
    without expense to government. Upon receipt of cable through
    this office indicating that such action is contemplated order of
    suspension will be issued.


So that was the end of it. The irony, the humor of giving permission to
lay the case before the President; by cable, too, with cable-grams only
costing fifty cents a word! What magnanimity, what sarcasm, in sending
such permission to a negro sergeant drawing twenty-six dollars a month!
It would have been better for Jeremiah's peace of mind if that part had
been left out. After it was over, and in the years to come, he would
never be able to escape the thought that one thing more might have been
done to save Buff's life--that once chance was left untried because of
the lack of a few paltry dollars. Potter handed back the telegram
slowly, and Jeremiah walked out into the darkness to fight his fight

The sergeant stopped on the small stone porch and looked out into the
town plaza. The clouds were low and dark in the late twilight, and as
he stood, a few big drops fell, slowly increasing until there was a
heavy down-pour. The rains had come, and soon the monotonous roar on the
metal roofs, steady as the beating of a giant heart, told that the earth
was receiving its semi-annual deluge.

Jeremiah stood in a small niche where he was partially exposed to the
rain. When it and the water from a broken gutter, striking a balustrade
beside him, splashed him with fine spray, he made no effort to move. Why
should he care? He was only a worthless old nigger. A little wetness
more or less would make no difference. A carelessness for all things
earthly and pertaining to his own worn-out old body grew upon him. Then
he suddenly ceased to think of himself. The sound of the rain in his
ears seemed to be boring into his brain. Steady, inexorable,
unanswerable as fate, it weighed upon him like a giant hand, and it came
to him that he was comparing that roar to the death that was approaching
his son.

       *       *       *       *       *

When old Jeremiah left the squad room, there had been general silence
for a time, and then events began to move rapidly, as they continued to
do until the end of this peculiar episode. Sergeant Potter stood for a
moment, with his hands behind his back, gazing at the floor, then he
looked up, and cried out to the whole room:

"Look a heah, boys, is yer gwine ter be beat dis a way? Is yer gwine ter
tuck yer tails atween yer laigs, and say 'let 'er go!' as long as dere
is a chanst? Is yer goin' to 'low dat monkey-faced lootinint to grin at
yer sarcastic? Yer know me. I'se as strong fur discipline as any pu'son;
but dere's a eend to every man's patience." He jerked a hat off a bunk
near him, and threw it down. "Dis is all de dough I got in de worl'," he
said, holding up two silver dollars, "but she'll send fo' words to de
Presydent of dese United States, so heah she goes," and he tossed them
into the hat at his feet. "Come on, boys, dem as wants to be high-tone
and pass de time o' day with de Presydent, chip in."

As soon as they grasped the idea, the appeal was effectual. Out came all
the cash the black men had. It was mostly Mex. _medio pesos_ and
_pesetas_, for "pay day, pay day" had not sounded for over a month. The
silver jingled merrily into the hat, and the affair became a sort of
jollification, each man vying with the others to see how much more he
could "dig up." Their volatile natures, guided solely by impulse and an
undercurrent of generosity, led them to give all they had without
thinking. Man after man, in high good-humor, plunged his hands into
some corner of his box locker and raked up little hoards of cash that he
had saved for tobacco, soap, and such necessities. However, when the
silver was poured on the bed and counted, Sergeant Potter scratched his
woolly head.

"Tain't no kinder use, boys. Twenty-fo' dollars an' ten cents. Dat'll
sen' fo'ty-eight big words and one little 'un. Dat ain't nowhere near
a'nuf. He'd show'ly feel mightly slighted, de Presydent would, ef we
did'n sen' 'im no mo' talk dan dat. We gotter 'spress dis thing logical
an' ellygant, ur he won't take no notice uf it, none whatever. We
nacherally gotter have mo' uf de muzuma."

This was very discouraging, and produced more deep thought and head
rubbing, until Private Andy Smith broke out:

"Well, dis ain't no time fer tu back out. Damn de 17th Article uv
Wah[4]! Jess watch my smoke, niggers."

The rest of the men observed him curiously as he shouldered his way out
of the circle. He went to his gold medal cot, and jerking off one of the
fine, heavy army blankets, spread it on the floor. Then he rummaged
amongst the clothing in his locker, and taking out a pair of extra
shoes, a flannel shirt, and a white stable suit, rolled them into his
blanket. Throwing the bundle thus made over his shoulder, he stalked out
into the rain.

The effect of this eminently lawless example was instantaneous. The
splendid regulation blankets and flannel shirts were at a premium among
the natives, and the market was never dull. They could be coined into
_pesos_ on sight. There was a grand rush, and soon the blankets and
spare articles of clothing went forth into the night, lugged by their
respective owners. Shortly the darkies, wet and steaming, began to stamp
back into the quarters, and the "dobie dollars" again clinked into the
crown of Potter's old campaign hat.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lieutenant Roger Williams Perkins was what is known as a solitary
drinker. They are the worst kind. They drink by themselves, and purely
for the effect. Doubtless their mental processes at such times are
curious indeed.

The rain was falling steadily outside. There was no chance that any of
the other men would come in to-night. Perkins sat alone at his table, as
he had sat since six o'clock. It was now eight, and as he reached to
take "another one," he heard two persons coming up the steps. He swore
to himself and set the glass down. Turning, he found Sergeants Potter
and Wilson at the head of the stairs, their dripping hats in their
hands. Their ponchos glistened in the lamp-light, and from them ran
little streams of water that gathered in globular pools, like
quick-silver, on the oiled floor.

Perkins, of course, had heard of the answer to the telegram, and had
thought the matter closed; but now these niggers had come to trouble him
again. They came forward, trailing their streams of water behind them.
He heard them through. He answered them craftily, smiling behind his
hand, with the cunning born of the fog in his brain. Shortly they went
away again, leaving on the table a pile of silver. Cable the President!
What a joke! and he chuckled aloud. He would teach them to come and
worry him with their foolishness.

Still the rain roared on the roof. Still he sat and drank, and drank
again, until the lamp-light grew sick and wan in the damp gray day.

The first sergeant, with the Morning Report, found Perkins seated in the
same place. Perkins signed the book in a sprawling scrawl, and the
sergeant went his way. The Chino cook brought the meals, and then came
and took them off again. The day dragged through, the gray evening fell;
the rain streamed down; and still the officer sat as before.

At eight fifteen he looked up to find Wilson and Potter before him.
There were the same glistening ponchos, the same little streams of
water, the same pools on the oiled floor. He himself sat in the same
place. The soldiers might have been gone ten minutes instead of
twenty-four hours, for all the change there was in the scene. Only the
pile of silver had disappeared.

No, no answer to the cablegram had been received, and Perkins could
hardly conceal his desire to roar with laughter, as the two turned and
trailed their streams of water back down the stairs.

At four o'clock he wobbled to the bed and threw himself down with all
his clothes on. He awoke at six, and, getting up uncertainly, went to
the window and looked out. Still rain and murky grayness everywhere. As
he stood, the assembly went; for when a man is to be hanged, a little
thing like rain does not interfere. Perkins turned from the window
quickly, and plunged his head into a basin of cold water. Then, in spite
of the early hour, he took a stiff "bracer," and throwing on his
slicker, went out. At the foot of the stairs he found the orderly with
the horses, and, mounting with suspicious care, he rode to the stables.

The troop was in ranks and waiting. Before the roll was called,
Sergeant Wilson, his face drawn and wrinkled like old parchment, came
forward and asked hesitatingly if there were any news from Washington.
The officer shook his head. The cords in the old negro's throat worked
convulsively, and he requested rather brokenly that he might be excused
from this formation, and be allowed to remain in charge of quarters.

"No," the Lieutenant replied thickly; "there is no reason why _you_
should be excused any more than any one else. The regular man will
remain in charge of quarters." The whole troop heard, as he intended
they should. The "bracer" was getting in its work, and Perkins was
feeling good again. The wily schemes, the shapes and shadows of the
previous night, were growing in his brain once more. He would teach
these niggers who was who.

And so they took Private Buff Wilson out into the falling rain and
hanged him. In the center of the square, formed by the squadron he had
disgraced, he paid the price. The solemn hills, shrouded in mist, looked
down, sadly, impassively. They were not more motionless on their
everlasting foundations than was Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson, sitting his
big bay like a granite statue, the tragedy of the ages and of his race
deep in the hollow sockets of his eyes. For is it not written: "_A
servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren_"?

The signal was given. The trap fell with a bang; the spray flew from the
snapping rope; and Private Wilson was jerked unceremoniously into the
presence of his Maker. Justice was satisfied, and the account was

When a man is hanged, he must be buried. To bury a man it takes a detail
in charge of a non-commissioned officer. The non-commissioned officer is
designated by name from the sergeant-major's office. He is also chosen
by roster in his proper order. It happened to be Sergeant Jeremiah
Wilson's turn for duty. Consequently Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson was told
off to bury his own son.

There was no detachment, no ceremony, no firing squad--only an escort
wagon containing a black Q. M. coffin, upon which were perched four or
five wet, disconsolate troopers armed with picks and shovels. Old
Jeremiah followed, mounted, a feverish light in his eyes and drops of
moisture standing on his grizzled mustache. So he went forth and saw
them consign to earth the clod that had been his son--or rather, consign
to water, for the grave was half full when they reached it. He did not
see it, either; but he heard it.

He heard the splash as the casket was dropped into the half-filled
grave. He heard the grating of the bamboo poles used to hold it down
until the earth could be placed upon it. He heard the sucking and
bubbling as the water forced its way in and the air forced its way out.
He heard the splash of the muddy clay until the heaviness of it seemed
to descend upon his own heart. The shapes and shadows struggled to and
fro in his aching brain until they triumphed. Sergeant Wilson, to the
naked eye as sane as any man, was mad; mad as a hatter.

He went back to the quarters and to his old corner. There, as before, he
sat hour after hour, clasping and unclasping his hands. At times he
startled all in hearing by throwing back his head and laughing harshly.
The men regarded him furtively and with uneasiness.

The dreary night, with its drearier unending rain, had dropped once
more. Lieutenant Perkins was seated in his old place. He had been there
since the execution in the morning. This was the longest session he had
ever indulged in; but the moral fiber degenerates rapidly in the
tropics. Besides, the friendly rain had curtained him and kept away the
spoil-sports. All day he had sat communing with the shapes and shadows.
And it was very pleasant. He had triumphed.

Lately, however, an unpleasant idea had been flitting elusively through
his consciousness--a something that marred the full measure of his
achievement. Time and again he almost grasped it, only to have it slip
from him. What was it? What was it?

Ah, yes; he had it. They were, as yet, ignorant of how he had fooled
them! They must know it to make the joy complete. What sport to take
their money back to them and tell them to their faces what monkeys he
had made of them! Why not do it now? Yes; what a brilliant idea! He
would do it at once.

Just before call to quarters Perkins staggered into the main squad room.
The men stood to attention and observed him with wonder. He was soaking
wet, and the water was streaming down from his uncovered hair. Without
speaking, he walked to the end of the big nara-wood table in the center
of the room, and began to take silver coins from his bulging pockets. He
clawed out handfuls of them and planked them down in a pile; the smaller
ones leaking through his fingers and falling to the stone floor, where
they rolled away with musical tinklings, or hid themselves in the
cracks. Finally, when he had succeeded, with laborious care, in
extracting one last dime from the depths of his pocket, he said thickly,
waving his arms with an all-embracing oratorical gesture:

"All you men come here." The troopers moved close, and formed on three
sides of the table. They stepped quietly, some hint of what was to be
having come to them.

"Got somethin' to tell you. You think you are very smart, doncher? You
think you--" he rubbed his forehead reflectively and struggled for
words. What _was_ it he wanted to tell them? Oh, yes; that was it. "You
think you're smart, doncher?" and he leaned forward on the table,
peering around the circle; "but 'cher all damn fools. Me, I'm a smart
man," and he indicated the center button of his blouse with his thumb,
drawing himself up haughtily.

"You thought I cabled to the President, din'cher?" he continued, leaning
forward again, and returning to his confidential tone. "Not on your
life. See, there's the money. What a joke," and he burst into drunken
hilarity, reeling from side to side, while the tears ran down his face.

The quiet in the room was absolute, except for the officer's unholy
mirth, and the steady fall of the rain. At the sound of that laughter,
old Jeremiah, who had sat in his corner unmindful of the officer's
presence, got up and came forward to the opposite end of the table.
There was a dazed look in his face as though he were just waking from a
deep sleep. He glanced around at the other negroes, standing silently
with wide eyes, then at the drunken officer, and finally at the pile of
silver. Then he knew. As soon as Perkins saw the old soldier, he
chuckled with renewed glee.

"Hallo, sergeant, you ole fool. The joke's on you. Yessir, the joke's on
you. You thought I cabled to the President; but I did'n'. Nosir, I
did'n'." And he went off into renewed peals of laughter.

Suddenly he stopped short. He saw that there was no appreciation of his
witticisms; only a blur of blank black faces and white, rolling eyes.

"Why don't you laugh, you damn apes? You damn black idiots, why don't
you laugh? You----you----"

He ceased quickly, for another voice broke the silence. It was old
Sergeant Wilson speaking. No one could tell when he had begun. He stood
slightly crouched, with his hands on the edge of the table. His face was
absolutely blank and expressionless, while his eyes were fixed on the
officer with a tense, glassy stare. His voice was cold and monotonous,
without rise or fall, halt or intonation, and seemed to be more the wail
of the spirit rising from somewhere deep within him than the voice of
the flesh.

"You heah that, boys? You heah what he says? He calls us apes; us that
God made as well as him. 'Cause we ahr black he calls us apes. We ahr no
better dan de dirt undah his feet. He tooken ouh money an' fooled us,
an' now he is laughin' 'cause he fooled us. He tooken ouh money and
lied to us. An' while he wuz a-foolin' us, us apes, dey taken mah boy,
mah baby, out an' killed him. Out in de rain. An' ah heered de trap
fall, an' de rope snap. An' _he_ heered it, an' laughed when he heered

As he spoke, the sergeant never took his eyes from the officer's face,
and moved slowly around the table, crouching a little, and creeping
stealthily as a beast of prey might move upon an animal that it was
attempting to fascinate. And the officer was being fascinated. He stood
as though transfixed, his jaw hanging and his straining glance bent on
the approaching soldier.

The body of troopers was getting restless. Their eyes, too, had taken on
a peculiar shine, and were all focused upon the white face of the

The wail of that dead, monotonous voice was to these negroes as the call
of the wild. It touched a chord in them that antedated the deluge. They
moved closer, imperceptibly, and moistened their dry lips with their
tongues. There is something mortally appalling in that simple action.
The dead voice continued: "An' dey sent me out to bury him, my own baby.
An' _he_ laughed when ah went. Ah seen 'im laugh. An' dey tooken mah boy
and put 'im in a deep black grave; an' de col', col' watah wuz on 'im
an' raoun' 'im, an' ah heerd it splash when dey put 'im thar. An' he is
thar now, in de col' black grave, an' de watah is on 'im, an' ah kin
feel de watah; an' de dirt is a-weighin' me down. Heah on my ches'. An'
dis man is a-laughin' at us an' says hit is a joke!"

The old sergeant was now within three feet of the officer. The latter
was gray as putty, and sober. It did not take the inclosing circle, the
heavy breathing, the wild, staring eyes and tight-drawn lips to tell him
his danger. He felt the Presence. The air was pregnant with it. He took
a step backward and moved his stiff lips as though to speak; but there
was no sound. The voice went on:

"He laughed at us; but he won't laugh no moah. God done made 'im to look
lak a man; but he ain't no man. He is a snake an' creeps in de grass.
God sez in his book dat all snakes mus' be killed an'--" the sergeant
took another step; the officer took a step backward, and the crowd
surged forward with a quick, hoarse gasp. Then the terror gripped him,
and turning, the officer made a dash for the door.

Again the circle closed in as the sea surges up upon the land. There
were tossing arms; there was the hissing of breath through clenched
teeth, the sickening thud of blows, and a gurgling cry of mortal agony.
Then the sea surged out again, and there on the floor lay the thing
that had been Lieutenant Roger Williams Perkins.

The ring of negroes stood fast. Their shoulders rose and fell as their
convulsive breaths were indrawn and exhaled. They seemed to be wondering
what had happened. Several raised their hands and observed them
curiously, first one and then the other, as though they were strange
objects never seen before. One placed his fingers to his nose and smelt
them furtively. Another tried to rub off the thick, dark stain, but with
little success. The "moving finger" had written.

When the catastrophe occurred, five or ten of the weak-kneed had rushed
from the building, and even as these guilty ones stood there, there was
a clatter of arms outside. Some one yelled: "the guahd," and they knew
that their deeds had overtaken them.

In the momentary pandemonium that followed, old Sergeant Wilson was
heard calling above the din: "Out with dem lights! Pile de bunks agin'
de doahs an' winders!" They had learned to obey that voice before, in
many a tight place, and now it had its old-time ring. So they went and
did. A saber hilt rattled on the portal. "Open the door! This is the
officer of the guard."

"To hell wiff de officah of de guahd. Open hit yo'se'f!" was bellowed in
reply. The strain was relieved, and the sally was greeted with a wild
yapping from the rest, such as might have risen from a den of trapped
wolves. Several ran to the windows. There was a sputtering volley of
carbine shots, and Troop "B," 19th U.S. Cavalry, was in open mutiny.

Now when a troop of United States cavalry rises against those in
authority, incidents begin to occur at once. The times when such a thing
has happened can be counted on the fingers of one hand, with some digits
to spare. There was, in this case, no room for parley or exchange of
flags of truce. The thing with which the ants were already busy there on
the floor was an uncontrovertible fact. Consequently, there being no
grounds upon which to arbitrate the matter, the mutineers blazed away
cheerfully at anything that showed itself on the plaza. They had now
nothing to lose.

Then, shortly, there sounded from the guard-house, through the
rain-drenched night, the call that jerks the soldier out of his bunk,
all standing, from any sleep but that of death: the "call to arms."

In fifteen minutes "B" Troop's quarters were surrounded on all sides by
the other troops of the squadron, the men of which, from safe cover,
observed the carbine flashes and wild yells emanating therefrom with
mild surprise, and wondered "what de hell had broke loose."

Major Bliss sat under the smoky lantern at the guard-house, surrounded
by the officers of the station. He questioned sharply the men who had
escaped from "B" Troop's barracks. At intervals he swore mightily and
cursed the day that Roger Williams Perkins was born.

"And to think that old Wilson should be at the head of this! Old Wilson,
of all men! Why, he is worth fifty thousand Perkinses, dead or alive. I
am only sorry that Perkins didn't get away. I should like to have got
hold of him myself, damn him."

There was no hesitation in the makeup of Major Bliss. He intended to
suppress this outbreak in a manner that would tend to discourage any
such ebullitions in the future. Consequently, he made his dispositions
with grimness and determination. His plan was simple, his orders being
to "rush 'em and give 'em hell." His greatest regret was that the
interests of discipline should make such a step necessary, since he was
sure that a majority of the mutineers had acted upon impulse, and were
already excessively sorry for themselves.

In the midst of these untoward events, the "Tarlac," coastwise transport
blew into the bay through the murk and rain, and Captain North, of "B"
Troop, the "Ole Cap'n," returned to the station. Hearing the shots and
yells, he concluded that the Major was "shooting up the town," and
splashed hurriedly to his quarters for his saber and revolver. There in
the darkness he stumbled over his _muchacho_, who had deposited himself
at the foot of the steps and was earnestly beseeching his patron saint
to have him spared this once; promising an altar cloth and innumerable
candles if he should be allowed to exist long enough to secure them,
thus putting on that gentleman's intercession a premium that he trusted
would be effective. The Captain being naturally impulsive, the accident
did not improve his temper to any appreciable extent. Besides this, the
matches were wet, and there was no oil in the lamp. Consequently he had
to search for his weapons in the dark. After falling over his bunk and
numberless chairs, and upsetting his field desk, he found his saber and
revolver, only to discover that both, owing to the neglect of that same
sanctified _muchacho_ on the stairs, were covered with rust; that the
cylinder of the revolver would not revolve; and that at least two strong
men and a boy would be required to coax the saber from its scabbard!

All this while the shooting and yelling were going on, and by the time
he splashed out into the rain once more, the good Captain was what is
technically known as "mad as a hornet!" He started on a run to "B"
Troop's quarters, to take command of his men, only to be stopped by a
sentinel, who informed him that "B" Troop was in no mood to be taken
command of, and that he had "bettah go to de guahd-house." Being ordered
to the guard-house by a private did not tend to quiet his state of mind
any, even when the situation was explained. By the time he burst in on
the assembled officers at the post of the guard, Captain North was
madder than ever.

"What the devil is going on here, Bliss? What's this I hear about 'B'
Troop's busting loose? This is a hell of a state of affairs."

"That is just what I think, North, and very neatly expressed," the Major
replied dryly. "Lovely discipline you have in that band of Indians of
yours. They've mutinied, no less, and apparently they have got Perkins.
A nice----"

"Mutinied, have they? Why, the infernal black scoundrels," almost roared
the irate officer, striding up and down the room. "Mutinied, have they?
What the devil do they mean by doing a thing like that without saying
anything to me about it? I'll mutiny 'em! Don't you interfere with me,
Bliss," he continued, halting in his walk, "don't you interfere with me.
This is my troop, and I can handle them. Don't you interfere with me."

"My dear North, no one has shown any inclination to interfere with you,
has he?"

"That's right," and the Captain continued his march, "that's right. I
can attend to these gentlemen. This plan of rushing them, though, is all
wrong, all wrong"; and he stopped again. "They'll fight, fight like the
devil. I ought to know. I've seen them do it often enough. You'll lose
good men. In opposing them with force you recognize the strength in
them. What you need is moral force. One man power. Same principle in
training lions. Same principle. If a lion-tamer went into a cage of ten
lions with ten men, he'd have trouble on his hands from the jump; but he
can go alone and bluff 'em. Same principle here. If I could get into the
middle of that bunch over there without their seeing me until I _was_
there, I'd scare them out of ten years' growth. How to get there, that's
the question."

"Why, North, you are crazy. They'd get you, sure. They'd eat you up,

"Eat _me_ up? Why, they'd as soon think of tackling the late Mr. Peter
Jackson. They know me. How to get there, that's the question. Walking
across the plaza they couldn't tell _me_ from any one else."

"Beg yoah pahdin', sah," and Private Massay of "B" Troop, who was the
commanding officer's orderly for the day, spoke up, "Ef de Cap'n could
git in through de little doah in de stoah-room, and go through de
kitchen, I speck he could git in widout bein' ketched."

"Right, Massay, the very thing. Somebody give me a lantern. Confound it,
one of you men get me a lantern, and be quick about it." A member of the
guard gave him the required article, and concealing it carefully under
his poncho, he went quickly out. The Major and other officers jumped up
and followed. All the way down the dreary, rain-swept street the Major
attempted to persuade the Captain to give up his foolhardy enterprise,
but without result. Finally, when they reached the cordon of surrounding
troops, the senior officer said:

"Well, North, this is absolutely absurd, and out of the question. If you
insist, I shall have to give you an order not to go."

"No, you won't do that, Bliss." The Captain's anger had left him now,
and he spoke quietly. "We have known each other a long time, and seen a
lot of service together. You won't take advantage of your rank to stop
me now. I am only doing what you would do in my place. It is my troop.
The shame and disgrace are mine. You won't stop me now."

The Major hesitated a moment and then spoke slowly, and with evident

"Well--well. Have your way; but be careful, John, be careful."

They saw him move quietly along under the shadow of a wall, cross the
street, and disappear in a small side door of "B" Troop's quarters. He
was not discovered.

       *       *       *       *       *

For the last half hour the silence and the blackness of the grave had
existed in "B" Troop's big squad room. The "shouting and the tumult" had
died a lingering death. One cannot yell and hurl challenge indefinitely,
and shouting up one's courage begins to lose its efficacy if long
continued. One big-lunged mutineer had held out with his firing and
bellowing until the nerves of the rest could stand it no longer. They
then rudely suppressed him. He sounded so absurdly and pathetically
foolish. He was typical of their own status. "One nigger shootin' a
bluff at de whole United States Army!" They realized that with fifty it
was no less idiotic.

If it had not been for old Wilson passing stealthily to and fro among
them, with that wild light in his eyes, and those crazy mumblings,
doubtless there would have, already, been breaks in the ranks. But no;
there was that other thing, lying over there where it fell. There was no
use now; there could be no looking back. Each turned wearily to his door
or window and renewed his wide-eyed effort to pierce the web of
blackness over the square. And the everlasting rain still fell.

A door swung cautiously somewhere. There was the sound of some one
moving with steady, determined step down the center of the room. Then,
without warning, their unaccustomed eyes were momentarily blinded by a
light taken suddenly from under a poncho; and there in the center of the
room stood a lone officer; in one hand a lantern, in the other a big
blue revolver.

For an instant there was no movement. Then there was a counter reaction.
With the snarl of wild animals, the fifty negroes sprang toward the
center of the room. Sergeant Wilson was first. With a cry of: "Kill him!
kill him!" he bounded over a bunk, and landed within three feet of the
officer, revolver upraised. As he did so, the officer lifted the lantern
to a level with his own face. The sergeant stopped. The whole circle
halted, as though Circe had transfixed them. They had recognized the
"Ole Cap'n."

"Well, Wilson." At the sound of the voice the old negro's countenance
changed instantly. It became the face of a man in mortal anguish, as
indeed he was. In that moment the scales had fallen from his vision. He
saw his position clearly in the light of the sorrowful glance from the
"ole Cap'n's" eyes. It was as though the main pillar of the heavens had
been pulled out, and the skies were thundering down about his dazed old

"Oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd!" he groaned, putting one hand to his head, and
rocking it from side to side, as though the pain there were more than he
could stand.

"Oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd." The revolver was lowered slowly from its upraised
position, and suddenly, before the officer could stop him, the sergeant
turned it against himself. There was a flash, an earsplitting report,
and the old soldier sank to the floor. There he stretched himself
wearily, as though for a long sleep, and Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson, of
the "old Army," was gathered to his fathers.

The Captain turned away abruptly. He knew that old Wilson was a good

"Open the doors," he said to the troopers, as though he had been telling
them good morning. Compliance to that voice, raised in command, was to
these soldiers a second nature. There was not the slightest hesitation.
With eager alacrity they hastened to obey, like children who had been
caught misbehaving.

In the first faintness of the dawn the tired-faced troopers cheerfully
filed out and formed in front of the quarters, each one, as he passed
through the door, depositing his arms at the officer's feet. Oh, but it
was good to be on the right side again; and the "ole Cap'n" would take
care of his own.


[4] Art. 17. Any soldier who sells, or through neglect loses or spoils
his horse, arms, clothing, or accoutrements, shall be punished as a
court martial may adjudge, subject to such humiliations as may be
prescribed by the President, by virtue of the power vested in him.






    _"I never cared for the singer's fame,
    But, oh, for the singer's heart
        Once more--
    The bleeding, passionate heart!"--"B. V."_

These are a few films from the human biograph of Harry Barnes, old
actor. You know, when you are old, you accept life with more or less of
a sigh of quiet acquiescence, and by your cozy fire you sit and nod to
an inner voice, a gentle old voice which over and over whispers and
murmurs--"Once upon a time, once upon a time." And possibly Barnes would
have nodded, too, but he lacked the cozy fire. Life has its dramatic
unities, it would seem, and if one thing or another is awry we are apt
not to perform as the book says we should. No cozy fire, says the Great
Stage Manager; no nodding acquiescence, replies the Mummer in the Play.

Barnes listened, it is true, over and over to the voice which murmured
"Once upon a time," but he sat not by a comfortable open grate, amid
grandchildren. Instead, he lurked in East Fourteenth Street amid
decaying agents' offices, hunting a chance to do a bad monologue in a
worse vaudeville show. He had outlasted his time; he could not get work.
He lived on those two heartless things, Hope and Memory. And for all I
know he is living on them yet.

Now, you will not in your careless youth or your sceptical maturity find
beauty in this story, you will not "get under the skin" of it, as the
saying is, unless you have stopped sometime in your busy going, to
consider, aside and with understanding, the pathos of the old actor. It
is a curiously poignant human thing, written about by a few, suffered by
many, and ignored by the loud, inordinate world.

The old actor out of employment! A target for jokes, a piece of
battered, ancient "property" cluttering up a new and very busy stage.
You smile at his curious figure, unconscious of the broken misery that
aches beneath, where life has died and living goes paradoxically on;
and only sometimes late at night do you get a part of that hidden ache
when you hear old legs drag weary feet up the boarding-house stairs,
past your door and on up into the skylight room on the roof,
despondently to bed; and you know that the old man has had another
unsuccessful day among the agents and the managers. You can sometimes
interpret the querulous little laugh over the thin oatmeal at breakfast,
sometimes you can guess the water in the rapidly winking eyes; but of
course you do not proclaim your deductions. Civilization is a process of
making less noise about things.

This is a segment of the life-film of Harry Barnes, old actor, as he
traveled the stones of Fourteenth Street. Not the Rialto, where fat men
adorned with fat diamonds smoke fat cigars in order to narcotize fat
consciences; but Fourteenth Street, grimy with old, sparsely-tenanted
buildings, where theatrical offices three flights up bargain for the
driblets of trade among the low music-halls and the cheapest vaudeville
houses, where niggardly, gray-haired agents have for two generations sat
among their dusty contracts and their rusty pens, haggling over
bread-and-water salaries with the jetsam of a too-volatile profession.

Harry was old and dropsical with drink, a sad hero for a careless story.
The only ideal he had ever had, besides one, was to arrive at the fine
fame of printer's ink: headlines, bill-boards, critical notices,
reproductions of his photograph. But this was long ago. He had longed to
be chronicled in his time, preëminent and large; this he had desired
with that hungry passion for display which only an actor can feel. But
this, remember, was once upon a time. His other ideal--no need to
mention it amid Momus and his mimes!--was to sway people with laughter
and tears, to burn them with romance, to chasten them with tragedy, to
carry them with him in his frenzy, to play upon them with his art.

Art! Do you care for a grotesque, serious evening in its humblest
presence? Have you time to listen, over beer glass and cigarette, to a
broken-down old actor out of a job?


Barnes was incongruously named when he was given the name of Harry. It
is a flippant name. It calls up merriness, youth, bravado, color, song.
Barnes was forty-nine, streaked with grey, heart-sick, pallid,
shuffling, timorous, sorry, and forlorn. Three decades of grease paint
had made his skin flabby; and three decades of what the grease paint
stood for had done likewise by his soul. It was thus that he drifted
from doorway to doorway in Fourteenth Street, down by the Elevated,
where dry little agents told him in dry little voices that there was
nothing for him from day to day. It was thus that he dragged his feet up
the boarding-house stairs to his skylight room, night after night,
carrying the two heartless fardels, Hope and Memory.

It was approaching a certain holiday, a holiday which came on Sunday.

"Harry," said old Tony Sanderson, after he had finished informing the
actor that there was no news for him, "why don't you do a little
press-agent work for yourself? Get your name in the paper. That might
help you get something to do."

The other listened despondently.

"Now here's a chance," went on the agent, in a confidential tone. "No
money in it, of course, but, as I said, there's a chance to get into
print. Some sort of a newsboys' benefit bunch is going to get together
Sunday night and give a little entertainment fer the kids up in Beals'
gymnasium on the Bowery. They're callin' for volunteers among the
actors. You take your monologue stunt down there and get onto the
program. The newspapers always plays up this newsboy dope strong and
you'll get a good mention sure. Clip the notices and _then_ you've got
somethin' to flash. See?"

Barnes stood uneasily by the desk. "I--I don't know, Tony," he answered.
"To tell yuh the truth, I'd be a little bit scared to try it. Yuh see,
I--well, if you wasn't an old friend of mine, I couldn't say it--but,
confidentially, Tony, I--I've kind o' lost my grip. I'm a--a back
number, Tony. I'm afraid o' them kids; they're too wise. My old act
wouldn't go." He waited, awkwardly; then, as if he hoped he were wrong,
he asked: "Would it?"

Sanderson snapped his grim eyes. "What're yuh tryin' to put it on fer,
at all, then--if yuh think it won't take with a gang of kids at a free
doin's?" Then his tone softened. "Look here, Harry. It'll only be ten or
twenty minutes. Go ahead. You'll get through all right. You ain't as
much of a dead one as you think you are."

Barnes straightened up. It was all right for him to make a slight
confession, but Sanderson had wounded his professional vanity. "A dead
one!" he exclaimed. "Certainly not. Harry Barnes a dead one! After a
thirty years' career in the companies of the best----"

The agent shoved a card in his hand and cut him off short. "Go around
there and tell 'em to put you down for a monologue." And Harry went,
with dignity and misgivings.

His misgivings were all the more increased when he saw the list of
promised performers: La Belle Marie, the famous little toe dancer in her
attractive transformations; the Brothers Zincatello, Risley experts at
the Hippodrome; Julian Jokes, "in his inimitable Hebrew monologue"; the
Seven Sebastians, the world's most marvelous Herculean acrobatic
performers; Mlle. Joujou, the popular singing comedienne, Prima Donna
and Star, direct from her unusual and most distinguished triumph at the
Palace Theater, London; and a dozen more of the younger and more popular
people of the stage, all adorned, with adjectives and hyperbole. Down at
the bottom of the list with a trembling pencil he wrote: "Harry Barnes,
Singing and Talking." Then he shook hands with the secretary of the
organization and walked back to his boarding-house in a mild fever of

In his room he went eagerly about his work. He rehearsed again and again
his meager little bag of tricks, his funny Irishman, his Chinaman--no,
the Chinaman came first, because he used the queue afterward to wrap
around his chin and simulate Irish "galloways"--his Dutch comedian
monologue about married life, his old-time songs and dances. He
furbished up some old "patter" and injected new anecdotes. And this he
kept up morning and evening until the notable Sunday came.


He was so nervous, this old actor of a thousand parts, that he could eat
no supper that night. He almost trotted to the gymnasium in his
excitement, and, though his pockets bulged with grease paint, mustaches,
wigs, and other paraphernalia, he forgot almost half of his material. At
the door he had to push his way through a wriggling, impish mass of
small boys who blocked the steps and the sidewalk. Inside the hall,
young faces packed the place to the window-sills. To the old man the
newsboys seemed as so many antagonistic bits of the younger generation,
the generation which evidently would have none of him, which relegated
him carelessly to the warehouse for old scenery and old settings.

He stood in dismay behind an extemporized "wing" and peered out at the
restless little bodies. He fancied already that he could see grins on
their sophisticated faces, ridicule in their eyes; he remembered once
hearing a gallery god shout "Twenty-three!" in the middle of an actor's
monologue, and what had then seemed humorous precocity now seemed hard,
bitter cruelty. He fumbled at his make-up in his pockets, shuffled
uneasily, and waited.

It was almost time to begin. Where were the other actors who had
promised to come? The boys out front were whistling, kicking their feet
upon the floor, clapping their hands, and shouting to one another. A
distracted official raced here and there among other officials, asking
some sort of exasperated question. Barnes could not hear what it was;
but telepathically he felt that there was a hitch in the program.

At last, after waiting a quarter of an hour, the manager stepped forward
and said:

"Boys, we had arranged a fine program for you to-night----"

"Good fer you!" yelled a voice.

The speaker held up his hand. "But it seems that actors are better
_promisers_ than they are _actors_." He smiled at his own joke, but the
audience gave one long "Aw-w-w!"

"However," he continued, "we are all here now and we intend to do the
best we can. If we make up our mind to, we can have a bully good time
just the same. We have with us at least one kind gentleman who
appreciates what a celebration like this means to the boys." ... Barnes
heard and saw things as if through a fog. The arms of the speaker were
gyrating and a voice shouted in the ear of the old actor: "What's your

"Harry Barnes," he said, moistening his lips. Nobody had shown up except
him, he kept thinking over and over to himself: nobody except him. He
had the thankless job of "opening the show."

"... Harry Barnes," echoed the speaker at the end of some sort of
practical talk concerning the newsboys' organization and its management.
"Mister Harry Barnes"--he squinted at the program--"in singing and

He turned and smiled at the old man, and to Barnes the smile seemed
diabolical. Somebody clapped him on the back. There was a hurricane of
whistles and shouts, and before he knew it he was in the middle of the

Mechanically he had made his old comic entrance, tripping his right toe
over his left heel, and turning to shake his fist at an imaginary enemy.
The boys, determined to be pleased, giggled appreciatively.

"How--how are you, boys?" Barnes asked, seriously.

The audience snickered with delight. He was such a funny-looking old

"I hope you'll like my work," he went on, desperately, "or else we might
as well go home. I guess I'm the whole show, for a little while, at
least, as the feller said when he fell out o' the balloon." The house
roared with approval.

"Go wan, Barnesy," shouted a young pair of lungs in the front row.

He straightened up, turned his back for a moment, stuck a queer set of
mustaches on his upper lip, faced the crowd again, and began: "I was
walkin' down the street the other day when my friend J. Pierpoint Morgan
stepped up to me an' says, 'Barney, my boy'"....

The show had begun. Harry Barnes, singing and talking, had opened his
carefully rehearsed bag of tricks.

There is some peculiar psychology about humor. If people make up their
minds that they are going to laugh and that a performance is bound to be
funny, nothing on earth can keep them from enjoying themselves. The most
serious remark will be greeted with howls of approval; the most ancient
joke takes on a novel and present sprightliness. In the slang of the
stage, Barnes' line of patter took.

Four hundred boys simpered, smirked, grinned, giggled, tittered,
chuckled, and guffawed. A wine of merriment flushed the crowd and
mounted to the old mummer's brain and heart. He skipped and danced and
sang; he went through all the drollery and tomfoolery, all the old comic
business he could recall.

The children nudged each other, dug their fists into each other, and
cheered: "Oh, you Barnesy!" "Kill it, Kid!" "Whatcha know about dat!"
"Sand it down, Barnesy!" The old-timer was doing the famous lock-step
jig he had done with Pat Rooney in "Patrice" fifteen or twenty years
before. It was so old that it was new. Encore followed encore. The
perspiration cascaded through his pores; he grinned and winked and
frisked and capered. They would not let him stop. At the end of
twenty-five minutes he bowed himself off the stage, and still they
called him back. When he gave them, for the "call," the Little Johnny
Dugan pantomime from "The Rainmakers," the East Side children, born
since the day of such things, were suffocated with delight.

    What did Dugan do to him?
    --They say he was untrue to him.
    Did Dugan owe him money?
    --No; he stole McCarthy's wife!
    Who? Little Johnny Dugan?

sang Barnes with a quizzical flirt of his head; and lungs that were wont
to fill the city streets with news could not even gasp for laughter.

The secretary of the organization followed with a speech about future
entertainments; another official read a letter from a prominent
financier promising the boys a swimming-pool and a half dozen summer

"Somebody bang de box!" suggested a voice, after a pause.

Nobody could--except Barnes; and he volunteered. The whole affair was
now like one big family circle, each one secure in the amity of the
other, and when the old man sat down at the cracked piano, he sang as if
he were singing to himself, easily and without restraint. A quiet held
the house, and even the children were touched; for Harry Barnes was
quavering through the simple lines of "Should Auld Acquaintance Be
Forgot." After that he gave them the Lullaby Song from "Erminie," and
somehow it did not at all appear incongruous that a careworn mimic of
fifty should be singing to careworn workingmen of ten, down on the
Bowery, in a gymnasium, a verse about pretty little eyelids and sleeping
darlings. The world, fortunately, is not always with us; and the song
ended in a silent applause.

For two hours the entertainment went on, speeches and official plans
interspersed with the antics of Barnes.


Was there anything he could not do? He mimicked birds and animals; he
imitated a wheezy phonograph playing "When We Were a Couple of Kids"; he
recited "The Raven" and "Paul Revere's Ride"; he gave a cutting from
Dickens and one from Sheridan Knowles; he showed how Joe Jefferson
played Rip Van Winkle, how Sol Smith Russell did "A Poor Relation."

And all through his soul and body, as he watched his haphazard audience
follow him in his moods and changes, ran the quiet magic of Art
Satisfied. It is a noble braggart madness, this glorification of a cheap
art by an old actor.

"Barnes, my boy," he said to himself, with a glow of rapid blood, "you
have not lost them yet! See them laugh with you! Feel them cry! What
does it matter if you eat watery oatmeal and live in a skylight room;
are you not an artist, a resonant instrument of poetry and music and
mirth, a true actor of the best parts? You are; and these are matters of
the undying soul. A boarding-house is a vulgar, temporal thing. You were
right to come here to-night, and do this thing without pay, for Art's
sake. You uphold the honor of a calling which is founded upon Art. And,
oh, most of all, you have not lost your power, you have not outlived
your time! Sanderson intimated that you were a dead one--very well,
to-morrow you shall triumphantly cut the acquaintance of Sanderson! To
have lived until this evening before the youth of this land; to have
caught the right intonation, the proper gesture; to have swept through
the hearts of your hearers like a vibration of music--this is to have
transcended, this is to have justified yourself! And justified yourself
to whom? To Sanderson? To the world? No! You have justified Harry Barnes
to Harry Barnes! You carry this human throng over the footlights and
into your soul with a Chinaman's queue and a putty nose. Your Art is
still that fine, secure Art which you have carried in your memory as you
traversed dingy stairways on Fourteenth Street. Barnes, you live, you
act, you accomplish! Bravo!"

He shook hands abstractedly all around when the affair came to a close.
He remembered bundling his make-up and trinkets into a piece of
newspaper and tucking it under his arm. A pleased face presented itself
at one time before his eyes and a voice said, confidentially, "Mr.
Barnes, I congratulate you; and the dramatic critic of the _Star_ was
here to-night."

He found himself at last out in the cool darkness of the street, and he
had to stop a moment to think which way his boarding-house lay. Then he
walked home, to save carfare. All the way up the silent streets his
brain sang with triumph. His blood jumped in gladness; he could hardly
keep from running. He declaimed aloud bits of Shakespeare, tag ends of
poems; he snapped his fingers and flung out his arms in sheer excess of
enthusiasm. He smiled, threw back his head, even made faces at the
passersby. He boomed into a solo from an opera, and kicked his foot at a
cigar stub on the sidewalk. And had anybody wished to observe when he
reached his house, the spectacle would have presented itself of a
caricature, funny-paper barn-stormer tramping merrily up the rattling
stairs and humming, "The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, have
nothing to do with the case."

All the next day he did not leave his room, save at meal times; for he
wished to be alone and hug his exultation. To the four flat walls he
repeated snatches of the things he had done the night before; up and
down the rag carpet he smirked and grimaced and laughed and jigged. He
sang the songs that had "taken" so well. He went through certain
gestures and then deliberately exaggerated them, in a high good-humor.
He was as young again as on the day when he had signed his first
contract. He puffed out his chest, looked at himself in the glass with
mock seriousness, and then, when the pent-up good feeling burst out in
his merry eye, he winked it gleefully and said: "Oh, you divvil, you!
You old blatherskiting divvil!"

At half-past four he went down to the corner and bought a copy of the
_Star_, the late edition which had the dramatic news in it.

There it was! He felt like jumping up in the air and whooping the length
of the street. On the editorial page it was. His name was in the
headlines! Beneath, in the article itself, almost every other word
seemed to be Barnes. It praised him here, it admired him there, it
thanked him, it congratulated him, it asserted that he had saved the
night for four hundred newsboys. He was so anxious to read it through
and to read it fast that he skipped from paragraph to paragraph. There
was over a column of it! He hurried back up to the room; and then
regretted that he had not stopped to buy more copies of the paper. He
locked the door and spread the paper out on the little center-table. His
heart and breath almost stopped as he read the good words slowly
through. When he had finished, he threw the paper aside and bounded into
the middle of the room.

"Press agent, hey?" he laughed. "Press agent! I guess yes! A small
matter of a column and a quarter; that's all. _Only_ a column and a
quarter about Harry Barnes! Wonder what Sanderson will think about that?
Wonder if he won't get me something to do? Oh, no; I guess not. A column
and a quarter!"

He sat down again and smoothed out the paper before him. This time he
began noticing little niceties of the critic's phrasing ...
"entertaining, not to say pathetic rendition," etc., etc.... "_Not_ to
say?" Funny; look at it a moment, and it seems to mean it wasn't
pathetic. But here it said: "Infectious and heart-tickling old-time
Irish humor" ... "excellent characterization of Uriah Heep" ... and so


After a few minutes he ceased reading and sat, picking at the edge of
the paper, staring into the blankness of the little room. He stayed thus
immovable for a long, long time, and then slowly the tears slipped
across his cheeks, down on the forgotten "notice," his throat ached with
a tender sobbing, and he bowed his head into the newspaper.

He was thinking of the children; he had made them laugh and cry. And
this was the thrill, once more, of the singer's heart.





In consequence of the threatening situation which the President's
reactionary policy had precipitated, the belief grew stronger and
stronger in the Northern country that the predominance of the Republican
party was--and would be for a few years, at least--necessary for the
safety and the honor of the Republic; and steps taken to insure that
predominance, even such as would have in less critical times evoked
strong criticism, were now looked upon with seductive leniency of
judgment. Mr. Stockton of New Jersey was unseated in the Senate upon
grounds which would hardly pass muster in ordinary times, to make room
for a Republican successor, and even Mr. Fessenden approved the
transaction. Advantage was taken in the same body of the sickness or
casual absence of some Democratic senator to rush through a vote when a
two-thirds majority was required to kill a veto; and other proceedings
were resorted to at a pinch which were hardly compatible with the famous
"courtesy of the Senate." But there was more thorough and lasting work
to be done to prepare for the full restoration of the States lately in
rebellion. The Republican majority was by no means of one mind as to the
constitutional status of the communities that had been in insurrection
against the National Government. I have already spoken of the theory of
State-suicide advanced by Mr. Stevens and a comparatively small school
of extremists. The theory most popular with most of the Republicans,
which was finally formulated by the Joint Committee on Reconstruction,
was that the rebel States had not been out of the Union, but had lost
their working status inside of the Union, and had to be restored to
their regular constitutional relations to the Union by action of
Congress, upon such conditions as Congress might deem proper.

To meet the dangers which so far had become visible on the horizon, the
Joint Committee on Reconstruction devised the Fourteenth Amendment to
the Constitution, which was long and laboriously debated in both Houses.
In the form in which it was finally adopted it declared (1) that all
persons born or naturalized in the United States are citizens of the
United States and of the States in which they reside, and that no State
shall make or enforce any law abridging the privileges or immunities of
citizens, nor deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without
due process of law, nor deny to any person the equal protection of the
laws; (2) that if in any State the right to vote at any election for
the choice of national or State officers is denied or in any way
abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or other crime, the
basis of representation in Congress or the electoral college shall be
reduced in the proportion which the number of such male citizens shall
bear to the whole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in
such State; (3) that no person who had taken part in the rebellion,
having previously, as a national or State officer, military or civil,
sworn to support the Constitution of the United States, shall be a
Senator or Representative in Congress or hold any office, civil or
military, under the United States, or any State, unless relieved of that
disability by a two-thirds vote of each house of Congress; (4) that the
validity of the public debt of the United States shall not be
questioned, nor shall any debt or obligation contracted in aid of
rebellion, or any claim for emancipated slaves be paid.

_The Fourteenth Amendment_

Thus the Fourteenth Amendment stopped short of the extension of the
suffrage to negroes--a subject which many Republicans were still afraid
to touch directly. But by implication it punished the States denying
that extension by reducing the basis of representation; it excluded from
office, unless relieved of the disability by a two-thirds vote of
Congress, the most influential class of those who had taken an active
part in the rebellion; and it safeguarded the public debt. With only one
of its provisions serious fault could be found;--not with that which
guaranteed to the freedmen the essential civil rights of free men, nor
with that which excluded the freedmen from the basis of
representation--so long as they were not permitted to vote. Only the
advocates of negro suffrage might logically have objected to this
clause; inasmuch as it by implication recognized the right of a State to
exclude the colored people from the suffrage if the State paid a certain
penalty for such exclusion. Neither could the clause safeguarding the
public debt and prohibiting the payment of debts incurred in aid of the
rebellion be objected to. The really exceptionable provision was that
which excluded so large a class of Southern men from public office, and
just that class with which a friendly understanding was most desirable.
The provision that their disqualification could be removed by a
two-thirds vote in each House of Congress mended the mischief thus done
a little, but not enough for the public good.

It was not expressly enacted, but it was generally understood, that
those of the States lately in rebellion, which ratified the Fourteenth
Amendment, would thereby qualify themselves for full restoration in the
Union. Tennessee, where a faction of the Union party hostile to
President Johnson had gained the ascendency, did so, and was accordingly
fully restored by the admission to their seats in Congress of its
Senators and Representatives. The full restoration of the other late
rebel States would probably have been expedited in the same way, had
they followed the example of Tennessee. But President Johnson, as became
publicly known in one or two instances, obstinately dissuaded them from
doing so, and the fight went on. He also vetoed a second Freedmen's
Bureau bill in which some of the provisions he had objected to in his
veto of the first were remedied. But things had now come to such a pass
between Congress and the President that his veto messages were hardly
considered worth listening to, but were promptly overruled almost
without debate by two-thirds votes in each House.

_A Campaign to Destroy a President_

Under such circumstances the Congressional election of 1866 came on. The
people were to pronounce judgment between the President and Congress.
The great quarrel had created excitement so intense as to affect men's
balance of mind. About the time of the assembling of Congress Mr.
Preston King of New York (the same rotund gentleman with whom, in the
National Convention of 1860, I conducted Mr. Ashmun to the chair), who
had been a Senator of the United States and had been appointed Collector
of Customs by President Johnson, committed suicide by jumping into the
North River from a ferry-boat. He had been a Republican of the radical
type, and when he took the office he supposed the President to be of the
same mind; but Mr. Johnson's course distressed him so much that he
became melancholy; his brain gave way, and he sought relief in death.
Another suicide which greatly startled the country a few months later,
that of Senator Lane of Kansas, was attributed to a similar cause. "Jim"
Lane had been one of the most famous free-State fighters in Kansas
Territory. Since then he was ranked among the extreme anti-slavery men
and as a Senator he was counted upon as a firm opponent of President
Johnson's policy. To the astonishment of everybody he voted against the
Civil Rights bill. This somewhat mysterious change of front, which
nobody seemed able satisfactorily to explain, cost him his confidential
intercourse with his former associates in the Senate, and brought upon
him stinging manifestations of disapproval from his constituents. He was
reported to have expressed profound repentance of what he had done and
finally made away with himself as one lost to hope. He was still in the
full vigor of manhood--only fifty-one years old--when he sought the



The campaign of 1866 was remarkable for its heat and bitterness. In
canvasses carried on for the purpose of electing a President, I had seen
more enthusiasm, but in none so much animosity and bad blood as in this,
an incidental object of which was politically to destroy a president.
Andrew Johnson had not only manifested a disposition to lean upon the
Democratic party in the pursuit of his policy, but he had also begun to
dismiss public officers who refused to coöperate with him politically
and to put in their places men who adhered to him. This touched partisan
spirit in an exceedingly sensitive spot. The so-called "bread-and-butter
brigade" was looked down upon with a contempt that could hardly be
expressed in words.

_Killing of Negroes at Memphis and New Orleans_

But there were more serious things to inflame the temper of the North.
The Southern whites again proved themselves their own worst enemies.
Early in May news came from Memphis of riots in which twenty-four
negroes were killed and one white man was wounded. The conclusion lay
near and was generally accepted that the whites had been the aggressors
and the negroes the victims. In the last days of July more portentous
tidings arrived from New Orleans. An attempt was made by Union men to
revive the constitutional convention of 1864 for the purpose of
remodeling the constitution of the State. The attempt was of
questionable legality, but, if wrong, it could easily have been foiled
by legal and peaceable means. The municipal government of New Orleans
was in possession of the ex-Confederates. It resolved that the meeting
of the remnant of the convention should not be held. When it did meet,
the police, consisting in an overwhelming majority of ex-Confederate
soldiers, aided by a white mob, broke into the hall and fired upon those
assembled there. The result was thirty-seven negroes killed and one
hundred and nineteen wounded, and three of the white Union men killed
and seventeen wounded, against one of the assailants killed and ten
wounded. General Sheridan, the commander of the Department, telegraphed
to General Grant: "It was no riot; it was an absolute massacre by the
police which was not excelled in murderous cruelty by that of Fort
Pillow. It was a murder which the Mayor and the police of this city
perpetrated without the shadow of necessity." A tremor of horror and
rage ran over the North. People asked one another: "Does this mean that
the rebellion is to begin again?" I heard the question often.

The Administration felt the blow, and to neutralize its effects a
national convention of its adherents, North and South, planned by
Thurlow Weed and Secretary Seward, was to serve as the principal means.
This "National Union Convention" met in Philadelphia on August 14th. It
was respectably attended in point of character as well as of numbers. It
opened its proceedings with a spectacular performance which under
different conditions might have struck the popular imagination
favorably. The delegates marched into the Convention Hall in pairs, one
from the South arm in arm with one from the North, Massachusetts and
South Carolina leading. But with the Memphis riot and the New Orleans
"massacre" and Andrew Johnson's sinister figure in the background, the
theatrical exhibition of restored fraternal feeling, although calling
forth much cheering on the spot, fell flat, and even became the subject
of ridicule, since it earned for the meeting the derisive nickname of
the "arm-in-arm convention." The proceedings were rather dull, and much
was made by the Republicans of the fact that the Chairman, Senator
Doolittle from Wisconsin, was careful not to let Southern members say
much lest they say _too_ much. It was also noticed and made much of that
among the members of the convention the number of men supposed to curry
favor with the Administration for the purpose of getting office--men
belonging to the "bread-and-butter-brigade"--was conspicuously large.
Among the resolutions passed by the convention was one declaring slavery
abolished and the emancipated negro entitled to equal protection in
every right of person and property, and another heartily endorsing
President Johnson's reconstruction policy.

No doubt many of the respectable and patriotic men who attended that
convention thought they had done very valuable work for the general
pacification by getting their Southern friends publicly to affirm that
slavery was dead never to be revived, and that the civil rights of the
freedmen were entitled to equal protection and would have it. But the
effect of such declarations upon the popular mind at the North was not
as great as had been expected. Such affirmations by respectable Southern
gentlemen, who were perfectly sincere, had been heard before. In fact,
almost everybody in the South was ready to declare himself likewise, and
with equal sincerity, as to the abolition of the old form of chattel
slavery. But the question of far superior importance was, what he would
put in the place of the old form of chattel slavery. _There_ was the
rub, and this had come to be well understood at the North in the light
of the reports from the South, which the advocates of President
Johnson's policy could not deny nor obscure. The moral effect of the
National Union Convention was therefore very feeble.

[Illustration: _From the collection of Joseph Keppler_



_Johnson "Swings Around the Circle"_

If the members of the National Union Convention thought that their
conciliatory utterances would pour oil on the angry waves of the
campaign, they reckoned without their host. When a committee appointed
for that purpose presented to President Johnson a copy of its
proceedings, there was rather a note of defiance to his opponents, than
of conciliation, in his response. "We have witnessed in one department
of the government every endeavor to prevent the restoration of peace,
harmony, and union," he said. "We have seen hanging upon the verge of
the government, as it were, a body called, or which assumes to be, the
Congress of the United States, while, in fact, it is a Congress of only
a part of the United States. We have seen a Congress in a minority
assume to exercise power which, allowed to be consummated, would result
in despotism or monarchy itself." Here was again the thinly veiled
threat that, because certain States were not represented in it, the
validity of the acts of Congress might be attacked. But worse was to
follow. It is a well-known fact that presidents, under the influence of
the Washington atmosphere, are apt to become victims of the delusion
that they are idolized by the American people. Even John Tyler is said
to have thought so. It may have been under a similar impression that
President Johnson, who had great confidence in the power of his
influence over the masses when he personally confronted them, accepted
an invitation requesting his presence at the unveiling of a Douglas
statue in Chicago, and he made this an occasion for a "presidential
progress" through some of the States. He started late in August. Several
members of his cabinet, Seward among others, accompanied him, and so did
General Grant and Admiral Farragut, by command, to give additional
luster to the appearance of the chief.

[Illustration: _Reproduced by permission of the New York Customs House_



His journey, the famous "swinging around the circle,"--a favorite phrase
of his to describe his fight against the Southern enemies of the Union,
the Secessionists, at one time, and against the Northern disunionists,
the radical Republicans, at another--was a series of the most disastrous
exhibitions. At Philadelphia he was received with studied coldness. At
New York he had an official reception, and he used the occasion to
rehearse his often-told story of his wonderful advancement from the
position of alderman in his native town to the presidency of the United
States, with some insignificant remarks about his policy attached. At
Cleveland he appeared before a large audience, according to abundant
testimony, in a drunken condition. Indeed, the character of his speech
cannot be explained in any other way. He descended to the lowest tone of
partizan stump speaking. He bandied epithets with some of his hearers
who interrupted him. The whole speech was a mixture of inane drivel and
reckless aspersion. His visit at Chicago passed without any particular
scandal. But the speech he made at St. Louis fairly capped the climax.
He accused the Republicans in Congress of substantially having planned
the New Orleans massacre. He indulged himself in a muddled tirade about
Judas, Christ, and Moses. He declared that all his opponents were after
was to hold on to the offices; but that he would kick them out; that
they wanted to get rid of him, but that he defied them. And so on. At
Indianapolis a disorderly crowd hooted him down and would not let him
speak at all.

[Illustration: _Lent by the Century Co._



_New Congress Overwhelmingly Anti-Johnson_

He returned to Washington an utterly discomfited and disgraced man,
having gone out to win popular support, and having earned only popular
disgust. The humorists, pictorial as well as literary, pounced upon the
"swinging around the circle" as a fruitful subject for caricature or
satire, turning serious wrath into a bitter laugh. Andrew Johnson became
the victim not only of detestation but of ridicule.

The campaign was then--about the middle of September--virtually decided.
There was no longer any doubt that the election would not only preserve,
but materially increase, the anti-Johnson majority in Congress. But
before President Johnson started on his ill-starred journey,
arrangements had been made for the other national conventions. One of
them was designed to bring Southern loyalists, that is, Southern men who
had stood loyally by the National Government, together with Northern
Republicans. It met at Philadelphia on the 3rd of September. Senator
Zachariah Chandler and myself attended it as delegates sent there by the
Republicans of Michigan. It was a large gathering, the roll of which
bore many distinguished names from all parts of the country. Southern
members having been permitted to say but very little in the Johnson
convention a fortnight before, it was a clever stroke of policy on the
part of our managers to give the floor to the Southern loyalists
altogether. They availed themselves of the opportunity to lay before the
people of the country an account of their experiences and sufferings,
since the promulgation of the Johnson policy, which could not fail to
stir the popular heart. Their recitals of the atrocities committed in
the South were indeed horrible. Over a thousand Union citizens had been
murdered there since the surrender of Lee and in no case had the
assassins been brought to judgment. But after Mr. Johnson's "swing
around the circle" no further exertions could have saved his cause, and
no further exertion could have very much augmented the majority against
him. I am convinced he would have been beaten without his disgraceful
escapade. But his self-exhibitions made his defeat overwhelming. The
Republicans won in one hundred and forty-three Congressional districts,
the Democrats in only forty-nine. President Johnson was more at the
mercy of Congress than ever.

During the canvass I was somewhat in demand as a speaker and addressed
large meetings at various places. One of my speeches, delivered at
Philadelphia on the 8th of September, was printed in pamphlet form and
widely circulated as a campaign document. I have read it
again--thirty-nine years after its delivery--and I may say that after
the additional light and the experience which this lapse of time has
given us, I would now draw the diagnosis of the situation then existing
substantially as I did in that speech--barring some, not
many--extravagances of oratorical coloring, and the treatment of the
disqualification clause of the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution.

_The Movement Toward Negro Suffrage_

It was in this campaign that the matter of negro suffrage was first
discussed on the hustings with a certain frankness. Efforts have since
been made, and are now being made, to make the Southern people
believe--and, I deeply regret to say, many of them actually do
believe--that the introduction of negro suffrage was a device of some
particularly malignant and vindictive radicals, to subject the South to
the extreme of distress and humiliation. Nothing could be farther from
the truth. Admitting that there were people in the North who, before the
passions of the War had subsided, wished to see the rebels and their
sympathizers and abettors in some way punished for what they had done,
negro suffrage never was thought of as a punitive measure. I may say
that in all my intercourse with various classes of people--and my
opportunities were large--I have never heard it mentioned or suggested,
still less advocated, as a punitive measure. It never was in itself
popular with the masses--reason enough for the ordinary politicians to
be afraid of openly favoring it. There were only two classes of men who
at all thought of introducing it generally; those whom, without meaning
any disparagement, I would for the sake of convenience call the
doctrinaires,--men who, like Mr. Sumner, would insist as a general
principle that the negro, being a man, was as a matter of right as much
entitled to the suffrage as the white man; and those who, after a
faithful and somewhat perplexed wrestle with the complicated problem of
reconstruction, finally landed--or, it might almost be said, were
stranded--at the conclusion that to enable the negro to protect his own
rights as a free man by the exercise of the ballot was after all the
simplest way out of the tangle, and at the same time the most in
accordance with our democratic principles of government.



This view of the matter grew rapidly in popular appreciation as the
results of reconstruction on the Johnson plan became more and more
unsatisfactory. It gained very much in strength when it appeared that
the tremendous rebuke administered to the President's policy by the
Congressional elections of 1866 had not produced any effect upon Mr.
Johnson's mind, but that, as his annual message delivered on December
3rd showed, he was doggedly bent upon following his course. It was still
more strengthened when all the Southern legislatures set up under the
President's plan, save that of Tennessee, rejected the Fourteenth
Amendment to the Constitution,--some unanimously, or nearly so,--and
even with demonstrations of contemptuous defiance. Then the question was
asked at the North with great pertinency: Are we to understand that the
white people of the States lately in rebellion will not agree that all
persons born or naturalized in the United States shall be
constitutionally recognized as citizens entitled in their civil rights
to the equal protection of the laws? That those States insist, not only
that the colored people shall not have the right of suffrage, but that
those people so excluded from the franchise shall even serve to increase
the basis of representation in favor of the whites--or in other words,
that the white people of the South shall come out of the rebellion
politically stronger than they were when they went into it? That all
those who engaged in the rebellion and fought to destroy the Union shall
be entitled to participate on even more favorable terms than ourselves
in the government of the same Union which but yesterday they sought to
destroy? That they refuse to safeguard the public debt incurred for
saving the Union and wish to keep open the possibility of an assumption
of the debts incurred by the rebel States for destroying the Union?

The fact was not overlooked that the great mass of the Southern negroes
were grossly ignorant and in other respects ill-fitted for the exercise
of political privileges. Many who then favored negro suffrage would have
greatly preferred its gradual introduction, first limiting it, as Mr.
Lincoln suggested to Governor Hahn of Louisiana, to those who had served
as soldiers in the Union army and those who were best fitted for it by
intelligence and education. But this would have reduced the negro vote
to so small a figure as to render it insufficient to counteract or
neutralize the power of the reactionary element. To that end the whole
vote was required; and for that reason it was demanded, in spite of the
imperfections it was known to possess and of the troubles it
threatened--which, however, at that period were much underestimated, as
is apt to be the case under similar circumstances.

_Reconstruction Under Military Control_

When the session of Congress opened on the 3rd of December, it was
virtually certain that unrestricted negro suffrage would come and that
President Johnson's reconstruction policy would be swept out of the way.
The Republican majority without delay passed a bill extending the
suffrage to the negroes in the District of Columbia, which then had a
municipal government of its own. The President put his veto on the bill,
but the veto was promptly overruled by two-thirds majorities in both
Houses. Then followed a series of legislative measures designed
substantially to substitute for the reconstruction work done by the
President a method of reconstruction based upon universal suffrage
including the negro vote, and to strip the President as much as possible
of all power to interfere. The first, upon the ground that life and
property were not safe under the existing provisional governments,
divided the late rebel States into five military divisions, each to be
under the command of a general officer who was to have the power to
declare martial law and to have offenders tried by military commission,
as the condition of public safety and order might seem to them to
require. Under their protection conventions were to be elected by
universal suffrage including the negro vote and excluding the
disqualified "rebel" vote, to frame new State constitutions containing
provision for the same sort of universal suffrage, such constitutions to
be subject to the approval of the people of the respective States and of
Congress. The State officers to be elected under these new constitutions
were, of course, to be elected by the same electorate, and the States
were to be regarded as entitled to representation in Congress, after
having ratified the Fourteenth Amendment to the National Constitution,
and after that Amendment had been ratified by a sufficient number of the
States generally to make it a valid part of the Constitution. A
supplementary reconstruction act gave the military commanders very
extensive control over the elections to be held, as to the registration
of voters, the mode of holding the elections, the appointment of
election officers, the canvassing of results, and the reporting of such
results to the President and through him to Congress. In order to strip
President Johnson of all power to interfere with the execution of this
measure beyond the appointment of the commanders of the various military
divisions, a provision was introduced in the Army Appropriation bill
which substantially ordained that all military orders and instructions
should be issued through the General of the Army (General Grant), who
was to have his headquarters at Washington; and that all orders and
instructions issued otherwise should be null and void. And when the
generals commanding the several divisions had expressed some doubt as
to the interpretation of some provisions of the Reconstruction Act, and
the President had issued instructions concerning those points which
displeased Congress, another act was passed, which, by way of
explanation of the meaning of its predecessors, still further enlarged
the powers of the military commanders and made them virtually rulers
over everything and everybody in those States. In the mean time, to tie
the President's hands still farther, the Tenure of Office Act had been
passed, which was to curtail or hamper President Johnson's power to
dismiss office-holders from their places so as to reduce as much as
possible his facilities for punishing the opponents and for rewarding
the friends of his policy, and thus, as it would now be called, for
building up an office-holders' machine for his use.

_The Public Fear of Johnson_

President Johnson in every case promptly vetoed the bills objectionable
to him or fulminated his protests against what he considered
unwarrantable encroachments upon his constitutional prerogatives. Some
of his messages, reported to have been written either by Mr. Seward or
by Mr. Jeremiah Black, a man of brilliant abilities, were strong in
argument as well as eloquent in expression. But they were not listened
to--much less considered. Mr. Johnson had personally discredited himself
to such a degree that the connection of his personality with anything he
advocated fatally discredited his cause. The air, not only in
Washington, but throughout the country, was buzzing with rumors of
iniquities which Andrew Johnson was meditating and would surely attempt
if he were not disarmed. He was surely plotting a _coup d'état_; he had
already slyly tried to get General Grant out of the way by sending him
on a trumped-up diplomatic errand to Mexico. When, therefore, the news
came from Washington that Andrew Johnson was to be impeached, to deprive
him of his office, it was not only welcomed by reckless partizanship,
but as everybody who has lived through those times will remember, it
struck a popular chord. There was a widespread feeling among
well-meaning and sober people that the country was really in some sort
of peril, and that it would be a good thing to get rid of that dangerous
man in the presidential chair.

But for this vague feeling of uneasiness approaching genuine alarm, I
doubt whether Congress would ever have ventured upon the tragi-comedy of
the impeachment.

It explains also the fact that so many lawyers in Congress, as well as
in the country, although they must have seen the legal weakness of the
case against Andrew Johnson, still labored so hard to find some point
upon which he might be convicted. It was for political, not for legal
reasons that they did so--not reasons of political partizanship, but the
higher political reason that they thought the public interest made the
removal of Andrew Johnson from his place of power eminently desirable. I
have to confess that I leaned somewhat to that opinion myself--not that
I believed in the sinister revolutionary designs of Mr. Johnson, but
because I thought that the presence of Mr. Johnson in the presidential
office encouraged among the white people of the South hopes and
endeavors which, the longer they were indulged in, the more grievous the
harm they would do to both races. It can indeed not be said that
President Johnson failed to execute the reconstruction laws enacted by
Congress by refusing to perform the duties imposed upon him, such as the
appointment of the commanders of military divisions. He even effectively
opposed, through his able and accomplished Attorney-General, Mr.
Stanbery, the attempts of two Southern governors to stop the enforcement
of the Reconstruction Act by the legal process of injunction. But the
mere fact that he was believed to favor the reactionary element in the
South and would do all in his power to let it have its way was in itself
an influence constantly inflaming the passions kindled by mischievous

_The Fatal Bungling of Reconstruction_

The condition of things in the South had become deplorable in the
extreme. Had the reconstruction measures enacted by Congress, harsh as
they were, been imposed upon the Southern people immediately after the
War, when the people were stunned by their overwhelming defeat, and when
there was still some apprehension of bloody vengeance to be visited upon
the leaders of the rebellion--as was the case, for instance, in Hungary
in 1849 after the collapse of the great insurrection--those measures
would have been accepted as an escape from something worse. Even negro
suffrage in a qualified form, as General Lee's testimony before the
Reconstruction Committee showed, might then have been accepted as a

But the propitious moment was lost. Instead of gently persuading the
Southerners, as Lincoln would have done, that the full restoration of
the States lately in rebellion would necessarily depend upon the
readiness and good faith with which they accommodated themselves to the
legitimate results of the War, and that there were certain things which
the victorious Union government was bound to insist upon, not in a
spirit of vindictiveness, but as a simple matter of honor and
duty--instead of this President Johnson told them that their instant
restoration to their old status in the Union, that is, to complete
self-government and to participation in the National Government, on
equal terms with the other States, had become their indefeasible
constitutional right as soon as the insurgents laid down their arms and
went through the form of taking an oath of allegiance, and that those
who refused to recognize the immediate validity of that right were no
better than traitors and public enemies. Nothing could have been more
natural, under such circumstances, than that the master class in the
South should have seen a chance to establish something like
semi-slavery, and that, pressed by their economic perplexities, they
should have eagerly grasped at that chance. No wonder that what should
have been as gentle as possible a transition from one social state into
another degenerated into an angry political brawl, which grew more and
more furious as it went on. No wonder, finally, that when at last the
Congressional reconstruction policy, which at first might have been
quietly submitted to as something that might have been worse, and that
could not be averted, came at last in the midst of that brawl, it was
resented in the South as an act of diabolical malice and tyrannical
oppression not to be endured. And the worst outcome of all was, that
many white people of the South who had at first cherished a kindly
feeling for the negroes on account of their "fidelity" during the War,
now fell to hating the negroes as the cause of all their woes; that, on
the other hand, the negroes, after all their troubles, raised to a
position of power, now were tempted to a reckless use of that power; and
that a selfish partizan spirit growing up among the Republican majority,
instead of endeavoring to curb that tendency, encouraged, or, at least,
tolerated it for party advantage.

I have to confess that I took a more hopeful view of the matter at the
time, for I did not foresee the mischievous part which selfish partizan
spirit would play in that precarious situation. I trusted that the
statesmen of the Republican party would prove clear-sighted enough to
perceive in time the danger of excesses which their reconstruction
policy would bring to the South, and that they would be strong enough in
influence to combat that danger. Nothing could have been farther from my
mind than the expectation that before long it would be my lot to take an
active part in that combat on the most conspicuous political stage in
the country.




Ikey stood on the street corner and fingered her veil to keep passersby
from seeing her lips tremble. She was sure that she was going to cry
right there in the open, and she was furious about it, because she did
not approve of weepy females.

"If you dare," she whispered fiercely, "if you dare, I'll--I'll--you
shan't have that nickel's worth of peanut candy, or those currant buns,

This threat proving effective, she turned, head held high, and entered
the bakery.

There was the usual Saturday afternoon crowd, jostling on the shoddy
thoroughfare. To-day the jostling was intensified; for the car strike
was on in full blast, feeling ran high, and demonstrations were being
made against the company. Now and again a car passed slowly up or down
the street, drays and express wagons blocking its progress wherever
possible, scab conductor and motorman hooted at by San Francisco men and
beplumed ladies for their pains.

Ikey looked at the mob in disgust. Then she hurried around the corner
and away from the scene of commotion.

"And to think that it has come to this, that I can't ride up and down in
those cars all day long--_just to show 'em_."

The beach was what she really wanted--one of those little sand hummocks
with juicy plants sprawling over it, that protect one from the wind and
yet reveal beyond ravishing glimpses of cliff and breaker and sapphire
shining sea.

But the beach was not to be found in the heart of town. And she was too
tired to walk there--not having had any lunch and being very angry
besides. And she would lose her "job"--her miserable, wretched,
disgusting, good-for-nothing job (Ikey loved adjectives), if she rode.
For any and all women connected with any and all union men had been
forbidden to use the company's cars. And business houses--who had
anything to gain from it--had promised their employees instant dismissal
for even one ride. And the firm that employed Ikey would lose
three-fourths of its trade if the union boycotted it.

So the sand-dunes would have to wait. But there were some vacant lots,
backed by a scraggle of rough, red rock, only half a dozen blocks away.
If luck were with her, the loafers might be in temporary abeyance and
the refugee tents not unduly prominent.

Luck was with her. And Ikey sat down on the lea of the little cliff,
quite alone, spread out her buns,--you got three for ten cents these
catastrophe days,--and faced the situation.

The landlady had raised the rent.

Ikey could have screamed with laughter over the situation--if only the
matter were not so vital.

"This'll make the thirteenth move for you, Ikey, my love, since the
eighteenth of April--and the thirteenth move is bound to be unlucky. But
you'll have to go, sure as Fate; for you can't stand another raise. The
Wandering Jew gentleman takes the road again."

She pursed her lips as she said it. She had invented the appelation for
herself after nine moves in three months. "I don't know what his name
really was," she confessed--there was no one else to talk to, no one she
cared for, so she talked, sub voice, to herself--"but it must have been
Ikey. I'm sure it was Ikey--and that I look just like him." And deriving
much comfort from this witticism, she went on her way.

"Ikey, the Wandering Jew, on the move again," she repeated. "But where
to move _to_, that is the question. It's funny what a difference money
makes"--her eyebrows went up--"or rather, lack of it. I've never
considered that until recently."

Then her eyes fell on her shoes.

They had been very swagger little shoes in the beginning--Ikey had made
rather a specialty of footgear--but they were her "escape" shoes; and
their looks told the tale of their wanderings. Also, she had had no
others since.

She wriggled her toes.

"You'll be poking through before long, looking at the stars," she told
them severely. "Imagine your excitement."

And her suit.


Ikey looked away so as not to see the perfect cut of it, the perfect fit
of it, the utter shabbiness of it. It was her "escape" suit, too. She
had slept on the hills in it to the tune of dynamiting and the flare of
the burning city. She would never have another like it--never. For her

Her job.

She leaned back suddenly and closed her eyes. Her job. The rage of this
noon was coming back again; rage, and with it a strange, new
sensation--fear. She had never known fear before, not even during the
earthquake days. "Only at the dentist's," she told herself, giggling
half hysterically behind closed lids.

And back of it all--back of the landlady's unconcealed dislike and
latest slap, back of the disintegration of a wardrobe that could not be
replaced, and the question as to whether her "job" had not become an
impossibility since to-day--and that job simply could not become an
impossibility: one had to live--back of all this was the dull hurt,
smothered and always coming again, that Bixler McFay had not taken the
trouble to look her up when his regiment came through on the way to

"You may as well face that, too, while you're about it," Ikey observed
sarcastically. She opened her eyes with a snap and bit into the first

"The regiment was only here three days," a little voice inside of her
whispered fearfully.

"Three days!" Ikey's scorn was unbounded. "If he had cared, he could
have found you in three hours--and he always said he cared. It's a thing
you've got to live with. It's nothing so unusual. It happens every day.
Why can't you treat it like a poor relation?"

And her thoughts went back to Fort Leavenworth, and the gowns on gowns
she had worn, all burned up at the St. Francis last spring, with the
rest of her things, a week after she had reached the city; and Cousin
Mary, suave and elegant and impressive as her chaperon; and herself,
petted and made much of on all sides, and incidentally pointed out as
the richest girl on the field, and an orphan; and Bixler McFay,
handsome, brilliant, devoted, always on hand, always protesting----

A whimsical, sarcastic little smile curved her lips for a moment. The
earthquake had certainly made a difference. A vision of Cousin Mary
arose--not the suave and elegant chaperon of a wealthy young relative,
but a frightened, self-centered, middle-aged woman, who had taken the
earthquake as a personal affront put upon her by her young charge and
insisted on being the first consideration in no matter what environment
she found herself.


Then came another vision. She recalled her parting with Bixler McFay in
the late winter, when she had left Leavenworth for the Coast, saying it
wasn't decent not to know anything about the place where all your income
came from, and he had left Leavenworth to rejoin his regiment in
Arizona. How his voice had trembled that morning as he bade her
good-bye, declaring he should always consider himself engaged to her,
even if she did not consider herself engaged to him; begging that she
wear his class pin, or at least keep it for him if she would not wear
it, because the thought of its being in her possession would comfort him
in his loneliness.

It had comforted her in those first dreadful days after the fire to
think that he was alive and on his way to her. It never entered her head
but what he would come at once: when friends were looking for friends
and enemies were succoring one another, how should he fail her?

And then--not one word. Not even an inquiry in the paper; when that was
about all the papers were made up of for days after--column after column
of addresses and inquiries, along with the death notices.

And afterwards--not one word----


"I won't pretend this is accidental, Miss Stanton."

Ikey looked up startled, began to curl her feet up under her skirt,
decided that it was not worth while,--he was only one of the
boarders,--and offered buns and candy with indifferent promptness.

"There's a gang of toughs coming down over the hill. Strikers, maybe. I
thought they might startle you."

He seated himself unceremoniously on a rock near by.

Ikey settled back with a little comfortable movement against her own
rock and raised her eyebrows.

"The proper thing for me to do at this stage is to inquire in a haughty
voice how you happened to know I was here."

"I followed you."

There was no hint of apology, and she looked at him more closely. She
had sat opposite him at the unesthetic boarding-house dining-table for
the past six weeks now. He ate enormously,--but in cultured wise,--never
said anything, was something over six feet tall, wore ready-made,
dust-colored clothes, and was utterly inconspicuous. "Like a big gray
wall." Just now it was the expression of his face, intangibly
different--or had she never taken the trouble to notice him
before?--that fixed her attention.

He was looking straight at her.

"I've been following you ever since you left your office," he said after
a deliberate pause; and Ikey's eyes grew large and frightened as she
took in his meaning.

"Then you saw----"

"I did." There was another pause. "It won't happen again." His tone was
quite final. "Why do you lay yourself open to that sort of thing? Don't
you know that the burnt district is no place for any woman at all these
days--not even one block of it? Why don't you ride?"

His voice was quite cross, and Ikey could have laughed aloud. This, to
her, who had the burnt district on her nerves to such an extent that she
dreamed of the brick-and-twisted-iron chaos by night--the miles of
desolation, punctuated by crumbling chimneys and tottering
walls--dreamed of it by night and turned sick at the sight of it by day.
Did this stupid hulk of a person think she _liked_ the burnt
district--and to walk there?

After all, his attitude was less funny than impertinent. She would be
angry. It was better. She would respond icily and put him in his place.

At least, such was her intention. But she discovered to her amazement
that she was trembling--her encounter of the noon was responsible for
that--and her teeth seemed inclined to hit against each other rapidly
with a little clicking noise. So it seemed on the whole more expedient
to blurt out her remarks without any attempt at frills or amplification.

"Why don't you ride?"

Ikey gathered herself together.

"My dear Mr. Hammond, there is a street car strike on here in San
Francisco. No union wagons run out this way--and I lose my position if I
use the cars."

He was welcome to that. She looked off into the distance while he
assimilated it.

"I had not thought of that," he said at last slowly. "In that case there
is but one thing to do. You must stop that work at once."

"And stand in the bread line? Now? Along with--those others?" A little
smile twisted her lips. "I should look handsome doing that."

"But surely----"

His tone was beginning to be puzzled. So was his expression. Ikey
ascertained this by allowing a glance to brush past him.


Suddenly he had changed his position. He was beside her on the ground,
facing her, staring her out of countenance.

"We may as well get the clear of this right now----"

"It is needlessly clear to me, Mr. Hammond."

"But not to me. In the first place----"

"I will not trouble you----"

"It is no trouble. In the first place, has that fellow followed you,
spoken to you before?"

"Never--never like that."

She wondered whether he had noticed her unsuccessful effort to rise and
put an end to the interview.

"Do you know who he is?"

"He is the junior member of the firm I work for."

"_What!_ Well, I _am_ glad I smashed him." Then he added quickly, "This,
of course, puts an end to your going there, at once. You've been at it
too long anyway. It's stopped being a joke, and as a pose----"


The intonation was subtle. A moment's bewilderment, and he burst out,
"You're not doing this because you--_have_ to?"

"That--or something."

"But--but--Good Lord, child! Where is your money?"

With pomp and ceremony--but languidly withal, for her head was beginning
to ache, and she wanted desperately to cry--she laid her purse in his
hand. But she did not look at him.

The big hand closed over the flat little thing impatiently.

"I am referring to your bank account."

"And by what right----"

"We'll settle that later. The banks have opened up again----"

"That's all I have."

"But what has become--You're not going to faint?"


"Then what has become----"

Quite against her will she was beginning to find herself faintly amused.
Of all pigheaded, impertinent people, this individual with whom she had
hardly had more than five minutes' conversation, except at meal times
during the past six weeks, was certainly the worst.

"I really must know, Miss Stanton, what has become----"

"I gave it away."

"You--gave it--_away_!" Italics could never do justice to his
intonation. He was staring at her as though he considered her demented.
"To whom?" came his indignant question.

After all, why not tell him? It was none of his business; and he was
desperately impertinent; but she was desperately forlorn; and, though it
could not better the situation to talk about it, it might better her

She slipped farther down against her rock; and he bent forward,
listening intently.

"I gave it to--a relative. She was living with me at the time of the
fire. We had only just come up from Los Angeles--because I wanted to--I
had some property here; all my income came from it; and I felt I ought
to know more about it--in case anything happened. And after the
earthquake she acted as though I had led her up to the--jaws of
death--and pushed her in--and later she was so afraid of typhoid--and
everything. And so--at last, when the banks opened up again--I gave her
all the money I had in the bank--and she went East right away--and I
stayed here."

"With nothing?"

"I had fifty dollars. I was doing relief work at the Presidio, waiting
for the vaults to cool off--I had a lot of paper money in a box
there--and for the insurance companies to pay--and for the man who
looked after my affairs to get well: he'd been hurt in the earthquake.
But he didn't get well: he had a stroke, instead, and died. And his
partner--they were lawyers--went away; all their books and papers and
everything had been burnt up, and he didn't seem to think he could ever
straighten things out; and when the vaults were opened, the paper money
I had in the box was all dust--and the insurance companies haven't

She shrugged her shoulders delicately over the situation, already
disgusted with herself at having descended to disclosing her private
affairs to a stranger.

Meanwhile, "So that's it," the stranger was saying. "I've wondered a

"You needn't have troubled."

"No trouble," he blandly assured her. "Houghton always was an
ass"--(Houghton was the younger lawyer. How had he known? the girl
wondered)--"lighting out for Goldfield when he ought to be here,
straightening out his clients' business. And so you went to work on some
beggarly salary, instead of seeing about having your property put in
shape again. Why didn't you lease, or----"

"I couldn't find out where it was," she retorted, furious. "I'd only
been here a week when the fire came; and not for years before that."

----"and not put yourself in a position where you get insulted by some
little scrub who isn't fit for you to walk on.--Are you going to faint?"


"Then what's the matter?" inquired the clod at her side.

"Nothing," she fibbed promptly. How different this creature was from
Bixler McFay! Bixler had never pried into her private affairs, or
evinced an interest in her possessions, or insisted on answers she did
not wish to give, or pursued topics she did not care for. Bixler had
none of the bluntness, the pigheadedness, the brutality of this--but
then, there was no comparing the two. Only, she had vowed not to think
of Bixler any more. He was not worth it.

"Nothing's the matter with me," she said. "Only, when I got back to the
boarding-house after--after downtown to-day, the landlady said I'd have
to pay sixty a month or leave at once, and--and she hadn't saved any
lunch for me, and----"

"And you've been eating----"

He looked at the candy-bag and the morsel of bun with horror.

"I thought they'd cheer me up," Ikey murmured meekly, "but they've made
me feel--kind of queer."

"That settles it." The big hand came down forcefully upon his knee.
"We'll get the thickest steak you ever laid your eyes on in about two
minutes. But first--we'll get married."



What happened after that Ikey could never clearly remember. Bits of the
ensuing conversation came back to her, memories of the sickening rage,
the stupefying bewilderment that possessed her, and the exhaustion that
followed. But order there was none. And she was sure she never got the
whole of it.

At one stage in the proceedings she had observed in a haughty voice that
she did not care to have his sympathy--or pity--take that form.

"Oh, it's not that," he assured her pleasantly; "but I'm tired of
knocking around the world alone. I need an anchor. I think you"--he
looked at her impersonally, but politely--"would make a good anchor."

"You mean you want me to reform you!"

He smiled a careful smile.

"No-o. I don't feel the need of reforming. There's nothing the matter
with me----"

"How lovely to have such a high opinion of oneself."

"Yes. Isn't it? But as I was saying----"

At another stage she tried to take refuge behind the usual platitude:
she did not love him.

He considered this--at ease before her, his hands in his pockets.

"Well, when it comes to that, I don't love you, either"--Ikey
gasped--"but I don't consider that that makes any difference."

Another break.

Then, "What'll you do, if you don't?" he had asked her in a businesslike
manner. "You're just on the verge of a breakdown"--She knew it; and his
tone of conviction did not add to her sense of security--"Another scene
like to-day's would upset you completely. You say you have no friends or
relatives here; and there's no one you want to go to away from here. And
besides, I can look after you a great deal better than you can look
after yourself."

There must have been much arguing after that. There must have; for she
had not the slightest intention of being disposed of in this medieval
fashion. But in the midst of some determined though shaky sentence of
hers, he had said quite kindly and finally that they need not discuss
the matter any further--besides, she had to have a good stiff lunch
right off--and had piloted her carefully, but with no over-powering air
of devotion, out of the empty lots, around the corner, and into an

"It was all the fault of that wretched beefsteak," mourned Ikey an hour
or two later. "If I'd only had it before, it never would have
happened--never. I shall always have a grudge against it. What am I to
do now?"

The automobile had conveyed them smoothly, first, to a clergyman's, of
all people; next, to a restaurant; then, to the boarding-house, where
her few belongings had found their way into a telescope basket; and now
it was conveying them through the bedraggled outskirts of the city into
the country beyond.

A hatchet-faced chauffeur was manipulating things in front; while the
unspeakable man in gray sat unemotionally beside her in the tonneau and
looked the other way.

"What am I to do now?" The bewildered girl found no answer to the one
question of her mind. "Why don't you faint?" she asked herself severely.
"Why don't you faint? If you had an idea of helping me out of this
pickle, you'd do it at once, and never come to at all, and then have
brain fever. It's the only decent solution. Instead of that, here you
are, feeling--actually comfortable."

She stared ahead of her with miserable eyes.

"It was all that miserable beefsteak. The thing must have been six
inches thick. Beast; why couldn't he have taken me to the restaurant
first? Then I'd never have gone to the clergyman's. And that license.
Where did he get it? We never stopped for one--he just pulled it out of
his pocket, as though it had been a handkerchief. Ikey, you're married,
_married_--do you quite understand?--to a man who wears ready-made
clothes and doesn't love you and lives in an attic boarding-house
bed-room. And what is he doing with this automobile? And what is his
business? Oh, he's probably a chauffeur; and he's borrowed his
employer's bubble; and this other chauffeur in front's his best friend
and ashamed of him on account of the beefsteak business. He'd better be.
But what shall I say to him? What shall I _say_?--Oh--h"--heaven-sent
inspiration--"I'll say nothing at all. I will be--so different."

On and on and on went the machine. The girl closed her eyes upon the
dusty, dun-colored landscape.

"Serves me right for turning over my bank account to Cousin Mary

She had fallen asleep, propped up in her corner of the machine--worn out
by this climax to the weeks that had gone before.

The man at her side turned and looked at her. His face no longer wore
its placidly and conventionally polite expression.


"The thirteenth move. Didn't I _say_ it would be unlucky!"

Ikey had fled to the garden, letter in hand, to review the situation.
The low clouds threatened rain. But what did that matter? The house
stifled her with its large, low, mannish rooms and continued reminder of
Arthur Hammond; and she had to think--think--think everything out from
the very beginning.

That first evening--when she wakened in the dusk at his side in the
automobile and stared bewildered at the dim outline of the low, rambling
brown house tucked away among shrubbery under a load of vines--how quick
he had been to reassure her, to explain that a friend of his, who had
expected to come here with his bride, had had to go to Mexico instead
and had asked him to occupy the bungalow until their return. A woman and
a Chinaman went with the place; and she would have the run of a large
garden. She could get rested there; and he could go to and from town
every day.

And the days that followed--how careful he had been; how matter-of-fact
and unemotional; never touching her; never making any sudden motion
towards her; never referring to that short ten minutes at the
clergyman's; never going near the two rooms the respectable English
housekeeper had conducted her to that first evening.

"Almost as though he were trying to tame a bird," she had thought half
whimsically, after the first days, when the feeling of weariness and
fright had worn down and a great relief and great thankfulness had taken
its place, that she should never see the boarding-house again with its
sneering, insulting landlady, or the office where that man with the
eager, shifty, cruel little eyes held rule.

And so she had set herself about it, resolutely, though bewildered, to
be an anchor to this big, unemotional young man who had so suddenly come
out of the background of her existence and was occupying all possible
space immediately behind the footlights.

She did not at all know what an anchor did, or said, or how it acted.
But the very perplexity for some reason or other sent her spirits
sky-high. And she pottered about the garden with him, and whizzed about
the country in the automobile,--it belonged to the same friend who
wanted him to look after the place,--and poked about the queer, rambling
house, content to see no one else and talk to no one else and amazed at
herself that this should be so.

Only once had he made any reference to their situation, when he
suggested that it might be as well under the circumstances for her to
call him Arthur.

"I shall never call you Arthur. Never," she told him hotly. "I loathe
the name. Always have. It sounds so deadly respectable."

"You don't care for respectability?" His tone was _so_ affable.

Ikey considered. "It may have advantages, in some cases. But----"

"Then what am I to be called?"

She might have retorted that she should call him nothing at all: he
never addressed her by any name. Instead, she answered, "Boobles."


"Boobles," she repeated firmly. And then came laughter. Ikey's rages had
a way of breaking up in inconvenient bursts of hilarity these days.

But what difference did that make now? What difference did anything

"I don't see," Ikey said to herself desperately, "what makes me so
stupid. I'm afflicted with chronic mental nearsightedness. Most
distressing. This is really a tragedy I'm mixed up in--a tragedy. And
tragedy's a thing I never cared for."

She collapsed miserably on a bench and stared at the letter.

"It's queer how tragedy and going to sea give you the same feeling."

It was not pity--oh, no--that had made him want to marry her. And it was
not love. And it was not because he needed an anchor. Not he. He was not
that kind. It was simply because she was his opportunity. Yes; that was
the word. And she had never suspected.

Not that afternoon in the vacant lot, when he had inquired so
exhaustingly as to her bank account.

Not the next week, when he appeared from town in the middle of the
afternoon, all unheralded and paler than ordinary, with papers to sign,
and the exhilarating news that the insurance companies had paid up, and
a new bank-book with her name and comforting fat figures in it.

How desperately glad she had been over that. For hot shame possessed her
at her appearance--shabby clothes and hardly any of them, when his
ready-made dust-colored garments had immediately been replaced by the
well-fitting blue serge that was her special weakness in masculine
attire. She had invested heavily in frills and slowly regained her

And not when he had appeared with a list of her property--how had he
come by that list?--stating that he had made arrangements to lease
certain pieces and rebuild at once on the others, and asking her
approval of the final arrangements.

She had not suspected him then, either, idiot that she was. She had been
too busy being rested, being thankful, being happy in the big garden,
tucked away from the people who had failed her and the ghastly city and
the memory of its great disaster.

She turned to the letter again. Bixler McFay had always written a good
letter. This time he quite surpassed himself.

Heart-broken, unreconciled; his hopes shipwrecked; his faith destroyed.
How could she have treated him so? She had been practically engaged to
him; and she had left him a prey to every horrible emotion at a time
when one word would have put his mind at rest. No clew as to her
whereabouts by which he could trace her.

She passed that over with her little crooked, sarcastic smile. She had
telegraphed and written both--and the second letter had been registered.
He had probably forgotten that little fact. But it was of little
consequence now. The sting lay in what followed.

And then what did he learn? the letter inquired. That a man he supposed
to be his friend, a fellow he had met daily in Arizona for a couple of
months at a time, had systematically pumped him about her; had taken
means of ascertaining her financial status, and, recognizing her as his
opportunity (that was where the word came from) had rushed off to San
Francisco, married her hand over fist, and launched himself as a
capitalist--on her capital. And she had allowed it.

The girl dropped the pages in her lap. Her little fist came down on top
of them.

"It's a despicable letter," she told herself hotly. "And what he thinks
to gain by it, I don't know. He just wants to make trouble.--And he
has," she breathed with a downward sigh.

The question was, what to do now. And pride stood at her elbow and
pointed out the only course.

This Arthur Hammond, this big, quiet, self-contained, efficient,
indifferent young man--whose opportunity she was--must never know that
she knew, or, knowing, cared.

That was the only solution. Pride forbade a scene--on his account; on
hers; on Bixler McFay's; on everybody's, when it came to that. No one
should know--anything.

"After a while I shall get quite old and pin-cushiony," she assured
herself, "and pricks won't prick; and nothing will matter. I must be
quite affable, and quite indifferent, and always polite--for women are
only rude to men they care about." Her lips trembled. "It's all happened
before, hundreds of times to hundreds of women--and money is very
interesting to men--and there's no reason why this shouldn't happen to
you, Ikey, dear--and a hundred of years from now it won't make any
difference anyway.

"But I'll never tell him anything again----"

For latterly she had told him many things about herself--young
lonesomenesses that nothing could dispel; family hunger for brothers and
sisters and all the ramifications of a home; and, half unconsciously,
her utter content with the present. She turned hot at the thought of it

"But one thing I won't stand." She jumped up and made for the house. "He
shan't have my photograph on his dressing-table."

She had seen it there one day on passing his open door, and had
wondered, wide-eyed, how he came by it--it was one she had had taken in
the East--and had felt unaccountably shy at the thought of asking him
about it.

She tore into the house, to get it, to destroy it, to tear it into tiny
bits, and trample upon it--at once, without a moment to lose--when,
rushing up the porch steps, she collided with the one person of all
others she least expected to see.


Late afternoon. The house was very still. Outside, the rain was falling,
falling, and the shrubs bent under their burden of shining drops.
Inside, the fire crackled and whispered and the girl lay in the big
armchair and looked around the room.

The fireplace; the big, rich rugs; the dark paneling; the fine,
unemotional pictures--no wonder the whole place had reminded her of
Arthur Hammond. She ought to have known. She ought to have known.

She heard his step in the hall. His door banged, once; twice; again.
Then, his voice, asking Eliza some question, and the murmur of the
housekeeper's reply.

Then he came in.

She did not speak or move, and his, "Good-evening" was presently
followed by the easy question: "What's the matter?"

Then she turned on him.

"Is it true that this house belongs to you?"

A pause. Then he answered slowly,


"And the grounds?"


"And the automobile--is yours?"


He stood quietly watching her. She knew it, though she did not look at
him. She took a deep breath.

"Those insurance companies have not paid," she said in a stifled voice.
"You told me they had. You--you gave me--Where did all that money come
from I've been spending?"

"Well, I suppose originally it was mine."

"Then it's true you are a millionaire?"

"Ye-es. Just about, I guess."

"And my property--all those buildings that burnt up were mortgaged
and--and I couldn't have rebuilt--and everybody knew it--except me. The
money that's putting them up again----"

"I arranged about that. But what difference does it make?"

"What did you do it for?"

"I thought you'd feel better to have an income again--and on account of
other people, too. It made me hot to have you treated as though you
were--just anybody at all--simply because your income happened to be
short for a time. And--and I thought you'd rather have it that way than
take it from me--at the first," he ended lamely.

She jumped up and confronted him, white with rage.

"How dared you do that? How dared you? How do you suppose I feel, being
in this position--to you?"

"I hope you don't feel at all. And besides--But how did you find out
about this?"

"Cousin Mary has been here," the girl burst out, losing all idea of
keeping anything back. "She had all sorts of things to say: how badly
she'd been treated--how she was shipped off East, and I never wrote to
her, nothing about my affairs, or that I was married, or anything. She
couldn't talk enough. She said everybody sympathized with her, because
her prospects were ruined, because the companies I'd insured in wouldn't
pay and my land was mortgaged so I couldn't rebuild. She knew that--and
she'd never told me. And then she spoke a piece about my conduct in
getting married and never telling her a word about it beforehand. She
said she was mortified to death to have to learn about my marriage from
strangers--strangers--just accidentally. But there wasn't anything she
didn't know: that you were a millionaire, but very eccentric and not
given to going around like a rational being--in society; and that you
had places around in different States and always made it a point not to
know your neighbors, so you wouldn't have them come dropping in
interfering with you; and that you were amusing yourself now with
putting my affairs on their legs again; and how lucky it was for me; and
how strange it was, when I was making a brilliant marriage, not to make
it, at least, in a dignified, even if not in a brilliant manner, with a
church wedding and all. There wasn't anything she didn't know. I believe
she used detectives to find out. And she ended up by saying that she had
a lovely disposition and would forgive me--I could have killed her--I
was her only first cousin's only child--and she was coming here to

"The deuce she did!"

"But what did you do it for?" She turned on him furiously. "What did you
do it for?"

"Yes--but where's this Cousin Mary?"

"We had a scene--at least, part of one: we didn't either of us say half
we wanted to--and she's left. She'll probably decide in the end, though,
that her disposition's lovely enough to overlook it, and insist on
making her home with her eccentric millionaire cousin-in-law--What did
you do this for?"

He stood there, frowning in perplexity. Then with a sigh of relief,
"Supposing we sit down," he said, as one who has a happy inspiration. "I
don't know as I can explain this to your satisfaction--exactly. But I'll
try. It seemed to me--Don't you know, I thought--Hang it all, that King
Cophetua business--was that the chap's name?--never did appeal to me a
little bit. I'm dead sure that Beggar Maid had it in for him from the
start for his beastly condescending ways to her. And I was afraid you
might think--you see, it seemed to me that when your affairs were back
in the position they ought to be, perhaps you'd feel better towards me."

He looked at her with boyish entreaty in his eyes. It was as though she
were suddenly in the room with a new person. The expression of his face
left her breathless.

"Then you came to that boarding-house deliberately to----"

"I did. Deliberately to let you get a bit used to me. It might have
upset you to have a perfect stranger come up and marry you offhand."

"But--but"--she gasped.

She was flushed to the eyes. Suddenly he turned and switched on the
electric lights. Then he turned back and looked at her--hard. The rose

"Surely, you're not pretending to tell me," he said slowly, as one
thoroughly bedazed, "that you don't know I'm so looney about you my hand
shakes whenever you come into the room?"

The girl looked away.

"You said that day--that day--that day, you know----"


"You said most distinctly that--you didn't love me."

He turned an exasperated face toward her.

"Said that? Of _course_ I said it. What did you expect me to say? How
apt would you have been to have taken me----"

"_Taken_ you!"

"----if I'd come up with the confession that your eyes set me crazy and
the impudent tilt of your little nose was very much on my nerves?
Supposing I'd told you that you bowled me over the moment I saw
you--It's God's truth. I saw you at the theater in New York just before
you left for Fort Leavenworth. I followed you there, but nothing that
wasn't brass buttons seemed to be having an inning; and I didn't care to
meet you at all, unless I could win out. So I left and went down to
Arizona, where there was some land business I had to look after. Then
McFay came down there and talked a good deal with his mouth; and I was
sure it was all off and was doubly glad I hadn't met you. Then came the
news of the earthquake and the fire; and I kept waiting for the beggar
to get leave and go to you--and he didn't go. And then one night
he--well, he was drunk, or he wouldn't have done it--but he talked some
more with his mouth; and so I knew what to expect from him and--er,
removed your photograph from his rooms--he hadn't any business having it
around for men to stare at, anyway--and then I came here to find you;
and--and that's about all, I guess."

He laughed an embarrassed laugh.

"I was pretty well done for before--it seems to me everybody I met kept
talking about you--but the boarding-house business finished me
completely. There were you--you'd lost more than all that trash put
together, and had been badly treated, and all--but you held your head
high and never peeped and made that dining-table a thing to look forward
to beyond everything. No wonder the landlady hated you. I could have
kneeled down and kissed your little boots--not that you'd have cared
about it especially."

He laughed his boyish, embarrassed laugh again.

"But to go back a bit--how apt would you have been to have taken
me--after your experiences and that cur down at your office, besides--if
I'd have trotted up and told you how I felt and asked you please to have
me? How apt would you have been? I got the license and kept it dark and
bided my time. There was nothing else to do--then."

They were standing again, facing one another, wide-eyed, and both rather

The girl turned away.

"I won't be humble," she whispered to herself tremulously. "I won't.
It's a wretched policy for women, and the effects are dreadful on men."

She trailed away towards the other end of the room.

"I'm not Ikey any more. I'm not the Wandering Jew. The thirteenth move
is a glorious move, and I've come home--to a man in a million."

Aloud she observed disdainfully, "The whole performance from beginning
to end has been unspeakable--simply unspeakable; and I insist----"

She had reached the bay-window and pressed her little nose tight against
the window-pane.

"I insist you're no gentleman," came her muffled, shaky voice from
behind the curtains, "or I wouldn't have to be standing here quite by
myself, waiting for you to come over here and--and kiss me."





For almost a century the unoccupied government lands of the West have
been used as a public commons. The stockmen have used the grass and
water; the mining, sawmill, and railroad men the timber; until--simply
because no one made it his business to object to the spoliation that was
going on--what had been done wholly on the suffrance of the national
government had come to be regarded and most lustily defended as an
inherent privilege and right.

[Illustration: GIFFORD PINCHOT]

And so when, a decade ago, the tall, pleasant-voiced young man from the
far East, now known throughout the United States as Gifford Pinchot, the
national forester, appeared in the West, and suggested to the stockmen
that they were ruining the country by over-grazing, they laughed him to

He told the mining and sawmill men that through reckless and extravagant
methods of lumbering they were bringing on a timber famine by great
strides; he characterized their whole policy as one of utter disregard
for the future of the country; and he demanded forcible and immediate
action on the part of the Federal authorities. These pioneers had seen
uncounted millions of buffalo melt away because no one took enough
interest in the matter to stop the wanton waste. They had seen great
billowy prairies, once knee-deep in the most splendid covering of grass
and vegetation, grazed down until they were hardly more than dust heaps;
and mountains that were clothed with magnificent forests swept
bare--first by the woodsman's ax and later by forest fires that burned
each year millions and millions of feet of the finest timber a country
ever possessed, while no one raised a hand even to quench the fire
because "it was only government land."

_The Fight against the "Pinchot Policies"_

These hard-headed, adventurous Western pioneers, indignant at the
thought of any curtailment of their freedom; resentful of interference
in what they were pleased to call their "inalienable right" to do as
they pleased with the country they had conquered; utterly regardless of
its future, and thinking but of the present and their own selfish
interests, arose in their wrath and protested vigorously against what
they called the "Pinchot policies" of the government.

That the writer, then a range cattle-raiser in Arizona, was one of the
first to feel the effects of the new forest policy gives him all the
more right to speak as he does of these things; that he joined with loud
tongue and bitter pen in the general denunciation of the "Pinchot
policies" makes it all the more a pleasure to him now to defend and
explain them in so far as he can.

Although there had been a small start toward forest preservation, it was
not until Mr. Pinchot was placed at the head of the movement in 1898
(six years after the first reserve was made), and organized and
reconstructed the force of officials, that we really had any national
forest policies worth mentioning.

His enemies first attacked his motives. He was a "notoriety seeker," a
"political adventurer" looking for personal advancement. To their
surprise they found that he showed not the slightest disposition to
exploit himself; that, having millions at his command, he could expect
to gain nothing financially by his course; and that he was absolutely
devoid of any political ambitions.

They then took another point of attack. "He is an Eastern swell who
knows nothing of forests, or the West and its needs. By what right does
he tell us how to use the public lands?"

And again they found him invulnerable, for, after graduating from Yale
in 1889, he had made a systematic and thorough study of forestry. He
traveled in Europe, through Russia, on the great steppes of Siberia, in
the Philippines, and in every part of the United States where there were
forests he investigated conditions and studied the water problem, the
grazing of cattle and sheep, and the effect of lumbering and forest
fires. There is hardly a corner of our whole Western country from the
Missouri to the Pacific where forests are found that he has not visited
and inspected. Days, weeks, and months spent on horseback and on foot in
the roughest, most inaccessible portions of the Rocky Mountain region
from the Canadian to the Mexican line have made him familiar with every
problem of forest preservation. He has studied the attendant and equally
important question of watershed protection and utilization of the
mountains for conserving the sources of all our great Western streams,
by which millions of acres are to be irrigated and millions of homes
built up in the West. He was from the first no "tenderfoot" adventurer,
no visionary enthusiast, but a practical, hard-headed man far more
earnestly and disinterestedly concerned in the Westerners' future than
they themselves had ever been.

Born in Simsbury, Connecticut, in 1865, of old New England ancestry, Mr.
Pinchot is just in the prime of life. A man of tremendous energy and
resourcefulness, tactful, quick to see a point, frank to admit his
errors, open and friendly in his intercourse with all men, and in the
game of politics the equal of any one in Washington, he is giving the
best years of his life to a cause that will bring him no personal
advantage save a place in our national history greater than that of
great generals and war captains. For while their armies destroy, his
little army is saving and preserving; while their forces are ever
non-productive, he and his small force are making "two blades of grass
grow where one grew before"; are building up and developing to the
uttermost the great region lying around and about the national forest

_Training an Army of Foresters_

Mr. Pinchot rapidly gathered about him a force of expert assistants. The
forest schools in the East were just turning out their first crop of
young men, trained and educated as scientific foresters, and he brought
them into the work. A year or two in the forests, mapping, scaling,
estimating, and studying the western timber conditions, made them
practical as well as scientific. The old sawmill men, themselves
educated in the college of "Hard Knocks," first laughed at these
college-bred foresters, but soon learned to respect and trust them. They
began to adopt their plans and follow their suggestions, and to-day one
of the most serious embarrassments the forester has to meet is the
continual hiring away from him of his best men by the Western lumber and
sawmill men, who offer salaries far beyond what the government pays.

To handle the stockmen's interests--by far the most difficult and
perplexing of all the problems connected with the administration of the
national forests--Pinchot went to the Southwest and persuaded one of the
most intelligent and level-headed young stockmen in the country to
become head of the grazing department. A. F. Potter had been for years a
cow-boy and range cattleman, then for several years a sheep owner, and
not only knew every branch of the stock business through practical
experience, but had the administrative ability to handle successfully
the intricate and perplexing questions of ranges, priority of rights,
effects of grazing, and methods of handling stock that must be passed
upon. With this corps of assistants, and with Mr. Overton W. Price, a
man second only to himself in ability, as his chief lieutenant, Mr.
Pinchot began in earnest in the year 1898 the work of saving the
remaining forested areas of the United States.

A few years ago the mining men, lumbermen, and the stockmen were almost
united in their opposition to the policies of the Government Forest
Service. Then the mining men found to their surprise that instead of
being ruined and forced out of business they were being helped. If a
miner had a valuable claim on some national forest lying idle, the
forest ranger of that district saw that not one stick of timber upon it
was cut by unauthorized persons. In the past, when a miner returned to
his claim after a year's absence, he generally found it stripped of the
timber which some day he would need for its development. Under the new
service, he discovered also that, when there was no timber on his own
claim, he could buy at a reasonable figure all the timber he desired for
the development of his mine. In many cases, in southern Arizona, for
instance, where the wood haulers were in the habit of taking from the
miners' claims fuel which they would be likely to need for their engines
sooner or later, the rangers stopped the practice and gave the wood
haulers other areas from which to cut, where no such injury to the
miners would result.

_Land Piracy Checked_

Of course, where mining companies, organized solely to obtain vast areas
of timber land, under cover of the mining laws, especially the Timber
and Stone Act, and the Placer Mining laws, found their work exposed by
the activity and watchfulness of the forest officers, they naturally
raised a cry against the Service that woke the echoes.

The Placer laws allow a company to obtain title to twenty acres of land
simply by showing five hundred dollars' worth of mining work done upon
it. No signs of mineral need be shown, no further attempt to develop it
is required. Prove that five hundred dollars' worth of work has been
done, and the patent is issued. The takers are not limited to a single
tract, but can have just as many tracts as they have sums of five
hundred dollars to invest. Under this Placer law whole townships,
covered with the finest timber on the Pacific coast, were taken up
solely to obtain title to the land for the timber upon it.

Wherever the final patents had not been issued on these lands, the
Forest Service stepped in and put a stop to it, thus saving thousands of
acres of timber land for the people. Small wonder that these licensed
pirates look upon a forest ranger as the embodiment of all that is bad,
and the forest policy as an encroachment upon sacred vested rights!

_The Case of the Wood Haulers_

And the poor wood haulers! How they complained because they thought
their divine right to cut and slash as they chose was to be invaded!
What happened to them? To-day they are better off than ever. True, they
pay a little for the wood--from as low as ten cents a cord in some
forests up to fifty cents in others. But what do they get in return for

If a wood hauler wants to buy ten cords of wood or any amount up to
fifty dollars' worth, he simply goes to the nearest ranger, and in ten
minutes the deal is over; the ranger accompanies him to the area where
he wishes to cut and shows him by marks and bounds just where he may
cut; the trees are marked, and the man sets to work knowing full well
that no one else will invade this little tract or steal his wood when it
is cut and piled up waiting for him to haul it away, as was the case
over and over again in the old days of free and unlimited competition.

_How the Government Sells Timber_

What of the next class, the sawmill men? Every stick of matured,
merchantable timber in the forests, not needed for protection of
water-sheds, is for sale. By matured timber is meant a tree that has
reached its maximum growth and development, and is beginning slowly to
deteriorate, and should, like any ripe crop, be harvested. There is no
limit either high or low. In New Mexico one contract for 1907 called for
50,000 feet and another for 10,000,000, and each was made and carried
out under the same conditions; little man and big both got the same
square deal.

"But," cry some of the politicians with both eyes upon the political
barometer, "the Forest Service, in selling lumber by such methods, is
playing into the hands of the Lumber Trust and boosting prices."

What are these methods? If a citizen wants to buy some saw-logs for his
mill, he goes to the nearest forest officer and states his case,
indicating where the timber lies that he wishes to cut. A careful survey
and cruise of the timber is then made by experienced and competent men
trained especially for that work. If they report favorably upon the
cutting, a minimum price is set at which the timber will be sold, and
the sale is duly advertised for thirty days, if it amounts to more than
one hundred dollars in value. If it comes to less, the forest officer on
the ground makes the sale without delay. When the bids are opened, the
highest bidder gets the timber.


There is seldom much competition on the small lots, but the large tracts
are frequently bid up to very much more than the minimum price set by
the forest expert. In New Mexico, for instance, several large sales were
made in 1907, where the keen competition ran the price up from three
dollars, set by the Service, to five and six dollars a thousand. Surely
this was not playing into the hands of the Lumber Trust.

"_Two Blades of Grass Where One Grew Before_"

Moreover, when the buyers come to cut, the ranger marks each tree,
leaving out all those below a certain size for future growth, and also a
certain number for seed purposes, that reproduction may follow. Again,
the buyers are required to cut the stumps low, generally at a height
equal to the diameter. Under old methods they cut them off high up,
where it was easier for the ax and saw men to work, thus leaving in the
stump a waste equal to more than ten per cent. of the measured value of
the tree. "Two blades of grass" here surely!

Under the old methods, if the logs had to be "snaked" out, the loggers
took the shortest cut, and if that cut led through a dense thicket of
young trees, the logs were dragged through them, so that millions of
young trees were destroyed each year by this recklessness alone. To-day
the ranger sees to it that they go around such little groves, or, if it
is absolutely unavoidable, a straight and narrow way is cut through them
to which the loggers must keep, thus reducing the damage to the minimum.
"Two blades of grass" here also.

In the old days of reckless lumbering only the best of the tree was
used. A single log was taken, and the rest left to waste. Now the
watchful "scaler" sees to it that the logs are cut with judgment, so as
to utilize every foot of saw timber.

When the logging is finished on a tract, according to the government
contract, the brush must be carefully piled by the lumberman far enough
away from other trees or young stuff to cause no damage when it is
burned by the rangers. Under the early methods the "slashings," as
cut-over areas were called, were an almost impassable mass of dead
tree-tops and logs, a most fruitful and dangerous source and auxiliary
of forest fires.


_The Forest Service and the Stock-Raisers_

The only remaining class opposed to the policy of the Forest Service is
that composed of the stock-raisers; and for their interests and welfare
the Forest Service has worked harder than for all the other users of the
forests combined.

That mistakes were made in handling the livestock interests; that in
some cases individuals were unduly hampered with rules enforced by
over-zealous forest officers, is not to be denied. It was a huge task.
Almost in a day the Forest Service sprang full-fledged into the world,
charged with the care and responsibilities of more than a hundred
million acres; to-day it controls a third of the area of grazing country
in the United States, whereon graze about eight million sheep and a
million and a half cattle and horses.

Trained foresters there were to be had in plenty, but men who knew the
stockman's trade, whose training fitted them to handle the vexatious
questions of range divisions, over-grazing, and relative injury done by
cattle, sheep, and goats, were hard to find, and when found were not
willing to enter the Service for the niggardly pay allowed by the
government. However, the Forest Service, with its ranger system, is
to-day training up a class of young men, who, in a few years, will be at
once expert lumbermen, scientific foresters, and excellent all-round
frontiersmen and stockmen.

In this work there have been no precedents to follow, no rules to look
to for guidance. Instead, rules must be made and tested through use;
precedents must be established and certain fundamental principles worked
out and made a basis for future government.


Further than this, every section has its own necessities. Rules that
would apply to Oregon and Washington, with their sixty inches of
rainfall a year, would not apply to Arizona, with its ten. One great
mountain region, whose waters drained off into the ocean and could never
be used for irrigating purposes, might safely be let open to all kinds
of grazing; while another equally large section, just as well grassed,
would have to be closed to sheep and goats, with their erosive little
feet and habits of grazing in large bands, because all the drainage went
into creeks, streams, and rivers that lower down on the desert were
needed to irrigate vast areas of valuable farming lands.

_The Roosevelt Dam Case_

Take a single case: that of one national forest in Arizona. At the upper
end of this forest--which is a long, narrow tract covering a great
mountain chain--rise two or three streams; on the eastern slope, the Rio
Verde and the Salt River, on the western, the Agua Fria. A hundred miles
below these heads the government is building, at a cost of more than
$4,000,000, the great Roosevelt Dam which will furnish water to irrigate
250,000 acres of the richest of soils around the city of Phoenix in the
Salt River valley. One of the most serious problems in the construction
of the great dams in the West is the question of silt, which is washed
down in the streams and will eventually fill up and render useless these
expensive dams and reservoirs.

Careful studies of silt prove beyond doubt that its primal cause is the
removal of the forest cover, such as underbrush, weeds, and grasses,
along the streams, which allows the rainfall to run off rapidly. The
grazing over these areas by sheep and goats not only exhausts this
forest cover, but from the cutting up of the soil and the loosening
effect of the thousands of tiny hoofs, the erosive action of the rain
becomes disastrous. The wash of the hills and mountain-sides carries
with it into the streams tons and tons of silt to fill up the dams and
beds of the streams, as well as working irreparable injury to the
comparatively thin soil covering the mountains.

On this national forest the watershed on the eastern side all runs into
streams which eventually reach the Roosevelt Dam; on the western slope
the water runs unused to the Gulf of California. So the National
Reclamation Service, charged with the building and maintenance of these
huge reservoirs, said to the Forest Service: "The watershed of the
Roosevelt Dam must be protected from over-grazing, so that the forest
cover may be preserved, and the deposit of silt reduced to the very
lowest possible percentage."


The Forest Service whose duty it was under the law to protect and
preserve, not only the timber of the mountains, but the water supply as
well, had no alternative but to say to the sheep and goat men using this
area: "You cannot longer graze sheep or goats upon the eastern side of
this forest, but may do so on the western slope." But since cattle do
much less damage than sheep, in order that the grazing may not go
entirely unused, the Service allows cattle to graze there in such
numbers as will not injure the watershed.

Naturally the sheep owners set up a cry that could be heard from Dan to
Beersheba. But an analysis of the situation shows that while some fifty
individual sheep men, owning probably 100,000 sheep valued at about
$300,000, were forced to rearrange their business to meet the new
conditions, their loss was overwhelmingly offset by the benefit to the
entire population of the Salt River valley, a population to-day of not
fewer than 50,000 people, every soul of whom is absolutely dependent
upon the agricultural lands of the valley for a living; these lands
consisting of more than 100,000 acres, valued at an average of sixty
dollars an acre, already under cultivation, with 150,000 acres more
ready to be cultivated the instant the Roosevelt Dam is finished.

_Irrigation Revolutionized by National Forestry_

Surely such conditions fully justify the Forest Service in its course of
pursuing the greatest good for the greatest number. In Colorado a small
number of stock men, principally cattle owners, aided and abetted by a
few political malcontents, have attempted to discredit the Forest
Service, but no one has heard a word against the Service from the
thousands of contented irrigationists, who, with countless acres to be
watered by more than 12,000 miles of irrigation ditches, see their
source of water supply amply protected, and realize that already the
supply has increased and the flow is more regular than it has been in
the past.

In the great Kern River district about Bakersfield in southern
California, a careful measurement shows that since the restrictions on
grazing in the mountains at the heads of the streams, together with the
almost complete absence of forest fires, the flow of water in the great
canal system has become fully twenty per cent. greater in volume than
ever before. And so one could go on without end, if necessary, for all
over the West are smaller or larger areas wholly dependent upon the
rivers and streams for their water supply, and to them the Forest
Service guarantees full protection for their lands and homes.


_The Free Grass Question_

The range stockmen of to-day are in much the same position as the
reservation Indian. The tides of civilization, advancing from east and
west, have met and threaten to overwhelm them. Like the Indian they must
meet the new conditions with new methods. They must not, and need not,
be overwhelmed, but can be assimilated in the new order of things. The
day of free grass in the State of Texas came to an end twenty years ago.
The old-timers shook their heads and prophesied all sorts of dire
happenings to the State. To-day Texas has more cattle and sheep, and
better ones, too, than ever before, and they are still growing in

A convention of stockmen was held at Denver in 1898, at which the
burning question was the then new plan of forest reserves. The sheep men
from Wyoming, Utah, and one or two other Western States, declared with a
bitterness born of conviction that if the government made any forest
reserves in their States it would mean the total annihilation of the
sheep industry there. To-day these States are plastered with national
forests, and each has three or four times as many sheep as it had ten
years ago.

There has arisen, of course, from the men who have used these government
lands without money and without price, a continuous cry that the grazing
fees the Forest Service collects are "illegal, unjust and double
taxation," The complaint, of course, will not bear analysis. The land
belongs, not to the stockmen, but to the whole people. Why should the
government give something to a stockman in Wyoming, that belongs equally
to a stockman in Ohio, who is raising live stock on private land, in
keen competition with Western free grass men?

The fees are scarcely illegal. If the government can sell one man one
hundred acres of public land, it certainly can sell another man the
grass and forage crop produced upon any portion of the public lands. One
is no more a case of merchandizing than the other. As for the double
taxation argument, that too is equally childish, because the grazing fee
is not a tax but the price of a commodity.

As a matter of fact, the government spends annually, in trail and road
building through the forests, that the stock may more easily and safely
reach the higher grazing areas, in fighting the fires, in building
telephone lines to the very remotest corners of the forests, in hiring
hunters to exterminate the wolves and other wild animals that prey upon
the stockman's herds, in digging deep wells and erecting windmills and
other pumping engines to furnish water where there is none on the
surface, a sum almost equal to the entire amount paid in fees by the
stockmen, and all for their sole benefit and use.

The total amount of fees paid by stockmen in the year 1907 amounted to
$836,920. If the lands were under private control, the fees would be
more than double what they now are. In New Mexico, for instance, the
usual price for pasturing cattle upon the large land grants is from two
dollars to three dollars a year, while on the government forests
immediately adjoining the grant, and almost the same country, the fee is
only seventy-five cents a year per head and twenty-five cents per head
for sheep. And these are the highest fees charged on any national forest
for all-the-year-round grazing permits. In Colorado, California, Nevada,
and Arizona, the charge for sheep or cattle grazing on the large areas
of railroad and State lands is on an average fully twice as great as the
same fees upon the national forest, and in the former the stockmen get
no other return from the land owners.

The last and loudest wail was that these "great areas of segregated
lands," as the protestants love to call the national forests, were a
barrier to the settler and homesteader; that the Forest Service was
making vast areas of forest solitudes in the heart of the Western

To this the Forest Service replied by throwing open to agricultural
settlement every acre of land, lying within the limits of the national
forests, which was more suitable for agriculture than forest culture.
Six thousand new homes were selected in the different forests in the
year 1907, and with vastly less red tape and delay than under the
regular homestead laws now in force upon other public lands.

If the Forest Service had done no more than keep down the fire losses,
their work would not have been in vain. In 1901 the total area burned
over in the government forests equalled 2-3/4 acres in every thousand,
while in 1907 the burned area was only 9/10 of an acre in every
thousand. No record of the money value of the earlier fire losses was
kept, but that the loss ran into the millions, no one who has seen the
miles of burned over tracts can doubt.

The following table shows the fire losses in the national forests for
the past three years:

  Year        Area of         Acres       Value of
              Forests      Burned Over  Timber Burned

  1905       85,627,000      279,592      $101,282
  1906      106,999,000      115,416        76,183
  1907      164,154,000      212,850        31,589

That is, in 1905 the loss from fire was more than three times as great
as in the year 1907, with an area of forests almost twice as great to
protect and control.

_$1,000,000 Saved by the Forest Hunters_

Another important feature of Mr. Pinchot's work is the employment of
experienced hunters for killing wild animals which destroy stock. In the
year 1907, according to records kept of all predatory animals killed
upon the various national forests, or on lands adjoining them, no fewer
than 1600 wolves, 19,469 coyotes, 265 mountain lions, 368 bears, and
2285 wild cats and lynxes were killed by the various hunters and
settlers. Of these, it is probably fair to credit the rangers and the
hunters employed by the Forest Service with at least one-fourth.

Now, any well-posted stockman will tell you that, on an average, a
full-grown wolf will destroy one thousand dollars' worth of stock every
year of its life. Mountain lions prefer horses to any other food, but
still they will put up with calves and sheep. They, too, are easily
chargeable with a thousand dollars' worth of damage each year. The
coyotes, bob-cats, and lynxes do less harm, and that mostly to sheep.
Yet I think it is a very conservative estimate to say that each coyote
or lynx annually destroys stock to the value of fully one hundred

Taking these figures as a basis for comparison, it is very easily seen
that the value of the animals killed by the Forest Service men is more
than $1,000,000. Hence, so far as return for their $836,920 in grazing
fees is concerned, the stockmen get it back in full and with some to

[Illustration: _Copyrighted by E. S. Curtis, Seattle_]





When young Johnny Kitsap, having made up his mind that his clerkship in
the reservation agency did not offer the chance of advancement to which
the son of a Puyallup chief and a graduate of Carlisle was entitled,
applied for work to the President of the Elliott Bay National Bank, it
was not an act of such presumption as some might suppose. No one, to be
sure, when he saw the high cheek-bones, wiry black hair brushed
pompadour, dull brown eyes, and copper complexion, could possibly have
been deceived by Johnny's well-cut clothes, clean linen, and good
English. Nor did Johnny affect these things as a disguise or as
signifying that, in adopting the apparel and speech of the white man, he
had renounced his nationality--had, to all intents and purposes, become
a dead Indian. Quite to the contrary, what secured Johnny his position
in the bank was precisely that, besides having a pleasant manner and
civilized ways, he was so manifestly an exceptionally live Indian.

The Elliott Bay National's famous line of "red paper" had paid from the
start. When, some years before, the proposition to loan old Peter
Coultee, a full blood of the Puyallup reservation, was laid before the
directors, they had laughed, but, like true Western men, they wanted to
know the details. What they learned was that old Peter Coultee owned one
hundred and sixty acres of fine reservation land, well stocked and
highly cultivated; that his crop of hops was fast ripening; that he
needed money to pay the hop-pickers of his own tribe; and that hop-house
receipts in the White River Valley were as good as wheat receipts in the
Palouse. This put the matter in other, at least, than a sneering light,
and one of the laughing directors offered to visit the reservation and
make a full report. The result was that old Peter Coultee got his loan,
and that this turned out to be the first of many others, both to himself
and to his tribesmen, and all of much mutual profit alike to white man
and red.

When, accordingly, Johnny Kitsap did the Elliott National the honor of
preferring its employment to that of the government, the president did
not laugh, but, with all due formality, laid his application before the
board, and suggested that a bank which loaned money to Indians might in
time find it convenient to have a clerk who could interpret not only the
language of the Siwash customers, but the more subtle emotions of the
Indian heart. And so Johnny came by his job, and the bank had as little
cause to regret it as the first loan to old Peter Coultee, which was the
original cause of it.

To the young Indian, the bank became a magic house. The brass-barred
windows before the tellers; the wire cages; the tiled floors; the great
doors of the vault, with the _tick-tick-tick_ of the time locks; all
seemed to him to be parts of a powerful chieftain's house. The vault
itself, with its store of gold and currency, and its cabinet of
mysterious treaties, which the _tyee_ made with the busy white men,
filled him with awe. This was the white man's magic treasure-chest,
wherein money bred money. No one bought or sold, so far as he could see,
yet this treasure-chest paid salaries, distributed profits, and always
continued full. With his imagination thus enlisted in firing his work
with the zest of play, it is no wonder that he proved an apt pupil and
in a rapidly flying trio of years had filled various positions and had
earned high appreciation.

With his entrance upon the duties of collection clerk, Kitsap became the
credit man on all "red paper." Every bit of Indian business received the
approval of the Chief before the discount committee would act upon it.
Thus the young Indian became surely, even if indirectly, a power on the
reservation, where the tribal leaders regarded him as being at heart a
white man and continued to address him quizzingly as _Italapas_ (The
Coyote That Wanders). Kitsap maintained a modest room in Seattle,
enjoyed the privileges of an athletic club, owned a one-twentieth
interest in a yacht, and, out on the reservation, kept a cayuse in
father Kitsap's corral and a suit of Indian finery in father Kitsap's
house. Thus he zigzagged across the borderland of civilization and led a
most picturesque, but strictly honorable, double life.

Kitsap had been four years in the bank when three hop-buyers from St.
Louis attempted to raid the White River hop fields in advance of picking
and to buy the entire crop of the valley at fourteen cents a pound. The
raid had progressed far towards success when Kitsap accidentally heard
of it.

The Indian hop-growers of the reservation had made their fall estimates,
Kitsap had inspected their fields and approved their items, and some ten
thousand dollars in "red paper" was entered on the books of the Elliott
Bay National Bank, the loans to be secured by the warehouse receipts on
hops. Kitsap had spent the first Sunday of the picking on the
reservation, greeting friends who had come on their annual pilgrimage
to the hop fields from other reservations; and early on Monday morning
he was on the way to take a train for Seattle, when Peter Coultee's
cayuse overtook him, bearing Peter Coultee's oldest son.

"Good morning, _Italapas_. Is your bank short of money?" called the
young Indian, with enough dire suggestion in his tone to start a Wall
Street panic.

Kitsap faced his questioner. "It has more gold than the son of Coultee
can count," he retorted sharply.

"Then why is Lamson, who owns the largest fields of all the white men in
the valley, saying that the bank will not loan him enough to pay the

Lamson, who was wealthy, as ranchers go, was a heavy client of the
Elliott Bay National, but, since he was a white man, his accounts were
unknown to Kitsap. The bank clerk was thus taken at a disadvantage and
could not give a direct answer. But, desiring to learn what he could, he
bantered the younger Indian to talk on, and listened carefully, that his
words might be carried to the cashier.

"Lamson is paying two picking tickets out of every three in cash; for
the third ticket he gives an order on the stores in the village. When
the pickers complain, he laughs and says that the bank has loaned the
Indians so much that it cannot lend him the little he needs. Peter
Coultee sends word to you: Let _Italapas_ run to the bank and count the
gold." Then the younger Indian smiled suggestively, whirled his cayuse,
and rode away.

Kitsap was troubled by young Coultee's words. Not that any thought of
weakness in the Elliott Bay National entered his mind; but he felt at
once that such a report, if allowed to circulate undenied, would be
harmful to the magic treasure-chest. He was all nerves when he reported
to the cashier.

As soon as the president arrived, the cashier went to him with the
report. Together they reviewed Lamson's account, and decided that no
danger was to be found there. Lamson's hops were being delivered to a
warehouse, and the warehouse receipts were being delivered to the bank
as security for the hop-gathering loan. All this was regular and
customary. But Lamson's motive in making such talk disturbed the
president. He sent for Kitsap to question him.

Never before had the young red man been called into a conference with
the president. He felt both proud and alarmed at the incident. When told
the facts, Kitsap was greatly relieved, but he could suggest no motive
for Lamson's story. He volunteered to visit the valley in an endeavor to
ascertain the facts. The suggestion pleased the president, who at once
ordered it put into effect.

"I suppose," said the gray-headed president, "that you will enjoy this
scouting expedition all the more because you are on the trail of a white
man. But while I am going to trust to your own good sense and your
knowledge of your people in running this lie right back to the man who
fathered it, I want to caution you to play well inside the rules of the

"Now, you are out to hit the trail of that lie and chase it home. When
you have corralled it, let me know what company it is keeping and I will
tell you what to do next. Lamson has been a good client and this lie may
run away from him. If so, we must not offend him and thus lose his
account. But if it hikes home to his ranch house, then I want to know
what he is doing, and the nearer he is related to this rumor, the
quicker we shall cash his hop receipts and cancel his note.

"If you find it necessary to use the bank's authority, then come out
strong as ambassador plenipotentiary and read the stiffest kind of a
bluff to your man in the name of the Elliott Bay National Bank. Talk as
little as possible about the bank; but when you do talk, make every man
jealous of your connection with the institution. A conservative remark
may bring a new customer to our books; a flippant word may go into
business for itself and start a run that no bank could weather. Now get
at it, and let us hear something from you by day after to-morrow."

Scout! The president himself had said it! The Indian's blood thrilled
with his commission. His voice shook a little in its attempt to be very,
very steady as he telephoned out to the reservation station for a
saddle-horse. Then he ran for the five o'clock south-bound train.

At eight o'clock Kitsap arrived at the reservation. On all sides were
the lights among the camps, where the hop-pickers were making merry.
More than one group hailed him as he passed, demanding to know if he had
come out from town to dance, to gamble, or to see a maid. But he had
replied to each in kind and pressed on to his father's house. Kitsap the
elder greeted his son in the native tongue.

"Huh! Is The Coyote still prowling?"

"The Coyote hunts big game for his _tyee_, my father. Let The Coyote's
horse be cared for till he returns."

Then Kitsap, the bank clerk, decked himself as an Indian should and as
The Coyote went forth to listen at many camp-fires and to hear what
tales were telling there. Till far into the night he prowled, learning
what families of Indians were picking for Lamson, what form Lamson's
bank story was taking, and to what store the orders were sent for
redemption. The fires were low and the valley was still when he sought
his father's house and slept.

The next morning he resumed the dress of the white man. It was a day
spent in the saddle. He rode from store to store, from ranch to ranch
and warehouse to warehouse, the length and breadth of the valley,
questioning, listening, brisk, businesslike, and polite, in all respects
the decorous representative of the white man's bank. Yet, as he stood
that evening at the white man's telephone, and recounted to his cashier
the facts he had learned, the gleam in his eyes and the pride in his
heart were those of the young red warrior who has tracked his foe and
makes report to the high chiefs of his tribe. He concluded by asking his
cashier to telegraph to St. Louis and the other hop markets and
ascertain the probable trend of hops, and telephone him in the morning.

And then Kitsap, the clerk, donned the tribal finery of his ancestors
and again The Coyote prowled among the camp-fires. At each he dropped a
faggot for thought:

"Lamson, the biggest hop rancher in the valley, is buying hops at
fourteen cents and paying his pickers with store orders. That's why he
lied about the bank."

The pickers buzzed the news about the fires till the overseers heard it;
the overseers bore the tale to the ranchers; the ranchers went to their
telephones and set the tale to flashing. In the morning, when the valley
rose to resume picking, Lamson's raid was in cold type in the Seattle
papers and at eight o'clock Lamson himself read it. Then he realized
that the pool had been betrayed, and he went on the war-path to find the
mysterious Indian.

Kitsap rose late, and loitered about, gossiping with the idle, till ten
o'clock. Then he called up the bank. The cashier had received a wire
from the East.

"Hops opened in St. Louis at sixteen cents, Milwaukee sixteen cents,
Cincinnati seventeen cents," said the cashier over the telephone. "Crop
reports indicate light yield abroad and heavy demand on American hops.
Rise in price certain. I have asked a Seattle broker to cable Liverpool.
The president says to spread the news and call me again at four

Then Kitsap mounted his own spotted cayuse and rode from ranch to ranch
till every Indian planter on the reservation had heard his news:

"The _biyu tyee_ of the money house sends greetings. Hops are seventeen
cents and going up."

At four o'clock Kitsap was once more at the telephone, and received a
message from the cashier which sent his heart pounding in his throat for
very enthusiasm.

[Illustration: _Copyrighted by E. S. Curtis, Seattle_


"I have sent you an important letter by express on the three o'clock
train," said the cashier. "Get it and read what I have written. Stay as
long as you need to, but smash that pool, and teach Lamson not to lie
about the Elliott Bay National."

Then Kitsap waited for the train, secured his express package, and
opened it. It contained a letter from Lamson to the bank--a letter that
was ammunition for the Indian--and instructions to make certain use of

He could make no more progress indirectly; he must face the raiders, or
his own people would doubt him. He must seek out Lamson, and standing in
front of that white man, the Indian must throw back into his teeth that
lie about the bank. The warm red blood in him yearned for a clash and a
tussle. He would go to the store to spend the evening. If a collision
with the fourteen-cent raiders was to be effected anywhere, the store
would afford it.

To the store that night came Lamson and the St. Louis buyers, all in
evil mood. Kitsap's news had completely arrested the effect of their
pessimistic talk. No rancher would sell at fourteen cents with a bank's
messenger rioting over the valley quoting hops in Liverpool at eighteen
cents. Indeed, those who had already contracted to sell were grumbling,
and many of them came to the store that night, eager to hear the truth
of a market which had been misrepresented to them. These men were
listening to Kitsap, whose words put them in a very sullen temper, when
Lamson and the three buyers entered.

"So you're the Injun who's been going around bulling the market,"
shouted Lamson, his voice keyed high with temper. He stepped quickly
into the crowd of ranchers about Kitsap, conscious that he must rout the
Indian or see the end of the pool.

The young Indian faced the irate rancher and looked him coolly up and
down. This was Lamson; the heaviest owner of land in the valley. This
was the white man who had lied about the Elliott Bay National. The
meeting for which he had hoped had come. The Indian drew a deep breath
of sheer delight. Then, in a clear, ringing tone, he returned the white
man's fire:

"So you are the rancher who lied about the Elliott Bay National Bank?"

The blood leaped to the rancher's temples and he stepped menacingly
toward the Indian. But before he could strike, Kitsap's voice again rang

"You are a double liar! You borrowed money to pay pickers, but used it
to buy hops at fourteen cents, after telling the ranchers that you had
sold. That was the first lie. You told the Indians that the bank would
not loan you enough to pay them. That was another lie. But the bank has
found you out!"

The rancher stood speechless before the unexpected words of the Indian.
The clenched fist fell to his side. The young man who stood there before
him, with the straight proud poise of the savage chieftain, spoke the
words of the white man's warfare, the warfare of the mart and of barter.
He must be met and beaten on his own ground. Clearly, he had spoken to
effect, and the rancher must justify his position before his fellow
ranchers, whose eyes were so intently watching him.

"You seem to know a lot about the bank's business," he began, with an
attempt at sarcasm. "I suppose the president consults you on loans."

"The president did on this one," replied the Indian. The ranchers

"Then perhaps he told you that this one was amply secured by my hop
receipts," boasted Lamson.

"He did."

"Then what the bloomin' ---- is it to him what I do with the cash?"

"He sent me to give you back that lie about the bank."


"I have. I called you a liar, and then proved it. Your name is--Two

Lamson's color came back, but this time it was the color of anger. His
hand went half-way to his revolver, but a broad-shouldered rancher
caught his arm.

"None o' that, Lamson."

Lamson wrenched his arm away. The big rancher faced him.

"This here Kitsap is telling the truth," said he. "I reckon he's got
still more of it to give us. And we will expect you to fish or cut bait.
But I'll hold this." Then he clapped his hand on Lamson's gun pocket and
disarmed him. The three St. Louis hop buyers looked wistfully toward the
door. But prudence held them to the spot.

"You are making a big fuss over nothing," sputtered Lamson. "Whose
business is it if I do buy hops? The bank is secured on its loan."

"It's our business a whole lot," said the big rancher, gently tapping
the handle of Lamson's revolver on Lamson's chest. "You give out that
you are selling hops at fourteen cents and advise a lot of us fellows to
do the same. Now we're told that you've been buyin' at fourteen cents.
It's our business to find out which end up you're playin' this market."

"Oh, rot!" roared Lamson. "Hops are fourteen cents now. I'm buying a few
to hold 'em. If I can afford to take the risk, I'm entitled to the

"The bank knows that hops are eighteen cents to-day," broke in Kitsap.

"That's another lie," yelled the enraged Lamson, and the ranchers
laughed at the unconscious admission.

"Is it?" said Kitsap quietly. "Do you dare to bet on it?"

"I'll bet you a hundred dollars," roared the rancher, "that you can't
get over fourteen cents for hops in this valley this fall."

"I will bet you that amount that I can get at least sixteen cents for
the Indians on the reservation."

"Where's your money?" said Lamson, drawing out a roll of bills.

Kitsap had not looked for this. He was puzzled for a moment. Then he
drew forth a pocket check-book, signed a check, and handed it to an
Indian rancher, who endorsed it. Turning to Lamson, Kitsap said:

[Illustration: _Copyrighted by E. S. Curtis, Seattle_


"Will this do, or shall I telephone the cashier to assure its payment?"

"It's good," said Lamson.

"Very well. But if you are so sure about the price of hops, Mr. Two
Lies, why don't you make it two to one that I can't get seventeen

"That's my money!" and Lamson began counting out another hundred.

"Or three to one that I can't get eighteen cents?"

"It goes!"

"Or four to one that I can't get nineteen cents?"

"Yes; or five to one that you can't get twenty," roared the exasperated

"Five to one," replied Kitsap. "And if I win, I will throw your money in
silver from the steps of the reservation school to the Indian children."

Kitsap noted the effect on the Indians in the room as the money was
placed in the hands of the town marshal. He knew how every red man on
the reservation would work for twenty-cent hops now.

But the Indian was not through with the white man. He turned on him

"If you think the bank lied when it said eighteen cents, there is a
telephone. Call up the cashier at his home. He sent me here to tell the
white men and Indians who are our clients. Ask him for yourself."

Lamson and the three buyers noted the words "Our clients." To Lamson it
brought identification of the Indian as Johnny Kitsap, the clerk; to the
buyers it was just mysterious enough to be alarming.

"Confound the cashier! All he knows is what somebody else has told him."

"Mr. Lamson, do you yourself think that fourteen cents for hops to-day
is a fair price?" asked Kitsap, suddenly taking a conciliatory tone.

"Certainly I do. But if I want to buy hops at fourteen cents now and
hold them on a speculation, it's my own business."

"Entirely," said the Indian. "But I believe your conduct with the
ranchers who have agreed to sell is based on your statement that you had
already sold your own hops to these buyers from St. Louis for fourteen

"That's right," said Lamson boldly. "I can sell my hops for what I

"Liar," said Kitsap, "you have _not_ sold your hops."

Lamson sprang to his feet, but the big rancher put out a big hand and
shoved him back.

"Sit down," said the big man. "Can't you see this here Kitsap's got the

"As I understand it," continued Kitsap, turning to the men who had
signed the contract to sell to the raiders, "unless Mr. Lamson has
already delivered his hops to the buyers under his contract, the very
agreement is void, and you are all released."

"You bet your life that's right," said the big man with the gun, and
from all parts of the crowd came words of confirmation.

Lamson, for the first time during the encounter, felt uneasy. He looked
blankly at the three buyers. One of the gentlemen from St. Louis drew
the contract from his pocket.

"The young man is right," said the gentleman from St. Louis, in a
conciliatory tone. "Here is the contract, and I can safely assure our
friends that Mr. Lamson has carried out his part of the agreement."

"You bet," shouted Lamson, recognizing a very pretty bluff on the part
of the buyer.

"May I see the contract?" asked Kitsap.

The buyer passed it to him. Kitsap read the contract aloud, and then
tossed it over his head into the hands of the men who had signed it. The
buyers and Lamson came to their feet.

"Worthless paper," said Kitsap. "Lamson has not delivered his hop
receipts and therefore there is no contract."

A yell of delight went up from the crowd, and a shower of tiny bits of
white papers showed the fate of the instrument. Kitsap pointed his
finger at the enraged Lamson, and as the shower of paper fell about him
fairly shouted his denunciation:

"I, Kitsap, the clerk, am a representative of the Elliott Bay National
Bank. I come here by the orders of the _tyee_--the president. Your hop
receipts are in the bank's treasure-chest, and here is your letter
received at the bank last Monday." Kitsap opened the letter that had
come to him by express and read:

    Picking is progressing well, and the valley will yield a big
    crop. A few hungry ranchers are selling at fourteen cents cash
    at the warehouse, but I look for better prices later. I hope you
    will be willing to carry my receipts _till November, when I look
    for a price close to twenty cents_.

As Kitsap read, his voice rose, and, as he ended, there was absolute
silence for an instant. Then the ranchers took their spellbound eyes
from the quivering Indian and looked at the pale face of the speechless
Lamson. The store-keeper looked with the others, and it was his groan
that broke the spell:

"Thunder! I stood to make a thousand on the deal."

Then the overjoyed ranchers found their voices in a wild laugh, and laid
enthusiastic hands on Kitsap. Lamson and the buyers slipped away, beaten
and humiliated, to lament the failure of the fourteen-cent raid, and to
spend a few bitter hours in planning a new offer next morning at a
better price, for there was need to cover promises made to Eastern

The ranchers quickly formed themselves into a meeting and sent couriers
out to notify all signers of the contract that the deal was off. Then
they appointed a committee to go to the bank next day with Kitsap and be
witnesses to his report to his superiors.

Before another day passed, the spirit of the valley had changed from a
desire to sell quickly for cash into a determination to hold the crop
for a twenty-cent market. The Elliott Bay National secured daily
bulletins from inside sources and kept the world's markets before the
entire valley. Picking progressed to an end, and the Indians held their
last feast and departed. Then buyers came from other markets, inspected
the crop, and made offers. Gradually the valley ranchers joined the lead
of the reservation Indians and placed their receipts with the Elliott
Bay National, to be held for a rise and sold as near twenty cents as
possible. The cashier sent East for a prominent broker, who replied that
he would arrive by the Sound in mid-October. Then the other buyers began
bulling the market, hoping to induce a rancher here and there to sell
and, by thus breaking the ranks, run prices down. But Kitsap, on the
ground, and the cashier, in the bank, were able to hold them together
till the new broker arrived.

[Illustration: _Copyrighted by E. S. Curtis, Seattle_


The new man was business from the ground up. He knew where he could sell
hops, and for what price. He inspected the valley crop of hops and
frankly announced his intention to pay twenty-one cents. Then the other
buyers rushed in to get a share, and the result was an agreement by
which the new broker got half the crop at twenty-one cents and the late
lamented fourteen-cent raiders divided the other half among themselves
at twenty-three cents, the money to be distributed through the Elliott
Bay National to all ranchers at the average of twenty-two cents.

Kitsap telephoned the news to the reservation, and the priest sent the
son of Peter Coultee on his spotted cayuse to ride into the village with
the news. DeQuincey's Royal Mail with the news of Waterloo did not
create more enthusiasm than the Indian's triumphant shout. As he dashed
along he yelled to the white men:

"Hops sold at twenty-two cents!"

To the Indian ranchers he called out the same news in the jargon:

"_Hops marsh mox-taltum-tee-mox._"

Down the street he rode, yelling and winning yells in return. The news
spread from street to street, men carried it into the valley, and that
night many a heart among the ranches beat quicker and many a voice at
the firesides murmured the name of "Kitsap."

The town marshal made the trip to Seattle and delivered the
six-hundred-dollar wager to Kitsap. The Indian told the cashier the
terms of the wager and asked to be excused on the following Saturday,
that he might assemble the reservation children and scatter the Lamson

"It will be a great event to them," said Kitsap. "I shall take all of
Lamson's five hundred dollars in dimes, and the whole reservation will
come out to see the fun."

The cashier granted the leave of absence gladly.

"If you will hold the event in the afternoon, I think the president
would be pleased to go out and see it," said he.

Kitsap needed no other hint, but went boldly to the president and
invited him to witness the scattering of the coins.

"With pleasure," replied the president.

"Come on the three o'clock train, and I will have a carriage for you,"
said Kitsap.

The reservation had been waiting for twenty-cent hops as a band of
children wait for the circus. Five thousand dimes to be thrown to less
than three hundred children! It would be a rare scramble. Indian
children raided their mothers' button-baskets that they might throw the
buttons in the sand and practise scrambling for them. Then came the news
of twenty-two cent hops, and every Indian, young or old, jumped up and
down and shouted that Kitsap had won that Lamson money.

"Saturday afternoon at four o'clock," was Kitsap's message to the
reservation priest, and the priest assembled ten young men for a
conference. It was decided to mark off ten squares on the lawn in front
of the schoolhouse. On each square a squad of thirty children should
stand, the children of each squad graded so as to be nearly of a size,
girls and boys in alternate squares. Before each square one of the ten
young men should stand with five hundred silver coins in a dish. At a
signal from Kitsap, who should stand on the school steps, the ten young
men should throw the dimes in the air and the scramble would begin.

When the train stopped at the reservation station that October
afternoon, the president of the Elliott Bay National found Kitsap the
elder there to meet him, with a clean spring wagon. During the short
drive to the reservation school, he noted that the road was deserted,
but when the school was reached a scene of color and animation met his
eye. The tribe was out in full regalia, even the clients of the bank,
who came gravely to the president's wagon to greet him. Kitsap the elder
drove to a spot reserved for the head men of the tribe, and the chief of
the money-house was welcomed to a place among them. Then a hush fell
upon the assembly.

A procession of young men, headed by Kitsap, decked in tribal finery,
came out of the schoolhouse. Kitsap remained on the stairs, as the ten
young men, bearing dishes of dimes, took their places before the
squares. Every child stood waiting--every grown person held his breath.
The voice of Kitsap, speaking each sentence first in the jargon and then
in English, made a short harangue. The president smiled as he caught
this glimpse of Kitsap's own interpretation of a bank.

"Lamson, the white man, told a lie about the money-house. The great
_tyee_ of the treasure-chest sent Kitsap, who is a brave of the white
_tyee's_ house, to tell the Puyallups the truth. The Great Spirit made
Lamson angry and caused him to lose this money to Kitsap, who serves the
great white _tyee_. But the great white _tyee_ said: 'Behold, the Great
Spirit has punished Lamson. Forever will he be called Two Lies. The
money shall be for the children, as Kitsap said. I will go myself to see
Kitsap throw the silver coins to the children, for it is a lesson. Let
them always speak true words, or the Great Spirit will punish them, and
they will have an evil name like Lamson!' And look, children, Kitsap's
_tyee_ sits with the _tyee_ of the Puyallups to see you scramble.
Remember, keep on your own square and do not strike. Push and pull, but
do not strike. Show the white _tyee_ who lives in the magic
treasure-house that you can play your games fairly. Then he will be
pleased and tell his own people of the silver coins that Kitsap throws
to the children."

There was silence a moment, and then Kitsap raised a feathered wand. In
the native tongue he shouted:

"All ready? Throw!"

Ten lithe Indians threw their silver treasure into the air. Five
thousand silver coins flashed in the sun and fell in a sparkling shower
on the heads of the tribal children. With one voice the children
screamed and sprang to the scramble; with one voice the Puyallup tribe
roared in glee; with one motion the tribal hats went into the air, and
the president of the Elliott Bay National yelled in his enthusiasm,
pounded a red man on the back, waved a silk hat on high, and became as
one of these child-hearted aborigines.

Late that night, while the president sat at his club, hoarse but happy,
and told what he had seen, a band of Indians out on the reservation held
a ceremony in a big tent. The rite was as old as the tribal memory--the
rite of formally adopting a chief--and a young man was declared to have
won a great fight, and to be worthy of a high place in the councils of
the tribe. They wanted to name him Chief Who-Made-The-Silver-Rain, but
the young man replied that Chief Kitsap, being his father's name, was
good enough for him.







Justin was in Chicago--the fact was verified--and he would start for
home on the morrow. There seemed to be no details, save the comforting
one that Billy Snow was with him. After that first sharp immediate
relief from suspense, Lois again felt its filminess settling down upon

Girard had gone back very early to the Snows' to breakfast. He talked to
Lois by telephone, but he did not come to the house; while Dosia,
wrapped in an outward abstraction that concealed a whirl within, went
about her daily tasks, living over and over the scene of the night
before. The shattering of the pitcher seemed to have shattered something
else. Once he had felt, then, as she had done; once--so far away that
night of disaster had gone, so long was it since she had held that
protecting hand in her dreams, that the touch brought a strange
resurrection of the spirit. She had an upwelling new sense of gratitude
to him for something unexpressed, some quality which she passionately
revered, and which other men had not always used toward her.

"Oh, he's good, he's _good_!" she whispered to herself, with the tears
blinding her, as she picked up Redge's blocks from the floor. She felt
Lawson's kisses on her lips, her throat--that cross of shame that she
held always close to her; George Sutton's fat face thrust itself
leeringly before her. How many girls have passages in their lives to
which they look back with the shame that only purity and innocence can
feel! Yet the sense of Girard's presence before was as nothing to her
sense of it now--it blotted out the world. She saw him sitting alone in
the dining-room, with his head resting on his hand, the attitude
informed with life. The turn of his head, the shape of his hand, were
insistent things. She saw him standing in front of her, long-limbed,
erect of mien. She saw--If she looked pale and inert, it was because
that inner thought of her lived so hard that the body was worn out with

Neither telegram nor any other message came from Justin, except the bare
word that he had started home. On the second morning, just as Lois had
finished dressing, she heard the hall door open and shut. She called,
but cautiously, for fear of disturbing her baby, who had dropped off to
sleep again.

Justin was standing by the table, looking at the newspaper, as she
entered the dining-room. With a cry, she ran toward him. "Justin!"

He turned, and she put her arms around him passionately. He held her for
a moment, and then said, "You'd better sit down."

"But, Justin--oh, my dearest, how ill you look!" She clung to him.
"Where have you been? Why didn't you send me any word?"

"I've been to Chicago."

"Yes, yes, I know. Why did you go?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"Lois, will you give me some coffee?"

She poured out the cup with trembling hands, and sat while he took a
swallow of the hot fluid, still scanning the newspaper. At last she

"Aren't you going to tell me any more?"

"There isn't any more to tell. There's no use talking about it. I
believe I had some idea of selling the island when I went to Chicago,
but I don't know how I got there. I didn't know I was there until I woke
up two nights ago at a little hotel away out on the West Side. Billy
pounded on the door, and said they told him I had been asleep for
twenty-eight hours. I suppose I was dead tired out. I don't want to
speak of it again, Lois; it wasn't a particularly pleasant thing to
happen. Will you tell Mary to bring in the rest of the breakfast? I must
catch the eight-thirty train back into town. I thought you might be
bothered, so I came out first. Where are the children?"

"They are coming down now with Dosia," said his wife, helping Mary with
the dishes. Redge ran up to his father, hitting him jubilantly with a
small stick which he held in his chubby hand, and bringing irritated
reproof down upon him at once; but Zaidee, her blue eyes open, her lips
parted over her little white teeth, slid into the arm outstretched for
her, and stood there leaning against "Daddy's" side, while he ate and
drank hurriedly, with only one hand at his disposal. Poor Lois could not
help one pang of jealousy at being shut out, but she heroically
smothered it.

"Mr. Harker was here the evening before last; he brought me some money,"
she ventured at last.

"That was all right."

"And Mr. Girard was very kind; he stayed here all that night--until your
message came."

"I hope you haven't been talking about this all over the place."

"No--oh, no," said Lois, driving back the tears at this causeless
injury. "Mr. Leverich said it was best not to. Nobody knows about your
being away at all. You're not going _now_, Justin--without even seeing

"I'll see him to-night when I come home," said Justin, rising. He kissed
the children and his wife hastily, but she followed him into the hall,
standing there, dumbly beseeching, while he brushed his hat with the
hat-brush on the table, and then rummaged hastily as if for something

"Here are your gloves, if that is what you are looking for," she said.

"Yes, thank you." He bent over and kissed her again, as if really seeing
her for the first time, with a whispered "Poor girl!" That momentary
close embrace brought her a needed--oh, so needed!--crumb of comfort.
She who had hungered so insatiably for recognition could be humbly
thankful now for the two words that spoke of an inner bond.

But all day she could not get rid of that feeling of suspense that had
been hers for five days past; the strain was to end, of course, with
Justin's return, but it had not ended--in some sad, weighting fashion it
seemed just to have begun. What was he so worried about? Was she never
to hear any more?

That night Girard came over, but with him was another visitor--William
Snow. No sun could brown that baby-fair skin of William's, but he had an
indefinably large and Western air; the very way in which he wore his
clothes showed his independence. Dosia did not notice his swift, covert,
shamefaced glance at her when she came into the room where he was
talking to Lois--his avoidance of her the year before had dropped clear
out of her mind; but his expression changed to one of complacent delight
as she ran to him instantly and clasped his arm with both hands to cry,
"Oh, Billy, Billy, I'm so glad to see you! I am so glad--I can't tell
you how glad I am!"


"All right, Sweetness, you're not going to lose me again," said William
encouragingly. "My, but you do knock the spots out of those Western
girls. Can't we go in the dining-room by ourselves? I want to ask you to
marry me before we talk any more."

"Yes, do," said Dosia, dimpling.

It was sweet to be chaffed, to be heedlessly young once more, to take
refuge from all disconcerting thoughts--from a new embarrassment--with
Billy, in the corner of the other room, where she sat in a low chair,
and he dragged up an ottoman close in front of her. Through the open
window the scent of honeysuckle came in with the gloom.

"Oh, but you've grown pretty!" he said, his hands clasped over his
knees, gazing at her. "That's right, get pink--it makes you prettier. I
like this slimpsy sort of dress you've got on; I like that black velvet
around your throat; I--have you missed me much?"

"No," said Dosia, with the old-time sparkle. "I've hardly thought of you
at all. But I feel now as if I had."

Billy nodded. "All right, I'll pay you up for that some day. Oh, Dosia,
you may think I'm joking, but I'm not! There have been days and nights
when I've done nothing but plan the things I was going to do and say to
make you care for me--but they're all gone the moment I lay eyes on you.
I'll talk of whatever you like afterward, but I've got to say
first"--Billy's voice, deep and manly and confident, had yet a little
shake in it--"that nobody is going to marry you but me, and don't you
forget it. I'm no kid any more." Something in his tone gave his words
emphasis. "I know how to look out for you better than any one else

"Dear Billy," said Dosia, touched, and resting her cheek momentarily
against the rough sleeve of his coat, "it's so good to have you back

Lois, who had been longing intolerably all day for evening to come, so
that she could be alone with her husband, sat in the drawing-room,
trying to sew with nervous, trembling fingers, while her husband,
looking frightfully tired, and Bailey Girard smoked and talked--of all
things in the world!--of the relative merits of live or "spoon" bait in
trolling, and afterward went minutely into details of the manufacture of
artificial lures for catching trout.

Those wasted "social" hours of non-interest, non-satisfaction, how long,
how unbearably long, they can seem! Lois' face twitched, as well as her
fingers; she did not realize, as women often do not, that to Justin this
conversation, banal and irrelevant to any action of his present life or
his present anxiety, was like coming up from under-depths to breathe at
a necessary air-hole.

After five days of torturing, unexplained absence, to talk of nothing
but fishing, as if his life depended on it! Girard himself had wondered,
but he accepted the position allotted to him as a matter of course. He
had thought, from Justin's manner to-day, that he was to know something
of his affairs; but if Justin did not choose to confide in him--that was
all right. Possibly the affairs were all right, too; they were none of
his business, anyway.


Suddenly a word caught the ears of the two who were sitting in the

"That was the kind Lawson Barr used when he went down on the
Susquehanna. By the way, I hear that he's dead."

Lawson! Dosia's face changed as if a whip had flicked across it, and
then trembled back into its normal quiet. William leaned a little
nearer, his eyes curiously scanning her.

"Hadn't you heard before?"

"No; what?"

"He's dead."

"Lawson _dead_! Not Lawson?" Her dry lips illy formed the words.

"Yes, Dosia. Don't look like that--don't let them see in there, Girard
is looking at you; turn your face toward me. Leverich told us, coming up
to-night. Lawson died a week ago."


"Fell from his horse somewhere up in a canyon--he was drunk, I reckon.
They found him twenty-four hours afterward. The superintendent of the
mines wrote to Leverich. He'd tried to keep pretty straight out there,
all but the drinking, I guess that was too much for him. It was the
best thing he could do--to die--as Girard says. Girard hates the very
sound of his name."

"Oh," breathed Dosia painfully.

"The superintendent said that some of the miners chipped in to bury him,
and the woman he boarded with sent a pencil scrawl along with the
superintendent's letter to say that she'd 'miss Mr. Barr
dreadful,'--that he'd get up and get the breakfast when she was sick,
and 'the kids, they thought the world of him.' She signed herself, 'A
true mourner, Mrs. Wilson.'"

Lawson was dead!

Dosia sat there, her hand clasping Billy's sleeve as at first--something
tangible to hold on to. Her gaze had gone far beyond the room; even that
haunting consciousness that Bailey Girard was near her was but a far,
hidden subconsciousness. She was out on a rocky slope beside a dead
body--Lawson, his head thrown back, those mocking, caressing eyes, those
curving, passionate lips, closed forever, the blood oozing from between
his dark locks. As ever with poor Dosia, there was that sharp,
unbearable pang of self-reproach, of self-condemnation. Of what avail
her prayers, her belief in him, when he had died thus? Oh, she had not
prayed enough. She had not been good enough to be allowed to help; she
had not believed hard enough. Perhaps it had helped just a little--he
had "tried to keep pretty straight, all but the drinking; that was too
much for him."

That covered some resistance in an underworld of which she knew nothing.
Poor Lawson, who had never had the right chance, whose youth had been
poisoned at the start! In that grave where he lay, drunkard and reveler,
part of the youth of her, Dosia Linden,--once his promised wife, to whom
she had given herself in her soul,--must always lie too, buried with
him; nothing could undo that. To die so causelessly! But the miners had
cared a little; he had been kind to a woman and her little
children--"the kids had thought the world of him"; she was "a true
mourner, Mrs. Wilson." Dosia imagined him cheeringly cooking for this
poor, worn-out mother, carrying the children from place to place as she
had once seen him carry that little boy home from the ball, long, long

A strain from that unforgotten music came to her now, carrying her to
the stars! Oh, not for Lawson the splendid rehabilitation of the strong,
except in that one moment of denial when he had risen by the might of
his manhood in renunciation for her sake; only the humble virtues of his
weakness could be his--yet perhaps, in the sight of the God who pities,
no such small offering, after all!

"Dosia, you didn't really _care_ for him!"

She smiled with pale lips and brimming eyes--an enigmatic answer which
Billy could not read. He sat beside her, smoothing her dress furtively,
until she got up, and, whispering, "I must go," left the room,
unconscious of Girard's following gaze.

"I think we'd better be getting back," said the latter, in an odd voice,
rising in the middle of one of Justin's sentences, as Billy came
straying in to join the group.

Lois' heart leaped. She had felt that another moment of live bait and
reminiscences would be more than she could stand.

"You need some rest," she said gratefully. "You have been tired out in
our service."

"Oh, I'm not tired at all," he returned, shortly. Her work seemed to
catch his eye for the first time and, in a desire to change the subject,
"What are you making?" he asked.

"A ball for Redge. I made one for Zaidee, and he felt left out--he's of
a very jealous disposition," she went on abstractedly. "Are you of a
jealous disposition, Mr. Girard?"

"I!" He stopped short, with the air of one not accustomed to taking
account of his own attributes, and apparently pondered the question as
if for the first time. When he looked up to answer, it was with abrupt
decision: "Yes, I am."

"Don't look so like a pirate," said young Billy, giving him a thump on
the back that sent them both out of the house, laughing, when Lois rose
and went over to Justin's side.

Husband and wife were at last alone.


In the days that followed, Justin, going away in the morning very early
with a set face, coming home very late in the evening with that set face
still, hardly seemed to notice the children or Dosia.

"Justin has so much on his mind." Lois kept repeating the words over and
over, as if she found in them something by which to hold fast. Rich in
beauty as she was, full of love and tender favor, with the sweetness and
the pathos of an awakening soul, her husband seemed to have no eyes, no
thought for her. That one murmured sentence in the hallway was all her
food to live on--his only personal recognition of her.


On the other hand, he poured out his affairs and his plans to her with a
freedom of confidence unknown before, a confidence which seemed to
pre-suppose her oneness of interest with him. He had talked exhaustively
about everything but those few days' absence; that was a sore that she
must not touch, a wound that could bear no probing. She had striven very
hard not to show when she didn't understand, taking her cues for assent
or dissent as he evidently wished her to, letting him think aloud, since
it seemed to be a relief to him, and saying little herself. The only
time when she broke in on her own account was when he told her about
Cater, and the defective bars, and Leverich's ultimatum. Her "Justin,
you wouldn't do that; you wouldn't tell!" met his quick response: "No, I

"Oh, I know that. I'd rather be a hundred times poorer than we are!
Aren't you glad that you couldn't do it?"

"No; I think I'm rather sorry," said Justin, with a half-smile. The
peculiar sharpness of the thought that it was between Cater and
Leverich--his friends, Heaven save the mark!--that he was being pushed
toward ruin, had not lost any of its edge.

There had been a tonic in a certain attitude of Cater's mind toward
Justin--an unspoken kindliness and admiration and tenderness such as an
older man who has been along a hard road may feel toward another who has
come along the same way. Cater's kind, unobtrusive comradeship, the
fair-dealing friendliness of his rivalry, had seemed to be one of the
factors of support, of honesty, of commercial righteousness. Justin
could smile proudly at Leverich, but he couldn't smile when he thought
of Cater--it weighed upon and humiliated him for the man who had been
his friend.

"I am glad, anyway!" said Lois. "It wouldn't have been _you_ if you had!
Can't you take a rest now, dear, when you look so ill? No, no; I didn't
mean that--of course you can't!"

"A _rest_!" He rose and walked up and down the room. "Lois, do you know
that, in some way, I've got to get it before the 13th? Those days in
Chicago--at the worst time! It makes me wild to think of the time I've
lost. I'm looking out for a partner who will buy out Leverich and
Martin, and we've got a chance yet--I'll swear we have! But Lewiston's
note has got to be paid first; then I can take time to breathe. Harker
saw a man from Boston from whom we might have borrowed the money, if I
had only been here. If we get that, we can hold over; if we don't, we go
to smash, and so does Lewiston. Lewiston _trusted_ me. I've been to
several places to-day to men that would be willing enough to lend the
money if they didn't know I needed it."

"George Sutton?" hazarded Lois.

Justin's lips curved bitterly. "Oh, he's a cur. He had some money
invested last year when he was sweet on Dosia, and drew it all out
afterward! And, after all, I went to him to-day, like a fool!"

"Can't you go to Eugene Larue?"

"No. We talked about it once, but he fought shy; he didn't think the
security enough. If he thought so then, it would be worse than useless

"Mr. Girard?"

"There's no use telling things to him, he hasn't any money." Justin
turned a dim eye on her. "I tell you, Lois, I haven't left a stone
unturned, so far, that I could get at. If we could only sell the island!
Girard's looking it up for me; there may be a chance of that. There are
lots of chances to be thought out. I don't even know how we keep
running, but we do. Harker's a trump! If I can hold up my end, we'll be
all right."

"Then go to bed now," said Lois, with a quick dread that gave her
courage. "And you must have something to eat first--and to drink, too.
Come, Justin! Do as I say." Her voice had a new firmness in it which he
unconsciously obeyed. She crept to her bed at last, aching in every
limb, but with her baby pressed close to her, her one darling comfort,
the source from which she drew a new love as the child drew its life
from her. It was the first time in all her married life that she had
borne the burden of her husband's care, a burden from which she must
seek no solace from him.

She bent all her energies, these next days, to keeping him well fed, and
ordering everything minutely for his comfort when he came home, aided
and abetted by Dosia. The two women worked as with one thought between
them, as women can work, for the well-being of one they love, with fond
and minute care. Every detail, from the time he went away in the
morning, stooping slightly under the weight of something mysterious and
unseen, was ordered with reference to his home-coming at night--the
husband and father on whose strength all this helpless little family
hung for their own sustenance.

Everything that was done for him had to be done covertly, it was found;
he disliked any manifestation of undue attention to his wants. Sometimes
he was terribly irritable and unjust, and at others almost
heartbreakingly gentle and mild. Lois had persuaded him to have the
doctor, who told him seriously that he must stay home and rest--a futile
prescription, which he treated with scorn. Rest! He knew very well that
it was not rest that he needed, but money--money, money, the elixir of

It was near the end of this week when Justin came home, as Lois could
see at once, revived and encouraged, though still abstracted. He had an
invitation to take a ride in the doctor's motor, the doctor being a man
who, when the hazard of dangerous cases had been extreme, absented
himself for a couple of hours, in which, under a breathless and unholy
speed of motoring, he reversed the pressure on his nerves, and came to
the renewed sanity of a wind-swept brain when every idea had been rushed
out of it.

Lois felt that it would be good for Justin, too, and was glad that he
had been persuaded to go; yet she caught him looking at her with such
strange intentness a couple of times during the dinner that it
discomposed her oddly. It made her a little silent; she pondered over it
after she had gone up, as usual, to the baby. Was there something wrong
with her appearance? She looked anxiously in the glass, and was annoyed
to find that the white fichu, open at the throat, was not on quite
straight, and her hair was a little disarranged. She was pale, and there
were dark lines under her eyes. She hated not to look nice. Yet it might
not be that. Was it, perhaps, that something else was wrong--that he had
bad news which he did not like to tell? Was he to leave her again on
some journey? She turned white for a moment, and sat down to get the
baby to sleep, and then resolutely tried to drive the thought from her.
Yet, as she sat there rocking gently, the thought still came back to
her, oddly, puzzlingly. Why had he looked at her like that? The smoke of
his pipe down-stairs kept her still aware of his presence.

Presently he came up-stairs and tiptoed into the room in clumsy fashion,
for fear of waking the baby, in his quest of a pair of gloves in a
chiffonier drawer. After finding them, he stopped for a moment in front
of her, with that odd, arrested expression once more.

"You don't mind my going out to-night and leaving you?" he murmured.
"The doctor ought to have asked _you_, instead; you need it more than

"Oh, no, no!" she hastened to reassure. "I don't mind at all, really!"
Her eyes gazed up at him, limpidly clear, and emptied of self. "I have
to run up and down stairs so many times to baby now that I couldn't go,
no matter how much I was asked to. I'm only glad that you will have the
distraction--you need it. I hope you'll have a lovely time."

She listened to his descending footsteps, and after a moment or two
arose and laid the sleeping child down in his crib.

In the dim light she went about the room, picking up toys and little
discarded garments left by the children, folding the clothes away, her
tall, graceful figure, in the large curves of its repeated bending and
straightening, seeming to exemplify some unpainted Millet-like idea of
mother-work, emblematic of its unceasing round. She was hanging up a
tiny cloak in the half gloom of her closet, when she heard her husband's
step once more stealing into the room, and the next moment saw him
beside her.

"What's the matter?" she asked, with quick premonition.

"Nothing, nothing at all; we haven't started yet." He put one arm around
her and with the other lifted her face up toward his. "I only came back
to tell you"--His voice broke; there seemed to be a mist over the eyes
that were bent on hers. "I can't talk. I can't be as I ought to be,
Lois, until all this is over--but--I don't know what's getting into me
lately, you look so beautiful to me that I can't take my eyes off you! I
went around all to-day counting the hours, like a foolish boy, until it
was time to come back to you; I grudge every minute that I spend away
from my lovely wife."

Sometimes we have a happiness so much greater, so much more blessed than
our easily imagined bliss, that we can only hide our eyes from it at
first, like those of old, when in some humble and unthought-of place
they were visited by angels.


Very late that night Bailey Girard arrived at the house, after an
absence of ten days. Dosia had gone to bed unusually early, but she
could not sleep. She could not seem to sleep at all lately--the tireder
she was, the more ceaselessly luminous seemed her brain; it was like
trying to sleep in a white glare in which all sorts of trivial things
became unnaturally distinct. Darkness brought, not a sense of rest, but
that dread knowledge that she was going to lie there staring through all
the hours of it. Since that night that the pitcher had broken, she was
ever waiting tensely for the day to bring her something that it never
brought. Lawson's death--Girard--Billy, who was getting a little
troublesome lately--the dear little brothers far away, mixed up with
tiny household perplexities, kept going through and through her mind.
Her heart was wrung for Justin and Lois; yet they had each other! Dreams
could no longer comfort and support Dosia. Prayer but wakened her
further. If she could only sleep and forget!

To-night she heard Justin's return from the automobile ride; apparently
the machine had broken down, but the accident seemed only to have added
to the zest. Lois was still dressed and waiting up for him. Then Girard
came--he had seen the light in the window. Dosia could hear the
murmuring of the voices down-stairs--Girard's sent the blood leaping to
her heart so fast that she pressed her hands against it. For a moment
his face seemed near, his lips almost touched hers--her heart stopped
before it went on again. Why had he come now? It seemed suddenly an
unbearable thing that those others down-stairs should see him and hear
him, and that she could not. Why, oh, why, had she gone to bed so early
to-night of all nights? She was ready to cry with the passion of a
disappointment that seemed, not a little thing, but something crushing
and calamitous, a loss for which she never could be repaid. She could
imagine Justin and Lois meeting the kind glances of those gray eyes,
smiling when he did. He was beautiful when he smiled! She was within a
few yards of him, but convention, absurd yet maddening, held her in its
chains. She couldn't get dressed and break in upon their intimate
conference--or it seemed as if she could not. Besides, he would probably
go very soon. But he did not go! After a while she could lie there no
longer. She crept out upon the landing of the stairs, and sat there
desolately on the top step, "in her long night-gown, sweet as boughs of
May," with her little bare feet curled over each other, and her hands
clasping the balustrade against which her cheek was pressed, watching
and waiting for him to go. The ends of her long fair hair fell into
large loose curls where it hung over her shoulder, as she bent to
listen--and to listen--and to listen.

"I want to be there, too--I want to be there, too!" she whispered, with
quivering lips, in her voice the sobbing catch of a very little child.
"I want to be there, too. They're having it all--without me. And I want
to be there, too. They might have called me to come down, and they
didn't." They might have called her! All her passion, all her
philosophy, all her endurance, melted into that one desire. If she had
only known at first that he was going to stay so long, she would have
dressed and gone down. She could hardly bear it a moment longer.

After a while a door on the landing of the second story below opened,
and a little figure crept out--Zaidee. She stood irresolute in the hall,
looking down; then she looked up, and, seeing Dosia, ran to her and
climbed into her lap, resting her little pigtailed head confidingly
against Dosia's warm young shoulder.

"They woke me up," she said placidly. "Did they woke you up, too, Cousin

"Yes," said Dosia, hugging the child close. "Hush! some one is coming;
you'll get sent to bed again." This time it was Lois. Her abstracted
gaze seemed to take in the two on the upper stairway as a matter of

"Oh, it's you, is it?" she said. "I thought I heard some one talking."
She rested on the post below, looking up. "I came to see if you'd take
Zaidee in with you for the rest of the night, Dosia. I want to give
Justin's room to Mr. Girard."

"Is he going to stay?" asked Dosia.

"Yes. It's too late for him to disturb the Snows, and he's been
traveling all day; he's dreadfully tired. He wanted to sleep on the sofa
down-stairs, but I wouldn't let him." She was carrying Zaidee, already
half asleep again, in her arms as she talked, depositing her in Dosia's
bed, while Dosia followed her.

"Did he sell the island?" asked Dosia.

Lois shook her head. "No. They may really sell it next week, but not
now--only that will be too late to save the business. Of course, Mr.
Girard doesn't know that, and Justin will not tell him--he says Mr.
Girard cannot help. Oh, Dosia, when Justin came in from that ride he
looked so well, and now--" She covered her face with her hands, before
recovering herself. "It's time you were both asleep."

"Can't I help you?" asked Dosia; but Lois only answered indifferently,
"No, it's not necessary," and went around making arrangements, while
Dosia, with Zaidee nestling close to her, slept at last.

It was late the next morning before Girard came down. Justin had had
breakfast, and gone; Lois was up-stairs with the children, and Dosia,
who had been tidying up the place, was arranging some flowers in the
vases when he strode in. There was no vestige of that sick-hearted,
imploring maiden of the night before; no desolate frenzy was to be seen
in this trim, neat, capable little figure, clad in blue gingham, that
made her throat very white, her hair very fair. Something in Girard's
glance seemed to show an instant pleasure that she should be the one to
greet him, but he bent anxiously over the watch he held in his hand.

"Will you tell me what time it is? My watch has stopped."

"It's half-past nine," said Dosia.

"Half-past _nine_!" He looked at her in a sort of quick, horrified
arraignment. "What do you mean?" His eye fell upon the clock, and
conviction seemed to steal upon him against his will. "Heavens and
earth, why wasn't I called? On this morning of all others, when every
moment's of importance! I thought I asked particularly to be waked

"I suppose they thought you were tired and needed the rest," apologized

"Needed the rest!" His tone was poignant; he looked outraged; but his
anger was entirely impersonal--there was in it even a sort of boyish
appeal to her, as if she must feel it, too.

"You had better sit down and have some breakfast."

"Oh, _breakfast_!" His gesture deprecated her evident intention. "Please
don't. Thank you very much, but I don't want any breakfast; I only want
to get to town."

"There isn't any train for twenty-five minutes, so you might as well sit
down and eat," said Dosia firmly. "Come out to this little table on the
piazza." She led the way to the screened corner at the end, sweet with
the honeysuckle that swung its long loops in the wind, and faced him
sternly. "Do you take coffee?"

"Please don't, please don't cook me anything! I'd hate to trouble you."
He seemed so distressed that she relented a little.

"A glass of milk and some fruit, then; you'll _have_ to take that."

"Very well--if I must. Can't I get the things myself?"

"No." She ran away to get them for him, with some new joy singing in her
heart as she went backward and forward, bringing a pitcher of milk, a
glass, a dish of strawberries, some cream, and the sugar, sitting down
herself by the table afterward as he ate and drank. He gave her a sudden
smile, so surprised and pleased that the color surged in her cheeks.

"I'm not used to this," he said simply. "What is that dress you have


"No, it's cotton; do you like it?"

"_Very_ much. Oh, please don't get up--Zaidee wasn't calling you. I
won't eat another mouthful unless you stay just where you are--please!"

"Well!" said Dosia, with laughing pleasure.

"Besides, I've been wanting to consult you about the Alexanders," he
went on, leaning across the table toward her, intimately. "It's so
beautiful to see them together, that to feel that they're in trouble
distresses me beyond words. You're so near to them both, I thought that
perhaps"--His face clouded partly. "Do you know anything about the real
state of Mr. Alexander's affairs?"

Dosia shook her head. "No; only that he is very much worried over them."

"He wanted to sell the island; he sent me off on that business lately.
He'll sell it sometime, of course, but I don't know how complicating the
delay is. He's the kind of man you can't ask; you have to wait until he
tells you. You can't _make_ a person have confidence in you. Won't you
please have some of these strawberries with me? Do!"

"No; you must eat them _all_," said Dosia, with charming authority, her
arms before her on the table, elbow-sleeved, white and dimpled, as she
regarded him. He seemed to take up all the corner, against the
background of the green honeysuckle in the fresh morning light. With
that smile upon his face, he seemed extraordinarily masculine and
absorbing, yet appealing, too.

Dosia felt carried out of herself by a sudden heady resolution--or,
rather, not a new resolution, but one that she had had in mind for a
long, long time, before, oh, before she had even known who this man
was. She had planned over and over again how she was to say those words,
and now the time had come. She could not sit here with him in this new,
sweet friendliness without saying them. She had imagined the scene in so
many different ways! When she had gone over it by herself, her cheeks
had flushed, her eyes had shone with the tears in them. The words as she
spoke them had gone deeply, convincingly, from heart to heart--or
perhaps, in an assumed, tremulous lightness, the meaning in her impulse
had shown all the clearer to one who understood. For a year and a half
the uttered thought had been the climax to which her dreams had led; it
would have seemed a monstrous, impossible thing that it had not been
reached before.

She began now, in a moment's pause, only to find, too late, that all
warmth and naturalness had left her with the effort. Fluent
dream-practice is only too apt to make one uncomfortably crude and
conscious in real life.

"I want to thank you for being so kind to me the night of that accident
on the train coming up from the South." Poor Dosia instantly felt
committed to a mistake. Her eyes fell for a moment on his hand, as it
lay upon the table, with a terribly disconcerting remembrance that hers
had not only rested in it, but that in fancy she had more than once
pillowed her cheek upon it, and, knowing that he had seen the look, she
continued in desperation, with still increasing stiffness and formality:
"I have always known, of course, that it was you. You must pardon me for
not thanking you before."

The old unapproachable manner instantly incased him, as if in
remembrance of something that hurt. "Oh, pray don't mention it," he
said, with a formality that matched hers. "It was nothing but what
anyone would have done--little enough, anyway."

What happened afterward she did not know, except that in a few minutes
he had gone.

She watched him go off down the path with that swift, long, easy step;
watched till the last vestige of the gray suit was out of sight--he had
a fashion of wearing gray!--before clearing off the table. Then she went
and sat on the back steps that led into the little garden, bright with
the sunshine and a blaze of tulips at her feet....

She had never supposed that any girl could care for a man until he had
shown that he cared for her--it was the unmaidenly, impossible thing.
And now--how beautiful he was, how dear! A wistful smile trembled around
her lips. All that had gone before with other men suddenly became as
nothing, forgotten and out of mind, and she herself made clean by this
purifying fire. Even if she never had anything more in her whole life,
she had this--even if she never had anything more. Yet what had she?
Nothing and less than nothing. If he had ever thought of her, if he had
ever dreamed of her, if her soft, frightened hand trustfully clinging
fast to his, only to be comforted by his touch, had been a sign and a
symbol to him of some dearer trust and faith for him alone--if in some
way, as she dimly visioned it, the thought had once been his, it had
gone long ago. Every action showed it. And yet, and yet--so
unconquerably does the soul speak that, though he might deny her
attraction for him, she knew that she had it. It was something to which
he might never give way, but it was unalterably there--as it was
unalterably there with her. All that year at home, when she believed she
had not been thinking of him, she really had been thinking of him. We
learn to know each other sometimes in long absences. She began to
perceive in him now a humility and a pride strangely at variance with
each other and both equally at variance with the bright assurance of his
outer manner. He gave to every one; he would work early and late for
others, in his yearning sympathy and affection: yet he himself, from the
very intenseness of his desire for it, stood aloof, and drew back from
the insistence of any claim for himself. They might meet a hundred times
and grow no closer; they might grow farther and farther away.

Dosia felt that other women must have loved him--how could they have
helped it? She had a pang of sorrow for them--for herself it made no
difference. If she had pain for all her life afterward, she was glad at
this moment that he was worthy to be loved; she need never be ashamed of
loving him--he was "good." The word seemed to contain some beautiful
comfort and uplifting. No matter what experience he had passed through
in his struggle with the world, he had held some simple, honorable,
_clean_ quality intact. The Dosia who must always have some heart-warm
dream to live by had it now; for all her life she could love him, pray
for him. She had always thought that to love was to be happy; now she
was to love and be unhappy--yet she would not have it otherwise.

So slight, so young, so lightly dealt with, Dosia had the pathetically
clear insight and the power that comes to those who see, not themselves
alone, their own desires and hopes, but the universe in which they
stand, and view their acts and thoughts in relation to it. She must see
Truth, "and be glad, even if it hurt."

The sunshine fell upon her in the garden; she was bathed in it. Whether
she had nights of straining, bitter wakefulness and days of heartache
afterward, this joy of loving was enough for her to-day--the joy of
loving him. She saw in that lovely, brooding thought of him what that
first meeting had taught of his character, and molded in with it her
knowledge of him now, to make the real man far more imperfect, though
far dearer. Yet, if he ever loved her as she loved him, part of that for
which she had always sought love would have to be foregone--she could
never come to him, as she had fondly dreamed of doing, and pour out to
him all those hopes and fears, those struggles and mistakes and trials
and indignities, the shame and the penitence that had been hers. She
could never talk of Lawson--her past must be forever unshriven and
uncomforted. Bailey Girard would be the last man on earth to whom she
could bare her heart in confession; these were the things that touched
him on the raw. He "hated the sound of Lawson's name." How many times
had George Sutton's face blotted out hers? If he knew _that_! She must
forever be unshriven. There would be things also, perhaps, that _she_
could not bear to hear! The eternal hurt of love, that it never can be
truly one with the beloved, touched her with its sadness, and then
slipped away in the thought of him now--not the man who was just to help
and protect her with his love, but the man whom she longed to help also.
His pleased eyes, his lips, the way his hair fell over his forehead--She
thought of him with the fond dream-passion of the maiden, that is often
the shyest thing on earth, ready to veil itself and turn and elude and
hide at the first chance that it may be revealed.

"Dosia! Dosia, where are you?"

Suddenly she saw that the sunshine had faded out, the sky had grown
gray, a chill wind had sprung up. All the trouble, all the stress of the
world, seemed to encompass her with that tone in the voice of Lois.


"Justin has come home ill; he was taken with a chill as soon as he got
to town; he came in a carriage from the station. I want you to telephone
for the doctor, and ask him to get here as soon as he can." Lois spoke
with rapid distinctness, stooping as she did so to pick up the scattered
toys on the floor and push the chairs into place, as one who
mechanically attends to the usual duties of routine, no matter what may
be happening. "And, Dosia!" she arrested the girl as she was
disappearing, "I may not be down-stairs again. Will you see about what
we need for meals? My pocket-book is in the desk. And see about the
children. They're in the nursery now, but I'll send them down; they had
better play outdoors, where he won't hear them."

"Oh, yes, yes; I'll attend to everything," affirmed Dosia hurriedly,
going off for her first duty at the telephone, while Lois disappeared
up-stairs. For a man to stop work and come home because he is not well
argues at once the most serious need for it. It is the public crossing
of the danger zone.

With all her anxiety, Dosia was filled now with a wondering knowledge of
something unnatural about Lois, not to be explained by the fact of
Justin's illness. There was something newly impassioned in the duskiness
of her eyes, in the fulness of her red lips, in every sweeping movement
of her body, which seemed caused by the obsession of a hidden fiery
force that held her apart and afar, goddess-like, even while she spoke
of and handled the things of every-day life. She looked at the
common-place surroundings, at the children, at Dosia; but she saw only
Justin. When she was beside him, she smiled into his gentle, stricken
eyes, telling him little fondly-foolish anecdotes of the children to
make him smile also; patting him, talking of the summer, when they would
go off together--anything to make him forget, even though the effort
left her breathless afterward. When she went out of the room and came
back again, she found him still watching the place where she had been
with haggard, feverish, burning eyes. He would not go to bed, but lay on
the outside of it in his dressing-gown, so that he might get ready the
more quickly to go downtown again if the doctor "fixed him up," though
now he felt weighted from head to foot with stones.

There was a ring at the door-bell in the middle of the morning, which
might have been the doctor, but which turned out surprisingly to be Mr.
Angevin L. Cater.

"I heard Mr. Alexander was taken ill this morning and had gone home, and
as I had to come out this way on business, I thought I'd just drop in
and see if there was anything I could do for him in town," he stated to

"I'll find out," said Dosia, and came down in a moment with the word
that Justin would like to see the visitor.

Cater himself looked extraordinarily lean and yellow. The fact that his
clothes were new and of a fashionable cut seemed only to make him the
more grotesque. He looked oddly shrunken; the quality of his smile of
greeting seemed to have shrunk also--something had gone out of it.

"Well, Cater, you find me down," said Justin, with glittering, cold

"I hope not for long," said the visitor.

"Oh, no; but, when I get up, you won't see me going past much longer.
I'll soon be out of the old place. I guess the game is up, as far as I'm
concerned. Your end is ahead."

"Mr. Alexander," began Cater, clearing his throat and bending earnestly
toward Justin, "I hope you ain't going to hold it up against me that I
had to make a different business deal from what we proposed. I've been
thinking about it a powerful lot. There wasn't any written agreement,
you know."

"No, there was no written agreement," assented Justin; "there was
nothing to bind you."

"That's what I said to myself. If there had been, I'd 'a' stuck to it,
of course. But a man's got to do the best he can for himself in this

"Has he?" asked the sick man, with an enigmatic, questioning smile.

"I'd be mighty sorry to have anything come between us. I reckon I took a
shine to you the first day I met up with you," continued Cater
helplessly. "I'd be mighty sorry to think we weren't friends."

Justin's brilliant eyes surveyed him serenely. Something sadly humorous,
yet noble and imposing, seemed to emanate from his presence, weak and a
failure though he was. "I can be friends with you, but you can't be
friends with me, Cater; it isn't in you to know how," he said.

"Well, good-by," said the other, rising, his long, angular figure
knocking awkwardly against chairs and tables as he went out, leaving
Justin lying there alone, with his head throbbing horribly. Yet,
strangely enough, in spite of it, his mind felt luminously clear, in
that a certain power seemed to have come to him--a power of correlating
all the events of the past eighteen months and placing them in their
relative sequence. A certain faith--the candid, boyish, unquestioning
faith in the adequacy of his knowledge of those whom he had called his
friends--was gone; the face of Leverich came to him, brutal in its
unveiled cupidity, showing what other men felt but concealed; yet his
own faith in honor and honesty remained, stronger and higher than ever
before. Nothing, he knew, could take it from him; it was a faith that he
had won from the battle with his own soul.

By to-morrow night that note of Lewiston's would be protested, and
then--the burning pain of failure gripped him in its racking clutches
once more, though he strove to fight it off. He would have to get well
quickly, so as to begin to hustle for a small clerkship somewhere, to
get bread for Lois and the babies. Men of his age who were successful
were sought for, but men of his age who were not had a pretty hard row
to hoe.

Lois was long gone--probably she was with the baby. He missed his
handkerchief, and rose and went over, with a swaying unsteadiness, to
his chiffonier drawer in the farther corner to get one. A pistol lying
there in its leather case, as it had done any time this five years, for
a reserve protection against burglars, caught his eyes. He took it out
of its case, examining the little weapon carefully, with his finger on
the trigger, half cocking it, to see if it needed oil. It was a pretty
little toy. Suddenly, as he held it there, leaning against the
chiffonier, his thin white face with its deep black shadows under the
eyes reflected by the high, narrow glass, the four walls faded away from
him, with their familiar objects; his face gleamed whiter and whiter;
the shadows grew blacker; only his eyes stared----

A room, noticed once a year and a half ago, came before him now with a
creeping, all-possessing distinctness--that loathsome, dreadful room
(long since renovated) which, with its unmentionable suggestion of
horror, had held him spellbound on that morning when he had begun his
career at the factory. It held him spellbound now, evilly, insidiously.
He stood by that blackened, ashy hearth in the foul room, with its damp,
mottled, rotting walls, his eyes fastened on that hideous sofa to which
he was drawn--drawn a little nearer and a little nearer, the thing in
his hand--did it move itself? Cold to his touch, it moved----

The door opened, and Lois, with a face of awful calm, glided up to him.
She took the pistol from his relaxed hold; her lips refused to speak.

"Why, you needn't have been afraid, dear," he said at once, looking at
her with a gentle surprise. "I'm not a coward, to go and leave you
_that_ way. You need never be afraid of that, Lois."

"No," said Lois, with smiling, white lips. She could not have told what
made the frantic, overmastering fear, under the impulse of which she had
suddenly thrown the baby down on the bed and fled to Justin--what
strange force of thought-transference, imagined or real, had called her

She busied herself making him comfortable, divining his wants and
getting things for him, simply and noiselessly, and then knelt down
beside him where he lay, putting her arms around him.

"You oughtn't to be doing this for me; I ought to be taking care of
you," he said, with a tender self-reproach that seemed to come from a
new, hitherto unknown Justin, who watched her face to see if it showed
fatigue, and counted the steps she took for him.

The doctor came, and sent him off sternly to bed, and came again later.
The last time he looked grave, ordered complete quiet, and left
sedatives to insure it. Grip, brought on by overwork, had evidently
taken a disregarded hold some time before, and must be reckoned with
now. What Mr. Alexander imperatively needed was rest, and, above all
things, freedom from care. Freedom from care!

Every footfall was taken to-day with reference to this. An impression of
Justin as of something noble and firm seemed to emanate from the room
where he lay and fill the house; in his complete abdication, he
dominated as never before. More than that, there seemed to be a peculiar
poignancy, a peculiar sweetness, in every little thing done for him; it
made one honorable to serve him.

The light was still brightly that of day at a quarter of seven, when
Dosia, who had been putting Zaidee and Redge to bed, came into Lois'
room, and found her with crimson cheeks and eyes red from weeping. At
Dosia's entrance she rose at once from her chair, and Dosia saw that she
was partially dressed in her walking-skirt; she flared out passionately
in speech as she was crossing the room, as if in answer to some implied

"I don't care what you say--I don't care what anybody says. I can't
stand it any longer, when it's _killing_ him! He _can't_ rest unless he
has that money. Am I to just sit down and let my husband die, when he's
in such trouble as this? Is _that_ all I can do? Why, whose trouble is
it? Mine as well as his! If it's his responsibility, it's mine,
too--mine as well as his!"

She hit her soft hand against the sharp edge of the table, and was
unconscious that it bled. "If there's nobody else to get that money for
him, _I'll_ rise up and get it. He's stood alone long enough--long
enough! He says there is no help left, but he forgets that there's his

"Oh, Lois," said Dosia, half weeping. "Oh, Lois, what can _you_ do?
There, you've waked the baby--he's crying."

"Get me the waist to this and my walking-jacket. No, give me the baby
first; he's hungry."


She spoke collectedly, bending over the child as she held him to her,
and straightening the folds of the little garments. "There, there, dear
little heart, dear little heart, mother's comfort--oh, my comfort, my
blessing! Get my things out of the closet now, Dosia, and my gloves from
that drawer, the top one. Oh, and get out baby's cloak and cap, too. I
forgot that I couldn't leave him. I must take him with me." She sank her
voice to a low murmur, so as not to disturb the child.

"Where are you going?" asked Dosia.

"To Eugene Larue."

"Mr. Larue!"

"Yes. He'll let me have the money--he'll understand. He wouldn't let
Justin have it, but he'll give it to me--if I'm not too proud to ask for
it; and I'm not too proud." She spoke in a tone the more thrilling for
its enforced calm. "There are things a man will do for a woman, when he
won't for a man, because then he has to be businesslike; but he doesn't
have to be businesslike to a woman--he can lend to her just because she
needs it."


"Oh, there's many a woman--like me--who always knows, even though she
never acts on the knowledge, that there is some man she could go to for
help, and get it, just because she was _herself_--a woman and in
trouble--just for that! Dosia, if I go to Eugene Larue myself, in
trouble--_such_ trouble----"

"But he's out at Collingswood!" said Dosia, bewildered.

"Yes, I know. The train leaves here at seven-thirty, it connects at
Haledon. It only takes three quarters of an hour; I've looked it up in
the time-table. I'll be back here again by ten o'clock. I--" She stopped
with a sudden intense motion of listening, then put the child from her
and ran across the hall to the opposite room.

When she came back, pale and collected, it was to say: "Justin's gone to
sleep now. The doctor says he will be under the influence of the
anodynes until morning. Mrs. Bently is in there--I sent for her; she
says she'll stay until I get back." Mrs. Bently was a woman of the
plainer class, half nurse, half friend, capable and kind. "If the
children wake up, they won't be afraid with her; but you'll be here,

"Leave the baby with me," implored Dosia.

"No, I can't--suppose I were detained? _Then_ I'd go crazy! He won't be
any bother, he's so little and so light."

"Very well, then; I'll go, too," stated Dosia in desperation. "I am not
needed here. You must have some one with you if you have baby! Let me
go, Lois! You _must_!"

"Oh, very well, if you like," responded Lois indifferently. But that
the suggestion was an unconscious relief to her she showed the next
moment, as she gave some directions to Dosia, who put a few necessaries
and some biscuits in a little hand-bag, and an extra blanket for the
baby in case it should grow chilly.

The train went at seven-thirty. The house must be lighted and the gas
turned down, and the new maid impressed with the fact that they would be
back at a little after nine, though it might really be nearer ten. After
Lois was ready, she went in once more to look at Justin as he slept--his
head thrown forward a little on the pillow, his right hand clasped, and
his knees bent as one supinely running in a dream race with fate. Lois
stooped over and laid her cheek to his hair, to his hand, as one who
sought for the swift, reviving warmth of the spirit.

Then the two women walked down the street toward the station, Lois
absorbed in her own thoughts, and Dosia distracted, confused, half
assenting and half dissenting to the expedition.

"Are you sure Mr. Larue will be there?" she asked anxiously.

"Justin saw him Saturday. He said he was going out there then for the

So far it would be all right, then. They had passed the Snows' house,
and Dosia looked eagerly for some sign of life there; she hesitated, and
then went on. As they got beyond it, at the corner turning, she looked
back, and saw that Miss Bertha had come out on the piazza.

"I'll catch up with you in a moment," she said to Lois, and ran back

"Miss Bertha!"

"Why, Dosia, my dear, I didn't see you; don't speak loud!" Miss Bertha's
face, her whispering lips, her hands, were trembling with excitement.
"We've been under quite a strain, but it's all over now--I'm sure I can
tell _you_. Dear mother has gone up-stairs with a sick-headache! Mr.
Sutton has just proposed to Ada--in the sitting-room. We left them the
parlor, but they preferred the sitting-room. Mother's white shawl is in
there, and I haven't been able to get it."

"Oh!" said Dosia blankly, trying to take in the importance of the fact.
"Is Mr. Girard in? No? Will he be in later?"

"No, not until to-morrow night," said Miss Bertha, as blankly, but Dosia
had already gone on. She did not know whether she were relieved or sorry
that Girard was not there. She did not know what she had meant to say to
him, but it had seemed as if she _must_ see him!

Lois did not ask her why she had stopped; her spirit seemed to be
wrapped in an obscurity as enshrouding as the darkness that was
gathering around them. Only, when they were at last in the train, she
threw back her veil and smiled at Dosia, with a clear, triumphant relief
in the smile, a sweetness, a lightness of expression that was almost
roguish, and that communicated a similar lightness of heart to Dosia.

"He will lend me the money," said Lois, with a grateful confidence that
seemed to shut out every conventional, every worldly suggestion, and to
breathe only of her need and the willingness of a friend to help--not
alone for the need's sake, but for hers.

Dosia tried to picture Eugene Larue as Lois must see him; his bearded
lips, his worn forehead, his quiet, sad, piercing eyes, were not
attractive to her. The whole thing was very bewildering.

It was twenty miles, a forty-minute ride, to Haledon, where they changed
cars for the little branch road that went past Collingswood--a signal
station, as the conductor who punched their tickets impressed on Lois.
Haledon itself was a junction for many lines, with a crowd of people on
the platform continually coming and going under the electric lights. As
Lois and Dosia waited for their train, an automobile dashed up, and a
man and a woman, getting out of it with wraps and bundles, took their
place among those who were waiting for the west-bound express. The
woman, large and elegantly gowned, had something familiar in her outline
as she turned to her companion, a short, ferret-faced man with a fair
mustache--the man who lately had been seen everywhere with Mrs.
Leverich. Yes, it was Mrs. Leverich. Dosia shrank back into the shadow.
The light struck full athwart the large, full-blown face of Myra as she
turned to the man caressingly with some remark; his eyes, evilly
cognizant, smiled back again as he answered, with his cigar between his

Dosia felt that old sensation of burning shame--she had seen something
that should have been hidden in darkness. They were going off together!
All those whispers about Mrs. Leverich had been true.

There were only a few people in the shaky, rattly little car when Lois
and Dosia entered it, whizzing off, a moment later, down a lonely road
with wooded hills sloping to the track on one side and a wooded brook on
the other. The air grew aromatic in the chill spring dusk with the odor
of damp fern and pine. Both women were silent, and the baby, rolled in
his long cloak, had slept all the way. It was but seven miles to
Collingswood, yet the time seemed longer than all the rest of the
journey before they were finally dumped out at the little empty station
with the hills towering above it. A youth was just locking up the
ticket-office and going off as they reached it. Dosia ran after him.

"Mr. Larue's place is near here, isn't it?" she called.

"Yes, over there to the right," said the youth, pointing down the board
walk, which seemed to end at nowhere, "about a quarter of a mile down.
You'll know when you come to the gates. They're big iron ones."

"Isn't there any way of riding?"

"I guess not," said the youth, and disappeared into the woods on a

"Oh, it will be only a step," said Lois, starting off down the walk,
followed perforce by Dosia, with the hand-bag, both walking in silence.

The excursion, from an easily imagined, matter-of-fact daylight
possibility, had been growing gradually a thing of the dark, unknown,
fantastic. A faint remnant of the fading light remained in the west,
vanishing as they looked at it. High above the treetops a pale moon hung
high; there seemed nothing to connect them with civilization but that
iron track curved out of sight.

The quarter of a mile prolonged itself indefinitely, with that strangely
eternal effect of the unknown; yet the big iron gates were reached at
last, showing a long winding drive within. It was here that Eugene Larue
had built a house for his bride, living in it these summers when she was
away, alone among his kind, a man who must confess tacitly before the
world that he was unable to make his wife care for him--a darkened,
desolate, lonely life, as dark and as desolate as this house seemed now.
An undefined dread possessed Dosia, though Lois spoke confidently:

"The walk has not really been very long. We'll probably drive back. It's
odd that there are no lights, but perhaps he is sitting outside. Ah,
there's a light!"

Yet, as she spoke, the light left the window and hung on the cornice
above--it was the moon, and not a lamp, that had made it. They ascended
the piazza steps; there was no one there.

"There is a knocker at the front door," said Lois. She pounded, and the
house vibrated terrifyingly through the stillness. At the same instant a
scraping on the gravel walk behind them made them turn. It was the boy
on the bicycle, who had sped back to them.

"Mr. Larue ain't there," he called. "The woman who closed up the house
told me he had a cable from his wife, and he sailed for Europe this
afternoon. She says, do you want the key?"

"No," said Lois, and the messenger once more disappeared.


This, then, was the end of her exaltation--for this she had passionately
nerved herself! There was to be neither the warmth of instant
comprehension of her errand nor the frank giving of aid when necessity
had been pleaded; there was nothing. She shifted the baby over to the
other shoulder, and they retraced their way, which now seemed familiar
and short. There was, at any rate, a light on a tall pole in front of
the little station, although the station itself was deserted; they
seated themselves on the bench under it to wait. The train was not
scheduled for nearly an hour yet.

"Oh, if I could only fly back!" Lois groaned. "I don't see how I can
wait--I don't see how I can wait! Oh, why did I come?"

"Perhaps there is a train before the one you spoke of," said Dosia, with
the terribly self-accusing feeling now that she ought to have prevented
the expedition at the beginning. She got up to go into the little box of
a house, in search of a time-table. As she passed the tall post that
held the light, she saw tacked on it a paper; and read aloud the words
written on it below the date:



Dosia and Lois looked at each other with the blankness of despair--the
frantic, forlornly heroic impulse, uncalculating of circumstances, now
showed itself against them in all its piteous woman-folly.


Only fifty miles from a great city, the little station seemed like the
typical lodge in a wilderness; as far as one could see up or down the
track, on either side were wooded hills. A vast silence seemed to be
gathering from unseen fastnesses, to halt in this spot.

There were no houses and no lights to be seen anywhere, except that one
swinging on the pole above, and the moon which was just rising. It was,
in fact, one of those places which consist of the far, back-lying acres
of the great country-owners, and which seem to the casual traveler
forgotten or unknown in their extent and apparently primitive condition.

To the women sitting on the bench, wrapped around by the loneliness and
the intense stillness of the oncoming night, the whole expedition
appeared at last, unveiled in all its grim betrayal.

For the first time since Lois had left home, a wild, seething anxiety
for Justin possessed her. How could she have left him? She must get back
to him at once!

"Oh, Dosia, we must get home again; we must get home!" she cried,
starting up so vehemently that the baby in her arms screamed, and Lois
walked up and down distractedly hushing him, and then, as he still
wailed, sat down once more and bared her white bosom to quiet him. "We
shall have to get back; Dosia, we must start at once."

"We shall have to walk to Haledon," said Dosia.

"Yes, yes. Perhaps we may come to some farm-house where they will let us
have a wagon. It is seven miles to Haledon--that isn't very far! I often
walked five miles with Justin before I was married, and a mile or two
more is nothing. There are plenty of trains from Haledon."

"Oh, we can do it easily enough," said Dosia, though her heart was as
lead within her breast. "You had better eat some of these biscuits
before we start," she advised, taking them out of the bag; and Lois
munched them obediently, and drank some tepid water from a pitcher which
Dosia had found inside. As she put it back again in its place, she
slipped to the side of the platform and looked down the moon-filled,
narrow valley.

Through all this journey Dosia had carried double thoughts; her voice
called where none might hear. It spoke now as she whispered, with hands

"Oh, _why_ weren't you in when I went for you? Why didn't you come and
take care of us, when I needed you so much? Why did you let us go off
this way? You might have known! Why _don't_ you come and take care of
us? There's no one to take care of us but you! _You_ could!" A dry sob
stopped the words--the deep, inherent cry of womankind to man for help,
for succor. She stooped over and picked up an oakleaf that had lain on
the ground since the winter, and pressed it to her bosom, and sent it
fluttering off on a gust of wind down the incline, as if it could indeed
take her message with it, before she went back to Lois.

After some hesitation as to the path,--one led across the rails from
where they were sitting,--they finally took that behind the station,
which broadened out into a road that lay along the wooded slope above,
from which they could look down at intervals and see the track below.
One side of that road was bordered by a high wire fencing inclosing
pieces of woodland, sometimes so thick as to be impenetrable, while
along other stretches there would be glimpsed through the trees some
farther, open field. To the right, toward the railway there were only
woods and no fencing.

They two walked off briskly at first, but the road was of a heavy,
loose, shelving soil in which the foot sank at each step; the grass at
the edge was wet with dew and intersected by the ridged, branching roots
of trees; the pace grew, perforce, slower and slower still. They took
turns in carrying the baby, whose small bundled form began to seem as if
weighted with lead.

[Illustration: "LOIS STOLE INTO THE ROOM"]

Far over on what must have been the other side of the track, they
occasionally saw the light of a house; at one place there seemed to be a
little hamlet, from the number of lights. They were clearly on the wrong
bank; they should have crossed over at the station. The only house they
came to was the skeleton of one, the walls blackened and charred with
fire. There was only that endless line of wire fencing along which they
pushed forward painfully, with dragging step; instead of passing any
given point, the road seemed to keep on with them, as if they could
never get farther on. Wire fencing, and moonlight, and silence, and
trees. Trees! They became night-marishly oppressive in those dark,
solemn ranks and groups--those silent thicknesses; the air grew chill
beneath them; terror lurked in the shadows. Oh, to get out from under
the trees, with only the clear sky overhead! If that road to the house
of Eugene Larue had seemed a part of infinity in the dimness of the
unknown, what was this?

They sat down now every little while to rest, Dosia's voice coaxing and
cheering, and then got up to shake the earth out of their shoes and
struggle on once more--bending, shivering, leaning against each other
for support; two silent and puny figures, outside of any connection with
other lives, toiling, as it seemed, against the universe, as women do
toil, apparently futile of result.

Once the loud blare of a horn sent them over to the side of the road,
clinging to the wire fencing, as an automobile shot by--a cheerful
monster that spoke of life in towns, leaving a new and sharp desolation
behind it. Why hadn't they seen it before? Why hadn't they tried to hail
it when they _did_ see? To have had such a chance and lost it! Once they
were frightened almost uncontrollably by a group approaching with
strange sounds--Italian laborers, cheerful and unintelligible when Dosia
intrepidly questioned them. They passed on, still jabbering; two
bedraggled women and a baby were no novelty to them. Then there was more
long, high fencing, and moonlight, and silence, and shadows, and
trees--and trees----

"Do you suppose we'll _ever_ get out of here?" asked Lois at last,

"Why, of course; we can't help getting out, if we keep on," said Dosia,
in a comfortingly matter-of-fact tone.

It was she who was helper and guide now.

"Oh, if I had never left Justin! Why, why did I leave him? How far do
you think we have walked, Dosia?"

"It seems so endless, I can't tell; but we must be nearly at Haledon,"
said Dosia. "Let's sit down and rest awhile here. Oh, Lois, Lois
_dear_!" She had taken off her jacket and spread it on the damp grass
for them both to sit on, huddled close together, and now pressed the
older woman's head down on her shoulder, holding both mother and child
in her young arms.

Lois lay there without stirring. Far off in the stillness, there came
the murmur of the brook they had passed in the train--so long since, it
seemed! The moon hung high above now, pouring a flood of light down
through the arching branches of the trees upon her beautiful face with
its closed eyes, and the tiny features of the sleeping child. Something
in the utter relaxation of the attitude and manner began to alarm the

"Lois, we must go on," she said, with an anxious note in her voice.
"Lois! You mustn't give up. We can't stay here!"

"Yes, I know," said Lois. She struggled to her feet, and began to walk
ahead slowly. Dosia, behind her, flung out her arms to the
shadow-embroidered road over which they had just passed.

"Oh, why _don't_ you come!" she whispered again intensely, with
passionate reproach; and then, swiftly catching up with Lois, took the
child from her, and again they stumbled on together, haltingly, to the
accompaniment of that far-off brook.

The wire fencing ceased, but the road became narrower, the walls of
trees darker, closer together, though the soil underfoot grew firmer.
They had to stop every few minutes to rest. Lois saw ever before her the
one objective point--a dimly lighted room, with Justin stretched out
upon the bed, dying, while she could not get there.

"Hark!" said Dosia suddenly, standing still. The sound of a voice
trolling drunkenly made itself heard, came nearer, while the women stood
terrified. The thing they had both unspeakably dreaded had happened; the
moonlight brought into view the unmistakable figure of a tramp, with a
bundle swung upon his shoulder. No terror of the future could compare
with this one, that neared them with the seconds, swaying unsteadily
from side to side of the road, as the tipsy voice alternately muttered
and roared the reiterated words:

    For I have come from Pad-dy land,
    The land--I do adore!

They had fled, crouching into the bushes at the edge of the path, and he
passed with his eyes on the ground, or he must have seen--a blotched,
dark-visaged, leering creature, living in an insane world of his own.
They waited until he was far out of sight before creeping, all of a
tremble, from their shelter, only to hear another footfall unexpectedly
near:--the pad, pad, pad of a runner, a tall figure as one saw it
through the lights and shadows under the trees, capless and coatless,
with sleeves rolled up, arms bent at the elbows, and head held forward.
Suddenly the pace slackened, stopped.

"Great _heavens_!" said the voice of Bailey Girard.

"Oh, it's you, it's you!" cried Dosia, running to him with an ineffable,
revealing gesture, a lovely motion of her upflinging arms, a passion of
joy in the face upraised to his, that called forth an instantly
flashing, all-embracing light in his.

In that moment there was an acknowledgment in each of an intimacy that
went back of all words, back of all action. The arm that upheld her
gripped her close to him as one who defends his own, as he said tensely:

"That beast ahead, did he touch you?"

"Oh, no; he didn't see us. We hid!" She tried to explain in hurrying,
disconnected sentences. "I've been longing and _praying_ for you to
come! I tried to let you know before we started, and you weren't there.
Lois was half crazy about Justin. Come to her now! She wanted to see Mr.
Larue, and he was gone. We've walked from Collingswood; we have the baby
with us."

"The _baby_!"

"Yes; she couldn't leave him behind. Oh, it's been so terrible! If you
had only known!"

"Oh, why didn't I?" he groaned. "I ought to have known--I _ought_ to
have known! I was in that motor that must have passed you; it was just a
chance that I got out to walk." They had reached the place where Lois
sat, and he bent over her tenderly. She smiled into his anxious eyes,
though her poor face was sunken and wan.

"I'm glad it's you," she whispered. "You'll help me to get home!"

"Dear Mrs. Alexander! I want to help you to more than that. I want you
to tell me everything." He pressed her hand, and stood looking
irresolutely down the road.

"I could go to Haledon, and send back a carriage for you; it's three
miles further on."

"No, no, no! Don't leave us!" the accents came in terror from both. "We
can walk with you. Only don't leave us!"

"Very well; we'll try it, then."

He took the warm bundle that was the sleeping child from Lois, saying,
as she half demurred, "It's all right; I've carried 'em in the
Spanish-American war in Cuba," holding it in one arm, while with the
other he supported Lois. The dragging march began again, Dosia,
stumbling sometimes, trying to keep alongside of him, so that when he
turned his head anxiously to look for her she would be there, to meet
his eyes with hers, bravely scorning fatigue.

The trees had disappeared now from the side of the road; long, swelling,
wild fields lay on the slopes of the hillside, broken only by solitary
clumps of bushes--fields deserted of life, broad resting-places for the
moonlight, which illumined the farthest edge of the scene, although the
moon itself was hidden by the crest of a hill. And as they went on,
slowly perforce, he questioned Lois gently; and she, with simple words,
gradually laid the facts bare.

"Oh, why didn't Alexander tell me all this?" he asked pitifully, and she

"He said it was no use; he said you had no money."

"No; but I can sometimes get it for other people! I could have gone to
Rondell Brothers and got it."

"Rondell Brothers? I thought they were difficult to approach."

"That depends. I was with Rondell's boy in Cuba when he had the fever,
and he's always said--but that's neither here nor there. Apart from
that, they've had their eye on your husband lately. You can't hide the
quality of a man like him, Mrs. Alexander; it shows in a hundred ways
that he doesn't think of. They have had dealings with him, though he
doesn't know it--it's been through agents. Mr. Warren, one of their best
men, has, it seems, taken a fancy to him. I shouldn't wonder if they'd
take over the typometer as it stands, and work Alexander in with it. If
Rondell Brothers really take up any one!"--Girard did not need to

Even Lois and Dosia had heard of Rondell Brothers, the great firm that
was known from one end of the country to the other--a commercial house
whose standing was as firm, as unquestioned, as the Bank of England, and
almost as conservative. Apart from this, their reputation was unique. It
was more than a commercial house: it was an institution, in which for
three generations the firm known as Rondell Brothers had carried on
their business to high advantage--on the principles of personal honor
and honesty and fair dealing.

No boy or man of good character, intelligence, and industry was ever
connected with Rondell's without its making for his advancement; to get
a position there was to be assured of his future. Their young men stayed
with them, and rose steadily higher as they stayed, or went out from
them strong to labor, backed with a solid backing. The number of young
firms whom they had started and made, and whose profit also afterward
profited them, was more than had ever been counted. They were never
deceived, for they had an unerring faculty for knowing their own kind.
No firm was keener. Straight on the nail themselves, they exacted the
same quality in others. What they traded in needed no other guaranty
than the name of Rondell.

If Rondell Brothers took Justin's affairs in hand! Lois felt a hope that
sent life through her veins.

"Oh, let us hurry home!" she pleaded, and tried to quicken her pace,
though it was Girard who supported her, else she must have fallen, while
Dosia slipped a little behind, trying to keep her place by his side, so
that when he looked for her she would be there.

"You're so tired," he whispered, with a break in his voice, "and I can't
help you!" and she tried to beat back that dear pity and longing with
her comforting "No, no, no! I'm not really tired"; her voice thrilled
with life, though her feet stumbled.

In that walk beside him, toiling slowly on and on in the bright, far
solitude of those empty fields, where even their hands might not touch,
they two were so heart-close--so heavenly, so fulfillingly near!

Once he whispered in a yearning distress, "Why are you crying?" And she
answered through those welling tears:

"I'm only crying because I'm so glad you're here!"

After a while there was a sound of wheels--wheels! Only a sulky, it
proved to be--a mere half-wagon set low down in the springs, and a
trotting horse in front, driven by a round-faced boy in a derby hat, the
turnout casting long, thin shadows ahead before Girard stopped it.

"You'll have to take another passenger," he said, after explaining
matters to the half-unwilling boy, who crowded himself at last to the
farthest edge of the seat, so that Lois might take possession of the six
inches allotted to her.

She held out her arms hastily. "My boy!" she said, but it was a voice
that had hope in it once more.

"Oh, yes, I forgot; here's the baby," said Girard, looking curiously at
the bundle before handing it to her. "We'll meet you at the Haledon
station very soon now."

In another moment the little vehicle was out of sight, jogging around a
bend of the road.

So still was the night! Only that long, curving runnel of the brook
again accompanied the silence. Not a leaf moved on the bushes of those
far-swelling fields or on the hill that hid their summit; the air was
like the moonlight, so fragrantly cool with the odors of the damp fern
and birch. The straight, supple figure of Girard still stood in the
roadway, bareheaded, with that powerful effect which he had, even here,
of absorbing all the life of the scene.

Dosia experienced the inexplicable feeling of the girl alone, for the
first time, with the man who loves her and whom she loves. At that
moment she loved him so much that she would have fled anywhere in the
world from him.

The next moment he said in a matter-of-fact tone:

"Sit down on that stone, and let me shake out your shoes before we go
on; they're full of sand."

She obeyed with an open-eyed gaze that dwelt on him, while he knelt
down and loosened the bows, and took off the little clumpy low shoes,
shaking them out carefully, and then put them on once more, retying the
bows neatly with long, slowly accomplishing fingers.

"They'll get full of earth again," she protested, her voice half lost in
the silence.

"Then I'll take them off and shake them out over again."

He stood up, brushing the earth from his palms, smiling down at her as
she stood up also. "I've always dreamed of doing that," he said simply.
"I've dreamed of taking you in my arms and carrying you off through the
night--as I couldn't that first time! I've longed so to do it, there
have been times when I couldn't _stand_ it to see you, because you
weren't mine." Then--her hands were in his, his dear, protecting hands,
the hands she loved, with their thrilling, long-familiar touch, claiming
as well as giving.

"Oh--_Dosia_!" he said below his breath.

As their eyes dwelt on each other in that long look, all that had hurt
love rose up between them, and passed away, forgiven. She previsioned a
time when all her life before he came into it would have dropped out of
remembrance as a tale that is told. And now----

It seemed that he was going to be a very splendid lover!


The summer was nearly at an end--a summer that had brought
rehabilitation to the Typometer Company, yet rehabilitation under strict
rule, strict economy, endless work. Nominally the same thing, the
typometer was now but one factor of trade among a dozen other patented
inventions under the control of Rondell Brothers.

If there was not quite the same personal flavor as yet in Justin's
relation to the business which had seemed so inspiringly his own, there
was a larger relation to greater interests, a wider field, a greater
sense of security, and a sense of justice in the change; he felt that he
had much to learn. There was something in him that could not profit
where other men profited--that could not take advantage when that
advantage meant loss to another. He was not great enough alone to
reconcile the narrowing factors of trade with that warring law within
him. The stumbling of Cater would have been another stumbling-block if
it had not been that one. That for which Leverich, with Martin always
behind him, had chosen Justin first, had been the very thing that had
fought against them.

The summer was far spent. Justin had been working hard. It was long
after midnight. Lois slept, but Justin could not; he rose and went into
the adjoining room, and sat down by her open window. The night had been
very close, but now a faint breath stirred from somewhere out of the
darkness. It was just before the dawn. Justin looked out into a gloom in
which the darkness of trees wavered uncertainly and brought with it a
vague remembrance. He had done all this before. When? Suddenly he
recollected the night he had sat at this same window, at the beginning
of this terrible journey; and his thoughts and feelings then, his deep
loneliness of soul, the prevision of the pain even of fulfilment--an
endless, endless arid waste, with the welling forth of that black spirit
of evil in his own nature, as the only vital thing to bear him secret
company--a moment that was wolfish to his better nature. Almost with the
remembrance came the same mood, but only as reflected in the surface of
his saner nature, not arising from it.

As he gazed, wrapped in self-communing, on the vague formlessness of the
night, it began gradually to dissolve mysteriously, and the outlines of
the trees and the surrounding objects melted into view. A bird sang from
somewhere near by, a heavenly, clear, full-throated call that brought a
shaft of light from across the world, broadening, as the eye leaped to
it, into a great and spreading glory of flame.

It had rained just before; the drops still hung on bush and tree; and as
the dazzling radiance of the sun touched them, every drop also radiated
light, prismatic, and scintillating an almost audibly tinkling joy. So
indescribably wonderful and beautiful, yet so tender, seemed this
scene--as of a mighty light informing the least atom of this tearful
human existence--that the profoundest depths of Justin's nature opened
to the illumination.

In that moment, with calm eyes, and lips firmly pressed together, his
thoughts reached upward, far, far upward. For the first time, he felt in
accordance with something divine and beyond--an accordance that seemed
to solve the meaning of life, what had gone and what was to come. All
the hopes, the planning, the seeking and slaving, whatever they
accomplished or did not accomplish, they fashioned us ourselves. As it
had been, so it still would be. But for what had gone before, he had not
had this hour.

It was the journey itself that counted--the dear joys by the way, that
come even through suffering and through pain: the joy of the red dawn,
of the summer breeze, of the winter sun; the joy of children; the joy of

He held out his arm unconsciously as Lois stole into the room.




    The streaming glitter of the avenue,
    The jewelled women holding parasols,
    The lathered horses fretting at delay,
    The customary afternoon blockade,
    The babel and the babble, the brilliant show--
    And then the dusky quiet of the nave.
    The pillared space, an organ strain that throbs
    Mysteriously somewhere, a rainbow shaft
    Shed from a saint's robe, powdering the spectral air,
    A workman with hard hands who bows his head,
    And there before the shrine of Virgin Mary
    A lonely servant girl who kneels and sobs.




The Municipal Court of Chicago began its existence December 3rd, 1906.
Besides transacting civil business, it is the trial court for all
misdemeanors as well as for all violations of city ordinances. The
Maxwell Street criminal branch, where I presided for thirteen months, is
on the West Side, about a mile from the City Hall, in what is known as
the Ghetto District. This district--not more than a mile square--has
between two and three hundred thousand inhabitants, of thirty different
nationalities, many of them from the poorest laboring class. In one
school district near the court, three and one-half blocks long and two
blocks wide, there are fourteen hundred public school children, besides
hundreds who attend parochial schools, and many who attend none.

It is the Maxwell Street district of which a leading Chicago newspaper,
afterward quoted in MCCLURE'S MAGAZINE, said: "In this territory
murderers, robbers, and thieves of the worst kind are born, reared, and
grown to maturity in numbers which exceed the record of any similar
district anywhere on the face of the globe; murders by the score,
shooting and stabbing affrays by the hundred, assaults, burglaries, and
robberies by the thousand--such is the crime record each year for this
festering place of evil which lies a scant mile from the heart of

Within a few days from my going into this court, I was confronted with
the problem of what to do with violators of the city laws who had others
dependent upon them for support. To impose a fine upon such persons
would, if the fine were paid, ordinarily deprive the family of some of
the necessaries of life. On the other hand, if the fine were not paid
and the offender were committed to the House of Correction to work it
out at the rate of fifty cents a day, not only would the family be
deprived of their means of support during his imprisonment, but the
defendant, when released, would be without employment or the ability
then to provide for his family. I observed that frequently women whose
husbands had been fined for beating them would go out and borrow money
with which to pay the fine.

It was very apparent that such proceedings operated most harshly upon
the poor. A person able to pay a fine had comparatively little to fear
if he violated the city laws, while inability to pay meant the loss of
liberty twenty-four hours for each fifty cents of the fine and costs,
which was nothing more or less than imprisonment for debt.

_In the Homes of the "Repeaters"_

Persons were often brought before me who had been imprisoned many times
and who were no better but obviously much worse as a result of such
treatment. I found upon investigation that the city contained a very
large number of these persons, who were known as "repeaters," and that
the time of the police and the courts was much occupied in re-arresting
and recommitting them to the House of Correction. Upon examining the
records of this institution, I found that of the nine thousand persons
imprisoned the previous year because of their inability to pay the fines
imposed, _nearly one-half had been there from two to two hundred and one
times each_. _Eighteen women had each served one hundred terms._ I was
therefore convinced that this method of "correction" was not only harsh
and unjust to the families of such persons, but was of no value as a
corrective to the defendants themselves.

Startled by such disclosures, I resolved to study conditions at close
range and went into the homes of some of these offenders against the
law, taking with me interpreters, for the great majority of them were
foreigners. In many of these homes poverty had done its worst. Every
surrounding influence favored undesirable citizenship; every turn
presented flagrant violations of the law; the tumble-down stairways, the
defective plumbing, the overflowing garbage boxes, the uncleaned streets
and alleys, all suggested that laws were not made to be enforced. Many
of the unfortunates whom I saw there regarded the law as a revengeful
monster, a sort of Juggernaut that would work fearful ruin upon any one
who got in its way, but otherwise was not a matter of concern. When I
explained to them that the law was their friend and not their enemy,
they did not appear to comprehend.

In one place there was a broken-down woman with six children. Two of the
children had been arrested for stealing coal from a car. The mother
explained that her "man" was in the Bridewell sobering up from one of
his frequent drunks and that they had no money to buy coal, which was
plainly apparent. Here were children forced to become criminals because
the law was helpless to correct their father.

"_The House of Corruption_"

In substantially every case that I investigated, I found that,
notwithstanding the efficient management of our work-house, the offender
had come out a less desirable member of society than when he went in;
his employment was gone, his reputation was injured, his will weakened,
his knowledge of crime and criminal practices greatly increased. As one
young girl expressed it: "It is not a House of Correction, but a House
of Corruption."

I decided, therefore, to try the plan of suspending over such offenders
the maximum sentence permitted by law, and allow them to determine by
their subsequent conduct whether they should lose or retain their
liberty, with the full knowledge that further delinquency meant, not
another trial with its possibility of acquittal or brief sentence, but
summary and severe punishment. As a condition precedent to allowing such
an offender his liberty, I required him to promise that he would not
again indulge in the thing which was responsible for his wrong-doing. In
the great majority of cases this was the use of intoxicating liquor; in
some, the use of drugs or cigarettes, the patronizing of cheap theaters,
or evil associates. I also required him for a time to report to me at
regular intervals, usually every two weeks, when a night session of the
court was held for such purpose, and to bring with him his wife or other
witness who could testify to his subsequent conduct.

_Four Hundred Able Probation Officers_

A serious difficulty then presented itself. I saw that as their numbers
increased, it would become impossible for me to keep in personal touch
with all these offenders. No parole law for adults, with its paid
probation officers, exists in Illinois, and no funds for this purpose
were available. I determined, therefore, to appeal to the business men
of the district to serve as volunteer probation officers. Through the
lawyers who practised in my court, I secured a list of nearly one
hundred business and professional men who gladly consented to visit one
or more defendants each month and report to me in writing upon blanks
which I furnished them. The number of probation officers was
subsequently increased to about four hundred, and their monthly reports
were entered upon our special docket, which contained the necessary
memoranda and history of the case made at the trial.

Certainly no more valuable object lesson was ever presented to hustling,
bustling, money-loving, pleasure-hunting Chicago than these doctors,
lawyers, manufacturers, and merchants going into the homes of their poor
and unfortunate neighbors and taking a genuine interest in their
welfare. Here was the ideal probation officer, whose feeling for his
ward was something more than chilly professional solicitude; and
splendidly did these men do their work. Many of them did more than show
a passing interest in the offenders assigned to them. They often gave
them employment and encouraged them by increasing their wages from time
to time. It was a common thing for substantial business men to appear in
court and offer employment to persons whom they wished placed on
probation, agreeing at the same time to report regularly as to their
subsequent conduct.

A typical illustration of this was shown in the case of a young man who
had an old mother to support, and who had fallen into bad company which
had led him astray. The gang had rented a flat where they caroused far
into the night and were then wont to prey upon their neighbors'
hen-roosts. Upon his promise to reform, he was placed on probation and
given employment by Mr. S. Franklin, one of the largest manufacturers in
the district, who not only afterwards raised his wages, but sent, with
his compliments, a dozen handsome pictures to decorate the court-room.
That was a year ago, and the other day this young fellow came to my
downtown court room to exhibit, proudly, a new suit of clothes purchased
with money withdrawn from his savings-bank account.

_Liquor Dealers Vote to Coöperate_

Soon after inaugurating my parole system, I invited the four hundred
liquor dealers of the district to a conference in my court-room. My
first appearance in the Maxwell Street Court had called forth violent
opposition from many of the liquor dealers, who declared that my record
as a teetotaler disqualified me from administering justice in that
district. I was in some doubt, therefore, as to how my invitation would
be received; but it was unanimously accepted, and the court-room was not
large enough to accommodate the number that responded, so that it was
necessary to hold three sessions. The audiences were picturesque and
included men not entirely sober, but the great majority listened
attentively while I explained my plan and requested that they coöperate
with me to the extent of refusing to sell their wares to any person upon
my parole list. I promised to furnish each saloon-keeper with such a
list for his private reference only; and I gave warning that thereafter
sales made knowingly to such persons would subject the seller to summary

A number of the liquor dealers followed my address with remarks highly
complimentary to the work being done, and a resolution pledging me their
support was unanimously adopted. The same day, by a curious coincidence,
the Women's Christian Temperance Union passed a similar resolution in
another part of the city.

All of the liquor dealers, with a very few exceptions, subsequently
acted in entire harmony with the resolution. One, who caused the
intoxication of a paroled defendant, was fined $50, which he paid; and
no further trouble occurred.

It must not, of course, be supposed that this parole plan was original
with me in all its features. A number of States have passed laws for the
probation of adult offenders, providing for official probation officers
to visit and report upon the persons paroled; but no other court has
adopted the plan of holding night parole sessions or has enlisted to so
large an extent the services of the business men of the district. These
were the two features which in my experience proved most effective in
reclaiming the offenders.

_Record of Success Ninety-two Per Cent_

During my thirteen months' term in the Maxwell Street Court, I tried
upwards of eight thousand cases and placed upon probation 1,231 persons.
The results were as gratifying as they were surprising, and won for the
plan the sincere support and coöperation of the police department in the
district, many of the officers assuring me that it had reduced crime
one-half. Eleven hundred and thirty-four of the paroled offenders, or
about ninety-two per cent., faithfully kept the terms of their parole,
and became sober, industrious citizens. Substantially all of those who
lapsed did so because they violated their pledge of total abstinence.
None, with one or two trivial exceptions, afterward committed any
offense against the law.

At one time a number of young men were brought in charged with
burglary, but after the evidence was heard the complaints were amended
to petit larceny, and the defendants were given their liberty upon
promising to go to work and obey the law. When I left the Maxwell Street
Court on January 11, 1908, to try civil cases, the suspended sentences
in all cases were set aside and the defendants discharged, and I felt
some apprehension lest these young men, as well as many others, should,
after all restraint was removed, return to their former ways. This fear
has proved groundless, the percentage of lapses since January 11 being
little, if any, greater than before. A report from the Police
Department, covering the young men above referred to, has just been
received by me. It reads as follows:

    "Driving team, O. K., habits good"; "driving team, sister says
    he is doing fine"; "driving express wagon for his father, doing
    fine"; "driving team, stays home nights and brings his money
    home"; "laboring for $2.00 per day. Mother says he is doing
    better"; "laboring for $2.00 per day, doing fairly well";
    "drives buggy for ---- Teaming Co., O. K."; "works for the ----
    R. R., steady ever since paroled."

Because of the absence of express statutory authority, no person charged
with a misdemeanor was released on parole except with the approval of
the police and the State's attorney; but there were many cases where a
parole was not given, in which I felt satisfied that it would have
yielded good results. There were, however, upon our special docket,
persons charged with larceny, embezzlement, wife abandonment, selling
liquor to minors, malicious mischief, assault and battery, and other
similar offenses; and except in the one or two cases referred to, which
were of a minor nature, the defendants have shown their sincerity by
their actions, and their conduct has in every case been exemplary and

In one case, where the charge was larceny, the police assured me that
the defendant had been arrested fifty times. It seemed such a desperate
case that I gave him the longest term allowed by the law. After he had
been in jail a few days, I discovered that his aged father and mother
were sick and helpless, and needed his support. I set aside the judgment
and allowed him his liberty upon the understanding that if he again
violated the law he would be required to serve out the remainder of the
term. He has since worked steadily and faithfully, although, when I went
into his home one day upon learning that he had met with an accident, I
found poverty and dirt enough to drive anybody to commit crime.

In addition to the support of the police officers, the plan of
releasing offenders on parole has had the influential backing of the
members of the bar, including the assistant State's attorney, and also
of the citizens of the district, who were practically unanimous in its
endorsement. The manager of a large department-store assured me that
shoplifting had practically ceased since a number of petty thieves had
been put on probation under maximum suspended sentences. It would be
impossible for me adequately to describe the gratifying surprises that
came almost daily in my experience with these supposedly irreclaimable
men and women. I found that they invariably grasped with desperate
eagerness at a chance to reform, and the joy which they exhibited at the
night sessions was oftentimes very pathetic. "We are happier than for
years," and "We're having our honeymoon over" were the reports made
again and again.

Intense gratitude to the law for giving them "another chance" was the
characteristic sentiment in nearly every case, and this feeling proved
more powerful in bringing about their reformation than the fear of

_The Story of Jim the Engineer_

One day I was hearing a robbery case, when Jim ---- entered and modestly
seated himself at the rear of the court-room. Jim was running a
locomotive on the Burlington Road, and although he had recently married,
was voluntarily laying off two days in the week in order that a
fellow-engineer, who had a family to support, might have a show during
the hard times. I motioned to my bailiff, and a minute later Jim was
seated beside me on the bench, listening to the evidence in the robbery
case. I well knew what was passing through his mind, for it was only ten
months before that he had stood before the same bar, charged with crime,
and it was then that he had promised me, whom he had never seen before,
that if I would give him "another chance" he would turn over a new leaf
and eschew crime and the society of criminals forever.

This resolution followed a brief talk in my chambers after his trial.
His record was not in his favor, and his picture hung in the rogues'
gallery. His brother was then serving time, and he had two sisters
dependent upon him for support. After I had briefly pointed out to him
the folly of such a life as he was then leading, he quietly remarked:
"No one ever talked to me that way before; my father is dead and my
mother is dead, and I haven't a friend in this town." "Well," I replied,
"you probably don't deserve one, the way you have lived, but if you will
cut out liquor and go to work" (he had not worked for four months) "and
take care of your sisters, you will have friends." He finally agreed
that he would do this. "Now," I said, "if you don't keep your promise to
me, you will get me into trouble with the officers." He said: "I will
show you I can make good." He could not get a bondsman, and I let him go
after he had signed his own bond.

He went to work at a dollar a day at the first place he struck, and his
wages have been raised four times. One day I had a letter from his
sister saying that he had met with an accident. As soon as I adjourned
court, I went to the hospital to see him. He said to me: "I will never
take chloroform again." I asked, "Why not, Jim?" and he replied: "During
this operation, while I was under the influence of chloroform, it seemed
to me as if I was going from one saloon to another, and they tell me I
didn't do a thing except holler for beer. You bet I will never touch
chloroform again." After five weeks in the hospital, Jim, thanks to his
fine constitution, pulled through, but the first day he went out on the
street he was "picked up" by a vigilant "plain-clothes" man on suspicion
of being implicated in a robbery, and spent several hours in jail. Truly
the way of the transgressor is hard--not only while he is a
transgressor, but for some time afterwards.

_Suspended Sentence versus the Gold Cure_

Prejudice against any new method, no matter how successful, was not the
only thing I had to contend with in carrying out my plan. Many members
of the medical profession assured me that a habitual drunkard could not
voluntarily leave liquor alone; that his stomach was in such a condition
from the use of alcohol that he must first be given medical treatment
before any hope of his reform could be entertained. "Gold Cure"
specialists haunted me day and night with offers of free treatment for
those on my parole list, all of which I respectfully declined for the
reason that several persons who had taken such "cures" without effect
had, under the influence of a suspended sentence, become entirely sober
and remained so. Many, in fact, were upon the verge of delirium tremens
when brought into court, but none were too far gone to be restored.

_The Effect on the Children_

The proper operation of adult probation will, in my judgment, abolish to
a considerable extent the necessity for the Juvenile Court, which has
become a new and efficient though expensive institution in a number of

Several months ago a man was brought into my court charged with
abandoning his family. I investigated and found that there were five
children; that a petition was pending in the Juvenile Court to take them
away from their mother and father; that the mother was a confirmed
drunkard, spending her time in saloons and dance-halls; and that the
father, although himself an habitual drunkard and loafer, refused to
associate longer with his wife or to live with her. I put them both upon
probation, giving them clearly to understand that a single infraction of
their promise meant six months in the Bridewell. The man went to work
and he is now making $13.50 a week. They have moved out of the basement
they occupied into a comfortable flat. The petition in the Juvenile
Court has been dismissed, and the children are clean and
wholesome-looking and go to school.

A few months ago the Chicago newspapers reported that the Juvenile Court
had taken six children from a filthy basement and had distributed them
among the charitable institutions. The report stated that their mother
was dead and that their drunken father had deserted them. I handed this
clipping to a police officer and asked him to bring the man in. The
officer found him in a saloon and made a complaint charging him with
disorderly conduct. I sent him to the Bridewell to sober up and receive
treatment for alcoholism, and after he had been there four weeks I set
aside the order and put him on parole upon his promise to stop drinking
and go to work. I told him that as soon as he satisfied me that he could
make good, I would ask Judge Tuthill of the Juvenile Court to restore
his children to him; and when I last heard from him he was hard at work,
keeping his promise and fixing up a home for his children.

_The Criminal's "Debt" to Society Overpaid_

That a suspended sentence should be of greater value in bringing about
the reformation of a criminal than a prison term is, I believe,
reasonable and logical. When the criminal has served his sentence, his
supposed debt to society is paid. If he commits another crime, he does
so with the chance, in his favor, of a possible acquittal, a "hung"
jury, a light sentence, or a reversal upon appeal. He is consequently
willing to take risks which he would not take were the consequences sure
and severe. The most important element in the defendant's reformation,
however, is his avoidance of the physical, mental, and moral injury
which he would suffer by serving his prison sentence. In these days,
when practically every applicant for a position must present references
of previous service, a prison term means ruin. If at the end of his term
he is reformed, his reformation is of no value in obtaining employment.
Prison sentences did not have this effect a hundred years ago, but times
have changed. Every released convict is a shrinking coward, fearful that
each person he meets knows his record. The new, plain suit of clothes he
is given upon leaving prison is worn only until he can find a secondhand
clothing store where it may be exchanged for something less good, but
clothed in which he will have a trifle less fear of identification. If
he succeeds in getting employment by changing his name and concealing
his past, he lives in mortal terror lest his deception be discovered.

It is a fundamental principle of the law that no man can be punished
more than once for the same offense. His "debt" to society is presumed
to be conclusively paid when his term of imprisonment expires; and yet
under present conditions his real punishment is then only beginning. I
have just finished reading a twenty-three-page letter from an
ex-convict, who eighteen years ago completed a seven months' term. He
tells in a simple and pathetic fashion of his efforts to escape from his
prison record, but time and time again, just as he had won the
confidence of his employer, some one happened along who "gave him away,"
and then he was obliged to move and try it again. Never, during all this
time, has he dared to attempt to vote, or take any part in public or
social affairs. Surely a fearful penance for one violation of the law,
especially when we know that thousands of wealthy and influential
lawbreakers are never punished!

If an ex-convict has a family, he returns from prison to find them
impoverished, shunned by their neighbors, his children scorned and
sneered at by their schoolmates--everything worse, more helpless, than
when he left them. All of this, and much more, is escaped by the man
under a suspended sentence; his capital is unimpaired, and by "making
good" his record will be cleared.

That many, perhaps a majority, of criminals can be wholly reformed
without imprisonment, through the means of a suspended maximum sentence,
with little or no expense to the State, I am satisfied beyond a doubt;
and this will be done when we can eliminate from the treatment of
criminals the desire for revenge and look only to the good of the
individual and of society.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "McClure's Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 3, July 1908." ***

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