■■:'' "■' i !■:■ 
 
 
PS 
 
 FL 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021801489 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
Gouverneur Morris in his study 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 GOUVERNEUR MORRIS 
 
 WITH PORTRAIT 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK ::::::::::::::::::::::: 1919 
 
 i!_ 
 
Copyright, 1908, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 ioioisS 
 
TO ELSIE 
 
 This ship of mine does not contain 
 The precious stuffs that others do; 
 
 But bears into the raging main 
 
 Assorted yarns, addressed to you. 
 
 Because, or course, fine, white or black. 
 Or skeined or tangled to undo, 
 
 You always buy, and send not back, 
 The yarns I always spin for you. 
 
 From day to day, from year to year, 
 In easy times or in duresse, 
 
 You buy my yarns, and buy them dear, 
 And pay for them in Loveliness. 
 
 A thousand times you've paid for all 
 That I have ever spun. And, in 
 
 Outpoured advances, bought the call 
 On all I ever hope to spin. 
 
 So men, of me, when I am not, 
 
 Shall say, if anything — "Here lies 
 
 A merchant, whose unusual lot 
 It was to trade in Paradise." 
 
 G. M. 
 
 Aiken, S. C. 
 
NOTE 
 
 Of the stories which compose this volume, "A Carolina 
 Night's Dream" and "The Execution" are printed for the first 
 time. For permission to use most of the others, I thank the 
 editor of COLLIER'S WEEKLY. And I am indebted to the 
 CENTURY MAGAZINE for the loan of " Captain England," and 
 to Transatlantic Tales for the loan of "The Best Man" 
 
 (formerly " Burnt Bridges "). I should have said, perhaps, that 
 I heartily thank them all. And as heartily hope to be indebted 
 to them. 
 
 G. M. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Footprint 3 
 
 II. Paradise Ranch 51 
 
 III. Captain England 85 
 
 IV. The Execution 123 
 
 V. Simon L'Ouvrier 147 
 
 VI. A Carolina Night's Dream .... 173 
 
 VII. The Stowing Away of Mr. Bill Ballad 193 
 
 VIII. The Explorers 219 
 
 IX. The Little Heiress; or the Hunted Look 237 
 
 X. The Best Man 271 
 
 XI. The Crocodile 305 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 BETWEEN TWO BAYS 
 
 We were waiting for the tide to ebb before resuming 
 work on the schooner's bottom. There was nothing the 
 matter with her planks; but she had become so foul 
 by months of cruising in the warm, fertile waters of the 
 Gulf of California that she could not come about in 
 anything less than a whole-sail breeze. From the water- 
 line down she had grown a yard-long beard of sea-greens 
 that must have weighed several tons. This growth, 
 teeming with marine life — diminutive abalones, crabs, 
 spiders, baby squids, and enormous barnacles that 
 looked like extinct volcanoes filled with marrow — made 
 the work of cleaning her difficult and repulsive. With 
 the least exposure to the tropic sun she stank like a 
 rotten fish; the weeds clung to her planks as hair clings 
 to the head, and we were forever slicing our hands and 
 forearms on the barnacles. We had warped her into 
 
 3 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 one of two small shallow bays, divided from each other 
 by a high promontory of drifted sand; and as the tide 
 receded, and left her drying and stinking, we worked 
 against time and a slender larder to get her clean. When 
 the unfinished work had been covered by the rising 
 tide, and further barbering become impossible, we 
 would retire to the sands that divided the two bays, to 
 grumble and to smoke. 
 
 The sand of which the promontory was composed, 
 though dry as dust, had a kind of inherent cohesiveness 
 that caused it to maintain itself in hillocks and pinnacles 
 and curious monumental forms, among which it was 
 possible to find shade. Our favorite place to smoke 
 and grumble was a hollow, round like a bird's nest, 
 with one beetling elevation of sand to the west of it and 
 another to the east. Except at high noon there was 
 always shade in the hollow, and sometimes a kind of 
 draught (less than the least breeze) was imagined to pass 
 over it. Looking south or north from this nest the 
 views were very much the same, except that in the fore- 
 ground, or forewater of the south exposure, was the 
 grounded schooner and the schooner's boat moored to 
 the beach by a staked oar. To the eyes of instruments 
 there may have been a calculable difference between 
 the two bays of which we had the prospect, but to the 
 human eye there was none; nor was there between the 
 white desert shores, blotched with pale-blue shadows, 
 
 4 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 that semicircled them. The two bays were like the 
 upper-half of a vast pair of blue spectacles, of which the 
 promontory dividing them was the nosepiece; the semi- 
 circling beaches, the silver rims; the blue shadows, 
 tarnishes. It was a prospect with which one soon sick- 
 ened and soon grew angry. Of vegetation there was 
 not so much as one dead stem. 
 
 During our periods of enforced idleness the prevail- 
 ing atmosphere was one of pessimism. Our expedi- 
 tion had been a failure from the beginning. We 
 were even ashamed to recall what we had once 
 conceived to be its purpose. We said only: "Let 
 us once get back to San Francisco and somebody 
 will smart for his smartness." We had long since 
 consigned the map, with its alluring directions in 
 red ink, its infinity of plausible detail, and its gen- 
 eral and particular verisimilitude, to the reddest devils 
 of the deep sea. "Let Arundel get the rubies him- 
 self," we said. " Rubies— hell I " 
 
 There were five of us : four young fools, Crisp, Hawes, 
 Meff and myself, and Morgridge, who was an old fool. 
 We formed, together with Arundel, sick in a San Fran- 
 cisco hospital with tuberculosis of the bone (and lucky 
 to be so well off, we thought), a stock company with a 
 jointly paid-in capital of twenty-five hundred dollars. 
 The company had paid Arundel two hundred dollars 
 for his map, chartered the schooner (renamed her 
 
 5 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 the Rvhy), found her in water, provisions, and firearms, 
 and, with Morgridge in command, set sail for the Gulf 
 of California. 
 
 Arrived without mishap in those sharky, blistering 
 waters, we cruised week after week, month after month, 
 seeking the key to Arundel's map. "I can only tell 
 you," he had said, "that there are two bays, very much 
 alike, separated by high sand-dunes. The bay to the 
 north is marked, where it bites deepest into the desert, 
 by a kind of granite monolith that you can see for miles. 
 It must be fifty feet high, and looks like an obelisk in 
 the making. The trail starts a little to the north of 
 this, and then you can apply the map, and it will tell 
 you more than I can." 
 
 We happened to be seated, grumbling and smoking, 
 between two such bays as Arundel had described. But 
 they were not the first pair we had found, nor the 
 second. The whole coast was pitted with semicircular 
 bays, and it had been no great trick to discover pair 
 after pair as like as the eyes in a man's head. The 
 trick was to find one single, solitary needle of granite. 
 And in that we had dismally failed. Indeed, in the 
 course of a hundred landings at various points we had 
 not found so much as one pebble bigger than a robin's 
 egg. There was nothing but sand; there wasn't even 
 sandstone. The only big, hard things were abalone 
 shells that had been washed ashore. To have continued 
 
 6 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 so long to hunt for a granite monolith in a region 
 which emphatically denied the possibility of its con- 
 taining one was a reflection upon the intelligence of 
 all concerned. 
 
 Morgridge, who was near-sighted and never without 
 his binoculars, lay on his belly and elbows, listlessly fol- 
 lowing the gambols of a porpoise-school in the waters 
 of the northern bay. He remarked that the sight cooled 
 him. Meff, with his eye on the tide, said that he was 
 sorry to say we could get back to work in about twenty 
 minutes; Hawes and Crisp were quarrelling desultorily 
 over a game of piquet, in which was involved the filthiest, 
 most dog's-eared pack of cards I ever saw. "I said 
 you had point," said Crisp; "shut up and go on." 
 "Tierce to the king, twice," said Hawes, not with any 
 great hope. "You saw the discard," said Crisp, "I 
 only took one card; you must know that I've got the 
 knave quint in diamonds. It's awfully damn dull play- 
 ing with you. I have to tell you everything." "Yes, 
 you're the whole show," said Hawes. "Everybody 
 knows that." The voices of the two, if sarcastic, were 
 listless, and neither seemed capable of raising more than 
 a shadow of resentment in the other. "Lead, fool," 
 said Hawes quietly. "Twenty-one, Pinhead," retorted 
 Crisp, and he led with the king of spades. 
 
 "Boys," said Morgridge suddenly, " there s a junk 
 heading into the bay." 
 
 7 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 II 
 THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW UMBRELLA 
 
 The waters of the Gulf of California are rarely sailed; 
 the shores more rarely tramped. Of the region's 
 shadows no one is cast by the hand of the law. Diogenes 
 would find there no honest face in which to shine his 
 lantern. There men with itching palms, and pasts that 
 clamor of unsuccess, voyage now and then in ill-formed 
 craft, drawn by rumors. To some the inland mountains 
 have yielded metals; now and then a lucky crew are 
 enticed along a wake of ambrosial sweetness, to find 
 in the waters a lump of ambergris that floats in the rain- 
 bow colors of its self-exuded oil, and is more precious 
 than gold. From beneath the waters now and then are 
 fished up bright and heavy pearls, orient, and abalone. 
 But of the crews that go there is one that comes back 
 with treasure, the mother of rumors, there are two that 
 come back with nothing but scurvy, and there are seven 
 that do not come back at all. 
 
 Only Chinamen, light of appetite and clean to the last 
 nail, can long endure the climate, and only the Chinese 
 expeditions strike an average of success. But in those 
 unpoliced waters a junk of Chinamen is a thing for 
 white men to avoid. It is a devil, sea-buffeting, and, 
 before the wind, swift. It is filled with cheap lives, it 
 
 8 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 is full of greed, full of rifles, and formidable in patience 
 and surprise. 
 
 That the crew of the junk now rounding the northern 
 horn of the northern bay, perhaps a half-mile distant, 
 would not soon discover us among the shadows and 
 hollows of the dunes, was probable; and, of course, the 
 schooner was completely screened from the most alert 
 eye by the whole mass of the promontory which divided 
 one bay from the other. But it was also probable that 
 in the course of time the junk would round that screen 
 and become unpreventably interested in our private 
 affairs: interested surely, and perhaps involved. For 
 if the junk's captain thought that we had anything that 
 he wanted, he would try to take it. But not at once. 
 
 There would pass between the junk and the schooner 
 very ceremonious and courteous greetings, and the junk 
 would lumber away as if intent upon some far-off 
 destiny. But she would not go very far; just out of 
 sight around the next corner, and she would come back; 
 not the same night, when all of us would be watching, 
 nor the night after, when half of us would be still nervous 
 enough to keep awake, but later by several nights, and 
 at her own well-chosen and sudden time. She had 
 a crew, probably of at least twenty-five, with a rifle, 
 knife, and revolver apiece; she had a little machine- 
 gun, probably. Surely she had no morals. 
 
 To the naked eye the junk presented little but a 
 
 9 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 color scheme, and it needed a turn at the binoculars to 
 see faces and details. The color scheme, like that of 
 all junks, was a sincere if misguided effort to achieve 
 the beautiful. Her body was painted indigo blue; the 
 square sail by which she was drawn slowly into the 
 bay was pure vermilion. And aft some one had spread, 
 to keep off the sun, a bright yellow umbrella. 
 
 From a brazier in the bow of the junk rose a tottering 
 thread of bluish smoke, and beside the brazier (all this 
 through the glass) stood a lofty Chinaman. He was 
 nearly naked, and absolutely expressionless; a splendid- 
 ly moulded, utterly lifeless statue of brownish-yellow 
 clay. An enormous brass cymbal dangled by a thong 
 from each of his wrists. The inanimate cymbals were 
 the only things about him that moved. Amidships was 
 a circle of half-naked men, squatting, gesticulating, and 
 articulating, who seemed intent upon something in their 
 midst. We hazarded that it was a game of fan-tan. 
 In the stern, only a little less statuesque (because of 
 more drapery) than the man in the bow, stood the helms- 
 man, his hands clasped about the grip of a twelve-foot 
 indigo oar, whose blade, half immersed, followed in the 
 junk's wake like the dorsal fin of a shark. A little in 
 front, and to one side of the helmsman, was spread the 
 yellow umbrella. Under it was seated, cross-legged, a 
 Chinaman, mountainous with robes and fat. He was 
 more than a detail and, except for his umbrella, less 
 
 10 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 than a complete tone of the junk's color scheme. His 
 voluminous robes, mauvely and greenly brocaded with 
 indistinguishable patterns, were of the richest and dark- 
 est blue imaginable. He exuded an atmosphere of 
 ruches. You knew at once that he was many times a 
 millionaire. You knew, too, that he had lived well, and 
 revolved among pleasant episodes and people. There 
 was an expression upon his face that I have never 
 before seen upon the face of an Oriental — jollity. 
 Through the glass we could see that from time to time 
 he smiled, a broad appreciative smile, begotten doubt- 
 less of some sudden, transient thought. And whenever 
 he smiled he twirled the handle of the yellow umbrella 
 with his fat fingers. On his head was a little blue cap 
 terminated by a large green button. Occasionally he 
 fanned himself with a little round fan. 
 
 The junk's course was a long curve, parallel to that 
 of the shore, and as close to it as the shelving nature of 
 the beach would safely allow. As she was steered more 
 and more to the starboard her big vermilion sail began 
 to shut off our view of the stern and to cast its shadow 
 over the fan-tan players. The helmsman and the man 
 with the yellow umbrella disappeared, and as the junk 
 veered more and more a funny fat little vermilion 
 dinghy came into sight, trailed by a rope off her port 
 quarter. The breeze had now sunk to a series of mild, 
 unconnected puffs, and the junk's progress was very 
 
 11 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 slow. She had covered half of the bay's curve, and 
 was distant from us perhaps a quarter of a mile, when 
 suddenly the man in the bow raised his cymbals and 
 brought them together. As the cymbals separated for 
 a second stroke, the clanging, brassy crash of the first 
 concussion reached our ears; and with it a chorus of 
 piercing minor falsetto notes from the fan-tan players, 
 who had risen to their feet. 
 
 The junk swung more and more, and the yellow um- 
 brella began to detach itself from the lower port corner 
 of the vermilion sail. Two men ran forward to the 
 anchor, and as the junk came into the wind and to the 
 end of her momentum let it go with a fine splash. The 
 junk's stern now faced the shore, and the man with 
 the yellow umbrella rose and waddled to the rail. The 
 little round fan disappeared up one of his voluminous 
 sleeves, and from the same receptacle he drew what 
 appeared to be a double-ended purse, well filled. This 
 he flung into the water — a golden sacrifice, we learned 
 later, to the gods who had given him leave to pass across 
 their sea. Then he waddled forward, and, seating him- 
 self on the rail, swung his legs and the skirt of his robe 
 outboard, dropped heavily into the dinghy, and precipi- 
 tately seated himself. He was followed by the junk's 
 helmsman, who, having cast loose, dipped with a long 
 paddle, and directed the overladen craft toward the 
 shore. The clashing of the cymbals and the chorus of 
 
 12 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 falsetto wails, which had never ceased, now redoubled 
 in ardor and tempo, and as suddenly stopped when the 
 dinghy bumped against the beach, and the man with 
 the yellow umbrella clambered heavily over her bow and 
 stood upon the shore. 
 
 He turned and watched the greatly lightened dinghy 
 as she returned, powerfully driven, to the junk, and was 
 swung aboard. He stood, a rotund, mauve, and blue 
 glory under his yellow umbrella, and watched the lower- 
 ing of the junk's sail. He did not move a muscle, only 
 when the junk's anchor was raised and she, under the 
 impulse of long sweeps that appeared mysteriously from 
 her sides, began to crawl forward like a huge blue spider 
 with legs, and turning to return upon her course, he 
 produced his little round fan and fanned himself. But 
 until the junk disappeared behind the northern horn of 
 the bay he did not make any other motion, or take his 
 eyes from her. 
 
 Then, however, he pivoted heavily and, waddling 
 in a slow but determined manner, crossed the beach, 
 his gorgeous brocades blazing and sparkling in the 
 sun as their folds and surfaces shifted and rippled 
 with his motion, and his right hand working the 
 little round fan, and his left supporting the yellow 
 umbrella, he began to mount, slow and determined, 
 the tumbling desert dunes of sand that stood behind 
 the beach. Up these and into them bobbed the yellow 
 
 13 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 umbrella until, after one last bobbing, it disappeared 
 from view. 
 
 "I'm going to find out where he's going," said Mor- 
 gridge. 
 
 We fetched our rifles from the schooner and, reclimb- 
 ing the promontory, in a body descended to the beach 
 on the other side, and followed it to the point where its 
 smooth surface was broken at right angles by the deeply 
 marked footprints of the fat Chinaman. 
 
 Ill 
 
 RENEWED FAITH 
 
 We followed the track up into the dunes, with Mor- 
 gridge leading by twenty feet and Hawes bringing up 
 the rear. Meff and I, making jocular efforts to bur- 
 row aids to ascending locomotion from each other, 
 "scrapped" along in the middle. I had hooked a sur- 
 reptitious finger into Meff's belt, and thereby lightened 
 myself during one entire step, when (it was just as Meff 
 secured his release by planting an elbow in the pit of 
 my stomach) suddenly Morgridge, who had reached to 
 the higher levels of the dunes, ejaculated sharply and 
 sprang out of sight. We scrambled briskly, all four 
 of us, to be in the know, and found him, his thumbs in 
 his armpits, a smile on his face (a jocosely assumed 
 
 14 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 attitude of low comedy), and his right foot planted high 
 upon the curve of a gigantic weather-worn pillar of 
 granite that lay in and out of the sand. 
 
 "Morgridge," said he, "that great leader in the act of 
 discovering Arundel's landmark, and proving to a 
 sceptical world that Arundel was not a liar. My God I 
 boys," he cried, his expression shifting from one of low 
 comedy to one of uncontainable greed and excitement. 
 "My God! boys, we've as good as got 'em." 
 
 "The damn thing," said Crisp, "has fallen down, 
 and that's why we couldn't see it. Kick it; somebody 
 with stout shoes." 
 
 "Don't kick it," said Meff, "it's a good landmark to 
 get itself found." He stooped and patted the monolith 
 as one pats a good dog. 
 
 "Now this is where it stood," said Morgridge, "and 
 Arundel's map says the course is due east from the 
 pedestal. 
 
 "Direction due east," said Hawes, "and distance 
 forty miles." 
 
 Attached to my watch-guard was a very accurate 
 little compass set in striped tiger's eyes, a boyhood relic 
 from Petoskey, Michigan. I looked from this to the 
 tracks made by the fat Chinaman, and found that, 
 having approached the fallen monolith from a little 
 south of west, he had, on reaching its former base, 
 veered a little and pointed his steps due east. Running 
 
 15 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 my eyes along the line indicated, I had presently a 
 glimpse, very far off, of the yellow umbrella bobbing 
 deeper and deeper into the arid, scorching desert. 
 
 "Surely," I said, "our fat friend is going where we 
 are going, but he won't do any forty miles in one clip. 
 There must be stopping-places that Arundel missed." 
 
 "I believe you," said Morgridge. "We've only to 
 follow the yellow umbrella." 
 
 "And when night comes?" objected Crisp. 
 
 "Stars," said Hawes, "stars enough to find this 
 trail." 
 
 We laughed, because the very depth of the fat China- 
 man's footprints recalled his humorous rotundity and 
 the waddling, self-satisfied dignity of his gait. 
 
 "He will know where to find food and water," said 
 Morgridge. 
 
 "Seriously, though," said Meff, "is it possible that 
 he should really be entering upon a forty-mile walk in 
 this heat — at his size?" 
 
 "Come along," said Morgridge. 
 
 "His food shall be my food," said Meff; "where he 
 rests will I rest, his drink shall be my drink, and bis 
 rubies " 
 
 "Shall be divided by lot," said Crisp. 
 
 We took up the trail, floundering heavily, and making 
 slow way of it. We were unused to walking; the at- 
 mosphere at the surface of the desert fumed and gyrated 
 
 16 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 in the heat. The sun, now west of the zenith, lay upon 
 the back like a garment of fire. Our sweat laved the 
 unfertile sand. We had not, after the first quarter of a 
 mile, a single joke or happy thought left among us. 
 
 At first we gained upon the yellow umbrella, and had 
 the fat Chinaman looked over his shoulder there were 
 times when he must have seen us; but he was intent 
 upon his journey, and waddled eastward at a rate which 
 was unpleasant to equal, and so difficult to exceed that 
 we were soon content not to. 
 
 He preceded us by half a mile; in that atmosphere it 
 had the effect of less; and he never swerved from his 
 course, nor glanced to the right or the left. If my 
 sweat-stung eyes had been keen for beauty, I should 
 have admired inordinately the gorgeousness of color 
 made against the silver desert by the blue robes and 
 yellow umbrella of our celestial friend. But I was 
 beneath admiring, and noticed only, and I do not know 
 why, that, as the sun descended lower from the zenith, 
 the umbrella was tilted further and further to interrupt 
 its scorching rays, so that first the Chinaman's head 
 disappeared behind its lower rim, then his shoulders, 
 and then his trunk to the waist. 
 
 Thus passed a number of hours, but not the limits 
 of that fat Chinaman's endurance and patience. 
 Momentarily I expected to see the yellow umbrella turn 
 to right or left and halt at some cache of water and 
 
 17 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 food. But we were destined to enjoy no such blessed 
 nepenthe that day. 
 
 Serenely and indomitably bobbed the yellow um- 
 brella, carrying its oval of shadow over innumerable 
 desert miles. From a slender crescent it became a full 
 orbit that flamed in the rays of the setting sun. 
 
 "We must get nearer before dark," said Morgridge, 
 and he set up a herculean example of progress. But 
 the fat Chinaman, whom we had laughed at for his 
 labored waddling, began now to stand in our jaded 
 minds for the very acme and poetry of motion. By 
 dusk we respected him; but by dark, though we had 
 gained a quarter of a mile and wished ourselves dead, 
 we pronounced him, petticoats and fat considered, the 
 most wonderful walker that the world had ever known. 
 
 At dark he lowered his umbrella, and for a time we 
 lost sight of him. But as the stars brightened we could 
 follow his deep steps, and had presently a sight of him, 
 his robes silvery in the starlight, and perceived that he 
 had faced about and was coming toward us. 
 
 Breathing quickly, but utterly fearless, he waddled 
 into our midst. 
 
 "I come all the way back," he said, "to say I go 
 altogether forty miles without no stop. I think it very 
 fine courteous action to take all this trouble for strange 
 gentlemen. You like to come all the way, I say nothing, 
 none of my damn business. Only stop to tell you very 
 
 18 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 far away, all the way nasty sand. I very fine rich China 
 merchant, and know how to give very fine courteous 
 advices. You rest little while and go back. I go on 
 now, and wish you very fine pleasant evening and return 
 journey." 
 
 He turned and waddled away. 
 
 "Hold on," said Morgridge, "we're going with you." 
 
 The fat Chinaman paused and considered. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "we all travel together, more 
 or less pleasant way to travel. Only I very clever, 
 experienced fine traveller, and not put up with 
 no complaints and damn swearing Like pleas- 
 ant conversation and all good friends. We go 
 along two miles in an hour, and by and by finish 
 journey. You walk along by me" — he pointed to 
 me with his fat finger. "You got very fine respect- 
 able face." 
 
 "My friends," I said with a bow, "have not had my 
 advantages." 
 
 "Rascals?" asked the fat Chinaman. "Introduce 
 their names." 
 
 I presented the four, and said my own name. 
 
 "My name Sang Ti — very fine, revered, damn name," 
 said the merchant. "But like fine poet says of time, 
 'she flies.'" 
 
 I walked forward beside him, not knowing whether 
 to laugh at the jovial absurdity of the gentleman who 
 
 19 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 had given me a character, or to cry because his indefati- 
 gable waddle was so hard to breast. 
 
 "You sweat much ?" he asked in a friendly, interested 
 tone. 
 
 IV 
 
 SANG TI 
 
 "Do you often go where you are going?" I asked. 
 
 ' ' Go now for first time," said Sang Ti. " Chen Chan 
 very fine old sacred holy place to end days in." 
 
 "You don't expect to end your days at Ch — Chen — 
 Chan?" I asked. "Do you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, before long. You see, I am dedicate from 
 little boy to the High Gods. I am requested to have 
 very fine high successful happy life, through intercession 
 of parents and promises to the High Gods. All is ac- 
 complish. I go high up; lead a very fine benevolent 
 life; accumulate very large fortune; do everything just 
 right; and now must pay up promises made for me to 
 the High Gods by parents." 
 
 The moon had risen, and the desert was as if flooded 
 with quicksilver and ink. Sang Ti turned his fat, jolly 
 face, beaded with sweat, and beamed at me. He thrust 
 a hand under the silk cord that girdled him at the waist. 
 
 "On forty-fifth day of birth," he said, "I hand over 
 this cord to priest of the High Gods; and he hand over 
 
 20 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 to me to hold the ruby box and holy shark tooth; and 
 I think a little while of the insignificance of life, and am 
 soon strangled by priest. Then I have paid up." 
 
 "Do you mean to say," I exclaimed, "that you are 
 taking all this trouble to get yourself strangled?" 
 
 "The promises of parents," said he, "now dead, is 
 very fine holy sort of thing, not to be broken. I will 
 arrange to have you and your friends see the strangling. 
 It will be very interesting, dignified occurrence." 
 
 Though Sang Ti enjoyed, for a Chinaman, a very 
 large command of the English language, I was conclud- 
 ing that he either could not possibly know what he was 
 talking about, or that he was making an elaborate effort 
 to "string" me, when, with the tail of my eye, I caught 
 him in the act of feeling his throat, very tenderly, with 
 a fat thumb and forefinger. His face for the moment 
 wore an expression of wonder mixed with panic. But 
 in a moment it passed, and with a sudden laugh he 
 lowered his hand. 
 
 "You are considering me very practical joker," he 
 said, " but I give you very honest man's word that being 
 strangled at forty-five is very damn miserable joke. I 
 am, however, a very fine philosopher." 
 
 "What's the holy shark tooth?" I asked. 
 
 "Him not too good to touch," said Sang Ti. "He 
 take care of ruby box." 
 
 We labored on in silence, and the moon sailed higher 
 21 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 and higher in the heavens. A faint, hot breeze arose 
 and blew in our faces. 
 
 "The night 1 ' said Sang Ti, "is a Nubian empress; 
 her robes are sewed with diamonds; the moon is a gong 
 of silver; the sand is the ashes of broken words/' 
 
 "Are you making that up, or translating?'' I asked. 
 
 "The wind, : he said, "is some very fine high god 
 sighing. I fancy Liang Tsang." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "Liang Tsang a yellow elephant by daylight, but by 
 night-time a very potent, strong god that blows around 
 the world. He a breeze when he sigh, and a wind when 
 he groan." 
 
 "Isn't he happy?" I asked. "Why does he sigh 
 and groan?" 
 
 "Because he an exile. He can blow everywhere but 
 not over China. But when the end of the world ap- 
 proaches it is promised him that for one day in the spring 
 of year he shall be a violet, with roots in fertile soil of 
 Shan-tung. It a saying of us, 'Keep your promises, 
 for the day approaches when Liang Tsang shall be a 
 violet in the fields of Shan-tung, and the perverted shall 
 be divided among a thousand thousand hells.'" 
 
 "Does your creed embrace so many hells?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said simply, "or what could be done 
 with all Caucasian and European races? In China- 
 
 22 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 man's creed there is very satisfactory place provided 
 for everybody." 
 
 "The policy of the open door?" I suggested. 
 
 "Open to go in," he said, "and shut to go out." 
 
 I looked over my shoulder and saw that our company 
 had begun to straggle badly. Only Meff and Morgridge 
 were in easy speaking distance; Crisp was two hundred 
 yards behind them, and another hundred yards sep- 
 arated Hawes and Crisp. As I looked, Morgridge 
 called to me to stop. 
 
 He came up, followed by Meff, exhausted, angry, and 
 completely blown. 
 
 "This not a proper time to stop," said Sang Ti. 
 " I tell you before, too long a walk for you gentlemen. 
 I see at once you not well bred for travelling. With me 
 it very different matter. I come of very fine old stock; 
 I am descended in straight recorded line from a camel 
 and a shark. Must get a long way before morning; 
 cooler now." 
 
 "We'll halt now," said Morgridge in an arrant, angry, 
 bullying voice. "See ? " 
 
 "I got no time," said Sang Ti. "You not able to 
 come, I go alone, wishing you first very pleasant halt 
 and subsequent journey." 
 
 "No you don't," said Morgridge, "you don't lose 
 this crowd — not in this desert. You'll rest, yourself, till 
 we're ready to go on." 
 
 23 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 Sang Ti stood his umbrella Into the sand, and turned 
 back the borders of his sleeves. 
 
 "You," he said to Morgridge, "are very uncivil, lazy, 
 selfish damn rascal, and you, too." 
 
 He stood between Morgridge and Meff, looking 
 quickly from one to the other. 
 
 "You interfere with Chinese gentleman, he teach you 
 more respectable damn manners." So saying, and just 
 as Crisp was coming up, he seized Morgridge and Meff 
 by the backs of their necks and began to knock their 
 heads together. He finished the lesson of courtesy by 
 suddenly jerking in opposite directions and letting go. 
 Meff fell in his tracks, but Morgridge, dropping his 
 rifle, staggered for a long distance before he came to 
 ground. 
 
 With a silvery laugh Sang Ti regained his umbrella 
 and waddled away. 
 
 "I'll kill the dog," yelled Morgridge, springing with 
 blazing eyes for the rifle which had been shaken from 
 his hand. 
 
 "No," said Crisp. And as Morgridge sprang for the 
 rifle he hooked his foot and threw him heavily. Then 
 he sat on him. 
 
 Morgridge, with all the strength thrashed and pressed 
 out of him, could only wriggle and swear obscurely in a 
 whining voice. He was on the verge of tears. 
 
 I am far from suspecting Sang Ti of the fear of death, 
 24 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 but he reserved to himself the choice of its manner, and 
 had dropped in conversation the hint that he was very 
 earnest to be strangled. Anyway, though the desert 
 was flooded with light from the setting moon, he disap- 
 peared from view in a wonderfully short time; and we 
 (who were five fools) slept in our tracks while the night 
 waned, and woke to see the dawn stream up behind the 
 eastern rim of the desert like a conflagration. 
 
 I shall not soon forget the horrible march that then 
 began, straight into the molten furnace eye of the sun. 
 Whatever of moisture was in us was sucked out through 
 the pores of our scorching hides and turned into dust. 
 We felt ourselves grow light. All the constituents which 
 had made human beings of us began to diminish except 
 two: pain swelled in our brains, and in our mouths, our 
 tongues. The heat that we had endured on the coast 
 was temperate compared to the blasts of that inland desert. 
 
 We would have laid down and died, or some of us 
 would (Meff was forever suggesting it) if very early in the 
 morning we had not been led by the Chinaman's tracks to 
 the top of a long rise, from which could be seen, far in the 
 distance, what looked like purple feathers stuck into the 
 sand on the further length of apiece of broken mirror, and 
 which we knew to be trees growing by a lake. Indeed, 
 specks of scarlet gleamed among the feathers, and we 
 guessed that they were roofs upon the habitations of men. 
 
 Forward we went, and downward for an hour, and 
 25 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 then upward, until once more we could see the trees 
 and the lake and the roofs. But they seemed no nearer 
 than before. And all day it was so. 
 
 We began what was to be our last, long ascent. Dur- 
 ing it the sun sank so low that our shadows reached the 
 top an hour before our bodies. But the trees then and 
 the lake had been drawn wonderfully nearer. 
 
 At our feet was spread the lake, shaped roughly like 
 a vast human foot, and beyond it among the trees we 
 could see pagoda-shaped buildings and, going and 
 coming, long-robed Chinamen, and little children and 
 dogs. We could hear the dogs. And as the dusk deep- 
 ened, braziers began to twinkle palely here and there. 
 
 It was dark when we reached the lake, and, casting 
 aside our weapons and watches, plunged into it, and 
 felt the water rush in through our pores and begin to 
 rebuild our wasted tissues and make rounded men of 
 us once more. After a while, chin-deep immersed in 
 deliciousness, with the rapture of hooked fish that have 
 been returned to their element, we began to drink. 
 
 CHEN CHAN 
 
 We walked, dripping, around the end of the lake, and 
 in close order, with weapons handy, for we did not know 
 what reception to expect, passed down an avenue of 
 
 26 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 ragged travellers' palms, and reached the first house of 
 the single-streeted settlement. In the doorway of the 
 house, smoking a long thick-stemmed pipe, sat Sang Ti. 
 The water still running from our clothes, we drew up 
 before him. 
 
 "Everybody gone to bed except me," was his greeting. 
 " I of opinion that life too short now for sleep. Now sup- 
 pose you look about a bit, and go back home. Priest say 
 this very unhealthy place for white men . Only other white 
 visitor name Arundel; some low damn thieving rascal. 
 Priest say, if you come up, to say better go way again." 
 
 "How many people live here?" asked Morgridge in 
 a voice which he strove to make civil. 
 
 "Maybe about thirty," said Sang Ti. 
 
 "Thirty men?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, no," he said, "all kinds." 
 
 "You see," I said, "we couldn't go back right off. 
 We couldn't walk a mile more to save our souls. We'll 
 have to rest a bit." 
 
 "Priest not like that," said Sang Ti; "but never 
 mind. Suppose all stay except that old rascal." He 
 indicated Morgridge with his pipe stem. 
 
 "I guess we'll all stay," said Crisp firmly. 
 
 "All that contrary to rules," objected Sang Ti. " But 
 all same contrary to rules to use force; so what can do ? 
 Why you come, anyhow? Maybe you come to steal 
 very fine High God's ruby box?" 
 
 27 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 His eyes twinkled from one guilt-confessing face to 
 the next, and he chuckled. 
 
 "Suppose, yes," he said, "and suppose you make 
 off with ruby box, and suppose you go a little 
 way and that uncivil rascal" — again he pointed to 
 Morgridge — "feel sudden pain and die, and then that 
 man " 
 
 "My name is Crisp," said Crisp. 
 
 "Suppose then that man Crisp feel sudden pain and 
 die, and so on. You think not very nice ? Ruby box 
 have live in Chen Chan for maybe two thousand years. 
 Chen Chan oldest settlement in America. Very High 
 God Liang Tsang cross desert one time, and have to put 
 foot down once. That make very fine lake. All same 
 time he drop ruby box and holy shark's tooth, and pretty 
 soon he cross ocean, and see junk of China fisher- 
 men. And he blow into junk's sail, and she go 
 ashore and break to pieces; and all the China fisher- 
 men and wives crosses desert, and stops at lake and 
 builds temple for ruby box and shark's tooth, and 
 then makes one man priest, and builds little holy 
 village and call her Chen Chan. That mean in Eng- 
 lish 'The Footprint.'" 
 
 "Do many people come here?" I asked. 
 
 "Arundel," said he, "and he get away. That be- 
 cause he drop ruby box. Others have come never get 
 away. First come Mexicans, five hundred years ago; 
 
 28 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 then some Spanish men, and then Arundel, and then 
 you. And I tell you better go back, and leave very 
 High Holy God's ruby box alone." 
 
 "Could we go to-morrow ?" I asked. "We've got to 
 have food and rest." 
 
 "Well, suppose you stop in house" — he pointed into 
 the dark doorway — "and not disturb meditation any 
 longer. Maybe you find some food," he went on. 
 "And by and by, in the morning, you go away." 
 
 "Couldn't we wait till night?" I asked. "It's cooler 
 going at night." 
 
 " I tell you," he said, "you wait till after strangulation, 
 which takes place ten o'clock sharp. Then you go." 
 
 "If you are going to be strangled to-morrow," I said, 
 "you are the calmest-minded man in this world." 
 
 "Between you and me," he said, "I think one very 
 damn miserable business; but parents make promise, 
 and what can do?" 
 
 He made himself as small as he could in the doorway, 
 so that we could squeeze past him into the dark house. 
 It had but one room; and by good luck and much feeling 
 we found in one corner a vast bowl of cold-boiled rice. 
 Crisp dragged it into the middle of the room, and, dip- 
 ping with our hands, we gorged ourselves, and one by 
 one toppled over and slept. 
 
 I was wakened by Crisp. It was broad daylight. 
 
 "What," said Crisp, "is all this talk about strangling? 
 29 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 Is he using a word that he thinks means something else ? 
 I've been having dreams about it all night." 
 
 "The whole thing's like a dream," I said; "but I 
 believe, as I believe in — well, in hell — that Sang Ti 
 expects to be put to death this morning. What time 
 is it?" 
 
 "Nine o'clock," said Crisp. We waked the others, 
 and among us finished the boiled rice. We had scarcely 
 done so when, from outside, came suddenly the sound 
 of persistent pounding on a brass gong. 
 
 We crowded out of the house to find the twenty-five 
 or thirty inhabitants of the village — men, women, and 
 children — in a group in the street, intent upon some- 
 thing that was approaching from its further end. We 
 stood aloof from the little crowd, who, if they were aware 
 of our presence, gave no sign, and craned our necks, to 
 see what was coming. 
 
 It was Sang Ti, waddling along under his yellow um- 
 brella and fanning himself. Behind him followed an 
 emaciated Chinaman in flowing gray silk. It was the 
 latter who was pounding on the gong. 
 
 As the procession passed the inhabitants of the village, 
 all the inhabitants turned as if on one pivot to follow it. 
 And a moment later our heads turned in the same way. 
 
 Sang Ti, with a jolly, contented expression, and 
 looking neither to the right nor the left, having reached 
 a point a little beyond where we were standing, turned 
 
 30 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 and came back, always followed by the man in gray with 
 the persistently pounded gong. This passage of the 
 two up and down the village street was repeated many 
 times without variation. But it was not till the third 
 trip that we noticed anything further about the man in 
 gray. Then we noticed, all of us at the same moment, 
 that his little green cap suddenly loosened about his 
 head, rose, perhaps half an inch, made a fraction of a 
 revolution, and settled back. 
 
 Hitherto the procession had struck me as grotesque if 
 not precisely humorous, believing, as I did, that Sang 
 Ti's contented expression was muscular and not mental, 
 but the sudden moving, without apparent agency, of 
 the green cap, was horrible. It gave me the idea, I do 
 not know why, that the cap concealed something that 
 was alive and unclean. 
 
 The procession and the gong-beating was continued 
 until nearly ten o'clock. Then, as Sang Ti made his 
 usual turn just below where we were standing, the gong 
 ceased and was followed by a silence peculiarly ac- 
 cented. Sang Ti passed up the street, followed by the 
 man in gray, whose cap suddenly moved again, and by 
 the whole population of the village, even the chow dogs. 
 
 And we, as unnoticed as if we had been invisible, 
 made haste to follow in the wake. 
 
 The yellow umbrella halted in front of a dark-red 
 pagoda of stained and carved wood. Sang Ti furled it 
 
 31 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 and thrust it, point down, into the sand at one side of the 
 steps that led into the pagoda. Then he passed through 
 the door, and we could see, as the steps elevated him, 
 that with his hands he was unfastening the silk cord 
 which girdled his waist. 
 
 Inside the pagoda, or temple, there was not much light. 
 We found ourselves in a high-ceilinged red room about 
 forty by thirty. At the upper end, on a high granite 
 pedestal, sat a hideous bronze god, blurred by smoke 
 which rose from a blue-and-white bowl on his knees. 
 Against the walls of the place were ranged long poles 
 of polished teak, finished at their tops with enormous 
 images, scroll-sawed out of shining brass; masks, 
 roosters, turtles, scorpions, dragons, and strange fruits. 
 
 Immediately in front of the pedestalled god, and 
 facing us, sat Sang Ti in a vast teakwood chair. He 
 continued to wear his jolly, contented expression, but 
 allowed his eyes to rest on no one. 
 
 The chair in which he sat had the central panel of 
 its back prolonged, so that its top extended several 
 inches above his head and projected on either side. 
 This back piece was pierced to the top with two series 
 of holes, each about an inch in diameter, parallel to 
 each other and perhaps six inches apart. It looked 
 like an enormous cribbage board. 
 
 Sang Ti handed his silk cord to the man in gray, and 
 the latter, thrusting its ends through two convenient 
 
 32 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 and opposite holes, and stepping behind the chair, 
 drew them until the half loop of the cord lay loosely 
 across Sang Ti's throat. 
 
 Then he knotted the loose ends, and, producing in 
 some sleight-of-hand manner a golden casket incrusted 
 with rubies of all qualities, from pigeon blood to pale 
 pink, placed it in Sang Ti's hands. Sang Ti lowered 
 his eyes and examined the casket. A very slight shiver 
 passed through his fat frame, and he shifted his feet 
 uneasily. 
 
 The priest now thrust under the knot at the back of 
 the loop a long, heavy rod of stained ivory, and gave it 
 a quick twist from left to right. The loose loop became 
 tight across Sang Ti's throat, and at a second twist half 
 disappeared in his flesh. 
 
 A horrid choking noise was forced from his half-open 
 mouth, and he shot at me a sudden look of heart- 
 breaking appeal that brought my rifle to my shoulder. 
 
 But I was not so quick as Morgridge. In that con- 
 fined place the crack of his rifle was like the detonation 
 of a small cannon. The place filled with smoke and 
 the sound of scurrying feet. 
 
 We gathered about Sang Ti when the smoke envelop- 
 ing him had lifted, and found that the bullet meant for 
 the strangler had been aimed too low. The top of 
 Sang Ti's skull was split down the middle, and only the 
 loosened cords kept him from falling forward. But the 
 
 33 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 bullet, nevertheless, had done its appointed work, for 
 the priest lay behind the chair, shot through the dia- 
 phragm, and a great red stain was spreading over the 
 front of his gray robes. 
 
 And now a very horrid thing happened. From under 
 the priest's cap, loosened by the fall, crawled a little dust- 
 colored snake with a venomous head, and ran at Mor- 
 gridge. Morgridge struck at the reptile with the butt 
 of his rifle, but not quickly enough. He screamed as its 
 fang pierced his boot, and fell to the floor as if struck 
 by a thunderbolt. 
 
 The snake, turning, darted for the pedestal on which 
 the god sat, but not in time wholly to escape the butt of 
 Crisp's rifle. Dragging a broken tail it disappeared 
 into a crack between the pedestal and the floor. 
 
 We looked at Morgridge. He was purple, horrible. 
 He might havp been dead for a week. Then we ran — 
 God, how we ran — through the village and out into the 
 desert. We ran until Meff began to call from far in the 
 rear that he could run no more. We waited till he 
 came up, and hated him for delaying us. But when 
 we found that even in the first burst of panic he had 
 had the presence of mind to snatch the ruby box, we 
 began to praise him and clap him on the back. 
 
 We passed it from hand to hand and wondered what 
 the rubies would bring. 
 
 '" I think Arundel overrated them," I said. 
 34 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 "Yes," said Meff. "But aren't some of them corkers ? 
 Look at that fellow." 
 
 "The light-pink ones," said Hawes, "aren't worth 
 much more than glass." 
 
 "It ought to bring fifty thousand," I said. "See 
 what's inside." 
 
 Hawes found the catch, and, as he raised the lid, 
 suddenly screamed and flung the box high into the air. 
 Over and over it turned, and there whirled free from 
 it a little snake, and the two fell at a distance from each 
 other. But the fate of that snake was sudden; turn and 
 dart as he would, bullet after bullet grazed him and 
 tossed him on spurts of sand. He was torn to pieces 
 in five seconds, and we turned to Hawes. He had 
 found the time to thrust his bitten finger into his mouth, 
 and that was all. He was dead as a stone. 
 
 VI 
 
 CRISP AND MEFF 
 
 The first impulse of us three survivors was once more 
 to bolt. But where, or to what purpose ? About and 
 about were the scorching undulations of desert. Behind 
 the ill-omened visage of Chen Chan, where death lurked 
 under men's caps and in the reliquaries of their gods. 
 Ahead, but so far that it could not be reached by any 
 
 35 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 sudden panic-born effort, lay the ocean and escape. It 
 we were to get away at all it could only be by slow-sus- 
 tained exertion, directed by the quiet mind. I think 
 Meff was the first to realize this. 
 
 "I think," he said, "that we had better rest for a few 
 minutes." 
 
 "We ought to bury poor Hawes," said Crisp. But 
 one glance at the violet bloated corpse was enough. 
 No man with a stomach could have handled it. There 
 was left upon it no trace of a comrade through many 
 vicissitudes. Personality, that so often fingers after 
 death and so long resists the chemistry of the grave, was 
 gone from it, and had left nothing of the friend. The 
 eyes were repelled, and the muscles, that might have 
 scraped a hollow in the sands, were turned to water. 
 
 The ruby casket lay at a distance. Meff caught it up 
 (not before a cautious examination with the muzzle of 
 his rifle), and we did not sit down to rest until we had 
 placed along undulation of the desert between us and 
 the corpse of Hawes. 
 
 Our situation called for discussion. Whether to 
 strike circuitously for the broad track which we had 
 made in coming, or directly for the sea; whether to push 
 through in one frantic march, so as to keep the start 
 already made over possible pursuit; or to rest betimes, 
 one to watch while two slept, and to trust to our rifles 
 in case of attack by the looted villagers. We agreed, 
 
 36 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 finally, to find our way to the schooner by compass 
 rather than waste time by tedious indirections, and if 
 we had the endurance, as we surely had the impulse, 
 to make one march of it. We thought by so doing to 
 have suffered less in the end. These matters being 
 ordered, we got to our feet and set our faces to the west. 
 
 For the first hour Meff carried the ruby casket; but 
 after that, for it was heavy and, having no handles, an 
 akward package, we took turns. It was wonderful, 
 and turn by turn we noticed it, what a handicap that 
 small lump of treasure proved to the locomotion of the 
 individual who carried it. Invariably he fell behind, 
 with lagging legs, and at heart a petulance that under- 
 mined his resolution to go on. Had the carrier of it 
 alone been to consult it would soon have been aban- 
 doned by the way. Its value was problematical. In 
 the ultimate distribution of the gems incrusting it we 
 were sure to be cheated, and meanwhile it was awkward 
 to hold, heavy to carry, and a diminisher of speed. 
 
 Of our subsequent march that day there is nothing to 
 record but weariness, until about an hour before sun- 
 down there was formed, by those agencies of nature which 
 play tricks with the eyes of men, far to the north, a 
 mirage. We beheld against the sky a range of the desert 
 across which, his grass-green robes girded about his 
 loins, there moved upon a course parallel with our own 
 the wavering, yet distinct and gigantically magnified, 
 
 37 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 image of a Chinaman. We had but a minute's view 
 of him, vast and shadowy, like a storm cloud, or some 
 vengeful and evil genius out of a dream, and then, 
 presto, the desert refractions altered and the image 
 vanished. For the first time in our desert wanderings, 
 either going in or coming out, we felt cold — cold to the 
 marrow. That the vast size of the Chinaman was an 
 hallucination we knew, but we knew also that an actual 
 man must have been the basis for the magnification, 
 that his course was parallel to our own, and his sudden 
 appearance in the heavens an illegible but disquieting 
 portent. Had but one man of Chen Chan had the hatred 
 to dog our steps? Or had a council decreed that to 
 wrest the casket and perhaps our lives from us but one 
 man was necessary ? If the latter, and a certain fateful 
 significance in the mirage impelled us to adopt it, what 
 occult power could he possess to hold our vigilance and 
 our rifle practice so cheap? And might we not with 
 certainty look for him to strike in that hour of darkness 
 which would precede the rising of the moon ? In one 
 presumption only was there any grain of comfort: that, 
 forebodings notwithstanding, he might be, like Sang Ti, 
 a solitary desert voyager intent upon a destiny in no way 
 commingled with our own. But conscience told us 
 that this was far-fetched presumption, and we moved 
 uneasily forward, with roving and scared eyes. 
 
 To have been witness to, and part of, so many shock' 
 38 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 ing deaths; to be bearing the fruits of an unjustifiable 
 theft; and to have for accompaniment to our march a 
 fateful and constant, although invisible, presence, was 
 a torture to the mind and conscience. But it had, too, 
 the effect of compelling a rate of progress that had 
 otherwise been impossible, and casting a certain reti- 
 cence into the demands made upon us by hunger and 
 thirst. 
 
 Well, the dark hour before moonrise came and passed. 
 Nothing happened. The moon rose, dripping light, 
 and sailed toward the zenith. Nothing happened. And 
 we began to believe in such slender promises of security; 
 to go forward with less determination, and to suffer 
 acutely from emptiness, parchedness, and fatigue. So 
 that when Meff made the proposition to rest, and him- 
 self offered to keep the first watch, Crisp and I were only 
 too willing. A man is seldom permitted to remember 
 at just what advance of weariness his mind ceases to 
 act, and he goes to sleep. But of the present occasion 
 I seem to remember the exact point. I saw, with an eye 
 of the mind, the unfortunate Sang Ti sitting in the temple 
 to be strangled; I heard from Meff a kind of contented 
 grunt; I shifted my right arm the better to sustain my 
 head, and at that instant fell asleep. 
 
 I was awakened, I think, by the moonlight stealing 
 under the brim of my hat and shining upon my closed 
 eyes. I woke, I know, with a kind of dread catching 
 
 39 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 at my heart. I sat up and saw that his promise of 
 vigilance had been beyond Meff's strength to keep. He 
 lay upon his back with his face completely covered by 
 his hat. The fingers of his right hand were clasped 
 tightly about one end of the ruby casket. There were 
 no grounds for the feeling of dread with which I had 
 waked. Yet the feeling abode. It was the feeling that 
 a guilty man has who believes rather than knows that 
 he is being watched. I looked beyond Meff, across the 
 desert, and my heart froze. I had seen — I could swear 
 it — for one fleeting instant, a yellow face that ducked 
 away behind a near-by ridge of sand. 
 
 I seized my rifle and rushed to the point at which it 
 had vanished. From there I obtained an expansive 
 view of the desert. But there was no form to show that 
 a man had been lying in the sand, nor any tracks of feet. 
 I was mentally staggered, and, after rushing a few 
 purposeless steps this way and that, returned, thoroughly 
 dazed, to my companions. The noise of my sudden 
 upspringing had not disturbed them. They continued 
 heavily asleep, and had not moved a muscle. Only it 
 seemed to me that Meff's hat had slipped a little from 
 his face; and as I looked it actually shifted a little more, 
 and then — to my horror — it rose a little and settled back. 
 It was preposterous to think that Meff's quiet breathing 
 could so move the heavy felt. Then, as if to settle once 
 for all the agency of the motion, Meff's hand, that had 
 
 40 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 been clasped about the ruby casket, went up to his hat 
 in a kind of petulant way, and removed it. 
 
 Whether it was Meff's scream or mine that broke the 
 silence I shall never know. I only know that I was on 
 ray feet, wildly firing at a streak of gray that hissed as 
 it ran and dodged the spurts of sand tossed by the 
 bullets. 
 
 Crisp was on his feet, rifle in hand, staring wildly 
 about him. 
 
 "What is it?" he cried. 
 
 "It was under Meff's hat all the time," I shouted 
 back. "It's the one with the broken tail — that hid 
 under the altar. That Chinaman is hunting us down 
 with it," I shouted on; "I tell you he is. Damn him! 
 We're goners — goners. Look at Meff!" 
 
 But it was not good to look at Meff. 
 
 "Which way did it go?" said Crisp in a sombre 
 voice. 
 
 "That way," I said. "You can see the track; see 
 how the broken tail had to drag." 
 
 "You missed it — of course." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "of course. I nearly got it once. 
 But I didn't, and that's all there is to it. Except it will 
 come back. It's following us. It and that Chinaman. 
 We must hurry now. We must hurry. We mustn't 
 .stop again, and we must look back all the time." 
 
 Crisp stopped and picked up the ruby casket. 
 41 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 "We must leave that," I said, "it isn't ours, you 
 know, Crisp. You'll leave it, won't you, Crisp?" 
 "No," said he. "By God!" 
 
 VII 
 
 CRISP 
 
 But the sun, rising hot upon our backs, found me in 
 a saner condition than Crisp. For hours he had been 
 cursing and swearing because he was thirsty; but now 
 he began to talk with a kind of crazy boastf ulness, saying 
 that he was not the man to go without water when there 
 was plenty of it to be had for the mere seeking. He 
 knew the signs, he said, and as soon as he saw them 
 would lead me to a spring hole. I needn't be afraid; 
 he would see to it that I had a good drink. He even 
 warned me against drinking too fast. "When we 
 strike water," he said, "you'll be for rushing in and 
 swigging a bucket, but mind what your uncle says, 
 and don't. First you want to moisten a rag and suck 
 it, and when you get used to that you can swallow a 
 few drops, and then after you begin to swell a bit you 
 can negotiate your bucket." And so on all the long 
 hours. His eyes, wide and glassy, roamed the horizon 
 in search of signs, and toward noon he began to mistake 
 hillocks of sand for vegetation, and I was obliged to 
 
 42 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 join with him in long zigzags that ended in disillusion 
 and wasted precious time. To have gone against him 
 in his craziness might have ended murderously. There 
 was no good in his eye. After a while he began to visit 
 his disappointments upon me; to curse me because the 
 green bushes were sand, and to say that I ought to have 
 told him so in the first place. Several times, too, for he 
 would not suffer me to carry it, he dropped (impelled, 
 I think, by a kind of insane mischievousness) the ruby 
 casket, arid we had to go back for it. It was beyond 
 patience. But I was not man enough to cross him, or 
 to say what I thought. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped and pointed to the right. 
 
 "Well, my boy," he began, "what did I tell you? 
 Are those green bushes or not ?" 
 
 I could see none, but before I could say so he broke 
 out violently: 
 
 "Don't lie to me. Say 'yes' or 'no,' but don't lie. 
 If you lie," he went on with a very horrid expression, 
 " I will kill you. Now, then, which is it, bushes or not ? " 
 
 It entered my mind to shoot him down, and perhaps 
 I made a threatening motion. Anyway he sprang at me, 
 wrenched the rifle from my hands and retreated warily. 
 
 "You're gone crazy," he said, and, rather kindly, "a 
 drop of water'll fix you up. Now you watch out for 
 that" — here he flung the ruby casket at my feet— "and 
 I'll go fetch you a drop of water. Sorry you're crazy." 
 
 43 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 He turned and, like Robinson Crusoe, a gun under 
 each arm, started away toward his imaginary patch of 
 green. But was it imaginary — this last patch? Or 
 was my mind, too, going? It seemed to me at one 
 moment that there was a patch of green, at the next that 
 there was not. I stood irresolute, and rubbed my 
 swollen eyes, blinked, and then made a step or two after 
 Crisp. But he had developed a wonderful acuteness of 
 ear, and heard me. 
 
 "You stay there," he shouted, "or I'll fix you." 
 
 I stood and watched his slow course toward — yes, 
 it was a patch of green. Of the color I was now as sure 
 as Crisp had been, but of the substance, no. If it was 
 vegetation — a sudden fear gagged me for a moment, 
 and then I shouted to Crisp. 
 
 "Look out!" I yelled. "It's silk!" 
 
 I saw his head turn and he called to me. 
 
 "Water," he called, "it's water." 
 
 But it was not water, and Crisp, blinded by his 
 infatuation, walked straight up to the Chinaman of the 
 mirage, who, in a girt-up green robe, had risen in his 
 path. It seemed to me that the Chinaman made a 
 gesture with his hand, as of a man casting something 
 quietly on the ground, and then I saw that Crisp had 
 flung the rifles from him, and was running toward me 
 with frantic leaps and bounds. He was sane enough 
 now, poor fellow, and no less aware than I of the gray 
 
 44 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 death that struck at his heels. I had one moment of 
 clear vision. The Chinaman had vanished. With a 
 scream, that still rings in my ears, and in a shower of 
 sand, poor Crisp went down, and then there was dark- 
 ness in my eyes, and I was running, running desperately, 
 and clasping something heavy to my breast. 
 
 In my frenzied panic I must have snatched up the ruby 
 casket, for when I came to my senses, how much later I 
 do not know, but soon.forl was still desperately running, 
 I had it clutched with one aching hand to my breast. I 
 had been running up a long incline of the desert, but 
 the impulse of terror came to an end, and I stopped short. 
 There was no sweat in me to run out; but I glowed and 
 burned like a furnace, and for a long time my only vision 
 was a kaleidoscope of crazily swirling white dots. I 
 looked behind me when my vision had cleared, but there 
 was nothing to be seen but sand, blazing in the sun. 
 
 I climbed then very slowly a few inches to the step, 
 to the top of the rise, and saw before me, very far, be- 
 tween hills of sand, segments of the blue and tranquil sea. 
 
 VIII 
 
 THE CHINAMAN IN GREEN 
 
 Had I been alone in the desert I would have had eyes 
 for nothing but those placid and refreshing stretches of 
 blue; but it was peopled for me and haunted: by the 
 
 45 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 ghosts of comrades, and by the Chinaman in green who 
 hunted me, and by the broken-tailed snake that he 
 could loose against me when he conceived that the 
 hour of his opportunity had struck. I must have cut 
 a grotesque and horrible figure of fear and caution; 
 halting to look behind with wild eyes; starting, stop- 
 ping; sucking at the hot desert air, now breaking for a 
 few yards into a lumbering run; and now dragging my 
 feet as if to each there had been riveted a ball and chain. 
 So a guilty man, and one hounded by fear, might act in 
 the night-time or the dusk, in a city street, convinced 
 that in each dark doorway, or behind each corner, the 
 fearful lurked to spring upon him. But here was I so 
 acting in broad sunlight, in a region that for miles in 
 every direction was open to the eye like a book; levelish 
 and free of cover toward every point of the compass, 
 and still I advanced, starting, cowering, running, halt- 
 ing like an actor of melodrama rehearsing a rdleof terror. 
 The direction that I followed thus stageily intersected 
 at last the broad trail that our little company had made 
 on its march to Chen Chan. Here were the deep 
 footprints of Sang Ti; the shuffled marks of Morgridge's 
 big feet; Crisp's firm and even tread; Meff's small and 
 neat impress; the long stride of Hawes; and here I 
 had gone on well-arched, buoyant feet. Of all that 
 company I only could now write my progress in the 
 sands ; I only lived on for a time. 
 
 46 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 At another time that broad and tragic spoor nad 
 turned me aside to break a fresh and unsuggestive path; 
 but now I had a sense of companionship with it, and 
 followed it feeling no longer so utterly lonely, afraid, and 
 alone. 
 
 I passed the fallen monolith, and saw in the bay, half 
 full of tide, the schooner, riding in safety, and the 
 schooner's boat moored to the beach of the promontory 
 by a staked oar. On board that schooner was water — 
 food — home. I had an exhilaration of escaped danger 
 that lent me wings. I ran along the hard beach toward 
 the boat and my feet splashed in the advancing rim of 
 the tide. There was a breeze in my face, and my 
 fears were blown from me and fell behind. I shouted 
 as I ran 
 
 It was but half a dozen strong strokes to the schooner. 
 I snatched up the ruby casket from the seat where I 
 had lain it, and sprang aboard, and found myself face 
 to face with the Chinaman in green. His robes were 
 dripping sea water, and there was a kind of smile on 
 his lips. In one hand, held tenderly as a girl holds a 
 pet bird, was the little gray snake. White lids covered 
 its eyes, and its broken tail hung from between his 
 fingers and dangled listlessly like a bit of string. The 
 smile on the Chinaman's face wavered and broadened. 
 There was a kind of friendliness in it. I smiled back 
 at him. And when he held out his other hand, open, I 
 
 47 
 
THE FOOTPRINT 
 
 placed in it the ruby casket. And he, gently and 
 quietly as a girl might slide a necklace into a jewel-box, 
 slid into it the little gray snake, dead now, for what 
 reason I know not, and closed the cover with a faint 
 snap. 
 
 I ferried him to the shore, and stood watching him 
 until he had disappeared over the brow of the desert 
 with his face toward Chen Chan. 
 
 48 
 
II 
 
 PARADISE RANCH 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 During the five years that it had served him as home, 
 work, and recreation, the Paradise Ranch had seemed 
 a real paradise to Emmanuel Mason and Jim Stanley, 
 his partner during those years, a kind of better angel. 
 The ranch was a masculine paradise; two thousand 
 acres of rich meadows and black forest looking boldly 
 forth between two barren hills upon the open sea, 
 planned, toiled for, worked, cultivated, inhabited, and 
 owned by men. The trade-winds blowing up the little 
 valley had never given occasion to a member of the 
 gentler sex to snatch with one hand at her petticoats 
 and with the other at her hat. The lamps of the long 
 white ranch-house had never looked upon the festive 
 dance, nor had the moon ever discovered a pair of 
 lovers seated hand in hand upon the long veranda. The 
 lamps had never looked upon anything gayer than 
 a poker game, nor the moon upon anything more excit- 
 ing than men who smoked and talked. Seasons came 
 
 51 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 and went. But as yet no woman had found her way 
 into the Paradise Ranch, and if one had she would have 
 been politely shown the way out. 
 
 But a change was coming; a fact which the telegram 
 that Emmanuel Mason held open in his hand betrayed 
 — a telegram that had been brought fifteen miles over 
 the hills from the railroad at the gallop. 
 
 Stanley had been East anent a will in which he had 
 figured to no great profit, and the telegram was from 
 him: 
 
 My wife and I will be in San Mateo Monday. Send over a 
 team to meet us. 
 
 That was the whole matter, a sudden violent blow 
 between the eyes for which the recipient had been in no 
 way prepared. The marriage must have been *very 
 sudden — as all marriages are — but the courtship must 
 have been like chain lightning; shorter, perhaps, as 
 Mason thought with the flicker of a smile, than the 
 ceremony. The circumstances, however, did not mat- 
 ter to him in the least; it was the fact. Paradise was 
 to be invaded, as of old, by a woman, and the next 
 comer, of course, would be a serpent — a serpent of old 
 habits laid aside, old times discontinued, furniture 
 moved to new positions, tobacco frowned on (perhaps); 
 liquor relegated to the nearest saloon, fifteen miles away; 
 wholesome meals turned into finical courses, and last, 
 
 52 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 and worst, the lazy Sunday shave changed into a matu- 
 tinal or vespertine regularity. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason mourned for lost friends. He 
 must share " Jim," the sweet-tempered, the big-boned, 
 the guileless, the gentle, with another. When he had 
 worked all day and become tired and dirty and lazy — 
 he would have to wash and dress. When the "heap 
 pain," as they called, it, should pierce him from temple 
 to temple, he could no longer stamp the veranda till 
 dawn, Jim's hand on his shoulder, and swear. When 
 the "heap pain" waked him in the night he could no 
 longer thrust open Jim's door and call upon the com- 
 forter to come with him out under the stars, and talk 
 to him lest he should go mad. That door must not be 
 opened at random any more, it must be knocked upon. 
 And the spacious, plastered, airy room beyond looking 
 south-westward upon the sea, would that receive a coat 
 of paper and come to be referred to as the " blue" room 
 or the "pink"? 
 
 With the exception of the "heap pain" all had been 
 paradise till now; it would become purgatory, and the 
 pain remaining would make the latter hell. The " heap 
 pain," hitherto the only cloud on the horizon, had never 
 occurred with sufficient frequency to cause Mason any 
 real alarm. It came two or three times a year, usually 
 during the rains, remained a day or two, hurt fearfully, 
 and went. The pain was similar, only much more 
 
 53 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 violent, to that which is known as a "stitch in the side." 
 Mason had it in the head, from temple to temple, and 
 though he had consulted doctors its cause and nature 
 remained unexplained. 
 
 With so many grounds of foreboding it was not un- 
 like the man to make the best of the situation, and, 
 grumbling deeply, to set the house to rights from end 
 to end. He decked it with great boughs of pungent 
 bay and fragrant yellow acacia; he filled it with roses 
 and calla lilies; he straightened the chairs over and over 
 again. He had a dozen nervous interviews with Jue 
 Fong, the cook; he saw to the team, the trap, and the 
 harness which were to go and fetch the bride and groom. 
 He shaved and donned costly raiment and intended to 
 drive over the hills for them himself, and then came 
 the "heap pain," and sent him writhing to his bed. He 
 lay until he could lie it no longer. He rose and walked 
 till he could stand it no longer. He groaned and blas- 
 phemed. And about four of the afternoon the pain 
 became worse. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason clapped a hand to each temple and 
 literally ran for the low-built clump of huts where his 
 Chinese laborers dwelt. He smote with his foot upon 
 the door of Sam Ah and strode in. 
 
 "Sam," he said in a thick voice, "have you got any 
 opium?" 
 
 "I no smoke/' said the righteous Sam Ah. 
 54 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 "Who has some?" 
 
 "All boys allee samee," said Sam Ah. "Him no 
 smoke." 
 
 This was, of course, a righteous lie. Mason groaned. 
 
 "You don't understand, Sam," he said. "If I don't 
 get smoke I'll die." 
 
 "Allite," said Sam Ah, "me go city?" 
 
 "You get me smoke,' said Mason, "then you go to 
 the city and raise hell." 
 
 The wily one smiled pleasantly. 
 
 "Allite," he said. 
 
 And from a room which contained absolutely nothing 
 but a pallet bed, a mattress, and the bare insides of 
 four walls, he produced a pipe, a rectangular can half 
 full of opium, matches, a tiny spirit lamp with a glass 
 shade to keep the flame steady, and a sort of thin metal 
 skewer to roll the pill on. 
 
 "I don't know how, Sam." 
 
 Sam Ah indicated his bed with a hospitable gesture. 
 
 "You sabe lie still," he said. "I make pill." 
 
 Presently he had lighted the lamp, gathered on the 
 end of his skewer what appeared to be a lump of soft 
 tar, and fell to rolling it in the flame. Instantly an in- 
 describable, penetrating odor (that seems as if it ought 
 to choke one, but doesn't) filled the room. The opium 
 sputtered and spat, and the lump seemed to shrink into 
 itself and become a shape. Every now and then Sam 
 
 55 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 Ah took It from the flame and gave it a quick telling 
 mould with his slim fingers. When he was satisfied 
 with its shape and consistency he. slipped it into the 
 tiny bowl of the pipe, let it cool for a few seconds and 
 withdrew the skewer. Mason put the pipe in his mouth 
 and inhaled the smoke, while Sam Ah kept the pill 
 burning by a constant application of the lamp. 
 
 "More fast," he commanded, "more in." 
 Mason puffed as rapidly and deeply as he could. The 
 burning pill guttered, sputtered, and roared like a 
 miniature volcano. 
 
 "More fast," commanded Sam Ah, and in half a 
 minute the smoke was finished, and Mason, gagged and 
 gasping, was conscious of no wonderful dream or any 
 pleasant effect whatever. His head was shot with pains 
 as before. Meanwhile Sam Ah was rolling another pill. 
 But scarcely had Mason drawn a breath of the second 
 smoke into his big lungs than the tormenting pain 
 left him. He pushed aside the pipe, rose and shook 
 himself. 
 
 "You're a good man, Sam," he said. 
 
 " Good men heap scarce," said Sam Ah, and prepared 
 to finish the relinquished smoke himself. 
 
 When Emmanuel Mason came into the outer air he 
 felt like a happy child. He wanted to laugh and turn 
 hand-springs. A hedge of artichokes seemed to him more 
 beautiful than a hedge of roses. An hour later he was 
 
 56 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 conscious of a slight rawness in his throat and a slight 
 headache, but not the old torture, nor in the old place. 
 A little later still he felt perfectly normal. 
 
 Then came the sounds of wheels on gravel, a halting 
 of horses, and steps on the veranda. Emmanuel Mason 
 flung open the door and advanced with a broad smile 
 of welcome and outstretched hands. 
 
 Jim Stanley's wife was tall and girlish-looking. She 
 had a big sweet mouth which Emmanuel Mason had 
 once considered beautiful. He started at sight of her; 
 then took both her hands in his and made her welcome 
 in Jim's name and his own. 
 
 "You've not changed much," she said. 
 
 "But I never expected it would be you.'' 
 
 There was all the unnecessary clipped talk of question 
 and answer which the occasion warranted, and the two 
 friends and the woman went into the house. 
 
 "My dear," said the woman to her husband, "now 
 do go and put something on your hands. . . . Hewoidd 
 drive," she explained to Mason. "He wouldn't wear 
 gloves, they were already chapped, and now look what 
 the sun has done to them." 
 
 Indeed, Stanley's hands were a study in raw, cracked 
 red. It was nothing new to Mason, however, for he had 
 often seen them as bad or worse. 
 
 "I tell him to put cold cream on them," said the bride. 
 "There's nothing like it for chapped hands." 
 
 57 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 "Vaseline is better," said the groom in an eager, 
 gentle voice. "But that doesn't do mine any good." 
 
 II 
 
 The men, of course, altered radically in their habits 
 of life; shaving daily, disposing of yesterday's mud, and 
 dressing for dinner. But these alterations came from a 
 natural desire to please rather than from the hounding 
 of a woman's tongue, for if the Ranch had been at one 
 time a man's paradise, at least the Eve who had entered 
 it was a man's woman, so that nothing of what Emman- 
 uel Mason had feared came to pass. Instead, he was 
 by way of being more comfortable than he had ever 
 been; and it was long before he realized that to live 
 in the new condition was no less dangerous than to live 
 in a house built over a sleeping volcano. To this 
 ignorance, perhaps, the rains which, for so many weary 
 weeks, had been appeasing the thirst of the land, and 
 clothing it with green grass and flowers, contributed by 
 suddenly coming to an end. There commenced the long 
 dry season for which California is famous, and during 
 which every moment spent out of doors is a complete 
 blessing. All day the sun blazed and the strong salt 
 trade-winds blew in from the ocean. Each evening, as 
 the sun set, and the winds thus shorn of heat smote the 
 hot earth, fog arose along the whole line of the coast and 
 
 58 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 rushed inland. But, later, the fog diminished until the 
 stars showed through, and presently all the glittering 
 heavens appeared. Day after day, night after night, 
 month after month, it was thus. Every drop of surface 
 water was sucked from the earth; the green of the hills 
 yielded to golden brown; the soft muddy roads became 
 bands of white, hard as iron. Growing things rested 
 from the labor of growing. The world was at peace 
 with itself. 
 
 It was not too hot by day, nor too cold by night; 
 much that made for human calm and happiness was an 
 atmospheric condition. There was no excuse for mor- 
 bid depression; the cattle became fat on the dry stub- 
 ble. In irrigated districts fruit swelled and ripened. 
 There was great prosperity throughout the State, 
 merrymaking, and out-of-door life. During this period 
 matters progressed peacefully and with pleasantness at 
 Paradise Ranch. The woman was firm in the saddle, 
 strong in the surf, and subtle of tongue; to be with her 
 was to be gay. And Emmanuel Mason found him- 
 self thinking that if he had his life to lead over, he 
 would like to marry her himself. As a mere boy 
 in the old days he had enjoyed the chance. He had 
 been her first fancy and she his. They had construed 
 fancy to mean love (and Heaven only knows whether it 
 does or not) and they had plighted their troth. Lack 
 of money had stood in the way of immediate marriage, 
 
 59 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 and Emmanuel Mason had gone the way of the sun to 
 carve his fortune. He toiled in mining camps and in 
 lumber camps, drove fence posts, was partner in a liv- 
 ery stable, clerk in a bank, was by turn prosperous, on 
 the verge of riches, poor, dead broke, and again pros- 
 perous. At this stage he fell in with Jim Stanley, and 
 together they bought Paradise Ranch and other ad- 
 jacent properties, which they managed to work with 
 much pleasure and considerable profit. Entering upon 
 such vicissitudes as a boy, he was soon developed by 
 them into a man, and during the transition became 
 heart-whole and fancy-free. It was the same with the 
 girl. Long separation, as usual, killed their mutual 
 fancy. They stopped writing peacefully enough — but 
 felt as if they had quarrelled. If Emmanuel Mason 
 had made a visit to the East he would not have called 
 upon her. 
 
 With all that he had gone through and with all that 
 he had accomplished, it is not to be supposed that Mason 
 was altogether a strong man. Free from restraint and 
 at an early age his own master, full of red blood and 
 high spirits, there had been periods in his career which 
 are still spoken of with awe on the "Barbary Coast" 
 and similar districts. He had raised many kinds of 
 Cain, painted many towns red, had killed a man, been 
 co-respondent in a divorce suit, and achieved a notoriety 
 which had been very difficult to five down. Good sense, 
 
 60 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 coupled with the first intimations that the "heap pain" 
 was to be an irregular permanency, strong words from 
 a physician, and perhaps mature years, had all con- 
 tributed to shape his present healthful and respectable 
 form of existence. He drank sparingly, smoked rather 
 too much, and worked long vigilant shifts in the open 
 air. He looked like a man who had inherited tell-tale 
 lines of face, rather than a man who had made them. 
 He was as brown as his adopted hills in the dry weather; 
 short, broad, erect, gray-eyed, and powerful. There 
 was something of the tiger in his long, quiet stride, 
 something of the hawk in his glance, and something of 
 the holiday school-boy in his smile. 
 
 The summer at Paradise Ranch brought three types 
 of happiness to three people. Jim Stanley was happy, 
 because in possessing the woman he loved he was not 
 renounced by the friend he loved. Emmanuel Mason 
 was happy because he liked his partner's wife, and be- 
 cause the year was a prosperous one. But the woman 
 was happy in a very different way. It was not the 
 peaceful in life that she most enjoyed. She knew that 
 Emmanuel Mason, who had once fancied her and now 
 admired her, would end by fancying her again. It 
 seemed inevitable — a kind of poetic retribution for his 
 former neglect. To rouse the dormant fancy intrigued 
 her mind, amused her, and made her happy. Unfortu- 
 nately she did not realize that playing with matches is 
 
 61 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 often the cause of a conflagration which may not only 
 destroy one's neighbor's house but one's own. To 
 make matters worse, she had a real affection for her 
 husband — and did not love him in the least. Therefore 
 she was as tow, and in striving to set fire to Emmanuel 
 Mason's heart was in a fair way to consume her own. 
 
 At first Emmanuel Mason thought that Alice Stanley 
 was "nice," "sensible," and "amusing." Then that 
 her face was "pretty"; then, as of old, that her big, 
 sweet mouth was "beautiful"; then that her face was 
 beautiful. And after that he began to carry her image 
 in his mind's eye, and to shorten his hours of work that 
 he might be with her the more. His first regret was 
 that he had not married her himself, and his second 
 was like unto the first. He regretted that she was not 
 still free. "If she were still free," he thought, "I 
 believe I would fall in love with her." That under the 
 circumstances he might as readily fall in love with her 
 was a supposition which he did not for a moment enter- 
 tain. And it was not until the unexpected ending of a 
 vacation which he had decreed unto himself that he 
 began to perceive danger in the supposition. The 
 ending of that vacation was in this wise. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason was an ardent and jealous lover 
 of fly-fishing. Once a year, sometimes twice, he jour- 
 neyed to a section of river which he controlled in the far 
 Sierras, and fished to his heart's content. Being a 
 
 62 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 jealous lover, and of an adventurous disposition, he 
 always went alone, built his own camp, and did his own 
 catching and cooking. It befell, therefore, that a strong 
 desire to fish came upon him, and his good-bys were 
 as brief as those of a thirsty drunkard departing for his 
 club. It also befell that he came to the far river, cast 
 his fly, and struck three pounds of shifty muscle, speed, 
 and endurance. This had often happened before, but 
 that there should be no joy in the struggle was an en- 
 tirely new sensation. All that day, however, he fished 
 conscientiously. The luck ran with him, the fish were 
 big and strong, but the old ecstasy was gone. Emmanuel 
 Mason had left his powers of enjoyment in Paradise 
 Ranch. 
 
 The next day he did not fish at all. He sat in the 
 shade and watched the strong, bright rush of the river 
 until he was dizzy. He lay on his back and regarded 
 the intricate patterns drawn by the lofty tree-tops upon 
 the sky. He thought upon the days of his youth, 
 neglected opportunities, opportunities seized, moneys 
 made, moneys lost, manly truths, subtle lies, success, 
 failure, times of comparative virtue and times of rank 
 vice. He thought upon his gains and his losses. He 
 thought of how he had gained in experience of men, in 
 capital, in sense of living, but he thought also of how, 
 in the gaining, he had lost the most precious of gifts — 
 innocence. He became melancholy and restless in the 
 
 63' 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 shade by the river. A week before he had smoked and 
 planned with Jim and Alice for the future. Now he 
 smoked and wondered about the end. For the first time 
 in his life he felt old; for the first time he felt that most 
 harrowing and unmanly of feelings, self-pity. A glori- 
 ous night of stars came, but brought with her no gift 
 of sleep. Emmanuel Mason thrashed in his blankets 
 like a newly landed fish. He thought almost with 
 agony of what was and of what might have been. For 
 hours he tormented himself, and then fatigue began to 
 exert itself, and from logical thoughts and facts he 
 passed to Spanish castles, and thence at length to 
 dreams. In what is there is seldom peace, in what 
 was there is less, but man is saved from madness by 
 the thought of what still may be. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason arose with the sun and bathed in 
 the river. His face, far from being harrowed by the 
 unquiet night, looked younger than it had in years. 
 He was exalted and stimulated by the unwise dreams. 
 He burned his fingers at the cooking and laughed. He 
 packed his blankets and his rods, and sang aloud. In 
 an hour he was riding down the mountains with his 
 face toward the sea. And as he rode he laughed and 
 sang. 
 
 Love is a wonderful and beautiful affair, but it is 
 most beautiful when if is unalloyed with passion. When 
 he who loves is first aware of his love, and is abashed 
 
 64 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 in the presence of his beloved, when for a moment the 
 hardened sinner recovers his lost innocence, and the 
 world seems as it should be from pole to pole, there is 
 no sense of danger, nothing exists but the beautiful. 
 And so it was with Emmanuel Mason. He was wildly 
 happy at finding himself in love, but more wildly happy 
 in the delusion that he was content to possess his love 
 alone. He did not feel the slightest temptation to de- 
 clare it. Jim and Alice were man and wife. He was 
 their friend. He loved them both. He could not be 
 happy away from them.' Therefore he would go where 
 they were and stay there, and be, if he could, their 
 good angel. If ever a man rode innocently into an am- 
 bush, that man was Emmanuel Mason. If ever a man 
 believed that love, pure, good, and proof against the 
 poison of desire, had come into his life, that man was 
 Emmanuel Mason. If ever a man deluded himself, that 
 man was Emmanuel Mason. 
 
 He reached Paradise Ranch on the evening of the 
 second day, and, crossing the broad piazza with his 
 long, quiet, tiger-like strides, pushed open the door of 
 the living-room and went in. 
 
 Stanley and his wife were seated on opposite sides of 
 a small table, reading. They looked as if they had not 
 spoken to each other for hours. As a matter of fact, 
 Stanley had made several offers in the way of conversa- 
 tion which had been rejected without too much civility 
 
 65 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 by Mrs. Stanley. At Mason's entrance both rose and 
 hurried to greet him. In both faces were looks of real 
 pleasure. But the look in Stanley's face was mingled 
 with wonder; while, if a heightened color and sparkling 
 eyes are to be trusted, that in Mrs. Stanley's was alloyed 
 with a feminine feeling of triumph. 
 
 " But for Heaven's sake what has brought you back 
 so soon ?" cried Stanley, grasping his friend's hand. 
 
 "Why, he couldn't stay away from us, Goose," said 
 his wife. 
 
 "But the fishing must have been bad?" said Stanley. 
 
 "Awful," said Mason, "not a strike the second day. 
 What do you think of that?" 
 
 This statement was perfectly true, but Mason 
 blushed in delivering it. 
 
 "How disappointing," said Mrs. Stanley. But she 
 had noted the blush and could not conceal a smile. 
 
 "But you must be famished," said Stanley eagerly. 
 "I'll go to the pantry myself and see what there is." 
 
 "Wouldn't you rather I went?" said the wife. 
 
 "No, you stay right here, and hear all about it. . . . 
 I'll be right back." 
 
 There was a pathetic awkwardness about Stanley 
 which belied his manly qualities. When he moved he 
 seemed to be all knees and elbows. They watched him 
 out of the room, and it is just possible that Mrs. Stanley 
 raised her fair shoulders the least fraction of an inch. 
 
 66 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 "Why did you smile just now," said Mason sud- 
 denly, "when I said that I didn't get a bite the second 
 day?" 
 
 She looked boldly in his eyes and read as in a primer 
 what was written there. 
 
 "The difference," she said slowly, "between a man 
 and a woman is that a man lies with his tongue and 
 tells the truth with his eyes. But a woman lies with 
 both." 
 
 And she turned her own eyes down, and half covered 
 them with their soft lashes. Color rose in her cheeks, 
 and Emmanuel Mason realized that his love was not to 
 be a solace and a delight to his secret heart, but a 
 menace and a tragedy. He made a step toward her. 
 
 " Good-night," she said. " No, I'm not going to stay 
 and watch you eat your horrible old dinner. I'm tired 
 out. Don't let Jim sit up too late. Good-night." 
 
 At the door she turned. Her eyes met his and 
 mocked them. 
 
 "I'm glad you're back," she said softly. . . . And 
 vanished. 
 
 IH 
 
 It was November, but as yet no rain had fallen. The 
 country was beginning to feel distressed. Farmers 
 looked anxiously and often upward for signs of clouds; 
 
 67 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 their brows became puckered from too much gazing 
 upon the blank, blazing sky. In the reservoirs water 
 was so low that it was impossible to draw a clean bath. 
 Along the roads, dust, like dirty snow, enveloped the 
 trees. Even the dwellers in cities were tired of the 
 bright weather. Alone the Chinese smoked their 
 opium and went with calm faces and patient eyes 
 indefatigably about their business. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason and Alice Stanley rode at a walk, 
 northward, along the ocean beach. On the right hand 
 the naked brown hills, baked to the hardness of brick, 
 gleamed like metal in the sun. Upon the left hand the 
 long blue combers came unbroken from afar — like regi- 
 ments in line of battle — and were broken among the 
 shallows. Ahead, the beach extended like a broad tor- 
 tuous white road between the tumbling ocean and the 
 steadfast hills. The wind blew greatly from the 
 southwest. 
 
 "I know that, in the world's eyes, what I have pro- 
 posed to you is wrong. I have been brought up to 
 believe so. I do believe so. I have no defence to 
 make. Do I care ? Care ? I want you to come away 
 with me, that is all. I want it with all my strength. 
 The more wrong it is the less I care and the more I 
 want it. If I had not gone away — 'way back at the 
 beginning of the world — you would have belonged 
 to me, wouldn't you ? The situation that we are in is 
 
 68 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 only an accident. We were meant for each other. 
 You know it." 
 
 "But you went away, and we forgot each other, 
 didn't we?" 
 
 "Yes, like the pair of young fools we were. If I 
 went away, now, would I forget ? Would you ? You 
 are wretched with this — with Jim. For God's sake 
 give yourself a chance to be happy. Say the word. 
 . . . You're afraid of conventions, dear, aren't you? 
 Is that it? Tell me." 
 
 "May be. How should I know? I don't know 
 what to think." 
 
 "Let me think for you. Convention is a base and 
 false fabric that has been erected by the vast majority — 
 the vast pitiful majority which has ever been unable 
 to occupy itself with real issues. Convention " 
 
 "I believe that at this moment you love me, let us say, 
 with all your strength. But how can I know that it will 
 last ? How dare I think that it will ? We were lovers 
 once who met in after years as strangers. We- — " 
 
 He snatched the word from her as it were. 
 
 "We are lovers now. That is all that counts. At 
 this moment we love each other. What is the use of 
 supposing things that are not very probable? If a 
 shadow should come between us, is it worth antici- 
 pating? And, furthermore, I tell you that it can't 
 come. I won't let it. . . . We are lovers now." 
 
 69 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 "Yes, but I am a woman, and I am afraid of the 
 shadow." 
 
 And of a sudden their faces were both in shadow, 
 for a dark cloud blown up unperceived from the ocean 
 had come between them and the sun. The woman 
 laughed nervously for a second. 
 
 "I told you," she said. " Do you think it will rain ? " 
 
 "How do I know?" said the man almost roughly. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, "you would speak to me like that 
 after a while. . . . No, thank you." 
 
 "Alice, dear," his voice was all tenderness, "if I 
 spoke rough, I wasn't thinking rough. I wasn't think- 
 ing about rain, I was thinking how I love you and want 
 you." He looked upward with great humility. "Yes, 
 dear, I think it will rain." 
 
 "Then we'd better go back." 
 
 As they turned the first drop fell. The rain was 
 slow in getting under way. It seemed as if it were out 
 of practice, and not exactly sure what to do. And just 
 as an army sends out scouts and then skirmishers to 
 prepare the way for the main attack, so the cloud sent 
 down experimental drops and little showers before 
 commencing to pour. 
 
 "It's going to be a good one," said Mason; "shall we 
 canter?" 
 
 Both Mason and Mrs. Stanley were conscious of a 
 suppressed feeling of excitement. The wind seemed to 
 
 70 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 blow stronger and the surf to run higher. Even the 
 ponies were excited by the coming of the rain. They 
 began, as they cantered, to fear the waves to which 
 they were perfectly accustomed; to prick their ears 
 forward and back, to snort, to shy at dark stones and 
 lumps of seaweed. The canter became a gallop, the 
 gallop a run, the run all but a runaway. And in the 
 midst the cloud let fall its contents, and the earth and 
 sea rose in smoke to meet them. 
 
 Mile after mile and side by side the ponies raced 
 through the deluge. Water, sweat, and foam poured 
 from them. They began to gasp and labor in the sand. 
 The rain and the surf combined in one deafening roar. 
 
 Mason shouted something to his companion. She 
 shouted an answer. It looked rather than sounded 
 like the query, "What?" 
 
 "This won't do^' Mason bellowed. It is not 
 known whether she heard or not; it is enough that she 
 understood. They reined in the ponies till they walked. 
 
 Presently the heavens grew lighter, and the rain 
 slackened. It continued to fall for some time, but 
 mingled with it were bright rays from the sun, and 
 presently it ceased. The brown parched hills were 
 streaming with little brooks, that sought ways across 
 the beach and so into the sea. There was no longer 
 any dust. The air was cool and greatly fresh. It was 
 as if nature had suddenly been cured of a fever. 
 
 71 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 "Wasn't it glorious! Oh, but I loved it!" 
 
 He looked at her. Her habit hung shapelessly upon 
 her. He only thought her figure the better. Her face 
 was wet and her eyes were still brimful of rain. He 
 thought her face the more beautiful. 
 
 He reined to the left until his knees touched her 
 pony's ribs. He slipped his left arm about her. 
 
 "Alice," he said, "I have not kissed you since I was 
 a boy." 
 
 If the madness had left the scene it had not yet left 
 the actors. 
 
 She shivered slightly and drew a deep breath. Then 
 she turned her face toward his; the big sweet mouth 
 was trembling. As their lips came slowly close it 
 seemed to each as if the face of the other was half 
 hidden in a wonderful mist. One moment and the 
 eager lips would have met. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason's head was suddenly jerked back 
 on his shoulders. He relinquished his bridle. His 
 riding crop fell to the ground. He drew his arm from 
 about the woman he loved and pressed his hands to his 
 temples. His eyes rolled and his mouth writhed. His 
 face had become a frightful mask upon which was 
 depicted agony incredible. 
 
 "For God's sake, what is it? What is it? Can't 
 you speak to me?" 
 
 A groan was wrung from him. It is possible that 
 72 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 the woman had not really loved the man until she saw 
 him enduring his torture. 
 
 He took his hands from his head and gathered up the 
 reins. 
 
 "Never mind the crop," he said. ... "I have these 
 things once in a while." He spoke between clinched 
 teeth, his face the color of dust. "They strike like hot 
 iron. It's the suddenness that . . . that hurts . . . 
 after that I can stand 'em." 
 
 She was trembling with alarm and concern. 
 
 "We must hurry home," she said. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason strove without success to look 
 natural and to smile. 
 
 "First I want my kiss," he said. 
 
 "Not now," she said, "we must hurry. . . . Oh, 
 man, man, I love you ... I love you!" 
 
 Again they put the ponies to the proof. 
 
 But as they tore along the beach the pain in his head 
 was so frightful that Emmanuel Mason had no thought 
 of the beloved at his side, who loved him and would 
 endure all things for his sake. 
 
 Instead, he thought, with the intensity of a mono- 
 maniac, of the low-built clump of huts where his 
 Chinese laborers dwelt, and of the instant relief to be 
 found in the quarters of Sam Ah. 
 
 And an hour later, as he lay sucking the heavy, hot, 
 white smoke into the innermost recesses of his great 
 
 73 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 lungs, it seemed to him as if the guttering, sputtering 
 of the fusing opium was the sound of the rain roaring 
 about his ears. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was late in February before the lovers were able 
 to think of putting into effect the plan which they had 
 matured for the elopement. The rains, long in coming 
 and prayed for in all the churches, made up in profusion 
 what they had lacked in punctuality. The world be- 
 came green, and all night the tree frogs sang loud and 
 sweet. 
 
 December was a wet month, January a wetter. In 
 the first half of February there was only one bright day. 
 It seemed as if the prayers addressed to God must have 
 been heard by the devil and answered in a spirit of mal- 
 ice. In particular the winter was a hard one for Em- 
 manuel Mason. He received and recovered from at- 
 tack after attack of his trouble. But on each occasion 
 it took more of the subtle art of Sam Ah to repulse the 
 enemy. A Chinaman can begin young, smoke opium 
 hard, do his work, and live to be sixty-five. The 
 toughest white man will go to pieces in a fifth of that 
 time. Emmanuel Mason was a strong man, but the 
 pain told on him some, and its cure told on him much. 
 He became almost a shadow of himself, haggard, petu- 
 lant, and without repose. The whites of his eyes 
 
 74 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 took on a yellowish tinge, and it was noticed that he 
 no longer loved his tobacco. But the more sick and 
 more tragic he became the more the woman loved 
 him. 
 
 It is to the credit of both that during that trying 
 winter they kept apart as much as possible and were 
 indefatigable in their attempts to be nice to Stanley. 
 Nor was this a studied hypocrisy of demeanor. They 
 were truly sorry for him, and, incredible as it may seem, 
 truly fond of him. They were like a pair of children 
 preparing to run away from home. Nothing should 
 prevent them, but they were sorry to go. 
 
 Mason's health was so much improved during Feb- 
 ruary that he implored Mrs. Stanley to fix the hour for 
 their departure. And in the end she named the first 
 day of March, on which date the big new steamer of 
 the Maru Line was to sail for the Orient. Mason made 
 one trip to town to engage the best suite of rooms on the 
 hurricane deck, and a second when the ship had reached 
 port to look the rooms over and to make note of anything 
 lacking to promote Alice's comfort during the voyage. 
 
 By a miracle the day was sunny and bright even 
 in town. Mason felt better and happier than he had 
 all winter. And so used had he become to the idea of 
 an elopement that he no longer regarded it as either 
 wrong or unusual. He made an early start, so that he 
 might return to the ranch the same day and report to 
 
 75 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 Alice. This was the next to the last day in February. 
 They were to come to town together on the 1st of March, 
 and the ship with them aboard was to sail early in the 
 afternoon. There was to be no commotion. No bother 
 about trunks. Alice had made several trips to town 
 to buy a new outfit and new trunks to pack it in. For 
 this purpose she kept a room in the Palace Hotel. 
 Mason had made his preparations in a similar manner. 
 There would be little scandal. Paradise Ranch was 
 little visited, and its inhabitants were less known. 
 Mason was glad for himself and very sorry for Stanley, 
 that was all. 
 
 He boarded the steamer, and was shown to the suite 
 which he had engaged. It was capacious and com- 
 fortable. Two bedrooms, a big bathroom, and a 
 pleasant lounging room containing a writing-desk and 
 various easy-chairs. Mason spent some time in the 
 little apartment, fixing its geography and possibilities 
 in his mind so as to describe them correctly to Alice. 
 He made up his mind which of the bedrooms should be 
 hers and which his. Then he tried the easy-chairs in 
 the lounging room, one after another. He had a 
 thousand pleasant dreams to the minute. He was very 
 happy. At length having completed his list of things 
 needed, fruit, wine, books, writing materials (to whom 
 could they write, pray?), etc., he rose to go. Before 
 doing so he permitted himself a last look into the room 
 
 76 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 which Alice was to occupy. He pulled aside the curtain 
 (the door was hooked back) and thought for a moment 
 that he had mistaken her doorway for the one opening 
 on the deck. It was a momentary hallucination, to be 
 sure, for there was the fold-up basin, the rack with 
 bottles for drinking water and glasses to drink from, 
 or to hold tooth-brushes; there was the brown carpet 
 whose pattern had struck his fancy, the swinging lamp, 
 the hooks upon which to hang clothes, and there was 
 the brass bedstead with its expanse«of immaculate sheets 
 folded back over a rose-colored counterpane, embroid- 
 ered with the company's crest and monogram. 
 
 Emmanuel Mason stepped suddenly into the room 
 and looked upward at the ceiling. No, the ceiling was 
 perfectly solid, and not, as he had fancied, pierced by a 
 skylight. He had even fancied that the skylight had 
 been left open and that — But how utterly ridiculous. 
 . . . And yet. . . . He stopped and felt of the carpet 
 It was perfectly dry, of course. . . . And yet. . . . But 
 he laughed nervously and went ashore. 
 
 About this time it began to rain. And it kept on 
 raining. During the month of March it rained thirty 
 days out of the possible thirty-one. The curious thing 
 was that day after day the rain never varied in appear- 
 ance and effect. It was not the roaring, black rain that 
 comes out of low-hanging, swiftly driven black clouds, 
 but the long, gray rain that falls from thin gray clouds, 
 
 77 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 drifting slowly through the upper strata of the atmos- 
 phere. It had the effect of making things intensely 
 damp rather than actually wet, but for turning brown 
 into green and producing frogs and tree frogs it was in- 
 comparable. For instance, Emmanuel Mason had seen 
 a brown carpet whose pattern had struck his fancy 
 become a new grass-green almost the moment the rain 
 struck it. He remembered that the carpet was in a kind 
 of bedroom, which he had left because the newly born 
 tree frogs had suddenly burst into a loud sweet singing 
 which was intolerable to his ears. Another peculiar 
 property of the rain was its power to penetrate opaque 
 substances. It fell upon the floors in houses, as if there 
 had been no ceiling to protect them, and turned them 
 green. On leaving the ship he had made his way to the 
 Palace Hotel and taken refuge in the bar-room. The 
 court-yard of the Palace Hotel is covered by a glass dome, 
 and it was natural enough for that to prove no obstacle 
 to the rain, but that it should penetrate a roof and all the 
 floors of a seven-story structure so as to reach the bar- 
 room in undiminished volume was astonishing. Em- 
 manuel Mason felt a delicacy in asking the bartender 
 why this should be. Instead, he contented himself 
 with saying tentatively: "Doesn't it seem very damp to 
 you in here?" 
 
 "Not to me," said the bartender. 
 
 "I must be mistaken then," said Emmanuel Mason, 
 78 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 and he shivered slightly. For all that, he was convinced 
 that the bartender had lied. 
 
 Almost from the first the rain got on his nerves. He 
 felt that it would be absurd to return to the country in 
 such weather. He would wait until the sky was clear. 
 Meanwhile he was damp to the bone, and really troubled 
 about the singularly penetrating quality of the rain. 
 He was afraid of his old trouble. He remembered that 
 in Nevada it was nearly always dry. He stepped into 
 a rainy ticket office and inquired the price of a ticket to 
 Reno. He had not enough money to pay for it and 
 crossed the street to his bank to draw a check. Al- 
 though the ink ran badly, he managed to fill in the blanks 
 all but the one for the signature. He could not fill 
 that, however, for the very annoying reason that he had 
 forgotten his name. It took him two days and a whole 
 night of hard thought, during which he walked the 
 streets in the rain, to remember it. When he had done 
 so he hastened toward the bank. 
 
 On the way he encountered a tall, slim woman, who 
 made an involuntary gesture toward him with both 
 hands. Although she smiled and had a big sweet mouth 
 which seemed oddly familiar to him, he was perfectly 
 sure he was not acquainted with her. So he smiled, 
 shrugged his shoulders, looked upward, and was for 
 passing on. The woman endeavored to block the way 
 and tried to catch him by the sleeve. But that was a 
 
 79 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 familiarity which Emmanuel Mason did not propose 
 permitting to- any woman. He ducked under her out- 
 stretched arms and ran up the street like a big cat. 
 When he felt that he was safe from pursuit he laughed 
 loud and long. 
 
 That same day he went to Nevada and was dis- 
 gusted to find that rain was falling in every part of the 
 desert State. He left at once for Colorado, but there 
 it was also raining, and be felt obliged to give it up after 
 an hour's trial. One thing struck him as odd; the 
 fact, namely, that he met nobody who carried an um- 
 brella. He longed to tell them to go in out of the rain, 
 but remembered just in time that it was a kind of rain 
 which it was impossible to avoid. It really began to 
 worry him. And why in the devil was there such a 
 mighty chorusing of tree frogs in regions where there 
 was not a tree to be seen ? It was clear to him after 
 a while that if the frogs didn't stop singing, and 
 if the rain didn't stop falling, he would be obliged to 
 go mad. 
 
 It was a clever thought to go to Quebec and try a 
 little snow for a change. But high over the Plains of 
 Abraham slowly drifted gray clouds, and from them 
 perpendicularly fell the long gray rain. It was true that 
 the rain fell upon heavy deposits of winter snow. But 
 even as Emmanuel Mason looked the snow turned green, 
 and from the umbrageous gully by which Wolfe had 
 
 80 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 made his immortal ascent there arose suddenly a great, 
 sweet, intolerable singing of tree frogs. 
 
 As he thought of Wolfe's immortal ascent the lines 
 of Emmanuel Mason's face smoothed themselves and 
 he smiled. He must ascend. If there is rain under the 
 clouds there is surely blue sky above. A moment before 
 he would have offered his soul to the devil for a sight 
 of blue sky, in spite of the fact that although the devil 
 has been trying for years to make a corner in souls, a 
 sight of blue sky is never the price which he pays. But 
 now there was no need of that. He would ascend above 
 the clouds and owe the devil nothing. 
 
 From the Plains of Abraham to the top of Madison 
 Square Tower is but a step for an active man, whose 
 stride used to be compared to that of a tiger. But at 
 that elevation he was still beneath the pitiless clouds, 
 and the beautiful naked Diana from whom the wet 
 dripped was not potent to retain him. He hastened to 
 Paris (cursing the delay, for it took him nearly an hour 
 to get there) and ran nimbly up the steps of the Eiffel 
 Tower until he reached the topmost platform. But 
 still the clouds were above, and from them descended 
 the long gray rains, always at the same pace, always 
 perpendicular to the earth. " God!" he thought, "if it 
 would only fall parallel for a moment — just a moment!" 
 
 He turned and began wearily to descend the steps. 
 •Suddenly he stopped and began to roar with laughter. 
 
 81 
 
PARADISE RANCH 
 
 "You fool! You fool!" he cried, and he resumed the 
 descent at the run. Reaching the foot of the tower, 
 doubts began again to assail him, and for the second 
 time he paused. "Of course," he said, "to get high 
 enough, I must go up in a balloon, but it takes the devil 
 of a while to make one — and I can't wait. Poor Em- 
 manuel Mason — can't wait. Because, if he waits — if 
 he waits another minute — this rain will drive him mad." 
 
 He took out his watch and contemplated the second 
 hand during one revolution. 
 
 "Well, I'm not mad yet," he said, and put back the 
 watch in his pocket. "Perhaps I can hold out until 
 the balloon is made." 
 
 He started to run, stopped, leaned against a railing, 
 and for the second time roared with laughter. When 
 he had done laughing he assumed the attitude of an 
 orator, and with one hand pointing heavenward he 
 cried to an imaginary audience in a great voice: "And 
 if the balloon is out of the question, there yet remains 
 harnessed for the service of man the eternal principle 
 of the balloon. . . . Why does the balloon rise?" 
 
 It was night. Three gas jets flickered through the 
 rain and illuminated the room. Emmanuel Mason 
 locked the door and the windows. One after another 
 he blew out the three lights. 
 
 And then he lay down in the darkness to wait for the 
 time when he should ascend. 
 
 82 
 
Ill 
 
 CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 You gentlemen of England, 
 
 That live at home at ease, 
 How little do you think upon 
 
 The danger of the seas! 
 
 When the stretch of waves between the white coast 
 of Britain and the oaken sides of the Hynd Horn had 
 widened to an impassability for the most enduring 
 swimmer, the two mariners with pistols in their sashes 
 quitted the presence of Mr. England, to which they had 
 clung with pertinacity ever since the elegantly buckled 
 shoe of that gentleman had first touched the deck. Mr. 
 England smiled with sweetness after the last disap- 
 pearing hall-marks of his various misdemeanors, and 
 seated himself on the rail, where he balanced with 
 niceness and behaved so alluringly that the ship's cat 
 leaped to his knee, pUrring. Thence the cat climbed to 
 his shoulder and rubbed against his cheek. 
 
 "O cat," said Mr. England, "in the course of your 
 nine lives, have you ever been hanged?" 
 
 The cat yawned, from the sea-freshness, and elevated 
 his ample tail. 
 
 85 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "And was it painful?" said Mr. England. "And 
 were you, despairing, made to leave the most beautiful 
 of all tabbies to the machinations of other toms?" 
 
 Mr. England's delicate hand passed in caress the 
 whole length of the cat from his nose to the tip of his 
 tail. 
 
 " In the midst of life, O cat," said he, " we are in need 
 of the poets, and 
 
 If she be not fair for me, 
 What care I how fair she be? 
 
 But to be hanged, puss! — a dolorous priest — a knot 
 under the left ear — a drop — kingdom come, and be 
 damned to you!" 
 
 The cat purred loudly. 
 
 "What is life?" said Mr. England. "A shoe too 
 tight to wear. What is death ? An ineptness of nature. 
 Let us die cheerfully, puss, the stem of a rose between 
 our teeth, and our feet clad in easy stockings." 
 
 Mr. England sighed and looked back on that fast- 
 sinking shore where he and his crimes and the law had 
 all met in the same ale-house. 
 
 "Feline," said Mr. England, "I am to be judged 
 where I was born, hanged where I was bred, and buried 
 where four roads cross, with a stake through my sus- 
 ceptible heart, and a devil to make me dream. But you, 
 lamented sir, will die of an indigestion, — cat, 'ware rat! 
 
 86 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 — and be hurled by the tail into some corner; and our 
 respected talents will die with us. Do you draw a 
 lesson from that? Then down with you, sir, for an 
 ignoramus!" 
 
 Mr. England shifted his shoulder so suddenly as to 
 send the cat scrambling to the deck. There he gradu- 
 ally lapsed from an attitude of surprised indignation into 
 the first position of washing. 
 
 Mr. England mused with half-shut eyes. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. England," said the captain, "you are com- 
 fortable, I trust, in body and mind?" 
 
 "The sea does not make me sick in body," said Mr. 
 England, "neither do my thoughts make me sick in 
 mind. But I am sick at heart, for I have not yet been 
 presented to Lady Pel ham, and on that straight, short 
 road which is between me and the gallows there is no 
 other petticoat in view." 
 
 "Mr. England," said the captain, "when I agreed 
 not to put you in irons during good behavior, but to 
 give you the run of the ship, I made it clear that you 
 were not to seek the society of the other passenger, and 
 you promised a ready obedience to my wish." 
 
 "But I thought the other passenger would be a male," 
 said Mr. England. 
 
 "I had not made the proviso," said the captain, "if 
 it were to have been a man." 
 
 "But, captain," said Mr. England, "think of the 
 87 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 ladyl How may we find it in our hearts to oblige a 
 lady — a beautiful, an accomplished, a fashionable, a 
 young lady — to endure a voyage of inestimable length 
 and dullness, which might be rendered a shadow less 
 disagreeable by the society of one who, though not to 
 the manner born, has been to court, mastered the graces, 
 the languages, the poets, the game of piquet, and other 
 arts which, while not to be mentioned before honest 
 men, have in no wit detracted from his knowledge of 
 the world or his powers of conversation ?" 
 
 "To the point," said the captain. "But how can I 
 present to this lady, whose guardian and protector I 
 am for the time being, a man who, however accom- 
 plished, is for all that a " 
 
 "Spare me!" said Mr. England, with a shudder. 
 
 "You see," said the captain. 
 
 "But she is so beautiful!" said Mr. England. 
 
 "I deplore," said the captain, "that duty which 
 causes me to disoblige a gentleman whom I frankly like 
 and to deprive a lady, whose loneliness I myself can do 
 little to alleviate, of his charming society." 
 
 "But surely," said Mr. England, "there would be no 
 harm done. Has crime pock-marked me? Am I 
 loathsome? Is not the great sweetness of this lady 
 proof against contamination ? I ask only to be allowed 
 to render her those delicate attentions which are her 
 due, and to bend such small talents as I may have to 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 the shape of her amusement. And can you not, sir, 
 consider me at all? A few weeks — a short trial — a 
 speedy hangman — a dead England! How gayly could 
 those weeks be passed in the nearness of a beautiful 
 lady! How one could disregard the savage judge in 
 the memory of those weeks! How featly one could 
 tread the scaffold imagining it a well-pitched deck 
 beneath an August moon! Would you send me on- 
 ward, my captain, with no gentle memories ? Must I 
 grave it to the recollection alone of murder and of sud- 
 den death? Oh, for a gentle memory at the last — 
 perchance a tender word to cling to, perchance a ker- 
 chief given in jest, the memory of a sweet profile against 
 the moon, the memory of eyes that gave back stars to 
 heaven! Such memories are fresh garlands hung upon 
 the dying tree, to which, in the very clutch of death, I 
 could whisper with the poet ' Hang there like fruit, my 
 soul, till the tree die.'" 
 
 Mr. England turned half away with some show of 
 bitterness. 
 
 "Mr. England," said the captain, moved, "my duty 
 is as plain as the north star on a clear night; but 
 in utmost sincerity your sentiments are tearing my 
 mind." 
 
 "Let me appeal to her great graciousness," said Mr. 
 England. "Let me tell her who and what I am, and 
 
 then, if she stand for me " 
 
 89 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "You will tell her who and what you are?" said the 
 captain, weakening. 
 
 "My word!" said Mr. England. "At the worst, 
 she can but spurn and despise me and I shall have 
 played the story-telling Moor." 
 
 "You shall have your chance," said the captain. 
 "And now, see, she comes hither." 
 
 "Her eyes are like the morning," said Mr. England. 
 And he added : " Captain, in the constant and divert- 
 ing repetitions of history, it often occurs that when 
 Mohammed cannot go to the mountain — you know the 
 anecdote? I will lay my best gilt buckles against a 
 half-dozen of your Burgundy that the lady takes the 
 part of the pirate." 
 
 "Mr. England," said Lady Pelham, jestingly, "the 
 time is come when you did promise to confess your man- 
 ifold sins and wickedness before all men." 
 
 The time was night. The full moon like a round of 
 mottled marble, hung in the heavens. Her sweet light 
 radiated across the dancing sea, and the white sails of 
 the Hynd Horn were lighted by it. 
 
 Mr. England held up his head proudly, and Lady 
 Pelham clasped her pretty little hands attentively. 
 
 " Lady Pelham," said Mr. England, " it is a poor thing 
 that boasts of its own gallantry, but I have been no 
 stranger to the giving and taking of blows, nor to en- 
 
 90 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 counters with wild beasts, of which some were lions and 
 serpents, and some men. I ask you to believe that, 
 whatever the fear that has tugged at my heart I have 
 never run away. But now I would fain run from you, 
 for what I have to tell will lower me unspeakably in your 
 gracious sight." 
 
 "Mr. England," said Lady Pelham gently, "your 
 voice sounds tired and melancholy, like that of Prince 
 Hamlet in the play when he becomes sickened of his 
 part in life. If what you are about to say can in any 
 way sever an acquaintance so prettily begun, I pray that 
 you will leave it unsaid. We are two young people in 
 a wide ocean, cut off from each shore with weeks of 
 weary sailing before us. Let us leave behind those 
 things which have been, and be content with what is. 
 If you are truly gallant, you will not leave the queen of 
 this ship without a solitary courtier." 
 
 "Such a mantle were a cloak to any sin," said Mr. 
 England. "But such shreds of honor as I may lay 
 claim to require that I speak. Our queen must know 
 her courtier for what he is." 
 
 "I will pardon my courtier in advance," said Lady 
 Pelham, "for I need his service." 
 
 She looked up at him with a wonderful girlish sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 "I am beyond pardon," said Mr. England, "and for- 
 giveness. I dare not hope that those gentle elements of 
 
 91 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 which I am at this moment composed can secure me 
 toleration after the monstrous composition that I have 
 been. Will you listen, lady, from the bitter beginning 
 to the bitter end ? It may be that no woman will ever 
 listen to me again." 
 
 "I will listen," said Lady Pelham. 
 
 "We are to understand," said Mr. England, "that 
 all those littlenesses, such as tears and laughter, and 
 crime and goodness, which go to make up the Almighty's 
 universe were established by some primal cause. In 
 this way it is possible to conceive of a man who is not 
 answerable for what he is. But I am answerable for 
 what I am. I think I had no primal cause. I adhered 
 to my will when it was good; I clung to it when it was 
 wicked. I cannot say in my defense, 'Had my parents 
 not beaten me, I had not done thus and so.' Therefore, 
 Lady Pelham, you are to judge of a life which was not 
 made for a man, but which a man made for himself. 
 
 "Down to the southward," continued Mr. England, 
 "there was an island of the sea. Seen from above, it 
 was like an outstretched hand upon the waters: long, 
 safe harbors were between its fingers, and the five 
 knuckles were redoubtable mountains, susceptible to 
 rare defenses — to the overwhelming of narrow gorges — 
 to the rolling down of irresistible rocks. But from the 
 ocean that island was more sweet; for frothy blue waves 
 lapped the white sands on the one side, and to the other 
 
 92 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 came troops of trees and greenery that knelt and bowed 
 like worshippers. In the harbors of that island was a 
 great safety and hiding-place for a certain ship, and on 
 the shores were deep-thatched homes for men. Plan- 
 tains and many manners of trees gave fruit; other trees, 
 deep shade; swift brooks, cold water; the mountains, 
 game. There were storehouses full of silks and satins 
 and brocades, and spices, and all manner of good things. 
 Many a chest of gold and silver was in the secret keeping 
 of the strong sands. Dusky women of the island made 
 welcome with soft voices, and the captain of the ship, 
 who was a leader of men, gave good rule to that calm 
 place." 
 
 With a little sigh of approval Lady Pelham settled 
 deeper to the mystery of listening. 
 
 "There was a ship," said Mr. England, "so shapely 
 above and below the water, and served with such 
 cunning sails, that not one other ship in all the world 
 was so swift upon the seas. This ship was manned by 
 a crew of a hundred men, and captained by a devil." 
 
 Lady Pelham shifted uneasily. 
 
 "The men," said Mr. England, "were men of Devon 
 in England and of Portugal and Holland and Spain and 
 of the Americas. In only two things was there simi- 
 larity among the men: each had the heart of a lion and 
 the cruelty of a snake. But the captain! — oh, the cap- 
 tain! He was a rare bird — a pretty gentleman to look 
 
 93 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 upon, if you like; a man of letters and breeding; a man 
 of easy language, who could pin a compliment to a heart 
 and slap his Maker's face in the same breath; a sweet 
 swordsman, a sure shot, and" — Mr. England's voice 
 rose almost to a note of command — "a leader of men." 
 
 A look of aversion began to creep into Lady Pelham's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Now, what manner of kingdom was that, Lady 
 Pelham?" said Mr. England. His voice was almost 
 fierce. "Whence came those satins and brocades, those 
 chests of gold? What manner of men lived in those 
 deep-thatched homes and sailed that ship ? What man- 
 ner of man was their captain ? I will tell you, Lady Pel- 
 ham. We were bloody pirates, and I was our captain. 
 We robbed and murdered on the high seas. Those who 
 despised us we shot; those who were for us we hanged; 
 those who besought us we hauled down the barnacled 
 keel. We made coffins of ships " 
 
 He paused, sweating from the energy of his discourse. 
 
 Lady Pelham shivered. 
 
 "Right," she said; "right; you have said enough." 
 
 She rose and swayed slightly. 
 
 "To the bitter end— to the bitter end!" cried Mr. 
 England. The sweat was on his forehead and upper 
 lip. " I have your Ladyship's promise." 
 
 And, as it was in the beginning, the woman listened 
 to the serpent. He spoke in a lower, less shocking voice. 
 
 94 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "A wave of us," said he, "went up and over the side 
 of a rich ship. When all was finished, and while the 
 sea, sucking at the shattered bows, was dragging her 
 down, two brother sstood in the cabin. One was hon- 
 orably, one basely, born. One was Henry, Lord Clear- 
 water; one was Thomas England, pirate. One was a 
 kingly boy with golden hair, and the pride of honor and 
 innocence set like a crown upon his brow. The other 
 was a hard man, whose heart was set upon grimness. 
 
 "'Sir,' says my Lord Clearwater, 'if you are truly 
 my brother, I shall be obliged to take my life, which 
 has become unendurable to me, now that I am connected 
 with such vileness. I beg, in view of this, that you will 
 retract your statement, in which case I can consent to 
 live.' 
 
 "The boy was white, and he shook, for it was in his 
 mind to take his own life, because I was his brother, 
 and he loathed me, yet he feared to die. 
 
 "'Henry,' says England, 'you are my brother, and 
 I will save you in spite of yourself.' Oh, the horror of 
 it, Lady Pelham! The words were not free of my 
 mouth when he shot himself — here in the forehead he 
 shot himself, through the very crown of his pride and 
 his innocence. I knelt and kissed the blood from him, 
 for he was my brother, and a kingly boy." 
 
 Though Mr. England's voice broke at the tragedy of 
 its own conjuration, he sighed with relief when he saw 
 
 95 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 the look of aversion go from Lady Pelham. He went 
 on falteringly. 
 
 "I cut a lock of his yellow hair, and we committed 
 him with honor to the deep. Then I bade haul for 
 England, and I laid the lock upon his mother's knee, and 
 I said, 'Do not weep, lady, for he was a brave and 
 kingly boy.'" Mr. England controlled his voice with 
 effort. "I turned at the door and, looking back, saw 
 the gray head bent over the yellow hair." 
 
 Lady Pelham was crying. Mr. England watched 
 her furtively. 
 
 "Lady — lady," he said, almost piteously, "does the 
 bitterness of that atone a little? As I rode down the 
 long avenue from the castle, I repented of my shudder- 
 able life, and said over and over again, 'God help me! 
 God help me!'" 
 
 Mr. England's hand lay upon the rail, white in the 
 moonlight and frail like an appeal. Lady Pelham 
 touched it with her fingers. 
 
 "God help you!" said she. 
 
 Mr. England turned from her so that she might not . 
 see his face. 
 
 "There is more," said he, presently. "It is the bit- 
 terest part, for it is the death-blow to the new life then 
 begun. In London is an ale-house where, it is said, if 
 you sit for a year and a day you shall see all the people 
 in the world. There are famous meetings in that ale- 
 
 96 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 house. And who do you think met together there one 
 day ? Why, Tom England and his crimes and the law 
 they met there, and, so help him God! he is being taken 
 to the place where he was born, to be tried for all of his 
 crimes, and for any one of them to be hanged by the 
 neck until he is dead." 
 
 He leaned toward Lady Pelham. 
 
 "It was to lay a lock of hair upon a mother's knee 
 that I went to England," he said. " Gracious, merciful, 
 and beautiful lady, have I spoken my last word to a 
 woman this side of the grave ? " 
 
 " No," said she, and hot tears coursed down her sweet 
 cheeks, and she ran below without another word. 
 
 Mr. England was joined by the captain, who had 
 been prowling about in the night. 
 
 "Well?" said the captain. 
 
 "Captain," said Mr. England, with the utmost cheer- 
 fulness, "I am your creditor for six bottles of Burgundy. 
 With your agreeable and esteemed acquiescence we 
 will open one of them." 
 
 And he added to himself: 
 
 "That was a saving invention about the brother." 
 
 Infinite compassion of woman; infinite forgiveness; 
 infinite desire to mould and make new; infinite power 
 to leave her great, tender, true, beautiful, silly heart in 
 the most brambly places. 
 
 97 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 Those eyes of Lady Pelham's, which Mr. England 
 himself had said were like the morning, looked into the 
 eyes of Mr. England, and saw nothing there of all that 
 horribleness which she had forgiven. She saw there 
 only the purity and nobility of purpose with which he 
 had promised her to live until he died; and in the 
 bottom of her silly, golden heart, she said: "He has 
 repented. He loves me — he must be saved." 
 
 Behind them were three weeks of fair and foul 
 weather, a thousand pages of the poets, a hundred 
 games at piquet; conversations wherein were laid down 
 the laws of life, the meetings and partings of true 
 lovers. Sometimes they had spoken of death, but more 
 often of the beginnings of happy lives; sometimes of 
 the delicate perfections of verse, sometimes of predes- 
 tination, sometimes of the champ of war, but mostly of 
 love. 
 
 A bright sun was in the heaven, a following wind 
 was on the sea, and between the Hynd Horn and her 
 port was an ever-narrowing distance. But between 
 Priscilla, Lady Pelham, and Mr. Thomas England was 
 no distance at all, for her elbow touched his arm, and 
 a wisp of her hair brushed his cheek. 
 
 "Beautiful princess," said Mr. England, "I see now, 
 when it is too late, that the gods have loved me all 
 along, for, through circumstances too horrid for another 
 to contemplate, your favor has caused me to be happier 
 
 98 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 than the heir of a kingdom about to mount the royal 
 throne. I make it my hourly duty to thank God for 
 the wealth of peace which he has given me. The end, 
 which had presented itself to my view amid surround- 
 ings of such boundless dishonor, seems now like the 
 gentle coming of night. I shall bid you "good night,' 
 and fall asleep to dream of you. But there will be no 
 morning, my princess, after that last good night." 
 
 "There must be morning somewhere," said Lady 
 Felham. 
 
 "Do you wish it?" said Mr. England. 
 
 "I wish it," said she. 
 
 "Ah, lady," said Mr. England, "there is such bitter- 
 ness in brief days! How can you, looking back upon 
 the glory of this time at sea, — when I am gone, — believe, 
 in your heart of hearts, that I was a true penitent? 
 How easy it were to play any part for so little a space! 
 There is scarce a difference between my case and that of 
 your sinner who, feeling the tides of life run agonizingly 
 out, the sweat on his brow, the rattle in his throat, turns 
 with an ecstatic valedictory from his sins (which he can 
 commit no more), and writhes to be forgiven. There 
 is such doubt. Tell me, lady, that you believe — that 
 you believe me other than that." 
 
 '•' I have given you my trust," said Lady Pelham. 
 
 "Golden heart!" said Mr. England, and a real tear 
 ran down his cheek. "Oh," he cried, "for a full frag- 
 
 99 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 ment of life wherein to step from the slough that was 
 into the broad thoroughfare of a true knight! To 
 march prospering, with her kerchief on one's sleeve, 
 with her eyes looking upon one from the high tower, 
 with her trust in one's keep, with her love to return to! 
 I tell you, if I had a year to live I would prove before 
 all men and such a lady that chivalry is not yet gone 
 from earth, and that dragons are still to be found in the 
 enchanted forest." 
 
 There was such a deep ring, as of gold, in England's 
 voice, and such an undercurrent of pain and missed 
 opportunity, like the tolling of a dirge, that Lady Pel- 
 ham's heart was torn, and became bursting with a 
 desire to help that same rebirth of chivalry and knightly 
 deeds upon earth. She laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "If I were Tom England," she said, "I would not 
 yet give over. Rather a plank in the ocean, a gallant 
 struggle, one last fight for that same year of life. If I 
 were a leader of men, I would not suffer myself to be 
 led meekly like an ox to the slaughter by men." 
 
 "A plank?" said Mr. England, looking at the great 
 waves. "Ah, lady, not a plank!" 
 
 "The plank was a figure," said Lady Pelham. "Can 
 you not think out some stratagem — some desperate 
 chance?" 
 
 "And leave you?" exclaimed Mr. England. "Ah, 
 beautiful princess!" 
 
 100 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "At the end of such a year as you spoke of," said 
 Lady Pelham, "you could seek me out, and come before 
 me, haling the dragon after you." 
 
 "And the reward?" said Mr. England. 
 
 "The year were its own reward," said Lady Pelham. 
 
 "True," said Mr. England, dolefully. "Then you 
 wish me to escape?" 
 
 "Oh, I do!" said Lady Pelham, vehemently. 
 
 "I bless you for that," said Mr. England. Then he 
 looked into her eyes for spme moments. 
 
 " Thank God ! " he said at length. " My lot is happier 
 than that of kings and emperors, for in my life I have 
 found one person I can trust." 
 
 Lady Pelham's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "And you will try," she said, "for my sake?" 
 
 "Listen, dearest lady," said Mr. England. "It has 
 come to my mind that when I am cut off from the sight 
 of your bright eyes I must have leisure wherein to turn 
 back my heart and recollect them. Therefore, being 
 a man of some resource, — the result of experience, not 
 boasting, — I did decide to essay one desperate chance." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Lady Pelham. " And that " 
 
 "I have some power over nature," said Mr. England, 
 mysteriously, "and I have altered the course thereof." 
 
 "Altered the course of nature!" said Lady Pelham. 
 
 Mr. England took from a pouch a piece of heavy 
 stone, the color of lead, and the size of a thumb-nail. 
 
 101 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "I had two of these," said he. "You have heard 
 how the coffin of Mohammed was raised from the floor 
 of his tomb by the power of the roof, which was lode- 
 stone. This is part of the roof of Mohammed's tomb, 
 and so was the other piece. The other piece is now 
 playing ducks and drakes with the mariner's compass 
 by which our good captain confidently thinks he is 
 steering the Hynd Horn direct for the port where I am 
 to be hanged. As a matter of fact, she has been running 
 in a somewhat southerly direction. Strange ports offer 
 strange chances to those who are willing to chance it." 
 
 Mr. England laughed softly out of pure satisfaction. 
 
 "And now," said he, "observe our astute captain 
 and his able officers. It is twelve o' the clock, and they 
 are about to take the sun with the sextant, and locate our 
 exact whereabouts upon the face of the waters. But they 
 will not do this, because our prying skipper shall find 
 within a minute that his instrument — by the way, the 
 only one now on board — has been irreparably deranged." 
 
 Mr. England smiled blissfully at Lady Pelham, and 
 hummed from the ancient ballad of Sir Patrick Spens 
 the lines: 
 
 O whare will I get a skeely skipper 
 To sail this new ship of mine? 
 
 "And, thank God," said Mr. England, "there is one 
 person in the world to whom I can tell this thing." 
 
 102 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "You trust me like that?" said Lady Pelham, a 
 tender light in her eyes. 
 
 "I trust you," said Mr. England, "more than I trust 
 myself." 
 
 The captain and his officers stood for a long time 
 scratching their heads. 
 
 "At any rate," the captain had said to his officers, 
 "we can trust to our compass, which is an excellent 
 instrument of the latest pattern. At night we must 
 watch out with redoubled vigilance, lest we fall a prey 
 to some uncharted body of land. But it's God's own 
 pity that so pretty a sextant should have met with so 
 untimely an end." 
 
 Though the nights were cloudy, the weather held to 
 the satisfaction of all on board, especially to that of the 
 captain and Mr. England, for each was holding himself 
 responsible for the navigation of the ship. Each spent 
 several hours a day in reassuring Lady Pelham . The cap- 
 tain told her that the piny shores of Massachusetts were 
 dead ahead. Mr. England spoke of palms and guavas. 
 
 "It is so warm," said the captain, sententiously, to 
 Lady Pelham, "because we are approaching the New 
 World, where it is warmer than with us." 
 
 " It is so warm," said Mr. England, " because we are 
 approaching the equator, where it is hotter than in the 
 infernal regions." 
 
 103 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "O Lord," said Lady Pelham, on her knees, "make 
 it right for me not to betray his secret, for he is thine 
 own true penitent, and I am thy daughter that adores 
 thee.'' 
 
 One morning the fan of a palm was seen by Mr. 
 England to pass to leeward in the boil of waters. A 
 little later he showed Lady Pelham a school of flying- 
 fishes, and about noon the lookout cried to those on 
 deck that he beheld land under the port bow. The 
 two faces which Mr. England wore as the Hynd Horn 
 bore down on that island — for island it now showed 
 itself to be — were of an exact oppositeness. To the 
 captain he showed a drawn lip, — a beginning-of-the-end 
 face, as it were, — to Lady Pelham the most dancing of 
 eyes, the most radiant of smiles. But if the expression 
 of his face was joyous when he turned it on Lady Pel- 
 ham, what must have ^ee^p^^ig in his breast when 
 the dim bluish cloud on the horizon began to assume 
 a familiar shape? 
 
 "By the splendor!" cried Mr. England's heart, "I 
 have hit the nail on the very head." 
 
 The Hynd Horn ran nearer and nearer to the island, 
 and the captain, who was forward, glass at eye, sud- 
 denly lurched like a drunken man. He made a new 
 focus and looked again. 
 
 "My God!" he cried— "palms!" 
 104 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 Mr. England was at his elbow. 
 
 "The tropics!" said he, sweetly. 
 
 "This is the devil, Mr. England," said the captain. 
 
 "I begin to think it is," said Mr. England. "Sir, 
 the loan of your glass." 
 
 Mr. England looked long and eagerly, and his heart 
 leaped and bounded, but he kept countenance. 
 
 "Sir," said he, "these waters are familiar to me, and 
 we are in imminent danger of our lives; we are in the 
 midst of shoals and reefs " 
 
 "Condemn that sextant!" cried the captain. 
 
 "Sir," said Mr. England, "I beg you to let me take 
 the wheel before all is lost." 
 
 "We will turn back," said the captain. He was dazed 
 at finding his ship so far to the southward. 
 
 " It were foolhardy to turn back," said Mr. England. 
 "We have no sextant, and the compass has proved as 
 fickle as woman. I beg you, sir, let me take the wheel. 
 There is not a moment to lose. We can talk as — as we 
 save our lives." 
 
 The two gentlemen hurried aft, and Mr. England 
 snatched the wheel from the helmsman's hand. 
 
 "Ah!" he sighed, as if relieved of a great burden. 
 
 "And now, sir, what do you intend?" asked the 
 captain. 
 
 "That island," said Mr. England, "is a great putting- 
 in place for ships short of water and supplies. It is 
 
 105 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 inhabited by a gentle race of — of islanders, who will 
 treat us with courtesy. I propose to conduct the Hynd 
 Horn to a safe anchorage, and there we must lie until 
 some other ship touches and we can beg a sextant. Sir, 
 I pray that you will send a safe man forward to take the 
 soundings." 
 
 "I will do it myself," said the captain. "Sir, you are 
 proving yourself a man of spirit and resource." 
 
 "I think I am," said Mr. England to himself when 
 the captain had gone forward. He patted the wheel 
 and added: "Oh, the simplicity of steering through 
 imaginary shoals and reefs!" 
 
 Presently the captain cast the lead. 
 
 "Mr. England," he cried, "there is no bottom." 
 
 "Thank God!" Mr. England called back. "Then 
 we are in the channel." 
 
 The Hynd Horn was now skirting the shore of the 
 island within three cable lengths. Mr. England still 
 steered, and the captain still cast the lead and found no 
 bottom. Lady Pelham was standing close to Mr. 
 England. 
 
 "It is a sweet place," said she. 
 
 "Sweeter than you know, lady," said he. "Do you 
 notice anything particular about the scene?" 
 
 "Only that it is fresh and green and beautiful — a 
 blessed island!" said Lady Pelham. 
 
 "Mark," said Mr. England, "how the frothy blue 
 106 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 waves lap the white sands on the one side, and to the 
 other come troops of trees and greenery that kneel and 
 bow like worshippers." 
 
 "Mr. England," cried the lady, in excitement, "it 
 is not — it cannot be your island ?" 
 
 "In the midst of doubt," said Mr. England, "we 
 must turn to the poets." 
 
 He raised his shapely head proudly, and turned his 
 eyes on the lady. 
 
 "Princess," he said, 
 
 "I am monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute. 
 From the center all round to the sea 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute." 
 
 "You terrify me," said Lady Pelham, "when you 
 look like that." 
 
 "Oh, my lady," cried Mr. England, "my good, my 
 blessed angel, how can I terrify youf" 
 
 "I have given you my trust," said Lady Pelham, 
 "and I will not fear you any more." 
 
 "My people shall be your lambs," said Mr. England. 
 
 The shores kept unfolding great beauties, so that it 
 was a sheer delight to look upon them — on the surpass- 
 ing freshness of the green, the wonderful whiteness of 
 the sands, the slender perfections of the palms, the 
 bright-colored flashes from the flowers. The extreme 
 oequetry of nature ornamented those shores. 
 
 107 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 Now and again the captain's voice arose from the 
 main chains, where he was using the lead: 
 
 "There is no bottom." 
 
 Now and again Mr. England spoke reassuringly to 
 Lady Pelham. 
 
 Nature had done much to conceal the narrow mouth 
 of the tortuous harbor into which Mr. England steered 
 the Hynd Horn. Conceive a bottle from which a 
 fragmentary and rotten cork has been three parts 
 drawn. The cork, a dozen little islands, as round as 
 coins, and densely wooded, was in, and projected from, 
 the neck of the bottle. These islands were so placed 
 and related that the channel, in any direction, was 
 blocked by some one of them; and so close were they 
 to one another and the main island that to even a near 
 glance they gave the appearance of being one unbroken 
 shore. Their inanimate deceits and contrivances so 
 tricked the eye that it was as if that Providence which 
 watches over the evil-doer had taken a handful of ever- 
 lasting dust and thrown it in the face of Justice. 
 
 The channel itself was like a narrow tidal river: the 
 trees on each bank were exceedingly well grown, and 
 formed, with the various flowery and thorny creepers 
 which bound them together, an unbreached and im- 
 penetrable wall; for, whereas the top of the wood 
 waved energetically in the wind off the sea, the waters 
 
 108 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 of the harbor were as still as death, and the Hynd Horn 
 seemed to be advanced less by the impulse of moving 
 air than by a kind of delectable wafting. 
 
 A quiet came over the Hynd Horn, and only those 
 men who were preparing the anchor spoke at all. Mr. 
 England, his lips pressed tightly together to keep back 
 any show of that eagerness and triumph which was al- 
 most bursting his sides, turned the wheel to right or left 
 with delicate and precise movements of his white hands. 
 Lady Pelham stood close beside him. She was very 
 pale. 
 
 For a long time that ribbon of still water continued 
 between its twin vegetable hedges, and then came a 
 turn, beyond which everything spread. The channel 
 opened into a great placid fan, dotted thickly with wild 
 fowl. The matted trees stepped back from one another, 
 and halted at stately distances, as in an English park. 
 The shore ahead rose to the dignity of a hill, and dis- 
 covered among its waving plantains and traveller's- 
 palms a well-ordered village of deeply thatched cottages. 
 But no atom of humanity was stirring, and that land- 
 locked, fan-shaped basin, with its park-like shores, 
 had been as peaceful as paradise, save for the intrusion 
 on its shining surface of the shape of an ominously 
 powerful ship, painted as black as the pit. 
 
 As when, at a game of pure chance, it is suspected 
 that a certain player is causing the intrusion of skill, the 
 
 109 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 other players begin to look at him askance, so the 
 officers and crew of the Hynd Horn began to eye Mr. 
 England. There was as yet no handle to seize upon; 
 but the inhuman silence of that place, and the sardonic 
 power and blackness of the vessel at anchor, worked 
 upon the imaginings of men like unexplainable sounds 
 in the night season. All faces became long and grave, 
 save only that of Mr. England. Alert and flushed, his 
 eyes glittered coldly over the captain, the officers, and 
 the crew; even over Lady Pelham, from her head to her 
 feet, for he knew that the others began to divine that 
 they had been betrayed. 
 
 Lady Pelham, poor dove, stood close to the snake and 
 trembled. 
 
 "Mr. England," said the captain, in a deep voice, 
 "what place is this?" 
 
 "A harbor," said Mr. England, sweetly. 
 
 "Sir," said the captain, "I would feel safer on the 
 high seas without rudder or compass than in such a 
 harbor." 
 
 "The tone of your statement," said Mr. England, 
 "makes the issue personal rather than geographical. 
 I brought you here. Am I to understand that " 
 
 "You are to understand," said the captain, "that I 
 have trusted the lives in my care to dangerous hands." 
 
 "Ah," said Mr. England, contemptuously, "and your 
 final judgment?" 
 
 110 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "I reserve that," said the captain. "And in the 
 meanwhile I will run no risks. We will turn about and 
 make for open sea." 
 
 Mr. England stepped back from the wheel, releasing 
 the spokes. 
 
 "You are too late, captain," he said jauntily. "The 
 channel up which we have come is now divided by an 
 indivisible chain of iron, retreat is cut off, and, further- 
 more — furthermore, we — are — aground." 
 
 It was true. The Hynd Horn, either from being left 
 to her own guidance, or from some last subtle impulse 
 which Mr. England had given to the wheel, ran, with 
 a scrunch, upon a submerged bank of soft, clinging 
 sand. 
 
 Instantly all was bustle and menace, but before the 
 latter had taken the shape of an attempt to arrest the 
 person of Mr. England, that gentleman had found time 
 to kneel at Lady Pelham's feet, kiss both her hands, say 
 in his most tender voice, "Farewell, charmingest," to 
 mount lightly on the rail, leap gracefully overboard, and 
 swim leisurely ashore. Not a gun or pistol could be 
 fired, for none was loaded; not a marline-spike was 
 thrown, for the thought came to no one. 
 
 Mr. England stood dripping on the beach, in easy 
 view from both vessels. He stood so for a moment, 
 and then, turning, disappeared among the trees. 
 
 Instantly a port opened on the pirate ship, a gun 
 111 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 was run out, there was a thunderous discharge, gener- 
 ating thunderous reverberations, and a ball screamed 
 between the masts of the merchantman. The Water- 
 fowl rose from the surface of the harbor with a terrific 
 roaring of wings, and swung over the trees with terrified 
 cries. 
 The captain of the Hynd Horn hauled down the 
 
 And Lady Pelham sank sobbing to the deck. 
 
 The afternoon passed without a sign from the pirate 
 ship or the land. Long and short strings of water-fowl 
 returned to the harbor, and all was as before. That 
 island world stood still, waiting until Mr. England 
 should give it command to move. 
 
 He might have been seen pacing moodily in a glade 
 of the forest. For the first time in his adventurous life 
 he did not know what he was going to do next. He 
 was possessed of a magnificent devil which was tempt- 
 ing him to act like a gentleman. 
 
 About ten in the morning a small boat was rowed 
 to the Hynd Horn, and Mr. England came over the 
 side. He was white and drawn, and there were blue 
 circles under his eyes, but he had been at some pains 
 to dress himself according to the latest mandates of 
 fashion. To the captain, who greeted him, he bowed 
 shortly, and said: 
 
 112 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "I have come to speak with Lady Pelham. Where 
 is she?" 
 
 " If you have come to insult her, which I doubt not," 
 said the captain, stoutly, "you shall have the pleasure 
 of doing so across a number of dead bodies. I may 
 have hauled down my flag of commission, but you shall 
 find my flag of honor nailed to the mast." 
 
 The men of the Hynd Horn began to close in. 
 
 "For God's sake," said Mr. England, "don't make 
 me angry! Where is she ?" 
 
 "I demand your intentions," said the captain. 
 
 Mr. England pursed his lips and looked the captain over. 
 
 "My good man," said he, "I spent last night in hang- 
 ing you for safety's sake and sparing you for courtesy's 
 sake. I did each about nine hundred and eighty times. 
 I have barely reached a decision comfortable for all 
 concerned, when you begin to annoy me and make me 
 wish to retract. Now I want to speak with Lady 
 Pelham. Where is she?" 
 
 "Sir," said the captain, "whatever decision you may 
 have reached as to hanging me -or not hanging me, I 
 stand in the place of a father to .that young lady, and I 
 ask why " 
 
 "Why in— ," said Mr. England, fiercely, "don't you 
 act as if you were grown up?" 
 
 "I'm condemned if you shall stand there insulting 
 me!" cried the captain. 
 
 113 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "I'm condemned if I sha'n't!" cried Mr. England. 
 
 "I tell you — " began the captain, hotly. 
 
 But just here came an interruption in the lovable 
 form of Lady Pelham herself. The very exquisiteness 
 of her sudden apparition upon the deck — for she was 
 all in white, and her eyes were like the morning — cooled 
 the glowing tempers of the two men, as sweetly as rain 
 cools parched ground. 
 
 "Speak to her if she wishes," said the captain, with 
 a bow. 
 
 "Captain," said Mr. England, with a flourish, "I 
 am under many obligations to you already. I should 
 like to place myself under one more. I desire to speak 
 with Lady Pelham alone." 
 
 The captain and crew of the Hynd Horn went for- 
 ward in a body. Mr. England removed his hat and 
 advanced slowly to Lady Pelham. 
 
 "What are you to-day?" said Lady Pelham, not 
 coldly, but with deep sadness. 
 
 "Do you mean am I penitent or pirate?" asked Mr. 
 England. 
 
 Lady Pelham's head drooped in acquiescence. 
 
 " I think that forto-day and for many days," said Mr. 
 England, "I shall be neither pirate nor penitent, but 
 only a common man — with a broken heart." 
 
 "How well I know you now!" said Lady Pelham, 
 with even more sadness. 
 
 114 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 "Lady," said Mr. England, "I did not think you had 
 found me out. But since it is so " 
 
 "It was yesterday," said Lady Pelham, "when your 
 eyes glittered so, and you looked me over as if — oh, the 
 shame of it!" A great blush rose on her cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, lady," said Mr. England, "I want you to listen 
 to me so much!" 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Pelham; "and for what reason?" 
 
 "For these," said Mr. England — "for the sake of the 
 moon, and the freshness of the sea." 
 
 " I think that you are only going to make me one of 
 your speeches," said Lady Pelham. "But I will listen 
 to you for the last time." 
 
 "You are right," said Mr. England — "for the last 
 time." 
 
 "And for afterward," said Lady Pelham, almost 
 piteously, "I have a pistol, which I have been shown 
 how to use." 
 
 "You have the right," said Mr. England, "to hurt 
 me more than you are hurting me now — if that is pos- 
 sible. But there will be no afterward, for I shall never 
 see your face again." 
 
 "What!" cried Lady Pelham. 
 
 "Will you listen to me, most gracious lady?" said 
 Mr. England. 
 
 "I am listening," said she. 
 
 "I am all that you think," began Mr. England, "and 
 115 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 worse. I have done nothing but He to you. But until 
 we sighted this island I had no evil design. Then it 
 came to me like a flash that I could have my escape and 
 you, too. That was why my eyes insulted you. But, 
 lady, just before I went ashore, when I stole those kisses 
 from your dear, innocent hands, do you know what 
 happened ? I fell in love with you. And I walked out 
 the night in mortal combat with my worst enemy — 
 myself. And in the morning the cur laid down his 
 arms and my heart broke. And that is why, gentlest, 
 sweetest, dearest lady, I am going to send the Hynd 
 Horn on her way rejoicing, with all that I ever cared for 
 on board." 
 
 Mr. England's voice was very tired, and he stood 
 wearily. 
 
 "Are you going to say anything to me?" he said. 
 
 "I am going to tell you," said Lady Pelham, "that 
 I know you have been speaking the truth, and that you 
 are an honorable man." 
 
 "For your dear sake," said Mr. England, "I would 
 leave the old life if I could, but it is too strong upon me. 
 I am a little king upon this island, and my people are 
 mine, heart and hand. It is not all murder and rob- 
 bery. There are fair nights and white moons, and 
 sometimes you can find, deep in the woods, places where 
 innocence lurks, and you can go back to it for a little. 
 Heaven can do no better than that, lady. Indeed, I 
 
 116 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 think heaven is a place where we recover our lost inno- 
 cence. If there is any good in me, lady, it is the love I 
 bear my kingdom. And I cannot begin again, even for 
 you. I was born by chance, and chance used to be my 
 only goddess. I know that I must go back to her, and 
 to her sister, the spirit of desperate adventure. At their 
 feet I shall one day die, and be damned, as I deserve." 
 
 "I shall never think of you as — as a pirate," said 
 Lady Pelham. 
 
 "For your dear sake I will try and be less hate- 
 ful," said Mr. England. "But sometimes we are just 
 like anybody else. Will you try to think of me like 
 that? Why, lady, there have been true lovers on 
 this island." 
 
 "I shall think of you often," said Lady Pelham. 
 
 "To-night," said Mr. England, "as the Hynd Horn 
 passes the mouth of the harbor, will you wave your 
 scarf to me ? I shall be on the point." 
 
 "I will," said Lady Pelham. 
 
 "Thank you," said Mr. England. "It will be sweet 
 to remember your having done that. And now I am 
 going to say good-by to you, dearest lady, but first you 
 will let me look at you a little, for I shall never see your 
 face again." 
 
 Lady Pelham's eyelids drooped, and her graceful 
 head drooped. 
 
 Mr. England looked on her for a long time. 
 117 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 4 
 
 "I have never seen anything so beautiful and pure," 
 he said. 
 
 A tear stole down Lady Pelham's cheek. 
 
 "Good-by, dear," said Mr. England. He stooped 
 quickly and kissed her hand softly where it hung at 
 her side. 
 
 Lady Pelham burst into tears. 
 
 All that day she lay in her berth and cried, and made 
 great moan, saying: 
 
 "Oh, how terrible — how terrible — for I love him!" 
 
 There was a wonderful moon that night. She came 
 brimming out of the sea, dripping with light, and swept 
 up the heavens, and the fire of all the stars in her path 
 went out. Only the very youngest stars that had strayed 
 to the most remote places remained to look at their 
 mother; and even they became dim. 
 
 At the mouth of the harbor, leaning against the stem 
 of a palm, stood Mr. England. He was back from the 
 beach in a kind of recess among the trees. Every line 
 of him expressed fatigue, and his face was very sad. 
 
 Presently out of the stillness came the creaking of 
 rigging and the vowel sounds of commands. 
 
 "The end," said Mr. England. He stood more 
 erect. 
 
 The Hynd Horn slipped by like a ghost. 
 
 Mr. England followed her with his eyes, at first 
 118 
 
CAPTAIN ENGLAND 
 
 eagerly, then surprisedly, then dejectedly, then bitterly. 
 No scarf was waved to him from the deck of the outward- 
 bound. She slid behind one of the little islands, and 
 he saw her no more. 
 
 "The end," said Mr. England. He put his hands 
 over his eyes, and pressed tightly. After a little he took 
 them down and said: 
 
 "She didn't mean to hurt me so." 
 
 Then he looked up at the moon. 
 
 "Now I will go back to my kingdom," he said. 
 
 But a new sound broke the stillness — the splash of 
 oars unhandily plied. The sound drew nearer, but the 
 strokes occurred with less and less frequency, as if the 
 boatman were tiring. Mr. England stepped briskly to 
 the shore. 
 
 A few yards off, and to the left, a boat was headed 
 for the beach. The boat contained a lady. 
 
 Mr. England sprang forward. 
 
 "Glorious, golden, gracious, wonderful, beloved, 
 beautiful!" he cried. It was as if his voice caught fire 
 and blazed up. 
 
 The boat grated on the sand. 
 
 "Will you help me out, please?" said Lady Pelham. 
 
 119 
 
IV 
 
 THE EXECUTION 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 I 
 
 The room was dark as the pit and its midnight 
 silence was accentuated rather than disturbed by the 
 soft, steady, grating sound of a rat gnawing in the 
 wall, and by the loud metallic ticking of a clock. 
 
 Suddenly upon one of the walls appeared a perpen- 
 dicular thread of pale gray. This widened by grada- 
 tions that were almost imperceptible, and which were 
 accompanied by faint creaking noises like those made 
 by iron hinges that have not been oiled. The thread 
 widened to a rope, to a broad ribbon, after a while to 
 the width of a broad window. Through the rectangles 
 of the sash appeared a swirling gray vista of falling 
 snow, half shrouded by the dark figure of a man, his 
 cap and shoulders thatched with snow. A pane of 
 glass fell to the floor with a sharp fang. The rat in 
 the wall ceased his gnawing; and only the clock con- 
 tinued to break the silence. Presently the lower half 
 of the sash began to move upward, until there was a 
 sufficient opening for the man to pass through. Before 
 
 123 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 entering he shook the snow from his cap and shoulders, 
 and, seated on the window-sill, his body in and his legs 
 out, brushed the snow from his feet. Then he swung 
 his legs into the room, one after the other, and, turning, 
 reached out his arms and drew to the shutters. The 
 room was again dark as the pit. A faint sound, be- 
 tween a crunch and a squeak, told that the man had 
 closed the sash. 
 
 Presently the man struck a match. The spurt of 
 blue and yellow flame showed a thin, white, shaking 
 hand and a thin, white face — a young face aged by 
 care, by premature cleverness, by suffering and by sin. 
 It had a hunted look. The match went out. The man 
 lighted another and moved about the room as if looking 
 for something. He lighted match after match, moving 
 about the room as he did so, so that its disposition and 
 its effects were gradually disclosed: a great fire- 
 place with big logs laid upon split shingles and news- 
 papers, the dark hollow of an old, high-shouldered 
 leather chair, a grandfather's clock, doors leading to 
 other parts of the house, four windows, a table covered 
 with an oil-cloth, a big mirror in a cheap veneered 
 frame. 
 
 From time to time during his stealthy peregrinations 
 the man felt of his throat with his left hand. The 
 gesture had the effect of a something characteristic and 
 habitual; it was as if the man had once been afraid 
 
 124 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 for his throat and had got into the habit of feeling to 
 see if all was still well with it. When he came before 
 the mirror with a lighted match in one hand, the other, 
 which went again to his throat, instead of being quickly 
 withdrawn, remained, and its thin nervous fingers 
 clasped and pressed here and there, as one clasps and 
 presses one's throat when it is sore to locate the exact 
 area of inflammation. With the last flicker of the 
 match (still feeling of his throat) the man leered at his 
 reflected image, and nodded to it. And his lips seemed 
 to form and give out, without any actual utterance, the 
 words, "you'll do." 
 
 His next move, which was to the deep leather chair 
 in which he seated himself, proved that, whatever his 
 ultimate motive in entering the house might be, he 
 had no immediate intentions to the burglarious or 
 murderous. Indeed, his loud, steady breathing be- 
 tokened that he was on the point of falling asleep. 
 But at the very moment when his senses were passing 
 heavily into oblivion the grandfather's clock, after a 
 kind of mechanical throat clearing, struck twice. The 
 man roused himself, drew off his heavy boots, lighted a 
 match, and, yawning again and again, walked quietly 
 to one of the doors leading out of the room, opened it, 
 struck another match, stepped over the threshold, and 
 closed the door behind him. 
 
 The whole house creaked and groaned in a sudden 
 125 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 gust of wind; a dribble of soot and old mortar fell 
 rattling into the fireplace. The ticking of the clock 
 sounded louder after the extraneous noises had ceased. 
 The rat began once more to gnaw in the wall; guard- 
 edly at first, but soon with a rasping steadiness that 
 made it seem as if his whole heart were in the act. 
 The rat might have been likened to a prisoner who was 
 trying to work his way out of jail. 
 
 Presently the man could be heard moving about in the 
 room immediately above that which he had just quitted. 
 But not for long. The sound of his steps soon ceased. 
 
 II 
 
 Hours later, in the same doorway by which the 
 young man had left the room, there appeared, palely 
 illumined by the candle which she carried, the emaciated 
 figure of an old woman. Her thin, bony face, with its 
 deep sunken eyes and high-bridged nose, suggested the 
 face of a hawk; the thin, harsh lips and the harsh, pro- 
 truding jaw gave her a look of strong will and inflexi- 
 bility, but the snow-white hair, drawn tightly to a knot 
 at the back of her head, suggested, it is hard to say why, 
 a gentleness and motherliness which the hawk face 
 belied. She was shabbily dressed in black; her skirt 
 did not reach below her ankles, and disclosed a pair of 
 bony feet encased in coarse white stockings and broken- 
 
 126 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 down slippers. Her movements, though brisk and 
 sure, were those of a person who does not see clearly; 
 and she seemed to be laboring under an almost irre- 
 pressible agitation. Her first action on entering the 
 room was to hold the candle very close to the face of the 
 clock, and to advance her eyes equally close to it, so as 
 to ascertain beyond doubt the exact position of the 
 hands. The hands indicated that the hour was 
 exactly a quarter to six. The old woman pressed her 
 hand nervously against her lean breast, and groaned. 
 Then she set the candle on the table, and kneeling on 
 the cold board floor, her face in her hands, began to 
 mumble and mutter as if in prayer, prayer in which 
 there were a thousand things to pray and only seconds 
 in which to pray them. Tears came through her 
 fingers and trickled down her bony wrists. 
 
 In the doorway there now appeared a young woman, 
 also illumined by a candle which she carried. Her 
 face, thin and white, had a kind of gentle prettiness 
 about it and was crowned by glories of dark hair. The 
 young woman was also dressed in black, but her gown, 
 though of an old fashion, hung gracefully and was of a 
 decent fit. The young woman had evidently been cry- 
 ing, but had composed herself. With a pitying glance 
 at the old woman who knelt, and prayed and wept, she 
 crossed to the fireplace and thrust her candle among the 
 papers and kindlings laid to start the big logs. Having 
 
 127 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 assured herself that the fire had caught, she set the can- 
 dle on the table, slipped her hands under the old 
 woman's shoulders, and raised her to her feet. 
 
 " Mother 1" she said, "I hoped you'd sleep through 
 it." 
 
 "No, dear — no, dear," said the old woman. She 
 wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands. 
 
 " Come by the fire, mother, the cold is terrible." 
 
 The old woman suffered herself to be led to the fire, 
 where she spread her lean hands to the blaze that was 
 beginning to leap among the logs. She had managed 
 to stop her tears (it is easy for the old both to begin 
 tears and to stop them) and to regain a certain com- 
 posure. 
 
 "Yes, it is terribly cold," she said. "I don't re- 
 member such another storm as we've had. On the 
 north side of the house the snow is almost up to the 
 second story windows." 
 
 Her eyes sought the face of the clock, but at that 
 distance she could not see the hands. 
 
 "What time is it?" she asked. 
 
 "It is just five minutes to six, mother." 
 
 "Are you sure the clock is right?" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 The old woman began to nod her head repeatedly, 
 as old people are prone to do when their minds are far 
 away. 
 
 128 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 "Sunrise," she said, "is just at six o'clock to-day." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 " But we shan't see the sun to-day, even if the clouds 
 pass. We must keep the shutters closed all to-day." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "They always say 'at sunrise,'" said the old woman 
 querulously, " but they mean the time when it rises, not 
 the sight of it. In the eyes of the law sunrise means a 
 certain time." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "What time is it now?" 
 
 "It is nearly four minutes to six, mother." 
 
 "You'll keep an eye on the clock, won't you, dear?" 
 said the old woman. She rocked before the fire, her 
 hands still spread to the warmth. " Just at sunrise we 
 must go on our knees and pray to God." 
 
 "Yes, mother. You are trembling with cold; let 
 me get your shawl for you." 
 
 " I don't want my shawl," said the old woman. " I 
 would have put it on if I'd wanted it." 
 
 The young woman knelt by the fire, and readjusted 
 the logs with quick, dexterous, movements. Combus- 
 tion answered to the bettered draught and began to 
 roar up the chimney. 
 
 "Beyond the grave," said the old woman, as if an- 
 swering a question, "there are no clouds." She went on, 
 still as if questions were being put to her: "Beyond 
 
 129 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 the grave there is mercy; the Governor of Heaven will 
 have mercy on those who have sinned." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "I tell you," cried the old woman in a kind of pro- 
 phetic ecstacy, "we shall all meet beyond the grave." 
 
 If further questions arose in her soul she answered 
 them by mutterings that were not words. The young 
 woman crossed to the door by which she had entered, 
 closed it and returned to the fire. 
 
 "What time is it now?" asked the old woman. 
 
 "It is three and a half minutes to six." 
 
 "He has finished his breakfast now," said the old 
 woman, "and they are leading him out." 
 
 "There came faintly from some inner and upper 
 portion of the house a sound as of a floor creaking. 
 
 "Do you hear anything?" said the old woman, a 
 kind of awful expectancy in her face. "I thought I 
 heard the creaking of boards. I thought I heard the 
 scaffold creaking." 
 
 The sound was. repeated. 
 
 "It's in the house," said the young woman, "up- 
 stairs somewhere. Some one is moving about. Listen." 
 
 There came now a distinct sound of slow, heavy 
 steps. 
 
 "There is no one in the house but ourselves that can 
 move," said the old woman. 
 
 "Could it be father?" 
 
 130 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 "He hasn't moved for three months; you know he 
 can't move; he's crippled with his rheumatism. He'll 
 die of it." 
 
 The young woman's eyes widened with terror. 
 
 " It's coming down the stairs," she said. 
 
 The old woman, erect, courageous, full of fight, 
 stepped briskly between her daughter and the door. 
 It opened, and in the frame appeared the bent figure of 
 a gigantic old man. He was clad in a rough heavy over- 
 coat, the collar turned up; below the skirt of the coat 
 showed a foot of coarse white nightgown. His hairy 
 shanks were bare, and his feet were thrust into a pair 
 of enormous carpet slippers. A Jove-like head and 
 face, streaming with white hair and beard, crowned the 
 motley figure. But the face had, instead of eyes, 
 sockets, and, held to its left ear by an immense, sinewy, 
 hairy hand, was a long, old-fashioned ear-trumpet of 
 japanned tin. 
 
 "What is wrong?" said the old man, in a voice that 
 sounded like a heavy wagon crossing a wooden bridge. 
 
 The old woman seized him by the shoulders and began 
 to shake him. 
 
 " You will kill yourself ! " she said. " There is nothing 
 wrong." 
 
 "Stop shaking me," said the old man fiercely. 
 
 The old woman's hands dropped from his shoulders, 
 but she continued to scold him. 
 
 131 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 "You had no business to get up," she said. "You 
 must go right back to bed. Do you want to kill your- 
 self?" 
 
 "Something is wrong," persisted the old man. He 
 pushed his wife aside as if she had been a feather, and 
 groped toward the fireplace, talking as he went. 
 
 "Do you think I could have got up and walked if 
 there hadn't been something wrong," he said. "Why 
 are you all up?" 
 
 The old woman hovered, so to speak, on the flank of 
 his advance, anxious, frightened, between scolding and 
 tears. 
 
 "There is nothing wrong," she said. 
 
 "You lie," said the old man. "Is it about my 
 son?" 
 
 He turned his head heavily from his wife to his 
 daughter, as if he could see them with his empty sockets 
 and read in their faces the truth. 
 
 His daughter advanced and took him by the arm. 
 
 "Nothing has happened, father." She spoke briskly 
 and cheerfully. "Come to the fire. How good it is 
 to see you walking about, just as natural as life. Isn't 
 it good to see him walking about, mother?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the old woman, but without convic- 
 tion, "it is wonderful." She turned her near-sighted 
 eyes to the clock and tried to read the time. 
 
 The old man was conducted by his daughter to the 
 132 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 large leather chair. He sank into it heavily, as if he 
 had been a load of stones. 
 
 "Your poor feet," she said, "are blue with cold." 
 
 After an anxious look at the clock she bent and 
 commenced to chafe them briskly between her 
 hands. 
 
 "You are both keeping something from me," said 
 the old man. "When mother got up she thought I 
 was asleep, but I wasn't. I knew when she left her 
 bed. And I knew then that something was wrong. Is 
 it about my boy?" 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 The old man removed the trumpet from his ear and 
 laid it across his knees. By that action he cut himself 
 off from the world of sounds and, blind and deaf, 
 frowned terribly and worked his bushy eyebrows up and 
 down. It was at this moment that the clock began to 
 go through its usual throat clearing preamble to voicing 
 the hour. 
 
 The women, white as death and trembling violently, 
 sank to their knees and, as if by prearrangement, the 
 same prayer came brokenly from their lips: 
 
 "Almighty and most merciful Father: We have 
 erred, and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep " 
 
 The old man's terrible rumbling voice broke in upon 
 them, and while he spoke, though they continued the 
 prayer, it was in silence. 
 
 133 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 "As long as we are all up," the old man boomed 
 and rumbled, "why doesn't somebody get breakfast 
 ready?" 
 
 The clock had finished striking. 
 
 "A full stomach is the thing to keep the cold out," 
 he said, and, seizing his ear- trumpet, thrust the small 
 end of it into his left ear. 
 
 "What are you saying to mother?" he said. 
 
 "Nothing, father." 
 
 The old woman kept on praying. 
 
 "Why don't you tell me what is wrong? I'm not a 
 log. I could tear this house down with my hands if I 
 got angry. I'm not a child. Maybe you heard a noise 
 and thought somebody had broken into the house. 
 Was that it ? Answer me." 
 
 He staggered heavily to his feet, and turned his 
 empty sockets this way and that. 
 
 The two women rose from their knees and glanced 
 at each other. Without speaking a word the daughter 
 managed in that brief glance to ask a question and the 
 mother to answer it. The daughter turned to her 
 father. The mother sank once more to her knees. 
 The fire roared in the chimney. 
 
 "Father," said the young woman, speaking into the 
 mouth of the ear-trumpet, "it was a noise. Mother 
 heard it and woke me. She thought she heard some 
 one open a window and then close it. But she must 
 
 134 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 have dreamed it, mustn't she? We . . . we've been 
 all through the house." 
 
 "I ought to have been called at once," said the old 
 man. "Just because I'm deaf and blind you think I 
 can't look after what belongs to me. Another time 
 . . . are you sure you've looked everywhere ? " 
 
 "Mother must have been dreaming." 
 
 "You thought you heard steps, mother?" asked the 
 old man. 
 
 "Yes, father." The old woman rose, tears pouring 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 "Just think," said the old man, "it might have been 
 somebody after my money." 
 
 "But it wasn't, father." 
 
 "And she thought she heard a window being opened ?" 
 
 "I thought I heard it open and then close," said the 
 old woman. "But I must have been dreaming." 
 
 The old man rose heavily and groped his way to the 
 door, and fumbled till he had the knob in his hand. 
 
 "I'll just go about and make sure," he said. He 
 passed out into the darkness and closed the door behind 
 him. The two women heard the key turn in the lock. 
 
 "Father has locked us in," said the young woman. 
 
 "He doesn't like to be interfered with. Let him go. 
 He'll soon find that there's nobody." 
 
 "Mother," said the young woman, "have we done 
 right not to tell father?" 
 
 135 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 "Done right not to tell father about — about " 
 
 "Yes, mother — have we?" 
 
 "Father's days are numbered in the land. His 
 heart's threatened. That's what the doctor said. Any 
 sudden shock would kill him. I think you'd best make 
 a cup of hot coffee to give him when he comes back." 
 
 "It's terrible to think of him groping in those dark 
 rooms." 
 
 "He couldn't see any better if there were lights in 
 them. Besides, there's nothing to hurt him." 
 
 "How quietly he moves, mother; I can't hear a 
 sound." 
 
 "Most likely he's standing still trying to listen with 
 his old trumpet." 
 
 A curious change had come over the old woman. 
 She seemed to take a kind of martial pride in the fact 
 that her blind, half deaf, half crippled old husband had 
 gone forth so boldly to hunt for a thief. She stood 
 more erect; she had stopped trembling. 
 
 "Mother," said the young woman suddenly, "what 
 are all these burnt matches doing on the floor?" 
 
 "Why, so there are," said the old woman. She 
 picked one up and examined it. " It's not our kind," she 
 said. The two women looked at each other in bewilder- 
 ment; bewilderment that changed gradually to horror. 
 
 The old woman ran noiselessly to the door by which 
 her husband had gone out, and tried to open it. 
 
 136 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 "There is somebody," she said. "We must get to 
 father." 
 
 The young woman dragged her away from the door. 
 
 "If you make a noise," she said, "you will put them 
 on their guard. Father must take his chances. We 
 can't get to him without making a noise. We can't 
 anyway ; we can't break that door open. Maybe they've 
 gone." 
 
 The two women leaned against the locked door 
 listening with strained ears. 
 
 Suddenly, loudly and distinctly, footsteps sounded in 
 the room above their heads, light, crisp, firm foot- 
 steps. 
 
 "They're in my boy's room," said the old woman. 
 
 "Mother — mother," said the young woman, her eyes 
 blazing with excitement. " Don't you know that step — 
 don't you know it?" 
 
 The old woman listened carefully. Her heart began 
 to rise and fall rapidly. Her deep-set eyes seemed al- 
 most to protrude, so great was her wonder and fear. 
 
 " It is — it is." Her voice dropped and broke in her 
 throat. 
 
 "He has got away, mother — he must have got away." 
 
 "I wonder," said the old woman excitedly, "if your 
 father hears him and knows who it is. Why did he 
 lock this door. We've got to get it open. Your old — 
 father — so deaf — blind — might get hold of him, and not 
 
 137 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 realize who it was, and, and — God in heaven, girl — 
 quick, get that poker." 
 
 The young woman flashed to the fireplace and back, 
 bringing the long, solid, old-fashioned wrought-iron 
 poker. 
 
 "Let me, mother." She tried to find a purchase be- 
 tween the door and the doorstep, but could not at 
 first. 
 
 "Try higher up," said the old woman. "Stop — do 
 you hear anything?" 
 
 They listened intently. 
 
 "Not a sound, mother. We must get it open." 
 
 They worked at the door frantically, but without 
 success. 
 
 "Stop," said the old woman. "Why don't we warn 
 him?" She began to beat a tattoo with the poker 
 against the ceiling. "Boy! — boy!" she cried in a thin, 
 piercing voice. "Answer me — it's mother." 
 
 There was no answer. The silence was leaden, 
 horrible. "Boy! — boy!" screamed the old woman. 
 
 She listened. There was a sound of heavy steps 
 descending the stair. 
 
 " It's all right — father's coming back," said the young 
 woman. "Nothing can have happened." 
 
 "Then why didn't he answer me?" 
 
 There was a kind of fumbling sound upon the door, 
 then the rasp of the key being turned. The old man 
 
 138 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 stepped heavily into the room. His face had a high 
 color, and he was breathing quickly, as an athlete 
 flushes and breathes after putting out his full strength. 
 He had removed the key of the door, and now, after 
 much fumbling, reinserted it, gave it two rasping turns, 
 and dropped it into his overcoat pocket. Then he 
 turned to the women, rolling his sockets from one to the 
 other. He put his ear-trumpet to his ear. 
 
 "Daughter," he said, "when it gets to be really day- 
 light you must go for the sheriff. In the meanwhile 
 keep out of the room that is above this one — your 
 brother's room. The man was coming out," he went 
 on, "and he ran right into me." 
 
 Slowly and heavily the old man extended his right 
 hand; the enormous thumb and fingers clawed into a 
 trifle more than a semi-circumference — the circumfer- 
 ence of a medium-sized man's neck. The thumb and 
 fingers moved sharply inwards, became rigid, knotted, 
 and began to tremble violently. 
 
 "A hangman," said the old man, "couldn't have 
 done it better with a rope." 
 
 The hand fell nerveless, the tin ear-trumpet clattered 
 hollowly on the floor. The color faded from the old 
 man's face; his cheeks and chin took on a bluish tinge 
 in the candle light. A kind of shuddering spasm 
 passed through him from head to foot. 
 
 "Take me back to the fire," he said. "I am cold all 
 139 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 over." He had never before spoken in such a quiet 
 dependent voice. 
 
 The old woman, her face working with fear and hor- 
 ror, led him to his big chair. The young woman stood 
 as if rooted, her face the color. of salt; only her fingers 
 moved. They kept picking at her skirt. 
 
 The old man fell, like a sack of stones, into his chair. 
 
 "I want to hear what you're saying," he said pres- 
 ently. His voice whined. "Give me back my ear- 
 trumpet. I dropped it by the door." 
 
 The young woman, apathetic and numb, moved to 
 where the trumpet had fallen and picked it up. It fell 
 twice from her jerking fingers. 
 
 The old woman, a black and white flash, crossed the 
 room and seized her daughter's arm. 
 
 "Don't give him that," she cried. "Father mustn't 
 know what he's done ..." 
 
 The old man's voice once more, heavy and sonorous, 
 broke over the old woman's words like a wave and 
 drowned them. 
 
 " I can't hear what you say," he rumbled. " Give me 
 my ear-trumpet." 
 
 "Not yet," said the old woman quickly; "father must 
 never know what he's done." 
 
 The young woman's mouth opened and shut several 
 times without uttering a sound. Her swallowing mus- 
 cles worked violently and she kept licking her lower lip. 
 
 140 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 Suddenly her half-palsied speaking machinery emitted 
 a voice that was between a wail and a scream. 
 
 "He got out of prison" — the voice soared to its 
 highest register — "and he came home." 
 
 " Quiet," said the old woman. Her voice was sharp 
 and sudden, like a steel spring breaking. "Your father 
 must not know of this." She seized the young woman 
 by the shoulders and shook her. 
 
 "Can you be calm now?" she said. "Can you col- 
 lect yourself? Can you speak in your natural voice?" 
 The young woman could only gasp and mumble. 
 
 "Let me do the talking, then," said the old woman, 
 with a sharp note of impatience. She snatched the ear- 
 trumpet from her daughter and, flashing back to her 
 husband, thrust it into his hands. They were lying open 
 on his lap. The fingers did not close on the trumpet. 
 His head had fallen forward as if in rumination. 
 
 The old woman, brisk and graceful — a young girl 
 had not been more so — knelt and laid her ear to the old 
 man's breast. Then she thrust her hand inside his 
 overcoat and laid it on his heart. She felt rapidly of 
 his hands, his feet, his legs. They were cold as ice. 
 
 She rose heavily, and began to stroke the dead man's 
 streaming white hair. 
 
 "He knows all about it, my dear," she said. It was 
 difficult to tell if she was addressing the dead man or his 
 daughter. "He can hear and see now." 
 
 141 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 The young woman approached with halting, leaden 
 steps. 
 
 "We must get him to his bed, somehow," said the o 7 i 
 woman, "even if it breaks our backs. Nobody must 
 know that he ever left it. Nobody must ever know 
 what father has done." 
 
 There was not a trace of emotion now in the old 
 woman's voice. * It was the voice of a calm and zealous 
 housekeeper, giving orders during a spring house- 
 cleaning. 
 
 "We must hide all the traces of what has hap- 
 pened," she said. "It wouldn't do to have people 
 know what father has done. The snow will have cov- 
 ered all the tracks leading to the house. People must 
 never know " 
 
 "Mother — mother, if you talk so heartlessly I shall 
 go mad." 
 
 "Help me now, we must get your father back to his 
 bed, and then " 
 
 The two women, the one calm, self-reliant and un- 
 moved, the other hysterical, gasping and useless, were 
 unable to stir the gigantic body of the old man. 
 
 The old woman stood for a long time in thought. 
 Then she took the door-key from the dead man's over- 
 coat pocket and thrust it into her daughter's hand. 
 
 "Get our bonnets and shawls," she said, "and the 
 money." 
 
 142 
 
THE EXECUTION 
 
 " What— for— mother ? " 
 
 "Do as I tell you." 
 
 The old woman occupied the moments of her daugh- 
 ter's absence by dragging the fire piecemeal from the 
 fireplace and reconstructing it against the ancient 
 tinder-dry wainscoting of the room. 
 
 The young woman returned to a room full of smoke, 
 in which the candles made dim yellow halos. 
 
 "Mother — mother, what have you done?" she cried. 
 
 "My dear," said the old woman, "we couldn't have 
 gone on living in this house. By the time we can fetch 
 help there will be nothing left of it but ashes. Come." 
 
 143 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 I 
 
 The other day Simon L'Ouvrier died. A good half 
 of the New York dailies, supposed to be devoted to the 
 promulgation of news, made no mention of the fact. 
 A number misspelt his name, and at least one had it 
 that he was a painter. Thus a remarkable man and a 
 remarkable talent made their exit from this busy stage, 
 receiving, from the jaded audience, adieus the most 
 hasty and undignified; scant thanks for past entertain- 
 ment, and, presently, oblivion. 
 
 These days a great man makes as much stir as a stone 
 thrown into a pond — a splash, ripples, nothing. The 
 bigger the man, the bigger the splash. Yet for all the 
 smooth and placid air of forgetfulness assumed with 
 unseemly haste by the stirred water, the pond is forever 
 affected by the sinking of the stone. Its general level 
 is raised. And if the stone was big enough, it shows 
 eternally above the surface like an island. Such a stone 
 flung into Europe was Napoleon. Such were Shake- 
 speare, Cromwell, and the other prodigies that man is 
 
 147 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 willing enough to forget, but unable. A man could as 
 easily forget his own sins as Shakespeare. 
 
 Simon L'Ouvrier was a small stone, but perfectly 
 round, and in his time was flung into the pond with 
 such violence as to make a very great splash. And 
 then, forgotten, sunk to the bottom, covered with mud, 
 he was fished up and flung in again. It is given to few 
 men to make more than one splash. Twice L'Ouvrier 
 set the pond agog, twice sank to the bottom, and 
 was twice forgotten. And the other day, by the 
 grace of God, came death to put him out of his 
 misery. 
 
 Simon L'Ouvrier was born in Tours, in sight of the 
 statue of De Balzac. His father was a cake-maker of 
 much talent and address — a man who put as much 
 genius into a new frosting as Bernard Palissy gave to 
 his enamels. To the child it matters little if the trans- 
 mitted influences toward thoroughness and application 
 come from a cake-maker or a maker of ballads, if only 
 they come. L'Ouvrier himself believed firmly in hered- 
 ity and often spoke in proof of it. "This is how I came 
 to have a talent," was the beginning of his favorite 
 anecdote, which went on: "My father, the day ended, 
 left some cakes to bake in a slow oven. His heart was 
 set on them, for the ingredients were mixed in entirely 
 new and promising proportions. His heart was equally 
 set on the return of my mother, who had been spending 
 
 148 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 the week at Blois with her parents. My mother re- 
 turned, and after the usual embraces proper to such 
 an occasion, and the rapid, mutual accounts of the days 
 passed in separation, the worthy couple ascended to 
 their chamber and prepared for bed. It was November 
 and bitterly cold, the kind of night when leaving one's 
 bed is worse than going into battle. 'Now I call this 
 comfort,' said my mother; 'kiss me good-night.' My 
 father kissed her, but she felt that his heart was not 
 wholly in the tenderness. ' What are you thinking of ?' 
 said she, slightly piqued. 'I was thinking, my dear,' 
 said my father, 'that it would have been better to have 
 put the pistache cakes on the warmer side of the oven; 
 the apricot paste will bake with less heat.' 'Never 
 mind that,' said my mother, 'do not invite a cold by 
 descending to the kitchen.' 'Very well,' said my 
 father, ' I can try again to-morrow. Ah I but it is good 
 to have you back.' 'Don't talk to me in that tone,' 
 said my mother, 'you are still thinking of the cakes.' 
 "That is true,' said my father, 'and I would like to take 
 just one little look to see how things are going.' 'In 
 the name of God,' said my mother, 'go. But you are 
 inviting an inflammation of the chest.' So my father 
 got out of bed, put on his slippers, and pattered down 
 to his famous cakes. When he returned he said: 'I 
 have shifted the cakes and raised the heat one degree, 
 and now, my treasure, I have thoughts of you only,' 
 
 149 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 'You are shivering,' said my .mother. 'That is for you 
 to think about/ said my father." 
 
 "It is to these circumstances," L'Ouvrier would con- 
 clude, "that I owe the qualities which have brought 
 me a measure of success: passion and the capacity for 
 taking pains. But for a thorn to modify my pleasure 
 in these roses, I am diabolically subject to colds." 
 
 On one occasion, having concluded this anecdote, a 
 friend asked him this question: "And what do you owe 
 your mother?" 
 
 "Everything," said L'Ouvrier; "she was a Jew." 
 
 II 
 
 At an age when most boys are flying kites or dream- 
 ing of the approaching holidays Simon L'Ouvrier 
 was plotting the steps by which he should ascend to 
 eminence. 
 
 He was slight, dark, large-featured, big-eared, bright- 
 eyed, and singularly phlegmatic. He worked long 
 shifts in the bakery, lending an amazing address to the 
 work, and thought long thoughts. This is curious: 
 that in those days he had never been inside of a theatre, 
 but had already determined to be an actor. We have 
 his own word for it. To quote from his journal, a 
 bulky volume, long out of print: "I have but one 
 dream — to be an actor. To this end I am determined 
 
 150 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 to devote whatever is in me of inclination, capacity for 
 suffering and power. I will not allow myself to fail." 
 Any other boy of fifteen, possessed by such a dream, 
 would have let it out in some manner to the family 
 circle. But Simon had the great gift of reticence, the 
 greater gift of consideration. "Why talk," said the 
 journal, "when I have as yet formulated no plan of 
 procedure ? Why trouble my father, who wishes me to 
 devote my life to frosting and pistache ? Why trouble 
 my mother, whose dream it is that I should one day 
 marry a lady? ... By working diligently at a trade 
 which does not interest me I am gaining character. . . . 
 I have bought a mirror to make faces in. It is five 
 inches in diameter, weighs but little, and goes easily in 
 the pocket." 
 
 There is nothing, to my mind, more characteristic of 
 L'Ouvrier than that mirror. Can you not picture him, 
 in his blue blouse and baker's cap, waiting till the ovens 
 can take care of themselves (he never neglected his 
 work — if we can trust the journal; and I think we can), 
 whipping out the mirror and making faces in it ? 
 
 "The time," he wrote, "is inevitable when I shall be 
 caught with my mirror and pronounced an imbecile." 
 Later he wrote: "I have learned to prick up my ears 
 like a dog, to move my scalp up and down, to frown 
 horribly, and to stare my own self out»of countenance." 
 Again he wrote: "My practice is to imagine myself in 
 
 151 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 a situation: to brood over it until, according to its 
 nature, I am either (and in real fact) happy, unhappy, 
 terrified, jocose, pathetic, heroic. Arrived at such a 
 state of mind, I glance in my mirror, and try to catch, 
 and store away for future use, the expression written 
 there for the moment in lights and shadows. By a 
 diligent pursuit of this method it must arrive that in 
 the end I shall be able to look jocose without feeling 
 so; heroic, though afraid. ... I have discovered 
 something: the emotions of a quiet nature — tender- 
 ness, gentleness, archness (if that be an emotion), 
 courtesy, whimsicalness, are expressed by the soul; 
 that is to say, a man, more easily a woman, can look 
 these things without moving a muscle. The passions — 
 jealousy, hate, fear, indeed all except greed — are ex- 
 pressed by the muscles. Greed may be expressed by 
 either method. ... I make an analysis of a given 
 character; then try to put myself in the mental atti- 
 tude of that character, and then study the reflection of 
 it in my mirror. Thus I have arrived at the ability to 
 look like any one in the establishment — my father, my 
 mother, the apprentices, the maids, etc. This morning 
 I tried to look like the archbishop. I thought for a 
 long time of good deeds, quiet cloisters, the crucified 
 Jesus, and charity. Then I looked into the mirror, 
 and saw there a face not in the least like the arch- 
 bishop's. I then imagined myself an archbishop; I 
 
 152 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 developed the ambition to become a cardinal, then 
 Pope. I plotted ways and means, I played at politics — 
 I looked in the mirror, and, in the name of a thousand 
 saints, I was the archbishop's self! ... I have tried 
 another experiment. I became, with all the intensity 
 possible, myself — my whole self — self-centred, ambi- 
 tious, single-minded, sure of success, full of courage to 
 endure the means to my self -announced end. I looked 
 in the mirror, and saw the face of a conqueror. ... I 
 looked at myself so long that, for the first time in my 
 life, I allowed the cakes with which I had been entrusted 
 to burn." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Simon did not swerve from any of his purposes. 
 He kept his own counsel. His parents died in peace 
 and left him the bakery, ten thousand francs which 
 they had saved, and five locked volumes of culinary 
 secrets. Simon sold the bakery and his good-will for 
 the sum of forty thousand francs, tucked the culinary 
 secrets in a corner of his trunk, the mirror in his pocket, 
 nodded in a friendly manner to the statue of De Balzac, 
 and took the train for Paris. 
 
 Up to this time — he was now seventeen — he had never 
 been inside of a theatre nor read a play. Neither 
 played a part in his scheme of education. Still, the 
 theatres and the book-stalls of the capital tempted 
 
 153 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 him, but not beyond his strength. "In ten years," 
 says the journal, "I promise myself a performance each 
 night and a whole library of plays. Meanwhile, I must 
 devote myself to life, to joy and to sorrow, to nature 
 and the development of all that is best in me, to the 
 knowledge, if not the exercise, of all that is worst." 
 The journal tells us further that Simon quitted Paris 
 for Marseilles, and played all the way, much to the 
 alarm and annoyance of other travellers occupying the 
 same compartment with him, the part of a young fel- 
 low who has contracted consumption, been taken out 
 of college by his doting parents, and sent South. "I 
 tell one old fellow, much to his horror, that I have had 
 three hemorrhages and am likely at any moment to 
 have another — alors vous verrez du sang — va!" He 
 went to Algiers, to a hotel frequented by consumptives, 
 and continued for many months to play his part, ac- 
 quiring, he tells us, from observation and practice, a 
 sufficient perfection to deceive a doctor. 
 
 "There is one woman here who will not recover. I 
 am watching her closely, and causing my own malady 
 to progress symptom by symptom with hers. But one 
 of these days she will die, and I will take a turn for the 
 better. In the cough I am past perfect. I eat little 
 for two reasons : to appear pale and to husband my re- 
 sources. Sometimes I cut my arm so that I may show 
 blood on my handkerchief. ... A young girl came by 
 
 154 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 to-day's boat. She is very beautiful, but far gone with the 
 malady. A part suggests itself : A man dying of consump- 
 tion is in love with a woman dying of consumption." 
 
 The journal does not tell the girl's whole name; only 
 the Christian part of it — Cloise. Simon made love to 
 her, so he tells us. They were the talk of the hotel. 
 "The situation is pathetic in the extreme," he writes. 
 "Without meaning to, I have made her love me. I will 
 never let her know that I am deceiving her. . . . To- 
 day she said: 'Simon, dear, if you would only take a 
 turn for the better, I think I would.' This is very 
 curious. I wonder if there is any truth in it. To- 
 morrow I will cough less. ... It is very wonderful; 
 as I improve, she improves. She is happy — oh, so 
 happy. Suppose she should recover ? I do not wish to 
 marry her, for I do not love her in the least; but would 
 it be honorable to do otherwise ? . . . This morning I 
 pretended to be worse. But I must not do so again. 
 She had a hemorrhage, poor child. . . If I can save 
 her by recovering, I will recover; if I must marry her, 
 I must. . . . This morning I appeared at breakfast 
 with a beaming face. 'Cloise,' I said, 'I only coughed 
 once during the night.' Ah, such joy — such joy! I 
 imitate her joy faithfully. We are like two happy 
 birds. . . . Cloise continues to improve. I shall have 
 to marry her. This is not at all in my scheme of life. 
 ... It is six weeks since Cloise had her hemorrhage. 
 
 155 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 I have asked her hand in marriage from her parents. 
 ... It is very cold to-day; we shall not go out . . . 
 a note from Cloise to say that she can not leave her 
 bed, she has taken cold; will I pass her door sometimes 
 during the day? It will comfort her, she says. . . . 
 Have just come from passing her door. She is cough- 
 ing again. Poor child! I love her a little; that much 
 is certain. . . . To-day it is still very cold; no note 
 from Cloise. I must make inquiries of her parents. 
 I reach their door. Within is a low moaning. . . . For 
 a moment, I confess it with shame, I am tempted to 
 rush in and play the heartbroken lover; but only for a 
 moment. I, even, have better feelings. I will say 
 nothing. I will go away. Maybe she died happier for 
 thinking that she was loved. ... I can not make up 
 my mind what to play next. I am sick of disease. I 
 think I will be a man of iron — one of these boisterous 
 fellows that has no ailments, no fatigues, nothing but a 
 vast energy, a vast appetite, a loud mouth. I shall be 
 disagreeable enough, I dare say, but pouf! Suppose 
 that beneath a gruff exterior I ill conceal a heart of 
 gold?" 
 
 IV 
 
 That, then, was the way Simon L'Ouvrier went about 
 learning his art. He lived out hundreds of parts; 
 sparing no pains to be perfect in the whole and its 
 
 156 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 components. In the privacy of his own room, in com- 
 plete solitude, sometimes for whole days of solitude, he 
 never swerved, he tells us, from the character he had 
 assumed for the time being. Now he would be a 
 military man, disappointed in his aspirations; now a 
 successful man of affairs; now an explorer; now a 
 priest, author, photographer, lawyer. To the playing 
 of each character he gave an infinity of thought, re- 
 search, and temperament. It is said that there are few 
 professions in which he could not have practised with 
 aptitude, and perhaps distinction. The journal tells us 
 of many failures — parts which at first he was unable to 
 play. To these he returned again and again until, for 
 so he would have us believe, he succeeded even in de- 
 ceiving himself. At one period, toward the end of his 
 self-appointed term of practice, it became his ambition 
 to visit Lhasa, the forbidden city, in the guise of a pil- 
 grim. He gave two whole years of the most search- 
 ing preparation for this feat, living close to the danger 
 line, studying inflections and Buddhism; accustoming 
 his body to bear the desert sun. "I am now," he 
 writes, "so seasoned that I can lie naked in the sun a 
 whole day and be none the worse. It will not be long 
 before I am the right color from head to foot. I pass 
 readily for a native, and shall burn my bridges and 
 join the next pilgrimage." 
 
 It seems that on this journey he penetrated to within 
 157 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 five miles of the forbidden city successfully, and was 
 then exposed by a holy man who had come out to inspect 
 the pilgrimage. "It was terrible," he wrote afterward; 
 " there was something in his eye which I could not meet. 
 He questioned me; I lost my presence of mind, and 
 stammered. I suffered, I think, from what is called 
 stage-fright. I was an impostor, patently, self-con- 
 fessed. They stripped my clothes from me," the nar- 
 rative continues, "and suspended me to the wall of a 
 house by means of two nails driven through the palms 
 of my hands. ... I remained there hanging a day and 
 a night in mortal agony. ... I said: 'Simon, you 
 have elected to be a player of parts. Act now the 
 stoic' But as God is forgiving I could not. To 
 strangle my screams ere they were fairly bom was the 
 utmost that I could do. Nor, indeed, is any philosophy 
 potent in the presence of such pain as I endured at that 
 time." 
 
 He was taken down after hanging for twenty-four 
 hours, and escorted out of the country by men who 
 struck him terribly with whips. He writes: "When 
 the illness following this barbaric usage had passed, I 
 found myself still firm in the intention to visit the for- 
 bidden city. It may be that it will be my last part. 
 Let me leave no stone unturned to be perfect in it." 
 
 The second attempt succeeded. He penetrated the 
 forbidden city and came out alive; unharmed and un- 
 
 158 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 detected. The two attempts, with the preparation for 
 them, cost him five years. He had devoted already, 
 from the time of purchasing the mirror, twenty years 
 to the study of his art. 
 
 "I am thirty-seven," he writes. "What does that 
 matter? I can look eighteen. I have done my best. 
 I shall now take the world by storm." 
 
 I cannot, in justice to my subject, refrain from 
 quoting another passage from the journal, written on 
 the journey from the Far East to Paris : " In every part 
 that I have undertaken to play I have touched perfec- 
 tion, except in one. It is impossible for me to be a 
 gentleman. Nor can any self-love convince me that I 
 shall ever succeed with that illusive and exquisite role. 
 The many will not know, but the few, those who are 
 born, will never be satisfied with my interpretation. I 
 have drunk this bitter cup to the dregs, and no longer 
 care." 
 
 V 
 
 It would be interesting to know if at this period, 
 slightly anterior to his intended debut, Simon L'Ouvrier 
 had any doubts as to how the public would receive him. 
 The journal voices none; L'Ouvrier never admitted to 
 having had any. Acquaintances (friends the man never 
 had) affirm that doubting had no rooting-place in his 
 character. De Maupassant is said to have said: 
 
 159 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 "L'Ouvrier? He would play God if they would let 
 him. Except for purposes of mimicry, he does not 
 know what modesty is, or conceit for that matter. 
 Give him so much as a cotton thread and he will hang 
 himself beautifully; give him a dish of crumpled paper 
 and you will behold a connoisseur eating ortolan. Give 
 him nothing and he will be everything." 
 
 Madame Bernhardt was present at L'Ouvrier's third 
 or fourth performance (as, indeed, was all Paris). Dur- 
 ing the first entr'acte she said: "It is horrible to feel 
 clumsy all at once." During the second entr'acte she 
 said, with tears in her golden voice: "I am willing to 
 admit that I am not an actor, but a buffoon; neverthe- 
 less this public demonstration of the fact is hard to 
 bear." The curtain rose on the third act; L'Ouvrier 
 appeared; Madame Bernhardt burst out laughing; so 
 did the whole house. Ten minutes later the divine 
 Sarah was in tears. The curtain fell. The house was 
 sobbing. Coquelin Aine" left his seat and approached 
 Madame Bernhardt. Tears were streaming from his 
 comical eyes. "I am going," said he; "farewell." 
 "Where are you going?" she asked. "To Pere La 
 Chaise," said he, "to bury myself." "I will go with 
 you," said she. "But in the name of God let us wait 
 till the performance is over. If I know anything of 
 stage-craft there will be another occasion to make us 
 laugh. I would not miss it for assured salvation." 
 
 160 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 "Admit," said Coquelin, "that I am a lumpish ama- 
 teur." "Never! But admit, you, that my voice is full 
 of cracks 1" "Never," said Coquelin, and he hastened 
 back to his seat, for the signal had been given for the 
 curtain to go up. During the act Coquelin was heard 
 to say: "Those feet — oh, those feet, how eloquent!" 
 And when the performance was over he sought out 
 Madame Bernhardt, and said: "I thank God that at 
 least this man is a Frenchman." "And I," said 
 Madame, " thank God that he is a Jew." 
 
 But all this is advancing matters too much. How 
 did L'Ouvrier get his chance to play before Paris ? In 
 a manner thoroughly characteristic. Says the journal: 
 "Having ascertained that Monsieur Didot was alone 
 in his office, and, indeed, in the whole theatre, except 
 for a boy to answer the bells, I took the latter, an in- 
 telligent gamin, into my confidence. 'I am an actor,' I 
 said, 'and I have a grudge against Monsieur Didot. I 
 am going to frighten him, but I shall not hurt him. 
 If he calls for help, do not hear. I am only going to 
 play a trick on him.' Then I gave the gamin a couple 
 of francs and ascended to Monsieur Didot's office. I 
 assumed the face of a madman, entered without knock- 
 ing, locked the door behind me, and put the key in my 
 pocket. 'They say I am mad,' I said; 'what do you 
 think?' Monsieur Didot is a large, courageous man, 
 who has fought a number of duels. He rose and placed 
 
 161 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 himself so that his large desk was between us. 'I am 
 not really mad/ I said, 'but sometimes I feel in my 
 muscles a superhuman force, and I have to exercise it. 
 That,' I said, in a confidential tone, 'is how I escaped. 
 There were bars in the window. I took them in my 
 hands; they came to pieces. It is good to be strong. 
 Sometimes I feel as if I could tear a man's head from 
 his body with my hands.' Here I advanced a few 
 steps, looking more and more insane. 'I must try it 
 some time,' I said. Monsieur Didot was trembling 
 violently, like a man in a malarial chill. 'But I'm not 
 mad,' I said, 'and the proof is that at times I imagine 
 myself to be a dog.' Here I began to yelp, bark, and 
 snarl. Monsieur Didot's hand closed on a heavy ruler. 
 'See,' I said, and I held up my hands so that he could 
 see the scars in the palms, 'I have been crucified. Do 
 you wonder that I am a little queer at times ? And the 
 queerest thing is this, that I have never been in a 
 theatre and yet at times I imagine myself to be an 
 actor. Nothing soothes me like reciting. See, at the 
 thought of it, the mad look leaves my eyes. Would 
 you like to hear me recite ?' He nodded. He was too 
 frightened to speak. I let the madness go out of my 
 face, and in a heart-broken voice counted from one to 
 twenty in Arabic. When I had finished tears were 
 rolling down the manager's face. 'That was how I lost 
 her,' I said. Then I began again at one and counted 
 
 162 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 to twenty in a comic manner. And though he was 
 shaking in his shoes, laughter burst from Monsieur 
 Didot's mouth before I had finished saying the number 
 five. 'See/ I said, 'how rational I can be if I am 
 humored.' Then, suddenly kneeling, I began to make 
 love to a chair with the most soul-moving passion. 
 Again Monsieur Didot wept. Then I scolded the chair, 
 pretending that it was my little boy and that he had 
 fallen down in the mud in his Sunday clothes. Then I 
 made it my confessor, and confessed to the most idiotic 
 crimes and sins. Monsieur Didot roared with laugh- 
 ter. Then I became, in a moment, perfectly rational. 
 'Confess,' I said, 'that you have been entertained. I 
 am not in the least mad. I want you to stage me in a 
 play which I shall select. That is all. Perhaps you 
 have not seen enough of my art to judge. Give me 
 five minutes, and I will die of consumption, waste away 
 before your eyes, and spit blood. It is not pretty, but 
 I can do it, though it is disagreeable to bite the inside 
 of one's mouth. Or, if you prefer, I will have an 
 epileptic fit, or strangle myself. Or, if you like, I will 
 go mad again and frighten you to death.' 
 
 " Monsieur Didot vented a long sigh. ' Whatever you 
 do,' he said, 'don't go mad. It was horrible. But I 
 will stage you in whatever play you select. You are 
 wonderful. But what was that first piece you recited ? 
 I could not understand a word of it, yet it made me 
 
 163 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 cry. ' ' That,' I said, ' was the Arabic for the cardinal num- 
 bers one to twenty inclusive. And so was the second 
 piece, which, if I am not mistaken, made you laugh.' " 
 
 That was how L'Ouvrier induced a manager to give 
 him a start. The rest, the first night — (Edipus — be- 
 longs to dramatic history. On the one side the audience 
 and critics, experienced playgoers hostile to new blood; 
 on the other side to do battle against them, a little Jew, 
 who had never faced an audience till that moment — a 
 little Jew with big ears, clad in the classic robes of a 
 Grecian king. The result was never in doubt. The 
 little Jew appeared — enormous and dominant. His 
 voice sounded like a great bell tolling. The rigid 
 tragedy throbbed with passion and life. Horror ap- 
 peared like something tangible on the most cynical 
 faces. At the point when (Edipus appears, after putting 
 out his eyes, to say farewell to his children, many 
 persons in the audience screamed and fainted. For 
 days all Paris talked of a Greek king dead these thou- 
 sands of years. 
 
 A critic is said to have asked L'Ouvrier at this time 
 how, being a smallish man, he managed to make him- 
 self look large. 
 
 "By thinking large," said L'Ouvrier. 
 
 "And with whom did you study eloquence?" 
 
 "With silence." 
 
 Pressed to explain himself, he said : " I went into the 
 164 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 desert, at a season when no winds blow, and day and 
 night there is complete silence. I stood it as long at I 
 could. Then I began to talk. At first I had no effect 
 on the silence, but gradually I forced it out of my 
 vicinity. I pretended that I was a little village. I 
 learned to produce all the sounds of one — the women 
 scolding, the children howling, the hens clucking, the 
 dogs barking. I peopled the solitude and amused 
 myself vastly." 
 
 VI 
 
 Simon L'Ouvrier became the talk of the town. 
 People rushed to see him, and scrambled to know 
 him. His journal was published. He was proclaimed 
 a conqueror, not over nations, but over matter and 
 mind. The French, with their strong leaning to fanati- 
 cal worship, set him upon a solitary pinnacle, in the 
 clouds above other pinnacles, and saw in him the true 
 apostle of art. Nor was L'Ouvrier backward in pro- 
 pounding his gospel. He had worked, suffered, sacri- 
 ficed, sowed — now he would play, rejoice, smell the 
 grateful incense, and reap. 
 
 "In the beginning," he said on one occasion to a 
 reporter, "there were three ambitions in my family: 
 my father's, to have me bake cakes well; my mother's, 
 to have me marry a lady; my own, to become a great 
 actor. The other day a Royal Personage took luncheon 
 
 165 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 at my house, incognito. I offered him a little cake 
 which I had compounded and baked with my own 
 hands. He pronounced it delicious. Thus my father's 
 ambition for me may be said to have borne fruit. I 
 have received two offers of marriage from women who, 
 to judge by name and position, if not conduct, are ladies. 
 Thus my mother may rest in peace, for, while I shall 
 not marry either of them, I could if I would. As for 
 my own ambition, I need only say that I have been re- 
 ceived with ovations by the people of Paris, with whom 
 rests the last word in things appertaining to art. If I 
 am a great actor it is because I have worked hard. If 
 I am not, it is because I have not worked hard enough." 
 By what kind of a moral code did this curious man 
 live? What was he like? The first question is the 
 more easily answered. He gave money m charity, 
 lived frugally and free from all breath of scandal. The 
 second question is difficult, but, from combining the 
 accounts of those who knew him best, I have concluded 
 that he was polite, self-assured, without offense, a little 
 stiff and distant, a better talker than listener. He 
 dressed quietly, was scrupulously clean, and quite 
 without the vagaries of lesser stage favorites. He 
 played steadily night after night and was open and 
 consistent in his business obligations — in short, a man 
 of his word, who took no liberties with the existing 
 school of manners. He deserved the success for which 
 
 166 
 
SIMON L'OUYRIER 
 
 he had given so much mind and so much courage. 
 There could be no better proof than the fact that his 
 brother and sister artists admired him with all fervor 
 and no jealousy. He must then have been a very 
 happy man at this time: financially and socially secure, 
 enjoying excellent health, and the promise of many 
 years during which he should give infinite pleasure to 
 multitudes of people — gloom them with tragedy, burst 
 them with laughter. But fate had an awful blow for 
 him in her bludgeon. 
 
 When he first met Aime*e de Longueville is not known. 
 It was not even known for months that they were any- 
 thing but acquaintances. Then came the announce- 
 ment of their engagement and approaching marriage. 
 All Paris rose to applaud. Then came the Charity 
 Bazar fire, and Aimee de Longueville, in her youth, 
 beauty, and innocence, was burned to death — horribly, 
 beyond recognition. 
 
 Simon L'Ouvrier did not receive this blow in a man- 
 ner worthy of his manhood and his genius. He left the 
 stage and plunged into every excess which his genius 
 could devise. Houses were no longer open to him, 
 society cut him, the press forgot him. So fast a pace 
 did he go that in less than a year he presented a barely 
 recognizable shadow of himself, a malevolent, evil 
 shadow, forever dogging the footsteps of vice. He was 
 dubbed by vicious associates "the Wandering Jew." 
 
 167 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 All this is very unpleasant to think about. Let us 
 hasten to the end. 
 
 It came out that Aime"e de Longueville's mother was 
 starving. The directors of the Francais organized a 
 benefit, sought out Simon L'Ouvrier, and begged him 
 to take part. Besodden as he was with drink, it took 
 him some time to understand what was wanted. When 
 he did, he said: "Very well, I will play the farewell 
 scene from 'CEdipus.'" 
 
 The fact that L'Ouvrier was once more to exercise 
 his genius set Paris by the ears to obtain seats at the 
 benefit. And those who were lucky enough to bid 
 themselves into the theatre were treated to a perform- 
 ance which, though great, was not in the least what 
 they had expected. L'Ouvrier appeared with his crown 
 on the side of his head, two enormous glass eyes hang- 
 ing around his neck by strings, his ears wiggling, and 
 his toes turned in. He spoke, indeed, the heartrending 
 words of CEdipus, but he lent to their utterance the 
 most comical inflections and by-play. For half an hour 
 the theatre crashed with laughter; people howled and 
 held their sides. When the curtain fell the applause 
 and cries for L'Ouvrier lasted five minutes. The man- 
 ager stepped before the curtain. 
 
 "Monsieur L'Ouvrier," said he, "wishes me to thank 
 you for your kind attention, and to say further that 
 he has gone home for ever, and bids you farewell. He 
 
 168 
 
SIMON L'OUVRIER 
 
 wishes me to thank you further on behalf of your kind- 
 ness to the memory of Aimee de Longueville." 
 
 Simon L'Ouvrier on his deathbed with consumption 
 played one more part. 
 
 "How long have I to live?" said he to the doctor. 
 
 "It is a question of minutes, my poor friend," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 "How little you know,"" said L'Ouvrier. "Look, I 
 am improving; — I am getting well." 
 
 The doctor affirms that color came into L'Ouvrier's 
 cheeks, that his temperature and pulse became normal, 
 that he gave orders for a hearty meal, laughed and 
 joked like one who has suddenly and successfully 
 passed a serious climax, and then, exclaiming hilari- 
 ously: "I can still do it," collapsed and died. 
 
 169 
 
VI 
 A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 While I was dressing for dinner the moon rose, and I 
 could see, beyond the firm island studded with live 
 oaks, miles of shaky rice swamps from which protruded 
 the mouths of straight, narrow canals, looking in the 
 moonlight like garden paths of silver. Far to the left a 
 winding screen of trees hinted of a river at its feet, while 
 here and there among the swamps groups of live oaks, 
 bushy, low-headed and immense ; like Cyclopean or- 
 chard trees, signified that the region was either in process 
 of yielding to the ocean or of establishing more consist- 
 ently the hoop of a continent. Through my open win- 
 dow came the loud, consumptive coughing and chug- 
 ging of an old-fashioned stern-wheeler, which presently 
 ceased and yielded to the shouts and yells of negroes. 
 And I knew that the bi-weekly steamer trom George- 
 town was being made fast to my host's wharf and that 
 the servants were welcoming a guest. But it all sounded 
 like an act of piracy. 
 
 My host knocked and asked if I had what I wanted. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "come in, will you?" 
 
 He entered — a long, thin, gracious young host, in 
 173 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 spotless white linen dinner clothes which contrasted de- 
 lightfully with his crimson bow tie and shining brown 
 face. 
 
 "Who's being murdered," I asked. 
 
 "It's my grandfather Creighton," said Creighton. 
 "He knew that you were to be here to-night, and 
 many nights, and he proposes to be among the first to 
 express satisfaction." 
 
 "How far has he come," I asked. 
 
 "Forty miles by buggy and steamer." 
 
 "How old is he?" 
 
 "Eighty." 
 
 "I wish," I said, "that I could do something to de- 
 serve so much honor." 
 
 "You can," said Creighton. 
 
 "How," said I. 
 
 "By taking a drink whenever he does," said Creigh- 
 ton. "I can't, because I'm married. You'll be down 
 in a minute? If not, the old gentleman will visit you 
 with a cocktail. The mixer and ingredients are on the 
 hall table waiting for him — " Creighton opened the 
 door and listened. "Come here," he said. Then we 
 both began to laugh. ' ' He has arrived ,' ' said Creighton. 
 
 We could hear the unmistakable and delectable sound 
 of ice and liquid being shaken in a cocktail mixer. By 
 this time I was dressed and we started downstairs. On 
 the landing we met Grandfather Creighton coming up. 
 
 174 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 He had not had time to remove his hat or long cloak, 
 which were streaked with salt-water stains, for, as he 
 afterward said, it had been rough crossing Georgetown 
 bay. He was a charming little old gentleman to look 
 at, smootlHshaven and delicately fashioned like a 
 porcelain. His slender hands were almost as white as 
 the silver tray which he carried and upon which were 
 three straw-colored cocktails in heavy cut glasses. The 
 old gentleman held the tray steadily with one hand and 
 employed the other in an easy and graceful removal of 
 his hat. 
 
 "I attribute this meeting," said he, "to the good fort- 
 une which has followed me for eighty years. Help 
 yourselves." 
 
 Creighton took his grandfather's hat so that the old 
 gentleman could have a drinking hand, and we put 
 down our cocktails with one gesture, as it were, and one 
 swallowing noise, as if three soldiers trained to an act 
 of discipline. 
 
 "I feel that we are better acquainted already," said 
 the old gentleman. "I shall be forgiven if I do not put 
 on my evening clothes? My granddaughter by mar- 
 riage waits for no man. At my age a man should think 
 twice before letting his soup grow cold." 
 
 He then led us downstairs to the hall table where he 
 found the cocktail things just as he had left them. 
 Attributing this to the good fortune which had followed 
 
 175 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 him for eighty years he mixed three more, and we 
 joined our hostess in the drawing-room. 
 
 "Why, Grandfather Creighton ! " she cried. " Could 
 nothing but a miserable stranger bring you to see us ? 
 What have you been doing with yourself all this time ?" 
 
 "I have been suffering from thirst," said the old gen- 
 tleman. "That I have occasionally found relief I attrib- 
 ute to the good fortune which has followed me for 
 eighty years." 
 
 During dinner champagne was served before I had 
 swallowed my oysters. The old gentleman was silent 
 and uncommunicative. But as he prefaced this atti- 
 tude by stating that he could not do more than two 
 things at once, on account of his great age, we allowed 
 him to eat and drink in peace. But when Mrs. Creigh- 
 ton left us and coffee was brought with gigantic cigars 
 and fiery brandy, the old gentleman said that he never 
 smoked until he had drunk as much as he could, and 
 began to carry the bulk of the conversation. This at 
 length fell on ways of getting rich, legitimate and other 
 ways. Grandfather Creighton at something I said 
 about so and so being no better than a pirate chuckled 
 immoderately. 
 
 "Why," said he, "we Creightons are rich and all our 
 money comes from piracy, entering vessels on the high 
 seas, and murder. We didn't do it ourselves; it was 
 done for us. We reaped the benefit. Those pearls 
 
 176 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 which Rob Creighton there wears in his shirt bosom 
 came from a pair of Spanish earrings that had black 
 hairs tangled in them and their clasps broken as if they 
 had been torn from a lady's ears. My father had them 
 broken up — the earrings — because my mother thought 
 the design unlovely, and because, to tell the truth, which 
 is not an elegant one, the settings were greasy. All this 
 Santee region," the old gentleman went on, "its rivers, 
 tideways, swamps, seaward ponds, lagoons, harbors 
 and turtle-backs of dry land, was infested by pirates. 
 When I was a big boy my father took me to Charleston 
 on a visit, and while I was there I escaped from him and 
 went to see one hanged. It was not a spirited scene. 
 The poor wretch had begged a bottle of laudanum from 
 his jailor and was in no condition to seize the opportu- 
 nity which fortune had given of making his exit in a 
 gallant and sympathetic manner. But when I was a 
 little boy pirates were not so sodden. It was then that 
 the golden harvest of their nefarious doings was gath- 
 ered by us Creightons and put once more to Christian 
 employment; that is, to drawing interest. One-eyed 
 Limb, an escaped slave, was the particular devil of this 
 vicinity — a great pirate, sir, as black-hearted as skinned, 
 astute, cunning, of a skill with weapons that bordered 
 on the divine, malicious, humorous, and of an audacity 
 and sheer courage that compelled a kind of admiration, 
 even from white men. 
 
 177 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 "I was the last person, sir, to see one-eyed Limb 
 alive. He met his God or his devil, sir, over yonder on the 
 sea beaches where Gunpowder creek flows into ocean. 
 
 "The fresh sea-gull eggs, mackerel and flood-gull, and 
 the certainty to hook a drum, frequently drew me thither 
 when I was a little boy. My nurse's stories of the hor- 
 rible deeds upon bad little boys of one-eyed Limb and 
 other notable pirates of our Carolina coast as frequently 
 inspired me to stay away. Even the grown folk did not 
 feel entirely secure. For, from time to time, we could 
 see from these very dining-room windows the glow 
 of fires far off reflected upon the sky, and hear the 
 sounds of wild men in liquor. There were more preg- 
 nant alarms than these sometimes, and once, sir, my 
 father and a number of gentlemen who were his guests, 
 firing from the upper chambers, stood off a deliberate 
 attempt of one-eyed Limb to raze the plantation. On 
 that occasion there was enough carnage among the pi- 
 rates to reduce their ambition. My nurse carried me in 
 her arms to the carriage-house where the corpses had 
 been ranged. There were eleven of them, with eleven 
 types of bad faces — black, white and yellow. My 
 mother was for having them decently buried, but my 
 father gave orders to have stones attached to their necks 
 and to sink them in the river. 
 
 "Among Limb's crew were a number of escaped 
 slaves — two from this very plantation — and it was not, 
 
 178 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 therefore, unnatural that rumors of what the pirates 
 were about doing or intending reached us from time to 
 time through the quarters. We heard, for instance, 
 that Limb would take a terrible revenge for the loss of 
 his eleven companions, and for nearly two years my 
 father maintained an elaborate system of outposts and 
 signals; but with the exception of a few shots fired upon 
 the house from afar and quite at random, and the mys- 
 terious disappearance from the quarters of three plump 
 wenches, nothing of a permanently alarming nature 
 occurred. . . . You are neglecting the brandy. 
 
 "The pirates had their village by the fresh-water 
 pond on Long Bear, where we will take you wild fowl- 
 ing when you are less tired than you will be to-morrow 
 morning, and, always through the quarters, we heard 
 of their government and civic life. These consisted in 
 allowing matters to run from bad to worse, until one- 
 eyed Limb himself could not endure the disorder. He 
 would then rouse himself, go forth armed from his 
 cabin, do a murder or two, put the quiet of death upon 
 the village and return to his wives. Once we heard 
 that the yellow fever had broken out among the pirates, 
 and that they were in a fair way to be exterminated. 
 That alarmed us far more than any rumor of attack. 
 As a fact, however, the village was agreeably and health- 
 ily situated, and autumn breezes off ocean put an end to 
 the plague. 
 
 179 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 "It was the spring following that a longing came upon 
 me to know if the gulls had commenced to lay. I at- 
 tribute this to the good fortune which has followed me 
 for eighty years and to which I will empty this diminu- 
 tive glass of liquor. 
 
 "I gave orders to have my canoe provisioned and in 
 readiness for a start two hours before sunrise. I 
 threatened my body servants — I had two, big hardy 
 young bucks, Yap and Yaff — with a hundred lashes 
 apiece if they overslept, and sent them early to bed. 
 
 "At about the appointed time we started, Yap in the 
 bow, Yaff in the stern, and myself amidships, with my 
 little fowling-piece and a number of soft rugs. The 
 night fog was still upon the water, cold and opaque. I 
 ordered the paddlers not to loiter, and, drawing the rugs 
 about me, lay flat and slept. I was twelve years old 
 then, and now I am eighty. In all the intervening 
 years I have never lost the power to sleep. When we 
 retired in order after Gettysburg, sir, I slept in the sad- 
 dle for six hours. I have thus ever been able to give 
 myself relief from mental anguish, which is the secret 
 of longevity. 
 
 "I awoke at the commencement of sunrise, in time to 
 admire the dissipation of the fog and the looming into 
 view of our wild amphibious landscape. We were de- 
 scending Gunpowder Creek at the leaping pace of a 
 strongly paddled tide-borne canoe. I could hear already 
 
 180 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 the cries of the gulls and the reverberations of ocean 
 beating upon the hard beaches. A wholesome salt 
 wind had arisen and was blowing strongly in our faces. 
 We had entered that part of Gunpowder Creek where 
 its swampy shores yield for a while to firm banks dense 
 with bushes and salt-stunted trees, when Yap, who had 
 the bow paddle, relieved a hand and held it up for si- 
 lence. Yaff let his paddle, too, trail in the water and 
 we listened. The wind bore us the sound of oars 
 grinding against tholl pins and the murmur of a voice 
 humming in a minor key. 
 
 "'Black man's voice,' said Yap, and under his own 
 ebony hide appeared a sudden visitation of leprosy- 
 white blotches. It was a credited story among the ne- 
 groes that one-eyed Limb went about the more devilish 
 of his deeds sweetly singing. 
 
 "'Land!' said I. 
 
 " In a few seconds we were back in the bushes, canoe 
 and all. But had it not been for the strength of the 
 wind and its direction we must have been heard and, as 
 events bore out, run to our cover and murdered. Mind- 
 ful of what was expected of me as white and a master, I 
 left the negroes, enjoining them to lie flat and make not 
 a sound until I returned, and proceeded to work my 
 way through the bushes to the open marsh behind them, 
 a matter of not more than thirty yards, then down 
 stream, perhaps a hundred yards; and then diagonally, 
 
 181 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 once more through the bushes, to gain a view of the 
 creek beyond the bend which I had thus eliminated. 
 
 "Toward the sandy shore of the cove thus discovered 
 to my eyes, a row boat, far out on the bosom of the 
 creek, here as wide as a river, was heading. It con- 
 tained five negroes naked to the waist. Four had their 
 backs to me and were rowing. The fifth, sitting in the 
 stern, faced me and steered with a long oar. He it was 
 whom we had heard humming, for as I looked he re- 
 commenced to a different tune, and I was able to dis- 
 tinguish the words of a song still current among our 
 coast negroes. The song moved slowly and the boat 
 fast: 
 
 Gambler, Gambler, yo* dice am gwine deceibe you! 
 
 Gambler, Gambler, yo' dice am gwine deceibe you! 
 
 Gambler, Gambler, yo' dice am gwine deceibe youl 
 
 Way down in the grabe! 
 
 By the time the song had progressed to that point, 
 and it was rendered in a wonderful, sweet, sad voice, 
 the boat had come so near that I could see the singer as 
 plainly as I see Robert there. He was a very small man, 
 thin to emaciation, and black as the pit. He had the 
 head and face of a much larger man, and at first I 
 thought that he was blind, for my vision in that first 
 glance seemed to have embraced only the left side of his 
 face which had a cavity instead of an eye. Indeed, 
 when I first saw him his one eye must have been closed 
 
 182 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 or I could never have overlooked it. It opened now 
 and I saw what looked like the end of a disgusting yel- 
 low egg sticking from the man's skull. If that eye had 
 any iris it was of a yellow indistinguishable from its set- 
 ting. I had a longing, hardly to be denied, to empty 
 my stomach of its contents and scream. I closed my 
 eyes and the nausea passed. While I lay with closed 
 eyes, Limb, for there remained no doubt under heaven 
 that it was he, began and concluded, with what cloying 
 sweetness of voice I cannot hope to describe, the second 
 stanza of his chantey: 
 
 Mother, mother, yo' daughter gwine deceibe yo'l 
 Mother, mother, yo' daughter gwine deceibe yo' I 
 Mother, mother, yo' daughter gwine deceibe yo'l 
 Way down in de grabe. 
 
 "I screwed my courage up to the looking point and 
 discovered that the oarsmen were in the act of giving 
 the boat the last impetus which should carry it to the 
 shore. The muscles on the great black backs and 
 shoulders rippled under the shining hides like deft fingers 
 playing indescribably complicated instruments. Limb 
 nodded his chuckle head as if he did not wish by speak- 
 ing to interrupt himself in the train of thought inspired 
 by his own singing, the oars came inboard silently, and 
 the boat with diminishing speed drifted at once down 
 the creek and toward the shore. This would make the 
 landing further below me than my first conclusion had 
 
 183 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 dared allow, and the relief to my overstrained courage 
 and imagination was so great that the saliva gathered 
 head in my mouth and ran out between my lips. I 
 saw now that amidships in the boat was a seaman's 
 chest painted a sky blue and reinforced with heteroge- 
 neous pieces of sheet-iron nailed to the edges and cor- 
 ners. Limb sang a little louder, a little faster: 
 
 Thunder, thunder, thunder, roll ober yonder! 
 Thunder, thunder, thunder, roll ober yonderl 
 Thunder, thunder, thunder, roll ober yonderl 
 Way down in de grabe. 
 
 "And the boat ran on the beach. Before the rowers 
 could move Limb hopped from his seat to the top of the 
 chest, with a something in his movement that reminded 
 you of a flea, set foot for the smallest fraction of time on 
 the nearest black shoulder, and was ashore. The man 
 who had been used as a stepping-stone turned his head 
 slowly, all the while rubbing his shoulder, and gave 
 Limb a grin, at once so sheepish, adoring, good-natured, 
 and comical that my own mouth began to smile with his. 
 
 "My nurse had often regaled my youthful imagina- 
 tion with the magnificence of costume usually sported 
 by pirates. What the poverty of raiment which covered 
 the corpses of the pirates that I had been shown in the 
 carriage-house had failed practically to establish (for all 
 children struggle against fact to retain their grasp of the 
 picturesque and romantic) was now certified. The 
 
 184 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHTS DREAM 
 
 men before me were clad only in dirty patched trowsers. 
 They had neither hats, shoes nor weapons, unless Limb, 
 whose diminutive waist was surrounded by a tawdry 
 chequered sash, had one concealed therein. As events 
 proved he had. But I saw none then, and began to 
 pluck up my spirits, for I at least had a fowling-piece. 
 Then it occurred to me to be dashed from that point of 
 comfort by wondering if I had loaded it or not. Mem- 
 ory refused to be cajoled. Had I, if discovered, one 
 shot between me and massacre was a speculation that I 
 could not answer. 
 
 " Limb and the four rowers now drew the boat high 
 and dry on the sands of the cove, and not without labor 
 got the chest out of her. Limb then ordered one of the 
 men to scratch his back for him and for several mo- 
 ments gave himself up to the process with the most 
 evident signs of relish. After that they hove up the 
 chest and staggered into the bushes with it. 
 
 "They did not go very far and presently the one who 
 had scratched Limb's back returned to the boat and took 
 out of it a pick and a shovel. He paused long enough 
 to kneel in the sand and souse his head in the creek. 
 Then he took up the tools and went back into the bushes. 
 
 "They were an unconscionable time burying the 
 chest to their own satisfaction, owing, I suppose, to the 
 tough and intricate network of roots, through which 
 they must cut, and I was about concluding that the 
 
 185 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 silence and suspense were to last forever when the most 
 awful and sudden burst of screaming split my ears. 
 There was a frenzied thrashing in the bushes, and out 
 burst the negro who had grinned, running for his life. 
 Behind him came, ran, hopped, flew — I know of no 
 word that describes the kind or the speed of such un- 
 earthly locomotion — Limb. There was a blazing in 
 my eyes like that of sun rays deflected and concentrated 
 by a mirror. It passed and I saw Limb's black pipe- 
 stem arm drive with a knife at the back of the runner's 
 neck. I saw him wrench it out and, as the stricken 
 man whirled and fell, drive it to the hilt in his con- 
 vulsed face. 
 
 "Then, possessing himself of the knife which had 
 been torn from his hand, he walked quietly back into 
 the bushes from which he had just emerged with such 
 demoniac speed. Presently I heard him speak in a quiet 
 conversational tone that had the effect of a diabolic sneer: 
 
 "'Ain't you daid yet, Bluebell?' 
 
 "Then I heard the horrid sound with which I had 
 become familiar, of a knife driven home — once — twice 
 . . . and the drawling voice again: 
 
 "'Now you is sho daid, Bluebell.' And out of the 
 bushes he strolled, singing, sweet and clear: 
 
 " ' Sailor, sailor, yo' captain gwine deceibe you.' 
 
 "At the same instant a little voice began to say in my 
 186 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 head: 'You loaded that gun, I saw you. You put in 
 buck-shot in case you saw deer or pig. Don't you re- 
 member. I saw you do it.' Whether I believed or not 
 I do not know. Likely as not I did, for when Limb 
 turned and bent to launch the boat I aimed very care- 
 fully at the little row of whitish knobs made by his spine 
 just above his trowsers, and the gun went off. I saw 
 no distinct picture in what followed, only a kaleido- 
 scopic miracle of black pipe-stem arms and legs that 
 whirled about a focus made by one awful yellow eye. 
 I buried my face in my hands and screamed aloud. 
 And I think, sir, that I must have passed into a state of 
 unconsciousness. For when I once more saw the boat 
 and one-eyed Limb there sat upon the gunwhale of the 
 first three buzzards, and upon the chest of the second, 
 one. 
 
 "And that, sir," concluded the old gentleman, "was 
 the foundation of the Creighton fortune. And, sir," 
 said he, glaring savagely, for the brandy was beginning 
 to affect him, "I should like to see the man that would 
 deny to my father the possession of the nicest sense of 
 honor and integrity imaginable. He made no bones, 
 sir, about accepting the treasure contained in the blue 
 chest, and presented to him by an all-wise Providence 
 and a dutiful son. . . . 
 
 " Creighton," said I, when the old gentleman, after a 
 few indignant puffs, had given himself to the firm em- 
 
 187 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 brace of sleep, "it is not the part of a guest to impeach 
 the veracity of a host's grandfather, but a little further 
 down the coast, from the lips of August Lesage (dear 
 old man!) I have heard a very similar story about a 
 very similar pirate, according to which narrative, 
 smacking with the first personal pronoun, was similarly 
 founded a similar fortune. Did all your grandfathers 
 eat pirates?" 
 
 "August Lesage's treasure chest was painted green, 
 I think," said Creighton reflectively, "and his Limb 
 lacked the right eye. My dear sir, all gentlemen are 
 liars. My grandfather, with all due honor to his white 
 hairs, has never been known to speak the truth or to 
 tell an injurious lie. In the Northern States men lie for 
 profit; we of the South he only to entertain each other 
 and our guests. It is to this fact more than to any 
 other that my grandfather attributes the good fortune 
 which has followed him for eighty years. Shall we go 
 to bed ? My grandfather will not be alarmed when he 
 Wakes and finds himself alone with what is left of the 
 brandy. When that is gone, he will go to sleep, either 
 here or in his bed, for, as he himself says, the power to 
 sleep has not failed him for eighty years whenever he 
 has found it necessary to put a snuffer on mental 
 anguish." 
 
 "How did you Creightons make your money?" I 
 asked. 
 
 188 
 
A CAROLINA NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 "One of us lied — for profit," said Creighton. "Rest 
 his soul! He is the only one of all my ancestors for 
 whom I have entire respect. Since for the benefit of his 
 family he sacrificed those qualities which are most pre- 
 cious to a man — his integrity and his self-respect — he, 
 no doubt, rests in peace." 
 
 "I believe you," said I, "while," said he, "our less 
 provident ancestors — merely — slumber." 
 
 Fortunately I am not married and have no children, 
 for ten minutes later I was merely slumbering. 
 
 The old gentleman came to my room late the next 
 morning. He winked and said, "Let us visit the 
 treasure chest." 
 
 We did. Among other precious things it contained 
 ice. 
 
 189 
 
VII 
 
 THE STOWING AWAY OF MR. BILL 
 BALLAD 
 
THE STOWING AWAY OF MR. BILL 
 BALLAD 
 
 When Mr. Bill Ballad saw, through the wraith of 
 white smoke which his pistol had made, the sudden and 
 terrible contortion of Mr. Heigh's face, the staring eyes, 
 the opening and shutting mouth, dreadfully grinning; 
 when he saw Mr. Heigh's left leg buckle like an over- 
 canvased spar in a squall; when he saw Mr. Heigh 
 writhing on the turf, and when he heard the sheriff, 
 panting from hard running, bellow, "Arrest that man!" 
 then it was that Mr. Bill Ballad forgot the exquisite 
 quixotism which had led him to make one of a duel 
 with Mr. Heigh; then it was that he forgot the excellent 
 nerve with which he had faced the detonation of his ad- 
 versary's weapon, forgot his dignity, forgot his philoso- 
 phy, forgot those debts and that unsuccess which, dark- 
 ening the sun of his young days, had made him reck- 
 less; forgot the delicious face of Miss Gremley, with 
 whom he was not acquainted, but in whose cause he 
 had fought; forgot everything but his bump of locality, 
 and incontinently took to his toes. 
 
 The sheriff and the sheriff's man ran over the graves 
 193 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 land in and out of the headstones with the celerity of 
 staghounds, but Mr. Bill Ballad passed over the nar- 
 row houses of the dead like a swooping hawk, took the 
 low wall of the burying ground in his stride, went down 
 Eden Street like a gust of wind, turned into Turtle Lane 
 and covered the length of it like a thrown stone, passed 
 the place of business of his late adversary, was dimly 
 conscious of the letters on the firm's shingle: Flower & 
 Heigh — seed merchants, bolted down Ship Street toward 
 the wharves, and finally took breathless refuge in the 
 sail-loft of Messrs. Spar & Marlin, riggers of ships, and 
 there, buried from view among ropes, rope ends, can- 
 vas, and old sacks, he lay and sobbed; for it is dreadful at 
 twenty-two to be over ears in debt, a writer of philoso- 
 phies to which the ears of the world are deaf, and liable at 
 any moment to be laid by the ears for the killing of a man. 
 
 It was not until five in the afternoon that Mr. Bill 
 Ballad looked up from his despair, ceased from his 
 sobs, and remarked to the canvas ghosts in the sail 
 loft: "When you are fallen as low as is possible, you 
 can fall no lower; nothing is stable; all things move 
 either up or down; wherefore, since I can no lower fall 
 and since I may not remain stably fallen, I must in some 
 measure rise. Food would boost me." 
 
 He now took measures to make his body more com- 
 fortable; a bunching of canvas here, a spreading of it 
 there, a rolling over of himself, and a fine yawn. 
 
 194 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 "At least," said he, "I have done what I set out to 
 do, for Mr. Heigh will not marry Miss Gremley in the 
 morning — for the present I am safe, and blessings be 
 showered on the head of the unfaithful servant who for- 
 got to lock the door of this place on a holiday. As for 
 the future, the darkness will provide. Come night — 
 heavens be overcast — moon be hidden — stars be blank- 
 eted — and grant, O merciful Lord, that Jemmy be in 
 his house when I do call." 
 
 Then he fell to thinking of that little book, "The Age 
 of Folly," the gisty matter between the blue boards, and 
 of the public — the great, blind, stuttering, strutting 
 child which preferred the toys brain-y-factured by other 
 men — and, tossing uneasily, he said: "I don't see why 
 in hell it doesn't sell," and fell asleep. 
 
 Thick was the night, hidden the moon, blanketed the 
 stars, and Jemmy was in his house at the time when 
 Mr. Bill Ballad came to call. Jemmy had been in his 
 house since noon. Jemmy, taking advantage of the 
 holiday, had risen early and drank himself unconscious; 
 unconscious he had lain on the floor of his library 
 through the late afternoon, the evening, and part of the 
 night. Unconscious he lay when Mr. Bill Ballad 
 slipped through the open window, but when Mr. Bill 
 Ballad shook him by the arm (as one testing the mech- 
 anism of a new pump) he began to awake. 
 
 "Wha' time is it?" he said. 
 195 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 "Midnight," said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 "Time turn in,' r said Jemmy, sighing. 
 
 "Wake up," said Mr. Ballad. " My life's in danger." 
 
 "What light's in danger?" inquired Jemmy. "Put 
 it out." 
 
 "Wake up, you drunken swine." 
 
 "Swine yourself — swine herself — swine himself — all 
 swine holiday this morning." 
 
 " Jemmy, does any ship sail from here in the morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Thish my library — ships don't sail from libraries. 
 Library place to sleep in — nice to lie on snuggle rug an' 
 sleep." 
 
 "Would a good kicking help you, Jemmy?" 
 
 It did. Jemmy sat up. 
 
 "What you kicking me for?" 
 
 "Beg your pardon," said Mr. Ballad, "but I thought 
 you were dead. Will you try and pull yourself together, 
 please ? I'm in trouble." 
 
 "Wait till I wash my face, then." Jemmy arose and 
 left the room somnolently. He returned much re- 
 freshed. "Now you may fire away," he said. 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad shuddered. And then he told Jemmy 
 his trouble. "Have you heard nothing of it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No," said Jemmy, "I don't remember anything 
 after noon. You may not have hurt him much." 
 
 196 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 "O Jemmy — I saw his face — I heard the breath 
 whistle out of him — and, O God! I saw him fall." 
 
 Jemmy began to think hard. 
 
 "The Mallow." he said presently, "goes out in the 
 morning tide, in hides, for Jamaica. If we can slip you 
 aboard, and hide you, well provisioned " 
 
 "Yes, yes," cried Mr. Ballad, "that's the thing— it's 
 making up for a brute of a blow, and there'll be no one 
 on deck. But where'll I hide ?" 
 
 "I can't think of the name of the place," said 
 Jemmy; "wait — no, I can't think — but I know the 
 hatch that opens into it — it's below the fo'c's'le — where 
 they keep spare stores — what in hell — no, I can't 
 think." 
 
 "We must start at once." 
 
 "We must larder you first." 
 
 "What have you in the house?" 
 
 "We'll look. Then they began to rummage. They 
 found a ham, two loaves of bread, one loaf of spice cake, 
 and a fine hunk of cheese. 
 
 "You must have water," said Jemmy, and he filled a 
 great stone jug. "Want any wine ?" 
 
 "No— no," cried Mr. Bill Ballad, "I have had 
 enough wine to last me till the Judgment Day, and to 
 damn me then." 
 
 " I haven't," said Jemmy, " but I shall hope to have 
 had. Come along, boy — take my blue cloak. . . . 
 
 197 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 Hold hard, you'll want flint and steel and a lantern 
 . . . have you your watch?" 
 
 "Herodotus, the Jew, hath it," said Mr. Bill Ballad 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 "You shall have mine. Now, then, I'll look abroad 
 a little; it may be that the coast is obscure." 
 
 The front door struggled in Jemmy's hands like a 
 live thing. "All the glims of heaven are doused," said 
 he, "and it's blowing like hell. Come along." 
 
 The streets were deserted, but lively with the rustling 
 of dead leaves, and the blowing about of all that was 
 unstable. Jemmy and Mr. Bill Ballad, each with a 
 sack of provisions over his shoulder, slunk through the 
 dark and blowy town like a pair of marauders laden 
 with plate. In Ship Street, a malicious inequality of the 
 paving caught Jemmy by one of his unsteady feet and 
 hurled him to the ground. "O Liberty!" he cried, 
 "what crimes are committed in thy name." 
 
 He gathered himself and his sack together, and they 
 went on. Jemmy owned a staunch skiff, out of which 
 the two friends had often shot at wild-fowls. They 
 found her riding snugly in the lee of Mr. Caruthers' 
 long wharf and embarked. Rounding the end of the 
 wharf, the wind and sea struck her in power. 
 
 "Can you keep her head to it, Jemmy?" 
 
 "Watch me." The oars tore at the water, the wind 
 tore at the skiff, the water slammed her on the bows, 
 
 198 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 but inch by inch she dropped the long wharf behind 
 and made headway into the whistling dark. 
 
 "Where does the Mallow lie ?" Mr. Bill Ballad was 
 obliged to trumpet his hands and bellow the question. 
 
 Jemmy, his teeth gritted and his breath coming and 
 going in great grunts, jerked his head backward for 
 answer. 
 
 "Hope to — we can find her," bellowed Mr. Ballad. 
 Twenty minutes later Jemmy rested on his oars and 
 began to look about him, trying with sweat-filled eyes 
 to pierce the black. At that moment, as a joker might 
 suddenly snatch back the bedclothes from one sleeping,, 
 the storm fairly ripped a cloud from before the face of 
 the Lady Moon. For an instant the backs of the charg- 
 ing waves glimmered; for an instant, as if revealed by 
 pale lightning, the harbor became a shape and familiar 
 landmarks flashed into view; for an instant the two 
 friends beheld the great black bulk of a ship leaping 
 back against the bite of her mooring chain; and then 
 out went the moon, and Jemmy, heading the skiff in the 
 ascertained direction, began to row like mad. 
 
 Ten minutes later, dripping and bruised, they had 
 won over the side of the leaping ship and were creeping 
 forward along her creaking deck. 
 
 Jemmy pulled the hatch to, and the roaring of the 
 weather was cut off as clearly as a slice of bread is cut 
 off by a sharp knife. 
 
 199 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 "Whew," said Jemmy. 
 
 "Thank God," said Mr. Bill Ballad. 
 
 They lit the lantern, and found that they were in a 
 triangular place three parts full of undeterminate bulk, 
 and wholly full of the nauseating odor of bilge water 
 and unclean woodwork. 
 
 "You'll be very comfortable here," said Jemmy. 
 "God bless you, my boy, and good luck. Will write 
 you to Jamaica and give you the news." He held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "Jemmy," said Mr. Bill Ballad, "you know Miss 
 Gremley — a long time from now tell her my story; how 
 I saw her but once, yet could not bear to think that so 
 much loveliness should be sold to an old man; tell her 
 that for the sake of all her excellence I fought and came 
 to an unhappy end " — Mr. Bill Ballad was almost aburst 
 with tears — "tell her this a long time from now, so that 
 she may say in her heart: 'Ah, but one man loved me. ' 
 . . . God bless you, Jemmy . . . will you make back 
 all right?" 
 
 "The wind will hand me ashore," said Jemmy, "just 
 as after dancing with her a courteous gentleman hands 
 a beautiful young lady back to the seat beside her 
 mother. I hate to leave you with nothing to drink but 
 water." 
 
 The trap opened — the howls of the wind sounded — 
 the trap closed — and the howls ceased. Mr. Ballad 
 
 200 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 found himself alone in the shifting, creaking, stinking 
 asylum that he had chosen, and shed a few tears. 
 
 Nelson, eater of ships, sea-lion, scourge of Napoleon, 
 etc., was often made dreadfully sick by the great bil- 
 lows of his chosen element, so that had there been no 
 fighting to do, one might be tempted to exclaim: "Mon 
 Dieu, qu'allait il fair dans cette galere ?"' But the busi- 
 ness of fighting seems to have taken his mind off the 
 dolorous motions of his flagship and toughened him in- 
 side to a whalish serenity. In short, cruising and ship's 
 pork made the man sick; but when the battle was met, 
 his constitution suffered a revulsion, and he not only ate 
 ships, but kept them down, and, to use his own thought, 
 "would not have been elsewhere for thousands." 
 
 The atmosphere in Mr. Bill Ballad's hiding-place, 
 coupled with the fantastic and Gallic manner in which 
 the hiding-place danced about, brought that young 
 gentleman to inactive extremities, yet he was content to 
 be where he was; and when, in the midst of a trance- 
 like nap, an immense rat ran across his face, the excite- 
 ment, as with Nelson at sight of the enemy, took away 
 his qualms and rendered him once more fit to reflect 
 and to endure. 
 
 "I suppose," he reflected, "that I must stick to this 
 sty for at least two days, so that there may be no possi- 
 bility of them putting me ashore. Then I shall throw 
 open the hatch, discover myself to the captain, and be 
 
 201 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 put at some disagreeable sea work, climbing masts per- 
 haps," and he shivered. 
 
 His chief reflections, however, in that dark, bilgy and 
 plunging place were upon the duration of time, the in- 
 stability of human affairs, and the disregard of hard 
 boards for the sensitive joints of the human frame. In 
 the extremes of aching discomfort the events of the pre- 
 ceding day receded from his complaining mind. The 
 terrible collapse of Mr. Heigh upon receiving the bullet, 
 the breathless flight from the scene of the duel, and the 
 lovely face of Miss Gremley, were pictures which came 
 to visit him with less and less frequency. Eventually 
 he thought about nothing but the disadvantages of 
 bones to the human frame, and wished himself a jelly- 
 fish. But for all his uninuredness to hard surfaces, 
 sleep visited him in dreamy snatches; once he awoke 
 with a start and a half consciousness that for a moment 
 the storm had howled down the hatchway and roared 
 in his ears. Indeed, he fancied during those first star- 
 tled, waking seconds that some one had opened the 
 hatch, drawn it to, and descended into his hiding-place. 
 But with complete wakefulness he attributed his im- 
 pression to the machinations of a sea-rat. He never 
 knew how many hours had passed of his incarceration 
 when, being set upon by hunger and curiosity, he lighted 
 his lantern, and discovered that the watch which 
 Jemmy had loaned him had run down. 
 
 202 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 " Damn! " said Mr. Bill Ballad. But he began to eat 
 of his provisions (in particular of the ham) with a great 
 show of appetite. In the midst of a large and tooth- 
 some mouthful he had suddenly the horrible sensation 
 of one who, fancying himself alone, becomes aware 
 that he is being watched. His scalp seemed to bristle, 
 and he stopped chewing the better to listen. 
 
 "I thought," thought he, "that I heard some one 
 breathe." He listened hard. But the sound was not 
 repeated. He heard only the thumping of his own 
 heart, the faint and distant echoes of the gale, and the 
 creaking of the ship. "I wonder," he thought, "if it is 
 possible for a rat to breathe audibly. I fancy not. 
 But possibly an old grandfather rat" — he became face- 
 tious, with fear going — "who was asthmatic or suffer- 
 ing from a cold in the head" — and, just as he was about 
 to resume the business of untrammelled eating, there 
 sounded from the deep dark that lurked upon the out- 
 skirts of the ring of light cast by his lantern a husky 
 voice. 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad never knew the precise words uttered 
 by the husky voice. Fear petrified him, but not, un- 
 fortunately, in time to prevent his overturning the 
 lantern, which rolled off, clashing into the sudden and 
 absolute darkness caused by its own extinction. 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad, trembling in every limb, gasped like 
 a man coming to the surface after a long swim under 
 
 203 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 water. Sweat cold as ice ran down his sides . . . and 
 then once more the silence was broken by the husky 
 voice, whjch said tremblingly, "I beg your pardon, sir, 
 but I forgot to bring any water, and I've eaten a lot of 
 pickles, and I think I shall die of thirst." 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad drew a long staccato sigh of relief. 
 But he was angry at the voice for having frightened 
 him so, and he said angrily: 
 
 "Why didn't you say so at first?" 
 
 " I told you not to be frightened the first time I spoke," 
 said the voice. 
 
 "Frightened!" exclaimed Mr. Ballad, beginning to- 
 tremble again in spite of the gentle and plaintive quality 
 of the husky voice. "I frightened; why, man, I'm 
 armed to the teeth." 
 
 "S — so — am — I," came back in a stuttering kind of 
 a whine. "But why did you overturn the lantern ?" 
 
 "As a precaution," said Mr. Ballad boldly, for he 
 felt himself greatly heartened by the timidity now evi- 
 dent in the voice. "But come out of there — I won't 
 hurt you, and you shall have a drink — if," he put in 
 with courtesy, "you don't mind drinking out of the 
 same jug." 
 
 Then was heard a bungling movement in the dark, 
 followed by a sharp exclamation of pain. 
 
 "What's the matter now?" said Mr. Ballad, all pat- 
 ronage. 
 
 204 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 "My shin," said the voice, and exclaimed instantly 
 again. 
 
 "Well?" said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 "My other shin," said the voice. 
 
 " Deuced clumsy, aren't you," said Mr. Ballad. " Oh, 
 there you are." His outstretched hand came in con- 
 tact with the top of a hatted [head. "Here's the jug — 
 for goodness' sake don't spill it." 
 
 The stranger drank greedily with a gluggling noise. 
 
 "Now," said Mr. Ballad, "you stay here — and keep 
 saying where you are, so that I will know where I am, 
 while I crawl about and look for that damned lantern. 
 ... I think I know where it rolled." 
 
 Mr. Ballad began to crawl cautiously in the direction 
 in which he imagined the lantern to have rolled, while 
 every now and then, to give him the location, the stran- 
 ger said loudly, "Here I am." Between two of these 
 pieces of data Mr. Ballad began to swear. 
 
 "What's the matter now?" said the stranger. 
 
 "My shin!" said Mr. Ballad furiously. 
 
 "Here I am!" said the stranger. 
 
 Presently Mr. Ballad swore again. 
 
 "Well?" said the stranger. 
 
 "My other shin," said Mr. Ballad, and, to do him 
 credit, though he began testily, he finished laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 "Deuced clumsy, aren't you," said the stranger, ren- 
 205 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 dered bold by Mr. Ballad's boyish laugh. . . . "Here I 
 am." . . . 
 
 The next silence was terminated by an awful crash 
 and a grunt of real pain. 
 
 " Here I am," said the stranger. 
 
 "Oh, you are, are you," said Mr. Ballad angrily, but 
 with a ginger quality of voice. "Well, I've crawled off 
 the edge of something, and here I am." 
 
 "Are you hurt?" 
 
 "I should think I was hurt. It's my knee . . . 
 where are you ? I'm coming back — damn the lantern 
 — sing out, can't you." 
 
 "Here I am," said the stranger. . . . 
 
 " it," cried Mr. Ballad suddenly. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "My other knee," said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 "Here I am," said the stranger. 
 
 " I should say you were," said Mr. Ballad furiously, 
 " and heartily amused, I daresay. I've a good mind to 
 punch your head — ouch — where are you?" No an- 
 swer. 
 
 " Where are you ? " No answer. 
 
 "I won't punch your head, you little fool." 
 
 The stranger raised his voice. "Here I am," said 
 he. 
 
 "Have you a watch?" asked Mr. Bill Ballad. 
 
 " No," said the stranger. 
 
 206 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 "Then it doesn't matter about the lantern," said 
 Mr. Ballad, "because my watch has run down, and I 
 do not feel any particular curiosity to be gratified by a 
 look at you. But you may as well tell me why you are 
 here." 
 
 "Because I had to run away from home," said the 
 stranger. 
 
 "You sound reasonably well bred," said Mr. Ballad. 
 "So I daresay it is a question of bills which you are 
 unable to pay. But I don't really care to know. What 
 have you brought in the way of provisions ?" 
 
 " Pickles, macaroons, jam, and a little candy," said 
 the stranger. 
 
 "You never should have left your mother," said Mr. 
 Bill Ballad. "You are the most ignorant youth with 
 whom I have ever come in contact." 
 
 "You only came in contact with the top of my hat," 
 said the stranger. 
 
 "I came in contact with every other damn thing in 
 this ship," said Mr. Ballad, and he tried to caress all 
 his bruises at once. 
 
 "I may be ignorant," said the stranger, "but I don't 
 swear. I wonder where we are. " 
 
 "I forget the name of the place," said Mr. Ballad, 
 " but if you mean where the Mallow is, why, I suppose, 
 she's well off shore. She must have sailed hom? 
 
 207 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 "It's pretty rough, isn't it?" said the stranger. 
 "Are you a good sailor?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Ballad, "in fact, some time ago I 
 threatened to be very sick, but a rat ran over my face 
 and startled me back into a pink glow of health. Then 
 you appeared, and I must admit that your piquant con- 
 versation and absurd youthfulness have so shaken me 
 with internal laughter that I feel as if I should never 
 experience another qualm. What do you expect to 
 have happen to you when we are discovered ?" 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure," said the stranger; "any- 
 thing to get away. But why are you here 1" 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad reflected for a moment, but he loved 
 talk for its own sake, had never suffered very acutely 
 from discretion, and wished to play the man in the im- 
 agination of his young and callow acquaintance; there- 
 fore he said: " I will tell you." 
 
 "Do," said the stranger. 
 
 "Did you ever hear of a Miss Gremley," said Mr. 
 Bill Ballad. 
 
 The stranger was silent for some moments. "A 
 little pock-marked thing?" he said finally. 
 
 "Pock-marked yourself," exclaimed Mr. Bill Ballad. 
 "She's the most exquisite girl that God ever made, and 
 considering the practice He has had — well, never mind. 
 Her parents are swine." 
 
 The stranger laughed. "In what way?" said he. 
 208 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 "In all ways," said Mr. Ballad. "They arranged, 
 for instance, to marry this lovely child to an old, ugly, 
 
 lean, underbred, rich, black-hearted , by the name 
 
 of Heigh. It was simply a sale. The ewe lamb for the 
 butcher — a fat commission for the parents." 
 
 "But if they were swine," said the stranger, "how 
 could the child be a ewe lamb ?" 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad waved his hand in the dark and did 
 not deign to reply. 
 
 "The wedding," he said, "was to have been to-day. 
 That is, if to-day is to-day, and not already to-morrow, 
 which is hard to establish in the dark. Well, a certain 
 young gentleman of romantical nature who was not 
 acquainted with Miss Gremley, but who worships inno- 
 cence and beauty, was so incensed by the affair when it 
 came to his ears that he sought out this Heigh and 
 pulled his nose for him." 
 
 "Had the young gentleman been drinking?" asked 
 the stranger. 
 
 "He had," said Mr. Bill Ballad. 
 
 "And what happened ?" 
 
 "They fought back of the green church — and Heigh 
 fell." 
 
 "Good God!" cried the stranger, "dead?'.' 
 
 "I don't know," said Mr. Bill Ballad with a shudder. 
 "He fell horribly, and I ran away." 
 
 "Then it was you?" 
 
 209 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 "It was," said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 "You risked your life for the happiness of a young 
 woman whom you only knew by sight ?" 
 
 "I had been drinking," said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 "I do not believe it," said the stranger strongly; 
 "you are trying to make light of a wonderful and beau- 
 tiful piece of chivalry." 
 
 "Call it that if you like," said Mr. Bill Ballad. 
 
 "I would like to shake your hand," said the stranger. 
 Mr. Bill Ballad (himself somewhat moved by the recol- 
 lection of his own wonderful and beautiful, if spiritu- 
 ous, chivalry) thrust forth a hand in the dark, and as 
 suddenly drew it back. 
 
 "What is that?" he said. 
 
 "My petticoat," said the stranger. 
 
 "Who are you?" said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 "I am Miss Gremley — where are you going?" 
 
 "After the lantern," exclaimed Mr. Ballad. It 
 took him half an hour of painful crawling, during which 
 he did not swear once, to find it. He crawled back in 
 triumph, and lighted it. Then he held it aloft. 
 
 "Let me look at you," he said. He looked long into 
 a pair of round, gray, glimmering eyes. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said in a faltering voice, "for what 
 I said about your parents." 
 
 "I forgive you," said Miss Gremley. 
 
 " Forgive me for having sworn so abominably." 
 210 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 "I forgive you." 
 
 "Forgive me for boasting about the — the Heigh 
 business." 
 
 " I forgive you — and I shall not forget." 
 
 During all this time he had continued to hold the lan- 
 tern aloft the better to look into the gray eyes. His 
 arm now began to tremble violently with the tension on 
 it, and he put down the lantern. 
 
 "You are very beautiful," he said. 
 
 "You also are pleasant to look at," said Miss 
 Gremley. 
 
 "My life has not been handsome," said Mr. Ballad 
 with emotion. 
 
 "That," said Miss Gremley, "I shall never believe." 
 
 "Did you run away because of — of Heigh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Poor child," said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 " I am rich in my defender," said Miss Gremley. 
 
 "Miss Gremley," said Mr. Ballad, "I am far from 
 wishing to take an advantage of you, but the bulkhead 
 against which you are leaning is, as I know by dolorous 
 experience, harder than jasper. If you would care to 
 regard my arm as a sort of buffer, and not as a part of 
 the human male anatomy, I could contrive to make you 
 a little more comfortable." 
 
 She leaned forward without hesitation and back 
 against his encircling arm. 
 
 211 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 And then, having blown out the lantern to save the 
 oil, they sat in the dark, until Mr. Bill Ballad's arm had 
 lost all sensation, save that of bliss, and a great craving 
 for food had settled in them both. Then they relit the 
 lantern and ate heartily and with laughter. 
 
 "It seems warmer," said Miss Gremley; "we must 
 have made considerable s — southing." 
 
 "It is smoother also," said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 "How long do you suppose we have been in here?" 
 
 "Not more than ten minutes," said Mr. Ballad politely. 
 
 "I don't know why it should," said Miss Gremley, 
 "but my head aches and I feel faint." 
 
 "The air in here must be pretty well used up by now," 
 said Mr. Bill Ballad. " But I think we would best stick 
 things out a little longer. If we've been beating to 
 windward all this — I mean the ten minutes we have 
 been in here — why, we cannot have got far, and I for 
 one don't wish to be put ashore." 
 
 "What shall you do when we get to Jamaica ?" 
 
 "I shall try very hard to play the man and to look 
 after you," said Mr. Ballad. A pressure of the hand, 
 unexpected and delicious, rewarded him, and uncon- 
 sciously his right arm, which Miss Gremley had been 
 told to regard as an inanimate buffer against hard 
 woodwork, tightened. 
 
 "Does your head ache very much ?" said Mr. Ballad, 
 tenderly. 
 
 212 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 "Very," said Miss Gremley. 
 
 He shifted his right arm a little, and drew her close 
 to him. His free hand sought her right cheek, and, 
 very gently, he drew the aching little head down on his 
 shoulder. He tipped his own head to the right so that 
 his cheek rested against hers. 
 
 "Jus' a few more buffers," he said in a breaking 
 voice. "Are you more comfable?" She did not 
 answer. She hung upon him limply. He laid his 
 hand over her heart, but could not discern a single 
 beat. . . . 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad never knew how he found the hatch- 
 way of their prison so easily and flung it open. It was 
 a work of seconds only. Fresh air and the light of day 
 rushed in, and Miss Gremley revived all at once, just 
 as primroses open in the cool of evening. 
 
 "Come," said Mr. Ballad, and he gave her his two 
 hands to help her rise, "and we will go on deck . . . 
 and do not forget that I shall take care of you. . . . 
 Kiss me, My Heart, and put heart into me. ..." 
 
 He took her in his arms, and, just as he made sure 
 that she was only going to let him kiss her cheek, she 
 smiled and put up her mouth like a little child. 
 
 "My love — my darling — my heart — my treasure — 
 my comfort — my sweetheart — my — " began Mr. Bal- 
 lad in a choking voice, but with the manful intention of 
 saying all the pretty names he knew. 
 
 213 
 
THE STOWING AWAY 
 
 "Better come up," came a loud laughing voice 
 •down the hatchway. 
 
 The grinning and rosy face of Jemmy was seen to 
 be looking down upon the lovers. They went on 
 deck. 
 
 Mr. Bill Ballad rubbed his eyes and looked about 
 him. Then he rubbed them again. 
 
 During his incarceration the vessel had not moved, 
 and he beheld, blinking, the familiar wharves of his 
 natal town. The wind had subsided, and the after- 
 noon, blue and sweet, shimmered exquisitely. 
 
 Jemmy leaned against the foremast and roared with 
 laughter. "The game's up!" exclaimed Mr. Bill Bal- 
 lad, and, in spite of him, his voice shook. 
 
 "We don't seem to have made as much southing as I 
 had supposed," said Miss Gremley. 
 
 "Jemmy," said Mr. Ballad, "why is this ship here 
 and where is her crew ?" 
 
 "This ship," said Jemmy, "has been set aside by the 
 authorities to be coated with tar and burned as a naval 
 spectacle to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the found- 
 ing of the Fire Hose Company. The Mallow sailed 
 with the tide." 
 
 "Did you know that I was stowing away on the 
 wrong ship?" asked Mr. Ballad sternly. 
 
 "Why, yes," said Jemmy, "for I knew that if you got 
 to Jamaica I would never see my watch again. . . . 
 
 214 
 
OF MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 Miss Gremley, shall we go ashore ? You have nothing 
 to fear." 
 
 "How about me?" said Mr. Ballad. 
 
 Jemmy pulled as long a face as he could. 
 
 "Eater of men, manslayer, criminal, jail-bird," he 
 said sternly, "the pistols were loaded only with powder. 
 It has also transpired that one of the legs upon which 
 your late adversary stood to face you was of Spanish 
 cork, fastened to the heroic stump of its flesh-and-blood 
 predecessor by an exquisite arrangement of straps, 
 pads and buckles. On receiving your fire, the hero 
 seems to have flinched to such an extent that one of the 
 straps broke. Hence the dreadful suddenness with 
 which he came to the ground " 
 
 "But," cried Mr. Ballad, delightfully agitated, "why 
 then did he open and shut his mouth as if dying, and 
 make such dreadful noises ?" 
 
 "It seems," said Jemmy, "that his false, fluting and 
 perjured teeth were also dislodged, and by him swal- 
 lowed. They stuck in his throat and his life was de- 
 spaired of until early this morning, when Dr. Scalpel, 
 aided by Dr. Setit and a buttonhook, succeeded in fish- 
 ing them up. They are not injured in the least. . . . 
 My dear boy, the whole town is laughing, Mr. Heigh 
 has rushed from among us, his fingers in his ears, like 
 Christian in 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and as for you, there 
 is not a single copy of your book to be had for love or 
 
 215 
 
MR. BILL BALLAD 
 
 money. The printers are sweating out a new edition 
 of five thousand copies." 
 
 "The Age of Folly," said Mr. Bill Ballad. 
 
 "As for you, Miss Gremley," said Jemmy, "I per- 
 ceive that our young friend has told you those things 
 which are best to hear, and as for me, I shall declare a 
 holiday and get drunk." They helped Miss Gremley 
 into the skiff, and Jemmy set himself leisurely to the 
 rowing. 
 
 As the skiff neared the shore, it was seen that Mr. 
 Caruthers' long wharf was densely packed with people. 
 Prom among them cheers, laughter and hats began to 
 rise. . . . 
 
 "Do you by any chance feel sheepish?" said Miss 
 Gremley. 
 
 "Not in the least," said Mr. Bill Ballad; "it has al- 
 ways been my heartfelt ambition to be a great man." 
 
 216 
 
VIII 
 THE EXPLORERS 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 I 
 
 In my early youth I had vacillated between so many 
 trades and professions that I grew up jack of all. But, 
 strictly speaking, I became a discontented graduate of 
 the Physicians and Surgeons, and began to establish a 
 practice in East Eighteenth Street. Materially I pros- 
 pered from the first, but mentally I was in a turmoil of 
 other ambitions and desires. It was my tragedy to be- 
 lieve that I was a born forester, landscape-gardener 
 sailor or soldier, and had elected to live in a- city, like a 
 rat in a hole, and minister to the sick. The longer I 
 practised, the more sharply did I feel myself caught be- 
 tween the horns of dilemma; I had neither the money 
 to turn back and recast my lines nor the will to go 
 ahead and land my fishes. Then, as is usual with di- 
 lemmas, fate stepped in, or, rather, dropped at my door 
 William Dane, the Arctic navigator and explorer, over- 
 come by the June heat. 
 
 Even before he had come to his senses, I took to the 
 man, and was engulfed by his personality. He had a 
 
 219 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 head and face and mane like the stone lion of Lucerne, 
 imperturbable and vast; hard, smooth, colossal limbs; 
 a chest like a bay-window, and hands at once the larg- 
 est and most beautiful that I have ever seen; a man 
 formidable in thought and action. "This," said I to 
 Miss Ma, my assistant, "is somebody." 
 
 "This is who it is," she said, and showed me on the 
 first page of the morning paper, which I had not had the 
 inclination to read, two pictures — a ship and a man. 
 
 While I continued to apply restoratives, Miss Ma 
 gave me brief extracts from the article below the pict- 
 ures, which was captioned: 
 
 "Captain Dane morally certain to find the North Pole" 
 
 "Was going to sail to-day," she said; "put it off be- 
 cause doctor gave out — fifteenth Arctic voyage — sixty 
 years old — doesn't look forty, does he ?" 
 
 "Why did the doctor give out?" I asked. 
 
 "Panic," said Miss Ma, and she went on: "Many 
 answers to advertisements for doctor — applicants un- 
 suitable on various scores — Captain Dane says he will 
 sail without a doctor rather than with a narrow-chested 
 one — says that nine-tenths of good Arctic work has been 
 done by blond men with gray eyes." 
 
 Here Captain Dane himself interrupted, his transi- 
 tion from insensibility to alert mental equipoise being 
 nearly instantaneous. 
 
 220 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 * 
 
 "Damn the heat, anyway!" 
 
 " I can't agree with you," said I, " since it has brought 
 me so distinguished a patient." 
 
 "I hope to be more so," said he; "will you call me 
 a cab ? I won't risk the sun again." 
 
 "Please call a cab, Miss Ma." 
 
 "What is your fee, sir?" asked Captain Dane. 
 
 "Five dollars," said I, "but I would like to contrib- 
 ute that much to your voyage. We have been reading 
 you up in the paper, while you were coming to." 
 
 "I won't prevent your contributing," said he, "if you 
 want to; but five dollars is a great deal of money. 
 Money is a devilish hard thing to collect." 
 
 "By the way," I said, "the paper says that you have 
 advertised for a doctor." 
 
 "I have," said he, "but the right one doesn't turn 
 up." 
 
 A general restlessness and dissatisfaction with life, 
 particularly at the advent of the hot months, impelled 
 me to say: "Would I do?" 
 
 "You are built right," he said; "you have light hair 
 and gray eyes, and I see by your diploma that you are 
 a graduate of the P. and S.; but you aren't sure that 
 you want to go." 
 
 "How did you know that?" I asked. 
 
 "Because you didn't answer the advertisement." 
 
 "I didn't see it." 
 
 221 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 "If you had been keen to go," said he, "you wouldn't 
 have missed it." 
 
 "Well," said I, "I wasn't keen to go, that's the 
 truth. But I am now." 
 
 "Why?" said he. 
 
 "You've made me," I said; "you make me more so 
 every time you speak. I'd like to serve under you." 
 
 "Doctor's billet," said he, "is the hardest of all. 
 Even I can he up if I fall sick, but the doctor can't. I 
 don't even allow my doctors to die when they want to. 
 Up there," he said, thumbing northward, "men go 
 down on their knees and ask to be allowed to die. Some 
 of them I have to let die, but never the doctor. Do you 
 still want to go?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, stoutly. 
 
 "Well," said he, "I'll drive around to headquarters, 
 and if nobody better has showed up, I'll send for you." 
 
 "Hold on," I said, "I'm not so low-spirited as that. 
 You can take me or leave me, but I don't dangle on any 
 man's waiting-list." 
 
 "That's better," said he, and his voice, hitherto very 
 matter-of-fact, became abundantly hearty. "You'll 
 do." 
 
 Then he made me sit down and write a long list of 
 things to get and where to get them. 
 
 "Take a cab," he said, "and hustle." 
 
 "When do we sail ?" said I. 
 222 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 "The minute you're aboard." 
 
 "Where's the ship?" 
 
 "Off Thirty-third Street in the North River. I call 
 her The Needle because she points toward the pole. 
 Have you many good-bys, much to arrange?" 
 
 "No," said I, "I'll turn my practice over to the doc- 
 tor across the hall, give Miss Ma a month's wages; and 
 that's about all." 
 
 "Have you no relatives — no entanglements?" 
 
 "None of the first," said I, "that matter — and none 
 of the last, not even a professional one." 
 
 "Blessed are the pure in heart," said Captain Dane, 
 "for they have strong bodies and leave no trail." 
 
 Three hours later we were steaming down the North 
 River through the blistering June heat. Every flag on 
 the river was dipped to us, and all the whistles were 
 blown. 
 
 II 
 
 From the first I was more interested in Captain Dane 
 than in Arctic phenomena; just as, in my profession, 
 I was ever more alive to the bearing of the sick than to 
 their diseases. To which habit, more than to any skill 
 in medicine, or determination to succeed, I attribute the 
 ease which I had had in attracting patients to my prac- 
 tice. But, furthermore, the North is too overwhelming 
 and magical to be interesting: the gorgeous blazing of 
 
 223 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 the sun through the ice, the aurora flaming in the heav- 
 ens at night, the very shape of the bergs, running to 
 every grotesque of form and every shade of astonishing 
 color, even the atmosphere putting to scorn the clarity 
 of crystals and the sparkle of diamonds, are too aston- 
 ishing and remote to excite in a man any but his dumber 
 faculties, whose voices are exclamations. No man is 
 truly interested except when his mental processes are 
 engaged in analysis — processes which the Northscape 
 in its mildest moments defies. A time soon came when 
 I was sick to death of those wasted glories, obdurate 
 against the most fascinating rainbow or the most em- 
 phatic green of the sea. But Captain Dane held my 
 keenest interest from the start. 
 
 Prior to our acquaintance I had often asked myself — 
 or a friend for the sake of discussion—" Why the devil 
 does a man want to discover the North Pole ? What's 
 the use of discovering it?" and the like — questions 
 which, properly answered, would, I thought, bring to 
 bear a great light on many occult workings of the hu- 
 man mind. If Dane had any finite reason which 
 bound him to that grail, he would not give them frankly, 
 or else they shifted from day to day. "It's been such 
 an endless sacrifice of lives," I said to him once, and he 
 answered whimsically: "That's just it." 
 
 "Let us," said he, "for the sake of argument, call the 
 pole hunt a nonsensical quest, to which are sacrificed 
 
 224 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 many lives that might in other walks of life be valuable. 
 Well, it's up to some one to stop the drain." Here he 
 named a mighty list of explorers who had lost their 
 lives in the Arctic. "Many of them," he said, "were 
 strong and talented men, devoted thinkers, and brave 
 beyond compare. Until the pole is found there will 
 continue to be lost to civilization a constant trickling of 
 the most elect citizens. Wouldn't it be service enough 
 to put a stop to such a waste as that — a waste that hu- 
 manity cannot afford and ought not to endure?" 
 
 " It would turn the course of the adventurous south," 
 said I. 
 
 "It would," said he, "toward the other pole. When 
 that, too, has been discovered there will be an end of 
 the nonsense." 
 
 "You don't think it nonsense ?" said I. 
 
 "As an act, yes," he said; "as an accomplishment, 
 no. The man who sets his country's flag on the pole 
 will save, or rather divert into more useful channels, 
 many splendid lives that come after his." 
 
 But on other occasions his arguments were all at 
 variance with this. 
 
 "Is it for the glory of finding it," I asked him, "or 
 for the glory of being known to have found it ?" 
 
 "I shall be content to find it," he said, "and to die 
 then and there. You can carry out the proofs, and 
 reap the honors." 
 
 225 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 "But," said I, "dead or not, your name would go 
 down to the remotest posterity in big type. Doesn't 
 that thought influence you 1" 
 
 "I think not," he said, "but I will think it over." 
 
 The log-book of The Needle gives all the longitudes 
 and latitudes, and scientific observations and data, of 
 our voyage. These things are not important to my 
 narrative. Suffice that we passed the winter, the cold- 
 est, bleakest, blackest winter, farther north than it had 
 ever been passed before, and in the spring made our 
 dash for the pole. The winter brought out great quali- 
 ties in Dane — an overmastering humor and good-hu- 
 mor, a great gentleness to those who were impatient 
 and sick, an almost god-like tenderness over those that 
 died. He was like a great statue in the making, when 
 each blow of the sculptor's hammer, instead of dam- 
 aging the marble, brings out new strengths and beau- 
 ties. Even at that time, before our hardships had 
 fairly begun, we looked on our Captain as on one who 
 had brought us out rather than on one who was leading 
 us in. The day for starting came, and Dane spoke to 
 those who were to go and those who were to stay. 
 
 "Men," he said, "it is as hard to stay as to go. 
 Therefore I have divided you equally, as boys choose 
 sides for a game. It is important that brave, patient 
 men go with me, and it is important that brave, patient 
 men remain. I wish I could take only those that want 
 
 226 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 to go and leave only those that want to stay. But you 
 all want to go. So I have had to pick and choose for 
 myself. I shall think of those that stay as of a rock that 
 will wait for me to come. That's the important thing, 
 to find you waiting when we come back. You must 
 not let yourselves get sick; and you must not let your- 
 selves think too much about home; and you mustn't 
 quarrel when you begin to think there is nothing else 
 to do. When you have waited for us as long as you can, 
 then wait a little longer, and then go. God bless you all." 
 
 No one of us that went ever again saw those that stayed. 
 We parted forever, with laughter and shaking of hands. 
 
 As long as things went well, strength held, and food 
 tasted sweet, our dash for the pole had in it something 
 of a holiday lark. The dogs, strong, savage, and eager, 
 strained at the sledges, the men lent their backs to the 
 passage of rough places with deep-sea unison. Our 
 supplies were calculated to a nicety, and we knew it. 
 We believed that the plateau (it was neither ice nor 
 snow, but a mixture of the two, at once firm and crum- 
 bling like sand) over which we were pressing held all the 
 way to the pole. And at each resting-place, when 
 progress would be calculated, we marvelled and re- 
 joiced to know how far and how fast we had gone. 
 Strung out over the white plains in marching order, we 
 looked like some grotesque turn in a circus — a quantity 
 of bears walking on their hind legs, behaving exactly 
 
 227 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 like men, and driving the trains of dogs. It was Dane's 
 scheme that each man should have his turn in leading 
 the procession; thus one day bringing responsibility to 
 one man, the next to another. Great rivalry rose 
 among us as to who should have the credit of leading the 
 longest march. As we neared the pole, excitement and 
 jubilation rose among us. We had but fifty miles to go; 
 there had not yet been any serious hitch. The far 
 north had shown us whatever favors it had to show. 
 We vied in health with our dogs. And then — whether 
 it came from Billy Smith's furs, bought during the win- 
 ter from an Eskimo, or where it came from I do not 
 know — there leapt among us a germ of smallpox. I 
 only know that the disease broke out with awful sav- 
 ageness, that we went into permanent camp at the very 
 gates of the pole, and began to die. Billy Smith was 
 the first to go. Captain Dane knelt beside him for 
 seven hours, exhorting him to stay and do his duty. 
 But the flesh was weak with the sickness, and weepingly 
 suffered the spirit to depart. Captain Dane's face was 
 furrowed with ice where the tears had run down. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Captain Dane looked me steadily in the eyes across 
 a new-made grave. 
 
 "Where are my brave, patient men ?" said he. 
 
 228 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 "They have gone," I said, bitterly, "all gone. But 
 God knows I tried to save them." 
 
 "At work they were lions," said he, "in obedience, 
 lambs. Not one of them cursed me. Think of that, 
 all you who deride the splendor of the human soul. 
 They came to the gates of the pole, like sheep to the 
 slaughter. I brought them. They said I was their 
 father, and they came with me — Americans, English- 
 men, Germans — they all came with me; and they died 
 without cursing — all the nations." 
 
 It was horrible to hear the man rave on, his eyes 
 bright with fever, his face set like a stone. 
 
 "You must lie down, Captain, and rest," I said. 
 
 "Will the fever go out of me if I lie down and rest ?" 
 said he. "My God, no! Do you think that with my 
 mortal sickness on me, and the pole just over there, 
 that I'm going to lie down and rest ? I watched them 
 all die. When they were taken sick I made them lie 
 down. But there wasn't one of them but would have 
 marched and fought one day more if I'd told him to. 
 When I lie down to rest, the pole shall be under me." 
 
 I pleaded with him to lie down, to husband his 
 strength, to fight with the fever. I swore to him that 
 I would bring him through. He laughed in my face. 
 And what could I do? He was stronger than five of 
 me, and mad, to boot. 
 
 "Go back to The Needle," he said, "and tell them 
 229 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 that I went forward alone, and discovered the pole. 
 Will you go back, or won't you ?" 
 
 I do not wish to make myself out a hero. If wishing 
 could have taken me back to The Needle, or thousands 
 of miles beyond, back I would have gone. But to make 
 that long journey alone, to drive dogs, in which I had 
 no skill, or even to find the way, I knew to be impos- 
 sible. For me there was nothing but death — death to 
 go back, death to stay. I preferred, not cheerfully, 
 but still decidedly, and all things considered, to take 
 my quietus in the immediate vicinity of the pole. 
 
 "I won't go back," I said. "Let's find this 
 
 pole, and have done with it." 
 
 "Man talk that," said Captain Dane. "It's this 
 way, Johnny, if we give in here, these men's lives will 
 have been wantonly sacrificed. But if we can reach the 
 pole, and die there, then they won't have died in vain." 
 
 "Who's to know?" said I. 
 
 "The cold," said he, "will preserve our bodies im- 
 maculately. Some day they will be found at the pole, 
 with the record of our journey, and our names, and the 
 names of those who died for us. Let's along, boy." 
 
 Then began a horrible nightmare that lasted seven 
 days. Captain Dane, all broken out with the smallpox, 
 and delirious with fever, trudged over the plain, laugh- 
 ing, shouting, moaning. Wild words poured from his 
 deluded brain, and yet the idea that he must and would 
 
 230 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 go forward, and his senses for direction and finding the 
 line, by observations or calculating and the deviation 
 of the needle from the true pole to the magnetic, never 
 once forsook him. I think that all that was mortal of 
 him died before we reached the end of our journey, and 
 was dragged forward by his immortal soul. 
 
 We struck at length into a region that bore marks of 
 terrific winds. For in many places the black bed-rock 
 was naked and bare of ice or snow. As we progressed, 
 the expanses of smooth, naked rock prevailed more and 
 more in the scape, until, on the morning of the eighth 
 day, all traces of ice and snow vanished. Here I first 
 began to be sensible of difficulty, not altogether the 
 result of fatigued muscles, in lifting my feet, which 
 increased from hour to hour. Each of us carried a 
 compass, and I noticed that the needle in mine was be- 
 ginning to act in a queer, uncertain manner — like a 
 hound that finds a trail, steadies to it a moment, and 
 then loses it. Obviously, we were about to arrive. If 
 I took any mental interest in the fact, it was a feeling 
 of disappointment. 
 
 Some point ahead of that black rocky plain over 
 which we were plodding, with feet that seemed to stick 
 like plasters to the rock, was the great.goal of explorers. 
 There was nothing to mark it. It might be on a rise or 
 in a depression. Measurements alone could mark it 
 for us. There would be nothing to give one single mo- 
 
 231 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 merit of ante-mortem excitement to the eye. I was 
 wrong. 
 
 We climbed painfully up a little ridge of rock, per- 
 haps a dozen feet high. On the further slope lay seven 
 corpses wrapped in fur. 
 
 "Here we are, Johnny," said Captain Dane sud- 
 denly. There was a complete sanity in his voice. 
 And he fell to examining the corpses. As for me, I 
 simply sat down and watched him. I was terribly tired, 
 and did not want to die. 
 
 "My God!" cried the captain, "here's an old-timer. 
 He drew a slip of sheepskin from the dead man's glove. 
 "I don't make out the name," he went on; "but there's 
 a date — August 9, 1798. This man discovered the 
 pole, Johnny; take off your hat. And the others came 
 after. Where's the last— here's the last— '98— 1898. 
 That was the year Jamie graduated. I belong next to 
 him. Here goes." 
 
 Captain Dane laid himself down by the side of that 
 last comer with a sigh, like that of a tired little child 
 gathered into its mother's arms, and when I got to him 
 he was dead. 
 
 I had, I think, no feeling of sorrow, or loneliness; I 
 felt neither thirst nor hunger. I sat soddenly among 
 the discoverers, and nodded my head. I sat for hours 
 nodding my head. It nodded of its own accord, like 
 the heads of those Chinese toys you buy on Twenty- 
 
 232 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 third Street. Then a shadow covered me, and it stopped 
 nodding. I sprang to my feet, wildly alert, and looked 
 upward. 
 
 Twenty feet above and slowly descending was a bal- 
 loon; over the edge of the car peered a face, a tiny, 
 brown, man-monkey sort of face. A little fur paw 
 shot up to the face, salute fashion, and a shrill voice 
 called : 
 
 "Salut!" 
 
 The balloon came to earth, and a little Frenchman 
 hopped out (for all his great bundle of furs he actually 
 hopped). 
 
 "Is your party all asleep?" said he (this time in 
 French-English) . 
 
 "No," said I, "all these are dead. They are men 
 who have discovered the pole at different times, and 
 died, and with each the news of his discovery. I was 
 this man's doctor — Captain Dane. He died of — " 
 
 A horrible fear seized me that if I said smallpox the 
 Frenchman would desert me. But he uncovered the 
 Captain's face and saw for himself. 
 
 "Smallpox," said he. "That is ghastly— what ?" 
 
 He hopped into the car of his balloon and hopped out 
 with a kodak between his fur paws. He focussed the 
 thing on the dead man, made ready to press the button, 
 and suddenly desisted. 
 
 "Not nice," he said, "to kodak those brave, dead 
 233 
 
THE EXPLORERS 
 
 fellows. Well, it is all very disappointing. Let us be 
 off." 
 
 "You will take me ?" I said. 
 
 "My God! of course," said he. 
 
 The little man bowed gravely and stood aside with 
 many polite gestures while I climbed painfully into the 
 car. He followed me with a single hop — like a flea. 
 
 "All my ingenuity go for nothing," said he; "all the 
 cold and wind I have swallowed go for nothing. We 
 come too late, the little balloon and I. . . . " 
 
 He threw out some blocks of ice that he had for 
 ballast, the balloon began to tug at its braces, and pres- 
 ently to rise. 
 
 "Higher up," said the little Frenchman, "is more 
 wind. Once up there we shall leave in a great hurry. 
 . . . Farewell the dead heroes. ..." 
 
 I heard no more. When I came to, we had left the 
 pole a thousand miles behind and were scudding 
 southward. 
 
 234 
 
IX 
 
 THE LITTLE HEIRESS; OR, THE 
 HUNTED LOOK 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS; OR, THE 
 HUNTED LOOK 
 
 The little heiress had a hunted look. And it was not 
 the hunted look of the girl who is hunted for herself 
 alone. Nor the hunted look that the hunted wears in 
 full flight when the chance of capture is balanced by 
 the chance of escape. Under fair conditions (had she 
 been worth but one million, or even two), she might, 
 like the nimble jack-rabbit of her native plains, have 
 furnished rare sport. From two hounds, or even half a 
 dozen, she might then have run like a ghost, foreseeing 
 the strategy of their pursuit, doubling and dodging to 
 confuse it, and vanishing finally, with a burst of speed 
 and a joyous laugh. But she was weighted in the race 
 by many more millions than two. On the day of her 
 birth the first million had come to her in the form of a 
 cheque, the signature in her grandfather's trembling and 
 honored hand. On the envelope enclosing it he had 
 written in the same trembling hand: "A Nest Egg, for 
 Baby." 
 
 237 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 But after that the millions came to her in sad ways 
 and with sad words. First the heart that most loved 
 her ceased to beat, and the busy fingers that had vied 
 with Paris and Flanders in sewing for the baby were 
 still. And they gave the baby more millions, but for a 
 long time could not dry her eyes. When she was ten 
 the old grandfather died, and though they gave her 
 banks, and ranches, and oil wells and mines, she cried 
 for him. And after that she became the one flower in 
 the heart of a stern gray man who owned many gardens. 
 Him she loved with all her strength, and called My 
 father with immeasurable pride. Even governesses and 
 music masters faded before his iron will. She would 
 be snatched from her French lesson to flash across the 
 continent in a "special." In the midst of spelling, 
 likely as not at that very awkward word 'phthisis, would 
 come one in buttons and pride to say "would Miss 
 please be ready to ride with her father in twenty min- 
 utes." Then she would so hurry to be ready in time 
 that her cheeks would flush scarlet, and breeched and 
 booted she would clatter down the marble stair, and 
 appear before her father, gasping and speechless. 
 Sometimes, but after more preparation, they would ride 
 for days into the mountains, and always at evening 
 come suddenly in some wild place upon white tents, a 
 chef in his cap and apron, hot water to bathe in, brass 
 and linen beds to sleep in, a bearded demigod in a broad 
 
 238 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 felt hat to lift the weary little heiress from her horse, 
 the smell of cooking to make her hungry, the mountain 
 air to make her sleepy, and the exertion and admiration 
 of all the world to make her glad. When the little 
 heiress rode with her father into the mountains she car- 
 ried a rifle, and on the stock she had burnt with a red- 
 hot hat-pin A (for antelope) B (for bear) D (for deer) 
 and L (for lion), but there were no notches after these 
 letters, and sometimes when the Little Heiress came to 
 be hunted herself she thought of this, and was glad. 
 Though there were never any little girls for her to play 
 with, she was not very different from the general run of 
 them. When she ran furiously she got red in the face, 
 when she fell down and bumped her nose it bled, when 
 her garters broke her stockings came down; when she 
 was thwarted she flew into a passion, and when her 
 stomach ached she howled. The heavy millions had 
 not yet begun to weigh her down. It may be that there 
 were not enough. But many more were on the way, and, 
 as before, to pay her for the death of somebody she loved. 
 She waited up one Christmas Eve till very late for her 
 father to come home. He had telegraphed that he would 
 come. He would come, the secretary told her, over his 
 pet railroad in his pet car with his pet engineer at the 
 throttle, and he would make such time that the country 
 would gasp. But the great man came home more 
 slowly than had been expected, and in a conveyance in 
 
 239 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 which he had never ridden before. He came feet first 
 into the big house, carried by soft moving men in high 
 silk hats, and he rode in a plain black coffin with silver 
 handles. But they would not let the Little Heiress look 
 at his face, and she learned somehow — from one of the 
 servants, I think — that "fire had added to the horror of 
 the accident." 
 
 But to comfort her there came the old man who was 
 her father's lawyer, and he made her a present of the 
 railroad that had killed her father, and other railroads, 
 and other things, too many and too valuable to mention. 
 He gave her this million and that — may be a hundred of 
 them and more — but she could not be comforted. Nor 
 did it comfort her, during the ten minutes in which the 
 Bishop consigned the dust which was her father unto 
 the dust of which he had been made, to know that all 
 the locomotives of all the trains of all the railroads of all 
 the United States stood still upon their rails during those 
 ten minutes, and that all the travellers and engineers and 
 conductors and brakemen and train boys in all the 
 trains spoke of her father in low voices, and honored his 
 memory, and said how great he had been. 
 
 Thus all those who really loved the Little Heiress 
 passed out of her life, and she was taken to live with her 
 father's sister, Aunt Katharine, who learned to love her 
 after a while. Aunt Katharine and her husband lived 
 when their household was stationary in one of several 
 
 240 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 houses. They had two white ones, made of marble — 
 one that stood on a corner and looked over Central 
 Park, in New York City, and one that was in Newport 
 and looked over the ocean. There was a red brick 
 house with white trimmings in London, and an old 
 house made of wood in Westchester, which Aunt Kath- 
 arine's husband called "Home" and which they visited 
 for a week every year in the spring time; and they had 
 another wooden house, very new and comfortable, in a 
 little southern town called Aiken. And they had a 
 brown stone house with battlements in the city where 
 the Little Heiress had been born, but they only lived in 
 that when they had to "on business." But although 
 Aunt Katharine had so many pleasant homes to go to, 
 she was happiest when she was travelling. And some 
 people thought that she was not very happy then; and 
 everybody knew that she never went to Paris. And 
 even the Little Heiress knew why. Aunt Katharine's 
 little boy had died in Paris. That was why. He had 
 taken the scarlet fever, in London probably, and on the 
 way to Paris he had come down with it. And Aunt 
 Katharine had driven all over Paris with him, looking 
 for a bed to put him in. But that cold rainy day there 
 were no beds to be had in Paris; no, not for the million 
 francs that Aunt Katharine could have drawn her 
 cheque for. She tried the hotels, and they would not 
 have the sick boy; she tried to hire a house, but the 
 
 241 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 landlords feared the sick boy like grim death. And 
 Aunt Katharine became desperate, and lied, and said 
 that her little boy had a bad cold, nothing more; but 
 nobody believed her, and all the doors were closed in her 
 face. Finally the hack driver understood how matters 
 lay and turned them out of his hack. And after that 
 Aunt Katharine carried her little boy from house to 
 house in her arms. And when her strength gave out 
 she sat with him in a doorway, and called on the passers- 
 by for mercy, just as if she had been a woman of the 
 streets. There she sat in her sables, with pearls as big 
 as cherries round her neck inside of her dress, and others 
 in her ears, and wonderful rings on her fingers, and 
 many bank-notes in her purse; but she was the poorest 
 woman in Paris because she could not buy a bed for the 
 little boy who lay drenched and burning in her lap. 
 
 Aunt Katharine had rung the bell of the door before 
 which she sat, but it was a long time before the bell was 
 answered; and when the door did open, and a woman's 
 voice said, "What is the matter?" Aunt Katharine had 
 lost all hope and could not answer. Then the woman 
 who belonged to the voice took the little boy out of 
 Aunt Katharine's lap and carried him into the house. 
 The Little Heiress could never find out just what kind 
 of a woman she was, or what kind of a house she lived 
 in. She gathered only that she had never been a very 
 good woman until she took the little boy into her house 
 
 242 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 and laid him in her own bed to die, and nursed him and 
 prayed over him. But that had made a very good 
 woman of her — almost a saint. And she lived with 
 Aunt Katharine now, and was her maid Therese; only 
 she was never allowed to do any hard work, and Aunt 
 Katharine loved her like a sister. She had refused 
 Aunt Katharine's money and her pearls (that was after 
 the little boy died), but she had gone on her knees to 
 Aunt Katharine and begged her for honest employment 
 and a chance to be good. 
 
 So it was the death of the little boy that prevented 
 Aunt Katharine from being absolutely happy, and it 
 was the coming of the Little Heiress to live with her that 
 kept her from being absolutely sad. Indeed, as the 
 Little Heiress grew older and wiser, Aunt Katharine 
 grew younger and happier. And, of course, when they 
 met in the middle they were the same age — seventeen — 
 and loved each other dearly. 
 
 II 
 
 The Little Heiress had a hunted look. All the after- 
 noon she had been hunted with cards and cut flowers. 
 And now she was being hunted by the phalanx of shirt- 
 fronts. Turn where she would a shirt-front blocked 
 her path, and the slow-moving phalanx drove her into 
 it from behind. But she, preferring to fall to the lot of 
 
 243 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 the pack, would turn back and be surrounded by it. 
 To matrons and girls less fortunate than the Little 
 Heiress there would appear moving from one part of 
 the ball-room to another a phalanx of black backs. 
 Then it would stop and open to let forth the Little 
 Heiress and the shirt-front with which she had agreed 
 to dance; and the black backs, pivoting, would show 
 white fronts and above them pairs of eyes that followed 
 the progress of the Little Heiress in the dance. As a 
 rule she looked very little and like a child against the 
 man with whom she was dancing, and when it was time 
 to tell him that she could not sit out the next dance with 
 him in the conservatory, she had to turn up her face to 
 him to do so. And then she looked so little, and so 
 sweet and enticing, just the way a pansy looks, that, as 
 one man, the phalanx ground its teeth. And the eyes 
 belonging to the shirt-fronts tried to catch her eyes as 
 she drifted past, and brains belonging to the shirt-fronts 
 tried to calculate in just what part of the room she 
 would be when the music stopped. And the phalanx, 
 having calculated, would scatter and reform about the 
 Little Heiress when she stopped dancing. 
 
 "If I were poor," she thought to herself, "there might 
 be a man or two waiting for me (she had just seen her 
 face, that was so like a pansy, in a long mirror), but now 
 it has to be just shirt-fronts." And the Little Heiress 
 sighed as the phalanx closed about her. She did not 
 
 244 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 even look at the ring of faces above the ring of shirt- 
 fronts; for she knew very well what faces were there; 
 and more, she knew what face was not. The face that 
 the Little Heiress liked to look at was rather a proud 
 young face, that kept itself apart from the phalanx. 
 When the man who owned the face thought that it was 
 his duty to dance with the Little Heiress he would cut 
 through the phalanx as a yacht cuts through water, and 
 ask her. And she would be ready for him with her 
 gladdest smile; just such a smile as the beautiful lady 
 wore when the hero rescued her from the horrible sea 
 monster. But gladdest smiles, and the little hand on 
 his arm, made very little impression on Proud Face. 
 When, for hospitality received, or any reason as good, it 
 was his duty to ask her to dance, he asked her; when it 
 was not his duty, he didn't. And there the matter 
 rested. But when the Little Heiress did get a chance to 
 dance with Proud Face she lost her hunted look. 
 Twice, three times round the great room; the back of 
 her neck ached a little with looking up at Proud Face, 
 and her lips trembled a little, perhaps because they 
 smiled at him so much. But she felt that she could go 
 on dancing with him, and turning up her face to look at 
 him — forever. "He won't ask me again to-night," 
 sighed the Little Heiress to herself, "so don't stop, 
 music — don't stop." 
 
 But the music stopped, and Proud Face, conducting 
 245 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 the Little Heiress to Aunt Katharine (and the advance 
 guard of the approaching phalanx), bowed and said it 
 had been a pleasure, and left her. Then the hunted 
 look came back to her, and before she could smile 
 upon her tormentors she had to deal with a restless 
 tear. 
 
 "My dear," said Aunt Katharine, "somebody has 
 put his foot through your gown." 
 
 " It was that clumsy man," said the Little Heiress, in 
 her clear voice of a little child, and she pointed to one of 
 the shirt-fronts. The face above the shirt-front red- 
 dened and began to mumble. But the Little Heiress 
 broke into her clear laugh of a little child, for, though 
 she could not escape from the hounds, she dearly loved 
 to tease and to annoy them. 
 
 "You had better go to Therese," said Aunt Katha- 
 rine, "and get her to put in a stitch." 
 
 The Little Heiress had seen Proud Face leave the 
 room, and she thought that if she hurried she might 
 overtake him on his way to the smoking-room, and — 
 just overtake him and pass him, and that would be all. 
 But she had not noticed that one of the shirt-fronts had 
 detached himself from the phalanx and left the room by 
 the same door. 
 
 "I'll go at once," said the Little Heiress. In her 
 eagerness she forgot that she was no longer a little child 
 and, the long, torn flounce of her dress streaming be- 
 
 246 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 hind, she danced across the polished floor, a flash of 
 pink, a twinkle of pink slippers, and vanished. 
 
 But she was not in time to catch up with Proud Face. 
 And, beyond a shirt-front that suddenly blocked her 
 way, she saw him lift the portiere of the smoking-room 
 and pass in. 
 
 "How you frightened me," said the Little Heiress 
 swallowing her disappointment. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said the shirt-front. 
 
 "Forgiven then," said the Little Heiress, and she 
 made to pass. 
 
 "Give me a minute. I must speak to you." 
 
 "To me?" said the Little Heiress, and she looked 
 straight up into the eyes of shirt-front, and saw that he 
 was one of those who had proposed to her before. 
 
 "Can't you change your mind," he said, "dear?" 
 
 "Often — often," said the Little Heiress. "But not 
 my heart — but not my heart." 
 
 "Give me a chance," said shirt-front. "Give me a 
 little hope. You know I love you. I love you with 
 my whole heart and soul." But there was no more 
 passion or conviction in shirt-front's voice than in a 
 parrot's. There was neither hunger nor longing. 
 
 "A chance!" said the Little Heiress. "I give you 
 the whole wide world in which to make a name for 
 yourself. I give you a will to keep you straight " 
 
 "Then you do care for me," said shirt-front, though 
 247 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 the remarks of the Little Heiress were not meant to be 
 so construed. 
 
 "I!" cried the Little Heiress. And she meant to 
 say no more. But shirt-front's words had carried to 
 her clear nostrils a smell of drink, and she lost her 
 temper. "I — when I love," said the Little Heiress, 
 "will love a man." 
 
 "And what am I but a man ?" 
 
 "You," she cried, "you are a shirt-front." 
 
 His face flushed and throbbed with fury. 
 
 "You will live to repent your words," he said. 
 
 "I shall more likely live to repeat them," said the 
 Little Heiress. She escaped and ran up the stairs. 
 
 "Why are you out of breath ?" said The'rese. 
 
 " Because I ran," said the Little Heiress. " Look — " 
 The'rese knelt at the Little Heiress's feet and began to 
 sew the torn flounce to its place. "First I ran after a 
 man," panted the Little Heiress, "and then I ran away 
 from a shirt-front." 
 
 "Why?" asked The'rese. 
 
 "The first," said the Little Heiress, "because / was 
 covetous, the second because he was." 
 
 "Is covetous, coveted?" asked The'rese. 
 
 "No," said the Little Heiress. "But which do you 
 mean " 
 
 "Miss Covetous, I mean," said The'rese, "who 
 else?" 
 
 248 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "No," said the Little Heiress, "she is not coveted." 
 And she sighed. . . . 
 
 " It is finished," said Therese. 
 
 "Thank you," said the Little Heiress. "Tell me 
 that I look like new." 
 
 "You look like a flower," said Therese. 
 
 "Like a pansy?" said the Little Heiress in a coaxing 
 voice. 
 
 " Like a pansy," said Therese. 
 
 The Little Heiress laughed her clear laugh of a little 
 child. But she went slowly down the stair, and had a 
 hunted look. 
 
 Just as she reached the foot of the stair, however, 
 Proud Face came out of the smoking-room. 
 
 "You!" said the Little Heiress. 
 
 "I," said Proud Face. 
 
 "I've been to be mended," said the Little Heiress. 
 "What have you been doing?" 
 
 "I have been smoking," said Proud Face, "and 
 losing money at cards; and now I am going to thank 
 your aunt for a delightful evening." 
 
 "But it's so very early," said the Little Heiress. 
 
 "Not for me," said Proud Face. "You see, I be- 
 long to a great banker, and if I oversleep he will get 
 somebody else to stand in my shoes." 
 
 "Let him," said the Little Heiress, defiantly. 
 
 "And if I did," said Proud Face, "who would pay 
 249 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 brother's expenses through college, and who would 
 keep the wolf from mother's door?" Proud Face 
 smiled at the Little Heiress. 
 
 "I should think if you need money so badly," said 
 the Little Heiress, and, although she was only per- 
 petrating a joke, she blushed at certain thoughts which 
 it roused in her, "I should think that you would 
 rather stay up town and try to marry me. Lots of 
 men do." 
 
 "Men?" queried Proud Face. 
 
 "Shirt-fronts," corrected the Little Heiress. 
 
 Proud Face laughed. 
 
 "I've no doubt it would be very pleasant," he said. 
 
 The Little Heiress turned a fiery, a defiant red. 
 
 "Try it," she said. 
 
 "Princess," said Proud Face gravely — sometimes he 
 called her Princess in a mocking voice — "turn your 
 face to the light and let me look at you." 
 
 She turned her face obediently to the light and her 
 lips quivered. 
 
 "I see," he said very gently, "I see." And he stood 
 a while in thought. 
 
 The Little Heiress turned her face away from the 
 light. 
 
 "You do see?" she said in a voice that was barely 
 audible, "you do?" 
 
 "Is it bad," he said, "very bad?" 
 250 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 The Little Heiress took his hand and placed it over 
 her heart. He could feel the heart beating and flut- 
 tering against it like a distracted bird. 
 
 "What does my heart say?" she whispered. "What 
 does my heart say?" 
 
 "But if I don't love you?" said Proud Face. 
 
 "I will make you," said the Little Heiress. She 
 reached up her little hands to his big shoulders. 
 
 "I love you with all my heart and soul," she said. 
 Her slim body rocked and she held fast by his shoul- 
 ders. "I'll give you the truest heart that ever beat 
 for a man," she said. 
 
 But it was in Proud Face's mind to shock her love 
 to the death. 
 
 "And how many millions will you give me?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "All that I have," she said. 
 
 "And how many have you?" 
 
 "How many shot are there in a load?" asked the 
 Little Heiress. "How many roses in a rose house? 
 How do I know." 
 
 Proud Face stood in thought. 
 
 "I tried to offend you," he said. 
 
 "But how could you succeed?" said the Little 
 Heiress. "I love you." 
 
 Visions of ease and plenty assailed Proud 
 Face. 
 
 251 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "I don't love you," he said after a time, "but I will 
 be good to you." 
 
 "You will love me," said the Little Heiress, "I will 
 make you." 
 
 She stood upon the tips of her little pink slippers. 
 
 "Take that to your mother," she said, "and say I 
 sent it." 
 
 "Mother — mother!" It was not Proud Face, but 
 Shame Face, that knocked upon his mother's door. 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 His mother lay in her bed reading. 
 
 "Mother," he said, and again, "motherl" 
 
 "What has happened, my dear?" 
 
 " I am going to marry the Little Heiress, mother." 
 
 She looked him in the face for a long time. 
 
 "Do you love her, my dear?" 
 
 Shame Face buried his face in the bedclothes and 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
 But there was nothing shamefaced about the Little 
 Heiress. And she returned to the ball-room almost 
 blazing with beauty. And as the shirt-fronts of the 
 phalanx closed about her, her eyes shone with a won- 
 derful proud light and she cried in her clear voice of a 
 little child: 
 
 "I am all mended, now — gentlemen!" 
 252 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 III 
 
 The Little Heiress had a hunted look. Never since 
 congratulations were invented were any so cold as 
 those which she received. The very night of the ball, 
 after she found that sleep would not close her eyes, 
 she got up and, regardless of anybody that might see 
 her, ran down the hall in her night gown and knocked 
 at Aunt Katharine's door. Aunt Katharine was sound 
 asleep, but she waked up and made room at her side 
 for the shivering Little Heiress. When the Little Heir- 
 ess had stopped shivering she hid her face in the pil- 
 lows (because there was a night light in the room), and 
 told Aunt Katharine that she was going to be married. 
 
 "To whom?" asked Aunt Katharine, with fear and 
 suspicion in her voice, for she had been terribly afraid 
 all along that some undeserving, fortune-hunting shirt- 
 front would capture the Little Heiress. The Little 
 Heiress said to whom; and at first Aunt Katharine 
 gave a little sigh of relief, for he was a great favorite 
 with her, but then she began to feel suspicious even 
 of him, and after sliding her arm about the Little 
 Heiress and giving her a hug, she said: 
 
 "Are you sure he loves you ?" 
 
 The Little Heiress had been preparing herself for 
 that question; but her preparation went for nothing 
 because when it came to the point she could not lie. 
 
 253 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "I love him," she said, "with all my heart and soul, 
 and I got him alone in the hall and told him so, and 
 asked him to marry me. I told him that I would make 
 him love me, if he would marry me, and finally he said 
 he would." 
 
 "Does he love you?" 
 
 "No, but he's going to; I'm going to make 
 him. Didn't any man ever tell you that if you 
 would only marry him he would make you love 
 him?" 
 
 Aunt Katharine was made very miserable by what 
 she had heard, but she laughed. 
 
 "Dozens of men have said that to me," said the 
 Little Heiress, "dozens." 
 
 "But, dearie," said Aunt Katharine, "your uncle 
 and I won't hear of your engaging yourself to a man 
 who doesn't love you." 
 
 "Why?" said the Little Heiress. "He's poor and 
 loveless, and I give him love and millions. If I were 
 a man, and he were a girl, everybody would say 'how 
 beautiful!'" 
 
 "Not if the girl didn't love the man," said Aunt 
 Katharine. "The man would be buying her." 
 
 " I want him," said the Little Heiress, " why shouldn't 
 I buy him?" 
 
 "Because you wouldn't want a man that could be 
 bought." 
 
 254 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "But I do," said the Little Heiress. "And besides, 
 he's going to love me." 
 
 "Until that happens," said Aunt Katharine, "there 
 mustn't be any talk of engagements. I won't hear 
 of it." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the Little Heiress. Neither of 
 them spoke for some time. The Little Heiress began 
 to get very sleepy. 
 
 "Are you sleepy?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't feel as if I should ever sleep again." 
 
 "I am," said the Little Heiress. She drew her 
 knees up and made herself very comfortable. 
 
 "It's beginning to be daylight," said the Little Heir- 
 ess. "When I get up I'll have breakfast, and then 
 I'll go see his mother, and ask for his hand in mar- 
 riage." 
 
 "You'll do no such thing," said Aunt Katharine. 
 
 "I will," said the Little Heiress. 
 
 Then there was another silence. 
 
 "Aunt Katharine — " The Little Heiress's voice 
 was very sleepy. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I shall always be very good to him." 
 
 Aunt Katharine set her mouth firmly and did not 
 deign to answer. 
 
 "I shall find out when his birthday is and give him a 
 railroad." 
 
 255 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "You'll be sent to a lunatic asylum if you're not 
 careful." 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 Another long silence. 
 
 "Aunt Katharine " 
 
 "What?" 
 "Nothing." . . . 
 
 When she had had her breakfast, for she was up by 
 eleven o'clock that morning, the Little Heiress wrote 
 notes to all the men who had ever proposed to her, 
 and told them that she was going to be married. The 
 notes were all exactly alike, and she wrote them as fast as 
 she could. Except for the different names at the begin- 
 ning of each note, they were like this — spelling included : 
 
 — Because you often say you have my happiness at heart, I 
 tell you as fast as I can that I am happy for allways now, and 
 going to be married to the best man God ever made, and live with 
 him allways and be happy. I hope that you will allways be 
 happy. And that everybody will — 
 
 Then she went to see his mother. 
 
 "Please say," she burst out with, "that you don't 
 mind my marrying your son. I love him so, and I 
 will be a good daughter to you, and a good wife to him 
 always. Did he give you the kiss I sent you? And 
 may I give you another, please ? I want to kiss every- 
 body and everything that belongs to him." 
 
 256 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 His mother's eyes were full of tears. 
 
 "Dear child," she said, and she folded the Little 
 Heiress to her heart, "you mustn't think of marrying 
 him." 
 
 "Just what my aunt says," said the Little Heiress. 
 "But why— but why?" 
 
 "He doesn't love you," said his mother. 
 
 "But he will," said the Little Heiress, "I will make 
 him." 
 
 "He is going to you this afternoon to say that he 
 cannot marry you." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the Little Heiress, but she turned 
 white at the thought. "There are law courts, and 
 suits for breach of promise," She laughed. But his 
 mother didn't laugh. 
 
 "I don't know why he doesn't love you," she said. 
 "I wish to heaven he did. I do." 
 
 "Do you?" cried the Little Heiress. "Oh! I love 
 you for loving me. And by and by he will love me 
 for loving him. He must; mustn't he must?" 
 
 It was Saturday, which the Little Heiress had for- 
 gotten, and just as she had spoken the door opened 
 and in he came. 
 
 "Oh," he said. 
 
 "Oh," said the Little Heiress. And his mother left 
 them. He was no longer Shame Face, but Proud Face 
 again. 
 
 257 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "I have told our engagement to everybody I could," 
 said the Little Heiress. 
 
 "You haven't," said he. 
 
 "I have," she said. 
 
 "Don't tell me," he said, "that you meant what you 
 said last night." 
 
 "Mean it!" cried the Little Heiress. "Why am I 
 here but to tell your mother that I love you, and ask 
 her permission to marry you, and say that I will be a 
 good daughter to her?" 
 
 "Is that why you are here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "She threw me down — she threw me down," said the 
 Little Heiress. "But it's a poor love that shies at 
 opposition." 
 
 "She was right." 
 
 " She was wrong. And you haven't seen me for hours, 
 and you have promised to marry me, and you ought 
 to come forward and kiss me." 
 
 He came forward smiling, but a little distressed. 
 
 "Wait," said the Little Heiress. "Is it to be all for 
 my pleasure and none for yours? Do you want to 
 kiss me ?" 
 
 "I think," said Proud Face, "that I can go so far 
 as to say that I do." He came still further for- 
 ward. 
 
 258 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "Wait," she said. "Last night — did you want to 
 kiss me?" 
 
 He thought carefully. 
 
 "Not exactly, I think," he said. 
 
 "But now you want to," cried the Little Heiress 
 triumphantly. "That's something — that's something. 
 Oh! my dear love." 
 
 In spite of himself the kiss thrilled Proud Face to 
 the heart. 
 
 "And what," said the Little Heiress, "is all this 
 talk of me giving you up ? I won't." 
 
 "How old are you ?" said Proud Face. 
 
 "I am seventeen," said the Little Heiress. "But I 
 look younger, and I know my own mind, if that's 
 what you mean." 
 
 "It's like robbing a cradle," said Proud Face. 
 
 But the Little Heiress turned up her face, which was 
 so like a pansy, to him, and there was an immense 
 seriousness in her eyes. 
 
 "My God!" began Proud Face with a kind of sob in 
 his voice, but he could not go on, and he said, "My 
 God!" again. 
 
 "How are you going to help loving me," cried the 
 Little Heiress, " when I love you so. Tell me. Are you 
 trying to help it?" 
 
 Proud Face thought for a moment, and then he 
 smiled. 
 
 259 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "Perhaps I am trying," he said. 
 
 "But you mustn't try not," said the Little Heiress. 
 "You must try to. Think how happy you will be when 
 you do." 
 
 "I am not worthy," said Proud Face, "to kiss the 
 dust on your little shoes. May I?" 
 
 "If you do," said the Little Heiress, "I will kiss the 
 dust on yours." 
 
 IV 
 
 "If I come to see you," wrote Proud Face to the 
 Little Heiress, "you will hypnotize me and I won't be 
 able to say what I mean. Can I tell you to your face 
 that I do not love you, and, not loving you, cannot, 
 will not marry you? No. Not to your lovely face. 
 Do you think it is easy to write it? And to confess 
 that I am a fool ? Sure anybody but a fool would love 
 you, and most of the fools, too, as I think. But this 
 fool doesn't. Hate me — hate me! Hate me!" 
 
 And the Little Heiress wrote back: 
 
 "I draw the line at any further humiliation. I give 
 you up. Give my love to your stubborn heart. Think 
 of me kindly if you can. We shall not see each other 
 any more, except by accident. I can't think of any 
 more to say. Good-by." . . . 
 
 Though this answer was what Proud Face told him- 
 self he had hoped for, it came to him as something of a 
 
 260 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 shock. There were not, after all, so many flowers in 
 the garden of his life that he cared to have the Little 
 Heiress lifted from it, roots and all, and set in some 
 other garden beyond the wall, where he could not even 
 see her any more. All that day, and for many days, 
 he would have in the midst of his work a sudden sink- 
 ing feeling, and would realize after a moment or two 
 that he was thinking of the Little Heiress and how that 
 she was gone out of his life forever. He was not the 
 least little bit angry with her for having first announced 
 the engagement, and then the disengagement. He 
 met the looks of his friends with an unabashed look, and 
 nobody dared ask him questions. But in his heart he 
 was ashamed, humiliated and troubled; and he did 
 not do his work properly, and he felt his ambitions 
 slipping away from him. He felt obliged, too, not to 
 go any more into society for fear that he would meet 
 the Little Heiress, and make her uncomfortable. 
 
 Meanwhile the shirt-fronts gathered once more about 
 the Little Heiress and beset her goings and her comings 
 with attentions. But she seemed an easier and more 
 willing prey than formerly. When this shirt-front or 
 that talked to her of love she listened as if she enjoyed 
 listening, and she was always willing to sit out a dance, 
 and was always "at home" when the shirt-fronts called, 
 and she adorned herself with selections from the flowers 
 that they sent her, and she gave this shirt-front her 
 
 261 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 gloves to hold and did not ask them back, and her fan 
 to that shirt-front, and her most inviting smiles to them 
 all. And all the shirt-fronts believed that it could not 
 be long before she would engage herself to one of 
 them. And each shirt-front thought in his heart of 
 hearts that it might be to him. For, very wickedly, 
 she encouraged each one whenever she had the 
 chance. 
 
 "I will make you love me," one would say. 
 
 "If you only can," the Little Heiress would answer 
 earnestly. 
 
 "If you'll only give me the chance." 
 
 "Now is the chance." 
 
 But the suddenness of the opportunity always found 
 the shirt-front unprepared and left him stuttering before 
 the sweet gravity and readiness-to-be-made-to-love of 
 the Little Heiress. Something of the Little Heiress's 
 flirtations — heaven alone knows how — came to the 
 knowledge of Proud Face. It may be that where she 
 was concerned his mind was superhumanly alert. It 
 may be that his mother heard things and hinted at 
 them. Anyway, it was constantly in his thoughts 
 that she was playing fast and loose with her chances 
 of happiness, and, for none knew her impulsiveness and 
 rashness better than Proud Face, might readily, be- 
 cause of pique and disappointment and general head- 
 strongness, turn deliberately down some path that 
 
 262 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 would lead to nothing but misery. "Ah," thought he, 
 "if I only loved her." And, though he did not love 
 her, yet whenever he thought of the two kisses she had 
 given him (which was often), he wished that he did, 
 and whenever he stopped thinking of them (which was 
 seldom), he felt sad and disjointed. 
 
 Very late one night, as he was walking home from an 
 usher's dinner, full of discontent, he passed by Aunt 
 Katharine's house, and, looking up the shimmering 
 marble face of it, saw that in the windows of one of 
 the corner rooms there were still lights. "The Little 
 Heiress is still up," he thought, and he stood in the 
 shadow of a lamp-post and watched the lights. It 
 seemed to him that not for a long time had he been in 
 any employment that was so pleasant. He hoped that 
 the lights would not soon be put out. The night was 
 sweet and fresh and warm. The city was silent. Peace 
 was upon it, and, above, the stars. Proud Face stood 
 on and on, in the shadow of the lamp-post, and still the 
 lights burned in the corner windows. 
 
 The voices of the bronze-throated bells began sud- 
 denly to sound in the church steeples. But the silence 
 returned. . . . Again the bells rang; and back came 
 the silence, and the lights in the corner windows still 
 shone. 
 
 "But they must go soon," thought Proud Face, 
 "soon." 
 
 263 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 And with that, just as if they had been waiting for a 
 signal, out went the lights. 
 
 Then Proud Face realized that he was tired and 
 cold. But for a moment or two longer he kept his sad 
 eyes upon the windows. 
 
 "They want me to take the California branch," he 
 thought." Everybody wants me to, Mamma wants me 
 to — and I think that I must — now that the lights are 
 out — out. Oh," he thought bitterly, "there is nothing 
 for me — nothing." 
 
 His shadow separated from the shadow of the lamp- 
 post, and his steps rang in the street. 
 
 The next morning he accepted the California branch, 
 and began his preparations for the long journey. 
 
 Whether or not a little bird told the Little Heiress 
 that Proud Face was going to shake the dust of New 
 York from his feet is unknown. It may be that any 
 news concerning him was just a part of the air that 
 she breathed. It doesn't matter. She learned that he 
 was to go, and after that managed very quickly to learn 
 when and how. Then she wrote him a note. 
 
 "Don't go without saying good-by. If you could come Satur- 
 day at three. You start Saturday at five, don't you ? Could you 
 come then? I'd like to wish you good luck to your face." 
 
 264 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 When Proud Face came (Saturday at exactly three), 
 he found the Little Heiress expecting him. She was 
 hatted and gloved to go out, and she had a hunted 
 look. 
 
 "So it's good-by," said Proud Face, "and good luck." 
 
 "Yes," said the Little Heiress. "But why did you 
 stand so long and look up at my window — the other 
 night?" 
 
 " Oh," said Proud Face, and he blushed. 
 
 "I watched you watch," said the Little Heiress, 
 "until I thought it couldn't be good for you to stand 
 so long in the night, and then I put out the lights, and 
 you went away." 
 
 "Yes," said Proud Face, "and then I went away." 
 
 "And now you go on a journey. And I," said the 
 Little Heiress, "go to walk in the Park." 
 
 "Alone?" said Proud Face, and he tried to smile. 
 
 "Alone," said the Little Heiress. "For you — all 
 good things — all good luck. You'll not be coming 
 back soon?" 
 
 "Not soon," said Proud Face. And he felt as if he 
 were ringing the bells at his own funeral. 
 
 "Are you going alone?" asked the Little Heiress. 
 
 "Alone?" Proud Face did not understand. 
 
 "Are you going with gladness, I mean." 
 
 "Oh!" said Proud Face, "alone — so far as gladness 
 goes." 
 
 265 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "Shall we say good-by?" said the Little Heiress. 
 
 "Yes," said Proud Face. His voice was very gen- 
 tle and tired. "Good-by." 
 
 "Do you feel a little wretched, too?" said the Little 
 Heiress. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Proud Face simply. "And," he 
 faltered, "will you write to me when — you find happi- 
 ness? There's an old absurd word, 'rejoice,'" he went 
 on, "I would rejoice to hear that you were happy." 
 
 "Me? Happy?" said the Little Heiress, and she 
 sighed. 
 
 "Don't," said Proud Face, "I can't bear it." 
 
 "Between us," said the Little Heiress, "there must 
 always be good wishes." 
 
 She held up her face that was so like a pansy, a sad 
 pansy, to Proud Face, and they kissed. The Little 
 Heiress trembled a little; for she knew that she had 
 shot her last bolt. 
 
 Presently, very shyly, she looked at Proud Face, and 
 she found that he was beaming on her like the sun. 
 His face was like a boy's; like the face of a prisoner 
 that has been freed; like a demi-god's. 
 
 "Oh!" said the Little Heiress, "oh!" And then, 
 very timidly, she said, "shall you go now?" 
 
 "Now!" said Proud Face, in a voice that rang like a 
 bell. "I shall not go." 
 
 "When?" said the Little Heiress. 
 266 
 
THE LITTLE HEIRESS 
 
 "Never," said Proud Face. 
 
 "Oh," said the Little Heiress. "They will say I 
 have bought you." 
 
 "Not with millions," said Proud Face; "with love- 
 liness." 
 
 "Oh," said the Little Heiress, "say it was the 
 kisses — the three kisses. It was on those that I staked 
 my all." 
 
 "I don't believe," said Proud Face, "that the kisses 
 had anything to do with it. I think it was just you — 
 just you. But I'm going to find out." 
 
 "Are you?" cried the Little Heiress, and she dodged 
 him. 
 
 Aunt Katharine was surprised to find them on oppo- 
 site sides of a big table. The Little Heiress still had a 
 hunted look, but it was an entirely new kind. 
 
 267 
 
X 
 
 THE BEST MAN 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 I 
 
 Stanislas Odeskalki, the best man, and O'Gosh, the 
 interpreter, helped, as did old man Openta. But 
 Orloff Openta and Olenka were really married by the 
 mayor. He made Orloff kiss Olenka; shook hands 
 with them; said that he hoped they would be a loving 
 couple; made the remark that everybody's name began 
 with O, and wished them good-day. Then he turned 
 to a document which demanded his signature, and 
 puffed at his cigar, which had almost gone out. 
 
 Orloff, Olenka, Stanislas Odeskalki and old man 
 Openta went up town by the Elevated, and hurried to 
 the rooms in East One Hundred and Twenty-third 
 Street, near the river, which Orloff had hired for him- 
 self and his bride and his father to live in. It was a 
 bitter afternoon in January. Dark clouds hung low 
 over the city, and occasionally flurries of snow were 
 torn from them. In many windows lights already 
 glowed. Old man Openta walked ahead, giving his 
 arm to Olenka, who was so rosy and fresh-looking that 
 
 271 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 men turned their heads to look after her. The best 
 man and the groom brought up the rear. The bride- 
 groom's face was bright and smiling, and he kept his 
 eyes steadily on the bride; but the best man scowled 
 continually and complained of the cold. Only once 
 did he speak of anything else. 
 
 "But you should have told me," he said, "what a 
 pretty girl she is. You must look out or some fellow 
 will take her from you." 
 
 He cheered up when the four flights of stairs leading 
 to the Opentas' new rooms had been surmounted. 
 
 "Now we are going to feed," he said. • 
 
 Old man Openta unlocked the door, and, motioning 
 to the others to wait, crossed the threshold, turned and 
 held out his hands. 
 
 "Welgub," he said. He affected the English lan- 
 guage with ostentation, but the others clung to Polish. 
 Olenka hesitated and looked at her husband, blushing. 
 
 "But go in," he said, and he pushed her gently 
 toward the opening. "This is no time to hang back." 
 
 Old man Openta embraced her when she had crossed 
 the threshold. 
 
 "Welgub do your hobe," he said. 
 
 Openta pushed Odeskalki into the room, followed 
 and closed the door. 
 
 "Well, here we are," he said. "What do you think 
 of it?" 
 
 272 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 Odeskalki began to look about critically. " It is easy 
 to see that a woman has not lived here," he said. 
 "You ought to have curtains. Mrs. Openta will be 
 lonely without curtains. But how many rooms are 
 there?" 
 
 "There is this one," said Openta, "for the cooking- 
 stove and father, and there is that one" — he pointed to 
 a second door, closed — "for us." 
 
 Odeskalki moved toward the closed door and laid 
 his hand on the knob. 
 
 "Do not go in there," said Openta, a little sharply. 
 
 "Why not?" said Odeskalki. 
 
 "Because it would not be proper," said Openta. 
 
 "If I don't know what's proper," said Odeskalki 
 angrily, "I don't know who does. But the rooms are 
 yours — such as they are." He shrugged his shoulders. 
 "You will say next that it will not be proper to light a 
 fire in the stove. It is terribly cold." 
 
 "No," said Openta, "I will not say that"; and he 
 began to busy himself with an old newspaper and some 
 kindlings. Soon thick smoke was oozing through the 
 cracks of the stove, but presently, as the pipe warmed, 
 the smoke was drawn into it, and a fine crackling sound 
 filled the room. 
 
 "That is better," said Odeskalki. "But the smoke 
 has made me cough." 
 
 Olenka went close to the stove and spread out her 
 273 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 hands to catch the warmth. "I think a fire is so 
 home-like," she said. 
 
 "But the room is warming up," said Openta. "Don't 
 stand on ceremony. Let us all take our coats off." 
 He started forward to help Olenka, but Odeskalki in- 
 tervened. 
 
 "No, let me do it," he said. 
 
 "All right," said Openta, "and I will help father off 
 with his." 
 
 In helping Olenka, Odeskalki pressed her shoulders 
 with his hands, but very slightly, so as not to give 
 offence. 
 
 "Openta," he said, "you will not need the stove with 
 such a wife." 
 
 Openta and Olenka blushed and became greatly 
 confused. 
 
 "Bud," said old man Openta, "be goodn't goog 
 bidoud a stobe." 
 
 "And now," said Openta, "it is time for Olenka to 
 enter upon her first duties as a wife." He pointed to 
 a large, broad cupboard in one corner of the room. 
 
 " Obed id," said the old man. 
 
 Olenka approached the cupboard bashfully and 
 hesitatingly, as if she expected that something of a 
 comic nature would spring out of it. 
 
 "But open it," said her husband encouragingly. 
 
 "Id bill dod bide," said his father. 
 274 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 Olenka smiled over her shoulder at the three men. 
 At times she fairly astonished by her prettiness. She 
 was as out of place in that shabby room as an orchid 
 would have been. You would not have been sur- 
 prised to learn that she was a princess — even a fairy 
 princess — in disguise. Her voice was tender and 
 haunting, like the middle register of a fine old 'cello 
 when a master is playing. Her feet moved in and out 
 under the hem of her skirt, timidly and gently, like two 
 mice. If you had been in the hall and had heard her 
 laugh, you would have said, "Somebody is making a 
 child happy in that room." 
 
 Presently, with a great show of courage, she flung 
 open the cupboard door and at once began to emit ex- 
 clamations of surprise and pleasure. For, aside from 
 china and glass of permanent utility, the shelves of the 
 cupboard displayed enough cold meats, salad, oranges, 
 nuts, raisins, celery, jelly-cake and wine to give delight 
 to the moment. 
 
 Soon the good things were transferred to the table, 
 and a real feast began. Olenka presided; but so in- 
 tent was she on seeing that the men's plates were always 
 filled that she did not find time to eat more than a few 
 mouthfuls herself. Old man Openta became loqua- 
 cious. Openta himself beamed on the party and kept 
 jumping from his seat to heap fuel into the stove. It 
 began to get red-hot. Odeskalki scowled continually, 
 
 275 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 but it was noticed that he ate and drank as much as he 
 could get. 
 
 " But you mustn't mind his dark looks," said Openta 
 to Olenka. "At heart he is not an ill-natured fel- 
 low." 
 
 Odeskalki only scowled the more, and, filling his glass, 
 toasted Olenka. His voice was sulky and funereal, like 
 that of a bishop consigning a dead person to the 
 earth. 
 
 "May you be happy," he said, and shook his head 
 gloomily. 
 
 "It is always so with him when he drinks," said 
 Openta. "You would think him a dragon, not a man, 
 but at heart he is not an ill-natured fellow." 
 
 " I gad ead do bore," said old man Openta suddenly, 
 and probably for the first time in his life. He rose, 
 carrying his glass of wine, and placed himself with his 
 back to the stove. From this coign of vantage he 
 beamed optimistically on the party. 
 
 Odeskalki drew out a fat silver watch and scowled 
 at it. 
 
 "Time for us to be off," he said to Openta. 
 
 "It is really too bad," said Openta to the bride, 
 "but I could not seem to make them understand. 
 And if I were to stay with you I should lose my place. 
 But next week I shall be put on the day shift. It was 
 all I could do to get off this afternoon to be married." 
 
 276 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 "When do you think you will come back?" said 
 Olenka. 
 
 "Perhaps not before one or two o'clock," said 
 Openta. 
 
 "To-night," said Odeskalki sulkily, "there is to 
 be a large dinner for men given by a young man 
 who is going to be married. There will be a real lake 
 in the middle of the table, with banks of ferns and red 
 roses, and live ducks swimming in it. It is impossible 
 to say when the affair will break up, for there will be a 
 great deal of hard drinking; — and not ordinary white 
 wine like this, I can tell you. Those young fellows 
 will not have anything but the best imported cham- 
 pagne, costing you, perhaps, six dollars the bottle. 
 That's the kind of a feast to have." 
 
 "You see," said Openta gently, "this envious fellow 
 and I will be kept busy serving courses and drawing 
 corks until the last guest goes. There will be eight of 
 us waiters, one for every four guests. But I will come 
 home as soon as may be, and I will wake you up." 
 
 "But I shall not go to sleep until you come," said 
 Olenka. 
 
 The young couple could not meet each other's eyes, 
 but flushed hotly and looked down. 
 
 "Ahem!" said Odeskalki. 
 
 Old man Openta, from his position in front of the 
 stove, began suddenly to speak in a loud, sing-song 
 
 277 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 voice. "Barriage," he said, "is dbd all peer ad skid- 
 dies. Barriage is " 
 
 An expression of acute pain suddenly covered his 
 face. He dropped his glass, clutched the seat of his 
 trousers with both hands, and sprang forward. Then 
 tears came into his eyes and he began to tremble. 
 
 "What has happened to you, father?" cried Openta, 
 rushing toward his parent. 
 
 "Don'd dudge be," said the old man. 
 
 "But what is it ? Are you suffering ?" 
 
 "Id is dotig," said the old man presently, in a choking 
 voice. " I haf purned by pridges pehind be." 
 
 Odeskalki scowled at the old man. "You ought to 
 have known better than to stand so close to the stove," 
 he said. "Come, Openta, or we shall be late, and, 
 furthermore, God ajone knows what may happen 
 next." 
 
 The old man scowled at Odeskalki. 
 
 The young men put on their overcoats. Openta 
 hesitated, looked for a moment sheepishly at Odeskalki, 
 and then, turning to the little bride, opened his arms 
 with complete frankness. She ran into them. And 
 for a few moments, so eager was the embrace, they 
 swayed to and fro. 
 
 Odeskalki fixed his handsome, scowling eyes upon 
 them. "I hope you will be happy," he said, "but I 
 do not think much ever comes of hoping." 
 
 278 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 II 
 
 For about two hours Odeskalki, Openta, and six 
 other waiters, representing nearly as many different 
 nationalities, worked swiftly and in silence to promote 
 the ease and comfort of thirty-two young gentlemen 
 who had come to sit on the outer edges of a hollow 
 square and make beasts of themselves. The hollow in 
 the white damask square was occupied by four descend- 
 ing banks of maidenhair fern and Jaqueminot roses 
 which terminated in physical reality at the edges of a 
 square mirror-bottomed tank, and continued into it in 
 lovely illusion. In the tank a pair of gorgeous mallard 
 ducks swam and occasionally dove, seeking vainly to 
 seize the reflected roses and ferns in their gritty bills. 
 Occasionally food more substantial than shadows was 
 tossed to them in the shape of bread pellets, celery ends 
 and even olives, which they ate with avidity. But the 
 supply became at length greater than the demand, and 
 the water in the tank began to look less like good 
 Croton than bad soup. Whenever their duties brought 
 them close together Odeskalki whispered sour comments 
 to Openta. 
 
 "Let them look to us for good manners. That fel- 
 low with red hair has no more breeding than a hog. 
 Give me wealth and champagne, and I would not talk 
 like a sewer. The little fat son of a dog is beckoning 
 
 279 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 to me and pointing to his empty plate. Let some one 
 else fill it." 
 
 He became more and more displeased with his own 
 lot and was inclined to visit his wrath on the meek and 
 inoffensive Openta. 
 
 "Such a husband," he said. "You should have 
 stayed with your wife to-night, even if you lost your 
 position by doing so. Instead, you are skipping about 
 like a monkey and currying favor with the rich. For 
 God's sake, have some spirit; imitate me when you 
 fill a glass. Do not look as if the act were a pleasure, 
 but a condescension." 
 
 Odeskalki, for all his scorn and scowling, kept a clear 
 and ready eye on opportunity and had already drunk 
 enough champagne out of partially emptied bottles to 
 make his blood boil. But alcohol did not cheer him. 
 Ever since early in the afternoon, when he had seen 
 Olenka for the first time, he had been bitter with fate. 
 Her girlishness, innocence, and beauty had exerted a 
 powerful physical attraction on the man, and as the 
 champagne mounted to his head he began to imagine 
 scenes in which he figured as her lover. "Only let 
 this silly Openta have a care," he thought, "or he will 
 wake up some morning with a pair of horns to add to 
 his absurd appearance." At times the thought that 
 Openta would possess Olenka made him furious. Un- 
 consciously, the thought that Openta was absenting 
 
 280 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 himself from her rather than lose his position in the 
 restaurant made him more furious. Then self-pity 
 would make his heart gentle and swell into pity for 
 Openta and pity for Olenka. "It is simply terrible," 
 he thought, "to think that I shall come between them." 
 
 A large screen of Spanish leather in one corner of the 
 room shielded from view a table covered with removes 
 and a great tub containing ice and champagne. Several 
 times during the course of the dinner Odeskalki and 
 Openta found themselves alone behind this screen. On 
 one such occasion Odeskalki hastily filled two glasses 
 with champagne, and said: 
 
 "Quick, man — to Olenka!" 
 
 Openta hesitated. 
 
 "Curse you," said Odeskalki in a fierce whisper. 
 "I will not be friends with a man who will not drink to 
 his own wife." 
 
 Openta had a weak head, and that one glass stimu- 
 lated him wonderfully. It was not difficult, a little 
 later, for Odeskalki to persuade him to take another. 
 
 "May you be fruitful and multiply," he said. 
 
 The third glass which Openta drank was at his own 
 instigation. 
 
 "Come behind the screen," he said; "it is only right 
 that we should drink your health now." 
 
 Odeskalki went willingly enough. "But don't take 
 too much, Openta," he said, and experienced a virtuous 
 
 281 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 sense of having done his duty. A few minutes later 
 Openta dropped an armful of plates, and the other 
 waiters cursed him. 
 
 Some of the young gentlemen had begun preparing 
 for the dinner early in the afternoon by drinking cock- 
 tails. Others had been making up for lost time by 
 drinking whole glasses of champagne at a swallow. 
 Champagne had made its appearance with the oysters. 
 By each plate were two glasses, one for champagne 
 and one for water. But the water, for the most part, 
 had been thrown into the duck pond so that each young 
 gentleman might utilize the empty vessel for more 
 champagne. Signs of drunkenness were beginning to 
 be evident. The waiters were receiving considerable 
 presents of money and secret directions to keep par- 
 ticular glasses filled. 
 
 Men left their places and carried their chairs to more 
 alluring neighborhoods. Little groups surrounded the 
 humorists and roared with laughter whenever these 
 spoke. Men whom the champagne affected to serious- 
 ness drew aside in pairs, and with heads nodding close 
 together, emptied their hearts of matters which for the 
 moment seemed of paramount importance. Some- 
 times they sniffled and shed tears. 
 
 One or two, on mischief bent, left the dinner, went 
 upstairs and for a few disgraceful minutes attended a 
 small dance to which they had not been invited. 
 
 282 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 John Tombs upset his coffee-cup; nothing came out 
 but ashes. "Fat" Randall, sitting solemnly between 
 two empty chairs, suddenly smiled a silly smile and 
 poured upon his own head a whole cellar of salt. Jack 
 Blackwell rose unsteadily and pounded upon the table 
 with a gilt-edged plate until the- plate broke. Having 
 thus secured a sufficiency of attention, he raised his 
 glass, so charged with wine that it slopped over the top 
 and ran over his hand, and proposed the health of the 
 bride. The young gentlemen surged to their feet, 
 shouting and drinking. Jack Blackwell hurled his 
 empty glass into the duck pond. Some followed this 
 lead; others threw their glasses backward against the 
 panelled walls of the room; others upward against the 
 frescoed ceiling. Some threw plates. One man threw 
 his glass by mistake straight into "Fat" Randall's face. 
 It broke into a thousand pieces, but Randall was not 
 even scratched. One man, a cigar nine inches long be- 
 tween his teeth, was hit on the back of the head by a 
 plate. The cigar fairly flew from his mouth into the 
 duck pond, and the man looked foolishly after it with- 
 out the least idea as to why it had flown. Another man, 
 dragging suddenly at a tablecloth, stripped one whole 
 table of everything on it. The red shade of an over- 
 turned candle caught fire. John Tombs snatched a 
 coffee-pot from a waiter and poured its contents on 
 the conflagration. Openta, from whose hands the 
 
 283 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 coffee-pot had been snatched, giggled. He was also 
 drunk. 
 
 It was noticed by some that one of the ducks floated 
 belly up among the flotsam on the surface of the pond. 
 A sliver of glass had pierced its brain. The other every 
 now and then reared itself, and, flapping desperately, 
 tried to escape on clipped wings. 
 
 The dinner began to break up. The young gentle- 
 men left the room by twos and threes. Downstairs in 
 the main hall of the restaurant there was a great putting 
 on of hats and coats; many of the latter were lined with 
 expensive fur. Presents of money were freely taken by 
 the boys in charge of the hats and coats. Electric han- 
 soms received drunken cargoes on more pleasure bent. 
 And, like the geese in the song, 
 
 One flew east and one flew west, 
 And one flew over the cuckoo's nest. 
 
 It was a great night for roulette wheels; a great night 
 for young women who had plenty of time but no money. 
 
 But the future groom came back to the dining-room. 
 He was a big man and, with his immense fur-lined coat 
 and high silk hat, looked positively mountainous. His 
 face was red and shiny with hard drinking, but he was 
 not drunk. 
 
 "Where's the other waiter?" he said, in a loud, as- 
 sured voice. "I've got something for all of you." 
 
 284 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 A swinging door was pushed open, and voices began 
 to call for Openta to come back. 
 
 Openta, very unsteady on his feet and sure of only 
 one thing — that he wanted to go home — had just 
 reached the top of a flight of stairs leading to a lower 
 corridor, at the end of which was a room in which the 
 waiters deposited their coats and hats. Hearing his 
 name called he turned, slipped and fell to the bottom of 
 the stairs. 
 
 Those in the dining-room heard the sounds of the 
 fall, mingled with a sudden burst of foolish laughter, 
 and then a deep groan. Afterward there was silence. 
 
 The groom hurried, with the others, to the bottom of 
 the stairs. 
 
 Openta had already picked himself up. His face was 
 white and drawn with pain, but he did not seem to have 
 received any serious injury. He kept feeling the small 
 of his back with one hand, and taking quick, sniffling 
 breaths. 
 
 "He's all right," said the groom, and he began to 
 distribute greenbacks among the waiters. They bowed 
 and scraped and gave thanks — even the gloomy Odes- 
 kalki. The groom looked up the flight of stairs by 
 which he had just descended. 
 
 "Can I get out of here without going back up those 
 stairs?" he said. 
 
 "This way, sir," said one of the waiters, and he 
 285 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 walked off, followed by the groom, who muttered a 
 careless good-night as he left. 
 
 The others, all but Odeskalki and Openta, hurried 
 back to the dining-room for the remnants of the 
 feast. 
 
 "What a stupid fellow you are," said Odeskalki, 
 "to get drunk arid fall downstairs. You might have 
 broken your neck. Come, let us go." 
 
 "I have hurt my back," said Openta. 
 
 "Where?" said Odeskalki brutally. He prodded 
 Openta's spine with his thumb. Tears of anguish ran 
 out of Openta's eyes and he staggered. 
 
 "Curse you!" he cried. 
 
 Odeskalki was taken aback for a moment. "Don't 
 be a fool, little man," he said presently. "Don't rail 
 at those who are trying to help you. A nice figure 
 you'll cut at your bride's bedside, drunk and snivelling. 
 Pull yourself together, and don't curse your betters." 
 
 "I am sorry for what I said, Odeskalki," said Openta 
 meekly; "I didn't mean it. But you shouldn't have 
 punched me so hard." 
 
 "Punched you," said Odeskalki scornfully. "I punch 
 you! Man, if I punched you you'd know it. My fist 
 would come out the other side." He doubled up his 
 fist and fell to admiring its bony outline. 
 
 Openta went up town by the Third Avenue Elevated 
 and got out at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street; 
 
 286 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 but his back hurt him so that he could hardly walk, 
 and very often he had to stop and rest. The pain made 
 him cold and sober. 
 
 Olenka was sound asleep. Openta stood looking at 
 her until the match which he had lighted burned his 
 fingers. Then, walking on tiptoe, he went into the 
 other room, and, having taken off his coat and trousers 
 and folded them carefully, he crept into bed with his 
 father. All night the old man slept and snored. All 
 night the young man lay awake and moaned. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The next morning Odeskalki called to find out what 
 had become of Orloff Openta. The invalid was asleep. 
 Old man Openta and Olenka took Odeskalki to the 
 furthest corner of the room and conversed with him in 
 low tones. 
 
 "I woge ub ad he bas id by bed," said the old man. 
 
 "He fell down a flight of stairs," said Odeskalki, 
 "and injured his spine. I hope that it is nothing, but 
 injuries to the spine are not to be laughed at. He had 
 just reached the head of the stairs when we called him 
 to come back and receive a present of money. He 
 must have slipped in turning. We heard him fall, and 
 found him at the bottom of the stairs. He was on his 
 feet, but evidently suffering. Just think, if he hadn't 
 
 287 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 been called back to get the present this would not have 
 happened." 
 
 "We have drawn the bed close to the stove/' said 
 Olenka, " because he complains that his legs are cold." 
 
 "Id is doo bad," said the old man. 
 
 "Have you consulted a physician?" asked Odes- 
 kalki. 
 
 "Yes," said Olenka, "and he said that Orloff must 
 lie still for a long time." 
 
 "Has he any appetite?" 
 
 "Doe," said the old man. 
 
 Orloff Openta stirred in his bed and awoke. "Are 
 you there, Olenka?" he said. 
 
 Olenka flew to the bedside. "Yes," she said, "and 
 here is Mr. Odeskalki to ask after you." 
 
 "That is very friendly of him," said Openta. "I 
 hope you are well, Odeskalki." 
 
 Odeskalki approached the bed in a slow and dignified 
 manner. "I am well," he said, "but it seems that you 
 are not well, my friend. Do you feel any pain?" 
 
 "No," said Openta, "I do not think that I feel any 
 pain, but my legs do not seem to get warm." 
 
 Olenka, blushing a little, slipped her hand under the 
 bedclothes and felt of his feet. 
 
 "They are like ice," she said. "Would you care to 
 feel for yourself?" 
 
 Odeskalki felt a certain repugnance in accepting this 
 288 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 invitation; nevertheless he felt of Openta's feet and 
 satisfied himself that they were very cold. 
 
 "Can you move your legs ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Openta. " But if I do it hurts my back." 
 
 "Hum," said Odeskalki, and looked very wise. 
 
 "What worries me," said Openta, "is that all our 
 savings will be spent, and that perhaps I shall not be 
 well enough to work even then." 
 
 "But I shall find something to do," said Olenka; 
 "and, besides, we agreed not to speak of that. Could 
 you drink a cup of soup?" 
 
 "I am not hungry," said Openta. "I think I feel a 
 draught" 
 
 "No," said Odeskalki, "there is no draught in the 
 room. Both windows and both doors are shut." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Openta, "one of the windows in 
 Olenka's room is open, and the door does not fit tightly 
 enough to keep the cold air out." 
 
 "I will see," said Odeskalki. 
 
 Openta raised himself in protest, and sank back with 
 a little gasp. Odeskalki returned in a moment. 
 
 "No," he said, "the windows are closed. Your 
 room is more cheerful than this, Mrs. Openta. There 
 is an outlook." 
 
 "Bud doe stobe," said the old man. 
 
 "Haf you purned your pridges to-day?" said Odes- 
 kalki, giving an execrable imitation of the old man's 
 
 289 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 English. And he added in Polish: "Some day you 
 will be setting the house on fire." 
 
 When Odeskalki's back was turned the old man 
 made a series of faces at him, indicative of scorn and 
 sarcasm. 
 
 Odeskalki laid his hand on Openta's pillow and 
 patted it lightly. 
 
 "It is your duty to get well," he said. "I must go 
 now, but I will come every day, if possible, to inquire 
 about you. Mrs. Openta, will you speak with me a 
 moment?" 
 
 She went with him to the head of the stairs, closing 
 the door behind her. 
 
 "Do you think he is seriously ill ?" she asked. 
 
 "I do not know," said Odeskalki, "but I am afraid 
 so. What I want to say is this. Do not hesitate to 
 call on me if you run short of money. I have had a 
 good position for a long time and I have saved nearly 
 a thousand dollars. There is no one dependent on me. 
 Furthermore, it would be a pleasure for me to do you 
 a good turn. I am, it is true, a taciturn fell ow, but not 
 altogether bad. It may be that I can be of help in 
 other ways. I will come again to-morrow. But you 
 must not confine yourself entirely to the house. Per- 
 haps I will make you go for a walk with me. Is it 
 permitted?" 
 
 He had taken her hand and raised it to his lips. If 
 290 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 he kissed it with more ardor than mere friendship per- 
 mits, Olenka did not know. She was very grateful to 
 him for his offers of help and for the kind tone which 
 he had adopted. 
 
 "How I have misjudged this man!" she thought. 
 
 Openta was waiting her return with that greedy 
 eagerness for attention so habitual to novices in suffering. 
 
 "But what did he say to you?" he asked almost 
 querulously. 
 
 "He spoke altogether kindly," said Olenka, "offering 
 help, and even a loan if necessary. I tell you he does 
 away with that scowling habit of his when people are 
 in trouble." 
 
 "Didn't I always tell you he was a good fellow at 
 bottom?" said Openta. 
 
 " I doe'd lige hib," said the old man, who had been 
 dozing. 
 
 There was a knock on the door, and almost imme- 
 diately it was opened and Odeskalki reappeared. 
 
 "Mrs. Openta," he said, "you are not to hesitate to 
 send for me in case of need. The best way would be 
 to send me a telegram direct to Sherry's. I will always 
 leave word with the head waiter where I am to be found. 
 Good-bye again. I shall be late; but I do not mind 
 that." 
 
 "Really a sterling fellow," said Openta. "Didn't I 
 always tell you so?" 
 
 291 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 " I doe'd lige hib," said the old man. 
 
 Odeskalki came nearly every day. For the most 
 part he wore, a smiling mask. Sometimes he insisted on 
 taking Olenka for a walk. Sometimes he read the 
 papers to Openta and the old man. Once he brought 
 a friend who played upon the violin with real genius. 
 Openta was delighted, but the friend made eyes at 
 Olenka and Odeskalki would not permit the visit to 
 be repeated. Meanwhile Openta got a little better, 
 but he could not use his legs without suffering torment, 
 and his savings were nearly all gone. As a matter of 
 fact, the doctor y horn they had called in did nothing 
 for him. He came often, felt of Openta's legs and 
 back, nodded his head, pocketed his fee and went away. 
 
 The weather was bitterly cold; provisions were high, 
 and more wood went up the stove chimney in the form 
 of smoke than Olenka cared to think about. But 
 through it all she preserved her charm, her childishness, 
 her cheerfulness and her red cheeks. Often she was 
 possessed of a real gayety, such as might be expected in 
 one whose troubles had suddenly been brought to an 
 end. At such times her laughter sounded in the sick- 
 room like sleigh bells and she would not make serious 
 answers to questions. Sometimes she would mimic old 
 man Openta and talk as if she had a dreadful cold in 
 the head. But Odeskalki, if he had wished, could 
 have told of moments, carefully screened from the 
 
 292 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 Opentas, when the anxiety which was torturing her 
 came to the surface — sometimes as a fleeting expres- 
 sion of woe, sometimes in the form of tears. Once, as 
 they were mounting the last flight of stairs, having 
 returned from a short walk, she caught hold of the 
 banister and began to sob. On that occasion Odes- 
 kalki caught her in his arms and held her to his breast 
 until she panted for breath. When she had stopped 
 sobbing she freed herself from him, but gently and not 
 as one who has taken offence. She seemed rather pre- 
 occupied and not concerned with what had happened. 
 
 On another occasion Olenka complained that she 
 felt ill and dizzy. She let Odeskalki put his arm around 
 her for support and half carry her up the stairs. At the 
 second landing she seemed to lose consciousness for a 
 moment, causing Odeskalki untold alarm. 
 
 "It is nothing," she said, "it is often so. I have a 
 little something the matter with my heart. Sometimes 
 it seems as if it were too big, and then I become dizzy 
 and am ready to faint." 
 
 "But you should see a doctor and take a prescrip- 
 tion." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Olenka, "it is nothing; it does not 
 trouble me." 
 
 That same day Odeskalki informed the Opentas 
 that in the future he would have to work on the day 
 shift and that it would not be possible for him always 
 
 293 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 to come up early enough in the evening to find them 
 awake. 
 
 "It is a pity," said Openta, "that your lodging is 
 not in the neighborhood somewhere." 
 
 "I don't see," said Odeskalki, "why I do not live 
 with you and bear a portion of the expenses. We could 
 put another bed in this room. Furthermore, it is very 
 lonely living by myself. But do not invite me unless 
 you wish." 
 
 Two nights later Stanislas Odeskalki came for the 
 first time to pass the night under the same roof which 
 covered Olenka, and old man Openta whispered to his 
 son: 
 
 "The roob bill be warber. Bud I doe'd lige bib." 
 
 IV 
 
 On a certain evening, when old man Openta was 
 sleeping heavily, being on the outside of his son's bed, 
 Odeskalki spoke to the young Opentas of matters which 
 were troubling him. 
 
 "Will either of you deny," he said, "that you reached 
 the end of your resources two days ago and that I am 
 bearing all the expenses?" 
 
 Neither Orion 5 nor his wife was able to deny this. 
 
 "It is nothing," continued Odeskalki. "I ask noth- 
 ing in return. Let things be as they are until Orloff is 
 
 294 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 well. But there is one thing which I cannot endure 
 much longer. And that is the constant hostility which 
 is shown me by Orloff's father. He who, after all, is 
 nothing but a burden, constantly shows his teeth at me 
 and passes sarcasms. Let him only show a proper 
 gratitude, and I will not complain. But he does noth- 
 ing but sleep, or air his English, or demand that more 
 wood be put in the stove. He is a trial not easily 
 borne." 
 
 Orloff and Olenka knew that there was much truth 
 in what their benefactor had said. Old man Openta 
 hated Odeskalki and showed his teeth at him whenever 
 there was opportunity. 
 
 "I am sorry that you have noticed," said Openta. 
 "But I will speak to him myself. He does not realize, 
 perhaps, that he is living at your expense. Further- 
 more, father is old and not very strong in his head. It 
 is better to laugh at his sarcasms. But I will speak to 
 him, and after this everything will be better." 
 
 Consternation seized even Odeskalki when at this 
 point it was noticed that the old man had opened his 
 eyes. He scowled malignantly at Odeskalki, and said 
 shrilly: 
 
 "Id bill dod be pedder. I was dod sleebig." 
 
 He rose, muttering to himself, took his overcoat 
 from the peg where it was hanging and began to put 
 it on. 
 
 295 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 "I bill dod gub bag," he said; "I bill dod gub bag. 
 I ab dod wanded." 
 
 Olenka tried to hold him, out he shook her off an- 
 grily and made for the door. She threw her arms about 
 him a second time, but he turned and struck her in 
 the face and on the breast with his fists. Odeskalki 
 rushed between them and hurled the old man aside. 
 
 " But for God's sake let him go," he cried. " He will 
 come back soon enough. We are not going to lose him 
 so easily. It is cold out, and he will soon be hankering 
 for the stove." 
 
 "I bill dod gub bag," shouted the old man. 
 
 He tore open the door and began to shuffle down the 
 stairs. Openta and Odeskalki heard him burst into a 
 storm of weeping, but Olenka did not hear him, for 
 she was weeping on her own account. Odeskalki closed 
 the door. 
 
 "Go into your room," he said to Olenka, "and put 
 cold water on your face — " He hesitated and turned 
 to Openta. "I will just go and see if she is hurt," he 
 said. 
 
 Olenka poured water into the basin on her wash- 
 stand, but for the moment she was using it only as a 
 receptacle for her tears. 
 
 " Don't cry," said Odeskalki gently. He took her by 
 the shoulders and turned her so that she faced him. 
 "Your cheek is bruised," he said. "But that is a 
 
 296 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 trifle. Did he hurt you when he hit you here?" He 
 touched her breast lightly with his hand. She did not 
 answer. And Odeskalki began to finger the third 
 button of her dress. But there must have been some 
 spark of good in the man, for he suddenly drew back 
 from her. 
 
 Olenka's tears ceased. 
 
 "I was frightened only," she said. 
 
 "If he had not been an old man," said Odeskalki, 
 " I would have struck him dead. You do not feel any 
 pain?" 
 
 "No, but everything is going round." 
 
 Odeskalki caught her as she fell and carried her to 
 the bed. He laid her on it and kissed her unresisting 
 mouth hungrily. Then he brought cold water and 
 began to bathe her temples. 
 
 Meanwhile Openta had turned his head so that he 
 could see the door leading into his wife's room. 
 
 "He ought not to have closed the door," he said 
 querulously. "He ought to come back and tell me if 
 she is hurt." 
 
 In a few moments anxiety for Olenka began to tor- 
 ment him. 
 
 "Maybe father really hurt her," he said. 
 
 Then he began to call for Odeskalki, at first in a low 
 tone, then more loudly. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened and Odeskalki, look- 
 297 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 ing like a man on fire with anger, appeared in the 
 frame. 
 
 "For God's sake, don't scream so," he cried angrily. 
 " Mrs. Openta has fainted. I am doing what I can." 
 
 He disappeared, slamming the door. 
 
 Half an hour passed. Orloff Openta began to cry. 
 Another half-hour passed. He got out of bed and crept 
 to the door, for he could not stand. He reached the 
 knob, turned it and pushed. The door did not open. 
 Strength came to him. He stood and beat upon the 
 door with his fists and hurled his light body against it 
 again and again. In his frenzy it did not occur to him 
 that in order to open the door he should have pulled 
 and not pushed. 
 
 He desisted after a while and leaned wearily against 
 the door. It was then that his father, slinking shame- 
 facedly back, found him. 
 
 "We must go," said Openta quietly. "They are in 
 there. They have been in there for a long' time. We 
 are not wanted here. Help me put on my clothes." 
 
 "Bud you gad walg." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I can walk." 
 
 Old man Openta helped his son down one flight of 
 stairs. Then he said: 
 
 "Waid for be. I hab begodden subthig." 
 
 He was gone quite a long time. And when he re- 
 turned he carried the key of the outer door in his hand. 
 
 298 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 When they reached the street he was still carrying it. 
 Coming to a drain opening he dropped the key into it. 
 
 "I hab logged theb id," he said, "ad embdied the 
 stobe. Loog!" 
 
 The windows of the room which they had quitted 
 glowed in the night like coals. Openta fell face down- 
 ward in the gutter. 
 
 V 
 
 "Her heart must have been weak," thought Odes- 
 kalki, after he had labored vainly for nearly an hour 
 and a half to bring Olenka to. "She is certainly dead. 
 I must tell Openta." 
 
 He pushed open the door and sprang back from a 
 storm of flames. The door closed of itself with a bang. 
 Odeskalki ran to the window, threw it open and looked 
 out, right, left, down and up. There was nothing for 
 it, if the worst came to the worst, but to jump, unless 
 he could make a rope out of Olenka's bedding. He 
 rolled her body unceremoniously to the floor, and began 
 to tear the bedding into broad strips. He worked with 
 frantic haste, but not so fast as the fire in the next room. 
 The intervening door sprang inward from its hinges 
 as if it had been hit by a locomotive. Flame and 
 smoke poured through the opening. Cries began to 
 rise from the street below and the reverberations of 
 fire-gongs. Odeskalki thrust himself half out of the 
 
 299 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 window and screamed for help. In that moment of 
 agony and fear he saw, among the upturned faces in 
 the street, the face of old man Openta convulsed with 
 ghastly merriment. And the old man's shrill voice was 
 borne up to him, clarion and horrible like the yell of a 
 ghoul. 
 
 "I haf purned your pridges behind you, Odeskalki!" 
 Odeskalki sprang from the window. The cries and 
 the reverberations of the fire-bells seemed to combine 
 in one awful rushing shudder. The crowd fought 
 cruelly to get back from the place where Odeskalki 
 would land. Old man Openta did not move. He did 
 not seem to realize his danger. He stood as if rooted, 
 with upturned, malevolently smiling face. 
 
 It seemed to those who saw the catastrophe that the 
 old man was literally driven into the street to the head, 
 as a carpenter drives a nail into a shingle with one blow 
 of his hammer. 
 
 It happened that the train for which Orloff Openta 
 was waiting at the New York Central's One Hundred 
 and Twenty-fifth Street station was carrying two young 
 people to Greenwich on the first stage of their honey- 
 moon. It was curious that the bridegroom was the 
 very man whose generosity had been the cause of 
 Openta's fall and of all his subsequent disasters. If 
 the bridegroom had known this he might have been 
 
 300 
 
THE BEST MAN 
 
 moved to tears, for he was big and gentle and kind. 
 But he did not know it, and Openta did not give it a 
 thought. He was waiting on the very edge of the plat- 
 form for the train. He did not know where he had 
 passed the night or the morning nor how he had come 
 to the edge of the platform. He considered to have 
 gotten there as the only piece of good luck that he 
 had ever had. That was all. . . . 
 "Heavens!" cried the bride. "What's happened?" 
 "You wait here, dear, and I'll go and find out." 
 The bridegroom hurried to the end of the car and 
 looked out. He saw the body of a man, almost torn in 
 two, being dragged from under the train. The sight 
 made him feel sick all over. But he turned and went 
 back to the bride, forcing a smile to his face. 
 
 "Was some one hurt ?" said the bride, her face full of 
 concern. 
 
 "No, dear — a man got knocked down — that's all. 
 They — he picked himself up and walked away with a 
 silly smile, and everybody is 1-1-laughing at him." 
 
XI 
 
 THE CROCODILE 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 I 
 
 The first locality of which I have any recollection was 
 my father's library — a tall, melancholy room devoted 
 to books and illusions. Three sides were of books, 
 sombrely bound, reaching from the floor to within 
 three feet of the ceiling. Along the shelf, which was 
 erroneously supposed to protect the tops of the top row 
 of books from the dust with which our house abounded, 
 were stationed, at precise intervals, busts done in plaster 
 after the antique and death-masks. Beginning on the 
 left was the fury-haunted face of Orestes; next him the 
 lachrymose features of Niobe; followed her Medusa, 
 crowned with serpents. The rest were death-masks — 
 Napoleon, Washington, Voltaire, and my father's father. 
 The prevailing dust, settled thick upon the heads of 
 these grim images, lent them the venerable illusion of 
 gray hair. The three walls of books were each pierced 
 by a long, narrow window, for the room was an exten- 
 sion from the main block of the house, but over two of 
 these the shutters were opaquely closed in winter and 
 
 305 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 summer. The third window, however, was allowed to 
 extend whatever beneficence of light it could to the 
 dismal and musty interior. A person of sharp sight, 
 sitting at the black oak table in the middle of the room, 
 might, on a fine day, have seen clearly enough to write 
 on very white paper with very black ink, or to read out 
 of a large-typed book. Through the fourth wall a 
 door, nearly always closed, led into the main hall, 
 which, like the library itself, was a tall and melancholy 
 place of twilight and illusions. When my poor mother 
 died, in giving me birth, she was laid out in the library 
 and buried from the hall. Consequently, according to 
 old-fashioned custom, these apartments were held 
 sacred to her memory rather than other portions of the 
 house in which she had enjoyed the more fortunate 
 phases of life and happiness. The room in which my 
 mother had actually died was never entered by any one 
 save my father. Its door was double locked, like that of 
 our family vault in the damp hollow among the syca- 
 mores. 
 
 The first thing that I remember was that I had had 
 a mother who had died and been buried. The second, 
 that I had a father with a white face and black clothes 
 and noiseless feet, whose duty in life was to shut doors, 
 pull down window shades, and mourn for my mother. 
 The third was a carved wooden box, situated in the 
 exact centre of the oak table in the library, which con- 
 
 306 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 tained a scroll of stained paper covered with curious 
 characters, and a small but miraculously preserved 
 crocodile. I was never allowed to touch the scroll or 
 the crocodile, but in his lenient moods, which were few 
 and touched with heartrending melancholy, my father 
 would set the box open upon a convenient chair and 
 allow me to peer my heart out at its mysterious contents. 
 The crocodile, my father sometimes told me, was an 
 Egyptian charm which was supposed to bring mis- 
 fortune upon its possessor. "But I let it stay on my 
 table," he would say, "because in the first place I am 
 without superstition, and in the second because I am 
 far distant from the longest and wildest reach of mis- 
 fortune. When I lost your mother I lost all. Ay! but 
 she was bonny, my boy — bonny!" It was very sad to 
 hear him run on about the bonniness of my mother, 
 and old Ann, my quondam nurse, has told me how at 
 the funeral he stood for a long time by the casket, say- 
 ing over and over, "Wasn't she bonny? Wasn't she 
 bonny?" and followed her to the vault among the 
 sycamores with the same iteration upon his lips. 
 
 It was not until I was near eight years old that my 
 father could bear the sight of me, so much had we been 
 divided by the innocent share which I had had in my 
 mother's death. But I was not allowed to pass those 
 eight years in ignorance of the results of my being, or 
 of the constant mourning to which my father had de- 
 
 307 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 voted the balance of his days. I was brought up, so to 
 speak, on my mother's death and burial. Another 
 child might have been nurtured thus into a vivid con- 
 trast, but I ran fluidly into the mould sober, and came 
 very near to solidifying. Death and its ancientry have 
 a horrible fascination for children. And for me, wher- 
 ever I turned, there was a plenitude of morbid sugges- 
 tion. Indeed, our plantation — held by the family from 
 the earliest colonization of Georgia, spread along the 
 low shore of a turbid river tributary to the Savannah, 
 and dwindled, partly by mismanagement and partly by 
 the non-success of the rebellion, into a sad fulfilment 
 of its bright colonial promise — was itself moribund. In 
 the swamps, still showing traces of the dikes, which had 
 once divided it into quadrilaterals, the rice which had 
 been our chief source of income no longer flourished. 
 The slave quarters, a long double row of diminutive 
 brick cubes, each with one chimney, one door, and one 
 window at the side of the door — such dwellings as chil- 
 dren draw painfully on slates — still standing, for the 
 most part, damp and silent, showed that the labor 
 which had made the rice profitable was also a thing of 
 other days. The house itself, a vastly tall block of 
 burned bricks, laid side by side instead of end to end, 
 as in modern building, stood on a slight rise of ground 
 with its back to the river, among lofty and rugged red 
 oaks, rotten throughout their tops with mistletoe. An 
 
 308 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 avenue, roughened by disuse into a going worse than 
 that of a lumber road, nearly a mile long, straight as 
 justice, shaded by a double row of enormous live oaks, 
 choked and strangled with plumes and beards of gray 
 moss, led from the county road through the scant cot- 
 ton fields and strawberry fields to the circle in front 
 of the house. I used to fancy, and I think Bluebeard's 
 closet lent me the notion, that the moss in the live oaks 
 was the hair of unfortunate princesses turned gray 
 by suffering and hung among the trees in wanton and 
 cruel ostentation by their enemies. 
 
 Nothing but a happy and cheerful woman, a good 
 housewife, ready-tongued and loving, could have lent 
 a touch of home to our melancholy disestablishment. 
 Women we had in the house, two black and ancient 
 negresses, rheumatic and complaining, one to cook and 
 one to make the beds, and old Ann, my mother's Scotch 
 nurse, a hard, rickety female, whose mind, voice, and 
 memory were pitched in the minor key. We had a 
 horse, no mean animal, for my father had known and 
 loved horses before his misfortune, but ugly and un- 
 kempt, and it was the duty of an old negro named Ec- 
 clesiastes, the one lively influence about the place, to 
 look after the interests of this little-used creature. My 
 father and myself completed the disquieting group of 
 living things. Concerning things inanimate, we had 
 enough to eat, enough to wear, and enough to read. 
 
 309 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 And the clothes of all of us were black. Until I was 
 twelve years old I believed fervently that to mourn all 
 his life long for dead wives and mothers was the whole 
 end and destiny of man.. In my twelfth year, how- 
 ever, my uncle Richard, a florid, affectionate, and testy 
 sportsman, paid us a visit on matters connected with 
 the mismanagement of the estate. He stayed three 
 days. On the first he shot duck, on the second quail; 
 on the morning of the third he talked with my father in 
 the library; in the afternoon he took me for a walk. 
 In the evening he went away and I never saw him again. 
 
 "Richard," he had said, for I had been given his 
 name, "I want to see the vault before I go. I haven't 
 seen it since your mother was buried." 
 
 It was a warm, bright, still December day, the day 
 before Christmas, and my uncle seated himself non- 
 chalantly on the low wall which surrounded the vault, 
 his knees crossed, his mouth closed on a big cigar, and 
 his eyes fixed on the "legended door." 
 
 "People who go into that place in boxes," he said, 
 "never come out. Has that ever occurred to you, 
 Richard?" 
 
 I said that it had. 
 
 "You never saw your mother, my boy," he went on, 
 "but you wear mourning for her." 
 
 "It seems to me almost as if I had known her," I 
 
 said, "because " 
 
 310 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "Yes," cut in my uncle, "your father has kept her 
 memory alive. He has neglected everything else in 
 order to do that. Now tell — what was your mother 
 like?" 
 
 I hesitated, and said finally, "She was very tall and 
 beautiful." 
 
 My uncle smiled grimly. 
 
 "You would know her then," he said, "if you saw 
 her ? Answer me truthfully, and remember that other 
 women are sometimes tall and beautiful." 
 
 I admitted a little ruefully, that I should not know 
 my mother if I saw her. 
 
 "No, you wouldn't," said my uncle, "and for this 
 reason, too; your mother had an amusing little face, 
 but she was neither beautiful nor tall." 
 
 "But—" I began. 
 
 "Your father," my uncle interrupted, "has come to 
 believe that his wife was tall and beautiful because he 
 thinks that the idea of lifelong devotion to a memory is 
 tall and beautiful. He is a little hipped about himself, 
 my boy, and it makes me rather sick. I will tell you 
 an anecdote. Once there was a man. He met a girl. 
 For three weeks they talked foolishly about foolish 
 things. Then they were married. Nine months later a 
 son was born to them, and the girl died. The man 
 mourned for her. At first he mourned because he 
 missed her. Then because he respected her mem- 
 
 311 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 ory. Then because he liked to pose as one ever- 
 lastingly unhappy and faithful till death. He made 
 everybody about him mourn, including the little child, 
 his son, and finally he died and was put in the vault 
 with the girl, and no one in the world was the better by 
 one jot for any act of the man's life. . . . Let me hear 
 you laugh. . . ." 
 
 I looked up at him, much puzzled. 
 
 "Not at the anecdote," he said, "which isn't funny — 
 but just laugh." 
 
 I delivered myself of a soulless and conventional ha- 
 ha. My uncle put back his head and roared. At first I 
 thought he must be sick, for until that moment I had 
 never heard any one laugh. I had read of it in books. 
 And as a dog must have a first lesson in digging, so a 
 child must have a first lesson in laughing. My uncle 
 never stopped. He roared harder and louder. Tears 
 ran down his cheeks. Something shook me, I did not 
 know what. I heard a sound like that which my uncle 
 was making, but nearer me and more shrill. I felt 
 pain in my sides. My eyes became blurred and sting- 
 ing wet. With these new sounds and symptoms came 
 strange mental changes — a sudden knowledge that blue 
 was the best color for the sky, heat the best attribute of 
 the sun, and the act of living delightful. We roared 
 with laughter, my uncle and I, and the legended door 
 of the tomb gave us back hearty echoes. In the desert 
 
 312 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 of my childhood I look back upon that oasis of laughter 
 as the only spot in which I really lived. When my 
 uncle went away he said: "For God's sake, Dickie, try 
 to be cheerful from now on. I wish I could take you 
 with me. But your father says, no. Remember that 
 the business of living is with Life. And let Death mind 
 his own business." 
 
 The door closed behind that ruddy, cheerful man, 
 and left us mourners facing each other across the supper 
 table. 
 
 "Papa," said I presently, "haven't we a picture of 
 mamma?" 
 
 "I had them all destroyed," said my father. "They 
 were not like her. The last picture of her — " here he 
 tapped his forehead — "will perish when I am gone. 
 Ay, but laddie," he said, "she is vivid to me." 
 
 "Tell me about her, please, papa," I said. 
 
 "She was a tall, stately woman, laddie," he said, 
 "and bonny — ay, bonny. Life without her has 
 neither breadth nor thickness — only length." 
 
 "What color was her hair?" I asked. 
 
 "Boy," he said, "you will choke me with your ques- 
 tions. Her hair was black like the wing of a raven. 
 Her eyes were black. She moved in beauty like the 
 night." 
 
 Here my father buried his white face in his white 
 hands, and remained so, his supper untasted, for a 
 
 313 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 long time. Presently he looked up and said with 
 pitiful effort: 
 
 "And what did you with your uncle Richard?" 
 
 "We sat on the wall of the vault," I answered, "and 
 laughed." 
 
 It was a part of my father's melancholy pose to re- 
 nounce anger together with all the other passions, but 
 at the close of my thoughtless words he sprang to his 
 feet, livid. 
 
 "For that word," he cried, "ye shall suffer hel- 
 lish." 
 
 And he dragged me, more dead than alive, to the 
 library. But what form of punishment he would have 
 inflicted me with I do not know. For a circumstance 
 met with in the library — a circumstance trivial in it- 
 self and, to my mind, sufficiently explicable — shook my 
 father into a new mood. The circumstance was this: 
 that one of the servants (doubtless) had opened the 
 carved box in the centre of the table, taken out the 
 crocodile, probably to gratify curiosity by a close in- 
 spection, and forgotten to put it back. But I must 
 admit that at first sight it looked as if the inanimate and 
 horrible little creature had of its own locomotion thrust 
 open the box and crawled to the edge of the table. To 
 instant and searching inquiry the servants denied all 
 knowledge of the matter, and it remained a mystery. 
 My father dismissed the servants from the library, re- 
 
 314 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 turned the crocodile to its box, and remained for some 
 moments in thought. Then he said, very gravely and 
 earnestly: 
 
 "The possession of this dead reptile is supposed to 
 bring misfortune upon a man. For me that is impos- 
 sible, for I am beyond its longest and wildest reach. 
 But with you it is different. Life has in store for you 
 the possibility of many misfortunes. Take care that 
 you do not bring them upon yourself. Pray that you 
 have not already done so by giving vent to ghoulish 
 laughter in the presence of your dead mother. Now 
 take yourself off — and leave me with my memories." 
 
 That night there was an avenue of moss-shrouded 
 live oaks in dreamland, down which I fled before the 
 onrush of a mighty and ominous crocodile. 
 
 The next day was Christmas, and we resumed the 
 monotony of our stolid and gloomy lives. 
 
 II 
 
 At eighteen I was a very serious and colorless youth. 
 It may be that I contained the seeds of a rational out- 
 look upon life, but so far they had not sprouted. My 
 father's pervading melancholy was more strong in me 
 than red blood and ambition. With him I looked for- 
 ward to an indefinite extension of the past, enlivened, 
 if I may use the paradox, by two demises, his and my 
 
 315 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 own. I had much sober literature at my tongue tips, 
 a condescending fondness for the great poets, a normal 
 appetite, two suits of black, and a mouth stiff from 
 never having learned to smile. I stood in stark igno- 
 rance of life, and had but the vaguest notion as to how 
 babies are made. My father, preserved in melancholy 
 as a bitter pickle in vinegar, had not aged or changed 
 an iota from my earliest memory of him — a very white 
 man dressed in very black cloth. 
 
 One morning my father sent from the library for me, 
 and when I had presented myself said shortly: 
 
 "Your Uncle Richard is dead. He has left nothing. 
 He was guardian, as you may know, of Virginia Rich- 
 mond, the daughter of his intimate friend. She is 
 coming to live with us. Let us hope that she is sedate 
 and reasonable. You have never seen anything of 
 women. It may be that you will fall in love with her. 
 You may consult with me if you do, though I am no 
 longer in touch with youth. She is to have the south 
 spare room. You may tell Ann. She will be here this 
 evening (my father always spoke of the afternoon as the 
 evening). You may tell her our ways, and our hatred 
 of noise and frivolity. If she is a lady that will be suffi- 
 cient. I think that is all." 
 
 My father sighed and turned away his face. 
 
 "To a large extent," he said, "she has been educated 
 abroad. I hope that she will not bore you. But even 
 
 316 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 if she should, try to be kind to her. I know you will be 
 civil." 
 
 "Shall you be here to welcome her?" I asked. 
 
 "I shall hope to be," said my father. "But I have 
 proposed to myself to gather some of the early jasmine 
 to — If I am urgently needed for anything I shall be 
 in the immediate vicinity of the vault." 
 
 Virginia Richmond arrived in an express wagon, to- 
 gether with her three trunks and two portmanteaus. 
 She sat by the driver, a young negro, with whom she had 
 evidently established the most talkative terms, and did 
 not wai; i'or me to help her deferentially to the ground, 
 but put a slender a foot on the wheel, and jumped. 
 
 "It's good to get here," she said. "Are you Richard ?" 
 
 "Yes, Virginia," I said, and felt that I was smiling. 
 
 "Where's Uncle John?" she said. "I call him 
 Uncle John because his brother was my adopted uncle 
 Richard always. And you're my cousin Richard. 
 And I'm your cousin Virginia, going on seventeen, very 
 talkative, affectionate and hungry. How old are you ?" 
 
 "I shall be nineteen in April," I said, "and my father 
 is somewhere about the grounds " — I did not like to say 
 vault — "and I will try to find you something edible. 
 Are you tired?" 
 
 "Do I look tired?" 
 
 "No," I said. 
 
 "How do I look?" 
 
 317 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "Why," I said, "I think you look very well. I — I 
 like your look." 
 
 A better judge than I might have liked it. She had 
 a rosy face of curves and dimples, unruly hair of many 
 browns, eyes that were deep wonders of blue, a mouth 
 of pearl and pomegranate. 
 
 "You," she said, "look very grave — and — yes, hun- 
 gry. But you have nice eyes and a good skin, though 
 it ought to be browner in this climate, and if you don't 
 smile this minute I shall scream." 
 
 So I smiled, and we went into the house. 
 
 "My God! cousin," she cried, to my mind most irrev- 
 erently, "can't you open something and let in the light 1" 
 
 "My father," I said, "prefers the house dark." 
 
 "Then let it be dark when he's in it," she cried, 
 "and bright when he's out of it." And she ran to a 
 window and struggled with the shutter. When she had 
 flung that open she braced herself for an attack upon 
 the next; but I bowed to the inevitable, and saved her 
 from the trouble of consummating it. The floods of 
 light let thus into the hall and dining-room seemed to 
 my mind, sophisticated only in dark things, a kind of 
 orgy. But Virginia was the more cheered. 
 
 "Now a body can eat," she said. "Ham — hoe-cake 
 — Sally Lunn— is that Sally Lunn? Oh, Richard, I 
 have heard of these things — and now — " wherewith she 
 assaulted the viands. 
 
 318 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "Don't you have ham in Europe, Virginia ?" I asked. 
 
 " Ham ! " she cried. " No, Richard, we have quarters 
 of pig cut in thick slices — but meat like this was never 
 grown on a pig. This," and she rapped the ham with 
 her fork, and laughed to hear the solid thump, "was 
 once part of an angel — a very fat angel." 
 
 "And you are a cannibal," I said. It was my first 
 gallantry. 
 
 She gave me a grateful look. 
 
 " I had not hoped for it," she said. And for twenty 
 minutes she ate like a hungry man and talked like a 
 running brook. 
 
 "And now," she said, "for the house. First the 
 library. Uncle Richard told me about all the death 
 heads with dusty brows." 
 
 "Did he tell you about the crocodile?" I asked. 
 
 "Which crocodile?" said Virginia gravely. 
 
 "We have one only," I answered. "And I'm afraid 
 it won't interest you very much. . . . This is the 
 library." 
 
 She was for having the shutters open. 
 
 "My father wouldn't like it," I said. 
 
 "This once," said she, and I served the whim. 
 
 "Yes," she said, after examination, "it is dreadful. 
 Show me the crocodile, and then let's go." 
 
 But she was more interested in the scroll. 
 
 "It's Arabic," she said; "I can read it." 
 319 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "You can read Arabic?" 
 
 " Indeed, yes. When papa's lungs went bad we lived 
 in Cairo. He died in Egypt, you know. . . . Listen. 
 ... It says: 'That man who holds me (it's the croco- 
 dile talking) in both hands, and cries thrice the name of 
 Allah, shall see the face of his beloved though she were 
 dead.'" 
 
 "That's not our version," I said. "We believe that 
 the possession of that beast invites misfortune." 
 
 " But you don't read Arabic," said Virginia. " Quick, 
 Richard, take this thing in your two hands and call 
 'Allah' three times — loud, because it's a long way to 
 Egypt — why, the man doesn't want to play — " 
 
 I had taken the crocodile in my hands, but balked, 
 and I believe blushed, at the idea of raising my voice 
 above the conversational pitch to further so absurd an 
 experiment. 
 
 "Don't you want to see the face of your beloved ?" 
 
 "I have none," said I. 
 
 " Then I'd cry ' Allah ' till I had," said she. " Please 
 — only three times." 
 
 So I held the crocodile, looking very foolish, and 
 called three times upon the prophet. Then I turned to 
 Virginia and met her eyes. The same thought oc- 
 curred to us both, for we looked away. It was then that 
 my father entered. 
 
 "Richard," he said, "the shutters " 
 
 320 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 I made haste to close them, for I was blushing. 
 
 "This is Virginia!" said my father. "Welcome to 
 our sad and lonely house. I thought just now that I 
 heard some one calling aloud." 
 
 "It was Richard," said Virginia. "This scroll — " 
 and she translated to my father. 
 
 "Oh, for faith to believe," said he. He took the 
 crocodile in his hands and examined it with sad interest. 
 "I have just come from her tomb, Virginia," he said. 
 "I have been laying jasmine about it." 
 
 "Oh, the dear jasmine!" cried Virginia. "It's 
 splendidly out, and to-morrow I shall fill the house 
 with it. 
 
 "The house — " said my father hazily. 
 
 "Don't you like flowers, Uncle John?" 
 
 "I neither like nor dislike them," said my father. 
 
 "Then why, for heaven's sake — " but she stopped 
 herself. "And you, Richard, don't you like them ?" 
 
 "I have grown to think of them," said I, "if at all, 
 as something odorous and sad, vaguely connected with 
 funerals." 
 
 "Oh, no!" cried Virginia. "They are beautiful and 
 gay, and they are connected with weddings — " 
 
 "Don't," said my father quickly. He was still hold- 
 ing the crocodile. "But I do not blame you, child. 
 You will soon learn our ways. Since our great loss we 
 have kept very quiet. ... Ay, my dear, but you 
 
 321 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 should have seen Richard's mother — was she not bon- 
 ny, Richard?" 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 "I could fain look upon her again," he said. "And 
 the scroll — does it not say 'even though she were 
 dead?' . . . Who was it called 'Allah'? . . . You, 
 Richard ? . . . And what face did you see ? . . ." 
 
 "Tell him," said Virginia. 
 
 "Ay, tell me," said my father. 
 
 "I saw Virginia's face," said I. 
 
 Then we left him. But in the hall Virginia laid her 
 hand on my shoulder. 
 
 "Haven't you noticed?" said she. 
 
 "What?" said I. 
 
 "Your father," said she. 
 
 "No," said I; "what ails him?" 
 
 Virginia tapped her forehead. 
 
 "Mildewed here," said she. 
 
 "I don't understand," said I. 
 
 "Never mind then, Richard," said she; "I'll take 
 care of you." 
 
 That night I dreamed that I heard my father calling 
 the name of Allah. But in the morning I rose early, 
 and, going to the woods, gathered an armful of jasmine 
 for Virginia. 
 
 She received it cheerfully. 
 
 "Is this — er — in memory of any one?" she asked. 
 322 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "Yes," I said boldly, "it's in memory of me." 
 "Then I will keep it, Richard," she said. "Flowers 
 are for the living." 
 "Yes," I said. 
 "And crocodiles," said she, "are for the dead." 
 
 Ill 
 
 For a long time I looked upon the innocent gayness 
 and frivolity of Virginia with blinking eyes, as a person 
 blinks at the sudden match lighted in the middle of the 
 night. I had been pledged to darkness from my earliest 
 years, and now, while my character, still happily plastic, 
 was receiving its definite stamps, I blinked hankeringly 
 at the light that I might have loved, and at the same 
 time steeled myself to go through with the prearranged 
 marriage. As in the Yankee States children are brought 
 up to believe that it is wicked to be joyous on Sunday 
 so I had been taught to believe of every twenty-four 
 hours in the week. 
 
 I cannot think peacefully of that unhappy period in 
 Virginia's life forced on her by us two moribunds. She 
 was the sun, soaring in bright, beneficent career, brought 
 suddenly to impotence by a London fog. And I take 
 it that to be bright and happy, and to fail in making 
 others so, is the most grievous chapter in life. But 
 Virginia's glowing nature had its effect on mine, and in 
 
 323 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 the end she set my spirits dancing. With my father, 
 however, the effect of a madcap sunbeam in the house 
 was altogether different. For it served only to plunge 
 him deeper into gloom and regret. If we came to din- 
 ner with him fresh from the joyous morning and in love 
 with laughter, the misery into which he was too pal- 
 pably thrown reacted so that for all three of us the 
 afternoon became clouded. Sometimes his sorrow 
 would take the form of mocking at all things peaceful 
 and pleasant. In particular the institution of marriage 
 aroused in him hostility. 
 
 "Ay, marry," he would say, "Richard, and beget 
 death. It may be hereditary in our family. Ex- 
 change your wife, who is your soul, for a red and puling 
 inconsequence, that shall serve down the tiresome years 
 to remind you day and night of the sunshine which has 
 been extinguished for you." 
 
 And I remember once retorting on him sharply to 
 the effect that if he threw me so constantly in my own 
 face I would leave his roof, and in the intemperance of 
 the moment I fully purposed to do so. "I will do no 
 worse among strangers," I said, "or in hell, for that 
 matter." 
 
 My father fairly shrivelled before the unfilial words, 
 and retreated so pathetically from his foolish position 
 that my attack melted clean away. 
 
 "But why," I said afterward to Virginia, "wouldn't 
 324 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 he let me go ? Why did he say that he could not live 
 without me? And why, in God's name, when it was 
 all over, did he cry?" 
 
 And Virginia thought for a few moments, which was 
 unusual with her, and said presently: "Richard, either 
 your father is the greatest lover that ever lived, or else 
 he is a tiresome egomaniac. Frankly, I believe the 
 latter. You are an accessory, a dismal carving on the 
 mouldy frame in which he pictures himself. When I 
 first came I used to tell him how terribly sorry I was 
 that he had lost his wife. But I've given that up. Be- 
 tween you and me, it made him a little peevish. Now 
 I say to him, 'Uncle Richard, you're the unhappiest 
 man I ever saw,' and that comforts him tremendously. 
 Sometimes he asks me if I really think so, and when I 
 say that I do he almost smiles. And I have caught him, 
 immediately after a scene like that, looking at himself 
 in the mirror and pulling his face even longer than 
 usual. . . . There, I've shocked you." 
 
 "No, Virginia," I said, "but I should hate to believe 
 of any man what you believe of my father. His grief 
 must be sincere." 
 
 "It may be," said Virginia, "or it may have been 
 once. I believe it isn't now. I believe that if your 
 mother came to life your father would " 
 
 Virginia did not finish. We were seated in the cool 
 hall, for the porch was piping hot, and our conversation 
 
 325 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 was interrupted by a loud cry emanating from the 
 library. 
 
 "Allah— Allah— Allah!" 
 
 " If I weren't charitable, which I am," said Virginia, 
 " I would say that that was done for effect. He knows 
 we're here. Bet you, he's looking at himself in the 
 glass." 
 
 "Virginia," I began angrily, and I was for telling her 
 that she was ill-natured, when the library door opened 
 and my father came out. 
 
 " Oh! " said he, with a fine start, "I did not know you 
 were there. ..." 
 
 Virginia gave me one look, at once hurt and amused. 
 Then she turned to my father and said gravely: "Did 
 anything happen, Uncle Richard, when you called? 
 Did you see the — the face— of " 
 
 " No, child," said my father sadly. " I was so foolish, 
 I may say undignified, as to try a childish and foolish 
 experiment. It is unnecessary to say that the tall and 
 stately form and classic face of Richard's dear mother 
 did not appear to me. But I caught a glimpse of an- 
 other face, Virginia — a face white and broken by sorrow 
 and regret, a face that it was not pleasant to see. . . . 
 How it all comes back to me," he went on. "Here I 
 stood by her casket, ignorant of time and place — ig- 
 norant of all earthly things but loss — and for the last 
 time looked upon her beauty. No, not for the last time, 
 
 326 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "'For all my daily trances 
 
 And all my nightly dreams 
 Are where thy bright eye glances 
 And where thy footstep gleams.' 
 
 "Ay, child, but she was bonny! Was she not bonny, 
 Richard?" 
 
 I do not know what prompted Virginia to ask the 
 sudden question which turned my father's face for a 
 moment into a painful blank, and placed him in a 
 position from which he extricated himself, I am forced 
 to believe, only by a real and searching act of 
 memory. 
 
 "What was her name?" said Virginia quickly. 
 
 It was a full half minute before my father managed 
 to stammer my mother's name. But during the ensu- 
 ing days it was constantly on his lips, as if he wished to 
 make up to it for the oblivion into which it had been 
 allowed to drop. 
 
 That afternoon it rained violently, and Virginia per- 
 suaded me to explore with her the mysteries of the 
 ancient and cobwebby attic which occupied the whole 
 upper floor of our house. It was a place in whose 
 slatted window-blinds sparrows built their nests, and 
 in which a period, that of my mother's brief mistress- 
 ship, had been perfectly preserved. It was the most 
 cheerful part of the house. 
 
 327 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 Among other things we found in a trunk of old fash- 
 ion my mother's wedding regalia. A dress of apple- 
 green silk embroidered about the neck and wrists with 
 tiny forget-me-nots, faded to the palest shade of lilac; 
 a pair of tiny shoes of the same apple-green silk, with 
 square toes and dark jade buttons; a veil of Venetian 
 point, from which a large square had been cut, and the 
 brittle remnants of a wreath — my mother's wedding 
 wreath, which old Ann had often told me was com- 
 bined of apple and orange flowers. When Virginia 
 stood up and held the neck of my mother's dress level 
 with the neck of her own it did not reach to her ankles, 
 and she smiled at me. 
 
 "Richard," she said, "I could not get into this 
 dress. Your tall and stately mother was no bigger 
 than I." 
 
 "And no sweeter, I fancy," said I. For the being 
 together with Virginia over my mother's things had 
 suddenly opened my heart to her. 
 
 "Oh, Virginia," I went on, "it makes me sick to 
 think of your living on in this dead house. I want 
 you to be happy. I want to make you happy. 
 You are the only good thing that was ever in my 
 life. I know it now. And I — I want to be happy, 
 too. ..." 
 
 We explored the attic no more that day, and after 
 supper we told my father. 
 
 328 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 IV 
 
 Prom the very announcement to him of our engage- 
 ment a marked change came over my father. Hitherto 
 his influence had been for darkness, but of a silent and 
 quiet character, like that which clouds spread through 
 a wood at noon; but now he had become baleful and 
 pointed in his efforts to make us unhappy. 
 
 To set in motion any machinery of escape was too 
 impracticable and tedious to be thought of. Had I 
 been for myself alone, I would have left him at this 
 period and endeavored to support myself. But with 
 Virginia to care for — and I could not leave her while I 
 made my own way — the impulse was empty. He made 
 attacks on our happiness with tongue and contrivance. 
 He descended to raillery and sneers, even to coarseness. 
 Yet when the confines of endurance had been ap- 
 proached too closely, and I threatened to cross them, 
 he clung to me with such a seeming of feeling and 
 patheticalness that I was forced to hold back. Through 
 these harsh times Virginia was all sweetness and pa- 
 tience, but her cheeks lost their color and her body the 
 delicious fulness of its lines. 
 
 My father was at times so eccentric in his behavior 
 that I had it often in mind to ask the investigations of 
 a physician. But as often the horror of a son prying 
 
 329 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 after madness in his father withheld me. As always, 
 his actions centred around the observance of his private 
 grief. And to that great mental structure which he 
 had made of my mother's beauties and virtues, he added 
 incessantly wings and superstructures, until we had 
 portrayed for us a woman in no way human or pos- 
 sible. To draw odious comparisons between Virginia 
 and my mother, between his capacity for loving and my 
 own, were his constant and indelicate exercises. 
 
 "Do you think you love, Richard?" he would say. 
 "If she were to die this night, where would your love 
 be at the end of the year? Is she bonny enough to 
 hold a man's heart till death shall seek him out too? 
 She's well enough in her way, your Virginia, I'll not 
 deny that. But does a man remember what was only 
 well enough? Does a man remember the first peach 
 he ate ? Nay, he will not remember that. But will he * 
 forget the first time that he heard Beethoven? Your 
 mother, she was that — rich, strong music, she was — 
 the bonny one — the unforgetable. Ah, the majesty of 
 her, Richard, that was only for me to approach!" 
 
 And such like, till the heart sickened in ybu. Often 
 he made us go with him to the vault and listen to his 
 speeches, and kneel with him in the wet. Finally he 
 played on us a trick that had in it something of the 
 truly devilish, and was the beginning of the end. He 
 began by insisting that we should be married and ap- 
 
 330 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 pointing a day. There was to be a minister, ourselves, 
 and the servants. We were glad enough to be married, 
 even on such scanty terms, and I well remember with 
 what eagerness I arose on the glad morning, and 
 slipped into my better suit of black, for I had no gayer 
 clothes. Virginia did not come down to breakfast, but 
 toward the close of that meal, at which my father was 
 the nearest he ever came to being cheerful I heard her 
 calling to me from the upper story. When I knocked 
 at her door she opened it a little and showed me a 
 teary face. "Richard," she said, "they've taken away 
 my clothes and left only a black dress. I won't be 
 married in black." 
 
 "Does it matter, dear?" I said. "Put it on and we 
 will ransack the attic for something gayer." 
 
 But we found the attic locked. My father had pro- 
 vided against resistance. 
 
 "Does it matter, dear?" I said. "It's not your 
 clothes I'm marrying — it's my darling herself." 
 
 So she smiled bravely and we went downstairs. The 
 ceremony was appointed for eleven in the morning. 
 But at that hour neither the minister, nor my father, 
 nor the servants were to be found. We waited until 
 twelve. Then I went out to look for my father. I 
 went first to the vault and there found him. He was 
 kneeling in the wet, facing the door, and holding in his 
 hands the stuffed crocodile. He had, I suppose, been 
 
 331 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 calling the name of Allah in the wild hope of seeing my 
 mother's face. 
 
 "Have you forgotten that we are to be married to- 
 day?" I said. 
 
 He rose, hiding the crocodile beneath his coat. 
 
 "No," he said, "I had not forgotten that. Why 
 should I be forgetting that ? But the minister, he could 
 not come — at the last minute he could not come." 
 
 "Then you should have told us," I said sternly. 
 
 "Would you be angry with me, Richard, my son?" 
 he answered gently. 
 
 "Why couldn't the minister come?" I said, giving no 
 heed to his question. 
 
 The gentleness, which must have been play-acting, 
 went out of my father's voice. 
 
 "The minister," he said sneeringly: "faith, the min- 
 ister, he had a more important funeral to attend." 
 
 My gorge rose and fell. 
 
 "What have you done with Virginia's trunk?" I 
 said. 
 
 " It will be back in her room by now," said my father. 
 
 "Thank you," said I, "and good-day to you." 
 
 " Good-day, Richard ? Good-day ? " 
 
 "Yes," said I. "I am going to take her away." 
 
 "You'll not go far without money," said he. 
 
 "With heart," said I, "we shall go to the ends of the 
 earth." 
 
 332 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 My father turned to the vault and addressed the 
 shade of my mother. "Hear him," cried he, "hear 
 him that took you from me. He's going to the ends of 
 the earth. He turns his back upon your hallowed 
 bones. . . ." His words became unintelligible. 
 • *•••... 
 
 During the packing of my trunk I left off again and 
 again to go to Virginia's door to ask if all were well 
 with her. For there had been a look in my father's 
 face which haunted me like a hint of coming evil. And 
 although nothing but good came of that afternoon, 
 still its events were so strange as to make me believe 
 that men are often forewarned of the unusual. It was 
 about three o'clock that suddenly I heard my father 
 shrieking aloud in his library. Thinking that sickness 
 must have seized him, I bounded down the stairs to 
 offer assistance or search for it if necessary. But ex- 
 cept for a pallor unusual even with him, he was not 
 apparently sick. The crocodile lay belly up on the 
 table, as if it had been hastily laid down. 
 
 "What's the matter?" I asked. 
 
 "Richard," said my father, in great excitement," the 
 door of the vault is open. But now I heard it creaking 
 upon its hinges " 
 
 Virginia, who had heard the shrieks, now joined us, 
 her face white with alarm. 
 
 "What is it?" she cried. 
 
 333 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "The resurrection of the deadl" cried my father, and, 
 thrusting my detaining arm suddenly aside, he literally 
 burst out of the house. I followed at my best speed, 
 and Virginia brought up the rear. In this order we 
 raced through the woods, brightly mottled with sun- 
 shine and shadows, in the direction of the vault. Run 
 as I would, I could not gain on my father, who seemed 
 to possess the speed of a pestilence. As he ran he kept 
 crying: "God is merciful! I shall see the face of my 
 beloved." 
 
 I cannot account for what happened. A little lady, 
 dressed in apple-green silk, with a wreath of flowers 
 upon her head, appeared suddenly in the path, ahead 
 of and facing my father. She held out her arms as if 
 to detain him. But he bore down upon her at full 
 speed, and I cried out to warn her. Then they met. 
 But there was no visible or audible sign of collision. 
 My father literally seemed to pass through her. He 
 ran on, always at top speed, and the little lady in the 
 apple-green silk was no longer to be seen in any direc- 
 tion. Yet she seemed to have left an influence in the 
 bright forest, gentle and serene, and I could swear that 
 there lingered in the air a faint smell of apple blossoms 
 and orange blossoms. And it may be the echo of a cry 
 of pain — the ghost of a cry. 
 
 When I came to the vault its door was wide open, 
 and I found my father within, breaking with bis thin 
 
 334 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 hands the lid from my mother's coffin. I was not in 
 time to prevent him from completing his mad outrage. 
 The lid came clean away with a ripping noise, and my 
 father gazed eagerly at the face thus rudely revealed to 
 the light of day. But what horrible alchemy of the 
 grave had brought into shape the face upon which 
 my father looked so eagerly is not for mortal man to 
 know. For the face was not my mother's, but his 
 own. 
 
 Gently he laid his hand on the forehead, and gently 
 he said: "Was she not bonny, Richard? . . . Was 
 she not bonny?" 
 
 V 
 
 Our honeymoon was nearly a week old, when one 
 morning Virginia and I were taking breakfast in the 
 glass dining-room of the old Hygeia Hotel. The 
 waiters, the other guests, the cups, saucers, knives, and 
 spoons all made eyes at us, but we were wonderfully 
 happy. An old gentleman approached our table with 
 a kind of a sad tiptoe gait. Tears were in his eyes. 
 
 "My dear boy," he said, "I have not the heart to 
 congratulate you on your happiness, for I cannot help 
 remembering what a good father you have so recently 
 lost. I was present at his wedding, and I have not seen 
 him since. But as you see — " and the old gentleman 
 drew attention to the tears in his eyes. 
 
 335 
 
THE CROCODILE 
 
 "Aren't you mistaken, sir?" said I. "Aren't you 
 thinking of somebody else's father?" 
 
 "Why, no," said he, "your father was . 
 
 Don't tell me that he wasn't." 
 
 "I shall have to," I said, "for he wasn't. My father 
 was a crocodile." 
 
 336 
 
- 
 
 ■ ■ . ■ ■ 
 
 M: :>,, ;;,.,, . ; , ; ;,, ; .