stuff 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BEQUEST 
 
 OF 
 
 STEWART HENRY BURNHAM 
 1?43 
 
Cornell University Ubrary 
 PS 2419.M69N8 
 
 Not without.honoe£,,a,„;||A^^^ 
 
 3 1924 022 155 075 
 
 All books are subject to recall after two weeks 
 Oiin/Kroch Library 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 AlA^^^^ 
 
 - p- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.A. 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022155075 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 

NOT WITHOUT 
 HONOR 
 
 The Story of an Odd Boy 
 
 By 
 
 WILLIAM D. MOFFAT 
 
 Arnold and Company 
 
 Philadelphia 
 
 Ha 
 
Copyright 1896 by Arnold and Company 
 
2)e&icatc& to tbe 
 IRea&crs of ITbe argosg 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I A Scrap of Paper at Wilton Junxtion 9 
 
 II Two Brothers 14 
 
 , III Mother and Sons 19 
 
 IV The Shadow of the Past 26 
 
 V Pen Meets Mr. Austin Terry and Others 33 
 
 VI Pen Tries A Newspaper "Story" . . 42 
 
 VII Pen Begins to See Life 48 
 
 VIII Pen Goes to the Theatre ... 60 
 
 IX Under Arrest 70 
 
 X Pen's Dramatic Criticism .... 78 
 
 XI Pen's Poem 84 
 
 XII Pen is Left to Fight His Own Way . 90 
 
 XIII Pen Fares Badly 97 
 
 XIV Pen Overhears a Conversation . 107 
 XV Pen Finds a New Place 117 
 
 XVI Alarming News 127 
 
Chapier ^''^^ 
 
 XVII Will Rae Searches FOR His Brother . 132 
 
 XVIII W^HAT Pen Had to Say for Himself . 140 
 
 XIX Pen's Boston Trip 146 
 
 XX Will Frees His Mind 153 
 
 XXI Matters Come to a Head at the Book. 
 
 Stor'e ■ • ■ 161 
 
 XXII A Discouraging Outlook .... 166 
 
 XXIII A Dream Fulfilled i75 
 
 XXIV An Adventure AT Midnight .... 187 
 XXV Pen Makes New Friends 197 
 
 XXVI Pen as a Dramatic Critic .... 206 
 
 XXVII Pen's Play 215 
 
 XXVIII At the Opera House 223 
 
 XXIX Pen Has a Talk WITH Mr. Terry . . . 228 
 
 XXX A Bunch of Violets 237 
 
 XXXI An Unexpected Offer 246 
 
 XXXII A New Year's Surprise 251 
 
 XXXni A Surprise THAT Failed 257 
 
CHAPTER I 
 A Scrap of Paper at Wilton Junction 
 
 ALONG stretch of sandy, dusty road, 
 flanked by hedges and farmlands, ascend- 
 ing toward the west where the road enters 
 the town ; at the summit of the ascent a dense chister 
 of trees, completely concealing the town except 
 where a few spires and steeples thrust their points 
 above the foliage — that is all the passing traveler 
 ever sees of Wilton. 
 
 But even this glimpse must be a pleasant one, 
 for seldom a train rumbles past Wilton Junction 
 without several of the passengers gazing interest- 
 edly at the patch of green on the hill two miles 
 distant, turning their heads as the cars speed on, 
 and continuing to gaze as long as the slender spires 
 remain in sight. 
 
 Few trains stop at Wilton Junction. The regular 
 mails every day, occasional freight and express 
 packages, and a few passengers once in a while 
 make up all the travel that passes between the 
 Junction and the town. 
 
lo NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 At noontime the old station is particularly quiet. 
 The official that serves as ticket agent and telegraph 
 operator usually dozes the hour away in his chair, 
 while the station master sits outside smoking his 
 pipe. After one o'clock things stir up a bit in prep- 
 aration for the 1.40 train. 
 
 Such was the condition of affairs one day in 
 June. The train was approaching, and the station 
 master stood awaiting it, flag in hand. As it rolled 
 in, an old darky hobbled around the corner of the 
 station and made for the baggage car as fast as his 
 rheumatic legs would permit. 
 
 "Hullo, Uncle 'Lias, hot weather, ain't it?" 
 cried the express agent, as he swung several pack- 
 ages off onto the platform. 
 
 " 'Deed it is — hottest tenth of June we've had 
 in nigh on fo'teen year," answered the darky, claim- 
 ing one of the packages, and hoisting it slowly on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " Pretty old for work, ain't you, 'Lias? Why 
 don't you rest these hot days?" 
 
 " Hyah ! Hyah !" laughed 'Lias. " Who's 
 gwine to pay my rent while I rest ? 'Pears to 
 me I ain't a ole nigger, anyhow. I's good fo' 
 ten year yet — p'r'aps twenty. I kin do a power 
 o' work, too, and don't yo' forgit it. I's one 
 of them stayers. Yo' young ho'ses go prancin' 
 around makin' a great fuss, an' den luff off. I's 
 one of them stayen. What's the matter with 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR " 
 
 yo' ole train, anyhow? 'Pears to me even yo' 
 injine is tired." 
 
 The agent ran ahead. The engineer was busy 
 at the side of the engine adjusting some piece of 
 the machinery. 
 
 Car windows went up and heads were thrust 
 out. Several passengers, curious at the delay, came 
 out upon the platform. 
 
 Among these was a gentleman about forty years 
 of age, who seemed little interested in the mishap, 
 but took advantage of the delay to walk around 
 the station to the rear platform. 
 
 When 'Lias came slowly around with his 
 bundle, he saw the gentleman standing at the 
 extreme edge of the platform, his eyes fastened 
 intently on the distant spires of Wilton. 'Lias 
 deposited the bundle in his wagon, and approached 
 the stranger. 
 
 " 'Scuse me, suh, but is yo' gwine to Wilton?" 
 
 The stranger turned. 
 
 " No !" he exclaimed, abruptly. 
 
 " All right, suh. 'Scuse me, suh," answered 
 'Lias, respectfully. " I only thought if you was 
 gwine to Wilton I'd tek yo' 'long in mah wagon." 
 
 " I am not going there," answered the man, 
 still more sharply, wheeling about and walking 
 away. 
 
 " Didn't mean no offence, suh — only thought — " 
 But the man bad left the old darky some distance 
 
12 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 behind him by this time, and 'Lias'woids died away 
 into a low whistle. 
 
 When the stranger had passed around the station, 
 'Lias followed him as far as the corner of the build- 
 ing, and, standing there, watched him until he got 
 on the car. 
 
 Then, as the train started on, the darky fol- 
 lowed its course with his eyes until it, too, was out 
 of sight. And even after that he still remained 
 gazing thoughtfully down the tracks. 
 
 A few minutes later he roused himself and 
 shuffled slowly back to his wagon. 
 
 " Ghosts ! ghosts !" he muttered. 
 
 In the dusty road just beside the platform lay 
 a white piece of paper, crumpled and torn. 'Lias 
 stooped and picked it up. 
 
 It was an old envelope, 
 
 'Lias looked at it a minute, screwing up his face 
 as he laboriously spelt out the name of the person 
 to whom it was addressed. When he had finished, 
 he made a motion as if to throw it back into the 
 road, but suddenly changing his mind, he dropped 
 it into one of his big side pockets. 
 
 Then he climbed up on his wagon and took up 
 the reins. 
 
 " Git along now, Rosie !" he exclaimed, admin- 
 istering a sharp smack to the back of the anti- 
 quated mule, who rallied at this summons, opened 
 her eyes, shot a reproachful glance at her master 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 13 
 
 over one shoulder, and then set off wearily down 
 the road. 
 
 'Lias held the reins listlessly, and sat with his 
 head bent, gazing down between the shafts. 
 
 " What'll Chloe say— what'll Chloe say, I doan' 
 know," he repeated, half aloud. The wagon gave 
 a heavy lurch, and he raised his head. " Heah, yo' 
 fool mule !" he called out, sharply. " What fo' yo' 
 layin' yo' ears back ? Yo' got 'nuff to do to drag 
 dis wagon up hill widout listenin' to mah conversa- 
 shun. Git on now — heah me?" 
 
 Another smack of the whip, a long sigh from 
 Rosie, and the wagon rolled on through the deep 
 sand in a silence broken only once more, just a short 
 distance from the town, when 'Lias settled back in 
 his seat with an air of resolution. 
 
 " I doan' tell Chloe — I doan' tell nobody," he 
 said. " I's a ole nigger anyhow, and doan' know 
 what I see." 
 
14 NOT fVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 Two Brothers 
 
 JUST where the road entered the town there 
 stood a small frame house surrounded by a 
 modest patch of land, perhaps three acres in 
 area. The place was inclosed by a well-kept 
 hedge, and attracted attention at once by its exceed- 
 ing neatness. 
 
 The ground immediately in front of the house 
 had been made into a flower garden, with beds and 
 rows of flowers tastefully chosen and arranged, 
 through the centre of which ran a pathway to the 
 gate arched over with grapevines. 
 
 The ground at the back of the house was cul- 
 tivated as a kitchen garden, while at the side was a 
 small yard cut also by a pathway. In this yard, 
 close against the fence, stood a rustic arbor quite 
 buried in honeysuckle vines, a delightfully cool and 
 inviting spot. 
 
 When old 'Lias reached this place on the road, 
 he brought Rosie to a standstill, and throwing the 
 reins over her back, climbed down and shuffled into 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 15 
 
 the garden through the grape arbor, and out across 
 the side yard. 
 
 At the edge of the kitchen garden a boy about 
 sixteen years old was bending down close to the 
 ground intently at work. 
 
 " Willie ! Willie ! " called out the old darky. 
 
 The boy straightened up and looked around. 
 
 " Hullo, 'Lias, got anything for us ? " he asked. 
 
 "Nope. Where's de missy ? " 
 
 " Somewhere in town giving her music lessons. 
 Want to see her ? " 
 
 " She tole me to see if any pahsel kum fo' her 
 on de one fo'ty 'spress to-day. Well, I dun doan' 
 fin' none. S'pose you jes' tell her dere wan't nufifin, 
 will yo' ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " An' tell her I look agin when I go over fo' de 
 fo' fo'ty train dis afternoon." 
 
 " All right, 'Lias. Much obliged." 
 
 " What yo' plantin' dere, Willie ? " 
 
 " Radishes." 
 
 " Look out yo' doan' mek de soil too rich. All 
 yo' radishes dun grow up in big green trees an' no 
 roots on 'em. 
 
 "I'll look out Jor that, 'Lias. What do you 
 think of the garden ? " 
 
 " Fine, Willie, fine ! an' all your wo'k ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " An' all flower gahden missy's wo'k ? " 
 
i6 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Doan' dat big brudder o' yours do nuffin, 
 den?" 
 
 " Oh, Pen ? Yes, he's the genius of our family, 
 you know. He writes poetry and stories, and " 
 
 " Po'try ! " exclaimed 'Lias disgustedly. " What 
 good is po'try anyhow. Does he mek any money 
 fo' de missy ? " 
 
 " No, not yet," answered the boy; " but Pen is 
 only nineteen, you know, and it takes some time to 
 make a mark in literature. Pen has already had 
 two poems printed in the Wilton Press " 
 
 " Any money in dat? " 
 
 " No ; the Press can't afford to pay for contri- 
 butions, but it's a good beginning, and we believe 
 Pen will make his mark some day." 
 
 " His mahk ! His mahk ! " repeated 'Lias with 
 emphasis. " He goin' to mek his mahk some day! 
 See heah, boy ! You's only sixteen and you's 
 made yo' mahk. Look at dat gahden ! Dat's yo' 
 mahk. Dat feeds missy an' keeps her strong, 
 so she kin teach at de schoolhouse an' give her 
 do-mi-sol-dos to de young misses. If missy had 
 to wait fo' dat big brudder to mek his mahk she'd 
 have to live on wind puddin' an' air sauce. Why 
 doan' she mek him go to wo'k in de gahden same 
 as yo'?" 
 
 " Pen couldn't do this sort of work. He's not 
 fit for it," said Will. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 17 
 
 " Pears like he ain't fit fo' no wo'k," answered 
 the old darky decidedly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, 'Lias ; yes, he is, and much better 
 work. We have faith in Pen, and we expect to be 
 proud of him some day." 
 
 " Pears like yo' must feel dat way — goin' on 
 feedin' dat big boy an' he doin' nuffin. All de 
 folk in town talk about it." 
 
 " Well, it's none of the town's business," 
 exclaimed Will, firing up. " This is a family matter, 
 and I'd like to hear anybody say — " 
 
 " Can't help talk, Willie, can't help talk," inter- 
 rupted 'Lias with the freedom of an old and privi- 
 leged friend. " An' when every one see dat brud- 
 der live on here, never puttin' his shoulder to de 
 wheel, while po' missy wo'k hard all de yeah to 
 mek two ends stick togedder, an' yo' doin' yo' best 
 to help — ^yo' can't help people sayin' he good fo' 
 nuffin an' only a big load on missy an' yo — an' dey 
 do say it all de time, too. I know missy. She too 
 soft an' gentle to say a wud to him. He her pet 
 boy, I know. Den I say, Willie, yo' put in a wud. 
 Tell him dat he — ' 
 " No," said Will. 
 
 " Mebbe I say a wud an' tell him. He won't 
 get mad at ole 'Lias." 
 
 " No," put in Will abruptly ; " leave that matter 
 alone. You would make — well, you don't under- 
 
1 8 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Stand. Only don't ever speak of it again — now, 
 remember, 'Lias." 
 
 The old darky dropped the subject at once. 
 
 " I's got to deliver a pahsel at Judge Field's," 
 he said as he shuffled away. " Tell missy I stop 
 when I come back from de fo' fo'ty train." 
 
 Will watched him out of the yard, and then 
 returned to his radishes. 
 
 A moment later a figure appeared at the door 
 of the rustic arbor close by — the figure of a tall 
 boy. 
 
 His slender, sensitive face was flushed scarlet, and 
 the book and papers that he clasped in his hands 
 shook perceptibly. 
 
 Glancing nervously first toward the road and 
 then toward the stooping figure in the garden to 
 make sure that he was unobserved, the boy hurried 
 noiselessly across the yard and darted into the 
 house. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 19 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 Mother and Sons 
 
 WHERE is Pen, Will?" 
 " In his room, I think, mother. I 
 haven't seen anything of him all the 
 afternoon, but I suppose he is at work as usual over 
 his books and papers." 
 
 " Better call him, then ; I'll soon have dinner 
 ready." 
 
 Mrs. Rae wearily laid aside her hat and gloves, 
 and set about preparing the table. She was a 
 slender woman of nearly forty years, attractive in 
 appearance, with a refinement of bearing that im- 
 pressed you at once, and a face unusually sweet 
 and pretty, in spite of the lines of care that had 
 begun to impair the freshness and softness of her 
 complexion. 
 
 The table was set before Will returned. 
 
 " Pen says we may go on without him. He 
 doesn't care for anything to eat." 
 
 Mrs. Rae looked up quickly. 
 
 "He is not sick?" 
 
20 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " No, he says he is writing and doesn't care to 
 stop. I told him he ought to, but he said he wasn't 
 hungry and didn't want to come down. Perhaps he 
 will come down later." 
 
 The two sat down in silence. The meal was 
 half over before it was broken. 
 
 " Had a hard day, mother?" 
 
 Mrs. Rae shook her head as if she were worn out 
 
 " Those Raymond girls!" she said. "I have 
 spent two long hard hours trying to drill them in 
 the simple thirds and fifths, but they can't sing and 
 never will learn. They have no ear for music, and 
 cannot tell a chord from a discord. As you used 
 to say when you were a little boy, they ' have no 
 tune in their mouths.' I am sure I don't know 
 what I ought to do. They are hopeless, and it 
 seems dishonest to take Mrs. Raymond's money 
 and pretend to teach the girls — to say nothing of my 
 reputation as a teacher and the strain on my nerves 
 — but there, that's enough. How is the garden?" 
 
 " Fine. I've finished up the whole plot. To- 
 morrow I'll be able to give you some help on your 
 flowers." 
 
 " You are a blessing to me, Will. What should 
 I do without you ! You are my right arm." 
 
 " And Pen, I suppose, is your left arm — nearest 
 your heart," laughed Will. 
 
 Mrs. Rae had risen and was standing near her 
 son's chair. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR. 21 
 
 She slipped one arm around his neck. 
 
 " I need two arms to live, Will, dear," she said. 
 " I could not bear the loss of either." 
 
 " Bless you, mother, I didn't mean anything," 
 exclaimed Will, turning his face up towards her 
 and laughing again. 
 
 She smiled and kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 " And now," she said, " I must take something 
 up to Pen. I am afraid he is unwell." 
 
 A moment later a tray was filled and Mrs. Rae 
 was ascending the stairs. 
 
 In answer to her knock, her eldest son opened 
 the door. A glance about the room showed her 
 that he had not been writing. His table was quite 
 free from papers. 
 
 " Oh, is it you, mother?" he said. "I thought 
 you would come up." 
 
 " I was afraid you were ill, and so I have brought 
 up your tea." 
 
 " No, I am not ill — and I don't care for any- 
 thing to eat — at least not just now, but I am glad 
 you have come, for I want to have a talk with you 
 alone." 
 
 Mrs. Rae hastily rested the tray on the table 
 and came toward her son with both hands 
 extended. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter, Pen, dear?" she 
 asked anxiously. "Why are you so serious? 
 What is troubling you ?" 
 
22 HOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Pen took her hands. He was a tall and old- 
 looking boy for his age, and as they stood there 
 together they seemed more like sister and brother 
 than mother and son. 
 
 "I've been thinking, mother — thinking all the 
 afternoon," began Pen. 
 
 " And what have you been thinking about?" 
 
 " About myself" 
 
 " And why has that troubled you ?" 
 
 " Because I am beginning to ' hate myself 
 I " 
 
 " Pen, dear, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " That I am a good-for-nothing. All the town 
 says so — don't stop me, I know it. I have heard 
 it — and the worst of it all is I know it is true. 
 Mother, I have made up my mind. I won't stay 
 here any longer. I am going away." 
 
 Mrs. Rae's face changed. 
 
 " Going away?" she echoed. 
 
 " Yes. I can't bear the thought of being a 
 burden on you and Will — for that's what I am. I 
 am going away." 
 
 " Going away — where?" 
 
 " Anywhere — so that no one can say that I am 
 a burden — so that I can earn my independence and 
 make something of myself." 
 
 " Going away — from me!" repeated Mrs. Rae, 
 clinging closer to her son. " Oh, Pen, you must 
 not go away from me — I can't let you go 1" 
 
NOT tVITHOUT HONOR 23 
 
 " I know, mother, and so you said when I talked 
 of getting a position in New York a year ago. I 
 know all you are going to say — about my working 
 in quiet at home over my books — but, I have 
 thought it all over, and I don't believe that is the 
 way to accomplish anything. I am only a load 
 here on you and Will." 
 
 " Pen, dear ! " cried Mrs. Rae, her eyes filling 
 with tears. " Why do you talk that way ? It is 
 not like yourself. What has happened ? It was only 
 last night that we were reading what you had written, 
 and you were planning so hopefully for future work. 
 What has happened to change you so?" 
 
 " Never mind, mother. I have merely over- 
 heard some words — I won't say what — but they 
 have opened my eyes to my true self. I am known 
 here as a good-for-nothing — and I can't stand it." 
 
 "Who says that of you?" cried Mrs. Rae. 
 
 " Every one, mother — and it is true." 
 
 " What has anybody — what has everybody to do 
 with us ?" exclaimed Mrs. Rae. "What do they 
 know of you and what you can do — here in this 
 httle town ? You know the saying : ' A prophet is 
 not without honor except in his own country.' 
 Isn't it enough that I believe in you. Pen ? I know 
 that you have talent and that your work will prove 
 it, and that we shall have reason to be proud of 
 you some day. It may seem hard at first, but 
 genius will tell!" 
 
24 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " But, mother," answered Pen, and he could not 
 help smiling at her words, " what have I done to 
 show any genius — or any worth at all ? I had hopes 
 of doing something, but I can see to-day how fooHsh 
 they were, and I am going to begin now to make 
 something of myself." 
 
 " Oh, no, no. Pen, you must not go — I could 
 not bear it." Mrs. Rae's voice trembled. 
 
 " Would you hke me to stay here, a good-for- 
 nothing — a worthless " 
 
 " Don't, Pen. You must not speak that way." 
 
 " It is the way I feel, and feeling so, there is 
 only one thing to do. I must go away and make a 
 start for myself." 
 
 " Couldn't you make a start here. Pen ?" 
 
 The boy shook his head. 
 
 " There is no chance here for me — nothing for 
 me to do — no way to make anything of myself. I 
 must go to New York. I have thought it all out, 
 and am determined. You must give me a letter to 
 Mr. Terry, and I must get a place on the newspaper 
 with him, as he suggested last year." 
 
 Mrs. Rae calmed herself with an effort. 
 
 " I have been afraid I would lose you all this 
 year. Pen, dear," she said, "for I knew this quiet 
 old town was a poor place for one of your ambi- 
 tions. It was only my selfishness that prompted 
 me to hold you here, for I don't know where I 
 shall turn when you go away." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 25 
 
 "Why, there's Will, mother." 
 
 " Yes ; and Will is my right arm ; but I need 
 both." And as her words with Will recurred to her, 
 her eyes again filled with tears. 
 
 The twilight was deepening into dusk, and Mrs. 
 Rae gently turned her son's face toward the window 
 so she could see his features more plainly, gazing 
 into his eyes with a look of tender yearning. 
 
 A few minutes more, and she was quite calm 
 again. 
 
 " I understand your feelings. Pen," she said ; 
 " and I will not be selfish any longer. I was afraid 
 I could not bear to let you go — and I am not sure 
 yet that I can — but I'll try, for I know it is best for 
 you'; so you may go — and God bless you and watch 
 over you 1" 
 
26 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 The Shadow of the Past 
 
 THREE days later, the whole town knew that 
 Pen Rae was going away. For three days 
 Pen's resolution had been kept a secret, and 
 during that time Mrs. Rae had written a letter to 
 her friend, Austin Terry, who occupied a position 
 on the staff of the New York Herald, asking if he 
 could offer any encouragement to Pen to come to 
 the city. 
 
 In reply she had received the next day the 
 kindest of letters, recommending her to let Pen 
 come at once, and promising him a chance at jour- 
 nalistic work. What the .position was the letter did 
 not definitely state, but the writer's encouraging 
 words offered all the assurance that Mrs. Rae wanted, 
 and she felt confident that Pen would have a fair 
 start, and would be watched over with friendly 
 care. 
 
 " There is no word of salary. Pen," she said, 
 " nor what your work will be. He only says, 
 ' Of course beginnings are small, but I will keep an 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 27 
 
 eye on him.' And that I regard as enough, for 
 there never was a better friend than Austin Terry. 
 Go to him, then, and be frank with him about 
 yourself Tell him all your ambitions, and what 
 you want to make of yourself, and I know he will 
 give you the opportunity." 
 
 So Pen made hasty preparations, and the town 
 for a few days had something new to talk about. 
 
 " So Pen Rae is at last going to do something I 
 Well, it's high time 1" the neighbors said. 
 
 "I'll warrant it will all fall through at the last 
 minute," others remarked. " He hasn't the right 
 stuff in him. If it was Will, now 1" 
 
 " Oh, yes, he probably won't stick to it. If he 
 goes, he will be back in a few weeks, mooning over 
 his books again." 
 
 But Pen went resolutely on with his prepara- 
 tions, unconscious of the comment he was exciting, 
 conscious only of the stinging wound which his 
 pride had sustained, and eager to get away from the 
 place. 
 
 The following Monday morning had been set 
 down for the day of his departure, and on Satur- 
 day old 'Lias had called to claim the privilege of 
 conveying Pen to Wilton Junction. 
 
 'Lias' turnout was by no means luxurious, and 
 Pen hesitated about giving up the comfortable stage 
 for the darky's ramshackle old cart ; but as 'Lias 
 seemed so eager to render this service, and Pen did 
 
28 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 not want to hurt his feelings, he decided to accept 
 the offer. 
 
 The leave-taking in town was brief and easily 
 finished, for Pen was too retiring in disposition to 
 have many friends. He passed his last Sunday 
 quietly at home with his mother and brother ; and 
 early Monday morning, bidding them both an affec- 
 tionate farewell, he mounted 'Lias' wagon and drove 
 slowly away. 
 
 Once, as he approached the bend in the road, 
 he turned back to wave a final parting to his 
 mother, who stood at the gate fluttering her hand- 
 kerchief — then the slender figure, the gateway, the 
 cottage, and the little place that contained all that 
 was dear to him, passed out of view, and he set his 
 face resolutely toward the Junction. 
 
 Nothing was said for several minutes while the 
 cart bumped along the dusty road. Then 'Lias 
 broke the silence. 
 
 " Kind o' lonesome-like fo' de missy w'en yo' 
 gone, Mist' Pen." 
 
 " I suppose so, 'Lias, but it is for the best all 
 around — and mother will get used to -it." 
 
 " Yeah — fo' de best all 'roun', suah nuff — an' 
 de missy, she get used to it too, I reckon. Missy's 
 life bin mostly ' gettin' used ' to things." 
 
 Pen did not answer, and 'Lias, though know- 
 ing he was treading on delicate ground, pushed 
 on. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 29 
 
 " Never knew much 'bout — 'bout yo' fader, 
 Mist' Pen, did yo'?" 
 
 Pen started and looked sharply at the old darky. 
 
 " Why do you ask me that, 'Lias ? You know 
 all and more than I can say. I have no father. I 
 have never known any father. He is dead." 
 
 " Yeah, dead, suah nuff, Mist' Pen. I know 
 what you mean, an' I got no bizness talkin' hke 
 dis ; but somehow, Mist' Pen, yo' bein' the oldes' 
 born, an' yo' goin' away, an' all, seems as if I mus' 
 say somethin' fo' yo' go. 
 
 The darky paused while Pen watched him 
 steadily. 
 
 " Perhaps — perhaps you had better not say it," 
 observed Pen at length. " If it is about — about 
 father's going away, I think I would rather not 
 hear." 
 
 " No, Mist' Pen, tain't nufifin' 'bout dat — oh, 
 no, Mist' Pen — an' per'aps I's a ole stupid nigger 
 an' don't know 'nuff to hole mah tongue, but I feels 
 like I done ought to say jes' one wud. 'Tain't 
 much, I s'pose, but I couldn't talk to missy 'bout it, 
 an' yo' bein' de oldes' born, as I was sayin', I done 
 thought I'd jes' say one wud,seein'yo's goin' away." 
 
 " Well, 'Lias, what is it?" asked Pen. 
 
 The old darky fumbled in one of his pockets 
 for a minute. 
 
 " Well, it's jes' dis, Mist' Pen. Yo's goin' away 
 to New Yo'k to mek yo' mahk, an' it seem to me 
 
30 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 yo' gwine to meet lots of folks an' see lots o' life, 
 an' be a man." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 "Well, Mist' Pen, I ain't gwine to fool wid 
 nuffin 'tain't mah bizness, but I done think yo' 
 ought to know dis. If yo' ever happen to want to 
 know somethin' 'bout yo' fader — per'aps yo' fin' 
 somethin' if yo' look up dat pusson." 
 
 'Lias held out to Pen a crumpled envelope. 
 
 The boy caught it and read the address 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I know nothing of this person," he said. 
 
 "No mo' do I," responded 'Lias; "but dat 
 pusson know Mist' Rae, suah." 
 
 "This person knows — knows my father !" 
 
 "Yeah, Mist' Pen." 
 
 " How do you know that?" 
 
 " Don't know it Mist' Pen, but I putty suah." 
 
 " What makes you feel sure?" 
 
 'Lias lowered his voice almost to a whisper. 
 
 " Mist' Pen I shake in mah boots w'en I say it, 
 but I done tole so much I might jes' as well go on 
 I done saw Mist' Rae las' week an'—" 
 
 Pen started abruptly and caught 'Lias by the 
 arm. 
 
 " You — saw — my — father !" he exclaimed. 
 
 " I's a ole nigger, Mist' Pen, an' it nigh on 
 f'oteen year now, but I don' fo'git. Yes, Mist' 
 Pen, I saw yo' fader las' week — heah at the June- 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 31 
 
 tion — on de train fo' New York — an' he drop dis 
 piece o' paper." 
 
 Pen passed his hand over his face as if uncertain 
 whether he could be awake or dreaming. 
 
 " Dere now, Mist' Pen, I s'pose I done speak 
 out an' mek trouble, an' I no bizness tellin' yo' dat 
 — an' I's a stupid ole " 
 
 " No, 'Lias, I am glad you did speak," inter- 
 rupted Pen. " You did right in telling me. Only 
 one thing more now. Don't breathe a word of this 
 to any one else, and above all to my mother." 
 
 " Trus' me, Mist' Pen, trus' me fo' dat, suah — 
 not one wud." 
 
 " Thank you, 'Lias. I will keep this envelope." 
 
 " Dat's it — dat's right. Yo' keep it, Mist' Pen. It 
 no bizness o' mine, an' I keep mah mouf tight shut." 
 
 They had now reached the Junction, and the 
 ticket had scarcely been bought and the baggage 
 checked when the train arrived. 
 
 " Now yo' go mek yo' mahk. Mist' Pen," 
 said 'Lias, as he clasped Pen's hand in parting ; 
 " an' come back some day a great man jes' as missy 
 say." 
 
 Pen could hardly suppress the tears. 
 
 "You are the only one in Wilton, 'Lias, that' 
 has any faith in me — that is, besides mother." 
 
 " Missy de only one dat knows yo'. Mist' 
 Pen, an' w'en she say yo' mek yo' mahk, I say so 
 too." 
 
32 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " I'll do my best, then," said Pen, with a final 
 grip of the hand. 
 
 A moment later he was on the car, and the train 
 had moved off. 
 
NOT mTHOUT HONOR 33 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 Pen Meets Mr, Austin Terry and Others 
 
 "^"T^T about three o'clock in the afternoon Pen 
 /\^ stood before the entrance to the Herald 
 -^ -^ building at Thirty-fifth Street and Broad- 
 way. From the moment of his entrance into the 
 great city he had been oppressed by an inde- 
 scribable feeling of awe, and now that he had 
 reached his destination, he hesitated for a moment 
 at the door, looking nervously about him, scarcely 
 knowing what to do or where to turn. 
 
 It so happened that all decision in the matter 
 was spared him, for as he stood there, there 
 came a sudden rush of feet, and before he could 
 get away, a man dashed into him, carrying him 
 headlong through the doorway into the vestibule, 
 where he fell on his side on the stone floor, his 
 valise and umbrella flying away in two directions. 
 
 There was a sound of suppressed laughter as 
 Pen picked himself up and stared about him. 
 
 The man who had hustled him so roughly was 
 just disappearing up a flight of marble steps at the 
 
34 t^OT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Other side of the rotunda, without so much as a 
 glance behind him, while from the other side of 
 the glass partitions of the desks that encircled 
 the place, clerks were staring at Pen with amused 
 expressions. 
 
 While he stood there in confusion, an attendant 
 came forward inquiringly. 
 
 " I want to — to see Mr. Terry," Pen stammered, 
 as he gathered up his valise and umbrella. 
 
 " Step upstairs and give your card to the boy 
 in the reception room," said the man. 
 
 The reception room was a bright, attractive apart- 
 ment on the second floor, furnished with a long 
 table and chairs. Here Pen seated himself while 
 the office boy went off with his card to find Mr. 
 Terry. 
 
 A moment later a tall, athletic looking man of 
 about forty walked briskly into the room. One 
 glance at his kindly, handsome face and Pen knew 
 that it must be that of his mother's friend. 
 
 " So you are Pennington Rae," said Mr. Terry, 
 clasping him warmly by the hand. " I have not 
 seen you since you were a little child ; a fine young 
 man you have grown to be. Come into my office." 
 
 Still holding Pen's hand, he led the way to a 
 snug little room, where he seated the boy in a chair 
 by his desk, and threw himself into his own chair 
 facing him. 
 
 " Now, first of all, Pen, how is your mother ? " 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 35 
 
 This set Pen at ease ia a moment, and a half 
 hour's pleasant conversation followed, in which he 
 told Mr. Terry of his mother, his home life, his 
 ambitions to make something of himself as a writer, 
 and his hopes of making his way in New York. 
 
 " Never been at college ? " asked Mr. Terry. 
 
 " No, sir ; only the high school." 
 
 " And your mother — an education in itself." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; my mother has worked and studied 
 with me constantly." 
 
 "Your mother is a remarkable woman. Pen." 
 
 Mr. Terry's admiration and respect for Mrs. 
 Rae had impressed itself on Pen from the first. 
 Surely he must have been an old and faithful friend, 
 he thought ; then added aloud : 
 
 " How long have you known my mother, Mr. 
 Terry?" 
 
 " Ever since I was in college — over twenty 
 years," he answered .thoughtfully. Then more 
 briskly : " And now to business. I have been able 
 to find a place for you here that will serve for a 
 beginning, and will offer you chances for improve- 
 ment. The work will not be hard, and I think will 
 be suited to you. It will consist mainly in helping 
 me, and accordingly you will have a place at this 
 httle table in my office." 
 
 " I am glad of that, sir." 
 
 " I need almost constantly some one to look 
 up references, dates, facts and figures — some one 
 
36 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 who is intelligent, careful and reliable; and I 
 believe you will answer completely. You will 
 also do the same work for the other editors who 
 need it. In this way you will have an opportunity 
 to study the methods of running a newspaper, to 
 pick up information, and perhaps make a better place 
 for yourself later. Things are constantly being 
 shaken up in a newspaper office, and there is no 
 reason why you should not work your way toward 
 the top." 
 
 " Now as to salary. For awhile, and until we 
 see how things go, you will be paid eight dollars a 
 week. As I wrote you, beginnings are small, but 
 I believe you can get along on that for a time, and 
 I will look out for you." 
 
 " I consider any start at all as fortunate, Mr. 
 Terry," replied Pen, " and I am satisfied with what- 
 ever you do for me." 
 
 " I have made arraragements, as I wrote your 
 mother, to find a boarding place for you. You got 
 the address, didn't j'ou ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; Mrs. Bult, on Fifteenth Street. I 
 had my trunk sent there." 
 
 " Good. Mrs. Bult expects you. I engaged a 
 room there for you, and I believe you will be in 
 good hands. Mrs. Bult is a widow, and a very 
 worthy woman. She will let you have a small 
 room with board for six dollars a week, which is on 
 the safe side of your salary. Suppose you go down 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 37 
 
 there this afternoon and see her. Then this even- 
 ing, if you Hke, you can come here, and I will show 
 you around the building. To-morrow you can start 
 in with your work." 
 
 This pleased Pen, so, after some further talk, he 
 was directed how to find Mrs. Bult's, and leaving 
 the building, he boarded a Sixth Avenue car, which 
 soon brought him to Fifteenth Street. He found 
 the house about half way between Seventh and 
 Eighth Avenues, a quiet block, favored at that point 
 by a row of trees that threw a grateful shade over 
 the house fronts. 
 
 Mrs. Bult was a short, stout, motherly-looking 
 woman, with spectacles and white hair. She received 
 Pen very kindly, and showed him at once to his 
 room. 
 
 Pen's heart sank a little as he entered it. It 
 was the rear hall room on the top floor, and con- 
 trasted dismally with his cheerful, sunny apart- 
 ment at home. 
 
 But his feelings of depression were partly 
 relieved when he found how neatly everything was 
 bestowed, and how clean were the carpet, bed linen 
 and the plain lace curtains that hung before 
 the single window. 
 
 His trunk was standing in the centre of the 
 floor, ready to be unpacked. 
 
 " When you have taken your things out I will 
 send the trunk down stairs," said Mrs. Bult. "We 
 
38 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 have dinner at half past six, so you have over an 
 hour to unpack." 
 
 Then she left Pen to settle himself 
 
 First of all, he detached from his vest the hand- 
 some old gold watch which his mother had given 
 him. With pride he opened it and looked first at 
 the face, noting the hour, as he had done fully a 
 dozen times since he left home, then at the shiny 
 case where his mother's initials, E. B. R., were 
 engraved. 
 
 As the scene of the day before came back 
 to him, when his mother had taken the watch 
 from her dressing-case and placed it in his 
 hands, telling him to remember her whenever 
 he opened it, he sighed and laid the precious 
 gift carefully on the bureau where it could not 
 be injured. Then he set briskly to work on 
 his trunk. 
 
 He had been so engaged about ten minutes, 
 when he heard a voice close behind him call out, 
 "Hullo!" 
 
 He turned and found a plain-featured boy about 
 his own age looking at him curiously through the 
 open doorway. 
 
 " Say, are you the new boarder ?" asked the 
 boy, abruptly. 
 
 " I suppose so — yes," answered Pen hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Well, my name is Bob Lecky." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 39 
 
 " I am sure I am glad to know you," said Pen, 
 in his softest tones. 
 
 " You ought to be," exclaimed the boy with a 
 laugh, " for I'm the man of the house." 
 
 Pen could think of nothing to say, so he merely 
 stared. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you," went on the boy. " I'm 
 glad there's going to be another young fellow among 
 all the old fossils in the house.'' 
 
 By the irreverent term of "fossils," Mr. Lecky 
 referred to the other boarders. 
 
 Naturally Pen had no observations to make on 
 this point, and accordingly remained silent, gazing 
 at his visitor in his quiet, dignified way. 
 
 " Well, I won't bother you. I see you're busy," 
 said Lecky. " I was only curious to find out what 
 you looked like — that was all. Auntie Bult told me 
 you were coming, and when she said you were a 
 young fellow of nineteen, it hit me just right. 
 Good-by. I'll see you later." 
 
 With that the boy disappeared, leaving Pen half 
 puzzled, half amused. 
 
 "A nephew of Mrs. Bult. Well, I don't know 
 whether I like him or not," he said to himself, as he 
 resumed his task. 
 
 Bob Lecky's words recurred to Pen when he 
 presented himself at the dinner table, and he could 
 scarcely avoid smihng as he glanced around the 
 board. 
 
40 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 At the head sat Mrs. Bult, prim, sedate and 
 silent, her invariable manner at meals. Just oppo- 
 site sat an old married couple, a Mr. and Mrs. 
 Armstrong. Next to Pen sat a maiden lady of 
 fully sixty, and beyond her a crusty old bachelor of 
 about the same age. 
 
 Bob Lecky completed the party, a cheerful con- 
 trast to the others, opposing their silence by a run- 
 ning fire of facetious observations to his aunt, 
 during which he stared a great deal at Pen, and 
 occasionally made him uneasy by questions of a 
 personal character. 
 
 Pen was glad to escape when the meal was over 
 and get away to his room, where he wrote a letter 
 home, telling his mother of his safe arrival and of 
 his experiences so far. 
 
 This completed, he set off for the Herald build- 
 ing, mailing his letter on the way. 
 
 As he slipped the envelope into the mail box his 
 thoughts went with it to Wilton. The quiet httle 
 town seemed a long way from the turbulent sea of 
 life that roared about him, and again he experienced 
 that dreary sense of personal littleness and insignifi- 
 cance that one feels when he first enters a large 
 city. 
 
 For diversion he began looking at the shop win- 
 dows about him. He reached Mr. Terry's office 
 about half past nine, and spent the evening going 
 about the building, watching the preparations for 
 
NOT fVITHOUT HONOR 4! 
 
 the next day's paper, the making up of the matter, 
 the typesetting, and the casting of the stereotype 
 cylinders, the preparation of the presses, and finally 
 the great machines at work, winding, weaving, 
 printing, pressing, folding, and cutting the great 
 rolls of paper into sheets of news. 
 
42 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 Pen Tries a Newspaper "Story" 
 
 IN that first afternoon and evening in New York 
 Pen had seen far more things than he could 
 begin to understand or even remember. But, 
 out of the confused jumble of impressions, he 
 retained a few facts, and on these he found time to 
 reflect the next morning. 
 
 There had been considerable talk among 
 some of the reporters at the Herald office about 
 this or that " story," and one reporter in partic- 
 ular, had been congratulating himself on what 
 he called an " out-of-sight story," which was his 
 name apparently for a big fire down town, which 
 he had discovered first, and after giving the alarm, 
 had written up, as he said, " for two columns and 
 a half easy." 
 
 Another had found a nice " story "in a " case 
 of bunco " on Sixth Avenue, which he said would 
 yield him a column and more. 
 
 Mr. Terry had explained to him that " story " 
 vvas the word by which they referred to any 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 43 
 
 "find " in the way of news ; some item that would 
 make up a good story for the paper, and would fill 
 the space of a column or more. 
 
 As the reporters were paid by the column, they 
 naturally considered a good long story that would 
 command considerable space as a windfall. 
 
 The result of Pen's reflection on this point was 
 that he asked Mr. Terry during the morning 
 whether he could make up a story for the paper, 
 granted he found a suitable subject. 
 
 " Do the reporters have exclusive rights to these 
 ' stories ' ? " he inquired. 
 
 " By no means," answered Mr. Terry. " There 
 is no right of proprietorship in news. We want to 
 get all the news we can, and if you can find a good 
 item, write it up. If possible, tell me first when 
 you think you have found a subject. I may be able 
 to give you a suggestion." 
 
 Pen, accordingly, bore this in mind, but he had 
 little opportunity to avail himself of the chance the 
 first two days. He was kept very busy either in 
 the reference hbrary looking up matters, or else run- 
 ning errands. 
 
 During one of these errands he took advantage 
 of his proximity to Madison Avenue to follow up a 
 mission he had firmly set before him. 
 
 On referring to the envelope that 'Lias had 
 given him, he found that the address directed him 
 to the neighborhood of Thirtieth Street and Madi- 
 
44 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 son Avenue. It proved to be the number of a large 
 and handsome apartment house. 
 
 " Is there a person of this name living here ? " 
 asked Pen of the janitor. 
 
 The latter glanced at the envelope. 
 
 " There was a year ago," he answered, " but he 
 gave up his apartment last fall.' 
 
 " Do you know where he has gone ? " 
 
 " He went abroad — to travel, I think. He 
 seemed to be a wealthy man, and had plenty of 
 spare time. I don't think he had any regular 
 business. 
 
 " Did he say anything about returning? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Pen turned away disappointed. At first he was 
 inclined, like 'Lias, to throw the envelope away. 
 
 " It can be of no use now," he said. 
 
 Then he decided to keep it. It was a small 
 thing to carry, anyhow, and it might some day prove 
 useful. Accordingly, he placed it again in his 
 pocket, and dismissed the matter from his mind for 
 the time. 
 
 As he approached Broadway on his return, he 
 heard a great uproar and clanging of bells ahead, 
 and, just as he reached the thoroughfare, a fire 
 engine dashed by and turned into a side street. 
 
 There was but one thought uppermost in Pen's 
 mind. 
 
 " Here is my chance for a 'story' !" he exclaimed. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 4S 
 
 There was no time to consult Mr. Terry about 
 this. It was an emergency where he must decide 
 for himself, and decide quickly. 
 
 It was clearly too great an opportunity to lose. 
 All that he had heard the reporters say about catch- 
 ing things in the nick of time recurred to him in a 
 flash. Pressing his hand to his side pocket to make 
 sure that the brand new notebook he had purchased 
 was there, he pulled his hat well down on his head, 
 buttoned up his coat, and set off" on a full run after 
 the engine, knocking people one way and another 
 in his haste, tumbling over grocer boxes and ash 
 barrels, and upsetting two small boys who were 
 pitching pennies, and who shouted after him, " Stop 
 thief!" 
 
 Nobody else seemed to be following the engine, 
 but that did not trouble Pen. In the two days of 
 his city life he had noticed the indifference of the 
 crowds to unusual incidents, and he assumed that 
 this was the case here. 
 
 "It will be all the better 'story' for me," he 
 thought, and pressed on faster still. 
 
 He was now almost abreast of the engine, and 
 as it turned into Eighth Avenue, his heart beat 
 rapidly, for here surely must be the scene of the 
 fire. 
 
 But there was no sign of flames or smoke there, 
 and the engine kept straight on up town, so Pen, 
 saving his breath, ran on and on, paying no atten- 
 
45 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 tion to the people about him, heedless of the stares 
 and calls that followed him, his eyes fixed on the 
 galloping horses ahead. So block after block was 
 passed, and Pen's breath was beginning to give out. 
 
 " We must be getting there," he said to himself. 
 " I can't stand this much longer. Where can the 
 fire be?" 
 
 But the engine kept plunging on, belching out 
 black smoke and dropping hot coals by the way, 
 while, not far behind, came the red wagon filled 
 with firemen. 
 
 At length they reached Forty-seventh Street, and 
 just as Pen was beginning to feel dizzy and faint, the 
 engine turned west and stopped before a house near 
 the corner on the south side of the street, and the 
 firemen, leaping down from all sides, ran in. 
 
 As Pen came up, the engineer and a fireman 
 were busy at the side of the engine, rubbing and 
 polishing. 
 
 As they were the only ones visible outside the 
 building. Pen hurried toward them, notebook and 
 pencil in hand, after the manner of the reporters. 
 
 "Where is the fire — inside?" he asked, scarcely 
 able to speak for panting. 
 
 The engineer looked up at him very coolly. 
 
 "Inside what?" he asked. 
 
 " Inside the house there," cried Pen, pointing 
 with his pencil. "There don't seem to be any 
 flames outside." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 47 
 
 " Well, I guess not," said the engineer, straight- 
 ening up. " What do you think this is, anyhow?" 
 
 " Why, a fire — I supposed." Pen's chin began 
 to fall. 
 
 "A fire — where?" 
 
 " In the house there." 
 
 The engineer stared at him a minute in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Why, you gilly !" he exclaimed. " Don't you 
 see this is the engine house ? We've Just come home." 
 
 Pen became painfully conscious of the circle of 
 small boys that surrounded him. He gazed blankly 
 at the building for a minute. 
 
 " And so there is — there is no fire ?" he stam- 
 mered out. 
 
 " Yes — in the engine," chuckled the man, 
 motioning contemptuously with his thumb. 
 
 Pen tried to slip his notebook back into his 
 pocket without being seen, but the small boys were 
 too sharp for him, and began to make fun. 
 
 Then a last chance of getting out of the situa- 
 tion without being ridiculous occurred to Pen. 
 
 " But there has been a fire ?" he exclaimed, turn- 
 ing again to the engineer. 
 
 " No — false alarm," answered the man, shortly. 
 
 A shout of laughter went up from the small 
 boys, while Pen broke hastily through the circle 
 and disappeared around the corner. 
 
48 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 Pen Begfins to See Life 
 
 ON Friday night, as Pen left the dinner table, 
 Bob Lecky followed him out. 
 " What are you going to do with your- 
 self to-night ?" he asked. 
 
 " I thought I would read in my room," answered 
 Pen. 
 
 " Read nothin'. What's the use of readin'?" 
 
 Pen did not think it worth while arguing the 
 point. The experience of a few meals at the same 
 board with Bob Lecky had taught him that all 
 argument with that individual was vain. 
 
 "What have you to propose?" he asked, 
 politely. 
 
 " Come out and take a walk. I'll show you a 
 little of the town. I'll tell you what it is, Rae, if 
 you keep on the way you've begun here, moping 
 in your room, you'll soon be as old a fossil as the 
 rest of the crowd." 
 
 Pen could not help smiling. 
 
 " The boarders are rather quiet," he said. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 49 
 
 " Quiet ! They'd die of excitement in a grave- 
 yard. Come on out and shake off the gloom." 
 
 " But I don't find it gloomy," answered Pen. 
 " I like a quiet place, and they are very nice, respect- 
 able people." 
 
 " That's just what makes me so mad !" exclaimed 
 Bob, in his reckless way. " They are all so blamed 
 respectable I can't stand it." 
 
 " Why, what would you like?" asked Pen, with 
 wide-open eyes. 
 
 Bob burst out laughing. 
 
 " Say, you're delicious !" he said. " I suppose 
 if I told you I killed babies for fun you would just 
 open your eyes and say, ' How shocking !' But 
 put on your hat. We're wasting time. I want to 
 show you around a bit." 
 
 Thus piloted out, Pen gave up his idea of an even- 
 ing's read for an experience in " seeing the town." 
 
 He did this not at all unwillingly, for he had 
 been told by Mr. Terry that the only way to get up 
 good " stories " for the papers was to go about and 
 see people and things, and keep his eyes open for 
 the unusual and interesting. 
 
 " I may learn lots of new and useful facts," he 
 thought, as Bob Lecky walked him down toward 
 Eighth Avenue, chatting briskly all the time. 
 
 At the corner they came upon a group of boys 
 who greeted Bob warmly. Pen was at once intro- 
 duced all around. 
 
so NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " New fellow — staying at our house — works on 
 the Herald — make him at home — want to show him 
 around the town," said Bob, in his disconnected 
 fashion. 
 
 The name of the newspaper impressed the boys, 
 and they treated Pen with due consideration. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked one of them 
 of Bob Lecky. 
 
 " Down to Tom's, I guess. Let's all go." 
 
 The group, numbering now eight in all, set off 
 without another word. 
 
 Pen was not a good hand at guessing character, 
 so that he had no means of satisfying himself about 
 the nature of the companions to whom Bob Lecky 
 had so quickly introduced him, but such impressions 
 as he did receive from their faces, dress, and man- 
 ners were not very favorable. 
 
 They were all about his own age, one or two 
 perhaps a year or so older, and they seemed to be 
 clerks or office boys, with one exception, a young 
 fellow by the name of Harold Fisk, who evidently 
 belonged to a family of means, for he was richly, 
 though flashily dressed, and wore handsome rings. 
 
 "He is the son of Commissioner Fisk — a big 
 Tammany man," whispered Bob Lecky to Pen. 
 
 Pen nodded his head, though still quite igno- 
 rant of Harold Fisk's claim to the honorable dis- 
 tinction that Bob's tone implied. 
 
 The group soon reached " Tom's," which proved 
 
NOT iriTHOUT HONOR 51 
 
 to be a general entertainment place, containing pool 
 and billiard tables, bowling alleys, a shooting gal- 
 lery, and a beer garden. 
 
 Pen gazed about uneasily. The appearance of 
 his companions did not improve under the gaslight. 
 
 As his eye ran over the group, he came to the 
 conclusion that Bob Lecky could notbe very partic- 
 ular in choosing his friends. 
 
 From all seven of them he singled out but one 
 face that was pleasing, a frank, blue-eyed, honest- 
 looking boy, whose name was Carl Moran. He 
 was a young German, Bob Lecky told Pen, and 
 he worked in a book store as a retail salesman. 
 
 The pool tables, which were the main object 
 of the boys' visit, were all occupied, so Bob 
 Lecky proposed a turn or so at the shooting 
 gallery. 
 
 Pen followed the others without being given any 
 option in the matter, but he succeeded in drawing 
 Bob Lecky a little aside. 
 
 " I don't care to shoot," he said. 
 
 " Nonsense. Come along ! " exclaimed Bob. 
 
 "But I can't shoot at all." 
 
 " That makes no difference. No more can half 
 the others. It's only for fun, just while we are 
 waiting for a pool table." 
 
 Pen hesitated a moment longer. 
 
 " How much is it to shoot ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, next to nothing — five cents a turn, and 
 
52 NOT mTHOUT HONOR 
 
 you have five shots a turn, the cheapest kind of 
 fun." 
 
 Pen thought it over hurriedly. 
 
 He had just seventy-five cents in his possession, 
 the last of the little sum of money given him when 
 he left home. This was to carry him through the 
 first week, when he might have his first salary 
 payment. 
 
 It was close calculating, but the next day was 
 Saturday and then he would be paid. 
 
 At the rate of five cents a turn, he could take 
 five or six turns. 
 
 Accordingly he allowed himself to be drawn in 
 with the others, and the shooting began. 
 
 The plan arranged was for competitive shooting, 
 and the objects selected for marks were not the 
 usual bulls'-eyes, but clay pipes that hung in 
 numbers on wires. 
 
 The boys lined up in turn and took their five 
 shots apiece at the pipes. The first time around 
 amply proved the truth of Bob Lecky's statement 
 that not half of them could shoot. 
 
 Two of the boys broke three pipes each, three 
 of them one each, and three of them, including 
 Pen, did not break a pipe in all five shots. 
 
 The two first ones then shot again, and one of 
 them, Carl Moran, broke four pipes, while the other 
 broke only three. The rest broke two or one, 
 excepting Pen and another, who failed altogether. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR S3 
 
 Pen now noticed that Carl Moran had retired 
 from the competition, and after the next turn around 
 the leading competitor also retired, thus leaving six 
 in. When this occurred the third time, Pen asked 
 Bob Lecky quietly what it meant. 
 
 " Why, the best man drops out each time, of 
 course ; then the others keep on shooting until the 
 last man is left." 
 
 "And why do they do that?" asked Pen, 
 innocently. 
 
 " To settle who is stuck." 
 
 " Who is stuck ? " 
 
 " Certainly. The man who gets left in the end 
 has to pay for the whole business. It's just the 
 same as in a game of pool." 
 
 " And the last man — the man who is left, has 
 to — to pay at the rate of five cents apiece for all 
 turns of the others ?" 
 
 " Of course. I thought you understood that." 
 
 Pen could feel his knees weaken under him. 
 There was no doubt in his mind who would be the last. 
 He was bound to be left in the end, for he knew he 
 could not break one of those pipes if he shot all night 
 — and now with the consciousness of the amount 
 at stake, he felt scarcely able to lift a rifle. 
 
 He made a hasty computation, and found that 
 the charges by turn already amounted to over two 
 dollars — and he had but seventy-five cents ! What 
 would the boys think of him ! 
 
54 A'Or IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 It was his turn again, and mechanically he lifted 
 the rifle and banged away. By luck, he managed 
 to break one pipe, but so did Harold Fisk and one 
 other, so the shooting must go on, to settle the tie, 
 thus adding fifteen cents more to the expense. 
 
 Pen looked around in a dazed manner, scarcely 
 knowing what to do or say, tortured by the thought 
 of having to confess to these strange boys that he 
 knew nothing of the game and hadn't the money 
 to pay. While the rest were laughing and joking 
 about him, he remained grimly silent, waiting for the 
 worst. 
 
 Another tie followed, Pen again by luck break- 
 ing one pipe. Then the other boy broke two 
 pipes, leaving Harold Fisk and Pen the final con- 
 testants. 
 
 As Pen stepped back and wiped away the per- 
 spiration from his forehead, he suddenly met the 
 kindly eyes of Carl Moran. 
 
 Perhaps unconsciously Pen's eyes told his dis- 
 tress, perhaps Carl merely guessed it. However 
 that might be, Carl came over to his side while 
 Harold Fisk was shooting and said in a low tone : 
 
 " I don't believe you understand this game." 
 
 " No," answered Pen ; " I never tried it in my 
 life before." 
 
 " Then let me tell you something. Harold Fisk 
 is playing you for a greenhorn. He is the best shot 
 in the crowd, and could beat me if he wanted to. 
 
J^OT fVlTHOUT HONOR 55 
 
 This careless shooting of his is all to have fun with 
 you, and keep up the game. It isn't fair, so I am 
 going to give you this point. You are shooting all 
 wrong. Li/i your rifle as you aim — don't drop it. 
 It's the best way with these riflas. Don't aim at 
 the stem or the bowl, but ri£;k( into the elbow of the 
 pipe. When you have the sight of the rifle just in 
 the elbow, then fire. Now go ahead and try it. It's 
 your turn. Don't lose your nerve, and you may 
 catch Harold on his own trick." 
 
 Pen murmured a few words of thanks and took 
 up his rifle, following Carl Moran's directions very 
 carefully. He raised the rifle slowly until the sight 
 rested just at the pipe's elbow. Bang ! and the pipe 
 snapped. 
 
 But Harold had broken two, so again he watched 
 his aim. He raised the rifle too high, however, and 
 missed. The third time he missed, but the fourth 
 was successful, so, though he missed the fifth, he 
 had tied Harold again. 
 
 The latter, now evidently tired of the play, raised 
 his rifle and with ease broke three pipes. 
 
 " See!" whispered Carl. "I told you he was 
 only playing with you. Now be careful." 
 
 It was with the calmness of desperation that 
 Pen stepped up to shoot. To break three seemed 
 impossible to him, but he went slowly to work 
 according to Carl's suggestions, guarding his aim 
 carefully. 
 
S6 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Snap ! went the first pipe. 
 
 Snap I went the second. 
 
 The rifle rose slowly and cautiously. 
 
 Snap ! went the third. 
 
 There was an outburst of applause. 
 
 " Good for the new fellow ; he's game ! " ex- 
 claimed several at once. 
 
 Pen was flustered, and missed on the fourth shot. 
 
 " Be careful !" whispered Carl Moran from behind 
 him. " Watch this one now, and you'll settle the 
 business." 
 
 Pen braced himself behind the counter. The 
 rifle went up inch by inch, slower and slower, the 
 sight traveling gradually up the stem till it rested 
 just on the elbow — then a pause. 
 
 Snap ! and Pen had broken four. 
 
 As his was the last turn, the game was decided, 
 and Harold Fisk, who had watched him breathlessly 
 through the ordeal, turned angrily away, while the 
 other boys shouted in delight. 
 
 " Harold Fisk caught in his own trap ! Hoist 
 with his own petard ! Bully for the new fellow ! 
 He's a knowing 'un !" 
 
 Harold drew out a roll of bills and paid up with 
 an impatientgesture, while the boys gathered around 
 Pen to congratulate him. 
 
 To say that he was relieved would poorly describe 
 it. He was almost beside himself as he nervously 
 laughed and shook Carl Moran's hand. 
 
t^OT WITHOUT HONOR S7 
 
 " Here, wet up now, every one — it's my treat !" 
 exclaimed one of the boys. " And here's to the 
 new fellow — the knowing 'un !" 
 
 " Here's to the knowing 'un who did up Harold 
 Fisk 1" echoed the others. 
 
 A glass was thrust into Pen's hands. Scarce 
 knowing what he was doing in his excitement, he 
 raised it to his lips and swallowed the contents. 
 
 It almost gagged him, and he spluttered and 
 coughed while the rest laughed. 
 
 " Give him another to wash it down !" cried the 
 boy next to Pen ; and as the latter sank down into 
 a chair, he caught him familiarly by the shoulders, 
 and, bending back his head, emptied another glass 
 into his mouth. 
 
 "I now crown the ' knowing 'un ' king of the 
 sharpshooters," exclaimed the boy, making a wreath 
 in the air above Pen's head. " I say, boys, the 
 king ought to set 'em up once all around, oughtn't 
 he?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, once all around ! " cried the others, 
 and Pen, whose head was now growing hot, acqui- 
 esced, and recklessly gulped the next drink himself. 
 
 Then it dawned on him that he had made a 
 mistake, but it was too late. His ideas were already 
 becoming confused. 
 
 He tried to talk to his neighbor, but his words 
 and laughter sounded silly, so he kept silent. 
 
 Meantime the table was growing noisier. 
 
58 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Harold must set 'em up now ! It's his punish- 
 ment ! Come, Harold, once around, now ! " 
 
 Pen could hear the voices indistinctly about him, 
 and staring from one to another, tried to gather his 
 faculties. 
 
 Vain effort. His head was buzzing, his wits 
 fast leaving him ; and with his wits all resolution, 
 all scruples. 
 
 "Yes, let's have 'nother,' ' he mumbled indistinctly. 
 
 It was several minutes before the drink was 
 brought to the table, and those few minutes in that 
 hot atmosphere told on poor Pen. He was fast 
 losing his senses, A glass was put into his hand. 
 He made an effort to raise it to his lips, but it slipped 
 from his Hmp fingers and fell to the floor, shattering 
 into a dozen pieces. 
 
 He could hear indistinctly a rough outburst of 
 laughter. Then another glass was pushed into his 
 hand. 
 
 " Hold it hard now, my hearty ! " shouted some 
 one in his ear. 
 
 Then there came the sound of an altercation. 
 The glass was snatched from hmi. 
 
 " Don't do it, I say 1 " cried somebody, angrily. 
 " Can't you see he has had too much now ! " 
 
 All Pen could hear now was an indistinct mur- 
 mur of voices. His head fell back, and through 
 the confusion of sound and sense into which he was 
 rapidly settling he heard some one call out briskly : 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 59 
 
 " Come, rouse up a bit, now ! " 
 
 Vaguely above him seemed to hover the kindly 
 face of Carl Moran, with his honest, blue eyes look- 
 ing down at him. 
 
 " We'll take care of you. Come, Bob, you take 
 his left arm and I'll take his right." 
 
 That was the last that Pen remembered. 
 
6o A'Or IVITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 .Pen Goes to the Theatre 
 
 WHEN Pen opened his eyes again he found 
 himself on his bed, half dressed. He 
 raised himself and stared around, dazed 
 and bewildered. 
 
 The cold, gray light of dawn was just beginning 
 to show itself above the housetops. A clock in an 
 adjoining room chimed out the hour of four. 
 
 Where had he been ? What had he done, and 
 how had he reached home ? 
 
 For a moment he could recall nothing ; then 
 suddenly the events of the preceding evening 
 came back to him in full force ; and, in a parox- 
 ysm of shame and mortification, he f^ll back 
 upon his pillow and buried his face in the bed 
 covers. 
 
 To one of Pen's sensitiveness the thought of such 
 an experience was unbearable. Suppose any one 
 he knew — any one of his Wilton friends or, worst 
 of all, his mother — could have seen him in that 
 condition ! 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 6i 
 
 It would have killed her. How could he write to 
 her with the knowledge of it in his mind ; how could 
 he face Mr. Terry after such weakness and folly ? 
 
 And perhaps the worst he did not yet know. 
 Where may he not have been, what might he not 
 have done after his senses left him ? 
 
 Acting on a sudden impulse, he struggled 
 unsteadily to his feet and reached out for his coat 
 and vest which hung upon a chair. A hurried search 
 showed him that all his little belongings were there. 
 Even the seventy-five cents was in his pocket. 
 
 With a slight feeling of relief he sank back 
 on the bed, pressing his hands against his face. 
 His head was racked with splitting pains. His 
 mouth and throat were parched and dry. 
 
 He rose again, and, pouring out some water, 
 dashed his head with it and rinsed out his mouth. 
 
 Then tying a wet towel around his forehead, he 
 lay down once more, wearily waiting for the coming 
 of day. 
 
 Of the mental torture of that next hour, the 
 remorse, the sharp recriminations, the repeated reso- 
 lutions, it would be useless to speak. It was Pen's 
 first taste of the bitter cup of experience, and its 
 effect on one of his delicate nature may be better 
 imagined than described. 
 
 About five o'clock, from sheer weariness, he fell 
 asleep, and when he awoke again he found Bob 
 Lecky's good-natured face bending over him. 
 
62 NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 " Well, how goes it? " he asked cheerily. 
 
 Pen shivered and turned his head away. 
 
 Immediately he found Bob's hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " See here, old boy," said Bob, in the first seri- 
 ous tone Pen had heard from him, " I can't tell you 
 how sorry I am for this. If you think I am to 
 blame for it, tell me so. I'll take it all." 
 
 " I don't blame you," responded Pen, slowly. 
 " I am old enough, and ought to know how to take 
 care of myself" 
 
 " And you don't lay up any grudge against me?" 
 
 " I don't blame you," repeated Pen. 
 
 " I suppose I oughtn't to have dragged you 
 into such a crowd," went on Bob, "but I thought — 
 well, it was my notion of being civil." 
 
 " It was my own fault," said Pen. 
 
 "And how you did jump at it!" exclaimed 
 Bob, sitting down on the bed. " Why, I never^eaw 
 anything like it ! I thought you were out of your 
 head. You gulped it down like a flash. What 
 was the matter?" 
 
 " I im/si have been out of my head," answered 
 Pen. 
 
 " Have you ever touched anything of the kind 
 before ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then let me tell you, old boy, you don't want 
 to ever again. I suppose this sounds all very pretty 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 63 
 
 from the fellow that got you into the trouble, but I 
 mean it, and I don't intend to give you another 
 chance of that kind. I didn't realize what the boys 
 were up to " 
 
 "Tell me," interrupted Pen, " what happened 
 after — after I — I " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Bob, quickly — " nothing 
 at all. Rest easy on that score. The boys were 
 going to make you drink again, but Carl Moran 
 and I put a stop to that quick enough, and we two 
 brought you home and got you to bed without any 
 one here in the house seeing you." 
 
 Pen heaved a long sigh of relief. 
 
 " Thank you — thank you both. What time is 
 it?" 
 
 " Half past seven. Want to get up?" 
 
 " Yes," said Pen, rising. 
 
 " That's good ; then there's no harm done. Bully 
 for you ! I was a little anxious about you, so I got 
 up an hour earlier than my usual time — a great 
 strain on me. I will see you then at breakfast." 
 
 With that Bob left the room. 
 
 After washing, dressing and breakfasting, Pen 
 felt considerably better, and went out to his work 
 with some spirit. 
 
 Ever and anon through the day the nightmare 
 recollection would force itself on him, but he man- 
 aged, by keeping busily employed, to partly shake 
 off the feeling of depression. 
 
64 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 What he looked forward to with fear, however, 
 was the evening alone in his room. He had resolved 
 to let Bob Lecky's companions severely alone in 
 the future, but an evening with only his thoughts 
 for company — that promised little pleasure. 
 
 Night had hardly come, however, when Bob 
 Lecky settled the question for him. 
 
 " See here, old boy, don't go to your room to 
 mope," he said, as he looked at Pen's serious face. 
 " Come, cheer yourself up." 
 
 " I have had enough of that " began Pen. 
 
 "No, no; I don't mean that," interrupted Bob. 
 " Just something quiet and nice. What do you say 
 to the theatre?" 
 
 "The theatre?" 
 
 Pen had never been in a theatre, though its 
 pleasures were familiar enough to him from his 
 reading. 
 
 The drama was his favorite realm of literature ; 
 Shakespeare and the other Elizabethan dramatists, 
 the later English playwrights, and the literature of 
 the French stage were his constant subjects of study. 
 Whole scenes- of the masters he could repeat by 
 heart, and it had always been the dream of his life 
 to see a performance of some of the great dramatic 
 works. 
 
 So when Bob mentioned the theatre, his heart 
 thrilled with pleasure. 
 
 "What can we see?" he asked, eagerly, while 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 65 
 
 visions of " Hamlet," " Othello," " Macbeth " and 
 " Ruy Bias " filled his mind. 
 
 " Well," answered Bob, briskly, " there's ' The 
 Brass Monkey ' at the Bijou, and ' Hoss and Hoss ' 
 is running up at the Harlem Opera House — both 
 pretty fair." 
 
 Shades of Hamlet ! Pen shuddered. 
 
 "I think," he said, diffidently, " that I would 
 like something better than that." 
 
 " There ain't much choice," answered Bob, 
 " because the season is about over ; but if you want 
 something higher class, there's the Palmer Company 
 playing their last week at the Grand Opera House. 
 I believe ' Alabama ' is on to-night. That's a nice 
 play." 
 
 "Do you think I would like it?" asked Pen, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 " Bless you, how can I tell ?" laughed Bob. 
 " You are a riddle with no answer. But come on 
 and let's try it." 
 
 " How much would it be ?" 
 
 " How much have you got to spare?" 
 
 Pen thought a minute. 
 
 " I think I could afford fifty cents. Would that 
 be enough?" 
 
 " More than enough. We'll work the billboard 
 racket." 
 
 This term was Greek to Pen, but he followed 
 Bob, trusting all to him. 
 
66 mr IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 They walked several blocks up Eighth Avenue, 
 and then descended a stairway to a small shop in a 
 basement, where Pen found a group of young fellows 
 assembled before a blackboard fastened against the 
 wall, on which was a list of the principal theatres 
 with numbers marked in chalk after the name of 
 each theatre. In a corner was a counter, where a 
 man was selling tickets. 
 
 " You see," said Bob, pointing to the blackboard. 
 " Tickets at the Grand sell to-night for twenty-five 
 cents." 
 
 On inquiry at the desk, Bob found that he could 
 get three seat tickets, good for that night, for thirty 
 cents each, so he purchased them promptly, and Pen 
 and he made their way out and up to the street again. 
 
 " What are these billboard tickets ? " asked Pen. 
 
 " The tickets that are issued free by the man- 
 agement of a theatre to all storekeepers and others 
 in payment for the privilege of putting theatre adver- 
 tisements in their windows. These tickets are 
 bought up by brokers, like that chap down there, 
 and sold at a small profit. It makes a very cheap 
 ticket, but it is only an admission ticket. The 
 brokers have some other ways of getting hold of 
 seat tickets like these I have, and they sell them 
 'way below the box office prices." 
 
 It seemed a queer sort of transaction to Pen, but 
 he let it go hke many other things he had seen in 
 New York as one of the mysteries of city life. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 67 
 
 " But why did you get three ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, one is for Carl Moran. He is to meet us 
 on the next corner — in fact it was his idea, this going 
 to the theatre to-night. I saw him this afternoon 
 at the book store, and was talking to him about you 
 when he proposed it — here he is now." 
 
 Carl Moran shook hands warmly with Pen, and 
 to the latter's relief, made no reference whatever to 
 the experience of the night before. 
 
 Pen merely said " Thank you," and pressed 
 Carl's hand, while Carl nodded and smiled — that 
 was all, but Pen felt that he had formed a new and 
 valuable friendship. 
 
 The three soon reached the Grand Opera House, 
 and found their seats. 
 
 That first night at the theatre was a red letter 
 event in Pen's life. The play had scarcely begun 
 when he felt all doubts as to his enjoyment dis- 
 appear, and he found himself following the simple 
 incidents of the piece with rapt and earnest atten- 
 tion — sighing with the lovers at the moonlit gate- 
 way, laughing half tearfully at the tender bits of 
 humor, and thrilling at the scenes of dramatic 
 interest ; he was lost to all surroundings, his mind 
 centred solely on the pretty idyl of Southern life, 
 and his heart beating in unison with the singing 
 of the negroes in their quarters down on the old 
 plantation. 
 
 During the intermissions Pen could say little, 
 
68 hlOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 his heart was so full, and even when the play was 
 over, the spell remained with him, and he moved 
 out with the crowd into the lobby as if in a dream. 
 
 There was but one thought in his mind, a thought 
 that had frequently been suggested to him by hisv 
 reading, but had now been crystallized by the even- 
 ing's experience into a resolution which he kept 
 repeating to himself: 
 
 " I will write a play myself some day." 
 
 The three boys had reached the street and 
 turned south. They had walked about as far as 
 Seventeenth Street, and were quite free of the 
 theatre crowd, and alone, when they heard behind 
 them a drum and fife and a great blowing of horns. 
 
 Turning around, they saw coming down the 
 avenue, several wagons draped with flags and filled 
 with a noisy lot of young men returning from a 
 picnic or a day's outing of some kind. 
 
 Accompanying them on the sidewalk came a 
 great avalanche of howling roughs, that swept 
 down upon the three boys almost before they had 
 time to turn around and get out of the way. Bob 
 Lecky and Carl Moran dodged hastily to the pro- 
 tection of a doorway as the shouting crowd came 
 on, but Pen, who was nearest the gutter, was caught 
 in the midst of it. 
 
 He was roughly jostled and tossed from one 
 side to another, whirled about, his coat and vest 
 torn open, pushed and shoved this way and that, 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 69 
 
 and, in spite of struggles and remonstrances that 
 were swallowed up in the general din, he was carried 
 along nearly half a block, and finally elbowed into 
 the gutter. 
 
 There, gasping for breath, he gathered himself 
 together, and turned to look for Bob and Carl. 
 As he did so his hand ran quickly over his vest to 
 rebutton it. 
 
 Then, suddenly, he grasped frantically at both 
 pockets and uttered an exclamation of alarm. 
 
 His gold watch was gone. 
 
70 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER EX 
 Under Arrest 
 
 BOB LECKY and Carl Moran came hurry- 
 ing up. 
 ' "What's the matter?" exclaimed Bob, 
 
 as he noticed Pen's disheveled appearance and dis- 
 tracted manner. " Did they maul you ?" 
 
 " My watch ! Gone ! They've stolen my 
 watch!" 
 
 " Your watch ? What ! those fellows took it ?" 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! It's gone ! What shall I " 
 
 " Quick, then !" interrupted Carl Moran, glanc- 
 ing after the mob. " We haven't a second to lose. 
 Let's follow them." 
 
 And the three set off on a run down the avenue. 
 
 " What can we do ?" asked Pen, breathlessly. 
 
 "I don't know," answered Carl; "but let's 
 follow them awhile and see. Rae, you keep behind. 
 They will recognize you. Bob and I will run up 
 among them and try to find out who has your 
 watch. While we do that, you stop the next 
 policeman you see and bring him along with you," 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR n 
 
 Bob and Carl then hurried ahead, while Pen 
 followed nearly half a block behind, keeping a 
 sharp lookout for a bluecoat. As usual, however, 
 in such cases, policemen were scarce, and Pen's 
 hopes sank low as corner after corner was passed 
 without a sign of an officer. 
 
 The crowd ahead had now passed Twelfth Street 
 and was approaching Abingdon Square. Pen could 
 see nothing of his two friends. They were no doubt 
 in the very midst of the mob. 
 
 Just as they reached the square a disturbance 
 occurred. The crowd massed itself more solidly at 
 one point, and from that spot came shouts of anger 
 and the sound of blows. 
 
 The excitement grew rapidly. The roughs 
 tumbled one way and another, the whole mass roll- 
 ing first toward the iron fence and then out into the 
 gutter. Pen paused, not daring to approach nearer. 
 
 A moment later and there was a great outcry : 
 
 " Look out ! The cops ! The cops ! " 
 
 The ranks, with mingled shouts of alarm, swayed 
 back and broke in confusion. Above all the noise 
 rose two heavy voices like the roar of mad bulls, 
 and a couple of massive policemen plunged through 
 the crowd, scattering the roughs in every direction. 
 
 " Fightin' are yez ! Get home there, every 
 mother's son of ye ! No back talk ! Come, get a 
 move on." 
 
 The crowd needed no encouragement. Singly, 
 
72 NOT fVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 and in groups, up and down the avenue, across the 
 square and down the side streets they ran like so 
 many rats, and as the scene of action cleared. Pen 
 saw another policemen standing close by the iron 
 fence, holding two of the culprits by the collar. 
 
 Seized with hope that one of them might prove 
 to be the thief that had robbed him of his watch, 
 he ran forward for a closer look at them. 
 
 As he came near, the light of the electric lamps 
 fell full upon the faces of the two captives. They 
 were Bob Lecky and Carl Moran. 
 
 Bob was struggling hard to get away. 
 
 " I tell you it's all a mistake !" he cried. " We 
 weren't fighting. We were only " 
 
 " Here, shut up now. Don't lie about it," growled 
 the policeman, tightening his grasp. " Didn't I see 
 yez fightin' ? And weren't ye just goin' to clip yer 
 man on the jaw when I grabbed ye? What do ye 
 mean tellin' me ye weren't fightin' ?" 
 
 "But he was a thief !" exclaimed Bob. "He 
 had stolen a watch from a friend of mine, and I 
 was only trying to get it back, when — there he is 
 now," he added, as he saw Pen come up. " He 
 will tell you all about it." 
 
 The policeman turned towards Pen, as did also 
 his fellow-officers, who, having dispersed the crowd, 
 had rejoined their companion. 
 
 Pen, in a trembling, excited and awkward man- 
 ner, told the story of the robbery of his watch, 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 73 
 
 The policeman listened incredulously, without 
 releasing Bob and Carl. 
 
 " Well, that sounds all very nice," he said, 
 roughly, " but the short of it all is, ye've both been 
 caught in a free fight on the street, so ye'll have 
 to come along with me. Ye can keep your story 
 for the sergeant at the .station house. Here, Jake, 
 collar one of these chaps, will ye ?" 
 
 " If we've got to go to the station house, we 
 will walk there. You won't have to drag us," said 
 Carl Mo ran. 
 
 With that they set off, a policeman holding each 
 boy by the arm, and a small group of street loafers 
 bringing up the rear. 
 
 They were not long in reaching the station 
 house, where the policeman who had Bob Lecky in 
 charge, made his report to the sergeant, giving his 
 own coloring to the facts, which naturally did not 
 prepossess the superior officer in favor of the boys. 
 
 " Well," he said, frowning severely at Bob, 
 "what have you to say?" 
 
 Bob paused. He scarcely knew what to reply, 
 conscious that the truth would avail nothing after 
 the policeman's story. 
 
 Carl Moran was the first to speak. 
 
 "We are not to blame, sergeant," he said. 
 " Our friend here," pointing to Pen, " had his 
 watch stolen by a lot of roughs, and we were 
 only -" 
 
74 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," interrupted the sergeant. 
 "Hasn't Blake just told me that story? And a 
 pretty fishy one it is, too. Have you anything 
 else to say?" 
 
 Both boys were silent. While they were hesi- 
 tating for a reply, a side door opened and a tall man 
 in the uniform of a police captain came hurriedly 
 out of an inner office and started towards the outer 
 door. 
 
 Bob's face lighted up. 
 
 " Oh, Captain Maynard !" he cried out, eagerly. 
 
 The officer turned, and then, with a surprised 
 expression, came forward. 
 
 " Why, Bobby, what are you doing here ?" he 
 exclaimed, shaking Bob by the hand. 
 
 Carl and Pen heaved a sigh of relief, while the 
 sergeant's face changed. 
 
 "We're in trouble, sir," said Bob, quickly, 
 "and all because the truth is too fishy for the 
 sergeant." 
 
 Captain Maynard looked at the sergeant. 
 
 " I may have made a mistake, captain," said the 
 latter, hurriedly. " The young men were taken in 
 a free fight on the street, and appearances were 
 against them. Of course if they are friends of 
 yours " 
 
 "Let's have the truth, that's all," interrupted 
 the captain. " Let them tell their story, and then 
 judge them." 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 75 
 
 And the judgment now was predetermined in 
 favor of the boys, as it had been against them 
 before the appearance of Captain Maynard. 
 
 First Pen told his story in detail. Then Bob 
 told how he and Carl had mingled with the crowd 
 of roughs, and by chance had hit upon the very 
 one who held Pen's watch ; how, thinking that Pen 
 would soon appear with a policeman to assist them, 
 they had grappled with him ; and how they had 
 been set upon, and were in the thick of a free fight 
 when the three officers appeared and arrested 
 them. 
 
 " So out of that whole crowd you succeeded in 
 capturing the two innocent ones. That was hard 
 luck," remarked the captain, glancing at the 
 policemen. 
 
 The three bluecoats looked foolish, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 " Didn't you know that you were taking a tre- 
 mendous risk in grappling with that fellow right in 
 the middle of his gang?" continued the captain, 
 addressing Bob. " Roughs of that kind are des- 
 perate. They might have beaten you half to 
 death." 
 
 "I didn't think ofthat," answered Bob, promptly. 
 " My only thought was about that watch and the 
 rascal that stole it, standing right there in front of 
 me. I was going to get that away from him if it 
 cost me a limb." 
 
76 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " You've got the stuff we like," said the captain, 
 with a smile, as he tapped Bob on the shoulder. 
 " When you grow older, you ought to join the 
 force. We need your kind." 
 
 The boys were at once released, and Bob intro- 
 duced his friends to Captain Maynard. 
 
 " I am very glad that I happened to be around 
 to-night," said the captain. " It is very rare that 
 I am here at this hour." 
 
 " And I never thought of its being your pre- 
 cinct," responded Bob. " My wits were clean gone, 
 anyhow, and if you hadn't turned up so luckily, I 
 don't know what I would have done." 
 
 " And now about this watch," said the captain, 
 as he and the three boys left the station house. " I 
 will see what can be done. We will keep a sharp 
 eye on all pawn shops in the precinct, and will fol- 
 low up any clue we find." 
 
 " Do you think there is any chance of getting 
 it back ? " asked Pen, anxiously. 
 
 The captain turned to Bob. 
 
 Would you recognize the thief if you saw him 
 again? " he asked. 
 
 No, I am afraid not," answered Bob. " I got 
 only a glimpse of his face, and then it was in the 
 shadow." 
 
 " I guess your watch is gone, then," said the 
 captain to Pen. " You see we really have nothing 
 to work on," 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 77 
 
 Pen's head fell, and he turned away in silence. 
 
 Bob and Carl talked briskly as they walked 
 home, but Pen heard nothing of their conversation. 
 Their excited comments on the incidents of the 
 evening, their self-congratulations on their lucky 
 escape through Bob's acquaintance with Captain 
 Maynard, even their expressions of sympathy were 
 lost on him. 
 
 He hurried home without speaking, and leaving 
 his companions abruptly at the door, walked quickly 
 upstairs. 
 
 " Guess I'll go cheer him up a bit before I turn 
 in," said Bob, as he told Carl good-night. 
 
 " No, better not," answered Carl. " You don't 
 understand Rae. I think I do, partly. He isn't 
 like the rest of us fellows. His kind like to be left 
 alone. " 
 
78 NOT IV/THOUT HONO/i 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 Pen's Dramatic Criticism 
 
 THE next day, Sunday, completed Pen's first 
 week, and an eventful week it had been. 
 During the afternoon he wrote a long letter 
 to his mother, telling her of the many things that 
 had happened — all but two, and those the most 
 important ; the experience of Friday night, which 
 he dared not tell, and the loss of the watch, which 
 he could not bring himself to mention, hoping 
 that in some unforeseen way he might regain 
 possession of it and so save his mother the pain that 
 he knew the loss would give her. 
 
 But of other things he wrote fully — of his 
 work, his impressions of Mr. Terry and the 
 other newspaper men, of his boy acquaintances, 
 particularly Carl Moran, of his life in the city, 
 and especially of his first experience at the 
 theatre. 
 
 Of the play it seemed as if he could not write 
 enough, and as he wrote an idea suddenly occurred 
 to him. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 79 
 
 Why not prepare a criticism of the play for the 
 paper ? 
 
 Here, certainly was the chance he had been 
 looking for. He had heard the dramatic men of 
 the paper talk about their affairs at the office, and 
 he felt sure that he could catch their style if he 
 applied himself to it. 
 
 The notion took firm hold of him. At the first 
 opportunity Monday morning, he went to the files 
 of the paper and spent some time reading the 
 dramatic criticisms that had appeared during the 
 past few weeks. He studied the style carefully, 
 even copying down certain phrases that struck him 
 as peculiarly forcible and expressive. 
 
 With this preparation he went straight to his 
 room after dinner, and, closeting himself there, 
 devoted the evening to the writing of his great 
 dramatic criticism. 
 
 At first he wrote rapidly in glowing sentences. 
 Then, when several sheets had been covered, he 
 went over his work again and again, pruning and 
 altering it in accordance with the ideas he had 
 formed from the morning's reading, modeling his 
 style closely after that of the paper, and adopting 
 some of the phrases he had culled from its 
 columns. 
 
 Finally the work was done, and with consider- 
 able pride he laid the sheets of paper in order and 
 numbered them. 
 
So NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 The following morning about eleven o'clock, 
 Mr. Terry, who had been too busy at first to look 
 up or speak when Pen appeared, called him and 
 sent him on an errand to the Astor Library. 
 
 " Now is my chance," thought Pen, and he 
 quietly laid his manuscript on Mr. Terry's desk. 
 
 " Eh, what's this ? " asked Mr. Terry, running 
 his fingers rapidly through the sheets. 
 
 "A dramatic criticism, sir. I went to the play 
 the other night, and I thought it would be a good 
 thing to write up for the paper. Bearing in mind 
 what you said about coming to you first, I thought 
 I would show it to you and get your opinion." 
 
 Mr. Terry glanced at the title at the head of the 
 first sheet. 
 
 " Why, bless me, Pen," he exclaimed, " this is 
 not a new play. ' Alabama ' has been a favorite 
 for over two years." 
 
 " I — I suppose so, sir," answered Pen ; " but I 
 didn't know that would make any difference." 
 
 Mr. Terry could not help smiling. 
 
 " Only new plays receive critical notices in the 
 papers. Pen," he said. " New plays, or old plays 
 revived — at any rate a new event in the theatre. 
 ' Alabama ' has been running steadily for a long 
 time." 
 
 Pen's face fell. 
 
 "And so — so this notice would be useless? " 
 
 " Certainly — and while I am about it," went on 
 
l^OT IVITHOUT HONOR. 8i 
 
 Mr. Terry, in a less hurried and gentler tone, as he 
 noticed Pen's embarrassment, " let me tell you that 
 dramatic criticism is a special class of work and is 
 assigned to special writers." 
 
 " So there would be no use in my trying it?" 
 
 " It would be a waste of time for you at present, 
 except as practice in writing." 
 
 Pen turned away in confusion, and hurried out. 
 
 After he had gone, Mr. Terry took up Pen's 
 manuscript and read it over carefully. More than 
 once he smiled as he noted the borrowed phrases 
 and the odd mixture of boyish exuberance of 
 expression, of flowery phraseology, with a crude 
 imitation of journalistic style. 
 
 He shook his head regretfully, however, as he 
 noted also the extreme care with which the manu- 
 script had been prepared, the neat white sheets of 
 paper nicely laid in order, and the clean, delicate 
 handwriting. 
 
 " Too bad," he said aloud, laying the manuscript 
 down on the desk. 
 
 Then he added, as he took up his pen to resume 
 his work : 
 
 " I will write to her again to-night. This will 
 be a good excuse." 
 
 When Pen returned later in the day, Mr. Terry 
 took time to go over his manuscript with him, think- 
 ing he might at least make it profitable to him as a 
 lesson in composition. He pointed out the faults 
 
 6 
 
82 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 of style pleasantly, but with frankness and honesty, 
 and offered many suggestions to guide him in the 
 future. 
 
 Pen gave his employer close and careful atten- 
 tion, and thanked him for the suggestions, but his 
 pride suffered as he saw his finely spun sentences 
 fall to pieces under Mr. Terry's criticisms. 
 
 In his isolated life at Wilton, with only his 
 mother's encouraging words to guide him, he had 
 come to look upon the work of his pen as a finished 
 literary product. Now he found himself in the 
 attitude of a schoolboy having his first composition 
 overhauled by a teacher. 
 
 He was ready for any criticism on his choice of 
 subject and the best way to treat it, for on those 
 points he felt his inexperience, but he was not pre- 
 pared to have his words and sentences torn to shreds 
 as if he were an ignorant scribbler. 
 
 It cost him a struggle to suppress his mor- 
 tification and annoyance as he took his poor 
 manuscript back to his desk and tossed it to one 
 side. 
 
 A short time afterwards, Mr. Terry left the 
 office. Then Pen took up the sheets again and 
 slowly turned them over. 
 
 " Can it be so bad ?" he thought. " Mother has 
 always praised my work — and she is a good judge 
 of writing as well as Mr. Terry." 
 
 He thrust the manuscript into his pocket. 
 
UOT mTHOUT HONOR. 83 
 
 " I will send it home to her to-night, and she 
 shall be the judge," he said. 
 
 And so it came about that Pen's dramatic criti- 
 cism and Mr. Terry's letter reached Mrs. Rae by 
 the same mail. 
 
84 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 Pen's Poem 
 
 NEWSPAPER men are keen and quick 
 observers, so, before the first week was 
 over, Pen had been pretty accurately " sized 
 up " by the members of the staff and others con- 
 nected with the paper. 
 
 He soon came to be known as " The Somnam- 
 bulist," a term that had first been applied to him 
 by a reporter on account of his dreamy, absent- 
 minded way ; and as time went on, a good deal of 
 quiet fun was made of him. He was never the 
 victim of practical jokes, for Mr. Teriy's patronage 
 protected him from that, but he was frequently the 
 butt of jests, while his ignorance of practical affairs, 
 and the curious blunders resulting from it, afforded 
 no end of amusement. 
 
 One afternoon, while Pen was out on an errand, 
 an editor connected with the city department came 
 into Mr. Terry's office. 
 
 " What can we do with stuff like this ?" he said, 
 throwing several sheets of paper down on the desk. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 85 
 
 " What is it?" asked Mr. Terry. 
 
 " It's a story about something that happened 
 on Broadway last week, written by your young 
 clerk." 
 
 Mr. Terry paused a moment. 
 
 " Poor boy !" he thought. " My criticism must 
 have hurt him more than I thought. He has made 
 up his mind to do without me." 
 
 Then he took up the manuscript. 
 
 " Well, what is it like ?" he asked. 
 
 " Perfect rubbish — the wildest stuff 1 ever saw. 
 We can't do anything with it. Look for yourself." 
 
 " Yes, yes," answered Mr. Teriy, glancing over 
 the matter ; " I see. Well, suppose you leave it 
 with me. I will speak to the boy about it." 
 
 When Pen returned to the office, Mr. Terry 
 turned to him. 
 
 " I believe you are something of a poet," he 
 said. 
 
 Pen looked around in surprise. 
 
 " How did you know that, sir?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, your mother told me so — in a recent letter. 
 I understand you have had several poems printed." 
 
 Pen smiled with pleasure. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; in the Wilton Press." 
 
 " Have you any verses in manuscript ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; several." 
 
 " If you don't mind, I would like to see them." 
 
 " I would be very glad to show them to you." 
 
86 i^OT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Very well. Bring around two or three of them 
 when convenient." 
 
 " I will, sir, to-morrow." 
 
 Accordingly the next morning Pen brought in 
 three short poems that he had selected with great 
 care from the many scraps in his portfolio. 
 
 Some time during the afternoon Mr. Terry 
 called him from his work. 
 
 " I think these are very creditable, Pen," he 
 said, "and I have spoken to our literary editor about 
 this one in particular. We will print it if you wish." 
 
 Pen's heart leaped joyfully. The poem Mr. 
 Terry had selected was entitled " Honeysuckle," 
 and had been written in the arbor summer-house at 
 Wilton on the afternoon when he overheard from 
 'Lias' lips the unflattering opinion of the town 
 concerning himself 
 
 " I am very — very glad you like it," he said, his 
 voice trembling with pleasure. 
 
 "All three are good," responded Mr. Terry. 
 " Your mother was right in praising them. I think 
 you might place the other two in some one of the 
 weekly literary papers. Try them." 
 
 " Thank you, sir, I will." 
 
 "And another thing, while I am about it, Pen," 
 went on Mr. Terry ; " Mr. Chase, of the city 
 department, handed me this manuscript of yours. 
 The story it tells is no longer news — it's over a 
 week old, so he can't make use of it." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 87 
 
 Pen flushed deeply as Mr. Terry handed him 
 the manuscript. 
 
 His mother, in her answer to his letter, had 
 avoided commenting on his dramatic criticism, and 
 had only urged him to lean wholly on Mr. Terry's 
 advice. 
 
 " He knows journalistic affairs, and he is your 
 best adviser," she had said. 
 
 But this had only touched Pen's pride still more, 
 and settled him in a resolution to find out what he 
 could accompUsh on his own merits. 
 
 And this was the result. His work had come 
 back to him, while his friend had offset the disap- 
 pointment by securing for him the acceptance of 
 one of his poems. 
 
 He was sadly confused, and gazed in an embar- 
 rassed fashion at the floor, quite conscious that Mr. 
 Terry had read him like a book. 
 
 " Every one must learn, Pen," said Mr. Terry, 
 encouragingly. '' You haven't got the swing of this 
 sort of thing yet, but you can pick it up in time. 
 At any rate don't get discouraged. Your verses 
 show what you can do, and, after all, that is a higher 
 class of literary work than newspaper scribbling.'' 
 
 It was a proud day for Pen when his poem 
 appeared. The earliest copy he could obtain was 
 marked and sent home to Wilton, bringing him 
 back the next day an affectionate response from his 
 first and only admirer, his mother. 
 
88 HOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 A second copy was clipped and the clipping 
 carefully pasted in his precious scrap book beside 
 the few other verses of his that had appeared in 
 the Wilton Press. 
 
 These former verses had given him a feeling 
 of pride in their day, but how they dwindled now 
 into insignificance beside that new poem from the 
 Herald! 
 
 Pen lost no time in following Mr. Terry's advice 
 concerning the other two poems. He sent them 
 the next day to two weekly papers — and then 
 awaited results. 
 
 They were not prominent papers, belonging to 
 that extensive class known as " home period- 
 icals," but Pen understood that their circulation 
 was large and widespread over the country, and 
 accordingly he was anxious to find a place in their 
 columns. 
 
 Day after day went by without his receiving any 
 response. When he spoke of the matter to Mr. 
 Terry, the latter advised him to be patient. 
 
 " Don't try to hurry the matter," he said, when 
 Pen asked his advice. " Periodicals have their 
 routine, and you must abide their time. Wait awhile 
 yet." 
 
 So Pen waited, and the days ran into weeks with 
 no more satisfactory results. 
 
 It was now approaching September, and one 
 morning he determined to ask Mr. Terry's permis- 
 
AfOr IVITHOUT HONOR 89 
 
 sion to take a few hours off in order to look up the 
 offices of the periodicals and find out what had 
 become of his poems. 
 
 But Mr. Terry did not appear that morning at 
 the office, nor did he appear all that day. Late in 
 the afternoon, however. Pen found the following 
 note on his desk : 
 
 Come to my rooms to-night about eight o'clock. Do 
 not fail, I want to speak to you about an important matter. 
 
 Austin Terry. 
 
9° NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER Xn 
 Pen is Left to Fight His Own "Way 
 
 w 
 
 HEN Pen reached Mr. Terry's rooms 
 that evening he found him with his coat 
 and vest off, bending over two leather 
 trunks that lay open on the floor. 
 
 The apartment was in great disorder. Clothing, 
 toilet articles, and papers were strewn about every- 
 where ; wardrobes and bureau drawers stood open 
 and half empty ; and the furniture was pushed back 
 against the walls to clear a space in the centre of 
 the room. 
 
 " Come in and sit down anywhere you can find 
 a place," said Mr. Terry, hastily, when he saw Pen. 
 " You must excuse my not stopping my work. I 
 have very little time to spare, and I can talk just as 
 well while I pack." 
 
 "Are you going away, sir?" asked Pen. 
 
 " Yes ; most unexpectedly. I had no warning 
 of it until this morning." 
 
 " When do you go ?" 
 
 " To-morrow afternoon — by the Northern Pacific 
 Railroad. I am going to Japan." 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 91 
 
 Pen caught his breath. 
 
 " That is a long trip for a sudden one." 
 
 " I am accustomed to that," answered Mr. 
 Terry. " My experience as foreign correspondent 
 has taught me to be ready for short summons and 
 long trips. As you know, my work on the paper 
 relates altogether to foreign affairs. I used to be 
 the regular foreign correspondent, and was on the 
 go nearly all the time. Of late years, things have 
 been quiet abroad, and I have had little to do but 
 editorial work. It so happens that Mr. Bennett now 
 wants a man to go to Japan, and he selects me for 
 it. I received notice of it this morning, and I am 
 to start without delay." 
 
 Pen said nothing, but he looked uneasy. 
 
 " I know what you are thinking of," continued 
 Mr. Terry. " You are wondering what will become 
 of you when I am gone." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; that was in my mind. You see, I 
 came as your assistant, and " 
 
 " I understand ; but I don't think you need feel 
 at all uneasy. You are helping the other editors, 
 also, and I see no reason why your work should 
 not continue." 
 
 Pen looked relieved, 
 
 " I thought of you first of all this morning when I 
 received my summons, and it made me a little uneasy 
 for awhile, for I felt that I had assumed a respon- 
 sibility in recommending you to come to the city." 
 
92 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Oh, I don't want you to feel uneasy on my 
 account, sir," Pen hastened to say. " I consider 
 all that you have done as so much kindness, and I 
 could not expect you to do more." 
 
 " It would be no kindness to suggest your 
 coming here, and then leave you in the lurch," 
 responded Mr. Terry. " But, as I have said, I see 
 no cause for uneasiness. I spoke to Mr. Brace 
 about you — he is in the literary department, you 
 know — and he told me he could keep you busy, 
 and would look after you a little ; so that will fix 
 you all right. As for myself, I am not at all unwill- 
 ing to go away again. It is the kind of work that 
 suits me best, and I have been chafing ever since I 
 have been in the office. I like change — travel and 
 adventure of any kind — anything that is new and 
 interesting." 
 
 He had paused in his work while speaking, and 
 now stood in the centre of the room, his arms 
 folded, looking at Pen. 
 
 " You have never been in this room, have you ?" 
 he said, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " No, sir ; only in your parlor." 
 
 Pen's eyes, which had been roving curiously 
 about the room, were now fixed on a pair of pictures 
 that stood on the mantel a few feet away. They 
 were photographs of a young man and woman, and 
 were set in a leather case, side by side. 
 
 The woman's face Pen recognized at once. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 93 
 
 " It is my mother !" he exclaimed. 
 
 He looked at the other picture a moment, and 
 bowed his head. 
 
 " It would pass for a likeness of you ten years 
 hence," said Mr. Terry, coming up behind him and 
 laying a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 Then he took the leather case from the mantel 
 and closed it. 
 
 "They were taken a number of years ago,'' 
 said Pen, as calmly as he could 
 
 " Just about twenty years ago — during the 
 week of the wedding," said Mr. Terry. Then he 
 added, more slowly, " I was the best man." 
 
 Pen looked at him quickly, and caught the 
 expression that crossed his face. An instant, and 
 it was gone. 
 
 He felt then a momentary impulse to tell Mr. 
 Terry all that he had learned from 'Lias — that his 
 father had been seen recently, alive and well. But 
 he stifled the feeling before it found its way to his 
 lips. 
 
 He had learned a lesson in silence from his 
 mother. 
 
 There was a moment's pause while Mr. Terry 
 put the case in a drawer. Then he went on talking 
 of his trip and of Pen's prospects. 
 
 A half hour later Pen left his friend, the latter 
 assuring him that he would see him again in the 
 morning before he left the city. 
 
94 >iOT IVlTHOUr HONOR. 
 
 " I will write to your mother to-night, explain- 
 ing the matter," were Mr. Terry's parting words, 
 " and I hope she will believe that I have done all 
 I could under such pressing circumstances." 
 
 " I know she will understand," answered Pen. 
 
 It was a desolate day, that first one after Mr. 
 Terry's departure. 
 
 Pen scarcely knew what to do. He had been 
 in the habit of taking all his directions' from Mr. 
 Terry — in fact he more than suspected that his 
 mother's friend had made a place for him, and now 
 that he was gone Pen felt completely lost. He 
 gazed disconsolately at the closed desk in the little 
 office ; then, unable to stay there alone, went into 
 another office where Mr. Brace was, and sought 
 employment of him. 
 
 Mr. Brace was kind enough in his nervous way, 
 but he could do little to cheer Pen. He was too 
 busy a man to talk. All he could do was to assign 
 him work, and occasionally jerk out a word or two 
 of advice. 
 
 All hope of hints or encouragement in his liter- 
 ary aspirations from that quarter Pen soon saw were 
 vain. To one of his dependent nature the loss of a 
 friend like Mr. Terry was irreparable 
 
 And he not only fdt it in his literary efforts, but 
 in the ordinary routine work of the office. The 
 little spirit he had shown under Mr. Terry's direction 
 flagged, and, kind as Mr. Brace tried to be, he 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 9S 
 
 could not help snapping out some word of reproof 
 at times when Pen seemed particularly dull. 
 
 Such reproofs stung Pen to the quick, and he 
 would brood over them for several days, growing 
 unhappier and more distrustful of himself each time. 
 
 And, as this feeling grew, he kept more and 
 more aloof from others. The influence of Mr. 
 Terry had been such as to draw him out of himself. 
 That removed, he retired again into his shell, and, 
 as nearly as his circumstances would permit, he 
 returned to the style of life he had lived at Wilton — 
 Speaking little to anybody, avoiding company, and 
 in the evening closeting himself up in his room with 
 his books. 
 
 The only variation in this mode of life was an 
 occasional visit to the theatre, and even in this he 
 was usually alone. Dating from that first experi- 
 ence at the play, Pen experienced a genuine passion 
 for the stage, and the greater part of his little sav- 
 ings went in that direction. 
 
 With the assistance of the ingenious Bob Lecky, 
 he was enabled to get seats at a small price, so Pen 
 managed to see a good deal of the drama in a way. 
 
 The last Saturday of September, there being 
 Httle to do at the office, Mr. Brace gave Pen his 
 freedom for the afternoon and he went to the 
 matinee. The play was over by five o'clock, and it 
 was still broad daylight as Pen walked slowly down 
 Eighth Avenue, quite oblivious to his surround- 
 
96 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 ings, his mind completely absorbed in the scenes of 
 the drama he had just witnessed. 
 
 Thus quite unconsciously he walked into the 
 very centre of a group of boys assembled at the 
 corner of Eighteenth Street. He was quite unaware 
 of their existence until voices broke rudely in on his 
 dreaming. 
 
 " Hullo, by George, here's the knowing un ! " 
 
 " Not very knowing, though, I guess. Looks 
 as if he was in a trance. Hey, there, my hearty, 
 ain't you sober yet? " 
 
 Pen started and looked around him. The group 
 numbered about eight, among whom he at once 
 recognized his acquaintances of that memorable 
 night at "Tom's." 
 
 " Hullo, old sharpshooter, where have you been 
 keeping yourself? " exclaimed one of the boys. 
 
 Pen looked confused and said nothing. 
 
 " Say, Harold, here's your friend," laughed 
 another of the boys. " Show him your new toy." 
 
 Harold Fisk had been displaying some new pos- 
 session of his for the admiration of the rest, when 
 Pen's sudden approach interrupted him. 
 
 Now for the first time Pen turned and faced 
 Harold. As he did so, his eyes fell on the object 
 in Harold's hand that had been engaging the 
 attention of the group. 
 
 An exclamation of astonishment escaped his lips. 
 
 It was his mother's watch. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 97 
 
 CHAPTER Xin 
 Pen Fares Badly 
 
 PEN sprang forward and snatched eagerly at 
 the watch. 
 "Give me that ! It is mine ! " he cried. 
 
 Harold's hand closed quickly and he stepped 
 back. 
 
 " What's the matter with you ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " I want my watch. You have it there. Give 
 it to me ! " 
 
 Pen had now seized Harold by the wrist. 
 
 " Are you crazy ? " cried Harold, shaking him- 
 self free. 
 
 " No, no. I want my watch, I tell you. It was 
 stolen from me— and you have it." 
 
 The boys stared at Pen in surprise. 
 
 Harold returned the watch to his pocket. 
 
 " You must be crazy," he said. " I bought this 
 watch yesterday." 
 
 " Then you bought it of a thief, and you have 
 no right to it. It is mine." 
 
 " Oh, go take a run and jump up in the air. 
 
98 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 That will cool you off," said Harold, turning away. 
 
 Pen was distracted. 
 
 " Stop ! Stop ! " he cried, his voice trembling 
 with excitement. " You shall not keep that watch. 
 It belongs to me." 
 
 He caught Harold by the shoulder and pulled 
 him back. The latter scowled angrily. 
 
 " Look here, what are you doing?" he said. 
 
 " I must have that watch. I will have it." 
 
 Harold faced him boldly. 
 
 " Oh, you will have it, eh ? Well, just let's see 
 you take it, that's all." 
 
 Pen made a quick grab for the chain that hung 
 from Harold's vest. 
 
 As he did so, he felt a heavy blow on the side 
 of the face, and he fell limply to the pavement. 
 
 In an instant he was on his feet again. 
 
 His teeth were clenched, his face white, except 
 one red spot on the left cheek where Harold's fist 
 had fallen. 
 
 The shock of the blow seemed only to have 
 steadied Pen. There was no trembling now in the 
 slender body and thin, nervous arms. Stooping 
 forward, he crept slowly towards Harold. 
 
 " I will have my watch — or you shall kill me," 
 he said. 
 
 Harold retreated from the corner a short 
 distance up the side street, the boys following, and 
 forming a circle about them. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 99 
 
 They had now reached a quiet spot and Harold 
 paused. 
 
 " See here," he said, " I warn you to leave me 
 alone. I can handle my fists, and you'll only get 
 in trouble." 
 
 " I mean to have that watch," repeated Pen. 
 
 "And I tell you for the last time I bought that 
 watch, and it is mine." 
 
 " It is mine," answered Pen, coming nearer. 
 
 " You're a liar," cried Harold. 
 
 Pen sprang at him. 
 
 Harold's fist shot out again, and Pen's head 
 flew back. The boys pressing close behind him 
 saved him from falling. 
 
 As he regained his balance, a thin stream of 
 blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Without 
 even pausing to wipe it away, he came at Harold 
 once more. 
 
 " Oh, you want fight, do you? Then you'll get 
 fight, and plenty of it," exclaimed Harold, whose 
 blood was now up. He had seen enough of Pen in 
 the last encounter to convince him that there was 
 absolutely nothing to fear from such an antagonist, 
 and he carried himself, therefore, with coolness and 
 confidence. 
 
 " Come on if you want more !" he cried. 
 
 Pen needed no invitation. He was already upon 
 his antagonist. There was a sharp scrimmage, and 
 Pen got in one blow on Harold's cheek. 
 
loo A^or WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Bully boy !" exclaimed a bystander. 
 
 " Do him, Harold !" cried half a dozen others. 
 
 The blow maddened Harold. He dodged back 
 a moment, them came in with a terrible facer on 
 Pen's nose. Down again he went, this time falling 
 heavily. 
 
 There was a moment's pause. 
 
 Then he staggered up, the blood flowing from 
 both nostrils. 
 
 " There, have you had enough?" cried Harold. 
 
 Pen did not answer, but crept forward again. 
 
 Harold was exasperated, and rushing upon 
 him, planted two, three blows on his forehead and 
 cheek. 
 
 " There, then, and there ! and there ! Is that 
 enough?" 
 
 " Ne, no — you shall kill me first." 
 
 Pen's eyes were closing, but he groped for his 
 antagonist, and seized him about the body. 
 
 " Say, dat boy is game. He will do Harold if 
 he can last out," exclaimed some one. 
 
 But Harold knew his strength. Grappling with 
 Pen, he threw his whole weight upon him, slowly 
 bending the slender body back. Then, with a 
 sharp twist, he tripped him, and the two fell, Harold 
 on top. 
 
 Quick as a wink he had one arm around Pen's 
 neck, and held him at his mercy. 
 
 "So it's jour watch, is it? and you'll take it 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR loi 
 
 from me, will you ? Take that — and that — and 
 that!" 
 
 Harold's fist fell mercilessly on Pen's defenseless 
 face. 
 
 " Here, here, Harold ! Fair play ! Fair play ! 
 Give him a show ! Let him up there !" cried sev- 
 eral of the boys. 
 
 But Harold was deaf to remonstrances. All his 
 brutal instincts were aroused. 
 
 " I'll finish you this time," he panted, and again 
 his fist fell. 
 
 Indeed, Pen seemed quite finished already. He 
 could scarcely struggle. 
 
 " Come, this is too much !" cried a larger boy. 
 " Take a hand there and separate them !" 
 
 Several boys were about to interfere, when sud- 
 denly the line of bystanders broke, and a new figure 
 appeared on the scene. 
 
 It was Bob Lecky. 
 
 He took in the situation at a glance. Like a 
 flash he caught Harold Fisk by the shoulders and 
 threw him backward, thus loosening his grasp on 
 Pen, who rolled helplessly over on his back, and was 
 picked up by two of the bystanders. 
 
 " Now, then," cried Bob, standing over Harold. 
 " Get up and finish this with me." 
 
 Harold sprang to his feet, and turned away. 
 
 " I have no fight with you," he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you have — or you will have before 
 
102 }^0T IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 you get through !" exclaimed Bob. " I'll teach you 
 to hammer a fellow when he's down." 
 
 " He'd have done me if I hadn't done him," 
 said Harold. " Anyhow, it's none of your business." 
 
 " Then I'll make it some of my business. The 
 boys tell me you have Rae's watch." 
 
 " It's a lie !" cried Harold. " He never had any 
 watch." 
 
 " I know better. He did have a watch, and it 
 was stolen from him. I know that, for I chased 
 the thief" 
 
 There were murmurs of surprise from the 
 crowd. 
 
 "Well, I don't care about that. He said I had 
 his watch, and he tried to take it away from me," 
 said Harold. 
 
 " If Rae said you had his watch, I believe him," 
 cried Bob. " He knows his watch, and he wouldn't 
 lie about it. Just show up that watch, and we'll 
 see whom it belongs to. I know the watch, too, 
 for I've seen it, and I can identify it. If that watch 
 is Rae's, you'll find initials engraved inside the case, 
 ' E. B. R.' Isn't that right, Rae ?" 
 
 Pen nodded his head faintly. He was too weak 
 to speak. 
 
 His eyes were closed, his lips swollen, and he 
 was leaning heavily against the two boys who had 
 raised him, and who were now wiping off his face 
 with handkerchiefs. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 103 
 
 The crowd was growing more interested. 
 
 " Come, come, Harold, show up the watch. 
 Let's see if he's right !" cried several. 
 
 " I won't do it!" exclaimed Harold, defiantly. 
 " It's my watch, and I'll keep it." 
 
 " Well, prove it's yours, then." 
 
 " I won't prove anything. I bought it, and that's 
 enough." 
 
 "Where did you buy it?" demanded Bob 
 Lecky. 
 
 " That's none of your business," snapped out 
 Harold. 
 
 " See here, this ain't fair !" cried one of the boys, 
 stepping forward. " I for one believe Rae is right. 
 I saw that watch when Harold was showing it 
 around, and I saw those initials — ' E. B. R.' " 
 
 Harold turned white. 
 
 Bob Lecky came close to him. 
 
 " Will you show up that watch ?" he asked. 
 
 " No !" cried Harold. " It belongs to me, and 
 there isn't a man here that can take it away from 
 me." 
 
 The crowd was now entirely with Bob Lecky 
 and Pen. Harold was quick to see this, and began 
 to back away. 
 
 Bob followed him closely. 
 
 "Keep away from me, Lecky," said Harold, 
 nervously. " I don't want any row with you " 
 
 But Bob already had him. The boys were too 
 
I04 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 close to strike, so they grappled and wrestled fiercely 
 for several minutes. 
 
 Then Bob's cunning and superior strength began 
 to tell. There was a sharp jerk, a twist, and Harold 
 fell with Bob upon him. Over and over they rolled, 
 wriggling, kicking and tearing at each other. 
 
 It was quite noticeable, though, that Bob made 
 no effort to strike, but merely warded off Harold's 
 blows, while he struggled and threw him about. 
 At length, by a supreme effort, Harold managed to 
 shake himself free and regain his feet. Once there, 
 he showed no disposition to resume the fight. 
 
 He was the unpopular factor now, and the crowd 
 was howling threateningly in his ears. Moreover, 
 a policeman was fast approaching from Eighth 
 Avenue, so, judging discretion the better part of 
 valor, Harold buttoned his coat tight and set off 
 running at full speed, the crowd breaking up quickly 
 at the sight of the officer, and leaving Bob and Pen 
 with only two of their companions. 
 
 Bob, who had lain quietly on the ground for 
 half a minute after Harold took to his heels, now 
 rose cautiously and came over to Pen. 
 
 The policeman had already come up. Bob 
 knew him, and explained the matter, and then helped 
 Pen home. 
 
 Arrived there. Bob gave poor Pen's face a care- 
 ful cleansing, and applied some lotion of his which 
 he said was " a dead sure cure for black eyes." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 105 
 
 " Now you lie back on the bed and take it easy," 
 he said, when he had finished his doctoring, " and 
 I'll make you comfortable. You can't go to dinner 
 looking like that, so I'll bring something up to you, 
 and tell auntie you're not well." 
 
 Pen sank back with a sigh. 
 
 " Better now?" asked Bob, leaning over him. 
 
 Pen nodded wearily. 
 
 " Good. Then let me tell you something nice. 
 When I tackled Harold that last time — ^you didn't 
 see that tackle, did you ? Of course not — ^you 
 couldn't see — I forgot. .Well, it was a beauty, any- 
 how. But what I was going to say was, when I 
 tackled him, I had just one thing in view — and I 
 got it." 
 
 Pen looked at him as curiously as his bruised 
 eyes would permit. 
 
 " It was neatly done, too," went on Bob, unbut- 
 toning his coat. " It was just a snap, and there she 
 was." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" asked Pen. 
 
 " Just this : When Harold Fisk gets home, he 
 will find something very important is missing. He's 
 got the chain still, but look at this." 
 
 Bob drew from his pocket the gold watch, and 
 held it before Pen's face. 
 
 Pen caught at it eagerly. 
 
 " Now then, just a word to see where we are 
 at," said Bob. " In the first place, you did a 
 
106 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 mighty foolish thing to get into a fight with Harold 
 Fisk. You are no match for him, and if I hadn't 
 come up and taken a hand, you would not only 
 have got your thrashing, but you would have lost 
 your watch in the bargain, for he'd have taken good 
 care you never got a sight of it again. But there, 
 it's no use rubbing that in. You poets will never 
 learn how to get along in this wicked world. But 
 now, here we are, and we have the watch. The 
 question is, what to do about Harold Fisk, for if 
 he really bought the watch of somebody he is sure 
 to make a row, and we've got to prove " 
 
 Bob paused a moment in thought. 
 
 " I have it," he said, at length. " I'll go around 
 and tell the whole story to Captain Maynard to-night. 
 He will know what to do." 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 107 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 Pen Overhears a Conversation 
 
 THAT was a bright idea of Bob Lecky's and 
 it saved Pen a great deal of trouble. When 
 Captain Maynard heard the story from Bob 
 that night, he settled the matter with his customary 
 decision. 
 
 " Come right along with me," he said, putting 
 on his hat. " We'll go at once down to Mr. Fisk's 
 house and have it out with him. He is a good 
 friend of mine, you know, and not at all an unrea- 
 sonable man. I think we can soon adjust things, 
 and without trouble of any kind." 
 
 Harold was at home, as was also his father, 
 when Captain Maynard arrived, so there was no 
 delay in getting at all the facts. 
 
 When forced by his father to speak out, Harold 
 said that he bought the watch of a rather shady 
 pawnbroker, and further he confessed that he was 
 quite willing to believe that it belonged to Pen, but 
 as he had paid considerable money for it, he did not 
 want to give it up. Moreover, he added, Pen had 
 
io8 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 made him so angry by trying to snatch the watch 
 from him, that he had determined that he wouldn't 
 reHnquish it under any conditions. 
 
 " Well, Rae was a bit hasty about it," said Bob 
 in a conciliatory tone. " He is one of those literary 
 chaps, and an odd chicken altogether. He hasn't 
 learned yet how to take things, so you can't blame 
 him too much. You see, it was his mother's watch, 
 and it nearly broke his heart to lose it, so when he 
 saw it again, he lost his head. I told him he had 
 done a foolish thing in tackling you — and I guess 
 he knows it himself now." 
 
 Harold grinned. 
 
 Bob was shrewd, and had taken just the right 
 tone to smooth matters out. 
 
 And they were soon satisfactorily adjusted. 
 
 Of course Harold wanted his money back, and 
 Captain Maynard got it for him from the pawn- 
 broker, who was frightened half out of his wits 
 when the officer entered his shop, and who seemed 
 greatly relieved when he learned how harmless was 
 the errand that brought him there. 
 
 When he heard about the stolen watch, he 
 handed over the amount Harold had paid him with 
 scarcely a murmur, and gave what description he 
 could of the person who had brought the watch to 
 him. Then he heaved a sigh as the captain and 
 Harold left. 
 
 " Goot luck, Ikey, goot luck ! " he exclaimed 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 109 
 
 to his eldest offspring and pride. " I t'ought der 
 gaptain's veesit vas goin' ter gost me a hundred 
 tollar at least. Just raise der price of dot ormoloo 
 glock tventy tollar ter balance der loss." 
 
 And so the matter was settled, and Pen was left 
 undisturbed in his possession of the watch. 
 
 But the encounter with Harold Fisk cost him 
 more than one night's retirement. He hoped at 
 first, the next day being Sunday, that he would be in 
 condition by Monday morning to resume his work, 
 but he soon saw that this was impossible. 
 
 If anything he looked worse on Monday than 
 he had the day before, for by that time the red 
 bruises had turned a dark purple, and, though no 
 pain remained, thanks to Bob Lecky's lotion, his 
 appearance was shocking. 
 
 So there, cooped up in his room, he had to stay 
 until the disfiguring bruises disappeared. It was 
 Friday before he dared venture out, and even then 
 some blue marks still remained. 
 
 Bob Lecky suggested his making a full week 
 of it, but Pen was uneasy about his work and impa- 
 tient to get back. 
 
 Accordingly Friday morning about ten o'clock, 
 he stole quietly into the Herald building and hur- 
 ried up to the office where his desk was. It was 
 empty, but as he seated himself at his place he 
 heard familiar voices through the partition and knew 
 that Mr. Brace was somewhere close at hand. 
 
no NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Pen paid no attention to the voice, but began 
 sorting the pile of papers on his desk. Suddenly 
 he heard his own name mentioned. 
 
 " Where's that fellow Rae ? Turned up yet ? " 
 
 " No," answered a voice that Pen recognized as 
 Mr. Brace's. " He is sick, I believe." 
 
 " Well, I guess he's no good anyhow, is he? " 
 
 " No, he is not," responded Mr. Brace. " He 
 is such a queer fish. It seems impossible to make 
 him understand business. He is good enough at 
 looking up things — seems to be well-read, and all 
 that, but so unpractical." 
 
 " I think we had far better be rid of him. He is 
 nothing but dead wood in the place." 
 
 Pen started. He knew those sharp, abrupt 
 tones. They came from a man of authority in the 
 management of the paper. 
 
 " Well, you see, he is Terry's boy," said Mr. 
 Brace, ' ' and Terry asked me to look after him as a 
 favor to him." 
 
 " I can't help that. If Terry wants him cared 
 for he can do it himself when he comes back. One 
 thing is certain : we don't want him. He's simply 
 no use." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " As you choose," went on Mr. Brace; "but 
 I would rather do nothing about it for Terry's sake. 
 Terry really made a place for him, and showed a 
 great deal of interest in him. Why, I don't know. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR m 
 
 but I believe Terry thinks a great deal of his mother, 
 and " 
 
 But Pen heard no more. Snatching up his hat 
 he stole quickly out of the office, and hurried down 
 stairs again and out of the building. 
 
 Even when on the street, he continued to hurry. 
 
 For a while he could not think connectedly. 
 His head was burning hot ; his heart beating 
 tumultuously. He walked on and on, his face bent 
 down, his clenched hands buried deep in his pockets. 
 
 Then gradually he grew calmer, and began to 
 look at the situation in a clearer light. 
 
 He was worthless, then. He had been tested 
 and found wanting. 
 
 The opportunity had been given him. The 
 fault must lie with himself. Was there anything 
 he could do — any place in the world for him? 
 
 Where should he turn ? He had lost one posi- 
 tion. Could he find another, or must he go back 
 home to Wilton and own himself beaten ! 
 
 At thought of Wilton came visions of the towns- 
 people laughing and nodding knowingly to one 
 another, " Aha, I told you so ; Pen Rae back again, 
 the same old good for-nothing. City life a failure. 
 Well, we said as much. He never will amount to 
 anything." 
 
 " And they must be right, too. I am worth- 
 less," exclaimed Pen bitterly. 
 
 Then came a vision that shut the others out : 
 
112 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 a sweet face that looked at him tenderly ; a gentle 
 voice that spoke to him cheeringly : 
 
 " Some day you will be a great man, Pen — and 
 then we shall all be proud of you." 
 
 Pen stopped abruptly in his walk. 
 
 " I will noi go back," he said. " I will find a 
 place somewhere." 
 
 Then, for the first time, he looked about him to 
 see where he was, and found himself almost oppo- 
 site the bookstore where Carl Moran was employed. 
 That his decision had arrested him just at this 
 place Pen considered a good omen, and accordingly 
 he hurried across the street and entered the store. 
 
 " Perhaps Carl can tell me what to do," he said. 
 
 Carl was glad to see Pen. He had visited him 
 once during his confinement, and had done what 
 he could to cheer him up. 
 
 " Come and see me when you can get out," 
 he had said, and here Pen was, only two days 
 afterwards. 
 
 " What a beautiful place this is !" exclaimed Pen, 
 after the first greetings were over, as he looked 
 admiringly down the long store, flanked on both 
 sides with shelves mounting to the ceiling and filled 
 with handsome books. 
 
 " Yes, it's a nice business. I like it immensely," 
 answered Carl. " Come, let me show you some- 
 thing of the fine stock," and he led the way toward 
 the shelves containing handsome bindings. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR n% 
 
 It was a feast for Pen. He hung over the 
 exquisite editions of his favorite authors laid out 
 before him, and handled the handsome volumes 
 with tender and reverential care. 
 
 " Oh, what a pleasure it must be to work here 
 among these beautiful books, and to have the 
 chance to read them all !" he exclaimed. 
 
 Carl laughed. 
 
 " A salesman who reads is lost," he said. " This 
 is business with us, you know. We are here to sell 
 books, not to read them. We have little time for 
 reading. We have to do that at home, but most of 
 our fellows don't even do that. Books are just like 
 bricks to them — things to be sold, that is all. But 
 I like the business through and through, for I am 
 fond of books, particularly handsome books, and I 
 have quite a choice little collection of them at home. 
 I knew you would like the store. This business is 
 just in your line. You ought to be in it." 
 
 " There is nothing I would like better,'' answered 
 Pen, earnestly. 
 
 " Well, when you are looking for a job, let me 
 know, and perhaps I can give you a hint." 
 
 " Can you ?" cried Pen, eagerly. " That is just 
 what I want. I am hunting for a place now." 
 
 Carl looked at him in surprise, so Pen hastened 
 to explain his position — or rather loss of position. 
 
 Carl was all sympathy. 
 
 " Well, now, I had no idea of that, of course, 
 
114 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 when I spoke, but since it seems you really do want 
 a place, I will tell you this much. We are short- 
 handed here, and need another retail salesman. 
 The fall trade is coming on and we will soon have 
 to get one. I heard Mr. Clarke say so only the 
 other day. Suppose you come right back with me 
 and have a talk with him now. There's a chance 
 for you, and I will put in a good word." 
 
 Carl walked briskly back to one of the offices, 
 Pen following. 
 
 After a few words inside the office, Carl appeared 
 again and beckoned Pen to enter. 
 
 Mr. Clarke was seated at his desk writing 
 when Pen came in. He was a short, thick-set 
 man, about fifty years of age, with gray hair and 
 beard. 
 
 He turned abruptly, and spoke in quick, almost 
 brusque tones. 
 
 " So you want a place, eh ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "And you have been working for the Herald f" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Why did you leave ?" 
 
 " I haven't left yet, sir ; but I want to leave." 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 " I was employed there by Mr. Austin Terry, 
 and now he's gone away to Japan ; my own work 
 amounts to very little, so — so I want to find another 
 place." 
 
T^OT IVITHOUT HONOR 115 
 
 Mr. Clarke eyed him sharply. 
 
 " Humph ! Know anything about books !" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir. I have always been a great 
 reader." 
 
 " Never mind that. Have you ever sold them ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; but I know books well, and I think 
 I could learn the rest if I had a chance." 
 
 " Humph ! Any recommendations ?" 
 
 Pen hardly knew what to say. 
 
 " Mr. Terry could — could have given me a letter, 
 sir," he stammered ; " but he has gone away, 
 and " 
 
 " Know any one else at the Herald who will 
 give you a letter?" interrupted Mr. Clarke. 
 
 " I know Mr. Brace quite well. I have worked 
 for him since Mr. Terry left." 
 
 '' I know Brace. Bring me a letter .from him, 
 and I'll see what I can do," said Mr. Clarke. 
 
 " What — what would you like him to say, sir?" 
 asked Pen, anxiously. 
 
 "Anything he wants," answered Mr. Clarke, 
 half impatiently. " If he has a good word for you, 
 so much the better. I want some sort of identifi- 
 cation and recommendation. What Moran tells 
 me here is all in your favor. Now, a line or two 
 from Mr. Brace might be sufficient. Bring it in 
 with you some time to-morrow forenoon, and I'll 
 have another talk with you. Perhaps it may come 
 to something." 
 
ii6 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 With that Mr. Clarke resumed his writing, and 
 Carl led Pen out into the store. 
 
 " You've made a good start," he said, encourag- 
 ingly. " Now get your letter, and you'll probably 
 clinch it." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR n? 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 Pen Finds a New Place 
 
 PEN returned to the Herald building in a far 
 different frame of mind from that in which 
 he had left it an hour before. 
 
 He found Mr. Brace at his desk, busy and irrita- 
 ble as usual. Considering the length of time Pen had 
 been away, his greeting was curt. It was even more 
 than that ; it was constrained, for Mr. Brace had an 
 unpleasant task before him. His first thought, as 
 Pen entered, was, " How shall I prepare him for it ?" 
 
 Pen saved him all trouble in the matter. No 
 sooner were Mr. Brace's first brief inquiries concern- 
 ing his health answered, than he plunged straight 
 into the heart of things. 
 
 " Mr. Brace, I am going to leave," he said. 
 
 It came so suddenly, Mr. Brace was unprepared. 
 He turned around with a quick exclamation, and 
 dropped his pen. An expression of relief passed 
 over his face. 
 
 " What is the matter ? Have you another 
 place?" he asked. 
 
ii8 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Not quite, sir ; but I think I can get it." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 "At Mr. Clarke's, the bookseller's." 
 
 " Oh, yes. I know him. Well, I am very glad to 
 learn that. I trust it will be a good thing for you." 
 
 " I can't tell anything about that, sir. I can 
 only say I have kopes of getting a place there. I 
 had a talk with Mr. Clarke to-day, and told him 
 that I wanted to get work in a book store. He 
 seemed to look on me favorably, and when he heard 
 I had worked here, he said that if I brought him a 
 letter from you, it might lead to something." 
 
 " That is easily done, Rae," said Mr. Brace. 
 " I will be only too glad to give you an excellent 
 letter of recommendation to Mr. Clarke. I have no 
 doubt you will do very well in a book store — far 
 better, perhaps, than here, where there is so much 
 rush and bustle. When do you want your letter?" 
 
 " This afternoon, if possible. I must take it to 
 Mr. Clarke to-morrow morning." 
 
 " I will write it at once, while it is on my mind," 
 said Mr. Brace, hastily taking up his pen, " and it 
 will be a good letter, too, you may be sure." 
 
 Pen sat in silence while Mr. Brace wrote. 
 
 " He must be eager to get rid of me," he thought, 
 bitterly. " An hour ago he condemned me as worth- 
 less, and now he is writing a letter recommending 
 me for another place ; but I suppose that is ' busi- 
 ness ' — of which I know nothing." 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 119 
 
 "There," said Mr. Brace, as he finished, "that 
 will do, I think. You may read it if you wish." 
 
 " I don't think I deserve it," said Pen, as he 
 glanced over the sheet. 
 
 " Nonsense ; I want you to get your place, and 
 I mean to do all I can," answered Mr. Brace, as 
 kindly as he could. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Pen, and with that he 
 left. 
 
 It was Pen's last visit to the Herald building in 
 a long time, for he got his place in the book store 
 the next day. 
 
 Mr. Clarke was sparing in words, as was his 
 habit, but he seemed quite satisfied when he read 
 Mr. Brace's letter. 
 
 " Humph ! Well, I guess you'll do," he said. 
 " At any rate we will try you for awhile. When 
 are you ready to begin ? " 
 
 " Whenever you say, sir," answered Pen, eagerly. 
 
 " Suppose you come then next Monday morn- 
 ing. Of course you understand this is merely 
 experimental. We will try you for a month and 
 see how it goes. Then if you do well you can stay 
 permanently." 
 
 Accordingly Pen found himself on the following 
 Monday morning a retail salesman in the store of 
 Messrs. Clarke & Davis, at the salary of eight dol- 
 lars per week. This, of course, was no improve- 
 ment pecuniarily over his position at the Herald, 
 
i^o ]^0T WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 but, in every other way, it seemed to him a vast 
 betterment of his condition. 
 
 He was in an atmosphere most congenial to him, 
 surrounded by books of all descriptions — which 
 were a delight to handle even if he could not pause 
 to read them. 
 
 During the first few days he attended very little 
 to customers, being engaged chiefly in arranging 
 the books in order and in familiarizing himself with 
 the stock. This occupation was agreeable to him, 
 and was rendered all the more so by the pleasant 
 companionship of Carl Moran, who tried in every 
 way to help him. 
 
 His new position, however, was not without its 
 drawbacks, as Pen discovered before the first week 
 passed. 
 
 In the first place a thorough knowledge of books, 
 past and present, in stock and out, was necessary to 
 success, and Pen's knowledge lay simply along the 
 line of his tastes. It seemed very hard for him to 
 learn about books that he cared nothing for, and 
 these were the kinds of books that people seemed 
 to ask most about. He resented having to push to 
 the notice of a customer a book that he felt to be in 
 a literary sense trash. 
 
 Then, again, he found customers so hard to deal 
 with. They asked him so many puzzling questions, 
 and they grew so impatient when he could not 
 answer them. 
 
HOT IVITHOUT HONOR 121 
 
 Carl had told him he must be philosophical about 
 these things ; that he would meet all sorts of queer 
 people, and must adapt himself to them, putting up 
 with a good deal of bad treatment and swallowing 
 a good deal of rude language for the sake of his 
 employer, but Pen chafed under it severely. 
 
 And lastly, Mr. Clarke himself was a hard man 
 to please. He was of an irritable disposition, and 
 very particular and fault-finding. 
 
 Of Mr. Davis, Pen saw little. He looked out for 
 the publishing and manufacture of books, and stayed 
 almost constantly in his office at the rear of the 
 building, leaving Mr. Clarke to direct the book 
 selling. 
 
 Pen was watched closely by his employer dur- 
 ing the first two weeks, and the scrutiny made him 
 exceedingly uncomfortable. 
 
 He had no means of knowing whether he 
 was giving satisfaction or not and the suspense 
 worried him. 
 
 Such indications as there were seemed to him 
 unfavorable. Mr. Clarke never offered him a word of 
 encouragement. It was only on two occasions that 
 he spoke to him at all, and then it was to give him 
 some sharp directions about dressing up the book 
 tables more neatly, and to reprove him for looking 
 so much into the inside of books instead of around 
 about him for customers. 
 
 " Don't worry," said Carl Moran, when Pen 
 
122 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 asked him about the matter. " Mr. Clarke says 
 very httle. If he doesn't make a big kick you can 
 feel sure that you are doing pretty well." 
 
 And with that poor consolation Pen tried to rest 
 content. But some time during the third week he 
 experienced one of Mr. Clarke's " big kicks," and 
 he then began to fear seriously that his chances of 
 remaining after the month was up were very slight. 
 
 Back in a corner of the store he had come upon 
 a shabby old volume of poetry. The author's 
 name was unfamiliar to Pen. The first glance of 
 curiosity inside the book led him into reading one 
 of the sonnets. He was delighted. Dropping down 
 on a stool, he was soon absorbed, reading along 
 rapidly page after page. 
 
 "Rac! Rae!" 
 
 Pen sprang to his feet. 
 
 Mr. Clarke stood before him with a black look. 
 
 "Well, I hope you are through at last, and 
 ready to go to work again," he said. 
 
 Pen flushed up. 
 
 "Why — what is the matter, sir?" he stam- 
 mered. 
 
 " Matter enough," answered Mr. Clarke, impa- 
 tiently. " Fully a dozen customers have passed 
 here looking for some one to wait on them. Three 
 of them have just gone out because they couldn't 
 get any attention, and if I hadn't come out here in 
 a hurry the rest would have gone." 
 
KOT IVITHOUT HONOR 123 
 
 " I — I am very sorry, sir," said Pen. " I was 
 engaged — I mean I was reading and I didn't see 
 them." 
 
 " Well, you know this is no time to be reading. 
 It is the busiest hour of the day. There's plenty 
 to do." 
 
 Mr. Clarke walked away a few steps — then 
 stopped. 
 
 "Did you let the awnings down on the side 
 windows so as to shut the sun off those morocco 
 bindings?" he called out. 
 
 Pen started. 
 
 " No, sir," he said ; " I forgot — but I will do it 
 at once." 
 
 Mr. Clarke wheeled about angrily and hurried 
 back to his office. 
 
 Pen thought that settled his fate completely, but 
 Carl told him not to give up. 
 
 " Never mind," he said, cheeringly. " You go 
 right ahead and do your best. Try to make a good 
 sale and that will smooth things out. Catch some 
 rich customer and sell him a big bill." 
 
 But this was easier said than done, for the rich 
 customers all went past Pen. Many of them were 
 particular customers of some of the other salesmen, 
 and always asked for the man they knew, while 
 others passed him by as if they suspected he was 
 inexperienced. 
 
 Pen was growing very anxious. He had been 
 
124 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 at work three weeks, and had not made a sale of 
 any importance — only a few cheap books. 
 
 When, therefore, on Friday afternoon of the 
 fourth week, a carriage stopped at the door, and a 
 well-dressed gentleman stepped out and entered the 
 store. Pen hurried forward eagerly. Carl Moran 
 was near the door, but stepped back when he saw 
 Pen advancing. 
 
 " There's your chance now," he whispered. 
 " Looks like a good customer." 
 
 The gentleman began by asking to see some 
 fine standard sets in handsome bindings. This was 
 encouraging, and Pen's hopes ran high. 
 
 A half hour passed rapidly while Pen showed 
 his customer the various standard authors in full 
 calf and morocco bindings. 
 
 During that time they grew in a measure 
 acquainted. The gentleman seemed to be in no 
 hurry, and talked affably about books and editions, 
 revealing a knowledge that quite took Pen's breath 
 away. 
 
 " Are you a book collector, sir ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, I was a number of years ago. I had a 
 craze for fine books then, but I got over it — like the 
 measles, though it cost me more. I have a fine 
 library stored away in boxes, where it does me no 
 good. I am traveling too much to use it. These 
 books I am selecting for a friend." 
 
 And so the selection went on for an hour or 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 125 
 
 more. At length the gentleman made his choice 
 of a number of handsome sets. 
 
 " Put these on one side," he said. " I will take 
 them." 
 
 Pen could hardly believe his ears. The total 
 bill amounted to nine hundred dollars. 
 
 With trembling hands he seized a memorandum 
 blank to record the purchase and address. 
 
 " I cannot give you the exact address this after- 
 noon," said the gentleman. " But I will send it 
 to-morrow with check in payment." 
 
 " And to whom shall we make out the bill ? " 
 asked Pen. 
 
 " To Mr. Henry Sartain ; but send the bill up 
 to me. Francis Lalor is my name. I am staying 
 at the Windsor Hotel. I want to check up the 
 bill to make sure the items are right, and also 
 to show it to my friend before the books are sent 
 off. Then to-morrow the account will be paid." 
 
 Pen had scarcely heard the last words. The 
 name, " Francis Lalor," was still ringing in his 
 ears. 
 
 He looked earnestly in the gentleman's face. 
 There was nothing familiar there. He had certainly 
 never seen the man before. Then why was that 
 name so familiar ? 
 
 Pen could not place it, and was still puzzling 
 over the matter after the customer had gone and 
 Carl Moran was congratulating him on his sale. 
 
126 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock when the bill of items 
 was made out. 
 
 " It must go up to-night," he said to Mr. Clarke, 
 who stood looking over his shoulder with a pleased 
 expression. 
 
 " There will be no trouble about that. I will 
 send one of the boys up with it when we close," 
 said Mr. Clarke. " It was a good sale, Rae." 
 
 By some curious freak of memory it was just 
 then that the mystery of that name unraveled itself 
 like a flash. 
 
 Hurrying out of the office, Pen ran to the 
 closet where his other coat was hanging. From the 
 pockets of this he drew out a lot of papers. 
 
 Among these he found an old envelope, crum- 
 pled and torn. 
 
 Pen seized it eagerly and smoothed it out. 
 
 "I knew it!" he exclaimed. " Francis Lalor 
 — that is the name, sure enough." 
 
 With that he went back to the office. 
 
 " Mr. Clarke," he said, " if you don't mind I 
 will take that bill up to the Windsor Hotel myself 
 to-night. I want to see the gentleman again." 
 
 " Go ahead by all means," answered Mr. Clarke. 
 " Perhaps you can sell him something more." 
 
HOT IVITHOUT HONOR 127 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 Alarming; News 
 
 THE following Monday afternoon as Will Rae 
 came up through the yard to the door of 
 the little house at Wilton, his mother stood 
 there awaiting him. 
 
 " Have you my letter? " she called out. 
 
 Will held up his empty hands. 
 
 " No letter yet." 
 
 Mrs. Rae looked worried. 
 
 " What can be the matter? " she said. 
 
 " I guess it's all right," answered Will, reas- 
 suringly. " It's a very small matter — a mail or 
 two. There might have been a delay somewhere, 
 or the letter might have been lost, or Pen might 
 have been occupied and let it slip from his mind 
 for a day." 
 
 " No — not Pen," said Mrs. Rae, smiling. 
 
 " I suppose not. But still don't be uneasy 
 about it. More than likely your letter will come 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " But that isn't to-day," responded Mrs. Rae 
 
128 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 as she re-entered the house, "and my Monday 
 evening with Pen is gone." 
 
 After supper Mrs. Rae sat listlessly by the table 
 trying to interest herself in the Wilton Press, a copy 
 of which she was folding and refolding impatiently. 
 
 At length she gave it up, and the paper slipped 
 to the floor. 
 
 "At any rate I can read his last week's letter 
 again. That is better than nothing," she said. 
 
 She crossed the room and picked out a thick 
 envelope from a number of similar ones that lay 
 side by side in a small drawer of the writing desk. 
 Then, drawing the lamp nearer, she opened the 
 letter and read slowly, 
 
 Dear Mother : 
 
 My week has been a dull one, the dullest since I came 
 into my new place, and the most discouraging one. It 
 makes me blue to think about it. I was severely repri- 
 manded by Mr. Clarke on Friday — it was always my bad 
 day, you know — because I got so interested in a book that I 
 lost several customers. I am sorry I lost the customers, but 
 I couldn't help it. The book was a volume of old poems, 
 and they are gems. The author is William Drummond. 
 Have you ever heard of him? If you have, you 
 never told me. I bought the book — it wasn't expen- 
 sive — but I'm afraid the experience has cost me more 
 than the price of the book. I am afraid I can never 
 learn the ways of business. If Mr. Terry were only 
 here now to help me ! He was a good friend to me and 
 I miss him very much. He was the only one here to whom 
 I could turn for sympathy. I hope he will come back 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR H^ 
 
 soon, for it looks as if I might need his friendship. At the 
 rate things are going on I am very much afraid I will not 
 suit Mr. Clarke. He almost said as much when he reproved 
 me. My only hope now lies in the suggestion Carl Moran 
 gave me. Carl, you know, is my guiding star. He told 
 me I must make a big sale next week, and then Mr. Clarke 
 would overlook all my shortcomings and treat me nicely. 
 So you see, mother, my success depends on my making a 
 big sale. When you look at your first star to-night, remember 
 me, and wish that I shall sell this week a "big bill of 
 goods," as they say here. Then, when I make my sale, 
 I will know what brought me my luck. 
 
 So much for business. And now about my writing. I 
 still keep busy at it every evening in my room, except when 
 I go out to the theatre with Bob Lecky or Carl Moran, and 
 that is only about once a week. I have written several new 
 poems — which I will send you next week, for you to pass 
 judgment on them before I submit them to the papers. 
 I don't know what to do about my first two poems sent so 
 long ago to those weekly papers. I haven't heard a word 
 from them. Mr. Terry advised not pressing them, but I 
 have certainly waited long enough, and I will look up the 
 publication offices next week and find out what has become 
 of rny contributions. 
 
 I had thought of asking Mr. Davis' advice about these 
 matters, as he is experienced in publishing work, but he 
 always seems so busy I don't like to trouble him. Sev- 
 eral times I have started to talk to some of the others 
 here about my work, but I have always changed my 
 mind at the last minute. I don't think I would get 
 any sympathy. Everything is "business," and all every- 
 body thinks of is "business, business" — so I have to 
 smother all my literary notions. But, smothered as they are, 
 they keep on smoldering, and I know that I always have 
 9 
 
130 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 you to fan them up when needed. Besides my poems, I 
 have written two short stories, which you shall also see as 
 soon as they are copied — and now for a secret. 
 
 /am writing a j>lay. Think of it ! I have a splendid 
 plot, and have already nearly finished the first act. 
 
 Mrs. Rae read no further. She was interrupted 
 at this point by the visit of a neighbor, and the 
 letter was hastily folded and put away. 
 
 The next morning brought with it a second dis- 
 appointment. No letter came from Pen. Tuesday, 
 it was thought, would surely bring one; but nothing 
 came. 
 
 Mrs. Rae was now seriously alarmed. 
 
 " There must be something the matter," she 
 said, uneasily. " I will write and ask." 
 
 A letter of inquiry was despatched at once with 
 a special delivery stamp. 
 
 The day passed, and Wednesday came, but with 
 it no response. Even Will could not conceal his 
 anxiety now. 
 
 " Perhaps I had better telegraph," he said. 
 
 " Yes ; go quickly," answered his mother. 
 
 Will set off, but in half an hour came running 
 back from the post office with an open letter in his 
 hand. 
 
 Mrs. Rae was about to utter an exclamation of 
 relief when she saw him, thinking surely that he 
 bore the long-awaited letter from Pen, but a glance 
 at Will's face aroused her worst fears. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 131 
 
 " What is it ? What is it ? Tell me, quick ?" 
 she cried. 
 
 Will handed her the letter in silence. 
 
 With trembling hands she spread it out and read : 
 
 To Mr. William Rae. 
 Dear Sir : 
 
 Is your brother Pen at home with you ? We have 
 seen nothing of him here since Friday afternoon of last 
 week, and we can find no trace of him at his house address. 
 It occurred to me that he might have been summoned home 
 suddenly for some reason. Can you give me any informa- 
 tion ? If so, please send me word at once, for I feel anxious 
 about him. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Carl Moran. 
 
 Mrs. Rae uttered a cry, and let the letter fall 
 from her hands. She was pale, and leaned against 
 the door for support. 
 
 "What can have happened?" she said, faintly. 
 
 " There, mother, don't think the worst now," said 
 Will. " It may be all right. Come into the house." 
 
 And he passed his arm around her. 
 
 " What shall we do? What shall we do?" she 
 repeated, looking at him helplessly. 
 
 " Do ? Why, I will go to New York at once," 
 he said, with decision. 
 
 Mrs. Rae rallied quickly at this. 
 
 "You are right. Will," she said. "Go imme- 
 diately — on the next train. I will have your things 
 ready in twenty minutes." 
 
132 A'Or WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XVn 
 Will Rae Searches foi* His Brother 
 
 " T WANT to see a young fellow named Moran." 
 I " That is my name." 
 
 Carl descended from the ladder, on which 
 he had been standing, and slapping his hands 
 together to rid them of the dust from the bookshelf, 
 looked inquiringly at the boy before him. 
 
 " You are Carl Moran?" asked the latter. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, I am Will Rae— Pen Rae's brother. I 
 got your letter this morning, and felt so worried 
 about Pen that I made up my mind to come on 
 here at once. Have you got any news of him 
 yet?" 
 
 CarL looked startled. 
 
 " I thought surcXyyou would have news of him," 
 he said. " Isn't he at home?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Haven't you heard from him?" 
 
 " Not in over a week." 
 
 Carl shook his head. 
 
l^OT IVITHOUT HONOR 133 
 
 " I can't understand it," he said, anxiously. " I 
 thought he might have gone home suddenly for 
 some reason, but now that you tell me you know 
 nothing of him I don't know what to think. I am 
 completely upset." 
 
 " Tell me all you can about him," said Will, 
 dropping his valise and leaning attentively towards 
 Carl. 
 
 " There isn't much to tell, I am sorry to say. 
 As I wrote you, we haven't seen Pen since last Fri- 
 day night, nor have any of the folks around at his 
 boarding house. On Friday afternoon he caught a 
 big customer — a gentleman named Francis Lalor, 
 so Pen told me — and sold him a large bill. The 
 gentleman said that he was staying at the Windsor 
 Hotel, and wanted his bill sent there that evening. 
 Now, for. some reason or other, Pen made up his 
 mind to take the bill up himself It was a queer 
 notion. We salesmen never do that sort of thing. 
 But Pen said that he wanted to see the gentleman 
 again — so he took the bill home with him to dinner, 
 and went up to the hotel in the evening. And that 
 is the last thing we know of him." 
 
 "Do you know that he reached the hotel?" 
 asked Will quickly. 
 
 " Yes, we are sure of that, for our bill came 
 back Saturday morning with check in payment. In 
 the same envelope came a letter ordering the books 
 to be sent to an address in Brookline, Massachu- 
 
134 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 setts — to a Mr. Henry Sartain. The bill had been 
 made out to him. There was no allusion in the 
 letter to Pen, and nothing that would serve as a clue 
 to his whereabouts." 
 
 " Did you ask at the hotel about him?" 
 
 " Yes — first thing of all. I went there as soon 
 as I began to feel uneasy about Pen. The clerk at 
 the desk told me he remembered a young fellow 
 answering to my description calling there Friday 
 evening about eight o'clock and asking for Mr. 
 Lalor. The gentleman was in his room, and Pen 
 was shown up there. The clerk said he saw noth- 
 ing more of Pen after that, but that Mr. Lalor 
 stopped at the desk late in the evening, settled his 
 bill, and went away. He had no trunk to be sent 
 out — only a satchel, which he carried — so there 
 was no way of telling where he went, but -it is sup- 
 posed that he took one of the late trains out of 
 town." 
 
 " But the check," exclaimed Will, " that was 
 some clue, wasn't it ? You could inquire about this 
 Mr. Lalor at the bank." 
 
 " The check was not Mr. Lalor's, but Mr. Sar- 
 tain's — the man to whom the books were to be sent, 
 and it was he that wrote the note to us. From 
 something I overheard Mr. Lalor say to Pen, while he 
 was in here on Friday, I believe that he was choos- 
 ing the books for Mr. Sartain, being something of a 
 bookman himself, while Mr. Sartain was not." 
 
hJOT IVITHOUT HONOR 135 
 
 " Did you make any inquiries about Mr. 
 Sartain?" 
 
 " Yes, but without much result. At the hotel 
 they said a gentleman dined with Mr. Lalor and 
 spent part of the evening with him. That must 
 have been Mr. Sartain, for it could only have been 
 in that way Mr. Lalor could have given him the 
 bill in time for him to pay us the next morning. 
 And he must also have iDeen there when Pen came 
 with the bill. But that didn't tell me anything. 
 They knew nothing at the hotel about Mr. Sartain, 
 or where he went. Then, in order to leave no rock 
 unturned, I went down to the bank. 
 
 " I was told there that Mr. Sartain was a coffee 
 broker, that he had not come to the bank since 
 opening his account there several years before, and 
 that they knew very little of him. His business 
 ofifices, they told me, were in Temple Court. 
 Accordingly, I went to Temple Court, and found 
 that he had given up his ofifices last May and gone 
 to Boston, which seems likely and quite in accord 
 with his living at Brookline. 
 
 " But, as you see, that left me no means of 
 inquiry except by writing to this Mr. Sartain, and 
 asking him where this Mr. Lalor could be found — 
 which might or might not lead to something. Before 
 doing that I determined to write to you, believing 
 there was a better chance of getting news from you 
 than through Mr. Sartain. 
 
136 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " I suppose I ought to have v/ritten you Mon- 
 day, but to tell the truth, I didn't begin to feel 
 seriously worried about the matter until to-day, for 
 Pen is — well, a peculiar sort of chap, and an 
 unusual thing of this kind didn't seem so strange to 
 me in his case. I thought he might have taken a 
 sudden notion and slipped away somewhere for a 
 day or so, or gone home without " 
 
 " Yes, I understand," said Will, knitting his brows 
 anxiously; " but heisn't home — and what can we do?" 
 
 Carl hesitated. 
 
 " I scarcely know what to suggest," he answered 
 slowly. " I might write Mr. Sartain, and see if I 
 could work around through him and Mr. Lalor 
 toward some clue." 
 
 " I suppose, of course, you have made inquiries 
 at his boarding house ?" 
 
 " Yes, several times. They know nothing. Mrs. 
 Bult thinks Pen may have come back to his room 
 again on Friday night after going up town, for his 
 bed, furniture, and clothes were in considerable dis- 
 order, as if some one in a great hurry had been in 
 there ; but if he did come back no one knows it. 
 He was not seen again after he left the house, and 
 no one heard him in his room. That might easily 
 have happened, though, for the house is a very 
 quiet one, and Pen could have returned for a time 
 without being noticed. I believe myself that he did. 
 by the looks of the room." 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 137 
 
 " When were you last at the house ?" asked Will. 
 
 " Late yesterday afternoon, just before mailing 
 my letter to you. We might go over there now 
 and inquire again. Some news might have come, 
 but I doubt it, for Bob Lecky would have brought 
 me word if it had." 
 
 " Let's go and see, anyhow," said Will, taking 
 up his valise again. 
 
 As it was already close upon six o'clock, Carl 
 found no difficulty in getting away, and a quarter 
 hour's walk brought the two boys to Mrs. Bult's 
 house. 
 
 Inquiry there elicited no satisfactory response. 
 No word had come from Pen, and the good old 
 lady seemed as anxious and worried as if she were 
 a near and dear relative. 
 
 "You must stay here while you remain in the 
 city," she said to Will. " Perhaps to-morrow you 
 will learn something. We must all hope for the best." 
 
 It was about half past eight o'clock, and Will 
 was sitting in Pen's room with Carl Moran and Bob 
 Lecky, eagerly talking matters over, when there came 
 a tap on the door, and a telegram was handed in. 
 
 Will tore off the wrapper with trembling hands. 
 A glance at the contents showed him it was not 
 from Pen. It was from his mother, and it ran as 
 follows : 
 
 " Have just received Pen's letter. My love to 
 you both. Have written answer to-night." 
 
138 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Will stared at the telegram blankly, repeating 
 the words several times to himself. 
 
 " Any news ?" asked Carl, who had been watch- 
 ing him impatiently. 
 
 Will read the telegram aloud. 
 
 There was a moment's pause while all were busy 
 thinking. 
 
 "Well, of all the queer things!" exclaimed 
 Bob, first breaking the silence. "From that tele- 
 gram it is evident that your mother thinks that Pen 
 is here with you." 
 
 " And she must have got that impression from 
 his letter," added Carl Moran. 
 
 " Well, it settles one thing, anyhow," said Will, 
 with an expression of relief on his face ; " he must 
 be safe and sound, and somewhere hereabout." 
 
 "Yes, but where?" asked Carl. "And why 
 should he be keeping out of sight in this way ?" 
 
 Will shook his head. 
 
 " That's the mystery of it, but I believe that he 
 will turn up shortly, and then he can explain. He's 
 safe somewhere — that's a load off my mind. Now, 
 as for the rest, I think the only thing to do is to wait. 
 To-morrow I will get my mother's letter, and that 
 will perhaps explain things — or Pen may turn up." 
 
 The telegram had changed the aspect of affairs. 
 Anxiety was now partly relieved. But the boys 
 were still puzzled, unable to reconcile Pen's letter to 
 his mother with his non-appearance. They remained 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 139 
 
 with Will until nearly eleven o'clock, thinking that 
 Pen might put in an appearance, but they were 
 disappointed. 
 
 At that hour they parted company, Will agree- 
 ing to report to Carl the next morning, as soon as 
 he received word from home. 
 
 It was some time before Will went to sleep. His 
 mind was full of strange surmises, and he tossed 
 restlessly to and fro, vainly trying to compose him- 
 self. It must have been after midnight, and he 
 was just dozing off, when he thought he heard the 
 door open softly. 
 
 It was but a momentary impression, and would 
 have passed away again into drowsiness and 
 slumber, but an instant later, he felt something 
 brush past the bed. 
 
 He turned quickly, now fully aroused, and, as 
 he did so, a match snapped, and the gas flared up, 
 flooding the room with light. Will sat up, shading 
 his eyes and staring about him. 
 
 In front of the bureau, a few feet away, stood 
 Pen. 
 
14° A'07" fVlTHOUr HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XVin 
 
 What Pen Had to Say for Himself 
 
 "^yH^T the sound of Will stirring in the bed, 
 
 /\ Pen turned with a startled exclamation. 
 
 -^ For a moment he was too much surprised 
 
 to speak. Then, as he recovered himself, he hurried 
 
 to the bedside. 
 
 " Why, Will !" he cried, " what on earth brought 
 you here?" 
 
 " You," answered Will. 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Yes, of course. What do you suppose ? We 
 had heard nothing from you for over a week, and 
 mother had grown alarmed, so " 
 
 " Over a week !" exclaimed Pen. " Why, surely 
 mother got my letter on Monday." 
 
 " What letter ?" 
 
 " My regular weekly letter. I wrote it." 
 
 Will stared at his brother wonderingly. 
 
 "Why, Pen, what do you mean?" he said. 
 " You haven't been here since last Friday. This 
 morning we got a letter from Carl Moran, saying that 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 141 
 
 you had disappeared, and nothing could be learned 
 of your whereabouts, so I packed up at once and 
 came on " 
 
 "Carl Moran wrote you that !" cried Pen, in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Yes. He was worried about you and wrote 
 to find out whether you had gone home, or if we 
 knew anything about you. Why are you so sur- 
 prised at that? I can tell you, Pen, you have given 
 us all a big scare. Mother was frightened half to 
 death. Where have you been, anyhow?" 
 
 " I don't understand it!" exclaimed Pen; not 
 heeding his brother's question. " I wrote Carl and 
 told him " 
 
 He stopped a moment, and a shadow of doubt 
 crossed his face. 
 
 "Did Carl Moran get no letter from me?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " No," answered Will, " nor anyone else." 
 
 Pen had hurriedly taken off his overcoat, and 
 was fumbling in his pockets. As his hand slipped 
 into one of the inside pockets, he uttered an excla- 
 mation of annoyance. Then he drew forth a letter, 
 sealed and stamped, and threw it on the bed. 
 
 Will leaned over and picked it up. It was 
 addressed to Carl Moran. 
 
 " Then you forgot to mail it," said Will, looking 
 first at the letter and then at Pen ; "well, you are a 
 nice one !" 
 
142 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " I didn't forget. Up to this moment I believed 
 I mailed it. I mailed some letters, and I was sure 
 that was one of them. Of course I can see now I 
 must have made a mistake." 
 
 Pen threw himself into a chair and looked gloom- 
 ily at the floor. 
 
 " Come, Pen," said Will, " tell me what's the 
 matter. You look played out. What's happened ?" 
 
 " Read my letter to Carl first," answered Pen, 
 "then I'll tell you all there is to tell." 
 
 Will tore open the envelope. The letter ran as 
 follows : 
 
 Dear Carl : 
 
 I find it necessary to go to Boston — perhaps for several 
 days — on an important private matter. I have to go at 
 once — to-night, so I will not be at the store to-morrow. I 
 will probably return on Monday or Tuesday. Will you 
 attend to several important things for me ? 
 
 In the first place, will you tell Mr. Clarke that I am 
 summoned suddenly away ? I know he will receive the 
 check for those books some time to-morrow, for Mr. Saitain 
 promised to-night to send it, and as I have made such a 
 good sale, Mr. Clarke may not be severe on me for this 
 short notice. Tell him it is vinavoidable, and it is only for 
 a few days. 
 
 Secondly, will you please collect my salary for me, and 
 send it to me at the Parker House, Boston ? 
 
 And now lastly. My errand is of so private a nature 
 that, for the present, I don't want even my folks at home 
 to know of it. It is my custom every Sunday to write 
 home to my mother. Accordingly, I have written a letter 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR i43 
 
 for this week, and I want you to mail it for me. I cannot 
 send it from Boston, for I want it to bear the New York 
 postmark. I would enclose it in this letter to you, but it is 
 too big and thick for that, so I have placed it in the top, 
 small, left-hand drawer of the bureau, where my col- 
 lars and cuffs are. Will you please call Saturday or 
 Sunday and get the letter by showing Bob Lecky this 
 letter to you — and then mail it to my mother Sunday night 
 wilhout fail? There is another reason why I want you 
 to call here. It is now very late, and my letter to my 
 mother and this to you have taken so much time I cannot 
 write another to Mrs. Bult or to Bob Lecky. Bob is out 
 somewhere, and all the others are sound asleep, so I can't 
 see them either. But you can tell them all. Time is press- 
 ing. I must stop and hurry away. Please don't forget 
 anything. Will see you soon again. In haste. 
 
 Pen Rae. 
 
 "Hm — m — m, so that's how mother never got 
 your letter," said Will, as he finished reading. 
 
 "Yes ; it is still here, of course," answered Pen, 
 going to the bureau and opening the little drawer. 
 " Why, no, it isn't, either," he added, in surprise, as 
 he looked the drawer carefully through. " Some- 
 body must have taken it out." 
 
 " Then that explains mother's telegram to me 
 this evening," remarked Will. 
 
 "What telegram?" asked Pen. 
 
 " She sent word that your letter had been 
 received to-day. You didn't write any other letter, 
 did you ?" 
 
 " No. This was the only letter." 
 
144 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Then, of course, some one must have found 
 it and mailed it." 
 
 " Then mother knows nothing !" exclaimed Pen, 
 with an expression of relief 
 
 " Of course not. For the past two days she 
 has been fearing everything under the sun, but the 
 arrival of your letter has removed all that, and she 
 no doubt takes it for granted that it was merely a 
 case of delay in the mails." 
 
 " I am heartily glad of that," answered Pen, 
 sinking again into his chair. 
 
 " But that doesn't explain anything," said Will. 
 " What I want to know is, why did you have to go 
 hurrying away to Boston ? What's all the mys- 
 tery?" 
 
 Pen hesitated before answering. 
 
 " I think it might be better for me to say nothing 
 about it, Will," he said, at length. 
 
 " See here. Pen, perhaps it relates only to you, 
 and is none of my business. If it does, say so. 
 But I've a notion it is something more. Tell me 
 this much : does it have anything to do — has it any 
 important bearing on us at home — on mother ? You 
 know what I mean." 
 
 Pen started. 
 
 " Why do you ask that ?" he said, quickly. 
 
 " Well, perhaps because I am a good guesser. 
 This ' important business of a private nature,' that 
 you don't want mother to know of — that set me 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR Hi 
 
 guessing. Is my guess right ? There, you needn't 
 speak. I can see that it is. Then, that being the 
 case. Pen, I think I've as much right to know about 
 it as you. I've come clear on from home to find 
 out what the matter is. Now speak out and tell 
 me. I want to know everything." 
 
 " Well, Will," answered Pen, evasively, " I may 
 as well say at once that I have nothing to tell." 
 
 Will stared. 
 
 " But your Boston trip — this disappearance — 
 this concealment — what's it all about? I want 
 to know, I tell you, and I won't go home till I do 
 know." 
 
 Pen knew his brother's disposition, and saw that 
 evasion would be futile. 
 
 " It is something of a story," he said. 
 
 " Never mind, we've the whole night before 
 us," answered Will. " Go ahead, and let me have 
 it all." 
 
146 r^OT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 Pen's Boston Trip 
 
 IT was now nearly one o'clock, but the two 
 brothers took no thought of the hour, or of the 
 flight of time. Will lay on one side in the bed, 
 his head resting on one hand, and Pen sat in his 
 chair, facing his brother. And so they remained, 
 scarcely moving, while the following conversation 
 took place. 
 
 " It is a subject. Will, that I find it hard to 
 speak about — one that we don't speak of at home," 
 began Pen. 
 
 Will looked quickly at his brother. 
 
 " I thought I had guessed somewhere near it," 
 he said. 
 
 " You know what I mean." 
 
 "Yes— father." 
 
 The word came out with a jerk, and Will's face 
 flushed. 
 
 " But that zs the subject," said Pen. 
 
 " Go on with it, then. Let's have it out," 
 answered Will. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR H? 
 
 "What do you really know of father, Will?" 
 asked Pen. 
 
 " Isn't it answered already when you ask me 
 such a question ?" cried Will, bitterly. "You are 
 nineteen. Pen, nearer twenty, and I am nearly 
 seventeen — both of us almost young men. We are 
 brothers, too, and yet one is asking the other ' What 
 do you know of father?' " 
 
 " Don't talk that way. Will," said Pen. " I 
 know all you feel, and feel it, too, but try to be 
 calm." 
 
 " Well, then, here goes. What do I know of 
 father ? I know nothing. Nothing more than what 
 the townspeople know — perhaps not as much. I 
 know that father left home because things didn't go 
 happily. What is the term they use when people 
 disagree? ' Incompatibility of temper.' As if any- 
 body's temper could be incompatible with mother's ! 
 Why, any man who couldn't be happy with her 
 would never be contented in heaven. He would 
 quarrel with the angels !" 
 
 " Will," cried Pen, " I tell you I want you to 
 talk this over calmly. When I ask you what you 
 know of father, I mean what do you know of him 
 now, where he is, and what he is ?" 
 
 " I know nothing — and I care nothing," an- 
 swered Will. " You know we have been brought 
 up to look upon him as dead. He cut himself off 
 from us long ago, and he is no longer of us." 
 
148 NOT JVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Then, suppose I tell you, Will, that father has 
 been seen near Wilton recently," said Pen. 
 
 Will started. 
 
 " Near Wilton !" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes. 'Lias saw him step from a train at 
 Wilton Junction, and watched him linger about the 
 station till the train went on again. He dropped 
 an envelope while there, and 'Lias picked it up. 
 The day I went away from Wilton, 'Lias told me of 
 this, and gave me the envelope." 
 
 Pen paused. 
 
 " Go on," said Will, " tell me the rest." 
 
 " The envelope had on it the name of Francis 
 Lalor, and a New York address. I called there 
 one day, but found he had left, so I had to give 
 the search up. By a strange coincidence this Mr. 
 Lalor walked into the book store last Friday after- 
 noon, and I waited on him. When I learned what 
 his name was I determined to see him again, so I 
 went up to the Windsor Hotel that evening and had 
 a talk with him." 
 
 "What did you say to him?" asked Will, 
 quickly. " You didn't tell him you were " 
 
 " I will tell you," answered Pen. " I asked 
 him if he knew a man named Rae. To my surprise 
 he thought the matter over and finally shook his 
 head. Then, to freshen his memory, I showed him 
 the envelope with his name on it. A little more 
 thought, and then Mr. Lalor remembered. ' This 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 149 
 
 is the writing of a business friend of mine in Chi- 
 cago,' he said, ' and, as I now recall it, his letter 
 introduced and recommended to me a Chicago 
 broker who had some big scheme to talk about. 
 Rae, Rae — yes, that was his name, I am sure. I 
 had a talk with him, but it never came to anything 
 — and that is the last I saw of him.' 
 
 " It was evidfent, then, that Mr. Lalor could tell 
 me very Uttle, but when I asked him a few more 
 questions, he said, ' If you are really anxious to know 
 all about this Mr. Rae, I can refer you to the right per- 
 son. This friend of mine who introduced Rae to me 
 has known him for years. He said so in his letter.' 
 
 " ' But he is in Chicago,' I answered. 
 
 " ' No,' said Mr. Lalor, ' he is just at present in 
 Boston, and will remain there for a week or so. Is it 
 really important for you to know about this matter?' 
 
 " I told him that it had a very important bear- 
 ing on some family matters, and that I hoped he 
 would help me all he could. 
 
 " He had treated me both at the store and at the 
 hotel very kindly, and he must have seen how earnest 
 I was, for he took a keen interest in the matter at 
 once. 
 
 " ' My friend and this man Rae are always work- 
 ing together in schemes,' he said, ' and it is more 
 than likely you will find them together if you can 
 go on to Boston. I will give you a letter of intro- 
 duction to my friend if you want to go, and I haven't 
 
15° NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 a doubt but you can get all the information you want 
 from him, and meet Rae there. ' 
 
 " I told him that I considered it very important 
 to go, but that I did not know Boston, or how to 
 get there. ' If you could get ready in time I could 
 see you safe there on the midnight sleeper,' he said. 
 ' Mr. Sartain and I are going, and we have two sec- 
 tions engaged. You arewelcometo my upper berth.' 
 
 " The offer took my breath away. The chance 
 was too good to be lost. I could reach Boston 
 early the next morning, learn all I wanted to know 
 Saturday, and probably get back Monday. On an 
 impulse I decided to go, and after a little talk the 
 details were arranged. 
 
 " It was then nine o'clock. I was to hurry down 
 here, get my things ready, and then meet Mr. Lalor 
 and Mr. Sartain at the Grand Central Station at 
 11.45 ^t the latest. I came down, wrote mother's 
 letter, rushed through a few preparations, got all the 
 little money I had, then wrote this letter to Carl, 
 and hurried out. I met the two gentlemen at the 
 station, and the first thing Mr. Lalor did was to hand 
 me the letter of introduction to his friend, which he 
 had written at the hotel. I barely glanced at the 
 address on the envelope, while I thanked him, for I re- 
 membered then that I must mail Carl's letter. I told 
 the gentlemen that I would return at once, and when 
 Mr. Sartain learned my errand, he asked me also to 
 mail his letter to the book store, inclosing his check 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 151 
 
 and shipping directions for his books. Mr. Lalor also 
 handed me two or three letters to mail for him. 
 
 " I hurried out with my hands full of papers and 
 envelopes. I was confused. There were but a few 
 moments to spare, and I scarcely knew what I was 
 doing. I mixed things up badly. Up till the pres- 
 ent I have been unable to understand matters at all, 
 but now I can see what I must have done. I must 
 have mailed my letter of introduction instead of my 
 letter to Carl. 
 
 " I thought I put the letter of introduction into 
 the package that contained my things, but when I 
 got to Boston, and had parted company with Mr. 
 Lalor and Mr. Sartain, I found no letter there. I 
 did not discover this fact until fully an hour after I 
 left them, for they went away somewhere in a great 
 hurry, and I ate breakfast in the station restaurant 
 alone. Then I was at a loss to know what to do. 
 I was in Boston, a strange city, alone, and my letter 
 of introduction was gone. 
 
 " First, I went to all the hotels to see if Mr. 
 Lalor and Mr. Sartain had registered there. I could 
 find no trace of them, nor did I expect to. It was 
 only a desperate measure, for Mr. Lalor had told 
 me on the train that he would not stop in Boston, 
 but must hurry on through, thus making it impos- 
 sible for him to aid me further. The matter, 
 though, had seemed simple enough, and indeed it 
 would have been had I not lost my letter. 
 
152 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " The exasperating thing about it was that the 
 name of the gentleman, Raymond, did not help me 
 in the least. As I knew from Mr. Lalor that he 
 was not a resident of Boston, I thought it likely 
 he might be at one or other of the hotels, so I 
 looked for his name while searching for Mr. Lalor's, 
 but could not find it. This used up the better part 
 of Saturday, and as night approached, I resolved 
 to go out to Brookline and try to find Mr. Sartain, 
 whose address I had learned from himself. 
 
 " I was in Brookline Sunday, but my errand 
 there was fruitless. Mr. Sartain had gone to Canada, 
 and would be gone for a month or more. Accord- 
 ingly, I went back to Boston, and tried the plan of 
 visiting the business men of the name of Raymond 
 that I found in the city directory. I chose only those 
 that were the most likely, but even that made hard 
 work, and when Monday and Tuesday had been 
 exhausted in this way without obtaining any 
 satisfaction, I gave up in despair. This morning I 
 awoke so tired and footsore I could hardly get 
 up. I rested the better part of the day, determined 
 to pursue the search no longer. My money was 
 all gone, and I was sick, discouraged and uneasy 
 about being away so long. I took the afternoon 
 train back to New York — and the rest you know. 
 My trip has been absolutely fruitless, and, as I said 
 in the beginning, I really have nothing to tell." 
 
NOT IVlTHOUr HONOR 153 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 Will Frees His Mind 
 
 WILL had remained perfectly silent during 
 the latter part of Pen's narrative, not even 
 stirring nor raising his eyes from the floor. 
 
 But when his brother had finished, he turned 
 towards him and said abruptly, " Well, is that all ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Pen. 
 
 "And that is all your sudden disappearance 
 amounts to ?" 
 
 Will's tone made Pen uneasy. He merely nodded 
 in answer. 
 
 " Pen," said Will, speaking as if struggling to con- 
 trol himself, " do you know what I think of you ?" 
 
 Penn looked inquiringly at his brother, but did 
 not speak. Will was about to break into an impet- 
 uous flow of words, but noting the expression of 
 Pen's face, he checked himself. 
 
 "Well, I won't say all I think. Pen. I would 
 only be sorry for it afterwards," he went on. " But 
 this much I will say : I think you have mighty 
 poor judgment about some things." 
 
154 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Pen winced. He had learned to respect his 
 brother's shrewd common sense, and feared his 
 criticism more than anyone else's. 
 
 " Do you mean that you think I have been fool- 
 ish?" he asked. 
 
 " Foolish !" cried Will, his temper rising again. 
 " It was wild — crazy. What on earth possessed 
 you, anyhow ? I know you are none too practical, 
 but I would never have suspected you of such a 
 silly thing as this." 
 
 Pen flushed. 
 
 " Silly ! — why is it so silly ?" he exclaimed. 
 
 " I don't see how any sensible person can look 
 at it in any other way," answered Will, sharply. 
 " You suddenly drop out of sight. Everybody is 
 alarmed about you. Mother is scared almost out 
 of her wits. I pack up and run on here, fearing 
 you may have been kidnapped, drowned — some- 
 thing dreadful, and I find out what? That you 
 have been caught by some mad notion and have 
 run off to Boston, where you have been for five 
 days pursuing a vain search, with no definite object 
 in view, and nothing to be gained ev-en if you had 
 found what you were looking for. I tell you. Pen, 
 it is simply " 
 
 " Stop, Will !" cried Pen, placing his hand on 
 his brother's arm. " Just remember one thing 
 before you criticise me so severely. Had everything 
 gone well — had I mailed Carl's letter, there would 
 
>^0T WITHOUT HONOR 155 
 
 have been no trouble. You and mother would 
 never have known of my trip, and no one would 
 have had any uneasiness. I am very sorry I 
 bungled matters so. I tried very hard to make my 
 plans in the little time I had, so that there would 
 be no cause for worry about me. 
 
 " Well, I failed. Blame me, then, for that. Will ; 
 blame me for giving mother uneasiness ; blame me 
 for putting you to the trouble and expense of coming 
 on here ; but " 
 
 " Bosh !" cried Will, breaking in abruptly. 
 " What do I care about the trouble and expense ? 
 Throw all consideration of that aside. The main 
 point is this trip of yours, and although it was your 
 purpose to keep it secret from me, I think, consid- 
 ering the object you had in view, that it is as much 
 my business as yours." 
 
 Pen was silent. 
 
 " Now, what I want to know is this, Pen," con- 
 tinued Will : " what purpose could you have had in 
 mind in going on such a trip ? I told you I thought 
 it was silly. Perhaps you can prove me wrong. 
 Perhaps you have more reason than I know of 
 If you have, tell me. I have a right to know." 
 
 Pen hesitated before answering, and when he 
 did, it was very slowly. 
 
 " I may have a reason — and it may not be easy 
 to tell," he said. 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" 
 
iS6 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " It may be more the result of feeling than of 
 reasoning." 
 
 Will grew impatient. 
 
 " Romantic notions ! Nothing more !" he 
 exclaimed. " It's all part and parcel of your 
 make-up. You never could look at things except 
 in your romantic, sentimental, unpractical way. 
 This whole trip savors of it. It's just like an inci- 
 dent in some sentimental novel — and just as silly." 
 
 " Will !" cried Pen, stung to the quick, " have 
 you no feelings?" 
 
 " Feelings ! Yes, plenty of them ; and that's 
 what makes me talk this way. It's because I have 
 feelings that I say this trip of yours is silly. Be 
 sensible now, and look at things squarely and prac- 
 tically. You went to Boston to come face to face 
 with father. Suppose now you had met him. What 
 would you have said ? What would you have done? " 
 
 Pen did not answer. 
 
 " Had you any definite idea — any plan ?" urged 
 Will. 
 
 Pen looked nervous and embarrassed. 
 
 " Will, I can't talk to you about this. There is 
 no use in trying," he said. " I can easily under- 
 stand that my conduct must seem foolish from 
 your standpoint. It was for that reason that I 
 tried to keep it all secret " 
 
 " I don't see how there can be any other stand- 
 point," interrupted Will. "See here. Pen, let us 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 157 
 
 state this thing plainly and clearly. We never 
 have before. We have been brought up in silence 
 on this subject. Now, let us understand each other 
 for once and all before we drop it for good and all. 
 Father left home when we were too young to 
 understand anything. A hint here, a word there, 
 and a conversation partially overheard, a significant 
 glance or gesture — all these things, when put 
 together, have made the story plain enough to us. 
 It isn't hard to learn about oneself in Wilton. 
 
 " Now, although we know nothing of father, we 
 know from these same signs how he was regarded 
 at Wilton, and we know what mother is and how 
 she is regarded at Wilton. We know that, what- 
 ever disagreements may have occurred, mother's 
 disposition must have been always of the best, and 
 we know that the blame must rest on father. The 
 little things I have seen and overheard all confirm 
 that. 
 
 " Very well. Now, without saying anything as 
 to what sort of man he was, my position is simply 
 this, Pen : he left: us : he cut himself off com- 
 pletely from us. Then I say, let him be dead to 
 us." 
 
 Will's voice rose with the flush on his face. 
 
 " Why should we follow him up?" he went on, 
 angrily. " He is a stranger to us. Hasn't mother 
 made our position clear to us ? When he left her 
 she had two courses before her. She could insist 
 
158 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 on her legal claims against him, or she could let 
 him go, and live her own life. Mother chose the 
 latter. This was not merely because she abhorred 
 publicity of all kinds. It was because she was too 
 proud to make any claim on a man who had left 
 her in that way. She would ask no favor. She 
 could support herself, and she would face life alone. 
 
 " She has done so, and everybody in Wilton 
 loves and respects her. She has borne herself 
 bravely. She has kept her home and brought us 
 up solely by her own efforts, never uttering a bitter 
 or reproachful word, though we know well enough 
 that her lot has sometimes been very hard. 
 
 "So it stands, then. The injury he has done 
 us is past and gone, if not forgotten. We have 
 no need of him. What possible good could ever 
 come of your meeting him ? Had he cared to come 
 back to us, wouldn't he have come long ago ? What 
 is he to us now ? Can't you see what a mad, senti- 
 mental freak this is of yours ? What good can come 
 of it?" 
 
 " I don't know how to answer you, Will," said 
 Pen. " I recognize the truth of what you say, and 
 looking at it in the way you do, I acknowledge at 
 once " 
 
 " But," exclaimed Will, " is there any other way 
 of looking at it?" 
 
 " I — I think there is — a little different way," 
 answered Pen, timidly. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR iS9 
 
 " And what way is that ?" 
 
 " Mother's way." 
 
 It was now Will's turn to be silent. 
 
 " I repeat, Will, I can't talk to you about it. I 
 don't know how to express myself. It is so much 
 a matter of feeling." 
 
 " But mother's way — what do you mean by 
 that?" 
 
 Pen spoke hesitatingly. 
 
 " I have caught mother in certain moods, and 
 caught certain expressions from her that have put 
 these notions into my head that you say are 
 romantic and sentimental. Now, that is all I can 
 say, Will. They may be wrong, and I acknowledge 
 freely that I do not know exactly what I should 
 have done had I found father in Boston — though 
 I have a general sort of notion." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Will. 
 
 " I would rather not say. You would only 
 pronounce it sentimental, and you might be right, 
 too ; but it is all over now. Don't let's say any- 
 thing more about it." 
 
 " But " began Will, when Pen stopped him. 
 
 " I am ready to accept all you say as right," 
 he said, with a smile. " I am ready to call my 
 Boston trip by the name you have given it, ' a silly 
 mistake.' I have become very modest about my 
 judgment in practical affairs since I left Wilton, 
 Will. New York is a rough, but, I dare say, a 
 
i6o hlOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 good school for me, and I am rapidly learning how 
 very little I know." 
 
 " Well, Pen, that is the beginning of all knowl- 
 edge, they say," answered Will, good naturedly. 
 " So you ought to pick up from now on. And I 
 don't mind telling you right now, from the little I 
 have seen of you here, that you have improved." 
 
 " Do you really think so?" asked Pen, smiling 
 in a pleased manner. 
 
 " Yes ; you have more of a practical way about 
 you. Keep on improving, and by next year the 
 Wilton folks won't know you." 
 
 " That would be a triumph, indeed," laughed 
 Pen, as he tossed his bundle on the bed and began 
 to unpack it, preparatory to going to bed. Dur- 
 ing this process the brothers had few words. 
 
 After the light was out and Will was about half 
 asleep. Pen touched his shoulder to rouse him, 
 and said : 
 
 " Of course. Will, you understand mother had 
 better know nothing of my Boston trip — or any of 
 the matters we have talked about." 
 
 " Don't fear that I shall say anything to her," 
 answered Will promptly. " I shall never speak of 
 these things again to any one — not even to myself" 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR i6i 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 Matters Come to a Head at the Book Store 
 
 THE mystery of the disappearance of Pen's 
 letter to his mother and its reappearance in 
 Wilton was explained the next morning. 
 
 Mrs. Bult called in the servant who attended to 
 Pen's room and found by questioning her that it was 
 her custom on Monday morning when going the 
 rounds with a basket for the wash, to take out this 
 drawer, which contained Pen's laundry, and empty 
 its contents into her basket. 
 
 She had done so on the previous Monday, and 
 the letter had fallen with the other articles into the 
 basket without her perceiving it. 
 
 When the things had been sorted out at the 
 laundry, the letter, had come to light, and, as it 
 was addressed and stamped, it spoke for itself, so 
 it had been mailed by some one. 
 
 As everything was now explained. Will Rae 
 hurried back to Wilton by a morning train. Then 
 Pen set off for the store, not at all at his ease in his 
 mind as to the reception awaiting him there. 
 
i<^2 NOT l-yiTHOUT HONOn 
 
 Mr. Clarke had not arrived when he entered the 
 store, but Carl Moran was there. 
 
 " What has Mr. Clarke said?" Pen asked, anx- 
 iously, as he shook hands. " Has he been very 
 angry?" 
 
 " He hasn't shown any anger to me," answered 
 Carl. " He inquired for you Saturday morning 
 and Monday morning — also yesterday, but I 
 couldn't tell him anything. Why didn't you write 
 a line to me, or to Mr. Clarke, or to somebody?" 
 
 Pen hastened to explain matters. 
 
 He had scarcely finished when Mr. Clarke came in. 
 
 " Rae, is that you ?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Pen, turning quickly 
 around. 
 
 " I want to see you in my ofifice, at once." 
 
 His tone did not bode well for Pen, who followed 
 him apprehensively. 
 
 Once in his office, Mr. Clarke threw off" his coat 
 and hat and dropped into his chair in a decided 
 manner that Pen had learned to recognize as a sign 
 of bad temper. 
 
 " Now, then, where have you been ?" asked Mr. 
 Clarke, wheeling around. 
 
 "I have been in Boston, sir. 
 " And who gave you permission to take five days 
 off to go to Boston?" 
 
 " No one, sir. I am very sorry I had to hurry 
 away. My summons was a very sudden one." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 163 
 
 " Death in your family?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "Anything serious — illness, or anything of that 
 kind?" 
 
 " No, sir ; it was a matter of considerable 
 importance to me, but one I can't very well explain. 
 It was a private affair." 
 
 Mr. Clarke's eyebrows gathered into a frown. 
 
 " Well, Rae," he said angrily, " your private 
 affairs don't suit me. What business have you to 
 run off without a word to anyone?" 
 
 " I wrote a letter explaining everything," said 
 Pen, hurriedly. " I didn't mean to leave without a 
 word. I wrote, and " 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 " By an awkward mistake in the hurry of getting 
 away, I failed to mail the letter. I am very sorry, 
 sir, but I meant " 
 
 " Never mind that. Whom did you write 
 to?" 
 
 " To Carl Moran." 
 
 Mr. Clarke struck the desk angrily with his 
 fist. 
 
 " To Moran !" he exclaimed. "And who is 
 Moran? Does Moran pay your salary? Is Moran 
 your employer?" 
 
 " No, sir, but I asked him to tell you first of all 
 that " 
 
 Mr. Clarke was in a passion. 
 
i64 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " So Moran was to tell me ! Does Moran run 
 this store?" 
 
 " You don't understand me, Mr. Clarke. I 
 wanted Carl to do several things for me, and I had 
 so little time " 
 
 " I don't care what you wanted Moran to do. 
 There's just one thing that /" want you to do — just 
 what I want of every salesman and other employee 
 in this place, and that is to be answerable to me ; 
 and any man that tries any other plan than that can 
 walk out. You have been here a month on pro- 
 bation, and you've done mighty little of any account 
 — just one sale, and that was probably more of an 
 accident than anything else. Now you take a sud- 
 den notion and go off to Boston for five days with- 
 out so much as a word or line to me about it. I 
 think you had better lookaroundfor something else." 
 
 Mr. Clarke turned to his desk and began sorting 
 out his mail. 
 
 Pen did not seem to understand his employ- 
 er's last words. He stood in silence, as if expecting 
 to hear him speak again. 
 
 But Mr. Clarke paid no further attention to him, 
 bending busily over his letters, as if the matter had 
 been entirely dismissed from his mind. 
 
 At length Pen felt compelled to speak. 
 
 " Mr. Clarke," he said in an unsteady voice, 
 " do you mean that you want me to go — that you 
 discharge me ?" 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 165 
 
 " I thought I spoke plainly enough," answered 
 Mr. Clarke, without turning his head. " I told 
 you to look around for something else. You won't 
 suit us at all. You may take until the end of next 
 week. We'll pay your salary until then — no 
 longer. That's a week more than you're entitled 
 to." 
 
 Pen's face flushed. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," he said, " I don't care for 
 an extra week — nor for this week either. If my 
 work is not satisfactory I would rather go this 
 morning. Last week's salary is all I ask. I think, 
 considering the sale I made on Friday, I am fairly 
 entitled to that." 
 
 Mr. Clarke had turned half around as Pen spoke. 
 His voice was trembling, but he controlled himself 
 well, and there was nothing but courtesy in his tone 
 and bearing, 
 
 When he had finished, he bowed in his dignified 
 way, and putting on his hat, walked quietly out. 
 
i66 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 A Discouraging Outlook 
 
 WELL, what are you going to do about 
 it?" asked Carl Moran, aghast at Pen's 
 account of his interview with Mr. 
 Clarke. 
 
 The two boys were standing on the pavement 
 outside the store. 
 
 " I haven't the least idea," answered Pen. " It 
 has completely taken my breath away. I expected 
 some bad temper and a sharp rebuke, but I really 
 wasn't looking for a downright dismissal." 
 
 " It was that letter that did the business," said 
 Carl. " It was a great mistake, on your part, not 
 to have written to Mr. Clarke. You might have 
 known that an employer has a right to expect the 
 first word on a thing of this kind." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it was a mistake," answered Pen, 
 pathetically. " It's only another one of those mis- 
 takes I seem always to be making. I can see it all 
 now, but then I was only thinking how pressed I 
 was for time, and that it would be so simple for you 
 
NOT IVITHOUr HONOR 167 
 
 to do everything for me. If I had only mailed that 
 letter perhaps all would have gone well." 
 
 " I don't know about that," answered Carl, 
 doubtfully. " You see, Mr. Clarke is a very sensi- 
 tive man about such things. You should have 
 written him. I was afraid he might be hard with 
 you, because, in addition to the lack of any word 
 from you, he has had a great many things to put 
 him out lately. You know both he and Mr. Davis 
 are greatly worked up over the new magazine they 
 have been arranging to start. They have had pow- 
 wows for a year or more over it, and now the first 
 number is getting into shape, and will soon be out." 
 
 " I know. It must be a great responsibility," 
 remarked Pen. 
 
 " Yes ; and there are lots of annoying details 
 that, together with the rest of the business, have 
 kept Mr. Clarke strung up for a month or so past. 
 You have been unfortunate in catching him at his 
 worst. But come now, you must plan for yourself. 
 Suppose I meet you to-night, and we'll talk things 
 over. I've got to go back to work." 
 
 " Very well. Come to the house," answered 
 Pen. 
 
 " Don't get discouraged," added Carl. " We'll 
 find something for you to do. You won't have to 
 go back to Wilton." 
 
 " I don't expect to do that," answered Pen, 
 bravely. " I passed my resolution on that point 
 
i68 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 some time ago. I shall not back down now. I'll 
 keep afloat somehow." 
 
 But the evening's consultation brought little 
 satisfaction. Places are not gaping for young men 
 in New York City, and when it came down to a 
 practical discussion of Pen's chances, neither Carl 
 Moran nor Bob Lecky had any very valuable sug- 
 gestions to offer. 
 
 Pen accordingly fell back on the only course 
 left him, that of looking up advertisements of situ- 
 ations, and putting in his application with the host 
 of others on a similar search. 
 
 It was a discouraging task, and brought no 
 result. Most of the positions he was quite unsuited 
 for, while those that promised well were always 
 secured in advance of him by some one who had 
 "just come in the day before," etc. 
 
 So by Saturday, although he still spoke bravely 
 to Bob Lecky, Pen set out with a heavy heart. 
 
 It was a bad day to see any one. Many of 
 those he wanted to interview were away, while 
 others were busy, and told him to call some other 
 time. 
 
 At length, at three o'clock in the afternoon, he 
 found himself too tired to pursue his rounds any 
 further, and accordingly took a Broadway car up 
 town, worn out and discouraged. 
 
 When he had reached his room, he threw him- 
 self despondently on his bed. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 169 
 
 During those three days of vain searching he had 
 obtained quite a glimpse of the world of the unem- 
 ployed, and he had begun to appreciate what a hard, 
 bitter struggle life was for many ofhis fellow creatures. 
 
 Nearly all the applicants with whom he had 
 come in contact, seemed to Pen to be far shrewder 
 and more capable young fellows than he, and if they, 
 in the weary weeks of searching that they had gone 
 through, could find no place, what hope was there 
 for him ? 
 
 An hour's brooding over the matter brought 
 him to such a pitch of despair, that he was on the 
 verge of renouncing his courageous resolutions, and 
 deciding to give up and go home. 
 
 " If so many bright fellows can't get places," 
 he said, " what chance is there for me, who have 
 had two places and lost them through incompetency : 
 Why should I persist in keeping up so vain a 
 fight ? It would only plunge me into debt." 
 
 At that moment there came a tap at the door 
 and the sound of the servant maid's voice calling. 
 
 " What is it? " asked Pen, sitting up. 
 
 The door opened slightly. 
 
 " Isn't this letter for you, sir? The name on it 
 isn't yours, but when I showed it to Mrs. Bult she 
 said it belonged to you. She said you had told 
 her to give you all letters with this name " 
 
 "What's the name?" cried Pen, rising quickly 
 and coming to the door. 
 
170 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " I can't read it, sir. I don't read well, and " 
 
 " Let me see it," exclaimed Pen, fairly snatching 
 at the letter in his eager haste. 
 
 He bent so as to catch the light of the window 
 on the envelope. 
 
 " Yes, yes, this is mine. Thank you, Mary," 
 he said, and as the girl shuffled away. Pen tore open 
 the letter with trembling fingers, and ran his eyes 
 rapidly over the contents. 
 
 Three minutes later he had on his hat and coat, 
 and was hurrying down stairs. All traces of 
 weariness and despondency had disappeared. His 
 step was firm, quick, and elastic, as he walked 
 briskly along toward Broadway. 
 
 In a few minutes he reached the book store of 
 Clarke & Davis, and passing quickly through the 
 retail department, he climbed up the narrow flight of 
 winding steps that led to the office of Mr. Davis. 
 
 Pen and Mr. Davis were together for nearly 
 half an hour. The interview was evidently a 
 momentous one to Pen, for when he came out his 
 face was flushed with excitement, and his eyes were 
 bright and sparkling. 
 
 So absorbed was he in his thoughts that as he 
 came down the stairs he almost walked into the arms 
 of Mr. Clarke, who was coming in. 
 
 Pen drew back shyly, apologizing as he did so, 
 while Mr. Clarke brusquely pushed his way past 
 him with the barest glance of recognition. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR ill 
 
 His brusqueness, however, was entirely lost on 
 Pen, who stepped briskly along, carrying his head 
 proudly. 
 
 As he passed out of the book store, he paused 
 a moment, debating whether to have a talk with 
 Carl Moran. 
 
 He decided not to. 
 
 " I can talk with Carl to-morrow," he said, " I 
 want to write home about it first." 
 
 So merely stopping long enough at the door- 
 way to motion to Carl Moran, who was busy with 
 a customer, and to tell him to call around at his 
 room without fail the next day, Pen hastened home 
 and wrote his weekly letter to his mother. 
 
 There must have been a great deal to tell, for 
 though Pen wrote fast and continuously, over an 
 hour had passed, and it was dinner time when he 
 had finished. 
 
 Meantime an interesting interview had been 
 taking place between Messrs. Clarke and Davis in 
 the latter's office. 
 
 When Mr. Clarke passed Pen, he was on his 
 way to resume a conversation with his partner that 
 had been interrupted some time before. 
 
 As he entered the office he found Mr. Davis busy 
 over a pile of manuscripts such as every mail now 
 brought to the editorial rooms of the new magazine. 
 
 " I saw that young fellow Rae leaving your 
 office as I came up," said Mr. Clarke. 
 
172 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Davis, with a smile. "Sit 
 down. I want to tell you something " 
 
 " I hope he hasn't been worrying you for a 
 position or a recommendation, or anything of that 
 kind," continued Mr. Clarke. 
 
 " No," responded Mr. Davis, looking up quick- 
 ly. " Why should he?" 
 
 " Oh, I meant to have told you I discharged him 
 on Thursday." 
 
 The smile died away on Mr. Davis' lips. 
 
 " You — you discharged him !" he repeated 
 
 " Yes — packed him off — and a good riddance, 
 too. Didn't he tell you he had left ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Davis. " Now I think of 
 it, he did tell me he was no longer here. He said, 
 'Of course, you know I have left the store,' but I 
 didn't know, so I didn't say anything. Why haven't 
 you told me?" 
 
 " It was only four days ago — and it was of 
 little consequence, anyhow. I'm engaging and 
 sending away clerks like that frequently. What's 
 the use of bothering you with such details?" 
 
 " And why was Rae discharged?" asked Mr. 
 Davis. 
 
 " Absolutely no good. We gave him a month's 
 trial, and he didn't amount to a row of pins. He 
 made only one good sale, and he more than offset 
 that by his stupidity. Then he took nearly a week off 
 for a trip to Boston without saying so much as a word 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR >73 
 
 to me about it. That was too much for me, so I 
 discharged him last Thursday. You didn't give 
 him a recommendation, did you ?" 
 
 " No, he didn't come to ask any favors," 
 answered Mr. Davis, with an annoyed expression. 
 
 Then for a few minutes he sat looking out of the 
 window. 
 
 At length his face began to clear/ and a smile 
 crept into his lips. 
 
 " Clarke," he said, " you know that story that 
 was sent to the magazine by a writer named Daniel 
 Darr ? — the story we decided on as the leader for 
 the first number ?" 
 
 " Certainly," answered Mr. Clarke. 
 
 "And you remember we both read it and 
 selected it out of nearly a hundred others?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you remember we agreed that it 
 showed a new writer of rare promise, and 
 that we ought to try to get some more work from 
 his pen? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " So that we decided to write to the author and 
 secure an interview with him with an eye to future 
 plans?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Clarke. 
 
 " Well, Clarke," said Mr. Davis, turning around, 
 " I have just had an interview with Daniel Darr." 
 
 Mr. Clarke stared. 
 
174 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, " you don't mean to 
 
 say " 
 
 " I mean," said Mr. Davis, " that ' Daniel Darr ' 
 is the pen name of Mr. Pennington Rae." 
 
NOT mTHOUT HONOR 175 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A Dream Fulfilled 
 
 "^^ T about half past ten that night Mrs. Rae 
 
 /\ sat by the Httle centre table in the front 
 
 room of the cottage at Wilton, sewing and 
 
 softly humming to herself. On the lounge near by 
 
 sat Will Rae, reading a newspaper. 
 
 In this manner a quiet evening had passed away, 
 and now, as the half hour struck, Mrs. Rae gather- 
 ed up her sewing materials and rose from her chair. 
 As she did so a thick envelope fell from the basket 
 that rested in her lap. 
 
 " Why, there is that last letter of Pen's," she 
 exclaimed, as she caught it up. " I have been look- 
 ing for it ever since Thursday. I never thought of 
 my work basket." 
 
 Mrs. Rae slipped the letter into the drawer 
 where its fellows were. 
 
 " And that reminds me," she went on, " that I 
 had a dream about you and Pen last Wednesday 
 night." 
 
 " What was it ? " asked Will, looking up sleepily. 
 
176 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 " You remember I got Pen's letter Wednesday 
 evening. Of course I knew then that all was right 
 with him, and that there was no cause for being 
 anxious, so I went to bed in the best of spirits. 
 That was no doubt what shaped my dream. I 
 thought that you and I were here in this room, you 
 sitting on the sofa as usual, and I somewhere on 
 this side of the table, when suddenly the curtain 
 there by the door parted and Pen stood in the door- 
 way, smiling and nodding to us. Before I could 
 inquire what brought him there. Pen leaned forward 
 and said, ' I've good news for you, mother.' " 
 
 " Is that all ?" asked Will, after a pause. 
 
 " I think so-^at least, it's all I remember." 
 
 " Well, there's nothing unusual about that." 
 
 " No. It was merely an echo of my feelings at 
 the time. I don't know that I should have remem- 
 bered it but for this letter's calling it to mind." 
 
 Mrs. Rae had reached the piano in her move- 
 ments about the room, and, as she finished speak- 
 ing, she sat down before the instrument, and softly 
 ran her fingers over the keys, rambling aimlessly 
 through oddly shifting harmonies that finally gave 
 way to the sweet, simple measures of the Bohemian 
 Chant. 
 
 Several minutes had elapsed, and Will had re- 
 sumed his reading when he was startled by a quick 
 exclamation from his mother, and the music abruptly 
 stopped. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR i77 
 
 Will dropped his paper and started up. His 
 mother's hands had fallen from the keyboard and 
 she was gazing with a frightened expression straight 
 in front of her. 
 
 Following the direction of her eyes, Will look- 
 ed toward the door that opened into the hall. 
 
 The portieres had parted and Pen stood there in 
 the doorway smiling in at them. 
 
 For a few seconds neither Will nor his mother 
 could utter a word. At first even Will, sturdy as 
 he was, thought he must be a victim of hallucina- 
 tion ; but this was quickly dispelled when Pen, 
 quite too plainly in the body to disturb one's mind 
 long, stepped into the room and burst out laughing. 
 
 " Why it really is Pen !" cried Mrs. Rae, run- 
 ning forward and embracing him. 
 
 " What did you think it was — a ghost ?" laugh- 
 ed Pen as he kissed his mother. 
 
 " I scarcely know — you startled me so," she 
 answered. " We were speaking of you only a 
 minute ago, when almost at mention of your name, 
 in you came. It was so strange — so like my 
 dream." 
 
 " What dream ?" 
 
 Mrs. Rae told Pen. When she had finished 
 Pen laughed again. 
 
 " What a coincidence ! There's magic in it," 
 he said. " Remember that, in the future, you have 
 only to take one of my letters, wave it three times 
 
178 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 around your head, repeat the necessary words, and 
 presto ! the curtains part and in I walk." 
 
 " I wish it were so," answered Mrs. Rae, smil- 
 ing, "but, tell me, now, is my dream quite true? 
 Have you good news for me?" 
 
 " Good news and bad," said Pen, " but it was 
 the good news that brought me home. I was 
 writing you a letter late this afternoon, but the more 
 I wrote the more impossible I found it to express all 
 I wanted to say. It was during dinner that the idea 
 suddenly occurred to me, ' Why not go home for a 
 day or so?' I hurried through and, looking up a 
 time table, found that there was a train leaving the 
 city at eight o'clock and reaching Wilton Junction 
 at ten. That settled me, so I packed a valise in 
 twenty minutes, hurried down town and caught the 
 train." 
 
 "How did you get over from the Junction?" 
 asked Will. 
 
 " I walked over," answered Pen. " I found the 
 front door unlocked, so I thought I would give you 
 a surprise." 
 
 " And you did — a greater one than you 
 thought," said Mrs. Rae, drawing him to the 
 sofa where she sat down beside him. " And now 
 tell me what brought you home? What is the 
 good news? " 
 
 " First let me get rid of the bad news," responded 
 Pen. " I have lost my place at the book store." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 179 
 
 " What was the matter ? " 
 
 " I was discharged by Mr. Clarke on Thurs- 
 day." 
 
 "On account of your absence?" asked Will, 
 quickly. 
 
 Pen turned and looked at his brother. 
 
 Will's face flushed. The words had slipped 
 from him impulsively and without a second thought. 
 
 " Why — why were you discharged ? " he stam- 
 mered, struggling to conceal his annoyance at the 
 slip. 
 
 " I was not considered competent, and Mr. 
 Clarke " 
 
 Mrs. Rae laid her hand on Pen's arm. 
 
 " Your ' absence,' Pen?" she said interrupting 
 him. " What absence ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing mother," answered Will. " I 
 
 misunderstood " 
 
 Mrs, Rae looked sharply from one of the boys 
 to the other. 
 
 " You are keeping something back from me," 
 she said. " Will told me nothing of any absence 
 of yours. Pen. What does it mean ? " 
 
 There was an awkward pause, neither of the 
 boys daring to speak for a minute. Then Pen's 
 wits, which served him well when stirred by extra- 
 ordinary circumstances, came to the rescue. 
 
 " I am glad Will did tell you nothing of it, 
 mother," he said. " It was done with the best 
 
i8o NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 motives, for it spared me, and it would have done 
 you no good to tell you. However, since so 
 much has been said I don't mind telling you 
 more." 
 
 Will glanced warningly at his brother, but Pen 
 knew the delicate ground he was treading on, and 
 went on confidently. 
 
 " During the last week I have been absent from 
 the store a good deal, thinking more of my private 
 matters than of the business of the firm. Naturally, 
 Mr. Clarke resented my neglect of my work, and 
 so finally on Thursday told me I must go. He 
 said that I was unsuited for the position of a sales- 
 man anyhow, and as I seemed to care more for my 
 private affairs than for his business, I was of no 
 value to him, so I had better look around for 
 another place." 
 
 " And Mr. Clarke was right. Pen," said Mrs. 
 Rae, gravely. " You had no business to slight 
 your work. You had a good chance there in the 
 book store, and you should have made the most of 
 it. By your ' private affairs ' I suppose, of course, 
 you mean your writing — which is all right. I want 
 you to go on with that, but it should be in your 
 own lime." 
 
 " You are perfectly right, mother, and if I get 
 another place I shall be very careful not to neglect 
 my work," answered Pen, while both he and Will 
 breathed easier, the danger point now being passed ; 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR i8i 
 
 " but it's over as far as the book store is concerned, 
 and I am out of a position. So much for that. 
 Now let me tell you the good news." 
 
 Then in tones that fairly trembled with delight 
 he narrated the events of the afternoon — the receipt 
 of the letter from Mr. Davis, his interview, and the 
 acceptance of his manuscript. 
 
 " And to end it all," Pen finished, with a glow 
 of pride on his face, " Mr. Davis told me that he 
 wanted me to show him my future work, and s'ug- 
 gested my trying a longer story that might be suit- 
 able for publication in serial form — so, how is that 
 for a happy surprise ? " 
 
 " You have no surprises for me, Pen," answered 
 Mrs, Rae as she slipped one arm about her son's 
 neck. " I knew we should be proud of you some 
 day." 
 
 It was a memorable three days that Pen spent 
 in Wilton — his first vacation since he left home 
 nearly half a year before. During that period Pen 
 made few visits, spending most of his time at home, 
 reading and writing a little, but resting for the most 
 part, and talking to his mother of his future work 
 and the ambitious plans he had in view. 
 
 Mrs. Rae, in the first happiness of having Pen 
 with her again, urged him to remain at home and 
 devote himself to literary work exclusively. 
 
 " It is so quiet here," she said, "and you can 
 write without disturbance or distraction of any kind." 
 
i82 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 But Pen wisely decided against that. 
 
 " It will be time enough later for quiet," he said. 
 " What I need now is to be stirred up and urged 
 on. I need the electricity of city life. It stimu- 
 lates me. I am learning valuable facts all the time, 
 and then, aside from such considerations, it is impor- 
 tant to success in my literary work that I should be 
 right there in the city where the great magazines 
 and papers are published, so that I can be in touch 
 with the men who make them. I must try to 
 obtain some sort of regular literary work — a posi- 
 tion of an editorial character if possible, so that I can 
 be near the literary men and learn from them." 
 
 " But suppose you can't get a position ? " said 
 Mrs. Rae. 
 
 " Well, I can pay my expenses for a time out of 
 the money my story will bring me, and while I can 
 afford it I will cling to the city in the hope of find- 
 ing a place." 
 
 " Pen's right, mother," said Will. " The city is a 
 mighty good school for him, and he is learning fast. 
 You can see how much it has taught him already — 
 both about other people and about himself." 
 
 The point had not been lost on Mrs. Rae. She 
 had been quicker even than Will to note these little 
 signs of improvement in Pen, and she saw the wis- 
 dom of his choice. 
 
 Pen had decided to return to the city on Thurs- 
 day afternoon. About noon on that day he set out 
 
NOT IVJTHOUT HONOR 183 
 
 for the post-office to see if any letter had come from 
 the city for him. On the way he met 'Lias, who 
 was hobbling into a shop with an express package. 
 
 " One minute, Mist' Pen — one minute," said 
 'Lias, dropping his package on the pavement. " Can 
 I hev jes' one wud? " 
 
 Pen paused while 'Lias came close to him. 
 
 " Bin lookin' fo' a chance fo' a wud wid yo'. 
 Mist' Pen, ever sence yo' kum home, but yo's 
 always at de house wid de missy wen I call, so I 
 never ketch yo'." 
 
 " What have you to say to me ? " asked Pen, 
 looking curiously at the darky. 
 
 'Lias lowered his voice. 
 
 " Never fin' out nuffin' 'bout — 'bout dat matter I 
 tole you of— dat letter, Mist' Pen ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, 'Lias," answered Pen ; " I called at the 
 address given on the envelope, and found the gen- 
 tleman had left the city. However, about two weeks 
 ago, I met him by chance " 
 
 " Yo' met him — yo' say yo' met him ? " ex- 
 claimed 'Lias, looking up. 
 
 " Yes, but he could tell me nothing," responded 
 Pen, shortly. 
 
 " But dat letter. Mist' Pen ? " 
 
 " It's something of a story, 'Lias, and I don't 
 care to go into it, for it led to nothing." 
 
 "Nuffin?" 
 
 "Absolutely nothing." 
 
1 84 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 The old darky scratched his head. 
 
 " Well, I fought suah yo' could tell me suffin', 
 Mist' Pen, wen yo' kum home, but it seems yo' 
 cahn't." 
 
 " No. There is nothing to tell." 
 
 " Den, Mist' Pen, I kin tell you suffin." 
 
 " What ? " asked Pen, quickly. 
 
 " I dun see Mist' Rae again. Mist' Pen." 
 
 "When — ^and where?" exclaimed Pen. 
 
 " 'Bout week after yo' leave home. Mist' Rae 
 pass de Junction agin — goin' West dis time." 
 
 " Tell me about it. Did you see him near by ? 
 Did you speak to him? " 
 
 " No, Mist' Pen. He was on de 'spress train 
 dis time — de Western ves'bule train. Dat train am 
 a flyer, yo' know. Mist' Pen, and don't stop 
 nowhar." 
 
 " How did you see him, then ?" 
 
 " It happen jes' dis way. Mist' Pen. Me an' 
 Rosie was standin' by de track neah de watah tank 
 down beyon' de station wen de limited Western 
 'spress kum 'long. As de train went by I looked 
 after it, an' dere on de back platform stood Mist' 
 Rae." 
 
 "Are you sure? " 
 
 " Oh, yeah, suah. I know him quick enuff. He 
 Stan' dere on de platform, an' his face kep' turned 
 towa'd Wilton. He stood jes' so, lookin' over 
 towa'd our little hill. He never see me. He never 
 
NOT IVITllOUT HONOR 185 
 
 budge. He jes' stan' so, while de train go whirlin' 
 on West. I watch de train whiz down de track, 
 an' de back platform git smaller an' smaller, an' 
 Mist' Rae, he keep fadin' an' fadin' away, but he 
 stan' dere jes' de same, lookin' all de time ober heah 
 towa'd Wilton. Far as I could see I watch him, 
 an' he stan' dere fadin', fadin' away till dere's jes' a 
 black speck on de track — den dat gone. Dat's all 
 I see of him. Mist' Pen." 
 
 Pen listened to the old darky's words with the 
 closest attention, but made little comment when he 
 had finished. 
 
 " There's nothing to be done, 'Lias," was all he 
 said ; " nothing but to forget the matter completely 
 — you understand ? " 
 
 " I understan', Mist' Pen. I dun don't say 
 nuffin." 
 
 The old darky touched his ragged hat and 
 took up his package again, while Pen went on 
 his way. 
 
 At the post-office he found a letter that had 
 been forwarded to him from his New York address. 
 The envelope bore the imprint of Messrs. Clarke & 
 Davis. 
 
 As Pen opened it, a slip of paper dropped from 
 the inside and fell to the floor. Scarcely noticing 
 this in his haste to read the contents of the letter, he 
 unfolded the sheet in his hand, and glanced quickly 
 over it : 
 
j86 not IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Inclosed please find our check — in payment for your 
 contribution to our magazine ' ' 
 
 These were the words that caught Pen's eyes, 
 and there he stopped. 
 
 Quickly stooping, he snatched up the slip of 
 paper that lay on the floor at his feet. 
 
 It was a check for eighty dollars. 
 
A'Or IVITHOUT HONOR 187 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 An Adventure at Midnight 
 
 THAT afternoon found Pen once more in New 
 York, but under very different circumstances 
 from those attending his first arrival half a 
 year before. He was now, for a brief season, at least, 
 independent. 
 
 The money he had received for his contributions 
 was enough to satisfy his modest needs for some 
 weeks to come, and it left him with leisure to con- 
 tinue his literary work. 
 
 Of this opportunity Pen was resolved to make 
 the most. He had many ideas for future work, all 
 more or less promising — and then there was that 
 serial story that Mr. Davis had suggested, and the 
 great play, upon which he had been at work off and 
 on for two months, and which only needed a few 
 finishing touches now to complete it. 
 
 But with all these plans for literary work. Pen 
 felt the necessity of bestirring himself constantly 
 and keeping his eyes open for a fixed position of 
 some kind — some position of an agreeable and con- 
 
i88 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 genial character, and one that would be in keeping 
 with the dignity of a " young man of letters," as Pen 
 now laughingly chose to call himself Bob Lecky 
 had, as usual, hit the nail on the head when he said 
 to Pen in his homely but sensible way, " A ten 
 strike here and there may be well enough, but 
 there's nothing like a steady job." 
 
 Accordingly, Pen set himself to searching for a 
 " steady literary job." 
 
 One of the very first things he determined to do, 
 now that he had the time to spare, was to call at 
 the offices of the two weekly papers to which he had 
 sent his poems, in order to learn the fate of his con- 
 tributions. The third day, therefore, after his 
 return to the city he visited the editorial rooms 
 of the Weekly Home Herald, situated at the top of 
 a dingy old building on Pearl Street. 
 
 When he had stated his errand he was shown into 
 a small, badly aired, badly lighted box of an office 
 where sat a forbidding looking female, sorting over 
 newspaper scraps and_ clippings. She was thin, 
 angular, and of an uncertain age that must soon 
 give way to certainty. 
 
 " Is this the editor? " asked Pen, removing his 
 hat and advancing hesitatingly. 
 
 The woman turned sharply, brandishing, as she 
 did so, a pair of shears fully a foot long. Pen 
 started and drew back while the woman adjusted her 
 eyeglasses more firmly and fastened him with a stare. 
 
hlOT WITHOUT HONOR 189 
 
 " I am one of the editors. What can I do for 
 you ? " she asked in a high, nasal voice. 
 
 Pen spoke of his contribution, and his failure to 
 hear from it. 
 
 "A poem?" asked the woman, looking him 
 over pityingly. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," answered Pen, almost apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 " Did you inclose return postage?" 
 
 " No — I didn't think of that. Was it neces- 
 sary?" asked Pen. 
 
 " Necessary ! " snapped the woman. " How 
 much do you suppose it would cost in postage to 
 send back all the manuscripts we get here and 
 can't use?" 
 
 " I — I am sure I don't know," answered Pen. 
 
 "Very well. It would eat up all our profits." 
 
 The woman snapped her shears viciously two 
 or three times, and shifted the newspaper clippings 
 on the desk before her in an impatient manner as 
 if she were playing a losing game of solitaire. 
 
 Pen felt very uncomfortable, and for a moment 
 scarcely knew what to say. 
 
 " Have you any — any recollection of my poem ?" 
 he managed to ask at last. 
 
 "Not the least. We get hundreds of poems. 
 If you had sent return postage, you might have 
 got it back long ago, but as you didn't, I don't 
 know what may have become of it. We can't be 
 
19° A'Or IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 responsible for manuscripts unaccompanied by 
 postage." 
 
 " I should like to have it back, if you cannot 
 use it," said Pen, rising, so as to close the uncom- 
 fortable interview. " Would it not be possible for 
 me to get it now?" 
 
 " It would be impossible for me to look for it 
 now," answered the woman, sharply. " If you 
 want to leave your address, I will have it looked 
 up in due time — though, I can't guarantee." 
 
 "I understand," put in Pen, quickly, so as to 
 cut short another onset. "All I ask is that you 
 will kindly look the matter up for me, and send the 
 manuscript back when you find it. Here is my 
 address — and here is the necessary postage." 
 
 Pen placed one of his cards on the desk, and 
 beside it a postage stamp — then he bowed himself 
 quickly out. 
 
 The woman said nothing, but glared at the post- 
 age stamp before her. Had it not been a particu- 
 larly sturdy stamp, it must surely have wilted under 
 that glance and stuck to the desk for protection. 
 
 At the office of the second journal, Pen fared 
 much better, but the result of his visit was no more 
 gratifying. 
 
 He was received courteously by a pleasant old 
 gentleman who, on learning his errand, immediately 
 had his store of manuscripts overhauled, and before 
 long brought forth Pen's poem. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 191 
 
 " Sorry," he said, " but we could not use it. It 
 is not quite in our line. The work is good, but we 
 print veiy little poetry, and what we do print is 
 usually clipped. Sorry to have to decline it, but 
 I have no doubt you will find a place for it else- 
 where — good afternoon." 
 
 And the old gentleman pleasantly bowed him 
 out. 
 
 This was somewhat of a set-back for the " young 
 man of letters," and Pen felt a return of the blues 
 as he slowly retraced his steps up town. 
 
 It was, therefore, a genuine relief to meet Carl 
 Moran at the corner of Broadway and Tenth Street, 
 and to be able to pour into his sympathetic ear an 
 account of his discouraging experiences. 
 
 Carl stopped him before he was half through. 
 
 "Come around to Fourier's with me," he said, 
 " and we'll have a nice little table d'hote dinner 
 together — only fifty cents — and then we can talk 
 things over at our ease. It's early now, just six 
 o'clock, and we can take plenty of time to our 
 dinner — then, when that's over, you can go with 
 me to my room and spend the evening looking over 
 my books. I have several new and rare ones." 
 
 This caught Pen's fancy ; accordingly, off the 
 two boys went to Fourier's, where they remained 
 at dinner until nearly eight o'clock. 
 
 By that time Pen's affairs had been thoroughly 
 aired, and his feelings relieved, so when he and 
 
192 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Carl set off for the latter's room, all thought of the 
 blues had been banished, and the " young man of 
 letters" was once more himself 
 
 He passed a pleasant evening with Carl, exam- 
 ining and discussing the many attractive books laid 
 out before him, and it was after eleven o'clock when 
 he set out for home. 
 
 Carl lived some distance over on the east side, 
 and at this hour of the night the neighborhood was 
 a quiet and unfrequented one. Pen crossed Second 
 Avenue and entered Nineteenth Street. The block 
 seemed quite deserted, but just as he was approach- 
 ing Third Avenue he saw a slim, girlish figure, 
 wrapped in a cloak and hood, come tripping down 
 the front steps of a dwelling house, and set off at 
 a brisk pace up the street ahead of him. 
 
 She passed Third Avenue, and Pen, who was 
 not far behind her, noticed, as she left the avenue, 
 that she quickened her step. 
 
 The reason for this he quickly discovered. 
 Close in by the houses he noticed a shadow ghding 
 along. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark- 
 ness of the street, after the dazzle of the avenue 
 lights, he made out the figure of a man not ten feet 
 behind the girl, creeping stealthily after her and 
 gaining at every step. 
 
 They were quite alone. The houses were dark 
 and silent ; the street empty — except for those two 
 figures ahead, the slim one of the girl hurrying 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR I93 
 
 along faster and faster, and the heavier figure follow- 
 ing close behind. Pen hastened forward. 
 
 The two figures in front passed under a lamp 
 post, and Pen then saw that the man was well 
 dressed and carried a heavy cane. It was also 
 evident that he was under the influence of liquor, 
 for he swayed and stumbled as he walked. 
 
 At this moment he reached the girl's side 
 and spoke to her. With a startled exclamation, 
 she turned from him and ran forward. The man 
 pursued, and in a few steps again came up with 
 her. This time he addressed her more boldly and 
 caught her by the arm. With a stifled scream, 
 she shook herself free, then staggered, half fainting, 
 against a tree. 
 
 The man laughed in an insolent manner, and was 
 once more approaching her, when Pen came up. 
 Stepping quickly before the girl, he faced the man, 
 and pushed him back. 
 
 " What business have you to annoy this young 
 lady?" he exclaimed. 
 
 The man retreated a step or two, and stared 
 stupidly at Pen. 
 
 Then with an oath, he raised his cane and aimed 
 a terrific blow at Pen's head. Had his sight been 
 true Pen would have played a sorry hero's part in 
 the scene — perhaps his last part — but the cane nar- 
 rowly missed his head and fell on one shoulder, 
 where his thick overcoat partially broke the blow. 
 
i94 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 As it was, the shock brought him to his knees, 
 half stunned. As he sank down, he heard the young 
 girl behind him scream again. He recovered him- 
 self quickly and staggered to his feet. 
 
 Before the man could repeat his assault, Pen 
 dashed at him and struck him in the face. The 
 man fell back unsteadily, and dropped his cane. 
 Pen closed quickly with him before he could regain 
 the stick, and pressed him back across the pavement 
 to the steps of the nearest house, where the man fell 
 heavily. 
 
 Then Pen was about to strike him again, when 
 he noticed that the man was too tipsy to be very- 
 dangerous, and, accordingly, he let him go roll- 
 ing down and off the steps on to the pavement. Pen 
 then caught up the cane and stood over him. 
 
 The man made no further resistance. He was 
 growing more muddled every second, and Pen's 
 attack and the shock of his fall on the steps had 
 taken all the spirit out of him. He arose as quick- 
 ly as he could — first on his hands and knees, then 
 unsteadily up to his feet, and finally made off up 
 the street, reeling from side to side, and cursing to 
 himself 
 
 Then, for the first time. Pen turned to the young 
 girl, who was still leaning against the tree. Her 
 hood had fallen back from her head, revealing a 
 sweet face, pale with fear. Her hands, which were 
 tightly clasped together, were still trembling. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 195 
 
 " It is all right," said Pen to her, reassuringly. 
 " You will not be molested any more. Do you 
 live near by ?" 
 
 " Only a few doors above." 
 
 " I will see you safely there," said Pen. 
 
 The girl's gray eyes gazed at him anxiously. 
 
 " You are not hurt ?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh, no, not in the least," he answered. 
 
 Pen felt it necessary to offer his arm, for the girl 
 seemed still too nervous to walk steadily. Timidly 
 she let her right hand rest on Pen's elbow, and so in 
 silence the two walked the short distance to the 
 house where the young girl lived. At the steps she 
 paused. 
 
 " I don't know how I can possibly thank you, 
 sir," she began. 
 
 " I will see you safe inside," put in Pen, 
 politely, and he accompanied her up the steps to 
 the door. 
 
 Just as Pen was about to ring the bell the sound 
 of voices came from inside the door, and an instant 
 later it was thrown open, revealing a group of three 
 people in the vestibule. 
 
 Two of these, an elderly gentleman and a lady, 
 were evidently the host and hostess, bidding a guest 
 good night. The third, the guest, was a gentleman 
 about forty years of age, who stood with hat in hand 
 and his back toward Pen. 
 
 As the door opened and the light from the hall 
 
196 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 shone out upon the young girl on the steps, the old 
 lady uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " Why, Bertha !" she cried. " Is that you ? We 
 were just going to send for you." 
 
 The gentlemen whose back was toward the 
 door turned quickly at these words, and Pen now for 
 the first time saw his face. 
 
 It was Mr. Austin Terry. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 Pen Makes New Friends 
 
 PEN stepped forward with an exclamation of 
 pleasure and surprise. Mr. Terry shot a 
 quick glance toward him. 
 
 "Why, Pen!" he cried, astonished in his turn. 
 " What are you doing here?" 
 
 " Just what I was going to ask you, sir," laughed 
 Pen, as they clasped hands. " I thought you were 
 somewhere in Japan." 
 
 " Just returned — only reached New York to- 
 day," answered Mr. Terry. Then turning toward 
 the old lady and gentleman behind him, he went on : 
 
 " This is a curious coincidence. I didn't know 
 you were acquainted with my young friend Rae." 
 
 The old lady smiled. 
 
 " Nor are we," she said. " This is our first meet- 
 ing. Bertha, dear, introduce your friend to us." 
 
 The young girl laughed nervously. 
 
 " I would, auntie," she said, "but I don't know 
 his name. He is not a friend — I mean I only met 
 him a few minutes ago " 
 
198 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Why, Bertha, what do you mean?" exclaimed 
 the old gentleman, taking her by the arm. " You 
 look frightened. What has happened ? Come into 
 the parlor at once and take off your things — and you , 
 too, Mr. Terry, and your young friend." 
 
 All entered the hall, while the old gentleman 
 helped Bertha off with her cloak. Pen was watch- 
 ing her closely, and it seemed to him that he had 
 never seen a face and figure so pleasing. 
 
 She presented a charming picture as she stood 
 there under the gaslight, with her face half in 
 the shadow. Evidently, she had been attending a 
 fancy dress party, for she wore a gypsy's costume, 
 combining gaily colored fabrics with numerous 
 little trinkets of brass and silver on her neck and 
 wrists, while her hair fell in wavy folds about her 
 neck and shoulders, framing most attractively the 
 pale olive face with its pretty, regular features. 
 
 Pen had at first taken her to be a young lady of 
 at least nineteen or twenty, but he now saw that 
 she was considerably younger — certainly not over 
 sixteen. 
 
 To save all embarrassment, she hastened to tell 
 her aunt in rapid, breathless sentences what had oc- 
 curred on the street, and of the service Pen had ren- 
 dered her. 
 
 " It was all wrong, I know, auntie — my coming 
 home alone — ^but there was no one there to bring 
 me. Dr, Gray, who had promised to take care of 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR I99 
 
 me, was summoned unexpectedly away to see a sick 
 man, and I thought no harm could come to me if 
 I ran home quickly. It's only a little over a block, 
 you know, so I told the Grays I would go by my- 
 self rather than wait for an hour or so till you sent 
 for me. I hadn't gone half a block before that aw- 
 ful man began to annoy me, and — oh, dear, I don't 
 know what I should have done if this young gentle- 
 man hadn't come up. I am sure I — I " 
 
 The young girl broke down from nervousness 
 as the scene came back to her. 
 
 "There, there, Bertha, dear, it's all right," said 
 the old lady, taking the girl in her arms and hold- 
 ing her tight. " You are badly upset, and no 
 wonder. A night's rest and you'll be all right 
 again. Don't be nervous. Sit here a minute on 
 the sofa while I thank this young gentleman as he 
 deserves " 
 
 " Whom, by the way, Austin has not yet intro- 
 duced," continued the old gentleman, coming for- 
 ward to Pen, and taking the hand that Mr. Terry had 
 left disengaged. " This young man is Pennington 
 Rae — you have both heard me speak of Mrs. Rae, " 
 said Mr. Terry, addressing the old couple. 
 
 " Oh, many times — we almost know Mrs. Rae 
 now, don't we, Clara ?" said the old gentleman. 
 
 " Yes, indeed — and this is really her son !" ex- 
 claimed the old lady. " And it is you that have 
 done us this great service — God bless you for it." 
 
200 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Pen," said Mr. Terry, " this is Mr. and Mrs. 
 Robert Craig. They are two of the oldest and best 
 friends I have. I am very glad to make you 
 acquainted with them — and especially under such 
 favorable circumstances." 
 
 " This must not be our only meeting," said Mr. 
 Craig cordially, gripping and shaking Pen's hand. 
 " Any friend of Austin Terry's is our friend, and 
 the service you have rendered us to-night makes 
 us always your debtor. We must know more 
 of you. Perhaps some day we can in part repay 
 you " 
 
 " Don't think of that, Mr. Craig," exclaimed 
 Pen. " I feel favored in having had the good 
 fortune to be of assistance to the young lady." 
 
 Mr. Craig laughed pleasantly. 
 
 " There, Bertha," he said, "is a pretty speech 
 for you — and after all the rest he has done for you, 
 too. Come and thank Mr. Rae and tell him we 
 shall always be delighted to see him here when- 
 ever he likes to call." 
 
 Bertha rose half shyly from the sofa and came 
 forward. 
 
 "I thank you from the bottom of my heart," 
 she said in her soft tones. " I shall never forget 
 what you have done for me — and I shall be just 
 as glad as uncle to have you come to the house 
 as often as you can." 
 
 She held out her hand, and her gray eyes looked 
 
J^OT IVITHOUT HONOR 201 
 
 straight into Pen's. He felt his face flush as his 
 hand met her cool, slender fingers. 
 
 His presence of mind was completely gone. A 
 graceful speech would have been the neat thing then, 
 and no doubt, had the scene occurred in one of Pen's 
 own stories, his hero would have framed the speech 
 quite readily. But to Pen himself even a lucid, 
 grammatical sentence now seemed impossible. 
 
 He managed to stammer out his thanks in a 
 few faltering words, feeling, while doing so, that he 
 was lucky to find words at all. 
 
 Then Mr. Terry came to his relief, by suggesting 
 that the hour was late, and that they had better 
 leave. 
 
 " I will call soon, and bring Pen with me," he 
 said, as they bade Mr. and Mrs. Craig and Bertha 
 good night. 
 
 " Do, " answered Mrs. Craig. " Why not 
 bring him next Sunday evening when you come as 
 usual to supper ?" 
 
 " Good — how about that. Pen ?" asked Mr. 
 Terry. 
 
 " With pleasure," answered Pen, his eyes still 
 on Bertha. 
 
 A moment later the two friends were on the 
 street. 
 
 " Of all strange happenings this is the strangest 
 — that I should meet you at the door of the 
 Craigs'," said Mr. Terry. 
 
202 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " You were about the last one I expected to see 
 anywhere about here," answered Pen. " Are you 
 back in New York for good and all?" 
 
 " For a while at least. How are things going 
 at the office ?" 
 
 " I haven't been at the Herald office for a long 
 time," answered Pen. " I left there way back 
 in the summer." 
 
 "Bless me! I didn't know that," exclaimed 
 Mr. Terry. " I haven't been to the office yet — got 
 back so late to-day I didn't think it worth while 
 starting in there. What has happened ? Tell 
 me all about yourself" 
 
 Pen briefly narrated the story of his experiences 
 since Mr. Terry's departure, omitting nothing ex- 
 cept, of course, the events relating to his Boston 
 trip. 
 
 " Well, well !" said Mr. Terry when Pen had fin- 
 ished. " What a time you have been having ! And 
 so you are really a full-fledged literary man, eh? 
 Well, Pen, I congratulate you with all my heart. 
 1 knew you had the stuff in you, and that it only 
 needed a little experience and knowledge of the 
 world to bring it out. That story in the new mag- 
 azine will be a capital beginning for you, and I hope 
 you will add new laurels rapidly. You are right, 
 however, in not resting solely on your pen for a 
 livelihood. There are very few men who can make 
 a living exclusively out of literary work. You 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 203 
 
 must find some fixed position. I'll see if I can't do 
 something for you. This is my corner, so I must 
 leave you now, for it is very late, and I have a lot 
 of unpacking to do. Suppose you come around 
 to my rooms to-morrow night, and we'll talk matters 
 over. I can give you a number of useful introduc- 
 tions, and perhaps one or other of them will lead to 
 something. Can you come?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Pen promptly, his heart 
 beating happily as he thought of all the bright 
 possibilities that Mr. Terry's return opened up 
 to him. 
 
 " Very well — good night, then," said Mr. Terry, 
 and he was about to turn away, when Pen stopped 
 him. 
 
 " One thing more, Mr. Terry. Do you know, 
 in the confusion of introductions to-night no one 
 mentioned Miss Bertha's last name. I have been 
 wondering whether it is Craig, like her uncle's." 
 
 " No," answered Mr. Terry, " she is the daugh- 
 ter of a brother of Mrs. Craig. Her name is La- 
 lor — Bertha Lalor." 
 
 " Lalor !" exclaimed Pen. 
 
 " Yes, do you recognize the name?" 
 
 " It is the name of a very nice gentleman I met 
 while a salesman at Clarke & Davis's. Could he 
 be related to her? Who is her father?" 
 
 " His name is Francis Lalor," answered Mr, 
 Terry. 
 
204 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Pen uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " That was his name," he said. 
 
 " Mr. Lalor travels almost all the time," con- 
 tinued Mr. Terry ; " and accordingly I have seen 
 very little of him — only met him casually once in 
 a while. Bertha I have known well, of course, 
 for she has had her home with the Craigs for several 
 years. Bertha's mother was a Southern woman, 
 and Bertha was born and grew up in South Caro- 
 lina. About four years ago her mother died. Then 
 her father brought her north, and put her under the 
 care of Mr. and Mrs. Craig, who had no children. 
 Bertha is attending school here in the city. When 
 she is old enough, and has completed her education 
 her father expects to take her abroad for a course 
 of travel with him. There's the whole story. 
 Now take a hint from me. Pen, and don't fail to 
 make the most of the friendship of these people. 
 You will find them as good and true as gold." 
 
 " I am sure of that from the little I have seen 
 of them to-night," answered Pen ; " and I fully in- 
 tend to improve the acquaintance. It has been a 
 lucky evening for me all through — a lucky ending 
 to an unlucky day." 
 
 As Pen walked home that night his mind grav- 
 itated with persistency about one single object — 
 a pale-faced gypsy girl with great gray eyes. 
 
 Multitudinous and varied as his thoughts and 
 emotions were, they found expression in simply two 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 205 
 
 propositions : first, that never in his life before had 
 a young girl completely abashed and put him to 
 confusion with a look ; and second, that never be- 
 fore had he met a young girl who pronounced the 
 word " house" as if it were spelt hoose. 
 
 It had not occurred to him hitherto, but, now 
 that he came to think of it, was not that the right 
 way to pronounce " house" ? 
 
 He tried it. No, it did not sound right as it 
 came from his lips. But then, what of that ? It was 
 right when she said it — of that he was very sure. 
 
 Before Pen went to bed that night he had fin- 
 ished four stanzas of a new poem. 
 
2o6 WOT" WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 Pen as a Dramatic Critic 
 
 PEN took the manuscript of his play with 
 him the next evening to Mr. Terry's apart- 
 ments, and confided to him his ambition to 
 make a name for himself as a dramatist. 
 
 Mr. Terry smiled and shook his head. 
 
 " The way of the dramatist is hard in these 
 days, Pen," he said. "Managers are flooded with 
 plays by aspiring young writers, and there is pre- 
 cious little chance of your ever getting your play 
 read, to say nothing of seeing it produced. A suc- 
 cessful play is a great money maker, and many able 
 and clever authors are struggling for a chance at 
 the prize, but managers know that the risk is equal- 
 ly great, so, rather than take any chances with the 
 work of young American writers, they prefer as a 
 rule to reproduce foreign plays that have proved 
 their worth by their success abroad. They find it 
 safer. However, far be it from me to discourage 
 you. Suppose you leave your play with me and 
 let me read it over." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR. io^ 
 
 " That's exactly what I want you to do, Mr. 
 Terry, if you will be so kind," answered Pen ; " and 
 please give your honest opinion, for I intend to 
 stand by it. If you say that you think it would 
 not be worth while for me to submit it to a mana- 
 ger, I will waste no more time on it." 
 
 Accordingly, Pen left the play with Mr. Terry, 
 who promised to give him a frank opinion of it in 
 a few days. 
 
 " In the meantime," said Mr. Terry, " you 
 might go around and see several of my friends on the 
 newspapers. I have here four letters of introduc- 
 tion to men of influence on their respective papers. 
 Any one of them might be able to offer you a posi- 
 tion ; or, if not that, might at least guide you toward 
 something. I have told them in my letters what 
 you have done and are capable of doing, so if they 
 can offer you anything, it will be of a character that 
 will be suitable to you. You don't want a reporter- 
 ship, I suppose." 
 
 " No, sir," answered Pen, with a smile ; " I think 
 I might as well own that I am not up to that work." 
 
 " Pity, too, for it's great work to sharpen one's 
 faculties of observation — but never mind, every one 
 learns his own way. Now here is a particular friend 
 of mine, this Mr.Travers, on the Press. Suppose 
 you go see him first of all. If anything can be 
 done for you there, he will do it readily I know." 
 
 Pen took the hint and early the next morning 
 
2o8 hlOT JVITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 went down to City Hall Park to the offices of the 
 Press. He found Mr. Travers, and the latter, after 
 reading his letter of introduction through, greeted 
 him pleasantly, and thought the matter over for a 
 few minutes in silence. Then he got up, and excus- 
 ing himself, left Pen alone for nearly five minutes, 
 while he held a whispered consultation with a gentle- 
 man who sat in an adjoining office. 
 
 When he returned he said to Pen, 
 
 " Have you ever done any dramatic criticism?" 
 
 " No-o, sir," answered Pen, hesitatingly ;" at 
 least not for newspaper publication. I have written 
 a few dramatic criticisms just as an exercise for 
 myself — that is all." 
 
 Mr. Travers passed over this ingenuous reply 
 without comment. 
 
 '' If you would like to make an experiment of it 
 here, we might try you on a single performance," he 
 said. 
 
 " I should like to try by all means," responded 
 Pen, eagerly. 
 
 " It is a little unusual, but things are being 
 changed here just now, and there is a chance for 
 a new man in the dramatic department. We are 
 willing on the strength of Mr. Terry's letter of 
 recommendation, to give you a trial. Of course, as 
 you have never done any regular work of this kind, 
 we do not know whether you are suited to it 
 or not, so it will have to be purely an experi- 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 209 
 
 ment. We will let you try one of the opening 
 performances next Monday night, and see how it 
 results. If all goes well, it may lead to some- 
 thing — that's the most we can say just now." 
 
 " It is all I could expect," answered Pen, 
 gratefully. " Can you tell me what performance I 
 am to criticise?" 
 
 Mr. Travers shook his head. 
 
 " No. It does not come within my authority 
 to assign the dramatic work. You will hear from 
 our editor some time Monday. He will inclose 
 tickets, and direct you where to go. Suppose you 
 leave your address with me." 
 
 Pen wrote his name and street number on a card, 
 and, thanking Mr. Travers for his kindness, took 
 his departure in the best of spirits — hopeful and 
 eager for the coming test of his powers as a dra- 
 matic critic. 
 
 On the following Monday afternoon, he received 
 two tickets for the Fifth Avenue Theatre, with a 
 brief note directing him to attend the opening per- 
 formance of a new play in which Miss Fanny 
 Davenport was to be the star. 
 
 Scarcely able to curb his impatience, Pen busied 
 himself about his room for an hour or more before 
 dinner, reading over his old attempts at dramatic 
 criticism and the various dramatic notices he had 
 clipped from time to time from the papers as 
 examples of good style. Then he ate a hasty 
 
210 tlOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 meal, and, shortly afterward, set off for the theatre, 
 accompanied by Carl Moran. 
 
 It was with a proud sense of importance that Pen 
 walked down the parquet aisle and took his seat 
 near the front. He had brought with him a pad 
 of paper and a pencil, and as the play proceeded, he 
 hastily jotted down his impressions. 
 
 During the intermission, he added to his notes, 
 so that, by the time the third act was over, he had 
 covered a dozen or more sheets of note-paper size 
 with fine and almost illegible writing. He was con- 
 scious that he had written much that was bad, that 
 he had repeated himself, had expressed his ideas 
 clumsily, and had omitted much that he regarded 
 important, but that, he thought, could readily be 
 corrected when he came to rewrite the matter at the 
 newspaper office. 
 
 The fourth act was about to begin when Pen, to 
 make sure of his time, glanced at his watch. It 
 was after eleven o'clock, and the editor had warned 
 him that his criticism must be written and in hand 
 by half past twelve at the very latest ! 
 
 Pen made a hasty calculation. It would take 
 him about half an hour to get down to the office on 
 Park Row. That would bring the time to ten min- 
 utes before twelve. He would have then only a 
 little over half an hour to write out his criticism, and, 
 according to his reckoning, he ought to have a full 
 hour's time to prepare his matter properlJ^ 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 211 
 
 And then what about the fourth act just begin- 
 ning? It was the culminating act of all, and no 
 doubt contained the strongest scenes of the play. 
 Must he write his dramatic criticism from a mass of 
 incoherent, scribbled notes based upon the first three 
 acts of a play, without having seen the most impor- 
 tant act of all ? 
 
 How could it be possible to write a careful, intel- 
 ligent notice under such circumstances ? Pen was 
 in despair, and for a moment could scarcely decide 
 whether to go or not. 
 
 "You'll have to go," said Carl, when Pen told 
 him of his predicament. " Every second is precious. 
 You are no worse off after all than those two fellows 
 across the aisle there, who are writing for daily 
 papers. I just saw them slip out. You must 
 simply hustle down town and do the best you can." 
 
 Pen caught up his hat and coat and hurried out. 
 On the elevated train he set himself to revising 
 and arranging his notes, hoping to get them into 
 shape by the time he reached the newspaper 
 office. 
 
 But he was so nervous and flustered that he 
 made little progress, and by the time he stepped off 
 the train at Park Place, his notes were about as 
 confused as ever, while his nerves were quite upset. 
 The consciousness of the importance to him of 
 this trial only added to his distress, and as he hurried 
 across City Hall Park, his forehead was moist with 
 
212 NOT IVITMOUT HONOR 
 
 perspiration in spite of the cold November wind that 
 beat against his face. 
 
 When he entered the newspaper offices, he found 
 a number of reporters at the tables writing briskly, 
 Taking a vacant place among them, Pen arranged 
 his notes before him and set desperately to work. 
 
 He wrote rapidly for several minutes, then 
 paused, read what he had written, and quickly tore 
 it up. Again he began, iilling two sheets of paper, 
 only to find his work unsatisfactory and to end by 
 destroying it also. Then he sat staring at his notes 
 and trying to collect his thoughts. 
 
 His face was now perspiring freely, and his hair 
 rumpled and damp. Several of the reporters were 
 eyeing him curiously. Although Pen did not look 
 up he was conscious of their scrutiny, and it added to 
 his embarrassment. To cover it he snatched up his 
 pencil again, and scribbled away briskly for five 
 minutes. 
 
 Writing done under such circumstances, how- 
 ever, could avail naught, as Pen realized when he 
 took time to glance over what he had written. 
 
 It went the way of its predecessors. Over quar- 
 ter of an hour had now been wasted, and the time 
 of closing up the paper was approaching. Nearly 
 all the reporters had finished and left the office. 
 
 At that moment the night editor, who was 
 sitting at his desk at the head of the room called out 
 to Pen, 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 213 
 
 " Say, are you doing that Davenport story?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Pen. 
 
 " Well, you must hurry up, then. You've only 
 twenty minutes more." 
 
 " All right," responded Pen, faintly, and with 
 trembling fingers, he again set to work, writing, 
 writing, writing — rapidly, continuously, desperately. 
 When at length, the night editor called out sharply, 
 " Copy now for that Davenport story — must have it 
 at once," he brought his work to an abrupt close, 
 and folding the rumpled, soiled sheets, mechanically 
 handed them to the editor, and walked out. 
 
 What the results of such work must be he knew 
 only too well, and it was with feelings of bitter dis- 
 appointment and discouragement that he set off for 
 home. 
 
 He purposely avoided the cars, preferring to 
 take a long, lonely, midnight walk up lower Broad- 
 way to Union Square, with only his thoughts for 
 company. 
 
 Poor company they proved to be, and the more 
 Pen thought, the more unhappy he became. All 
 hope of further work from the Press he knew was 
 vain. But that troubled him less than the thought 
 of the wretched piece of work he had done. 
 
 What would his criticism look like the next 
 morning ? What would the readers of the Press 
 think of such a production? What would Mr. 
 Travers think of it? And Mr. Terry, who had 
 
214 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 recommended him so warmly? At that thought 
 his face grew hot. 
 
 It was a restless night for Pen, and an early 
 hour found him up and out, anxious to know what 
 form his work had finally taken. 
 
 He bought a copy of the Press at the nearest 
 news-stand, and examined it thoroughly. When 
 he had gone quite through, he turned back again, 
 scrutinizing each column carefully. 
 
 There was no criticism of the Davenport per- 
 formance in the paper. 
 
 On the second page there was a brief news item, 
 merely stating that the performance had taken place 
 the night before, and adding that a full review of it 
 would appear later. 
 
 Pen's criticism had been rejected. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 215 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 Pen's Play 
 
 WELL, Pen I am very sorry your experi- 
 ment resulted so badly, but don't be dis- 
 couraged. Every one has his failures." 
 
 Mr. Terry tapped Pen encouragingly on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 The two were sitting together the following 
 afternoon in Mr. Terry's office. 
 
 " It isn't the failure alone, Mr. Terry," answered 
 Pen, looking up, seriously. " I can stand a failure 
 or two — but it's the thought of the light I have put 
 you in — I wanted so much to deserve your kindness 
 by doing a good piece of work. I wanted to prove 
 myself worthy of your recommendation. And now 
 what must Mr. Travers think of your sending me 
 to him?" 
 
 " Oh, don't worry about that," laughed Mr. 
 Terry. " Travers knows as well as I do what bad 
 beginnings some mighty good newspaper men 
 make. His own first effort resulted something like 
 this one of yours, and it was due to the same causes : 
 
2i6 NOT fVlTHOUT HONOR 
 
 nervousness and a lack of time to properly prepare 
 his matter. We all have to learn to write quickly 
 and fluently under any circumstances, however 
 extraordinary. That is an important part of a 
 newspaper man's training — and it does one lots of 
 good, too. " 
 
 Pen shook his head. 
 
 " I am afraid I will never make a newspaper 
 man, then, Mr. Terry," he said, "for I cannot write 
 under such pressure. It seems to paralyze all my 
 faculties. I must have quiet, seclusion, and plenty 
 of time to do good work. It's a matter of tempera- 
 ment with me. I can't help it." 
 
 " I know it, Pen, and under favorable circum- 
 stances you can do very good work, so there is no 
 reason to be discouraged," responded Mr. Terry. 
 " And now enough of that. Life is too short to 
 spend any time thinking of one's failures. Let us 
 turn to the bright side of things. I finished read- 
 ing your play yesterday, and I can tell you hon- 
 estly that I am very much pleased with it. The 
 plot is interesting, the scenes are well constructed, 
 and the dialogue is very cleverly written." 
 
 Pen's face lighted up. 
 
 " You really like it?" he exclaimed eagerly. 
 
 " Very much, indeed — in fact, I liked it so much 
 that I took it to David Furman yesterday afternoon 
 and asked him to read it and let me know what he 
 thought of it." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 217 
 
 " David Furman — has he my play?" cried Pen, 
 his eyes opening wide. 
 
 " Yes — you know who he is, of course." 
 
 " Yes, sir, the manager. Will he really read it ?" 
 
 '' I asked him to do so as a personal favor to me, 
 and, as I have often done him small services in one 
 way or another, I know he will give your manuscript 
 the attention it deserves. Of course this may take 
 some time. Furman is a very busy man, so there 
 may be considerable delay over it, but his decision 
 will be worth waiting for." 
 
 Pen could scarcely find words to thank his friend 
 for his additional token of his interest. 
 
 " Never mind that," said Mr. Terry, cutting 
 him short. " I am merely giving you a chance — 
 that's what every one needs. Your work will deter- 
 mine the rest. And now, while you are waiting 
 to hear from your play, what will you do?" 
 
 " I shall be busy for a day or so with the proofs 
 of my story for the new magazine. I received 
 them this morning with a note from Mr. Davis 
 asking me to correct and return them without delay. 
 Then, after that, I have nothing definite on hand. 
 There are those other three gentlemen to whom I 
 have letters of introduction from you, and I might 
 go down town and see them, but I feel considerable 
 hesitation about trying any more newspaper work 
 just at present." 
 
 " You had better go see them, all the same," 
 
2i8 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 suggested Mr. Terry. " It is a good thing to meet 
 them even if nothing comes of it. Uon't be dis- 
 couraged by last night's experience. Look around 
 for something else — and in the meantime, to drive 
 the disagreeable memory away," added Mr. Terry, 
 with a smile, "why don't you go around and call 
 on the Craigs this evening?" 
 
 The suggestion was not lost on Pen. Ever since 
 Sunday, when he had gone with Mr. Terry to sup- 
 per at the Craigs', he had been wondering how 
 soon it would be proper for him to call again. 
 
 " The sooner the better," answered Mr. Terry, 
 promptly, when Pen put the question to him, so 
 Pen went that very evening. 
 
 And this was only the beginning of visits that 
 soon made the Craigs' house seem to him a second 
 home. Not only in the evening, but occasionally 
 in the afternoon Pen would call and spend a pleasant 
 hour or so with Bertha Lalor or if the day were 
 particularly inviting, take a walk up through Central 
 Park to the Museum of Art, where Bertha gravely 
 criticised the pictures in the light of the art studies 
 she was pursuing at school, while Pen followed her 
 about, perfectly content to listen and to watch her. 
 
 Once he asked Bertha about her father, when 
 she informed him that he was again in Europe. 
 
 " I saw him last during October, while we were 
 up at Lenox," she said. " I was not well during 
 September, so auntie and uncle decided not to come 
 
NOT IVITHOVT HONOR 219 
 
 back to the city until I was all right. Father 
 visited us while we were at Lenox, and sailed for 
 England the last Saturday in October." 
 
 That then was the reason of Mr. Lalor's staying 
 at the Windsor Hotel during his sojourn in New 
 York. The Craigs were away and their house 
 closed. 
 
 For these pleasant little jaunts with Bertha, Pen 
 had now ample time, for his visits to the other edi- 
 tors down town resulted in nothing definite. They 
 were all agreeable enough to him, and they made 
 a note of his name and address, and promised to 
 bear him in mind — but there it rested. 
 
 So a month went by, and it was the middle of 
 December. Within a few days the new magazine 
 would be out, and Pen's story would go to the 
 public. This was to be the beginning of all things 
 for him, and he had made preparation during these 
 days of leisure for the realization of numerous 
 literary plans. 
 
 He had finished two more short stories, which he 
 had promised to show Mr. Davis as soon as they 
 were copied ; he had written several little poems ; 
 and he had made a start on a longer story intended 
 for serial publication, according to Mr. Davis' sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 Of his play he heard nothing, but he was will- 
 ing to let that matter rest, awaiting Mr. Furman's 
 convenience. Absorbed in his other work, he had 
 
220 NOT U^ITHOUT HONOR 
 
 for the time, forgotten the play, when one morning 
 he received a brief note from Mr. Terry as follows : 
 Dear Pen : 
 
 Mr. Furnam has read your play, and seems to like it — 
 at least he spoke in favorable terms to me about it. He 
 says he would be glad to meet you. This sign of interest is 
 very encouraging. Suppose you call at his office as soon 
 as convenient, and have a talk with him. There's no 
 knowing what may come of it. Present the inclosed card ; 
 it will introduce you. 
 
 In haste, but sincerely, 
 
 Austin Terry. 
 
 Pen hurried around to Mr. Furman's office on 
 upper Broadway withouta moment's delay, and pre- 
 sented Mr. Terry's card. Mr. Furman was not in, 
 so Pen called again in the afternoon. Still Mr. Fur- 
 man was out, and a call the following morning was 
 also unsuccessful. 
 
 " When is Mr. Furman in ?" he asked. 
 
 " Almost any time — except when you are here," 
 answered the office attendant. " Leave your name, 
 and I'll speak to Mr. Furman. Then, suppose you 
 come again this afternoon." 
 
 Accordingly Pen did so. When he came in 
 about three o'clock that afternoon, the attendant 
 smiled. 
 
 " Out^gain," he said. " Mr. Furman left about 
 half an hour ago. However, he left this message. 
 He said that he expects to leave town to-morrow 
 for a trip West, and that he would be glad to see 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOa 221 
 
 you before he goes away. He told me to tell you 
 that he would like to have you go up to the Metro- 
 politan Opera House to-night, where he will be for 
 a short time. You can be sure of seeing him 
 there. Will that be convenient for you ?" 
 
 " Perfectly," answered Pen. 
 
 " All right. Here is a ticket to one of the boxes 
 that Mr. Furman left for you. He said he would 
 look in there for you about nine o'clock." 
 
 Pen went away delighted with this double turn 
 of luck. Aside from the opportunity thus afforded 
 him of meeting Mr. Furman, he was to have his 
 first taste of grand opera, and in a private box, too ! 
 
 He got a newspaper at once, and looked up the 
 bill for the night. It was to be " Faust," with the 
 de Reszke brothers, Melba, and others, constituting 
 what was called the " ideal " caste. 
 
 Pen hastened home, and began at once to array 
 himself for the great event, making the most elabor- 
 ate toilet his modest wardrobe would allow. When 
 he had about completed his dressing, Bob Lecky 
 strolled in, and Pen told him of his good luck. 
 
 " Great Scott — in a private box, too ! What a 
 snap !" ejaculated Bob. " But you are not going 
 that way, are you ?" 
 
 " What way ?" asked Pen, looking himself over. 
 
 " In a cutaway coat and striped trousers." 
 
 " It's the best I have," said Pen. " Won't it 
 do?" 
 
222 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " What — in a private box ! With all the fash- 
 ionables around you ! Never in the world, my boy. 
 You've got to wear a dress suit." 
 
 " I — I haven't any," answered Pen, meekly. 
 
 "That's all right. Don't look blue. I don't 
 bear you any ill will for not having a dress suit," 
 said Bob, reassuringly. " That's where I come in. 
 I have a dress suit — brand new — only worn it 
 twice. Come down to my room and try it on." 
 
 Pen heaved a sigh of relief, and followed Bob. 
 
 The dress suit fitted him well, and after another 
 half hour's preparation. Pen's own mother would 
 scarcely have recognized him, such a fashionable 
 young man had he become. 
 
 And so it came about that on the same evening 
 Pen for the first time wore a dress suit, went to the 
 opera, and sat in a private box. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 At the Opeta House 
 
 PEN arrived at the opera house early, and, 
 during the time still remaining before the 
 beginning of the overture, found plenty of 
 diversion in the vast, brilliantly lighted auditorium, 
 with its tier upon tier of seats, reaching literally to 
 the ceiling, its handsome decorations, and its great 
 expanse of curtain. 
 
 The people were rapidly crowding in ; dresses 
 were rustling ; seats were falling ; and the audito- 
 rium resounded with the mingled hum of voices. 
 The musicians .stole into their places from some 
 subterranean chambers, last of all the leader, who 
 was greeted with applause. 
 
 Then the lights sank low, the hum of voices 
 gradually ceased, and uneasy, rambling chords stole 
 out from the orchestra. The prelude had begun, 
 and a few minutes later the great curtain rolled up, 
 disclosing the darkened study of Faust. 
 
 From the first moment Pen was captivated. 
 His surroundings were forgotten. So completely 
 
224 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 absorbed was he that, when a short, stout gentle- 
 man of about fifty years of age entered the box just 
 before the close of the first act, and spoke to him, 
 he neither saw nor heard him. The man then 
 touched Pen on the shoulder, and leaning over, 
 said, 
 
 "Is this Mr. Rae?" 
 
 Pen started from his seat with a murmured 
 apology. 
 
 "It's all right," said Mr. Furman, for he it 
 proved to be. "I would have waited till the act 
 was over, but unfortunately I have got to hurry 
 away. I wanted to say a few words to you about 
 your play. Mr. Terry, I suppose, told you I had 
 read it?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Pen, eagerly, his heart 
 beating faster. 
 
 " Well, what I have to say won't take long," 
 continued Mr. Furman. " It is merely that I like 
 the play. It is pretty in sentiment, and clever in 
 dialogue, but there isn't enough action in it for a 
 three-act play. I would like to see it cut down to 
 the proportions of a one-act piece — what we call 
 a ' curtain raiser.' I happen to be wanting two or 
 three ' curtain raisers,' and if you can reduce this 
 play of yours to the right length without injuring 
 it, I believe I might be able to use it. Would you 
 be willing to try?" 
 
 Pen hesitated a moment. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 225 
 
 " It does not mean destroying your play in its 
 present form," continued Mr. Furman. " Leave 
 that untouched, but try a new one-act piece on 
 exactly the same theme, using the same dialogue, 
 action and scene as far as possible in the reduced 
 space. If the effort then is not successful you have 
 your complete play to return to. Would you care 
 to do that?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Pen, no longer in hesita- 
 tion. " I will be glad to try the experiment. I will 
 do the best I can with it." 
 
 " Very good. The manuscript is in Mr. Terry's 
 hands," said Mr. Furman. " I returned it to him. 
 When you have completed your new version, bring 
 it to me, and I will be glad to read it. I am going 
 West to-morrow but I shall be back in a month. 
 Let me see it then if possible." 
 
 " All right, sir," answered Pen, " and thank you 
 very much for the attention you have given it." 
 
 " Don't mention it. Hope you will make a suc- 
 cess of it. I must hurry away now, so good-night. 
 I will look for you some time next month." 
 
 With a hasty shake of the hand, Mr. Furman 
 hurried away, leaving Pen alone again in the box. 
 
 The second act was just beginning as Pen 
 resumed his seat, and his attention became once 
 more riveted on the stage. Never for a moment 
 did his interest relax. 
 
 Thus he failed altogether to notice a man of 
 
226 mr IVITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 about forty years of age, richly dressed, and sit- 
 ting scarcely three feet away from him, in the adjoin- 
 ing box. The man sat back at ease, gazing languidly 
 about the house with a half bored expression on 
 his face. The contrast between him and Pen was 
 striking ; the latter so earnest and attentive, the 
 former so listless and indifferent. 
 
 At length, as the last act was under way, the man 
 rose wearily and reached for his watch. He had 
 evidently forgotten it in putting on his dress suit, for 
 a moment latter he bent forward over the partition 
 between the two boxes, and touching Pen on the 
 arm, said, 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but will you kindly tell me 
 what time it is ?" 
 
 Not wanting to relinquish a view of the stage 
 even for a few seconds. Pen took out his watch, and 
 without turning, opened it and held it toward the 
 man in such a manner that he could readily see the 
 face. There was a moment's pause. Then Pen 
 suddenly felt a hand grasp him tightly by the wrist. 
 He turned quickly to find the man's face close to his 
 own, examining his features with an eager, search- 
 ing look. 
 
 Pen drew back in surprise, endeavoring to free 
 his arm at the same time, but the man's grasp was 
 firm and strong. 
 
 " Where did you get that watch ?" he asked, 
 quickly. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 227 
 
 It was a gift from my mother, sir — why do 
 
 you " 
 
 But Pen never finished the question. It was 
 answered before he could ask it, for while he was 
 speaking the man turned so that the light from the 
 stage fell full upon him, and Pen for the first time 
 clearly saw his face. 
 
 li was his father. 
 
228 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XXDC 
 
 Pen Has a Talk with Mr. Teny 
 
 THE following evening Mr. Austin Terry 
 was seated at his desk in his apartments, 
 writing a letter, when the electric bell 
 sounded and a moment later Pen entered. 
 
 "Your visit is timely," said Mr. Terry, looking 
 up with a smile. " I am writing to your mother. 
 Any word to send ?" 
 
 " Not to-night, though I have news enough," 
 answered Pen. 
 
 Detecting something unusual in Pen's tone, Mr. 
 Terry turned quickly, and pushed his chair back 
 from the desk. 
 
 " Has anything happened?" he asked. " You 
 look worried. What's the matter ? Have you seen 
 Mr. Furman?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I saw him last night." 
 
 " And what did he say of your play?" 
 
 Pen gave his friend the substance of his con- 
 versation with Mr. Furman. 
 
 " That's hopeful," responded Mr. Terry. " Of 
 course you are going to follow his suggestions." 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 229 
 
 "Yes, sir ; I intend to do my best," said Pen. 
 
 Then, dropping into a chair beside the desk, he 
 went on with nervous abruptness, " Mr. Terry, 
 would you mind telling me what you know about 
 my father?" 
 
 Mr. Terry started, and for fully a minute studied 
 him closely without speaking. 
 
 "Why, Pen," he said at length, in a cautious 
 manner, " that is a subject that is difficult for me 
 to— to " 
 
 " I understand you, sir," put in Pen. " It is a 
 difficult subject to speak of Even at home we do 
 not speak of it. But for certain reasons I feel it 
 necessary to-night to ask you to speak of it. I 
 know why you hesitate. You are uncertain as to 
 how much I really know." 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Terry ; " and I am very 
 doubtful whether it would be right for me to speak 
 to you at all on the subject. Your mother, you 
 know, is the one " 
 
 " I understand you, sir," said Pen, quickly, as 
 Mr. Terry paused, " but there is a question I must ask 
 you — a question that you, I am sure, can answer 
 better than any one else, and for that reason I come 
 to you. You can be perfectly frank with me. I 
 know more perhaps than you think I do. Although 
 my mother has said very little to me on this subject, 
 I have learned a good deal in one way and another. 
 I know that my father left home because things did 
 
230 hlOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 not go well — repeated disagreements — and the rest. 
 I don't ask you to speak of those things, Mr. Terry. 
 What I want to know is what happened afterwards. 
 What can you tell me of my father's life after he 
 left home?" 
 
 Mr. Terry looked relieved. 
 
 " As regards that, Pen," he said," I can tell you 
 all I know yery easily, for I know very httle. 
 Your father dropped out of sight completely. I 
 tried to find traces of him, but, with the exception 
 of a little news once in a while, coming indirectly 
 and from sources by no means reliable, I was quite 
 unsuccessful." 
 
 " And what was it that you heard ?" 
 
 " News of various enterprises in which he was 
 interested, chiefly in the far West. Your father was 
 always a good business man, Pen — very shrewd 
 and keen-witted, though perhaps too fond of spec- 
 ulating. On that account he had his ups and 
 downs." 
 
 " That is particularly what I wanted to ask 
 you about, Mr. Terry," said Pen, quickly. "Tell 
 me what you know of my father's business charac- 
 ter. It was not financial trouble that drove him 
 from home, was it? There was no shadow — noth- 
 ing wrong, was there ?" 
 
 " Your father was perfectly honorable in all his 
 dealings — let your mind rest easy on that point," 
 said Mr. Terry, reassuringly. 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 231 
 
 " In many ways he was an exceptional man. 
 How good a friend he was, how liberal and kind, I 
 know well, for we were close companions in the old 
 days. There was but one flaw — a quick and pas- 
 sionate temper — and that brought him most of his 
 trouble. That was the cause of — well, of those 
 disagreements — and the rest, as you say." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then Mr. Terry 
 went on : 
 
 " I was hopeful for a long time that I might 
 find him and bring him back, but I was never able 
 but once to reach him. " 
 
 Pen looked up inquiringly. 
 
 " Once out in Chicago, about six months after 
 he left home, I met him, and talked with him, but 
 I found him quite unreasonable. My efforts availed 
 nothing, and after that he tried to avoid me, I am 
 sure, for I could never learn where he was. So it 
 went on for three years with only a bit of indirect 
 news, and then came word of his death in the South 
 Pacific — and that of course ended it all. I could 
 do no more." 
 
 Pen started. 
 
 " His death, sir — in the South Pacific !" he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 Mr. Terry looked surprised. 
 
 " Has your mother never told you ?" he asked. 
 " She knew of it at the time." 
 
 " We have been brought up at home to consider 
 
232 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 our father as dead, Mr. Terry," said Pen ; " but 
 I know my mother never meant that he really was 
 dead. 
 
 Mr. Terry bit his lip. 
 
 " I have made a mistake, then, in speaking of it," 
 he said. 
 
 Pen rose to his feet as if struggling to control 
 himself 
 
 " You have made a mistake, Mr. Terry," he said, 
 " a great mistake — but not in speaking to me — a 
 greater mistake than that." 
 
 " Why, Pen, what do you mean?" asked Mr. 
 Terry, looking up quickly. 
 
 " My father, sir, is not dead. My mother knows 
 that he is not dead." 
 
 Mr. Terry's hands slipped from the arm of the 
 chair and fell into his lap. 
 
 " Not dead !" he echoed. 
 
 " No, sir. Mr. Terry, I saw my father last night 
 — at the opera house." 
 
 For fully a minute Mr. Terry sat motionless and 
 silent, his eyes fixed steadily on Pen's face. 
 
 Then, leaning forward, he said slowly, 
 
 " Do you know what you are saying ? You 
 saw your father ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, and talked with him. I will never 
 forget that meeting as long as I live. He sat in the 
 box next to me. He asked me the time. When 
 I took out my watch — it was my mother's — he 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 233 
 
 recognized it. Then I recognized him — from his 
 portrait in your photograph case. We talked 
 together there in the back of the box for ten, twenty 
 minutes ; it may have been a half hour, I don't 
 know. Mr. Terry, I can't tell you all he said, but 
 I can tell you this much. He wants to come back 
 home. He has wanted to come back for a long 
 time, but his pride at first kept him away, and after- 
 wards he feared it was too late. During the last 
 two years he has been very successful, but he is 
 unhappy. He wants to come home and see mother." 
 
 Pen stopped and sank into his chair. 
 
 Mr. Terry rose and placed one hand on Pen's 
 shoulder. His voice trembled as he spoke. " Where 
 is he now?" he asked. " Can I see him?" 
 
 Pen shook his head. 
 
 " He has gone West again, by the night train. 
 The most important venture of his Hfe, he told me, 
 compelled him to go. But he said he would come 
 back soon, and he gave me a message for mother." 
 
 "And what did you say to him?" asked Mr. 
 Terry. 
 
 " What could I say, Mr. Terry ? It all seemed 
 like a dream. The position was so strange. Though 
 I knew him to be my father, he was a complete 
 stranger to me, and I did not know how to speak 
 to him. To all that he had to say I listened with- 
 out a word. Then when he questioned me I tried 
 to answer, but my words were clumsy and cold. At 
 
234 t^OT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 first, all I could think of was his long neglect of us, 
 and I simply said, ' You are a stranger to me. Per- 
 haps my mother would know you !' That seemed 
 to cut him so that I was sorry I had said it. 
 
 " I asked him why he had never written to my 
 mother. ' It is she,' I said, ' who must give you 
 an answer.' 
 
 " He hesitated a moment, and then said, ' I 
 have sent many messages to her — of one kind and 
 another, but I have never had an answer.' ' Then 
 is not that an answer in itself !' I asked. He said 
 no — that I did not understand — that he had not 
 dared to expect an answer at first, but that he was 
 determined to try again and again in the hope of 
 finally winning back the place he had lost — that now 
 that he had seen me, his hope had gained new 
 strength ; that he rested his hope on me, believing 
 that if I bore his message home, it would find favor 
 in my mother's heart. Still I hesitated, when sud- 
 denly he cried out as if in terrible pain, ' Do you 
 doubt me ? Can you not see how much it means 
 to me ? My happiness — perhaps my life depends 
 on it. I have Hved of late solely in this hope.' I 
 looked into his face — and I believed in him. 
 
 " Then — but I have already told more than I 
 meant to, Mr. Terry. It is enough to say that I 
 promised to take his message. It was a very small 
 message, and I think I did right in taking it, for I 
 know mother, and — and " 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 235 
 
 " You did right," said Mr. Terry, decisively. 
 Then he went on slowly : " I can hardly realize it. 
 I feel dazed and bewildered. It seems like a message 
 from the grave. If I could only have seen him — 
 have taken his hand — have talked with him. But 
 that will come, I hope. In the meantime. Pen, I can 
 do nothing. It rests with you — and your mother." 
 
 " It has done me good to speak though, Mr. 
 Terry," said Pen, rising again. " I felt that I must 
 tell some one — and you are our oldest friend, so I 
 have told you all I could." 
 
 "I am glad you did. I respect the confidence, 
 Pen," answered Mr. Terry, as he pressed Pen's 
 hand. " I am the oldest friend, as you say. I was 
 their best man, you know — and God knows I wish 
 them both all the happiness in the world." 
 
 His voice shook slightly and Pen felt the ner- 
 vous fingers grip his hand tightly in parting. 
 
 When Pen had gone, Mr. Terry paced the room 
 for nearly a quarter of an hour, his face bent thought- 
 fully toward the floor. 
 
 At length he seated himself again at his desk, 
 and took up the unfinished letter to Pen's mother. 
 It began " My dear friend." 
 
 Mr. Terry tore it slowly in half ; then, folding it, 
 tore it again across the middle, and let the pieces 
 fall into his waste-basket. 
 
 From a little pile of stationery at one side he 
 drew a fresh sheet and began again : 
 
236 NOT IVJTHOUT HONOR 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Rae." 
 
 But his pen traveled slowly, and it was nearly 
 an hour later when, after many pauses, he finally 
 covered eight sheets of paper. 
 
 " I have never written less than eight," he said 
 as he folded them up and slipped them into an 
 envelope. 
 
 When Mrs. Rae received that letter she won- 
 dered if Mr. Terry were altogether well when he 
 wrote it. 
 
 " It must have been written under some un- 
 usual pressure," she thought. " I could hardly be- 
 lieve it was his but for the handwriting — and even 
 that seems unsteady." 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 237 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 A Bunch of Violets 
 
 THE new popular magazine had at last 
 appeared, and from the day of publication 
 its success seemed assured. The press 
 greeted it cordially, the public liked it, and it sold 
 well. 
 
 Of the general comment, Pen's story — which 
 was fully and attractively illustrated, and occupied 
 a prominent position — obtained a liberal share. 
 
 The days immediately following the appearance 
 of the magazine were an eventful period in Pen's 
 life. The first copy he could obtain was mailed 
 promptly to his mother. That pleasant duty dis- 
 charged, his next care was to watch for the press 
 criticisms, and this, too, proved to be a pleasure, 
 for the notices were almost all favorable and 
 encouraging. 
 
 The publishers were highly elated at the recep- 
 tion accorded the magazine, and went ahead boldly 
 enlarging and extending their plans for future 
 numbers. 
 
238 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 In these plans they naturally included Pen, for 
 their estimate of his ability had been fully confirm- 
 ed by the favorable notices his story had received. 
 
 " How are you getting on with your serial 
 story ?" asked Mr. Davis, one day, as Pen sat beside 
 him looking over some new press clippings. 
 
 " It is finished, sir," answered Pen, " and only 
 needs a little polishing." 
 
 " When can you let us see it ? " 
 
 " In a day or so, if you wish." 
 
 " Good. Bring it to us soon as you can. 
 And what are your plans then ?" 
 
 " First of all, I mean to take a little run out 
 home," answered Pen. " I promised myself that 
 as soon as the magazine appeared. If you really 
 want to see my serial story at once, I will not rest 
 until it is finished and in your hands." 
 
 " That would suit us best," said Mr. Davis, smil- 
 ing. "Then while you are away, we can read it." 
 
 Pen could hardly help shivering as he thought 
 of that ordeal. Suppose his longer story should 
 prove to be a failure ? It would be harder than 
 ever to face defeat now that he had tasted the sweets 
 of success. 
 
 " I will have it ready by Thursday," he said. 
 
 "How long will you be away?" asked Mr. 
 Davis. 
 
 "Only a few days, I think, though that will 
 depend on circumstances." 
 
>^OT WITHOUT HONOR 239 
 
 " Be sure to remember us in your plans for 
 future work," said Mr. Davis. " We have a special 
 interest in you, for, you know, we are your 
 discoverers." 
 
 " There is no chance of my forgetting that," 
 answered Pen. " I appreciate the interest you have 
 shown in me." 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Davis to his partner after 
 Pen had gone, " that we would do well to keep an 
 eye on that young man." 
 
 " What would you propose ?" put in Mr. Clarke, 
 inquiringly. 
 
 " I think we had better lay out some plan," 
 continued Mr. Davis, "to make sure of his future 
 work — to secure it in some way." 
 
 " And do you consider Rae worth securing ?" 
 asked Mr. Clarke. 
 
 "By all means, judging from the work he has 
 shown us — and you see how the criticisms bear us 
 out in our judgment. If this serial story fulfils my 
 expectations, I should urge making some kind of 
 a proposition to Rae for his future services. There 
 is good stuff in him, and I think we ought to try to 
 get the benefit of it." 
 
 " All right," answered Mr. Clarke. " When 
 you have read his story let me know your judg- 
 ment on it, and if it is favorable, we will talk the 
 matter over." 
 
 Pen returned at once to his manuscript, and by 
 
24° NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Thursday he had it in form to be submitted to 
 Mr. Davis. 
 
 He left it in the publisher's hands about mid- 
 day, and by the first afternoon train he set off for 
 Wilton, reaching home shortly before the supper 
 hour. He had written his mother to expect him, 
 and accordingly, she had prepared a little dinner 
 party to celebrate his return as an author. 
 
 To this modest function had been invited Mrs. 
 Rae's old pastor and a few of the more intimate 
 friends of the family, all of whom had read his 
 story, and were cordial and profuse in their con- 
 gratulation. 
 
 This little reception quite took Pen's breath 
 away. When the people of Wilton, who had so long 
 pronounced him a good-for-nothing, could find his 
 work worthy of commendation, surely it must be 
 an achievement of no ordinary kind. 
 
 " The acceptance of my story made me proud, 
 but this is the proudest moment of all," he con- 
 fided to his mother in a whisper. 
 
 Pen never knew how much his mother had had 
 to do v;ith preparing that little reception for him. 
 
 He never knew how keenly she had felt the 
 slight put upon him by the people of Wilton ; he 
 never knew how eagerly she told her friends of his 
 progress in the city, dwelling on his occasional suc- 
 cesses, and veiling his defeats ; and he never knew 
 with what pride she had gone about among her 
 
HOT IVITHOUT HONOR 241 
 
 acquaintances telling them about his story, buy- 
 ing and presenting copies of the magazine in 
 some instances, and lending her own in other 
 cases, in order that all should know the talent he 
 possessed. 
 
 Knowing how pleasant it would be for Pen to 
 receive their praise, and what an encouragement it 
 would be to him, she had planned this little dinner 
 party for that purpose, and had primed the guests 
 in advance on the subject of his writings, present 
 and prospective, as far as she thought judicious, in 
 order that they might speak appreciatively and 
 encouragingly to him. 
 
 But this was a select group of the more intelli- 
 gent people of Wilton, and did not constitute a 
 reversal of the town's verdict upon him by any 
 means, as he discovered the next day when he 
 went about and found the great mass of the people 
 quite ignorant of his new honors. 
 
 To the boys about town he was as always, the 
 " Poet of Wilton" — said with a laugh. 
 
 The general opinion was tersely and bluntly 
 expressed by one horny-handed citizen, a building 
 contractor and something of a personage — a self- 
 made man, including his grammar, who was over- 
 heard to say at the post office : 
 
 " I jest heerd the young chap's hed a story 
 printed, and he spends his time generally writin' 
 po'try and sech stuff. I used to write po'try my- 
 
242 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 self when I was a young fool, in love, but every 
 chap that's got any sort of stuff in him gets cured 
 of that, jest like the measles. It would be a favor 
 to his good mother if somebody would make him 
 drop po'try and learn some honest trade." 
 
 All this, however, did not disturb Pen. His 
 ideas had enlarged since his residence in New York. 
 Little matters did not worry him so much. 
 
 " Of course, I wish every one in town thought 
 as much of me as the few kind friends we had 
 here the other night," he said to his mother ; 
 " but, after all, I have done very little to deserve 
 their kindness. There is a great deal to be accom- 
 plished yet before I can expect to be anything 
 here but what the boys call me, ' the Poet of 
 Wilton.' " 
 
 Although Pen had been home several days, a 
 suitable opportunity had not until just then offered 
 itself of accomplishing the main object of his visit 
 — giving his mother the message he bore from his 
 father. 
 
 It was nearly five o'clock, and they were alone 
 together in the sitting-room at the front of the house. 
 Will was down town on an errand, and the servant 
 was busy in the kitchen, several rooms distant. 
 There was no chance of being disturbed. 
 
 As Pen saw that the favorable moment had 
 come he grew nervous, and walked back and forth 
 across the room, talking absent-mindedly about one 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 243 
 
 thing and another, until his mother, noticing his 
 uneasiness, called him to a halt. 
 
 " What's the matter, Pen, dear ?" she asked. 
 " You look worried." 
 
 Pen stood by the mantel. His mouth was 
 dry and his hands shook, but he was resolved 
 to hesitate no longer. In the past few days he 
 had carefully thought out what he must say, and 
 had considered various ways of introducing the 
 matter. 
 
 But all that was forgotten now. Drawing an 
 envelope from his pocket, he plunged with nervous 
 haste into the very heart of things. 
 
 " Mother," he said, in an unsteady voice, " I 
 have here a message for you — a message I prom- 
 ised to bring you myself" 
 
 "A message?" echoed Mrs. Rae, curiously. 
 " From whom?" 
 
 Pen paused. The question was too direct. 
 
 " You will see," he went on, after a few seconds. 
 " One night — last week — I — I — well, some one 
 gave me this message for you, mother, and — but 
 take it — open it, and you will understand." 
 
 Pen held out the envelope. It was thick and 
 soft, and fastened with a string. 
 
 With an odd look, first at Pen and then at the 
 little package, Mrs. Rae slowly took the latter from 
 her son's hand and opened it. 
 
 A crushed and faded little bunch of violets fell 
 
244 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 out upon her lap, and with it a small piece of paper 
 on which were written a few lines. One glance at 
 these, and Mrs. Rae dropped her head. A cry 
 escaped her, and her figure trembled as she gripped 
 her hands tightly together. 
 
 Then, catching up the envelope and its contents, 
 she rose and hurried out of the room and upstairs. 
 A moment later Pen heard her door close. 
 
 With beating heart, he stepped out softly to the 
 hall and bending forward, Hstened. He could hear 
 the muffled sound of weeping. 
 
 He stole quickly up stairs. His mother's door 
 was locked. From within the room came great, 
 gasping sobs that wrung Pen's heart and brought 
 the tears to his eyes. 
 
 " Mother ! Mother !" he cried. " Let me in ! 
 I want to see you ! I must see you ! I have so 
 much to tell you." 
 
 He shook the handle of the door. 
 
 There was no response but the continued 
 weeping. 
 
 "Mother! Don't you hear me? I want to 
 see you, and talk to you. Please let me in." 
 
 There was a pause. Pen spoke again. 
 
 " Mother !" 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 The voice was low and broken. 
 
 " May I come in?" 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 245 
 
 " Yes, but not now. Leave me alone for a 
 little while." 
 
 " In an hour, mother ; will you see me then ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She spoke so softly, her voice was scarcely 
 audible. But Pen heard her, and turned away and 
 slowly descended the ctairs. 
 
246 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 An Unexpected Offcf 
 
 '^Ti N early train the next day carried Pen back 
 /\ to New York. There were two causes 
 for his sudden return to the city. The 
 first of these was a letter from Mr. Davis which 
 arrived at Wilton by the first morning mail and 
 which requested Pen to call at the publication office 
 of the magazine as soon as possible. Though no 
 reference to his manuscript was made in the letter. 
 Pen believed that his story was to be the subject of 
 the proposed interview, and accordingly he was very 
 anxious to see Mr. Davis and have his doubts set 
 at rest. 
 
 The other cause that urged him to this speedy 
 return to New York arose from the conversation he 
 had with his mother the evening before. That 
 conversation had lasted a long time, and in the 
 course of it Pen had learned a great many things 
 In the light of it all, he felt that it was important 
 for him to go back to New York soon. 
 
 " There is no knowing what day father may 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 247 
 
 return, and I 7nusi not miss seeing him now," he 
 said to himself the last thing that night. 
 
 The next morning, therefore, he set off by the 
 earliest train. 
 
 On reaching the city he went at once to Mr. 
 Davis' office. He found that gentleman cordial 
 and pleased to see him so promptly, a fact that 
 seemed to argue well for the fate of his story. 
 
 " Now," began the publisher, settling himself in 
 his chair in his favorite attitude, with hands clasped 
 back of his head, " first of all let me tell you that 
 I took your story home the very afternoon you 
 gave it to me, Thursday, and read it myself that 
 evening. I like it, and we will publish it in the 
 magazine." 
 
 Pen's face flushed, and he drew a long breath. 
 
 " There are a few changes we want to suggest," 
 went on Mr. Davis. " I will go over the manu- 
 script with you a little later." 
 
 " I will be very happy to meet your wishes as 
 far as I can," said Pen in tones that badly concealed 
 his excitement. 
 
 " And now, another matter," continued Mr. 
 Davis. 
 
 Pen looked surprised. He thought the story 
 was the matter in hand. It seemed not. What 
 next then ? 
 
 " You are not engaged in any regular work at 
 present, are you?" asked Mr. Davis. 
 
248 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " No, sir," answered Pen. " I am doing 
 nothing except my literary work. I have no regular 
 position." 
 
 " How would you like a position of a literary 
 kind ?" asked Mr. Davis. 
 
 Pen looked up quickly. 
 
 " It is exactly what I am looking for, sir. The 
 experience I have had here in the city — in your 
 store and elsewhere, sir — has shown me very clearly 
 that I am not fitted for a business position — as 
 clerk, salesman, or anything of that kind. It does 
 seem to me, however, that I might fill satisfactorily 
 a position of a literary character, and I have been 
 trying for some time past to find such a place." 
 
 " Suppose we offer you one ?" put in Mr. Davis. 
 
 Pen hesitated, not knowing what to say at first. 
 
 " But, Mr. Davis," he began at last, "you and 
 Mr. Clarke know me well. You have tried me, 
 — and — an d ' ' 
 
 " I know — I know," Mr. Davis hastened to say. 
 " Mr. Clarke and I mistook your talents altogether. 
 I don't think anyone was to blame in that. You 
 were simply in a place unsuited to you, and being 
 in such a place, you couldn't do yourself justice, 
 and we failed to see your true worth. Now it is 
 all different. We know what you can do, and we 
 want to offer you a post suited to you." 
 
 " And what — what is this position ?" asked Pen, 
 still in doubt of his senses. 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 249 
 
 " It is an assistant to myself that I want," 
 answered Mr. Davis. " With the opening up of our 
 magazine comes a great increase of the routine busi- 
 ness — an enormous mail and a great many people 
 to see. I want some one who can help me go over 
 the manuscripts that come in, sorting them, keep- 
 ing record of them, and reading some of them, and 
 who can meet authors and talk with them. I 
 believe you will fill such a position admirably." 
 
 " I think I could learn to do so," said Pen, with 
 glistening eyes. 
 
 " No doubt of it," continued Mr. Davis. " I 
 shall be right at hand to guide you, and you will 
 soon be in command of the office, for I may as well 
 tell you frankly that what I want in you is a right 
 hand man — a man who will have matters here so 
 thoroughly at his fingers' ends that I can give a 
 little attention to other things in our business. I am 
 now fairly overwhelmed by the magazine editorial 
 work and am pinned fast here in this office. I want 
 to arrange matters so that I can be freer, retaining a 
 general oversight over all departments of the mag- 
 azine. First of all then, would the place suit you ?'' 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Pen, eagerly. " I believe 
 it is exactly the place for me. " 
 
 "Good. Now as to salary. At first and while 
 you are learning the details of the work, we will pay 
 one thousand dollars a year ; that is about twenty 
 dollars a week." 
 
250 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Pen held his breath. 
 
 Twenty dollars a week ! It was more than he 
 had dreamed of making for a long time. 
 
 Mr. Davis seemed to misunderstand his silence. 
 " The position will improve," he continued, quickly. 
 " This is simply a beginning. You can better both 
 position and salary rapidly by the work you do. The 
 chance ahead is excellent. There is no reason why 
 you should not develop into the regular office editor 
 of the magazine in time. You will see the possibil- 
 ities at once when you have taken hold of the work. 
 Now there is the proposition. What do you think 
 of it ?" 
 
 Pen did not hesitate an instant. 
 
 " I will accept it at once, Mr. Davis," he said, 
 " and I feel very much flattered by the offer. I will 
 do my best to fill the position as you want it filled." 
 
 " Very good. We shall be glad to have you 
 with us. And the sooner the better, for things are 
 getting more and more choked up here every day. 
 When can you begin?" 
 
 " Next Monday, sir ?" said Pen, inquiringly. 
 
 " That will do. We will look for you then 
 on Monday morning, and I will have a desk for you 
 in the office here." 
 
NOT H/ITHOUT HONOR 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn 
 A New Year's Surprise 
 
 IT took Pen several days to fully realize the new 
 situation of affairs ; in fact, it was not until 
 he had literally " grasped the situation " by 
 taking his place in Mr. Davis' office the following 
 Monday morning that he really came to believe in 
 his good fortune. 
 
 That day stands forth in Pen's mind in red let- 
 ters, as the beginning of a new era in his life ; an 
 era of steady progress and growth. After many 
 discouraging setbacks, success had at last begun to 
 bestow her favors upon him. His star had finally 
 risen, and continuing to rise from that time on, it 
 shone steadily brighter. 
 
 The thing that had puzzled him especially in 
 this happy turn of affairs was the suddenness of it 
 all. When he left the city not the slightest intima- 
 tion had been given him that Messrs. Clarke and 
 Davis needed any assistance in their magazine offices. 
 He was to them merely a young author, doubtfully 
 successful, offering a serial story for their examination. 
 
252 NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Only a few days later he returned in response 
 to an urgent letter to find his story read and 
 accepted, and before he could recover from the 
 agreeable shock of that revelation, an offer of an 
 editorial position was made to him. 
 
 It was all so unexpected, so rapid and so unlike 
 Messrs. Clarke & Davis, who were usually cautious 
 and deliberate, that it dazed Pen. 
 
 It was made clear enough however a day or so 
 afterwards when Pen was talking over his good for- 
 tune with Mr. Terry. The latter smiled as Pen 
 expressed his surprise at the unexpected windfall. 
 
 " I've no doubt Richards had something to do 
 with that," said Mr. Terry. " You remember 
 Richards, don't you — in the literary department of 
 the Tribune ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, sir," answered Pen. "He was one 
 of the gentlemen you sent me to see, with a letter of 
 introduction. But what has he to do with it ? " 
 
 " He has read your story in the magazine, and 
 he liked it immensely. He told me so. He remem- 
 bered your visiting him and wanted to know more 
 of you, so one afternoon on his way up town he 
 stopped in to see Mr. Davis, with whom he is well 
 acquainted, and asked him a lot of questions — 
 whether you had done any other work, what experi- 
 ence you had had, and all that. No doubt these 
 inquiries made Davis think that Richards had a posi- 
 tion to offer you on the Tribune ; and probably he and 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 253 
 
 Mr. Clarke had already been considering some sort of 
 an offer to you themselves, so, when they had disposed 
 of Richards, they probably sent that letter to you at 
 once and clinched the matter without further delay." 
 
 Mr. Terry was a shrewd guesser, and had hit 
 upon the exact truth in this. 
 
 And Messrs. Clarke & Davis never had cause 
 to regret their action. It was not long before Pen 
 had acquired a complete command of the details of 
 the editorial office, and had become a valuable 
 factor in the literary management of the magazine 
 Not only were the routine matters under his control, 
 but literary affairs were frequently referred by Mr. 
 Davis to his judgment. 
 
 In short, Pen had at last found his place. Here 
 in the editorial rooms he had found work suited to 
 him, and he wa^ successful from the start. 
 
 " After all," he said one day, laughingly, when 
 Carl Moran was congratulating him, " there seems to 
 be a place in this harsh world, even for a poet." 
 
 When Pen went home to Wilton for Christmas, 
 he told his mother he would not come out again on 
 New Year's Day. 
 
 " It's only a week from now — ^too soon for 
 another trip. Beside," he added," I have a New 
 Year's engagement in New York." 
 
 Mrs. Rae smiled. The traitor ! He had set 
 apart New Year's day for the Craigs and Bertha 
 Lalor — and Mrs. Rae knew it well. 
 
254 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 Pen had not told his mother so very much 
 about the Craigs and Bertha, but he had told her 
 enough. Mothers don't have to be told much. In 
 view of this Mrs. Rae was considerably surprised 
 when she received a letter from Pen on the last day 
 of the old year, stating that he had changed his plans 
 and would spend his New Year at home after all, 
 and that she might look for him New Year's Eve. 
 
 It was an hour before supper, and quite dark, 
 when Pen arrived. As he came in, Mrs. Rae, who 
 was seated at the piano, rose hastily to meet him. 
 Pen hurried forward, and, taking her by the hands, 
 pushed her back upon the piano seat, and, as he 
 kissed her, said, 
 
 " Surprised, I suppose, when you got my letter. 
 Well, you won't be when I tell you why 1 came." 
 
 " Well, why ? " asked his mother, holding his 
 hands and looking up smilingly into his face. 
 " Has your New Year's party failed you ? " 
 
 " No, I have brought a New Year's party home 
 with me," answered Pen ; " a surprise party." 
 
 Mrs. Rae looked puzzled. 
 
 " Mother," continued Pen, leaning down and 
 .speaking in a low tone, " do you remember a dream 
 you had once — about me?" 
 
 " That I saw the curtains there open and you 
 come in — yes." 
 
 " And a moment later the curtains parted and 
 I came in." 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR 255 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " Well, mother," Pen's cheek now rested against 
 her hair, and he spoke a^lmost in a whisper, " have 
 you ever — when all alone here — dreamed that the 
 curtains there parted — and some one else came in — 
 some one you have not seen in a long, long while ? " 
 
 " Pen ! Pen ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 Mrs. Rae had risen again. Her voice was 
 trembling, and the color fast leaving her lips. 
 
 " Look, mother — look there ! " 
 
 Mrs. Rae turned her head quickly and looked 
 toward the door. 
 
 The curtains had parted and a man stood there, 
 his hands tightly clasping the curtains on either 
 side, his face pale as her own, and turned toward 
 her with a pleading look. 
 
 Mrs. Rae's eyes met his — a silent greeting 
 across the chasm of fifteen years. 
 
 At length he spoke. 
 
 " Lizzie, will you take me back ? " 
 
 A gush of tears blinded her. She drooped, 
 fainting, and would have fallen had he not caught 
 her in his arms. 
 
 Meantime Pen had slipped out and upstairs 
 to his brother's room. There he talked for an 
 hour with Will, and when, at length, the supper bell 
 rang, and the two came down the stairs together. 
 Will said, 
 
 " No doubt, you're right, Pen, and it's all for 
 
2S6 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 the best. I am as anxious as you to make mother 
 happy." 
 
 With that they entered the dining-room. The 
 table was set for four, and Will, for the first time 
 since he could remember, took his place at the side 
 of the table and opposite Pen. 
 
 " I suppose this must be my seat now," he 
 said, " since I am no longer head of the house." 
 
 At that moment the door from the sitting-room 
 opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Rae came in. 
 
NOT" IVITHOUT HONOR 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 A Surprise that Failed 
 
 THERE is but little left to tell — but one inci- 
 dent more, and that occurred late in the fol- 
 lowing spring. During the intervening 
 time, affairs had- gone happily for Pen, both at 
 Wilton and in New York. 
 
 At Wilton it was easy to see that Mr. Rae's 
 return was "all for the best." There was a peace 
 and happiness in the little home there that made 
 all things seem bright and new, and Mrs, Rae 
 appeared to grow younger every day. 
 
 Though Mr. Rae returned wealthy, neither 
 he nor Mrs. Rae cared to change their simple 
 mode of life. They clung to the modest place 
 that had been their first home, and was now the 
 scene of their reconciliation. But Mrs. Rae gave 
 up her music teaching, confining her attention, as 
 she said smilingly, to " lessons in harmony at 
 home." 
 
 The winter and spring had brought continued 
 success to Pen, and the summer was ushered in 
 
2S8 NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 
 
 with anticipations of the keenest delight for him. 
 These anticipations related to a trip abroad, for 
 which he was to have a leave of absence, beginning 
 with the first of June. While Pen regarded it as a 
 pleasure trip chiefly, it was to combine business with 
 pleasure. 
 
 The success of the magazine had been such 
 that the publishers had resolved to establish an 
 agency in England. Pen was entrusted with this 
 mission, neither of the firm being able to leave their 
 offices in New York He was allowed a month for 
 the work and his expenses paid, and to this period 
 was added the customary two weeks' vacation 
 making six weeks in all, and enabling him to spend 
 a little time on the continent. 
 
 What added greatly to the delight of this trip 
 was the fact that Mr. Lalor and Bertha were to 
 sail at the same time. Mr. Lalor proposed taking 
 Bertha for a trip through Europe, and, on learning 
 of Pen's intentions, he arranged to take the same 
 vessel and to make his plans on the other side 
 coincide with Pen's as far as was practicable. 
 
 This secured to the two young friends consider- 
 able time together abroad under the guidance of an 
 experienced traveller. 
 
 Mrs. Rae came on to New York during the last 
 week of May to bid Pen farewell. During her stay 
 she was the guest of the Craigs. 
 
 Mr. Rae stayed with Mr. Terry for the sake of 
 
NOT IVITHOUT HONOR 259 
 
 old times, and, as Mr. Terry said, "just to see if 
 we've forgotten how to be boys." 
 
 On the last Monday evening in May there was 
 a select little party at one of the Broadway theatres. 
 It consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Rae, Will Rae, who 
 was visiting Pen, Mr. Terry, Mr. and Mrs. Craig, 
 Bertha Lalor and Carl Moran. In speaking of the 
 theatre party to Mrs. Rae, Pen had said incidentally 
 that this particular theatre had been selected because 
 it was a first night there and two new plays were on 
 for initial performance. 
 
 The party occupied one of the boxes, Pen sitting 
 in the back and just behind his mother's chair. The 
 first play was a one-act piece lasting about half an 
 hour. It was a pretty bit of sentiment, full of del- 
 icate humor and pathos, and was received with great 
 favor by the audience. 
 
 During its course Mrs. Rae sat motionless, 
 watching the stage, while Pen's eyes were fastened 
 for the most part upon his mother's face. 
 
 When the piece was over and, while the audi- 
 ence was still applauding. Pen leaned forward and 
 whispered to his mother : 
 
 " Do you remember your telling me once that 
 I could not surprise you, no matter what I did ?" 
 
 Mrs. Rae nodded and smiled. 
 
 " Well," continued Pen, " I have a surprise for 
 you now." 
 
 " No," answered Mrs. Rae, quickly. 
 
26o NOT WITHOUT HONOR 
 
 " Yes," insisted Pen, laughing. 
 
 " No," repeated Mrs. Rae. " You have no sur- 
 prise forme. I know what you mean." 
 
 " You do?" 
 
 " Yes. You mean to tell me that you are the 
 author of the play we have just seen." 
 
 "Oh," cried Pen, "there is treachery here! 
 Mr. Terry or Carl has let you into the secret." 
 
 " No ; they told me nothing." 
 
 " Then you have had a glimpse of one of the 
 programs. I thought I had kept them away from 
 you." 
 
 " No. I have not seen the program. I didn't 
 need it. I guessed the secret five minutes after 
 the play began. It is you all over. I couldn't 
 mistake it." 
 
 " Then I'm beaten," said Pen, leaning back in 
 his chair, while Mrs. Rae laughed, and with hei 
 Mr. Terry, who stood beside them. 
 
 "You'll have to work a miracle, Pen," said the 
 latter. " You know Mr. Hamlet says in the play 
 named after him that it's a ' wonderful son that can 
 surprise a mother.' " 
 
 When the performance was over and the party 
 had returned to the Craigs' house for a late supper, 
 Mrs. Rae came over to where Pen was .sitting and 
 put a newspaper in his lap. 
 
 " That is to comfort you for your failure in sur- 
 prising me," she said. 
 
NOT mTHOUT HONOR 261 
 
 " What is it ?" asked Pen, unfolding the paper. 
 
 " It is a copy of the Wilton Press." 
 
 Pen's eyes fell upon a two-column article in the 
 paper entitled " Our Talented Young Author," 
 and devoted to a sketch of himself. At the head 
 of the first column was his portrait in outline, quite 
 unrecognizable, but as much like him as most such 
 portraits are to their subjects. The article was 
 highly laudatory, giving a brief sketch of Pen's 
 life and work, and pointing him out as a coming 
 light in American literature. 
 
 The writer had all the facts reviewing his past 
 efforts, his serial story, two instalments of which 
 had already appeared in the magazine, and even 
 mentioning the play just performed for the first 
 time, news of which must have been obtained from 
 advance notes of dramatic affairs published in the 
 New York papers. 
 
 " So you see. Pen," said Mrs. Rae, " you are 
 now ■ not without honor even in your own 
 country.' "