9* 
 
 3<T75~ 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 Prof. Guy E. Grantham 
 
PS 3545 C H°675 l 32l3 erS " y Ubrary 
 
 miiiliiiNi'iifiiiitei 1 ; 1 of a 'ooi 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021726181 
 

 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
BY WILLIAM- ALLEN WHITE 
 
 \ 
 
 \ . • 
 
 The Real Issue \ 
 
 The Court of Boyville 
 
 Stratagems and Spoils 
 
 In Our Town 
 
 A Certain Rich Man 
 
 'The Old Order Ghangeth 
 
 God's Puppets \ 
 
 The Martial Adventures of 
 Hen^y and Me 
 
 In the Heart of a Fool: 
 
IN THE HEART OF 
 A FOOL 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 
 
 Author of "In Our Town," "A Certain Rich Man, 5 ' 
 
 "The Martial Adventures of Henry 
 
 and Me," etc. 
 
 U3eto £ork 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1919 
 
 AU rights reserved 
 
Copyright, 1918 
 
 By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and electrotypTd. Published October, ,9,8. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTEB PAGE 
 
 I Being Stage Directions, and a Cast of Char- 
 acters 1 
 
 II In Which We Introduce the Fool and His 
 Lady Fair, and What He Said in His Heart 
 — the Same Being the Theme and Thesis 
 or This Stort 4 
 
 III In Which We Consider the Ladies — God 
 
 Bless 'Em! 21 
 
 IV The Adams Family Bd3Le Lies Like a Gen- 
 
 tleman 38 
 
 V In Which Margaret Muller Dwells in Mar- 
 ble Halls and Henry Fenn and Kenyon 
 Adams Win Notable Victories .... 47 
 VI Enter the Beauty and Chivalry of Harvey; 
 
 also Herein We Break Our Finest Heart . 63 
 VII In Which We See How Life Translates It- 
 self Into the Materialism Around It . .69 
 VIII Captain Morton Acts as Court Herald and 
 Morty Sands and Grant Adams Hear Sad 
 News 80 
 
 IX Wherein Henry Fenn Tries an Interesting 
 
 Experiment 89 
 
 X In Which Mary Adams Takes a Much Needed 
 
 Best 98 
 
 XI Wherein a Fool Gropes for a Spirit and Can 
 
 Find Only Dust 103 
 
 XII In Which We Learn That Love Is the Lever 
 
 That Moves the World 114 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIII In Which We Observe the Interior of a De- 
 
 serted House 126 
 
 XIV In Which Our Hero Strolls Out with the 
 
 Devil to Look at the High Mountain . . 135 
 XV Wherein We Welcome in a New Year and 
 
 Consider a Serious Question 152 
 
 XVI Grant Adams Is Sold into Bondage and Mar- 
 garet Fenn Receives a Shock .... 163 
 XVII A Chapter Which Introduces Some Possible 
 
 Gods 180 
 
 XVIII Our Hero Eides to Hounds with the Prim- 
 rose Hunt 187 
 
 XIX Herein Captain Morton Falls Under Suspi- 
 cion and Henry Fenn Falls From Grace . 200 
 XX In Which Henry Fenn Falls from Grace and 
 
 Eises Again 209 
 
 XXI In Which We See a Fat Little Rascal on the 
 
 Rack 219 
 
 XXII In Which Tom Van Dorn Becomes a Wayfar- 
 ing Man Also 232 
 
 XXIII Here Grant Adams Discovers His Insides . . 241 
 
 XXIV In Which the Devil Formally Takes the 
 
 Two Hindermost and Closes an Account in 
 His Ledger 252 
 
 XXV In Which We See Two Temples and the Con- 
 tents Thereof 264 
 
 XXVI Dr. Nesbit Starts on a Long Upward but 
 
 Devious Journey 277 
 
 XXVII In Which We See Something Come into This 
 
 Story Outside of the Material World . . 288 
 
 XXVIII Wherein Morty Sands Makes a Few Sensible 
 
 Remarks in Public 298 
 
 XXIX Being not a Chapter but an Interlude . . 309 
 
 XXX Grant Adams Preaching a Message of Love 
 
 Raises the Very Devil in Harvey . . . 320 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXXI In Which Judge Van Doen Makes His Beags 
 
 and Dr. Nesbit Sees a Vision 337 
 
 XXXII Wherein Violet Hogan Takes Up an Old 
 Trade and Margaret Van Dorn Seeks a 
 Higher Plane 350 
 
 XXXIII In Which the Angels Shake a Toot for 
 
 Henrt Fenn 365 
 
 XXXIV A Short Chapter, yet in It We Examine One 
 
 Canvas Heaven, One Real Heaven, and Two 
 Snug Little Hells 379 
 
 XXXV The Old Spider Begins to Divide His Flies 
 with Others and George Brotherton Is 
 Puzzled Twice in One Night 388 
 
 XXXVI A Long Chapter but a Bust One, in Which 
 Kenton Adams and His Mother Have a 
 Strange Meeting, and Lila Van Dorn Takes 
 a Night Edje 403 
 
 XXXVII In Which We Witness a Ceremony in the 
 
 Temple op Love 423 
 
 XXXVIII Grant Adams Visits the Sons op Esau . . . 431 
 
 XXXIX Being No Chapter at All but an Intermezzo 
 
 Before the Last Movement 441 
 
 XL Here We Have the Fellow and the Girl Be- 
 ginning to Prepare for the Last Chapter . 444 
 
 XLI Here We See Grant Adams Conquering His 
 
 Third and Last Devil 454 
 
 XLII A Chapter Which Is Concerned Largelt with 
 the Love Affahis op "the Full Strength op 
 the Company" 468 
 
 XLIII Wherein We Find Grant Adams Calling upon 
 Kenton's Mother, and Darkness Falls upon 
 Two Lovers 496 
 
 XLIV In Which We Supper Little Children, with 
 George Brotherton, and in General Con- 
 shier the Habitants of the Kingdom . . 515 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XLV In Which Lida Bowman Considers Her Uni- 
 verse and Tom Van Dorn Wins Another 
 
 Victory 527 
 
 XLVI Wherein Grant Adams Preaches Peace and 
 
 Lida Bowman Speaks Her Mind .... 543 
 XLVII In Which Grant Adams and Laura Van Dorn 
 Take a Walk Down Market Street and 
 Mrs. Nesbit Acquires a Long Lost Grandson- 
 
 in-Law 561 
 
 XLVIII Wherein We Erect a House Built upon a 
 
 Rock 575 
 
 XLIX How Mortt Sands Turned Away Sadly and 
 
 Judge Van Dorn Uncovered a Secret . . . 582 
 L Judge Van Dorn Sings Some Merry Songs and 
 They Take Grant Adams Behind a White 
 
 Door 597 
 
 "HI In Which We End as We Began and All Live 
 
 Happily Ever After 609 
 
 LII Not Exactly a Chapter but Rather a Q. E. D. 
 
 or a Hic Fabula Docet 613 
 
IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BEING STAGE DIRECTIONS, AND A CAST OP CHARACTERS 
 
 SUNSHINE and prairie grass — well in the foreground. 
 For the background, perhaps a thousand miles away or 
 more than half a decade removed in time, is the Amer- 
 ican Civil War. In the blue sky a meadow lark's love song, 
 and in the grass the boom of the prairie chicken 's wings are 
 the only sounds that break the primeval silence, excepting the 
 lisping of the wind which dimples the broad acres of tall grass 
 — thousand upon thousand of acres — that stretch northward 
 for miles. To the left the prairie grass rises upon a low hill, 
 belted with limestone and finally merges into the mirage on 
 the knife edge of the far horizon. To the southward on the 
 canvas the prairie grass is broken by the heavy green foliage 
 above a sluggish stream that writhes and twists and turns 
 through the prairie, which rises above the stream and meets 
 another limestone belt upon which the waving ripples of 
 the unmowed grass wash southward to the eye's reach. 
 
 Enter R. U. E. a four-ox team hauling a cart laden with 
 a printing press and a printer's outfit; following that are 
 other ox teams hauling carts laden with tents and bedding, 
 household goods, lumber, and provisions. A four-horse team 
 hauling merchandise, and a span of mules hitched to a spring 
 wagon come crashing up through the timber by the stream. 
 Men and women are walking beside the oxen or the teams and 
 are riding in the covered wagons. They are eagerly seek- 
 ing something. It is the equality of opportunity that is 
 supposed to be found in the virgin prairies of the new West. 
 The men are nearly all veterans of the late war, for the most 
 part bearded youngsters in their twenties or early thirties. 
 
2 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 The women are their fresh young wives. As the procession 
 halts before the canvas, the men and women begin to unpack 
 the wagons and to line out on each side of an imaginary 
 street in the prairie. The characters are discovered as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 Amos Adams, a red-bearded youth of twenty-nine and 
 Mary Sands, his wife. They are printers and begin unpack- 
 ing and setting up the printing material in a tent. 
 
 Dr. James Nesbit and Bedelia Satterthwaite, his wife, in 
 the tent beside the Adamses. 
 
 Captain Ezra Morton, and Ruth his wife; he is selling a 
 patent, self-opening gate. 
 
 Ahab Wright, in side whiskers, white neck-tie, flannel 
 shirt and carefully considered trousers tucked in shiny 
 boots. 
 
 Daniel Sands, Jane, his young wife, and Mortimer, her in- 
 fant stepson. Daniel owns the merchandise in the wagon. 
 
 Casper Herdicker, cobbler, and Brunhilde Herdicker, his 
 wife. 
 
 Herman Miiller, bearded, coarse-featured, noisy; a Penn- 
 sylvania Dutchman, his faded, rope-haired, milk-eyed, sickly 
 wife and Margaret, their baby daughter. 
 
 Kyle Perry, owner of the horses and spring wagon. 
 
 Dick Bowman, Ira Dooley, Thomas Williams, James Mc- 
 Pherson, Dennis Hogan, a boy, laborers. 
 
 As other characters enter during the early pages of the 
 story they shall be properly introduced. 
 
 As the actors unload their wagons the spectators may 
 notice above their heads bright, beautiful and evanescent 
 forms coming and going in and out of being. These are the 
 visions of the pioneers, and they are vastly more real than 
 the men and women themselves. For these visions are the 
 forces that form the human crystal. 
 
 Here abideth these three : sunshine and prairie grass and 
 blue sky, cloud laden. These for ages have held domain and 
 left the scene unchanged. When lo — at Upper Middle En- 
 trance, — enter love! And love witched the dreams and vi- 
 sions of those who toiled in the sunshine and prairie grass un- 
 der the blue sky cloud laden. And behold what they visioned 
 in the witchery of love, took form and spread upon the prai- 
 
A CAST OF CHARACTERS 3 
 
 rie in wood and stone and iron, and became a part of the 
 life of the Nation. Blind men in other lands, in other times 
 looked at the Nation and saw only wood and stone and iron. 
 Yet the wood and stone and iron should not have symbol- 
 ized the era in America. Rather should the dreams and 
 visions of the pioneers, of those who toiled under the sun- 
 shine and in the prairie grass have symbolized our strength. 
 For half a century later when the world was agonizing in a 
 death grapple with the mad gods of a crass materialism, 
 mankind saw rising from the wood and stone and iron that 
 had seemed to epitomize this Nation, a spirit which had lain 
 hidden yet dormant in the Nation's life — a beautiful spirit 
 of idealism strong, brave and humbly wise ; the child of the 
 dreams and visions and the love of humanity that dwelled 
 in the hearts of the pioneers of that earlier time. 
 
 But this is looking forward. So let us go back to scene 
 one, act one, in those days before the sunshine was shaded, 
 the prairie grass worn off, and the blue sky itself was so 
 stained and changed that the meadow-lark was mute! 
 
 And now we are ready for the curtain : and — music please. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL AND HIS LADY FAIK AND 
 
 WHAT HE SAID IN HIS HEART THE SAME BEING THE THEME 
 
 ND THESIS OP THIS STORY 
 
 A STORY is a curious thing, that grows with a kind of 
 consciousness of its own. Time was, in its inverte- 
 brate period of gestation when this story was to be 
 Amos Adams's story. It was to be the story of one who saw 
 great visions that were realized, who had from the high gods 
 whispers of their plans. What a book it would have been 
 if Amos and Mary could have written it — the story of dreams 
 come true. But alas, the high gods mocked Amos Adams. 
 Mary's clippings from the Tribune — a great litter of them, 
 furnished certain dates and incidents for the story. Often 
 when the Tribune was fresh from the press Mary and Amos 
 would sit together in the printing office and Mary eaten with 
 pride would clip from the damp paper the grandiloquent 
 effusions of Amos that seemed to fit into other items that were 
 to remind them of things which they could not print in their 
 newspaper but which would be material for their book. 
 What a bundle of these clippings there is ! And there was 
 the diary, or old-fashioned Memory Book of Mary Adams. 
 What a pile of neatly folded sheets covered with Mary 
 Adams' handwriting are there on the table by the window! 
 What memories they revive, what old dead joys are brought 
 to life, what faded visions are repainted. This is to be the 
 Book — the book that they dreamed of in their youth — even 
 before little Kenyon was born, before Jasper was born, in- 
 deed before Grant was born. 
 
 , But now the years have written in many things and it will 
 not be even their story. Indeed as life wrote upon their 
 hearts its mysterious legend — the legend that erased many 
 of their noble dreams and put iron into their souls, there 
 is evidence in what they wrote that they thought it would be 
 
 4 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL 5 
 
 Grant's story. Most parents think their sons will be heroes. 
 But their boy had to do his part in the world's rough work 
 and before the end the clippings and the notes in the Memory 
 Book show that they felt that a hero in blue overalls would 
 hardly answer for their Book. Then there came a time when 
 Amos alone in his later years thought that it might be Ken- 
 yon 's story ; for Kenyon now is a fiddler of fame, and fiddlers 
 make grand heroes. But as the clippings and the notes show 
 forth still another story, the Book that was to be their book 
 and story, may not be one man's or one woman's story. It 
 may not be even the story of a town; though Harvey's story 
 is tragic enough. (Indeed sometimes it has seemed that the 
 story of Harvey, rising in a generation out of the sunshine 
 and prairie grass, a thousand flued hell, was to be the story 
 of the Book.) But now Harvey seems to be only a sign of 
 the times, a symptom of the growth of the human soul. So 
 the Book must tell the tale of a time and a place where men 
 and women loved and strove and joyed or suffered and lost 
 or won after the old, old fashion of our race; with only 
 such new girdles and borders and frills in the record of their 
 work and play as the changing skirts of passing circumstance 
 require. The Book must be more than Amos Adams 's or his 
 son's or his son's son's story or his town's, though it must 
 be all of these. It must be the story of many men and many 
 women, each one working out his salvation in his own way 
 and all the threads woven into the divine design, carrying 
 along in its small place on the loom the inscrutable pattern 
 of human destiny. But most of all it should be the story 
 which shall explain the America that rose when her great 
 day came — exultant, triumphant to the glorious call of an 
 ideal, arose from sordid things environing her body and soul, 
 and consecrated herself without stint or faltering hand to 
 the challenge of democracy. 
 
 In the old days — the old days when Amos Adams was 
 young — he printed the Harvey Tribune on a hand press. 
 Mary spread the ink upon the types; he pulled the great 
 lever that impressed each sheet; and as they worked they 
 sang about the coming of the new day. As a soldier — a 
 commissioned officer he had fought in the great Civil War 
 for the truth that should make men free. And he was sure 
 
6 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 in those elder days that the new day was just dawning. And 
 Mary was sure too; so the readers of the Tribune were as- 
 sured that the dawn was at hand. The editor knew that there 
 were men who laughed at him for his hopes. But he and 
 Mary, his wife, only laughed at men who were so blind that 
 they could not see the dawn. So for many years they kept on 
 rallying to whatever faith or banner or cause seemed surest 
 in its promise of the sunrise. Green-backers, Grangers, 
 Knights of Labor, Prohibitionists — these two crusaders fol- 
 lowed all of the banners. And still there came no sunrise. 
 Farmers' Alliance, Populism, Free Silver — Amos marched 
 with each cavalcade. And was hopeful in its defeat. 
 
 And thus the years dragged on and made decades and 
 the decades marshaled into a generation that became an 
 era, and a city rose around a mature man. And still in his 
 little office on a rickety side street, the Tribune, a weekly 
 paper in a daily town, kept pointing to the sunrise; and 
 Amos Adams, editor and proprietor, an old fool with the 
 faith of youth, for many years had a book to write and a 
 story to tell — a story that was never told, for it grew beyond 
 him. 
 
 He printed the first edition of the Tribune in his tent under 
 an elm tree in a vast, unfenced meadow that rose from the 
 fringe of timber that shaded the Wahoo. Volume one, num- 
 ber one, told a waiting world of the formation of the town 
 company of Harvey with Daniel Sands as president. It 
 was one of thousands of towns founded after the Civil 
 War — towns that were bursting like mushrooms through 
 the prairie soil. After that war in which millions of men 
 gave their youth and myriads gave their lives for an 
 ideal, came a reaction. And in the decades that followed the 
 war, men gave themselves to an orgy of materialism. Harvey 
 was a part of that orgy. And the Ohio crowd, the group that 
 came from Elyria — the Sandses, the Adamses, Joseph Cal- 
 vin, Ahab Wright, Kyle Perry, the Kollanders 1 and all the 
 rest except the Nesbits — were so considerable a part of Har- 
 vey in the beginning, that probably they were as guilty as the 
 rest of the country in the crass riot of greed that followed 
 
 iThe reader may be interested in seeing one of Mary Adams's 
 clippings with a note attached. Here is one concerning Mrs. John 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL 7 
 
 the war. They brought Amos Adams to Harvey because 
 he was a printer and in those halcyon days all printers were 
 supposed to be able to write; and he brought Mary — but 
 did he bring Mary ? He was never sure whether he brought 
 her or she brought him. For Mary Sands — dear, dear Mary 
 Sands — she had a way with her. She was not Irish for noth- 
 ing, God bless her. 
 
 Amos always tried to be fair with Daniel Sands because 
 he was Mary's brother; even though there was a time after 
 he came home a young soldier from the war and found that 
 Daniel Sands who hired a substitute and stayed at home, had 
 won Esther Haley, who was pledged to Amos, — a time when 
 Amos would have killed Daniel Sands. That passed, Mary, 
 Daniel's sister, came; and for years Amos Adams bore Daniel 
 Sands no grudge. What has all his money done for Daniel. 
 It has ground the joy out of him — for one thing. And as for 
 Esther, somewhere about Elyria, Ohio, the grass is growing 
 over her grave and for forty years only Mortimer, her son, 
 with her eyes and mouth and hair, was left in the world to 
 remind Amos of the days when he was stark mad ; and Mary, 
 dear, dear, Irish Mary Sands, caught his heart upon the 
 bounce and made him happy. 
 
 So let us say that Mary brought Amos to Harvey with the 
 Ohio crowd, as Daniel Sands and his followers were known. 
 The other early settlers came to grow up with the country 
 and to make their independent fortunes; but Mary and. 
 Amos came to see the sunrise. For they were sure that men 
 and women starting in a new world having found equality of 
 opportunity, would not make this new world sordid, unfair 
 
 Hollander. The clipping from the Harvey Tribune of June, 1871, 
 reads : 
 
 "Mrs. Rhoda Byrd Kollander arrived to-day from Elyria, Ohio. It 
 is her first visit to Harvey and she was greeted by her husband, Hon. 
 John Kollander, Register of Deeds of Greeley County, with a handsome 
 new home in Elm Street." 
 
 Then under it is this note: 
 
 "Of all the women of the Elyria settlers, Rhoda Kollander would 
 not come with us and face the hardships of pioneer life; but she 
 made John come out, get an office and build her a cabin before she 
 would come. Rhoda will not be happy as an angel unless they have 
 rocking chairs in Heaven." 
 
8 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 and cruel as the older world was around them in those days. 
 
 Amos and Mary took up their homestead just south of 
 the town on the Wahoo, and started the Tribune, and Mary 
 hoped the high hopes of the Irish while Amos wrote his part 
 of the news, set his share of the type, ran the errands for the 
 advertising and bragged of the town in their editorial columns 
 with all the faith of an Irishman by marriage. 
 
 What a fairy story the history of Harvey would be if it 
 should be written only as it was. For one could even begin 
 it once upon a time. Once upon a time, let us say, there was 
 a land of sunshine and prairie grass. And then great genii 
 came and set in little white houses and new unpainted barns, 
 thumbed in faint green hedgerows and board fences, that 
 checkered in the fields lying green or brown or loam black by 
 the sluggish streams that gouged broad, zigzag furrows in 
 the land. And upon a hill that overlooked a rock-bottomed 
 stream the genii, the spirit of the time, sat a town. It 
 glistened in the sunshine and when the town was over a 
 year old, it was so newly set in, that its great stone school- 
 house all towered and tin-corniced, beyond the scattered out- 
 lying residences, rose in the high, untrodden grass. The peo- 
 ple of Harvey were vastly proud of that schoolhouse. The 
 young editor and his wife used to gaze at it adoringly as 
 they drove to and from the office morning and evening; and 
 they gilded the town with high hopes. For then they were 
 in their twenties. The population of Harvey for the most 
 part those first years was in its twenties also, when gilding is 
 cheap. But thank Heaven the gilding of our twenties is 
 lasting. 
 
 It was into this gilded world that Grant Adams was born. 
 Suckled behind the press, cradled in the waste basket, tod- 
 dling under hurrying feet, Grant's earliest memories were 
 of work — work and working lovers, and their gay talk as 
 they worked wove strange fancies in his little mind. 
 
 It was in those days that Amos Adams and his wife, con- 
 sidering the mystery of death, tried to peer behind the veil. 
 For Amos tables tipped, slates wrote, philosophers, statesmen 
 and conquerors flocked in with grotesque advice, and all 
 those curious phenomena that come from the activities of 
 the abnormal mind, appeared and astounded the visionaries 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL 9 
 
 as they went about their daily work. The boy Grant used 
 to sit, a wide-eyed, freckled, sun-browned little creature, 
 running his skinny little hands through his red hair, and 
 wondering about the unsolvable problems of life and death. 
 
 But soon the problems of a material world came in upon 
 Grant as the child became a boy : problems of the wood and 
 field, problems of the constantly growing herd at play in 
 water, in snow, on the ice and in the prairie; and then came 
 the more serious problems of the wood box, the stable and 
 farm. Thus he grew strong of limb, quick of hand, firm of 
 foot and sure of mind. And someway as he grew from 
 childhood into boyhood, getting hold of his faculties — finding 
 himself physically, so Harvey seemed to grow with him. 
 All over the town where men needed money Daniel Sands 's 
 mortgages were fastened — not heavily (nothing was heavy 
 in that day of the town's glorious youth) but surely. Dr. 
 Nesbit's gay ruthless politics, John Hollander's patriotism, 
 leading always to the court house and its emoluments, Cap- 
 tain Morton's inventions that never materialized, the ever 
 coming sunrise of the Adams — all these things became defi- 
 nitely a part of the changeless universe of Harvey as Grant's 
 growing faculties became part of his consciousness. 
 
 And here is a mystery : the formation of the social crystal. 
 In that crystal the outer facets and the inner fell into shape 
 — the Nesbits, the Hollanders, the Adamses, the Calvins, the 
 Mortons, and the Sandses, falling into one group; and the 
 Williamses, the Hogans, the Bowmans, the McPhersons, the 
 Dooleys and Casper Herdicker falling into another group. 
 The hill separated from the valley. The separation was not 
 a matter of moral sense ; for John Hollander and Dan Sands 
 and Joseph Calvin touched zero in moral intelligence; and 
 it could not have been business sense, for Captain Morton for 
 all his dreams was a child with a dollar, and Dr. Nesbit never 
 was out of debt a day in his life; without his salary from 
 tax-payers John Hollander would have been a charge on 
 the county. In the matter of industry Daniel Sands was 
 a marvel, but Jamie McPherson toiling all day used to come 
 home and start up his well drill and its clatter c6uld be 
 heard far into the night, and often he started it hours before 
 dawn. Nor could aspirations and visions have furnished 
 
10 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 the line of cleavage ; for no one could have hopes so high for 
 Harvey as Jamie, who sank his drill far into the earth, put 
 his whole life, every penny of his earnings and all his strength 
 into the dream that some day he would bring coal or oil or gas 
 to Harvey and make it a great city. Yet when he found the 
 precious vein, thick and rich and easy to mine, Daniel Sands 
 and Joseph Calvin took his claim from him by chicanery as 
 easily as they would have robbed a blind man of a penny, 
 and Jamie went to work in the mines for Daniel Sands 
 grumbling but faithful. Williams and Dooley and Hogan 
 and Herdicker bent at their daily tasks in those first years, 
 each feeling that the next day or the next month or at most 
 the next year his everlasting fortune would be made. And 
 Dick Bowman, cohort of Dr. Nesbit, many a time and 
 oft would wash up, put on a clean suit, and go out and 
 round up the voters in the Valley for the Doctor's cause 
 and scorn his task with a hissing ; for Dick read Karl Marx 
 and dreamed of the day of the revolution. Yet he dwelled 
 with the sons of Essua, who as they toiled murmured about 
 their stolen birthright. When a decade had passed in 
 Harvey the social crystal was firm; the hill and the valley 
 were cast into the solid rock of things as they are. No one 
 could say why ; it was a mystery. It is still a mystery. As 
 society forms and reforms, its cleavages follow unknown lines. 
 It was on a day in June — late in the morning, after Grant 
 and Nathan Perry— son of the stuttering Kyle of that name, 
 had come from a cool hour in the quiet pool down on the 
 Wahoo and little Grant, waiting like a hungry pup for 
 his lunch, that was tempting him in the basket under the 
 typerack, was counting the moments and vaguely speculating 
 as to what minutes were — when he looked up from the floor 
 and saw what seemed to him a visitor from another world. 1 
 
 iLet us read Mary Adams's clipping and note on the arrival of 
 young Thomas Van Dora in Harvey. The clipping which is from the 
 local page of the paper reads: 
 
 "Thomas Van Dorn, son of the late General Nicholas Van Dorn of 
 Schenectady, New York, has located in Harvey for the practice of 
 law and his advertising card appears elsewhere. Mr. Van Dorn is 
 a Yale man and a law graduate of that school as well as an alumnus 
 of the college. As a youth with his father young Thomas stopped in 
 Harvey the day the town was founded. He was a member of the 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE POOL 11 
 
 The creature was talking to Amos Adams sitting at the desk ; 
 and Amos was more or less impressed with the visitor's 
 splendor. He wore exceedingly tight trousers — checked 
 trousers, and a coat cut grandly and extravagantly in its 
 fullness, a high wing collar, and a soup dish hat. He was 
 such a figure as the comic papers of the day were featuring 
 as the exquisite young man of the period. 
 
 Youth was in his countenance and lighted his black eyes. 
 His oval, finely featured face, his blemishless olive skin, his 
 strong jaw and his high, beautiful forehead, over which a 
 black wing of hair hung carelessly, gave him a distinction 
 that brought even the child's eyes to him. He was smiling 
 pleasantly as he said, 
 
 "I'm Thomas Van Dorn — Mr. Adams, I believe?" he 
 asked, and added as he fastened his fresh young eyes upon the 
 editor's, "you scarcely will remember me — but you doubt- 
 less remember the day when father's hunting party passed 
 through town? Well — I've come to grow up with the coun- 
 try." 
 
 The editor rose, roughed his short, sandy beard and 
 greeted the youth pleasantly. "Mr. Daniel Sands sent me 
 
 hunting party organized by Wild Bill which under General Van Dora's 
 patronage escorted the Russian Grand Duke Alexis over this part of 
 the state after buffalo and wild game. Mr. Thomas Van Dorn remem- 
 bers the visit well, and old settlers will recall the fact that Daniel 
 Sands that day sold for $100 in gold to the General the plot now known 
 as Van Dorn's addition to Harvey. Mr. Thomas Van Dorn still has 
 the deed to the plot and will soon put the lots on the market. He was 
 a pleasant caller at the Tribune office this week. Come again, say 
 we." 
 
 And upon a paper whereon the clipping is pasted is this in Mary 
 Adams's hand: 
 
 "The famous Van Dorn baby! How the years have flown since the 
 scandal of his mother's elopement and his father's duel with Sir 
 Charles shook two continents. What an old rake the General was. 
 And the boy's mother after two other marriages and a sad period on 
 the variety stage died alone in penury! And Amos says that the 
 General was so insolent to his men in the war, that he dared not 
 go into action with them for fear they would shoot him in the back. 
 Yet the boy is as lovely and gentle a creature as one could ask to 
 meet. This is as it should be." 
 
12 IN THE HEAET OF A FOOL 
 
 to you, Mr. Adams — to print a professional card in your 
 paper," said the young man. He pronounced them "cahd" 
 and "papuh" and smiled brightly as his quick eyes told 
 him that the editor was conscious of his eastern accent. 
 While they were talking business, locating the position of 
 the card in the newspaper, the editor noticed that the young 
 man's eyes kept wandering to Mary Adams, typesetting 
 across the room. She was a comely woman just in her thir- 
 ties and Amos Adams finally introduced her. When he went 
 out the Adamses talked him over and agreed that he was an 
 addition to the town. 
 
 Within a month he had formed a partnership with Joseph 
 Calvin, the town's eldest lawyer; and young Henry Fenn, 
 who had been trying for a year to buy a partnership with Cal- 
 vin, was left to go it alone. So Henry Fenn contented him- 
 self with forming a social partnership with his young rival. 
 And when the respectable Joseph Calvin was at home or con- 
 sidering the affairs of the Methodist Sunday School of which 
 he was superintendent, young Mr. Fenn and young Mr. 
 Van Dorn were rambling at large over the town and the adja- 
 cent prairie, seeking such diversion as young men in their 
 exceedingly early twenties delight in: Mr. Riley's saloon, the 
 waters of the Wahoo, by moonlight, the melliferous strains of 
 "Larboard watch," the shot gun, the quail and the prairie 
 chicken, the quarterhorse, and the jackpot, the cocktail, the 
 Indian pony, the election, the footrace, the baseball team, 
 the Sunday School picnic, the Fourth of July celebration, 
 the dining room girls at the Palace Hotel, the cross country 
 circus and the trial of the occasional line fence murder 
 case — all were divertissements that engaged their passing 
 young attention. 
 
 If ever the world was an oyster for a youth the world of 
 Harvey and the fullness thereof was an oyster to Thomas 
 Van Dorn. He had all that the crude western community 
 cherished: the prestige of money, family, education, and 
 that indefinable grace and courtesy of body and soul that 
 we call charm. And Harvey people seemed to be made for 
 him. He liked their candor, their strength, their crass ma- 
 terialism, their bray and bluster, their vain protests of de- 
 mocracy, and their unconscious regard for his caste and cul- 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL 13 
 
 ture. So whatever there was of egoism in his nature grew 
 unchecked by Harvey. He was the young lord of the manor. 
 However Harvey might hoot at his hat and gibe at his elided 
 R's and mock his rather elaborate manners behind his back; 
 nevertheless he had his way with the town and he knew that 
 he was the master. While those about him worked and wor- 
 ried Tom Van Dorn had but to rub lightly his lamp and the 
 slave appeared and served him. Naturally a young man of 
 his conspicuous talents in his exceedingly early twenties 
 who has the vast misfortune to have a lamp of Aladdin to 
 rub, asks genii first of all for girls and girls and more girls. 
 Then incidentally he asks for business and perhaps for poli- 
 tics and may be as an afterthought and for his own comfort 
 he may pray for the good will of his fellows. Tom Van Dorn 
 became known in the vernacular as a "ladies man." It did 
 not hurt his reputation as a lawyer, for he was young and 
 youth is supposed to have its follies so long as its follies 
 are mere follies. No one in that day hinted that Tom Van 
 Dorn was anything more dangerous than a butterfly. So 
 he flitted from girl to girl, from love affair to love affair, 
 from heart to heart in his gay clothes with his gay manners 
 and his merry face. And men smiled and women and girls 
 whispered and boys hooted and all the world gave the young 
 lord his way. But when he included the dining room girls 
 at the Palace Hotel in his list of conquests, Dr. Nesbit 
 began squinting seriously at the youth and, late at night 
 coming from his professional visits, when the doctor passed 
 the young fellow returning from some humble home down 
 near the river, the Doctor would pipe out in the night, ' ' Tut, 
 tut, Tom — this is no place for you." 
 
 But the Doctor was too busy with his own affairs to assume 
 the guardianship of Tom Van Dorn. As Mayor of Harvey 
 the Doctor made the young man city attorney, thereby bind- 
 ing the youth to the Mayor in the feudal system of politics 
 and attaching all the prestige and charm and talent of the 
 boy to the Doctor's organization. 
 
 For Dr. Nesbit in his blithe and cock-sure youth was born, 
 to politics as the sparks fly upward. Men looked to him 
 for leadership and he blandly demanded that they follow 
 him. He was every man's friend. He knew the whole 
 
14 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 county by its first name. The men, the women, the chil- 
 dren, the dogs, the horses knew him and he knew and loved 
 them all. But in return for his affection he expected loyalty. 
 He was a jealous leader who divided no honors. Seven 
 months in the year he wore white linen clothes and his white 
 clad figure bustling through a crowd on Market Street on 
 Saturday or elbowing its way through a throng at any formal 
 gathering, or jogging through the night behind his sorrel 
 mare or moving like a pink-faced cupid, turned Nemesis in 
 a county convention, made him a marked man in the com- 
 munity. But what was more important, his distinction had 
 a certain cheeriness about it. And his cheeriness was vocal- 
 ized in a high, piping, falsetto voice, generally gay and nearly 
 always soft and kindly. It expressed a kind of incarnate 
 good nature that disarmed enmity and drew men to him 
 instinctively. And underneath his amicability was iron. 
 Hence men came to him in trouble and he healed their ills, 
 cured their souls, went on their notes and took their hearts 
 for his own, which carried their votes for his uses. So he be- 
 came calif of Harvey. 
 
 Even deaf John Kollander who had political aspirations of 
 a high order learned early that his road to glory led through 
 obedience to the Doctor. So John went about the county 
 demanding that the men who had saved the union should 
 govern it and declaring that the flag of his country should 
 not be trailed in the dust by vandal hands — meaning of 
 course by "vandal hands" the opposition candidate for regis- 
 ter of deeds or county clerk or for whatever county office 
 John was asking at that election; and at the convention 
 John's old army friends voted for the Doctor's slate and in 
 the election they supported the Doctor's ticket. But tall, 
 deaf John Kollander in his blue army clothes with their brass 
 buttons and his campaign hat, always cut loose from Dr. 
 Nesbit's paternal care after every election. For the Doctor, 
 after he had tucked John away in a county office, asked only 
 to appoint John's deputies and that Mrs. Kollander keep out 
 of the Doctor's office and away from his house. 
 
 "I have no objections," the Doctor would chirrup at 
 the ample, good-natured Ehoda Kollander who would haunt 
 him during John's periods of political molting, pretending 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL 15 
 
 to advise with the Doctor on her husband's political status, 
 "to your society from May until November every two years, 
 Rhody, but that's enough. Now go home! Go home, 
 woman," he commanded, "and look after your growing fam- 
 ily." 
 
 And Ehoda Hollander would laugh amiably in telling it 
 and say, "Now I suppose some women would get mad, but 
 law, I know Doc Jim ! He doesn't mean a thing!" Where- 
 upon she would settle down where she was stopping until 
 meal time and reluctantly remain to eat. As she settled 
 comfortably at the table she would laugh easily and exclaim : 
 "Now isn't it funny! I don't know what John and the 
 boys will have. There isn't a thing in the house. But, 
 law, I suppose they can get along without me once in a life- 
 time." Then she would laugh and eat heartily and sit 
 around until the crisis at home had passed. 
 
 But the neighbors knew that John Kollander was open- 
 ing a can of something, gathering the boys around him 
 and as they ate, recounting the hardships of army life to add 
 spice to an otherwise stale and unprofitable meal. Afterward 
 probably he would go to some gathering of his comrades and 
 there fight, bleed and die for his country. For he was an 
 incorrigible patriot. The old flag, his country's honor, and 
 the preservation of the union were themes that never tired 
 him. He organized his fellow veterans in the town and 
 county and helped to organize them in the state and was 
 forever going to other towns to attend camp fires and rallies 
 and bean dinners and reunions where he spoke with zeal and 
 some eloquence about the danger of turning the country over 
 to the southern brigadiers. He had a set speech which was 
 greatly admired at the rallies and in this speech it was his 
 wont to reach for one of the many flags that always adorned 
 the platform on such occasions, tear it from its hanging and 
 wrapping it proudly about his gaunt figure, recite a dia- 
 logue between himself and the angel Gabriel, the burden of 
 which was that so long as John Kollander had that flag 
 about him at the resurrection, no question would be asked 
 at Heaven's gate of one of its defenders. Now the fact was 
 that John Kollander was sent to the war of the rebellion a 
 few weeks before the surrender of Lee at Appomattox, as 
 
16 IN THE HEAET OF A FOOL 
 
 Daniel Sands 's paid substitute and his deafness was caused 
 by firing an anvil at the peace jubilee in Cincinnati, the 
 powder on the anvil being the only powder John Kollander 
 ever had smelled. But his descriptions of battle and the 
 hardships and horrors of war were none the less vivid and 
 harrowing because he had never crossed the Ohio. 
 
 Those were the days when the Tribune was at its zenith — 
 the days when Jared Thurston was employed as its fore- 
 man and Lizzie Coulter, pretty, blue-eyed, fair-haired Lizzie 
 Coulter helped Mary Adams to set the type. It was not a 
 long Day of Triumph, but while it lasted Mary and Amos 
 made the most of it and spoke in a grand way about "the 
 office force." They even had vague notions of starting a 
 daily and many a night Jared and Amos pored over the 
 type samples in the advertising in Rounds Printer's Cabinet, 
 picked out the type they would need and the other equip- 
 ment necessary for the new venture. But it was only a 
 dream. For gradually Jared found Lizzie's eyes and he 
 found more to interest him there than in the type-book, and 
 so the dream faded and was gone. 
 
 Also as Lizzie's eyes began to glow in his sky, Jared let 
 his interest lag in the talk at Casper Herdicker's shoe shop, 
 though it was tall talk, and Jared sitting on a keg in a 
 corner with little Tom "Williams, the stone mason, beside 
 him on a box, and Denny Hogan near him on a vacant work 
 bench and Ira Dooley on the window ledge would wrangle 
 until bed time many a night as Dick Bowman, wagging a 
 warlike head, and Casper pegging away at his shoes, tore 
 society into shreds, smashed idols and overturned civiliza- 
 tion. Up to this point there was complete agreement be- 
 tween the iconoclasts. They went so far together that they 
 had no quarrel about the route of the mob down Fifth 
 Avenue in New York — which Dick knew only as a legend but 
 which Casper had seen; and they were one in the belief 
 that Dan Sands 's bank and "Wright & Perry's store should 
 fall early in the sack of Market Street. But when it came to 
 reconstructing society there was a clash that mounted to a 
 cataclysm. For Dick, shaking his head violently, demanded 
 a government that should regulate everything and Casper 
 waving a vicious, flat-nosed hammer, battered down all gov- 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL 17 
 
 eminent and stood for the untrammeled and unhampered 
 liberty of the individual. Night after night they looted civ- 
 ilization and stained the sky with their fires and the ground 
 with the oppressor's blood, only to sink their claws and 
 tusks into each other's vitals in mortal combat over the 
 spoil. 
 
 About the time that Jared Thurston four '. the new stars 
 that had ranged across his ken, Tom Van u>orn, the hand- 
 some, cheerful, exquisite Tom Van Dorn began to find the 
 debates between Casper and Dick Bowman diverting. So 
 many a night when the society of the softer sex was either 
 cloying or inconvenient, the dapper young fellow would come 
 dragging Henry Fenn with him, to sit on a rickety chair 
 and observe the progress of the revolution and to enjoy 
 the carnage that always followed the downfall of the es- 
 tablished order. He used to sit beside Jared Thurston who, 
 being a printer, was supposed to belong to the more intel- 
 lectual of the crafts and hence more appreciative than Wil- 
 liams or Dooley or Hogan, of his young lordship's point of 
 view ; and as the debate waxed warm, Tom was wont to pinch 
 the lean leg of Mr. Thurston in lieu of the winks Tom dared 
 not venture. But a time came when Jared Thurston sat 
 apart from Van Dorn and stared coldly at him. And as Tom 
 and Henry Fenn walked out of the human slaughter house 
 that Dick and Casper had made after a particularly bloody 
 revolt against the capitalistic system, Henry Fenn walked for 
 a time beside his friend looking silently at the earth while 
 Van Dorn mooned and star-gazed with wordy delight. Henry 
 lifted his face, looked at Tom with great, bright, sympathetic 
 eyes and cut in: 
 
 "Tom — why are you playing with Lizzie Coulter? She is 
 not in your class or of your kind. What's your idea in 
 cutting in between Jared and her; you'll only make trou- 
 ble." 
 
 A smile, a gay, happy, and withal a seductive smile lit up 
 the handsome, oval face of young Mr. Van Dorn. The smile 
 became a laugh, a quiet, insinuating, good-natured, light- 
 hearted laugh. As he laughed he replied: 
 
 "Lizzie's all right, Henry — don't worry about Lizzie." 
 Again he laughed a gentle, deep-voiced chuckle, and held 
 
18 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 up his hand in the moonlight. A brown scab was lined 
 across the back of the hand and as Henry saw it Van Dorn 
 spoke: "Present from Lizzie — little pussy." Again he 
 chuckled and added, "Nearly made the horse run away, too. 
 Anyway," he laughed pleasantly, "when I left her she prom- 
 ised to go again." 
 
 But Henry Fenn returned to his point : ' ' Tom, ' ' he cried, 
 "don't play with Lizzie — she's not your kind, and it's break- 
 ing Jared's heart. Can't you see what you're doing? 
 You'll go down there a dozen times, make love to her, hold 
 her hand and kiss her and go away and pick up another 
 girl. But she's the whole world and Heaven to boot for 
 Jared. She's his one little ewe lamb, Tom. And she'd be 
 happy with Jared if — " 
 
 "If she wants Jared she can have him. I'm not holding 
 her, ' ' interrupted the youth. ' ' And anyway, ' ' he exclaimed, 
 "what do I owe to Jared and what do I owe to her or to 
 any one but myself!" 
 
 Fenn did not answer at once. At length he broke the si- 
 lence. "Well, you heard what I said and I didn't smile 
 when I said it." 
 
 But Tom Van Dorn did smile as he answered, a smile of 
 such sweetness, and of such winning grace that it sugar- 
 coated his words. 
 
 "Henry," he cried in his gay, deep voice with the exuber- 
 ance of youth ringing in it, "the world is mine. You know 
 what I think about this whole business. If Lizzie doesn't 
 want me to bother her she mustn't have such eyes and such 
 hair and such lips. In this life I shall take what I find that 
 I can get. I'm not going to be meek nor humble nor patient, 
 nor forgiving and forbearing and I'm not going to refrain 
 from a mutton roast because some one has a ewe lamb." 
 
 He put a warm, kind, brotherly hand on the shoulder be- 
 side him. "Shocked, aren't you, Henry?" he asked, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 Henry Fenn looked up with a gentle, glowing smile on his 
 rather dull face and returned, "No, Tom. Maybe you can 
 make it go, but I couldn't." 
 
 ' ' Well, I can. Watch me, ' ' he cried arrogantly. ' ' Henry, 
 I want the advantage of my strength in this world and I'm 
 
IN WHICH WE INTRODUCE THE FOOL 19 
 
 not going to go puling around, golden-ruling and bending 
 my back to give the weak and worthless a ride. Let 'em 
 walk. Let 'em fall. Let 'em rot for all I care. I'm not 
 afraid of their God. There is no God. There is nature. 
 Up to the place where man puts on trousers it's a battle of 
 thews and teeth. And nature never intended pants to mark 
 the line where she changes the order of things. And the 
 servile, weakling, groveling, charitable, cowardly philosophy 
 of Christ — it doesn't fool me, Henry. I'm a pagan and I 
 want the advantage of all the force, all the power, that nature 
 gave me, to live life as a dangerous, exhilarating experience. 
 I shall live life to the full — live it hard — live it beautifully, 
 but live it ! live it ! Henry, live it like a gentleman and not 
 like an understrapper and bootlicker ! I intend to command, 
 not obey ! Rule, not serve ! I shall take and not give — not 
 give save as it pleases me to have my hand licked now and 
 then! As for Lizzie and Jared," young Mr. Van Dorn 
 waved a gay hand, "let them look out for themselves. 
 They 're not my worries ! ' ' 
 
 "But, Tom," remonstrated Henry as he looked at the 
 ground, "it's nothing to me of course, but Lizzie — " 
 
 "Ah, Henry," Van Dorn laughed gayly, "I'm not going 
 to hurt Lizzie. She's good fun: that's all. And now look 
 here, Mr. Preacher — you come moralizing around me about 
 what I'm doing to some one else, which after all is not my 
 business but hers; and I'm right here to tell you, what you're 
 doing to yourself, and that's your business and no one's else. 
 You're drinking too much. People are talking about it. 
 Quit it ! Whisky never won a jury. In the Morse case you 
 loaded up for your speech and I beat you because in all your 
 agonizing about the wrong to old man Miiller and his ' pretty 
 brown-eyed daughter' as you called her, you forgot slick and 
 clean the flaw in Morse's deed." 
 
 "I suppose you're right, Tom. But I was feeling kind 
 of off that day, mother 'd been sick the night before and — " 
 
 "And so you filled up with a lot of bad whisky and driv- 
 eled and wept and stumbled through the case and I beat you. 
 I tell you, Henry, I keep myself fit. I have no time to look 
 after others. My job is myself and you'll find that unless you 
 look after yourself no one else will, at least whisky won't. If 
 
20 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 I find girling is beating me in my law cases I quit girling. 
 But it doesn't. Lord, man, the more I know of human na- 
 ture, the more I pick over the souls of these country girls and 
 blow open the petals of their pretty hearts, the wiser I am." 
 
 "But the girls, Tom— the girls—" protested the somber- 
 eyed Mr. Fenn. 
 
 "Ah, I don't hurt 'em and they like it. And so long as 
 your whisky hamestrings you and my girls give me what I 
 need in my business — don't talk to me." 
 
 Tom Van Dorn left Fenn at his mother's door and as Fenn 
 saw his friend turn toward the south he called, "Aren't you 
 going to your room?" 
 
 "Why, it's only eleven o'clock," answered Van Dorn. To 
 the inquiring silence Van Dorn called, "I'm going down to 
 see Lizzie." 
 
 Henry Fenn stood looking at his friend, who explained: 
 "That's all right. I said I'd be down to-night and she'll 
 wait." 
 
 "Well — " said Fenn. But Van Dorn cut him short with 
 "Now, Henry, I can take care of myself. Lizzie can take 
 care of herself — and you're the only one of us who, as I see 
 it, needs careful nursing ! ' ' And with that he went striding 
 away. 
 
 And three hours later when the moon was waning in the 
 west a girl sitting by her window gazed at the red orb and 
 dreamed beautiful dreams, such as a girl may dream but once, 
 of the prince who had come to her so gloriously. While 
 the prince strolled up the street with his coat over his arm, 
 his hat in his hand, letting the night wind flutter the raven 's 
 wing of hair on his brow, and as he went he laughed to him- 
 self softly and laughed and laughed. For are we not told of 
 old to put not our trust in princes ! 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 IN WHICH WE CONSIDER THE LADIES — GOD BLESS 'EM ! 
 
 DURING those years in the late seventies and the early 
 eighties, the genii on the Harvey job grunted and 
 grumbled as they worked, for the hours were long 
 and tedious and the material was difficult to handle. Kyle 
 Perry's wife died, and it was all the genii could do to find 
 him a cook who would stay with him and his lank, slab-sided 
 son, and when the genii did produce a cook — the famous 
 Katrina, they wished her on Kyle and the boy for life, and 
 she ruled them with an iron rod. And to even things up, 
 they let Kyle stutter himself into a partnership with Ahab 
 Wright — though Kyle was trying to tell Ahab that they 
 should have a partition in their stable. But partition was 
 too much of a mouthful and poor Kyle fell to stuttering on 
 it and found himself sold into bondage for life by the genii, 
 dispensing nails and cod-fish and calico as Ahab's partner, 
 before Kyle could get rid of the word partition. 
 
 The genii also had to break poor Casper Herdicker's 
 heart — and he had one, and a big one, despite his desire for 
 blood and plunder; and they broke it when his wife Brun- 
 hilde deserted the hearthstone back of the shoe-shop, rented 
 a vacant store room on Market Street and went into the mil- 
 linery way of life. And it wasn 't enough that the tired 
 genii had to gouge out the streets of Harvey; to fill in the 
 gulleys and ravines ; to dab in scores of new houses ; to toil 
 and moil over the new hotel, witching up four bleak stories 
 upon the prairie. It wasn't enough that they had to cast a 
 spell on people all over the earth, dragging strangers to 
 Harvey by trainloads; it wasn't enough that the overworked 
 genii should have to bring big George Brotherton to town 
 with the railroad — and he was load enough for any engine; 
 his heart itself weighed ten stone ; it wasn't enough that they 
 
 21 
 
22 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 had to find various and innumerable contraptions for Cap- 
 tain Morton to peddle, but there was Tom Van Dorn's new 
 black silk mustache to grow, and to be oiled and curled daily ; 
 so he had to go to the Palace Hotel barber shop at least once 
 every day, and passing the cigar counter, he had to pass by 
 Violet Mauling — pretty, empty-faced, doll-eyed Violet Maul- 
 ing at the cigar stand. And all the long night and all the 
 long day, the genii, working on the Harvey job, cast spells, 
 put on charms, and did their deepest sorcery to take off 
 the power of the magic runes that young Tom's black art 
 were putting upon her ; and day after day the genii felt their 
 highest potencies fail. So no wonder they mumbled and 
 grumbled as they bent over their chores. For a time, the 
 genii had tried to work on Tom Van Dorn's heart after 
 he dropped Lizzie Coulter and sent her away on a weary 
 life pilgrimage with Jared Thurston, as the wife of an itiner- 
 ant editor; but they found nothing to work on under Tom's 
 cigar holder — that is, nothing in the way of a heart. There 
 was only a kind of public policy. So the genii made the 
 public policy as broad and generous as they could and let it 
 go at that. 
 
 Tom Van Dorn and Henry Fenn rioted in their twenties. 
 John Kollander saved a bleeding country, pervaded the 
 courthouse and did the housework at home while Bhoda, 
 his wife, who couldn't cook hard boiled eggs, organized 
 the French Cooking Club. Captain Ezra Morton spent his 
 mental energy upon the invention of a self -heating molasses 
 spigot, which he hoped would revolutionize the grocery 
 business while his physical energy was devoted to introduc- 
 ing a burglar proof window fastener into the proud homes 
 that were dotting the tall grass environs of Harvey. Amos 
 Adams was hearing rappings and holding high communion 
 with great spirits in the vasty deep. Daniel Sands, having 
 buried his second wife, was making eyes at a third and spin- 
 ning his financial web over the town. Dr. and Mrs. Nesbit 
 were marvelling at the mystery of a child's soul, a maiden's 
 soul, reaching out tendril after tendril as the days made 
 years. The Dick Bowmans were holding biennial receptions 
 to the little angels who came to the house in the Doctor's 
 valise — and welcomed, hilariously welcomed babies they were 
 
WE CONSIDER THE LADIES 23 
 
 —welcomed with cigars and free drinks at Riley's saloon by- 
 Dick, and in awed silence by Lida, his wife — welcomed even 
 though the parents never knew exactly how the celestial 
 guests were to be robed and harped ; while the Joe Calvins of 
 proud Elm Street, opulent in an eight room house, with the 
 town's one bath tub, scowled at the angels who kept on com- 
 ing nevertheless — for such is the careless and often captious 
 way of angels that come to the world in the doctor's black 
 bag — kept on coming to the frowning house of Calvin as 
 frequently and as idly as they came to the gay Bowmans. 
 Looking back on those days a generation later, it would seem 
 as if the whole town were a wilderness of babies. They came 
 on the hill in Elm Street, a star-eyed baby named Ann even 
 came to the Daniel Sandses, and a third baby to the Ezra 
 Mortons and another to the Hollanders (which gave Rhoda 
 an excuse for forming a lifelong habit of making John serve 
 her breakfast in bed to the scorn of Mrs. Nesbit and Mrs. 
 Herdicker who for thirty years sniffed audibly about Rhoda's 
 amiable laziness) and the John Dexters had one that came 
 and went in the night. But down by the river — there they 
 came in flocks. The Dooleys, the McPhersons, the Williamses 
 and the hordes of unidentified men and women who came to 
 saw boards, mix mortar, make bricks and dig — to them the 
 kingdom of Heaven was very near, for they suffered little 
 children and forbade them not. And also, because the king- 
 dom was so near — so near even to homes without sewers, 
 homes where dirt and cold and often hunger came — the chil- 
 dren were prone to hurry back to the Kingdom discouraged 
 with their little earthly pilgrimages. For those who had 
 dragged chains and hewed wood and drawn water in the 
 town's first days seemed by some specific gravity of the social 
 system to be holding their places at those lower levels — al- 
 ways reaching vainly and eagerly, but always reaching a lit- 
 tle higher and a little further from them for that equality of 
 opportunity which seemed to lie about them that first day 
 when the town was born. 
 
 In the upper reaches of the town Henry Fenn's bibulous 
 habits became accepted matters to a wider and wider circle 
 and Tom Van Dorn still had his way with the girls while 
 the town grinned at the two young men in gay reproval. 
 
24 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 But Amos Adams through his familiar spirits got solemn, 
 cryptic messages for the young men — from Tom's mother 
 and Henry's father. Amos, abashed, but never afraid, used 
 to deliver these messages with incidental admonitions of his 
 own — kind, gentle and gorgeously ineffective. Then he 
 would return to his office with a serene sense of a duty well 
 done, and meet and feast upon the eyes of Mary, his wife, 
 keen, hungry eyes, filled with more or less sinful pride in 
 his strength. 
 
 No defeat that ever came to Amos Adams, and because he 
 was born out of his time, defeat was his common portion, 
 and no contumely ever was his in a time when men scorned 
 the evidence of things not seen, no failure, no apparent weak- 
 ness in her husband's nature, ever put a tremor in her faith 
 in him. For she knew his heart. She could hear his armor 
 clank and see it shine ; she could feel the force and the pre- 
 cision of his lance when all the world of Harvey saw only a 
 dreamer in rusty clothes, fumbling with some stupid and 
 ponderous folly that the world did not understand. The 
 printing office that Mary and Amos thought so grand was 
 really a little pine shack, set on wooden piers on a side street. 
 Inside in the single room, with the rough-coated walls above 
 the press and type-cases covered with inky old sale bills, and 
 specimens of the Tribune's printing — inside the office which 
 seemed to Mary and Amos the palace of a race of giants, 
 others saw only a shabby, inky, little room, with an old 
 fashioned press and a jobber among the type racks in the 
 gloom to the rear. Through the front window that looked 
 into a stfeeet filled with loads of hay and wood, and with 
 broken wagons, and scrap iron from a wheelwright's shop, 
 Amos Adams looked for the everlasting sunrise, and Mary saw 
 it always in his face. 
 
 But this is idling; it is not getting on with the Book. 
 A score of men and women are crowding up to these pages 
 waiting to get into the story. And the town of Harvey, how 
 it is bursting its bounds, how it is sprawling out over the 
 white paper, tumbling its new stores and houses and gas 
 mains and water pipes all over the table ; with what a clatter 
 and clamor and with what vain pride ! Now the pride of 
 those years in Harvey came with the railroad, and here, 
 
WE CONSIDEE THE LADIES 25 
 
 pulling at the paper, stands big George Brotherton with his 
 ten stone heart. He has been sputtering and nagging for a 
 dozen pages to swing off the front platform of the first 
 passenger ear that came to town. He was a fat, overgrown 
 youth in his late teens, but he wore the uniform of a train 
 newsboy, and any uniform is a uniform. His laugh was 
 like the crash of worlds — and it is to-day after thirty years. 
 When the road pushed on westward Brotherton remained 
 in Harvey and even though the railroad roundhouse employed 
 five hundred men and even though the town's population 
 doubled and then trebled, still George Brotherton was better 
 than everything else that the railroad brought. He found 
 work in a pool and billiard hall; but that was a pent-up 
 Utica for him and his contracted powers sent him to Daniel 
 Sands for a loan of twenty-five dollars. The unruffled 
 exterior, the calm impudence with which the boy waived 
 aside the banker's request for a second name on George's 
 note, and the boy's obvious eagerness to be selling some- 
 thing, secured the money and established him in a cigar 
 store and news stand. Within a year the store became a 
 social center that rivaled Riley's saloon and being near the 
 midst of things in business, attracted people of a different 
 sort from those who frequented Casper Herdicker's de- 
 bating school in the shoe shop. To the cigar stand by day 
 came Dr. Nesbit with his festive but guileful politics, Joe 
 Calvin, Amos Adams, stuttering Kyle Perry, deaf John 
 Kollander, occasionally Dick Bowman, Ahab Wright in 
 his white necktie and formal garden whiskers, Eev. John 
 Dexter and Captain Morton ; while by night the little store 
 was a forum for young Mortimer Sands, for Tom Van 
 Dorn, for Henry Fenn, for the clerks of Market Street 
 and for such gay young blades as were either unmar- 
 ried or being married were brave enough to break the 
 apron string. For thirty years, nearly a generation, they 
 have been meeting there night after night and on rainy days, 
 taking the world apart and putting it together again to suit 
 themselves. And though strangers have come into the coun- 
 cil at Brotherton 's, Captain Morton remains dean. And 
 though the Captain does not know it, being corroded with 
 pride, there still clings about the place a tradition of the day 
 
26 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 when Captain Morton rode his high wheeled bicycle, the first 
 the town ever had seen, in the procession to his wife's fun- 
 eral. They say it was the Captain's serene conviction that 
 his agency for the bicycle — exclusive for five counties — 
 would make him rich, and that it was no lack of love and 
 respect for his wife but rather an artist's pride in his work 
 as the distributor of a long-felt want which perched Ezra 
 Morton on that high wheel in the funeral procession. For 
 Mary Adams who knew, who was with the stricken family 
 when death came, who was in the lonely house when the 
 family came home from the cemetery, says that Ezra's grief 
 was real. Surely thirty years of singlehearted devotion to 
 the three motherless girls should prove his love. 
 
 Those were gala days for Captain Morton; the whole 
 universe was flowering in his mind in schemes and plans and 
 devices which he hoped to harness for his power and glory. 
 And the forensic group at Mr. Brotherton's had much first 
 hand information from the Captain as to the nature of his 
 proposed activities and his prospective conquests. And while 
 the Captain in his prime was surveying the world that was 
 about to come under his domain the house of Adams, little 
 and bleak and poor, down near the Wahoo on the homestead 
 which the Adamses had taken in the sixties became in spite 
 of itself, a gay and festive habitation. Childhood always 
 should make a home bright and there came a time when the 
 little house by the creek fairly blossomed with young faces. 
 The children of the Kollanders, the Perrys, the Calvins, the 
 Nesbits, and the Bowmans — girls and boys were everywhere 
 and they knew all times and seasons. But the red poll and 
 freckled face of Grant Adams was the center of this posy 
 bed of youth. 
 
 Grant was a shrill-voiced boy, impulsive and passionately 
 generous and all but obsessed with a desire to protect the 
 weak. Whether it was bug, worm or dog, or hunted animal 
 or bullied child or drunken man, fly -swarmed and bedeviled 
 of boys in the aUey, or a little girl teased by her playmates, 
 Grant— fighting mad, came rushing in to do battle for the 
 victim. Yet he was no anemic child of ragged nerves. His 
 fist went straight when he fought, and landed with force. 
 His eyes saw accurately and his voice carried terror in it. 
 
WE CONSIDER THE LADIES 27 
 
 He was a vivid youth, and without him the place down 
 by the river would have been bleak and dreary. But be- 
 cause Grant was in the world, the rusty old phaeton in which 
 Amos and Mary rode daily from the farm to their work, 
 gradually bedecked itself with budding childhood blooming 
 into youth, and it was no longer drab and dusty, but a 
 veritable chariot of life. When Grant was a sturdy boy of 
 eight, little Jasper Adams came into this big bewildering 
 world. And after Grant and his gardenful of youth were 
 gone, Jasper's garden followed. And there was a short sea- 
 son when the two gardens were growing together. It was in 
 that season while Grant was just coming into shoeblacking 
 and paper collars, that in some indefinite way, Laura Nesbit, 
 daughter of the Doctor and Bedelia Satterthwaite, his blue 
 blooded Maryland wife, separated herself from the general 
 beauty of the universe and for Grant, Laura became a par- 
 ticular person. In Mary Adams's note book she writes with 
 maternal pride of his fancy for Laura : " It is the only time 
 in Grant's life when he has looked up instead of down for 
 something to love." And the mother sets down a communi- 
 cation from Socrates through the planchette to Amos, de- 
 claring that "Love is a sphere center" — a message which 
 doubtless the fond parents worked into tremendous import 
 for their child. Though a communication from some anony- 
 mous sage called the Peach Blow Philosopher, who began 
 haunting Amos as a familiar spirit about this time recorded 
 the oracle, also carefully preserved by Mary in her book 
 among the prophecies for Grant that, "Carrots, while less 
 fragrant than roses, are better for the blood." And while 
 the cosmic forces were wrestling with these problems for 
 Grant and Laura, the children were tripping down their 
 early teens all innocent of the uproar they were making 
 among the sages and statesmen and conquerors who flocked 
 about the planchette board for Amos every night. For 
 Laura, Grant carved tiny baskets from peach-pits and coffee 
 beans ; for her he saved red apples and candy globes that held 
 in their precious insides gorgeous pictures ; for her he combed 
 his hair and washed his neck; for her he scribbled verses 
 wherein eyes met skies, and arts met hearts, and beams met 
 dreams and loves the doves. 
 
28 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 The joy of first love that comes in early youth — and always 
 it does come then, though it is not always confessed — is a 
 gawky and somewhat guilty joy that spends itself in sighs 
 and blushes and Heaven knows what of self -discovery. Thus 
 Grant in Laura's autograph album after all his versifying on 
 the kitchen table could only write "Truly Yours" and leave 
 her to define the deep significance of the phrase so obviously 
 inverted. And she in his autograph album could only trust 
 herself — though naturally being female she was bolder — to 
 the placid depths of "As ever your friend." Though in 
 lean, hungry-eyed Nathan Perry's book she burst into glow- 
 ing words of deathless remembrance and Grant wrote in 
 Emma Morton's album fervid stanzas wherein "you" rimed 
 with ' ' the wandering Jew ' ' and "me" with ' ' eternity. ' ' At 
 school where the subtle wisdom of childhood reads many 
 things not writ in books, the names of Grant and Laura were 
 linked together, in the innocent gossip of that world. 
 
 They say that modern thought deems these youthful ex- 
 periences dangerous and superfluous; and so probably they 
 will end, and the joy of this earliest mating season will be 
 bottled up and stored for a later maturity. God is wise and 
 good. Doubtless some new and better thing will take the 
 place of this first moving of the waters of life in the heart; 
 but for us of the older generation that is beginning to fade, 
 we are glad that untaught and innocent, our lips tasted 
 from that spring when in the heart was no knowledge of the 
 poison that might come with the draft. 
 
 A tall, shy, vivid girl, but above everything else, friendly, 
 was Laura Nesbit in her middle teens; and though Grant in 
 later years remembered her as having wonderful gray eyes, 
 the elder town of Harvey for the most part recollects her 
 only as a gay and kindly spirit looking out into the world 
 through a happy, inquiring face. But the elder town could 
 not in the nature of things know Laura Nesbit as the chil- 
 dren knew her. For the democracy of childhood has its own 
 estimates of its own citizens and the children of Harvey — 
 the Dooleys and the Williamses and the Bowmans as well as 
 the Calvins, the Mortons, the Sandses and the Kollanders, 
 remember Laura Nesbit for something more than her rather 
 gawky body. To the children, she was a bright soul. They 
 
WE CONSIDER THE LADIES 29 
 
 remember — and the Bowmans better than any one else — that 
 Laura Nesbit shared what she had with every one. She 
 never ate a whole stick of candy in her life. From her school 
 lunch-basket, the Dooleys had their first oranges and the 
 Williamses their first bananas. Apples for the Bowmans 
 and maple sugar — a rare delicacy on the prairies in those 
 days — for every one came from her wonderful basket. And 
 though her mother kept Laura in white aprons when the 
 other girls were in ginghams and in little red and black 
 woolen, though the child's wonderful yellow hair, soft and 
 wavy like her father's plumey roach, was curled with great 
 care and much pride, it was her mother's pride — the grim 
 Satterthwaite demand for caste in any democracy. But 
 even with those caste distinctions there was the face that 
 smiled, the lips that trembled in sympathy, the heart that felt 
 the truth. 
 
 ' ' Jim, ' ' quoth the mother on a day when the yard was full 
 of Dooleys and Bowmans and Calvins — Calvins, whom Mrs. 
 Nesbit regarded as inferior even to the Dooleys because of 
 the vast Calvin pretense — "Jim, Laura has inherited that 
 common Indiana streak of yours. I can't make her a Sat- 
 terthwaite — she's Indiana to the bone. Why, when I go to 
 town with her, every drayman and ditch digger and stable- 
 man calls to her, and the yard is always full of their tow- 
 headed children. I'll give her up." 
 
 And the Doctor gurgled a chuckle and gave her up also. 
 
 She always came with her father to the Adamses on Sunday 
 afternoons, and while the Doctor and Amos Adams on the 
 porch went into the matter of the universe as either a 
 phantasm superinduced by the notion of time, or the notion 
 of time as an hallucination of those who believed in space, 
 down by the creek Grant and Laura sitting under the oak 
 near the silent, green pool were feeling their way around 
 the universe, touching shyly and with great abasement the 
 cords that lead from the body to the soul, from material to the 
 spiritual, from dust to God. 
 
 It is a queer world, a world that is past finding out. Here 
 are two children, touching souls in the fleetest, lightest way 
 in the world, and the touch welds them together forever. 
 And along come two others, and even as the old song has it, 
 
30 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 "after touch of wedded hands," they are strangers yet. No 
 one knows what makes happiness in love. Certainly marriage 
 is no part of it. Certainly it is not first love, for first lovers 
 often quarrel like cats. Certainly it is not separation, for 
 absence, alas, does not make the heart grow fonder ; nor is it 
 children — though the good God knows that should help ; for 
 they are love incarnate. Certainly it is not respect, for 
 respect is a stale, cold comforter, and love is deeper than 
 respect, and often lives without it — let us whisper the truth 
 in shame. "What, then, is this irrational current of the stuff 
 of life, that carries us all in its sway, that brings us to earth, 
 that guides our destiny here — makes so vastly for our happi- 
 ness or woe, gives us strength or makes us weak, teaches us 
 wisdom or leads us into folly unspeakable, and all unseen, 
 unmeasured and infinitely mysterious? 
 
 There was young Tom Van Dorn. Love was a pleasurable 
 emotion, and because it put a joyous fever in his blood, it 
 enhanced his life. But he never defined love ; he merely lived 
 on it. Then there was Ahab "Wright who regarded love as a 
 kind of sin and when he married the pale, bloodless, shadowy 
 bookkeeper in Wright & Perry's store, he regarded the 
 charivari prepared by Morty Sands and George Brotherton 
 as a shameful rite and tried for an hour to lecture the crowd 
 in his front yard on the evils of unseemly conduct before he 
 gave them an order on the store for a bucket of mixed candy. 
 If Ahab had defined love he would have put cupid in side 
 whiskers and a white necktie and set the fat little god to 
 measuring shingle nails, cod-fish and calico on week days 
 and sitting around in a tail coat and mouse-colored trousers 
 on Sunday, reading the Christian Evangel and the Price 
 Current. And again there was Daniel Sands who married 
 five women in a long and more or less useful life. He would 
 have defined love as the apotheosis of comfort. Finally 
 there was Henry Penn to whom love became the compelling 
 force of his being. Love is many things: indeed only this 
 seems sure. Love is the current of our lives, and like min- 
 nows we run in schools through it, guided by instinct and by 
 herd suggestions; and some of us are washed ashore; some 
 of us are caught and devoured, and others fare forth in joy 
 and reach the deep. 
 
WE CONSIDER THE LADIES 31 
 
 One rainy day when the conclave in Brotherton's cigar 
 store was weary of discussing the quarrel of Mr. Conklimand 
 Mr. Blaine and the eccentricities of the old German Kaiser, 
 the subject of love came before the house for discussion. 
 Dr. Nesbit, who dropped in incidentally to buy a cigar, but 
 primarily to see George Brotherton about some matters of 
 state in the Third ward, found young Tom Van Dorn strok- 
 ing his new silky mustache, squinting his eyes and consider- 
 ing himself generally in the attitude of little Jack Horner 
 after the plum episode. 
 
 "Speaking broadly," squeaked the Doctor, breaking irri- 
 tably into the talk, ' ' touching the ladies, God bless 'em — from 
 young Tom's angle, there's nothing to 'em. Broad is the 
 petticoat that leadeth to destruction." The Doctor turned 
 from young Van Dorn, and looked critically at some obvious 
 subject of Van Dorn's remarks as she picked her way across 
 the muddy street, showing something more than a wink of 
 striped stockings, "Tom, there's nothing in it — not a thing 
 in the world." 
 
 "Oh, — I don't know," returned the youth, wagging an 
 impudent, though goodnatured head at the Doctor; "what 
 else is there in the world if not in that? The world's full 
 of it — flowers, trees, birds, beasts, men and women — the 
 whole damn universe is afire with it. It's God; there is no 
 other God — just nature building and propagating and per- 
 petuating herself." 
 
 "I suppose," squeaked the Doctor with a sigh, as he 
 reached for his morning paper, "that if I had nothing else to 
 do for a living except practice law with Joe Calvin on the 
 side and just be twenty-five years old three hundred days in 
 the year, and no other chores except to help old man Sands 
 rib up his waterworks deal, I would hold some such general 
 views myself. But when I was twenty-five, young man, 
 Bedelia and I were running a race with the meal ticket, 
 and our notions as to the moral government of the universe 
 came hard and were deepset, and we can't change them 
 now." 
 
 George Brotherton, Henry Fenn, Captain Morton and 
 Amos Adams came in with a kind of Greek chorus of general 
 agreement with the Doctor. Van Dorn cocked his hat over 
 
32 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 his eyes and laughed, and then the Doctor went on in his 
 high falsetto: 
 
 "It's all right, Tom; go it while you're young. But that 
 kind of love's young dream generally ends in a nightmare." 
 He hesitated a minute, and then said: "Well, so long as 
 we're all here in the family, I'll tell you about a ease I had 
 last night. There's an old fellow — old Dutchman to be 
 exact, down in Spring township ; he came here with us when 
 we founded the town ; husky old boy, that is, he used to be 
 fifteen years ago. And he had Tom's notion about the ladies, 
 God bless 'em, when he was Tom's age. When I first knew 
 him his notion was causing him trouble, and had settled in 
 one leg, and last night he died of the ladies, God bless 'em. ' ' 
 
 The Doctor's face flinched with pain, and his treble voice 
 winced as he spoke: "Lord, but he suffered, and to add to 
 his physical torment, he knew that he had to leave his daugh- 
 ter all alone in the world — and without a mother and without 
 a dollar ; but that isn't the worst, and he knew it — at the last. 
 This being twenty-five for a living is the hardest job on earth 
 — when you're sixty, and the old man knew that. The girl 
 has missed his blood taint; she's not scarred nor disfigured. 
 It would be better if she were; but he gave her something 
 worse — she's his child!" For a moment the Doctor was 
 silent, then he sighed deeply and shut his eyes as he said: 
 "Boys, for a year and more he's been seeing all that he was, 
 bud like a glorious poison in his daughter." 
 
 Van Dorn smiled, and asked casually, "Well, what's her 
 name?" The rest of the group in the store looked down 
 their noses and the Doctor, with his paper under his arm, 
 obviously ignored the question and only stopped in the door 
 to pipe out : "This wasn't the morning to talk to me of the 
 ladies — God bless 'em." 
 
 The men in the store watched him as he started across the 
 street, and then saw Laura skip gayly toward him, and the 
 two, holding hands, crossed the muddy street together. She 
 was laughing, and the joy of her soul— a child's soul, shone 
 like a white flame in the dull street and George Brotherton, 
 who saw the pair in the street, roared out: "Well, say — 
 now isn't that something worth looking at? That beats 
 Niagara Falls and Pike's Peak — for me." 
 
WE CONSIDER THE LADIES 33 
 
 Captain Morton looked at the gay pair attentively for a 
 moment and spoke: "And I have three to his one; I tell 
 you, gentlemen — three to his one ; and I guess I haven 't told 
 you gentlemen about it, but I got the exclusive agency for 
 seven counties for Golden 's Patent Self-Opening Fruit Can, 
 an absolute necessity for every household, and in another 
 year my three will be wearing their silks and diamonds!" 
 He smiled proudly around the group and added : ' ' My ! that 
 doesn't make any difference. Silk or gingham, I know I've 
 got the best girls on earth — why, if their mother could just 
 see 'em — see how they're unfolding — why, Emma can make 
 every bit as good hash as her mother, ' ' a hint of tears stood 
 in his blue eyes. "Why — men, I tell you sometimes I want 
 to die and go right off to Heaven to tell mother all the fine 
 news about 'em — eh ? ' ' Deaf John Hollander, with his hand 
 to his less affected ear, nodded approval and said, "That's 
 what I always said, James G. Blaine never was a true friend 
 of the soldier!" 
 
 Van Dorn had been looking intently at nothing through 
 the store window. When no one answered Captain Morton, 
 Van Dorn addressed the house rather impersonally : 
 
 "Man is the blindest of the mammals. You'd think as 
 smart a man as Dr. Nesbit would see his own vices. Here 
 he is mayor of Harvey, boss of the town. He buys men 
 with Morty's father's money and sells 'em in politics like 
 sheep — not for his own gain; not for his family's gain; but 
 just for the joy of the sport; just as I follow the ladies, 
 God bless 'em; and yet he stands up and reads me a 
 lecture on the wickedness of a little more or less innocent 
 flirting." The young man lighted his cigar at the alcohol 
 flame on the counter. "Morty," he continued, squinting his 
 eyes and stroking his mustache, and looking at the boy with 
 vast vanity, " Morty, do you know what your old dad and 
 yon virtuous Nesbit pasha are doing? Well, I'll tell you 
 something you didn't learn at military school. They're put- 
 ting up a deal by which we've voted one hundred thousand 
 dollars' worth of city bonds as bonus in aid of a system of 
 city water works and have given them to your dad outright, 
 for putting in a plant that he will own and control ; and that 
 he will build for seventy-five thousand dollars." Van Dorn 
 
34 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 smiled a placid, malevolent smile at the group and went on : 
 "And the sheik of the village there helped Daniel Sands put 
 it through; helped him buy me as city attorney, with your 
 father's bank's legal business; helped buy Dick Bowman, 
 poor devil with a houseful of children for a hundred dollars 
 for his vote in the council, helped work George here for his 
 vote in the council by lending money to him for his business ; 
 and so on down the line. The Doc calls that politics, and 
 regards it as one of his smaller vices ; but me ? " scoffed the 
 young man, "when I go gamboling down the primrose path 
 of dalliance with a lady on each arm — or maybe more, I am 
 haled before the calif and sentenced to his large and virtuous 
 displeasure. Man," — here young Mr. Van Dorn drummed 
 his fingers on the showcase and considered the universe calmly 
 through the store window — "man is the blindest of mam- 
 mals." After which smiling deliverance, Thomas Van Dorn 
 picked up his morning paper, and his gloves, and stalked 
 with some dignity into the street. 
 
 "Well, say," — Brotherton was the first to speak — "rather 
 cool—" 
 
 "Shame, shame!" cried John Kollander, as he buttoned up 
 his blue coat with its brass buttons. "Where was Blaine 
 when the bullets were thickest 1 Answer me that. ' ' No one 
 answered, but Captain Morton began : 
 
 "Now, George, why, that's all right. Didn't the people 
 vote the bonds after you fellows submitted 'em ? Of course 
 they did. The town wanted waterworks; Daniel Sands 
 knew how to build 'cm — eh? The people couldn't build 'em 
 themselves, could they?" asked the Captain triumphantly. 
 Brotherton laughed; Morty Sands grinned, — and, shame be 
 to Amos Adams, the rugged Puritan, who had opposed the 
 bonds in his paper so boldly, he only shook a sorrowful head 
 and lifted no voice in protest. Such is the weakness of our 
 thunderers without their lightning! Brotherton, who still 
 seemed uneasy, went on: "Say, men, didn't that franchise 
 call for a system of electric lights and gas in five years and a 
 telephone system in ten years more — all for that $100,000; 
 I'm right here to tell you we got a lot for our money." 
 
 Again Amos Adams swallowed his Adam's apple and cut 
 in as boldly as a man may who thinks with his lead pencil : 
 
WE CONSIDER THE LADIES 35 
 
 "And don't forget the street car franchises you gave away at 
 the same time. Water, light, gas, telephone and street car 
 franchises for fifty years and one hundred thousand to boot ! 
 It seemed to me you were giving away a good deal ! ' ' 
 
 But John Kollander's approving nod and George Brother- 
 ton's great laugh overcame the editor, and the talk turned to 
 other things. 
 
 There came a day in Harvey when men, looking back at 
 events from the perspective of another day, believed that in 
 those old days of Harvey, Daniel Sands was master and 
 Dr. Nesbit was servant. And there was much evidence to 
 indicate that Daniel's was the master spirit of those early 
 times. But the evidence was merely based on facts, and 
 facts often are far from the truth. The truth is that Daniel 
 Sands was the beneficiary of much of the activity of Doctor 
 Nesbit in those days, but the truth is also that Doctor Nesbit 
 did what he did — won the county seat for Harvey, secured 
 the railroad, promoted the bond election, which gave Daniel 
 Sands the franchises for the distribution of water, gas and 
 electricity — not because the Doctor had any particular regard 
 for Daniel Sands but because, first of all, the good of the 
 town, as the Doctor saw it, seemed to require him to act as 
 he acted; and second, because his triumph at any of these 
 elections meant power, and he was greedy for power. But 
 he always used his power to make others happy. No man 
 ever came to the Doctor looking for work that he could not 
 find work for that man. Men in ditches, men on light poles, 
 men in the court house, men at Daniel Sands 's furnaces, 
 men grading new streets, men working on city or county 
 contracts knew but one source of authority in Harvey, and 
 that was Doctor James Nesbit. Daniel Sands was a mere 
 money grubbing incident of that power. Daniel could have 
 won no one to vote with him ; the county seat would have gone 
 to a rival town, the railroad would not have veered five miles 
 out of its way to reach Harvey, and a dozen promoters would 
 have wrangled for a dozen franchises but for Dr. Nesbit. 
 
 And if Dr. Nesbit made it his business to see that Dick 
 Bowman had work, it was somewhat because he knew how 
 badly the little Bowmans needed food. And if he saw to it 
 that Dick's vote in the council occasionally yielded him a 
 
36 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 substantial return from those whom that vote benefited so 
 munificently, it was partly because the Doctor felt how sorely 
 Lida Bowman, silently bending over her washtub, needed the 
 little comforts which the extra fifty-dollar bill would bring 
 that Dick sometimes found in his monthly pay envelope. 
 And if the Doctor saw to it that Ira Dooley was made fore- 
 man of the water works gang, or that Tom Williams had the 
 contract for the stone work on the new court house, it was 
 largely in payment for services rendered by Ira and Tom in 
 bringing in the Second Ward for John Hollander for county 
 clerk. The rewards of Ira and Tom in working for the Doc- 
 tor were virtue's own; and if re-marking a hundred ballots 
 was part of that blessed service, well and good. And also it 
 must be recorded that the foremanship and the stone con- 
 tract were somewhat the Doctor's way of showing Mrs. Doo- 
 ley and Mrs. Williams that he wished them well. 
 
 Doctor Nesbit's scheme of politics included no punishments 
 for his enemies, and he desired every one for his friend. The 
 round, pink face, the high-roached, yellow hair, the friendly, 
 blue eyes, had no place for hate in them, and in the high- 
 pitched, soft voice was no note of terror to evil doers. His 
 countenance did not betray his power ; that was in his tireless 
 little legs, his effective hands, and his shrewd brain motived 
 by a heart too kind for the finer moral distinctions that men 
 must make who go far in this world. Yet because he had a 
 heart, a keen mind, even without much conscience, and a 
 vision larger than those about him, Dr. Nesbit was their 
 leader. He did not move in a large sphere, but in his small 
 sphere he was the central force, the dominating spirit. And 
 off in a dark corner, Daniel Sands, who was hunger incarnate 
 and nothing more, spun his web, gathered the dust and the 
 flies and the weaker insects and waxed fat. To say that his 
 mind ruled Dr. Nesbit's, to say that Daniel Sands was master 
 and Dr. Nesbit servant in those first decades of Harvey — 
 whatever the facts may seem in those later days — is one of 
 those ornately ridiculous travesties upon the truth that facts 
 sometimes are arranged to make. But how little did they 
 know what they were building ! For they and their kind all 
 over America working in the darkness of their own selfish 
 desires, were laying footing stones — quite substantial yet 
 
WE CONSIDER THE LADIES 37 
 
 necessary — for the structure of a growing civilization which 
 in its time, stripped of its scaffolding and extraneous debris, 
 was to stand among the nations of the earth as a tower of 
 righteousness in a stricken world. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE ADAMS FAMILY BIBLE LIES LIKE A GENTLEMAN 
 
 HOW light a line divides comedy from tragedy! 
 When the ass speaks, or the man brays, there is 
 comedy. Yet fate may stop the mouth of either 
 man or ass, and in the dumb struggle for voice, if fate turns 
 the screws of destiny upon duty, there is tragedy. Only the 
 consequences of a day or a deed can decide whether it shall 
 have the warm blessing of our smiles or the bitter benediction 
 of our tears. 
 
 This, one must remember in reading the chapter of this 
 story that shall follow. It is the close of the story to which 
 Mary Adams, with her memory book and notes and clippings, 
 has contributed much. For of the pile of envelopes all num- 
 bered in their order ; the one marked "Margaret Miiller" was 
 the last envelope that she left. Now the package that con- 
 cerns Margaret Miiller may not be transcribed separately 
 but must be woven into the woof of the tale. The package 
 contains a clipping, a dozen closely written pages, and a 
 photograph — a small photograph of a girl. The photograph 
 is printed on the picture of a scroll, and the likeness of the 
 girl does not throb with life as it did thirty years ago when 
 it was taken. Then the plump, voluptuous arm and shoul- 
 ders in the front of the picture seemed to exude life and to 
 bristle with the temptation that lurked under the brown 
 lashes shading her big, innocent, brown eyes. And her hair, 
 her wonderful brown hair that fell in a great rope to her 
 knees, in this photograph is hidden, and only her frizzes, 
 covering a fine forehead, are emphasized by the picture 
 maker. One may smile at the picture now, but then when it 
 was taken it told of the red of her lips and the pink of her 
 flesh, and the dimples that forever went flickering across her 
 face. In those days, the old-fashioned picture portrayed 
 with great clearness the joy and charm and impudence of 
 that beautiful face. But now the picture is only grotesque. 
 
 38 
 
THE ADAMS FAMILY BIBLE 39 
 
 It proves rather than discloses that once, when she was but 
 a young girl, Margaret Muller had wonderfully molded arms 
 and shoulders, regular features and enchanting eyes. But 
 that is all the picture shows. In the photograph is no hint 
 of her mellow voice, of her eager expression and of the 
 smoldering fires of passion, ambition and purpose that 
 smoked through those gay, bewitching eyes. The old-fash- 
 ioned frizzled hair on her forehead, the obvious pose of her 
 hand with its cheap rings, the curious cut of her dress, made 
 after that travesty of the prevailing mode which country 
 papers printed in their fashion columns, the black court- 
 plaster beauty spot on her cheek and the lace fichu draped 
 over her head and bare shoulders, all stand out like grinning 
 gargoyles that keep much of the charm she had in those days 
 imprisoned from our eyes to-day. So the picture alone is of 
 no great service. Nor will the clipping tell much. It only 
 records : 
 
 "Miss Margaret Muller, daughter of the late Herman Muller of 
 Spring Township, this county, will teach school in District 18, the 
 Adams District in Prospect Township, this fall and winter. She will 
 board with the family of ye editor." 
 
 Now the reader must know that Margaret Muller 's eyes 
 had been turned to Harvey as to a magnet for three years. 
 She had chosen the Adams district school in Prospect Town- 
 ship, because the Adams district school was nearer than any 
 other school district to Harvey ; she had gone to the Adamses 
 to board because the little bleak house near the Wahoo was 
 the nearest house in the district to Harvey and to a social 
 circle which she desired to enter — the best that Harvey of- 
 fered. 
 
 She saw Grant, a rough, ruddy, hardy lad, of her own time 
 of life, moving in the very center of the society she cherished 
 in her dreams, and Margaret had no gay inadvertence in her 
 scheme of creation. So when the lank, strapping, red-headed 
 boy of a man's height, with a man's shoulders and a child's 
 heart, started to Harvey for high school every morning, as 
 she started to teach her country school, he carried with him, 
 beside his lunch, a definite impression that Margaret was a 
 fine girl. Often, indeed, he thought her an extraordinarily 
 fine girl. Tales of prowess he brought back from the Harvey 
 
40 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 High School, and she listened with admiring face. For they 
 related to youths whose names she knew as children of the 
 socially elect. 
 
 A part of her admiration for Grant was due to the fact that 
 Grant had leaped the social gulf — deep even then in Harvey 
 — between those who lived on the hill, and the dwellers in 
 the bottoms near the river. 
 
 This instinctively Margaret Muller knew, also — though per- 
 haps unconsciously — that even if they lived in the bottoms, 
 the Adamses were of the aristoi ; because they were friends 
 of the Nesbits, and Mrs. Nesbit of Maryland was the fountain 
 head of all the social glory of Harvey. Thus Margaret 
 Muller of Spring Township came to camp before Harvey for 
 a lifetime siege, and took her ground where she could aim 
 straight at the Nesbits and Hollanders and Sandses and 
 Mortons and Calvins. With all her banners flying, banners 
 gaudy and beautiful, banners that flapped for men and 
 sometimes snapped at women, she set her forces down before 
 Harvey, and saw the beleaguered city through the portals 
 of Grant's fine, wide, blue eyes, within an easy day's walk 
 of her own place in the world. So she hovered over Grant, 
 played her brown eyes upon him, flattered him, uncon- 
 sciously as is the way of the female, when it would win favor, 
 and because she was wise, wiser than even her own head 
 knew, she cast upon the youth a strange spell. 
 
 Those were the days when Margaret Muller came first to 
 early bloom. They were the days when her personality was 
 too big for her body, so it flowed into everything she wore; 
 on the tips of every ribbon at her neck, she glowed with a 
 kind of electric radiance. A flower in her hair seemed as 
 much a part of her as the turn of her cleft chin. A bow at 
 her bosom was vibrant with her. And to Grant even the 
 things she touched, after she was gone, thrilled him as though 
 they were of her. 
 
 Now the pages that are to follow in this chapter are not 
 written for him who has reached that grand estate where he 
 may feel disdain for the feverish follies of youth. A lad may 
 be an ass ; doubtless he is. A maid may be as fitful as the 
 west wind, and in the story of the fitfulness and folly of the 
 man and the maid, there is vast pathos and pain, from which 
 
THE ADAMS FAMILY BIBLE 41 
 
 pathos and pain we may learn wisdom. Now the strange 
 part of this story is not what befell the youth and the maid ; 
 for any tragedy that befalls a youth and a maid, is natural 
 enough and in the order of things, as Heaven knows well. 
 The strange part of this story is that Mary and Amos Adams 
 were, for all their high hopes of the sunrise, like the rest of us 
 in this world — only human ; stricken with that inexplicable 
 parental blindness that covers our eyes when those we love 
 are most needing our care. 
 
 Yet how could they know that Grant needed their care? 
 Was he not in their eyes the fairest of ten thousand ? They 
 enshrined him in a kind of holy vision. It seems odd that a 
 strapping, pimple-faced, freckled, red-headed boy, loud- 
 mouthed and husky- voiced, more or less turbulent and gener- 
 ally in trouble for his insistent defense of his weaker play- 
 mates — it seems odd that such a boy could be the center of 
 such grand dreams as they dreamed for their boy. Yet there 
 was the boy and there were the dreams. If he wrote a com- 
 position for school that pleased his parents, they were sure 
 it foretold the future author, and among her bundle of notes 
 for the Book, his mother has cherished the manuscript for his 
 complete works. If at school Friday afternoon, he spoke a 
 piece, "trippingly on the tongue," they harkened back over 
 his ancestry to find the elder Adams of Massachusetts who 
 was a great orator. When he drove a nail and made a credit- 
 able bobsled, they saw in him a future architect and stored the 
 incident for the Romance that was to be biography. When 
 he organized a base-ball club, they saw in him the budding 
 leadership that should make him a ruler of men. Even 
 Grant's odd mania to take up the cause of the weak — often 
 foolish causes that revealed a kind of fanatic chivalry in him 
 — Mary noted too ; and saw the youth a mailed knight in the 
 Great Battle that should precede and usher in the sunrise. 
 
 Jasper was a little boy and his parents loved him dearly; 
 but Grant, the child of their honeymooning days, held their 
 hearts. And so their vanity for him became a kind of mellow 
 madness that separated them from a commonsense world. 
 And here is a curious thing also — the very facts that were 
 making Grant a leader of his fellows should have warned 
 Mary and Amos that their son was setting out on his journey 
 
42 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 from the heart of his childish paradise. He was growing 
 tall, strong, big-voiced, with hands, broad and muscular, that 
 made him a baseball catcher of a reputation wider than the 
 school-grounds, yet he had a child's quick wit and merry- 
 heart. Such a boy dominated the school as a matter of 
 course, yet so completely had his parents daubed their eyes 
 with pride that they could not see that his leadership in 
 school came from the fact that a man was rising in him — the 
 far-casting shadow of a virility deep and significant as des- 
 tiny itself. They could not see the man's body; they saw 
 only the child's heart. It was natural that they should ask 
 themselves what honor could possibly come to the house of 
 Adams or to any house, for that matter, further than that 
 which illumined it when Grant came home to announce that 
 he had been elected President of the senior class in the 
 Harvey High School and would deliver the valedictory ad- 
 dress at commencement. When Mary and Amos learned 
 that news, they had indeed found the hero for their book. 
 After that, even his cousin, Morty Sands, home from college 
 for a time, little, wiry, agile, and with a face half ferret and 
 half angel, even Morty, who had an indefinite attachment for 
 glowing exuberant Laura Nesbit, felt that so long as Grant 
 held her attention — great, hulking, noisy, dominant Grant — 
 even Morty arrayed in his college clothes, like Solomon, would 
 have to wait until the fancy for Grant had passed. So 
 Morty backed Grant with all his pocket money as a ball 
 player while he fluttered rather gayly about Ave Calvin — 
 and always with an effect of inadvertence. 
 
 Now if a lad is an ass — and he is — how should a poor jack 
 be supposed to know of the wisdom of the serpent ? For we 
 must remember that early youth has been newly driven from 
 the heart of that paradise wherein there is no good and evil. 
 He gropes in darkness as he comes nearer the gates of his 
 paradise, through an unchartered wilderness. But to Mary 
 and Amos, Grant seemed to be wandering in the very midst 
 of his Eden. They did not realize how he was groping and 
 stumbling, nor could they know what a load he carried — 
 this ass of a lad coming toward the gate of the Garden. In 
 those times when he sat in his room, trying to show his soul 
 bashfully to Laura Nesbit as he wrote to her in Maryland 
 
THE ADAMS FAMILY BIBLE 43 
 
 at school, Grant felt always, over and about him, the con- 
 sciousness of the spell of Margaret Miiller, yet he did not 
 know what the spell was. He wrestled with it when finally 
 he came rather dimly to sense it, and tried with all the 
 strength of his ungainly soul to be loyal to the choice of his 
 heart. His will was loyal, yet the smiles, the eyes, the soft 
 tempting face of Margaret always were near him. Furious 
 storms of feeling swayed him. For youth is the time of 
 tempest. In our teens come those floods of soul stuff through 
 the gates of heredity, swinging open for the last time in life, 
 floods that bring into the world the stores of the qualities 
 of mind and heart from outside ourselves; floods stored in 
 Heaven's reservoir, gushing from the almost limitlessly deep 
 springs of our ancestry; floods which draw us in resistless 
 currents to our destinies. And so the ass, laden with this re- 
 lay of life from the source of life, that every young, blind 
 ass brings into the world, floundered in the flood. 
 
 Grant thought his experience was unique. Yet it is the 
 common lot of man. To feel his soul exposed at a thousand 
 new areas of sense ; to see a new heaven and a new earth — 
 strange, mysterious, beautiful, unfolding to his eyes ; to smell 
 new scents; to hear new sounds in the woods and fields; 
 to look open-eyed and wondering at new relations of things 
 that unfold in the humdrum world about him, as he flees out 
 of the blind paradise of childhood ; to dream new dreams ; 
 to aspire to new heights, to feel impulses coming out of the 
 dark that tremble like the blare of trumpets in the soul, — 
 this is the way of youth. 
 
 With all his loyalty for Laura Nesbit — loyalty that en- 
 shrined her as a comrade and friend, such is the contradiction 
 of youth that he was madly jealous of every big boy at the 
 country school who cast eyes at Margaret Miiller. And be- 
 cause she was ages older than he, she knew it ; and it pleased 
 her. She knew that she could make all his combs and crests 
 and bands and wattles and spurs glisten, and he knew in some 
 deep instinct that when she sang the emotion in her voice 
 was a call to him that he could not put into words. Thus 
 through the autumn, Margaret and Grant were thrown to- 
 gether daily in the drab little house by the river. Now a 
 boy and a girl thrown together commonly make the speaking 
 
44 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 donkeys of comedy. Yet one never may be sure that they 
 may not be the dumb struggling creatures of the tragic muse. 
 Heaven knows Margaret Miiller was funny enough in her 
 capers. For she related her antics — her grand pouts, her 
 elaborate condescensions, her crass coquetry and her hidings 
 and seekings — into what she called a "case." In the only 
 wisdom she knew, to open a flirtation was to have a ' ' case. ' ' 
 So Margaret ogled and laughed and touched and ran and 
 giggled and cried and played with her prey with a practiced 
 lore of the heart that was far beyond the boy's knowledge. 
 Grant did not know what spell was upon him. He did not 
 know that his great lithe body, his gripping hands, his firm 
 legs and his long arms that had in their sinews the power 
 that challenged her to wrestle when she was with him — he 
 did not know what he meant to the girl who was forever 
 teasing and bantering him when they were alone. For it 
 was only when Margaret and Grant were alone or when no 
 one but little Jasper was with them, that Margaret indulged 
 in the joys of the chase. Yet often when other boys came 
 to see her — the country boys from the Prospect school dis- 
 trict perhaps, or lorn swains trailing up from Spring Town- 
 ship — Margaret did not conceal her fluttering delight in them 
 from Mary Adams. So the elder woman and the girl had 
 long talks in which Margaret agreed so entirely with Mary 
 Adams that Mary doubted the evidence of her eyes. And 
 Amos in those days was much interested in certain transcen- 
 dental communications coming from his Planchette board 
 and purporting to be from Emerson who had recently passed 
 over. So Amos had no eyes for Margaret and Mary was 
 fooled by the girl's fine speech. Yet sometimes late at night 
 when Margaret was coming in from a walk or a ride with one 
 of her young men, Mary heard a laugh — a high, hysterical 
 laugh — that disquieted Mary Adams in spite of all Margaret's 
 fair speaking. But never once did Mary connect in her mind 
 Margaret's wiles with Grant. Such is the blindness of 
 mothers ; such is the deep wisdom of women ! 
 
 All the while Grant floundered more hopelessly into the 
 quicksand of Margaret's enchantment, and when he tried to 
 write to Laura Nesbit, half-formed shames fluttered and 
 flushed across his mind. So often he sat alone for long night 
 
THE ADAMS FAMILY BIBLE 45 
 
 hours in his attic bedroom in vague agonies and self accusa- 
 tions, pen in hand, trying to find honest words that would 
 fill out his tedious letter. Being a boy and being not en- 
 tirely outside the gate of his childish paradise, he did not 
 understand the shadow that was clouding his heart. 
 
 But there came one day when the gate closed and looking 
 back, he saw the angel — the angel with the flaming sword. 
 Then he knew. Then he saw the face that made the shadow 
 and that day a great trembling came into his soul, a black- 
 ness of unspeakable woe came over him, and he was ashamed 
 of the light. After that he never wrote to Laura Nesbit. 
 
 In May Margaret's school closed, and the Adamses asked 
 her to remain with them for the summer, and she consented 
 rather listlessly. The busy days of the June harvest com- 
 bined with the duties of printing a newspaper made their 
 Sunday visits with the Nesbits irregular. It was in July that 
 Mrs. Nesbit asked for Margaret, and Mary Adams remem- 
 bered that Margaret, whose listlessness had grown into sul- 
 lenness, had found some excuse for being absent whenever 
 the Nesbits came to spend the afternoon with the Adamses. 
 Then in August, when Amos came home one night, he saw 
 Margaret hurry from the front porch. He went into the 
 house and heard Mary and Grant sobbing inside and heard 
 Mary's voice lifted in prayer, with agony in her voice. It 
 was no prayer for forgiveness nor for mercy, but for guid- 
 ance and strength, and he stepped to the bedroom and saw 
 the two kneeling there with Margaret's shawl over the chair 
 where Mary knelt. There he heard Mary tell the story of 
 her boy's shame to her God. 
 
 Death and partings have come across that threshold during 
 these three decades. Amos Adams has known anguish and 
 has sat with grief many times, but nothing ever has cut him 
 to the heart like the dead, hopeless woe in Mary's voice as 
 she prayed there in the bedroom with Grant that August 
 night. A terrible half-hour came when Mary and Amos 
 talked with Margaret. For over their shame at what their 
 son had done, above their love for him, even beyond their 
 high hope for him, rose their sense of duty to the child who 
 was coming. For the child they spent the passion of their 
 shame and love and hope as they pleaded with Margaret for 
 
46 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 a child's right to a name. But she had hardened her heart. 
 She shook her head and would not listen to their plead- 
 ings. Then they sent Grant to her. It is not easy to say 
 which was more dreadful, the impudent smile which she 
 turned to the parents as she shook her head at them, or the 
 scornful laugh they heard when Grant sat with her. That 
 was a long and weary night they spent and the sun rose in 
 the morning under a cloud that never was lifted from their 
 hearts. 
 
 In the six or seven sordid, awful weeks that followed before 
 Kenyon was born, they turned for comfort and for help to 
 Dr. Nesbit. They made his plan to save the child's good 
 name, their plan. Of course — the Adamses were selfish. 
 They felt a blight was on their boy's life. They could not 
 understand that in Heaven there is neither marriage nor 
 giving in marriage; that when God sends a soul through 
 the gates of earth it comes in joy even though we greet it in 
 sorrow. Their gloom should have been lighted; part of its 
 blackness was their own vain pride in Grant. Yet they were 
 none the less tender with Margaret, and when she went down 
 into the valley of the shadow, Mary went with her and stood 
 and supported the girl in the journey. 
 
 When Doctor Nesbit was climbing into the buggy at the 
 gate, Grant, standing by the hitching-post, said: "Doctor — 
 sometime — when we are both older — I mean Laura — " He 
 got no further. The Doctor looked at the boy's ashen face, 
 and knew the cost of the words he was speaking. He stopped, 
 reached his hand out to Grant and touched his shoulder. ' ' I 
 think I know, Grant — some day I shall tell her. ' ' He got into 
 the buggy, looked at the lad a moment and said in his high, 
 squeaky voice: "Well, Grant, boy, you understand after 
 all it's your burden — don't you? Your mother has saved 
 Margaret's good name. But son — son, don't you let the 
 folks bear that burden." He paused a moment further and 
 sighed: "Well, good-by, kid — God help you, and make a 
 man of you," and so turning his cramping buggy, he drove 
 away in the dusk. 
 
 Thus came Kenyon Adams, recorded in the family Bible as 
 the third son of Mary and Amos Adams, into the wilderness 
 of this world. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 IN WHICH MARGARET MULLER DWELLS IN MARBLE HALLS AND 
 HENRY FENN AND KENYON ADAMS WIN NOTABLE VICTORIES 
 
 THE world into which Kenyon Adams came was a busy 
 and noisy and ruthless world. The prairie grass was 
 leaving Harvey when Grant Adams came, and the 
 meadow lark left in the year that Jasper came. When Ken- 
 yon entered, even the blue sky that bent over it was threat- 
 ened. For Dr. Nesbit returning from the Adamses the 
 evening that Kenyon came to Harvey found around the well- 
 drill at Jamey McPherson 's a great excited crowd. Men 
 were elbowing each other and craning their necks, and wag- 
 ging their heads as they looked at the core of the drill. For 
 it contained unmistakably a long worm of coal. And that 
 night saw rising over Harvey such dreams as made the angels 
 sick ; for the dreams were all of money, and its vain display 
 and power. And when men rose after dreaming those 
 dreams, they swept little Jamey McPherson away in short 
 order. For he had not the high talents of the money maker. 
 He had only persistence, industry and a hopeful spirit and 
 a vague vision that he was discovering coal for the common 
 good. So when Daniel Sands put his mind to bear upon the 
 worm of coal that came wriggling up from the drilled hole 
 on Jamey 's lot, the worm crawled away from Jamey and 
 Jamey went to work in the shaft that Daniel sank on his 
 vacant lot near the McPherson home. The coal smoke from 
 Daniel Sands 's mines began to splotch the blue sky above 
 the town, and Kenyon Adams missed the large leisure and 
 joyous comraderie that Grant had seen; indeed the only 
 leisurely person whom Kenyon saw in his life until he was — 
 Heaven knows how old — was Rhoda Kollander. The hum 
 and bustle of Harvey did not ruffle the calm waters of her 
 soul. She of all the women in Harvey held to the early 
 custom of the town of going out to spend the day. 
 
 47 
 
48 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 "So that Margaret's gone," she was saying to Mary Adams 
 sometime during a morning in the spring after Kenyon was 
 born. "Law me — I wouldn't have a boarder. I tell John, 
 the sanctity of the home is invaded by boarders these days ; 
 and her going out to the dances in town the way she does, I 
 sh'd think you'd be glad to be alone again, and to have your 
 own little flock to do for. And so Grant's going to be a 
 carpenter — well, well ! He didn't take to the printing trade, 
 did he? My, my!" she sighed, and folded her hands above 
 her apron — the apron which she always put on after a meal, 
 as if to help with the dishes, but which she never soiled or 
 wrinkled — "I tell John I'm so thankful our little Pred has 
 such a nice place. He waits table there at the Palace, and 
 gets all his meals — such nice food, and can go to school too, 
 and you wouldn't believe it if I'd tell you all the nice men 
 he meets — drummers and everything, and he's getting such 
 good manners. I tell John there's nothing like the kind of 
 folks a boy is with in his teens to make him. And he sees 
 Tom Van Dorn every day nearly and sometimes gets a dime 
 for serving him, and now, honest, Mary, you wouldn't believe 
 it, but Freddie says the help around the hotel say that 
 Mauling girl at the cigar stand thinks Tom 's going to marry 
 her, but law me — he 's aiming higher than the Maulings. The 
 old man is going to die — did you know it? They came for 
 John to sit up with him last night. John's an Odd Fellow, 
 you know. But speaking of that Margaret, you know she's 
 a friend of Violet's and slips into the cigar stand sometimes 
 and Violet introduces Margaret to some nice drummers. And 
 I heard John say that when Margaret gets this term of school 
 taught here, the Spring Township people have made Doc 
 Jim get her a job in the court house — register of deeds office. 
 But I tell John — law me, you men are the worst gossips! 
 Talk about women ! ' ' 
 
 Little Kenyon in his crib was restless, and Mary Adams 
 was clattering the dishes, so between the two evils, Mrs. 
 Kollander picked up the child, and rocked him and patted 
 him and then went on : "I was over and spent the day with 
 the Sandses the other day. Poor woman, she's real puny. 
 Ann's such a pretty child and Mrs. Sands says that Morty's 
 not goin' back to college again. And she says he just moons 
 
MARGARET MULLER 49 
 
 around Laura Nesbit. Seems like the boy's got no sense. 
 Why, Laura's just a child — she's Grant's age, isn't she — not 
 more than eighteen or nineteen, and Morty must be nearly 
 twenty-three. My--how they have sprung up. I tell John 
 — why, I'll be thirty-six right soon now, and here I've worked 
 and slaved my youth away and I'll be an old woman before 
 we know it." She laughed good naturedly and rocked the 
 fretting child. "Law me, Mary Adams, I sh'd think you'd 
 want Grant to stay with George Brotherton there in the 
 cigar stand, instead of carpentering. Such elegant people he 
 can meet there, and such refined influences since Mr. Brother- 
 ton's put in books and newspapers, and he could work in the 
 printing office and deliver the Kansas City and St. Louis and 
 Chicago dailies for Mr. Brotherton, and do so much better 
 than he can carpentering. I tell John, if we can just keep 
 our boy among nice people until he's twenty-five, he'll stay 
 with 'em. Now look at Lide Bowman. Mary Adams, we 
 know she was a smart woman until she married Dick and 
 now just see her — living down there with the shanty trash 
 and all those ignorant foreigners, and she's growing like 'em. 
 She's lost two of her babies, and that seems to be weighing 
 on her mind, and I can 't persuade her to pick up and move 
 out of there. It's like being in another world. And Mary 
 Adams — let me tell you — Casper Herdicker has gone into the 
 mine. Yes, sir, he closed his shop and is going to work in 
 the mine, because he can make three dollars a day. But law 
 me! you'll not see Hildy Herdicker moving down there. 
 She '11 keep her millinery store and live with the white folks. ' ' 
 
 The dishes were put away, and in the long afternoon 
 Mary Adams sat sewing as Rhoda Kollander rambled on. 
 For the third time Rhoda came back to comment upon the 
 fact that Grant Adams had quit working in the printing 
 office — a genteel trade, and had stopped delivering papers 
 for Mr. Brotherton 's newspaper stand — a rather high voca- 
 tion, and was degrading himself by learning the carpenter's 
 trade, when Mary Adams cut into the current of the stream 
 of talk. 
 
 "Well, my dear, it was this way. There are two reasons 
 why Grant is learning the carpenter's trade. In the first 
 place, the boy has some sort of a passion to cast his lot among 
 
50 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 the poor. He feels they are neglected and — well, he has a 
 sort of a fierce streak in him to fight for the under dog, 
 and—" 
 
 "Well, law me, Mary— don't I know that? Hasn't 
 Freddie told me time and again how Grant used to fight for 
 Freddie when he was a little boy and the big boys plagued 
 him. Grant whipped the whole school for teasing a little 
 half-witted boy once— did you know that?" Mary Adams 
 shook her head. "Well, he did, and — well now, isn't that 
 nice. I can see just how he feels ! ' ' And she could. Never 
 lived a more sympathetic soul than Rhoda. And as she 
 rocked she said: "Of course, if that's the reason — law me, 
 Mary, you never can tell how these children are going to turn 
 out. Why, I tell John—" 
 
 "And the other reason is, Rhoda, that he is earning two 
 dollars a day as a carpenter's helper, and since Kenyon came 
 we seem to be miserably hard pushed for money." Mary 
 Adams stopped and then went on as one carefully choosing 
 her words: "And since Margaret has gone to board over 
 at the other side of the school district, and we don't have her 
 board money — why of course — " 
 
 "Why of course," echoed Mrs. Kollander, "of course. I 
 tell John he's been in a county office now twenty years, 
 drawing all the way from a thousand to three thousand a 
 year — and what have we got to show for it? I scrimp and 
 pinch and save, and John does too — but law me — it seems 
 like the way times are — " Amos Adams, standing at the 
 door, heard her and cut in : 
 
 "I was talking the other night with George Washington 
 about the times, and they're coming around all right." The 
 man fumbled his sandy beard, closed his eyes as if to re- 
 member something and went on: "Let's see, he wrote: 
 'Peas and potatoes preserve the people,' and the next day, 
 everything in the market dropped but peas and potatoes." 
 He nodded a wise head. ' ' They think that planchette is non- 
 sense, but how do they account for coincidences like that! 
 And now tell me some news for the Tribune." The two sat 
 talking well into the twilight and when Rhoda pulled up her 
 chair to the supper table, the editor's notebook was full. 
 
 Grant appeared, an ox-shouldered, red-haired, bass-voiced 
 
MARGARET MULLER 51 
 
 bay with ham-like hands; Jasper came in from school full 
 of the town's adventure into coal and the industries, and his 
 chatter trickled into the powerful but slowly spoken insist- 
 ence of Mrs. Kollander's talk and was lost and swept finally 
 into silence. After supper Grant retired to a book from the 
 Sea-side Library, borrowed of Mr. Brotherton from stock — 
 "Sesame and Lilies" was its title. Jasper plunged into his 
 bookkeeping studies and by the wood stove in the sitting- 
 room Rhoda Kollander held her levee until bedtime sent her 
 home. 
 
 During the noon hour the next day in Mr. Brotherton 's 
 cigar store and news stand, the walnut bench was filled that 
 he had just installed for the comfort of his customers. At 
 one end, was Grant Adams who had hurried up from the 
 mines to buy a paper-bound copy of Carlyle's "French Revo- 
 lution"; next to him sat deaf John Kollander smoking his 
 noon cigar, and beside Kollander sat stuttering Kyle Perry, 
 thriftily sponging his morning Kansas City Times over Dr. 
 Nesbit's shoulder. The absent brother always was on the 
 griddle at Mr. Brotherton 's amen corner, and the burnt offer- 
 ing of the moment was Henry Fenn. He had just broken 
 over a protracted drouth — one of a year and a half — and 
 the group was shaking sad heads over the county attorney's 
 downfall. The doctor was saying, "It's a disease, just as 
 the 'ladies, God bless 'em' will become a disease with Tom 
 Van Dorn if he doesn't stop pretty soon — a nervous disease 
 and sooner or later they will both go down. Poor Henry — 
 Bedelia and I noticed him at the charity ball last night; he 
 was — " 
 
 "A trifle polite — a wee bit too punctilious for these lati- 
 tudes, ' ' laughed Brotherton from behind the counter. 
 
 "I was going to say decorative — what Mrs. Nesbit calls 
 ornate — kind of rococco in manner," squeaked the doctor, 
 and sighed. "And yet I can see he's still fighting his devil 
 — still trying to keep from going clear under." 
 
 "It's a sh-sh-sh-a-ame that ma-a-an should have th-that 
 kind of a d-d-d-devil in him— is-isis-n't it?" said Kyle Perry, 
 and John Kollander, who had been smoking in peace, blurted 
 out, "What else can be expected under a Democratic admin- 
 istration? Of course, they'll return the rebel flags. They'll 
 
52 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 pension the rebel soldiers next!" He looked around fop 
 approval, and the smiles of the group would have lured him 
 further but Tom Van Dorn came swinging through the door 
 with his princely manner, and the Doctor rose to go. He 
 motioned George Brotherton to the rear of the room and said 
 gently : 
 
 ' ' George — old man Mauling died an hour ago ; John Dexter 
 and I were there at the last. And John sent word for me 
 to have you get your choir out — so I'll notify Mrs. Nesbit. 
 Dexter said he was a lodge member with you — what lodge, 
 George?" 
 
 "Odd Fellow," returned the big man, then asked, "Pall- 
 bearer?" 
 
 "Yes," returned the Doctor. "There's no one else much 
 but the lodge in his case. You will sing him to sleep with 
 your choir and tuck him in as pall-bearer as you've been 
 doing for the dead folks ever since you came to town." The 
 Doctor turned to go, "Meet to-night at the house for choir 
 practice, I suppose?" 
 
 Brotherton nodded, and turned to take a bill from Tom 
 Van Dorn, who had pocketed a handful of cigars and a num- 
 ber of papers. 
 
 "We were just talking about Henry, Tom," remarked 
 Mr. Brotherton, as he handed back the change. 
 
 "He's b-back-sl-slidden," prompted Perry. 
 
 "Oh, well — it's all right. Henry has his weaknesses — we 
 all have our failings. But drunk or sober he danced a dozen 
 times last night with that pretty school teacher from Pros- 
 pect Township." Grant looked up from his book, as Van 
 Dorn continued, "Gorgeous creature — " he shut his eyes 
 and added: "Don't pity Henry when he can get a woman 
 like that to favor him ! " 
 
 As John Hollander thundered back some irrelevant com- 
 ment on the moment's politics, Van Dorn led Brotherton to 
 the further end of the counter and lowering his voice said : 
 
 "You know that Mauling girl at the Palace cigar 
 counter?" 
 
 As Brotherton nodded, Van Dorn, dropping his voice 
 to a whisper, said: "Her father's dead — poor child — she's 
 been spending her money — she hasn 't a cent. I know ; I have 
 
MARGARET MULLER 53 
 
 been talking to her more or less for a year or so. Which 
 one of your lodges does the old man belong to, George?" 
 
 "When the big man said: "Odd Fellows," Van Dorn 
 reached into an inner coat pocket, brought out some bills 
 and slipping them to Brotherton, so that the group on the 
 bench in the corner could not see, Van Dorn mumbled : 
 
 "Tell her folks this came from the lodge — poor little 
 creature, she's their sole support." 
 
 As Van Dorn lighted his cigar at the alcohol burner Henry 
 Fenn turned into the store. Fenn stood among them and 
 smiled his electric smile, that illumined his lean, drawn face 
 and said, "Here," a pause, then, "I am," another pause, 
 and a more searching smile, ' ' I am again ! ' ' 
 
 Mr. Brotherton looked up from the magazine counter 
 where he was sorting out Centurys, and Harpers and Scrib- 
 ners from a pile: "Say — " he roared at the newcomer, 
 "Well — say, Henry — this won't do. Come — take a brace; 
 pull yourself together. We are all for you." 
 
 "Yes," answered Fenn, smiling out of some incandescence 
 in his heart, "that's just it: You're all for me. The boys 
 over at Riley's saloon are all for me. Mother — God bless 
 her, down at the house is for me so strong that she never 
 flinches or falters. I can get every vote in the delegation, 
 but my own ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh, Henry, why these tears?" sneered Van Dorn. 
 "We've all got to have our fun." 
 
 "I presume, Tom," snapped Fenn, "that you've got your 
 little affairs of the heart so that you can take 'em or let 
 'em alone!" But to the group in the amen corner, Fenn 
 lifted up his head in shame. He looked like a whipped dog. 
 One by one the crowd disappeared, all but Grant, who was 
 bending over his book, and deaf John Kollander. 
 
 Fenn and Brotherton went back to Brotherton 's desk and 
 Fenn asked, "Did I — George, was it pretty bad last night? 
 God she — she — that Miiller girl — what a wonderful woman 
 she is. George, do you suppose — " Fenn caught Grant's eyes 
 wandering toward them. The name of Margaret Miiller had 
 reached his ears. But Fenn went on, lowering his voice: 
 ' ' I honestly believe she could, if any one could. ' ' Fenn put 
 his lean, tapering hand upon Brotherton 's broad fat paw, 
 
54 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 and smiled a quaint, appreciative smile, frank and gentle. 
 It was one of those smiles that carried agreement with what 
 had been said, and with everything that might be said. 
 Brotherton took up the hallelujah chorus for Margaret with : 
 "Fine girl — bright, keen — well say, did you know she's buy- 
 ing the books here of me for the chautauqua course and is 
 trying for a degree — something in her head besides hairpins 
 — well, say!" 
 
 He stopped in the middle of the sentence, and brought 
 down his great hand on his knee. "Well, say — observe me 
 the prize idiot! Get the blue ribbon and pin it on your 
 Uncle George. Look here at me overlooking the main bet. 
 "Well, say, Henry — here are the specifications of one large 
 juicy plan. Funeral to-morrow — old man Mauling ; obliging 
 party to die. Uncle George and the angel choir to officiate 
 with Uncle George doubling in brass as pall-bearer. The 
 new Mrs. Sands, our bell-voiced contralto, is sick : also oblig- 
 ing party to be sick. Need new contralto: Miiller girl has 
 voice like morning star, or stars, as the case may be." 
 Fenn flashed on his electric smile, and rose, looking a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 ' ' That 's the idea, Henry, that finally wormed its way into 
 my master mind, ' ' cried Brotherton, laughing his big laugh. 
 "That's what I said before I spoke. You are to drive into 
 Prospect Township this evening — Hey, Grant," called 
 Brotherton to the boy on the bench in the Amen corner, 
 "Does that pretty school ma'am board with you people?" 
 And when Grant shook his head, Brotherton went on: "Yes 
 — she's moved across the district I remember now. "Well, 
 anyway, Henry, you're to drive into Prospect Township 
 this evening and produce one large, luscious brunette con- 
 tralto for choir practice at General Nesbit's piano at eight 
 o 'clock sharp. ' ' He stood facing Fenn whose eyes were glow- 
 ing. The lurking devil seemed to slink away from him. 
 Brotherton, seeing the change, again burst into his laugh and 
 bringing Fenn to the front of the store roared: "Well, say 
 — Hennery — are there any flies on your Uncle George's 
 scheme?" 
 
 Grant began buttoning his coat. Fenn, free for the mo- 
 ment of his devil, was happy, and Brotherton looked at the 
 
MARGARET MULLER 55 
 
 two and cried, "Now get out of here — the both of you: you're 
 spiling trade. And say, ' ' called Brotherton to Fenn, ' ' bring 
 her up to the Palace Hotel for supper, and we'll fill her full 
 of rich food, so's she can sing — well, say !" 
 
 That evening going home Grant met Margaret and Fenn 
 at a turn of the road, and before they noticed him, he saw a 
 familiar look in her eyes as she gazed at the man, saw how 
 closely they were sitting in the buggy, saw a score of little 
 things that sent the blood to his face and he strode on past 
 them without speaking. That night he slipped into the room 
 where the baby lay playing with his toes, and there, stand- 
 ing over the little fellow, the youth's eyes filled with tears 
 and for the first time he felt the horror of the baby lifting 
 from him. He did not touch the child, but tiptoed from 
 the room ashamed to be seen. 
 
 To Margaret Midler, the baby 's mother, that night opened 
 a new world. To begin with, it marked her entrance through 
 the portals of the Palace Hotel as a guest. She had some- 
 times flitted into the office with its loose, tiled floors and 
 shabby, onyx splendor to speak to Miss Mauling of the news 
 stand; then she came as a fugitive and saw things only fur- 
 tively. But this night Margaret walked in through the ' ' La- 
 dies Entrance," sat calmly in the parlor, while Mr. Fenn 
 wrote her name upon the register, and after some delirious 
 moments of grand conversation with Mr. Fenn in the gilded 
 hall of pleasure with its chenille draperies and its apoplectic 
 furniture all puffed to the bursting point, she had walked 
 with Mr. Fenn through the imposing halls of the wonderful 
 edifice, like a rescued princess in a fairy tale, to the dining 
 room, there to meet Mr. Brotherton, and the eldest Miss Mor- 
 ton, who recently had been playing the cabinet organ at 
 funerals to guide Mr. Brotherton 's choir. Now the eldest 
 Miss Morton was not antique, being only a scant fifteen in 
 short dresses and pig tails. But at the urgent request of 
 Mr. Brotherton, and "to fill out the table, and to take the 
 wrinkles out of her apron by a square meal at the Palace," 
 as Mr. Brotherton explained to the Captain, she had been 
 primped and curled and scared by her sisters and her fa- 
 ther, and sent along with Mr. Brotherton — possibly in his 
 great ulster pocket, and she sat breathing irregularly and 
 
56 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 looking steadily into her lap in great awe and trepidation. 
 
 Margaret Miiller, in the dining-room whose fame had 
 spread to the outposts of Spring township and to the fast- 
 nesses of Prospect, behaved with scarcely less constraint 
 than the eldest Miss Morton. She gazed at the beamed ceil- 
 ing, the high wainscoting, the stenciled walls, the frescoes 
 upon the panels, framed by the beams, the wide sideboard, 
 the glittering glass and the plated silver service, and if her 
 eyes had not been so beautiful they would have betrayed 
 her wonder and admiration. As it was, they showed an ec- 
 stasy of delight that made them shine and when Henry 
 Fenn saw them he looked at Mr. Brotherton, and Mr. Broth- 
 erton looked at Mr. Fenn, and the moon in Mr. Brotherton 's 
 face beamed a lively approval. Moreover the cigar salesman 
 from Leavenworth and a hardware drummer from St. Louis 
 and a drygoods salesman from Chicago and a travelling audi- 
 tor for the Midland saw Margaret 's eyes and they too looked 
 at one another and gave their unqualified approval. la 
 other years — in later years — when she was at Bertolini's 
 Grand Palace in Naples or in some of the other Grand Pal- 
 aces of other effete and luxurious capitals of Europe, Mar- 
 garet used to think of that first meal at the Palace house in 
 Harvey and wonder what in the world really did become of 
 the dozen fried oysters that she so innocently ordered. She 
 could see them looming up, a great pyramid of brown 
 batter, garnished with cress, and she knew that she had 
 blundered. But she did not see the wink that Mr. Brother- 
 ton gave Mr. Fenn nor the glare that Mr. Fenn gave Mr. 
 Brotherton ; so she faced it out and whether she ate them or 
 left them, she never could recall. 
 
 But it was a glorious occasion in spite of the fried oysters. 
 What though the tiles of the floor of the Palace were cracked ; 
 what though the curtains sagged, and the furniture was 
 shabby, and the walls were faded and dingy; what though 
 the great beams in the dining-room were dirty and the 
 carpets in the halls bedraggled, and the onyx gapping in 
 great cracks upon the warped walls of the office ; what though 
 the paint had faded and the varnish cracked all over the 
 house! To Margaret Miiller and also to the eldest Miss 
 Morton, who only managed to breathe below her locket when 
 
MARGARET MtJLLER 57 
 
 they were under the stars, it was a dream of marble halls, 
 and the frowsy Freddie Kollander and the other waiter who 
 brought in the food on thick, cracked oblong dishes were 
 vassals and serfs by their sides. 
 
 "When they started up Sixth Avenue, the eldest Miss 
 Morton was trying to think of everything that had happened 
 to tell the younger Misses Morton, Martha and Ruth — what 
 they ate and what Miss Miiller wore, and what Freddie Kol- 
 lander who waited on them, and also went to high school, 
 did when he saw her, and how Mr. Fenn acted when Miss 
 Miiller got the big platter of oysters, and what olives tasted 
 like and if anything had been cooked in the Peerless Cooker 
 that father had just sold Mr. Paxton and in general why 
 the spirit of mortal should be proud. 
 
 But Miss Miiller entertained no such thoughts. She was 
 treading upon the air of some elysium, and she took and 
 held Mr. Fenn's arm with an unnecessary tightness and 
 began humming the tune that told of the girl who dreamed 
 she dwelt in marble halls ; and then, as they left the thick of 
 the town and were walking along the board sidewalks that 
 lead to Elm Crest on Elm Street, they all fell to singing that 
 tune; and as one good tune deserved another, and as they 
 were going to practice the funeral music that evening, they 
 sang other tunes of a highly secular nature that need not be 
 enumerated here. And as Miss Miiller had a substantial 
 dinner folded snugly within her, and the ambition of her life 
 was looming but a few blocks ahead of her, she walked closer 
 to Mr. Fenn, county attorney in and for Greeley county, than 
 was really necessary. So when Mr. Brotherton walked 
 alongside with the eldest Miss Morton stumbling intermit- 
 tently over the edge of the sidewalk and walking in the 
 dry weeds beside it, Miss Miiller put some feeling into her 
 singing voice and they struck what Mr. Brotherton was 
 pleased to call a barbershop chord, and held it to his delight. 
 And the frosty air rang with their voices, and the rich 
 tremulous voice of the young woman thrilled with passion 
 too deep for words. So deep was it that it might have 
 stirred the hovering soul of the dead whose dirges they 
 were to sing and brought back to him the time when he 
 too had thrilled with youth and its inexpressible joy. 
 
58 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Up the hill they go, arm in arm, with fondling voices 
 uttering the unutterable. And now they turn into a long, 
 broad avenue of elms, of high, plumey elms trimmed and 
 tended, mulched and cultivated for nearly twenty years, the 
 apple of one man 's eye ; great elms set in blue grass, branch- 
 ing only at the tops, elms that stand in a grove around an 
 irregular house, elms that shade a broad stone walk leading 
 up to a wide, hospitable door. The young people ring. 
 There is a stirring in the house, Margaret Miiller 's heart is 
 a-flutter — and the eldest Miss Morton wonders whether Laura 
 or the hired girl will open the door, and in a moment — enter 
 Margaret Miiller into the home of the Nesbits. 
 
 As the wide door opens, a glow of light and life falls 
 upon the young people. Standing in the broad reception 
 room is Doctor Nesbit, with his finger in a book — a poetry 
 book if you please — and before him with his arm about her 
 and her head beneath his chin stands his daughter. Coming 
 down the stairs is Mrs. Bedelia Satterthwaite Nesbit — of the 
 Maryland Satterthwaites — tall, well-upholstered, with large 
 features and a Roman nose and with the makings of a double 
 chin, if she ever would deign to bend her queenly head, 
 and finally with the pomp of a major general in figure and 
 mien. 
 
 She ignores the debris of the carpenters who have been 
 putting in the hardwood floors, without glancing at it, and 
 walking to her guests, welcomes them with regal splendor, 
 receiving Miss Miiller with rather obvious dignity. Mrs. 
 Nesbit in those days was a woman of whom the doctor said, 
 "There is no foolishness about Bedelia." The jovial Mr. 
 Brotherton attempts some pleasant hyperbole of speech, 
 which the hostess ignores and the Doctor greets with a 
 smile. Mrs. Nesbit leads the way to the piano, being a woman 
 of purpose, and whisks the eldest Miss Morton upon a 
 stool and has the hymn book opened in less time than it 
 takes to tell how she did it. The Doctor and Laura stand 
 watching the company, and perhaps they stand awkwardly ; 
 which prompts Mr. Brotherton in the goodness of his heart 
 to say, "Doctor, won't you sit and hear the music?" 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit looks around, sees the two figures standing near 
 the fire and replies, "No, the Doctor won't." 
 
MARGARET MULLER 59 
 
 To which he chirps a mocking echo — "No, the Doctor 
 won't." 
 
 Mr. Brotherton glances at Mr. Fenn, and the Doctor sees 
 it. " That 's all right, boys — that 's all right ; 1 may be satrap 
 of Harvey and have the power of life and death over my 
 subjects, but that's down town. Out here, I'm the minority 
 report. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit opens the hymn book, smooths the fluttering 
 leaves and says without looking toward the Doctor : "I sup- 
 pose we may as well begin now." And she begins beating 
 the time with her index finger and marking the accents with 
 her foot. 
 
 As they sing they can hear the gentle drone of the Doctor's 
 soft voice in the intervals in the music, reading in some 
 nearby room to his daughter. They are reading Tenny- 
 son's "Maud" and sometimes in the emotional passages his 
 voice breaks and his eyes fill up and he cannot go on. At 
 such times, the daughter puts her head upon his shoulder and 
 often wipes her tears away upon his coat and they are silent 
 until he can begin again. When his throat cramps, she 
 pats his cheek and they sit dreaming for a time and the 
 dreams they dream and the dreams they read differ only in 
 that the poetry is made with words. 
 
 It is a proud night for Margaret Miiller. She has come 
 into a new world — the world of her deep desire. Mrs. 
 Nesbit sees the girl's wandering eyes, taking note of the 
 furniture, as one making an inventory. No article of the 
 vast array of vases and jars and plaques and jugs and 
 statuettes and grotesque souvenirs of far journeys across the 
 world, nor etchings nor steel engravings nor photographs of 
 Roman antiquities nor storied urns nor animated busts 
 escapes the wandering, curious brown eyes of the girl. But 
 in her vast wonderment, though her eyes wander far and 
 wide, they never are too far to flash back betimes at Henry 
 Fenn's who drinks from the woman's eyes as from a deep 
 and bewitching well. He does not see that she is staring. 
 But as the minutes speed, he knows that he is electrified with 
 alternating currents from her glowing face and that they 
 bring to him a rapture that he has never known before. 
 
 But you may be sure of one thing : Mrs. Nesbit — she that 
 
60 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 was Satterthwaite of the Maryland Satterthwaites — she sees 
 what is in the wind. She is not wearing gold-rimmed nose 
 glasses for her health. Her health is exceptionally good. 
 And what is more to the point, as they are singing, Mrs. 
 Nesbit gives George Brotherton a look— one of the genuine 
 old Satterthwaite looks that speak volumes, and in effect it 
 tells him that if he has any sense, he will take Henry Fenn 
 home before he makes a fool of himself. And the eldest 
 Miss Morton, swinging her legs under the piano stool and 
 drumming away to Mrs. Nesbit 's one- and two- and three- 
 and four-ands, peeps out of the corners of her eyes and 
 sees Miss Miiller gobbling Mr. Fenn right down without 
 chewing him, and whoopee but Mrs. Nesbit is biting nails, 
 and Mr. Brotherton, he can't hardly keep his face straight 
 from laughing at all, and if Ruth and Martha ever tell 
 she will never tell them another thing in the world. And 
 she mustn't forget to ask Mrs. Nesbit if she's used the 
 Peerless Cooker and if she has, will she please say something 
 nice about it to Mrs. Ahab Wright, for Papa is so anxious 
 to sell one to the Wrights! 
 
 It is nearly nine o'clock. Mr. Fenn has been eaten up 
 these twenty times. The wandering eyes have caressed the 
 bric-a-brac over and over. Mrs. Nesbit 's tireless index finger 
 has marked the time while the great hands of the tall hall 
 clock have crept around and halfway around again. They 
 are upon the final rehearsal of it. 
 
 "Other refuge have I none," says the voice and the eyes 
 say even more and are mutely answered by another pair of 
 eyes. 
 
 "Hangs my helpless soul on thee," says the deep passion- 
 ate voice, and the eyes say things even more tender to eyes 
 that falter only because they are faint with joy. In the 
 short interval the moving finger of Mrs. Nesbit goes up, and 
 then comes a rattling of the great front door. A moment 
 later it is opened and the flushed face of Grant Adams is 
 seen. He is collarless, and untidy ; he rushes into the room 
 crying, "0, doctor— doctor, come— our baby— he is choking." 
 The youth sees Margaret, and with passion cries : "Kenyon 
 — Kenyon— the baby, he is dying; for God's sake— Mag, 
 where is the Doctor?" 
 
MARGARET MTJLLER 61 
 
 In an instant the little figure of the Doctor is in the room. 
 He stares at the red-faced boy, and quick as a flash he sees 
 the open mouth, the dazed, gaping eyes, the graying face 
 of Margaret as she leans heavily upon George Brotherton. 
 In another instant the Doctor sees her rally, grapple with 
 herself, bring back the slow color as if by main strength, and 
 smile a hard forced smile, as the boy stands in impotent 
 anguish before them. 
 
 "I have the spring wagon here, Doctor — hurry — hurry 
 please," expostulates the youth, as the Doctor climbs into 
 his overcoat, and then looking at Margaret the boy exclaims 
 wildly — "Wouldn't you like to go, too, Maggie? Wouldn't 
 you?" 
 
 She has hold of herself now and replies: "No, Grant, 
 I don't think your mother will need me," but she almost 
 loses her grip as she asks weakly, ' ' Do you ? ' ' 
 
 In another second they are gone, the boy and the Doctor, 
 out into the night, and the horse's hoofs, clattering fainter 
 and fainter as they hurry down the road, bring to her the 
 sound of a little heart beating fainter and fainter, and she 
 holds on to her soul with a hard hand. 
 
 Before long Margaret Miiller and Henry Fenn are alone 
 in a buggy driving to Prospect township. 
 
 She sees above her on the hill the lights in the great 
 house of her desire. And she knows that down in the valley 
 where shimmers a single light is a little body choking for 
 breath, fighting for life. 
 
 "Hangs my helpless soul on thee," swirls through her 
 brain, and she is cold — very cold, and sits aloof and will not 
 talk, cannot talk. Ever the patter of the horse's feet in 
 the valley is borne upward by the wind, and she feels in her 
 soul the faltering of a little heart. She dares not hope that 
 it will start up again ; she cannot bear the fear that it will 
 stop. 
 
 So she leaves the man who knew her inmost soul but an 
 hour ago ; hardly a word she speaks at parting ; hardly she 
 turns to him as she slips into the house, cold and shiv- 
 ering with the sound of every hoof -beat on the road in the 
 night, bringing her back to the helpless soul fluttering in 
 the little body that once she warmed in hers. 
 
62 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Thus the watchers watched the fighting through the night, 
 the child fighting so hard to live. For life is dear to a 
 child — even though its life perpetuates shame and brings 
 only sorrow — life still is dear to that struggling little body 
 there under that humble roof, where even those that love it, 
 and hover in agony over it in its bed of torture, feel that if 
 it goes out into the great mystery from whence it came, 
 it will take a sad blot from the world with it. And so 
 hope and fear and love and tenderness and grief are all 
 mingled in the horror that it may die, in the mute question 
 that asks if death would not be merciful and kind. And all 
 night the watchers watched, and the watcher who was absent 
 was afraid to pray, and as the daylight came in, wan and 
 gray, the child on the rack of misery sank to sleep, and smiled 
 a little smile of peace at victory. 
 
 Then in the pale dawn, a weary man, trudging afoot 
 slowly up the hill into Harvey, met another going out into 
 the fields. The Doctor looked up and was astonished to see 
 Henry Fenn, with hard drawn features, trembling limbs, hol- 
 low eyes and set lips. He too had been fighting hard and he 
 also had won his victory. The Doctor met the man 's furtive, 
 burning eyes and piped out softly: 
 
 "Stick to it, Henry — by God, stick hard," and trudged on 
 into the morning gloaming. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 ALSO HEREIN 
 WE BREAK OUR FIRST HEART 
 
 TOWNS are curiously like individuals. They take their 
 character largely from their experiences, laid layer 
 upon layer in their consciousnesses, as time moves, 
 and though the experiences are seemingly forgotten, the re- 
 sults of those experiences are ineffaceably written into the 
 towns. Four or five towns lie buried under the Harvey 
 that is to-day, each one possible only as the other upholds it, 
 and all inexorably pointing to the destiny of the Harvey 
 that is, and to the many other Harveys yet to rise upon the 
 townsite — the Harveys that shall be. There was, of course, 
 heredity before the town was ; the strong New England strain 
 of blood that was mixed in the Ohio Valley and about the 
 Great Lakes and changed by the upheaval of the Civil "War. 
 Then came the hegira across the Mississippi and the infant 
 town in the Missouri Valley — the town of the pioneers — 
 the town that only obeyed its call and soiight instinctively 
 the school house, the newspaper, orderly government, real 
 estate gambling and "the distant church that topt the 
 neighboring hill." In the childhood of the town the cattle 
 trail appeared and with the cattle trade came wild days and 
 sad disorder. But the railroad moved westward and the 
 cattle trail moved with the railroad and then in the early 
 adolescence of the town came coal and gas and oil. And sud- 
 denly Harvey blossomed into youth. 
 
 It was a place of adventure; men were made rich over- 
 night by the blow of a drill in a well. Then was the time 
 for that equality of opportunity to come which the pioneers 
 sought if ever it was coming. But alas, even in matters 
 of sheer luck, the fates played favorites. In those fat 
 years it began raining red-wheeled buggies on Sundays, 
 and smart traps drawn by horses harnessed gaudily in 
 
 63 
 
64 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 white or tan appeared on the streets. Morty Sands often 
 hired a band from Omaha or Kansas City, and held high 
 revel in the Sands opera house, where all the new dances 
 of that halcyon day were tripped. The waters of the 
 Wahoo echoed with the sounds of boating parties — also 
 frequently given by Morty Sands, and his mandolin twit- 
 tered gayly on a dozen porches during the summer even- 
 ings of that period. It was Morty who enticed Henry 
 Fenn into the second suit of evening clothes ever dis- 
 played in Harvey, though Tom Van Dorn and George Broth- 
 erton appeared a week later in evening clothes plus white 
 gloves and took much of the shine from Henry and Morty 's 
 splendor. Those were the days when Nate Perry and young 
 Joe Calvin and Freddie Kollander organized the little crowd 
 — the Spring Chickens, they called themselves — and the little 
 crowd was wont to ape its elders and peek through the fence 
 at the grandeur of the grown-ups. But alas for the little 
 crowd, month by month it was doomed to see its little girls 
 kidnaped to bloom in the upper gardens. Thus Emma 
 Morton went; thus Ave Calvin disappeared, and so Laura 
 Nesbit vanished from the Spring Chickens and appeared in 
 Morty Sands 's bower! Doctor Nesbit in those days called 
 Morty the ' ' head gardener in the ' rosebud garden of girls ! ' " 
 And a lovely garden it was. Of course, it was more or less 
 democratic; for every one was going to be rich; every one 
 was indeed just on the verge of riches, and lines of caste 
 were loosely drawn. For wealth was the only line that 
 marked the social differences. So when Henry Fenn, the 
 young county attorney, in his new evening clothes brought 
 Margaret Miiller of the Register of Deeds office to Morty 
 Sands 's dances, Margaret had whatever social distinction her 
 wits gave her ; which upon the whole was as much distinction 
 as Rhoda Kollander had whose husband employed Mar- 
 garet. The press of the social duties in that day weighed 
 heavily upon Rhoda, who was not the woman to neglect her 
 larger responsibilities to so good a husband as John Kol- 
 lander, by selfishly staying at home and keeping house for 
 him. She had a place in society to maintain, that the flag 
 of her country might not be sullied by barring John from 
 a county office. 
 
BEAUTY AND CHIVALRY OF HARVEY 65 
 
 The real queen-rose in the garden was Laura Nesbit. How 
 vivid she was ! What lips she had in those days of her first 
 full bloom, and what frank, searching eyes ! And her laugh 
 — that chimed like bells through the merriment of the youth 
 that always was gathered about her — her laugh could start 
 a reaction in Morty Sands 's heart as far as he could hear the 
 chime. It was a matter of common knowledge in the 
 ' ' crowd," that Morty Sands had one supreme aim in life : the 
 courtship of Laura Nesbit. For her he lavished clothes upon 
 himself until he became known as the iridescent dream! 
 For her he bought a high-seated cart of great price, drawn by 
 a black horse in white kid harness! For her he learned a 
 whole concert of Schubert's songs upon the mandolin and or- 
 ganized a serenading quartette that wore the grass smooth 
 under her window. For her candy, flowers, books — usually 
 gift books with padded covers, or with handpainted decora- 
 tions, or with sumptuous engravings upon them or in them, 
 sifted into the Nesbits' front room, and lay in a thick coating 
 upon the parlor table. 
 
 Someway these votive offerings didn't reach the heart of 
 the goddess. She rode beside him in his stanhope, and she 
 wore his bouquets and read his books, such as were intended 
 for reading ; and alas for her figure, she ate his candy. But 
 these things did not prosper his suit. She was just looking 
 around in the market of life. Pippa was forever passing 
 through her heart singing, "God's in his heaven — all's right 
 with the world." She did not blink at evil; she knew it, 
 abhorred it, but challenged it with love. She had a vague 
 idea that evil could be vanquished by inviting it out to dinner 
 and having it in for tea frequently and she believed if it 
 still refused to transform itself into good, that the thing to 
 do with evil was to be a sister to it. 
 
 The closest she ever came to overcoming evil with evil was 
 when she spanked little Joe Calvin for persisting in tying 
 cans to the Morton cat's tail, whereupon Morty Sands rose 
 and gave the girl nine rahs, exhibiting an enthusiasm that 
 inspired him for a year. So Laura thought that if the 
 spanking had not helped much the soul of little Joe, it had 
 put something worth while into Morty Sands. The thought 
 cheered her. For Morty was her problem. During the first 
 
66 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 months after her return from boarding school, she had broken 
 him — excepting upon minor moonlight relapses — of trying to 
 kiss her, and she had sufficiently discouraged his declara- 
 tions of undying devotion, so that they came only at wed- 
 dings, or after other mitigating circumstances which, after 
 pinching his ear, she was able to overlook. 
 
 But she could not get him to work for a living. He 
 wouldn't even keep office hours. Lecturing settled noth- 
 ing. Lecturing a youth in a black and gold blazer, duck 
 trousers and a silk shirt and a red sash, with socks and hat 
 to match his coat, lecturing a youth who plays the mandolin 
 while you talk, and looks at you through hazel eyes with all 
 the intelligence of an affectionate pup, lecturing a youth 
 who you know would be kissing you at the moment if you 
 weren't twenty pounds heavier and twice as strong — some- 
 way doesn't arouse enthusiasm. So Morty Sands remained 
 a problem. 
 
 Now an affair of the heart when a man is in his twenties 
 and a girl is just passing out of her teens, is never static ; it 
 is dynamic aud always there is something doing. 
 
 It was after one of Morty 's innumerable summer dances in 
 the Sands Opera House, that Fate cast her dies for the final 
 throw. Morty had filled Laura Nesbit's program scandal- 
 ously full. Two Newports, three military schottisches, the 
 York, the Racket — ask grandpa and grammer about these 
 dances, ye who gyrate in to-day's mazes — two waltz qua- 
 drilles and a reel. And when you have danced half the eve- 
 ning with a beautiful girl, Fate is liable to be thumping vig- 
 orously on the door of your heart. So Morty walking home 
 under a drooping August moon with Laura Nesbit that night 
 determined to bring matters to a decision. As they came up 
 the walk to the Nesbit home, the girl was humming the tune 
 that beat upon his heart, and almost unconsciously they fell 
 to waltzing. At the veranda steps they paused, and his 
 arm was around her. She tried to move away from him, and 
 cuffed him as she cried: "Now Morty— you know— you 
 know very well what I've always — " 
 
 "Laura — Laura — " he cried, as he held her hand to his 
 face and tried to focus her soul with his brown eyes, 
 "Laura," he faltered, then words deserted him: the fine 
 
BEAUTY AND CHIVALRY OF HARVEY 67 
 
 speech he had planned melted into, "0, my dear — my dear !" 
 But he kept her hand. The pain and passion in his voice 
 cut into the girl's heart. She was not frightened. She did 
 not care to run. She did not even take his persisting arm 
 from about her. She let him kiss her hand reverently, then 
 she sat with him on the veranda step and as they sat she 
 drew his arm from her waist until it was hooked in her arm, 
 and her hand held his. 
 
 "Oh, I'm in earnest to-night, Laura," said Morty, grip- 
 ping her hand. " I 'm staking my whole life to-night, Laura. 
 I'm deadly — oh, quite deadly serious, Laura, and oh — " 
 
 "And I'm serious too, Morty," said the girl — "just as 
 serious as you!" She slipped her hand away from his and 
 put her hand upon his shoulder gently, almost tenderly. But 
 the youth felt a certain calmness in her touch that disheart- 
 ened him. 
 
 In a storm of despair he spoke: "Laura — Laura, can't 
 you see — how can you let me go on loving you as I do until 
 I am mad! Can't you see that my soul is yours and always 
 has been! You can call it into heights it will never know 
 without you! You — you — 0, sometimes I feel that I could 
 pray to you as to God!" He turned to her a face glowing 
 with a white and holy passion, and dropped her hand from 
 his shoulder and did not touch her as he spoke. Their eyes 
 met steadfastly in a silence. Then the girl bowed her head 
 and sobbed. For she knew, even in her teens, she knew with 
 the intuitions that are old as human love upon the planet 
 that she was in the naked presence of an adoring soul. "When 
 she could speak she picked up the man's soft white hand, 
 and kissed it. She could not have voiced her eternal denial 
 more certainly. And Morty Sands lifted an agonized face 
 to the stars and his jaws trembled. He had lighted his altar 
 fire and it was quenched. The girl, still holding his hand, 
 said tenderly : 
 
 "I'm so sorry — so sorry, Morty. But I can't! I never — 
 never — never can!" She hesitated, and repeated, shaking 
 her head sadly, "I never, never can love you, Morty — 
 never! And it's kind — " 
 
 "Yes, yes," he answered as one who realizes a finality. 
 "It's kind enough — yes, I know you're kind, Laura!" He 
 
68 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 stopped and gazed at her in the moonlight — and it was as if 
 a flame on the charred altar of his heart had sprung up for 
 a second as he spoke: "And I never — never shall — I never 
 shall love any one else — I never, never shall ! ' ' 
 
 The girl rose. A moment later the youth followed her. 
 Back into its sheath under his countenance his soul slipped, 
 and he stood before the girl smiling a half deprecatory smile. 
 But the girl's face was racked with sorrow. She had seen 
 tragedy. Her pain wounded him and he winced in his 
 heart. Wherefore he smiled quite genuinely, and stepped 
 back, and threw a kiss at the girl as he said : "It's nothing, 
 Laura! Don't mind! It's nothing at all and we'll forget 
 it! "Won't we?" 
 
 And turning away, he tripped down the walk, leaving her 
 gazing after him in the moonlight. At the street he turned 
 back with a gay little gesture, blew a kiss from his white 
 finger tips and cried, "It's nothing at all — nothing at all!" 
 And as she went indoors she heard him call, "It's nothing at 
 all!" 
 
 She heard him lift his whistle to the tune of the waltz 
 quadrille, but she stood with tears in her eyes until the brave 
 tune died in the distance. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN WHICH WE SEE HOW LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF INTO THE 
 MATERIALISM AROUND IT 
 
 COAL and oil and gas and lead and zinc. The black 
 sprite, the brown sprite, the invisible sprite, the two 
 gray sprites — elemental sprites they were—destined 
 to be bound servants of man. Yet when they came rushing out 
 of the earth there at Harvey, man groveled before them, and 
 sold his immortal soul to these trolls. Naturally enough 
 Daniel Sands was the high priest at their altar. It was fit- 
 ting that a devil worship which prostrated itself before coal 
 and oil and gas and lead and zinc should make a spider the 
 symbol of its servility. So the spider 's web, all iron and steel 
 in pipes below ground, all steel and iron and copper in wires 
 and rails above ground, spread out over the town, over the 
 country near the town, and all the pipes and tubes and rails 
 and wires led to the dingy little room where Daniel Sands 
 sat spinning his web. He was the town god. Even the 
 gilded heifer of Baal was a nobler one. And the curious 
 thing about this orgy of materialism, was that Harvey 
 and all the thousands of Harveys great and small that filled 
 America in those decades believed with all their hearts — 
 and they were essentially kind hearts — that quick, easy and 
 exorbitant profits, really made the equality of opportunity 
 which every one desired. They thought in terms of democ- 
 racy — which is at bottom a spiritual estate, — and they 
 acted like gross materialists. So they fooled the world, 
 while they deceived themselves. For the soul of America 
 was not reflected in that debauch of gross profit making. 
 The soul of America still aspired for justice; but in the 
 folly of the day, believed quite complacently because a few 
 men got rich quick (stupid men too,) and many men were 
 well-to-do, that justice was achieved, and the world ready 
 
 69 
 
70 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 for the millennium. But there came a day when Harvey, 
 and all its kind saw the truth in shame. 
 
 And life in Harvey shaped itself into a vast greedy dream. 
 A hard, metallic timbre came into the soft, high voice of Dr. 
 James Nesbit, but did not warn men of the metallic plate 
 that was galvanizing the Doctor 's soul ; nor did it disturb the 
 Doctor. Amos Adams saw the tinplate covering, heard the 
 sounding brass, and Mary his wife saw and heard too ; but 
 they were only two fools and the Doctor who loved them 
 laughed at them and turned to the healing of the sick and 
 the subjugation of his county. So men sent him to the 
 state Senate. Curiously Mrs. Nesbit — she whom George 
 Brotherton always called the General — she did not shake the 
 spell of the trolls from her heart. They were building wings 
 and ells and lean-tos on the house that she called her home, 
 and she came to love the witchery of the time and place and 
 did not see its folly. Yet there walked between these two 
 entranced ones, another who should have awakened. For 
 she was young, fresh from the gods of life. Her eyes, un- 
 flinching, glorious eyes, should have seen through the dream 
 of that day. But they were only a girl's eyes and were 
 happy, so they could not see beyond the spell that fell around 
 them. And alas, even when the prince arrived, his kiss was 
 poisoned too. 
 
 When young Thomas Van Dorn came to the Nesbit house 
 on a voyage of exploration and discovery — came in a hand- 
 some suit of gray, with hat and handkerchief to match, and 
 a flowing crepe tie, black to harmonize with his flowing 
 mustache and his wing of fine jet black hair above his ivory 
 tinted face, Laura Nesbit considered him reflectively, and 
 catalogued him. 
 
 "Tom," explained the daughter to her father rather coldly 
 one morning, after the young man had been reading Swin- 
 burne in his deep, mellow pipe-organ of a voice to the family 
 until bed-time the night before, "Tom Van Dorn, father, is 
 the kind of a man who needs the influence of some strong 
 woman ! ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit glanced at her husband furtively and caught 
 his grin as he piped gayly : 
 
 "Who also must carry the night key ! ' ' 
 
LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF 71 
 
 The three laughed but the daughter went on with the 
 cataloguing: "He is a young man of strong predilections, 
 of definite purpose and more than ordinary intellectual 
 capacity. ' ' 
 
 "And so far as I have counted, Laura," her father inter- 
 rupted again, "I haven't found an honest hair in his hand- 
 some head; though I haven't completed the count yet!" 
 The father smiled aimably as he made the final qualification. 
 
 The girl caught the mother's look of approval shimmer- 
 ing across the table and laughed her gay, bell-like chime. 
 ' ' 0, you 've made a bad guess, mother. ' ' 
 
 Again she laughed gayly: "It's not for me to open a 
 school for the Direction of Miscalculated Purposes. Still," 
 this she said seriously, "a strong woman is what he needs." 
 
 "Not omitting the latch-key," gibed her father, and the 
 talk drifted into another current. 
 
 The next Sunday afternoon young Tom Van Dorn ap- 
 peared with Rossetti added to his Swinburne, and crowded 
 Morty Sands clear out of the hammock so that Morty had to 
 sleep in a porch chair, and woke up frequently and was un- 
 happy. "While the gilded youth slept the Woman woke and 
 listened, and Morty was left disconsolate. 
 
 The shadows were long and deep when Tom Van Dorn 
 rose from the hammock, closed his book, and stood beside the 
 girl, looking with a gentle tenderness from the burning 
 depths of his black eyes into her eyes. He paused before 
 starting away, and held up a hand so that she could see, 
 wound about it, a flaxen hair, probably drawn from the ham- 
 mock pillow. He smiled rather sadly, dropped his eyes to 
 the book closed in his hands, and quoted softly : 
 
 "'And around his heart, one strangling golden hair!'" 
 
 He did not speak again, but walked off at a great stride 
 down the stone path to the street. The next day Rossetti 's 
 sonnets came to Laura Nesbit in a box of roses. 
 
 The Sunday following Laura Nesbit made it a point to go 
 with her parents to spend the day with the Adamses down 
 by the river on their farm. But not until the Nesbits piled 
 into their phaeton to leave did Grant appear. He met the 
 visitors at the gate with a great bouquet of woods flowers, say- 
 
72 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 ing, "Here, Mrs. Nesbit— I thought you might like them." 
 But they found Laura's hands, and he smiled gratefully at 
 her for taking them. As they drove off, leaving him looking 
 eagerly after them, Dr. Nesbit said when they were out of 
 hearing, "I tell you, girls — there's the makings of a man — 
 a real man ! ' ' 
 
 That night Laura Nesbit in her room looking at the stars, 
 rose and smelled the woods flowers on her table beside some 
 fading roses. 
 
 As her day dreams merged into vague pictures flitting 
 through her drowsy brain, she heard the plaintive, trembling 
 voice of Morty Sands 's mandolin, coming nearer and nearer, 
 and his lower whistle taking the tune while the E string 
 crooned an obligate; he passed the house, went down the 
 street to the Mortons' and came back and went home again, 
 still trilling his heart out like a bird. As the chirping faded 
 into the night sounds, the girl smiled compassionately and 
 slept. 
 
 As she slept young Thomas Van Dorn walked alone under 
 the elm trees that plumed over the sidewalks in those envi- 
 rons with hands clasped behind him, occasionally gazing 
 into the twinkling stars of the summer night, considering 
 rather seriously many things. He had come out to think 
 over his speech to the jury the next day in a murder case 
 pending in the court. But the murderer kept sinking from 
 his consciousness ; the speech would not shape itself to please 
 him, and the young lawyer was forever meeting rather 
 squarely and abruptly the vision of Laura Nesbit, who 
 seemed to be asking him disagreeable and conclusive ques- 
 tions, which he did not like to answer. Was she worth it — 
 the sacrifice that marriage would require of him? "Was he 
 in love with her? What is love anyway? Wherein did it 
 differ from certain other pleasurable emotions, to which he 
 was not a stranger? And why was the consciousness of her 
 growing larger and larger in his life? He tried to whistle 
 reflectively, but he had no music in his soul and whistling 
 gave him no solace. 
 
 It was midnight when he found himself walking past the 
 Nesbit home, looking toward it and wondering which of 
 the open windows was nearest to her. He flinched with 
 
LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF ?3 
 
 shame when he recollected himself before other houses gaz- 
 ing at other windows, and he unpursed his lips that were 
 wont to whistle a signal, and went down the street shudder- 
 ing. Then after an impulse in which some good angel of re- 
 morse shook his teeth to rouse his soul, he lifted his face to 
 the sky and would have cried in his heart for help, but 
 instead he smiled and went on, trying to think of his speech 
 and resolving mightily to put Laura Nesbit out of his heart 
 finally for the night. He held himself to his high resolve for 
 four or five minutes. It is only fair to say that the white 
 clad figure of the Doctor coming clicking up the street with 
 his cane keeping time to a merry air that he hummed as he 
 walked distracted the young man. His first thought was to 
 turn off and avoid the Doctor who came along swinging his 
 medicine case gayly. But there rushed over Van Dorn a 
 feeling that he would like to meet the Doctor. He recog- 
 nized that he would like to see any one who was near to Her. 
 It was a pleasing sensation. He coddled it. He was proud of 
 it; he knew what it meant. So he stopped the preoccupied 
 figure in white, and cried, "Doctor — we're late to-night!" 
 
 "Well, Tom, I've got a right to be! Two more people in 
 Harvey to-night than were here at five o 'clock this afternoon 
 because I am a trifle behindhand. Girl at your partner's 
 — Joe Calvin's, and a boy down at Dick Bowman's!" He 
 paused and smiled and added musingly, "And they're as 
 tickled down at Dick's as though he was heir to a kingdom !" 
 
 "And Joe — I suppose — not quite — " 
 
 "Oh, Joe, he's still in the barn, I dropped in to tell him it 
 was a girl. But he won't venture into the house to see the 
 mother before noon to-morrow! Then he'll go when she's 
 asleep ! ' ' 
 
 "Dick really isn't more than two jumps ahead of the wolf, 
 is he, Doctor?" 
 
 "Well," grinned the elder man, "maybe a jump-and-a- 
 half or two jumps. ' ' 
 
 The young man exclaimed, "Say, Doctor! I think it 
 would be a pious act to make the fellows put up fifty dollars 
 for Dick to-night. I'll just go down and raid a few poker 
 games and make them do it." 
 
 The Doctor stopped him: "Better let me give it to Dick 
 
74 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 if you get it, Tom ! " Then he added, ' ' Why don 't you keep 
 Christian hours, boy? You can't try that Yengst case to- 
 morrow and be up all night ! ' ' 
 
 "That's just what I'm out here for, Doctor — to get my 
 head in shape for the closing speech. ' ' 
 
 "Well," sniffed the Doctor, "I wish you no bad luck, but 
 I hope you lose. Yengst is guilty, and you 've no business — ' ' 
 
 "Doctor," cut in Van Dorn, "there's not a penny in the 
 Yengst case for me! He was a poor devil in trouble and 
 he came to my office for help ! Do you consider the morals 
 of your sick folks — whether they have lived virtuous and 
 upright lives when they come to you stricken and in pain? 
 They're just sick folks to you in your office, and they're just 
 poor devils in trouble for me. ' ' 
 
 The Doctor cocked his head on one side, sparrow-wise, 
 looked for a moment at the young man and piped, "You're a 
 brassy pup, aren 't you ! ' ' 
 
 A second later the Doctor was trudging up the street, 
 homeward, humming his bee-like song. Van Dorn watched 
 him until his white clothes faded into the shades of the night, 
 then he turned and walked slowly townward, with his hands 
 behind him and his eyes on the ground. He forgot the 
 Yengst case, and everything else in the universe except a 
 girl 's gray eyes, her radiant face, and the glory of her aspir- 
 ing soul. It was calling with all its power to Tom Van Dorn 
 to rise and shine and take up the journey to the stars. And 
 when one hears that call, whether it come from man or maid, 
 from friend or brother, or sweetheart or child, or from the 
 challenge within him of the holy spirit, when he heeds its 
 call, no matter where he is while he hears, he walks with 
 God! 
 
 So it came to pass the next day that Thomas Van Dorn 
 went before the jury and pleaded for the murderer in the 
 Yengst case with the tongue of men and of angels. For he 
 knew that Dr. Nesbit was loitering in the clerk's office, ad- 
 joining the courtroom to listen to the plea. Every fac- 
 ulty of his mind and every capacity of his body was awake, 
 and they said around the court house that it was "the 
 speech of Tom 's life ! ' ' The Doctor on the front steps of the 
 courthouse met the young man in the daze that follows an 
 
LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF 75 
 
 oratorical flight, munching a sandwich to relieve his brain, 
 while the multitude made way for him as he went to his 
 office, 
 
 "Well, Tom — " piped the Doctor as he grasped the sweaty, 
 cold hands of the young orator, "if Yengst had been inno- 
 cent do you suppose you could have done as well ? ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn gave his sandwich to a passing dog, and took 
 the Doctor's arm as they walked to their common stairway. 
 Before they had walked a dozen steps the Doctor had un- 
 folded a situation in local politics that needed attention, and 
 Van Dorn could not lead the elder man back to further 
 praises of his speech. Yet the young lawyer knew that he 
 had moved the Doctor deeply. 
 
 That night in his office Tom Van Dorn and Henry Fenn 
 sat with their feet in the window sill, looking through the 
 open window into the moon. In their discourse they used 
 that elaborate, impersonal anonymity that youth engages to 
 carry the baggage of its intimate confidences. 
 
 " I 've got to have a pretty woman, Henry, ' ' quoth the law- 
 yer to his friend, while the moon blushed behind a cloud. 
 ' ' She must have beauty above everything, and after that 
 good manners, and after that good blood. ' ' 
 
 The moon came out and smiled at Henry. "Tom, let me 
 tell you something, I don't care! I used to think I'd be 
 pickey and choosey. But I know my own heart. I don't 
 care ! I 'm the kind of fellow, I guess, who just gets it bad 
 and comes down all broken out with it." He turned his 
 glowing smile into Tom Van Dorn's face, and finding no quick 
 response smiled whimsically back at the moon. 
 
 ' ' Some fellows are that way, Henry, ' ' assented Van Dorn, 
 "but not I! I couldn't love a servant girl no matter how 
 pretty she was — not for keeps, and I couldn't love an ugly 
 princess, and I'd leave a bluestocking and elope with a 
 chorus girl if I found the bluestocking crocked or faded in 
 the wash ! Yet a beautiful woman, who remained a woman 
 and didn't become a moral guide — " he stared brazenly at 
 the moon and in the cloud that whisked by he saw a score 
 of fancies of other women whose faces had shone there, 
 and had passed. He went on: "Oh, she could hold me — 
 she could hold me — I think ! ' ' 
 
76 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 The street noises below filled the pause. Henry rose, 
 looked eagerly into the sky and wistfully at the moon as he 
 spoke, "Hold me? Hold me?" he cried. "Why, Tom, 
 though I'd fall into hell myself a thousand times— she 
 couldn 't lose me ! I'd still— still, ' ' he faltered, " I 'd still— ' ' 
 He did not finish, but sat down and putting his hand on 
 the arm of his friend's chair, he bent forward, smiled into 
 the handsome young face in the moonlight and said : ' ' Well 
 — you know the kind of a fool I am, Tom — now !" 
 
 "That's what you say, Henry— that's what you say now." 
 Van Dorn turned and looked at his friend. "You're stick- 
 ing it out all right, Henry — against the rum fiend — I pre- 
 sume? When does your sentence expire?" 
 
 "Next October," answered Fenn. 
 
 "Going to make it then?" 
 
 "That's the understanding," returned Fenn. 
 
 "And you say you've got it bad," laughed Van Dorn. 
 "And yet — say, Henry — why didn't you do better with the 
 jury this afternoon in the Tengst case? Doesn't it — I mean 
 that tremendous case you have on with the Duchess of Miiller 
 — doesn't it put an edge on you ? What was the matter with 
 you to-day?" 
 
 Fenn shook his head slowly and said : " It 's different with 
 me. I just couldn't help feeling that if I was worth any 
 woman's giving herself — was worth anything as a man, I'd 
 want to be dead square with that Yengst creature — and I got 
 to thinking, maybe in his place, drunk and hungry — well, 
 I just couldn't, Tom — because — because of — well, I wanted 
 her to marry a human being first — not a county attor- 
 ney!" 
 
 "You're a damn fool!" retorted Van Dorn. "Do you 
 think you'll succeed in this world on that basis! I tell you 
 if I was in love with a woman I'd want to take that Yengst 
 case and lay it before her as a trophy I 'd won — lay it before 
 her like a dog ! ' ' 
 
 Fenn hesitated. He disliked to give pain. But finally 
 he said, "I suppose, Tom, I'd like to lay it before her — like 
 a man ! ' ' 
 
 "Hell's delight!" sneered Van Dorn, and they turned off 
 the subject of the tender passion, and went to considering 
 
LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF 77 
 
 certain stipulations that Van Dorn was asking of the county 
 attorney in another matter before the court. 
 
 The next day young Thomas Van Dorn began rather 
 definitely to prepare his pleading in still another suit in an- 
 other court, and before the summer's end, Morty Sands 's 
 mandolin was wrapped in its chamois skin bag and locked in 
 its mahogany case. Sometimes Morty, whistling softly and 
 dolefully, would pass the Nesbit home late at night, hoping 
 that his chirping might reach her heart; at times he made 
 a rather formal call upon the entire Nesbit family, which 
 he was obviously encouraged to repeat by the elders. But 
 Morty was inclined to hide in the thicket of his sorrow and 
 twitter his heart out to the cold stars. Tom Van Dorn per- 
 vaded the Nesbit home by day with his flowers and books 
 and candy, and by night — as many nights a week as he could 
 buy, beg or steal — by night he pervaded the Nesbit home like 
 an obstinate haunt. 
 
 He fell upon the whole family and made violent love to 
 the Doctor and Mrs. Nesbit. He read Browning to the Doc- 
 tor and did his errands in politics like a retrieving dog. 
 Mrs. Nesbit learned through him to her great joy that the 
 Satterthwaite, who was the maternal grandfather of the 
 Tory governor of Maryland, was not descended from the same 
 Satterlee hanged by King John in his war with the barons, 
 but from the Sussex branch of the family that remained 
 loyal to the Crown. But Tom Van Dorn wasted no time 
 or strength in foolishness with the daughter of the house. 
 His attack upon her heart was direct and unhalting. He 
 fended off other suitors with a kind of animal jealousy. He 
 drove her even from so unimportant a family friend as 
 Grant Adams. 
 
 Gradually, as the autumn deepened into winter and Tom 
 Van Dorn found himself spending more and more time in 
 the girl's company he had glimpses of his own low estate 
 through the contrast forced upon him daily by his knowledge 
 of what a good woman's soul was. The self -revelation 
 frightened him; he was afraid of what he saw inside him- 
 self in those days, and there can be no doubt that for a sea- 
 son his soul was wrestling with its doom for release. No 
 make-believe passion was it that spurred him forward in his 
 
78 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 attack upon the heart of Laura Nesbit. Within him, there 
 raged the fierce battle between the spirit of the times — 
 crass, material and ruthless — and the spirit of things as they 
 should be. It was the old fight between compromise and 
 the ideal. 
 
 As for the girl, she was in that unsettled mind in which 
 young women in their first twenties often find themselves 
 when sensing by an instinct new to them the coming of a 
 grown-up man with real matrimonial intentions. Given a 
 girl somewhat above the middle height, with a slim, full- 
 blown figure, with fair hair, curling and blowing about a 
 pink and white face, and with solemn eyes — prematurely 
 gray eyes, her father called them — with red lips, with white 
 teeth that flashed when she smiled, and with a laugh like 
 the murmur of gay waters ; given a more than usual amount 
 of inherited good sense, and combine that with a world of 
 sentiment that perfect health can bring to a girl of twenty- 
 two ; then add one exceptionally fascinating man of thirty — 
 more or less — a handsome young man; a successful man as 
 young men go, with the oratorical temperament and enough 
 of a head to be a good consulting lawyer as well as a jury 
 lawyer with more than local reputation; add to the young 
 man that vague social iridescence, or aura or halo that 
 young men wear in glamor, and that old men wear in shame 
 — a past ; and then let public opinion agree that he is his own 
 worst enemy and declare that if he only had some strong 
 woman to take hold of him — and behold there are the in- 
 gredients of human gunpowder ! 
 
 Doctor Nesbit smelled the burning powder. Vainly he 
 tried to stamp out the fire before the explosion. 
 
 "Bedelia," said the Doctor one day, as the parents heard 
 the girl talking eagerly with the young man, "what do you 
 make out of this everlasting 'Tom, Tom, Tom,' out there in 
 the living room ? ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit rocked in her chair and shook an ominous 
 head. Finally she said: "I wish he'd Tom himself home 
 and stay there, Doctor." The wife spoke as an oracle with 
 emphasis and authority. "You must speak to the child !" 
 
 The little man puckered his loose-skinned face into a sad, 
 absurdly pitiful smile and shrilled back : 
 
LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF 79 
 
 "Yes — I did speak to her. And she — " he paused. 
 
 "Well?" demanded the mother. 
 
 "She just fed me back all the decent things I have said 
 of Tom when he has done my errands." He drummed his 
 fingers helplessly on his chair and sighed mournfully: "I 
 wonder why I said those things ! I really wonder ! ' ' 
 
 But the voices of the young people rose gayly and dis- 
 turbed his musings. 
 
 It is easy now after a quarter of a century has unfolded 
 its events for us to lay blame and grow wise in retrospect. 
 It is easy to say that what happened was fore-doomed to 
 happen ; and yet here was a man, walking up and down the 
 curved verandahs that Mrs. Nesbit had added to the house 
 at odd times, walking up and down, and speaking to a girl in 
 the moonlight, with much power and fire, of life and his 
 dreams and his aspirations. 
 
 Over and over he had sung his mating song. Formerly he 
 had made love as he tried lawsuits, exhibiting only such 
 fervor as the case required. There can be no doubt, how- 
 ever, that when he made love to Laura Nesbit, it was with all 
 the powers of his heart and mind. If he could plead with 
 a jury for hire, if he could argue with the court and wrangle 
 with council, how could he meet reason, combat objec- 
 tions, and present the case of his soul and make up the brief 
 for his own destiny ? 
 
 He did not try to shield himself when he wooed Laura 
 Nesbit, but she saw all that he could be. A woman has her 
 vanity of sex, her elaborate, prematernal pride in her pow- 
 ers, and when man appeals to a woman's powers for saving 
 him, when he submits the proofs that he is worth saving, 
 and when he is handsome, with an education in the lore of 
 the heart that gives him charm and breaks down reserves 
 and barriers — but these are bygones now — bygones these 
 twenty-five years and more. What was to be had to be, and 
 what might have been never was, and what their hopes and 
 high aims were, whose hearts glowed in the fires of life in 
 Harvey so long ago — and what all our vain, unfruited hopes 
 are worth, only a just God who reads us truly may say: 
 And a just God would give to the time and the place, the 
 spirit of the age, its share in all that followed. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 CAPTAIN MORTON ACTS AS COURT HERALD AND MORTY SANDS 
 AND GRANT ADAMS HEAR SAD NEWS 
 
 SPEING in Mrs. Nesbit's garden, even in those days 
 when a garden in Harvey meant chiefly lettuce and 
 radishes and peas, was no casual event. Spring 
 opened formally for the Nesbits with crocuses and hya- 
 cinths; smiled genially in golden forsythia, bridal wreath 
 and tulips, preened itself in flags and lilacs before glowing 
 in roses and peonies. Now the spring is always wise; for 
 it knows what the winter only hopes or fears. Events burst 
 forth in spring that have been hidden since their seedtime. 
 And it was with the coming of the first crocuses that Dr. 
 Nesbit found in his daughter's eyes a joyous look, new and 
 exultant — a look which never had been inspired by the love 
 he lavished upon her. It was not meant for him. Yet it 
 was as truly a spring blossom as any that blushed in the 
 garden. "When it came and when the father realized that 
 the mother also saw it, they feared to speak of it — even to 
 themselves and by indirection. 
 
 For they knew their winter conspiracies had failed. In 
 vain was the trip to Baltimore; in vain was the week with 
 grand opera in New York, and they both knew that the 
 proposed trip to Europe never would occur. When the 
 parents saw that look of triumphant joy in their daughter's 
 face, when they saw how it lighted up her countenance like 
 a flame when Tom Van Dorn was near or was on his way to 
 her, they knew that from the secret recesses of her heart, 
 from the depths of her being, love was springing. They 
 knew that they could not uproot it, and they had no heart 
 to try. For they accepted love as a fact of life, and felt 
 that when once it has seeded and grown upon a heart, it is 
 a part of that heart and only God's own wisdom and mercy 
 
 80 
 
CAPTAIN MORTON AS COURT HERALD 81 
 
 may change the destiny that love has written upon the life 
 in which love rests. So in the wisdom of the spring, the 
 parents were mute and sad. 
 
 There was no hint of anger in their sorrow. They realized 
 that if she was wrong, and they were right, she needed them 
 vastly more than if they were wrong and she was right, and 
 so they tried to rejoice with her — not of course expressly 
 and baldly, but in a thousand ways that lay about them, 
 they made her as happy as they could. Their sweet acqui- 
 escence in what she knew was cutting the elders to the quick, 
 gave the girl many an hour of poignant distress. Yet the 
 purpose of her heart was not moved. The Satterthwaite in 
 her was dominant. 
 
 "Doctor," spoke the wife one morning as they sat alone 
 over their breakfast, "I think — " She stopped, and he 
 knew she was listening to the daughter, who was singing in 
 an undertone in the garden. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "so do I. I think they have set- 
 tled it." 
 
 The man dropped his glance to the table before him, where 
 his hands rested helplessly and cried, "Bedelia — I don't — I 
 don't like it!" 
 
 The color of her woe darkened Mrs. Nesbit's face as her 
 features trembled for a second, before she controlled her- 
 self. "No, Jim — no — no! I don't — I'm afraid — afraid, of 
 I don 't know what ! ' ' 
 
 "Of course, he's of excellent family — the very best!" the 
 wife ventured. 
 
 "And he's making money — and has lots of money from 
 his people ! ' ' returned the father. 
 
 "And he's a man among men!" added the mother. 
 
 "Oh, yes — very much that, — and he's trying to be de- 
 cent! Honestly, Bedelia, I believe the fellow's got a new 
 grip on himself ! ' ' The Doctor 's voice had regained its tim- 
 bre ; it was just a little hard, and it broke an instant later 
 as he cried: "0 Lord, Lord, mother — we can't fool our- 
 selves; let's not try!" They looked into the garden, where 
 the girl stood by the blooming lilacs with her arms filled 
 with blossoms. 
 
 At length the mother spoke, "What shall we do?" 
 
82 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "What can we do?" the Doctor echoed. "What can any 
 human creatures do in these cases! To interfere does no 
 good! The thing is here. Why has it come? I don't 
 know." He repeated the last sentence piteously, and went 
 on gently: 
 
 " 'They say it was a stolen tide — the Lord who sent it, 
 He knows all ! ' But why — why — why — did it wash in here ? 
 What does it mean ? What have we done — and what — what 
 has she done ? ' ' 
 
 The little Doctor looked up into the strong face of his 
 wife rather helplessly, then the time spirit that is after all 
 our sanity — touched them, and they smiled. "Perhaps, 
 Jim," the smile broke into something almost like a laugh, 
 "father said something like that to mother the day I stood 
 among the magnolias trying to pluck courage with the flow- 
 ers to tell him that I was going with you ! ' ' 
 
 They succeeded in raising a miserable little laugh, and he 
 squeezed her hand. 
 
 The girl moved toward the house. The father turned and 
 put on his hat as he went to meet her. She was a hesitant, 
 self-conscious girl in pink, who stopped her father as he 
 toddled down the front steps with his medicine case, and 
 she put her hand upon him, saying : 
 
 "Father," she paused, looking eagerly at him, then con- 
 tinued, "there's the loveliest yellow flag over here." The 
 father smiled, put his arm about the girl and piped: "So 
 the pink rosebud will take us to the yellow flag!" They 
 walked across the garden to the flower and she exclaimed: 
 "Oh, father— isn't it lovely!" 
 
 The father looked tenderly into her gray eyes, patted her 
 on the shoulder and with his arm still about her, he led her 
 to a seat under the lilacs before the yellow flower. He 
 looked from the flower to her face and then kissed her as he 
 whispered: "Oh my dear, my dear." She threw her arms 
 about him and buried her face, all flushed, upon his shoulder. 
 He felt her quiver under the pressure of his arm and be- 
 fore she could look at him, she spoke : 
 
 "Oh, father! Father! You — you won't — you won't 
 blame — " Then she lifted up her face to his and cried 
 passionately : "But all the world could not stop it now — not 
 
CAPTAIN MORTON AS COURT HERALD 83 
 
 now ! But, oh, father, I want you with me, ' ' and she shook 
 his arm. "You must understand. You must see Tom as 
 I see him, father." She looked the question of her soul in 
 an anxious, searching glance. Her father reached for one 
 of her hands and patted it. He gazed downward at the 
 yellow iris, but did not see it. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I know — I understand." 
 
 "I was sure that you would know without my spelling it 
 all out to you. But, oh, father," she cried, "I don't want 
 you and mother to feel as you do about Tom, for you are 
 wrong. You are all — all wrong ! " 
 
 The Doctor 's fat hand pressed the strong hand of the girl. 
 "Well," he began slowly, his high-keyed voice was pitched 
 to a soft tone and he spoke with a woman's gentleness, 
 "Tom's quite a man, but — " he could only repeat, "quite 
 a man." Then he added gently: "And I feel that he 
 thinks it's genuine now — his — love for you, daughter." 
 The Doctor's face twitched, and he swallowed a convulsive 
 little sob as he said, "Laura — child — can't you see, it really 
 makes no difference about Tom — not finally!" He blinked 
 and gulped and went on with renewed courage. "Can't you 
 see, child — you're all we've got — mother and I — and if you 
 want Tom — why — " his face began to crumple, but he con- 
 trolled it, and blurted out, "Why by Johnnie you can have 
 him. And what's more," his voice creaked with emotion as 
 he brought his hand down on his knee, " I 'm going to make 
 Tom the best father-in-law in the whole United States." 
 His body rocked for a moment as he spurred himself to a 
 last effort. Then he said: "And mother — mother '11 be — 
 mother will — she'll make him — " he could get no further, 
 but he felt the pressure of her hand, and knew that she 
 understood. "Mother and I just want you to be happy and 
 if it takes Tom for that — why Tom's what it takes, I guess — 
 and that's all we want to know ! ' ' 
 
 The girl felt the tears on his face as she laid her cheek 
 against his. 
 
 Then she spoke: "But you don't know him, father! 
 You don't understand him! It's beautiful to be able to do 
 what I can do — but," she shuddered, "it's so awful — I mean 
 all that devil that used to be in him. He is so ashamed, so 
 
84 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 sorry— and it's gone— all gone— all, every bit of it gone, 
 father!" She put her father's hand to her naming cheek 
 and whispered, "You think so, don't you, father?" 
 
 The father's eyes Med again and his throat choked. 
 "Laura," he said very gently, "my professional opinion is 
 this: You've a fighting chance with Tom Van Dorn — 
 about one in ten. He's young. You're a strong, forceful 
 woman — lot's of good Satterthwaite in you, and precious 
 little of the obliging Nesbits. Now I'll tell you the truth, 
 Laura; Tom's got a typical cancer on his soul. But he's 
 young; and you're young, and just now he's undergoing a 
 moral regeneration. You are new blood. You may purify 
 him. If the moral tissue isn't all rotten, you may cure 
 him." 
 
 The girl gripped her father's hand and cried: "But you 
 think I can — father, you think I can ? ' ' 
 
 "No," piped the little man sadly, "no, daughter, I don't 
 think you can. But I hope you can; and if you'd like to 
 know, I'm going to pray the God that sent me to your 
 mother to give you the sense and power He gave her. ' ' The 
 Doctor smiled, withdrew his arm, and started for the street. 
 He turned, "And if you do save him, Laura, I'll be mighty 
 proud of you. For," he squeaked good naturedly, "it's a 
 big job — but when you've done it you'll have something to 
 show for it — I'll say that for him — you'll certainly have 
 something to show for it, ' ' he repeated. He did not whistle 
 as he walked down the street and the daughter thought that 
 he kept his eyes upon the ground. As he was about to pass 
 from her view, he turned, waved his hand and threw her a 
 kiss, and with it she felt a blessing. 
 
 But curiously enough she saw only one of the goodly 
 company of Doctor Nesbits that trudged down the hill in his 
 white linen suit, under his broad-brimmed panama hat. 
 Naturally she hardly might be expected to see the conscience- 
 less boss of Hancock and Greely counties, who handled the 
 money of privilege seekers and bought and sold men gayly 
 as a part of the day's work. Nor could she be expected to 
 see the helpless little man whose face crumpled, whose heart 
 sank and whose courage melted as he stood beside her in 
 the garden, the sad, hopeless little man who, as he went down 
 
CAPTAIN MORTON AS COURT HERALD 85 
 
 the hill was captain of the groups that walked under his 
 hat that hour. The amiable Doctor, who was everybody's 
 friend and was loyal to those who served him, the daughter 
 neglected that day; and the State Senator did not attract 
 her. She saw only a gentle, tender, understanding father, 
 whose love shone out of his face like a beacon and who 
 threw merry kisses as he disappeared down the hill — a ruddy- 
 faced, white phantom in a golden spring day! 
 
 Some place between his home and Market Street the father 
 retired and the politician took command of Dr. Nesbit's soul. 
 And he gave thought to the Nesbit machine. The job of the 
 moment before the machine was to make George Brotherton, 
 who had the strength of a man who belonged to all the lodges 
 in town, mayor of Harvey. "Help Harvey Hump" was 
 George's alliterative slogan, and the translation of the slo- 
 gan into terms of Nesbitese was found in a rather elaborate 
 plan to legalize the issuance of bonds by the coal and oil 
 towns adjacent to Harvey, so that Daniel Sands could spin 
 out his web of iron and copper and steel, — rails and wires 
 and pipes into these huddles of shanties that he might sell 
 them light and heat and power and communication and 
 transportation. 
 
 Even the boss — even Old Linen Pants — was not without 
 his sense of humor, nor without his joyous moments when he 
 relished human nature in large, raw portions. As he walked 
 down the hill there flashed across his mind a consciousness 
 of the pride of George Brotherton in his candidacy. That 
 pride expressed itself in a feud George had with Violet 
 Mauling who, having achieved stenography, was installed 
 in the offices of Calvin & Van Dorn as a stenographer — the 
 stenographer in fact. She on her part was profoundly 
 proud of her job and expressed her pride in overhanging 
 and exceeding mischievous looking bangs upon her low 
 and rather narrow brow. In the feud between George and 
 Violet, it was her consecrated task to keep him waiting as 
 long as possible before admitting him to Van Dorn's inner 
 room, and it was Mr. Brotherton 's idea never to eall her by 
 her right name, nor by any name twice in succession. She 
 was Inez or Maude or Mabel or Gwendolyn or Pet or Sweet- 
 heart or Dearest, in rapid succession, and in return for his 
 
86 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 pseudonymnal attentions, Mr. Brotherton always was sure 
 of receiving from Miss Mauling upon leaving the office, 
 an elaborately turned-up nose. For Miss Mauling was peev- 
 ish and far from happy. She had been conscious for nearly 
 a year that her power over young Mr. Van Dorn was failing, 
 or that her charms were waning, or that something was hap- 
 pening to clog or cloy her romance. On a certain May 
 morning she had sat industriously writing, "When in the 
 course of human events," "When in the course of human 
 events it becomes necessary," "When in the course of hu- 
 man events it becomes necessary for a people to separate — " 
 upon her typewriter, over and over and over again, while 
 she listened to Captain Morton selling young Mr. Van Dorn 
 a patent churn, and from the winks and nods and sly digs 
 and nudges the Captain distributed through his canvass, it 
 was obvious to Miss Mauling that affairs in certain quarters 
 had reached a point. 
 
 That evening at Brotherton 's Amen corner, where the 
 gay young blades of the village were gathered— Captain 
 Morton decided that as court herald of the community he 
 should proclaim the banns between Thomas Van Dorn and 
 Laura Nesbit. Naturally he desired a proper entrance into 
 the conversation for his proclamation, but with the ever- 
 lasting ting-aling and tym-ty-tum of Nathan Perry's mando- 
 lin and the jangling accompaniment of Morty's mandolin, 
 opening for the court herald was not easy. Grant Adams 
 was sitting at the opposite end of the bench from the Captain, 
 deep in one of Mr. Brotherton 's paper bound books— to-wit, 
 "The Stones of Venice," and young Joe Calvin sadly smok- 
 ing his first stogy, though still in his knickerbockers, was 
 greedily feasting his eyes upon a copy of the pink Police 
 Gazette hanging upon a rack above the counter. Henry 
 Fenn and Mr. Brotherton were lounging over the cigar 
 case, discussing matters of state as they affected a county 
 attorney and a mayor, when the Captain, clearing his throat, 
 addressed Mr. Brotherton thus : 
 
 "George — I sold two patent churns to two bridegrooms 
 to-day— eh?" As the music stopped the Captain, looking 
 at Henry Fenn, added reflectively: "Bet you four bits, 
 George, you can 't name the other one— what say ? " No one 
 
CAPTAIN MORTON AS COURT HERALD 87 
 
 said and the Captain took up his solo. "Well — it's this- 
 away: I see what I see next door. And I hear what my 
 girls say. So this morning I sashays around the yard till 
 I meets a certain young lady a standing by the yaller rose 
 bush next to our line fence and I says: 'Good, morning 
 madam,' I says, 'from what I see and hear and cogitate,' I 
 says, 'it's getting about time for you to join my list of 
 regular customers.' And she kind of laughs like a Swiss 
 bellringer's chime — the way she laughs; and she pretended 
 she didn't understand. So I broadens out and says, 'I sold 
 Rhody Hollander her first patent rocker the day she came 
 to town to begin housekeeping with. I sold your pa and 
 ma a patent gate before they had a fence. I sold Joe Cal- 
 vin's woman her first apple corer, and I started Ahab 
 Wright up in housekeeping by selling him a Peerless cooker. 
 I've sold household necessities to every one of the Mrs. 
 Sandses' and 'y gory, madam,' I says, 'next to the probate 
 court and the preacher, I'm about the first necessity of a 
 happy marriage in this man's town,' I says, 'and it looks 
 to me,' I says, 'it certainly looks, to me — ' And I laughs 
 and she laughs, all redded up and asts: 'Well, what are 
 you selling this spring, Captain?' And I says, 'The Ap- 
 pomattox churn,' and then one word brought on another 
 and she says finally, 'You just tell Tom to buy one for the 
 first of our Lares and Penates,' though I got the last word 
 wrong and tried to sell him Lares and spuds and then Lares 
 and Murphies before he got what I was drivin' at. But I 
 certainly sold the other bridegroom, Henry — eh?" 
 
 A silence greeted the Captain's remarks. In it the 
 "Stones of Venice" grew bleak and cold for Grant Adams. 
 He rose and walked rather aimlessly toward the water cooler 
 in the rear of the store and gulped down two cups of water. 
 When he came back to the bench the group there was busy 
 with the Captain's news. But the music did not start 
 again. Morty Sands sat staring into the pearl inlaid ring 
 around the hole in his mandolin, and his chin trembled. 
 The talk drifted away from the Captain's announcement in 
 a moment, and Morty saw Grant Adams standing by the 
 door, looking through a window into the street. Grant 
 seemed a tower of strength. For a few minutes Morty tried 
 
88 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 to restore his soul by thrumming a tune — a sweet, tinkly 
 little tune, whose words kept dinging in his head : 
 
 "Love comes like a summer sigh, softly o'er ua stealing; 
 
 "Love comes and we wonder why, at love's shrine we're kneeling!" 
 
 But that only unsteadied his chin further. So he tucked 
 his mandolin under his arm, and moved rather stupidly 
 over to Grant Adams. To Morty, Grant Adams, even 
 though half a dozen years his junior, represented cousinship 
 and fellowship. As Morty rose Grant stepped through the 
 open door into the street and stood on the curb. Morty came 
 tiptoeing up to the great rawboned youth and whispered : 
 
 "Grant — Grant — I'm so — so damned unhappy! You 
 don't mind my telling you — do you?" Grant felt the arm 
 of his cousin tighten around his own arm. Grant stared 
 at the stars, and Morty gazed at the curb ; presently he drew 
 a deep sigh and said: "Thank you, Grant." He relaxed 
 his hold of the boy's arm and walked away with his head 
 down, and disappeared around the corner into the night. 
 Slowly Grant followed him. Once or twice or perhaps three 
 times he heard Morty trying vainly to thrum the sad little 
 tune about the waywardness of love. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 WHEREIN HENRY FENN MAKES AN INTERESTING EXPERIMENT 
 
 THE formal announcement of the engagement of Laura 
 Nesbit and Thomas Van Dorn came when Mrs. Nes- 
 bit began tearing out the old floors on the second 
 story of the Nesbit home and replacing them with hard- 
 wood floors. Having the carpenters handy she added a 
 round tower with which to impress the Schenectady Van 
 Dorns with the importance of the Maryland Satterthwaites. 
 In this architectural outburst the town read the news of the 
 engagement. The town was so moved by the news that 
 Mrs. Hilda Herdicker was able to sell to the young women 
 of her millinery suzerainty sixty-three hats, which had been 
 ordered "especially for Laura Nesbit," at prices ranging 
 from $2.00 to $57. Each hat was carefully, indeed fur- 
 tively, brought from under the counter, or from the back 
 room of the shop or from a box on a high shelf and secretly 
 exhibited and sold with injunctions that the Nesbits must 
 not be told what Mrs. Herdicker had done. One of these 
 hats was in reach of Violet Mauling 's humble twenty dol- 
 lars! Poor Violet was having a sad time in those days. 
 No candy, no soda water, no ice cream, no flowers ; no buggy 
 rides, however clandestine, nor fervid glances — nothing but 
 hard work was her unhappy lot and an occasional clash 
 with Mr. Brotherton. Thus the morning after the newly 
 elected Mayor had heard the formal announcement of the 
 engagement, he hurried to the offices of Calvin & Van Dorn 
 to congratulate his friend : 
 
 "Hello, Maudie," said Mr. Brotherton. "Oh, it isn't 
 Maudie — well then, Trilby, tell Mr. Van Dorn the handsome 
 gentleman has came." 
 
 Hearing Brotherton 's noise Van Dorn appeared, to sum- 
 mon his guest to the private office. 
 
 89 
 
90 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Well, you lucky old dog!" was Mr. Brother-ton's greet- 
 ing. "Well, say— this is his honor, the Mayor, come up to 
 collect your dog tax! Well, say!" As he walked into the 
 office all the secret society pins and charms and signets — 
 the Shriners' charm, the Odd Fellows' links, the Woodmen's 
 ax, the Elks' tooth, the Masons' square and compass, the 
 Knights Templars' arms, were glistening upon his wrinkled 
 front like a mosaic of jewels ! 
 
 Mr. Brotherton shook his friend's hand, repeating over 
 and over, "Well, say — " After the congratulatory cere- 
 mony was finished Mr. Brotherton cried, "You old scoun- 
 drel — I'd rather have your luck than a license to steal in 
 a mint!" Then with an eye to business, he suggested: 
 "I'll just about open a box of ten centers down at my home 
 of the letters and arts for you when the boys drop around !" 
 He backed out of the room still shaking Mr. Van Dorn's 
 hand, and still roaring, "Well, say!" In the outer office 
 he waved a gracious hand at Miss Mauling and cried, 
 "Three sugars, please, Sadie — that will do for cream!" and 
 went laughing his seismic laugh down the stairs. 
 
 That evening the cigar box stood on the counter in Broth- 
 erton 's store. It was wreathed in smilax like a votive of- 
 fering and on a card back of the box Mr. Brotherton had 
 written these pious words : 
 
 "In loving memory of the late Tom Van Dorn, 
 
 Recently engaged. 
 
 For here, kind friends, we all must lie; 
 
 Turn, Sinner, turn before ye die! 
 
 Take one." 
 
 Seeing the box in the cloister and the brotherhood assem- 
 bled upon the walnut bench Dr. Nesbit, who came in on 
 a political errand, sniffed, and turned to Amos Adams. 
 "Well, Amos," piped the Doctor, "how's Lincoln this eve- 
 ning?" 
 
 The editor looked up amiably at the pudgy, white-clad 
 figure of the Doctor, and replied casually though earnestly, 
 "Well, Doc Jim, I couldn't seem to get Lincoln to-day. 
 But I did have a nice chat with Beecher last night and he 
 said: 'Your friend, Dr. Nesbit, I observe, is a low church 
 
HENRY FBNN MAKES AN EXPERIMENT 91 
 
 Congregationalist. ' And when I asked what he meant 
 Beecher replied, 'High church Congregationalists believe in 
 New England; low church Congregationalists believe in 
 God ! ' Sounds like him — I could just see him twitching his 
 lips and twinkling his eyes when it came ! ' ' Captain Mor- 
 ton looked suspiciously over his steel-bowed glasses to say 
 testily : 
 
 ' ' 'Y gory, Amos — that thing will get you yet — what say ? ' ' 
 he asked, turning for confirmation to the Doctor. 
 
 Amos Adams smiled gently at the Captain, but addressed 
 the Doctor eagerly, as one more capable of understanding 
 matters occult : "And I'll tell you another thing — Mr. Left 
 is coming regularly now." 
 
 "Mr. Left?" sniffed the Captain. 
 
 "Yes," explained the editor carefully, "I was telling 
 the Doctor last week that if I go into a dark room and 
 blindfold myself and put a pencil in my left hand, a 
 control who calls himself Mr. Left comes and writes mes- 
 sages from the Other Side." 
 
 "Any more sense to 'em than your crazy planchette?" 
 scoffed Captain Morton. 
 
 The editor closed his eyes in triumph. "Read our edito- 
 rial this week on President Cleveland and the Money Power ? ' ' 
 he asked. The Captain nodded. "Mr. Left got it with- 
 out the scratch of a 't' or the dot of an 'i' from Samuel J. 
 Tilden." He opened his eyes to catch the astonishment of 
 the listeners. 
 
 "Humph!" snorted the Doctor in his high, thin voice, 
 "Old Tilden seems to have got terribly chummy with Karl 
 Marx in the last two years." 
 
 "Well, I didn't write it, and Mary says it's not even like 
 my handwrite. And that reminds me, Doctor, I got to get 
 her prescription filled again. That tonic you give her seems 
 to be kind of wearing off. The baby you know — " he 
 stopped a moment vaguely. "Someway she doesn't seem 
 strong." 
 
 Only the Doctor caught Grant's troubled look. 
 
 The Doctor snapped his watch, and looked at Brother- 
 ton. The Doctor was not the man to loaf long of an autumn 
 evening before any election, and he turned to Amos and 
 
92 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 said: "All right, Amos — we'll fix up something for Mary 
 a little later. Now, George — get out that Fourth Ward 
 voters' list and let's get to work ! ' ' 
 
 The group turned to the opening door and saw Henry 
 Fenn, resplendent in a high silk hat and a conspicuously 
 Sunday best suit, which advertised his condition, standing 
 in the open door. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said 
 slowly. 
 
 A look of common recognition of Fenn's case passed 
 around the group in the corner. Fenn saw the look as he 
 came in. He was walking painfully straight. "I may," he 
 said, lapsing into the poetry that came welling from his 
 memory and marked him for a drunken fool, "I may," 
 opening his ardent eyes and glancing affectionately about, 
 "have been toying with 'lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon' 
 and my feet may be 'uncertain, coy and hard to please,' " 
 he grinned with wide amiability, "but my head is clear as 
 a bell." His eyes flashed nervously about the shop, resting 
 upon nothing, seeing everything. He spied Grant, "Hello, 
 Red," exclaimed Mr. Fenn, "glad to see you back again. 
 'M back again myself. Ye crags 'n' peaks 'm with you 
 once again." As he flourished his silk hat he saw the con- 
 sternation on Brotherton's big, moon face. "Walking be- 
 hind the counter he clapped both hands down on Brother- 
 ton's big shoulders. ' ' Georgy, Georgy, ' ' he repeated mourn- 
 fully: 
 
 "Old story, Georgy. Fight— fight, fight, then just a lit- 
 tle, just a very little surrender; not going to give in, but 
 just a nip for old sake's sake. Whoo-oo-oo-oo-p the sky- 
 rocket blazes and is gone, and then just another nip to cool 
 the first and then a God damn big drink and — and — " 
 
 He laughed foolishly and leaned forward on the counter. 
 As his arm touched the counter it brushed the smilax cov- 
 ered cigar box and sent the box and the cigars to the floor. 
 
 "Henry, you fool— you poor fool," cried Brotherton; but 
 his voice was not angry as he said: "If you must mess up 
 your own affairs for Heaven's sake have some respect for 
 Tom's!" 
 
 "Tom's love affairs and mine," sneered the maudlin man. 
 " 'They grew in beauty side by side.' But don't you fool 
 
HENRY FENN MAKES AN EXPERIMENT 93 
 
 yourself," and Fenn wagged a drunken head, "Tom's devh 
 isn't dead, she sleepeth, that's what she does. The maiden 
 is not dead she sleepeth, and some day she'll wake up and 
 then Tom's love affair will be where my love affair is." 
 His eyes met the doctor's. Fenn sighed and laughed fatu- 
 ously and then he straightened up and said: "Mr. George 
 Brotherton, most worshipful master, Senior Warden, Grand 
 High Potentate, Keeper of the Records and Seals — hear me. 
 I'm going out to No. 826 Congress Street to see the fairest 
 of her sex — the fairest of her sex." Then he smiled like 
 the flash of a burning soul and continued : 
 
 " 'The cold, the changed, perchance the dead anew, 
 The mourned, the loved, the lost.' " 
 
 And sighing a deep sigh, and again waving his silk hat 
 in a profound bow, he was gone. The group in the store saw 
 him step lightly into a waiting hack, and drive away out of 
 their reach. Brotherton stood at the door and watched the 
 carriage turn off Market Street, then came back, shaking a 
 sorrowful head. He looked up at the Doctor and said: 
 "She's bluffing — say, Doctor, you know her, what do you 
 think?" 
 
 "Bluffing," returned the Doctor absently, then added 
 quickly: "Come now, George, get your voters' list! It's 
 getting late!" 
 
 George Brotherton looked blankly at the group. In every 
 face but the Doctor's a genuine sorrow for their friend was 
 marked. ' ' Doc, ' ' Brotherton began apologetically, ' ' I guess 
 I'll just have to get you to let me off to-night!" He hesi- 
 tated ; then as he saw the company around him backing him 
 up, "Why, Doc, the way I feel right now I don't care if 
 the whole county ticket is licked! I can't work to-night, 
 Doc— I just can't!" 
 
 The Doctor's face as he listened, changed. It was as 
 though another soul had come upon the deck of his coun- 
 tenance. He answered softly in his piping voice, "No man 
 could, George— after that!" Then turning to Grant the 
 Doctor said gently, as one reminded of a forgotten purpose : 
 
 "Come along with me, Grant." They mounted the stairs 
 to the Doctor's office and when the door was closed the Doc- 
 
94 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 tor motioned Grant to a chair and piped sharply: "Grant, 
 Kenyon is wearing your mother's life out. I've just been 
 down to see her. Look here, Grant, I want to know about 
 Margaret? Does she ever come to see you folks — how does 
 she treat Kenyon?" 
 
 Looking at the floor, Grant answered slowly, "Well she 
 rode down on her wheel on his first birthday — slipped in 
 when we were all out but mother, and cried and went on 
 about her poor child, mother said, and left him a pair of 
 little knit slippers. And she wrote him a birthday card 
 the second time, but we didn't hear from her this time." 
 He paused. "She never looks at him on the street, and 
 she's just about quit speaking to me. But last winter, she 
 came down and cried around one afternoon. Mother sent 
 for her, I think." 
 
 "Why?" asked the Doctor quickly. 
 
 "Well," hesitated Grant, "it was when mother was first 
 taken sick. I think father and mother thought maybe Mag- 
 gie might see things different — well, about Kenyon." He 
 stopped. 
 
 ' ' Maggie and you ? ' ' prompted the Doctor. 
 
 "Well, something like that, perhaps," replied the boy. 
 
 The Doctor pushed back in his chair abruptly and cut 
 in shrilly, ' ' They still think you and Margaret should marry 
 on account of Kenyon ? ' ' Grant nodded. ' ' Do you want to 
 marry her?" The Doctor leaned forward in his chair, 
 watching the boy. The Doctor saw the flash of revulsion 
 that spread over the youth's face before Grant raised his 
 head, and met the Doctor 's keen gaze and answered soberly, 
 ' ' I would if it was best. ' ' 
 
 "Well," the Doctor returned as if to himself. "I sup- 
 pose so." To the younger man, he said: "Grant, she 
 wouldn't marry you. She is after bigger game. As far 
 as reforming Henry Fenn's concerned, she's bluffing. It 
 doesn't interest her any more than Kenyon 's lack of a 
 mother." 
 
 The Doctor rose and Grant saw that the interview was 
 over. The Doctor left the youth at the foot of the stairway 
 and went out into the autumn night, where the stars could 
 blink at all his wisdom. Though he, poor man, did not know 
 
HENRY FENN MAKES AN EXPERIMENT 95 
 
 that they were winking. For often men who know good 
 women and love them well, are as unjust to weak women as 
 men are who know only those women who are frail. 
 
 That night Margaret Miiller sat on the porch, where Henry 
 Fenn left her, considering her problem. Now this problem 
 did not remotely concern the Adamses — nor even Kenyon 
 Adams. Margaret Miiller 's problem was centered in Henry 
 Fenn, County Attorney of Greeley County ; Henry Fenn, who 
 had visited her gorgeously drunk; Henry Fenn on whose 
 handsome shoulder she had enjoyed rather keenly shedding 
 some virtuous tears in chiding him for his broken promise. 
 Yet she knew that she would take him back. And she knew 
 that he knew that he might come back. For she had moved 
 far forward in the siege of Harvey. She was well within 
 the walls of the beleaguered city, and was planning for the 
 larger siege of life and destiny. 
 
 About all there is in life is one's fundamental choice be^ 
 tween the spiritual and the material. After that choice 
 is made, the die of life is cast. Events play upon that 
 choice their curious pattern, bringing such griefs and joys, 
 such calamities and winnings as every life must have. For 
 that choice makes character, and character makes happiness. 
 Margaret Miiller sitting there in the night long after the 
 last step of Henry Fenn had died away, thought of her 
 lover's arms, remembered her lover's lips, but clearer and 
 more moving than these vain things, her mind showed her 
 what his hands could bring her and if her soul waved a duty 
 signal, for the salvation of Henry Fenn, she shut her eyes 
 to the signal and hurried into the house. 
 
 She was one of God's miracles of beauty the next day as 
 she passed Grant Adams on the street, with his carpenter's 
 box on his arm, going from the mine shaft to do some work 
 in the office of the attorney for the mines. She barely nod- 
 ded to Grant, yet the radiance of her beauty made him turn 
 his head to gaze at her. Doctor Nesbit did that, and Captain 
 Morton, and Dick Bowman, — even John Kollander turned, 
 putting up his ear trumpet as if to hear the glory of her 
 presence ; the whole street turned after her as though some 
 high wind had blown human heads backward when she 
 passed. They saw a lithe, exquisite animal figure, poised 
 
96 IN THE HBAET OF A FOOL 
 
 strongly on her feet, walking as in the very pride of sex, 
 radiating charms consciously, but with all the grace of a 
 flower in the breeze. Her bright eyes, her masses of dark 
 hair, her dimpled face and neck, her lips that flamed with 
 the joy of life, the enchantment of her whole body, was so 
 complete a thing that morning, that she might well have 
 told her story to the world. The little Doctor knew what 
 her answer to Henry Fenn had been and always would be. 
 He knew as well as though she had told him. In spite of 
 himself, his heart melted a little and he had consciously to 
 stop arguing with himself that she had done the wise thing ; 
 that to throw Henry over would only hasten an end, which 
 her powerful personality might finally avert. But George 
 Brotherton — when he saw the light in her eyes, was sad. 
 In the core of him, because he loved his friend, he knew 
 what had happened to that friend. He was sad — sad and 
 resentful, vaguely and without reason, at the mien and bear- 
 ing of Margaret Miiller as she went to her work that morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Brotherton remembered her an hour later when, in the 
 back part of the bookstore Henry Fenn sat, jaded, haggard, 
 and with his dull face drawn with remorse, — a burned-out 
 sky rocket. Brotherton was busy with his customers, but 
 in a lull, and between sales as the trade passed in and out, 
 they talked. Sometimes a customer coming in would in- 
 terrupt them, but the talk went on as trade flowed by. It 
 ran thus : 
 
 "Yes, George, but it's my salvation. She's the only an- 
 chor I have on earth." 
 
 "But she didn't hold you yesterday." 
 
 "I know, but God, George, it was terrific, the way that 
 thing grabbed me yesterday. But it's all gone now." 
 
 "I know, Henry, but it will come back — can't you see 
 what you'll be doing to her?" 
 
 Fenn, gray of face, with his straight, colorless hair, with 
 his staring eyes, with his listless form, sat head in hands, 
 gazing at the floor. He did not look up as he replied: 
 
 George, I just can't give her up; I won't give her up " 
 he cried. "I believe, after the depths of love she showed 
 me m her soul last night, I'd take her, if I knew I was taking 
 
HENRY FENN MAKES AN EXPERIMENT 97 
 
 us both to hell. Just let me have a home, George, — and her 
 and children — George, I know children would hold me — 
 lots of children — I can make money. I've got money — all 
 I need to marry on, and we'll have a home and children and 
 they will hold me — keep me up." 
 
 In Volume XXI of the "Psychological Society's Publica- 
 tions," page 374, will be found a part of the observations 
 of "Mr. Left," together with copious notes upon the Adams 
 case by an eminent authority. The excerpt herewith 
 printed is attributed by Mr. Left to Darwin or Huxley or 
 perhaps one of the Brownings — it is unimportant to note 
 just which one, for Mr. Left gleaned from a wide circle of 
 intellects. The interesting thing is that about the time 
 these love affairs we are considering were brewing, Mr. 
 Left wrote : "If the natural selection of love is the triumph 
 of evolution on this planet, if the free choice of youth and 
 maiden, unhampered by class or nationality, or wealth, or 
 age, or parental interference, or thought of material advan- 
 tage, is the greatest step taken by life since it came mys- 
 teriously into this earth, how much of the importance of 
 the natural selection of youth in love hangs upon full and 
 free access to all the data necessary for choice." 
 
 What irony was in the free choice of these lovers here in 
 Harvey that day when Mr. Left wrote this. What did 
 Henry Penn know of the heart or the soul of the woman he 
 adored? What did Laura Nesbit know qf her lover and 
 what did he know of her? They all four walked blind- 
 folded. Free choice for them was as remote and impos- 
 sible as it would have been if they had been auctioned into 
 bondage. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 IN WHICH MARY ADAMS TAKES A MUCH NEEDED REST 
 
 THE changing seasons moved from autumn to winter, 
 from winter to spring. One gray, wet March day, 
 Grant Adams stood by the counter asking Mr. Broth- 
 erton to send to the city for roses. 
 
 "White roses, a dozen white roses." Mr. Brotherton 
 turned his broad back as he wrote the order, and said 
 gently: "They'll be down on No. 11 to-night, Grant,; I'll 
 send 'em right out. ' ' 
 
 As Grant stood hesitating, ready to go, but dreading the 
 street, Dr. Nesbit came in. He pressed the youth's hand 
 and did not speak. He bought bis tobacco and stood clean- 
 ing his pipe. "Could your father sleep any after — when 
 I left, Grant?" asked the Doctor. 
 
 The young man shook his head. "Mrs. Nesbit is out 
 there, isn't she?" the Doctor asked again. 
 
 "Yes," replied the youth, "she and Laura came out be- 
 fore we had breakfast. And Mrs. Dexter is there." 
 
 "Has any one else come?" asked the Doctor, looking up. 
 sharply from his pipe, and added, "I sent word to Mar- 
 garet Miiller." 
 
 Grant shook his head and the Doctor left the shop. At 
 the doorway he met Captain Morton, and seemed to be 
 telling him the news, for the Captain's face showed the 
 sorrow and concern that he felt. He hurried in and took 
 Grant's hand and held it affectionately. 
 
 "Grant, your mother was with my wife her last night on 
 earth; I wish I could help you, son. I'll run right down 
 to your father." 
 
 And the Captain left in the corner of the store the model 
 of a patent coffee pot he was handling at the time and 
 went away without his morning paper. Mr. Van Dorn 
 
 98 
 
MARY ADAMS TAKES A REST 99 
 
 came in, picked up Ms paper, snipped off the end of his 
 cigar at the machine, lighted the cigar, considered his fine 
 raiment a moment, adjusted his soft hat at a proper angle, 
 pulled up his tie, and seeing the youth, said: "By George, 
 young man, this is sad news I hear; give the good father 
 my sympathy. Too bad." 
 
 "When Grant went home, the silence of death hung over 
 the little house, in spite of the bustling of Mrs. Nesbit. 
 And Grant sat outside on a stone by his father under the 
 gray sky. 
 
 In the house the prattle of the child with the women made 
 the house seem pitifully lonesome. Jasper was expressing 
 his sorrow by chopping wood down in the timber. Jasper 
 was an odd sheep in the flock; he was a Sands after Daniel's 
 own heart. So Grant and his father sat together mourning 
 in silence. Finally the father drew in a deep broken breath, 
 and spoke with his eyes on the ground: 
 
 " 'These also died in the faith, without having received 
 the promise!' " Then he lifted up his face and mourned, 
 "Mary — Mary — " and again, "Oh, Mary, we need — " 
 The child's voice inside the house calling fretfully, "Mother ! 
 mother!" came to the two and brought a quick cramp to 
 the older man's throat and tears to his eyes. Finally, Amos 
 found voice to say : 
 
 "I was thinking how we — you and I and Jasper need 
 mother! But our need is as nothing compared with the 
 baby's. Poor — lonely little thing! I don't know what to 
 do for him, Grant." He turned to his son helplessly. 
 
 Again the little voice was lifted, and Laura Nesbit could 
 be heard hushing the child's complaint. Not looking at his 
 father, Grant spoke: "Dr. Nesbit said he had let Margaret 
 know — " 
 
 The father shook his head and returned, ' ' I presumed he 
 would!" He looked into his son 's face and said : "Maggie 
 doesn't see things as we do, son. But, oh — what can we 
 do ! And the little fellow needs her — needs some one, who 
 will love him and take care of him. Oh, Mary — Mary — " he 
 cried from his bewildered heart. "Be with us, Mary, and 
 show us what to do ! " 
 
 Grant rose, went into the house, bundled up Kenyon and 
 
100 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 between showers carried him and walked with him through 
 the bleak woods of March, where the red bird's joyous song 
 only cut into his heart and made the young man press closer 
 to him the little form that snuggled in his arms. 
 
 At night Jasper went to his room above the kitchen and 
 the father turned to his lonely bed. In the cold parlor Mary 
 Adams lay. Grant sat in the kitchen by the stove, pressing 
 to his face his mother's apron, only three days before left 
 hanging by her own hands on the kitchen door. He clung 
 to this last touch of her fingers, through the long night, and 
 as he sat there his heart filled with a blind, vague, rather im- 
 potent purpose to take his mother's place with Kenyon. 
 From time to time he rose to put wood in the stove, but al- 
 ways when he went back to his chair, and stroked the apron 
 with his face, the baby seemed to be clinging to him. The 
 thought of the little hands forever tugging at her apron 
 racked him with sobs long after his tears were gone. 
 
 And so as responsibility rose in him he stepped across the 
 border from youth to manhood. 
 
 They made him dress in his Sunday best the next morning 
 and he was still so close to that borderland of boyhood that 
 he was standing about the yard near the gate, looking 
 rather lost and awkward when the Nesbits drove up with 
 Kenyon, whom they had taken for the night. When the 
 others had gone into the house the Doctor asked: 
 
 "Did she come, Grant?" 
 
 The youth lifted his face to the Doctor and looked him 
 squarely in the eye as man to man and answered sharply, 
 "No." 
 
 The Doctor cocked one eye reflectively and said slowly, 
 "So — " and drove away. 
 
 It was nearly dusk when the Adamses came back from 
 the cemetery to the empty house. But a bright fire was 
 burning in the kitchen stove and the kettle was boiling and 
 the odor of food cooking in the oven was in the air. Kenyon 
 was moving fitfully about the front room. Mrs. Dexter was 
 quietly setting the table. Amos Adams hung up his hat, 
 took off his coat, and went to his rocker by the kitchen 
 door ; Jasper sat stiffly in the front room. Grant met Mrs. 
 Dexter in the dining room, and she saw that the child had 
 
MARY ADAMS TAKES A REST 101 
 
 hold of the young man's finger and she heard the baby 
 calling, "Mother — mother! Grant, I want mother!" with a 
 plaintive little cry, over and over again. Grant played with 
 the child, showed the little fellow his toys and tried to stop 
 the incessant call of "Mother — mother — where 's mother!" 
 At last the boy's eyes filled. He picked up the child, knock- 
 ing his own new hat roughly to the floor. He drew up his 
 chin, straightened his trembling jaw, batted his eyes so that 
 the moisture left them and said to his father in a hard, low 
 voice — a man's voice: 
 
 "I am going to Margaret; she must help." 
 
 It was dark when he came to town and walked up Congress 
 Street with the little one snuggled in his arms. Just be- 
 fore he arrived at the house, the restless child had asked 
 to walk, and they went hand in hand up the steps of the 
 house where Margaret Miiller lived. She was sitting alone 
 on the veranda — clearly waiting for some one, and when she 
 saw who was coming up the steps she rose and hurried to 
 them, greeting them on the very threshold of the veranda. 
 She was white and her bosom was fluttering as she asked in 
 a tense whisper: 
 
 "What do you want — quick, what do you want?" 
 
 She stood before Grant, as if stopping his progress. The 
 child's plaintive cry, "Mother — Grant, I want mother!" 
 not in grief, but in a great question, was the answer. 
 
 He looked into her staring, terror-stricken eyes until they 
 drooped and for a moment he dominated her. But she 
 came back from some outpost of her nature with reinforce- 
 ments. 
 
 "Get out of here — get out of here. Don't come here with 
 your brat — get out," she snarled in a whisper. The child 
 went to her, plucked her skirts and cried, "Mother, mother." 
 Grant pointed to the baby and broke out: "Oh, Maggie — 
 what's to become of Kenyon? — what can I do! He's only 
 got you now. Oh, Maggie, won't you come?" He saw fear 
 flit across her face in a tense second before she answered. 
 Then fear left and she crouched at him trembling, red- 
 eyed, gaping, mouthed, the embodiment of determined hate ; 
 swiping the child's little hands away from her, she snapped: 
 
 "Get out of here!— leave! quick!" He stood stubbornly 
 
102 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 before her and only the child's voice crying, "Grant, Grant, 
 I want to go home to mother," filled the silence. Finally 
 she spoke again, cutting through the baby's complaint. "I 
 shall never, never, never take that child ; I loathe him, and I 
 hate you and I want both of you always to keep away from 
 me." 
 
 Without looking at her again, he caught up the toddling 
 child, lifted it to his shoulder and walked down the steps. 
 As they turned into the street they ran into Henry Fenn, 
 who in his free choice of a mate was hurrying to one who 
 he thought would give him a home — a home and children, 
 many children to stand between him and his own insatiate 
 devil. Henry greeted Grant : 
 
 "Why, boy — oh, yes, been to see Maggie? I wish she 
 could help you, Grant." 
 
 And from the veranda came a sweet, rich voice, crying : 
 
 "Yes, Henry — do you know where they can get a good 
 nurse girl?" 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 HERE OUR POOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT AND CAN FIND ONLY DUST 
 
 HENRY FENN and Margaret Miiller sat naming 
 their wedding day, while Grant Adams walked 
 home with his burden. Henry Fenn had been fight- 
 ing through a long winter, against the lust for liquor that 
 was consuming his flesh. At times it seemed to him 
 that her presence as he fought his battle, helped him; but 
 there were phases of his fight, when she too fashioned her- 
 self in his imagination as a temptress, and she seemed to blow 
 upon the coals that were searing his weak flesh. 
 
 At such times he was taciturn, and went about his day's 
 work as one who is busy at a serious task. He smiled his 
 amiable smile, he played his man's part in the world with- 
 out whimpering, and fought on like a gentleman. The night 
 he met Grant and the child at the steps of the house where 
 Margaret lived, he had called to set the day for their mar- 
 riage. And that night she glowed before him and in his 
 arms like a very brand of a woman blown upon by some 
 wind from another world. When he left her his throat 
 grew parched and dry and his lips quivered with a desire 
 for liquor that seemed to simmer in his vitals. But he set 
 his teeth, and ran to his room, and locked himself in, throw- 
 ing the key out of the window into the yard. He sat shiver- 
 ing and whimpering and fighting, by turns conquering his 
 devil, and panting under its weight, but always with the fig- 
 ure and face of his beloved in his eyes, sometimes beckoning 
 him to fight on, sometimes coaxing him to yield and stop the 
 struggle. But as the day came in he fell asleep with one 
 more battle to his credit. 
 
 In Harvey for many years Henry Fenn's name was a 
 byword; but the pitying angels who have seen him fight in 
 the days of his strength and manhood — they looked at Henry 
 
 103 
 
104 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 Penn, and touched reverent foreheads in his high honor. 
 Then why did they who know our hearts so well, let the 
 blow fall upon him, you ask. But there you trespass upon 
 that old question that the Doctor and Amos Adams have 
 thrashed out so long. Has man a free will, or has the illu- 
 sion of time and space wound him up in its predestined 
 tangle, to act as he must and be what he is without appeal 
 or resistance, or even hope of a pardon? 
 
 Doctor Nesbit and Amos Adams were trying to solve the 
 mystery of human destiny at the gate of the Adams' home 
 the day after the funeral. Amos had his foot on the hub 
 of the Doctor's buggy and was saying: "But Doctor, can't 
 you see that it isn't all material? Suppose that every atom 
 of the universe does affect every other atom, and that the 
 accumulated effect of past action holds the stars in their 
 courses, and that if we knew what all the past was we should 
 be able to foretell the future, because it would be mathe- 
 matically calculable — what of it ? That does not prove your 
 case, man! Can't you see that in free will another element 
 enters — the spiritual, if you please, that is not amenable 
 to atomic action past or present?" Amos smiled deprecat- 
 ingly and added sadly : ' ' Got that last night from Schopen- 
 hauer." The Doctor, clearly unawed by Schopenhauer, 
 broke out: "Aye, there I have you, Amos. Isn 't the brain 
 matter, and doesn't the brain secrete consciousness?" 
 
 "Does this buggy secrete distance, Jim? Go 'long with 
 you, man." Before the Doctor could reply, around the 
 corner of the house, bringing little Kenyon Adams in his 
 best bib and tucker, came the lofty figure of Mrs. Nesbit. 
 With her came her daughter. Then up spoke Mrs. Bedelia 
 Satterthwaite Nesbit of the Maryland Satterthwaites, "Look 
 here, Amos Adams — I don't care what you say, I'm going 
 to fake this baby." There was strong emphasis upon the 
 "I'm," and she went on: "You can have him every night, 
 and Grant can take care of the child after supper when he 
 comes home from work. But every morning at eight I 'm go- 
 ing to have this baby." Further emphasis upon the first 
 person. "I'm not going to see a child turned over to a 
 hired girl all day and me with a big house and no baby and 
 a daughter about to marry and leave me and a houseful of 
 
OUR FOOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT 105 
 
 help, if I needed it, which thank Heavens I don't." She 
 put her lips together sternly, and, "Not a word, Amos 
 Adams," she said to Amos, who had not opened his mouth. 
 "Not another word. Kenyon will be home at six o'clock." 
 
 She put the child into the Doctor's submissive arms — 
 helped her daughter into the buggy, and when she had 
 climbed in herself, she glared triumphantly over her glasses 
 and above her Roman nose, as she said: "Now, Amos — 
 have some sense. Doctor, — go on." And in a moment the 
 buggy was spinning up the hill toward the town. 
 
 Thus it was that every day, rain or shine, until the day 
 of her wedding, Laura Nesbit drove her dog cart to the 
 Adamses before the men went to their work and took little 
 Kenyon home with her and brought him back in the evening. 
 And always she took him from the arms of Grant — Grant, 
 redheaded, freckled, blue-eyed, who was hardening into man- 
 hood and premature maturity so fast that he did not realize 
 the change that it made in his face. It grew set, but not 
 hard, a woman's tenderness crept into the features, and 
 with that tenderness came at times a look of petulant im- 
 patience. It was a sad face — a sadly fanatic face — yet one 
 that lighted with human feeling under a smile. 
 
 Little by little, meeting daily — often meeting morning and 
 evening, Grant and Laura established a homely, wholesome, 
 comfortable relation. 
 
 One evening while Laura was waiting for Tom Van Dorn 
 and Grant was waiting for Kenyon she and Grant sitting 
 upon the veranda steps of the Nesbit home, looked into the 
 serene, wide lawn that topped the hill above the quiet town. 
 They could look across the white and green of the trees and 
 houses, across the prosperous, solid, red roofs of the stone 
 and brick stores and offices on Market Street, into the black 
 smudge of smoke and the gray, unpainted, sprawling rows 
 of ill-kept tenements around the coal mines, that was South 
 Harvey. They could see even then the sky stains far down 
 the Wahoo Valley, where the villages of Foley and Magnus 
 rose and duplicated the ugliness of South Harvey. 
 
 The drift of the conversation was personal. The thoughts 
 of youth are largely personal. The universe is measured by 
 one's own thumb in the twenties. "Funny, isn't it," said 
 
106 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Grant, playing with a honeysuckle vine that climbed the post 
 beside him, ' ' I guess I 'm the only one of the old crowd who 
 is outlawed in overalls. There's Freddie Hollander and 
 Nate Perry and cousin Morty and little Joe Calvin, all up 
 town counterjumping or working in offices. The girls all 
 getting married." He paused. "But as far as that goes 
 I'm making more money than any of the fellows!" _He 
 paused again a moment and added as he gazed moodily into 
 the pillars of smoke rising above South Harvey, "Gee, but 
 I'll miss you when you're gone — " 
 
 The girl's silvery laugh greeted his words. "Now, 
 Grant," she said, "where do you think I'm going? Why, 
 Tom and I will be only a block from here— just over 
 on Tenth Street in the Perry House." 
 
 Grant grinned as he shook his head. "You're lost and 
 gone forever, just the same, Miss Clementine. In about 
 three years I'll probably be that 'red-headed boss carpenter 
 in the mine — let me see, what's his name?' " 
 
 "Oh, Grant," scoffed the girl. She saw that his heart 
 was sadder than his face. 
 
 She took courage and said : ' ' Grant, you never can know 
 how often I think of you — how much I want you to win 
 everything worth while in this world, how much I want you 
 to be happy — how I believe in you and — and — bet on you, 
 Grant — bet on you ! ' ' 
 
 Grant did not answer her. Presently he looked up and 
 over the broad valley below them. The sun behind the 
 house was touching the limestone ledge far across the valley 
 with golden rays. The smoke from South Harvey on their 
 right was lighted also. The youth looked into the smoke. 
 Then he turned his eyes back from the glowing smoke and 
 spoke. 
 
 "This is how I look at it. I don't mean you're any dif- 
 ferent from any one else. "What I was trying to say was 
 that I'm the only one of our old crowd in the High School 
 you know that used to have parties and go together in the 
 old days — I'm the only one that's wearing overalls, and my 
 way is down there"; he nodded his head toward the mines 
 and smelters and factories in the valley. 
 
 "Look at these hands," he said, solemnly spreading out 
 
OUR FOOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT 107 
 
 his wide, muscular hands on his knees ; showing one bruised 
 blue-black finger nail. The hands were flinty and hairy 
 and brown, but they looked effective with an intelligence 
 almost apart from the body which they served. 
 
 "I'm cut out for work. It's all right. That's my job, 
 and I 'm proud of it so far as that goes. I could get a place 
 clerking if I wanted to, and be in the dancing crowd in six 
 months, and be out to the Van Dorns for dinner in a year. ' ' 
 He paused and looked into the distant valley and cried. 
 "But I tell you — my job is down there. And I'm not going 
 to quit them. God knows they're getting the rough end of 
 it. If you knew," his voice raised slightly and a petulant 
 indignation tempered it. "If you knew the gouging and 
 pocket picking and meanness that is done by the people 
 up town to the people down there in the smoke, you'd be 
 one of those howling red-mouthed anarchists you read 
 about. ' ' 
 
 The girl looked at him silently and at length asked : ' ' For 
 instance — what's just one thing?" 
 
 "Well, for instance — in the mines where I work all the 
 men come up grimy and greasy and vile. They have to 
 wash. In Europe we roughnecks know that wash-houses 
 are provided by the company, but here, ' ' he cried excitedly, 
 "the company doesn't provide even a faucet; instead the 
 men — father and son and maybe a boarder or two have to go 
 home — into those little one and two roomed houses the com- 
 pany has built, and strip to the hide with the house full of 
 children and wash. What if your girlhood had been used to 
 seeing things like that — could you laugh as you laugh 
 now?" He looked up at her savagely. "Oh, I know 
 they're ignorant foreigners and little better than animals 
 and those things don't hurt them — only if you had a little 
 girl who had to be in and out of the single room of your 
 home when the men came home to wash up — " 
 
 He broke off, and then began again, "Why, I was talking 
 to a dago last night at the shaft mouth going down to work 
 on the graveyard shift and he said that he came here be- 
 lieving he would find a free, beautiful country in which his 
 children could grow up self-respecting men and women, and 
 then he told me about his little girls living down there 
 
108 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 where all the vice is scattered through' the tenements, and — 
 about this washing up proposition, and now one of the girls 
 is gone and they can't find her." He threw out a despair- 
 ing hand; "So I'm a roughneck, Laura — I'm a jay, and 
 I 'm going to stay with them. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But your people, ' ' she urged. ' ' What about them — your 
 father and brothers ? ' ' 
 
 "Jap's climbing out. Father's too old to get in. And 
 Kenyon — " he flinched, "I hope to God I'll have the nerve 
 to stay when the test on him comes. ' ' He turned to the girl 
 passionately: "But you — you — oh, you — I want you to 
 know — " He did not finish the sentence, but rose and 
 walked into the house and called: "Dad — Kenyon — come 
 on, it's getting late. Stars are coming out." 
 
 Half an hour later Tom Van Dorn, in white flannels, with 
 a red silk tie, and with a white hat and shoes, came strid- 
 ing across the lawn. His black silky mustache, his soft 
 black hair, his olive skin, his shining black eyes, his alert emo- 
 tional face, dark and swarthy, was heightened even in the 
 twilight by the soft white clothes he wore. 
 
 ' ' Hello, popper-in-law, ' ' he cried. ' ' Any room left on the 
 veranda?" 
 
 ' ' Come in, Thomas, ' ' piped the older man. ' ' The girls are 
 doing the dishes, Bedelia and Laura, and we'll just sit out 
 two or three dances." 
 
 The young man lolled in the hammock shaded by the vines. 
 The elder smoked and reflected. Then slowly and by de- 
 grees, as men who are feeling their way to conversation, 
 they began talking of local politics. They were going at a 
 high rate when the talk turned to Henry Fenn. "Doing 
 pretty well, Doctor," put in the younger man. "Only 
 broke over once in eighteen months — that's the record for 
 Henry. Shows what a woman can do for a man." He 
 looked up sympathetically, and caught the Doctor's curious 
 eyes. 
 
 The Doctor puffed, cleaned out his pipe, absently put it 
 away, then rose and deliberately pulled his chair over to the 
 hammock: "Tom — I'm a generation older than you — 
 nearly. I want to tell you something — " He smiled. 
 "Boy— you've got the devil's own fight ahead of you — did 
 
OUR FOOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT 109 
 
 you know it — I mean," he paused, "the — well, the woman 
 proposition. ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn fingered his mustache, and looked serious. 
 
 "Tom," the elder man chirped, "you're a handsome pup 
 — a damn handsome, lovable pup. Sometimes." He let his 
 voice run whimsically into its mocking falsetto, "I almost 
 catch myself getting fooled too." 
 
 They laughed. 
 
 "Boy, the thing's in your blood. Did you realize that 
 you've got just as hard a fight as poor Henry Fenn? It's 
 all right now — for a while; but the time will come — we 
 might just as well look this thing squarely in the face now, 
 Tom — the time will come in a few years when the devil will 
 build the same kind of a fire under you he is building under 
 Henry Fenn — only it won't be whisky; it will be the woman 
 proposition. Damn it, boy," cried the elder man squeakily, 
 "it's in your blood; you've let it grow in your very blood. 
 I've known you ten years now, and I've seen it grow. Tom — 
 when the time comes, can you stand up and fight like 
 Henry Fenn — can you, Tom? And will you?" he cried 
 with a piteous fierceness that stirred all the sympathy in the 
 young man's heart. 
 
 He rose to the height of the Doctor's passion. Tears 
 came into Van Dorn's bright eyes. His breast expanded 
 emotionally and he exclaimed: "I know what I am, oh, I 
 know it. But for her — you and I together — you'll help 
 and we'll stand together and fight it out for her." The 
 father looked at the mobile features of his companion, and 
 sensed the thin plating of emotion under the vain voice. 
 "Whereupon the Doctor heaved a deep, troubled sigh. 
 
 "Heigh-ho, heigh-ho." He put his arm upon the broad, 
 handsome, young shoulder. "But you'll try to be a good 
 boy, won't you — " he repeated. "Just try hard to be a good 
 boy, Tom — that's all any of us can do," and turning away 
 he whistled into the house and a girlish trill answered him. 
 
 After the Doctor had jogged down the hill behind his old 
 horse making his evening professional visits, Mrs. Nesbit 
 came out and made a show of sitting with the young people 
 for a time. And not until she left did they go into those 
 things that were near their hearts. 
 
110 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 When Mrs. Nesbit left the veranda the young man moved 
 over to the girl and she asked: "Tom, I wonder — oh, so 
 much and so often — about the soul of us and the body of 
 us — about the justice of things." She was speaking out of 
 the heart that Grant had touched to the quick with his out- 
 burst about the poor. But Tom Van Dorn could not know 
 what was moving within her and if he had known, perhaps 
 he would have had small sympathy with her feeling. Then 
 she said: "Oh, Tom, Tom, tell me — don't you suppose that 
 our souls pay for the bodies that we crush — I mean all of 
 us — all of us — every one in the world?" 
 
 The man looked at her blankly. Then he put his arm 
 tenderly about her and answered: "I don't know about 
 our souls — much — " He kissed her. "But I do know 
 about you — your wonderful eyes — and your magic hair, and 
 your soft cheek!" He left her in no doubt as to her lover's 
 mood. 
 
 Vaguely the girl felt unsatisfied with his words. Not that 
 she doubted the truth of them; but as she drew back from 
 him she said softly: "But if I were not beautiful, what 
 then?" 
 
 "Ah, but you are — you are; in all the world there is not 
 another like you for me." In the rapture that followed, her 
 soul grew in a wave of joy, yet she spoke shyly. 
 
 "Tom," she said wistfully, "how can you fail to see it — 
 this great, beautiful truth that makes me so glad : That the 
 miracle of our love proves God." 
 
 He caressed her hands and pressed closer to her. "Call 
 it what you will, little girl : God if it pleases you, I call it 
 nature." 
 
 "Oh, it's bigger than that, Tom," and she shook a stub- 
 born Satterthwaite head, "and it makes me so happy and 
 makes me so humble that I want to share it with all the 
 world." She laid an abashed cheek on his hands that were 
 still fondling hers. 
 
 But young Mr. Van Dorn spoke up manfully, "Well, 
 don't you try sharing it. I want all of it, every bit of it." 
 He played with her hair, and relaxed in a languor of com- 
 plete possession of her. 
 
OUR FOOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT 111 
 
 "Doesn't love," she questioned, "lift you? Doesn't it 
 make you love every living thing?" she urged. 
 
 "I love only you — only you in all the world — your eyes 
 thrill me; when your body is near I am mad with delight; 
 when I touch you I am in heaven. When I close my eyes 
 before the jury I see you and I put the bliss of my vision 
 into my voice, and," he clinched his hands, "all the devils 
 of hell couldn't win that jury away from me. You spur me 
 to my best, put springs in every muscle, put power in my 
 blood." 
 
 "But, Tom, tell me this?" Still wistfully, she came close 
 to him, and put her chin on her clasped hands that rested on 
 his shoulder. "Love makes me want to be so good, so loyal, 
 so brave, so kind — isn't it that way with you? Isn't love 
 the miracle that brings the soul out into the world through 
 the senses. ' ' She did not wait for his answer. She clasped 
 her hands tighter on his shoulder. ' ' I feel that I 'm literally 
 stealing when I have a single thought that I do not bring to 
 you. In every thrill of my heart about the humblest thing, 
 I find joy in knowing that we shall enjoy it together. Let 
 me tell you something. Grant Adams and his father were 
 here to-day for dinner. Well, you know Grant is in a kind 
 of obsession of love for that little motherless child Mrs. 
 Adams left ; Grant mothers him and fathers him and liter- 
 ally loves him to distraction. And Grant's growing so 
 manly, and so loyal and so strong in the love of that little 
 t, y — he doesn't realize it; but I can see it in him. Oh, 
 Tom, can you see it in me?" 
 
 Before her mood had changed she told him all that Grant 
 Adams had said; and her voice broke when she retold the 
 Italian's story. Tears were in her eyes when she finished. 
 And young Mr. Van Dorn was emotionally touched also, but 
 not in sympathy with the story the girl was telling. She 
 
 ended it : 
 
 "And then I looked at Grant's big rough hands — bony 
 and hairy, and Tom, they told me the whole story of his 
 destiny; just as your soft, effective, gentle white hands 
 prophesy our destiny. Oh, why— why— I am beginning to 
 wonder why, Tom, why things must be so. Why do some 
 
112 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 of us have to do all the world's rough, hard, soul-killing 
 work, and others of us have lives that are beautiful, aspir- 
 ing, glorious? How can we let such injustices be, and not 
 try to undo them ! ' ' 
 
 In his face an indignation was rising which she could 
 not comprehend. Finally he found words to say: 
 
 "So that's what that Adams boy is putting in your head! 
 Why do you want to bother with such nonsense ? ' ' 
 
 But the girl stopped him: "Tom, it's not nonsense. 
 They do work and dig and grind down there in a way which 
 we up here know nothing about. It's real — this — this miser- 
 able unfair way things are done in the world. my dear, 
 my dear, it's because I love you so, it's because I know now 
 what love really is that it hurts to see—" He took her 
 face in his hands caressingly, and tried to put an added 
 tenderness into his voice that his affection might blunt the 
 sharpness of his words. 
 
 "Well, it's nonsense I tell you! Look here, Laura, if 
 there is a God, he's put those dagos and ignorant foreigners 
 down there to work; just as he's put the fish in the sea to 
 be caught, and the beasts of the field to be eaten, and it's 
 none of my business to ask why! My job is myself — my- 
 self and you ! I refuse to bear burdens for people. I love 
 you with all the intensity of my nature — but it's my nature 
 — not human nature — not any common, socialized, diluted 
 love; it's individual and it's forever between you and me! 
 What do I care for the rest of the world ! And if you love 
 me as you will some day, you'll love me so that they can't 
 set you off mooning about other people's troubles. I tell 
 you, Laura, I'm going to make you love me so you can't 
 think of anything day or night but me — and what I am to 
 you ! That's my idea of love ! It's individual, intimate, re- 
 stricted, qualified and absolutely personal — and some day 
 you'll see that!" 
 
 As he tripped down the hill from the Nesbit home that 
 spring night, he wondered what Laura Nesbit meant when 
 she spoke of Grant Adams, and his love for the motherless 
 baby. The idea that this love bore any sort of resemblance 
 to the love of educated, cultivated people as found in the 
 love that Laura and her intended husband bore toward each 
 
OUR FOOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT 113 
 
 other, puzzled the young lawyer. Being restless, he turned 
 off his homeward route, and walked under the freshly leaved 
 trees. Over and over again the foolish phrases and sen- 
 tences from Laura Nesbit's love making, many other nights 
 in which she seemed to assume the unquestioned truth of 
 the hypothesis of God, also puzzled him. Whatever his 
 books had taught him, and whatever life had taught him, 
 convinced him that God was a polite word for explaining 
 one's failure. Yet, here was a woman whose mind he had 
 to respect, using the term as a proved theorem. He looked 
 at the stars, wheeling about with the monstrous pulleys of 
 gravitation and attraction, and the certain laws of motion. 
 A moment later he looked southward in the sky to that flam- 
 ing, raging, splotched patch where the blue and green and 
 yellow flames from the smelters and the belching black smoke 
 from the factories hid the low-hanging stars and marked 
 the seething hell of injustice and vice and want and woe that 
 he knew was in South Harvey, and he held the glowing ciga- 
 rette stub in his hand and laughed when he thought of God. 
 "Free will," says "Mr. Left" in one of his rather hazy 
 and unconvincing observations, "is of limited range. Man 
 faces two buttons. He must choose the material or the 
 spiritual — and when he has chosen fate plays upon his 
 choice the grotesque variation of human destiny. But when 
 the cloth of life is finished, the pattern of the passing events 
 may be the same in either choice, riches or poverty, misery 
 or power, only the color of the cloth differs; in one piece, 
 however rich, the pattern is drab with despair, the other 
 cloth sheens in happiness." "Which Mr. Van Dorn in later 
 life, reading the Psychological Journal, turned back to a 
 second time, and threw aside with a casual and unapprecia- 
 tive, "Oh hell," as his only comment. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 IN WHICH WE LEARN THAT LOVE IS THE LEVER THAT MOVES 
 
 THE WORLD 
 
 MRS. NESBIT tried to put the Doctor into his Sunday 
 blacks the day of her daughter's wedding, but he 
 would have none of them. He appeared on Market 
 Street and went his rounds among the sick in his linen 
 clothes with his Panama hat and his pleated white shirt. He 
 did not propose to have the visiting princes, political and 
 commercial, who had been summoned to honor the occasion, 
 find him in his suzerainty without the insignia of his power. 
 For it was "Old Linen Pants," not Dr. James Nesbit, who 
 was the boss of the northern district and a member of the 
 State's triumvirate. So the Doctor in the phaeton, drawn 
 by his amiable, motherly, sorrel mare, the Doctor, white and 
 resplendent in a suit that shimmered in the hot June sun, 
 flaxed around town, from his office to the hotel, from the 
 hotel to the bank, from the bank to South Harvey. As a 
 part of the day's work he did the honors of the town, soothed 
 the woes of the weary, healed the sick, closed a dying man's 
 eyes, held a mother's hands away from death as she brought 
 life into the world, made a governor, paid his overdue note, 
 got a laborer work, gave a lift to a fallen woman, made two 
 casual purchases: a councilman and a new silk vest, with 
 cash in hand; lent a drunkard's wife the money for a sack 
 of flour, showed three Maryland Satterthwaites where to fish 
 for bass in the Wahoo, took four Schenectady Van Dorns 
 out to lunch, and was everywhere at once doing everything, 
 clicking his cane, whistling gently or humming a low, croon- 
 ing tune, smiling for the most part, keeping his own counsel 
 and exhibiting no more in his face of what was in his heart 
 than the pink and dimpled back of a six-months' baby. 
 
 To say that the Doctor was everywhere in Harvey is inex- 
 act. He was everywhere except on Quality Hill in Elm 
 
 114 
 
LOVE IS THE LEVER 115 
 
 Street. There, from the big, bulging house with its towers 
 and minarets and bow windows and lean-tos, ells and addi- 
 tions, the Doctor was barred. There was chaos, and the 
 spirit that breathed on the face of the waters was the 
 Harvey representative of the Maryland Satterthwaites, with 
 her crimping pins bristling like miniature gun barrels, and 
 with the look of command upon her face, giving orders in a 
 firm, cool voice and then executing the orders herself before 
 any one else could turn around. She could call the spirits 
 from the vasty deep of the front hall or the back porch and 
 they came, or she knew the reason why. With an imperial 
 wave of her hand she sent her daughter off to some social 
 wilderness of monkeys with all the female Satterthwaites 
 and Van Dorns and Mrs. Senators and Miss Governors and 
 Misses Congressmen, and with the offices of Mrs. John Dex- 
 ter, Mrs. Herdicker, the ladies' hatter, and two Senegam- 
 bian slaveys, Mrs. Nesbit brought order out of what at one 
 o'clock seemed without form and void. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon, almost evening, though the 
 sun still was high enough in the heavens to throw cloud 
 shadows upon the hills across the valley when the Doctor 
 stabled his mare and came edging into the house from the 
 barn. He could hear the clamor of many voices; for the 
 Maryland Satterthwaites had come home from the after- 
 noon's festivity. He slipped into his office-study, and as it 
 was stuffy there he opened the side door that let out upon 
 the veranda. He sat alone behind the vines, not wishing to 
 be a part of the milling in the rooms. His heart was heavy. 
 He blinked and sighed and looked across the valley, and 
 crooned his old-fashioned tune while he tried to remember 
 all of the life of the little girl who had come out of the 
 mystery of birth into his life when Elm Street was a pair of 
 furrows on a barren, wind-swept prairie hill; tried to re- 
 member how she had romped in girlhood under the wide sun- 
 shine in the prairie grass, how her little playhouse had sat 
 where the new dining-room now stood, how her dolls used 
 to litter the narrow porch that grew into the winding, ser- 
 pentine veranda that belted the house, how she read his 
 books, how she went about with him on his daily rounds, 
 and how she had suddenly bloomed into a womanhood that 
 
116 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 made him feel shy and abashed in her presence. He won- 
 dered where it was upon the way that he had lost clasp of 
 her hand : where did it drop from him ? How did the little 
 fingers that he used to hold so tightly, slip into another's 
 hand? Her life's great decision had been made without 
 consulting him; when did he lose her confidence? She had 
 gone her way an independent soul — flown like a bird from 
 the cage, he thought, and was going a way that he felt would 
 be a way of pain, and probably sorrow, yet he could not stop 
 her. All the experience of his life was worthless to her. 
 All that he knew of men, all that he feared of her lover, 
 were as chaff in the scales for her. 
 
 The Doctor, the boss, the friend, the man, withdrew from 
 his consciousness as he sat behind the vines and he became 
 the impersonal, universal father, wondering at the mystery 
 of life. As he sat musing, he heard a step behind him, and 
 saw his daughter coming across the porch to greet him. 
 "Father," she said, "I have just this half hour that's to be 
 ours. I've planned for it all day. Mother has promised 
 to keep every one away." 
 
 The father's jaw began to tremble and his cherubic face 
 to wrinkle in an emotional pucker. He put the girl's arm 
 about his neck, and rubbed her hand upon his cheek. Then 
 the father said softly: 
 
 "I never felt poor before until this minute." The girl 
 looked inquiringly at him and was about to protest. He 
 stopped her: "Money wouldn't do you much good — not all 
 the money in the world." 
 
 "Well, father, I don't want money: we don't need it," 
 said the girl. "Why, we have a beautiful home and Tom 
 is making — " 
 
 "It's not that, my dear — not that." He played with her 
 hand a moment longer. "I feel that I ought to give you 
 something better than money; my — my — well, my view of 
 life — what they call philosophy of life. It's the accumu- 
 lation of fifty years of living." He fumbled in his pocket 
 for his pipe. "Let me smoke, and maybe I can talk." 
 
 "Laura — girl — " He puffed bashfully in a pause, and 
 began again: "There's a lot of Indiana — real common 
 Eendiany," he mocked, "about your father, and I just some 
 
LOVE IS THE LEVER 117 
 
 way can't talk under pressure." He caressed the girl's 
 hand and pulled at his pipe as one giving birth to a system 
 of philosophy. Yet he was dumb as he sat before the warm 
 glow of the passing torch of life which was shining from his 
 daughter's face. Finally he burst forth, piping impatience 
 at his own embarrassment. 
 
 "I tell you, daughter, it's just naturally hell to be pore." 
 The girl saw his twitching mouth and the impotence of his 
 swimming eyes ; but before she could protest he checked her. 
 
 "Pore! Pore!" he repeated hopelessly. "Why, if we 
 had a million, I would still be just common, ornery, doless 
 pore folks — tongue-tied and helpless, and I couldn't give you 
 nothin' — nothin!" he cried, "but just rubbish! Yet there 
 are so many things I'd like to give you, Laura — so many, 
 many things!" he repeated. '.'God Almighty's put a ter- 
 rible hogtight inheritance tax on experience, girl!" He 
 smiled a crooked, tearful little smile — looked up into her eyes 
 in doglike wistfulness as he continued: "I'd like to give 
 you some of mine — some of the wisdom I've got one way and 
 another — but, Lord, Lord," he wailed, "I can't. The divine 
 inheritance tax bars me." He patted her with one hand, 
 holding his smoldering pipe in the other. Then he shrilled 
 out in the impotence of his pain: "I just must give you 
 this, Laura: Whatever comes and whatever goes — and lots 
 of sad things will come and lots of sad things will go, too, 
 for that matter — always remember this : Happiness is from 
 the heart out — not from the world in ! Do you understand, 
 child — do you?" 
 
 The girl smiled and petted him, but he saw that he hadn't 
 reached her consciousness. He puffed at a dead pipe a 
 moment, then he cried as he beat his hands together in 
 despair: "I suppose it's no use. It's no use. But you 
 can at least remember these words, Laura, and some time 
 the meaning will get to you. Always carry your happiness 
 under your bonnet! It's the only thing I can give you — 
 out of all my store!" 
 
 The girl put her arm about him and pressed closely to 
 him, and they rose, as she said: "Why, father— I under- 
 stand. Of course I understand. Don't you see I under- 
 stand, father?" 
 
118 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 She spoke eagerly and clasped her arms tighter about the 
 pudgy little figure. They stood quietly a moment, as the 
 father looked earnestly, dog-wise, up into her face, as if 
 trying by his very gaze to transmit his loving wisdom. 
 Then, as he found voice : "No, Laura, probably you'll need 
 fifty years to understand; but look over on the hill across 
 the valley at the moving cloud shadows. They are only 
 shadows — not realities. They are just unrealities that prove 
 the real — just trailing anchors of the sun ! ' ' He had pock- 
 eted his pipe and his hand came up from his pocket as he 
 waved to the distant shadows and piped : ' ' Trouble — heart- 
 aches — all the host of clouds that cover life — are only — 
 only — " he let his voice drop gently as he sighed: "only 
 anchors of the sun; Laura, they only prove — just prove — " 
 
 She did not let him finish, but bent to kiss him and she 
 could feel the shudder of a smothered sob rack him as she 
 touched his cheek. 
 
 Then he smiled at her and chirped: "Just Eendiany — 
 sis'. Just pore, dumb Eendiany! Hi, ho! Now run and 
 be a good girl! And here's a jim-crack your daddy got 
 you!" 
 
 From his pocket he drew out a little package, and dan- 
 gled a sparkling jewel in his hands. He saw a flash of 
 pleasure on her face. But his heart was full, and he turned 
 away his head as he handed the gift to her. Her eyes were 
 upon the sparkling jewel, as he led her into the house, say- 
 ing with a great sigh: "Come on, my dear — let's go in." 
 
 At nine o'clock that night, the great foundry of a house, 
 with its half a score of chimneys, marking its various epochs 
 of growth, literally was stuffed with smilax, ferns, roses, 
 orange blossoms, and daisy chains. In the mazes of these 
 aisles of verdure, a labyrinth of Van Dorns and Satter- 
 thwaites and visiting statesmen with highly powdered 
 womankind was packed securely. George Brotherton, who 
 was born a drum major, wearing all of his glittering insignia 
 of a long line of secret societies, moved as though the welding 
 humanity were fluid. He had presided at too many funerals 
 not to know the vast importance of keeping the bride's kin 
 from the groom's kin, and when he saw that they were 
 ushered into the wedding supper, in due form and order, 
 
LOVE IS THE LEVER 119 
 
 it was with the fine abandon of a grand duke lording it over 
 the populace. Senators, Supreme Court justices, proud 
 Satterthwaites, haughty Van Dorns, Congressmen, gov- 
 ernors, local gentry, were packed neatly but firmly in their 
 proper boxes 
 
 The old families of Harvey — Captain Morton and his little 
 flock, the Kollanders, Ahab "Wright with his flaring side- 
 whiskers, his white necktie and his shadow of a wife; 
 Joseph Calvin and his daughter in pigtails, Mrs. Calvin hav- 
 ing written Mrs. Nesbit that it seemed that she just never 
 did get to go anywhere and be anybody, having said as much 
 and more to Mr. Calvin with emphasis; Mrs. Brotherton, 
 mother of George, beaming with pride at her son's part; 
 stuttering Kyle Perry and his hatchet-faced son, the 
 Adamses all starched for the occasion, Daniel Sands, a 
 widower pro tern, with a broadening interest in school 
 teachers, Mrs. Herdicker, the ladies' hatter, classifying the 
 Satterthwaites and the Van Dorns according to the millinery 
 of their womenkind; Morty Sands wearing the first white 
 silk vest exhibited in Harvey and making violent eyes at a 
 daughter of the railroad aristocracy — either a general man- 
 ager's daughter or a general superintendent's, and for the 
 life of her Mrs. Nesbit couldn't say; for she had not the 
 highest opinion in the world of the railroad aristocracy, but 
 took them, president, first, second and third vice, general 
 managers, ticket and passenger agents, and superintendents, 
 as a sort of social job-lot because they came in private cars, 
 and the Doctor desired them, to add to his trophies of the 
 occasion, — Henry Penn, wearing soberly the suit in which 
 he appeared when he rode the skyrocket, and forming part 
 of the bridal chorus, stationed in the cigar-box of a sewing- 
 room on the second floor to sing, "Oh, Day So Dear," as 
 the happy couple came down the stairs — the old families of 
 Harvey were all invited to the wedding. And the old and 
 the new and most of the intermediary families of no par- 
 ticular caste or standing, came to the reception after the 
 ceremony. But because she had the best voice in town, 
 Margaret Miiller sang "Oh, Promise Me," in a remote bed- 
 room — to give the effect of distant music, low and sweet, and 
 after that song was over, and after Henry Fenn's great 
 
120 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 pride had been fairly sated, Margaret Miiller mingled with 
 the guests and knew more of the names and stations of the 
 visiting nobility from the state house and railroad offices 
 than any other person present. And such is the perversity 
 of the male sex that there were more "by Georges," and 
 more "Look — look, looks," and more faint whistles, and 
 more "Teh — tch tehs," and more nudging and pointing 
 among the men when Margaret appeared than when the 
 bride herself, pink and white and beautiful, came down the 
 stairs. Even the eyes of the groom, as he stood beside the 
 bride, tall, youthful, strong, and handsome as a man may 
 dare to be and earn an honest living, even his eyes some- 
 times found themselves straying toward the figure and face 
 of the beautiful girl whom he had scarcely noticed while 
 she worked in the court house. But this may be said for the 
 groom, that when his eyes did wander, he pulled them back 
 with an almost irritated jerk, and seemed determined to keep 
 them upon the girl by his side. 
 
 As for the wedding ceremony itself — it was like all others. 
 The women looked exultant, and the men — the groom, the 
 bride's father, the groomsmen, and even Rev. John Dexter, 
 had a sort of captured look and went through the service as 
 though they wished that marriages which are made in 
 Heaven were celebrated there also. But after the service 
 was actually accomplished, after the bride and groom had 
 been properly congratulated, after the multitude had been 
 fed in serried ranks according to social precedence, after 
 the band on the lawn outside had serenaded the happy 
 couple, and after further interminable handshaking and con- 
 gratulations, from those outside, after the long line of in- 
 vited guests had filed past the imposing vista of pickle 
 dishes, cutlery, butter dishes and cake plates, reaching 
 around the walls of three bedrooms, — to say nothing of an 
 elaborate wax representation of nesting cupids bearing the 
 card of the Belgian Society from the glass works and sent, 
 according to the card, to "Mile. Lille 'n 'en Pense"; after the 
 carriage, bedecked and bedizened with rice and shoes and 
 ribbons, that was supposed to bear away the bride and 
 groom, had gone amid the shouting and the tumult of the 
 populace, and after the phaeton and the sorrel mare had 
 
LOVE IS THE LEVER 121 
 
 actually taken the bride and groom from the barn to the 
 railway station, after the fiddle and the bassoon and the 
 horn and the tinkling cymbal at Morty Sands 's dance had 
 frayed and torn the sleep of those pale souls who would 
 sleep on such a night in Harvey, Grant Adams and his fa- 
 ther, leaving Jasper to trip whatever fantastic toes he might 
 have, in the opera house, drove down the hill through the 
 glare of the furnaces, the creaking of the oil derricks and 
 the smell of the straw paper mill through the heart of South 
 Harvey. 
 
 They made little talk as they rode. Their way led them 
 through the street which is shaded and ashamed by day, and 
 which glows and flaunts itself by night. Men and women, 
 gambling, drinking, carousing, rioted through the street, in 
 and out of doors that spilled puddles of yellow light on the 
 board sidewalks and dirt streets ; screaming laughter, hoarse 
 calls, the stench of liquor, the muffled noises of gambling, 
 sputter of electric lights and the flash of glimmering reflec- 
 tions from bar mirrors rasped their senses and kept the 
 father and son silent as they rode. "When they had passed 
 into the slumbering tenements, the father spoke: "Well, 
 son, here it is — the two kinds of playing, and here we have 
 what they call the bad people playing. The Van Dorns and 
 the Satterthwaites will tell you that vice is the recreation 
 of the poor. And it's more or less true." The elder man 
 scratched his beard and faced the stars: "It's a devilish 
 puzzle. Character makes happiness; I've got that down 
 fine. But what makes character? Why is vice the recrea- 
 tion of the poor ? Why do we recruit most of our bad boys 
 and all of our wayward girls from those neighborhoods in 
 every city where the poor live ? Why does the clerk on $12 
 a week uptown crowd into Doctor Jim's wedding party, and 
 the glass blower at $4 a day down here crowd into 'Big 
 Em's' and 'Joe's Place' and the 'Crescent'? Is poverty 
 caused by vice; or is vice a symptom of poverty? And 
 why does the clerk's wife move in 'our best circles' and the 
 miner's wife, with exactly the same money to spend, live 
 in outer social darkness?" 
 
 "I've asked myself that question lots of times," ex- 
 claimed the youth. "I can't make it work out on any 
 
122 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 theory. But I tell you, father," the son clinched the hand 
 that was free from the lines, and shook it, "it's wrong — 
 some way, somehow, it's wrong, way down at the bottom of 
 things — I don't know how nor why — but as sure as I live, 
 I'll try to find out." 
 
 The clang of an engine bell in the South Harvey railroad 
 yards drowned the son's answer. The two were crossing 
 the track and turning the corner that led to the South 
 Harvey station. The midnight train was about due. As 
 the buggy came near the little gray box of a station a voice 
 called, "Adams — Adams," and a woman's voice, "Oh, 
 Grant." 
 
 "Why," exclaimed the father, "it's the happy couple." 
 Grant stopped the horse and climbed out over the sleeping 
 body of little Kenyon. "In a moment," replied Grant. 
 Then he came to a shadow under the station eaves and saw 
 the young people hiding. "Adams, you can help us," said 
 Van Dorn. "We slipped off in the Doctor's phaeton, to get 
 away from the guying crowd and we have tried to get the 
 house on the 'phone, and in some way they don't answer. 
 The horse is tied over by the lumber yard there. Will you 
 take it home with you to-night, and deliver it to the Doctor 
 in the morning — whatever — " But Grant cut in: 
 
 "Why, of course. Glad to have the chance." He was 
 awkward and ill at ease, and repeated, "Why, of course, 
 anything." But Van Dorn interjected: "You under- 
 stand, I'll pay for it — " Grant Adams stared at him. 
 "Why — why — no — " stammered Grant in confusion, while 
 Van Dorn thrust a five-dollar bill upon him. He tried to 
 return it, but the bride and groom ran to the train, leaving 
 the young man alone and hurt in his heart. The father 
 from the buggy saw what had happened. In a few minutes 
 they were leading the Doctor's horse behind the Adams 
 buggy. "I didn't want their money," exclaimed Grant, 
 "I wanted their — their — " 
 
 "You wanted their friendship, Grant — that's what you 
 wanted," said the father. 
 
 "And he wanted a hired man," cried Grant. "Just a 
 hired man, and she — why, didn't she understand? She 
 knew I would have carried the old horse on my back clear 
 
LOVE IS THE LEVER 123 
 
 to town, if she'd let me, just to hear her laugh once. 
 Father," the. son's voice was bitter as he spoke, "why didn't 
 she understand — why did she side with him ? ' ' 
 
 The father smiled. "Perhaps, on your wedding trip, 
 Grant, your wife will agree with you too, son." 
 
 As they rode home in silence, the young man asked him- 
 self over and over again, what lines divided the world into 
 classes ; why manual toil shuts off the toilers from those who 
 serve the world otherwise. Youth is sensitive; often it is 
 supersensitive, and Grant Adams saw or thought he saw in 
 the little byplay of Tom Van Dorn the caste prod of society 
 jabbing labor back into its place. 
 
 "Tom," said the bride as they watched Grant Adams un- 
 hitch the horse by the lumber yard, "why did you force that 
 money on Grant — he would have much preferred to have 
 your hand when he said gopd-by." 
 
 "He's not my kind of folks, Laura," replied Van Dorn. 
 "I know you like him. But that five will do him lots more 
 good than my shaking his hand, and if that youth wasn't 
 as proud as Lucifer he'd rather have five dollars than any 
 man's hand. I would — if it comes to that." 
 
 "But, Tom," answered the girl, "that wasn't pride, that 
 was self-respect." 
 
 "Well, my dear," he squeezed her gloved hand and in 
 the darkness put his arm about her, "let's not worry 
 about him. All I know is that I wanted to square it with 
 him for taking care of the horse and five dollars won't hurt 
 his self-respect. And," said the bridegroom as he pressed 
 the bride very close to his heart, "what is it to us? We 
 have each other, so what do we care — what is all the world 
 to us?" 
 
 As the midnight train whistled out of South Harvey 
 Grant Adams sitting on a bedside was fondly unbuttoning 
 a small body from its clothes, ready to hear a sleepy child's 
 voice say its evening prayers. In his heart there flamed the 
 love for the child that was beckoning him into love for every 
 sentient thing. And as Laura Van Dorn, bride of Thomas 
 of that name, heard the whistle, her being was flooded with 
 a love high and marvelous, washing in from the infinite love 
 that moves the universe and carrying her soul in aspiring 
 
124 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 thrills of joy out to ride upon the mysterious currents that 
 we know are not of ourselves, and so have called divine. 
 
 In the morning, in the early gray of morning, when 
 Grant Adams rose to make the fire for breakfast, he found 
 his father, sitting by the kitchen table, half clad as he had 
 risen from a restless bed. Scrawled sheets of white paper 
 lay around him on the floor and the table. He said sadly: 
 
 "She can't come, Grant — she can't come. I dreamed of 
 her last night; it was all so real — just as she was when we 
 were young, and I thought — I was sure she was near." He 
 sighed as he leaned back in his chair. "But they've looked 
 for her — all of them have looked for her. She knows I'm 
 calling — but she can't come." The father fumbled the 
 papers, rubbed his gray beard, and shut his fine eyes as 
 he shook his head, and whispered: "What holds her — 
 what keeps her? They all come but her." 
 
 "What's this, father?" asked Grant, as a page closely 
 written in a fine hand fluttered to the floor. 
 
 "Oh, nothing — much — just Mr. Left bringing me some 
 message from Victor Hugo. It isn't much." 
 
 But the Eminent Authority who put it into the Proceed- 
 ings of the Psychological Society laid more store by it than 
 he did by the scraps and incoherent bits of jargon which 
 pictured the old man's lonely grief. They are not pre- 
 served for us, but in the Proceedings, on page 1125, we have 
 this from Mr. Left : 
 
 "The vice of the poor is crass and palpable. It carries a 
 quick and deadly corrective poison. But the vices of the 
 well-to-do are none the less deadly. To dine in comfort and 
 know your brother is starving; to sleep in peace and know 
 that he is wronged and oppressed by laws that we sanction, to 
 gather one's family in contentment around a hearth, while 
 the poor dwell in a habitat of vice that kills their souls, to live 
 without bleeding hearts for the wrong on this earth— that is 
 the vice of the well-to-do. And so it shall come to pass that 
 when the day of reckoning appears it shall be a day of 
 wrath. For when God gives the poor the strength to rise 
 (and they are waxing stronger every hour), they will meet 
 not a brother's hand but a glutton's— the hard, dead hand 
 of a hard, dead soul. Then will the vicious poor and the 
 
LOVE IS THE LEVER 125 
 
 vicious well-to-do, each crippled by his own vices, the blind 
 leading the blind, fall to in a merciless conflict, mad and 
 meaningless, born of a sad, unnecessary hate that shall ter- 
 rorize the earth, unless God sends us another miracle of love 
 like Christ or some vast chastening scourge of war, to turn 
 aside the fateful blow." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IN WHICH WE OBSERVE THE INTERIOR OF A DESERTED HOUSE 
 
 AN empty, lonely house was that on Quality Hill in 
 Elm Street after the daughter's marriage. It was 
 not that the Doctor and Mrs. Nesbit did not see their 
 daughter often ; but whether she came every day or twice a 
 week or every week, always she came as a visitor. No one 
 may have two homes. And the daughter of the house of 
 Nesbit had her own home — a home wherein she was striving 
 to bind her husband to a domesticity which in itself did not 
 interest him. But with her added charm to it, she believed 
 that she could lure him into an acceptance of her ideal of 
 marriage. So with all her powers she fell to her task. Con- 
 sciously or unconsciously, directly or by indirection, but 
 always with the joy of adventure in her heart, whether with 
 books or with music or with comradeship, she was bending 
 herself to the business of wifehood, so that her own home 
 filled her life and the Nesbit home was lonely; so lonely was 
 it that by way of solace and diversion, Mrs. Nesbit had all 
 the woodwork downstairs "done over" in quarter-sawed oak 
 with elaborate carvings. Ferocious gargoyles, highly excited 
 dolphins, improper, pot-bellied little cupids, and mermaids 
 without a shred of character, seemed about to pounce out 
 from banister, alcove, bookcase, cozy corner and china closet. 
 George Brotherton pretended to find resemblances in the 
 effigies to people about Harvey, and to the town's echoing 
 delight he began to name the figures after their friends, and 
 always saluted the figures intimately, as Maggie, or Henry, 
 or the Captain, or John Kollander, or Lady Herdicker. 
 But through the wooden menagerie in the big house the 
 Doctor whistled and hummed and smoked and chirruped 
 more or less drearily. To him the Japanese screens, the 
 huge blue vases, the ponderous high-backed chairs crawly 
 
 126 
 
INTERIOR OF A DESERTED HOUSE 127 
 
 with, meaningless carvings, the mantels full of jars and pots 
 and statuettes, brought no comfort. He was forever putting 
 his cane over his arm and clicking down the street to the 
 Van Dorn home; but he felt in spite of all his daughter's 
 efforts to welcome him — and perhaps because of them — that 
 he was a stranger there. So slowly and rather impercep- 
 tibly to him, certainly without any conscious desire for it, 
 a fondness for Kenyon Adams sprang up in the Doctor's 
 heart. For it was exceedingly soft in spots and those spots 
 were near his home. He was domestic and he was fond of 
 home joys. So when Mrs. Nesbit put aside the encyclo- 
 pedia, from which she was getting the awful truth about 
 Babylonian Art for her paper to be read before the 
 Shakespeare Club, and going to the piano, brought from 
 the bottom of a pile of yellow music a tattered sheet, played 
 a Chopin nocturne in a rolling and rather grand style that 
 young women affected before the Civil "War, the Doctor's joy 
 was scarcely less keen than the child's. Then came rare 
 occasions when Laura, being there for the night while her 
 husband was away on business, would play melodies that 
 cut the child's heart to the quick and brought tears of joy 
 to his big eyes. It seemed to him at those times as if Heaven 
 itself were opened for him, and for days the melodies she 
 played would come ringing through his heart. Often he 
 would sit absorbed at the piano when he should have been 
 practicing his lesson, picking out those melodies and trying 
 with a poignant yearning for perfection to find their proper 
 harmonies. But at such times after he had frittered away 
 a few minutes, Mrs. Nesbit would call down to him, "You, 
 Kenyon," and he would sigh and take up his scales and 
 runs and arpeggios. 
 
 Kenyon was developing into a shy, lovely child of few 
 noises; he seemed to love to listen to every continuous 
 sound — a creaking gate, a waterdrip from the eaves, a whis- 
 tling wind — a humming wire. Sometimes the Doctor would 
 watch Kenyon long minutes, as the child listened to the fire 's 
 low murmur in the grate, and would wonder what the little 
 fellow made of it all. But above everything else about the 
 child the Doctor was interested in watching his eyes develop 
 into the great, liquid, soulful orbs that marked his mother. 
 
128 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 To the Doctor the resemblance was rather weird. But he 
 could see no other point in the child's body or mind or soul 
 whereon Margaret Muller had left a token. The Doctor 
 liked to discuss Kenyon with his wife from the standpoint 
 of ancestry. He took a sort of fiendish delight — if one may 
 imagine a fiend with a seraphic face and dancing blue eyes 
 and a mouth that loved to pucker in a pensive whistle — 
 in Mrs. Nesbit 's never failing stumble over the child's 
 eyes. 
 
 Any evening he would lay aside his Browning — even in a 
 knotty passage wherein the Doctor was wont to take much 
 pleasure, and revert to type thus : 
 
 "Yes, I guess there's something in blood as you say ! The 
 child shows it! But where do you suppose he gets those 
 eyes?" His wife would answer energetically, "They aren't 
 like Amos's and they certainly are not much like Mary's! 
 Yet those eyes show that somewhere in the line there was 
 fine blood and high breeding." 
 
 And the Doctor, remembering the kraut-peddling Muller, 
 who used to live back in Indiana, and who was Kenyon 's 
 great-grandfather, would shake a wise head and answer : 
 
 "Them eyes is certainly a throw-back to the angel choir, 
 my dear — a sure and certain throw-back!" 
 
 And while Mrs. Nesbit was climbing the Sands family tree, 
 from Mary Adams back to certain Irish Sandses of the late 
 eighteenth century, the Doctor would flit back to "Paracel- 
 sus," to be awakened from its spell by: "Only the Irish 
 have such eyes ! They are the mark of the Celt all over the 
 world! But it's curious that neither Mary nor Daniel had 
 those eyes!" 
 
 ,T It's certainly curious like," squeaked the Doctor ami- 
 cably — "certainly curious like, as the treetoad said when he 
 couldn't holler up a rain. But it only proves that blood 
 always tells! Bedelia, there's really nothing so true in this 
 world as blood ! ' ' 
 
 And Mrs. Nesbit would ask him a moment later what he 
 could find so amusing in "Paracelsus"? She certainly 
 never had found anything but headaches in it. 
 
 Yet there came a time when the pudgy little stomach of 
 the Doctor did not shake in merriment. For he also had his 
 
INTERIOR OF A DESERTED HOUSE 129 
 
 problem of blood to solve. Tom Van Dorn was, after all, 
 the famous Van Dorn baby ! 
 
 One evening in the late winter as the Doctor was trudging 
 home from a belated call, he saw the light in Brotherton's 
 window marking a yellow bar across the dark street. As he 
 stepped in for a word with Mr. Brotherton about the coming 
 spring city election, he saw quickly that the laugh was in 
 some way on Tom Van Dorn, who rose rather guiltily and 
 hurried out of the shop. 
 
 "Seegars on George!" exclaimed Captain Morton; then 
 answered the Doctor's gay, inquiring stare: "Henry bet 
 George a box of Perfectos Tom wouldn't be a year from his 
 wedding asking 'what's her name' when the boys were dis- 
 cussing some girl or other, and they've laid for Tom ever 
 since and got him to-night, eh?" 
 
 The Captain laughed, and then remembering the Doc- 
 tor's relationship with the Van Dorns, colored and tried to 
 cover his blunder with: ''Just boys, you know, Doc — just 
 their way." 
 
 The Doctor grinned and piped back, "Oh, yes — yes — 
 Cap — I know, boys will be dogs!" 
 
 Toddling home that night the Doctor passed the Van 
 Dorn house. He saw through the window the young couple 
 in their living-room. The doctor had a feeling that he could 
 sense the emotions of his daughter's heart. It was as though 
 he could see her trying in vain to fasten the steel grippers 
 of her soul into the heart and life of the man she loved. 
 Over and over the father asked himself if in Tom Van 
 Dorn's heart was any essential loyalty upon which the hooks 
 and bonds of the friendship and fellowship of a home could 
 fasten and hold. The father could see the handsome young 
 face of Van Dorn in the gas light, aflame with the joy of her 
 presence, but Dr. Nesbit realized that it was a passing flame 
 — that in the core of the husband was nothing to which a 
 wife might anchor her life; and as the Doctor clicked his 
 cane on the sidewalk vigorously he whispered to himself: 
 "Peth — peth — nothing in his heart but peth." 
 
 A day came when the parents stood watching their daugh- 
 ter as she went down the street through the dusk, after she 
 had kissed them both and told them, and after they had all 
 
130 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 said they were very happy over it. But when she was out 
 of sight the hands of the parents met and the Doctor saw 
 fear in Bedelia Nesbit's face for the first time. But neither 
 spoke of the fear. It took its place by the vague uneasiness 
 in their hearts, and two spectral sentinels stood guard over 
 their speech. 
 
 Thus their talk came to be of those things which lay re- 
 mote from their hearts. It was Mrs. Nesbit's habit to read 
 the paper and repeat the news to the Doctor, who sat beside 
 her with a book. He jabbed in comments; she ignored 
 them. Thus: "I see Grant Adams has been made head 
 carpenter for all the Wahoo Fuel Companies mines and 
 properties." To which the Doctor replied.- "Grant, my 
 dear, is an unusual young man. He'll have ten regular men 
 under him — and I claim that's fine for a boy in his twen- 
 ties — with no better show in life than Grant has had. ' ' But 
 Mrs. Nesbit had in general a low opinion of the Doctor's esti- 
 mates of men. She held that no man who came from Indiana 
 and was fooled by men who wore cotton in their ears and 
 were addicted to chilblains, could be trusted in appraising 
 humanity. 
 
 So she answered, "Yes," dryly. It was her custom when 
 he began to bestow knighthood upon common clay to divert 
 him with some new and irrelevant subject. "Here's an item 
 in the Times this morning I fancy you didn't read. After 
 describing the bride's dress and her beauty, it says, 'And 
 the bride is a daughter of the late H. M. Von Miiller, who 
 was an exile from his native land and gave up a large estate 
 and a title because of his participation in the revolution of 
 '48. Miss Miiller might properly be called the Countess 
 Von Miiller, if she chose to claim her rightful title ! ' — what 
 is there to that?" 
 
 The Doctor threw back his head and chuckled : 
 
 "Pennsylvania Dutch for three generations — I knew old 
 Herman Miiller 's father — before I came "West — when he used 
 to sell kraut and cheese around Vincennes before the war, 
 and Herman's grandfather came from Pennsylvania." 
 
 "I thought so," sniffed Mrs. Nesbit. And then she 
 added: "Doctor, that girl is a minx." 
 
 ' ' Yes, my dear, ' ' chirped the Doctor. ' ' Yes, she 's a minx ; 
 
INTERIOR OF A DESERTED HOUSE 131 
 
 but this isn't the open season for minxes, so we must let her 
 go. And," he added after a pause, during which he read 
 the wedding notice carefully, "she may put a brace under 
 Henry — the blessed Lord knows Henry will need something, 
 though he's done mighty well for a year — only twice in 
 eighteen months. Poor fellow — poor fellow!" mused the 
 Doctor. Mrs. Nesbit blinked at her husband for a minute 
 in sputtering indignation. Then she exclaimed: "Brace 
 under Henry!" And to make it more emphatic, repeated 
 it and then exploded: "The cat's foot — brace for Henry, 
 indeed — that piece ! ' ' 
 
 And Mrs. Nesbit stalked out of the room, brought back a 
 little dress — a very minute dress — she was making and sat 
 rocking almost imperceptibly while her husband read. 
 Finally, after a calming interval, she said in a more amiable 
 tone, "Doctor Nesbit, if you've cut up all the women you 
 claim to have dissected in medical school, you know precious 
 little about what's in them, if you get fooled in that Mar- 
 garet woman. ' ' 
 
 "The only kind we ever cut up," returned the Doctor 
 in a mild, conciliatory treble, "were perfect — all Satter- 
 thwaites." 
 
 And when the Doctor fell back to his book, Mrs. Nesbit 
 spent some time reflecting upon the virtues of her liege lord 
 and wondering how such a paragon ever came from so com- 
 mon a State as Indiana, where so far as any one ever knew 
 there was never a family in the whole commonwealth, and 
 the entire population as she understood it carried potatoes 
 in their pockets to keep away rheumatism. 
 
 The evening wore away and Dr. and Mrs. Nesbit were 
 alone by the ashes in the smoldering fire in the grate. 
 They were about to go up stairs when the Doctor, who had 
 been looking absent-mindedly into the embers, began medi- 
 tating aloud about local politics while his wife sewed. His 
 meditation concerned a certain trade between the city and 
 Daniel Sands wherein the city parted with its stock in 
 Sands 's public utilities with a face value of something like 
 a million dollars. The stocks were to go to Mr. Sands, while 
 the city received therefor a ten-acre tract east of town on 
 the Wahoo, called Sands Park- After bursting into the 
 
132 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Doctor's political nocturne rather suddenly and violently 
 with her feminine disapproval, Mrs. Nesbit sat rocking, and 
 finally she exclaimed: "Good Lord, Jim Nesbit, I wish I 
 was a man." 
 
 "I've long suspected it, my dear," piped her husband. 
 
 "Oh, it isn't that — not your politics," retorted Mrs. Nes- 
 bit, "though that made me think of it. Do you know what 
 else old Dan Sands is doing?" 
 
 The Doctor bent over the fire, stirred it up and replied, 
 "Well, not in particular." 
 
 "Philandering," sniffed Mrs. Nesbit. 
 
 "Again?" returned the Doctor. 
 
 "No," snapped Mrs. Nesbit — "as usual!" 
 
 The Doctor had no opinion to express ; one of the family 
 specters was engaging his attention at the moment. Pres- 
 ently his wife put down her paper and sat as one wrestling 
 with an impulse. The specter on her side of the hearth was 
 trying to keep her lips sealed. They sat while the mantel 
 clock ticked off five minutes. 
 
 "What are you thinking?" the Doctor asked. 
 
 "I'm thinking of Dan Sands," replied the wife with some 
 emotion in her voice. 
 
 The foot tap of Mrs. Nesbit became audible. She shook 
 her head with some force and exclaimed : "0 Jim, wouldn 't 
 I like to have that man — just for one day." 
 
 "I've noticed," cut in the Doctor, "regarding such propo- 
 sitions from the gentler sex, that the Lord generally tem- 
 pers the wind to the shorn lamb." 
 
 "The shorn lamb — the shorn lamb," retorted Mrs. Nesbit. 
 "The shorn tom-cat! I'd like to shear him." Wherewith 
 she rose and putting out the light led the Doctor to the 
 stairs. 
 
 Both knew that the spectral sentinels had used Daniel 
 Sands and his amours only as a seal upon their lips. 
 
 The parents could speak in parables about what they 
 felt or fancied because there was so little that was tangible 
 and substantial for them to see. Of all the institutions man 
 has made — the state, the church, his commerce, his schools, — 
 the home is by far the most spiritual. Its successes and its 
 failures are never material. They are never evidenced in any 
 
INTERIOR OP A DESERTED HOUSE 133 
 
 sort of worldly goods. Only in the hearts of those who 
 dwell in a home, or of those to whom it is dear, do its tri- 
 umphs and its defeats register themselves. But in Tom Van 
 Dorn's philosophy of life small space was left for things 
 of the spirit alone, to register. He was trying with all his 
 might to build a home upon material things. So above all 
 he built his home around a beautiful woman. Then he lav- 
 ished upon her and about the house wherein she dwelled, 
 beautiful objects. He was proud of their cost. Their value 
 in dollars and cents gave these objects their chief value in 
 his balance sheet of gain or less in footing up his account 
 with his home. And because what he had was expensive, he 
 prized it. Possibly because he had bought his wife's devo- 
 tion, at some material sacrifice to his own natural inclina- 
 tions toward the feminine world, he listed her high in the 
 assets of the home ; and so in the only way he could love, he 
 loved her jealously. She and the rugs and pictures and fur- 
 niture — all were dear to him, as chattels which he had 
 bought and paid for and could brag about. And because he 
 was too well bred to brag, the repression of that natural 
 instinct he added to the cost of the items listed, — rugs, pic- 
 tures, wife, furniture, house, trees, lot, and blue grass lawn. 
 So when toward the end of the first year of his marriage, he 
 found that actually he could turn his head and follow with 
 his eyes a pretty petticoat going down Market Street, and 
 still fool his wife; when he found he could pry open the 
 eyes of Miss Mauling at the office again with his old ogle, 
 and still have the beautiful love which he had bought with 
 self-denial, its value dropped. 
 
 And his wife, who felt in her soul her value passing in 
 the heart she loved, strove to find her fault and to correct it. 
 Daily her devotion manifested itself more plainly. Daily 
 she lived more singly to the purpose of her soul. And daily 
 she saw that purpose becoming a vain pursuit. 
 
 Outwardly the home was unchanged as this tragedy was 
 played within the two hearts. The same scenery surrounded 
 the players. The same voices spoke, in the same tones, the 
 same words of endearment, and the same hours brought the 
 same routine as the days passed. Yet the home was slowly 
 sinking into failure. And the specters that sealed the lips 
 
134 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 of the parents who stood by and mutely watched the inner 
 drama unfold, watched it unfold and translate itself into 
 life without words, without deeds, without superficial tremor 
 or flinching of any kind — the specters passed the sad story 
 from heart to heart in those mysterious silences wherein 
 souls in this world learn their surest truths. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN WHICH OUR HERO STROLLS OUT WITH THE DEVIL TO LOOK 
 AT THE HIGH MOUNTAIN 
 
 THE soup had come and gone; great platters of fried 
 chicken had disappeared, with incidental spinach and 
 new peas and potatoes, A bowl of lettuce splashed 
 with a French dressing had been mowed down as the grass, 
 and the goodly company was surveying something less than 
 an acre of strawberry shortcake at the close of a rather 
 hilarious dinner — a spring dinner, to be exact. Ehoda Kol- 
 lander was reciting with enthusiasm an elaborate and impos- 
 sible travesty of a recipe for strawberry shortcake, which 
 she had read somewhere, when the Doctor, in his nankeens, 
 putting his hands on the table cloth as one who was about 
 to deliver an oracle, ran his merry eyes down the table, 
 gathering up the Adamses and Mortons and Mayor Brother- 
 ton and Morty Sands; fastened his glance upon the Van 
 Dorns and cut in on the interminable shortcake recipe rather 
 ruthlessly thus in his gay falsetto : 
 
 "Tom, here — thinks he's pretty smart. And George 
 Brotherton, Mayor of all the Harveys, thinks he is a pretty 
 smooth article ; and the Honorable Lady Satterthwaite here, 
 she's got a Maryland notion that she has second sight into 
 the doings of her prince consort. ' ' He chuckled and grinned 
 as he beamed at his daughter: "And there is the princess 
 imperial — she thinks she's mighty knolledgeous about her 
 father — but," he cocked his head on one side, enjoying the 
 suspense he was creating as he paused, drawling his words, 
 "I'm just going to show you how I've got 'em all fooled." 
 
 He pulled from his pocket a long, official envelope, pulled 
 from the envelope an official document, and also a letter. 
 He laid the official document down before him and opened 
 the letter. 
 
 135 
 
136 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Kind o' seems to be signed by the Governor of the 
 State," he drolled: "And seems like the more I look at it 
 the surer I am it's addressed to Tom Van Dorn. I'm not 
 much of an elocutionist and never could read at sight, having 
 come from Eendiany, and I guess Rhody here, she's kind of 
 elocutionary and I'll jest about ask her to read it to the 
 ladies and gentlemen ! ' ' He handed Mrs. Kollander the let- 
 ter and passed the sealed document to his son-in-law. 
 
 Mrs. Kollander read aloud : 
 
 "I take pleasure in handing you through the kindness of 
 Senator James Nesbit your appointment to fill the vacancy 
 in your judicial district created to-day by the resignation of 
 Judge Arbuckle of your district to fill a vacancy in the 
 Supreme Court of this State created there by the resigna- 
 tion of Justice Worrell." 
 
 Looking over his wife's shoulder and seeing the signifi- 
 cance of the letter, John Kollander threw back his head and 
 began singing in his roaring voice, "For we'll rally round 
 the flag, boys, we'll rally once again, shouting the battle cry 
 of freedom," and the company at the table clapped its 
 hands. And while George Brotherton was bellowing, ' ' Well 
 — say!" Judge Thomas Van Dorn kissed his wife and 
 beamed his satisfaction upon the company. 
 
 When the commotion had subsided the chuckling little 
 man, all a-beam with happiness, his pink, smooth face shin- 
 ing like a headlight, explained thus : 
 
 "I jest thought these Maryland Satterthwaites and Sche- 
 nectady Van Dorns was a-gittin' too top-lofty, and I'd have 
 to register one for the Grand Duke of Griggsby 's Station, to 
 sort of put 'em in their place!" He was happy; and his 
 vernacular, which always was his pose under emotional 
 stress, was broad, as he went on : " So I says to myself, the 
 Corn Belt Railroad is mighty keen for a Supreme Court 
 decision in the Missouri River rate case, and I says, Wor- 
 rell J., he's the boy to write it, but I says to the Corn Belt 
 folks, says I, 'It would shatter the respect of the people for 
 their courts if Worrell J. should stay on the bench after 
 writing the kind of a decision you want, so we'll just put 
 him in your law offices at twelve thousand per, which is 
 three times what he is getting now, and then one idear 
 
OUR HERO STROLLS OUT 137 
 
 brought on another and here's Tom's commission and three 
 men and a railroad all made happy!" He threw back his 
 head and laughed silently as he finished, "and all the jus- 
 tices concurring!" After the hubbub of congratulations 
 had passed and the guests had moved into the parlor of the 
 Nesbit home, the little Doctor, standing among them, regaled 
 himself thus : 
 
 "Politics is jobs. Jobs is friends. Friends is politics. 
 The reason why the reformers don't get anywhere is that 
 they have no friends in politics; They regard the people as 
 sticky and smelly and low. Bedelia has that notion. But 
 I love 'em! Love 'em and vote 'em!" 
 
 Amos Adams opened his mouth to protest, but the Doctor 
 waved him into silence. "I know your idear, Amos! But 
 when the folks get tired of politics that is jobs and want 
 politics that is principles, I'll open as fine a line of prin- 
 ciples as ever was shown in this market!" 
 
 After the company had gone, Mrs. Nesbit faced her hus- 
 band with a peremptory: "Well — will you tell me why, 
 Jim Nesbit ? ' ' And he sighed and dropped into a chair. 
 
 "To save his self-respect! Self-respect grows on what 
 it feeds on, my dear, and I thought maybe if he was a 
 judge" — he looked into the anxious eyes of his wife and 
 went on — "that might hold him!" He rested his head on 
 a hand and drew in a deep breath. " 'Vanity, vanity,' 
 saith the Preacher — ' all is vanity ! ' And I thought I 'd hitch 
 it to something that might pull him out of the swamp! 
 And I happened to know that he had a sneaking notion of 
 running for Judge this fall, so I thought I'd slip up and 
 help him." 
 
 He sighed again and his tone changed. "I did it pri- 
 marily for Laura," he said wearily, and: "Mother, we 
 might as well face it." 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit looked intently at her husband in understand- 
 ing silence and asked : "Is it any one in particular, Jim — " 
 
 He hesitated, then exclaimed: "Oh, I may be wrong, but 
 somehow I don't like the air — the way that Mauling girl 
 assumes authority at the office. "Why, she's made me wait 
 in the outer office twice now — for nothing except to show 
 that she could!" 
 
138 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Yes, Jim — but what good will this judgeship do? How 
 will it solve anything ? ' ' persisted the wife. The Doctor let 
 his sigh precede his words : ' ' The office will make him real- 
 ize that the eyes of the community are on him, that he is in 
 a way a marked man. And then the place will keep him 
 busy and spur on his ambition. And these things should 
 help." 
 
 He looked tenderly into the worried face of his wife and 
 smiled. "Perhaps we're both wrong. We don't know. 
 Tom's young and — " He ended the sentence in a "Ho — 
 ho — ho — hum!" and yawned and rose, leading the way up 
 stairs. 
 
 In the Van Dern home a young wife was trying to define 
 herself in the new relation to the community in which the 
 evening's news had placed her. She had no idea of divorcing 
 the judgeship from her life. She felt that marriage was a 
 full partnership and that the judgeship meant much to her. 
 She realized that as a judge 's wife her life and her duties — 
 and she was eager always to acquire new duties — would be 
 different from her life and her duties as a lawyer's wife or 
 a doctor's wife or a merchant's wife, for example. For 
 Laura Van Dorn was in the wife business with a consuming 
 ardor, and the whole universe was related to her wifehood. 
 To her marriage was the development of a two-phase soul 
 with but one will. As the young couple entered their home, 
 the wife was saying: 
 
 "Tom, isn't it fine to think of the good you can do — 
 these poor folk in the Valley don't really get justice. And 
 they're your friends. They always help you and father in 
 the election, and now you can see that they have their 
 rights. Oh, I'm so glad — so glad father did it. That was 
 his way to show them how he really loves them." 
 
 The husband smiled, a husbandly and superior smile, and 
 said absently, "Oh, well, I presume they don't get much 
 out of the courts, but they should learn to keep away from 
 litigation. It's a rich man's game anyway!" He was 
 thinking of the steps before him which might lead him to a 
 higher court and still higher. His ambition vaulted as he 
 spoke. "Laura, Father Jim wouldn't mind having a son- 
 in-law on the United States Supreme Court, and I believe 
 
OUR HERO STROLLS OUT 139 
 
 we can work together and make it in twenty years more!" 
 
 As the young wife saw the glow of ambition in his fine, 
 mobile face she stifled the altruistic yearnings, which she 
 had come to feel made her husband uncomfortable, and 
 joined him as he gazed into the crystal ball of the future 
 and saw its glistening chimera. 
 
 Perhaps the preceding dialogue wherein Dr. James Nes- 
 bit, his wife, his daughter and his son-in-law have spoken 
 may indicate that politics as the Doctor played it was an 
 exceedingly personal chess game. "We see him here blithely 
 taking from the people of his state, their rights to justice 
 and trading those rights cheerfully for his personal happi- 
 ness as it was represented in the possible reformation of his 
 daughter's husband. He thought it would work — this curi- 
 ous bartering of public rights for private ends. He could 
 not see that a man who could accept a judgeship as it had 
 come to Tom Van Dorn, in the nature of things could not 
 take out an essential self-respect which he had forfeited 
 when he took the place. The Doctor was as blind as Tom 
 Van Dorn, as blind as his times. Government was a per- 
 sonal matter in that day; public place was a personal per- 
 quisite. 
 
 As for the reformation of Tom Van Dorn, for which all 
 this juggling with sacred things was done, he had no idea 
 that his moral regeneration was concerned in the deal, and 
 never in all the years of his service did the vaguest hint 
 come to him that the outrage of justice had been accom- 
 plished for his own soul's good. 
 
 The next morning Tom Van Dorn read of his appoint- 
 ment as Judge in the morning papers, and he pranced twice 
 the length of Market Street, up one side and down the 
 other, to let the populace congratulate him. Then with a 
 fat box of candy he went to his office, where he gave the 
 candy and certain other tokens of esteem to Miss Mauling, 
 and at noon after the partnership of Calvin & Van Dorn 
 had been dissolved, with the understanding that the young 
 Judge was to keep his law books in Calvin's office, and was 
 to have a private office there — for certain intangible con- 
 siderations. Then after the business with Joseph Calvin was 
 concluded, the young Judge in his private office with his 
 
140 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 hands under his coat-tails preened before Miss Mauling and 
 talked from a shameless soul of his greed for power ! The 
 girl before him gave him what he could not get at home, an 
 abject adoration, uncritical, unabashed, unrestrained. 
 
 The young man whom the newly qualified Judge had in- 
 herited as court stenographer was a sadly unemotional, 
 rather methodical, old maid of a person, and Tom Van 
 Dorn could not open his soul to this youth, so he was wont 
 to stray back to the offices of Joseph Calvin to dictate his 
 instructions to juries, and to look over the books in his own 
 library in making up his decisions. The office came to be 
 known as the Judge's Chambers and the town cocked a gay 
 and suspicious eye at the young Judge. Mr. Calvin's prac- 
 tice doubled and trebled and Miss Mauling lost small caste 
 with the nobility and gentry. And as the summer deepened, 
 Dr. James Nesbit began to see that vanity does not build 
 self-respect. 
 
 When the young Judge announced his candidacy for elec- 
 tion to fill out the two years' unexpired term of his prede- 
 cessor, no one opposed Van Dorn in his party convention; 
 but the Doctor had little liking for the young man's inti- 
 macy in the office of Joseph Calvin and less liking for the 
 scandal of that intimacy which arose when the rich litigants 
 in the Judge's court crowded into Calvin's office for counsel. 
 The Doctor wondered if he was squeamish about certain mat- 
 ters, merely because it was his own son-in-law who was the 
 subject of the disquieting gossip connected with Calvin's 
 practice in Van Dorn's court. Then there was the other 
 matter. The Doctor could notice that the town was having 
 its smile — not a malicious nor condemning smile, but a tol- 
 erant, amused smile about Van Dorn and the Mauling girl; 
 and the Doctor didn't like that. It cut deeply into the 
 Doctor's heart that as the town's smile broadened, his 
 daughter's face was growing perceptibly more serious. The 
 joy she had shown when first she told, him of the baby's 
 coming did not illumine her face; and her laughter — her 
 never failing well of gayety — was in some way being sealed. 
 The Doctor determined to talk with Tom on the Good of the 
 Order and to talk man-wise — without feeling of course but 
 without guile. 
 
OUR HERO STROLLS OUT 141 
 
 So one autumn afternoon when the Doctor heard the 
 light, firm step of the young man in the common hallway 
 that led to their offices over the Traders' Bank, the Doctor 
 tuned himself up to the meeting and cheerily called through 
 his open door: 
 
 "Tom — Tom, you young scoundrel — come in here and let's 
 talk it all over." 
 
 The young man slipped a package into his pocket, and 
 came lightly into the office. He waved his hand gayly and 
 called: "Well — well, pater familias, what's on your chest 
 to-day?" His slim figure was clad in gray — a gray suit, 
 gray shirt, gray tie, gray shoes and a crimson rose bud in 
 his coat lapel. As he slid into a chair and crossed his lean 
 legs the Doctor looked him over. The young Judge's cor- 
 roding pride in his job was written smartly all over his 
 face and figure. "The fairest of ten thousand, the bright 
 and morning star, Tom," piped the Doctor. Then added 
 briskly, "I want to talk to you about Joe Calvin." The 
 young man lifted a surprised eyebrow. The Doctor pushed 
 ahead as he pulled the county bar docket from his desk and 
 pointed to it. "Joe Calvin's business has increased nearly 
 fifty per cent, in less than six months! And he has the 
 money side of eighty per cent, of the cases in your court ! ' ' 
 
 "Well — " replied Van Dorn in the mushy drawl that he 
 used with juries, "that's enough! Joe couldn't ask more." 
 Then he added, eying the Doctor closely, "Though I can't 
 say that what you tell me startles me with its suddenness." 
 
 " That's just my point," cried the Doctor in his high, 
 shrill voice. "That's just my point, Thomas," he repeated, 
 "and here's where I come in. I got you this job. I am 
 standing for you before the district and I am standing for 
 you now for this election." The Doctor wagged his head 
 at the young man as he said, "But the truth is, Tom, I had 
 some trouble getting you the solid delegation. ' ' 
 
 "Ah?" questioned the suave young Judge. 
 
 "Yes, Tom — my own delegation," replied the Doctor. 
 "You see, Tom, there is a lot of me. There is the one they 
 call Doc Jim; then there's Mrs. Nesbit's husband and there's 
 your father-in-law, and then there's Old Linen Pants. The 
 old man was for you from the jump. Doc Jim was for you 
 
142 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 and Mrs. Nesbit's husband was willing to go with the ma- 
 jority of the delegation, though he wasn't strong for you. 
 But I'll tell you, Tom," piped the Doctor, "I did have the 
 devil of a time ironing out the troubles of your father-in- 
 law." 
 
 The Doctor leaned forward and pointed a fat, stern finger 
 at his son-in-law. "Tom," the Doctor's voice was shrill 
 and steely, "I don't like your didos with Violet Mauling!" 
 The face above the crimson flower did not flinch. 
 
 "I don't suppose you're making love to her. But you 
 have no business fooling around Joe Calvin's office on gen- 
 eral principles. Keep out, and keep away from her." 
 And then the Doctor's patience slipped and his voice rose: 
 "What do you want to give her the household bills for? 
 Pay 'em yourself or let Laura send her checks ! ' ' The Doc- 
 tor 's tones were harsh, and with the amiable cast off his face 
 his graying blond pompadour hair seemed to bristle mili- 
 tantly. The effect gave the Doctor a fighting face as he 
 barked, "You can't afford it. You must stop it. It's no 
 way to do. I didn't think it of you, Tom!" 
 
 After Van Dorn had touched his black wing of hair, his 
 soft mustache and the crimson flower on his coat, he had 
 himself well in hand and had planned his defense and 
 counter attacks. He spoke softly : 
 
 "Now, Father Jim— I'm not — " he put a touch of feel- 
 ing in the "not," "going to give up the Mauling girl. 
 "When I'm elected next month, I'm going to make her my 
 court stenographer!" He looked the Doctor squarely in 
 the face and paused for the explosion which came in an 
 excited, piping cry: 
 
 "Why, Tom, are you crazy! Take her all over the three 
 counties of this district with you? Why, boy — " But 
 Judge Van Dorn continued evenly: "I don't like a man 
 stenographer. Men make me nervous and self-conscious, 
 and I can't give a man the best that's in me. And I propose 
 to give my best to this job — in justice to myself. And 
 Violet Mauling knows my ways. She doesn't interpose her- 
 self between me and my ideas, so I am going to make her 
 court stenographer next month right after the election." 
 
 When the Doctor drew in a breath to speak, Van Dorn 
 
OUE HERO STEOLLS OUT 143 
 
 put out a hand, checked the elder man and said blandly and 
 smilingly, "And, Father Jim, I'm going to be elected — 
 I'm dead sure of election." 
 
 The Doctor thought he saw a glint of sheer malicious im- 
 pudence in Van Dorn's smile as he finished speakings 
 "And anyway, pater, we mustn't quarrel right now — 
 Just at this time, Laura — " 
 
 ' ' You 're a sly dog, now, ain 't you ! Ain 't you a sly dog ? ' ' 
 shrilled the Doctor in sputtering rage. Then the blaze in 
 his eyes faded and he cried in despair: "Tom, Tom, isn't 
 there any way I can put the fear of Ood into you?" 
 
 Van Dorn realized that he had won the contest. So he 
 forbore to strike again. 
 
 "Doctor Jim, I'm afraid you can't jar me much with 
 the fear of God. You have a God that sneaks in the back 
 door of matter as a kind of a divine immanence that makes 
 for progress and Joe Calvin in there has a God with whis- 
 kers who sits on a throne and runs a sort of police court; 
 but one's as impossible as the other. I have no God at all," 
 his chest swelled magnificently, "and here's what happens": 
 
 He was talking against time and the Doctor realized it. 
 But his scorn was crusting over his anger and he listened 
 as the young Judge amused himself: "I've defended gam- 
 blers and thugs — and crooks, some rich, some poor, mostly 
 poor and mostly guilty. And Joe has been free attorney 
 for the law and order league and has given the church free 
 advice and entertained preachers when he wasn't hiding out 
 from his wife. And he's gone to conference and been a 
 deacon and given to the Lord all his life. And now that 
 it's good business for him to have me elected, can he get a 
 vote out of all his God-and-morality crowd? Not a vote. 
 And all I have to do is to wiggle my finger and the whole 
 crowd of thugs and blacklegs and hoodlums and rich and 
 poor line up for me — no matter how pious I talk. I tell 
 you, Father Jim — there's nothing in your God theory. It 
 doesn't work. My job is to get the best out of myself pos- 
 sible." But this was harking back to Violet Mauling and 
 the young Judge smiled with bland impertinence as he fin- 
 ished, "The fittest survive, my dear pater, and I propose to 
 keep fit — to keep fit — and survive!" 
 
144 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 The Doctor's anger cooled, but the pain still twinged his 
 heart, the pain that came as he saw clearly and surely that 
 his daughter's life was bound to the futile task of making 
 bricks without straw. Deep in his soul he knew the an- 
 guish before her and its vain, continual round of fallen 
 hopes. As the young Judge strutted up and down the Doc- 
 tor's office, the father in the elder man dominated him and 
 a kind of contemptuous pity seized him. Pity overcame 
 rage, and the Doctor could not even sputter at his son-in- 
 law. "Fit and survive" kept repeating themselves over in 
 Dr. Nesbit's mind, and it was from a sad, hurt heart that 
 he spoke almost kindly: "Tom — Tom, my boy, don't be 
 too sure of yourself. You may keep fit and you may sur- 
 vive—but Tom, Tom — " the Doctor looked steadily into the 
 bold, black eyes before him and fancied they were being 
 held consciously from dropping and shifting as the Doctor 
 cried: "For God's sake, Tom, don't let up! Keep on 
 fighting, son, God or no God — you've got a devil — keep on 
 fighting him!" 
 
 The olive cheeks flushed for a fleeting second. Van Dorn 
 laughed an irritated little laugh. "Well," he said, turn- 
 ing to the door, "be over to-night? — or shall we come over? 
 Anything good for dinner?" 
 
 A minute later he came swinging into his own office. He 
 pulled a package from his pocket. "Violet," he said, going 
 up to her writing desk and half sitting upon it, as he put 
 the package before her, "here's the. candy." 
 
 He picked up her little round desk mirror, smiled at her 
 in it, and played rather idly about the desk for a foolish 
 moment before going to his own desk. He sat looking into 
 the street, folding a sheet of blank paper. When it became 
 a wad he snapped it at the young woman. It hit her round, 
 beautiful neck and disappeared into her square-cut bodice. 
 
 "Get it out for you if you want it?" He laughed fatu- 
 ously. 
 
 The girl flashed quick eyes at him, and said, "Oh, I don't 
 know," and went on with her work. He began to read, but 
 in a few minutes laid his book down. 
 
 "How'd you like to be a court stenographer?" The girl 
 kept on writing. "Honest now I mean it. If I win this 
 
OUR HERO STROLLS OUT 145 
 
 election and get this job for the two years of unexpired 
 term, you'll be court stenographer — pays fifteen hundred a 
 year." The girl glanced quickly at him again, with fire 
 in her eyes, then looked conspicuously down at the key- 
 board of the writing machine. 
 
 "I couldn't leave home," she said finally, as she pulled out 
 a sheet of paper. "It wouldn't be the thing — do you think 
 so?" 
 
 He put his feet on the desk, showing his ankles of pride, 
 and fingering his mustache, smiling a squinty smile with his 
 handsome, beady eyes as he said: "Oh, I'd take care of 
 you. You aren't afraid of me, are you?" 
 
 They both laughed. And the girl came over with a sheet 
 of paper. "Here is that Midland Valley letter. Will you 
 sign it now?" 
 
 He managed to touch her hand as she handed him the 
 sheet, and again to touch her bare forearm as he handed it 
 back after signing it. For which he got two darts from her 
 eyes. 
 
 A client came in. Joseph Calvin hurried in and out, a 
 busy little rat of a man who always wore shiny clothes 
 that bagged at the knees and elbows. George Brotherton 
 crashed in through the office on city business, and so the 
 afternoon wore away. At the end of the day, Thomas Van 
 Dorn and Miss Mauling locked up the office and went down 
 the hall and the stairs to the street together. He released 
 her arm as they came to the street, and tipped his hat as she 
 rounded the corner for home. He saw the white-clad Doc- 
 tor trudging up the low incline that led to Elm Street. 
 
 Dr. Nesbit was asking the question, "Who are the fit? 
 "Who should survive? His fingers had been pinched in the 
 door of the young Judge's philosophy and the Doctor was 
 considering much that might be behind the door. He won- 
 dered if it was the rich and the powerful who should sur- 
 vive. Or he thought perhaps it is those who give them- 
 selves for others. There was Captain Morton with his one 
 talent, pottering up and down the town talking all kinds of 
 weather, and all kinds of rebuffs that he might keep the 
 girls in school and make them ready to serve society; yet 
 according to Tom's standards of success the Captain was 
 
146 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 unfit ; and there was George Brotherton, ignorant, but loyal, 
 foolishly blind, of a tender heart, yet compared with those 
 who used his ignorance and played upon his blindness 
 (and the Doctor winced at his part in that game) Mr. 
 Brotherton was cast aside among the world's unfit; and 
 so was Henry Fenn, fighting with his devil like a soldier; 
 and so was Dick Bowman going into the mines for his 
 family, sacrificing light and air and the joy of a free life 
 that the wife and children might be clad, housed and fed 
 and that they might enjoy something of the comforts of 
 the great civilization which his toil was helping to build 
 up around them; yet in his grime Dick was accounted ex- 
 ceedingly unfit. Dick only had a number on the com- 
 pany's books and his number corresponded to a share of 
 stock and it was the business of the share of stock to get 
 as much out of Dick and give him back as little, and to take 
 as much from society in passing for coal as it could, and 
 being without soul or conscience or feeling of any kind, the 
 share of stock put the automatic screws on Dick — as their 
 numbers corresponded. And for squeezing the sweat out of 
 him the share was accounted unusually fit, while poor Dick 
 — why he was merely a number on the books and was called 
 a unit of labor. Then there was Daniel Sands. He had 
 spread his web all over the town. It ran in the pipes under 
 ground that brought water and gas, and the wires above 
 ground, that brought light and power and communication. 
 The web found its way into the earth — through deep cuts in 
 the earth, worming along caverns where it held men at work ; 
 then the web ran into foul dens where the toilers were robbed 
 of their health and strength and happiness and even of the 
 money the toilers toiled for, and the web brought it all back 
 slimey and stinking from unclean hands into the place where 
 the spider sat spinning. And there was his son and daugh- 
 ter; Mr. Sands had married at least four estimable ladies 
 with the plausible excuse that he was doing it only to give 
 his children a home. Mr. Sands had given his son a home, to 
 be sure; but his son had not taken a conscience from the 
 home — for who was there at home to give it? Not the esti- 
 mable ladies who had married Mr. Sands, for they had none 
 
OUR HERO STROLLS OUT 147 
 
 or they would have been somewhere else, to be sure ; not Mr. 
 Sands himself, for he was busy with his web, and conscience 
 rips such webs as his endways, and Daniel would have none 
 of that. And the servants who had reared the youth had 
 no conscience to give him ; for it was made definite and cer- 
 tain in that home that they were paid for what they did, so 
 they did what they were paid for, and bestowing consciences 
 upon young gentlemen is no part of the duty of the "help" 
 in a home like that. 
 
 As for his daughter, Anne, again one of God's miracles 
 was wrought. There, she was growing in the dead atmos- 
 phere of that home — where she had known two mothers be- 
 fore she was ten and she saw with a child's shrewd eyes that 
 another was coming. Yet in some subsoil of the life about 
 her the roots of her life Were finding a moral sense. Her 
 hazel eyes were questioning so curiously the old man who 
 fathered her that he felt uncomfortable when she was near 
 him. Yet for all the money he had won and all that money 
 had made him, he was reckoned among the fit. Then there 
 was the fit Mr. Van Dorn and the fit Mr. Calvin. Mr. Calvin 
 never missed a Sunday in church, gave his tithe, and revered 
 the law. He adjusted his halo and sang feelingly in prayer 
 meeting about his cross and hoped ultimately for his crown 
 as full and complete payment and return, the same being the 
 legal and just equivalent for said hereinbefore named cross 
 as aforesaid, and Mr. Calvin was counted among the fit, and 
 the Doctor smiled as he put him in the list. And Mr. Van 
 Dorn had confessed that he was among the fit and his fitness 
 consisted in getting everything that he could without being 
 caught. 
 
 But these reflections were vain and unprofitable to Dr. 
 Nesbit, and so he turned himself to the consideration of the 
 business in hand : namely, to make his calling and reelection 
 sure to the State Senate that November. So he went over 
 Greeley County behind his motherly sorrel mare, visiting the 
 people, telling them stories, prescribing for their ailments, 
 eating their fried chicken, cream gravy and mashed pota- 
 toes, and putting to rout the forces of the loathed opposition 
 who maintained that the Doctor beat his wife, by sometimes 
 
148 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 showing said wife as exhibit "A" without comment in those 
 remote parts of the county where her proud figure was un- 
 known. 
 
 In November he was reelected, and there was a torchlight 
 procession up the aisle of elms and all the neighbors stood 
 on the front porch, including the Van Dorns and the Mor- 
 tons and John Kollander in his blue soldier clothes, carrying 
 the flag into another county office, and the Henry Fenns, 
 while the Doctor addressed the multitude ! And there was 
 cheering, whereupon Mr. Van Dorn, Judge pro tern and 
 Judge-elect, made a speech with eloquence and fire in it; 
 John Kollander made his well-known flag speech, and Cap- 
 tain Morton got some comfort out of the election of Comrade 
 Nesbit, who had stood where bullets were thickest and as a 
 boy had bared his breast to the foe to save his country, and 
 drawing the Doctor into the corner, filed early application to 
 be made sergeant-at-arms of the State Senate and was prom- 
 ised that or Something Equally Good. The hungry friends 
 of the new Senator so loaded him with obligations that 
 blessed night that he again sold his soul to the devil, went 
 in with the organization, got all the places for all his peqple, 
 and being something of an organizer himself, distributed the 
 patronage for half the State. 
 
 Ten days later — or perhaps it may have been two weeks 
 later, at half past five in the evening — the Judge-elect was 
 sitting at his desk, handsomely dressed in black — as befitting 
 the dignity of his office. He and his newly appointed court 
 stenographer had returned the hour before from an adjoin- 
 ing county where they had been holding court. The Judge 
 was alone, if one excepts the young woman at the typewriting 
 desk, before whom he was preening, as though she were a 
 mere impersonal mirror. During the hour the Judge had 
 visited the tailor's and had returned to his office wearing a 
 new, long-tailed coat. His black silk neck-scarf was resplend- 
 ency new, his large, soft, black hat— of a type much fa- 
 vored by statesmen in that day— was cocked at a frivolous 
 angle, showing the raven's wing of black hair upon his fine 
 forehead. A black silk watchguard crossed his black vest; 
 his patent leather shoes shone below his trim black silk socks, 
 
OUR HERO STROLLS OUT 149 
 
 and he rubbed his smooth, olive cheek with the yellow chrys- 
 anthemum upon his coat lapel. 
 
 "Gee, but you're swell," said Miss Mauling. "You look 
 good enough to eat." 
 
 ' ' Might try a bite — if you feel that way about it, ' ' replied 
 the Judge. He put his hands in his pockets, tried them 
 under his long coat tails, buttoned the coat and thrust one 
 hand between the buttons, put one hand in a trousers' 
 pocket, • letting the other fall at his side, put both hands 
 behind him, and posed for a few minutes exchanging more 
 or less fervent glances with the girl. A step sounded in the 
 hallway. The man and woman obviously listened. It was a 
 heavy tread ; it was coming to the office door. The man and 
 woman slipped into Judge Van Dorn's private office. "When 
 the outer door opened, and it was apparent that some one was 
 in the outer office, Miss Mauling appeared, note book in 
 hand, quite brisk and businesslike with a question in her 
 good afternoon. 
 
 "Where's Van Dorn?" The visitor was tall, rawboned, 
 and of that physical cast known as lanky. His face was 
 flinty, and his red hair was untrimmed at the neck and ears. 
 
 "The Judge is engaged just now," smiled Miss Mauling. 
 "Will you wait?" She was careful not to ask him to sit. 
 Grant Adams looked at the girl with a fretful stare. He 
 did not take off his hat, and he shook his head toward Van 
 Dorn's office door as he said brusquely, "Tell him to come 
 out. It's important." The square shoulders of the tall 
 man gave a lunge or hunch toward the door. "I tell you 
 it's important." 
 
 Miss Mauling smiled. "But he can't come out just now. 
 He's busy. Any message I can give him?" 
 
 The man was excited, and his voice and manner showed 
 his temper. 
 
 "Now, look here — I have no message; tell Van Dorn I 
 want him quick." 
 
 "What name, please?" responded Miss Mauling, who 
 knew that the visitor knew she was playing. 
 
 "Grant Adams — tell him it's his business and not mine — 
 except — " 
 
150 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 But the girl had gone. It was several minutes before 
 Tom Van Dorn moved gracefully and elegantly into the 
 room. "Ah," he began. Grant glared at him. 
 
 "I've just driven down from Nesbit's with Kenyon, and 
 Mrs. Nesbit says to tell you Laura's there — came over this 
 morning, and you 're to come just as quick as you can. They 
 tried to get you on the 'phone, but you weren't here. Do 
 you understand? You're to come quick, and I've left my 
 horse out here for you. Kenyon and I '11 catch a car home. ' ' 
 
 The pose with one hand in his trousers pocket and the 
 other hanging loosely suited the Judge-elect as he answered : 
 "Is that all?" Then he added, as his eyes went over the 
 blue overalls: "I presume Mrs. Nesbit advised you as to 
 the reason for — for, well — for haste?" 
 
 Grant saw Van Dorn's eyes wander to the girl's for ap- 
 proval. "I shall not need your horse, Adams," Van Dorn 
 went on without waiting for a reply to his question. Then 
 again turning his eyes to the girl, he asked: "Adams, any- 
 thing I can do to repay your kindness?" 
 
 "No — " growled Adams, turning to go. 
 
 "Say, Adams," called Van Dorn, rubbing his hands and 
 still smiling at the girl, "you wouldn't take a cigar in — in 
 anticipation of the happy — " 
 
 Adams whirled around. His big jaw muscles worked in 
 knots before he spoke; his blue eyes were set and raging. 
 But he looked at the floor an instant before crying : 
 
 "You go to hell!" And an instant later, the lank figure 
 had left the room, slamming the door after him. Grant 
 heard the telephone bell ringing, and heard the girl's voice 
 answering it, then he went to the doctor 's office. As he was 
 writing the words "At Home" on the slate on the door, he 
 could hear Miss Mauling at the telephone. 
 
 "Yes," and again, "Yes," and then, "Is there any mes- 
 sage," and finally she giggled, "All right, I'll call him." 
 Then Grant stalked down the stairs. The receiver was hang- 
 ing down. The Doctor at the other end of the wire could 
 hear a man and a woman laughing. Van Dorn stepped to 
 the instrument and said : "Yes, Doctor." 
 
 Then, "What— well, you don't say!" 
 
 And still again, "Yes, he was just here this minute; shall 
 
OUR HERO STROLLS OUT 151 
 
 I call him back ? ' ' And before hanging up the receiver, he 
 said, "Why, of course, I'll come right out." 
 
 The Judge-elect turned gracefully around, smiling com- 
 placently: "Well, Violet — it's your bet. It's a girl!" 
 
 The court stenographer poked a teasing forefinger at him 
 and whittled it with another in glee. Then, as if remember- 
 ing something, she asked : ' ' How 's your wife ? ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn 's face was blank for an instant. ' ' By George — 
 that's so. I forgot to ask." He started to pick up the tele- 
 phone receiver, but checked himself. He pulled his broad- 
 brimmed hat over his eyes, and started for the door, waving 
 merrily and rubbing his chin with his flower. 
 
 "Ta ta," he called as he saw the last of her flashing 
 smile through the closing door. 
 
 And thus into a world where only the fittest survive that 
 day came Lila Van Dorn, — the child of a mother's love. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 WHEREIN WE WELCOME IN A NEW YEAR AND CONSIDER A 
 SERIOUS QUESTION 
 
 THE journey around the sun is a long and tumultuous 
 one. Many of us jolt off the earth as we ride, others 
 of us are turned over and thrown into strange and 
 absurd positions, and a few of us sit tight and edge along, a 
 little further toward the soft seats. But as we whirl by the 
 stations, returning ever and again to the days that are 
 precious in our lives, to the seasons that give us greatest joy, 
 we measure our gains, on the long journey, in terms of what 
 we love. "A little over a year ago to-night, my dear," 
 chirruped Dr. Nesbit, pulling a gray hair from his temple 
 where hairs of any kind were becoming scarce enough. "A 
 year, a month, and a week and a day ago to-night the town 
 and the Harvey brass band came out here and they tramped 
 up the blue grass so that it won't get back in a dozen years. 
 
 "Well," he mused, as the fire burned, "I got 'em all their 
 jobs, I got two or three good medical laws passed, and I 
 hope I have made some people happy. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, my dear," answered his wife. "In that year little 
 Lila has come into short dresses, and Kenyon Adams has 
 learned to play on the piano, and is taking up the violin." 
 
 "How time has flown since election a year ago," said Cap- 
 tain Morton to his assembled family as they sat around the 
 base burner smoldering in the dining-room. "And I've put 
 the patent window fastener into forty houses and sold Henry 
 Fenn the burglar alarm to go with his. ' ' And the eldest Miss 
 Morton spoke up and said : 
 
 "My good land, I hope we'll have a new principal by this 
 time next year. Another year under that man will kill me — 
 pa, I do wish you'd run for the school board." 
 
 And the handsome Miss Morton added, "My goodness, 
 
 152 
 
WE WELCOME IN A NEW YEAR 153 
 
 Emma Morton, if I didn't have anything to do but draw 
 forty dollars every month for yanking a lot of little kids 
 around and teaching them the multiplication tables, I 
 wouldn't say much. Why, we've come through algebra 
 into geometry and half way through Cicero, while you've 
 been fussing with that old principal — and Mrs. Herdicker's 
 got a new trimmer, and we girls down at the shop have to 
 put up with her didoes. Talk of trouble, gee ! ' ' 
 
 "Martha, you make me weary," said the youngest 
 Miss Morton, eating an apple. "If you'd had scarlet 
 fever and measles the same year, and your old dress just 
 turned and your same old hat, you'd have something to 
 talk about." 
 
 "Well," remarked His Honor the Mayor to Henry Fenn 
 and Morty Sands as they sat in the Amen Corner New 
 Year's eve, looking at the backs of a shelf of late books and 
 viewing several shelves of standard sets with highly gilded 
 backs, "it's more'n a year since election — and well, say — 
 I've got all my election bets paid now and am out of debt 
 again, and the book store's gradually coming along. By 
 next year this time I expect to put four more shelves of 
 copyrighted books in and cut down the paper backs to a stack 
 on the counter. But old Lady Nicotine is still the patron of 
 the fine arts — say, if it wasn't for the 'baccy little Georgie 
 would be so far behind with his rent that he would knock off 
 a year and start over." 
 
 Young Mr. Sands rolled a cigarette and lighted it and 
 said: "It's a whole year — and Pop's gone a long time 
 without a wife ; it '11 be two years next March since the last 
 one went over the hill who was brought out to make a home 
 for little Morty, and I saw Dad peeking out of the hack 
 window as we were standing waiting for the hearse, and 
 wondered which one of the old girls present he'd pick on. 
 But," mused Morty, "I guess it's Anne's eyes. Every time 
 he edges around to the subject of our need of a mother, 
 Anne turns her eyes on him and he changes the subject." 
 Morty laughed quietly and added: "When Anne gets out 
 of her 'teens she'll put father in a monastery!" 
 
 "Honeymoon's kind of waning — eh, Henry?" asked 
 Judge Van Dorn, who dropped in for a magazine and heard 
 
154 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 the conversation about the passing of the year. He added : 
 "I see you've been coming down here pretty regularly for 
 three or four months!" Henry looked up sadly and shook 
 his head. "You can't break the habit of a dozen years. 
 And I got to coming here back in the days when George 
 ran a pool and billiard hall, and I suppose I'll come until I 
 die, and then George will bring his wheezy old quartette 
 around and sing over me, and probably act as pall-bearer 
 too — if he doesn't read the burial service of the lodge in 
 addition. ' ' 
 
 "Well, a year's a year," said the suave Judge Van Dorn. 
 "A year ago you boys were smoking on me as the new judge 
 of this judicial district. All hail Thane of Cawdor — " He 
 smiled his princely smile, taking every one in with his frank, 
 bold eyes, and waved himself into the blustery night. There 
 he met Mr. Calvin, who, owing to a turn matters had taken 
 at home, was just beginning another long period of exile 
 from the hearthstone. He walked the night like a ghost, 
 silent and grim. His thin little neck, furrowed behind by 
 the sunken road between his arteries, was adorned by two 
 tufts of straggling hair, and as his overcoat collar was rolled 
 and wrinkled, he had an appearance of extreme neglect and 
 dejection. "Did you realize that it's over a year since 
 election ? ' ' said Van Dorn. "We might as well begin looking 
 out for next year, Joe," he added, "if you've got nothing 
 better to do. I wish you'd go down the row to-night and 
 see the boys and tell them I want to talk to them in the next 
 ten days or so ; a man never can be too early in these things ; 
 and say — if you happen in the Company store down there 
 and see Violet Mauling, slip her a ten and charge it to me 
 on the books; I wonder how she's doing — I haven't heard of 
 her for three months. Nice girl, Violet. ' ' 
 
 And Mrs. Herdicker hadn't heard of Miss Mauling for 
 some time, and sitting in her little office back of the millinery 
 store, sorting over her old bills, she came to a bill badly dog- 
 eared with Miss Mauling 's name on it. The bill called for 
 something like $75 and the last payment on it had been made 
 nearly half a year ago. So she looked at that bill and added 
 ten dollars to Mrs. Van Dorn's bill for the last hat she 
 bought, and did what she could to resign herself to the in- 
 
WE WELCOME IN A NEW YEAR 155 
 
 justices of a cruel world. But it had been a good year for 
 Mrs. Herdicker. New wells in new districts had come 
 gushing gas and oil into Harvey in great geysers and the 
 work on the new smelter was progressing, and the men in 
 the mines had been kept steadily at work; for Harvey coal 
 was the best in the Missouri Valley. So the ladies who are 
 no better than they should be and the ladies who are much 
 better than they should be, and the ladies who will stand for 
 a turned ribbon, and a revived feather, and are just about 
 what they may be expected to be, all came in and spent 
 their money like the princesses that they were. And Mrs. 
 Herdicker figured in going over her stock just which hat 
 she could sell to Mrs. Nesbit as a model hat from the Paris 
 exhibit at the World's Fair, and which one she could put on 
 Mrs. Fenn as a New York sample, and as she built her castles 
 the loss of the $75 to Miss Mauling had its compensating 
 returns, jand she smiled and thought that just a year ago 
 she had offered that same World's Fair Model to the wife of 
 the newly elected State Senator and she must put on a new 
 bunch of flowers and bend down the brim. 
 
 The Dexters were sitting by the stove in the living-room 
 with Amos Adams; they had come down to the lonely little 
 home to prepare a good dinner for the men. "A year ago 
 to-day, ' ' said the minister to the group as he put down the 
 newspaper, "Kenyon got his new fiddle." 
 
 "The year has brought me something — I tell you," Jas- 
 per said. "I've bought a horse with my money I earned as 
 page in the State Senate and I've got a milk route, and 
 have all the milk in the neighborhood to distribute. That's 
 what the year has done for me." 
 
 "Well," reflected the minister, "we've got the mission 
 church in South Harvey on a paying basis, and the pipe 
 organ in the home church paid for — that's some comfort. 
 And they do say," his eyes twinkled as he looked at his 
 wife, "that the committee is about to settle all the choir 
 troubles. That's pretty good for a year." 
 
 "Another year," sighed Amos Adams, and the wind 
 blew through the gaunt branches of the Cottonwood trees in 
 the yard, and far down in the valley came the moaning as 
 of many waters, and the wind played its harmonies in the 
 
156 IN THE HBAET OF A FOOL 
 
 woodlot. The old man repeated the words: "Another 
 year," and asked himself how many more years he would 
 have to wait and listen to the sighing of the moaning waters 
 that washed around the world. And Kenyon Adams, lying 
 flushed and tousled and tired upon a couch near by, heard 
 the waters in his dreams and they made such music that his 
 thin, little face moved in an eyrie smile. 
 
 "Mag," said a pale, nervous girl with dead, sad eyes as 
 she looked around at the new furniture in the new house, 
 and avoided the rim of soft light that came from the elec- 
 tric under the red shade, "did you think I was cheeky to 
 ask you all those questions over the 'phone — about where 
 Henry was to-night, and what you'd be doing?" The host- 
 ess said: "Why, no, Violet, no — I'm always glad to see 
 you." 
 
 There was a pause, and the girl exclaimed : "That's what 
 I come out for. I couldn't stand it any longer. Mag, what 
 in God's name have I done? Didn't you see me the other 
 day on Market Street? You were looking right at me. It's 
 been nearly a year since we've talked. You used to couldn't 
 get along a week without a good talk; but now — say, Mag, 
 what's the matter? what have I done to make you treat me 
 like this?" There was a tremor in the girl's voice. She 
 looked piteously at the wife, radiant in her red house gown. 
 The hostess spoke. "Look here, Violet Mauling, I did see 
 you on Market Street, and I did cut you dead. I knew it 
 would bring you up standing and we'd have this thing out." 
 
 The girl looked her question, but flushed. Then she said, 
 "You mean the old man?" 
 
 "I mean the old man. It's perfectly scandalous, Violet; 
 didn't you get your lesson with Van Dorn?" returned the 
 hostess. "The old man won't marry you — you don't expect 
 that, do you?" The girl shook her head. The woman con- 
 tinued, "Well, then drop it. You can't afford to be seen 
 with him." 
 
 "Mag," returned the visitor, "I tell you before God I 
 can't afford not to. It's my job. It's all I've got. Mamma 
 hasn't another soul except me to depend on. And he's 
 harmless — the old coot's as harmless as a child. Honest 
 and true, Mag, if I ever told the truth that's it. He just 
 
WE WELCOME IN A NEW YEAR 157 
 
 stands around and is silly — just makes foolish breaks to hear 
 himself talk — that's all. But what can I do? He keeps me 
 in the company store, and Heaven knows he doesn't kill him- 
 self paying me — only $8 a week, as far as that goes, and 
 then he talks and talks and talks about Judge Van Dorn, 
 and snickers and drops his front false teeth — ugh! — and 
 drivels. But, Mag, he's harmless as a baby." 
 
 "Well," returned the hostess, "Henry says every one is 
 talking about it, and you 're a common scandal, Violet Maul- 
 ing, and you ought to know it. I can't hold you up, as you 
 well know — no one can." 
 
 Then there followed a flood of tears, and after it had sub- 
 sided the two women were sitting on a couch. "I want to 
 tell you about Tom Van Dorn, Mag — you never understood. 
 Tou thought I used to chase him. God knows I didn 't, Mag 
 — honest, honest, honest ! You knew as well as anything all 
 about it ; but I never told you how I fought and fought and 
 all that and how little by little he came closer and closer, 
 and no one ever will know how I cried and how ashamed I 
 was and how I tried to fight him off. That's the God's truth, 
 Mag — the God's truth if you ever heard it." 
 
 The girl sobbed and hid her face. "Once when papa 
 died he sent me a hundred dollars through Mr. Brother- 
 ton, and mamma thought it came from the Lodge; but I 
 knew better. And, Mag, Mag, you'll never know how I 
 felt to bury papa on that kind of money. And I saved for 
 nearly a year to pay it back, and of course I couldn 't, for he 
 kept getting me expensive things and I had to get things to 
 go with 'em and went in debt, and then when I went there in 
 the office it was all so — so close and I couldn't fight, and he 
 was so powerful — you know just how big and strong, and — 
 O Mag, Mag, Mag — you'll never know how I tried — but I 
 just couldn't. Then he made me court reporter and took 
 me over the district." The girl looked up into the great, 
 soft, beautiful eyes of Margaret Fenn, and thought she saw 
 sympathy there. That was a common mistake ; others made 
 it in looking at Margaret's eyes. The girl felt encouraged. 
 She came closer to her one-time friend. "Mag," she said, 
 "they lied awfully about how I lost my job. They said 
 Mrs. Van Dorn made a row. Honest, Mag, there's nothing 
 
158 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 to that. She never even dreamed anything was — well — 
 was — don't you know. She wasn't a bit jealous, and is as 
 nice as she can be to me right now. It was this way. You 
 know when I sent mamma away last May for a visit, and the 
 Van Dorns asked me over there to stay?" Mrs. Penn 
 nodded. "Well," continued Violet, "one day in court — 
 you know when they were trying that bond case — the city 
 bonds and all — well, the Judge scribbled a note on his desk 
 and handed it to me. It said my room door creaked, and 
 not to shut it. ' ' She stopped and put her head in her hand 
 and rocked her body. ' ' I know, Mag, it was awful, but some 
 way I just couldn't help it. He is so strong, and — you 
 know, Mag, how we used to say there 's some men when they 
 come about you just make you kind of flush all over and 
 weak — well, he's that way. And, anyway, like a fool I 
 dropped that note and one of the jurors — a farmer from 
 Union township — picked it up and took it straight to Doctor 
 Jim." 
 
 The girl hid her face in her friend's dress. "It was aw- 
 ful." She spoke without looking up. "But, Mag — Doc- 
 tor Jim was fine — so gentle, so kind. The Judge thought he 
 would cuss around a lot, but he didn't — not even to him — 
 the Judge said. And the Doctor came to me as bashful and — 
 as — well, your own father couldn't have been better to you. 
 So I just quit, and the Judge got me the job in the Company 
 store and the Doctor drops in and she — yes, Mag, the Judge's 
 wife comes with the Doctor sometimes, and now it's been five 
 months to-day since I left the court reporter's work and I 
 have hardly seen the Judge to speak to him since. But they 
 all know, I guess, but mamma, and I sometimes think folks 
 try to talk to her; and that old man Sands comes snooping 
 and snickering around like an old dog hunting a buried 
 bone, and he's my job, and I don't know what to do." 
 
 Neither did Margaret know what to do, so she let her go 
 and let her stay, and knew her old friend no more. For 
 Margaret was rising in the world, and could have no encum- 
 brances ; and Miss Mauling disappeared in South Harvey and 
 that New Year's Eve marked the sad anniversary of the 
 break in her relations with Mrs. Fenn. And it is all set 
 down here on this anniversary to show what a jolty journey 
 
WE WELCOME IN A NEW YEAR 159 
 
 some of us make as we jog around the sun, and to show the 
 gentle reader how the proud Mr. Van Dorn hunts his prey 
 and what splendid romances he enjoys and what a fair 
 sportsman he is. 
 
 But the old year is restless. It has painted the sky of 
 South Harvey with the smoke of a score of smelter chimneys ; 
 it has burned in the drab of the dejected-looking houses, and 
 it has added a few dozen new ones for the men and their 
 families who operate the smelter. 
 
 Moreover, the old year has run many new, strange things 
 through a little boy's eyes as he looks sadly into a queer 
 world — a little, black-eyed boy, while a grand lady with a 
 high head sits on a piano bench beside the child and plays 
 for him the grand music that was fashionable in her grand 
 day. The passing year pressed into his little heart all that 
 the music told him — not of the gray misery of South Harvey, 
 not of the thousands who are mourning and toiling there, 
 but instead the old year has whispered to the child the beau- 
 tiful mystic tales of great souls doing noble deeds, of heroes 
 who died that men might live and love, of beauty and of 
 harmony too deep for any words of his that throb in him 
 and stir depths in his soul to high aspiration. It has all gone 
 through his ears; for his eyes see little that is beautiful. 
 There is, of course, the beauty of the homely hours he spends 
 with those who love him best, hours spent at school and joy- 
 ous hours spent by the murmuring creek, and there is what 
 the grand lady at the piano thinks is a marvel of beauty in 
 the ornate home upon the hill. But the most beautiful thing 
 he sees as the old year winds the passing panorama of life 
 for his eyes is the sunshine and prairie grass. This comes 
 to him of a Sunday when he walks with Grant — brother 
 Grant, out in the fields far away from South Harvey — 
 where the frosty breath of autumn has turned the grass to 
 lavender and pale heliotrope, and the hills roll away and 
 away like silent music and the clouds idling lazily over the 
 hillsides afar off cast dark shadows that drift in the laven- 
 der sea. Now the smoke that the old year paints upon the 
 blue prairie sky will fade as the year passes, and the great 
 smelters may crumble and men may plow over the ground 
 where they stand so proudly even to-day; but the music in 
 
160 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 the boy's heart, put there by the passing year, and the 
 glory of the sunshine and the prairie grass with the meadow 
 lark's sad evening song as it quivers for a moment in the 
 sunset air, — these have been caught in the child's soul and 
 have passed through the strange alchemy of God's great 
 mystery of human genius into an art that is the heritage of 
 the race. For into the mind of that child — that eyrie, large- 
 eyed, wondering, silent, lonely-seeming child — the signals of 
 God were passing. When he grew into his man 's estate and 
 could give them voice, the winds of the prairie, low and gen- 
 tle, the soft lisping of quiet waters, the moving passion of 
 the hurricane, the idle dalliance of the clouds whose purple 
 shadows combed the rolling hills, and all the ecstasy of the 
 love cry of solitary prairie birds, found meaning and the 
 listening world heard, through his music, God speaking to 
 His children. 
 
 So the year moved quickly on. Its tasks were countless. 
 It had another child to teach another message. There was 
 a little girl in the town — a small girl with the bluest eyes in 
 the world and tiny curls — yellow curls that wound so softly 
 around her mother's fingers that you would think that they 
 were not curls at all but golden dreams of curls that had 
 for the moment come true and would fade back into fairy- 
 land whence they came. And the passing year had to prop 
 the child at a window while the dusk came creeping into 
 the quiet house. There she sat waiting, watching, hoping 
 that the proud, handsome man who came at twilight down 
 the way leading to the threshold, would smile at her. She 
 was not old enough to hope he would take her in his arms 
 where she could cuddle and be loved. So the passing year 
 had to take a fine brush and paint upon the small, wistful 
 face a fleeting shadow, the mere ghost of a sadness that 
 came and went as she watched and waited for the father 
 love. 
 
 And Judge Thomas Van Dorn, the punctilious, gay, re- 
 sistless, young Tom Van Dorn was deaf to the deeper voices 
 that called to him and beckoned him to rest his soul. And 
 soon upon the winds that roam the world and carry earth 
 dreams back to ghosts, and bring ghosts of what we would be 
 back to our dreams — the roaming winds bore away the 
 
WE WELCOME IN A NEW YEAR 161 
 
 passing year, but they could not take the shadows that it 
 left upon the child's tender heart. 
 
 Now, when the old year with all its work lay down in the 
 innumerable company of its predecessors, and the bells rang 
 and the whistles blew in South Harvey to welcome in the 
 new year, the midnight sky was blazoned with the great 
 torches from the smelter chimneys, and the pumps in the oil 
 wells kept up their dolorous whining and complaining, like 
 great insects battening upon an abandoned world. In South 
 Harvey the lights of the saloons and the side of the dragon's 
 spawn glowed and beckoned men to death. Money tinkled 
 over the bars, and whispered as it was crumpled in the 
 claws of the dragon. For money the scurrying human ants 
 hurried along the dark, half-lighted streets from the ant 
 hills over the mines. For money the cranes of the pumps 
 creaked their monody. For money the half -naked men toiled 
 to their death in the fumes of the smelter. So the New 
 Year's bells rang a pean of welcome to the money that the 
 New Year would bring with its toll of death. 
 
 "Money," clanged the church bells in the town on the hill. 
 "Money makes wealth and since we have banished our kings 
 and stoned our priests, money is the only thing in our mate- 
 rial world that will bring power and power brings pleasure 
 and pleasure brings death. ' ' 
 
 "And death? and death? and death?" tolled the church 
 bells that glad New Year, and then ceased in circling waves 
 of sound that enveloped the world, still inquiring — "and 
 death ? and death ? ' ' fainter and fainter until dawn. 
 
 The little boy who heard the bells may have heard their 
 plaintive question ; for in the morning twilight, sitting in his 
 nightgown on his high chair looking into the cheerful mouth 
 of the glowing kitchen stove, while the elders prepared 
 breakfast, the child who had been silent for a long time 
 raised his face and asked : 
 
 "Grant — what is death?" The youth at his task an- 
 swered by telling about the buried seed and the quickening 
 plant. The child listened and shook his head. 
 
 "Father," he asked, addressing the old man, who was 
 rubbing his chilled hands over the fire, "what is death?" 
 The old man spoke, slowly. He ran his fingers through his 
 
162 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 beard and then addressing the youth who had spoken rather 
 than the child, replied: 
 
 "Death? Death?" and looked puzzled, as if searching 
 for his words. "Death is the low archway in the journey 
 of life, where we all— high and low, weak and strong, poor 
 and rich, must bow into the dust, remove our earthly trap- 
 pings, wealth and power and pleasure, before we rise to go 
 upon the next stage of our journey into wider vistas and 
 greener fields." 
 
 The child nodded his head as one who has just appraised 
 and approved a universe, replying sagely, ' ' Oh, ' ' then after 
 a moment he added : "Yes." And said no more. 
 
 But when the sun was up, and the wheels scraped on the 
 gravel walk before the Adams home, and the silvery, infec- 
 tious laugh of a young mother waked the echoes of the 
 home, as she bundled up Kenyon for his daily journey, the 
 old man and the young man heard the child ask: "Aunty 
 Laura — what is death?" The woman with her own child 
 near in the very midst of life, only laughed and laughed 
 again, and Kenyon laughed and Lila laughed and they all 
 laughed. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 GRANT ADAMS IS SOLD INTO BONDAGE AND MARGARET FENN 
 RECEIVES A SHOCK 
 
 PERHAPS the sound of their laughter drowned the 
 mournful voices of the bells in Grant Adams's heart. 
 But the bells of the New Year left within him some 
 stirring of their eternal question. For as the light of day- 
 sniffed out, Grant in a cage full of miners, with Dick Bow- 
 man and one of his boys standing beside him, going down to 
 the second level of the mine, asked himself the question that 
 had puzzled him : Why did not these men get as much out 
 of life as their fellows on the same pay in the town who work 
 in stores and offices? He could see no particular difference 
 in the intelligence of the men in Harvey and the workers in 
 South Harvey; yet there they were in poorer clothes, with 
 faces not so quick, clearly not so well kept from a purely 
 animal standpoint, and even if they were sturdier and 
 physically more powerful, yet to the young man working 
 with them in the mine, it seemed that they were a different 
 sort from the white-handed, keen-faced, smooth-shaven, well- 
 groomed clerks of Market Street, and that the clerks were 
 getting the better of life. And Grant cried in his heart: 
 "Why— why— why ? " 
 
 Then Dick Bowman said: "Red — penny for your 
 thoughts?" The men near by turned to Grant and he said: 
 "Hello, Dick—" Then to the boy: "Well, Mugs, how 
 are you?" He spoke to the others, Casper and Barney and 
 Evans and Hugh and Bill and Dan and Tom and Lew and 
 Gomer and Mike and Dick-r-excepting Casper Herdicker, 
 mostly Welsh and Irish, and they passed around some more 
 or less ribald greetings. Then they all stepped upon the 
 soft ground and stood in the light of the flickering oil 
 torches that hung suspended from timbers. 
 
 163 
 
164 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 Stretching down long avenues these flickering torches 
 blocked out the alleys of the mine in either direction from 
 the room, perhaps fifty by forty feet, six or seven feet high, 
 where they were standing. A car of coal drawn by forlorn 
 mules and pushed by a grinning boy, came creaking around 
 a distant corner, and drew nearer to the cage. A score of 
 men ending their shift were coming into the passageways 
 from each end, shuffling along, tired and silent. They met 
 the men going to work with a nod or a word and in a mo- 
 ment the room at the main bottom was empty and silent, 
 save for the groaning car and the various language spoken 
 by the grinning boy to the unhappy mule. Grant Adams 
 turned off the main passage to an air course, where from the 
 fans above cold air was rushing along a narrow and 
 scarcely lighted runway about six feet wide and lower than 
 the main passage. Down this passage the new mule barn 
 was building. Grant went to his work, and just outside the 
 barn, snuffed a sputtering torch that was dripping burning 
 oil into a small oily puddle on the damp floor. The room 
 was cold. Three men were with him and he was directing 
 them, while he worked briskly with them. Occasionally he 
 left the barn to oversee the carpenters who were timbering 
 up a new shaft in a lower level that was not yet ready for 
 operation. Fifty miners and carpenters were working on 
 the third level, clearing away passages, making shaft open- 
 ings, putting in timbers, constructing air courses and getting 
 the level ready for real work. On the second level, in the 
 little rooms, off the long, gloomy passages lighted with the 
 flaring torches hanging from the damp timbers that stretched 
 away into long vistas wherein the torches at the ends of the 
 passage glimmered like fireflies, men were working — two hun- 
 dred men pegging and digging and prying and sweating and 
 talking to their "buddies," the Welsh in monosyllables and 
 the Irish in a confusion of tongues. The cars came jan- 
 gling along the passageways empty and went back loaded 
 and groaning. Occasionally the piping voice of a boy and 
 the melancholy bray of a mule broke the deep silence of the 
 place. 
 
 For sound traveled slowly through the gloom, as though 
 the torches sapped it up and burned it out in faint, trem- 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 165 
 
 bling light to confuse the men who sometimes came plodding 
 down the galleries to and from the main bottom. At nine 
 o'clock Grant Adams had been twice over the mine, on the 
 three levels and had thirty men hammering away for dear 
 life. He sent a car of lumber down to the mule barn, while 
 he went to the third level to direct the division of an air 
 shaft into an emergency escape. On one side of this air 
 shaft the air came down and there was a temporary hoist 
 for the men on the third level and on the other side a wooden 
 stairway was to be built up seventy feet toward the second 
 level. 
 
 At ten o 'clock Grant came back to the second level by the 
 hoist in the air shaft and as he started down the low air 
 course branching off from the main passage and leading to 
 the new mule barn, he smelled burning pine ; and hurrying 
 around a corner saw that the boy who dumped the pine 
 boards for the mule barn had not taken the boards into the 
 barn, nor even entirely to the barn, but had dumped them 
 in the passage to the windward of the barn, under the leaky 
 torch, and Grant could see down the air course the ends of 
 the boards burning brightly. 
 
 The men working in the barn could not smell the fire, for 
 the wind that rushed down the air course was carrying the 
 smoke and fumes away from them. Grant ran down the 
 course toward the fire, which was fanned by the rushing air, 
 came to the lumber, which was not all afire, jumped through 
 the flames, slapping the little blazes on his clothes with his 
 hat as he came out, and ran into the barn calling to the men 
 to help him put out the fire. They spent two or three min- 
 utes trying to attach the hose to the water plug there, but 
 the hose did not fit the plug; then they tried to turn the 
 plug to get water in their dinner pails and found that the 
 plug had rusted and would not turn. "While they worked 
 the fire grew. It was impossible to send a man back through 
 it, so Grant sent a man speeding around the air course, to 
 get a wrench from the pump room or from some one in the 
 main bottom to turn on the water. In the meantime he and 
 the other two men worked furiously to extinguish the fire by 
 whipping it with their coats and aprons, but always the 
 flames beat them back. Helplessly they saw it eating along 
 
166 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 the mine timbers far down the vacant passage. Little red 
 devils of flame that winked maliciously two hundred feet 
 away, and went out, then sprang up again, then blazed 
 steadily. Grant and the two men tugged frantically at the 
 burning boards, trying to drag them out of the passageway 
 into the barn, but only here and there could an end be picked 
 up, and it took five minutes to get half a dozen charred 
 boards into the barn. While they struggled with the charred 
 boards the flames down the passage kept glowing brighter 
 and brighter. The men were conscious that the flames were 
 playing around the second torch below the barn. Although 
 they realized that the man they sent for the wrench had 
 nearly half a mile to go and come by the roundabout way, 
 they asked one another if he was making the wrench! 
 
 Men began poking their heads into the course and calling, 
 "Need any help down there," and Grant cried, "Yes, go 
 to the pump in the main balcony with your buckets and 
 get water." The man sent for the wrench appeared down 
 the long passage. Grant yelled, 
 
 "Hurry — hurry, man!" But though he came running, 
 the fire seemed to be going faster than he was. They could 
 hear men calling and felt that there was confusion at the 
 end of the air course where it turned into the main passage 
 ahead of the flames. A second torch exploded, scattering 
 the fire far down the course. The man, breathless and ex- 
 hausted, ran up with the wrench. Then they felt the air in 
 the air course stop moving. They looked at one another. 
 "Yes," said the man with the wrench, "I told 'em to re- 
 verse the fans and when we got the water turned on we'd 
 hold the fire from going to the other end of the passage." 
 He said this between gasps as he tugged at the water plug 
 with the wrench. He hit it a vicious blow and the cap 
 broke. 
 
 The fan had reversed. The air was rushing back, bringing 
 the flames to the barn. They beat the fire madly with their 
 coats, but in two minutes the roaring air had brought the 
 flames upon them. The loose timber and shavings in the 
 barn were beginning to blaze and the men ran for their lives 
 down the air course. As they ran for the south passage, 
 the smoke followed them and they felt it in their eyes and 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 167 
 
 lungs. The lights behind them were dimmed, and those in 
 front grew dim. They reached the passage in a cloud of 
 smoke, but it was going up the air shaft and did not fill the 
 passage. "Mugs," yelled Grant to a boy driving an ore car, 
 "run down this passage and tell the men there's a fire — 
 where's your father?" 
 
 "He's up yon way," called the boy, pointing in the oppo- 
 site direction as he ran. "You tell him." The fire was 
 roaring down the air course behind them, and Grant and the 
 three men knew that in a few minutes the reverse air would 
 be sucking the flames up the air shaft, cutting off the emer- 
 gency escape for the men on the first and second levels. 
 
 Grant knew that the emergency escape was not completed 
 for the third level, but he knew that they were using the 
 air chute for a temporary hoist for the men from the third 
 level and that the main shaft was not running to the third 
 level. 
 
 "Run down this passage, Bill," called Grant. "Get all 
 those fellows. Evans, you call the first level ; I '11 skin down 
 this rope to the men below." In an instant, as the men 
 were flying on their errands, his red head disappeared down 
 the rope into the darkness. At the bottom of the hoist in 
 the third level Grant found forty or fifty men at work. 
 They were startled to see him come down without waiting 
 for the bucket to go up and he called breathlessly as his 
 feet touched the earth: "Boys, there's a fire above on the 
 next level — I don't know how bad it is; but it looks bad to 
 me. They may get it out with a hose from the main bottom 
 — if they've got hose there that will reach any place." 
 
 "Let's go up," cried one of the men. As they started 
 toward him, Grant threw up his hand. 
 
 "Hold on now, boys — hold on. The fans will be blowing 
 that fire down this air shaft in a few minutes. How far up 
 have you got the ladders ? " he asked. 
 
 Some one answered : " Still twelve feet shy. " There was 
 a scramble for the buckets, but no one offered to man the 
 windlass and hoist them up the air shaft. Grant was only 
 a carpenters' boss. The men around the buckets were 
 miners. But he called: "Get out of there, Hughey and 
 Mike — none of that. We must make that ladder first — 
 
168 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 get some timbers — put the rungs three feet apart, and work 
 quick. ' ' 
 
 He pointed at the timbers to be used for the ladders, 
 stepped to the windlass and cried: 
 
 "Here, Johnnie — you got no family — get hold of this 
 windlass with me. Ready now — family men first — you, Sam 
 — you, Edwards — you, Lewellyn." 
 
 Then he bent to the wheel and the men in the bucket 
 started up the shaft. The others pounded at the ladder, 
 and those who could find no work clambered up the stairs to 
 the bottom of the gap that separated them from the second 
 level. As the men in the buckets were nearly up to the sec- 
 ond level, where the hoist stopped, Grant heard one of them 
 call: "Hurry, hurry — here she comes," and a second later 
 a hot, smoky wind struck his face and he knew the fan was 
 turned again and soon would be blowing fire down the air 
 course. 
 
 The men had the ladder almost finished. The men above 
 on the stairs smelled the smoke and began yelling. The 
 bucket reached the top and was started down. Grant looked 
 up the air shaft and saw the fire — little flickering flames 
 lighting up the shaft near the second level. The air rushing 
 down was smoky and filled with sparks. The ladder was 
 ready and the men made a rush with it up the stairway. 
 Most of their lamps were put out and it was dark in the 
 stairway. The men were uttering hysterical, foolish cries 
 as they rushed upward in their panic. The ladder jolting 
 against the sides of the chamber knocked the men off their 
 feet and there was tumbling and swearing and tripping and 
 struggling. 
 
 Grant grabbed the ladder from the men and held it above 
 his head, and called out : 
 
 "You men go up there in order. You'll not get the 
 ladder till you straighten up." 
 
 The emergency passage was filling with smoke. The men 
 were coughing and gasping. 
 
 Up and down the stairs men called : 
 
 "Brace up, that's right." 
 
 "Red's right." 
 
 "We'll all go if we don't straighten up." 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 169 
 
 In a moment there was some semblance of order, and 
 Grant wormed his way to the top holding the ladder above 
 him. He put one end of it on a landing and nailed the foot 
 of the ladder to the landing floor. Then he stood on the 
 landing, a great, powerful man with blazing eyes, and called 
 down : ' ' Now come ; one at a time, and if any man crowds 
 I'll kill him. Come on — one at a time." One came and 
 went up; when he was on the third rung of the ladder, 
 Grant let another man pass up, and so three men were on 
 the ladder. 
 
 As the top man raised the trapdoor above, Grant and 
 those upon the ladder could see the flames and a great gust 
 of smoke poured down. The man at the top hesitated. On 
 the other side of the partition in the air chute the smoke 
 was pouring and the fire was circling the top of the emer- 
 gency escape through which the men must pass. 
 
 "Go ahead or jump down," yelled Grant. 
 
 Those on the ladder and on the landing who could see up 
 cried: 
 
 ' ' Quick, for God 's sake ! Hurry ! ' ' 
 
 And in another second the first man had scrambled 
 through the hole, letting the trapdoor fall upon the head of 
 the scrambling man just under him. He fell, but Grant 
 caught him, and shoved him into the next turn upon the 
 ladder. 
 
 After that they learned to lift their hands up and catch 
 the trapdoor, but they could see the flames burning the 
 timbers and dropping sparks and blowing smoke down the 
 emergency shaft. Ten men went up; the fire in the flume 
 along the stairs below them was beginning to whip through 
 the board partition. The fan was pumping the third level 
 full of smoke; it was carried out of the stairway by the 
 current. But the men were calling below. Little Ira Dooley 
 tried to go around Grant ahead of his turn at the ladder. 
 The cheater felt the big man's hand catch him and hold 
 him. The men below saw Grant hit the cheater upon the 
 point of the jaw and throw him half conscious under 
 the ladder. The men climbed steadily up. Twenty-five 
 went through the trap-door into the unknown hell raging 
 above. Again and again the ladder emptied itself, as the 
 
170 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 flames in the shaft grew longer, and the circle of fire above 
 grew broader. The men passed through the trapdoor with 
 scorching clothes. 
 
 The ladder was filling for the last time. The last man was 
 on the first rung. Grant reached under the ladder, caught 
 Dooley about the waist and started up with him. On the 
 ladder Dooley regained consciousness, and Grant shoved him 
 ahead and saw Dooley slip through the trapdoor and then 
 stop in the smoke and fire and stand holding up the door for 
 Grant. The two men smiled through the smoke, and as 
 Grant came through with his clothes afire, he and Dooley 
 looked quickly about them. Their lights were out; but the 
 burning timbers above gave them their directions. They 
 headed down the south passage, but even as they entered it 
 the flames barred them there. Then they turned to go up 
 the passage, and could hear men calling and yelling far down 
 in the dark alley. The torches were gone. Far ahead 
 through the stifling smoke that swirled about the damp 
 timbers overhead, they could see the flickering lights of men 
 running. They started to follow the lamps. Dooley, who 
 was a little man, slowly dropped back. Grant caught his 
 hand and dragged him. Soon they came up to the others, 
 who paused to give them lights. Then they all started to 
 run again, hoping to come out of that passage into the main 
 bottom by the main shaft in another quarter of a mile. 
 Occasionally a man would begin to lag, but some one always 
 stopped to give him a hand. Once Grant passed two men, 
 Tom Williams and Evan Davis, leaning against a timber, 
 Davis fagged, Williams fanning his companion with his cap. 
 
 From some cross passage a group of men who worked on 
 the second level came rushing to them. They had no lights 
 and were lost. Down the passage they all ran together, and 
 at the end they saw something cluttering it up. The open- 
 ing seemed to be closed. The front man tumbled and fell ; 
 a dozen men fell over him. Three score men were trapped 
 there, struggling in a pile of pipes and refuse timber that 
 all but filled the passage into the main bottom. Five min- 
 utes were lost there. Then by twos they crawled into the 
 main bottom. There men were working with hose, trying 
 to put out the fire in the air course leading to the mule 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 171 
 
 stables. They did not realize that the other end of the 
 mine was in flames. 
 
 Coal was still going up in the cages. The men in the east 
 and west passages were still at work. Smoke thickened the 
 air. The entrance to the air course was charred, and puffing 
 smoke. The fans relaxed for a moment upon a signal to 
 cease until the course was explored. A hose was playing in 
 the course, but no man had ventured down it. "When Grant 
 came out he called to the men with the cage boss : ' ' Where 's 
 Kinnehan — where 's the pit boss?" No one knew. Some 
 little boys — trimmers and drivers — were begging to go up 
 with the coal. Finally the cage boss let them ride up. 
 
 While they were wrangling, Grant said: "Lookee here — 
 this is a real fire, men ; stop spitting on that air course with 
 the hose and go turn out the men." 
 
 The men from the third level were clamoring at the cage 
 boss to go up. 
 
 Grant stopped them: "Now, here — let's divide off, five 
 in a squad and go after the men on this level, and five in 
 a squad go up to the next level and call the men out 
 there. There's time if we hurry to save the whole shift." 
 He tolled them off and they went down the glimmering 
 passages, that were beginning to grow dim with smoke. As 
 he left the main bottom he saw by his watch under a torch 
 that it was nearly eleven o'clock. He ran with his squad 
 down the passage, calling out the men from their little 
 rooms. Three hundred yards down the smoke grew denser. 
 And he met men coming along the passage. 
 
 "Are they all out back of you?" he called to the men as 
 they passed. "Yes," they cried, "except the last three or 
 four rooms." 
 
 Grant and his men pushed forward to these rooms. As 
 they went they stumbled over an unconscious form in the 
 passage. The men behind Grant — Dooley, Hogan, Casper 
 Herdicker, Williams, Davis, Chopini — joined him. Their 
 work was done. They had been in all the rooms. They 
 picked up the limp form, and staggered slowly back down 
 the passage. The smoke gripped Grant about the belly like 
 a vise. He could not breathe. He stopped, then crawled a 
 few feet, then leaned against a timber. Finally he rose and 
 
172 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 came upon the swaying group with the unconscious man. 
 Another man was down, and three men were dragging 
 two. 
 
 The smoke kept rolling along behind them. It blackened 
 the passage ahead of them. Most of the lights the men car- 
 ried were out. Grant lent a hand, and the swaying proces- 
 sion crawled under the smoke. They went so slowly that 
 one man, then two on. their hands and knees, then three more 
 caught up with them and they were too exhausted to drag the 
 senseless man with them. At a puddle in the way they 
 soused the face of the prostrated man in the water. That 
 revived him. They could hear and feel another man across 
 the passage calling feebly for help. Grant and Chopini, 
 speaking different languages, understood the universal call 
 of distress, and together crawled in the dark and felt their 
 way to the feeble voice. Chopini reached the voice first. 
 Grant could just distinguish in the darkness the powerful 
 movement of the Italian, with his head upon the ground like 
 a nosing dog's as he wormed under the fallen body and got 
 it on his back and bellied over to the group that was slowly 
 moving down the passage toward the glimmering light. As 
 they passed the rooms vacated by the miners, sometimes 
 they put their heads in and got refreshing air, for the smoke 
 moved in a slow, murky current down the passage and did 
 not back into the rooms at first. 
 
 Grant and Chopini crawled on all fours into a room, and 
 found the air fresh. They rose, holding each other's hands. 
 They leaned together against the dark walls and breathed 
 slowly, and finally their diaphragms seemed to be released 
 and they breathed more deeply. By a hand signal ihey 
 agreed to start out. At the door they crouched and crawled. 
 A few yards further they found the little group of a dozen 
 men feebly pushing on. Seven were trying to drag five. 
 Further down the passage they could hear the shrill cries 
 of the men in the main bottom, as they came hurrying from 
 the other runways, and far back up the dark passage behind 
 them they could hear the roar of flames. They saw that 
 they were trapped. Behind them was the fire. Before them 
 was the long, impossible stretch to the main bottom, with the 
 smoke thickening and falling lower every second. So thick 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 173 
 
 was the smoke that the light ahead winked out. Death 
 stood before them and behind them. 
 
 "Boys — " gasped Grant, "in here — let's get in one of 
 these rooms and wall it up. ' ' 
 
 The seven looked at him and he crawled to a room ; stick- 
 ing his head in he found it murky. He tried another. The 
 third room was fresh and cool, and he called the men in. 
 
 Then all nine dragged one after another of the limp bodies 
 into the room and they began walling the door into the pas- 
 sage. There were two lights on a dozen caps. Grant put out 
 one lamp and they worked by the glimmer of a single lamp. 
 Gradually, but with a speed — slow as it had to be — inspired 
 by deadly terror, the wall went up. They daubed it with 
 mud that seemed to refresh itself from a pool that was 
 hollowed in the floor. After what seemed an age of swiftly 
 accurate work, the wall was waist high ; the smoke bellied in, 
 in a gust, and was suddenly sucked out by an air current, 
 and the men at the wall tapping some spring of unknown 
 energy bent frantically to their task. Three of the six men 
 were coming to life. They tried to rise and help. Two 
 crawled forward, and patted the mud in the bottom crevices. 
 The fierce race with death called out every man's reserves 
 of body and soul. 
 
 Then, when the wall was breast high, some one heard a 
 choking cry in the passage. Grant was in the rear of the 
 room, wrestling with a great rock, and did not hear the cry ; 
 but Chopini was over the wall, and Dooley followed him, and 
 Evans followed him in an instant. They disappeared down 
 the passage, and when Grant returned, carrying the huge 
 rock to the speeding work at the wall, he heard a voice out- 
 side call : 
 
 "We've got 'em." 
 
 And then, after a silence, as the workmen hurried with 
 the wall, there came a call for help. Williams and Dennis 
 Hogan followed Grant through the hole now nearing the 
 roof of the room, out into the passage. The air was scorch- 
 ing. Some current was moving it rapidly. The second 
 party came upon the first struggling weakly with Dick Bow- 
 man and his son. Father and son were unconscious and 
 one of the rescuing party had fainted. Again the vise 
 
174 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 gripped Grant's abdomen, and he put his face upon the 
 damp earth and panted. Slowly the three men in the dark- 
 ness bellied along until they felt the wall, then in an agony 
 of effort raised themselves and their burden. Up the wall 
 they climbed to their knees, to their feet, and met the hands 
 of those inside who took the burden from them. One, two, 
 three whiffs of clean air as they stuck their heads in the 
 room, and they were gone — and another two men from the 
 room followed them. They came upon the first party work- 
 ing their gasping, fainting course back to the wall, with 
 their load, rolling a man before them. And they all pulled 
 and tugged and pushed and some leaned heavily upon others 
 and all looked death squarely in the face and no man whim- 
 pered. The panic was gone; the divine spark that rests in 
 every human soul was burning, and life was little and cheap 
 in their eyes, compared with the chance they had to give it 
 for others. 
 
 Flicks of fire were swirling down the passage, and the 
 roar of the flames came nearer and Grant fancied he could 
 hear the crackle of it. Chopini was on his knees clutching 
 at the crevices in the wall; Hogan and Dooley dug with 
 their hands into the chinks, then four men were on their 
 feet, with the burden, and in the blackness, hands within 
 the wall reached out and took the man from those outside. 
 The hands reached out and felt other hands and pulled them 
 up, and five, six men stood upon their feet and were pulled, 
 scrambling and trembling and reeling, into the room. The 
 blackness outside became a lurid glare. The flickering lamp 
 inside showed them that one man was outside. Grant Adams 
 stood faint and trembling, leaning against a wall of the 
 room ; the room and the men whirled about him and he grew 
 sick at the stomach. But with a powerful effort he gath- 
 ered himself, and lunged to the hole in the rising wall. He 
 was trying to pull himself up when Dooley pulled him down, 
 and went through the hole like a cat. Hogan followed 
 Dooley and Evans followed Hogan. "Here he is, right at 
 the bottom," called Hogan, and in an instant the feet of 
 Casper Herdicker, then the sprawling legs, then the body 
 and then the head with the closed eyes and gaping mouth 
 came in, and then three men slowly followed him. Grant, 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 175 
 
 revived by the water from the puddle under him, stood and 
 saw the last man — Dennis Hogan — crawl in. Then Grant, 
 seeing Hogan 's coat was afire, looked out and saw flames 
 dancing along the timbers, and a spark with a gust of smoke 
 was sucked into the room by some eddy of the current out- 
 side. In a last spurt of terrible effort the hole in the wall 
 was closed and plastered with mud and the men were sealed 
 in their tomb. 
 
 It was but a matter of minutes before the furnace was 
 raging outside. The men in the room could hear it-crackle 
 and roar, and the mud in the chinks steamed. The men 
 daubed the chinks again and again. 
 
 As the fire roared outside, the men within the room fan- 
 cied — and perhaps it was the sheer horror of their situation 
 that prompted their fancy — that they could hear the screams 
 of men and mules down the passage toward the main bottom. 
 After an hour, when the roar ceased, they were in a great 
 silence. And as the day grew old and the silence grew deep 
 and the immediate danger past, they began to wait. As 
 they waited they talked. At times they heard a roaring and 
 a crash and they knew that the timbers having burned 
 away, the passages and courses were caving in. By their 
 watches they knew that the night was upon them. And they 
 sat talking nervously through the night, fearing to sleep, 
 dreading what each moment might bring. Lamp after lamp 
 burned out in turn. And still they sat and talked. Here 
 one would drowse — there another lose consciousness and sink 
 to the ground, but always men were talking. The talk never 
 ceased. They were ashamed to talk of women while they 
 were facing death, so they kept upon the only other subjects 
 that will hold men long — God and politics. The talk droned 
 on into morning, through the forenoon, into the night, past 
 midnight, with the thread taken from one man sinking to 
 sleep by another waking up, but it never stopped. The 
 water that seeped into the puddle on the floor moistened 
 their lips as they talked. There was no food save in two 
 lunch buckets that had been left in the room by fleeing 
 miners, and thus went the first day. 
 
 The second day the Welsh tried to sing — perhaps to stop 
 the continual talk of the Irish. Then the Italian sang some- 
 
176 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 thing, Casper Herdicker sang the "Marseillaise" and the 
 men clapped their hands, in the twilight of the last flicker- 
 ing lamp that they had. After that Grant called the roll 
 at times and those who were awake felt of those who were 
 asleep and answered for them, and a second day wore into 
 a third. 
 
 By the feeling of the stem of Grant Adams's watch as he 
 wound it, he judged that they had lived nearly four days 
 in the tomb. Little Mugs Bowman was crying for food, and 
 his father was trying to comfort him, by giving him his shoe 
 leather to chew. Others rolled and moaned in their sleep, 
 and the talk grew unstable and flighty. 
 
 Some one said, "Hear that?" and there was silence, and 
 no one heard anything. Again the talk began and droned 
 unevenly along. 
 
 "Say, listen," some one else called beside the first man 
 who had heard the sound. 
 
 Again they listened, and because they were nervous per- 
 haps two or three men fancied they heard something. But 
 one said it was the roar of the fire, another said it was the 
 sound of some one calling, and the third said it was the 
 crash of a rock in some distant passageway. The talk did 
 not rise again for a time, but finally it rose wearily, punc- 
 tuated with sighs. Then two men cried : 
 
 ' ' Hear it ! There it is again ! ' ' 
 
 And breathless they all sat, for a second. Then they 
 heard a voice calling, "Hello — hello?" And they tried to 
 cheer. 
 
 But the voice did not sound again, and a long time passed. 
 Grant tried to count the minutes as they ticked off in his 
 watch, but his mind would not remain fixed upon the tick- 
 ing, so he lost track of the time after three minutes had 
 passed. And still the time dragged, the watch kept ticking. 
 
 Then they heard the sound again, clearer; and again it 
 called. Then Dick Bowman took up a pick, called : 
 
 "Watch out, away from the wall, I'm going to make a 
 hole." 
 
 He struck the wall and struck it again and again, until he 
 made a hole and they cried through 'it : 
 
 "Hello — hello — We're here." And they all tried to 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 177 
 
 get to the hole and jabber through it. Then they could 
 hear hurrying feet and voices calling, and confusion. The 
 men called, and cried and sobbed and cheered through the 
 hole, and then they saw the gleam of a lantern. Then the 
 wall crumbled and they climbed into the passage. But they 
 knew, who had heard the falling timbers and the crashing 
 rocks, for days, that they were not free. 
 
 The rescuers led the imprisoned miners down the dark 
 passage ; Grant Adams was the last man to leave the prison. 
 As he turned an angle of the passage, a great rock fell 
 crashing before him, and a head of dirt caught him and 
 dragged him under. His legs and body were pinioned. 
 Dennis Hogan in front heard the crash, saw Grant fall, and 
 stood back for a moment, as another huge rock slid slowly 
 down and came to rest above the prostrate man. For a sec- 
 ond no one moved. Then one man — Ira Dooley — slowly 
 crept toward Grant and began digging with his hands at the 
 dirt around Grant's legs. Then Casper Herdicker and Cho- 
 pini came to help. As they stood at Grant's head, quick as 
 a flash, the rock fell and the two men standing at Grant's 
 head were crushed like worms. The roof of the passage was 
 working wickedly, and in the nickering light of the lanterns 
 they could see the .walls shudder. Then Dick Bowman 
 stepped out. He brought a shovel from a room opening on 
 the passage, and Evan Davis and Tom Williams and Jamey 
 McPherson with shovels began working over Grant, who lay 
 white and frightened, watching the squirming wall above 
 and blowing the dropping dirt from his face as it fell. 
 
 "Mugs, come here," called Dick Bowman. "Take that 
 shovel," commanded the father, "and hold it over Grant's 
 face to keep the dirt from smothering him." The boy 
 looked in terror at the roof dropping dirt and ready to fall, 
 but the father glared at the son and he obeyed. No one 
 spoke, but four men worked — all that could stand about him. 
 They dug out his body; they released his legs, they freed 
 his feet, and when he was free they helped him up and hur- 
 ried him down the passage which he had traversed four days 
 ago. Before they turned into the main bottom room, he was 
 sick with the stench. And as he turned into that room, 
 where the cage landed, he saw by the lantern lights and by 
 
178 IN THE HBAET OF A FOOL 
 
 the flaring torches held by a dozen men, a great congrega- 
 tion of the dead — some piled upon others, some in attitudes 
 of prayer, some shielding their comrades in death, some 
 fleeing and stricken prone upon the floor, some sitting, look- 
 ing the foe in the face. Men were working with the bodies — 
 trying to sort them into a kind of order; but the work had 
 just begun. 
 
 The weakened men, led by their rescuers, picked their 
 way through the corpses and went to the top in a cage. 
 Far down in the shaft, the daylight cut them like a 
 knife. And as they mounted higher and higher, they 
 could hear the murmur of voices above them, and Grant 
 could hear the sobs of women and children long before he 
 reached the top. The word that men had been rescued 
 passed out of the shaft house before they could get out of the 
 cage, and a great shout went up. 
 
 The men walked out of the shaft house and saw all about 
 them, upon flat cars, upon the dump near the shaft, upon 
 buildings around the shaft house, a great crowd of cheering 
 men and women, pale, drawn, dreadful faces, illumined by 
 eager eyes. Grant lifted his eyes to the crowd. There in a 
 carriage beside Henry Fenn, Grant saw Margaret staring at 
 him, and saw her turn pale and slide down into her husband 's 
 arms, as she recognized Grant's face among those who had 
 come out of death. Then he saw his father and little Ken- 
 yon in the crowd and he dashed through the thick of it to 
 them. There he held the boy high in the air, and cried as the 
 little arms clung about his neck. 
 
 The great hoarse whistles roared and the shrill siren 
 whistles screamed and the car bells clanged and the church 
 bells rang. But they did not roar and scream and peal and 
 toll for money and wealth and power, but for life that was 
 returned. As for the army of the dead below, for all their 
 torture, for all their agony and the misery they left behind 
 for society to heal or help or neglect — the army of the dead 
 had its requiem that New Year's eve, when the bells and 
 whistles and sirens clamored for money that brings wealth, 
 and wealth that brings power, and power that brings pleas- 
 ure, and pleasure that brings death — and death?— and 
 death? 
 
ADAMS SOLD INTO BONDAGE 179 
 
 The town had met death. But no one even in that place 
 of mourning could answer the question that the child heard 
 in the bells. And yet that divine spark of heroism that 
 burns unseen in every heart however high, however low — 
 that must be the faltering, uncertain light which points us 
 to the truth across the veil through the mists made by our 
 useless tears. 
 
 And thus a New Year in Harvey began its long trip 
 around the sun, with its sorrows and its joys, with its merry 
 pantomime and its mutes mourning upon the hearse, with its 
 freight of cares and compensations and its sad ironies. So 
 let us get on and ride and enjoy the journey. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A CHAPTER WHICH INTRODUCES SOME POSSIBLE GODS 
 
 WHEN Grant Adams had told and retold his story 
 to the reporters and had eaten what Dr. Nesbit 
 would let him eat, it was late in the afternoon. 
 He lay down to sleep with the sun still shining through the 
 shutters in his low-ceiled, west bed room. Through the 
 night his father sat or slept fitfully beside him and when 
 the morning sun was high, and still the young man slept on, 
 the father guarded him, and would let no one enter the 
 house. At noon Grant rose and dressed. He saw the 
 Dexters coming down the road and he went to the door to 
 welcome them. It seemed at first that the stupor of sleep 
 was not entirely out of his brain. He was silent and had 
 to be primed for details of his adventure. He sat down to 
 eat, but when his meal was half finished, there came bursting 
 out of his soul a flame of emotion, and he put down his food, 
 turned half around from the table, grasped the edges of the 
 board with both hands and cried as a fanatic who sees a 
 vision : 
 
 "Oh, those men, — those men — those wonderful, beautiful 
 souls of men I saw ! — those strong, fearless, Godlike men ! — 
 there in the mine, I mean. Evan Davis, Dick Bowman, Pat 
 McCann, Jamey McPherson, Casper Herdicker, Chopini — all 
 of them; yes, Dennis Hogan, drunk as he is sometimes, 
 and Ira Dooley, who's been in jail for hold-ups — I don't 
 care which one — those wonderful men, who risked their lives 
 for others, and Casper Herdicker and Chopini, who gave 
 their lives there under the rock for me. My God, my God!" 
 
 His voice thrilled with emotion, and his arms trembled aa 
 his hands gripped the table. Those who heard him did not 
 stop him, for they felt that from some uncovered spring in 
 his being a section of personality was gushing forth that 
 never had seen day. He turned quietly to the wondering 
 
 180 
 
SOME POSSIBLE GODS 181 
 
 child, took him from his chair and hugged him closely to a 
 man's broad chest and stroked the boyish head as the man's 
 blue eyes filled with tears. Grant sat for a moment looking 
 at the floor, then roughed his red mane with his fingers and 
 said slowly and more quietly, but contentiously : 
 
 "I know what you don't know with all your religion, Mr. 
 Dexter; I know what the Holy Ghost is now. I have seen 
 it. The Holy Ghost is that divine spark in every human 
 soul — however life has smudged it over by circumstance — 
 that rises and envelopes a human creature in a flame of sac- 
 rificial love for his kind and makes him joy to die to save 
 others. That's the Holy Ghost — that's what is immortal." 
 
 He clenched his great hickory fist and hit the table and 
 lifted his face again, crying: "I saw Dennis Hogan walk 
 up to Death smiling that Irish smile. I saw him standing 
 with a ton of loose dirt hanging over him while he was dig- 
 ging me out! I saw Evan Davis — little, bow-legged Evan 
 Davis — go out into the smoke alone — alone, Mr. Dexter, and 
 they say Evan is a coward — he went out alone and brought 
 back Casper Herdicker's limp body hugged to his little 
 Welsh breast like a gorilla's — and saved a man. I saw Dick 
 Bowman do more — when the dirt was dropping from the 
 slipping, working roof into my mouth and eyes, and might 
 have come down in a slide — I lay there and watched Dick 
 working to save me and I heard him order his son to hold 
 a shovel over my face — his own boy." Grant shuddered 
 and drew the child closer to him, and looked at the group 
 near him with wet eyes. "Ira Dooley and Tom Williams 
 and that little Italian went on their bellies, half dead 
 from the smoke, out into death and brought home three 
 men to safety, and would have died without batting an 
 eye — all three to save one lost man in that passage." He 
 beat the table again with his fist and cried wildly: "I 
 tell you that's the Holy Ghost. I know those men may 
 sometimes trick the company if they can. I know Ira 
 Dooley spends lots of good money on 'the row'; I know 
 Tom gambles off everything he can get his hands on, and 
 that the little Dago probably would have stuck a knife in an 
 enemy over a quarter. But that doesn't count." 
 
 The young man's voice rose again. "That is circum- 
 
182 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 stance ; much of it is surroundings, either of birth or of this 
 damned place where we are living. If they cheat the com- 
 pany, it is because the company dares them to cheat and 
 cheats them badly. If they steal, it is because they have 
 been taught to steal by the example of big, successful thieves. 
 I 've had time to think it all out. 
 
 "Father — father!" cried Grant, as a new wave of emotion 
 surged in from the outer bourne of his soul, "you once said 
 Dick Bowman sold out the town and took money for voting 
 for the Harvey Improvement bond steal. But what if he 
 did? That was merely circumstance. Dick is a little man 
 who has had to fight for money all his life — just enough 
 money to feed his hungry children. And here came an op- 
 portunity to get hold of — what was it? — a hundred dol- 
 lars — " Amos Adams nodded. "Well, then, a hundred 
 dollars, and it would buy so much, and leading citizens came 
 and told him it was all right — men we have educated with 
 our taxes and our surplus money in universities and colleges. 
 And we haven't educated Dick; we've just taught him to 
 fight — to fight for money, and to think money will do every- 
 thing in God's beautiful world. So Dick took it. That was 
 the Dick that man and Harvey and America made, father, 
 but I saw the Dick that God made ! ' ' He stopped and cried 
 out passionately, "And some day, some day all the world 
 must know this man — this great-souled, common American — 
 that God made!" 
 
 Grant's voice was low, but a thousand impulses struggled 
 across his features for voice and his eyes were infinitely sad 
 as he gazed at the curly, brown hair of the child in his arms 
 playing with the buttons on his coat. 
 
 The minister looked at his wife. She was wet-faced and 
 atremble, and had her hands over her eyes. Amos Adams's 
 old, frank face was troubled. The son turned upon him and 
 cried : 
 
 "Father— you're right when you say character makes hap- 
 piness. But what do you call it — surroundings — where you 
 live and how you live and what you do for a living — environ- 
 ment! That's it, that's the word — environment has lots and 
 lots to do with character. Let the company reduce its divi- 
 dends by giving the men a chance at decent living conditions, 
 
SOME POSSIBLE GODS 183 
 
 in decent houses and decent streets, and you'll have another 
 sort of attitude toward the company. Quit cheating them at 
 the store, and you'll have more honesty in the mines; quit 
 sprinkling sour beer and whiskey on the sawdust in front of 
 the saloons to coax men in who have an appetite, and you 11 
 have less drinking — but, of course, Sands will have less 
 rents. Let the company obey the law — the company run by 
 men who are pointed out as examples, and there'll be less 
 lawlessness among the men when trouble comes. "Why, Mr. 
 Dexter, do you know as we sat down there in the dark, we 
 counted up five laws which the company broke, any one of 
 which would have prevented the fire, and would have saved 
 ninety lives. Trash in the passage leading to the main shaft 
 delayed notifying the men five minutes — that's against the 
 law. Torches leaking in the passageway where there should 
 have been electric lights — that's against the law. Boys — 
 little ten-year-olds working down there — cheap, cheap ! " he 
 cried, "and dumping that pine lumber under a dripping 
 torch — that's against the law. Having no fire drill, and 
 rusty water plugs and hose that doesn't reach — that's against 
 the law. A pine partition in an air-chute using it as a shaft 
 — that 's against the law. Yet when trouble comes and these 
 men burn and kill and plunder — we'll put the miners in jail, 
 and maybe hang them, for doing as they are taught a thou- 
 sand times a week by the company — risking life for their 
 own gain!" 
 
 Grant Adams rose. He ran his great, strong, copper- 
 freckled hands through his fiery hair and stood with face 
 transfigured, as the face of one staring at some phantasm. 
 "Oh, those men — they risked their lives — Chopini and Cas- 
 per Herdicker gave their lives for me. Father," he cried, 
 "I am bought with a price. These men risked all and gave 
 all for me. I am theirs. I have no other right to live except 
 as I serve them." He drew a deep breath; set his jaw and 
 spoke with all the force he could put into a quiet voice : "I 
 am dedicated to men — to those great-souled, brave, kind men 
 whom God has sent here for man to dwarf and ruin. They 
 have bought me. I am theirs. ' ' 
 
 The minister put the question in their minds : 
 
 "What are you going to do, Grant?" 
 
184 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 The fervor that had been dying down returned to Grant 
 Adams's face. 
 
 "My job," he cried, "is so big I don't know where to take 
 hold. But I'm not going to bother to tell those men who 
 sweat and stink and suffer under the injustices of men, about 
 the justice of God. I've got one thing in me bigger 'n a wolf 
 — it's this: House them — feed them, clothe them, work them 
 — these working people — and pay them as you people of the 
 middle classes are housed and fed and paid and clad, and 
 crime won't be the recreation of poverty. And the Lord 
 knows the work of the men who toil with their hands is just 
 as valuable to society as preaching and trading and buying 
 and selling and banking and editing and lawing and doctor- 
 ing, and insuring and school teaching." 
 
 He stood before the kitchen stove, a tall, awkward, bony, 
 wide-shouldered, loose-wired creature in the first raw stage 
 of full-blown manhood. The red muscles of his jaw worked 
 as his emotions rose in him. His hands were the hands of 
 a fanatic — never still. 
 
 "I've been down into death and I've found something 
 about life," he went on. "Out of the world's gross earn- 
 ings we're paying too much for superintendence, and rent and 
 machines, and not enough for labor. There's got to be a 
 new shake-up. And I'm going to help. I don't know where 
 nor how to begin, but some way I'll find a hold and I'm 
 going to take it." 
 
 He drew in a long breath, looked around and smiled rather 
 a ragged, ugly smile that showed his big teeth, all white and 
 strong but uneven. 
 
 "Well, Grant,' said Mrs. Dexter, "you have cut out a big 
 job for yourself." The young man nodded soberly. 
 
 "Well, we're going to organize 'em, the first thing. We 
 talked that over in the mine when we had nothing else to 
 talk about — but God and our babies." 
 
 In the silence that followed, Amos Adams said: "While 
 you were down there of course I had to do something. So 
 after the paper was out, I got to talking with Lincoln about 
 things. He said you'd get out. Though," smiled the old 
 man sheepishly and wagged his beard, "Darwin didn't think 
 
SOME POSSIBLE GODS 185 
 
 you would. But anyway, they all agreed we should do 
 something for the widows." 
 
 "They have a subscription paper at George Brotherton's 
 store — you know, Grant," said Mr. Dexter. 
 
 "Well — we ought to put in something, father, — all 
 we've got, don't you think?" 
 
 "I tried and tried to get her last night to know how she 
 felt about it," mused Amos. "I've borrowed all I can on 
 the office — and it wouldn't sell for its debts." 
 
 "You ought to keep your home, I think," put in Mrs. 
 Dexter quickly, who had her husband's approving nod. 
 
 "They told me," said the father, "that Mary didn't feel 
 that way about it. I couldn't get her. But that was the 
 word she sent." 
 
 "Father," said Grant with the glow in his face that had 
 died for a minute, "let's take the chance. Let's check it up 
 to God good and hard. Let's sell the house and give it all 
 to those who have lost more than we. We can earn the rent, 
 anyway. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Dexter looked significantly at Kenyon. 
 
 "No, that shouldn't count, either," said Grant stubbornly. 
 "Dick Bowman didn't let his boy count when I needed help, 
 and when hundreds of orphaned boys and girls and widows 
 need our help, we shouldn't hold back for Kenyon." 
 
 "Grant," said the father when the visit was ended and 
 the two were alone, "they say your father has no sense — 
 up town. Maybe I haven't. I commune with these great 
 minds; maybe they too are shadows. But they come from 
 outside of me." He ran his fingers through his graying 
 beard and smiled. "Mr. Left brings me things that are 
 deeper and wiser than the things I know — it seems to me. 
 But they all bear one testimony, Grant; they all tell me 
 that it's the spiritual things and not the material things 
 in this world that count in the long run, and, Grant, boy," 
 the father reached for his son's strong hand, "I would 
 rather have seen the son that has come back to me from 
 death, go back to death now, if otherwise I never could have 
 seen him. They told me your mother was with you. And 
 now I know some way she touched your heart out there in 
 
186 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 the dark — Grant, boy, while you spoke I saw her in your 
 face — in your face I saw her. Mary — Mary," cried the 
 weeping old man, "when you sent me back to the war you 
 looked as he looked to-day, and talked so. ' ' 
 
 "Father," said Grant, "I don't know about your Mr. 
 Left. He doesn't interest me, as he does you, and as for the 
 others — they may be true or all a mockery, for anything I 
 know. But," he exclaimed, "I've seen God face to face 
 and I can't rest until I've given all I am — everything — 
 everything to help those men!" 
 
 Then the three went out into the crisp January air- 
 father and son and little Kenyon bundled to the chin. They 
 walked over the prairies under the sunshine and talked to- 
 gether through the short winter afternoon. At its close 
 they were in the timber where the fallen leaves were begin- 
 ning to pack against the tree trunks and in the ravines. The 
 child listened as the wind played upon its harp, and the 
 rhythm of the rising and falling tide of harmony set his 
 heart a-flutter, and he squeezed his father's fingers with de- 
 light. A redbird flashing through the gray and brown pic- 
 ture gave him joy, and when it sang far down the ravine 
 where the wind organ seemed to be, the child's eyes brimmed 
 and he dropped behind the elders a few paces to listen and 
 be alone with his ecstasy. And so in the fading day they 
 walked home. The quail piped for the child, and the prairie 
 chicken pounded his drum, and in the prairie grass the slant- 
 ing sun painted upon the ripples across the distant, rolling 
 hills many pictures that filled the child's heart so full that 
 he was still, as one who is awed with a great vision. And it 
 was a great vision that filled his soul: the sunset with its 
 splendors, the twilight hovering in the brown woods, the 
 prairie a-quiver with the caresses of the wind, winter-birds 
 throbbing life and ecstasy into the picture, and above and 
 around it all a great, warm, father's heart symbolizing the 
 loving kindness of the infinite to the child's heart. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 OUR HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS WITH THE PRIMROSE HUNT 
 
 GOING home from the Adamses that afternoon, John 
 Dexter mused: "Curious — very curious." Then 
 he added: "Of course this phase will pass. Prob- 
 ably it is gone now. But I am wondering how fundamental 
 this state of mind is, if it will not appear again — at some 
 crisis later in life. ' ' 
 
 "His mother," said Mrs. Dexter, "was a strong, beauti- 
 ful woman. She builded deep and wide in that boy. And 
 his father is a wise, earnest, kindly man, even if he may be 
 impractical. "Why shouldn't Grant do all that he dreams of 
 doing?" 
 
 "Yes," returned the minister dryly. "But there is life — 
 there are its temptations. He is of the emotional type, and 
 the wrong woman could bend him away from any purpose 
 that he may have now. Then, suppose he does get past the 
 first gate — the gate of his senses — there's the temptation to 
 be a fool about his talents if he has any — if this gift of 
 tongues we 've seen to-day should stay with him — he may get 
 the swelled head. And then," he concluded sadly, "at the 
 end is the greatest temptation of all — the temptation that 
 comes with power to get power for the sake of power." 
 
 The next morning Amos Adams and Grant went in to 
 Market Street to sell their home. Grant seemed a stranger 
 to that busy mart of trade: the week of his absence had 
 taken him so far from it. His eyes were caught by two tall 
 figures, a man and a woman, walking and talking as they 
 crossed the street — the man in a heavy, long, brown ulster, 
 the woman in a flaring red, outer garment. He recognized 
 them as Margaret Fenn and Thomas Van Dorn. They had 
 met entirely by chance, and the meeting was one of perhaps 
 half a dozen chance meetings which they had enjoyed during 
 the winter, and these meetings were so entirely pleasurable 
 
 187 
 
188 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 that the man was beginning rather vaguely to anticipate 
 them — to hope for another meeting after the last. Grant 
 was in an exalted mood that morning, and the sight of the 
 two walking together struck him only as a symbol and epit- 
 ome of all that he was going into the world to fight — in the 
 man intellect without moral purpose, in the woman mate- 
 rialism, gross and carnal. The Adamses went the rounds of 
 the real estate dealers trying to sell their home, and in fol- 
 lowing his vision Grant forgot the two tall figures in the 
 street. 
 
 But the two figures that had started Grant's reverie con- 
 tinued to walk — perhaps a trifle slower than was the wont 
 of either, down Market Street. They walked slowly for two 
 reasons: For her part, she wished to make the most of a 
 parade on Market Street with so grand a person as the Judge 
 of the District Court, and the town's most distinguished citi- 
 zen; and for his part, he dawdled because life was going 
 slowly with him in certain quarters : he felt the lack of ad- 
 venture, and here — at least, she was a stunning figure of a 
 woman ! ' ' Yes, ' ' she said, ' ' I heard about them. Henry has 
 just told me that Mr. Brotherton said the Adamses are going 
 to sell their home and give it to the miners' widows. Isn't it 
 foolish? It's all they've got in the world, too! Still, really 
 nothing is strange in that family. You know, I boarded 
 with them one winter when I taught the Prospect School. 
 Henry says they want to do something for the laboring 
 people," she added naively. 
 
 As she spoke, the man's eyes wandered over her figure, 
 across her face, and were caught by her eyes that looked at 
 him with something in them entirely irrelevant to the subject 
 that her lips were discussing. His eyes caught up the sug- 
 gestion of her eyes, and carried it a little further, but he 
 only said : ' ' Yes — queer folks — trying to make a whistle — " 
 
 "Out of a pig's tail," she laughed. But her eyes thought 
 his eyes had gone just a little too far, so they drooped, and 
 changed the subject. 
 
 "Well, I don't know that I would say exactly a pig's tail," 
 he returned, bracketing his words with his most engaging 
 smile, "but I should say out of highly refractory material." 
 
 His eyes in the meantime pried up her eye-lids and asked 
 
OUR HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS 189 
 
 what was wrong with that. And her eyes were coy about 
 it, and would not answer directly. 
 
 He went on speaking: "The whole labor trouble, it seems 
 to me, lies in this whistle trade. A smattering of education 
 has made labor dissatisfied. The laboring people are trying 
 to get out of their place, and as a result we have strikes and 
 lawlessness and disrespect for courts, and men going around 
 and making trouble in industry by 'doing something for 
 labor.' " 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "that is very true." 
 
 But her eyes — her big, liquid, animal eyes were saying, 
 ' ' How handsome you are — you man — you great, strong, mas- 
 terful man with your brown ulster and brown hat and brown 
 tie, and silken, black mustache. ' ' To which his eyes replied, 
 "And you — you are superb, and such lips and such teeth," 
 while what he trusted to words was : 
 
 "Yes — I believe that the laborer in the mines, for in- 
 stance, doesn't care so much about what we would consider 
 hardship. It's natural to him. It would be hard for us, 
 but he gets used to it ! Now, the smelter men in that heat 
 and fumes — they don't seem to mind it. The agonizing is 
 done largely by these red -mouthed agitators who never did 
 a lick of work in their lives. ' ' 
 
 Their elbows touched for a moment as they walked. He 
 drew away politely and her eyes said : 
 
 "That's all right: I didn't mind that a bit." But her 
 lips said: "That's what I tell Mr. Fenn, and, anyway, the 
 work's got to be done and cultivated people can't do it. It's 
 got to be done by the ignorant and coarse and those kind of 
 people." 
 
 His eyes flinched a little at "those kind" of people and 
 she wondered what was wrong. But it was only for a mo- 
 ment that they flinched. Then they told her eyes how fine 
 and desirable she looked, and she replied eyewise with a 
 droop such as the old wolf might have used in replying to 
 Red Riding Hood, "The better to eat you, my child." Then 
 his voice spoke; his soft, false, vain, mushy voice, and 
 asked casually: "By the way, speaking of Mr. Fenn — how 
 is Henry? I don't see him much now since he's quit the 
 law and gone into real estate." 
 
190 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 His eyes asked plainly: Is everything all right in that 
 quarter? Perhaps I might — 
 
 "Oh, I guess he's all right," and her eyes said: That's 
 so kind of you, indeed ; perhaps you might — 
 
 But he went on : "You ought to get him out more — come 
 over some night and we'll make a hand at whist. Mrs. Van 
 Dorn isn't much of a player, but like all poor players, she 
 enjoys it." And the eyes continued: But you and I will 
 have a fine time — now please come — soon — very soon. 
 
 "Yes, indeed— I don't play so well, but we'll come," and 
 the eyes answered: That is a fair promise, and I'll be so 
 happy. Then they flashed quickly: But Mrs. Van Dorn 
 must arrange it. He replied: "I'll tell Mrs. Van Dorn 
 you like whist, and she and you can arrange the eve- 
 ning. ' ' 
 
 Then they parted. He walked into the post office, and she 
 walked on to the "Wright & Perry store. But instead of re- 
 turning to his office, he lounged into Mr. Brotherton's and 
 sat on a bench in the Amen Corner, biting a cigar, waiting 
 for traffic to clear out. Then he said: "George, how is 
 Henry Fenn doing — really?" 
 
 His soft, brown hat was tipped over his eyes and his 
 ulster, unbuttoned, displayed his fine figure, and he was 
 clearly proud of it. Brotherton hesitated while he invoiced 
 a row of books. 
 
 "Old trouble?" prompted Judge Van Dorn. 
 
 "Old trouble," echoed Mr. Brotherton — "about every 
 three months since he's been married; something terrible the 
 last time. But say — there's a man that's sorry afterwards, 
 and what he doesn't buy for her after a round with the joy- 
 water isn't worth talking about. So far, he's been able to 
 square her that way — I take it. But say— that'll wear off, 
 and then — " Mr. Brotherton winked a large, mournful, 
 devilish wink as one who was hanging out a storm flag. 
 Judge Van Dorn twirled his mustache, patted his necktie, 
 jostled his hat and smiled, waiting for further details. 
 Instead, he faced a question: 
 
 "Why did Henry quit the law for real estate, Judge— 
 the old trouble?" 
 
 Judge Van Dorn echoed, and added: "Folks pretty gen- 
 
OUR HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS 191 
 
 erally know about it, and they don't trust their law business 
 in that kind of hands. Poor Henry — poor devil," sighed 
 the young Judge, and then said: "By the way, George, 
 send up a box of cigars — the kind old Henry likes best, to 
 my house. I'm going to have him and the missus over some 
 evening. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Brotherton's large back was turned when the last 
 phrase was uttered, and Mr. Brotherton made a little signifi- 
 cant face at his shelves, and the thought occurred to Mr. 
 Brotherton that Henry Fenn was not the only man whom 
 people pretty generally knew about. After some further 
 talk about Fenn and his affairs, Van Dorn primped a moment 
 before the mirror in the cigar cutter and started for the 
 door. 
 
 "By the by, your honor, I forgot about the Mayor's 
 miners' relief fund. How is it now?" asked Van Dorn. 
 
 "Something past ten thousand here in the county." 
 
 "Any one beat my subscription?" asked Van Dorn. 
 
 Brotherton turned around and replied: "Yes — Amos 
 Adams was in here five minutes ago. He has mortgaged his 
 place and so long as he and Grant can't find kith or kin of 
 Chopini, and Mrs. Herdicker would take nothing — Amos 
 has put $1,500 into the fund. Done it just now — him and 
 Grant." 
 
 The Judge took the paper, looked at the scrawl of the 
 Adamses, and scratching out his subscription, put two thou- 
 sand where there had been one thousand. He showed it to 
 Brotherton, and added with a smile : 
 
 "Who'll call that— I wonder." 
 
 And wrapping his ulster about him and cocking his hat 
 rakishly, he went with some pride into the street. He was 
 thirty-four years old and was accounted as men go a hand- 
 some dog, with a figure just turning from the litheness of 
 youth into a slight rotundity of very early middle age. He 
 carried his shoulders well, walked with a firm, straight gait — 
 perhaps a little too much upon his toes for candor, but, with 
 all, he was a well-groomed animal and he knew it. So he 
 passed Margaret Fenn again on the street, lifted his hat, 
 hunted for her eyes, gave them all the voltage he had, and 
 the smile that he shot at her was left over on his face for 
 
192 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 half a block down the street. People passing him smiled 
 back and said to one another : 
 
 "What a fine, good-natured, big-hearted fellow Tom Van 
 Dorn is!" 
 
 And Mr. Van Dorn, not oblivious to the impression he was 
 making, smiled and bowed and bowed and smiled, and hel- 
 lowed Dick, and howareyoued Hiram, and goodmorninged 
 John, down the street, into his office. There he found his 
 former partner busy with a laudable plan of defending a 
 client. His client happened to be the Wahoo Fuel Company, 
 which was being assailed by the surviving relatives of some- 
 thing like one hundred dead men. So Mr. Calvin was pre- 
 paring to show that in entering the mine they had assumed 
 the ordinary risks of mining, and that the neglect of their 
 fellow servants was one of those ordinary risks. And as for 
 the boy ten years old being employed in the mines contrary 
 to law, there were some details of a trip to Austria for that 
 boy and his parents, that had to be arranged with the steam- 
 ship company by wire that very morning. The Judge sat 
 reading the law, oblivious — judicially — to what was going 
 on, and Joseph Calvin fell to work with a will. But what 
 the young Judge, who could ignore Mr. Calvin's activities, 
 could not help taking judicial notice of in spite of his law 
 books, were those eyes out there on the street. They were 
 indeed beautiful eyes and they said so much, and yet left 
 much to the imagination — and the imagination of Judge Van 
 Dorn was exceedingly nimble in those little matters, and in 
 many other matters besides. Indeed, so nimble was his 
 imagination that if it hadn 't been for the fact that at Judge 
 Van Dorn's own extra-judicial suggestion, every lawyer in 
 town, excepting Henry Fenn, who had retired from the law 
 practice, had been retained by the Company an hour after 
 the accident, no one knows how many holes might have been 
 found in Mr. Joseph Calvin's unaided brief. 
 
 As the young Judge sat poring over his law book, Captain 
 Morton came in and after the Captain's usual circumlocution 
 he said : 
 
 "What I really wanted to know, Judge, was about a 
 charter. I want to start a company. So I says to my- 
 self, Judge Tom, he can just about start me right. He'll 
 
OUE HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS 193 
 
 get my company going — what say?" Answering the 
 Judge's question about the nature of the company, the Cap- 
 tain explained : ' ' You see, I had the agency for the "Waverly 
 bicycle here a while back, and I got one of their wheels and 
 was fooling with it like a fellow will on a wet day — what 
 say ? ' ' He smiled up at the Judge a self-deprecatory smile, 
 as if to ask him not to mind his foolishness but to listen to his 
 story. "And when I got the blame thing apart, she wouldn't 
 go together — eh? So I had to kind of give up the agency, 
 and I took a churn that was filling a long-felt want just 
 then. Churns is always my specialty and I forgot all about 
 the bicycle — just like a fellow will — eh ? But here a while 
 back I wanted to rig up a gearing for the churn and so I 
 took down the wreck of the old wheel, and dubbing around 
 I worked out a ball-bearing sprocket joint — say, man, she 
 runs just like a feather. And now what I want is a patent 
 for the sprocket and a charter for the company to put it on 
 the market. Henry Fenn's going to the capital for me to 
 fix up the charter; and then whoopee — the old man's coming 
 along, eh ? When I get that thing on the market, you watch 
 out for me — what say ? ' ' 
 
 The eyes of Margaret Fenn danced around the Captain's 
 sprocket. So the Judge, thinking to get rid of the Captain 
 and oblige the Fenns with one stroke, sent the Captain away 
 with twenty-five dollars to pay Henry Fenn for getting the 
 patent for the sprocket and securing the charter for the 
 company. 
 
 As the Captain left the office of the Judge he greeted Mrs. 
 Van Dorn with an elaborate bow. 
 
 And now enter Laura Van Dorn. And she is beautiful, 
 too — with candid, wide-open gray eyes. Maturity has hardly 
 reached her, but through the beauty of line and color, char- 
 acter is showing itself in every feature; Satterthwaite and 
 Nesbit, force and sentiment are struggling upon her fea- 
 tures for mastery. The January air has flushed her face 
 and her frank, honest eyes glow happily. But when one 
 belongs to the ancient, though scarcely Honorable Primrose 
 Hunt, and rides forever to the hounds down the path of 
 dalliance, one's wife of four years is rather stale sport. 
 One does not pry up her eyelashes; they have been pried; 
 
194 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 nor does one hold dialogues with her under the words of 
 conventional speech. The rules of the Hunt require one to 
 look up at one's wife — chiefly to find out what she is after 
 and to wonder how long she will inflict herself. And when 
 one is hearing afar the cry of the pack, no true sportsman 
 is diverted from the chase by ruddy, wifely cheeks, and 
 beaming, wifely eyes, and an eager, wifely heart. So when 
 Laura his wife came into the office of the young Judge she 
 found his heart out with the Primrose Hunt and only his 
 handsome figure and his judicial mind accessible to her. 
 "Oh, Tom," she cried, "have you heard about the 
 Adamses?" The young Judge looked up, smiled, adjusted 
 his judicial mind, and answered without emotion: "Rather 
 foolish, don't you think?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps it's foolish, but you know it's splendid as 
 well as I. Giving up everything they had on earth to 
 soften the horror in South Harvey — I'm so proud of them!" 
 
 "Well," he replied, still keeping his chair, and letting his 
 wife find a chair for herself, "you might work up a little 
 pride for your husband while you're at it. I gave two 
 thousand. They only gave fifteen hundred." 
 
 "Well — you're a dear, too." She touched him with a 
 caressing hand. "But you could afford it. It means for 
 you only the profits on one real estate deal or one case of 
 Joe Calvin's in the Federal Court, where you can still divide 
 the fees. But, Tom — the Adamses have given themselves — 
 all they have — themselves. It's a very inspiring thing; I 
 feel that it must affect men in this town to see that splendid 
 faith." 
 
 "Laura," he answered testily, "why do you still keep up 
 that foolish enthusiasm for perfectly unreasonable things? 
 There was no sense in the Adamses giving that way. It was 
 a foolish thing to do, when the old man is practically on the 
 town. His paper is a joke. Sooner or later we will all have 
 to make up this gift a dollar at a time and take care of him." 
 
 He turned to his law book. "Besides, if you come to that 
 —it's money that talks and if you want to get excited, get 
 excited over my two thousand. It will do more good than 
 their fifteen hundred — at least five hundred dollars more. 
 And that's all there is to it." 
 
OUE HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS 195 
 
 Her face twitched with pain. Then from some depths of 
 her soul she hailed him impulsively: 
 
 "Tom, I don't helieve that, and I don't believe you do, 
 either — it isn't the good the money does those who receive; 
 it's the good it does the giver. And the good it does the 
 giver is measured by the amount of sacrifice — the degree of 
 himself that he puts into it — can't you understand, Tom? 
 I 'd give my soul if you could understand. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I can't understand, Laura," impatiently; "that's 
 your father's sentimental side. Of all the fool things," the 
 Judge slapped the book sheet viciously, "that the old man 
 has put into your head — sentiment is one of the foolest. I 
 tell you, Laura, money talks. There are ten languages 
 spoken in South Harvey, and money talks in all of them, 
 and one dollar does as much as another, and that 's all there 
 is to it." 
 
 She rose with a little sigh. "Well," she said gently, "we 
 won't quarrel." The wife looked intently at the husband, 
 and in that flash of time from beneath her consciousness 
 came renewed strength. Something primeval — the eternal 
 uxorial upon which her whole life rested, possessed her and 
 she smiled, and touched her husband's thick, black hair 
 gently. For she felt that if the spiritual ties for the mo- 
 ment had failed them, she must pick up some other tie. She 
 was the nest builder indomitable. If the golden thread 
 should drop — there is the string — the straw — the horse hair 
 — the twig. So Laura Van Dorn picked up an appeal to her 
 husband's affections and continued her predestined work. 
 
 "Tom," she said, with her smile still on her face, "what 
 I really and truly wanted to tell you was about Lila. ' ' The 
 mention of the child's name brought quick light to the moth- 
 er's face. "Lila — think of it, Tom — Lila," the mother re- 
 peated with vast pride. ' ' You must come right out and see 
 her. About an hour ago, she sat gazing at your picture on 
 my dresser, and suddenly without a word from me, she whis- 
 pered 'Daddy,' and then was as shy for a moment, then 
 whispered it again, and then spoke it out loud, and she is as 
 proud as Punch, and keeps saying it over and over ! Tom — 
 you must come out and hear it." 
 
 Perhaps it was a knotty point of law that held his mind,, 
 
196 IN THE HBAET OF A FOOL 
 
 or perhaps it was the old beat of the hoofs on the turf of 
 the Primrose Hunt that filled his ears, or the red coat of the 
 fox that filled his eyes. 
 
 He smiled graciously and replied absently: "Well — 
 Daddy—" And repeated "Daddy— don't you think fa- 
 ther is — " He caught the cloud flashing across her face, 
 and went on: "Oh, I suppose daddy is all right to begin 
 with." He picked up his law book and the woman drew 
 nearer to him. She put her hand over the page and 
 coaxed : 
 
 "Come on, Tom — just for a little minute — come on out 
 and see her. I know she is waiting for you — I know she is 
 just dying to show off to you — and besides, the new rugs 
 have come for the living-room, and I just couldn't unpack 
 them without you. It would seem so — old — old — old mar- 
 riedy, and we aren't going to be that." She laughed and 
 tried to close the law book. 
 
 Their eyes met and she thought for a moment that she was 
 winning her contest. But he put her hand aside gently and 
 answered : ' ' Now, Laura, I 'm busy, exceedingly busy. This 
 mine accident is bound to come before me in one form or 
 another soon, and I must be ready for it, and it is a serious 
 matter. There will be all kinds of attacks upon the prop- 
 erty." 
 
 ' ' The property ? ' ' she asked, and he answered : 
 
 "Why, yes — legal attacks upon the mine — to bleed the 
 owners, and I must be ready to guard them against these 
 assaults, and I just can't jump and run every time Lila coos 
 or you cut a string on a package. I'll be out to-night and 
 we'll hear Lila and look at the rugs." To the disappoint- 
 ment upon her face he replied: "I tell you, Laura, senti- 
 ment is going to wreck your life if you don't check it." 
 
 The man looked into his book without reading. He had 
 come to dislike these little scenes with his wife. He looked 
 from his book out of the window, into the snowy street. He 
 remembered his morning walk. There was no talk of souls 
 in those eyes, no hint of higher things from those lips, no 
 covert taunt of superiority in that face. 
 
 Laura did not wince. But her eyes filled and her voice 
 was husky as she spoke: "Tom, I want your soul again— 
 
OUR HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS 197 
 
 the one that used to speak to me in the old days." She bent 
 over him, and rubbed her cheek against his and there she 
 left him, still looking into the street. 
 
 That evening at sunset, Judge Van Dorn, with his ulster 
 thrown back to show his fine figure, walked in his character 
 of town Prince homeward up the avenue. His face was 
 amiable; he was gracious to every one. He spoke to rich 
 and poor alike, as was his wont. As he turned into his 
 home yard, he waved at a little face in the window. In 
 the house he was the spirit of good nature itself. He was 
 full of quips and pleasantries and happy turns of speech. 
 But Laura Van Dorn had learned deep in her heart to fear 
 that mood. She was ashamed of her wisdom — degraded by 
 her doubt, and she fought with it. 
 
 And yet a man and a woman do not live together as man 
 and wife and parents without learning much that does not 
 come from speech and is not put into formulated conviction. 
 The signs were all for trouble, and in the secret places of her 
 heart she knew these signs. 
 
 She knew that this grand manner, this expansive mood, 
 this keying up of attentions to her were the beginnings of 
 a sad and sordid story — a story that she did not entirely 
 understand; would not entirely translate, but a story that 
 sickened her very soul. To keep the table talk going, she 
 said: "Tom, it's wonderful the way Kenyon is taking to 
 the violin. He has a real gift, I believe. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," answered the husband absently, and then as one 
 who would plunge ahead, began: "By the by — why don't 
 you have your father and mother and some of the neighbors 
 over to play cards some evening — and what's the matter 
 with the Fenns? Henry's kind of down on his luck, and 
 I'll need him in my next campaign, and I thought if we 
 could have them over some evening — well, what's the matter 
 with to-morrow evening? They'd enjoy it. You know Mrs. 
 Fenn — I saw her down town this morning, and George 
 Brotherton says Henry's slipping back to his old ways. 
 And I just thought perhaps — " 
 
 But she knew as well as he what he "thought perhaps," 
 and a cloud trailed over her face. 
 
 "When Thomas Van Dorn left his home that night, striding 
 
198 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 into the lights of Market Street, his heart was hot with the 
 glowing coals of an old wrong revived. For to Judge Van 
 Dorn, home had become a trap, and the glorious eyes that 
 had beamed upon him in the morning seemed beacons of 
 liberty. 
 
 As gradually those eyes became fixed in his consciousness, 
 through days and weeks and months, a mounting passion for 
 Margaret Fenn kindled in his heart. And slowly he went 
 stone-blind mad. The whole of his world was turned over. 
 Every ambition, every hope, every desire he ever had known 
 was burned out before this passion that was too deep for 
 desire. "Whatever lust was in his blood in those first months 
 of his madness grew pale. It seemed to the man who went 
 stalking down the street past her house night after night 
 that the one great, unselfish passion of his life was upon 
 him, loosening the roots of his being, so that any sacrifice 
 he could make, whether of himself or of any one or any- 
 thing about him, would give him infinite joy. When he met 
 Henry Fenn, Van Dorn was always tempted and often 
 yielded to the temptation to rush up to Fenn with some 
 foolish question that made the sad-eyed man stare and won- 
 der. But just to be that near to her for the moment pleased 
 him. There was no jealousy for Fenn in Van Dorn's heart; 
 there was only a dog-like infatuation that had swept him 
 away from his reason and seated a fatuous, chattering, impo- 
 tent, lecherous ape where his intellect should have been. 
 And he knew he was a fool. He knew that he was stark 
 mad. Yet what he did not know was that this madness 
 was a culmination, not a pristine passion new born in his 
 heart. For the maggot in his brain had eaten out a rotten 
 place wherein was the memory of many women's yieldings, 
 of many women's tears. One side of his brain worked with 
 rare cunning. He wound the evidence against the men in 
 the mine, taken at the coroner's hearing, through the laby- 
 rinth of the law, and snared them tightly in it. That part 
 of his brain clicked with automatic precision. But sitting 
 beside him was the ape, grinning, leering, ready to rise and 
 master him. So many a night when he was weary, he lay 
 on the couch beside his desk, and the ape came and howled 
 him to a troubled sleep. 
 
OUR HERO RIDES TO HOUNDS 199 
 
 But while Judge Van Dorn tried to fight his devil away 
 with his law book, down in South Harvey death still lin- 
 gered. Death is no respecter of persons, and often vaunts 
 himself of his democracy. Yet it is a sham democracy. In 
 Harvey, when death taps on a door and enters the house, he 
 brings sorrow. But in South Harvey when he crosses a 
 threshold he brings sorrow and want. And what a vast 
 difference lies between sorrow, and sorrow with want. For 
 sometimes the want that death brings is so keen that it 
 smothers sorrow, and the poor may not mourn without 
 shame — shame that they feel the self-interest in their sorrow. 
 So when Death entered a hundred homes in South Harvey 
 that winter day at the beginning of the new year, with him 
 came hunger, with him came cold, with him came the harlot's 
 robe and the thief's mask, and the blight of ignorance, and 
 the denial of democratic opportunity to scores of children. 
 With death that day as he crossed the dreary, unpainted 
 portals of the poor came horror that overshadows grief 
 among the poor and makes the boast of the democracy of 
 death a ruthless irony. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 HEREIN CAPTAIN MORTON PALLS UNDER SUSPICION AND HENRY 
 FENN PALLS PROM GRACE 
 
 ON Market Street nearly opposite the Traders' Na- 
 tional Bank during the decades of the eighties and 
 nineties was a smart store front upon which was 
 fastened a large, black and gold sign bearing the words 
 "The Paris Millinery Company" and under these words in 
 smaller letters, "Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop." If 
 Mr. George Brotherton and his Amen Corner might be said 
 to be the clearing house of public opinion in Harvey, the 
 establishment of Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop., might 
 well be said to be the center of public clamor. For things 
 started in this establishment — by things one means in gen- 
 eral, trouble; variegated of course as to domestic, financial, 
 social, educational, amatory, and at times political. Now 
 the women of Harvey and South Harvey and of Greeley 
 county — and of Hancock and Seymour counties so far as 
 that goes — used the establishment of "The Paris Millinery 
 Company, Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop.," as a club — a 
 highly democratic club — the only place this side of the 
 grave, in fact, where women met upon terms of something 
 like equality. 
 
 And in spring when women molt and change their feath- 
 ers, the establishment of "Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, 
 Prop." at its opening rose to the dignity of a social insti- 
 tution. It was a kind of folk-mote. Here at this opening, 
 where there was music and flowers and bonbons, women as- 
 sembled en masse. Mrs. Nesbit and Mrs. Penn, Mrs. Dexter 
 and Violet Hogan, she that was born Mauling met, if not as 
 sisters at least in what might be called a great step-sister- 
 hood; and even the silent Lida Bowman, wife of Dick, came 
 
 200 
 
CAPTAIN MOETON UNDER SUSPICION 201 
 
 from her fastness and for once in a year met her old friends 
 who knew her in the town's early days before she went to 
 South Harvey to share the red pottage of the Sons of Esau ! 
 
 But her friends had little from Mrs. Bowman more than 
 a smile — a cracked and weather-beaten smile from a broken 
 woman of nearly forty, who was a wife at fifteen, a mother 
 at seventeen, and who had borne six children and buried 
 two in a dozen years. 
 
 "There's Violet," ventured Mrs. Bowman to Mrs. Dexter. 
 "I haven't seen her since her marriage." 
 
 To a question Mrs. Bowman replied reluctantly, "Oh — as 
 for Denny Hogan, he is a good enough man, I guess ! ' ' 
 
 After a pause, Mrs. Bowman thought it wise to add under 
 the wails of the orchestra: "Poor Violet — good hearted 
 girl's ever lived; so kind to her ma; and what with all that 
 talk when she was in Van Dorn's office and all the talk about 
 the old man Sands and her in the Company store, I just 
 guess Vi got dead tired of it all and took Denny and run 
 to cover with him." 
 
 Violet Hogan in a black satin, — a cheap black satin, and 
 a black hat — a cheap black hat with a red rose — a most ab- 
 surdly cheap red rose in it, walked about the place picking 
 things over in a rather supercilious way, and no one no- 
 ticed her. Mrs. Fenn gave Violet an eye-brow, a beautifully 
 penciled eye-brow on a white marble forehead, above beam- 
 ing brown eyes that were closed just slightly at the moment. 
 And Mrs. Van Dorn who had kept track of the girl, you may 
 be sure, went over to her and holding out her hand said: 
 "Congratulations, Violet, — I'm so glad to hear — " But 
 Mrs. Denny Hogan having an eye-brow to spare as the gift 
 of Mrs. Fenn passed it on to Mrs. Van Dorn who said, 
 "Oh — " very gently and went to sit on a settee beside Mrs. 
 Brotherton, the mother of the moon-faced Mr. Brotherton 
 and Mrs. Ahab Wright, who always seemed to seek the shade. 
 And then and there, Mrs. Van Dorn had to listen to this 
 solo from Mrs. Brotherton : 
 
 "George says Judge Van Dorn is running for Judge 
 again: really, Laura, I hope he'll win. George says he 
 will. George says Henry Fenn is the only trouble Mr. 
 Van Dorn will have, though I don't see as Henry could do 
 
202 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 much. Though George says he will. George says Henry is 
 cranky and mean about the Judge someway and George says 
 Henry is drinking like a fish this spring and his legs is 
 hollow, he holds so much; though he must have been joking 
 for I have heard of hollow horn in cattle, but I never heard 
 of hollow legs, though they are getting lots of new diseases. ' ' 
 
 By the time Mrs. Brotherton found it necessary to stop 
 for breath, Laura Van Dorn had regained the color that had 
 dimmed as she heard the reference to Henry Fenn. And 
 when she met Mrs. Margaret Fenn at a turn of the aisle, 
 Mrs. Margaret Fenn was the spirit of joy and it seemed that 
 Mrs. Van Dorn was her long lost sister; so Mrs. Margaret 
 Fenn began fumbling her over to find the identifying straw- 
 berry mark. At least that is what Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., 
 told Mrs. Nesbit as she sold Mrs. Nesbit the large one with 
 the brown plume. 
 
 Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., made it a rule never to gossip, as 
 every one who frequented her shop was told, but as between 
 old friends she would say to Mrs. Nesbit that if ever one 
 woman glued herself to another, and couldn't be boiled or 
 frozen, or chopped loose, that woman was Maggie Fenn 
 sticking to Laura Van Dorn. And Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., 
 closed her mouth significantly, and Mrs. Nesbit pretended 
 with a large obvious, rather clumsy pretense, that she read 
 no meaning in Mrs. Herdicker 's words. The handsome Miss 
 Morton, with her shoe tops tiptoeing to her skirts, who was 
 in the shop and out of school for the rush season, listened 
 hard, but after that they whispered and the handsome Miss 
 Morton turned her attention to the youngest Miss Morton 
 who was munching bonbons and opening the door for all of 
 Harvey and South Harvey and the principalities around 
 about to enter and pass out. After school came the tired 
 school teachers from the High School, her eldest sister, 
 Emma Morton, among them, with their books and reports 
 pressed against their sides. But Margaret Fenn did not see 
 the school teachers, nor even the fifth Mrs. Sands towed 
 about by her star-eyed stepdaughter Anne, though Mar- 
 garet Fenn's eyes were busy. But she was watching the 
 women ; she was looking for something as though to ward it 
 off, always glancing ahead of her to see where she was going, 
 
CAPTAIN MORTON UNDER SUSPICION 203 
 
 and who was in her path ; always measuring her woman, al- 
 ways listening under the shriek of the clarionettes, always 
 quick with a smile — looking for something — something that 
 she may have felt was upon its way, something that she 
 dreaded to see. But all the shoulders she hobnobbed with 
 that day were warm enough — indifferently warm, and that 
 was all she asked. So she smiled and radiated her fine, 
 animal grace, her feline beauty, her superfemininity, and 
 was as happy as any woman could be who had arrived at 
 an important stage of her journey and could see a little 
 way ahead with some degree of clearness. 
 
 Let us look at her as she stands by the door waiting to 
 overhaul Mrs. Nesbit. A fine figure of a woman, Margaret 
 Fenn makes there — in her late twenties, with large regular 
 features, big even teeth, clear brown eyes — not bold at all, 
 yet why do they seem so? Perhaps because she is so sure 
 and firm and unhesitating. Her skin is soft and fair as a 
 child's, bespeaking health and good red blood. The good 
 red blood shows in her lips — red as a wicked flower, red and 
 full and as shameless as a dream. Taller than Mrs. Nesbit 
 she stands, and her clothes hang to her in spite of the full- 
 ness of the fashion, in most suggestive lines. She seems to 
 shine out of her clothes a lustrous, shimmering figure, fe- 
 male rather than feminine, and gorgeous rather than lovely. 
 Margaret Fenn is in full bloom ; not a drooping petal, not a 
 bending stamen, not a wilted calyx or bruised leaf may be 
 seen about her. She is a perfect flower whose whole being 
 — like that of a flower at its full — seems eager, thrilling, 
 burning with anticipation of the perfect fruit. 
 
 She puts out her hands — both of her large strong hands, 
 so well-gloved and well-kept, to Mrs. Nesbit. Surely Mrs. 
 Fenn's smile is not a make-believe smile; surely that is real 
 pleasure in her voice ; surely that is real joy that lights up 
 her eyes. And why should they not be real? Is not Mrs. 
 Nesbit the one person in all Harvey that Margaret Fenn 
 would delight to honor? Is not Mrs. Nesbit the dowager 
 empress of Harvey, and the social despot of the community ? 
 And is not Mrs. Nesbit smiling at the eldest Miss Morton, 
 she of the Longfellow school, who is trying on a traveling 
 hat, and explaining that she always wanted a traveling hat 
 
204 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 and suit alike so that she could go to the Grand Canyon if 
 she could ever save up enough money, but she could never 
 seem to afford it? Moreover is not Mrs. Nesbit in a bene- 
 ficient frame of mind ? 
 
 "Well," smiles the eyes and murmurs the voice, and 
 glows the face of the young woman, and she puts out her 
 hand. "Mrs. Nesbit— so glad I'm sure. Isn't it lovely 
 here? Mrs. Herdicker is so effective." 
 
 "Mrs. Fenn, — " this from the dowager, and the eye- 
 brow that Mrs. Fenn gave to Mrs. Hogan, and Mrs. Hogan 
 gave to Mrs. Van Dorn and Mrs. Van Dorn gave to Mrs. 
 Brotherton and Mrs. Brotherton gave to Mrs. Calvin who, 
 George says, is an old cat, and Mrs. Calvin gave to Mrs. 
 Nesbit for remarks as to the biennial presence of Mr. Calvin 
 in the barn (repeated to Mrs. Calvin), the eye-brow having 
 been around the company comes back to Mrs. Fenn. 
 
 After which Mrs. Nesbit moves with what dignity her ton- 
 nage will permit out of the perfumed air, out of the concord 
 of sweet sounds into the street. Mrs. Fenn, who was looking 
 for it all the afternoon, that thing she dreaded and antici- 
 pated with fear in her heart's heart, found it. It was ex- 
 ceedingly cold — and also a shoulder of some proportions. 
 And it chilled the flowing sap of the perfect flower so that 
 the flower shivered in the breeze made by the closing door, 
 though the youngest Miss Morton presiding at the door 
 thought it was warm, and Mrs. Herdicker thought it was 
 warm and Mrs. Violet Hogan said to Mrs. Bowman as they 
 went through the same door and met the same air: "My 
 land, Bowman, did you ever see such an' oven?" and then 
 as the door closed she added : 
 
 "See old Mag Fenn there? I just heard something about 
 her to-day. I bet it's true." 
 
 Thus the afternoon faded and the women went home to 
 cook their evening meals, and left Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., 
 with a few late comers — ladies of no particular character 
 who had no particular men folk to do for, and who slipped 
 in after the rush to pay four prices for what had been left. 
 Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., was straightening up the stock and 
 snapping prices to the girls who were waiting upon the be- 
 lated customers. She spent little of her talent upon the 
 
CAPTAIN MOETON UNDER SUSPICION 205 
 
 sisterhood of the old, old trade, and contented herself with 
 charging them all she could get, and making them feel she 
 was obliging them by selling to them at all. It was while 
 trade sagged in the twilight that Mrs. Jared Thurston, 
 Lizzie Thurston to be exact, wife of the editor of the South 
 Harvey Derrick came in. Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., knew her 
 of old. She was in to solicit advertising, which meant that 
 she was needing a hat and it was a swap proposition. So 
 Mrs. Herdicker told Mrs. Thurston to write up the opening 
 and put in a quarter page advertisement beside and send her 
 the bill, and Mrs. Thurston looked at a hat. No time was 
 wasted on her either— nor much talent ; but as Mrs. Thurs- 
 ton was in a business way herself, Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., 
 stopped to talk to her a moment as to an equal — a rare dis- 
 tinction. They sat on a sofa in the alcove that had shel- 
 tered the orchestra behind palms and ferns and Easter lilies, 
 and chatted of many things — the mines, the new smelter, 
 the new foreman's wife at the smelter, the likelihood that 
 the Company store in South Harvey would put in a line of 
 millinery — which Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., denied with em- 
 phasis, declaring she had an agreement with the old devil 
 not to put in millinery so long as she deposited at his bank. 
 Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., had taken the $500 which the Com- 
 pany had offered for the life of poor Casper and had filed 
 no lawsuit, fearing that a suit with the Company would hurt 
 her trade. But as a business proposition both women were 
 interested in the other damage suits pending against the 
 Company for the mine accident. ' ' What do they say down 
 there about it?" asked the milliner. 
 
 "Well, of course," returned Mrs. Thurston, who was not 
 sure of her ground and had no desire to talk against the 
 rich and powerful, "they say that some one ought to pay 
 something. But, of course, Joe Calvin always wins his 
 suits and the Judge, of course, was the Company's attorney 
 before he was the Judge — " 
 
 "And so the claim agents are signing 'em up for what 
 the Company will give," cut in the questioner. 
 
 "That's about it, Mrs. Herdicker," responded Mrs. 
 Thurston. "Times are hard, and they take what they can 
 get now, rather than fight for it. And the most the Com- 
 
206 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 pany will pay is $400 for a life, and not all are getting 
 that." 
 
 "Tom Van Dorn — he's a smooth one, Lizzie — he's a 
 smooth one." Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., looked quickly at Mrs. 
 Thurston and got a smile in reply. That was enough. She 
 continued : 
 
 "You'd think he'd know better — wouldn't you?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know — it's hard to teach an old dog new 
 tricks," was the non-committal answer of Mrs. Thurston, 
 still cautious about offending the powers. 
 
 Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., brushed aside formalities. "Yes 
 — stenographers and hired girls, and biscuit shooters at the 
 Palace and maybe now and then an excursion across the 
 track; but this is different; this is in his own class. They 
 were both here this afternoon, and you should have seen the 
 way she cooed and billed over Laura Van Dorn. Honest, 
 Lizzie, if I'd never heard a word, I'd know something was 
 wrong. And you should have seen old lady Nesbit give her 
 the come-uppins. " 
 
 Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., dropped her voice to a confidential 
 tone. "Lizzie?" a pause; "They say you've seen 'em to- 
 gether." 
 
 The thought of the quarter page advertisement overcame 
 whatever scruples Mrs. Thurston may have had, and so long 
 as she had the center of the stage she said her lines: "Why 
 I don't know a single thing — only this: that for — maybe a 
 month or so every few days along about five or six o'clock 
 when the roads are good I've seen him coming one way on 
 his wheel, and go down in the country on the Adams road, 
 and about ten minutes later from another way she'd come 
 riding along on her wheel and go down the Adams road into 
 the country following him. Then in an hour or so, they 
 come back, sometimes one of them first — sometimes the 
 other, but I've really never seen them together. She might 
 be going to the Adamses; she boarded there once years 
 ago." 
 
 "Yes, — and she hates 'em!" snapped Mrs. Herdicker de- 
 risively, and then added, "Well, it's none of my business so 
 long as they pay for their hats. ' ' 
 
CAPTAIN MOETON UNDER SUSPICION 207 
 
 "Well, my land, Mrs. Herdicker," quoth Lizzie, "it's a 
 comfort to hear some one talk sense. For two months now 
 we've been hearing nothing but that fool Adams boy's crazy 
 talk about unions, and men organizing to help their fellows, 
 and — why did you know he's quit his job as boss carpenter 
 in the mine? And for why — so that he can be a witness 
 against the company some say; though there won't be any 
 trial. Tom Van Dorn will see to that. He's sent word to 
 the men that they'd better settle as the law is against them. 
 But that Grant Adams quit his job any way and is going 
 about holding meetings every night, and working on con- 
 struction work above ground by day and talking union, 
 union, union till Jared and I are sick of it. I tell you the 
 man's gone daft. But a lot of the men are following him, 
 I guess." 
 
 Being a methodical woman Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., wrote 
 the copy for her advertisement and let Mrs. Thurston go in 
 peace. She went into the gathering twilight, and hurried 
 to do a few errands before returning to South Harvey. 
 
 At the court house Mrs. Thurston met Henry Penn com- 
 ing out of the register of deeds office where he had been 
 filing a deed to some property he had sold, and at Mr. Broth- 
 erton's Amen Corner, she saw Tom Van Dorn smoking upon 
 the bench. The street was filled with bicycles, for that was a 
 time- when the bicycle was a highly respectable vehicle of 
 business and pleasure. Mrs; Thurston left Market Street 
 and a dozen wheels passed her. As she turned into her 
 street to South Harvey a bell tinkled. She looked around 
 and saw Margaret Fenn making rapidly for the highway. 
 Mrs. Thurston was human ; she waited ! And in five minutes 
 Tom Van Dorn came by and went in the same direction! 
 
 An hour later Margaret Fenn came pedaling into the 
 town from the country road, all smiling and breathless and 
 red lipped, and full of color. As she turned into her own 
 street she met her husband, immaculately dressed. He 
 bowed with great punctiliousness and lifting his hat high 
 from his head smiled a search-light of a smile that frightened 
 his wife. But he spoke no word to her. Five minutes later, 
 as Tom Van Dorn wheeled out of Market Street, he also saw 
 
208 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Henry Fenn, standing in the middle of the crossing leering 
 at him and laughing a drunken, foolish, noisy laugh. Van 
 Dorn called back but Fenn did not reply, and the Judge 
 saw nothing in the figure but his drunken friend standing 
 in the middle of the street laughing. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 IN WHICH HENRY FENN FALLS FROM GRACE AND RISES AGAIN 
 
 THIS chapter must devote itself chiefly to a bargain. 
 In the bargain, Judge Thomas Van Dorn is party of 
 the first part, and Margaret Fenn, wife of Henry 
 Fenn, is party of the second part, and the devil is the broker. 
 
 Tom Van Dorn laid hungry eyes upon Margaret Fenn; 
 Margaret Fenn looked ravenously upon all that Van Dorn 
 had; his talent, his position, his worldly goods, estates and 
 chattels. He wanted what she had. He had what she 
 wanted, and by way of commission in negotiating the bar- 
 gain, the devil took two souls — not such large souls so far 
 as that goes ; but still the devil seems to have been the only 
 one in the transaction who profited. 
 
 June came — June and the soft night wind, and the warm 
 stars ; June with its new, deep foliage and its fragrant grass 
 and trees and flowers; June with a mocking bird singing 
 through the night to its brooding mate ; June came with its 
 poets leaning out of windows into the night hearing love 
 songs in the rhythmic whisper of lagging feet strolling under 
 the shade of elms. And under cover of a June night, breath- 
 ing in the sensuous meaning of the time like a charmed po- 
 tion, Judge Van Dorn, who personated justice to twenty-five 
 thousand people, went forth a slinking, cringing beast to woo ! 
 
 Here and there a lamp blinked through the foliage. The 
 footfalls of late home-comers were heard a long way off ; the 
 voices of singers — a serenading party out baying at the night 
 — was heard as the breeze carried the music upon its sluggish 
 ebb and flow. To avoid belated home-comers, Judge Van 
 Dorn crossed the street; the clanging electric car did not 
 find him with its search-light, though he felt shielded by its 
 roar as he stepped over the iron railing about the Fenn home 
 and came softly across the lawn upon the grass. 
 
 On the verandah, hidden by summer vines, he sat a moment 
 alone, panting, breathless, though he had come up but four 
 
 209 
 
210 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 steps, and had mounted them gently. A rustle of woman's 
 garments, the creaking of a screen door, the perfume that he 
 loved, and then she stood before him — and the next moment 
 he had her in his arms. For a minute she surrendered with- 
 out struggling, without protest, and for the first time their 
 lips met. Then she warded him off. 
 
 "No — no, Tom. You sit there — I'll have this swing," 
 and she slipped into a porch swing and finally he sat down. 
 
 "Now, Tom," she said, "I have given you everything to- 
 night. I am entirely at your mercy; I want you to be as 
 good to me as I have been to you. ' ' 
 
 "But, Margaret," he protested, "is this being good to me, 
 to keep me a prisoner in this chair while you — " 
 
 "Tom," she answered, "there is no one in the house. I've 
 just called Henry up by long distance telephone at the Sec- 
 retary of State's office in the capitol building. I've called 
 him up every hour since he got there this afternoon, to make 
 him remember his promise to me. He hasn't taken a thing 
 on this trip — I'm sure; I can tell by his voice, for one 
 thing." The man started to speak. She stopped him: 
 "Now listen, Tom. He'll have that charter for the Cap- 
 tain's company within half an hour and will start home on 
 the midnight train. That will give us just an hour together 
 — all alone, Tom, undisturbed." 
 
 She stopped and he sprang toward her, but she fended 
 him off, and gave him a pained look and went on as he sank 
 moaning into his chair : ' ' Tom, dear, how should we spend 
 the first whole hour we have ever had in our lives alone to- 
 gether ? I have read and reread your beautiful letters, dear. 
 Oh, I know some of them by heart. I am yours, Tom — all 
 yours. Now, dear," he made a motion to rise, "come here 
 by my chair, I want to touch you. But — that's all." 
 
 They sat close together, and the woman went on : " There 
 are so many things I want to say, Tom, to-night. I wonder 
 if I can think of any of them. It is all so beautiful. Isn't 
 it?" she asked softly, and felt his answer in every nerve in 
 his body, though his lips did not speak. It was the woman 
 who broke the silence. ' ' Time is slipping by, Tom. I know 
 what's in your mind, and you know what's in mine. Where 
 will this thing end? It can't go on this way. It must end 
 
HENRY FENN FALLS FROM GRACE 211 
 
 now, to-night — this very night, Tom, dear, or we must know 
 where we are coming out. Do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, Margaret," replied the man. He gripped his arm 
 about her, and continued passionately, "And I'm ready." 
 In a long minute of ecstasy they were dumb. He went on : 
 "You have good cause — lots of cause — every one knows that. 
 But I — I'll make it somehow — Oh, I can make it." He set 
 his teeth fiercely, and repeated, "Oh, I'll make it, Mar- 
 garet. ' ' 
 
 The night sounds filled their deaf ears, and the pressure of 
 their hands — all so new and strange — filled them with joy, 
 but the joy was shattered by a step upon the sidewalk, and 
 until it died away they were breathless. Then they sat closer 
 together and the woman whispered : 
 
 " 'And I'd turn my back upon things eternal 
 To lie on your breast a little while.' " 
 
 A noise in the house, perhaps of the cat moving through 
 the room behind them, startled them again. The man shook 
 and the woman held her breath; then they both smiled. 
 "Tom — Tom — don't you see how guilty we are? We 
 mustn't repeat this; this is our hour, but we must under- 
 stand each other here and now." The man did not reply. 
 He who had taken recklessly and ruthlessly all of his life had 
 come to a place where he must give to take. His fortunes 
 were tied up in his answer, so he replied: "Margaret, you 
 know the situation — down town?" 
 
 "The judgeship?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But that will be settled in November. After that is time 
 enough. Oh, eternity is time enough, Tom — I can wait and 
 wait and wait — only if it is to be for eternity, we must not 
 reckon with it now." 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, Margaret, Margaret — my soul's soul — I 
 want you. I know no peace but to look into your eyes; I 
 know no heaven but your smile — no God but your possession, 
 no hell but — but — this!" He pressed her hand to his lips 
 and moaned a kind of human bellow of unrequited love — 
 some long suppressed man's courting note that we had in the 
 
212 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 forest, and he grasped her in a flood of passionate longing. 
 She slipped away from him and stood up before him and 
 said: "No, — No, no, my dear — my dear — I love you — Oh, 
 I do love you, Tom — but don't — don't." 
 
 He started after her but she pushed him back with her 
 powerful arms and held him. "Tom, don't touch me. 
 Tom," she panted, "Tom." Her big meaningful eyes met 
 his and she held him for a moment silent. He stepped back 
 and she smiled and kissed his forehead when he had dropped 
 into a chair. 
 
 "Now, Tom, time is slipping by. It's nearly midnight. 
 We've got to talk sensibly and calmly. Sit here by me and 
 be as sane as you can. We know we love one another. 
 That's been said and resaid; that's settled. Now shall I 
 first break for liberty — or will you? That must all be set- 
 tled too. We can't just let things drift. I'm twenty- 
 seven. You're thirty-five. Life is passing. Now when?" 
 
 They shrank before the light of a street car rounding the 
 corner, that gleamed into their retreat. When it had gone, 
 the man bowed his fine, proud, handsome head, and spoke 
 with his eyes upon the ground : 
 
 "You go first — you have the best cause!" She looked 
 upon his cowardly, sloping shoulders, and thought a moment. 
 It was the tigress behind the flame who stooped over him. 
 pondering, feeling her way through events that she had been 
 going over and over in her imagination for weeks. The 
 feline caution that guided her, told her, as it had always 
 told her, that his letters were enough to damn him, but 
 maybe not enough to hold him. She was not sure of men. 
 Their standards might not be severe enough to punish him; 
 he, knowing this, might escape. All this — this old query 
 without answer went hurrying through her mind. But she 
 was young; the spirit of adventure was in her. Henry 
 Fenn, weak, vacillating, chivalrous, adoring Henry Fenn, 
 had not conquered her; and the fire in her blood, and the 
 ambition in her brain, came over her as a spell. She slipped 
 to her knees, putting her head upon her lover's breast, and 
 cried passionately in a guttural murmur — "Yes, I'll go 
 first, Tom — now, for God's sake, kiss me — kiss me and run." 
 Then she sprang up: "Now, go — go — go, Tom — run before 
 
HENRY FENN FALLS FROM GRACE 213 
 
 I take it back. Don't touch me again," she cried. "Go." 
 
 She slipped back into the door, then turned and caught 
 him again and they stood for a terrible moment together. 
 She whirled into the house, clicked the door after her and 
 left him standing a-tremble, gaping and mad in the night. 
 But she knew her strength, and knew his weakness and was 
 not afraid. 
 
 She let him moan a wordless lovesong, very low and ter- 
 rible in the night alone before the door, and did not answer. 
 Then she saw him go softly down the steps, look up and 
 down the street, move guiltily across the yard, hiding behind 
 a bush at a distant footfall, and slip slowly into the sidewalk 
 and go hurrying away from the house. In half an hour she 
 was waiting for Henry Fenn as a cat might wait at a rat hole. 
 
 The next day little boys followed Henry Fenn about the 
 streets laughing ; Henry Fenn, drunken and debased, whose 
 heart was bleeding. It was late in the afternoon when he 
 appeared in the Amen Corner. His shooting stars were all 
 exploded from their rocket and he was fading into the 
 charred papier-mache of the reaction that comes from over 
 exhilaration. So he sat on the walnut bench, back of the 
 newspaper counter with his hands on his knees and his eyes 
 staring at the floor while traffic flowed through the estab- 
 lishment oblivious to his presence. Mr. Brotherton watched 
 Fenn but did not try to make him talk. There came a time 
 when trade was slack that Fenn looked for a minute fixedly 
 at Mr. Brotherton, and finally said, shaking his head sadly: 
 
 ' ' She says I 've got to quit ! " A pause and another sigh, 
 then: "She says if I ever get drunk again, she'll quit me 
 like a dog." Another inspection of the floor; more lugubri- 
 ous head-shaking followed, after which the eyes closed and 
 the dead voice spoke : 
 
 ' ' "Well, here 's her chance. Say, George, ' ' he tried to smile, 
 but the light only flickered in his leaden eyes. "I guess 
 I'm orey-eyed enough now to furnish a correct imitation of 
 a gentleman in his cups ? " 
 
 Fenn got up, took Brotherton back among the books at the 
 rear of the store. The drunken man took from his pocket a 
 fountain pen incased in a silver mounting. He held the 
 silver trinket up and said : 
 
214 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 "Damn his soul to hell!" 
 
 "Let me see it — whose is it, Henry?" asked Brother-ton. 
 Fenn answered, "That's my business." He paused; then 
 added "and his business." Another undecided moment, 
 and then Penn concluded : "And none of your business. " 
 
 Suddenly he took his hands off the big man, and said, 
 "I'm going home. If she means business, here's her 
 chance. ' ' 
 
 Brotherton tried to stop him, but Penn was insistent. 
 Customers were coming in, and so Brotherton let the man go. 
 But all the evening he was worried about his friend. Ab- 
 sentmindedly he went over his stock, straightening up Puck 
 and Judge and Truth and Life, and putting the magazines in 
 their places, sorting the new books into their shelf, putting 
 the standard pirated editions of English authors in their 
 proper place and squaring up the long rows of ' ' The Bonnie 
 Brier Bush" and "A Hazard of New Fortunes" where they 
 would catch the buyers' eyes upon the counter, in freshly 
 jostled ranks, even and inviting, after the day's havoc in 
 Harvey's literary circles. But always Fenn's face was in 
 Brotherton 's mind. The chatter of the evening passed with- 
 out Brotherton realizing what it was all about. As for in- 
 stance, between Grant Adams and Captain Morton over a 
 sprocket which the Captain had invented and Henry Fenn 
 had patented for the Captain. Grant on the other hand 
 kept trying to tell the Captain about his unions organizing 
 in the Valley, and neither was interested in what the other 
 said, yet each was bursting with the importance of what he 
 was saying. But even that comic dialogue could not take Mr. 
 Brotherton 's mind from the search of the sinister connection 
 it was trying to discover, between the fountain pen and 
 Henry Fenn. 
 
 So Brotherton, worried with the affairs of Fenn, was 
 not interested and the Captain peddled his dream in other 
 marts. "With Penn's ugly face on his mind, Brotherton 
 saw young Judge Van Dorn swing in lightly, go through his 
 daily pantomime, all so smoothly, so well oiled, so polished 
 and polite, so courtly and affable, that for the moment Broth- 
 erton laid aside his fears and abandoned his suspicions. 
 Then Van Dorn, after playing with his cigar, went to the 
 
HENRY FENN FALLS FROM GRACE 215 
 
 stationery counter and remarked casually, "By the by, 
 George, do you keep fountain pens?" 
 
 Mr. Brotherton kept fountain pens, and Judge Van Dorn 
 said: "There — that one over by the ink eraser — yes, that 
 one — the one in the silver casing — I seem to have mislaid 
 mine. Yale men gave it to me at the reunion in '91, as 
 president of the class — had my initials on it — ten years — 
 yes," he looked at the pen offered by the store keeper. 
 "That will do." Mr. Brotherton watched the Judge as he 
 put the pen in his vest pocket, after it had been filled. 
 
 The Judge picked up a Chicago paper, stowed it away 
 with "Anglo-Saxon Supremacy" in his green bag. Then 
 he swung gracefully out of the shop and left Mr. Brotherton 
 wondering where and how Henry Fenn got that pen, and 
 why he did not return it to its owner. 
 
 The air of mystery and malice — two unusual atmospheres 
 for Henry Fenn to breathe — which he had put around the 
 pen, impressed his friend with the importance of the thing. 
 
 "A mighty smooth proposition," said Grant Adams, sit- 
 ting in the Amen Corner reading "A Hazard of New For- 
 tunes, ' ' when Van Dorn had gone. 
 
 "Well, say, Grant," returned Mr. Brotherton, pondering 
 on the subject of the lost pen. ' ' Sometimes I think Tom is 
 just a little too oleaginous — a little too oleaginous," re- 
 peated Mr. Brotherton, pleased with his big word. 
 
 That June night Henry Fenn passed from Congress Street 
 and walked with a steady purpose manifest in his clicking 
 heels. It was not a night's bat that guided his feet, no 
 festive orgy, but the hard, firm footfall of a man who has 
 been drunk a long time — terribly mean drunk. And 
 terribly mean drunk he was. His eyes were blazing, and he 
 mumbled as he walked. Down Market Street he turned and 
 strode to the corner where the Traders' National Bank sign 
 shone under the electrics. He looked up, saw a light burn- 
 ing in the office above, and suddenly changed his gait to a 
 tip-toe. Up the stairs he crept to a door, under which a 
 light was gleaming. He got a firm hold of the knob, then 
 turned it quickly, thrust open the door and stepped quietly 
 into the room. He grinned meanly at Tom Van Dorn who, 
 glancing up over his shoulder from his book, saw the white 
 
216 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 face of Fenn leering at him. Van Dorn knew that this was 
 the time when he must use all the wits he had. 
 
 "Why, hello— Henry— hello," said Van Dorn cheerfully. 
 He coughed, in an attempt to swallow the saliva that came 
 rushing into his mouth. Fenn did not answer, hut stood 
 and then began to walk around Van Dorn's desk, eyeing him 
 with glowing-red eyes as he walked. Van Dorn tipped back 
 his chair easily, put his feet on the desk before him, and 
 spoke: "Sit down, Henry— make yourself at home." He 
 cleared his throat nervously. "Anything gone wrong, 
 Henry?" he asked as the man stood over him glaring at him. 
 
 "No," replied Fenn. "No, nothing's gone wrong. I've 
 just got some exhibits here in a law suit. That's all." 
 
 He stood over Van Dorn, peering steadfastly at him. 
 First he laid down a torn letter. Van Dorn shuddered al- 
 most imperceptibly as he recognized in the crumpled, 
 wrenched paper his writing, but smiled suavely and said: 
 "Well?" 
 
 ' ' Well, ' ' croaked Fenn passionately. ' ' That 's exhibit ' A. ' 
 I had to fight a hell-cat for it ; and this," he added as he lay 
 down the silver-mounted pen, "this is exhibit 'B.' I found 
 that in the porch swing this morning when I went out to get 
 my drink hidden under the house." He cackled and Van 
 Dorn's Adam's apple bobbed like a cork upon a wave. 
 
 "And this," cried Fenn, as he pulled a revolver, "God 
 damn you, is exhibit 'C Now, don't you budge, or I'll 
 blow you to hell — and," he added, "I guess I'll do it any- 
 way." 
 
 He stood with the revolver at Van Dorn's temple — stood 
 over his victim growling like a raging beast. His finger 
 trembled upon the trigger, and he laughed. "So you were 
 going to have a convenient, inexpensive lady friend, were 
 you, Tom!" Fenn cuffed the powerless man's jaw with an 
 open hand. 
 
 "Private snap?" he sneered. "Well, damn your soul— 
 here's a lady friend of mine," he poked the cold barrel 
 harder against the trembling man's temple and cried: 
 " Don 't wiggle, don 't you move. ' ' Then he went on : " Kiss 
 her, you damned egg-sucking pup — when you've done flirt- 
 ing with this, I'm going to kill you." 
 
HENRY FENN PALLS FROM GRACE 217 
 
 He emphasized the "you," and prodded the man's face 
 with the barrel. 
 
 "Henry," whispered Van Dorn, "Henry, for God's sake, 
 let me talk — give me a show, won't you?" 
 
 Fenn moved the barrel of the revolver over between the 
 man 's eyes and cried passionately : ' ' Oh, yes, I '11 give you 
 a show, Tom — the same show you gave me." 
 
 He shifted the revolver suddenly and pulled the trigger; 
 the bullet bored a hole through the book on "Anglo-Saxon 
 Supremacy" on the desk. 
 
 Fenn drew in a deep breath. "With the shot he had spilled 
 some vial of wrath within him, though Van Dorn could not 
 see the change that was creeping into Fenn's haggard face. 
 
 "You see she'll shoot, Tom," said Fenn. 
 
 Holding the smoking revolver to the man's head, Fenn 
 reached for a chair and sat down. His rage was ebbing, and 
 his mind was clear. He withdrew the weapon a few inches, 
 and cried : 
 
 "Don't you budge an inch." 
 
 His hand was limp and shaking, but Van Dorn could not 
 see it. "Tom, Tom," he cried. "God help me — help me." 
 He repeated twice the word "me," then he went on: 
 
 "For being what I am — only what I am — " he empha- 
 sized the "I." 
 
 ' ' For giving in to your devil as I give into mine — for fall- 
 ing as I have fallen — on another road — I was going to kill 
 you." 
 
 The revolver slipped from his hands. He picked it up by 
 the barrel. He rose crying in a weak voice, 
 
 "Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom," Van Dorn was lifting up in his 
 chair, "Tom, Tom, God help us both poor, hell-cursed, men," 
 sobbed Fenn, and then with a fearful blow he brought the 
 weapon down and struck the white, false forehead that 
 gleamed beneath Fenn's wet face. 
 
 He stood watching the man shudder and close his eyes, 
 watching the blood seep out along a crooked seam, then gush 
 over the face and fine, black hair and silken mustache. A 
 bloody flood streamed there while he watched. Then Fenn 
 wiped dry the butt of his revolver. He felt of the gash in 
 the forehead, and found that the bone was not crushed. He 
 
218 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 was sober, and an unnatural calm was upon his brain. He 
 could feel the tears in his eyes. He stood looking at the face 
 of the unconscious man a long, dreadful minute as one who 
 pities rather than hates a foe. Then he stepped to the tele- 
 phone, called Dr. Nesbit, glanced at the fountain pen and the 
 crumpled letter, burst into a spasm of weeping, and tiptoed 
 out of the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IN WHICH WE SEE A FAT LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK 
 
 A YEAR and a month and a day, an exceedingly hot 
 day, after Judge Thomas Van Dorn had fallen upon 
 the stair leading to' his office and had cut that gash 
 in his forehead which left the white thread of a scar upon 
 his high, broad brow, Judge Van Dorn sat in chambers in his 
 office in the court house, hearing an unimportant matter. 
 Because the day was hot, the Judge wore a gray silk coat, 
 without a vest, and because the matter was unimportant, 
 no newspaper reporters were called in. The matter in hand 
 was highly informal. The Judge, tilted back in his easy 
 chair, toyed with his silken mustache, while counsel for de- 
 fendant, standing by the desk before which the Judge's 
 chair was swinging, handled the papers representing the 
 defendant's answer, to the plaintiff's pleadings. The plain- 
 tiff herself, dressed in rather higher sleeves than would have 
 been thought possible to put upon a human form and make 
 them stand erect, with a rather larger hat than one would 
 have said might be carried by a single human neck without 
 bowing it; the plaintiff above mentioned was rattling the 
 court's paper knife. 
 
 Plaintiff's counsel, a callow youth from the law offices of 
 Joseph Calvin, to be exact, Joseph Calvin, Jr., sat meekly on 
 the edge of a small chair in the corner and being a chip of 
 the old block, had little to say. The court and said herein- 
 before described plaintiff talked freely between whiles as 
 the counsel for said defendant, Henry Fenn, ran over his 
 papers, looking for particular phrases, statements or exhibits 
 which he desired to present to the court. 
 
 It appeared from the desultory reading of the papers by 
 the attorney for the said defendant, Henry Fenn, that he 
 had no desire to impose upon the plaintiff, as above de- 
 
 219 
 
220 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 scribed, any hardships in the matter and that the agreement 
 reached by counsel as to the disposition of the joint property 
 should be carried out as indicated in the answer submitted 
 to the court — see folio No. 3. Though counsel for defendant 
 smilingly told the court that if the counsel were Henry Fenn, 
 he should not give up property worth at least five thousand 
 dollars in consideration of the cause of action being made 
 cruelty and inhuman treatment rather than drunkenness, 
 but, as counsel explained and as the court agreed when a 
 man gets to going by the booze route he hasn 't much sense — 
 referring, of course, to said defendant, Henry Fenn, not 
 present in person. 
 
 "When counsel for the said defendant had finished, and had 
 put all his papers upon the desk in front of the court, the 
 court reached into his desk, and handed the counsel for de- 
 fendant a cigar, which with proper apologies to the herein- 
 above and before described plaintiff, counsel lighted, and 
 said: 
 
 "That's certainly a good one." 
 
 But as the court was writing upon the back of one of the 
 papers, the court did not respond for a moment, but finally 
 said absently, "Yes, — glad you think so; George Brotherton 
 imports them for me. ' ' 
 
 And went on writing. Still writing the court said with- 
 out looking up, "I don't know of anything else." 
 
 And the counsel for defendant said he didn't either and 
 putting on his hat, smiling at the plaintiff aforesaid, counsel 
 for said defendant Henry Fenn departed, and after a minute 
 the court ceased writing, folded and blotted the back of the 
 paper, handed it to young Joe Calvin, sitting meekly on the 
 edge of the chair, saying : ' ' Here Joey, take this to the clerk 
 and file it," and Joey got up from the edge of the chair 
 and vanished, closing the door behind him. 
 
 "Well?" said the plaintiff. 
 
 "Well?" echoed the court. 
 
 "Well," reiterated the plaintiff, gazing into the eyes of 
 the court with somewhat more eagerness than the law requires 
 under statute therefore made and provided. 
 
 " So it 's all oyer, ' ' she continued, and added : "My part. ' ' 
 
 She rose — this plaintiff hereinbefore mentioned, came to 
 
A LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK 221 
 
 the desk, stood over him a moment, and said softly, much 
 more softly than the code prescribes, "Tom — I hope yours 
 won't be any harder." 
 
 Whereupon the court, then and there being as herein above 
 set forth, did with premeditation, and much show of emotion 
 look up into the eyes of said plaintiff, said eyes being tear- 
 dimmed and extraordinarily beautiful as to their coloring to- 
 wit : brown, as to their expression towit : sad and full of love, 
 and furthermore the court did with deliberation and after 
 for a moment while he held the heavy be jeweled hand of 
 said plaintiff above mentioned, and did press said hand to 
 his lips and then did draw the said plaintiff closer and 
 whisper : 
 
 "God — God, Margaret, so do I hope so — so do I." 
 
 And perhaps the court for a second thought of a little blue- 
 eyed, fair-haired girl and a gentle woman who lived for him 
 alone in all the world, and perhaps not ; for this being a 
 legal paper may set down only such matters as are of evi- 
 dence. But it is witnessed and may be certified to that the 
 court did drop his eyes for a second or two, that the white 
 thread of a scar upon the forehead of the court did redden 
 for a moment while he held the heavy bejewelled hand of 
 plaintiff, hereinbefore mentioned, and that he did draw a 
 deep breath, and did look out of the window, set high up 
 in the court house, and that he did see the elm trees cover- 
 ing a home which, despite all his perfidy and neglect was full 
 of love for him — love that needed no high sleeves nor great 
 plumy hats, nor twinkling silver bangles, nor jangling gold 
 chatelaines, to make it beautiful. But let us make it of rec- 
 ord and set it down here, in this instrument that the court 
 rose, looked into the great brown eyes and the fair face, and 
 seeing the rich, shameless mouth and blazing color upon the 
 features, did then and there fall down in his heart and 
 worship that mask, and did take the hand that he held in 
 both of his and standing before the woman did cry in a deep 
 voice, full of agony : 
 
 "For God's sake, Margaret, let me come to you now — 
 soon." And she— the plaintiff in this action gazed at the 
 man who had been the court, but who now was man, and 
 replied : 
 
222 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Only when you may honestly — legally, Tom — it's best for 
 both of us." 
 
 They walked to the door. The court pressed a button as 
 she left, smiling, and when a man appeared with a note book 
 the court said : "I have something to dictate, ' ' and the next 
 day young Joseph" Calvin handed the following news item to 
 the Harvey Times and to the South Harvey Derrick. 
 
 "A divorce was granted to-day by Judge Thomas Van 
 Dorn of the district court in chambers to Mrs. Margaret 
 Miiller Fenn, from Henry Fenn. Charges of cruel and in- 
 human treatment filed by the attorneys for Mrs. Fenn were 
 not met by Mr. Fenn and the court granted the decree and 
 it was made absolute. It is understood that a satisfactory 
 settlement of the joint property has been made. Mrs. Fenn 
 will continue to hold the position she has held during the 
 year past as chief clerk in the office of the superintendent 
 of the Harvey Improvement Company. Mr. Fenn is former 
 county attorney and is now engaged in the insurance business, 
 having sold his real estate business to Joseph Calvin this 
 morning. ' ' 
 
 And thus the decree of divorce between Henry Fenn and 
 Margaret, his wife, whom God had joined together, was made 
 absolute, and further deponent sayeth not. 
 
 But the town of Harvey had more or less to say about the 
 divorce and what the town said, more or less concerned Judge 
 Thomas Van Dorn. For although Henry Fenn sober would 
 not speak of the divorce, Henry Fenn drunk, babbled many 
 quotations about the "rare and radiant maiden, who was lost 
 forever more." He was also wont to quote the line about 
 the lover who held his mistress "something better than his 
 dog, a little dearer than his horse." 
 
 As for the Judge, his sensitive mind felt the disapproval 
 of the community. But the fighting blood in him was roused, 
 and he fought a braver fight than the cause justified. 
 That summer he went to all the farmers' picnics in his dis- 
 trict, spoke wherever he was invited to speak, and spoke 
 well; whatever charm he had he called to his aid. When 
 the French of South Harvey celebrated the Fall of the Bas- 
 tile, Judge Van Dorn spoke most beautifully of liberty, and 
 led off when they sung the Marseillaise; on Labor Day he was 
 
A LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK 223 
 
 the orator of the occasion, and made a great impression among 
 the workers by his remarks upon the dignity of labor. He 
 quoted Carlyle and Ruskin and William Morris, and wept 
 when he told them how the mob had crucified the Carpenter, 
 who was labor's first prophet. 
 
 But one may say this for Judge Van Dorn : that with all 
 his desire for the approval of his fellows, even in South 
 Harvey, even at the meetings of men who he knew differed 
 with him, he did not flinch from attacking on every occasion 
 and with all his eloquence the unions that Grant Adams was 
 promoting. The idea of mutual help upon which they 
 rested seemed to make Van Dorn see red, and he was forever 
 going out of his way to combat the idea. So bitter was his 
 antagonism to the union idea that in the Valley he and Grant 
 Adams became dramatized in the minds of the men as op- 
 ponents. 
 
 But in Harvey, where men regarded Grant Adams's activi- 
 ties with tolerant indifference and his high talk of bettering 
 industrial conditions as the madness of youth, Judge Van 
 Dorn was the town 's particular idol. 
 
 A handsome man he was as he stood out in the open under 
 the bower made by the trees, and with the grace and charm of 
 £rue oratory, spoke in his natural voice — a soft, penetrating 
 treble that reached to the furthest man in the crowd; tall, 
 well-built, oval-faced, commanding — a judge every inch of 
 him, even if a young judge — was Tom Van Dorn. And when 
 he had finished speaking at the Harvest Home Picnic, or at 
 the laying of the corner stone of the new Masonic Temple, 
 or at the opening of the Grant County fair, men said : 
 
 ' ' Well, I know they say Tom Van Dorn is no Joseph, but 
 all the same I'm here to tell you — " and what they were there 
 to tell you would discourage ladies and gentlemen who believe 
 that material punishments always follow either material or 
 spiritual transgressions. 
 
 So the autumn wore into winter, and the State Bar Asso- 
 ciation promoted Judge Van Dorn ; he appeared as president 
 of that dignified body, and thereby added to his prestige at 
 home. He appeared regularly at church with Mrs. Van Dorn 
 — going the rounds of the churches punctiliously — and gave 
 liberally when a subscription paper for any cause was pre- 
 
224 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 sented. But for all this, he kept hearing the bees of gossip 
 buzzing about him, and often felt their sting. 
 
 Day after day, through it all he never slept until in some 
 way, by some device, through some trumped up excuse that 
 seemed plausible enough in itself, he had managed to see and 
 speak to Margaret Fenn. "Whether in her office in the Light, 
 Heat & Power Company's building upon a business errand, 
 and he made plenty of such, or upon the street, or in the 
 court house, where she often went upon some business of her 
 chief, or walking home at evening, or coming down in the 
 morning, or upon rare occasions meeting her clandestinely 
 for a moment, or whether at some social function where they 
 were both present — and it of necessity had to be a large func- 
 tion in that event — for the town could register its disapproval 
 of the woman more easily than it could put its opprobrium 
 upon the man ; or whether he spoke to her just a word from 
 the sidewalk as he passed her home, always he managed to 
 see her. Always he had one look into her eyes, and so dur- 
 ing all the day, she was in his thoughts. It seems strange 
 that a man of great talents could keep the machinery of his 
 mind going and still have an ever present consciousness of 
 a guilty intrigue. Yet there it was. Until he had seen her. 
 and spoken to her, it was his day's important problem to 
 devise some way to bring about the meeting. So with devil- 
 ish caution and ponderous circumlocution and craft he went 
 about his daily work, serene in the satisfaction that he was 
 being successful in his elaborate deceit; rather gloating at 
 times in the iniquity of one in his position being in so low a 
 business. He wondered what the people would say if they 
 really knew the depths of his infamy, and when he sentenced 
 a poor devil for some minor crime, he would often watch him- 
 self as a third party and wonder if he would ever stand up 
 and take his sentence. But he had no fear of that. The 
 little drama between Judge Van Dorn, the prisoner at the 
 bar, and the lover of Margaret Fenn, was for his diversion, 
 rather than for his instruction, and he enjoyed it as an 
 artistic travesty upon the justice he was dispensing. 
 
 Thomas Van Dorn believed that the world was full of a 
 number of exceedingly pleasant things that might be had 
 for the taking, and no questions asked. So when he felt the 
 
A LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK 225 
 
 bee sting of gossip, he threw back his head, squared his face 
 to the wind, put an extra kink of elegance into his raiment, 
 a tighter crimp into his smile and an added ardor into his 
 hale greeting, did some indispensable judicial favor to the 
 old spider of commerce back of the brass sign at the Traders 
 National, defied the town, and bade it watch him fool it. 
 But the men who drove the express wagons knew that when- 
 ever they saw Judge Van Dorn take the train for the capital 
 they would be sure to have a package from the capital the 
 next day for Mrs. Fenn ; sometimes it would be a milliner 's 
 box, sometimes a jeweler's, sometimes a florist's, sometimes a 
 dry-goods merchant's, and always a candy maker's. 
 
 At last the whole wretched intrigue dramatized itself in 
 one culminating episode. It came in the spring. Dr. Nes- 
 bit had put on his white linens just as the trees were in their 
 first gayety of foliage and the spring blooming flowers were 
 at their loveliest. 
 
 After a morning in the dirt and grime and misery and in- 
 justice and wickedness that made the outer skin over South 
 Harvey and Foley and Magnus and the mining and smelter 
 towns of the valley, the Doctor came driving into the cool 
 beauty of Quality Hill in Harvey with a middle aged man's 
 sense of relief. South Harvey and its neighbors disheartened 
 him. 
 
 He had seen Grant Adams, a man of the Doctor's own 
 caste by birth, hurrying into a smelter on some organization 
 errand out of overalls in his cheap, ill-fitting clothes, be- 
 grimed, heavy featured, dogged and rapidly becoming a part 
 of the industrial dregs. Grant Adams in the smelter, pre- 
 occupied with the affairs of that world, and passing definitely 
 into it forever, seemed to the Doctor symbolic of the passing 
 of the America he understood (and loved), into an America 
 that discouraged him. But the beauty and the calm and the 
 restful elm-bordered lawns of Harvey, always toned up his 
 spirits. Here, he said to himself was tbe thing he had helped 
 to create. Here was the town he had founded and cherished. 
 Here were the people whom he really loved — old neighbors, 
 old friends, dear in associations and sweet in memories. 
 
 It was in a cherubic complaisance with the whole scheme 
 of the universe that the white-clad Doctor jogged up Elm 
 
226 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 Street behind his maternal sorrel in the phaeton, to get his 
 noon day meal. He passed the Van Dorn home. Its beauty 
 fitted into this mood and beckoned to him. For the whole 
 joy of spring bloomed in flower and shrub and vine that 
 bordered the house and clambered over the wide hospitable 
 porch. The gay color of the spring made the house glow 
 like a jewel. The wide lawn— the stately trees, the gorgeous 
 flowers called to his heart, and seeing his daughter upon the 
 piazza, the Doctor surrendered, drew up, tied the horse and 
 came toddling along the walk to the broad stone steps, waving 
 his hands gayly to her as he came. Little Lila, coming home 
 from kindergarten and bleating through the house lamb-wise : 
 "I'm hungry," saw her grandfather, and ran down the steps 
 to meet him, forgetting her pangs. 
 
 He lifted her high to his shoulder, and came up the porch 
 steps laughing: "Here come jest and youthful jollity, my 
 dear," and stooping with his grandchild in his arms, kissed 
 the beautiful woman before him. 
 
 "Some one is mighty sweet this morning," and then seeing 
 a package beside her asked : ""What's this — " looking at the 
 address and the sender's name. "Some one been getting a 
 new dress?" 
 
 The child pulling at her mother's skirts renewed her bleat 
 for food. When Lila had been disposed of Laura sat by her 
 father, took his fat, pudgy hand and said : 
 
 "Father, I don't know what to do; do you mind talking 
 some things over with me. I suppose I should have been to 
 see you anyway in a few days. Have we time to go clear to 
 the bottom of things now?" 
 
 She looked up at him with a serious, troubled face, and 
 patted his hand. He felt instinctively the shadow that was 
 on her heart, and his face may have winced. She saw or 
 knew without seeing, the tremor in his soul. 
 
 "Poor father — but you know it must come sometime. Let 
 us talk it all out now. ' ' 
 
 He nodded his head. He did not trust his voice. 
 
 "Well, father dear," she said slowly. She nodded at the 
 package — a long dress box beside the porch post. 
 
 ' ' That was sent to Margaret Fenn. It came here by mis- 
 take — addressed to me. There were some express charges on 
 
A LITTLE EASCAL ON THE RACK 227 
 
 it. I thought it was for me; I thought Tom had bought it 
 for me yesterday, when he was at the capital, so I opened it. 
 There is a dress pattern in it — yellow and black — colors I 
 never could wear, and Tom has an exquisite eye for those 
 things, and also there is a pair of silk stockings to match. 
 On the memoranda pinned on these, they are billed to Mrs. 
 Fenn, but all charged to Tom. I hadn't opened it when I 
 sent the expressman to Tom's office for the express charges, 
 but when he finds the package has been delivered here — we 
 shall have it squarely before us. ' ' The daughter did not turn 
 her eyes to her father as she went on after a little sigh that 
 seemed like a catch in her side : 
 
 ' ' So there we are. ' ' 
 
 The Doctor patted his foot in silence, then replied : 
 
 "My poor, poor child — my poor little girl," and added 
 with a heavy sigh: "And poor Tom — Laura — poor, fool- 
 ish, devil-ridden Tom." She assented with her eyes. At 
 the end of a pause she said with anguish in her voice : 
 
 "And when we began it was all so beautiful — so beautiful 
 — so wonderful. Of course I've known for a long time — 
 ever since before Lila came that it was slipping. Oh, father 
 — I've known; I've seen every little giving of the tie that 
 bound us, and in my heart deep down, I've known all — all — 
 everything — all the whole awful truth — even if I have not 
 had the facts as you've had them — you and mother — I sup- 
 pose. ' ' 
 
 "You're my fine, brave girl," cried her father, patting her 
 trembling hand. But he could speak no further. 
 
 "Oh, no, I'm not brave — I'm not brave," she answered. 
 "I'm a coward. I have sat by and watched it all slip away, 
 watched him getting further and further from me, saw my 
 hold slipping — slipping — slipping, and saw him getting rest- 
 less. I've seen one awful — " she paused, shuddered, and 
 cried, "Oh, you know, father, that other dreadful affair. I 
 saw that rise, burn itself out and then this one — " she turned 
 away and her body shook. 
 
 In a minute she was herself: "I'm foolish I suppose, but 
 I've never talked it out before. I won't do it again. I'm 
 all right now. ' ' She took his hands and continued : 
 
 "Now, then, tell me — is there any way out? What shall 
 
228 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 we do to be saved — Tom and Lila and I?" She hesitated. 
 "I'm afraid — Oh, I know, I know I don't love Tom any 
 more. How could I — how could I? But some way I want 
 to mother him. I don't want to see him get clear down. I 
 know this woman. I know what she means. Let me tell 
 you, father. For two years she's been playing with Tom 
 like a cat. I knew it when she began. I can't say how I 
 knew it ; but I felt it — felt it reflected in his moods, saw him 
 nervous and feverish. She's been torturing him, father — 
 she's strong. Also she's — she's hard. Tom hasn't — well, I 
 mean she 's always kept the upper hand. I know that in my 
 soul. And he's stark, raving mad somewhere within him." 
 A storm of emotion shook her and then she cried passionately, 
 "And, oh, father, I want to rescue him — not for myself. 
 Oh, I don't love him any more. That's all gone. At least 
 not in the old way, I don't, but he's so sensitive — so easy to 
 hurt. And she's slowly burning him alive. It's awful." 
 
 The little pink face of the Doctor began to harden. His 
 big blue eyes began to look through narrow slits in his eye- 
 lids, and the pudgy, white-clad figure stood erect. The 
 daughter 's voice broke and as she gripped herself the father 
 reached his bristling pompadour and cried in wrath, "Let 
 him burn — let him burn, girl — hell's too good for him!" 
 
 His voice was high and harsh and merciless. It restored 
 the woman's poise and she shook her head sorrowfully as she 
 resumed : 
 
 "I can't bear to see it; I — I want to shield him — I must — 
 if I can." A tremor ran through her again. She caught 
 bold of herself, then went on more calmly. "But things can 't 
 go on this way. Here is this box — " 
 
 "Child — child," cried the Doctor angrily, "you come right 
 home — right home," he piped with rising wrath. "Right 
 home to mother and me. ' ' 
 
 The wife shook her head and replied: "No, father, that's 
 the easy road. I must take the hard road." Her father's 
 mobile face showed his pain and the daughter cried: "I 
 know, father — I know how you would have stopped me be- 
 fore I chose this way. But I did choose and now here is Lila, 
 and here is a home — a home — our home, father, and I mustn't 
 leave it. Here is my duty, here in this home, and I must not 
 
A LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK 229 
 
 run away. I must work out my life as it is — as before God 
 and Lila— and Tom— yes, Tom, father, as before all three, I 
 have my responsibility. I must not put away Tom — no mat- 
 ter — no matter how I feel — no matter what he has done. I 
 won 't, ' ' she repeated. ' ' I won 't. ' ' 
 
 The father turned an impatient face to his daughter, and 
 retorted, "You won't — you won't leave that miserable cur — 
 that — that woman hunting dog — won't leave — " 
 
 The father's rage sputtered on his lips, but the daughter 
 caught his hand as it was beating his cane on the floor. 
 "Stop, father," she said gently, "it's something more than 
 women that's wrong with Tom. "Women are merely an out- 
 ward and visible sign — it's what he believes — and what he 
 does, living his creed — always following the material thing. 
 As a judge I thought he would see his way — must see his way 
 to bring justice here — " She looked into the fume stained 
 sky above South Harvey, and Foley and Magnus, far down 
 the valley, and tightened her grip on her father's hands. 
 "But no — no," she cried, "Tom doesn't know justice — he 
 only sees the law, the law and profits, and prosperity — only 
 the eternal material. He sits by and sees the company settle 
 for four and five hundred dollars for the lives of the men it 
 wasted in the mine — yes, more than sits by — he stands at the 
 door of justice and drives the widows and children into a set- 
 tlement like an overseer. And he and Joe Calvin have some 
 sort of real estate partnership — Oh — I know it's dishonest, 
 though I don't know how. But it branches so secretly into 
 the law and it all reaches down into politics. And the whole 
 order here, father — Daniel Sands paying for polities, paying 
 for government that makes the laws, paying for mayors and 
 governors that enforce the laws and paying the judges to 
 back them up — and all that poverty and wretchedness and 
 wickedness down there and all this beauty and luxury and 
 material happiness up here. It's all, all wrong, father." 
 Her voice broke again in sobs, and tears were running down 
 her cheeks as she continued. "How can we blame Tom for 
 violating his vows to me ? Where are all our vows to God to 
 deal justly with His people — the widows and orphans and 
 helpless ones, father?" She looked at her father through 
 her tears, at her father, whose face was agape ! He was star- 
 
230 IN THE HEART OP A EOOL 
 
 ing into the wistaria vines as one who saw his world quaking. 
 A quick bolt of sympathy shot through the daughter's heart. 
 She patted his limp hands and said softly, "So — father — I 
 mustn't leave Tom. He's a poor, weak creature- — a rotten 
 stick — and because I know it — I must stay with him ! ' ' 
 
 Behind the screen of matter, the lusty fates were pulling 
 at the screws of the rack. "Pull harder," cried the first 
 fate ; ' ' the little old pot-bellied rascal — make him see it : make 
 him see how he warned her against the symptoms, but not the 
 disease that was festering her lover's soul ! ' ' 
 
 "Turn yourself," cried the second, "make the forehead 
 sweat as he sees how he has been delivering laws in a basket 
 to grind iniquity through Tom Van Dorn's mill! Turn — 
 turn, turn you lout ! ' ' 
 
 "And you," cried the third fate at the screw to the first, 
 "twist that heart-string, twist it hard when he sees his daugh- 
 ter's broken face and hears her sobbing!" 
 
 But the angels, the pitying angels, loosened the cords of 
 the rack with their gentle tears. 
 
 As the taut threads of the rack slackened, he heard the 
 soft voice of his daughter saying: "But of course, the most 
 important thing is Lila — not that she means a great deal to 
 him now. He doesn't care much for children. He doesn't 
 want them — children." 
 
 She turned upon her father and with anguished voice and 
 with all her denied motherhood, she cried: "0, father— 
 I want them— lots of them — arms full of them all the time." 
 
 She stretched out her arms. ' ' Oh, it 's been so hard, to feel 
 my youth passing, and only one child— I wanted a whole 
 house full. I'm strong; I could bear them. I don't mind 
 anything— I just want my babies— my babies that never 
 have come. ' ' 
 
 And then the pitiless fates turned the screws of the rack 
 again and the father burst forth in his vain grief, with his 
 high, soft, woman 's voice. ' ' I wonder— I wonder— I wonder, 
 what God has in waiting for you to make up for this ? " 
 
 Before she could answer, the telephone bell rang. The 
 wife stepped to the instrument. "Well," she said when she 
 
A LITTLE RASCAL ON THE RACK 231 
 
 came back. ' ' The hour has struck ; the expressman went to 
 Tom for the express charges; he knows the package is here 
 and," she added after a sigh, "he knows that I know all 
 about it." She even smiled rather sadly, "So he's coming 
 out — on his wheel." 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 IN WHICH TOM VAN DORN BECOMES A WAYFARING MAN ALSO 
 
 THE father rose. His head was cast down. _ He poked 
 a vine curling about the porch floor with his cane. 
 "I wonder, my dear," he spoke slowly, and with 
 great gentleness, "if maybe I shouldn't talk with Tom— 
 before you see him. ' ' 
 
 He continued to poke the vine, and looked up at the daugh- 
 ter sadly. "Of course there's Lila; if it is best for her— 
 why that's the thing to do — I presume." 
 
 "But father," broke in the daughter, "Tom and I can—" 
 
 But he entreated, "Won't you let me talk with Tom? In 
 half an hour — I'll go. You and Lila slip over to mother's 
 for half an hour— come back at half past twelve. I'll tell 
 him where you are. ' ' 
 
 The mother and child had disappeared around the corner 
 of the house when the click of Van Dorn's bicycle on the 
 curbing told the Doctor that the young man was upon the 
 walk. The package from the capital still lay beside the 
 porch column. The Doctor did not lift his eyes from it as 
 the younger man came hurrying up the steps. He was 
 flushed, bright-eyed, a little out of breath, and his black wing 
 of hair was damp. On the top step, he looked up and saw 
 the Doctor. 
 
 "It's all right, Tom — I understand things." The Doc- 
 tor's eyes turned to the parcel on the floor between them. 
 
 The Doctor's voice was soft ; his manner was gentle, and he 
 lifted his blue, inquiring eyes into the young Judge's rest- 
 less black ones. Dr. Nesbit put a fatherly hand on the young 
 man's arm, and said: "Shall we sit down, Tom, and take 
 stock of things and see where we stand? Wouldn't that be 
 a good idea ? ' ' 
 
 They sat down and the younger man eyed the package, 
 turned it over, looked at the address nervously, pulled at his 
 
 232 
 
TOM VAN DORN A WAYFARING MAN 233 
 
 mustache as he sank back, while the elder man was saying : 
 "I believe I understand you, Tom — better than any one else 
 in the world understands you. I believe you have not a bet- 
 ter friend on earth than I right at this minute. ' ' 
 
 The Judge turned around and said in a disturbed voice, 
 "I am sure that's the God's truth, Doctor Jim." Then after 
 a sigh he added, ' ' And this is what I 've done to you ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' And will keep right on doing to me as long as you live, ' ' 
 piped the elder man, twitching his mouth and nose con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "As long as I live, I fancy," repeated the other. In the 
 pause the young man put his hands to his hips and his chin 
 on his breast as he slouched down in the chair and asked: 
 "Where's Laura?" 
 
 "Over at her mother's," replied the father. "Nobody 
 will interrupt us — and so I thought we could get down to 
 grass roots and talk this thing out. ' ' 
 
 The Judge crossed his handsome ankles and sat looking at 
 his trim toes. 
 
 ' ' I suppose that idea is as good, as any. ' ' He put one long, 
 lean, hairy hand on the short, fat knee beside him and said : 
 "The whole trouble with our Protestant religion is that we 
 have no confessor. So some of us talk to our lawyers, and 
 some of us talk to our doctors, and in extreme unction we talk 
 to our newspapers. ' ' 
 
 He grinned miserably, and went on: "But we all talk to 
 some one, and now I'm going to talk to you — talk for once, 
 Doctor, right out of my soul — if I have one. ' ' 
 
 He rose nervously, obeying some purely physical impulse, 
 and then sat down again, with his hands in his thick, black 
 hair, and his elbows on his bony knees. 
 
 "All right, Tom," piped the Doctor, "go ahead." 
 
 "Well, then," he began as he looked at the floor before 
 him, ' ' do you suppose I don 't know that you know what I 'm 
 up to? Do you think I don't know even what the town is 
 buzzing about? Lord, man, I can feel it like a scorching 
 fire. Why," he exclaimed with emotion, "feeling the hearts 
 of men is my job. I've been at it for fifteen years — " 
 
 He broke off and looked up. ' ' How could I get up before 
 a jury and feel them out man by man as I talked if I wasn't. 
 
234 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 sensitive to these things? You've seen me make them cry 
 when I was in the practice. How could I make them cry if 
 I didn't feel like crying myself. You're a doctor— you know 
 that. People forget what I am — what a thousand stringed 
 instrument I am. Now, Doctor Jim, let me tell you some- 
 thing. This is the bottom hard pan of the truth : I never 
 before really cared for these women — these other women 
 — when I got them. But I do care for the chase, I do care 
 for the risk of it — for the exhilaration of it — for the joy 
 of it!" 
 
 The Doctor's mouth twitched and he took a breath as if 
 about to speak. Van Dorn stopped him: "Don't cut in, 
 Doc Jim — let me say it all out. I'm young. I love the moon- 
 light and the stars and I never go through a wood that I do 
 not see trysting places there — and I never see a great stretch 
 of prairie under the sunshine that I do not put in a beautiful 
 woman and go following her — not for her — Doctor Jim, but 
 for the joy of pursuit, for the thrill of uncovering a bared, 
 naked soul, and the overwhelming danger of it. God — man, 
 I've stood afraid to breathe, flattened against a wall and 
 heard the man-beast growl and sniff, hunting me. I love to 
 love and be loved; but not less do I love to hunt and be 
 hunted. I've hidden under trees, I've skulked in the shad- 
 ows, I've walked boldly in the sunlight with my life in my 
 hand to meet a woman's eyes, to feel her guilty shudder in 
 my arms. Oh, Doctor Jim, you don't understand the riot in 
 my blood that the moon makes shining through the trees upon 
 the water, with great, shadowy glades, and the tinkle of 
 cow bells far away, and a woman afraid of me — and I afraid 
 of her — and nothing but the stars and the night between us." 
 
 He rose and began pacing the piazza as he continued speak- 
 ing. "It's always been so with me — as early as my boyhood 
 it was so. I often wake in the lonely nights and think 
 of them all over again — the days and nights, the girls and 
 women who have flashed bright and radiant into my life. 
 Over and over again, I repeat to my soul their names, over 
 and over I live the hours we have spent together, the dangers, 
 the delights, the cruel misery of it all and then at the turn of 
 the street, at the corner of a room, in the winking.of an eye 
 I see another face, it looks a challenge at me and I am out 
 
TOM VAN DORN A WAYFARING MAN 235 
 
 on the high road of another romance. I've got to go! It's 
 part of my life ; it's the pulse of my blood." 
 
 He stood excited with his deep, beady, black eyes burning 
 and his proud, vain face flushed and his hands a-tremble. 
 The Doctor saw that he was in the midst of a physical and 
 mental turmoil that could not be checked. 
 
 Van Dorn went on : " And then you and my friends ask 
 me to quit. Laura, God help her — she naturally — " he ex- 
 claimed. "But is the moon to be blotted out for me? Are 
 the night winds to be muffled and mean no more than the 
 scraping of a dead twig against a rusty wire? Are flowers 
 to lose their scent, and grass and trees and birds to be blurred 
 and turned drab in my eyes? How do you think I live, 
 man? How do you think I can go before juries and audi- 
 ences and make them thrill and clench their fists and cry like 
 children and breathe with my emotions, if I am to be stone 
 dead? Do you think a wooden man can do that? Try Joe 
 Calvin with a jury — what does he accomplish with all his 
 virtue? He hasn't had an emotion in twenty years. A 
 pretty woman looking at Joe in a crowd wouldn't say any- 
 thing to him with her eyes and dilating nostrils and the swish 
 of her body. And when he gets before a jury he talks the 
 law to them, and the facts to them, and the justice of the 
 case to them. But when I used to stand up before them, 
 they knew I was weak, human mud. They had heard all the 
 stories on me. They knew me, and some of them despised 
 me, and all of them were watching out for me, but when I 
 reached down in my heart and brought up the common clay 
 of which we all are made and molded it into a man or an 
 event before their eyes, then — by God they came to me. And 
 yet you've been sitting there for years, Doctor Jim Nesbit 
 and saying 'Tom — Tom, why don't you quit?' " 
 
 He was seated now, talking in a low, tense voice, looking 
 the Doctor deeply in the eyes, and as he paused, the perspira- 
 tion stood out upon his scarred forehead, and pink splotches 
 appeared there and the veins of his temples were big and 
 blue. The Doctor turned away his eyes and said coldly: 
 "There's Laura — Tom — Laura and little Lila." 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' he groaned, rising. ' ' There are Laura and Lila. ' ' 
 
 He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets and looked 
 
236 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 down at the Doctor and sneered. "There's the trap that 
 snapped and took a paw, and I 'm supposed to lick it and love 
 it and to cherish it." 
 
 He shuddered, and continued: "For once I'll speak and 
 tell it all. I'll not be a hypocrite in this hour, though ever 
 after I may lie and cringe. There are Laura and Lila and 
 here am I. And out beyond is the wind in the elms and the 
 sunshine upon the grass and the moving odor of flowers — 
 flowers that are blushing with the joy of nature in her great 
 perennial romance — and there's Laura and Lila and here 
 ami." 
 
 His passion was ebbing; his face was hardening into its 
 wonted vain, artificial contour, his eyes were losing their dila- 
 tion, and he was sitting rather limply in his chair, staring 
 into space. The Doctor came at him. 
 
 "You're a fool. You had your fling ; you're along in your 
 thirties, nearly forty now and it's time to stop." The 
 younger man could not regain the height, but he could hide 
 under his crust. So he parried back suavely, with insolence 
 in his voice : 
 
 "Why stop at thirty — or even forty? Why stop at all?" 
 
 "Let me tell you something, Tom," returned the Doc- 
 tor. "It's all very fine to talk this way; but this thing has 
 become a fixed habit, just like the whiskey habit ; and in fif- 
 teen or twenty years more you'll be a chronic, physical, de- 
 generate man. You'll lose your self-respect. You'll lose 
 your quick wits, and your whole mind and body will be burn- 
 ing up with a slow fire. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, you dear old fossil," replied Van Dorn in a hollow, 
 dead voice, rising and patting his tie and adjusting his coat 
 and collar, "I'm no fool. I know what I'm doing. I know 
 how far to go, and when to stop. But this game is interest- 
 ing; and I'm only a man," he straightened up again, patted 
 his mustache, and again tipped his hat into a cockey angle 
 oyer his forehead, and went on, "not a monk." He smiled, 
 pivoted on his heel nervously and went on, "And what is 
 more I can take care of myself. ' ' 
 
 "Tom," cried the Doctor in his treble, with excitement in 
 his voice, "you can't take care of yourself. No man ever 
 
TOM VAN DORN A WAYFARING MAN 237 
 
 lived who could. You may get away with your love affairs, 
 and no one be the wiser; you may make a crooked or dirty 
 million on a stock deal and no one be the wiser; but you'll 
 bear the marks to the grave." 
 
 "So," mocked the sneering voice of the young Judge, 
 "I suppose you'll carry the marks of all the men you've 
 bought up in this town for twenty years." 
 
 "Yes, Tom," returned the Doctor pitifully, as he rose and 
 stood beside the preening young man, " I '11 carry 'em to the 
 grave with me, too ; I 've had a few stripes to-day. ' ' 
 
 "Well, anyway," retorted Van Dorn, pulling his hat over 
 his eyes, restlessly, "you're entitled to what you get in this 
 life. And I'm going to get all I can, money and fun, and 
 everything else. Morals are for sapheads. The preacher's 
 God says I can't have certain things without His cracking 
 down on me. Watch me beat Him at his own game." It 
 was all a make-believe and the Doctor saw that the real man 
 was gone. 
 
 "Tom," sighed the Doctor, "here's the practical question 
 — you realize what all this means to Laura? And Lila — 
 why, Tom, can't you see what it's going to mean to her — 
 to all of us as the years go by ? " 
 
 Their eyes met and turned to the parcel on the floor. 
 "You can't afford — well, that sort of thing," the Doctor 
 punched the parcel contemptuously with his cane. "It's all 
 bad enough, Tom, but that way lies hell ! ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn turned upon the Doctor, and squared his jaw 
 and said: "Well then — that's the way I'm going— that 
 way" — he nodded toward the package — "lies romance for 
 me ! There is the road to the only joy I shall ever know in 
 this earth. There lies life and beauty and all that I live for, 
 and I'm going that way." 
 
 The Judge met the father's beseeching face, with an angry 
 glare — defiant and insolent. 
 
 The Doctor had no time to reply. There was a stir in the 
 house, and a child's steps came running through the hall. 
 Lila stopped on the porch, hesitating between the two men. 
 The Doctor put out his arms for her. Van Dorn casually 
 reached out his hand. She ran to her father and cried, "Up 
 
238 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 — Daddy — up," and jumped to his shoulder as he took her. 
 The Doctor walked down the steps as his daughter came out 
 of the door. 
 
 The man and the woman looked at one another, but did not 
 speak. The father put the child down and said : 
 
 "Now, Lila, run with grandpa and get a cooky from 
 granny while your mother and I talk." 
 
 She looked up at him with her blue eyes and her sadly- 
 puckered little face, swallowed her disappointed tears and 
 trudged down the steps after the white-clad grandfather who 
 was untying his horse. 
 
 When the child and. the grandfather were gone the wife 
 said in a dead, emotionless voice, looking at the parcel on the 
 floor, "Well, Tom?" 
 
 "Well, Laura," he repeated, "that's about the size of it- 
 there it is — and you know all about it. I shall not lie — this 
 time. It's not worth while — now. " 
 
 The woman sat in a porch chair. The man hesitated, and 
 she said: "Sit down, Tom. I don't know what to do or 
 what to say," she began. "If there were just you and me 
 to consider, I suppose I'd say we'd have to quit. But there's 
 Lila. She is here and she does love you — and she has hei 
 right — the greatest right in the world to — well, to us — to a 
 home, and a home means a father and a mother. ' ' The man 
 rose. He put his hands in his coat pockets and stood by the 
 porch column, making no reply. 
 
 The wife continued, "I can't even speak of what you have 
 done to me, Tom. But it will hurt when I 'm an old woman— 
 I want to hide my face from every one — even from God- 
 when I think of what you have used me for." 
 
 He dropped into the chair beside her, looking at the floor. 
 Her voice had stirred some chord in his thousand-stringed 
 heart. He reached out a hand to her. 
 
 ' ' No, Tom, ' ' said the wife, ' ' I don 't want your pity. ' ' 
 
 "No, Laura," the husband returned quickly, "no, you 
 don't need my pity; it's not pity that I am trying to give 
 you. I only wished you to listen to what I have to say." 
 The wife looked at her husband for a second in fear as she 
 apprehended what he was about to utter. He turned his 
 eyes from her and went on: "It was a mistake, a very 
 
TOM VAN DORN A WAYFARING MAN 239 
 
 nightmare of a mistake — my mistake — all my mistake — but 
 still just an awful mistake. We couldn't make life go. All 
 this was foredoomed, Laura, and now — now—" his eyes were 
 upon the parcel on the floor, "here I am sure I have found 
 the thing my life needs. And it is my life — my life. ' ' He 
 saw his wife go pale, then flush; but he went on. "After 
 all, it is one's own life that commands him, and nothing else 
 in the world. And now I must follow my destiny." 
 
 "But, Tom," asked the wife, "you aren't going to this 
 woman? You aren't going to leave us? You surely won't 
 break up this home — not this home, Tom?" 
 
 The man hesitated before answering, then spoke directly: 
 "I must follow my destiny — work it out as I see it. You 
 have no right, no one has any right — even I have no right to 
 compromise with my destiny. I live in this world just 
 once ! ' ' 
 
 "But what is your destiny, Tom?" answered the wife. 
 "Leave me out of it : but aren't the roots you have put down 
 in this home, this career you are building ; our child 's normal 
 girlhood with a father's care — aren't these the big things 
 in your destiny? Lila's life — growing up under the shame 
 that follows a child of parents divorced for such base reasons 
 as these? Lila's life is surely a part of your destiny. 
 Surely, surely you have no rights apart from her and hers !" 
 
 His quick mind was ready. "I have my own life to live, 
 my own destiny to follow ; my individual equation to solve, 
 and for me nothing exists in the universe. As for my career 
 — I'll take care of that. That's mine also ! " 
 
 The wife threw out an appealing hand. "Tom, I can't 
 help wanting to pick you up and shield you. It will be aw- 
 ful — awful — that thing you are trying to go into. You've 
 always chosen the material thing — the practical thing — and 
 she — she's a practical woman. Oh, Tom — I'm not jealous — 
 not a bit. If I thought she would enrich your soul — if I 
 thought she would give you what I've wanted to give you — 
 what I've prayed God night after night to let me give you — 
 I'd take even Lila and go away and give you your chance 
 for a love such as I've had. Can you see, Tom, I'm not jeal- 
 ous? I'm not even angry." 
 
 He turned upon her suddenly and said: "You don't 
 
240 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 know what you're talking about. Anyway — she suits me — 
 she'll enrich me as you call it all right. I'm sure of that." 
 
 "No, Tom," said the wife quietly, "she'll not enrich you 
 — not spiritually. No one can do that — for any one. It must 
 come from within. I've poured my very heart over you, 
 Tom, and you didn't want it — you only wanted — oh, God — 
 hide my shame — my shame — my shame." Her voice rose 
 for a moment and she muffled it with her face in her arms. 
 
 "Tom — " she faltered, "Tom — I am going to make one 
 last plea — for Lila's sake won't you put it all away — won't 
 you ? " she shuddered. " It is killing all my self-respect, Tom 
 — but I must. Won't you — won't you please for Lila's sake 
 come back, break this off — and see if we can 't patch up life ? ' ' 
 
 "No," he answered. 
 
 Their eyes met ; his shifting, beady eyes were held forcibly 
 with many a twitching, by her gray eyes. For two awful 
 seconds they stood taking farewell of each other. 
 
 "No," he repeated, dropping his glance. 
 
 Then he put out his hand with a gesture of finality, "I'm 
 going now. I don't know when — or — well, whether I'll 
 come — " He picked up the package. He was going down 
 the steps with the package in his hands when he heard the 
 patter of little feet and a little voice calling : 
 
 "Daddy— daddy— " and repeated, "daddy." 
 
 He did not turn, but walked quickly to the sidewalk. As 
 far as he could hear, that childish voice called to him. 
 
 And he heard the cry in his dreams. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HERE GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDES 
 
 LAURA VAN DORN stood watching her husband pass 
 down the street. She silenced the child by clasping 
 her close in the tender motherly arms. No tears rose 
 in the wife's eyes, as she stood looking vacantly down the 
 street at the corner where her husband had turned. Gradu- 
 ally it came to her consciousness that a crowd was gathering 
 by her father's house. She remembered then that she had 
 seen a carriage drive up, and that three or four men followed 
 it on bicycles, and then half a dozen men got out of a wagon. 
 Even while she stared, she saw the little rattletrap of a 
 buggy that Amos Adams drove come tearing up to the curb 
 by her father's house. Amos Adams, Jasper and little Ken- 
 yon got out. Even amidst the turmoil of her emotions, she 
 moved mechanically to the street, to see better, then she 
 clasped Lila to her breast and ran toward her father 's home. 
 
 "What is it?" she cried to the first man she met at the 
 edge of the little group standing near the veranda steps. 
 
 "Grant Adams — we're afraid he's killed." The man who 
 spoke was Denny Hogan. Beside him was an Italian, who 
 said, "He's burned something most awful. He got it saving 
 des feller here, ' ' nodding and pointing to Hogan. 
 
 Laura put down her child and hurried through the house 
 to her father's little office. The strong smell of an anes- 
 thetic came to her. She saw Amos Adams standing a-tremble 
 by the office door, holding Kenyon's hand. Amos answered 
 her question. 
 
 "They think he's dying, — I knew he'd want to see Ken- 
 yon." 
 
 Jasper, white and frightened, stood on the stairs. These 
 details she saw at a glance as she pushed open the office 
 door. At first she saw great George Brotherton and three 
 
 241 
 
242 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 or four white-faced, terrified working men, standing in stiff 
 helplessness, while like a white shuttle, among the gloomy 
 figures the Doctor moved quickly, ceaselessly, effectively. 
 Then her eyes met her father 's. He said : 
 
 "Come in, Laura — I need you. Now all of you go out but 
 George and her. ' ' 
 
 Then, as she came into the group, Laura saw Grant Adams, 
 sitting with agony upon his wet face. Her father bent over 
 him and worked on a puffy, pink, naked arm and shoulder, 
 and body. The man was half conscious ; his face was twitch- 
 ing, and when she looked again she saw where his right hand 
 should be only a brown, charred stump. 
 
 Not looking up the Doctor spoke: "You know where 
 things are and what I need — I can't get him clear under," 
 Every motion he made counted; he took no false steps; he 
 made no turn of his body or twist of his hand that was not 
 full of conscious purpose. He only spoke to give orders, and 
 when Brotherton whispered to Laura: 
 
 "White hot lead pig at the smelter — Grant saw it was go- 
 ing to kill Hogan and grabbed it. ' ' 
 
 The Doctor shook his head at Brotherton and for two 
 hours that was all Laura knew of the accident. Once when 
 the Doctor stopped for a second to take a deep breath, Broth- 
 erton asked, "Do you want another doctor?" the little man 
 shook his head again, and motioned with it at his daughter. 
 
 "She's doing well enough." She kept her father's merci- 
 less pace, but always the sense of her stricken life seemed 
 to be hovering in the back of her consciousness, and the hours 
 seemed ages as she applied her bandages, and helped with the 
 grewsome work of the knife on the charred stump of the 
 arm. But finally it was over and she saw Brotherton and 
 Hogan lift Grant to a cot, under her father's direction, and 
 carry him to the bedroom she had used as a girl at home. 
 While the Doctor and Laura had been working in his office 
 Mrs. Nesbit had been making the bedroom ready. 
 
 It was five o'clock, and the two fagged women were in 
 Mrs. Nesbit 's room. The younger woman was pale and hag- 
 gard and unable to relax. The mother tried all of a mother's 
 wiles to bring peace to the over-strung nerves. But the 
 daughter paced the floor silently, or if she spoke it was to 
 
GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDES 243 
 
 ask some trivial question about the household— about what 
 arrangements were made for the injured man's food, about 
 Lila, about Amos Adams and Kenyon. Finally, 'as she 
 
 is expecting your help here — to-night. I am sure he will 
 need you." The daughter looked steadily, but rather va- 
 cantly at her mother for a moment, then replied: "Well, 
 Lila and I must go now. I'll leave her there with the maid 
 and I'll try to come back." 
 
 Her hand was on the door-knob. "Well," hesitated her 
 mother, "what about Tom — !" 
 
 The eyes of the two women met. ' ' Did father tell you ? ' ' 
 asked the daughter's eyes. The mother's eyes said "Yes." 
 Then rose the Spartan mother, and put a kind, firm hand 
 upon the daughter's arm and asked : "But Laura, my dear, 
 my dear, you are not going back again, to all — all that, are 
 you?" 
 
 "I am going home, mother," the daughter replied. 
 
 "But your self-respect, child?" quoted the Spartan, and 
 the daughter made answer simply: "I must go home, 
 mother. ' ' 
 
 When Laura Van Dorn entered her home she began the 
 evening's routine, somewhat from habit, and yet many things 
 she did she grimly forced herself to do. She waited dinner 
 for her husband. She called his office vainly upon the tele- 
 phone. She and Lila ate alone ; often they had eaten alone 
 before. And as the evening grew from twilight to dark, she 
 put the child to bed, left one of the maids in the child 's room, 
 lighted an electric reading lamp in her husband's room, 
 turned on the hall lamp, instructed the maid to tell the Judge 
 that his wife was with her father helping him with a wounded 
 man, and then she went out through the open, hospitable 
 door. 
 
 But all that night, as she sat beside the restless man, who 
 writhed in his pain even under the drag, she went over and 
 over her problem. She recognized that a kind of finality had 
 come into her relations with her husband. In the rush of 
 events that had followed his departure, a period, definite and 
 
244 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 conclusive seemed to have been put after the whole of her 
 life's adventures with Tom Van Dorn. She did not cry, nor 
 feel the want of tears, yet there were moments when she 
 instinctively put her hands before her face as in a shame. 
 She saw the man in perspective for the first time clearly. 
 She had not let herself take a candid inventory of him before. 
 But that night all her subconscious impressions rose and 
 framed themselves into conscious reflections. And then she 
 knew that his relation with her from the beginning had been 
 a reflex of his view of life — of his material idea of the scheme 
 of things. 
 
 As the night wore on, she kept her nurse's chart and did 
 the things to be done for her patient. For the time her 
 emotions were spent. Her heart was empty. Even for the 
 shattered and suffering body before her, the tousled red 
 head, the half-closed, pain-bleared eyes, the lips that shielded 
 the clenched teeth — she felt none of that tenderness that 
 comes from deep sympathy and moving pity. At dawn she 
 went home with her body worn and weary, and after the 
 sun was up she slept. 
 
 Scarcely had the morning stir begun in the Nesbit house- 
 hold, before Morty Sands appeared, clad in the festive rai- 
 ment of the moment — white ducks and a shirtwaist and a 
 tennis racquet, to be exact. He asked for the Doctor and 
 when the Doctor came, Morty cocked his sparrow like head 
 and paused a moment after the greetings of the morning were 
 spoken. After his inquiries for Grant had been satisfied, 
 Morty still lingered and cocked his head. 
 
 "Of course, Doctor," Morty began diffidently, "and natur- 
 ally you know more of it than I — but — " he got no further 
 for a second. Then he gathered courage from the Doctor's 
 bland face to continue: "Well, Doctor, last night at Broth- 
 erton's, Tom came in and George and Nate Perry and Kyle 
 and Captain Morton and I were there ; and Tom — well, Doctor 
 — Tom said something — " 
 
 "He did— did he?" cut in the Doctor. "The dirty dog! 
 So he broke the news to the Amen Corner ! ' ' 
 
 "Now, Doctor, we all know Tom," Morty explained. 
 "We know Tom: but George said Laura was helping with 
 Grant, and I just thought, certainly I have no wish to in- 
 
GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDES 245 
 
 trude, but I just thought maybe I could relieve her myself 
 by sitting up with Grant, if—" 
 
 The Doctor's kindly face twitched with pain, and he 
 cried: "Morty, you're a boy in a thousand! But can't 
 you see that just at this time if I had half a dozen cases like 
 Grant's, they would be a God's mercy for her!" 
 
 Morty could not control his voice. So he turned and 
 tripped down the steps and flitted away. As Morty dis- 
 appeared, George Brotherton came roaring up the hill, but 
 no word of what Van Dorn had said in the Amen Corner 
 did Mr. Brotherton drop. He asked about Grant, inquired 
 about Laura, and released a crashing laugh at some story 
 of stuttering Kyle Perry trying to tell deaf John Hollander 
 about the Venezuelan dispute. "Kyle," said George, "pro- 
 nounces Venezuela like an atomizer!" Captain Morton 
 rested from his loved employ, let the egg-beater of the hour 
 languish, and permitted stock in his new Company to slump 
 in a weary market while he camped on the Nesbit veranda 
 during the day to greet and disperse such visitors as Mrs. 
 Nesbit deemed of sufficiently small social consequence to re- 
 ceive the Captain's ministrations. At twilight the Captain 
 greeted Laura coming from her home for her night watch, 
 and with a rather elaborate scenario of amenities, told her 
 how his Household Horse company was prospering, how his 
 egg beater was going, and asked after Lila's health, omitting 
 mention of the Judge with an easy nonchalance which struck 
 terror to the woman's heart — terror, lest the Captain and 
 through him all men should know of her trouble. 
 
 But deeper than the terror in her heart at what the Cap- 
 tain might know and tell was the pain at the thing she knew 
 herself — that the home which she loved was dead. However 
 proudly it might stand before the world, for the passing hour 
 or day or year, she knew, and the knowledge sickened her to 
 her soul 's death, that the home was doomed. She kept think- 
 ing of it as a tree, whose roots were cut ; a tree whose leaves 
 were still green, whose comeliness still pleased the eye but 
 whose ugly, withered branches soon must stand out to affront 
 the world. And sorrowing for the beauty that was doomed 
 she went to her work. All night with her father she minis- 
 tered to the tortured man, but in the morning she slipped 
 
246 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 away to her home again hoping her numb vain hope, through 
 another weary journey of the sun. 
 
 The third night found Grant Adams restless, wakeful, 
 anxious to talk. The opiates had left him. She saw that he 
 was fully himself, even though conscious of his tortured 
 body. "Laura," he cried in a sick man's feeble voice, "I 
 want to tell you something." 
 
 "Not now, Grant," she returned quietly. "I'd rather 
 hear it to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 "No," he returned stubbornly, "I want to tell you now." 
 
 He paused as if to catch his breath. "For I want you to 
 know I'm the happiest man in the world." He set his teeth 
 firmly. The muscles of his jaw worked, and he smiled up at 
 her. He questioned her with his blue eyes, and after some 
 assent had come into her face — or he thought it had, he 
 went on : 
 
 ' ' There 's a God in Israel, Laura — I know it way down in 
 me and all through me. " 
 
 A crash of pain stopped him. He grinned at the groan, 
 which the pain wrenched from him, and whispered, "There's 
 a God in Israel — for He gave me my chance. I saw the 
 great white killing thing coming to do for Denny Hogan. 
 How I'd waited for that chance. Then when it came, I 
 wanted to run. But I didn't run. There's something in 
 you bigger than fear. So when God gave me my chance 
 He put the — the — the — " pain wrenched him again, and 
 he said weakly, "the — I've got to say it, you'll understand 
 — He put the — the guts in me to take it. ' ' 
 
 When she left him a few minutes later he seemed to be 
 asleep. But when Doctor Nesbit came into the room an 
 hour later Grant was wide-eyed and smiling, and seemed so 
 much better that as a reward of merit the Doctor brought in 
 the morning paper and told Grant he could look at the head- 
 ings for five minutes. There it was that he first realized 
 what a lot of business lay ahead of him, learning to live as a 
 one-armed man. The Doctor saw his patient worrying with 
 the paper, and started to help. 
 
 "No, Doctor," said the young man, "I must begin some- 
 time, and now's as good a time as any." So he struggled 
 with the unwieldy sheets of paper, and finally managed to 
 
GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDES 247 
 
 get his morning's reading done. When the time was up, 
 he handed hack his paper saying, "I see Tom Vh,n Dorn is 
 going on his vacation — does that mean Laura, too?" The 
 Doctor shook his head; and by way of taking the subject 
 away from Laura he said: "Now about your damages, 
 Grant — you know I'll stand by you with the Company, don't 
 you — I'm no Van Dorn, if I am Company doctor. You 
 ought to have good damages — for — " 
 
 "Damages! damages!" cried Grant, "why, Doctor, I can't 
 get damages. I wasn't working for the smelter when it 
 happened. I was around organizing the men. And I don 't 
 want damages. This arm, ' ' he looked lovingly at the stump 
 beside him, "is worth more in my business than a million 
 dollars. For it proves to me that I am not afraid to go clear 
 through for my faith, and it proves me to the men! Dam- 
 ages! damages?" he said grimly. "Why, Doctor, if Uncle 
 Dan and the other owners up town here only know what this 
 stump will cost them, they would sue me for damages! I 
 tell you those men in the mine there saved my life. Ever 
 since then I've been trying to repay them, and here comes 
 this chance to turn in a little on account, to bind the bargain, 
 and now the men know how seriously I hold the debt. Dam- 
 ages?" There was just a hint of fanaticism in his laugh; 
 the Doctor looked at Grant quickly, then he sniffed, "Fine 
 talk, Grant, fine talk for the next world, but it won't buy 
 shoes for the baby in this, ' ' and he turned away impatiently 
 and went into a world of reality, leaving Grant Adams to 
 enjoy his Utopia. 
 
 That morning after breakfast, when Laura had gone home, 
 the Doctor and his wife sitting alone went into the matter 
 further. "Of course," said the Doctor, "she'll see that he 
 has gone away. But when should we tell her what he has 
 done?" 
 
 "Doctor," said the mother, "you leave his letter here 
 where I can get it. I'm going over there and pack every- 
 thing that rightfully may be called hers — I mean her dresses 
 and trinkets — and such things as have in them no particular 
 memory of him. They shall come home. Then I'll lock up 
 the house." 
 
 The Doctor squinted up his eyes thoughtfully and said 
 
248 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 slowly, "Well, that seems kind. I don't suppose you need 
 read her the whole letter. Just tell her he is going to ask 
 for a divorce — tell her it's incompatibility. But his letter 
 isn't important." The Doctor sighed. 
 
 "Grant ought really to stay here another week — maybe 
 we can stretch it to ten days — and let her have all the re- 
 sponsibility she'll take. It'll help her over the first bridge. 
 Kenyon is taking care of Lila — I suppose?" The Doctor 
 rose, stood by his wife and said as he found her hand : 
 
 "Poor Laura — poor Laura — and Lila ! You know when I 
 had her down town with me yesterday, in the hallway lead- 
 ing to Joe Calvin's office, she met Tom — " The Doctor 
 looked away for a moment. "It was pretty tough — her 
 little heart-break when he went by her without taking her 
 up!" The wife did not reply. The husband with his arm 
 about her walked toward the door. 
 
 "You can't tell me, my dear, that Tom isn't paying — I 
 know how that sort of thing gets under his skin — he's too 
 sensitive not to imagine all it means to the child." Mrs. 
 Nesbit's face hardened and her husband saw her bitter- 
 ness. "I know, my dear — I know how you feel — I feel all 
 that, and yet in my very heart I'm sorry for poor Tom. 
 He's swapping substance for shadow so recklessly — not only 
 in this, not merely with Laura — but with everything — every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Good Lord, Jim, I don't see how you can agonize over a 
 wool-dyed scoundrel like that — perhaps you have some tears 
 for that Fenn hussy, too ! ' ' 
 
 "Well," squeaked the Doctor soberly — "I knew her 
 father — a lecherous old beast who brought her up without 
 restraint or morals — with a greedy philosophy pounded into 
 her by example every day of her life until she was seventeen 
 years old. There's something to be said — even for her, my 
 dear — even for her. ' ' 
 
 "Well, Jim Nesbit," answered his wife, "I'll go a long 
 way with you in your tomfoolery, but so long as I 've got to 
 draw the line somewhere I'll draw it right there." 
 
 The Doctor looked at the floor. "I suppose so — " he 
 sighed, then lifted his head and said: "I was just trying 
 to think of all the sorrows that come into the world, of all 
 
GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDBS 249 
 
 the tragedies I ever knew, and I have concluded that this 
 tragedy of divorce when it comes like this — as it has come 
 to our daughter — is the greatest tragedy in the world. To 
 love as she loved and to find every anchor to which she tied 
 the faith of her life rotten, to have her heart seared with 
 faithlessness — to see her child — her flesh and blood scorned, 
 to have her very soul spat upon — that's the essence of sor- 
 row, my dear. ' ' 
 
 He looked up into her eyes, bent to kiss her hand, and after 
 he had picked up his cane and his hat from the rack, toddled 
 down the walk to the street, a sad, thoughtful, worried little 
 man, white-clad and serene to outward view, who had not 
 even a whistle nor a vagrant tune under his breath to console 
 him. 
 
 That day, after her father's insistence, Laura Van Dorn 
 changed from the night watch to the day nurse, and from 
 that day on for ten days, she ministered to Grant Adams' 
 wants. Mechanically she read to him from such books as the 
 house afforded — Tolstoi — Ibsen, Hardy, Howells, — but she 
 was shut away from the meaning of what she read and even 
 from the comments of the man under her care, by the con- 
 sideration of her own problems. For to Laura Van Dorn it 
 was a time of anxious doubt, of sad retrogression, of inner 
 anguish. In some of the books were passages she had marked 
 and read to her husband ; and such pages calling up his dull 
 comprehension of their beauty, or bringing back his scoffing 
 words, or touching to the quick a hurt place in her heart, 
 taxed her nerves heavily. But during the time while she 
 sat by the injured man 's bedside, she was glad in her heart 
 of one thing — that she had an excuse for avoiding the people 
 who called. 
 
 As Grant grew stronger — as it became evident that he 
 must go soon, the woman's heart shrank from meeting the 
 town, and she clung to each duty of the man's convalescence 
 hungrily. She knew she must face life, that she must have 
 some word for her friends about her tragedy. She felt that 
 in going away, in suing for the divorce himself, her husband 
 had made the break irrevocable. There was no resentment 
 nor malice toward him in her heart. Yet the future seemed 
 hopelessly black and terrible to her. 
 
250 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 The afternoon before Grant Adams was to leave the Nesbit 
 home he was allowed to come down stairs, and he sat with 
 her upon the side porch, all screened and protected_ by vines 
 that led to her father's office. Laura's finger was in a book 
 they had been reading — it was "The Pillars of Society." 
 The day was one of those exquisite days in mid-June, and 
 after a cooling rain the air was clear and seemed to put joy 
 into one's veins. 
 
 "How modern he is — how American — how like Harvey," 
 said the young man. ' ' Ibsen might have lived right here in 
 this town, and written that," he added. He started to 
 raise his right arm, but a twinge of pain reminded him that 
 the stump was bound, so he raised his left and cried : 
 
 "And I tell you, Laura — that's what I'm on earth to 
 fight — the whole infernal system of pocket-picking and poor- 
 robbing, and public gouging that we permit under the profit 
 system." The woman's thoughts were upon her own sor- 
 row, but she called herself back to smile and reply : 
 
 "All right, Grant — I'm with you. We may have to draft 
 father and commandeer George Brotherton, and start out as 
 a pirate crew — but I 'm with you. ' ' 
 
 "Let me tell you something," said the man. "I've not 
 been loafing for the past two years. I've got Harvey — the 
 men in the mines and smelter, I mean, fairly well unionized, 
 but the unions are nothing — nothing ultimate — they are 
 only temporary. ' ' 
 
 "Well," returned the woman, soberly, "that's some- 
 thing." 
 
 The man made no answer. With his free hand he was 
 ruffling his red hair, and she could see the muscles of his 
 jaw working, and she felt his great mouth harden as he 
 flashed his blue eyes upon her. "Laura," he cried, "they 
 may whip us this year. For a while they may scare the men 
 into voting for prosperity, but as sure as we both live we 
 shall see these times and these issues and these men who are 
 promoting this devilish conspiracy eternally damned — all of 
 them — the issues, the times and the men who are leading. 
 And I don't want to hurt you, Laura, but," he added sol- 
 emnly, "your husband must take his punishment with the 
 rest." 
 
GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDES 251 
 
 They sat mute, then each heard the plaintive cry of a 
 child running through the house. ' ' She is looking for me, ' ' 
 said Laura. In a moment a little wet-eyed girl was in her 
 mother's arms, crying: 
 
 ' ' I want my daddy — my dear daddy — I want him to come 
 home — where is he ? " 
 
 Sue sobbed in her mother's arms and held up her little 
 face to look earnestly into the beautiful face above her, as 
 she cried, "Is he gone — Annie Sands' new mamma says my 
 papa's never coming back — Oh, I want my daddy — I want 
 to go home. ' ' 
 
 She continued calling him and sobbing, and the mother 
 rose to take the child away. 
 
 ' ' Laura ! ' ' cried Grant, in a passionate question. He saw 
 the weeping child and the grief-stricken face of the mother. 
 In an instant he held out his bony left hand to her and said 
 gently : ' ' God help you — God help you. ' ' 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 IN WHICH THE DEVIL FORMALLY TAKES THE TWO HINDERMOST 
 AND CLOSES AN ACCOUNT IN HIS LEDGER 
 
 HARVEY tried sincerely to believe in Tom Van Dorn 
 up to the very day when it happened. For the town 
 had accepted him gladly and unanimously as its 
 most distinguished citizen. But when the town read in the 
 Times one November day after he had come home from his 
 political campaign through the east for sound money and 
 the open mills — a campaign in which Harvey had seen him 
 through the tinted glasses of the Harvey Daily Times as one 
 of the men who had saved the country— when the town read 
 that cold paragraph beginning: "A decree of divorce was 
 issued to-day to Judge Thomas Van Dorn, from his wife, 
 Mrs. Laura Nesbit Van Dorn, upon the ground of incom- 
 patibility of temperament by Judge protem Calvin in the 
 district court," and ending with these words: "Mrs. Van 
 Dorn declined through her attorney to participate in a 
 division of the property upon any terms and will live for 
 the present with her daughter, aged five, at the home of Dr. 
 and Mrs. James Nesbit on Elm Street ' ' — when the town read 
 that paragraph, Harvey closed its heart upon Thomas Van 
 Dorn. 
 
 Only one other item was needed to steel the heart of 
 Harvey against its idol, and that item they found upon an- 
 other page. It read, "Wanted, pupils for the piano — Mrs. 
 Laura Van Dorn, Quality Hill, Elm Street." 
 
 Those items told the whole story of the deed that 
 Thomas Van Dorn had done. If he had felt bees sting be- 
 fore he got his decree, he should have felt vipers gnawing at 
 his vitals afterward. 
 
 But he was free — the burden of matrimony was lifted. 
 He felt that the whole world of women was his now for the 
 choosing, and of all that world, he turned in wanton fancy 
 
 252 
 
THE DEVIL CLOSES AN ACCOUNT 253 
 
 to the beckoning arms of Margaret Fenn. But the feeling of 
 freedom, the knowledge that he could speak to any woman 
 as he chose and no one could gainsay him legally, the con- 
 sciousness that he had no ties which the law recognized — 
 and with him law was the synonym of morality — the exu- 
 berant sense of relief from a bondage that was oppressive to 
 him, overbore all the influence of the town's spirit of wrath 
 in the air about him. 
 
 As for the morality of the town and what he regarded as 
 its prudery — he scorned it. He believed he could live it 
 down ; he said in his heart that it was merely a matter of a 
 few weeks, a few months, or a few years at most, before they 
 would have some fresh ox to gore and forget all about him. 
 He was sure that he could play upon the individual self-in- 
 terest of the leaders of the community to make them respect 
 him and ignore what he had done. But what he had done, 
 did not bother him much. It was done. 
 
 He seemed to be free, yet was he free? 
 
 Now Thomas Van Dorn was thirty-eight years old that 
 autumn. Whether he loved the woman he had abandoned or 
 not, she was a part of his life. Counting the courtship dur- 
 ing which he and this woman had been associated closely, 
 nearly ten years of his life, half of the years of his man- 
 hood — and that half the most active and effective part, had 
 been spent with her. A million threads of memory in his 
 brain led to her ; when he remembered any important event 
 in his life during those ten years, always the chain of associ- 
 ated thought led back to the image of her. There she was, 
 fixed in his life ; there she smiled at him through every hour 
 of those ten years of their life, married or as lovers together. 
 
 For whom God had joined, not Joseph Calvin, not Joseph 
 Calvin, sitting as Judge protem, not Joseph Calvin vested 
 with all the authority of the great commonwealth in which 
 he lived, could put asunder. That was curious. At times 
 Thomas Van Dorn was conscious of this phenomenon, that 
 he was free, yet bound, and that while there was no 
 God, and the law was the final word, in all considerable 
 things, some way the'brain, or the mind that is fettered to 
 the brain, or the soul that is built upon the aspect of the 
 mind fettered to the brain, held him tethered to the past. 
 
254 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 For our lives are not material, whatever our bodies may be. 
 Our lives are the accumulations of consciousness, the assem- 
 bling of our memories, our affections, our judgments, our 
 aspirations, our weaknesses, our strength — the vast sum of 
 all our impressions, good or bad, made upon a material plate 
 called the brain. The brain is of the dust. The picture — 
 which is a human life— is of the spirit. And the spirit is of 
 God. And when by whatever laws of chance or greed, or 
 high purpose or low desire two lives are joined until the 
 cement of years has united the myriads of daily sensations 
 that make up a segment of these lives, they are thus joined 
 in the spirit forever. 
 
 Now Thomas Van Dorn went about his free life day by 
 day, glorying in his liberty. But strands of his old life, 
 floating idly and unnoticed through minutes of his hourly 
 existence, kept tripping him and bothering him. His meals, 
 his clothes, his fixed habits of work, the manifold creature 
 comforts that he prized — all the associations of his life with 
 home — came to him a thousand, thousand times and cut lit- 
 tle knife-edged rents in the fabric of his new freedom. 
 
 And he would have said a year before that it was physi- 
 cally impossible for one child — one small, fair-haired child 
 of five, with pleading face and eager eyes — to meet a man so 
 often in a given period of time, as Lila met him. At first he 
 had avoided her ; he would duck into stores ; hurry up stair- 
 ways, or hide himself in groups of men on the sidewalk when 
 he saw her coming. Then there came a time when he knew 
 that the little figure was slipping across the street to avoid 
 him because his presence shamed her with her playmates. 
 
 He had never in his heart believed that the child meant 
 much to him. She was merely part of the chain that held 
 him, and yet now that she was not of him or his interests, it 
 seemed to Thomas Van Dorn that she made a piteous figure 
 upon the street, and that the sadness that flitted over her 
 face when she saw him, in some way reproached him, and 
 yet — what right had she in him — or why should he let her 
 annoy him, or disturb his peace and the happiness that his 
 freedom brought. Materially he noticed that she was well 
 fed, well dressed, and he knew that she was well housed. 
 "What more could she have — but that was absurd. He 
 
THE DEVIL CLOSES AN ACCOUNT 255 
 
 couldn't wreck his life for the mere chance that a child should 
 be petted a little. There was no sense in such a proposition. 
 And Thomas Van Dorn's life was regulated by senses — 
 common sense — horse sense, he called it. 
 
 It is curious — and scores of Tom Van Dorn's friends won- 
 dered at it then and have marveled at it since, that in the 
 six months which elapsed between his divorce and his re- 
 marriage, he did not fathom the shallowness and pretense of 
 Margaret Fenn. But he did not fathom them. Her glib 
 talk taken mechanically from cheap philosophy about being 
 what you think you are, about shifting moral responsibility 
 onto good intentions, about living for the present and ignor- 
 ing the past with the uncertain future, took him in com- 
 pletely. She used to read books to him, sitting in the glow 
 of her red lamp-shade — a glow that brought out hidden hints 
 of her splendid feline body, books which soothed his vanity 
 and dulled his mind. In that day he fancied her his intel- 
 lectual equal. He thought her immensely strong-minded, 
 and clear headed. He contrasted her in thought with the 
 wife he had put away, told Margaret that Laura was always 
 puling about duty and getting her conscience pinched and 
 whining about it. They agreed sitting there under the lamp, 
 that they had been mates in some far-off jungle, that they 
 had been parted and had been seeking one another through 
 eons, and that when their souls met one of the equations of 
 the physical universe was solved, and that their happiness 
 was the adjustment of ages of wrong. She thought him the 
 most brilliant of men ; he deemed her the most wonderful of 
 women, and the devil checked off two drunken fools in his 
 inventory. 
 
 It was in those halcyon days of his courtship of Margaret 
 Fenn, when he felt the pride of conquest of another soul and 
 body strongly upon him, that Judge Thomas Van Dora be- 
 gan to acquire — or perhaps to exhibit noticeably — the turkey 
 gobbler gait, that ever afterwards went with him, and became 
 famous as the Van Dorn Strut. It was more than mere knee 
 action — though knee action did characterize it prominently. 
 The strut properly speaking began at the tip of his hat — 
 his soft, black hat that sat so cockily upon his head. His 
 head was thrown back as though he had been pulled by a 
 
256 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 cheek-rein. His shoulders swung jauntily — more than jaun- 
 tily, call it insolently — as he walked, and his trunk swayed 
 with some stateliness as his proud hands and legs per- 
 formed their grand functions. But withal he bowed and 
 smiled — with much condescension — and lifted his hat high 
 from his handsome head, and when women passed he doffed 
 it like a flag in a formal salute, and while his body spelled 
 complacence, his face never lost the charm and grace and 
 courtesy that drew men to him, and held them in spite of 
 his faults. 
 
 One bitter cold December day, when the wind was blowing 
 sleet down Market Street, and hardly a passer-by darkened 
 the doors of the stores, the handsome Judge sailed easily 
 into the Amen Corner, fumbled over the magazines, picked 
 out a pocketful of cigars from the case, without calling Mr. 
 Brotherton who was in the rear of the store working upon 
 his accounts, lighted a cigar, and stood looking out of the 
 frosted window at the deserted gray windy street, utterly 
 ignoring the presence of Captain Morton who was pretend- 
 ing to be deeply buried in the National Tribune, but who was 
 watching the Judge and trying to summon courage to speak: 
 The Judge unbuttoned his modish gray coat that nearly 
 reached his heels and put his hands behind him for a moment, 
 as he puffed and pondered — apparently debating something. 
 
 "Judge," said the Captain suddenly and then the Cap- 
 tain's courage fell and he added, "Bad morning." 
 
 "Yes," acquiesced the Judge from his abstraction. In a 
 long pause that followed, Captain Morton swallowed at least 
 a peck of Adam's apples that kept coming up to choke him, 
 and then he cleared his throat and spoke : 
 
 ' ' Tom — Tom Van Dorn — look around here. ' ' He lowered 
 his voice and went on, "I want to talk to you. ' ' The Cap- 
 tain edged over on the bench. 
 
 "Sit down here a minute — I've been wanting to see you 
 for a month." Captain Morton spoke all but in a whisper. 
 The Adam's apple kept strangling him. The Judge saw 
 that the old man was wrestling with some heavy problem. 
 He turned, and looking down at the little wizened man, 
 asked: "Well, Captain?" 
 
 The Captain moistened his lips, patted his toes on the 
 
THE DEVIL CLOSES AN ACCOUNT 257 
 
 floor, and twirled his fingers. He took a deep breath and 
 said: "Tom, I've known you since you were twenty-one 
 years old. Do you remember how we took you in the first 
 night you came to town — me and mother? before the 
 hotel was done, eh?" A smile on the Judge's face em- 
 boldened the Captain. "You've got brains, Tom — lots of 
 brains — I often say Tom Van Dorn will sit in the big 
 chair at the White House yet — what say? Well, Tom — " 
 Now there was the place to say it. But the Captain's 
 Adam's apple bobbed convulsively in a second silence. He 
 decided to take a fresh start: "Tom, you're a sensible 
 man — ? I says to myself I 'm going to have a plain talk to 
 that man. He 's smart ; he '11 appreciate it. Just the other 
 day — George back there, and John Kollander and Dick Bow- 
 man and old man Adams, and Joe Calvin, and Kyle Perry 
 were in here talking and I says — Gentlemen, that boy's 
 got brains — lots of brains — eh ? and he 's a prince ; 'y gory a 
 prince, that's what Tom Van Dorn is, and I can go to him — 
 I can talk to him — what say?" The Captain was on the 
 brink again. Slowly there mautled over the face of the 
 prince the gray scum of a fear. And the scar on his fore- 
 head flashed crimson. The Captain saw that he had been 
 anticipated. He began patting his toes on the floor. Judge 
 Van Dorn's face was set in a cement of resistance. 
 
 "Well?" barked the Judge. The little man's lips dried, 
 he smiled weakly, and licked his lips and said: "It was 
 about my sprocket — my Household Horse — I says, Tom Van 
 Dorn understands it if you gentlemen don't and some day 
 him and me will talk it over and 'y gory — he'll buy some 
 stock — he'll back me." 
 
 The Captain's nervous voice had lifted and he was talking 
 so that the clerk and Mr. Brotherton both in the back part of 
 the store might hear. The cement of the Judge's counte- 
 nance cracked in a smile, but the gray mantle of fear still 
 fluttered across his eyes. 
 
 "All right, Captain," he answered, "some other time- 
 not now— I'm in a hurry," and went strutting out into the 
 storm. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton with his moon face shining into the ledger 
 laughed a great clacking laugh and got up from his stool to 
 
258 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 come to the cigar case, saying, "Well, say — Cap — if you'd 
 a' went on with what you started out to say, I'd a' give fi' 
 dollars — say, I'd a' made it ten dollars — say!" And he 
 laughed again a laugh that seemed to set all the celluloid in 
 the plush covered, satin lined toilet cases on the new counter 
 a-flutter. He walked down the store with elephantine tread, 
 as he laughed, and then the door opened and Dr. Nesbit 
 came in. Five months had put a perceptible bow into his 
 shoulders, and an occasional cast of uncertainty into his 
 twinkling eyes. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton called half down the store, "Say, Doc — 
 you should have been here a minute ago, and seen the Cap- 
 tain bristle up to Tom Van Dorn about his love affair and 
 then get cold feet and try to sell him some Household Horse 
 stock." The Captain grinned sheepishly, the Doctor patted 
 the Captain affectionately on the shoulder and chirped. 
 
 ' ' So you went after him, did you, Ezry ? ' ' The loose skin 
 of his face twitched, ' ' Poor Tom — packing up his career in a 
 petticoat and going forth to fuss with God — no sense — no 
 sense," piped the Doctor, glancing over the headlines in his 
 Star. The Captain, still clinging to the subject that had 
 been too much for him, remarked: "Doc — don't you think 
 some one ought to tell him?" The Doctor put down his 
 paper, stroked his pompadour and looking over his glasses, 
 answered : 
 
 "Ezry — if some one hasn't told him — no one ever can. I 
 tried to tell him once myself. I talked pretty middlin' plain, 
 Ezry." He was speaking softly, then he piped out, "But 
 what a man's heart doesn't tell him, his friends can 't. Still, 
 Ezry, a strong friend is often a good tonic for a weak heart." 
 The Doctor looked at the Captain, then concluded: "That 
 was a brave, kind act you tried to do — and I warrant 
 you got it to him — some way. He's a keen one — Ezry — a 
 mighty keen one ; and he understood." 
 
 Mr. Brotherton went back to his ledger; the Doctor 
 plunged into the Star, the Captain folded up his newspaper 
 and began studying the trinkets in the holiday stock in the 
 show case under the new books. A comb and brush with tor- 
 toise shell backs seemed to arrest his eyes. "Doc," he 
 mused, "Christmas never comes that I don't think of — her 
 
THE DEVIL CLOSES AN ACCOUNT 259 
 
 — mother ! I guess I 'd just about be getting that comb and 
 brush for her." The Doctor casually looked through the 
 show case and saw what had attracted the Captain. 
 "Doc," again the Captain spoke, bending over the case 
 with his face turned from his auditor: "You're a doctor 
 and are supposed to know lots. Tell me this : How does a 
 man break it to a woman when he wants to leave her — 
 eh ? " Without waiting for an answer the Captain went on : 
 ' ' And this is what puzzles me — how does he get used to an- 
 other one — with that one still living? You tell me that. 
 I 'd think he 'd be scared all the time that he would do some- 
 thing the way his first wife had trained him not to. Of 
 course," meditated the Captain, "right at first, I suppose a 
 man may feel a little coltish and all. But, Doc, honest and 
 true, when mother first left I kind of thought — well, I used 
 to enjoy swearing a little before we was married, and I says 
 to myself I guess I may as well have a damn or two as I go 
 along — but, Doc, I can't do it. Eh? Every time I set off 
 the fireworks — she fizzles; I can see mother looking at 
 me that way." The old man went on earnestly: "Tell 
 me, Doc, you're a smart man — how Tom Van Dorn can 
 do it. What say? 'Y gory I'd be scared — right now! 
 And if I thought I had to get used all over again to another 
 woman, and her ways of doing things — say of setting her 
 bread Friday night, and having a hot brick for her feet and 
 putting her hair in her teeth when she done it up, and dos- 
 ing the children with sassafras tea in spring — I'd just 
 naturally take to the woods, eh? And as for learning over 
 again all the peculiarities of a new set of kin and what they 
 all like to eat and died of, and how they all treated their 
 first wives, and who they married — Doc ? Doc ? ' ' The Cap- 
 tain shook a dubious and doleful head. "Fourteen years, 
 Doc," sighed the Captain. "Pretty happy years — children 
 coming on, — trouble visiting us with the rest ; sorrow — hap- 
 piness — skimping and saving; her a-raking and scraping to 
 make a good appearance, and make things do ; me trying one 
 thing and another, to make our fortune and her always kind 
 and encouraging, and hopeful; death standing between us 
 and both of us sitting there by the kitchen stove trying to 
 make up some kind of prayer tQ comfort the other. Four- 
 
260 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 teen years of it, Doc — her and me, and her so patient, so 
 forbearing — Doc — you're a smart man — tell me, Doc, how 
 did Tom Van Dorn get around to actually doing it? What 
 say?" 
 
 The Doctor waved his folded paper in an impatient gesture 
 at the Captain. 
 
 "We are all products of our yesterdays, Ezry; we are 
 what we were, and we will be what we were. Man is queer. 
 Sometimes out of the depth of him a god rises — sometimes it's 
 a beast. I've sat by the bed and seen life gasp into being; 
 I've stood in the ranks and fought with men as you have, 
 and have seen them fight and then again have seen them 
 turn tail like cowards. I have sat by the bed and seen life 
 sigh into the dust. What is life — what is the God that 
 quickens and directs us, — why and how and whence? — 
 Ezry Morton, man — I don't know. And as for Tom — into 
 that roaring hell of lust and lying and cheap parching pride 
 where he is plunging — why, Ezry, I could almost cry for the 
 fool; the damned beforehand fool!" 
 
 As the Doctor went whistling homeward through the storm 
 that winter night he wondered how many more months the 
 black spell of grief and despair would cover his daughter. 
 Five months had passed since that summer day when her 
 home had fallen. He knew how tragic her struggle was to 
 fit herself into her new environment. She was dwelling, 
 but not living in the Nesbit home. It was the Nesbit home ; 
 a kindly abode, but not her home. Her home was gone. 
 The severed roots of her life kept stirring in her memory — 
 in her heart, and outwardly, her spirit showed a withered 
 and unhappy being, trying to rebuild life, to readjust itself 
 after the shock that all but kills. The Doctor realized what 
 an agony the new growth was bringing, and that night, 
 stirred somewhat to somber meditation by Captain Morton's 
 reflections, the Doctor's tune was a doleful little tune as he 
 whistled into the wind. Excepting Kenyon Adams, who 
 still came daily bringing his violin and was rapidly learning 
 all that she knew of the theory of music, Laura Van Dorn 
 had no interest in life outside of her family. When the 
 Adamses came to dinner as frequently they came — Laura 
 
THE DEVIL CLOSES AN ACCOUNT 261 
 
 seemed to feel no constraint with them. Grant had even 
 made her laugh with stories of Dick Bowman's struggles to 
 be a red card socialist, and to vote the straight socialist 
 ticket and still keep in ward politics in which he had been a 
 local heeler for nearly twenty years. Laura was interested 
 in the organization of the unions, and though the Doctor 
 carped at it and made fun of Grant, it was largely to stir up 
 a discussion in which his daughter would take a vital in- 
 terest. 
 
 Grant was getting something more than a local reputation 
 in labor circles as an agitator, and wa in demand as an or- 
 ganizer in different parts of the valley. He worked at his 
 trade more or less, having rigged up a steel device on the 
 stump of his right forearm that would hold a saw, a plane or 
 a hammer. But he was no longer a boss carpenter at the 
 mines. His devotion to the men and in the work they were 
 doing seemed to the Nesbits to awaken in their daughter a 
 new interest in life, and so they made many obvious ex- 
 cuses to have the Adamses about the Nesbit home. 
 
 Kenyon was growing into a pale, dreamy child with won- 
 derful eyes, lustrous, deep, thoughtful and kind. He was 
 music mad, and read all the poetry in the Nesbit library— 
 and the Doctor lcved poetry as many men love wine. Hero- 
 tales and mythoiogy, romances and legends Kenyon read day 
 after day between his hours of practice, and for diversion the 
 boy sat before the fire or in the sun of a chilly afternoon, 
 retailing them in such language as little Lila could under- 
 stand. So in the black night of sorrow that enveloped her, 
 Laura Nesbit often spent an hour with Grant Adams, and 
 talked of much that was near her heart. 
 
 He was strong, sometimes she thought him coarse and raw. 
 He talked the jargon of the agitator with the enthusiasm of 
 a dervish and the vernacular of the mine and the shop and 
 the forge. But in him she could see the fire of a mad con- 
 suming passion for humanity. 
 
 During those days of shame and misery, when the old in- 
 terests of life were dying in her heart, interests upon which 
 she had builded since her childhood — the interests of home, 
 of children, of wifehood and motherhood, to which in joy she 
 
262 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 had consecrated herself, she listened often to Grant Adams. 
 Until there came into her life slowly and feebly, and 
 almost without her conscious realization of it, a new vision, 
 a new hope, a new path toward usefulness that makes for the 
 only happiness. 
 
 As the Doctor went whistling into the storm that December 
 night, he went over in his mind rather seriously the meaning 
 and the direction and the final outcome of those small, un- 
 conscious buddings of interest in social problems that he saw 
 putting forth in his daughter's mind. Above everything 
 else, he was not a reformer. He hated the reformer type. 
 But he preferred to see her interested in the work of Grant 
 Adams — even though he considered Grant mildly cracked 
 and felt that his growing power in the valley was dangerous 
 — rather than to see her under the black pall that enveloped 
 her. 
 
 It was early in the evening as the Doctor went up the hill. 
 He passed Judge Van Dorn, striding along and saw him 
 turn into Congress Street to visit his lady love. The Judge 
 carried a large roll of architect's plans under his arm. The 
 Doctor nodded to the Judge, and the Judge rather proud 
 that he was free and did not have to slink to his lady 's bower, 
 returned a gracious good evening, and his tall, straight figure 
 went prancing down the street. "When the Doctor entered 
 his home, he found Laura and Lila sitting by the open fire. 
 The child was in her night gown and they were discussing 
 Santa Claus. Lila was saying : 
 
 "Kenyon told me Santa Claus was your father?" 
 Before the mother could reply the little voice went on : 
 "I wonder if my Santa Claus will come this year — will he, 
 mother?— Why doesn't father ever come to us, mother- 
 why doesn't he play with me when I see him?" 
 
 Now there is the story of the absent one that parents tell 
 — the legend about God and Heaven and the angels — a beau- 
 tiful and comforting legend it is for small minds, and being 
 merciful, God may in His own way bring us to realize it, in 
 deed and in truth. "When the lonely father or the broken 
 hearted mother tells the desolate child that legend, child- 
 hood finds surcease there for its sorrow. But when there is 
 no God, no Heaven, no angels to whom the absent one has 
 
THE DEVIL CLOSES AN ACCOUNT 263 
 
 gone, what then do deserted mothers say? — or dishonored 
 fathers answer ? What surcease for its sorrow has the little 
 lonely, aching heart in that sad case ? What then, ' ' ye merry 
 gentlemen that nothing may dismay"? 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IN WHICH WE SEE TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS THEREOF 
 
 IT was an old complaint in Harvey that the Harvey 
 Tribune was too much of a bulletin of the doings of the 
 Adams family and their friends. But when a man sets 
 all the type on a paper, writes all the editorials and gets all 
 the news he may be pardoned if he takes first such news as is 
 near his hand. Thus in the May that followed events set 
 down in the last chapter we find in the Tribune a few items 
 of interest to the readers of this narrative. "We learn for 
 instance that Captain Ezra Morton who is introducing the 
 Nonesuch Sewing Machine, paid his friends in Prospect 
 school district a visit ; that Jasper Adams has been promoted 
 to superintendent of deliveries in Wright & Perry's store; 
 that Kenyon Adams entertained his friends in the Fifth 
 Grade of the South Harvey schools with a violin solo on the 
 last day of school ; that Grant Adams had been made assistant 
 to the secretary of the National Building Trades Associa- 
 tion in South Harvey; that Mr. George, Brotherton with 
 Miss Emma Morton and Martha and Ruth had enjoyed a 
 pleasant visit with the Adamses Sunday afternoon and had 
 resumed an enjoyable buggy ride after partaking of a chicken 
 dinner. In the editorial column were some reflections evi- 
 dently in Mr. Left 's most lucid style and a closing paragraph 
 containing this : ' ' Happiness and character, ' ' said the Peach 
 Blow Philosopher, "are inseparable: but how easy it is to 
 be happy in a great, beautiful house ; or to be unhappy if it 
 comes to that in a great, beautiful house : Environment may 
 influence character ; but all the good are not poor, nor all the 
 rich bad. Therefore, the Peach Blow Philosopher takes to 
 the woods. He is willing to leave something to the Lord 
 Almighty and the continental congress. Selah!" 
 As Dr. Nesbit sat reading the items above set forth upon 
 
 264 
 
TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS 265 
 
 the broad new veranda of the residence that he was so proud 
 to call his home, he smiled. It was late afternoon. He had 
 done a hard day's work — some of it among the sick, some of 
 it among the needy — the needy in the Doctor 's bright lexicon 
 being those who tried to persuade him that they needed 
 political offices. "I cheer up the sick, encourage the needy, 
 pray for 'em both, and sometimes for their own good have 
 to lie to 'em all, ' ' he used to say in that day when the duties 
 of his profession and the care of his station as a ruling boss 
 in politics were oppressing him. Dr. Nesbit played politics 
 as a game. But he placed always to win. 
 
 "Old Linen Pants is a bland old scoundrel," declared 
 Public Opinion, about the corridors of the political hotel at 
 the capital. "But he is as ruthless as iron, as smooth as oil, 
 and as bitter as poison when he sets his head on a proposition. 
 Buy? — he buys men in all the ways the devil teaches them 
 to sell — offices, power, honor, cash in hand, promises, pres- 
 tige — anything that a man wants, Old Linen Pants will 
 trade for, and then get that man. Humorous old devil, 
 too, ' ' quoth Public Opinion. ' ' Laughs, quotes scripture, 
 throws in a little Greek philosophy, and knows all the new 
 stories, but never forgets whose play it is, nor what cards 
 are out. ' ' Thus was he known to others. 
 
 But as he remained longer and longer in the game, as his 
 fourth" term as state Senator began to' lengthen, the game 
 here and there began to lose in his mouth something of its 
 earlier savor. That afternoon as he sat on the veranda 
 overlooking the lawn shaded by the elm trees of his greatest 
 pride, Dr. Nesbit was discoursing to Mrs. Nesbit, who was 
 sewing and paid little heed to his animadversions; it was 
 a soliloquy rather than a conversation — a soliloquy accom- 
 panied by an obligato of general mental disagreement from 
 the wife of his bosom, who expressed herself in sniffs and 
 snorts and scornful staccato interjections as the soliloquy 
 ran on. Here are a few bars of it transcribed for begin- 
 ners: 
 
 From the Doctor's solo: "Heigh-ho — ho hum — Two 
 United States Senators, one slightly damaged Governor, 
 marked down, five congressmen and three liars, one supreme 
 court justice, also a liar, a working interest in a second, 
 
266 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 and a slight equity in a third; organization of the Senate, 
 speaker of the house, — forty liars and thirty thieves — that's 
 my political assets, my dear." 
 
 "I wish you'd quit politics, Doctor, and attend to your 
 practice," this by way of accompaniment from Mrs. Nesbit. 
 The Doctor was in a playful and facetious mood that pleas- 
 ant afternoon. 
 
 He leaned back in his chair, reached up in the air with 
 outstretched arms, clapped his hands three times, gayly, 
 kicked his shoe-heels three times at the end of his short 
 little legs, smiled and proceeded: "Liabilities of James 
 Nesbit, dealer in public grief, licensed dispenser of private 
 joy, purveyor of Something Equally Good, item one, forty- 
 nine gentlemen who think they've been promised thirty-six 
 jobs — but they are mistaken, they have been told only that 
 I '11 do what I can for them — which is true ; item two, three 
 hundred friends who want something and may ask at any 
 minute; item three, seventy-five men who will be or have 
 been primed up by the loathed opposition to demand jobs; 
 item four, Tom Van Dorn who is as sure as guns to think in 
 about a year he has to have a vindication by running for 
 another term; item five — " 
 
 "He can't have it," from Mrs. Nesbit, and then the piping 
 voice went on: 
 
 "Item six, a big, husky fight in Greeley county for the 
 maharaja of Harvey and the adjoining provinces. ' ' A deep 
 sigh rose from the Doctor, then followed more clapping of 
 hands and kicking of heels and some slapping of suspenders, 
 as the voices of Kenyon and Lila came into the veranda from 
 the lawn, and the Doctor cast up his accounts: "Let's see 
 now — naught's a naught and figure's a figure and carry six, 
 and subtract the profits and multiply the trouble and you 
 have a busted community. Correct," he piped, "Bedelia, 
 my dear, observe a busted community. Tour affectionate 
 lord and master, kind husband, indulgent father, good citi- 
 zen gone but not forgotten. How are the mighty fallen." 
 
 "Doctor," snapped Mrs. Nesbit, "don't be a fool; tell 
 me, James, will Tom Van Dorn want to run again ? ' ' 
 
 Making a basket with his hands for the back of his head 
 the Doctor answered slowly, "Ho-ho-ho! Oh, I don't know 
 
TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS 267 
 
 — I should say — yes. He'll just about have to run — for a 
 vindication. ' ' 
 
 "Well, you'll not support him! I say you'll not support 
 him," Mrs. Nesbit decided, and the Doctor echoed blandly: 
 
 "Then I'll not support him. Where's Laura?" he asked 
 gently. 
 
 ' ' She went down to South Harvey to see about that kinder- 
 garten she's been talking of. She seems almost cheerful 
 about the way Kenyon is getting on with his music. She says 
 the child reads as well as she now and plays everything on the 
 violin that she can play on the piano. "Doctor," added 
 Mrs. Nesbit meditatively, "now about those oriental rugs we 
 were going to put upstairs — don't you suppose we could 
 take the money we were going to put there and help Laura 
 with that kindergarten? Perhaps she'd take a real interest 
 in life through those children down there. ' ' The wife hesi- 
 tated and asked, "Would you do it?" 
 
 The Doctor drummed his chair arm thoughtfully, then 
 put his thumbs in his suspenders. "Greater love than this 
 hath no woman shown, my dear — that she gives up oriental 
 rugs for a kindergarten — by all means give it to her." 
 
 ' ' James, Lila still grieves for her father. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," answered the Doctor sadly, "and Henry Fenn was 
 in the office this morning begging me to give him something 
 that would kill his thirst." 
 
 The doctor brought his hands down emphatically on his 
 chair arms. "Duty, Bedelia, is the realest obligation in 
 the world. Here are Lila and Henry Fenn. What a miser- 
 able lot of tommy rot about soul-mating Tom and this Fenn 
 woman conjured up to get away from their duty to child 
 and husband. They have swapped a place with the angels 
 for a right to wallow with the hogs ; that 's what all their fine 
 talking amounts to." The Doctor's shrill voice rose. 
 "They don't fool me. They don't fool any one; they don't 
 even fool each other. I tell you, my dear," he chirped as 
 he rose from his chair, "I never saw one of those illicit love 
 affairs in life or heard of it in literature that was not just 
 plain, old fashion, downright, beastly selfishness. Duty is a 
 greater thing in life than what the romance peddlers call 
 love." 
 
268 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 The Doctor stood looking at his wife questioningly — wait- 
 ing for some approving response. She kept on sewing. ' ' Oh 
 you Satterthwaites with hearts of marble," he cried as he 
 patted the cast iron waves of her hair and went chuckling 
 into the house. 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit was aroused from her reverie by the rattle of 
 the Adams buggy. "When it drew up to the curb Laura 
 and Grant climbed out and came up the walk. Laura wore 
 a simple summer dress that brought out all the exquisite 
 coloring of her skin, and made her light hair shine in a 
 kind of haloed glory. It had been months since the mother 
 had seen in her daughter's face such a smile as the daughter 
 gave to the man beside her — red-faced, angular, hard mus- 
 cled, in his dingy blue carpenter's working clothes with his 
 measuring rule and pencil sticking from his apron pocket, 
 and with his crippled arm tipped by its steel tool- 
 holder. 
 
 "Grant is going to take that box of Lila's toys down to the 
 kindergarten, mother," she explained. 
 
 When they had disappeared up the stairs Mrs. Nesbit could 
 hear them on the floor above and soon the heavy feet of the 
 man carrying a burden were on the stairs and in another 
 minute the young woman was saying: 
 
 "Leave them by the teacher's desk, Grant," and as he 
 untied the horse, she called, "Now you will get that door 
 in to-night without fail — won 't you ? I '11 be down and we '11 
 put in the south partition in the morning." As she turned 
 from the door she greeted her mother with a smile and 
 dropped wearily into a chair. 
 
 "Oh mother," she cried, "it's going to be so fine. Grant 
 has the room nearly finished and he's interesting the wives 
 of the union men in South Harvey and George Brotherton 
 is going to give us every month all the magazines and periodi- 
 cals that are not returnable and George brought down a 
 lot of Christmas numbers of illustrated papers, and we're 
 cutting the bright pictures out and pinning them on the 
 wall and George himself worked with us all afternoon. 
 George says he is going to make every one of his lodges con- 
 tribute monthly to the kindergarten — he belongs to every- 
 thing but the Ladies of the G. A. R. — " she smiled and 
 
TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS 269 
 
 her mother smiled with her, — "and Grant says the unions 
 are going to pay half of the salary of the extra teacher. 
 That makes it easier." 
 
 "Well, Laura, don't you think—" 
 
 But her daughter interrupted her. "Now, mother," she 
 went on, "don't you stop me till I'm done — for this is the 
 best yet. Morty Sands came down to-day to help — " Laura 
 laughed a little at her mother's surprised glance, "and Morty 
 promised to give us $200 for the kindergarten just as soon as 
 he can worm it out of his father for expense money." She 
 drew in a deep, tired breath, "There," she sighed, "that's 
 all." 
 
 Her own child came up and the mother caught the little 
 girl and began playing with her, tying her hair ribbon, 
 smoothing out her skirts, rubbing a dirt speck from her 
 nose, and cuddling the little one rapturously in her arms. 
 When the two women were alone, Laura sat on the veranda 
 steps with her head resting upon her mother's knee. The 
 mother touched the soft hair and said: "Laura, you are 
 very tired." 
 
 "Yes, mother," the daughter answered. "The mothers 
 are so hungry for help down there in South Harvey, and," 
 she added a little drearily — "so am I; so we are speaking a 
 common language." 
 
 She nestled her head in the lap above her. "And I'm go- 
 ing to find something worth doing — something fine and 
 good." 
 
 She watched the lazy clouds, "You know I'm glad about 
 Morty Sands. Grant thinks Morty sincerely wants to 
 amount to something real — to help and be more than a money 
 grubber! If the old spider would just let him out of the 
 web!" The mother stared at her daughter a second. 
 
 "Well, Laura, about the only money grubbing Morty seems 
 to be doing is grubbing money out of his father to maintain 
 his race horse. ' ' 
 
 The daughter smiled and the mother went on with her 
 work. "Mother, did you know that little Ruth Morton is 
 going to begin taking vocal lessons this summer?" The 
 mother shook her head. "Grant says Mr. Brotherton's pay- 
 ing for it. He thinks she has a wonderful voice." 
 
270 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Voice — " cut in Mrs. Nesbit, "why Laura, the child's 
 only fourteen — voice — !" 
 
 Laura answered, "Yes, mother, but you've never heard 
 her sing; she has a beautiful, deep, contralto voice, but the 
 treble above ' C ' is a trifle squeaky, and Mr. Brotherton says 
 he's 'going to have it oiled'; so she's to 'take vocal' regu- 
 larly." 
 
 On matters musical Mrs. Nesbit believed she had a right 
 to know the whole truth, so she asked: "Where does Mr. 
 Brotherton come in, Laura?" 
 
 "Oh, mother, he's always been a kind of god-father to 
 those girls. You know as well as I that Emma's been play- 
 ing with that funeral choir of yours and Mr. Brotherton 's 
 all these years, only because he got her into it, and Grant 
 says he's kept Mrs. Herdicker from discharging Martha for 
 two years, just by sheer nerve. Of course Grant gets it 
 from Mr. Brotherton but Grant says Martha's so pretty she's 
 such a trial to Mrs. Herdicker ! I like Martha, but, mother, 
 she just thinks she should be carried round on a chip because 
 of her brown eyes and red hair and dear little snubby nose. 
 Grant says Mr. Brotherton is trying to get the money some- 
 way to float the Captain's stock company and put his 
 Household Horse on the market. I think Mr. Brotherton is 
 a fine man, mother — he's always doing things to help peo- 
 ple." 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit folded up her work, and began to rise. 
 "George Brotherton, Laura," said her mother as she stood 
 at full length looking down upon her child, "has a voice of 
 an angel, and perhaps the heart of a god, but he will eat 
 onions and during the twenty years I've been singing with 
 him I've never known him to speak a correct sentence. 
 Common, Laura — common as dishwater." 
 
 As Laura Van Dorn talked the currents of life eddying 
 about her were reflected in what she said. But she could 
 not know the spirit that was moving the currents; for with 
 a neighborly shyness those who were gathering about her 
 were careful to seem casual in their kindness, and she could 
 not know how deeply they were moved to help her. Kinder- 
 gartens were hardly in George Brotherton 's line ; yet he un- 
 tied old bundles of papers, ransacked his shop and brought a 
 
TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS 271 
 
 great heap of old posters and picture papers to her. Captain 
 Morton brought a beloved picture of his army Colonel to 
 adorn the room, and deaf John Kollander, who had a low 
 opinion of the ignorant foreigners and the riff-raff and scum 
 of society, which Laura was trying to help, wished none the 
 less to help her, and came down one day with a flag for 
 the schoolroom and insisted upon making a speech to the 
 tots about patriotism. He made nothing clear to them but 
 he made it quite clear to himself that they were getting 
 the flag as a charity, which they little deserved, and never 
 would return. And to Laura he conveyed the impression 
 that he considered her mission a madness, but for her and 
 the sorrow which she was fighting, he had appreciative 
 tenderness. He must have impressed his emotions upon his 
 wife for she came down and talked elaborately about starting 
 a cooking school in the building, and after planning it all out, 
 went away and forgot it. The respectable iron gray side- 
 whiskers of Ahab Wright once relieved the dingy school 
 room, when Ahab looked in and the next day Kyle Perry 
 on behalf of the firm of Wright & Perry came trudging into 
 the kindergarten with a huge box which he said contained a 
 p-p-p-p-p-pat-a-p-p-p-pppat-pat — " here he swallowed and 
 started all over and finally said p-p-patent," and then started 
 out on a long struggle with the word swing, but he never 
 finished it, and until Laura opened the box she thought Mr. 
 Perry had brought her a soda fountain. But Nathan Perry, 
 his son, who came wandering down to the place one after- 
 noon with Anne Sands, put up the swing, and suggested a 
 half dozen practical devices for the teacher to save time and 
 labor in her work, while Anne Sands in her teens looked on 
 as one who observes a major god completing a bungling job 
 of the angels on a newly contrived world. 
 
 Sometimes coming home from his day's work Amos Adams 
 would drop in for a chat with the tired teacher, and he 
 refreshed her curiously with his quiet manner and his un- 
 sure otherworldliness, and his tough, unyielding optimism. 
 He had no lectures for the children. He would watch them 
 at their games, try to play with them himself in a pathetic, 
 old-fashioned way, telling them fairy stories of an elder 
 and a grimmer day than ours. Sometimes Doctor Nesbit, 
 
272 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 coming for Laura in his buggy, would find Amos in the 
 school room, and they would fall to their everlasting debate 
 upon the reality of time and space with the Doctor enjoying 
 hugely his impious attempt to couch the terminology of 
 abstract philosophy in his Indiana vernacular. 
 
 Lida Bowman bringing her little brood sometimes would 
 sit silently watching the children, and look at Laura as if 
 about to speak, but she always went away with her mind un- 
 relieved. Violet Hogan, who brought her beruffled and 
 bedizened eldest, made up for Mrs. Bowman's reticence. 
 Moreover Violet brought other mothers and there was much 
 talk on the topics of the day — talk that revealed to Laura 
 Nesbit a whole philosophy that was new to her — the help- 
 fulness of the poor to the poor. 
 
 But if others brought to Laura Van Dorn material 
 strength and spiritual comfort in her enterprise, Grant 
 Adams waved the wand of his steel claw over the kindergar- 
 ten and made it live. For he was a power in the Wahoo 
 Valley. Her friends knew that his word gave the kinder- 
 garten the endorsement of every union there and thus brought 
 to it mothers with children and with problems as well as 
 children, whom Laura Van Dorn otherwise never could 
 have reached. The unions made a small donation monthly 
 to the work which gave them the feeling of proprietorship 
 in the place and the mothers and children came in self- 
 respect. But if Grant gave life to the kindergarten, he got 
 more than he gave. For the restraining hand of Laura 
 Van Dorn always was upon him, and his friends in the 
 Valley came to realize her friendship for them and their 
 cause. They knew that many a venture of Grant's Utopia 
 would have been a wild goose chase but for the wisdom of 
 her counsel. And the two came to rely upon each other 
 unconsciously. 
 
 So in the ugly little building near Dooley's saloon in South 
 Harvey the two towns met and worked together; and all 
 to heal a broken heart, a bruised life. From out of the 
 unexplored realm where our dreams are blooming into the 
 fruit of reality one evening came Mr. Left with this message : 
 "Whoever in the joy of service gives part of himself to the 
 vast sum of sacrificial giving that has remained unspent, 
 
TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS 273 
 
 since man began to walk erect, is adding to humanity's herit- 
 age, is building an unseen temple wherein mankind is shel- 
 tered from its own inhumanity. This sum of sacrificial 
 giving is the temple not made with hands ! ' ' 
 
 Now the foundations of that part of the temple not made 
 with hands in South Harvey, may be said to have been laid 
 and the watertable set on the day when Laura Van Dorn 
 first laughed the bell-chime laugh of her girlhood. And 
 that day came well along in the summer. It was twilight 
 and the Doctor was sitting with his wife and daughter on 
 their east veranda when Morty Sands came flitting across 
 the lawn like a striped miller moth in a broad-banded outing 
 suit. He waved gayly to the little company in the veranda 
 and came up the steps at two bounds, though he was a man 
 of thirty-eight and just the least bit weazened. 
 
 "Well," he said, with his greetings scarcely off his lips, 
 ' ' I came to tell you I 've sold the colt ! ' ' 
 
 The chorus repeated his announcement as a question. 
 
 "Yes, sold the colt," solemnly responded Morty. And 
 then added, "Father just wouldn't! I tried to get that two 
 hundred in various ways — adding it to my cigar bill; slip- 
 ping it in on my bill for raiment at Wright & Perry's, but 
 father pinned Kyle down, and he stuttered out the truth. 
 I tried to get the horse-doctor to charge the two hundred 
 into his bill and when father uncovered that — I couldn't 
 wait any longer so I 've sold the colt ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, Morty, what for in Heaven's name?" asked Laura. 
 Morty began fumbling in his pockets before he spoke. He 
 did not smile, but as his hand came out of an inside pocket, 
 he said gently: "For two hundred and seventeen dollars 
 and a half ! I fought an hour for that half dollar ! " He 
 handed it to the Doctor, saying: "It's for the kindergarten. 
 You keep it for her, Doctor Jim!" 
 
 When Morty had gone Mrs. Nesbit said: "What queer 
 blood that Sands blood is, Doctor. There is Mary Sands 's 
 heart in that boy, and Daniel has bred nothing into him. 
 They must have been a queer breed a generation or two 
 back!" 
 
 The Doctor did not answer. He took the money which 
 Morty had given to him, handed it to Laura and said : "And 
 
274 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 now my dear, accept this token of devotion from Sir Morti- 
 mer Sands, of the golden heart and wooden head!" And 
 then Laura laughed, not in derision, not in merriment even, 
 but in sheer joy that life could mean so much. And as 
 she laughed the temple not made with hands began to rise 
 strong and beautiful in her heart and in the hearts of all 
 who touched her. 
 
 How they would have sneered at Laura Van Dorn's niche 
 in the temple, those practical folk who helped her because 
 they loved her. How George Brotherton would have 
 laughed; with what suspicion John Kollander would have 
 viewed the kindergarten, if he had been told that it was 
 part of a temple. For he had no sort of an idea of letting 
 the rag-tag and bob-tail of South Harvey into a temple ; he 
 knew very well they deserved no temple. They were shift- 
 less and wicked. How Wright & Perry would have sniffed 
 at any one who would have called the dreary little shack, 
 where Laura Van Dorn held forth, a temple. For they all 
 pretended to see only the earthly dimensions of material 
 things. But in their hearts they knew the truth. It is the 
 American way to mask the beauty of our nobler selves, or 
 real selves under a gibing deprecation. So we wear the ve- 
 neer of materialism, and beneath it we are intense idealists. 
 And woe to him who reckons to the contrary ! 
 
 Perhaps the town's views on temples in general and 
 Laura's temple in particular, was summed up by Hildy 
 Herdicker, Prop., when she read Mr. Left's reflections in the 
 Tribune. "Temples — eh? — temples not made with hands — 
 is it? Well, Miss Laura can get what comfort she can out 
 of her baby shop ; but me ? Every man to his trade as Kyle 
 Perry said when he tried to buy a dozen scissors and got a 
 sewing machine — me? — I get my heart balm selling hats, 
 and if others gets theirs coddling brats — 'tis the good God's 
 wisdom that makes us different and no business of mine so 
 long as they bring grist to the profit mill! The trouble 
 with their temples is that they don't pay taxes!" 
 
 So in the matter of putting up temples — particularly in 
 the matter of erecting temples not made with hands, the 
 town worked blindly. But so far as Laura Van Dorn was 
 concerned, while she was working on her part of the temple, 
 
TWO TEMPLES AND THE CONTENTS 275 
 
 she had the vision of youth still in her heart. Youth indeed 
 is that part of every soul that life has not tarnished, and if 
 we keep our faith, hold ourselves true and bow to no circum- 
 stance however arrogant it may be, youth still will abide in 
 our hearts through many years. Now Laura, who was born 
 Nesbit and became Van Dorn, was taking up life with that 
 large charity that comes to every unconquered soul. She 
 held her illusions, she believed in herself, and youth shone 
 like a beacon from her face and glowed in her body. 
 
 For Thomas Van Dorn, who had been her husband, she 
 had trained herself to hold no unkind thought. She even 
 taught Lila — when the child asked for him — to harbor no 
 rancor toward him. So the child turned to her father when 
 they met, the natural face of a child ; it was a sad little face 
 that he saw — though no one else ever saw it sad; but the 
 child smiled when she spoke and looked gently at him, in the 
 hope that some day he would come back to her. 
 
 Now it happened that on the night when Laura's laugh 
 first echoed through her temple another rising temple wit- 
 nessed a ceremony entirely befitting its use. 
 
 That night — late that night when a pale moon was climb- 
 ing over the valley below the town, Margaret and her lover 
 stood alone in the great unfinished house which they were 
 building. 
 
 Through the uncurtained windows the moonlight was 
 streaming, making white splashes upon the floors. Across 
 the plank pathways they wandered locating the halls, the 
 great living-room, the spacious dining-room, the airy, com- 
 fortable bedrooms exposed to the south, the library, the 
 kitchen, and the ballroom on the third floor. It was to be a 
 grand house — this house of Van Dorn. And in their fancy 
 the man and the woman called it the temple of love erected 
 as an altar to the love god whom they worshiped. They 
 peopled it with many a merry company. They saw the rich 
 and the great in the dining-room. They pictured in this 
 vision pleasure capering through the ball room. They en- 
 shrined wisdom and contentment in the library. In the 
 great living-room they installed elegance and luxury, and 
 hospitality beckoned with ostentatious pride for the coming 
 of such of the nobility as Harvey and its environs and the 
 
276 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 surrounding state and Nation could produce. A grand, 
 proud temple, a rich, beautiful temple, a strong, masterful 
 temple would be this temple of love. 
 
 "And, dearest," said he — the master of the house, as he 
 held her in his arms at the foot of the stairway that swept 
 down into the broad hall like the ghost of some baronial 
 grandeur, "dearest, what do we care what they say! We 
 have built it for ourselves — just for you, I want it — just 
 for you; not friends, not children, not any one but you. 
 This is to be our temple of love. ' ' 
 
 She kissed him, and whined wordless assent. Then she 
 whispered: "Just you — you, you, and if man, woman or 
 child come to mar our joy or to lessen our love, God pity 
 the intruder." And like a flaming torch she fluttered in 
 his arms. 
 
 The summer breeze came caressingly through an unclosed 
 window into the temple. It seemed — the summer breeze 
 which fell upon their cheeks — like the benediction of some 
 pagan god ; their god of love perhaps. For the grand house, 
 the rich house, the beautiful, masterful temple of their 
 mad love was made for summer breezes. 
 
 But when the rain came, and the storms fell and beat upon 
 that house, they found that it was a house built upon sand. 
 But while it stood and even when it fell there was a temple, 
 a real temple, a temple made with hands — a temple that 
 all Harvey and all the world could understand! 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 DR. NESBIT STARTS ON A LONG UPWARD BUT DEVIOUS JOURNEY 
 
 THE Van Dorns opened their new house without osten- 
 tation the day after their marriage in October. 
 There was no reception ; the handsomest hack in town 
 waited for them at the railway station, as they alighted from 
 the Limited from Chicago. They rode down Market Street, 
 up the Avenue to Elm Crest Place, drove to the new house, 
 and that night it was lighted. That was all the ceremony 
 of housewarming which the place had. The Van Dorns 
 knew what the town thought of them. They made it plain 
 what they thought of the town. They allowed no second 
 rate people to crowd into the house as guests while the first 
 rate people smiled, and the third rate people sniffed. The 
 Judge had some difficulty keeping Mrs. Van Dorn to their 
 purpose. She was impatient — having nothing in particular 
 to think about, and being proud of her furniture. Naturally, 
 there were calls — a few. And they were returned with some 
 punctiliousness. But the people whom the Van Dorns were 
 anxious to see did not call. In the winter, the Van Dorns 
 went to Florida for a fortnight, and put up at a hotel where 
 they could meet a number of persons of distinction whom 
 they courted, and whom the Van Dorns pressed to visit them. 
 When she came home from the winter's social excursion, 
 Mrs. Van Dorn went straight to the establishment of Mrs. 
 Herdicker, Prop., and bought a hat; and bragged to Mrs. 
 Herdicker of having met certain New York social digni- 
 taries in Florida whose names were as familiar to the Harvey 
 women as the names of their hired girl's beaux! Then 
 having started this tale of her social prowess on its career, 
 Margaret was more easily restrained by her husband from 
 offering the house to the Plymouth Daughters for an enter- 
 tainment. It was in that spring that Margaret began— or 
 
 277 , 
 
278 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 perhaps they both began to put on what George Brotherton 
 called the "Van Dorn remnant sale." The parade passed 
 down Market Street every morning at eight thirty. It con- 
 sisted of one handsome rather overdressed man and one beau- 
 tiful rather conspicuously dressed woman. On fair days 
 they rode in a rakish-looking vehicle known as a trap, and 
 in bad weather they walked through Market Street. At the 
 foot of the stairs leading to the Judge's office they parted 
 with all the voltage of affection permitted by the canons of 
 propriety and at five in the evening, Mrs. Van Dorn re- 
 appeared on Market Street, and at the foot of the stairs 
 before the Judge's office, the parade resumed its course. 
 
 "Well — say," said George Brotherton, "right smart lit- 
 tle line of staple and fancy love that firm is carrying this 
 season. Rather nice titles too; good deal of full calf 
 bindings — well, say — glancing at the illustrations, I should 
 like to read the text. But man — say — hear your Uncle 
 George ! "With me it's always a sign of low stock when I put 
 it all in the window and the show case! Well, say — " and 
 he laughed like the ripping of an earthquake. "It cer- 
 tainly looks to me as if they were moving the line for a 
 quick turnover at a small profit! Well say!" 
 
 But without the complicated ceremony required to show 
 the town that he was pleased with his matrimonial bargain, 
 the handsome Judge was a busy man. Every time he saw 
 Dr. Nesbit toddling up or down Market Street, or through 
 South Harvey, or in the remotenesses of Foley or Magnus, 
 the Judge whipped up his energies. For he knew that 
 the Doctor never lost a fight through overconfidence. So 
 the Judge, alone for the first time in his career, set out to 
 bring about his nomination, where a nomination meant an 
 election. Now a judge who showed the courage of his con- 
 victions, as Judge Van Dorn had shown his courage in forc- 
 ing settlements in the mine accident cases and in similar 
 matters of occasional interest, was rather more immediately 
 needed by the mine owners of Harvey than the political 
 boss, who merely used the mine owner's money to encompass 
 his own ends, and incidentally work out the owner's salva- 
 tion. Daniel Sands played both sides, which was all that 
 Van Dorn could ask. But when the Doctor saw that Sands 
 
DR. NESBIT STARTS ON A JOURNEY 279 
 
 was giving secret aid to Van Dora, the Doctor's heart was 
 hot within him. And Van Dorn continued to rove the dis- 
 trict day and night, like a dog, hunting for its buried bone. 
 
 It was in the courthouse that Van Dorn made his strong- 
 est alliance — in the courthouse, where the Doctor was sup- 
 posed to be in supreme command. A capricious fate had 
 arranged it so that nearly all the county officers were running 
 for their second terms, and a second term was a time honored 
 courtesy. Van Dorn tied himself up with them by main- 
 taining that his was a second term election also, — and a 
 second regular four year term it was. His appointment, and 
 his election to fill out the remainder of his predecessor's 
 term, he waved aside as immaterial, and staged himself as 
 a candidate for his second term. The Doctor tried to break 
 the combination between the Judge and the second term 
 county candidates by ruthlessly bringing out their deputies 
 against the second termers as candidates. But the scheme 
 provoked popular rebellion. The Doctor tried bringing out 
 one young lawyer after another against the Judge, but all 
 had retainers from the mine owners, and no one in the county 
 would run against Van Dorn, so the Doctor had to pick his 
 candidate from outside of the county, in a judicial convention 
 wherein Greeley County had a majority of the votes. But 
 Van Dorn knew that for all the strategy of the situation, the 
 Doctor might be able to mass the town's disapproval of Van 
 Dorn, socially, into a political majority in the convention 
 against him. So the handsome Judge, with his matrimonial 
 parade to give daily, his political fortunes to consider every 
 hour, and withal, a court to hold, and a judicial serenity to 
 maintain, was a busy young man — a rather more than passing 
 busy young man ! 
 
 As for the Doctor, he threw himself into the contest against 
 Van Dorn with no mixed motives. "There," quoth the 
 Doctor, to the wide world including his own henchmen, yeo- 
 men, heralds, and outriders, "is one hound pup I am going 
 to teach house manners!" And failing to break Van Dorn's 
 alliance in the courthouse, and failing to bulldoze Daniel 
 Sands out of a secret liaison with Van Dorn, failing to 
 punish those of his courthouse friends who permitted Van 
 Dorn to stand with them on their convention tickets in the 
 
280 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 primary, the Doctor went forth with his own primary ticket, 
 and announced that he proposed to beat Van Dorn in the 
 convention single handed and alone. 
 
 And so quiet are the wheels of our government, that few 
 heard them grinding during the spring and early summer 
 — few except the little coterie of citizens who pay attention 
 to the details of party politics. Yet underneath and over 
 the town, and through the very heart of it wherever the web 
 of the spider went, there was a cruel rending. Two men 
 with hate in their hearts were pulling at the web, wrenching 
 its filaments, twisting it out of shape, ripping its texture, in 
 a desperate struggle to control the web, and with that control 
 to govern the people. 
 
 Then Dr. Nesbit pushed his way into the very nest of the 
 spider, and bolted into Daniel Sands 's office to register a 
 final protest against Sands 's covert alliance with the Judge. 
 He plunked angrily into the den of the spider, shut the door, 
 turned the spring lock, and looking around saw not Sands, 
 but Van Dorn himself. 
 
 The Doctor burst out: "Well, young man! So you're 
 here, eh!" Van Dorn nodded pleasantly, and replied gra- 
 ciously: "Yes, Doctor, here I am, and I believe we have met 
 here before — at one time or another. ' ' 
 
 The Doctor sat down and slapping a fat hand on a chair 
 arm, cried angrily: "Thomas, it can't be did — you can't 
 cut 'er." 
 
 Judge Van Dorn answered blandly, rather patronizingly: 
 "Yes, Dr. Jim, it can be done. And I shall do it." 
 
 "Have you let 'em fool you — the fellows on the street?" 
 asked the Doctor. 
 
 Judge Van Dorn tapped on the desk beside him medi- 
 tatively, then answered slowly: "No — I should say they 
 mostly lied to me — they're not for me — excepting, maybe, 
 Captain Morton, who tried to say he was opposed to me — 
 but couldn't — quite. No — Doctor — no — Market Street didn't 
 fool me." 
 
 He was so suave about it, so naive, and yet so cock-sure of 
 his success, that the Doctor was impatient: "Tom," he 
 piped, ' ' I tell you, they 're too strong to bluff and too many 
 to buy. You can't make it." 
 
DR. NESBIT STARTS ON A JOURNEY 281 
 
 The younger man shut one eye, knocked with his tongue 
 on the roof of his mouth, and then said as he looked insolently 
 into the Doctor's face : 
 
 "Well, to begin — what's your price?" 
 
 The Doctor flushed ; his loose skin twitched around his nos- 
 trils, and he gripped his chair arms. He did not answer for 
 nearly a minute, during which the Judge tilted back in his 
 chair beside the desk and looked at the elder man with some 
 show of curiosity, if not of interest. 
 
 "My price," sneered the Doctor, "is a little mite low to- 
 day. It's a pelt — a hound pup's pelt and you are going 
 to furnish it, if you'll stop strutting long enough for me 
 to skin you!" 
 
 The two men glared at each other. Then Van Dorn, re- 
 gaining his poise, answered: "Well, sir, I'm going to win 
 — no matter how — I'm going to win. I've sat up with this 
 situation every night for six months — Oh, for a year. I 
 know it backwards and forwards, and you can't trip me any 
 place along the line. I 've counted you out. ' ' He went on 
 smiling : 
 
 "What have I done that is not absolutely legal? This is 
 a government of law, Doctor — not of hysteria. The trouble 
 with you," the Judge settled down to an upright position in 
 his chair, "is that you're an old maid. You're so — so" he 
 drawled the "so" insolently, "damn nice. You're an old 
 maid, and you come from a family of old maids. I warrant 
 your grandmother and her mother before her were old maids. 
 There hasn't been a man in your family for five generations." 
 The Doctor rose. Van Dorn went on arrogantly, "Doctor 
 James Nesbit, I'm not afraid of you. And I'll tell you 
 this: If you make a fight on me in this contest, when I'm 
 elected, we'll see if there isn't one less corrupt boss in this 
 state and if Greeley County can't contribute a pompadour 
 to the rogues' gallery and a tenor voice to the penitentiary 
 choir. ' ' 
 
 During the harangue of the Judge, the Doctor's full lips 
 had begun to twitch in a smile, and his eyes to twinkle. Then 
 he chirped gaily: 
 
 ' ' Heap o ' steam for the size of the load and weight of your 
 biler, Tom. Better hoop 'em up ! " 
 
282 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 And with a laugh, shaking his little round stomach, he 
 toddled out of the room into the corridor, and began whistling 
 the tune that tells what will happen when Johnny comes 
 marching home. 
 
 So the Doctor whistled about his afternoon's work and 
 did not realize that the whistling was a form of nervous- 
 ness. 
 
 That evening the Doctor and Laura began to read their 
 Browning where they had left off the night before. They 
 were in the midst of "Paracelsus," when the father looked 
 up and said: 
 
 "Laura, you know I'm going to fight Tom Van Dorn for 
 another term as district judge?" 
 
 "Why, of course you should, father — I didn't expect 
 he'd ask it again!" said the daughter. 
 
 "We had a row this afternoon — a miserable, bickering 
 row. He got on his hind legs and snarled and snapped at 
 me, and made me mad, I guess. So I got to thinking why I 
 should be against him, and it came to me that a man who had 
 violated the decencies as he has and whose decisions for the 
 old spider have been so raw, shouldn't be judge in this 
 district. Lord, what will young fellows think if we stand 
 for him ! So I have kind of worked myself up, ' ' the Doctor 
 smiled deprecatingly, ""to a place where I seem to have a 
 sacred duty in the matter of licking him for the sake of gen- 
 eral decency. Anyway," he concluded in his high falsetto, 
 "old Browning's diver, here, fits me. He goes down a 
 pauper and, with his pearl, comes up a prince. ' ' 
 
 "Festus," cried the Doctor, waving the book, "I plunge." 
 
 Thus through the pique of pride, and through the sting of 
 scorn, a force of righteousness came into the world of Harvey. 
 For our miracles of human progress are not always done with 
 prunes and prisms. The truth does not come to men always, 
 nor even, generally, as they are gazing in joyful admiration 
 at the good and the beautiful. Sudden conversions of men to 
 good causes are rare, and often unstable and sometimes worth- 
 less. The good Lord would find much of the best work of 
 the world undone if he waited until men guided by purely 
 altruistic motives and inspired by new impulses to righteous- 
 ness, did it. The world 's work is done by ladies and gentle- 
 
DR. NESBIT STARTS ON A JOURNEY 283 
 
 men who, for the most part, are largely clay, working in the 
 clay, for clay rewards, with just enough of the divine im- 
 pulse moving them to keep their faces turned forward and 
 not back. 
 
 Public opinion in the Amen Corner, voiced by Mr. Broth- 
 erton, spoke for Harvey and said: "Well, say — what do 
 you think of Old Linen Pants bucking the whole courthouse 
 just to get the hide of Judge Van Dorn? Did you ever see 
 such a thing in your whole life?" emphasizing the word 
 "whole" with fine effect. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton sat at his desk in the rear of his store, con- 
 templating the splendor of his possessions. Gradually the 
 rear of the shop had been creeping toward the alley. It 
 was filled with books, stationery, cigars and smoker's sup- 
 plies. The cigars and smoker's supplies were crowded to 
 a little alcove near the Amen Corner, and the books — school 
 books, pirated editions of the standard authors, fancy edi- 
 tions of the classics, new books copyrighted and gorgeously 
 bound in the fashion of the hour, were displayed prominently. 
 Great posters adorned the vacant spaces on the walls, and 
 posters and enlarged magazine covers adorned the bulletin 
 boards in front of the store. Piles of magazines towered on 
 the front counters — and upon the whole, Mr. Brotherton 's 
 place presented a fairly correct imitation of the literary 
 tendencies of the period in America just before the Spanish 
 war. 
 
 Amos Adams came in, with his old body bent, his hands 
 behind him, his shapeless coat hanging loosely from his 
 stooped shoulders, his little tri-colored button of the Loyal 
 Legion in his coat lapel, being the only speck of color in his 
 graying figure. He peered at Mr. Brotherton over his spec- 
 tacles and said: "George — I'd like to look at Emerson's 
 addresses — the Phi Beta Kappa Address particularly." He 
 nosed up to the shelves and went peering along the books in 
 sets. "Help yourself, Dad, help yourself — Glad you like 
 Emerson — elegant piece of goods ; wrapped one up last week 
 and took it home myself — elegant piece of goods. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," mused the reader, "here is what I want — I had a 
 talk with Emerson last night. He's against the war; not 
 that he is for Spain, of course, but Huxley," added Amos, as 
 
284 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 he turned the pages of his book, "rather thinks we should 
 fight — believes war lies along the path of greatest resistance, 
 and will lead to our greater destiny sooner." The old man 
 sighed, and continued: "Poor Lincoln — I couldn't get him 
 last night : they say he and Garrison were having a great row 
 about the situation." 
 
 The elder stroked his ragged beard meditatively. Finally 
 he said : ' ' George — did you ever hear our Kenyon play ? ' ' 
 
 The big man nodded and went on with his work. "Well, 
 sir," the elder reflected: "Now, it's queer about Kenyon. 
 He's getting to be a wonder. I don't know — it all puzzles 
 me. ' ' He rose, put back the book on its shelf. ' ' Sometimes 
 I believe I'm a fool — and sometimes things like this bother 
 me. They say they are training Kenyon — on the other side ! 
 Of course he just has what music Laura and Mrs. Nesbit 
 could give him; yet the other day, he got hold of a piano 
 score of Schubert's Symphony in B flat and while he can't 
 play it, he just sits and cries over it — it means so much to the 
 little fellow." 
 
 The gray head wagged and the clear, old, blue eyes looked 
 out through the steel-rimmed glasses and he sighed: "He 
 is going ahead, making up the most wonderful music — it 
 seems to me, and writing it down when he can't play it — 
 writing the whole score for it — and they tell me — " he ex- 
 plained deprecatingly, "my friends on the other side, that 
 the child will make a name for himself." He paused and 
 asked: "George — you're a hardhead ed man — what do you 
 think of it? You don't think I'm crazy, do you, George?" 
 
 The younger man glanced up, caught the clear, kindly eye 
 of Amos Adams looking questioningly down. 
 
 "Dad," said Mr. Brotherton, hammering his fat fist on the 
 desk, " 'there's more things in Heaven and earth than are 
 dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio' — well say, man — 
 that's Shakespeare. We sell more Shakespeares than all the 
 other poets combined. Fine business, this Shakespeare. 
 And when a man holds the lead in the trade as this Shake- 
 speare has done ever since I went into the Red Line poets 
 back in the eighties — I'm pretty nearly going to stay by 
 him. And when he says, 'Don't be too damn sure you know 
 it all — ' or words to that effect — and holds the trade saying 
 
DR. NESBIT STARTS ON A JOURNEY 285 
 
 it — well, say, man — your spook friends are all right with me, 
 only say, ' ' Mr. Brotherton shuddered, " I 'd die if one came 
 gliding up to me and asked for a chew of my eating tobacco 
 — the way they do with you ! ' ' 
 
 "Well," smiled Amos Adams, "much obliged to you, 
 George — I just wanted your ideas. Laura Van Dorn has sent 
 Kenyon's last piece back to Boston to see if by any chance 
 he couldn't unconsciously have taken it from something or 
 some one. She says it's wonderful — but, of course," the old 
 man scratched his chin, ' ' Laura and Bedelia Nesbit are just 
 as likely to be fooled in music as I am with my controls." 
 Then the subject drifted into politics — the local politics of 
 the town, the Van Dorn-Nesbit contest. 
 
 And at the end of their discussion Amos rubbed his bony, 
 lean, hard, old hands, and looked away through the books 
 and the brick wall and the whole row of buildings before 
 him into the future and smiled. "I wonder — I wonder if 
 the country ever will come to see the economic and social and 
 political meaning of this politics that we have now — this 
 politics that the poor man gets through a beer keg the night 
 before election, and that the rich man buys with his 'barl.' " 
 
 He shook his head. "You'll see it — you and Grant — but 
 it will be long after my time." Amos lifted up his old face 
 and cried : "I know there is another day coming — a better 
 day. For this one is unworthy of us. We are better than 
 this — at heart ! We have in us the blood of the fathers, and 
 their high visions too. And they did not put their lives into 
 this nation for this — for this cruel tangle of injustice that we 
 show the world to-day. Some day — some day," Amos 
 Adams lifted up his face and cried: "I don't know! May 
 be my guides are wrong but my own heart tells me that 
 some day we shall cease feeding with the swine and return 
 to the house of our father! For we are of royal blood, 
 George — of royal blood!" 
 
 "Why, hello, Morty," cut in Mr. Brotherton. "Come 
 right in and listen to the seer — genuine Hebrew prophet here 
 — got a familiar spirit, and says Babylon is falling. ' ' 
 
 "Well, Uncle Amos," said Morty Sands, "let her fall!" 
 Old Amos smiled and after Morty had turned the talk from 
 falling Babylon to Laura Van Dorn's kindergarten, Amos 
 
286 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 being reminded by Laura of Kenyon and his music, unfolded 
 his theory of the occult source of the child's musical talent, 
 and invited George and Morty to church to hear Kenyon 
 play. 
 
 So when Sunday came, with it came full knowledge that 
 most members of the congregation were to hear Kenyon 
 Adams' new composition, which had been rather widely ad- 
 vertised by his friends ; and Rev. John Dexter, feeling himself 
 a fifth wheel, discarded his sermon and in humility and con- 
 trition submitted some extemporaneous remarks on the pas- 
 sion for humanity of ' ' Christ and him crucified. ' ' 
 
 A little boy was Kenyon Adams — a slim, great-eyed, seri- 
 ous faced, little boy in an Eton jacket and knickerbockers — 
 not so much larger than his violin that he carried under his 
 arm. His little hand shook, but Grant caught his gaze and 
 with a tender, earnest reassurance put sinews into the small 
 arms, and stilled an unsteady jaw. The organ was playing 
 the prelude, when the little hand with the bow went out in a 
 wide, sure, strong curve, and when the bow touched the 
 strings, they sang from a soul depth that no child's experi- 
 ence could know. 
 
 It was the first public rendering of the now famous Adagio 
 in C minor, known sometimes as "The Prairie Wind," or 
 perhaps better as the Intermezzo between the second and 
 third acts of the opera that made Kenyon Adams' fame in 
 Europe before he was twenty. It has been changed but little 
 since that first hearing there in John Dexter 's church with 
 the Sands Memorial organ, built in the early eighties for 
 Elizabeth Page Sands, mother of Anne of that tribe. The 
 composition is simplicity itself — save for the mystical ques- 
 tioning that runs through it in the sustained sevenths— a 
 theme which Captain Morton said always reminded him of a 
 meadow lark's evening song, but which repeats itself over 
 and over plaintively and sadly as the stately music swells to 
 its crescendo and dies with that unanswered cry of heart- 
 break echoing in the last faint notes of the closing bar. 
 
 When it was finished, those who had ears heard and under- 
 stood and those who had not said, "Well," and waited for 
 public opinion, unless they were fools, in which case they 
 said they would have preferred something to whistle. But 
 
DR. NBSBIT STARTS ON A JOURNEY 287 
 
 because the thing impressed itself upon hundreds of hearts 
 that hour, many in the congregation came forward to greet 
 the child. 
 
 Among these, was a tall, stately young woman in pure 
 white with a rose upon her hat so deeply red that it seemed 
 guilty of a shame. But her lips were as red as the red of 
 the rose and her eyes glistened and her face was wrought 
 upon by a great storm in her heart. Behind her walked a 
 proud gentleman, a lordly gentleman who elbowed his way 
 through the throng as one who touches the unclean. The 
 pale child stood by Grant Adams as they came. Kenyon did 
 not see the beautiful woman ; the child 's eyes were upon the 
 man. He knew the man ; Lila had poured out her soul to the 
 boy about the man and in his child's heart he feared and ab- 
 horred the man for he knew not what. The man and woman 
 kept coming closer. They were abreast as they stepped into 
 the pulpit where the child stood. By his own music, his soul 
 had been stirred and riven and he was nervous and excited. 
 As the woman beside the man stretched out her arms, with 
 her face tense from some inner turmoil, the child saw only 
 the proud man beside her and shrank back with a wild cry 
 and hid in his father's breast. The eyes of Grant and Mar- 
 garet met, but the child only cuddled into the broad breast 
 before him and wept, crying, "No — no — no — " 
 
 Then the proud man turned back, spurned but not knowing 
 it, and the beautiful woman with red shame in her soul fol- 
 lowed him with downcast face. In the church porch she 
 lifted up her face as she said with her fair, false mouth: 
 ' ' Tom, isn 't it funny how those kind of people sometimes have 
 talent — just like the lower animals seem to have intelligence. 
 Dear me, but that child's music has upset me!" 
 
 The man's heart was full of pride and hate and the 
 woman's heart was full of pride and jealousy. Still the air 
 was sweet for them, the birds sang for them, and the sun 
 shone tenderly upon them. They even laughed, as they went 
 their high Jovian way, at the vanities of the world on its 
 lower plane. But their very laughter was the crackling of 
 thorns under a pot wherein their hearts were burning. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN WHICH WE SEE SOMETHING COME INTO THIS STORY 
 OUTSIDE OF THE MATERIAL WORLD 
 
 i fW IFE," writes Mr. Left, using the pseudonym of the 
 I Peachblow philosopher, ' ' disheartens us because we 
 
 J A expect the wrong things of it. "We expect material 
 
 rewards for spiritual virtues, material punishments for 
 spiritual transgressions; when even in the material world, 
 material rewards and punishments do not always follow the 
 acts which seem to require them. Yet the only sure thing in 
 the world is that our spiritual lapses bring spiritual punish- 
 ments, and our spiritual virtues have their spiritual re- 
 wards. ' ' 
 
 Now these observations of Mr. Left might well be taken for 
 the thesis of this story. Tom Van Dorn's spiritual trans- 
 gressions had no material punishments and the good that 
 was in Grant Adams had no material reward. Yet the spirit- 
 ual laws which they obeyed or violated were inexorable in 
 their rewards and punishments. 
 
 Once there entered the life of Judge Van Dorn, from the 
 outside, the play of purely spiritual forces, which looped him 
 up and tripped him in another man's game, and Tom, poor 
 fellow, may have thought that it was a special Providence 
 around with a warrant looking after him. Now this state- 
 ment hangs on one "if," — if you can call Nate Perry a man! 
 "One generation passeth and another cometh on," saith the 
 Preacher. Perhaps it has occurred to the reader that the 
 love affairs of this book are becoming exceedingly middle 
 aged ; some have only the dying glow of early reminiscence. 
 But here comes one that is as young as spring flowers ; that 
 is — if Nate Perry is a man, and is entitled to a love affair 
 at all. Let's take a look at him: long legged, lean faced, 
 keen eyed, razor bodied, just back from College where he has 
 
 288 
 
STORY OUTSIDE OF THE MATERIAL WORLD 289 
 
 studied mining engineering. He is a pick and shovel miner 
 in the Wahoo Fuel Company's mine, getting the practical 
 end of the business. For he is heir apparent of stuttering 
 Kyle Perry, who has holdings in the mines. Young Nate's 
 voice rasps like the whine of a saw and he has no illusions 
 about the stuff the world is made of. For him life is atoms 
 flopping about in the ether in an entirely consistent and 
 satisfactory manner. Things spiritual don't bother him. 
 And yet it was in working out a spiritual equation in Nate 
 Perry's life that Providence tipped over Tom Van Dorn, in 
 his race for Judgeship. 
 And now let us put Mr. Brotherton on the stand : 
 " Showers," exclaims Mr. Brotherton, "showers for Nate 
 and Anne, — why, only yesterday I sent him and Grant Adams 
 over to Mrs. Herdicker's to borrow her pile-driver, and 
 spanked him for canning a dog, and it hasn't been more'n 
 a week since I gave Anne a rattle when her father brought 
 her down town the day after the funeral, as he was looking 
 over Wright & Perry's clerks for the fourth Mrs. Sands — 
 and here's showers! Well, say, isn't time that blue streak! 
 Showers! Say, I saw Tom Van Dorn's little Lila in the 
 store this morning — isn't she the beauty — bluest eyes, and the 
 sweetest, saddest, dearest little face — and say, man — I do 
 believe Tom's kind of figuring up what he missed along that 
 line. He tried to talk to her this morning, but she looked 
 at him with those blue eyes and shrank away. Doc Jim 
 bought her a doll and a train of cars. That was just this 
 morning, and well, say — I wouldn't be surprised if when I 
 come down and unlock the store to-morrow morning, some 
 one will be telling me she's having showers. Isn't time that 
 old hot-foot?" 
 
 "Showers — kitchen showers and linen showers, and silver 
 showers for little Anne — little Anne with the wide, serious 
 eyes, 'the home of silent prayer' ; — well, say, do you know who 
 said that? It was Tennyson. Nice, tasty piece of goods — 
 that man Tennyson. I've handled him in padded leather 
 covers ; fancy gilt cloth, plain boards, deckle-edges, wide mar- 
 gins, hand-made paper, and in thirty-nine cent paper — and 
 he is a neat, nifty piece of goods in all of them — always easy 
 to move and no come backs." After this pean to the poet, 
 
290 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 Mr. Brotherton turned again to his meditations, "Little Anne 
 — "Why, it's just last week or such a matter I wrapped up 
 Mother Goose for her — just the other day she came in when 
 they sent her off to school, and I gave her a diary — and now 
 it's showers — " He shook his great head, "Well, say — I'm 
 getting on." 
 
 And while Mr. Brotherton mused the fire burned — the fire 
 of youth that glowed in the heart of Nathan Perry. When 
 he wandered back from college no one in particular had 
 noticed him. But Anne Sands was no one in particular. 
 And as no one in particular was looking after Anne and her 
 affairs, as a girl in her teens she had focused her heart upon 
 the gangling youth, and there grew into life one of those 
 matter-of-fact, unromantic love affairs that encompass the 
 whole heart. For they are as commonplace as light and air 
 and are equally vital. Because their course is smooth, such 
 affairs seem shallow. But let unhappy circumstance break 
 the even surface, and behold, from their depths comes all the 
 beauty of a great force diverted, all the anguish of a great 
 passion curbed and thwarted. 
 
 In this democratic age, when deep emotional experiences 
 are not the privilege of the few, but the lot of many, heart 
 break is almost commonplace. We do not notice it as it may 
 have been noted in those ehivalric days when only the few 
 had the finer sensibilities that may make great mental suffer- 
 ing possible. So here in the commonplace town of Harvey, 
 in their commonplace homes, amid their commonplace friends 
 and relatives, two commonplace hearts were aching all un- 
 suspected by a commonplace world. And it happened thus : 
 
 Anne Sands had opinions about the renomination and re- 
 election of Judge Van Dorn. For Judge Van Dorn's divorce 
 and remarriage had offended Anne Sands. 
 
 On the other hand, to Nathan Perry the aspirations of 
 Judge Van Dorn meant nothing but the ambition of a politi- 
 cian in politics. So when Anne and he had fallen into the 
 inevitable discussion of the Van Dorn case, as a part of an 
 afternoon's talk, indignation flashed upon indifference and 
 the girl saw, or thought she saw such a defect in the charac- 
 ter of her lover that, being what she was, she had to protest, 
 and he being what he was— he was hurt to the heart. Both 
 
STORY OUTSIDE OP THE MATERIAL WORLD 291 
 
 lovers spoke plainly. The thing sounded like a quarrel — 
 their first; and coming from the Sands house into the sum- 
 mer afternoon, Nate Perry decided to go to Brotherton's. 
 He reflected as he walked that Mr. Brotherton's remarks on 
 "showers," which had come to Anne and Nate, might pos- 
 sibly be premature. And the reflection was immensely dis- 
 quieting. 
 
 A practical youth was Nathan Perry, with a mechanical 
 instinct that gloried in adjustment. He loved to tinker and 
 potter and patch things up. Now something was wrong with 
 the gearing of his heart action. His theory was that Anne 
 was for the moment crazy. He could see nothing to get ex- 
 cited about over the renomination and election of Judge Van 
 Dorn. The men in the mine where the youth was working as 
 a miner hated Van Dorn, the people seemed to distrust him 
 as a man more or less, but if he controlled the nominating 
 convention that ended it with Nathan Perry. The Judge's 
 family affairs were in no way related to the nomination, as 
 the youth saw the case. Yet they were affecting the cams 
 and cogs and pulleys of young Mr. Perry's love affairs, and 
 he felt the matter must be repaired, and put in running 
 order. For he knew that love affair was the mainspring of 
 his life. And the mechanic in him — the Yankee that talked 
 in his rasping, high-keyed tenor voice, that shone from his 
 thin, lean face, and cadaverous body, the Yankee in him, the 
 dreaming, sentimental Yankee, half poet and half tinker, 
 fell upon the problem with unbending will and open mind. 
 
 So it came to pass that there entered into the affairs of 
 Judge Thomas Van Dorn, an element upon which he did not 
 calculate. For he was dealing only with the material ele- 
 ments of a material universe ! 
 
 When Nathan Perry came to Brotherton's he sat down in 
 the midst of a discussion of the Judgeship that began in 
 rather etherial terms. For Doctor Nesbit was saying : 
 
 "Amos, I've got you cornered if you consider the visible 
 universe. She works like a watch ; she 's as predestined as a 
 corn sheller. But let me tell you something — she isn't all 
 visible. There's something back of matter — there's another 
 side to the shield. I know mighty well there 's a time when 
 my medicine won't help sick folks — and yet they get well. 
 
292 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 I've seen a great love flame up in a man's heart or a 
 woman's heart or a child's in a bed of torture, and 
 when medicine wouldn't take hold I've seen love burn 
 through the wall between the worlds, and I have seen help 
 come just as sure as you see the Harvey Hook and Lad- 
 der Company coming rattling down Market Street ! Funny 
 old world — funny old world — seventy rides around the 
 sun — and then the fireworks." After puffing away to 
 revive his pipe he said: "I sort of got into this way of 
 thinking recently going over this judgeship fight." He 
 smoked meditatively then broke out, "Lord, Lord, what an 
 iron-clad, hog-tight, rock-ribbed, copper-riveted material 
 proposition it is that Tom is putting up. He's bound self- 
 interest with self-interest everywhere. He and Joe Calvin 
 have roped old man Sands in, and every material interest 
 in this whole district is tied up in the Van Dorn candidacy. 
 I'm a child in a cyclone in this fight. The self-interest of 
 the county candidates, of all the deputies who hope two years 
 from now to be county candidates, and all their friends, every 
 straw boss at the shops, in the smelters, in the mines — and 
 all the men who are near them and want to be straw bosses, 
 every merchant who is caught in the old spider's web with 
 a ninety-day note ; every street-car conductor, every employee 
 of the light company, every man at the waterworks plant, 
 every man at the gas plant, the telephone linemen — every 
 human being that dances in the great woof of this little 
 spider's web feels the pull of devilish material power." 
 
 Amos Adams threw back his grizzled head in a laugh that 
 failed to vocalize. ""Well, Jim, according to your account 
 you're liable to get burned and singed and disfigured until 
 you're as useless in politics as this old Amos Adams — the 
 spook chaser ! ' ' 
 
 There was no bitterness in Amos Adams's voice. "It's 
 all right, Jim — I have no complaint to make against life. 
 Forty years ago Dan Sands got the first girl I ever loved. I 
 went to war; he paid his bounty and married the girl. That 
 was a long time ago. I often think of the girl — it's no lack 
 of faith to Mary. And I have the memory of the war — of 
 that Day at Peach Tree Creek with all the wonderful exulting 
 joy of that charge and what God gave me to do. This but- 
 
STORY OUTSIDE OF THE MATERIAL WORLD 293 
 
 ton, ' ' he put his thumb under the Loyal Legion emblem in his 
 warped coat lapel, "this button is more fragrant than any 
 flower on earth to my heart. Dan Sands has had five wives ; 
 he missed the hardship of the war. He has a son by her. 
 Jim, ' ' said Amos Adams as he opened his eyes, ' ' if you knew 
 how it has cut into my heart year by year to see the beautiful 
 soul that Hester Haley gave to Morty decay under the blight 
 of his father — but you can't." He sighed. "Yet there is 
 still her soul in him — gentle, kind, trying to do the right 
 thing — but tied and hobbled by life with his father. Grant 
 may be wrong, Doctor," cried the father, raising his hand 
 excitedly, "he may be crazy, and I know they laugh at him 
 up town here — for a fool and the son of a fool; he certainly 
 doesn't know how he is going to do all the things he dreams 
 of doing — but that is not the point. The important thing is 
 that he is having his dream ! For by the Eternal, Jim Nes- 
 bit, I 'd rather feel that my boy was even a small part of the 
 life force of his planet pushing forward — I'd rather be the 
 father of that boy — I 'd rather be old Amos Adams the spook 
 chaser — than Dan Sands with his million. I 've been happier, 
 Jim, with the memory of my Mary than he with his five wives. 
 I'd rather be on the point of the drill of life and mangled 
 there, than to have my soul rot in greed." 
 
 The Doctor puffed on his pipe. "Well, Amos," he re- 
 turned quietly, "I suppose if a man wants to get all messed 
 up as one of the points of the drill of life, as you call it — it's 
 easy enough to find a place for the sacrifice. I admire Grant ; 
 but someway," his falsetto broke out, "I have thought there 
 was a little something in the bread-and-butter proposition." 
 
 "A little, Doctor Jim — but not as much as you'd think!" 
 answered Amos. 
 
 "Nevertheless in this fight here in Greeley County, I'm 
 quietly lining up a few county delegates, and picking out a 
 few trusty friends who will show up at the caucuses, and 
 Grant has a handful of crazy Ikes that I am going to use in 
 my business, and if we win it will be a practical proposition 
 — my head against Tom's." 
 
 The Doctor rose. Amos Adams stopped him with "Don't 
 be too sure of that, Jim ; I got a writing from Mr. Left last 
 night and he says — " 
 
294 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Hold on, Amos — hold on," squeaked the Doctor's fal- 
 setto; "until Mr. Left is registered in the Third Ward — we 
 won't bother with him until after the convention." 
 
 The Doctor left the place smiling at Amos and glancing 
 casually at young Mr. Perry. The dissertation had been a 
 hard strain on the practical mind of young Mr. Perry, and 
 while he was fumbling his way through the mazes of what he 
 had heard, Amos Adams left the shop and another practical 
 man very much after Nathan Perry's own heart came in. 
 Daniel Sands had no cosmic problems on his mind with which 
 to befuddle young Perry. Daniel Sands was a seedy little 
 old man of nearly three score years and ten; his dull, fishy 
 eyes framed in red lids looked shiftily at one as though he 
 was forever preoccupied in casting up sums in interest. His 
 skin was splotched and dirty, a kind of scale seemed to be 
 growing over it, and his long, thin nose stuck out of his 
 shaggy, ill-kept whiskers like a sharp snout, attenuated by 
 rooting in money. When he smiled, which was rarely, the 
 false quality of his smile seemed expressed by his false teeth 
 that were forever falling out of place when he loosed his 
 facial muscles. He walked rather stealthily back to the desk 
 where the proprietor of the shop was working; but he spoke 
 loud enough for Nate Perry's practical ear to comprehend 
 the elder man's mission. 
 
 ' ' George, I 've got to be out of town for the next ten days, 
 and the county convention will meet when I'm gone." He 
 stopped, and cleared his throat. Mr. Brotherton knew 
 what was coming. "I just called to say that we're expect- 
 ing you to do all you can for Tom." He paused. Mr. 
 Brotherton was about to reply when the old man smiled his 
 false smile and added: 
 
 "Of course, we can't afford to let our good Doctor's family 
 affairs interfere with business. And George, ' ' he concluded, 
 "just tell the boys to put Morty on in my place. And 
 George, you kind of sit by Morty, and see that he gets his vote 
 in right. Morty 's a good boy, George — but he someway 
 doesn't get interested in things as I like to see him. He'll 
 be all right if you'll just fix his ballot in the convention and 
 see that he votes it." He blinked his dull, red eyes at the 
 book seller and dropped his voice. 
 
STORY OUTSIDE OF THE MATERIAL WORLD 295 
 
 "I noticed your paper as I passed the note counter just 
 now; some of it will be due while I'm gone; I'll tell 'em to 
 renew it if you want it." He smiled, again, and Mr. Broth- 
 erton answered, "Very well — I'll see that Morty votes right, 
 Mr. Sands, ' ' and solemnly went back to his ledger. And thus 
 the practical mind of Nathan Perry had its first practical 
 lesson in practical politics — a lesson which soon afterwards 
 produced highly practical results. 
 
 Up and down Market Street tiptoed Daniel Sands that 
 day, tightening his web of business and politics. Busily he 
 fluttered over the web, his water pipes, his gas pipes, his 
 electric wires. The pathway to the trade of the miners and 
 the men in the shops and smelters lay through his door. 
 Material prosperity for every merchant and every clerk in 
 Market Street lay in the paunch of the old spider, and he 
 could spin it out or draw it in as he chose. It was not usual 
 for him to appear on Market Street. Dr. Nesbit had always 
 been his vicegerent. And often it had pleased the Doctor 
 to pretend that he was seeking their aid as friends and get- 
 ting it solely upon the high grounds of friendship. 
 
 But as the Doctor stood by his office window that day and 
 saw the old spider dancing up and down the web, Dr. Nesbit 
 knew the truth — and the truth was wormwood in his mouth — 
 that he had been only an errand boy between greed in the 
 bank and self-interest in the stores. In a flash, a merciless, 
 cynical flash, he looked into his life in the capital, and there 
 he saw with sickening distinctness that with all his power as 
 a boss, with his control over Senators and Governors and 
 courts and legislatures, he was still the errand boy — that he 
 reigned as boss only because he could be trusted by those who 
 controlled the great aggregations of capital in the state — the 
 railroads, the insurance companies, the brewers, the public 
 service corporations. In the street below walked a flashy 
 youth who went in and out of the saloons in obvious pride 
 of being. His complacent smile, his evident glory in him- 
 self, made Dr. Nesbit turn away and shut his eyes in shame. 
 He had loathed the youth as a person unspeakable. Yet the 
 youth also was a messenger — the errand boy of vice in South 
 Harvey who doubtless thought himself a person of great 
 power and consequence. And the difference between an 
 
296 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 errand boy of greed and the errand boy of vice was not 
 sufficient to revive the Doctor's spirits. So the Doctor, sadly 
 sobered, left the window. The gay enthusiasm of the diver 
 plunging for the pearl was gone from the depressed little 
 white clad figure. He was finding his pearl a burden rather 
 than a joy. 
 
 That evening Morty Sands, resplendent in purple and fine 
 linen — the purple being a gorgeous necktie, and the fine linen 
 a most sumptuous tailor-made shirt waist above a pair of 
 white broadcloth trousers and silk hose, and under a fifty 
 dollar Panama hat, tripped into the Brotherton store for his 
 weekly armload of reading and tobacco. 
 
 "Morty," said Mr. Brotherton, after the young man had 
 picked out the latest word in literature and nicotine, "your 
 father was in here to-day with instructions for me to 
 chaperone you through the county convention Saturday, — 
 you'll be on the delegation." 
 
 The young man blinked good naturedly. "I haven't got 
 the intellect to go through with it, George, ' ' 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have, Morty," returned Mr. Brotherton, 
 expansively. ' ' The Governor wants me to be sure you vote 
 for Van Dorn — that's about all there is in the convention. 
 Old Linen Pants is to name the delegates to the State and 
 congressional conventions — they're trying to let the old man 
 down easy — not to beat him out of his State and congressional 
 leadership. ' ' 
 
 The young man thought for a moment then smiled up into 
 the big moon-face of Brotherton — "All right, Georgie, I sup- 
 pose I'll have to cast my unfettered vote for Van Dorn, 
 though as a sporting proposition my sympathies are with the 
 other side." 
 
 "Well, say — you orter 'a' heard a talk I heard Doc Nesbit 
 give this afternoon. That old sinner will be shouting on 
 the mourner's bench soon — if he doesn't check up." 
 
 Morty looked up from his magazine to say: "George — 
 it's Laura. A man couldn't go with her through all she's 
 gone through without being more of a man for it. When I 
 took a turn in the mining business last spring I found that 
 the people down in South Harvey just naturally love her to 
 death. They'll do more or less for Grant Adams. He's 
 
STORY OUTSIDE OF THE MATERIAL WORLD 297 
 
 getting the men organized and they look up to him in a 
 way. But they get right down on their marrow bones and 
 love Laura. ' ' 
 
 Morty smiled reflectively : "I kind of got the habit myself 
 once — and I seem someway never to have got over it — much ! 
 But, she won't even look my way. She takes my money — 
 for her kindergarten. But that is all. She won't let me 
 take her home in my trap, nor let me buy her lunch — why 
 she pays more attention to Grant Adams with his steel claw 
 than to my strong right arm ! About all she lets me do is 
 distribute flower seeds. George," he concluded ruefully, 
 "I've toted around enough touch-me-nots and coxcomb seeds 
 this spring for that girl to paint South Harvey ringed, 
 streaked and striped. ' ' 
 
 There the conversation switched to Captain Morton's stock 
 company, and the endeavor to get the Household Horse on the 
 market. The young man listened and smiled, was inter- 
 ested, as George Brotherton intended he should be. But 
 Morty went out saying that he had no money but his allow- 
 ance — which was six months overdrawn — and there the mat- 
 ter rested. 
 
 In a few days, a free people arose and nominated their 
 delegates to the Greeley County convention and the night 
 before the event excitement in Harvey was intense. There 
 could be no doubt as to the state of public sentiment. It was 
 against Tom Van Dorn. But on the other hand, no one 
 seriously expected to defeat him. For every one knew that 
 he controlled the organization — even against the boss. Yet 
 vaguely the people hoped that their institutions would in 
 some way fail those who controlled, and would thus register 
 public sentiment. But the night the delegates were elected, 
 it seemed apparent that Van Dorn had won. Yet both sides 
 claimed the victory. And among others of the free people 
 elected to the Convention to cast a free vote for Judge Van 
 Dorn, was Nathan Perry. He was put on the delegation to 
 look after his father's interests. Van Dorn was a practical 
 man, Kyle Perry was a practical man and they knew Nate 
 Perry was a practical youth. But while Tom Van Dorn 
 slept upon the assurance of victory, Nate Perry was per- 
 turbed. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 WHEREIN MORTY SANDS MAKES A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS 
 IN PUBLIC 
 
 WHEN Mortimer Sands came down town Saturday 
 morning, two hours before the convention met, he 
 found the courthouse yard black with prospective 
 delegates and also he found that the Judge 's friends were in 
 a majority in the crowd. So evident was their ascendancy 
 that the Nesbit forces had conceded to the Judge the right 
 to organize the convention. At eleven o'clock the crowd, 
 merchants, clerks, professional men, working men in their 
 Sunday clothes, delegates from the surrounding country 
 towns, and farmers — a throng of three hundred men, began 
 to crowd into the hot ' ' Opera House. ' ' So young Mr. Sands, 
 with his finger in a book to keep his place, followed the crowd 
 to the hall, and took his seat with the Fourth Ward delega- 
 tion. Having done this he considered that his full duty 
 to God and man had been performed. He found Nathan 
 Perry sitting beside him and said : 
 
 "Well, Nate, here's where Anne's great heart breaks — 
 I suppose?" 
 
 Nathan nodded and asked: "I presume it's all over but 
 the shouting." 
 
 "All over," answered the elder young man as he dived 
 into his book. As he read he realized that the convention 
 had chosen Captain Morton — a partisan of the Judge — for 
 chairman. The hot, stifling air of the room was thick with 
 the smoke of cheap tobacco. Morty Sands grew nervous and 
 irritated during the preliminary motions of the organization. 
 Even as a sporting event the odds on Van Dorn were too 
 heavy to promote excitement. He went out for a breath of 
 air. When he reentered Judge Van Dorn was making the 
 opening speech of the convention. It was a fervid effort; 
 
 298 
 
A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS 299 
 
 the Spanish war was then in progress so the speech was full 
 of allusions to what the Judge was pleased to call "libertah" 
 and "our common countrah" and our sacred "dutah" to 
 "humanitah." Naturally the delegates who were for the 
 Judge's renomination displayed much enthusiasm, and it 
 was a noisy moment. When the Judge closed his remarks — 
 tearfully of course — and took his seat as chairman of the 
 Fourth Ward delegation, which was supposed to be for him 
 unanimously as it was his home ward, Morty noticed that 
 while the Judge sat grand and austere in the aisle seat with 
 his eyes partly closed as one who is recovering from a great 
 mental effort, his half-closed eyes were following Mr. Joseph 
 Calvin, who was buzzing about the room distributing among 
 the delegates meal tickets and saloon checks good for food 
 for man and beast at the various establishments of public 
 entertainment. 
 
 Morty learned from George Brotherton that as the county 
 officers were to be renominated without opposition, and as the 
 platform had been agreed to the day before, and as the 
 county central committeemen had been chosen the night 
 before at the caucuses, the convention was to be a short horse 
 soon curried. Of course, Captain Morton as permanent 
 chairman made a speech — with suitable eulogies to the boys 
 who wore the blue. It was the speech the convention had 
 heard many times before, but always enjoyed — and as he 
 closed he asked rather grandly, ' ' and now what is the further 
 pleasure of the convention ? ' ' 
 
 It was Mr. Calvin's pleasure, as expressed in a motion, 
 that the secretary be instructed to cast the vote of the con- 
 vention for the renomination of the entire county ticket, and 
 further that Senator James Nesbit, in view of his leadership 
 of the party in the State, be requested to name the delegates 
 to the State and congressional conventions and that Judge 
 Thomas Van Dorn — cheers led by Dick Bowman — Thomas 
 Van Dorn be requested to name the delegates to the judicial 
 district convention. Cheers and many cries of no, no, no, 
 greeted the Calvin motion. It was seconded and stated by 
 the chair and again cheered and roared at. Dr. Nesbit rose, 
 and in his mild, treble voice protested against the naming of 
 the delegates to the State and congressional and judicial con- 
 
300 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 ventions. He said that while it had been the practice in the 
 past, he was of the opinion that the time had come to let the 
 Convention itself choose by wards and precincts and town- 
 ships its delegates to these conventions. He said further that 
 as for the State and congressional delegates, they couldn't 
 pick a delegation of twenty men in the room if they tried, that 
 would not contain a majority which he could work with. At 
 which there was cheering from the anti-Van Dorn crowd — 
 but it was clear that they were in the minority. No further 
 discussion seemed to be expected and the Captain was about 
 to put the motion, when from among the delegates from 
 South Harvey there arose the red poll of Grant Adams. 
 From the Harvey delegates he met the glare of distrust due 
 from any crowd of merchants and clerks to any labor agi- 
 tator. Morty could see from the face of Dr. Nesbit that he 
 was surprised. Judge Van Dorn, who sat near young Sands, 
 looked mildly interested. After he was recognized, Grant 
 in an impassioned voice began to talk of the inherent right 
 of the Nesbit motion, providing that each precinct or ward 
 delegation could name its own delegates to the State, con- 
 gressional and judicial conventions. 
 
 If the motion prevailed, Judge Van Dorn would have a 
 divided delegation from Greeley county to the judicial con- 
 vention, as some of the precincts and wards were against him, 
 though a majority of the united convention was for him. 
 Grant Adams, swinging his iron claw, was explaining this 
 to the convention. He was appealing passionately for the 
 right of proportional representation ; holding that the minor- 
 ity had rights of representation that the majority should 
 not deny. 
 
 Judge Van Dorn, without rising, had sneered across the 
 room in a snarling voice: "Ah, you socialist!" Once he 
 had growled: "None of your red mouthed ranting here!" 
 Finally, as it was evident that Grant's remarks were inter- 
 esting the workmen on the delegations, Van Dorn, still seated, 
 called out: 
 
 "Here, you — what right have you to address this conven- 
 tion?" 
 
 "I am a regularly accredited delegate from South Harvey, 
 holding the proxy — " 
 
A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS 301 
 
 He got no further. 
 
 The Van Dorn delegates roared, "Put him out. No 
 proxies go," and began hooting and jeering. It was ob- 
 vious that Van Dorn had the crowd with him. He let them 
 roar at Grant, who stood quietly, demanding from time to 
 time that the chair should restore order. Captain Morton 
 hammered the table with his gavel, but the Van Dorn crowd 
 continued to hoot and howl. Finally Judge Van Dorn rose 
 and with great elaborateness of parliamentary form ad- 
 dressed the chair asking to be permitted to ask his friend 
 with a proxy one question. 
 
 The two men faced each other savagely, like characters 
 symbolizing forces in a play; complaisance and discontent. 
 Behind Grant was the unrest and upheaval of a class coming 
 into consciousness and tremendously dynamic, while Van 
 Dorn stood for those who had won their fight and were static 
 and self-satisfied. He twirled his mustache. Grant raised 
 his steel claw as if to strike ; Van Dorn spoke, and in a bark- 
 ing, vicious, raucous tone intended to annihilate his adver- 
 sary, asked: 
 
 "Will you tell this convention in the interest of fairness, 
 what, if any, personal and private motives you have in help- 
 ing Dr. Nesbit inject a family quarrel into public matters in 
 this county?" 
 
 A moment's silence greeted the lawyer's insolently framed 
 question. Mortimer Sands saw Dr. Nesbit go white, start to 
 rise, and sit down, and saw dawning on the face of Grant 
 Adams the realization of what the question meant. But be- 
 fore he could speak the mob broke loose; hisses, cheers and 
 the roar of partisan and opposition filled the room. Grant 
 Adams tried to speak; but no one would hear him. He 
 started down the aisle toward Van Dorn, his red hair flashing 
 like a banner of wrath, menacing the Judge with the steel 
 claw upraised. Dr. Nesbit stopped Grant. The insult had 
 been so covert, so cowardly, that only in resenting its 
 implication would there be scandal. 
 
 Mortimer Sands closed his book. He saw Judge Van Dorn 
 laugh, and heard him say to George Brotherton who sat be- 
 side young Sands : 
 
 "I plugged that damn pie-face!" 
 
302 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 Nathan Perry, the practical young man sitting in the 
 Fourth ward delegation, heard the Judge and nudged Morty 
 Sands. Morty Sands 's sporting blood rose in him. "The 
 pup," he whispered to Nate. "He's taking a shot at 
 Laura. ' ' 
 
 The crowd gradually grew calm. There being no further 
 discussion, Captain Morton put the motion of Joseph Calvin 
 to let the majority of the convention name all delegates to the 
 superior conventions. The roar of ayes overwhelmed the 
 blat of noes. It was clear that the Calvin motion had 
 carried. The Doctor was defeated. But before the chair 
 announced the vote the pompadour of the little man rose 
 quickly as he stood in the middle aisle and asked in his piping 
 treble for a vote by wards and precincts. 
 
 In the moment of silence that followed the Doctor's sug- 
 gestion, Nathan Perry's face, which gradually had been 
 growing stony and hard, cracked in a mean smile as he 
 leaned over to Morty and whispered : 
 
 "Morty, can you stand for that — that damned hound's 
 snap at Laura Van? By grabby I can't — I won't!" 
 
 "Well, let's raise hell, Nate — I'm with you. I owe him 
 nothing," said the guileless and amiable Morty. 
 
 Judge Van Dorn rose grandly and with great elegance of 
 diction agreed with the Doctor's "excellent suggestion." So 
 tickets were passed about containing the words yes and no, 
 and hats were passed down delegation lines and the dele- 
 gates put the ballots in the hats and the chairmen of delega- 
 tions appointed tellers and so the ballots were counted. 
 When the Fourth ward balloting was finished, Judge Van 
 Dorn looked puzzled. He was three votes short of unanimity. 
 His vanity was pricked. He believed he had a solid delega- 
 tion and proposed to have it. When in the roll call the 
 Fourth ward delegation was reached (it was the fourth pre- 
 cinct on the secretary's roll) the Judge, as chairman of the 
 Fourth warders, rose, blandly and complacently, and an- 
 nounced: "Ward Four casts twenty-five votes 'yes' and 
 three votes 'no.' I demand a poll of the delegation." 
 
 George Brotherton rose when the clerk of the convention 
 called the roll and voted a weak, husky 'no' and sat down 
 sheepishly under the Judge's glare. 
 
A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS 303 
 
 Down the list came the clerk reading the names of 
 delegates. Finally he called ''Mortimer Sands," and the 
 young man rose, smiling and calm, and looking the Judge 
 fairly in the eye cried, ' ' I vote no ! " 
 
 Then pandemonium broke loose. The convention was bed- 
 lam. The friends of the Judge were confounded. They 
 did not know what it meant. 
 
 The clerk called Nathan Perry. 
 
 "No," he cried as he looked maliciously into the Judge's 
 beady eyes. 
 
 Then there was no doubt. For the relations of Wright & 
 Perry were so close to Daniel Sands that no one could mistake 
 the meaning of young Perry's vote, and then had not the 
 whole town read of the "showers" for Anne Sands? Those 
 who opposed the Judge were whispering that the old spider 
 had turned against the Judge. Men who were under obli- 
 gations to the Traders' Bank were puzzled but not in doubt. 
 There was a general buzzing among the delegations. The 
 desertion of Mortimer Sands and Nathan Perry was one of 
 those wholly unexpected events that sometimes make panics 
 in politics. The Judge could see that in one or two cases 
 delegations were balloting again. "Fifth ward," called the 
 clerk. 
 
 "Fifth ward not ready," replied the chairman. 
 
 "Hancock township, Soldier precinct," called the clerk. 
 
 "Soldier precinct not ready," answered the chairman. 
 
 The next precinct cast its vote No, and the next precinct 
 cast its vote 7 yes and 10 no and a poll was demanded and 
 the vote was a tie. The power of the name of Sands in 
 Greeley county was working like a yeast. 
 
 "Well, boys," whispered Mr. Brotherton to Morty as two 
 townships were passed while they were reballoting, "Well, 
 boys — you sure have played hell." He was mopping his red 
 brow, and to a look of inquiry from Morty Mr. Brotherton ex- 
 plained: "You've beaten the Judge. They all think that 
 it's your father's idea to knife him, and the foremen of the 
 mines who are running these county delegations and the 
 South Harvey contingent are changing their votes — that's 
 how!" 
 
 In another instant Morty Sands was on his feet. He 
 
304 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 stood on a seat above the crowd, a slim, keen-faced, oldish, 
 figure. When he called upon the chairman a hush fell over 
 the crowd. When he began to speak he could feel the eyes 
 of the crowd boring into him. "I wish to state," he said 
 hesitatingly, then his courage came, "that my vote against 
 this resolution, was due entirely to the inferential endorse- 
 ment of Judge Thomas Van Dorn," this time the anti-Van 
 Dorn roar was overwhelming, deafening, "that the resolu- 
 tion contained." 
 
 Another roar, it seemed to the Judge as from a pit of 
 beasts, greeted this period. "But I also wish to make it 
 clear," continued the young man, "that in this position I 
 am representing only my own views. I have not been in- 
 structed by my father how to cast this ballot. For you 
 know as well as I how he would vote." The roar from the 
 anti-Van Dorn crowd came back again, stronger than ever. 
 The convention had put its own interpretation upon his 
 words. They knew he was merely making it plainer that the 
 old spider had caught Judge Van Dorn in the web, and for 
 some reason was sucking out his vitals. Morty sat down with 
 the sense of duty well done, and again Mr. Brotherton 
 leaned over and whispered, "Well, you did a good job — you 
 put the trimmings on right — hello, we're going to vote 
 again." Again the young man jumped to his feet and 
 cried amid the noise, which sank almost instantly as they 
 saw who was trying to speak: "I tell you, gentlemen, that 
 so far as I know my father is for Judge Van Dorn, ' ' but the 
 crowd only laughed, and it was evident that they thought 
 Morty was playing with them. As Morty Sands sat down 
 Nathan Perry rose and in his high, strong, wire-edged tenor 
 cried: "Men, I'm voting only myself. But when a man 
 shows doghair as Judge Van Dorn showed it to this conven- 
 tion in that question to Grant Adams — all hell can't hold me 
 to — " But the roar of the crowd drowned the close of the" 
 sentence. The mob knew nothing of the light that had 
 dawned in Nathan Perry's heart. The crowd knew only that 
 the son and the future son-in-law of the old spider had 
 turned on Van Dorn, and that he was marked for slaughter 
 so it proceeded with the butchering which gave it great per- 
 sonal felicity. Men howled their real convictions and Tom 
 
A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS 305 
 
 Van Dorn's universe tottered. He tried to speak, but was 
 howled down. 
 
 "Vote — vote, vote," they cried. The Fourth ward bal- 
 loted again and the vote stood "Yes, fifteen, no, twelve," and 
 the proud face of the suave Judge Van Dorn turned white 
 with rage, and the red scar flickered like lightning across 
 his forehead. The voting could not proceed. For men were 
 running about the room, and Joseph Calvin was hovering 
 over the South Harvey delegation like a buzzard. Morty 
 Sands suspected Calvin's mission. The young man rose and 
 ran to Dr. Nesbit and whispered: "Doctor, Nate's got seven 
 hundred dollars in the bank — see what Calvin is doing? I 
 can get it up here in three minutes. Can you use it to help 1 ' ' 
 
 The Doctor ran his hand over his graying pompadour and 
 smiled and shook his head. In the din he leaned over and 
 piped. ' ' Touch not, taste not, handle not, Morty — I 've sworn 
 off. Teetotler," he laughed excitedly. Young Sands saw a 
 bill flash in Mr. Calvin's hands and disappear in Dick Bow- 
 man's pockets. 
 
 "No law against it," chirped the Doctor, "except God 
 Almighty's, and He has no jurisdiction in Judge Tom's dis- 
 trict." 
 
 As they stood watching Calvin peddle his bills the conven- 
 tion saw what he was doing. A fear seized the decent men 
 in the convention that all who voted for Van Dorn would be 
 suspected of receiving bribes. The balloting proceeded. In 
 five minutes the roll call was finished. Then before the re- 
 sult was announced George Brotherton was on his feet saying, 
 "The Fourth ward desires to change her vote," and while 
 Brotherton was announcing the complete desertion of the 
 Fourth ward delegation, Judge Van Dorn left the hall. 
 Men in mob are cruel and mad, and the pack howled at the 
 vain man as he slunk through the crowd to the door. 
 
 After that, delegation after delegation changed its vote 
 and before the result was announced Mr. Calvin withdrew 
 his motion, and the spent convention only grunted its ap- 
 proval. Then it was that Mugs Bowman crowded into the 
 room and handed Nathan Perry this note scrawled on brown 
 butcher's paper in a hand he knew. "I have this moment 
 learned that you are a delegate and must take a public stand. 
 
306 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Don't let a word I have said influence you. I stand by you 
 whatever you do. Use your own judgment; follow your 
 conscience and 'with God be the rest.' " "A. S." 
 
 Nathan Perry folded the note, and as he put it in his vest 
 pocket he felt the proud beat of his heart. Fifteen minutes 
 later when the convention adjourned for noon, Nathan and 
 Morty Sands ran plumb into Thomas Van Dorn, sitting in the 
 back room of the bank, wet eyed and blubbering. The Judge 
 was slumped over the big, shining table, his jaws trembling, 
 his hands fumbling the ink stands and paper weights. His 
 eyes were staring and nervous, and beside him a whiskey 
 bottle and glass told their story. The man rose, holding the 
 table, and shrieked : 
 
 "You damned little fice dog, you — " this to Morty, "you — 
 you — " Morty dashed around the table toward the Judge, 
 but before he could reach the man to strike, the Judge was 
 moving his jaws impotently, and grasping the thin air. His 
 mouth foamed as he fell and he lay, a shivering, white-eyed 
 horror, upon the floor. The bank clerks lifted the figure to a 
 leather couch, and some one summoned Doctor Nesbit. 
 
 The Doctor saw the whiskey bottle half emptied and saw 
 the white faced, prostrate figure. The Doctor sent the clerks 
 from the room as he worked with the unconscious man, and 
 piped to Morty as he worked, "Nothing serious — heat — 
 temper, whiskey — and vanity and vexation of spirit; 'vanity 
 of vanities — all is vanity — saith the preacher. ' ' ' Morty and 
 Nathan left the room as the man's eyes opened and the 
 Doctor with a woman's tenderness brought the wretched, 
 broken, shattered bundle of pride back to consciousness. 
 
 For years this became George Brotherton's favorite story. 
 He first told it to Henry Fenn thus : 
 
 "Say, Henry, lemme tell you about old man Sands. He 
 come in here the day after he got back from Chicago to 
 wrestle with me for letting Morty vote against Tom. "Well 
 — say — I 'm right here to tell you that was some do — all right, 
 all right! You know he thought I got Morty and Nate to 
 vote that way and the old spider came hopping in here like 
 a grand-daddy long-legs and the way he let out on your 
 humble — well, say — say! Holler — you'd orto heard him hol- 
 ler ! Just spat pizen — wow ! and as for me who 'd got the 
 
A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS 307 
 
 lad into the trouble — as for me," Mr. Brotherton paused, 
 folded his hand over his expansive abdomen and sighed 
 deeply, as one who recalls an experience too deep for lan- 
 guage. "Well, say — I tried to tell him I didn't have any- 
 thing to do with it, but he was wound up with an eight-day 
 spring ! I knew it was no use to talk sense to him while he 
 was batting his lights at me like a drunk switchman on a 
 dark night, but when he was clean run down I leans over the 
 counter and says as polite as a pollywog, 'Most kind and 
 noble duke,' says I, 'you touch me deeply by your humptious 
 words!' says I, 'let me assure you, your kind and generous 
 sentiments will never be erased from the tablets of my most 
 grateful memory' — just that way. 
 
 "Well, say — " and here Mr. Brotherton let out his laugh 
 that came down like the cataract at Ladore, "pretty soon 
 Morty sails in fresh as a daisy and asks: 
 
 " 'Father been in here?' 
 
 " 'Check one father,' says I. 
 
 " 'Raising hell?' he asks 
 
 " 'Check one hell,' says I. 
 
 " 'Well, sir,' says he, 'I'm exceedingly sorry.' 
 
 " 'One sorrow check,' says I. 
 
 ' ' ' Sincerely and truly sorry, George, ' he repeats and ' Two 
 sorrows check,' I repeats and he goes on: 'Look here, 
 George, I know father, and until I can get the truth into him, 
 which won't be for a week or two, I suppose he may try to 
 ruin you ! ' 
 
 ' ' ' Check one interesting ruin, ' says I. 
 
 "But he brought down his hand on the new case till I shud- 
 dered for the glass, and well, say — what do you think that 
 boy done ? He pulls out a roll of money big enough to choke 
 a cow and puts it on the case and says : ' I sold my launch 
 and drew every dollar I had out of the bank before father 
 got home. Here, take it ; you may need it in your business 
 until father calms down.' 
 
 "Wasn't that white! I couldn't get him to put the 
 roll back and along comes Cap Morton, and when I wouldn 't 
 take it the old man glued on to him, and I 'm a goat if Morty 
 didn't lend it to the Captain, with the understanding I 
 could have it any time inside of six months, and the Captain 
 
308 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 could use it afterward. That's where the Captain got his 
 money to build his shop. ' ' 
 
 It cost Daniel Sands five thousand dollars in hard earned 
 money, not that he earned the money, but it was hard-earned 
 nevertheless, to undo the work of that convention, and nomi- 
 nate and elect Thomas Van Dorn district Judge upon an 
 independent ticket. And even when the work was done, the 
 emptiness of the honor did not convince the Judge that this 
 is not a material world. He hugged the empty honor to his 
 heart and made a vast pretense that it was real. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 BEING NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE 
 
 HERE and now this story must pause for a moment. 
 It has come far from the sunshine and prairie grass 
 where it started. Tall elm trees have grown from 
 the saplings that were stuck in the sod thirty years before, and 
 they limit the vision. No longer can one see over the town 
 across the roofs of Market Street into the prairie. No longer 
 even can one see from Harvey the painted sky at night that 
 marks South Harvey and the industrial towns of the Wahoo 
 Valley. Harvey is shut in ; we all are sometimes by our com- 
 forts. The dreams of the pioneers that haloed the heads of 
 those who came to Harvey in those first days — those dreams 
 are gone. Here and there one is trapped in brick or wood or 
 stone or iron; and another glows in a child or walks the 
 weary ways of man as a custom or an institution or as a law 
 that brought only a part of the blessings which it promised. 
 And the equality of opportunity for which these pioneers 
 crossed the Mississippi and came into the prairie uplands of 
 the "West — where is that evanescent spirit? Certainly it 
 touched Daniel Sands 's shoulder and he followed it; it beck- 
 oned Dr. Nesbit and he followed it a part of the journey. 
 Surely Kyle Perry saw it for years, and Captain Morton was 
 destined to find it, gorgeous and iridescent. Amos Adams 
 might have had it for the asking, but he sought it only for 
 others. It never came to Dooley and Hogan, and Williams 
 and Bowman and those who went into the Valley. Did it 
 die, one may ask ; or did it vanish like a prairie stream un- 
 der the sand to flow on subterranean and appear again 
 strong, purified and refreshed, a powerful current to carry 
 mankind forward ? The world that was in the flux of dreams 
 that day when Harvey began, had hardened to reality thirty 
 years after. Men were going their appointed ways working 
 out in circumstances the equation of their life 's philosophy. 
 
 309 
 
310 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 And now while the story waits, we may well look at three 
 pictures. They do not speed the narrative; they hardly 
 point morals to adorn this tale. But they may show us 
 how living a creed consistently colors one's life. For after 
 all the realities of life are from within. Events, environ- 
 ment, fortune good or bad do not color life, or give it richness 
 and form and value. But in living a creed one makes his 
 picture. So let us look at Thomas Van Dorn, who boasted 
 that he could beat God at his own game, and did. For all 
 that he wanted came to him, wealth and fame and power, and 
 the women he desired. 
 
 Judge and Mrs. Van Dorn and her dog are riding by in 
 their smart rubber tired trap, behind a highly checked horse 
 and with the dog between them. They are not talking. 
 The man is looking at his gloved hands, at the horse, at the 
 street, — where occasionally he bows and smiles and never 
 by any chance misses bowing and smiling to any woman who 
 might be passing. His wife, dressed stiffly and smartly, is 
 looking straight ahead, with as weary a face as that of the 
 Hungarian Spitz beside her. Time, in the Temple of Love on 
 the hill has not worn her bloom off ; it is all there — and more ; 
 but the additional bloom, the artificial bloom, is visible. 
 When she smiles, as she sometimes smiles at the men friends 
 of the Judge who greet the pair, it is an elaborately mechan- 
 ical smile, with a distinct beginning, climax, and ending. 
 Some way it fails to convince one that she has any pleasure in 
 it. The smile still is beautiful, exceedingly beautiful — but 
 only as a picture. When the smile is garnished with words 
 the voice is low and musical — but too low and too obviously 
 musical. It does not reveal the soul of Margaret Van Dorn — 
 the soul that glowed in the girl who came to Prospect Town- 
 ship fifteen years before, with banners flying to lay siege to 
 Harvey. The soul that glowed through those wonderful 
 eyes upon Henry Fenn — where is it? She has not been 
 crossed in any desire of her life. She has enjoyed every 
 form of pleasure that money could buy for her ; she is delving 
 into books that make the wrinkles come between her eye- 
 brows, and is rubbing the wrinkles out and the ideas from 
 the books as fast as they come. She is droning a formula 
 for happiness, learned of the books that make her head ache, 
 
NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE 311 
 
 and is repeating over and over, "God is good, and I am 
 God," as one who would plaster truth upon his consciousness 
 by the mere repetition of it. But the truth does not help her. 
 So she sits beside her husband, a wax work figure of a woman, 
 and he seems to treat her as a wax figure. For he is clearly 
 occupied with his own affairs. 
 
 When he is not bowing and smiling, a sneer is on his face. 
 And when he speaks to the horse his voice is harsh and mean. 
 He holds an unlighted cigar in his mouth as a terrier might 
 hold a loathed rat; working the muscles of his lips at times 
 viciously but saying nothing. The soft, black hat of his 
 youthful days is replaced by a high, stiff, squarely sawed 
 felt hat which he imagines gives him great dignity. His 
 clothes have become so painfully scrupulous in their exact 
 conformation to the mode that he looks wooden. He has 
 given so much thought to the subject of "wherewithal shall 
 ye be clothed, ' ' that the thought in some queer spiritual curd- 
 ling has appeared in the unyielding texture of his artificial 
 tailored skin, that seems to be a part of another consciousness 
 than his own. 
 
 Moreover, those first days he spent after the convention 
 have chipped the suavity from his countenance, and have 
 written upon the bland, complacent face all the cynicism of 
 his nature. Triumph makes cynicism arrogant, so the man is 
 losing his mask. His nature is leering out of his eyes, 
 snarling out of his mouth, and where the little, lean lines 
 have pared away the flesh from his nose, a greedy, self- 
 seeking pride is peering from behind a great masterful nose. 
 Thomas Van Dorn should be in the adolescence of maturity ; 
 but he is in the old age of adolescence. His skin has no 
 longer the soft olive texture of youth ; it is brown and mot- 
 tled and leathery. His lips — his lips once full and red, are 
 pursing and leadening. 
 
 Thus the pair go through the May twilight; and when 
 the electric lights begin to flash out at the corners, thus the 
 Van Dorns ride before the big black mass of the temple, of 
 love that looms among the young trees upon the lawn. The 
 woman alights from the trap. She pauses a moment upon 
 the stone block at the curbing. The man makes no sign of 
 moving. She takes the dog from the seat, and puts it on 
 
312 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 the ground. The man gathers the reins tightly in his hands, 
 then drops them again, lights his cigar, and says behind his 
 hands: "I'm going back downtown." 
 
 "Oh, you are?" echoes the woman. 
 
 "Yes, I am," replies the man sharply. 
 
 The woman is walking up the wide parking, with the dog. 
 She makes no reply. The man looks at her a second or two, 
 and drives away, cutting the horse to a mad speed as he 
 rounds the corner. 
 
 Through the wide doors into the broad hall, up the grand 
 staircase, through the luxurious rooms goes the high Priestess 
 of the Temple of Love. It is a lonely house. For it is still 
 in a state of social siege. So far as Harvey is concerned, no 
 one has entered it. So they live rather quiet lives. 
 
 On that May evening the mistress of the great house sits 
 in her bed room by the mild electric, trying book after book, 
 and putting each down in disgust. Philosophy fails to hold 
 her attention — poetry annoys her; fiction — the book of the 
 moment, which happened to be "The Damnation of Theron 
 "Ware, ' ' makes her wince, and so she reaches under the read- 
 ing stand, and brings out from the bottom of a pile of maga- 
 zines a salacious novel filled with stories of illicit amours. 
 This she reads until her cheeks burn and her lips grow dry 
 and she hears the roll of a buggy down the street, and 
 knows that it must be nearly midnight and that her mate is 
 coming. She slips the book back into its place of conceal- 
 ment, picks up ' ' The Harmonious Universe, ' ' and walks with 
 some show of grandeur in her trailing garments down the 
 stairs to greet her lord. 
 
 ' ' You up ? " he asks. He glances at the book and continues : 
 "Reading that damn trash ? Why don't you read Browning 
 or Thackeray or — if you want philosophy Emerson or Car- 
 lyle? That's rot." 
 
 He puts what scorn he can into the word rot, and in her 
 sweetest, falsest, baby voice the woman answers : 
 
 "My soul craves communion with the infinite and would 
 seek the deeper harmonies. I just love to wander the wide 
 wastes between the worlds like I've been doing to-night."- 
 
 The man grabs the book from her, and finding her finger 
 in a place far beyond the end of the cut leaves, he looks at her, 
 
NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE 313 
 
 and sneers a profane sneer and passes up the stairs. She 
 stares after him as he slowly mounts, without joy in his tread, 
 and she follows him lightly as he goes to his room. She 
 pauses before the closed door for a lonely moment and then 
 sighs and goes her way. She mumbles, ' ' God is good and I 
 am God," many times to herself, but she lies down to sleep 
 wondering whimperingly in a half-doze if Pelleas and 
 Melisande found things so dreadfully disillusioning after all 
 they suffered for love and for each other. As a footnote to 
 this picture may we not ask: 
 
 Is the thing called love worth having at the cost of char- 
 acter? The trouble with the poets is that they take their 
 ladies and gentlemen of pliable virtue and uncertain recti- 
 tude, only to the altar. One may ask with some degree of 
 propriety if the duplicity they practiced, the lying they did 
 and justified by the sacredness of their passion, the crimes 
 they committed and the meannesses they went through to 
 attain their ends were after all worth while. Also one may 
 ask if the characters they made — or perhaps only revealed, 
 were not such as to make them wholly miserable when they 
 began to "live happily ever after"? A symposium entitled 
 "Is Love Really Worth It?" by such distinguished charac- 
 ters as Helen of Troy, Mrs. Potiphar and Cleopatra, might 
 be improving reading, if the ladies were capable of telling the 
 truth after lives of dissimulation and deceit. 
 
 But let us leave philosophy and look at another picture. 
 This time we have the Morton family. 
 
 The Captain's feet are upon the shining fender. There 
 is no fire in the stove. It is May. But it is the Captain's 
 habit to warm his feet there when he is in the house at night, 
 and he never fails to put them upon the fender and go 
 through his evening routine. First it is his paper; then it 
 is his feet; then it is his apple, and finally a formal dis- 
 cussion of what they will have for breakfast, with the Cap- 
 tain always voting for hash, and declaring that there are 
 potatoes enough left over and meat enough unused to make 
 hash enough for a regiment. But before he gets to the 
 hash question, the Captain this evening leads off with this : 
 
 "Curious thing about spring." The world of education, 
 reading its examination papers, concurs in silence. The 
 
314 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 worlds of fashion and of the fine arts also assenting, the 
 Captain goes on: "Down in South Harvey to-day; kind 
 o' dirty down there; looks kind of smoky and tin cannery, 
 and woe-begone, like that class of people always looks, but 'y 
 gory, girls, it's just as much spring down there as it is up 
 here, only more so ! eh ? I says to Laura, looking like a full 
 bloom peach tree herself in her kindergarten, says I, 'Laura, 
 it's terrible pretty down here when you get under the smoke 
 and the dirt. Every one just a lovin',' says I, 'and going 
 galloping into life kind of regardless. There's Nate and 
 Anne, and there 's Violet and Hogan, and there 's a whole mess 
 of fresh married couples in Little Italy, and the Huns and 
 Belgians are all broke out with the blamedest dose of love 
 y' ever see! And they's whole rafts of 'em to be married 
 before June!' Well, Laura, she laughed and if it wasn't 
 like pouring spring itself out of a jug. Spring," he mused, 
 ' ' ain 't it curious about spring ! ' ' 
 
 Champing his apple the Captain gesticulates slowly with 
 his open pocket knife, "Love" — he reflects; then backs 
 away from his discussion and begins anew: "Less take — 
 say Anne and Nate, a happy couple — him a lean, eagle-beaked 
 New England kind of a man; her — a little quick-gaited, 
 big-eyed woman and sping! out of the Providence of God- 
 dlemighty comes a streak of some kind of creepy, fuzzy 
 lightning and they're struck dumb and blind and plumb 
 crazy — eh ? ' ' 
 
 He champs for a time on the apple, "Eighteen sixty-one — 
 May, sixty-one — me a tidy looking young buck— girl — beau- 
 tiful girl with reddish brown hair and bluest eyes in the 
 world. Sping! comes the lightning, and melts us together 
 and the whole universe goes pink and rose-colored. No 
 sense — neither of us — no more'n Anne and Nate, just one 
 idea. I can't think of nothing but her— war isn't much; 
 shackles on four millions slaves— no consequence ; the Colonel 
 caught us kissing in his tent the day I left for the army; 
 union forever — mere circumstance in the lives of two crazy 
 people— in a world mostly eyes and lips and soft hands and 
 whispers and flowers, eh— and— " The Captain does not 
 finish his sentence. 
 
 He rises, puts his apple core on the table, and says after 
 
NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE 315 
 
 a great sigh : "And so we bloomed and blossomed and come 
 to fruit and dried up and Mowed away, and here they are — 
 all the rest of 'em — ready to bloom — and may God help 'em 
 and keep 'em." He pauses, "Help 'em and keep 'em and 
 when they have dried up and blowed away — let 'em re- 
 member the perfume clean to the end!" He turns away 
 from the girls, wipes his eyes with his gnarled fingers, and 
 after clearing his throat says: "Well, girls, how about 
 hash for breakfast — what say?" 
 
 The wheels of the Judge's buggy grate upon the curbing 
 nearby and the Captain remarks: "Judge Tom gets in a 
 little later every night now. I heard him dump her in at' 
 eight, and here it is nearly eleven — pretty careless, — pretty 
 careless; he oughtn't to be getting in this late for four or 
 five years yet — what say?" Public opinion again is divided. 
 Fashion and the fine arts hold that it is Margaret's fault 
 and that she is growing to be too much of a poseur; but 
 the schools, which are the bulwarks of our liberties, main- 
 tain that he is just as bad as she. And what is more to the 
 point — such is the contention of the eldest Miss Morton of 
 the fourth grade in the Lincoln school, he has driven around 
 to the school twice this spring to take little Lila out riding, 
 and even though her mother has told the teachers to let the 
 child go if she cared to, the little girl would not go and 
 he was mean to the principal and insolent, though Heaven 
 knows it is not the principal's fault, and if the janitor hadn't 
 been standing right there — but it really makes little differ- 
 ence what would have happened; for the janitor in every 
 school building, as every one knows, is a fierce and awesome 
 creature who keeps more dreadful things from happening 
 that never would have happened than any other single agency 
 in the world. 
 
 The point which the eldest Miss Morton was accenting 
 was this, that he should have thought of Lila before he got 
 his divorce. 
 
 Now the worlds of fashion and the fine arts and the 
 schools themselves, bulwarks that they are, do not realize 
 how keenly a proud man's heart must be touched if day by 
 day he meets the little girl upon the street, sees her growing 
 out of babyhood into childhood, a sweet, bright, lovable 
 
316 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 child, and he yearns for something sincere, something that 
 has no poses, something that will love him for himself. So he 
 swallows a lump of pride as large as his handsome head, 
 and drives to the school house to see his child — and is denied. 
 In the Captain's household they do not know what that 
 means. For in the Captain's household which includes a 
 six room house — not counting the new white painted bath- 
 room, the joint product of the toil of the handsome Miss 
 Morton and the eldest Miss Morton, and not counting the 
 basket for the kitten christened Epaminondas, and main- 
 tained by the youngest Miss Morton over family protests — 
 in the Captain's household there is peace and joy, if one ex- 
 cepts the numbing fear of a "step" that sometimes prostrates 
 the eldest Miss Morton and her handsome sister; a fear that 
 shelters their father against the wily designs of their sex 
 upon a meek and defenseless and rather obliging gentleman. 
 So they cannot put themselves in the place of the rich and 
 powerful neighbors next door. The Mortons hear the thorns 
 crackling under the pot, but they cannot appreciate the 
 heat. 
 
 And now we come to the last picture. 
 
 It is still an evening in May! 
 
 "Well, how is the missionary to South Harvey," chirrups 
 the Doctor as he mounts the steps, and sees his daughter, 
 waiting for him on the veranda. She looks cool and fresh 
 and beautiful. Her eyes and her skin glow with health and 
 her face beams upon him out of a soul at peace. 
 
 "She's all right," returns the daughter, smiling. "How's 
 the khedive of Greeley county?" 
 
 As the Doctor mounts the steps she continues : "Sit down, 
 father — I've something on my mind." To her father's 
 inquiring face she replied, "It's Lila. Her father has been 
 after her again. She just came home crying as though her 
 little heart would break. It's so pitiful — she loves him; that 
 is left over from her babyhood ; but she is learning someway 
 — perhaps from the children, perhaps from life — what he has 
 done — and when he tries to attract her — she shrinks away 
 from him." 
 
 "And he knows why — he knows why, Laura." The Doc- 
 tor taps the floor softly with his cane. "It isn't all gone 
 
NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE 317 
 
 — Tom's heart, I mean. Somewhere deep in his conscious- 
 ness he is hungering for affection — for respect — for under- 
 standing. You haven't seen Tom's eyes recently?" The 
 daughter makes no reply. "I have," he continues. 
 "They're burned out — kind of glassy — scummed over with 
 the searing of the hell he carries in his heart — like the girls' 
 eyes down in the Row. For he is dying at the heart — burn- 
 ing out with everything he has asked for in his hands, yet 
 turning to Lila ! ' ' 
 
 "Father," she says with her eyes brimming, "I'm not 
 angry with Tom — only sorry. He hasn't hurt me — much — 
 when it's all figured out. I still have my faith — my faith in 
 folks — and in God! Really to take away one's faith is the 
 only wrong one can do to another ! ' ' 
 
 The father says, "The chief wrong he did you was when 
 he married you. It was nobody 's fault ; I might have stopped 
 it — but no man can be sure of those things. It was just 
 one of the inevitable mistakes of youth, my dear, that come 
 into our lives, one way or another. They fall upon the 
 just and the unjust — without any reference to deserts." 
 
 She nods her assent and they sit listening to the sounds 
 of the closing day — to the vesper bell in the Valley, to the 
 hum of the trolley bringing its homecomers up from the 
 town; to the drone of the five o'clock whistles in South 
 Harvey, to the rattle of homebound buggies. Twice the 
 daughter starts to speak. The second time she stops the 
 Doctor pipes up, "Let it come — out with it — tell your daddy 
 if anything is on your mind." She smiles up into his mobile 
 face, to find only sympathy there. So she speaks, but she 
 speaks hesitatingly. 
 
 "I believe that I am going to be happy— really and truly 
 happy!" She does not smile but looks seriously at her fa- 
 ther as she presses his hand and pats it. "I am finding my 
 place — doing my work — creating something — not the home 
 that I once hoped for — not the home that I would have now, 
 but it is something good and worth while. It is self respect 
 in me and self respect in those wives and mothers and chil- 
 dren in South Harvey. All over the place I find its roots — 
 the shrivelled parching roots of self-respect, and the aspira- 
 tion that grows with self respect. Sometimes I see it in a ger- 
 
318 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 anium flowering in a tomato can, set in a window ; oftentimes 
 in a cheap lace curtain ; occasionally in a struggling, stunted 
 yellow rose bush in the hard-beaten earth of a dooryard ; or 
 in a second hand wheezy cabinet organ in some front bed- 
 room — in a thousand little signs of aspiration, I find America 
 asserting itself among these poor people, and as I cherish 
 these things I find happiness asserting itself in my life. 
 So it's my job, my consecrated job in this earth — to water 
 the geranium, to prune the rose, to mulch the roots of self- 
 respect among these people, and I am happy, father, happier 
 every day that I walk that way." 
 
 She looks wistfully into her father's face. "Father, you 
 won't quite understand me when I tell you that the tomato 
 cans with their geraniums behind those gray lace curtains, 
 that make Harvey people smile, are really not tomato cans 
 at all. They are social dynamite bombs that one day will 
 blow into splinters and rubbish the injustices, the cruel in- 
 justices of life that the poor suffer at the hands of their ex- 
 ploiters. The geranium is the flower, the spring flower of the 
 divine discontent, which some day shall bear great and won- 
 derful fruit." 
 
 "Rather a swift pace you're setting for a fat man, Laura," 
 pipes the Doctor, adding earnestly: "There you go talking 
 like Grant Adams! Don't let Grant Adams fool you, child: 
 the end of the world isn't here. Grant's a good boy, Laura, 
 and I like him; but he's getting a kind of Millerite notion 
 that we're about to put on white robes and go straight up 
 to glory, politically and socially and every which way, in a 
 few years, and there's nothing to it. Grant's a good son, and 
 a good brother, and a good friend and neighbor, but" — the 
 Doctor pounds his chair arm vehemently, "there are bats, 
 my dear, bats in his belfry just the same. Don't get ex- 
 cited when you see Grant mount his haystack to jump into 
 the crack o' doom for the established order!" 
 
 The daughter smiles at him, but she answers : 
 
 "Perhaps Grant is touched— touched with the mad im- 
 patience of God's fools, father. I don't always follow Grant. 
 He goes his way and I go mine. But I am sure of this, that 
 the thing which will really start South Harvey, and all the 
 South Harveys in the world out of their dirt and misery, and 
 
NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE 319 
 
 vice, is not our dreams for them, but their dreams for them- 
 selves. They must see the vision. They must aspire. They 
 must feel the impulse to sacrifice greatly, to consecrate them- 
 selves deeply, to give and give and give of themselves that 
 their children may know better things. And it is my work 
 to arouse their dreams, to inspire their visions, to make them 
 yearn for better living. I am trying to teach them to use 
 and to love beautiful things, that they may be restless among 
 ugly things. I think beauty only serves God as the hand- 
 maiden of discontent! And, father, way down deep in my 
 heart — I know — I know surely that I must do this — that it is 
 my reason for being — now that life has taken the greater joy 
 of home from me. So, ' ' she concludes solemnly ; ' ' these peo- 
 ple whom I love, they need me, but father, God and you 
 only know how I need them. I don't know about Grant, — 
 I mean why he is going his solitary way, but perhaps some- 
 where in his heart there is a wound! Perhaps all of God's 
 fools — those who live queer, unnormal self-forgetting lives, 
 are the broken and rejected pieces of life's masonry which 
 the builder is using in his own wise way. As for the plan, 
 it is not ours. Grant and I, broken spawl in the rising 
 edifice, we and thousands like us, odd pieces that chink in 
 yet hold the strain — we must be content to hold the load and 
 know always — always know that after all the wall is rising! 
 That is enough." 
 
 And now we must put aside the pictures and get on with 
 the story. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 GRANT ADAMS PREACHING A MESSAGE OF LOVE RAISES THE 
 VERY DEVIL IN HARVEY 
 
 THE most dramatic agency in life is time — time that 
 escapes the staged drama. The passing years, the 
 ceaseless chiselling of continuous events upon a soul, 
 the reaction of a creed upon the material routine of the days, 
 the humdrum living through of life that brings to it its final 
 color and form — these things shape us and guide us, make 
 us what we are, and alas, the story and the stage may only 
 mention them. It is all very fine to say that as the years of 
 work and aspiration passed, Grant Adams's channel of life 
 grew narrower. But what does that tell ? Does it tell of the 
 slow, daily sculpturing upon his character of the three big, 
 emotional episodes of his life ? To be a father in boyhood, a 
 father ashamed, yet in duty bound to love and cherish his 
 child ; to face death in youth horribly and escape only when 
 other men's courage save him; to react upon that experience 
 in a great spiritual awakening that all but touched madness ; 
 and to face unspeakable pain and terror and possible death 
 to justify one's fanatic consecration. Then day by day 
 to renounce ambition, to feel no desire for those deeper 
 things of the heart that gather about a home and the joys 
 of a home ; to be atrophied where others are quick and to be 
 supersensitive and highstrung where others are dull; these 
 are facts of Grant Adams's life, but the greater facts are 
 hidden ; for they pass under the slow and inexorably moving 
 current of life. They are that part of the living through 
 of life that may not be staged nor told. 
 
 But something of the living through is marked on the 
 man. Here he stands toward the close of the century that 
 bore him — a tall, spare, red-haired, flint-visaged, wire-knit 
 man, prematurely middle-aging in late youth. Under his 
 high white forehead are restless blue eyes — deep, clear, chal- 
 
 320 
 
A MESSAGE OP LOVE 321 
 
 lenging, combative blue eyes, a big nose- protrudes from 
 under the eyes that marks a willful, uncompromising crea- 
 ture and a big strong mouth, not finely cut, but with thick, 
 hard lips, often chapped, that cover large irregular teeth. 
 The face is determined and dogged — almost brutal sometimes 
 when at rest ; but when a smile lights it, a charm and grace 
 from another being illumines the solemn countenance and 
 Grant Adams's heart is revealed. The face is Puritan — all 
 Adams, dour New England Adams, and the smile Irish — 
 from the joyous life of Mary Sands. 
 
 "We may only see the face: here and there on it is the 
 mark of the sculptor's tool: now and then a glare or a smile 
 reveals what deep creases and gashes the winds of the passing 
 years have made in the soul behind the mask. Here and 
 there, as a rising strident voice in passionate exhortation 
 lifts, we may hear the roar of the narrowing channel into 
 which his life is rushed with augmented force as he hurries 
 forward into his destiny. In that tumult, family, home, 
 ambition, his very child itself that was his first deep well- 
 spring of love, are slipping from him into the torrent. The 
 flood washes about him ; his one idea dominates him. He is 
 restless under it — restless even with the employment of the 
 hour. The unions, for which he has been working for more 
 than half a decade, do not satisfy him. His aim is perfection 
 and mortality irritates him, but does not discourage him. 
 For even vanity is slipping from him in the erosion of the 
 waters rushing down their narrowing groove. 
 
 But it is only his grim flint face we see; only his high 
 strident, but often melodiously sympathetic voice we hear; 
 only his wiry, lank body with its stump of a right arm that 
 stands before us. The minutes — awful minutes some of 
 them — the hours, painful wrestling hours, the days, doubt- 
 ridden days, and the long monotonous story of the years, we 
 may not know. For the living through of life still escapes 
 us, and only life 's tableau of the moment is before us. 
 
 Now whatever gloss of gayety Dr. Nesbit might put upon 
 his opinion of Grant Adams and his work in the world, it was 
 evident that the Doctor's opinion of that work was not high. 
 But it was comparatively high ; for Harvey's opinion of Grant 
 
322 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Adams and his. work was abysmal in its depth. He was 
 running his life on a different motor from the motor which 
 moved Harvey; the town was moving after a centripetal 
 force — every one was for himself, and the devil was entitled 
 to the hindermost. Grant Adams was centrifugal; he was 
 not considering himself particularly and was shamelessly 
 taking heed of the hindermost which was the devil's by right. 
 And so men said in their hearts, if this man wins, there will 
 be the devil to pay. For Grant was going about the district 
 spreading discontent. He was calling attention to the viola- 
 tion of the laws in the mines; he was calling attention to 
 the need of other laws to further protect the miners and 
 smelter men. He was going about from town to town in the 
 Valley building up the unions and urging the men to demand 
 more wages, either in actual money or in shorter hours, im- 
 proved labor conditions, and cheaper rent and better houses 
 from the company which housed the families of the workers. 
 
 "Why," he asked, "should labor bear the burden of in- 
 dustry and take its leavings ? ' ' 
 
 "Why," he demanded, "should capital toil not nor spin 
 and be clothed as Solomon in his glory?" 
 
 "Why," he argued, "should the profits of toil be used to 
 buy more tools for toil and not more comforts for toil?" 
 
 "Why, why — " he challenged Market Street, "is the part- 
 nership of society, not a partnership, but a conspiracy?" 
 
 Now Market Street had long been wrathful at that per- 
 sistent Why. , 
 
 But when it became known that John Dexter had in- 
 vited Grant Adams to occupy the pulpit of the Congrega- 
 tional Church one Sunday evening to state his case, Market 
 Street's wrath choked it. For several years John Dexter 
 had been preaching sermons that made the choir the only 
 possible theme of conversation between him and Abab 
 Wright. John Dexter had been crucified a thousand times 
 by the sordid greed of man in Harvey, and had cried out 
 in the wilderness of his pulpit against it; but his cries fell 
 upon deaf ears, or in dumb hearts. 
 
 The invitation to Grant to speak at John Dexter 's Sunday 
 evening service was more of a challenge to Harvey than 
 Harvey comprehended. But even if the town did not en- 
 
A MESSAGE OF LOVE 323 
 
 tirely realize the seriousness of the challenge, at least the 
 minister found himself summoned by Market Street to a 
 meeting to discuss the wisdom of his invitation. "Whereupon 
 John Dexter accepted the invitation and, girding up his loins, 
 went as a strong man rejoicing to run a race. 
 
 To what a judgment seat they summoned John Dexter! 
 First, up spake Commerce. "Dr. Dexter," said Commerce 
 — Commerce always referred to John Dexter as Doctor, 
 though no Doctor was he and he knew it well, ' ' Dr. Dexter, 
 we feel that your encouragement — hum — uhm — well, your 
 patronage of this man Adams, in his — well, shall we say in- 
 cendiary — " a harsh word is incendiary, so Commerce 
 stopped and touched its graying side whiskers reverently and 
 patted its immaculate white necktie, and then went on: 
 " — well perhaps indiscreet will do!" "With Commerce in- 
 deed there is no vast difference between the indiscrete and 
 the incendiary. " — indiscrete agitation against the — well 
 — uhm — the way we have to conduct business, is — is regret- 
 able, — at least regretable!" 
 
 "Why?" interrupted John Dexter sharply, throwing 
 Commerce sadly out of balance. But the Law, which is the 
 palladium of our liberties, answered for Commerce in a slow 
 snarling, "because he is preaching discontent." 
 
 "But Mr. Calvin," returned John Dexter quickly, "if 
 any one would come to town preaching discontent to Wright 
 & Perry, showing them how to make more money, to enlarge 
 their profits, to rise among their fellow merchants — would 
 you refuse to give him audience in a pulpit?" The Law 
 did not deign to answer the preacher and then Industry took 
 heart to say, pulling its military goatee vigorously, and clear- 
 ing its dear old throat for a passage at arms : " ' Y gory 
 man, there's always been a working class and they've always 
 had to work like sixty and get the worst of it, I guess, and 
 they always will — what say? You can't improve on the way 
 the world is made. And when she's made, she's made — what 
 say? I tell you now, you're wasting your time on that class 
 of people." 
 
 The antagonists looked into each other's kindly eyes. In- 
 dustry triumphing in its logic, the minister hunting in his 
 heart for the soft answer that would refute the logic with- 
 
324 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 out hurting its author. "Captain," he said, "there was 
 once a wiser than we who went about preaching a new order, 
 spreading discontent with injustice, whose very mother was 
 of the lowest industrial class." 
 
 "Yes — and you know what happened to Him," sneered 
 the Courts, which are the keystones of government in the 
 structure of civilization. "And," continued the courts, in 
 a grand and superior voice, "you can't drag business into 
 religion, sir. Religion is one thing and I respect it," — tit- 
 ters from the listening angels, " — and business is another 
 thing, and we think, sir, that you are trying to mix the 
 insoluble, and as business men who have our own deep re- 
 ligious convictions — " inaudible guffaws from the angels, 
 " — we feel the sacrilege of asking this blatherskite Adams 
 to speak on any subject in so sacred a place as our conse- 
 crated pulpit, sir." Hoarse hoots from the angels. 
 
 No soft benignity beamed in the preacher's face as he 
 turned to the Courts. "My pulpit, Judge," answered John 
 Dexter sternly, "first of all stands for the gospel of Justice 
 between man and man. It will afford sanctuary for the thief 
 and the Magdalene, but only the penitent thief and the 
 weeping Magdalene!" And John Dexter brought down a 
 resounding fist on the table before him. "I believe that 
 the first duty of religion is to preach shame on the wicked, 
 that they may quit their wickedness, and if," John Dexter 's 
 voice rose as he went on, "in the light of our widening in- 
 telligence we see that employers are organized wickedly to 
 rob their workers of justice in one way or another, I stand 
 with those who would make the thief disgorge for his own 
 soul's sake, incidentally, but chiefly that justice may come 
 into an evil world and men may not mock the mercy and 
 goodness of God by pointing at the evil men do unrebuked in 
 His name, and under His servants ' noses. My pulpit is a free 
 pulpit, sir. When it is not that, I shall leave it. And even 
 though I do not agree sometimes with a man's message, so 
 long as my pulpit is free, any man who desires to cry stop 
 thief, in the darkness of this world, may lift his voice there, 
 and no man shall say him nay! Have you gentlemen any- 
 thing further to offer?"_ 
 
 Commerce ceased rubbing its hands. Its alter ego, Busi- 
 
A MESSAGE OF LOVE 325 
 
 ness, was obviously getting ready to say something, but was 
 only whistling for the station, and the crowd knew it would 
 be a minute before his stuttering speech should arrive. Pa- 
 triotism was leaning forward with its hands back of its ears, 
 smiling pleasantly at what he did not understand, and In- 
 dustry, who saw the strings in which his world was wrapped 
 up for delivery, cut, and the world sprawled in confusion 
 before him by the preacher's defiance, was pulling his military 
 goatee solemnly when Science toddled in, white-clad, pink- 
 faced, smoking his short pipe and clicking his cane rather 
 more snappily than usual. He saw that he had punctuated 
 an embarrassed situation. Only Religion and Patriotism 
 were smiling. Science brought his cane down with a whack 
 and piped out: 
 
 "So you are going to muzzle John Dexter, are you — you 
 witch-burning old pharisees. I heard of your meeting, and 
 I just thought I 'd come around to the bonfire ! What are you 
 trying to do here, anyway?" 
 
 At last Business which had been whistling for the station 
 was ready to pull in; so it unloaded itself thus: "We are 
 p-protesting, Doc, at th-th-th-th m-m-m-man Adams — this 
 1-1-labor sk-sk-skate and s-s-socialist occupying J-J-John Dex- 
 ter 's p-pulp-p-pit ! " 
 
 Science looked at Business a grave moment, then burst 
 out, "What are you all afraid of! Here you are, a lot of 
 grown men with fat bank accounts sitting around in a blue 
 funk because Grant Adams does a little more or less objec- 
 tionable talking. I don't agree with Grant much more than 
 you do. But you're a lot of old hens, cackling around here 
 because Grant Adams invades the roost to air his views. Let 
 him talk. Let 'em all talk. Talk is cheap; otherwise we 
 wouldn't have free speech." He grinned cynically as he 
 asked, "Haven't you any faith in the Constitution of the 
 fathers ? They were smart enough to know that free speech 
 was a safety valve; let 'em blow off. Then go down and 
 organize and vote 'em afterwards according to the dictates 
 of your own conscience. Politics is the antidote for free 
 speech ! ' ' The Doctor glared at the Courts, smiled amiably 
 at Business and winked conspicuously at Religion. Religion 
 blushed at the blasphemy and as there seemed to be nothing 
 
326 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 further before the house the Doctor and John Dexter left the 
 room. 
 
 But the honest indignation of Market Street that an agi- 
 tator should appear in a pulpit — that an agitator for any- 
 thing, should appear in any pulpit — waxed strong. Forit 
 was assumed that religion had nothing to do with social 
 conduct; religion was solely a matter of individual salva- 
 tion. Religion was a matter concerned entirely with getting 
 to heaven oneself, and not at all a matter of getting others 
 to heaven except as they took the narrow and individual 
 path. The idea that environment affects character and that 
 society through politics and social and economic institutions 
 may change a man 's environments and thus affect the charac- 
 ters and the chances for Heaven of whole sections of the pop- 
 ulation, was an idea which had not been absorbed by Market 
 Street in Harvey. So Market Street raged. 
 
 That evening when Grant Adams returned from work he 
 received two significant notes. One was from John Dexter 
 and ran: 
 
 "Dear Grant: Fearing that you may hear of the com- 
 ment my invitation to you to speak in my pulpit is causing 
 and fearing that you may either decide at the last minute 
 not to come or that you will modify your remarks out of 
 consideration for me, I write to say that while of course I 
 may not agree with everything you advocate, yet my pulpit 
 is a free pulpit and I cannot consent that you restrict its 
 freedom in saying your full say as a man, any more than I 
 could consent to have my own freedom restricted. Yours in 
 the faith— J. D." 
 
 The other note ran: "Father says to tell you to tone it 
 down. I have delivered his message. I say here is your 
 chance to get the truth where it is most needed, and even 
 if for the most part it falls on stony ground — you still must 
 sow it.— L. N. VD." 
 
 Sunday evening saw a large congregation in the pews of 
 the Rev. John Dexter 's church. In the front and middle 
 portion of the church were the dwellers on the Hill, those 
 whose lines fell in pleasant places. They were the "Haves" 
 of the town, — conspicuous and highly respectable with rustle 
 ef silks and nutter of ribbons. 
 
A MESSAGE OF LOVE 327 
 
 And back of these sat a score of men and women from 
 South Harvey, the "Have-nots," the dwellers in the dreary- 
 valley. There was Denny Hogan, late of the mines, but now 
 of the smelter — with his curly hair plastered over his fore- 
 head, and with his wife, she that was Violet Mauling holding 
 a two-year-old baby with sweaty, curly red hair to her breast 
 asleep ; there was Ira Dooley, also late of the mines, but now 
 proprietor of a little game of chance over the Hot Dog Sa- 
 loon; there was Pat McCann, a pit boss and proud of it, 
 with Mrs. McCann — looking her eyes out at Mrs. Nesbit's 
 hat. There was John Jones, in his Sunday best, and Evan 
 Hughes and Tom Williams, the wiry little Welsh miners 
 who had faced death with Grant Adams five years before. 
 They were with him that night at the church with all the 
 pride in him that they could have if he were one of the real 
 nobility, instead of a labor agitator with a little more than 
 local reputation. And there were Dick and his boy Mugs 
 and the silent Mrs. Bowman and Bennie her youngest and 
 Mary the next to the youngest. And Mrs. Bowman in the 
 South Harvey colony was a person of consequence, for she 
 nodded to the Nesbits and the Mortons and to Laura and 
 to Mrs. Calvin and to all the old settlers of Harvey — rather 
 conspicuously. She had the gratification of noting that South 
 Harvey saw the nobility nod back. With the South Harvey 
 people came Amos Adams in his rough gray clothes and rough 
 gray beard. Jasper Adams,, in the highest possible collar, 
 and in the gayest possible shell-pink necktie and under the 
 extremest clothes that it might be possible for the superin- 
 tendent of a Sunday School to wear, shared a hymnal, when 
 the congregation rose to sing, with the youngest Miss Morton. 
 There were those who thought the singing was merely a duet 
 between young Mr. Adams and the youngest Miss Morton — 
 so much feeling did they put into the music. Mr. Brotherton 
 was so impressed, that he marked young Adams for a tryout 
 at the next funeral where there was a bass voice needed, 
 making the mental reservation that no one needed to look 
 at the pimples of a boy who could sing like that. 
 
 When the congregation sat down after the first hymn John 
 Dexter formally presented Grant Adams to the congregation. 
 The young man rose, walked to the chancel rail and stood for 
 
328 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 a moment facing his audience without speaking. The con- 
 gregation saw a tall, strong featured, uncouth man with large 
 nose and a big mouth — clearly masculine and not finely 
 chiselled. In these features there was something almost 
 coarse and earthy ; but in the man 's eyes and forehead, there 
 lurked the haunting, fleeting shadow of the eternal feminine 
 in his soul. His eyes were deep and blue and tender, and 
 in repose always seemed about to smile, while his forehead, 
 high and broad, topped by a shock of red hair, gave him a 
 kind of intellectual charity that made his whole countenance 
 shine with kindness. Yet his clothes belied the promise of 
 his brow. They were ill-fitting, with an air of Sunday-best- 
 ness that gave him an incongruous scarecrow effect. It was 
 easy to see why Market Street was beginning to call him that 
 "Mad Adams." As he lifted his glance from the floor, his 
 eyes met Laura Van Dorn's, then flitted away quickly, and 
 the smile she should have had for her own, he gave to his 
 audience. He began speaking with his arms behind him 
 to hide the crippled arm which was tipped with a gloved 
 iron claw. His voice was low and gentle, yet his hearers 
 felt its strength in reserve. 
 
 "I suppose," he began slowly, "every man has his job 
 in the world, and I presume my job seems rather an unnec- 
 essary one to some of my friends, and I can hardly blame 
 them. Por the assumption of superiority that it may seem 
 to require upon the whole must be distasteful to them. Por 
 as a professional apostle of discontent, urging men to cease 
 the worship of things as they are, I am taking on myself a 
 grave burden — that of leading those who come with me, into 
 something better. In the end perhaps, you will not be proud 
 of me. Por my vision may be a delusion. Time may leave 
 me naked to the cold truth of life, and I may awaken from 
 my dreaming to reality. That is possible. But now I see 
 my course; now I feel the deep call of a duty I cannot re- 
 sist." He was speaking softly and in hardly more than a 
 conversational tone, with his hand at his side and his gloved 
 claw behind him. He lifted his hand and spoke in a deeper 
 tone. 
 
 "I have come to you — to those of you who lead sheltered 
 lives of comfort, amid work and scenes you love, to tell yon 
 
A MESSAGE OF LOVE 329 
 
 of your neighbors; to call to you in their name, and in the 
 name of our common God for help. I have come from the 
 poor — to tell you of their sorrows, to beg of you to come over 
 into Macedonia and help us ; for without you we are helpless. 
 True — God knows how true — the poor outnumber you by 
 ten to one. True, they have the power within them to rise, 
 but their strength is as water in their hands. They need 
 you. They need your neighborly love." 
 
 As he spoke something within him, some power of his 
 voice or of his presence played across the congregation like a 
 wind. The wind which at first touched a few who bent for- 
 ward to hear him, was moving every one. Faces gradually 
 set in attention. He went on: 
 
 "How wonderful is this spirit of life that has come roll- 
 ing in through the eons, rolling in from some vast illimitable 
 sea of life that we call God. For ages and ages on this 
 planet life could only give to new life the power to feed 
 and propagate, could only pass on to new life the heritage 
 of instinct ; then another impulse of the outer sea washed in 
 and there came a day when life could imitate, could learn 
 a little, could pass on to new life some slight power of growth. 
 And then came welling in from the unknown bourne another 
 wave, and lo ! life could reason, and God heard men whisper, 
 Father, and deep called unto deep. Since then through the 
 long centuries, through the gray ages, life slowly has been 
 rising, slowly coming in from the hidden sea that laves the 
 world. Millions and millions of men are doomed to know 
 nothing of this life that gives us joy; millions are held 
 bound in a social inheritance that keeps them struggling for 
 food, over outworn paths, mere creatures of primal instinct, 
 whose Godhood is taken from them at birth ; by you — by you 
 who get what you do not earn from those who earn what they 
 do not get." 
 
 He turned to the group near the rear of the room, looked 
 at them and continued : 
 
 "The poor need your neighborly sacrifice, and in that 
 neighborly love and sacrifice you will grow in stature more 
 than they. What you give you will keep ; what you lose you 
 will gain. The brotherhood you build up will bless and 
 comfort you. 
 
330 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "The poor," he exclaimed passionately, "need you, but 
 how, before God you need them ! For only a loving under- 
 standing of your neighbors' lives will soften your calloused 
 hearts. Long benumbing hours of grimy work, sordid 
 homes amid daily and hourly scenes of filth and shame!" 
 He leaned forward and cried: "Listen to me, Ahab 
 Wright," and he thrust forward his iron claw toward the 
 merchant while the congregation gasped, "what if you had 
 to strip naked and bathe in a one-roomed hut before your 
 family every night when you came home, dirty and coal- 
 stained from your day's work! the beggar and the harlot and 
 the thief nearby." He moved his accusing claw and the 
 startled eyes of the crowd followed it as it pointed to Daniel 
 Sands and Grant exclaimed: "Listen, Uncle Dan Sands, 
 how would you like to have your daughter see the things the 
 children see who live in your tenements next to the Burned 
 District, which is your property also ! Poisoned food, cheap, 
 poisoned air, cheap, poisoned thoughts — all food and air and 
 ideas, the cast-off refuse of your daily lives who live in these 
 sheltered homes. You have a splendid sewer system up here ; 
 but it flows into South Harvey and the Valley towns, a great 
 open ravine, because you people sitting here who own the 
 property down there won't tax yourselves to enclose those 
 sewers that poison us!" A faint — rather dazed smile ran 
 over the congregation like a wraith of smoke. He felt that 
 the smoke proved that he had struck fire. He went on: 
 "Love, great aspiring love of fathers and mothers and sisters 
 and brothers, love stifled by fell circumstance, by cruel 
 events, and love that winces in agony at seeing children and 
 father and brother go down in the muck all around them — 
 that is the heritage of poverty. 
 
 "Hear me, Kyle Perry and John Kollander. I know you 
 think poverty is the social punishment of the unfit. But I 
 tell you poverty is not the punishment of the weak. Pov- 
 erty is a social condition to which millions are doomed and 
 from which only hundreds escape when the doom of birth 
 is sealed. What has Ahab Wright given to Harvey more 
 than James McPherson, who discovered coal here? What 
 has Daniel Sands done for Harvey more than Tom Wil- 
 liams, who has spent his life at hard work mining coal? Is 
 
A MESSAGE OF LOVE 331 
 
 not his coal as valuable as Uncle Daniel's interest? Friends 
 — think of these things!" 
 
 The wraith of smoke that had appeared when Grant first 
 began speaking personally to the men of Harvey, in a min- 
 ute had grown to a surer evidence of fire. The smiling 
 ceased. Angry looks began flashing over the faces before 
 Grant, like darts of flame. And after these looks came a 
 great black cloud of wrath that was as perceptible as a gust 
 of smoke. He felt that soon the fire would burst forth. 
 But he hurried on with his message : "Poverty is not the so- 
 cial punishment of the weak, I repeat it. Poverty is a social 
 inheritance of the many, a condition which holds men hard 
 and fast — a condition that you may change, you who have so 
 much. All this coal and oil and mineral have profited you 
 greatly, oh, men of Harvey. You are rich, Daniel Sands. 
 You are prosperous, Ahab Wright. You have every com- 
 fort around you and yours, John Kollander, and you, Joseph 
 Calvin, are rearing your children in luxury compared with 
 Dick Bowman's children. Hasn't he worked as hard as you? 
 Here are Ira Dooley and Denny Hogan. They started as 
 equals with you up here and have worked as hard and have 
 lived average lives. Yet if their share is a fair share of 
 the earnings of this community, you have an unfair share. 
 How did you get it?" He leaned out over the chancel rail, 
 pointed a bony, accusing finger at the congregation and 
 glared at the eyes before him angrily. Quickly he recovered 
 his poise but brought his steel claw down on the pulpit beside 
 him with a sharp clash as he cried again, ' ' How did you get 
 it?" 
 
 Then it was that the flame of indignation burst forth. It 
 came first in a hiss and another and a third — then a crackling 
 fire of hisses greeted his last sentence. When the hissing 
 calmed, his voice rose slightly. He went on: 
 
 "We of the middle classes — we have risen above the great 
 mass below us : we are permitted to learn — a little — to imitate 
 and expand somewhat. But above us, thank God, is another 
 group in the social organization. Here at the top stand the 
 blessed, privileged few who are the world's prophets and 
 dreamers and seers — they know God ; they drink deep of the 
 rising tide of everlasting life that is booming in, flooding the 
 
332 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 world with mercy and love and brotherhood ; and what they 
 see in one century — and die for disclosing — we all see in the 
 next century and fight to hold it fast!" He stood looking 
 at the floor, then opened wide his glaring eyes, a fanatic's 
 mania blazing in them, lifted his arms and cried with a great 
 voice like a trumpet: "You — you — you who have known 
 God's mercy and his goodness and his love — why, in the 
 dead Christ's name do you sit here and let the flood of life 
 be dammed away from your brothers, stealing the waters of 
 life like thieves from your brethren by your cruel laws and 
 customs and the chains of social circumstance ! ' ' 
 
 They tried to hiss again but he hurried on as one possessed 
 of a demon: "A little love, a little sacrifice, a little prac- 
 tical brotherly care from each of you each day would help. 
 We don't want your alms, we want justice. Thousands of 
 babies — loved just as yours are loved — are slaughtered every 
 month through poisoned food that comes from commercial 
 greed. Thousands of fathers and brothers over this land are 
 killed every year because it is cheaper to kill them than to 
 protect them by machinery guarded and watched. Their 
 blood is upon you — for by your laws, by your middle class 
 courts you could stop its flowing. Thousands of mothers die 
 every week from poor housing — you could stop that if you 
 would. They are stopping it by laws in other lands. Mil- 
 lions of girls the world over are led like sheep to shameful 
 lives because of industrial conditions that your vote and 
 voice could change ; and yet, ' ' his voice lost its accusing tone 
 and he spoke gently, even tenderly, "as babies they cuddled 
 in their mothers' arms and roused all the hope and in- 
 spired all the love that a soft little body may bring. Millions 
 and millions of mothers who clasp their children to them in 
 hope, must see those children go into life to be broken and 
 crushed by the weight from above. ' ' 
 
 As Grant was speaking he noticed that Morty Sands was 
 nodding his head off in gorgeous approval. Then without 
 thinking how his words might cut, he cried, "And look at 
 our good friend Morty Sands who enjoys every luxury and 
 is arrayed as the lilies of the field ! What does Morty give 
 to society that he can promise the girl who marries him, com- 
 fort and ease and all the happiness that physical affluence 
 
A MESSAGE OF LOVE 333 
 
 may bring? And then there sits Mugs Bowman. What can 
 Mugs offer his girl except a life of hard, grinding work, a 
 houseful of children and a death perhaps of slow disease? 
 Yet Mugs must have his houseful of children for they must 
 all work to support Morty. Where is the justice in a society 
 organized like this? 
 
 "For Christ's living sake," cried the man as his face 
 glowed in his emotion, "let life wash in from its holy source 
 to these our brothers. Shame on you — you greedy ones, you 
 dollar worshipers — you dam the stream, you muddy the 
 waters, you poison the well of life — shame — shame!" he 
 cried and then paused, gloated perhaps in his pause, for the 
 storm he saw gathering in the crowd, to break. His face was 
 transfigured by the passion in his heart and seemed illumined 
 with wrath. 
 
 ' ' The flag — the flag ! ' ' bawled deaf John Kollander, rising, 
 "He is desecrating Old Glory!" 
 
 Then fire met fire and the conflagration was past control. 
 It raged over the church noisily. 
 
 "Look-a here, young man," called Joseph Calvin, stand- 
 ing in his seat. 
 
 "The flag — will no one defend the flag!" bellowed John 
 Kollander, while Ehoda, his wife, looked on with amiable 
 approval. 
 
 "P-put him out," stuttered Kyle Perry, and his clerks 
 and understrappers joined the clamor. 
 
 "Well, say, men," cried George Brotherton in the confu- 
 sion of hissing and groaning, "can't you let the man talk? 
 Is free speech dead in this town ? ' ' His great voice silenced 
 the crowd, and John Dexter was in the pulpit holding out 
 his hands. As he spoke the congregation grew silent, and 
 they heard him say : 
 
 "This is a free pulpit; this man shall not be disturbed." 
 But Joseph Calvin stamped noisily out of the church. John 
 Kollander and his wife marched out behind him with mili- 
 tary tread and Kyle Perry and Ahab Wright with their fam- 
 ilies followed, amid a shuffling of feet and a clamor of voices. 
 The men from South Harvey kept their places. There was 
 a whispering among them and Grant, fearing that they 
 would start trouble, called to them sternly : 
 
334 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 "My friends must respect this house. Let property riot 
 — poverty can wait. It has waited a long time and is used 
 to it." 
 
 When Market Street was gone, the speaker drew a deep 
 breath and said in a low, quiet voice charged with pent-up 
 emotion: "Now that we are alone, friends, — now that they 
 are gone whose hearts needed this message, let me say just 
 this : God has given you who live beautiful lives the keeping 
 of his treasure. Let us ask ourselves this: Shall we keep 
 it to share it with our brethren in love, or shall we guard it 
 against our brethren in hate?" 
 
 He walked back to the rear of the room and sat, with his 
 head bowed down, beside his friends, spent and weary while 
 the services closed. 
 
 At the church door Laura Van Dorn saw the despair that 
 was somewhat a physical reaction from weariness. So she 
 cut her way through the group and went to him, taking his 
 arm and drawing him aside into the home-bound walk, as 
 quickly as she could. He remained grim and spoke only in 
 answer to challenge or question from Laura. It was plain 
 to her that he felt that his speech was a failure ; that he had 
 not made himself understood; that he had overstated his 
 ease. She was not sure herself that he had not lost more 
 ground than he had gained in the town. But she wrapped 
 him about in a garment of kindness — an almost maternal 
 tenderness that was balm to his heart. She did not praise 
 his speech but she let him know that she was proud of him, 
 that her heart was in all that he had said, even if he felt 
 definitely that there were places in his adventure where her 
 head was not ready to go. She held no check upon the 
 words that came to her lips, for she felt, even deeper and 
 surer than she felt her own remoteness from the love which 
 her girlhood had known, that in him it was forever dead. No 
 touch of his hand ; no look of his eye, no quality of his voice 
 had come to her since her childhood, in which she could find 
 trace or suggestion that sex was alive in him. The ardor 
 that burned so wildly upon his face, the fire in his eyes that 
 glowed when he spoke of his work and his problems, seemed 
 to have charred within him all flower and beauty of ro- 
 mance. But they left with him a hunger for sympathy. A 
 
A MESSAGE OF LOVE 335 
 
 desire to be mothered and a longing for a deep and sweet un- 
 derstanding which made Laura more and more necessary 
 to him as he went into his life's pilgrimage. As they reached 
 a corner, he left her with her family while he turned away 
 for a night walk. 
 
 As he walked, he was continually coming upon lovers 
 passing or meeting him in the night ; and Grant seeing them 
 felt his sense of isolation from life renewed, hut was not 
 stirred to change his course. For hours he wandered 
 through the town and out of it into the prairies, with his 
 heart heavy and wroth at the iniquities of men which make 
 the inequities of life. For his demon kept him from sleep. 
 If another demon, and perhaps a gentler, tried to whisper 
 to him that night of another life and a sweeter, tried to turn 
 him from his course into the normal walks of man, tried 
 to break his purpose and tempt him to dwell in the comely 
 tents of Kedar — if some gentler angels that would have saved 
 him from a harsher fate had beckoned to him and called him 
 that night, through passing lovers ' arms and the murmur of 
 loving voices, his eyes were blind and his ears were deaf and 
 his heart was hot with another passion. 
 
 Amos Adams was in bed when Grant came into the house. 
 On the table was a litter of writing paper. Grant sat down 
 for a minute under the lamp. His father in the next room 
 stirred, and asked: 
 
 ' ' What kept you ? ' ' And then, ' ' I Had a terrific time with 
 Mr. Left to-night." The father appeared in the doorway. 
 "But just look there what I got after a long session." 
 
 On the page were these words written in a little round, old- 
 fashioned hand, some one's interminably repeated prayer. 
 ' ' Angels guide him — angels strengthen him ; angels pray for 
 him." These words were penned clear across the page and 
 on the next line and the next and the next to the very bot- 
 tom of the page, in a weary monotony, save that at the bottom 
 of the sheet the pen had literally run into the paper, so 
 heavily was the hand of the writer bearing down! Under 
 that, written in the fine hand used by Mr. Left was this : 
 
 "Huxley: — On earth I wrote that I saw one angel — 'the 
 strong, calm angel playing for love.' Now I see the forces 
 of good leading the world forward, compelling progress; all 
 
336 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 are personal — just as the Great All Encompassing Force is 
 personal, just as human consciousness is personal. The posi- 
 tive forces of life are angels — not exact — but the best figure. 
 So it is true that was written, 'there is more joy in Heaven' 
 — and 'the angels sang for joy.' This also is only a figure — 
 but the best I can get through to you. Angels guide us, 
 angels strengthen us, angels pray for us." 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 IN WHICH JUDGE VAN DOBN MAKES HIS BEAGS AND DR. NESBIT 
 SEES A VISION 
 
 IT was the last day of the last year of the Nineteenth 
 Century — and a fair, beautiful day it was. The sun 
 shone over Harvey in spite of the clouds from the smelter 
 in South Harvey, and in spite of the clouds that were blown 
 by the soft, south wind up the Wahoo Valley from other 
 smelters and other coal mines, and a score of great smoke 
 stacks in Foley and Magnus and Plain Valley, where the 
 discovery of coal and oil and gas, within the decade that 
 was passing, had turned the Valley into a straggling town 
 almost twenty miles long. So high and busy were the chim- 
 neys that when the south wind blew toward the capital of 
 this industrial community, often the sun was dimmed in 
 Harvey by a haze. But on this fair winter's day the air 
 was dry and cold and even in Harvey shadows were black and 
 clear, and the sun's warmth had set the redbirds to singing 
 in the brush and put so much joy into the world that Judge 
 Thomas Van Dorn had ventured out with his new automo- 
 bile — a chugging, clattering wonder that set all the horses 
 of Greeley County on their hind feet, making him a person of 
 distinction in the town far beyond his renown as a judge and 
 an orator and a person of more than state-wide reputation. 
 But the Judge 's automobile was frail and prone to err — being 
 not altogether unlike its owner in that regard. Thus many 
 a time when it chugged out of his barn so proudly, it came 
 limping back, behind a span of mules. And so it happened 
 on that bright, beautiful, December day that the Judge was 
 sitting upon a box in Captain Morton's shop, while the 
 Captain at his little forge was welding some bits of metal 
 together and discoursing upon the virtues of his Household 
 
 337 
 
338 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 Horse, which he was assembling in small quantities — having 
 arranged with a firm in South Chicago to cast the two iron 
 pieces that were needed. 
 
 "Now, for instance, on a clothes wringer," the Captain 
 was saying: "It's a perfect wonder on a clothes wringer: 
 I have the agency of a clothes wringer that is making agents 
 rich all over the country. But women don't like clothes 
 wringers ; why ? Because they require such hard work. All 
 right — hitch on my Household Horse, and the power required 
 is reduced three-fifths and a day's wash may be put on the 
 line as easy as a girl could play The Maiden's Prayer on 
 a piano — eh? Or, say, put it on a churn — same Horse — 
 one's all that's needed to a house. Or make it an ice cream 
 freezer or a cradle or a sewing machine, or anything on 
 earth that runs by a crank — and 'y gory, man, you make 
 housework a joy. I sold Laura one — traded her one for les- 
 sons for Ruth, and she says wash-day at the Doctor's is like 
 Sunday now — what say? Lila's so crazy about it they can't 
 keep her but of the basement while the woman works, — likes 
 to dabble in the water you know like all children, washing 
 her doll clothes, what say?" 
 
 But the Judge said nothing. The Captain tinkered with 
 the metal, and dipped it slowly in and out of a tub of dirty 
 water to temper it, and as he tried it in the groove where it 
 belonged upon the automobile backed up to the shop, he 
 found that it was not exactly true, and went to work to 
 spring it back into line. The Judge looked around the shop 
 — a barny, little place filled with all sorts of wheels and 
 pulleys and levers and half -finished inventions that wouldn't 
 work, and that, even if they would work, would be of little 
 consequence. There was an attempt to make a self-oiler 
 for buggy wheels, a half-finished contrivance that was sup- 
 posed to keep cordwood stacked in neat rows; an automatic 
 contraption to prevent coffeepots from burning ; a cornsheller 
 that would all but work; a molasses faucet with an alcohol 
 burner which was supposed to make the sirup flow faster — 
 but which instead sometimes blew up and burned down 
 grocery stores, and there were steamers and churns and 
 household contrivances which the Captain had introduced 
 into the homes of Harvey in past years, not of his invention, 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN BRAGS 339 
 
 to be sure, but contrivances that had inspired his eloquence, 
 and were mute witnesses to his prowess — trophies of the 
 chase. Above the forge were rows of his patent sprockets, 
 all neatly wrapped in brown paper, and under this row of 
 merchandise was a clipping from the Times describing the 
 Captain's invention, and predicting — at five cents a line — 
 that it would revolutionize the theory of mechanics and soon 
 become a household need all over the world. 
 
 As the Judge looked idly at the Captain's treasures while 
 the Captain tinkered with the steel, he took off his hat, and 
 the Captain, peering through his glasses, remarked: 
 
 "Getting kind of thin on top, Tom — eh? Doc, he's lean- 
 ing a little hard on his cane. Joe Calvin, he's getting rheu- 
 matic, and you're getting thin-haired. The Lord giveth 
 and the Lord taketh away." 
 
 ' ' So you believe the Lord runs things here in Harvey, do 
 you, Cap ? ' ' asked the Judge, who was playing with a bit of 
 wire. 
 
 "Well — I suppose if you come right down to it," an- 
 swered the Captain, "a man's got to have the consolation of 
 religion in some shape or other or he's going to get mighty 
 discouraged — what say?" 
 
 "Why," scoffed the Judge, "it's a myth — there's nothing 
 to it. Look at my wife — I mean Margaret — she changes re- 
 ligion as often as she changes dogs. Since we've been mar- 
 ried she's had three religions. And what good does it do 
 her?" 
 
 The Captain, sighting down the edge of the metal, shook his 
 head, and the Judge went on: "What good does any re- 
 ligion do? I've broken the ten commandments, every one 
 of them — and I get on. No one bothers me, because I keep 
 inside the general statutes. I 've beat God at his own game. 
 I tell you, Cap, you can do what you please just so you obey 
 the state and federal laws and pay your debts. This God- 
 myth amuses me. ' ' 
 
 Captain Morton did not care to argue with the Judge. So 
 he said, by way of making conversation for a customer, and 
 neighbor and guest: 
 
 "I hear, well, to be exact, George Brotherton was telling 
 me and the girls the other night that the Company is secretly 
 
340 IN THE HEAKT OF A FOOL 
 
 dropping out the members of the unions that Grant Adams 
 has been organizing down in South Harvey." 
 
 "Yes — that Adams is another one of your canting, God- 
 and-morality fellows. Always watch that kind. I tell you, 
 Captain," barked the Judge, "about the only thing my 
 wife and I have agreed on for a year is that this Adams 
 fellow is a sneaking, pharisaical hound. Lord, how she 
 hates him! Sometimes I think women hate hard enough 
 to compete with your God, who according to the preachers, 
 is always slipping around getting even with fellows for 
 their sins. God and women are very much alike, anyway," 
 sneered the Judge. In the silence that followed, both men 
 were attracted by a noise behind them — the rustling of straw. 
 They looked around and saw the figure of a little girl — a 
 yellow-haired, blue-eyed, shy, little girl, trying to slip out 
 of the place. She had evidently been in the loft gathering 
 eggs, for her apron was full, and she had her foot on the loft 
 ladder. 
 
 "Why, Lila, child," exclaimed the Captain, "I clean for- 
 got you being up there — did you find any eggs? Why didn't 
 you come down long ago ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Come here, Lila, ' ' called the Judge. The child stood by 
 the ladder hesitatingly, holding her little apron corners 
 tightly in her teeth basketing the eggs — too embarrassed now 
 that she was down the ladder, to use her hands. 
 
 "Lila," coaxed the Judge, reaching his hand into his 
 pocket, "won't you let Papa give you a dollar for candy or 
 something. Come on, daughter. " He put out his hands. She 
 shook her head. She had to pass him to get to the door. 
 "You aren't afraid of your Papa are you, Lila — come — ■ 
 here 's a dollar for you — that 's a good girl. ' ' 
 
 Her mouth quivered. Big tears were dropping down her 
 cheeks. The Captain's quick eye saw that something had 
 hurt her. He went over to her, put his arm about her, took 
 the eggs from her apron, fondled her gently without speak- 
 ing. The Judge drew nearer "Lila — come — that's a good 
 girl — here, take the money. Oh Lila, Lila," he cried, "won't 
 you take it for Papa — won't you, my little girl?" 
 
 The child looked up at him with shy frightened eyes, and 
 suddenly she put down her head and ran past him. He tried 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN BRAGS 341 
 
 to hold her — to put the silver into her hand, but she shrank 
 away and dropped the coin before him. 
 
 "Shy child, Judge — very shy. Emma let her gather the 
 eggs this morning, she loves to hunt eggs," chuckled the Cap- 
 tain, "and she went to the loft just before you came in. I 
 clean forgot she hadn't come down." 
 
 The Captain went on with his work. 
 
 "I suppose, Cap," said Van Dorn quietly, "she heard more 
 or less of what I said. ' ' The Captain nodded. 
 
 "How much did she understand?" the Judge asked. 
 
 ' ' More 'n you 'd think, Judge — more 'n you 'd think. But, ' ' 
 added Captain Morton after a pause, ' ' I know the little skite 
 like a top, Judge — and there's one thing about her : She's a 
 loyal little body. She'll never tell; you needn't be worrying 
 about that." 
 
 The Judge sighed and added sadly : "It wasn 't that, Cap 
 — it was — " But the Judge left his sentence in the air. 
 The mending was done. The Judge paid the old man and 
 gave him a dollar more than he asked, and went chugging off 
 in a cloud of smoke, while the Captain, thinking over what 
 the Judge had said, sighed, shook his head, and bending over 
 his work, cackled in an undertone, snatches of a tune that told 
 of a land that is fairer than day. He had put together three 
 sprockets and was working on the fourth when he looked up 
 and saw his daughter Emma sitting on the box that the Judge 
 had vacated. The Captain put his hand to his back and 
 stood up, looking at his eldest daughter with loving pride. 
 
 "Emma," he said at length, "Judge Tom says women 
 are like God." He stood near her and smoothed her hair, 
 and patted her cheek as he pressed her head against his side. 
 "I guess he's right — eh? Lila was in the loft getting eggs 
 and she overheard a lot of his fool talk." The daughter 
 made no reply. The Captain worked on and finally said: 
 "It kind of hit Tom hard to have Lila hear him; took the 
 tuck out of him, eh ? " 
 
 Emma still waited. "My dear, the more I know of women 
 the better I think of God, and the surer I am of God, the 
 better I think of women — what say?" He sat on the box 
 beside her and took her hand in his hard, cracked, grimy 
 hand, " 'Y gory, girl, I tell you, give me a line on a man's idea 
 
342 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 of God and I can tell you to a tee what he thinks of women 
 — eh?" The Captain dropped the hand for a moment and 
 looked out of the door into the alley. 
 
 "Well, Father, I agree with you in general about women 
 but in particular I don't care about Mrs. Herdicker and 
 I wish Martha had another job, though I suppose it's better 
 than teaching school." The daughter sighed. "Honest, 
 father, sometimes when I've been on my feet all day, and 
 the children have been mean, and the janitor sticks his head 
 in and grins, so I'll know the superintendent is in the 
 building and get the work off the board that the rules 
 don't allow me to put on, or one of the other girls sends 
 a note up to watch for my spelling for he's cranky on 
 spelling to-day, I just think, 'Lordee, if I had a job in some 
 one's kitchen, I'd be too happy to breathe.' But then — " 
 
 "Yes — yes, child — I know it's hard work now — but 'y gory, 
 Emmy, when I get this sprocket introduced and going, I'll 
 buy you six superintendents in a brass cage and let you feed 
 'em biled eggs to make 'em sing — eh ? " He smiled and patted 
 his daughter's hair and rose to go back to work. The 
 girl plucked at his coat and said: "Now sit down, father, 
 I want to talk to you," she hesitated. "It's about Mr. 
 Brotherton. You know he's been coming out here for years 
 and I thought he was coming to see me, and now Martha 
 thinks he comes to see her, and Martha always stays there 
 and so does Ruth, and if he is coming to see me — " she 
 stopped. Her father looked at her in astonishment. "Why, 
 father," she went on, — "why not? I'm twenty-five, and 
 Martha's twenty- two and even Ruth is seventeen — he might 
 even be coming to see Ruth," she added bitterly. 
 
 ' ' Yes, or Epaminondas — the cat — eh ? ' ' cut in the old man. 
 Then he added, indignantly, "Well, how about this singing 
 Jasper Adams — who's he coming to see? Or Amos — he 
 comes around here sometimes Saturday night after G. A. R. 
 meeting, with me — what say? Would you want us all to 
 clear out and leave you the front room with him ? ' ' demanded 
 the perturbed Captain. 
 
 Then the father put his arm about his child tenderly: 
 ' ' Twenty-five years old — twenty-five years — why, girl, in my 
 time a girl was an old maid laid on the shelf at twenty-five — 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN BRAGS . 343 
 
 and here you are," he mused, "just thinking of your first 
 beau and here I am needing your mother worse than I ever 
 did in my life. Law-see' girl — how do I know what to do — 
 what say?" But he did know enough to draw her to him 
 and kiss her and sigh. "Well — maybe I can do something 
 — maybe — we'll see." And then she left him and he went 
 to his work. And as he worked the thought struck him sud- 
 denly that if he could put one of his sprockets in the Judge's 
 automobile where he had seen a chain, that it would save 
 power and stop much of the noise. So as he worked he 
 dreamed that his sprocket was adopted by the makers of the 
 new machines, and that he was rich — exceedingly rich and 
 that he took the girls to visit the Ohio kin, and that Emma 
 had her trip to the Grand Canyon, that Martha went to Eu- 
 rope and that Ruthie "took vocal" of a teacher in France 
 whose name he could not pronounce. 
 
 As he hammered away at his bench he heard a shuffling at 
 the door and looking up saw Dr. Nesbit in the threshold. 
 
 "Come in, Doctor; sit down and talk," shrilled the Doctor 
 before the Captain could speak, and when the Doctor had 
 seated himself upon the box by the workbench, the Captain 
 managed to say : ' ' Surely — come right in, I 'm kind of lone- 
 some anyhow." 
 
 "And I'm mad," cried the Doctor. "Just let me sit here 
 and blow off a little to my old army friend." 
 
 "Well — well, Doctor, it's queer to see you hot under the 
 collar — eh?" The Doctor began digging out his pipe and 
 filling it, without speaking. The Captain asked: "What's 
 gone wrong? Politics ain't biling? what say?" 
 
 "Well," returned the Doctor, "you know Laura works at 
 her kindergarten down there in South Harvey, and she got 
 me to pass that hours-of-service law for the smelter men at 
 the extra session last summer. Good law ! Those men work- 
 ing there in the fumes shouldn't work over six hours a day — 
 it will kill them. ■ I managed by trading off my hide and my 
 chances of Heaven to get a law through, cutting them down 
 to eight hours in smelter work. Denny Hogan, who works on 
 the slag dump, is going to die if he has to do it another year 
 on a ten-hour shift. He's been up and down for two years 
 now — the Hogans live neighbors to Laura's school and I've 
 
344 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 been watching him. "Well," and here the Doctor thumped 
 on the floor with his cane, "this Judge — this vain, strutting 
 peacock of a Judge, this cat-chasing Judge that was once 
 my son-in-law, has gone and knocked the law galley west so 
 far as it affects the slag dump. I've just been reading his 
 decision, and I'm hot — good and hot." 
 
 The Captain interrupted: 
 
 "I saw Violet Hogan and the children — dressed like prin- 
 cesses, walking out to-day — past the Judge's house — showing 
 it to them — what say? My, how old she looks, Doctor!" 
 
 "Well — the damned villain — the infernal scoundrel — " 
 piped the Doctor. ' ' I just been reading that decision. The 
 men showed in their lawsuit that the month before the law 
 took effect the company, knowing the law had been passed, 
 went out and sold their switch and sold the slag dump, to a 
 fake railroad company that bought a switch engine and two 
 or three cars, and incorporated as a railroad, and then — the 
 same people owning the smelter and the railroad, they set 
 all the men in the smelter that they could working on the 
 slag dump, so the men were working for the railroad and 
 not for the smelter company and didn't come within the eight 
 hour law. And now the Judge stands by that farce; he 
 says that the men working there under the very chimney of 
 the smelter on the slag dump where the fumes are worst, are 
 not subject to the law because the law says that men working 
 for the smelters shall not work more than eight hours, and 
 these men are working for a cheating, swindling subterfuge 
 of a railroad. That's judge-made law. That's the kind of 
 law that makes anarchists. Law!" snorted the Doctor, 
 "Law! — made by judges who have graduated out of the em- 
 ploy of corporations — law! — is just what the Judge on the 
 bench dares to read into the statute. I tell you, Cap, if the 
 doctors and engineers and preachers were as subservient to 
 greed and big money as the lawyers are, we would soon lose 
 our standing. But when a lawyer commits some flagrant 
 malpractice like that of Tom Van Dorn's — the lawyers re- 
 mind us that the courts are sacred institutions." 
 
 The Doctor's pipe was out and in filling it again, he jabbed 
 viciously at the bowl with his knife, and in the meantime the 
 Captain was saying: 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN BRAGS 345 
 
 "Well, I suppose he found the body of the decisions lean- 
 ing that way, Doc — you know Judges are bound by the body 
 of the law." 
 
 "The body of the law — yes, damn 'em, I've bought 'em to 
 find the body of the law myself." 
 
 The Doctor sputtered along with his pipe and cried out in 
 his high treble — "I never had any more trouble buying a 
 court than a Senator. And lawyers have no shame about 
 hiring themselves to crooks and notorious lawbreakers. And 
 some lawyers hire themselves body and soul to great corpora- 
 tions for life and we all know that those corporations are 
 merely evading the laws and not obeying them ; and lawyers 
 — at the very top of the profession — brazenly hire out for life 
 to that kind of business. What if the top of the medical 
 profession was composed of men who devoted themselves to 
 fighting the public welfare for life ! We have that kind of 
 doctors — but we call them quacks. We don't allow 'em in 
 our medical societies. We punish them by ostracism. But 
 the quack lawyers who devote themselves to skinning the 
 public — they are at the head of the bar. They are made 
 judges. They are promoted to supreme courts. A damn 
 nice howdy-do we're coming to when the quacks run a whole 
 profession. And Tom Van Dorn is a quack — a hair-splitting, 
 owl-eyed, venal quack — who doles out the bread pills of in- 
 justice, and the strychnine stimulants of injustice and the 
 deadening laudanum of injustice, and falls back on the body 
 of the decisions to uphold him in his quackery. Justice de- 
 mands that he take that fake corporation, made solely to 
 evade the law, and shake its guts out and tell the men who 
 put up this job, that he'll put them all in jail for contempt 
 of court if they try any such shenanigan in his jurisdiction 
 again. That would be justice. This — this decision — is hum- 
 bug and every one knows it. What's more — it may be mur- 
 der. For men can't work on that slag dump ten hours a 
 day without losing their lives." 
 
 The captain tapped away at his sprocket. He had his own 
 ideas about the sanctity of the courts. They were not to be 
 overthrown so easily. The Doctor snorted: "Burn their 
 bodies, and blear their minds, and then wail about our vicious 
 lower classes — I'm getting to be an anarchist." 
 
346 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 He prodded, his cane among the debris on the floor and 
 then he began to twitch the loose skin of his lower face and 
 smiled. "Thank you, Cap," he chirped. "How good and 
 beautiful a thing it is to blow off steam in a barn to your 
 old army friend." 
 
 The Captain looked around and smiled and the Doctor 
 asked: "What was that you were saying about Violet 
 Hogan?" 
 
 "I said I saw her to-day and she looked faded and old — 
 she's not so much older than my Emma — eh?" 
 
 "Still," said the Doctor, "Violet's had a tough time — a 
 mighty tough time; three children in six years. The last 
 one took most of her teeth; young horse doctor gave her 
 some dope that about killed her; she's done all the cooking, 
 washing, scrubbing and made garden for the family in that 
 time — up every morning at five, seven days in the week to 
 get breakfast for Dennis — Emma would look broken if she 'd 
 had that." The Doctor paused. "Like her mother — weak 
 — vain — puts all of Denny 's wages on the children 's backs — 
 Laura says Violet spends more on frills for those kids than 
 we spend for groceries — and Violet goes around herself look- 
 ing like the Devil before breakfast. ' ' The Doctor rested his 
 chin on his cane. "Remember her mother — Mrs. Mauling — 
 funny how it breeds that way. The human critter, Cap, 
 is a curious beast — but he does breed true — mostly." The 
 Doctor loafed, whistling, around the work shop, prodding at 
 things with his cane, and wound up leaning against one end 
 of the bench. 
 
 "Last day of the century," he piped, "makes a fellow 
 pause and study. I've seen fifty-three years of the old cen- 
 tury — seen the electric light, the telephone, the phonograph, 
 the fast printing press, the transcontinental railroad, the 
 steam thresher, the gasoline engine — and all its wonders 
 clear down to Judge Tom's devil wagon. That's a good deal 
 for one short life. I've seen industry revolutionized — leav- 
 ing the homes of the people, and herding into the great fac- 
 tories. I've seen steam revolutionize the daily habits of men, 
 and distort their thoughts; one man can't run a steam en- 
 gine ; it takes more than one man to own one. So have I seen 
 capital rise in the world until it is greater than kings, greater 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN BRAGS 347 
 
 than courts, greater than governments — greater than God 
 himself as matters stand, Cap — I'm terribly afraid that's 
 true." 
 
 The Doctor was serious. His high voice was calm, and 
 he smoked a while in peace. "But," he added reflectively — 
 ' ' Cap, I want to tell you something more wonderful than all ; 
 I've seen seven absolutely honest men elected this year to the 
 State Senate — I've sounded them, felt them out, had all 
 kinds of reports from all kinds of people on those seven men. 
 Each man thinks he's alone, and there are seven." 
 
 The Doctor leaned over to the Captain and said confiden- 
 tially, "Cap — we meet next week. Listen here. I was 
 elected without a dollar of the old spider's money. He 
 fought me for that smelter law on the quiet. Now look here ; 
 you watch my smoke. I 'm going to organize those seven, and 
 make eight and you're going to see some fighting." 
 
 "You ain't going to fight the party, are you, Doc?" asked 
 the amazed Captain, as though he feared that the Doctor 
 would fall dead if he answered yes. But the Doctor grinned 
 and said: "Maybe — if it fights me." 
 
 "Well, Doc—" cried the Captain, "don't you think—" 
 
 "You bet I think — that's what's the matter. The smelter 
 lawsuit's made me think. They want to control government 
 so they can have a license to murder. That's what it means. 
 Watch 'em blight Denny Hogan's lungs down on the dump; 
 watch 'em burn 'em up and crush 'em in the mines — by 
 evading the mining laws; watch 'em slaughter 'em on the 
 railroads; murder is cheap in this country — if you control 
 government and get a slaughter license. ' ' 
 
 The Doctor laughed. "That's the old century — and say, 
 Cap — I'm with the new. You know old.Browning — he says: 
 
 "It makes me mad 
 To think what men will do an' I am dead." 
 
 The Doctor waved his cane furiously, and grinned as he 
 threw back his head, laughed silently, kicked out one leg, 
 and stood with one eye cocked, looking at the speechless 
 Captain. "Well, Cap — speak up — what are you going to do 
 about it?" 
 
 " 'Y gory, Doc, you certainly do talk like a Populist — eh?" 
 was all the Captain could reply. The Doctor toddled to the 
 
348 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 door, and standing there sang back: "Well, Cap — do you 
 think the Lord Almighty laid off all the angels and quit work 
 on the world when he invented Tom Van Dorn's automobile — 
 that it is the last new thing that will ever be tried?" 
 
 And with that, the Doctor went out into the alley and 
 through his alley gate into his house. But the Captain's 
 mind was set going by the Doctor's parting words. He was 
 considering what might follow the invention of Tom Van 
 Dorn 's automobile. There was that chain, and there was his 
 sprocket. It would work — he knew it would work and save 
 much power and much noise. But the sprocket must be 
 longer, and stronger. Then, he thought, if the wire spokes 
 and the ball-bearing and rubber tires of the bicycle had made 
 the automobile possible, and now that they were getting the 
 gasoline engine of the automobile perfected so that it would 
 generate such vast power in such a small space — what if they 
 could conserve and apply that power through his invention — 
 what if the gasoline engine might not through his Household 
 Horse some day generate and use a power that would lift a 
 man off the earth? What then? As he tapped the bolts 
 and turned the screws and put his little device together, he 
 dreamed big dreams of the future when men should fly, and 
 the boundaries of nations would disappear and tariffs would 
 be impossible. This shocked him, and he tried to figure out 
 how to prevent smuggling by flying machines; but as he 
 could not, he dreamed on about the time when war would be 
 abolished among civilized men, because of his invention. 
 
 So while he was dreaming in matter — forming the first 
 vague nebulae of coming events, the infinite intelligence wash- 
 ing around us all, floating this earth, and holding the stars in 
 their courses, sent a long, thin fleck of a wave into the mind 
 of this man who stood working and dreaming in the twilight 
 while the old century was passing. And while he saw his 
 vision, other minds in other parts of the earth saw their 
 visions. Some of these myriad visions formed part of his, 
 and his formed part of theirs, and all were part of the great 
 vision that was brooding upon the bourne of time and 
 space. And other visions, parts of the great vision of the 
 Creator, were moving with quickening life in other minds 
 and hearts. The disturbed vision of justice that flashed 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN BRAGS 349 
 
 through the Doctor's mind was a part of the vast cycle of 
 visions that were hovering about this earth. It was not his 
 alone, millions held part of it; millions aspired, they knew 
 not why, and staked their lives upon their faith that there 
 is a power outside ourselves that makes for righteousness. 
 And as the waves of infinite, resistless, all-encompassing love 
 laved the world that New Year's night that cast the new 
 Century upon the strange shores of time, let us hope that the 
 dreams of strong men stirred them deeply that they might 
 move wisely upon that mysterious tide that is drawing hu- 
 manity to its unknown goal. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 WHEREIN VIOLET HOGAN TAKES UP AN OLD TEADE AND 
 MARGARET VAN DORN SEEKS A HIGHER PLANE 
 
 THE new Century brought to Harvey such plenitude 
 that all night and all day the smelter fires painted the 
 sky up and down the Wahoo Valley; all night long 
 and all day long the miners worked in the mines, and all 
 through the night and the long day the great cement fac- 
 tory and the glass factories belched forth their lurid fumes. 
 The trolley cars went creaking and moaning around the 
 curves through the mean, dirty, squalid, little streets of the 
 mining and manufacturing towns. They whined impa- 
 tiently as they sailed across the prairie grass under the be- 
 fogged sunshine between the settlements, but always they 
 brought up with their loads at Harvey. So Harvey grew to 
 be a prosperous inland city, and the Palace Hotel with its' 
 onyx and marble office, once the town's pride, found itself 
 with all its striving but a third-class hostelry, while the 
 three-story building of the Traders' Bank looked low and 
 squatty beside its six and seven storied neighbors. The tin 
 cornices of Market Street were wiped away, and yellow brick 
 and terra cotta and marble took the place of the old orna- 
 ments of which the young town had been so proud. The 
 thread of wires and pipes that made the web of the spider 
 behind the brass sign, multiplied and the pipes and the rails 
 and the cables that carried his power grew taut and strong. 
 New people by thousands had come into the town and gradu- 
 ally the big house, the Temple of Love on Hill Crest, that 
 had been deserted during the first years of its occupancy, 
 filled up. Judge Thomas Van Dorn and his handsome wife 
 were seen in the great hotels of New York and Boston, and 
 in Europe more or less, though the acquaintances they made 
 in Europe and in the East were no longer needed to fill their 
 home. But the old settlers of Harvey maintained their 
 
 350 
 
AN OLD TEADE 351 
 
 siege. It was at a Twelfth Night festivity when young peo- 
 ple from all over the Valley and from all over the "West were 
 masqueing in the great house, that Judge Van Dorn, to please 
 a pretty girl from Baltimore whom the Van Dorns had met 
 in Italy, shaved his mustache and appeared before the guests 
 with a naked lip. The pursed, shrunken, sensuous lips of the 
 cruel mouth showed him so mercilessly that Mrs. Van Dorn 
 could not keep back a little scream of horror the first time 
 he stood before her with his shaved lip. But she changed 
 her scream to a baby giggle, and he did not know how he was 
 revealed. So he went about ever after, preening himself 
 that his smooth face gave him youth, and strutting inordi- 
 nately because some of the women he knew told him he looked 
 like a boy of twenty-five — instead of a man in his forties. 
 He was always suave, always creakingly debonaire, always, 
 even in his meannesses, punctilious and airy. 
 
 So the old settlers sometimes were fooled by his attitude 
 toward Margaret, his wife. He bore toward her in public 
 that shallow polish of attention, which puzzled those who 
 knew that they were never together by themselves when he 
 could help it, that he spent his evenings at the City Club, 
 and that often at the theater they sat almost back to back 
 unconsciously during the whole performance. But after the 
 curtain was down, the polite husband was the soul of at- 
 tendance upon the beautiful wife — her coat, her opera glasses, 
 her trappings of various sorts flew in and out of his eager 
 hands as though he were a conjurer playing with them for an 
 audience. For he was a proud man, and she was a vain 
 woman, and they were striving to prove to a disapproving 
 world that the bargain they had made was a good one. 
 
 Yet the old settlers of Harvey felt instinctively that the 
 price of their Judge's bargain was not so trifling a matter 
 as at first the happy couple had esteemed it. The older peo- 
 ple saw the big house glow with light as the town spread over 
 the hill and prosperity blackened the Valley. The older 
 people played their quiet games of bridge, by night, and said 
 little. Judge Van Dorn polished the periods of his orations, 
 kept himself like a race horse, strutted like a gobbler, showed 
 his naked mouth, held himself always tightly in hand, kept 
 his eye out for a pretty face, wherever it might be found, 
 
352 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 drank a little too much at night at the City Club ; not much 
 too much but a very little too much — so much that he needed 
 something to brighten his eyes in the morning. 
 
 But whatever the Judge's views were on the chess game of 
 the cosmos, Margaret, his wife, had no desire to beat God 
 at his own game. She was a seeker, who always was looking 
 for a new God. God after God had passed in weary review 
 before her. She was always ready to tune up with the infi- 
 nite, and to ignore the past — a most comfortable thing to do 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 As she turned into Market Street one February morning of 
 the New Year in the New Century, leading her dachshund, 
 she was revolving a deep problem in her head. She was 
 trying to get enough faith to believe that her complexion 
 did not need a renovation. She knew that the skin-thought 
 she kept holding was earth-bound and she had tried to shake 
 it, but it wouldn't shake. She had progressed far enough 
 in the moment's cult to overcome a food-thought when her 
 stomach hurt her, by playing a stiff game of bridge for a little 
 stake. But the skin-thought was with her, and she was 
 nervous and irritable and upon tiie verge of tears for noth- 
 ing at all. Moreover, her dog kept pulling at his leash, so 
 altogether her cup was running over and she went into Mr. 
 Broth erton's store to ask him to try to find an English trans- 
 lation of a highly improper German book with a pious title 
 about which she had heard from a woman from Chicago who 
 had been visiting her. 
 
 Now Mr. Brotherton had felt the impulse of the town's 
 prosperity in his business. The cigar stand was gone. In 
 its place was a handsome plain glass case containing expensive 
 books — books bound in vellum, books in hand-tooled leather, 
 books with wide, ragged margins of heavy linen paper around 
 deep black types with illuminated initials at the chapter 
 heads; books filled with extravagant illustrations, books so 
 beautiful that Mr. Brotherton licked his chops with joy when 
 he considered the difference between the cost mark and the 
 price mark. The Amen Corner was gone — the legend that 
 had come down from the pool room, "Better go to bed lone- 
 some than wake up in debt," had been carted to the alley. 
 While the corner formerly occupied by the old walnut bench 
 
AN OLD TRADE 353 
 
 still held a corner seat, it was a corner seat with sharp angles, 
 with black stain upon it, and upholstered in rich red leather, 
 and red leather pillows lounged luxuriously in the corners 
 of the seat ; a black, angular table and a red, angular shade 
 over a green angular lamp sat where the sawdust box had 
 been. True — a green angular smoker's set also was upon the 
 table — the only masculine appurtenance in the corner; but 
 it was clearly a sop thrown out to offended and exiled man- 
 kind — a mere mockery of the solid comfort of the sawdust 
 box, filled with cigar stubs and ashes that had made the 
 corner a haven for weary man for nearly a score of years. 
 Above the black-stained seat ran a red dado and upon that 
 in fine old English script, where once the old sign of the 
 Corner had been nailed, there ran this legend : 
 
 "'The sweet serenity of Books' and Wallpaper, 
 Stationery and Office Supplies." 
 
 For Mr. Brotherton's commercial spirit could not permit 
 him to withhold the fact that he had enlarged his business by 
 adding such household necessities as wall paper and such 
 business necessities as stationery and office supplies. Thus 
 the town referred ever after to Mr. Brotherton's "Sweet 
 serenity of Books and Wallpaper," and so it was known of 
 men in Harvey. 
 
 When Mrs. Van Dorn entered, she was surprised; for 
 while she had heard casually of the changes in Mr. Brother- 
 ton's establishment, she was not prepared for the effulgence 
 of refined and suppressed grandeur that greeted her. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton, in a three buttoned frock coat, a rich black 
 ascot tie and suitable gray trousers, came forward to meet 
 her. 
 
 "Ah, George," she exclaimed in her baby voice, "really 
 what a lit-ry," that also was from her Chicago friend, "what 
 a lit-ry atmosphere you have given us." 
 
 Mr. Brotherton's smile pleaded guilty for him. He waved 
 her to a seat among the red cushions. ' ' How elegant, ' ' she 
 simpered, "I just think it's perfectly swell. Just like 
 Marshall Field's. I must bring Mrs. Merrifield in when she 
 comes down — Mrs. Merrifield of Chicago. You know, Mr. 
 Brotherton," it was the wife of the Judge who spoke, "I 
 
354 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 think we should try to cultivate those whose wide advantages 
 make our association with them a liberal education. What 
 is it Emerson says about Friendship — in that wonderful 
 essay — I'm sure you'll recall it." 
 
 And Mr. Brotherton was sure he would too, and indicated 
 as much, for as he had often said to Mr. Fenn in their literary 
 confidences, "Emerson is one of my best moving lines." 
 And Mrs. Van Dorn continued confidentially : ' ' Now there 's 
 a book, a German book — aren't those Germans candid — you 
 know I'm of German extraction, and I tell the Judge that's 
 where I get my candor. Well, there's a German book — I 
 can't pronounce it, so I've written it out — there; will you 
 kindly order it?" Mr. Brotherton took the slip and went 
 to the back of the store to make a memorandum of the order. 
 He left the book counter in charge of Miss Calvin — Miss Ave 
 Calvin — yes, Miss Ave Maria Calvin, if you must know her 
 full name, which she is properly ashamed of. But it pleased 
 her mother twenty years before and as Mr. Calvin was glad 
 to get into the house on any terms when the baby was named, 
 it went Ave Maria Calvin, and Ave Maria Calvin stood be- 
 hind the counter reading the Bookman and trying to re- 
 member the names of the six best sellers so that she could 
 order them for stock. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dorn, who kept Mrs. Calvin's one card conspicu- 
 ously displayed in her silver card ease in the front hall, 
 saw an opportunity to make a little social hay, so she ad- 
 dressed Miss Calvin graciously : ' ' Good morning, Ave — how 
 is your dear mother? What a charming effect Mr. Brother- 
 ton has produced !" Then Mrs. Van Dorn dropped the care- 
 fully modulated voice a trifle lower: "When the book comes 
 that I just ordered, kindly slip it to one side ; I wouldn't have 
 Mr. Brotherton — he might misunderstand. But you can 
 read it if you wish — take it home over night. It's very 
 broadening. ' ' 
 
 When Mr. Brotherton returned the baby voice prattled at 
 him. The voice was saying, "I was just telling Ave how 
 dead swell it is here. I just can 't get over it — in Harvey — 
 dear old Harvey ; do you remember when I was a little school 
 teacher down in the Prospect schoolhouse and you used to 
 order Chautauqua books — such an innocent little school girl 
 
AN OLD TRADE 355 
 
 — don't you remember ? We wouldn't say how long ago that 
 was, would we, Mr. Brotherton ? Oh, dear, no. Isn't it nice 
 to talk over old times ? Did you know the Jared Thurstons 
 have left Colorado and have moved to Iowa where Jared has 
 started another paper ? Lizzie and I used to be such chums 
 — she and Violet and I — where is Violet now, Mr. Brother- 
 ton ? Oh, yes, I remember Mrs. Herdicker said she lives next 
 door to the kindergarten — down in South Harvey. Isn't it 
 terrible the way Anne Sands did — just broke her father's 
 heart. And Nate Perry quarrelling with ten million dollars. 
 Isn't this a strange world, Mr. Brotherton?" 
 
 Mr. Brotherton confessed for the world and Mrs. Van Dorn 
 shook her over-curled head sadly. She made some other talk 
 with Mr. Brotherton which he paraphrased later for Henry 
 Fenn and when Mrs. Van Dorn went out, Mr. Brotherton 
 left the door open to rid the room of the scent of attar of 
 roses and said to Miss Calvin : 
 
 "Well, s — ," but checked himself and went on in his new 
 character of custodian of "The Sweet Serenity of Books and 
 Wall Paper," but he added as a compromise: 
 
 " 'And for bonnie Annie Laurie' I certainly would make a 
 quick get-away!" 
 
 After which reflection, Mr. Brotherton walked down the 
 long store room to his dark stained desk, turned on the elec- 
 tric under the square copper shade, and began to figure up 
 his accounts. But a little social problem kept revolving in 
 his head. It was suggested by Mrs. Van Dorn and by some- 
 thing she had said. Beside Mrs. Van Dorn in her tailored 
 gown and seal-skin, with her spanking new midwinter hat to 
 match her coat, dragging the useless dog after her, he saw 
 the picture of another woman who had come in the day 
 before — a woman no older than Margaret Van Dorn — yet a 
 broken woman, with rounded shoulders who rarely smiled, 
 wishing to hide her broken teeth, who wheeled one baby and 
 led another, and shooed a third and slipped into the corner 
 near the magazine counter and thumbed over the children's 
 fashions in the Delineator eagerly and looked wistfully at the 
 beautiful things in the store. Her red hands and brown skin 
 showed that she had lived a rough, hard life, and that it had 
 spent her and wasted her and taken everything she prized — 
 
356 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 and given her nothing — nothing but three over-dressed chil- 
 dren and a husband whose industrial status had put its heavy- 
 mark on her. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton's memory went back ten years, and recalled 
 the two girls together — Violet and Margaret. Both were 
 light-headed and vain; so far as their relations with Van 
 Dorn were concerned, one was as blamable as the other. Yet 
 one had prospered and the other had not — and the one who 
 had apparently suffered most had upon the whole lived the 
 cleaner, more normal life — and Mr. Brotherton drummed his 
 penholder upon the black desk before him and questioned the 
 justice of life. 
 
 But, indeed, if we must judge life's awards and benefits 
 from the material side there is no justice in life. If there 
 was any difference between the two women whom Tom Van 
 Dorn had wronged — difference in rewards or punishments, it 
 must have been in their hearts. It is possible that in her life 
 of motherhood and wifehood, in the sacrifices that broke her 
 body and scarred her face, Violet Mauling may have been 
 compensated by the love she bore the children upon whom 
 she lavished her life. For she had that love, and she did 
 squander — in blind vain folly — the strength of her body, 
 afterwards the price of her soul — upon her children. As 
 for Margaret Van Dorn — Mr. Brotherton was no philosopher. 
 He could not pity her. Yet she too had given all. She had 
 given her mind — and it was gone. She had given her heart 
 — and it was gone also, and she had given that elusive blend- 
 ing of the heart and mind we call her soul — and that was 
 gone, too. Mr. Brotherton could see that they were gone — 
 all gone. But he could not see that her loss was greater than 
 Violet's. 
 
 That night when Dennis Hogan came in for his weekly 
 Fireside Companion as he said, "for the good woman," Mr. 
 Brotherton, for old sake's sake, put in something in paper 
 backs by Marie Corelli, and a novel by Ouida; and then, that 
 he might give until it hurt, he tied up a brand new Ladies' 
 Home Journal, and said, as he locked up the store and stepped 
 into the chill night air with Mr. Hogan : "Dennis — tell Vio- 
 let — I sent 'em in return for the good turns she used to do me 
 
AN OLD TEADE 357 
 
 when I was mayor and she was in Van Dorn's office and drew 
 up the city ordinances — she '11 remember. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed she will, George Brotherton — that she will. 
 Many's the night she's talked me to sleep of them golden days 
 of her splendor — indeed she will. ' ' 
 
 They walked on together and Hogan said : "Well — I turn 
 at- the next crossin'. I'm goin' home and I'm glad of it. 
 Up in the mornin' at five; off on the six- ten train, climbin' 
 the slag dump at seven, workin' till six, home on the six- 
 fifteen train, into the house at seven; to bed at ten, up at 
 five, eat and work and sleep — sleep and eat and work, fightin' 
 the dump by day and fightin' the fumes in me chist by night 
 — all for a dollar and sixty a day ; and if we jine a union, we 
 get canned, and if we would seek dissipation, we're invited 
 to go down to the Company hall and listen to Tommy Van 
 Dorn norate upon what he calls the 'de-hig-nity of luh-ay- 
 bor.' Damn sight of dignity labor has, lopin' three laps 
 ahead of the garnishee from one year's end to the other." 
 
 He laughed a good-natured, creaking laugh, and said as he 
 waved his hand to part with Mr. Brotherton — "Well, anny- 
 how, the good woman will thank you for the extra readin'; 
 not that she has time to read it, God knows, but it gives the 
 place a tone when Laura Nesbit drops in for a bit of a word 
 of help about the makin' of the little white things she's doin' 
 for the Polish family on 'D' Street these days." In an- 
 other minute Brotherton heard the car moaning at the curve, 
 and saw Hogan get in. It was nearly midnight when Hogan 
 got to sleep; for the papers that Brotherton sent brought 
 back "the grandeur that was Greece," and he had to hear 
 how Mr. Van Dorn had made Mr. Brotherton mayor and how 
 they had both made Dr. Nesbit Senator, and how ungrateful 
 the Doctor was to turn against the hand that fed him, and 
 many other incidents and tales that pointed to the renown 
 of the unimpeachable Judge, who for seven years had reigned 
 in the humble house of Hogan as a first-rate god. 
 
 That night Hogan tossed as the fumes in his lungs burned 
 the tissues and at five he got up, made the fire, helped to dress 
 the oldest child while his wife prepared the breakfast. He 
 missed the six-ten car, and being late at work stopped in to 
 
358 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 take a drink at the Hot Dog, near the dump on the company 
 ground, thinking it would put some ginger into him for the 
 day's work. For two hours or so the whiskey livened him 
 up, but as the forenoon grew old, he began to yawn and was 
 tired. 
 
 "Hogan," called the dump-boss, "go down to the powder 
 house and bring up a box of persuaders. ' ' 
 
 The slag was hard and needed blasting. Hogan looked up, 
 said "What?" and before the dump boss could speak again 
 Hogan had started down and around the dump to the powder 
 house, near the saloon. He went into the powder house, and 
 then came out, carrying a heavy box. At the sidewalk edge, 
 Hogan, who was yawning, stumbled — they saw him stumble, 
 two men standing in the door of the Hot Dog saloon a block 
 away, and they told the people at the inquest that that was 
 the last they saw. A great explosion followed. The men 
 about the dump huddled for a long minute under freight 
 cars, then crawled out, and the dump boss called the roll; 
 Hogan was missing. In an hour they came and took Mrs. 
 Hogan to the undertaker's room near the smelter — where so 
 many women had stood beside death in its most awful forms. 
 She had her baby in her arms, with another plucking at her 
 skirts and she stood mutely beside the coffin that they would 
 not open. For she knew what other women knew about the 
 smelter, knew that when they will not open the coffin, it 
 must not be opened. So the little procession rode to the 
 Hogan home, where Laura Van Dorn was waiting. Perhaps 
 it was because she could not see the face of the dead that it 
 seemed unreal to the widow. But she did not moan nor 
 cry — after the first scream that came when she knew the 
 worst. Stolidly she went through her tasks until after the 
 funeral. 
 
 Then she called Laura into the kitchen and said, as she 
 pressed out her black satin and tried to hide the threadbare 
 seams that had been showing for years: "Mrs. Van Dorn, 
 I'm going to do something you won't like." To Laura's 
 questioning eyes Violet answered: "I know your ma, or 
 some one else has told you all about me — but, ' ' she shut her 
 mouth tightly and said slowly : 
 
 "But no matter what they say — I'm going to the Judge; 
 
AN OLD TEADB 359 
 
 he's got to make the railroad company pay and pay well. 
 It's all I've got on earth — for the children. We have three 
 dollars in my pocketbook and will have to wait until the 
 fifteenth before I get his last month's wages, and I know 
 they'll dock him up to the very minute of the day — that 
 day! I wouldn't do it for anything else on earth, Mrs. Van 
 Dorn — wild horses couldn't drag me there — but I'm going 
 to the Judge — for the children. He can help." 
 
 So, putting on her bedraggled black picture hat with the 
 red ripped off, Violet Hogan mounted the courthouse steps 
 and went to the office of the Judge. A sorry, broken, hag- 
 gard figure she cut there in the Judge's office. She would 
 have told him her story — but he interrupted: "Yes, Violet 
 — I read it in the Times. But what can I do — you know I 'm 
 not allowed to take a case and, besides, he was working for 
 the railroad, and you know, Violet, he assumed the risk. 
 What do they offer you?" 
 
 "Judge — for God's sake don't talk that way to me. 
 That's the way you used to talk to those miners' wives — 
 ugh!" she cried. "I remember it all — that assumed risk. 
 Only this — he was working ten hours a day on a job that 
 wouldn't let him sleep, and he oughtn't to be working but 
 eight hours, if they hadn't sneaked under the law. They've 
 offered me five hundred, Judge — five hundred — for a man, 
 five hundred for our three children — and me. You can make 
 them do better — oh, I know you can. Oh, please for the 
 sake — oh!" 
 
 She looked at him with her battered face, and as her mouth 
 quivered, she tried to hide her broken teeth. He saw she 
 was about to give way to tears. He dreaded a scene. He 
 looked at her impatiently and finally gripping himself after 
 a decision, he said : 
 
 "Now, Violet, take a brace. Five hundred is what they 
 always give in these cases." He smiled suavely at her and 
 she noticed for the first time that his lip was bare and 
 started at the cruel mouth that leered at her. 
 
 "But," he added expansively, "for old sake's sake — I'm 
 going to do something for you." He rose and stood over her.. 
 "Now, Violet," he said, strutting the diagonal of his room, 
 and smiling blandly at her, "Ave both know why I shouldn't 
 
360 IN THE HBAET OF A FOOL 
 
 give you my personal check — nor why you shouldn't have any 
 cash that you cannot account for. But the superintendent 
 of the smelter, who is also the general manager of the rail- 
 road, is under some obligations to me, and I'll give you this 
 note to him." He sat down and wrote : 
 
 "For good reasons I desire one hundred dollars added to your check 
 to the widow of Dennis Hogan who presents this, and to have the 
 same charged to my personal account on your books." 
 
 He signed his name with a flourish, and after reading the 
 note handed it to the woman. 
 
 She looked at him and her mouth opened, showing her 
 broken, ragged teeth. Then she rose. 
 
 "My God, Tom Van Dorn — haven't you any heart at all! 
 Six hundred dollars with three little children — and my man 
 butchered by a law you made — oh," she cried as she shook 
 her head and stood dry-eyed and agonized before him — "I 
 thought you were a man — that you were my friend way 
 down deep in your heart — I thought you were a man." 
 
 She picked up the paper, and at the door turned and said : 
 "And you could get me thousands from the company for my 
 hundreds by the scratch of your pen — and I thought you 
 were a man. ' ' She opened the door, looked at him beseech- 
 ingly, and repeating her complaint, turned away and left 
 him. 
 
 She heard the click of the door-latch behind her and she 
 knew that the man behind the door in whom she had put 
 her faith was laughing at her. Had she not seen him laugh 
 a score of times in other years at the misery of other women ? 
 Had they not sat behind this door, he and she, and made sport 
 of foolish women who came asking the disagreeable, which 
 he ridiculed as the impossible? Had she not sat with him 
 and laughed at his first wife, when she had gone away after 
 some protest? The thought of his mocking face put hate 
 into her heart and she went home hardened toward all the 
 world. Laura Van Dorn was with the Hogan children, and 
 when Violet entered the house, she gathered them to her heart 
 with a mad passion and wept — a woman without hope — a 
 woman spurned and mocked in the only holy place she had 
 in her heart. 
 
AN OLD TEADB 361 
 
 Laura saw the widowed mother hysterically fondling the 
 children, madly caressing them, foolishly chattering over 
 them, and when Violet made it clear that she wished to be 
 alone, Laura left. But if she could have heard Violet bab- 
 bling on during the evening, of the clothes she would buy for 
 the youngsters, about the good times they would have with 
 the money, about the ways they were going to spend the little 
 fortune that was theirs, Laura Van Dorn — thrifty, frugal, 
 shrewd Laura, might have helped the thoughtless woman 
 before it was too late. But even if Laura had interfered, it 
 would have been but for a few months or a few years at most. 
 
 The end was inevitable — whether it had been five hundred 
 or six hundred or five thousand or six thousand. For Violet 
 was a prodigal bred and born. At first she tried to get some 
 work. But when she found she had to leave the children 
 alone in the house or in care of a neighbor or on the streets, 
 she gave up her job. For when she came home, she found 
 the foolish frills and starched tucks in which she kept them, 
 dirty and torn, and some way she felt that they were losing 
 social caste by the low estate of their clothes, so she bought 
 them silks and fine linens while her money lasted, and when 
 it was gone in the spring — then they were hungry, and 
 needy ; and she could not leave them by day. 
 
 If the poor were always wise, and the rich were always 
 foolish, if hardship taught us sense, and indulgence made 
 us giddy, what a fine world it would be. How virtue would 
 be rewarded. How vice would be rebuked. But wisdom does 
 not run with social rank, nor with commercial rating. Some 
 of us who are poor are exceedingly foolish, and some of those 
 who are rich have a world of judgment. And Violet Hogan, 
 — poor and mad with a mother love that was as insane as an 
 animal's when she saw her children hungry and needy, knew 
 before she knew anything else that she must live with them 
 by day. So she went out at night — went out into the streets 
 — not of South Harvey — but over into the streets of Foley, 
 down to Magnus and Plain Valley — out into the dark places. 
 There Violet by night took up the oldest trade in the world, 
 and came home by day a mad, half crazed mothering animal 
 who covers her young in dread and fear. 
 
 "When Laura knew the truth — knew it surely in spite of 
 
362 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Violet's studied deceptions, and her outright falsehoods, the 
 silver in the woman's laugh was muffled for a long time. 
 She tried to help the mad mother ; but the mother would not 
 admit the truth, would not confess that she needed help. 
 Violet maintained the fiction that she was working in the 
 night shift at the glass factory in Magnus, and by day she 
 starched and ironed and pressed and washed for the over- 
 dressed children and as she said, "tried to keep them some- 
 body." Moreover, she would not let them play with the 
 dirty children of the neighborhood, but such is the fear of 
 social taint among women, that soon the other mothers called 
 their children home when the Hogan children appeared. 
 
 "When Violet discovered that her trade was branding her 
 children — she moved to Magnus and became part of the drab 
 tide of life that flows by us daily with its heartbreak un- 
 heeded, its sorrows unknown, its anguish pent up and un- 
 comforted. 
 
 Now much meditation on the fate of Violet Hogan and 
 upon the luck of Margaret Van Dorn had made George 
 Brotherton question the moral government of the universe 
 and, being disturbed in his mind, he naturally was moved 
 to language. So one raw spring day when no one was in 
 the Amen Corner but Mr. Fenn, in a moment of inadvertent 
 sobriety, Mr. Brotherton opened up his heart and spoke 
 thus: 
 
 "Say, Henry — what's a yogi?" Mr. Fenn refused to 
 commit himself. Mr. Brotherton continued : ' ' The Ex was 
 in here the other day and she says that she thinks she's 
 going to become a yogi. I asked her to spell it, and I told 
 her I'd be for her against all comers. Then she explained 
 that a yogi was some kind of an adept who could transcend 
 space and time, and — well say, I said 'sure,' and she went 
 on to ask me if I was certain we were not thinking matter 
 instead of realizing it, and I says : 
 
 " 'I bite; what's the sell?' 
 
 "And the Ex says — 'Now, seriously, Mr. Brotherton, some- 
 thing tells me that you have in your mind, if you would only 
 search it out, vague intimations, left-over impressions of the 
 day you were an ox afield. ' 
 
AN OLD TRADE 363 
 
 "And, well say, Henry, I says, 'No, madam, it is an ass that 
 rises in me betimes.' 
 
 "And the Ex says, 'George Brotherton, you just never 
 can talk sense. ' 
 
 "So while I was wrapping up 'Sappho' and ordering her 
 a book with a title that sounded like a college yell, she told 
 me she was getting on a higher plane, and I bowed her out. 
 Say, Hen — now wouldn't that jar you? — the Ex getting on 
 a higher plane." 
 
 Mr. Penn grinned — a sodden grin with a four days' beard 
 on it, and dirty teeth, and heavy eyes, then looked stupidly 
 at the floor and sighed and said, 
 
 "George, did you know I've quit?" To Mr. Brotherton 's 
 kindly smile the other man replied : 
 
 "Yes, sir, sawed 'er right off short — St. Patrick's Day. 
 I thought I'd ought to quit last Fourth of July — when I 
 tried to eat a live pinwheel. I thought I had gone far 
 enough." He lifted up his burned-out eyes in the faded 
 smile that once shone like an arc light, and said : 
 
 "Man's a fool to get tangled up with liquor. George, 
 when I get my board bill paid — I'm going to quit the auc- 
 tioning line, and go back to law. But my landlady's needing 
 that money, and I'm a little behind — " 
 
 Mr. Brotherton made a motion for his pocket. "No, I 
 don't want a cent of your money, George," Fenn expostu- 
 lated. "I was just telling you how things are. I knew 
 you'd like to know." 
 
 Mr. Brotherton came from behind the counter where he 
 had been arranging his stock for the night, and grasped 
 Henry Fenn's hand. "Say, Henry — you're all right. 
 You're a man — I've always said so. I tell you, Hen, I've 
 been to lots of funerals in this town first and last as pall- 
 bearer or choir singer — pretty nearly every one worth while, 
 but say, I'm right here to tell you that I have never went to 
 one I was sorrier over than yours, Henry — and I'm mighty 
 glad to see you're coming to again." 
 
 Henry Fenn smiled weakly and said: "That's right, 
 George — that's right." 
 
 And Mr. Brotherton went on, "I claim the lady give you 
 
364 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 the final push — not that she needed to push hard of course ; 
 but a little pulling might have held you." 
 
 Mr. Fenn rose to leave and sighed again as he stood for a 
 moment in the doorway — "Yes, George, perhaps so — poor 
 Maggie — poor Maggie." 
 
 Mr. Brotherton looked at the man a moment — saw his 
 round hat with neither back nor front and only the wreck of 
 a band around it, his tousled clothes, his shoes with the soles 
 curling at the sides and the frowsy face, from which the man 
 peered out a second and then slunk back again, and Mr. 
 Brotherton took to his book shelf, scratched his head and 
 indicated by his manner that life was too deep a problem 
 for him. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 IN WHICH THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT FOR HENRY FENN 
 
 THE business of life largely resolves itself into a prep- 
 aration for the next generation. The torch of life 
 moves steadily forward. For children primarily life 
 has organized itself to satisfy decently and in order, the 
 insatiate primal hungers that motive mankind. It was with 
 a wisdom deeper than he understood that George Brotherton 
 spoke one day, as he stood in his doorway and saw Judge 
 Van Dorn hurrying across the street to speak to Lila. 
 "There," roared Mr. Brotherton to Nathan Perry, "well, say 
 — there's the substance all right, man." And then as 
 the Judge turned wearily away with slinking shoulders to 
 avoid meeting the eyes of his wife, plump, palpable, and 
 always personable, who came around the corner, Mr. Brother- 
 ton, with a haw-haw of appreciation of his obvious irony, 
 cried, "And there's the shadow — I don't think." But it 
 was the substance and the shadow nevertheless, and possibly 
 the Judge knew them as the considerations of his bargain 
 with the devil. For always he was trying to regain the sub- 
 stance; to take Lila to his heart, where curiously there 
 seemed some need of love, even in a heart which was conse- 
 crated in the very temple of love. Without realizing that 
 he was modifying his habits of life, he began to drop in 
 casually to see the children 's Christmas exercises, and Thanks- 
 giving programs, and Easter services at John Dexter 's 
 church. From the back seat where he always sat alone, he 
 sometimes saw the wealth of affection that her mother 
 lavished on Lila, patting her ribbons, smoothing her hair, 
 straightening her dress, fondling her, correcting her, and 
 watching the child with eyes so full of love that they did 
 not refrain sometimes from smiling in kindly appreciation 
 into the eager, burning, tired eyes of the Judge. The mother 
 
 365 
 
366 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 understood why he came to the exercises, and often she sent 
 Lila to her father for a word. The town knew these things, 
 and the Judge knew that the town knew, and even then he 
 could not keep away. He had to carry the torch of life, 
 whether he would or not, even though sometimes it must have 
 scorched his proud, white hands. It was the only thing that 
 burned with real fire in his heart. 
 
 "With Laura Van Dorn the fact of her motherhood colored 
 her whole life. Never a baby was born among her poor 
 neighbors in the valley that she did not thrill with a keen 
 delight at its coming, and welcome it with some small ma- 
 terial token of her joy. In the baby she lived over again 
 her own first days of maternity. But it was no play mother- 
 hood that restored her soul and refilled her receptacle of faith 
 day by day. The bodily, huggable presence of her daughter 
 continually unfolding some new beauty kept her eager for 
 the day's work to close in the Valley that she might go home 
 to drop the vicarious happiness that she brought in her kin- 
 dergarten for the real happiness of a home. 
 
 Often Grant Adams, hurrying by on his lonely way, paused 
 to tell Laura of a needy family, or to bring a dirty, motherless 
 child to her haven, or to ask her to go to some wayward girl, 
 newly caught in the darker corners of the spider's web. 
 
 Doggedly day by day, little by little, he was bringing the 
 workmen of the Valley to see his view of the truth. The 
 owners were paying spies to spy upon him and he knew it, 
 and the high places of his satisfaction came when, knowing 
 a spy and marking him for a victim, Grant converted him 
 to the union cause. With the booming of the big guns of 
 prosperity in Harvey, he was a sort of undertone, a monoto- 
 nous drum, throbbing through the valley a menace beneath 
 it all. Once — indeed, twice, as he worked, he organized a 
 demand for higher wages in two or three of the mines, and 
 keeping himself in the background, yet cautiously managing 
 the tactics of the demand, he won. He held Sunday meet- 
 ings in such halls as the men could afford to hire and there 
 he talked — talked the religion of democracy. As labor moved 
 about in the world, and as the labor press of the country be- 
 gan to know of Grant, he acquired a certain fame as a speaker 
 among labor leaders. And the curious situation he was creat- 
 
THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT 367 
 
 ing gave him some reputation in other circles. He was good 
 for an occasional story in a Kansas City or Chicago Sunday 
 paper; and the Star reporter, sent to do the feature story, 
 told of a lonely, indomitable figure who was the idol of the 
 laboring people of the "Wahoo Valley; of his Sunday meet- 
 ings ; of his elaborate system of organization ; of his peaceful 
 demands for higher wages and better shop conditions ; of his 
 conversion of spies sent to hinder him, of his never-ceasing 
 effort, unsupported by outside labor leaders, unvisited by 
 the aristocracy of the labor world, yet always respecting it, 
 to preach unionism as a faith rather than as a material 
 means for material advancement. 
 
 Generally the reporters devoted a paragraph to the ques- 
 tion — what manner of man is this ? — and intimating more or 
 less frankly that he was a man of one idea, or perhaps broad- 
 ening the suggestion into a query whether or not a man who 
 would work for years, scorning fame, scorning regular em- 
 ployment and promotion, neglecting opportunities to rise 
 as a labor leader in his own world, was not just a little mad. 
 So it happened that without seeking fame, fame came to him. 
 All over the Missouri Valley, men knew that Grant Adams, 
 a big, lumbering, red-polled, lusty-lunged man with one arm 
 burned off — and the story of the burning fixed the man 
 always in the public heart — with a curious creed and a freak 
 gift for expounding it, was doing unusual things with the 
 labor situation in the Harvey district. And then one day a 
 reporter came from Omaha who uncovered this bit of news 
 in his Sunday feature story : 
 
 "Last week the Wahoo district was paralyzed by the announcement 
 that Nathan Perry, the new superintendent of the Independent mines 
 had raised his wage scale, and had acceded to every change in work- 
 ing conditions that the local labor organizations under Adams had 
 asked. Moreover, he has unionized his mine and will recognize only 
 union grievance committees in dealing with the men. The effect of 
 such an announcement in a district where the avowed* purpose of the 
 mine operators is to run their own business as they please, may easily 
 be imagined. 
 
 "Perry is a civil engineer from Boston Tech., a rich man's son, 
 who married a rich man's daughter, and then cut loose from his father 
 and father-in-law because of a political disagreement over the 
 candidacy of the famous Judge Thomas Van Dorn for a judicial 
 nomination a few years ago. Perry belongs to a new type in in- 
 
368 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 dustry— rather newer than Adams's type. Perry is a keen eyed, 
 boyish-looking young man who has no illusions about Adams's de- 
 mocracy of labor. 
 
 ngure milt more wages win jjuu uiuio ^*« *— ~~- — — - ~ -— • ' 
 
 more muscle on his back, more hustle in his legs, and more blood in 
 his brain. And primarily I'm buying muscle and hustle and brams. 
 If I can make the muscle and hustle and brains I buy, yield better 
 dividends than the stuff my competitors buy, I'll hold my job. If not, 
 I'll lose it. I am certainly working for my job.' 
 
 "Of course the town doesn't believe for a moment what Perry says. 
 The town is divided. Part of the town thinks that Perry is an Adams 
 convert and a fool, the other half of the town believes that the move 
 is part of a conspiracy of certain eastern financial interests to get 
 control of the Wahoo Valley properties by spreading dissension. Feel- 
 ing is bitter and Adams and Perry are coming in for considerable 
 abuse. D. Sands, the local industrial entrepreneur, has raised ^the 
 black flag on h"is son-in-law, and an interesting time looms ahead." 
 
 But often at night in Perry's home in South Harvey, where 
 Morty Sands and Grant Adams loved to congregate, there 
 were hot discussions on the labor question. For Nathan 
 Perry was no convert of Grant Adams. 
 
 As the men wrangled, many an hour sat Anne Perry sing- 
 ing the nest song as she made little things for the lower 
 bureau drawer. Sometimes in the evening, Morty would 
 sit by the kitchen stove, sadly torn in heart, between the two 
 debaters, seeing the justice of Grant's side as an ethical 
 question, but admiring the businesslike way in which Nathan 
 waved aside ethical considerations, damned Grant for a crazy 
 man, and proclaimed the gospel of efficiency. 
 
 Often Grant walked home from these discussions with his 
 heart hot and rebellious. He saw life only in its spiritual 
 aspect and the logic of Nathan Perry angered him with its 
 conclusiveness. 
 
 Often as he walked Kenyon was upon his heart and he 
 wondered if Margaret missed the boy; or if the small fame 
 that the boy was making with his music had touched her van- 
 ity with a sense of loss. He wondered if she ever wished 
 to help the child. The whole town knew that the Nesbits 
 were sending Kenyon to Boston to study music, and that 
 Amos Adams and Grant could contribute little to the child 's 
 support. Grant wondered, considering the relations between 
 
THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT 369 
 
 the Van Dorns and Nesbits, whether sometimes Margaret 
 did not feel a twinge of irritation or regret at the course of 
 things. 
 
 He could not know that even as he walked through the 
 November night, Margaret Van Dorn was sitting in her room 
 holding in her hand a tiny watch, a watch to delight a little 
 girl's heart. On the inside of the back of the watch was 
 engraved : 
 
 "To Lila 
 
 from her 
 
 Father, for 
 
 Her 10th birthday." 
 
 And opposite the inscription in the watch was pasted the 
 photograph of the unhappy face of the donor. Margaret 
 sat gazing at the trinket and wondering vaguely what would 
 delight a little boy's heart as a watch would warm the heart 
 of a little girl. It was not a sense of loss, not regret, cer- 
 tainly not remorse that moved her heart as she sat alone hold- 
 ing the trinket — discovered on her husband's dresser; it was 
 a weak and footless longing, and a sense of personal wrong 
 that rose against her husband. He had something which she 
 had not. He could give jeweled watches, and she — 
 
 But if she only could have read life aright she would have 
 pitied him that he could give only jeweled watches, only 
 paper images of a dissatisfied face, only material things, 
 the token of a material philosophy — all that he knew and 
 all that he had, to the one thing in the world that he really 
 could love. And as for Margaret, his wife, who lived his 
 life and his philosophy, she, too, had nothing with which to 
 satisfy the dull, empty feeling in her heart when she thought 
 of Kenyon, save to make peace with it in hard metal and 
 stupid stones. Thus does what we think crust over our 
 souls and make us what we are. 
 
 Grant Adams, plodding homeward that night, turned from 
 the thought of Margaret to the thought of Kenyon with a 
 wave of joy, counting the days and weeks and the months 
 until the boy should return for the summer. At home Grant 
 sat down before the kitchen table and began a long talk that 
 kept him until midnight. He had undertaken to organize 
 all the unions of the place into a central labor council ; the 
 
370 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 miners, the smeltermen, the teamsters, the cement factory 
 workers, the workers in the building trades. It was an ex- 
 perimental plan, under the auspices of the national union 
 officers. Only a man like Grant Adams, with something more 
 than a local reputation as a leader, would have been intrusted 
 with the work. And so, after his day's toil for bread, he 
 sat at his kitchen table, elaborately working his dream into 
 reality. 
 
 That season the devil, if there is a devil who seeks to 
 swerve us from what we deem our noblest purposes, came to 
 Grant Adams disguised in an offer of a considerable sum of 
 money to Grant for a year's work in the lecture field. The 
 letter bearing the offer explained that by going out and 
 preaching the cause of labor to the people, Grant would be 
 doing his cause more good than by staying in Harvey and 
 fighting alone. The thought came to him that the wider 
 field of work would give him' greater personal fame, to be 
 used ultimately for a wider influence. All one long day as 
 he worked with hammer and saw at his trade, Grant turned 
 the matter over in his mind. He could see himself in a 
 larger canvas, working a greater good. Perhaps some fleet- 
 ing unformed idea came to him of a home and a normal life 
 as other men live ; for at noon, without consciously connecting 
 her with his dream, he took his problem to Laura Van Doru 
 at her kindergarten. That afternoon he decided to accept 
 the offer, and put much of his reason for acceptance upon 
 Kenyon and the boy's needs. That night he penned a letter 
 of acceptance to the lecture bureau and went to bed, dis- 
 turbed and unsatisfied. Before he slept he turned and 
 twisted, and finally threshed himself to sleep. It was a light 
 fragmentary sleep, that moves in and out of some strange 
 hypnoidal state where the lower consciousness and the normal 
 consciousness wrestle for the control of reason. Then after 
 a long period of half-waking dreams, toward morning, Grant 
 sank into a profound sleep. In that sleep his soul, released 
 from all that is material, rose and took command of his will. 
 
 "When Grant awoke, it was still black night. For a few 
 seconds he did not know where he was — nor even who he 
 was, nor what. He was a mere consciousness. The first 
 glimmer of identity that came to him came with a roaring 
 
THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT 371 
 
 "No" that repeated itself over and over, "No — no," cried 
 the voice of his soul — "you are no mere word spinner; you 
 are a fighter ; you are pledged, body and soul ; you are bought 
 with a price — no, no, no." 
 
 And then he knew where he was and he knew surely and 
 without doubt or quaver of faith that he must not give up 
 his place in the fight. When he thought of Kenyon living 
 on the bounty of the Nesbits, he thought also of Dick Bow- 
 man, ordering his own son under the sliding earth to hold 
 the shovel over Grant's face in the mine. 
 
 So Grant Adams bent his shoulders to this familiar burden. 
 In the early morning, before his father and Jasper were up, 
 the gaunt, ungainly figure hurried with his letter of refusal 
 to the South Harvey Station and put the letter on the seven- 
 ten train for Chicago. 
 
 That evening, sitting on their front porch, the Dexters 
 talked over Grant's decision. "Well," said John Dexter, 
 looking up into the mild November sky, and seeing the brown 
 gray smudge of the smelter there, "so Grant has sidled by 
 another devil in his road. We have seen that women won't 
 stop him; it's plain that money nor fame won't stop him, 
 though they clearly tore his coat tails. I imagine from what 
 Laura says he must have decided once to accept." 
 
 "Yes," answered his wife, "but it does seem to me, if my 
 old father needed care as his does, and my brother had to 
 accept charity, I'd give that particular devil my whole coat 
 and see if I couldn't make a bargain with him for a little 
 money, at some small cost." 
 
 "Mother Eve — Mother Eve," smiled the minister, "you 
 women are so practical — we men are the real idealists — the 
 only dreamers who stand by our dreams in this wicked, 
 weary world." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair. "There is still one more big 
 black devil waiting for Grant: Power — the love of power 
 which is the lust of usefulness — power may catch Grant 
 after he has escaped from women and money and fame. 
 Vanity — vanity, saith the preacher — Heaven help Grant in 
 the final struggle with the big, black devil of vanity." 
 
 Yet, after all, vanity has in it the seed of a saving 
 grace that has lifted humanity over many pitfalls in the 
 
372 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 world. For vanity is only self-respect multiplied ; and when 
 that goes — when men and women lose their right to lift their 
 faces to God, they have fallen upon bad times indeed. It 
 was even so good a man as John Dexter himself, who tried 
 to put self-respect into the soul of Violet Hogan, and was 
 mocked for it. 
 
 ' ' What do they care f or me ? " she cried, as he sat talking to 
 her in her miserable home one chill November day. "Why 
 should I pay any attention to them? Once I chummed with 
 Mag Muller, before she married Henry Fenn, and I was as 
 good as she was then — and am now for that matter. She 
 knew what I was, and I knew what she was going to be — we 
 made no bones of it. We hunted in pairs — as women like to. 
 And I know Mag Muller. So why should I keep up for 
 her?" 
 
 The woman laughed and showed her hollow mouth and all 
 the wrinkles of her broken face, that the paint hid at night. 
 "And as for Tom Van Dorn — I was a decent girl before I 
 met him, Mr. Dexter — and why in God's name should I try 
 to' keep up for him?" 
 
 She shuddered and would have sobbed but he stopped her 
 with: "Well, Violet — wife and I have always been your 
 friends; we are now. The church will help you." 
 
 "Oh, the church — the church," she laughed. "It can't 
 help me. Fancy me in church — with all the wives looking 
 sideways at all the husbands to see that they didn't look too 
 long at me. The church is for those who haven't been 
 caught! God knows if there is a place for any one who has 
 been caught — and I've been caught and caught and caught." 
 She cried. "Only the children don't know — not yet, though 
 little Tom — he's the oldest, he came to me and asked me 
 yesterday why the other children yelled when I went out. 
 Oh, hell — " she moaned, "what's the use — what's the use — 
 what's the use!" and fell to sobbing with her head upon her 
 arms resting upon the bare, dirty table. 
 
 It was rather a difficult question for John Dexter. Only 
 one other minister in the world ever answered it successfully, 
 and He brought public opinion down on Him. The Rev. 
 John Dexter rose, and stood looking at the shattered thing 
 that once had been a graceful, beautiful human body en- 
 
THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT 373 
 
 closing an aspiring soul. He saw what society had done to 
 break and twist the body; what society had neglected to do 
 in the youth of the soul — to guide and environ it right — he 
 saw what poverty had done and what South Harvey had 
 done to cheat her of her womanhood even when she had tried 
 to rise and sin no more ; he remembered how the court-made 
 law had cheated her of her rightful patrimony and cast her 
 into the streets to spread the social cancer of her trade ; and 
 he had no answer. If he could have put vanity into her 
 heart — the vanity which he feared for Grant Adams, he 
 would have been glad. But her vanity was the vanity of 
 motherhood; for herself she had spent it all. Sc he left her 
 without answering her question. Money was all he could 
 give her and money seemed to him a kind of curse. Yet he 
 gave it and gave all he had. 
 
 When she saw that he was gone, Violet fell upon the 
 tumbled, unmade bed and cried with all the vehemence of her 
 unrestrained, shallow nature. For she was sick and weary 
 and hungry. She had given her last dollar to a policeman 
 the night before to keep from arrest. The oldest boy had 
 gone to school without breakfast. The little children were 
 playing in the street — they had begged food at the neighbors ' 
 and she had no heart to stop them. At noon when little Tom 
 came in he found his mother sitting before a number, of paper 
 sacks upon the table waiting for him. Then the family ate 
 out of the sacks the cold meal she had bought at the grocery 
 store with John Dexter 's money. 
 
 That night Violet shivered out into the cold over her usual 
 route. She was walking through the railroad yards in 
 Magnus when suddenly she came upon a man who dropped 
 stealthily out of a dead engine. He carried something shin- 
 ing and tried to slip it under his coat when he saw her. She 
 knew he was stealing brass, but she did not care ; she called 
 as they passed through the light from an arc lamp : 
 
 "Hello, sweetheart — where you going?" 
 
 The man looked up ashamed, and she turned a brazen, 
 painted face at him and tried to smile without opening her 
 lips. 
 
 Their eyes met, and the man caught her by the arm and 
 cried • 
 
374 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 "God, Violet— is this you— have you—" She cut him off 
 with: 
 
 "Henry Fenn — why — Henry — " 
 
 The brass fell at his feet. He did not pick it up. They 
 stood between the box cars in speechless astonishment. It 
 was the man who found voice. 
 
 "Violet— Violet," he cried. "This is hell. I'm a thief 
 and you — " 
 
 "Say it — say it — don't spare me," she cried. "That's 
 what I am, Henry. It's all right about me, but how about 
 you, how about you, Henry? This is no place for you! 
 Why, you," she exclaimed — "why, you are — " 
 
 "I'm a drunken thief stealing brass couplings to get an- 
 other drink, Violet." 
 
 He picked up the brass and threw it up into the engine, 
 still clutching her arm so that she could not run away. 
 
 "But, girl — " he cried, "you've got to quit this^-this is 
 no way for you to live. ' ' 
 
 She looked at him to see what was in his mind. She 
 broke away, and scrambled into the engine cab and put the 
 brass where it could not fall out. 
 
 "You don't want that brass falling out, and them tracing 
 you down here and jugging you — you fool," she panted as 
 she climbed to the ground. 
 
 "Lookee here, Henry Fenn," she cried, "you're too good 
 a man for this. You've had a dirty deal. I knew it when 
 she married you — the snake; I know it — I've always known 
 it." 
 
 The woman's voice was shrill with emotion. Fenn saw 
 that she was verging on the hysterical, and took her arm and 
 led her down the dark alley between the cars. The man's 
 heart was touched — partly by the wreck he saw, and partly 
 by her words. They brought back the days when he and she 
 had seen their visions. The liquor had left his head, and he 
 was a tremble. He felt her cold, hard hand, and took it in 
 his own dirty, shaken hand to warm it. 
 
 "How are you living?" he asked. 
 
 "This way," she replied. "I got my children — they've 
 got to live someway. I can't leave them day times and see 
 'em run wild on the streets — the little girls need me." 
 
THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT 375 
 
 She looked up into his face as they harried fast an arc 
 lamp, and she saw tears there. 
 
 ' ' Oh, you got a dirty deal, Henry — how could she do it ? " 
 cried the woman. 
 
 He did not answer and they walked up a dingy street. 
 A car came howling by. 
 
 "Got car fare," he asked. She nodded. 
 
 ""Well, I haven't," he said, "but I'm going with you." 
 
 They boarded the car. They were the only passengers. 
 They sat down, and he said, under the roar of the wheels: 
 
 "Violet — it's a shame — a damn shame, and I'm not going 
 to stand for it. This a Market Street car?" he asked the 
 conductor who passed down the aisle for their fares. The 
 woman paid. When the conductor was gone, Henry con- 
 tinued: 
 
 "Three kids and a mother robbed by a Judge who knew 
 better — just to stand in with the kept attorneys of the bar 
 association. He could have knocked the shenanigan, that 
 killed Hogan, galley west, if he 'd wanted to, and no Supreme 
 Court would have dared to set it aside. But no — the kept 
 lawyers at the Capital, and all the Capitals have a mutual 
 admiration society, and Tom has always belonged. So he 
 turns you and all like you on the street, and Violet, before 
 God I'm going to try to help you." 
 
 She looked at the slick, greasy, torn stiff hat, and the dirty, 
 shiny clothes that years ago had been his Sunday best, and 
 the shaggy face and the sallow, unwashed skin ; and she re- 
 membered the man who was. 
 
 The car passed into South Harvey. She started to rise. 
 "No," he said, stopping her, "you come on with me." 
 
 "Where are we going?" she asked. He did not answer. 
 She sat down. Finally the car turned into Market Street. 
 They got off at the bank corner. The man took hold of 
 the woman's arm, and led her to the alley. She drew 
 back. 
 
 He said: "Are you afraid of me — now, Violet?" They 
 slinked down the alley and seeing a light in the back room 
 of a store, Fenn stopped and went up to peer in. 
 
 "Come on," he said. "He's in." 
 
 Fenn tapped on the barred window and whistled three 
 
376 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 notes. A voice inside cried, "All right, Henry — soon's I get 
 this column added up." 
 
 The woman shrank back, but Fenn held her arm. Then 
 the door opened, and the moon face of Mr. Brotherton ap- 
 peared in a flood of light. He saw the woman, without recog- 
 nizing her, and laughed : 
 
 "Are we going to have a party? Come right in, Marianna 
 — here's the moated Grange, all right, all right." 
 
 As they entered, he tried to see her face, but she dropped 
 her head. Fenn asked, "Why, George — don't you know 
 her? It's Violet — Violet Mauling — who married Denny 
 Hogan who was killed last winter." 
 
 George Brotherton looked at the painted face, saw the bald 
 attempt at coquetry in her dress, and as she lifted her glazed, 
 dead eyes, he knew her story instantly. 
 
 For she wore the old, old mask of her old, old trade. 
 
 "You poor, poor girl," he said gently. Then continued, 
 "Lord — but this is tough." 
 
 He saw the miserable creature beside him and would have 
 smiled, but he could not. Fenn began, 
 
 "George, I just got tired of coming around here every 
 night after closing for my quarter or half dollar ; so for two 
 or three weeks I've been stealing. She caught me at it; 
 caught me stripping a dead engine down in the yards by the 
 round house." 
 
 "Yes," she cried, lifting a poor painted face, "Mr. 
 Brotherton — but you know how I happened to be down 
 there. He caught me as much as I caught him ! And I'm 
 the worst — Oh, God, when they get like me — that's the 
 end!" 
 
 The three stood silently together. Finally Brotherton 
 spoke: "Well," he drew a long breath, "well, they don't 
 need any hell for you two— do they?" Then he added, 
 "You poor, poor sheep that have gone astray. I don't know 
 how to help you." 
 
 "Well, George— that's just it," replied Fenn. "No one 
 can help us. But by God's help, George, I can help her! 
 There's that much go left in me yet ! Don't you think so, 
 George?" he asked anxiously. "I can help her." 
 
 The weak, trembling face of the man moved George Broth- 
 
THE ANGELS SHAKE A FOOT 377 
 
 erton almost to tears. Violet's instinct saw that Brotherton 
 could not speak and she cried : 
 
 "George — I tell Henry he's had a dirty deal, too — Oh, such 
 a dirty deal. I know he 's a man — he never cast off a girl — 
 like I was cast off — you know how. Henry's a man, George 
 — a real man, and oh, if I could help him — if I could help 
 him get up again. He's had such a dirty deal." 
 
 Brotherton saw her mouth in all its ugliness, and saw as he 
 looked how tears were streaking the bedaubed face. She* 
 was repulsive beyond words, yet as she tried to hold back her 
 tears, George Brotherton thought she was beautiful. 
 
 Fenn found his voice. "Now, here, George — it's like this: 
 I don 't want any woman ; I 've washed most of that monkey 
 business out of me with whisky — it's not in me any more. 
 And I know she's had enough of men. And I've brought 
 her here — we've come here to tell you that part is straight — 
 decent — square. I wanted you to know that — and Violet 
 would, too — wouldn't you, Violet?" She nodded. 
 
 "Now, then, George — I'm her man! Do you under- 
 stand — her man. I'm going to see that she doesn't have to 
 go on the streets. Why, when she was a girl I used to beau 
 her around, and if she isn't ashamed of a drunken thief — 
 then in Christ's name, I'm going to help her." 
 
 He smiled out of his leaden eyes the ghost of his glittering, 
 old, self -deprecatory smile. The woman remembered it, and 
 bent over and kissed his dirty hand. She rose, and put her 
 fingers gently upon his head, and sobbed: 
 
 "Oh, God, forgive me and make me worthy of this!" 
 
 There was an awkward pause. When the woman had con- 
 trolled herself Fenn said : "What I want is to keep right on 
 sleeping in the basement here — until I can get ahead enough 
 to pay for my room. I 'm not going to make any scandal for 
 Violet, here. But we both feel better to talk it out with 
 you." 
 
 They started for the back door. The front of the store 
 was dark. Brotherton saw the. man hesitate, and look down 
 the alley to see if any one was in sight. 
 
 "Henry," said Brotherton, "here's a dollar. You might 
 just as well begin fighting it out to-night. You go to the 
 basement. I '11 take Violet home. ' ' 
 
378 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 The woman would have protested, but the big man said 
 gently: "No, Violet — you were Denny Hogan's wife. He 
 was my friend. You are Henry's ward — he is my friend. 
 Let's go out the front way, Violet." 
 
 When they were gone, and the lights were out in the office 
 of the bookstore, Henry Fenn slipped through the alley, went 
 to the nearest saloon, walked in, stood looking at the whiskey 
 sparkling brown and devilishly in the thick-bottomed cut 
 glasses, saw the beer foaming upon the mahogany board, 
 breathed it all in deeply, felt of the hard silver dollar in his 
 pocket, shook as one in a palsy, set his teeth and while the 
 tears came into his eyes stood and silently counted one hun- 
 dred and another hundred; grinning foolishly when the 
 loafers joked with him, and finally shuffled weakly out into 
 the night, and ran to his cellar. And if Mr. Left's theory 
 of angels is correct, then all the angels in heaven had their 
 harps in their hands waving them for Henry, and cheering 
 for joy! 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 A SHORT CHAPTER, YET IN IT WE EXAMINE ONE CANVAS 
 HEAVEN, ONE REAL HEAVEN, AND TWO SNUG LITTLE HELLS 
 
 'rp 1 
 
 "JT^HE idea of hell >" wrote the Peach Blow Philoso- 
 pher in the Harvey Tribune, "is the logical se- 
 quence of the belief that material punishments must 
 follow spiritual offenses. For the wicked go unscathed of 
 material punishments in this naughty world. And so the 
 idea of Heaven is a logical sequence of the idea that only 
 spiritual rewards come to men for spiritual services. Not 
 that Heaven is needed to balance the accounts of good men 
 after death — not at all. Good men get all that is coming to 
 them here — whether it is a crucifixion or a crown — that makes 
 no difference ; crowns and crosses are mere material counters. 
 They do not win or lose the game — nor even justly mark its 
 loss or winning. 
 
 "The reason why Heaven is needed in the scheme of a 
 neighborly man," said the Peach Blow Philosopher as he 
 stood at his gate and reviewed the procession of pilgrims 
 through the wilderness, "is this: The man who leads a 
 decent life, is building a great soul. Obviously, this world 
 is not the natural final habitat of great souls ; for they occur 
 here sporadically — though perhaps more and more frequently 
 every trip around the sun. But Heaven is needed in any 
 scheme of general decency for decency's sake, so that the 
 decent soul for whose primary development the earth was 
 hung in the sky, may have a place to find further usefulness, 
 and a far more exceeding glory than may be enjoyed in this 
 material dwelling place. So as we grow better and kinder in 
 this world, hell sloughs off and Heaven is more real. ' ' 
 
 There is more of this dissertation — if the reader cares to 
 pursue it, and it may be found in the files of the Harvey 
 Tribune. It also appears as a footnote to an article by an 
 eminent authority on Abnormal Psychology in a report on 
 
 379 
 
380 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Mr. Left, Vol. XXXII, p. 2126, of the Report of the Psycho- 
 logical Association. The remarks of the Peach Blow Philoso- 
 pher credited in the Report of the Proceedings above noted, 
 to Mr. Left, appeared in the Harvey Tribune Jan. 14, 1903. 
 They may have been called forth by an editorial in the Har- 
 vey Times of January 9 of that same year. So as that edi- 
 torial has a proper place in this narrative, it may be set 
 down here at the outset of this chapter. The article from 
 the Times is headed: "A Successful Career" and it fol- 
 lows: 
 
 "To-day Judge Thomas Van Dorn retires from ten years 
 of faithful service as district judge of this district. He was 
 appointed by the Governor and has been twice elected to 
 this position by the people, and feeling that the honor should 
 go to some other county in the district, the Judge was not 
 a candidate for a third nomination or election. During the 
 ten years of his service he has grown steadily in legal and 
 intellectual attainments. He has been president of the state 
 bar association, delegate from that body to the National Bar 
 Association, member of several important committees in 
 that organization, and now is at the head of that branch of 
 the National Bar Association organized to secure a more strict 
 interpretation of the Federal Constitution, as a bulwark of 
 commercial liberty. Judge Van Dorn also has been selected 
 as a member of a subcommittee to draft a new state constitu- 
 tion to be submitted to the legislature by the state bar asso- 
 ciation. So much for the recognition of his legal ability. 
 
 "As an orator he has won similar and enviable fame. 
 His speech at the dedication of the state monument at Vicks- 
 burg will be a classic in American oratory for years. At the 
 Marquette Club Banquet in Chicago last month his oration 
 was reprinted in New York and Boston with flattering com- 
 ment. Recently he has been engaged — though his term of 
 service has just ended — in every important criminal action 
 now pending west of the Mississippi. As a jury lawyer he 
 has no equal in all the West. 
 
 "But while this practice is highly interesting, and in a 
 sense remunerative, the Judge feels that the criminal prac- 
 tice makes too much of a drain upon his mind and body, and 
 while he will defend certain great lumber operators and will 
 
ONE HEAVEN AND TWO LITTLE HELLS 381 
 
 appear for the defense in the famous Yarborrough murder 
 case, and is considering accepting an almost unbelievably 
 large retainer in the Skelton divorce case with its ramifica- 
 tions leading into at least three criminal prosecutions, and 
 four suits to change or perfect certain land titles, yet this 
 kind of practice is distasteful to the Judge, and he will 
 probably confine himself after this year to what is known as 
 corporation practice. He has been retained as general coun- 
 sel for all the industrial interests in the Wahoo Valley. The 
 mine operators, the smelter owners, the cement manufactur- 
 ers, the glass factories have seen in Judge Van Dorn a 
 man in whom they all may safely trust their interests — 
 amicably settling all differences between themselves in his 
 office, and presenting for the Wahoo Valley an unbroken 
 front in all future disputes — industrial or otherwise. This 
 arrangement has been perfected by our giant of finance, Hon. 
 Daniel Sands of the Traders' State Bank, who is, as every 
 one knows, heavily interested in every concern in the Valley 
 — excepting the Independent Coal Company, which by the 
 way has preferred to remain outside of the united commercial 
 union, and do business under its own flag — however dark 
 that flag may be. 
 
 ' ' This new career of Judge Van Dorn will be highly grati- 
 fying to his friends — and who is there who is not his friend 1 
 
 "Courteous, knightly, impetuous, gallant Tom Van Dorn? 
 What a career he has builded for himself in Harvey and the 
 West. 
 
 "Scorning his enemies with the quiet contempt of the in- 
 tellectual gladiator that he is, Tom Van Dorn has risen in 
 this community as no other man young or old since its found- 
 ing. His spacious home is the temple of hospitality; his 
 magnificent talent is given freely, often to the poor and 
 needy to whom his money flows in a generous stream when- 
 ever the call comes. His shrewd investment of his savings 
 in the Valley have made him rich ; his beautiful wife and his 
 widening circle of friends have made him happy — his fine, 
 active brain has made him great. 
 
 "The Times extends to the Judge upon his retirement 
 from the bench the congratulations of an admiring com- 
 munity, and best wishes for future success." 
 
382 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 Now perhaps it was not this article that inspired the 
 Peach Blow Philosopher. It may have been another item 
 in the same paper hidden away in the want column. 
 
 "Wanted — All the sewing and mending, quilt patching, 
 sheet making, or other plain sewing that the good women 
 of Harvey have to give out. I know certain worthy women 
 with families, who need this work. Also woodsawing orders 
 promptly filled by competent men out of work. I will bring 
 work and the workers together. H. Fenn, care Brotherton 
 Book & Stationery Co., 1127 Market Street." 
 
 Or if it was not that item, perhaps it was this one from 
 the South Harvey Derrick of January 7, that called forth 
 the Peach Blow Philosopher's remarks on Heaven: 
 
 "Mrs. Violet Hogan and family have rented the rooms 
 adjoining Mrs. Van Dorn's kindergarten. Mrs. Hogan has 
 made arrangements to provide ladies of South Harvey and 
 the Valley in general with plain sewing by the piece. A 
 day nursery for children has been fitted up by our genial 
 George Brotherton, former mayor of Harvey, where mothers 
 sewing may leave their children in an adjoining room." 
 
 Now the Heaven of the Peach Blow Philosopher is not 
 gained at one bound. Even the painted, canvas Heaven 
 of Thomas Van Dorn cost him something — to be exact, $100, 
 which he took in "stock" of the Times company — which al- 
 ways had stock for sale, issued by a Price & Chanler Gordon 
 job press whenever it was required. And the negotiations 
 for the Judge's painted Heaven made by his partner, Mr. 
 Joseph Calvin, of the renewed and reunited firm of Van 
 Dorn & Calvin, were not without their painful moments. 
 As, for instance, when the editor of the Times complained 
 bitterly at having it agreed that he would have to mention 
 in the article the Judge's "beautiful wife," specifically and 
 in terms, the editor was for raising the price to $150, by 
 reason of the laughing stock it would make of the paper, 
 but compromised upon the promise of legal notices from 
 the firm amounting to $100 within the following six months. 
 Also there was a hitch in the negotiations hereinbefore men- 
 tioned when the Times was required to refer to the National 
 Bar Association meeting at all. For it was notorious that 
 the Judge's flourishing signature with "and wife" had been 
 
ONE HEAVEN AND TWO LITTLE HELLS 383 
 
 photographed upon the register of a New York Hotel when 
 he attended that meeting, whereas every one knew that Mrs. 
 Van Dorn was in Europe that summer, and the photograph 
 of the Judge's beautifully flourishing signature aforesaid 
 was one of the things that persuaded the Judge to enter 
 the active practice and leave the shades and solitudes of 
 the bench for more strenuous affairs. To allude to the 
 Judge's wife, and to mention the National Bar Association 
 in the same article, struck the editor of the Times as so 
 inauspicious that it required considerable persuasion on the 
 part of the diplomatic Mr. Calvin, to arrange the matter. 
 
 So the Judge's Heaven bellied on its canvas, full of vain 
 east wind, and fooled no one — not even the Judge, least of 
 all his beautiful wife, who, knowing of the Bar Association 
 incident, laughed a ribald laugh. Moreover, having aban- 
 doned mental healing for the Episcopalian faith and having 
 killed her mental healing dog with caramels and finding sur- 
 cease in a white poodle, she gave herself over to a riot of 
 earth thoughts — together with language thereunto appertain- 
 ing of so plain a texture that the Judge all but limped in his 
 strut for several hours. 
 
 But when the strut did come back, and the mocking echoes 
 of the strident tones of ' ' his beautiful wife ' ' were stilled by 
 several rounds of Scotch whisky at the Club, the Judge 
 went forth into the town, waving his hands right and left, 
 bowing punctiliously to women, and spending an hour in 
 police court getting out of trouble some of his gambler 
 friends who had supported him in politics. 
 
 He told every one that it was good to be off the bench and 
 to be "plain Tom Van Dorn" again, and he shook hands up 
 and down Market Street. And as ' ' plain Tom Van Dorn ' ' he 
 sat down in the shop of the Paris Millinery Company, Mrs. 
 Herdicker, Prop., and talked to the amiable Prop, for half 
 an hour — casting sly glances at the handsome Miss Morton, 
 who got behind him and made faces over his back for Mrs. 
 Herdicker 's edifi cation. 
 
 But as Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., made it a point — and kept 
 it — never to talk against the cash drawer, "plain Tom Van 
 Dorn" didn't learn the truth from her. So he pranced 
 up and down before his scenic representation of Heaven in 
 
384 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 the Times, and did not know that the whole town knew that 
 his stage Heaven was the masque for as hot and cozy a 
 little hell as any respectable gentleman of middle years could 
 endure. 
 
 However clear he made it to the public, that he and Mrs. 
 Van Dorn were passionately fond of each other ; however evi- 
 dent he intended it to be that he was more than satisfied 
 with the bargain that he had made when he took her, and 
 put away his first wife; however strongly he played the 
 card of the gallant husband and ' ' dearied ' ' her, and however 
 she smirked at him and ' ' dawliriged ' ' him in public when the 
 town was looking, every one knew the truth. 
 
 "We may," says the Peach Blow Philosopher in one of 
 his dissertations on the Illusion of Time, "counterfeit every- 
 thing in this world — but sincerity." So Judge Thomas 
 Van Dorn — "plain Tom Van Dorn," went along Market 
 Street, and through the world, handing out his leaden 
 gratuities. But people felt how greasy they were, how 
 heavy they were, how soft they were ; and threw them aside, 
 and sneered. 
 
 As for the Heaven which the Peach Blow Philosopher 
 may have found for Henry Fenn and Violet Hogan, it was a 
 different affair, but of slow and uncertain growth. Henry 
 Fenn went into the sewer gang the day after he found Violet 
 in the railroad yards, and for two weeks he worked ten hours 
 a day with the negroes and Mexicans in the ditch. It took 
 him a month to get enough money ahead to pay for a room. 
 Leaving the sewer gang, he was made timekeeper on a small 
 paving contract. But every day he sent through the mails 
 to Violet enough to pay her rent and feed the children — a 
 little sum, but all he could spare. He did not see her. He 
 did not write to her. He only knew that the money he 
 was making was keeping her out of the night, so he bent 
 to his work with a will. 
 
 And at night, — it was not easy for Violet to stay in the 
 house. She needed a thousand little things — or thought she 
 did. And there was the old track and the easy money. But 
 she knew what the pittance that came from Henry Fenn 
 meant to him, so in pride and in shame one night she turned 
 back home when she had slipped clear to the corner of the 
 
ONE HEAVEN AND TWO LITTLE HELLS 385 
 
 street with her paint on. When she got home she threw 
 herself upon the bed and wept like a child in anguish. But 
 the next night she did not even touch the rouge pot, and 
 avoided it as though it were a poison. Her idea was the 
 sewing room. She wrote it all out, in her stylish, angular 
 hand to Mr. Brotherton, told him what it would cost, and how 
 she believed she could make expenses for herself and help a 
 number of other women who, like her, were tempted to go 
 the wrong road. She even sent him five spoons — the last 
 relic of the old Mauling decency, five silver spoons dented 
 with the tooth marks of the Mauling children, five spoons 
 done up in pink tissue that she had always told little Ouida 
 Hogan should come to her some day — she sent those spoons 
 to Mr. Brotherton to sell to make the start toward the sewing 
 room. 
 
 But Mr. Brotherton took the spoons to Mr. Ira Dooley's 
 home of the fine arts and crafts, and then and there, mount- 
 ing a lookout stand, addressed the crowd through the smoke 
 in simple but effective language, showing the spoons, telling 
 the boys at the gaming tables that they all knew Denny Ho- 
 gan 's wife and how about her; that she wanted to get in 
 right ; that the spoons were sent to him to sell to the highest 
 and best bidder for cash in hand. He also said that chips 
 would count at the market price, and lo ! he got a hat full of 
 rattly red and white and blue chips and jingly silver dollars 
 and a wad of whispering five-dollar bills big enough to 
 cork a cannon. He went back to Harvey, spoons and all, 
 considering deeply certain statements that Grant Adams 
 had made about the presence of the holy ghost in every hu- 
 man heart. 
 
 As for the bright particular Heaven of Mr. Fenn, as here- 
 inbefore possibly hinted at by the Peach Blow Philosopher, 
 these are its specifications: 
 
 Item One. Job as storekeeper at the railroad roundhouse, 
 from which by specific order of the master mechanic two 
 hours a day are granted to Mr. Fenn, to take his hat in his 
 hand and go marching over the town, knocking at doors and 
 soliciting sewing for women, and wood-sawing or yard or 
 furnace work for men ; but 
 
 Item Two. Being a generous man, Mr. Fenn is up before 
 
386 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 eight for an hour of his work, and stays at it until seven, 
 and thereby gets in two or three extra hours on the job, and 
 feels 
 
 Item Three. That he is doing something worth while ; 
 
 Item Four. Upon the first of the month he has nothing; 
 
 Item Five. Balancing his books at the last of the month 
 he has nothing, 
 
 Item Six. And having no debt he is happy. But speak- 
 ing of debt, there is 
 
 Item Seven. In Mr. Fenn 's room a collection of receipts : 
 
 (a) One from the Midland Railroad Company for brass 
 as per statement rendered. 
 
 (b) One from the Harvey Transfer Co. for one box of 
 cutlery marked Wright & Perry, and 
 
 (c) One — the hardest receipt of all to get — from Martha 
 Morton for six chickens as per account rendered. These 
 receipts hang on a spindle in the little room. Under the 
 spindle is 
 
 Item Eight. A bottle of whisky — full but uncorked. He 
 is in his room but little. Sometimes he comes in late at 
 night, and does not light the lamp to avoid seeing the bottle, 
 but plunges into bed, and covers up his head in fear and 
 trembling. On the day when the Peach Blow Philosopher 
 printed his view on Heaven, Mr. Fenn, by way of personal 
 adornment, had purchased of Wright & Perry 
 
 Item Nine. One new coat. He hoped and so indicated 
 to the firm, to be able to afford a vest in the spring and 
 perhaps trousers by summer, and because of the cutlery tran- 
 saction above mentioned, the firm indicated 
 
 Item Ten. That Mr. Fenn's credit was good for the whole 
 suit. But Mr. Fenn waved a proud hand and said he had 
 
 Item Eleven. No desire to become involved in the devious 
 ways of high finance, and took only the coat. 
 
 But, nevertheless, no small part of his Heaven lies in the 
 serene knowledge that the whole suit is waiting for him, 
 carefully put aside by the head of the house until Mr. 
 Fenn cares to call for it. That is perhaps a material Heaven 
 but it is a part of Mr. Fenn's Heaven, and as he goes about 
 from door to door soliciting for sewing, the knowledge that 
 if he should cease or falter four women might be on the 
 
ONE HEAVEN AND TWO LITTLE HELLS 387 
 
 street the next night, keeps him happy, and not even when 
 he was county attorney or in the real estate business nor 
 writing insurance, nor disporting himself as an auctioneer 
 was Mr. Fenn ever in his own mind a person of so much 
 use and consequence. So his Heaven needs no east wind 
 to belly it out. Mr. Fenn's Heaven is full and fat and 
 prosperous — even on two meals a day and in a three-dollar- 
 a-month room. 
 
 And now that we may balance up the Heaven account in 
 these books, we should come to some conclusion as to what 
 Heaven is. Let us call it, for the sake of our hypothesis, the 
 most work one can do for the least self-interest, and let it go 
 at that and get on with the story. For this story has to do 
 with large and real affairs. It must not dally here with 
 the sordid affairs of a lady who certainly was no better than 
 she should be and of a gentleman who was as the herein- 
 before mentioned receipts will show, much worse than he 
 might have been. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE OLD SPIDER BEGINS TO DIVIDE HIS PLIES WITH OTHERS AND 
 GEORGE BROTHERTON IS PUZZLED TWICE IN ONE NIGHT 
 
 NOW it was in the year of these minor conquests when 
 Henry Fenn and Violet Hogan were enjoying their 
 little Heavens that great things began to stir in 
 Harvey and the Wahoo Valley. In May a young gentleman 
 in a high hat and a suit of exquisite gray twill cut with a 
 long frock coat, appeared at the Hotel Sands — and took the 
 bridal suite on the second floor. He brought letters to. the 
 Traders' Bank and from the Bank took letters to the smel- 
 ters, and with a notebook in hand the young man in exqui- 
 site gray twill went about for three or four days smiling 
 affably, and asking many questions. Then he left and in 
 due course — that is to say, in a fortnight — Mr. Sands called 
 the managing officials of all the smelters into his back room 
 and read them a letter from a New York firm offering to 
 trade stock in a holding company, taking over smelters of the 
 class and kind in the Wahoo Valley for the stocks and bonds 
 of the Harvey Smelters Company. The letterhead was so 
 awe-inspiring and the proposition was so convincing by rea- 
 son of the terror inherent in the letterhead that the smelters 
 went into the holding company, and thereafter the managing 
 officials who had been men of power and consequence in 
 Harvey became clerks. About the same time the coal prop- 
 erties went the same way, and the cement concerns saw their 
 finish as individual competing concerns. The glass fac- 
 tories were also gobbled up. So when the Fourth of July 
 came and the youngest Miss Morton, under great protest, but 
 at her father's stern command, wrapped an American flag 
 about her — and sang the "Star Spangled Banner" to the 
 Veterans of Persifer F. Smith Post of the Q, A. R. in Sands' 
 
 388 
 
THE OLD SPIDER DIVIDES HIS FLIES 389 
 
 Park, the land of the free and the home of the brave in 
 Harvey was somewhat abridged. 
 
 Daniel Sands felt the abridgement more than any one else. 
 For a generation he had been a spider, weaving his own 
 web for his own nest. All his webs and filaments and wires 
 and pipes and cables went out and brought back things for 
 him to dispose of. He was the center of the universe for 
 himself and for Harvey. He was the beginning and the end. 
 His bank was the first and the last word in business and in 
 politics in that great valley. What he spun was his; what 
 he drew into the web was his. "When he invited the fly into 
 his parlor, it was for the delectation of the spider, not to be 
 passed on to some other larger web and fatter spider. But 
 that day as he sat, a withered, yellow-skinned, red-eyed, 
 rattle-toothed, old man with a palsied head that never stopped 
 wagging, as he sat under his skull cap, blinking out at a fat, 
 little world that always had been his prey, Daniel Sands felt 
 that he had ceased to be an end, and had become a means. 
 
 His bank, his mines, his smelters, even his municipal utili- 
 ties, all were slipping from under his control. He could feel 
 the pull of the rope from the outside around his own foot. 
 He could feel that he was not a generator of power. He was 
 merely a pumping station, gathering up all the fat of the 
 little land that once was his, and passing it out in pipes that 
 ran he knew not where, to go to some one else — he knew not 
 whom. True, his commissions came back, and his dividends 
 came back, and they were rich and sweet, and worth while. 
 But — he was shocked when he found courage to ask it — if 
 they did not come back, what could he do? He was part of 
 a great web — a little filament in one obscure corner, and he 
 was spinning a fabric whose faintest plan he could not con- 
 ceive. 
 
 This angered him, and the spider spat in vain rage. The 
 power he loved was gone ; he was the mere shell of a spider ; 
 he was dead. Some man might come into the bank to-morrow 
 and take even the semblance of his power from him. They 
 might, indeed, shut up every mill, close every mine, lock 
 every factory, douse the fire in every smelter in the Wahoo 
 Valley, and the man who believed he had opened the mills, 
 dug the mines, builded the factories and lighted the smelter 
 
390 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 fires with all but his own hands, could only rage and fume, 
 or be polite and pretend it was his desire. 
 
 The town that he believed that he had made out of sun- 
 shine and prairie grass, for all he could do, might be 
 condemned as a bat roost, and the wires and cables, that ran 
 from his desk all over the "Wahoo Valley, might grow rusty 
 and jangle in the prairie winds, while the pipes rotted under 
 the sunflowers and he could only make a wry face. Spiders 
 must have some instinctive constructive imagination to build 
 their marvelous webs ; surely this old spider had an imagina- 
 tion that in Elizabeth 's day would have made him more than 
 a minor poet. Yet in the beginning of the Twentieth Cen- 
 tury he felt himself a bound prisoner in his decaying web. 
 So he showed his blue mouth, and red eyelids in fury, and 
 was silent lest even his shadow should find how impotent a 
 thing he was. 
 
 But he knew that one man knew. ' ' How about your poli- 
 tics down here?" asked the affable young man in exquisite 
 gray twill, when he closed the gas-works deal. And Dan'l 
 Sands said that until recently he and Dr. Nesbit had been 
 cronies, but that some way the Doctor had been getting high 
 notions, and hadn't been around the bank lately. The young 
 man in the exquisite gray twill asked a few questions, cata- 
 logued the Doctor, and then said: 
 
 "This man Van Dorn, it appears, is local attorney for all 
 the mines and smelters — he hasn 't the reform bug, has he ? " 
 
 The old spider grinned and shook his head. 
 
 "All right," said the polite young man in the exquisite 
 gray twill, as he picked up his gray, high hat, and flicked a 
 speck of dust from his exquisite gray frock coat, "I'll take 
 matters of politics up with him." 
 
 So the spider knew that the servant had been put over the 
 master, and again he opened his mouth in malice, but spoke 
 no word. 
 
 And thus it was that Judge Thomas Van Dorn formed a 
 strong New York connection that stood him in stead in after 
 years. For the web that the old spider of Market Street 
 had been weaving all these years, was at its strongest but a 
 rope of sand compared with the steel links of the chain that 
 was wrapped about the town, with one end in the Judge's 
 
THE OLD SPIDER DIVIDES HIS FLIES 391 
 
 hand, but with, the chain reaching out into some distant, 
 mysterious hawser that moved it with a power of which even 
 the Judge knew little or nothing. 
 
 So he was profoundly impressed, and accordingly proud, 
 and added half an inch to the high-knee action of his strut. 
 He felt himself a part of the world of affairs — and he was 
 indeed a part. He was one of a thousand men who, whether 
 they knew it or not, had been bought, body and soul — though 
 the soul was thrown in for good measure in the Judge 's case 
 — to serve the great, greedy spider of organized capital at 
 whatever cost of public welfare or of private faith. He was 
 indeed a man of affairs — was Thomas Van Dorn — a part of a 
 vast business and political cabal, that knew no party and no 
 creed but dividends and still more dividends, impersonal, au- 
 tomatic, soulless — the materialization of the spirit of com- 
 merce. 
 
 And strangely enough, just as Tom Van Dorn worshiped 
 the power that bought him, so the old spider, peering through 
 the broken, rotting meshes of what was once his web, felt the 
 power to which it was fastened, felt the power that moved 
 him as a mere pawn in a game whose direction he did not 
 conceive ; and Dan '1 Sands, in spite of his silent rage, wor- 
 shiped the power like a groveling idolater. 
 
 But the worm never lacks for a bud ; that also is a part of 
 God's plan. Thus, while the forces of egoism, the powers 
 of capital, were concentrating in a vast organization of so- 
 cialized individualism, the other forces and powers of society 
 which were pointing toward a socialized altruism, were form- 
 ing also. There was the man in the exquisite gray twill, 
 harnessing Judge Van Dorn and Market Street to his will ; 
 and there was Grant Adams in faded overalls, harnessing 
 labor to other wheels that were grinding another grist. 
 Slowly but persistently had Grant Adams been forming 
 his Amalgamation of the Unions of the valley. Slowly and 
 awkwardly his unwieldy machinery was creaking its way 
 round. In spite of handicaps of opposing interests among 
 the men of different unions, his "Wahoo Valley Labor Coun- 
 cil was shaping itself into an effective machine. If the 
 shares of stock in the mills and the mines and the smelt- 
 ers all ran their dividends through one great hopper, so 
 
392 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 the units of labor in the Valley were connected with a 
 common source of direction. God does not plant the or- 
 ganizing spirit in the world for one group ; it is the common 
 heritage of the time. So the sinister power of organized 
 capital loomed before Market Street with its terrible threat 
 of extinction for the town if the town displeased organized 
 capital ; so also rose in the town a dread feeling of uneasiness 
 that labor also had power. The personification of that power 
 was Grant Adams. And when the young man in exquisite 
 gray twill had become only a memory, Tom Van Dorn 
 squarely faced Grant Adams. Market Street was behind the 
 Judge. The Valley was back of Grant. For a time there 
 was a truce, but it was not peace. The truce was a time of 
 waiting ; waiting and arming for battle. 
 
 During the year of the truce, Nathan Perry was busy. 
 Nathan Perry saw the power that was organizing about him 
 and the Independent mine among the employers in the dis- 
 trict, and intuitively he felt the resistlessness of the power. 
 But he did not shrink. He advised his owners to join the 
 combination as a business proposition. But his advice was 
 a dead fly fed to the old spider's senile vanity. For Daniel 
 Sands had been able to dictate as a part of his acceptance of 
 the proposition, this one concession : That the Independent 
 mine be kept out of the agreement. Nathan Perry suspected 
 this. But most of his owners were game men, and they de- 
 cided not even to apply for admission to the organization. 
 They found that the young man's management of the mine 
 was paying well ; that the labor problem was working satis- 
 factorily ; that the safety devices, while expensive, produced 
 a feeling of good-will among the men that was worth more 
 even in dividends than the interest on the money. 
 
 But after he had warned his employers of the wrath to 
 come, Nathan Perry did not spend much time in unavailing 
 regret at their decision. He was, upon the whole, glad they 
 had made it. And having a serious problem in philology to 
 work out — namely, to discover whether Esperanto, Chinese 
 or Dutch is the natural language of man, through study of 
 the conversational tendencies of Daniel Kyle Perry, the young 
 superintendent of the Independent mine gave serious thought 
 to that problem. 
 
THE OLD SPIDER DIVIDES HIS FLIES 393 
 
 Then, of course, there was that other problem that both- 
 ered Nathan Perry, and being an engineer with a degree of 
 B. S., it annoyed him to discover that the problem wouldn't 
 come out straight. Briefly and popularly stated, it is this : 
 If you have a boiler capacity of 200 pounds per square inch 
 and love a girl 200 pounds to the square inch, and then the 
 Doctor in his black bag brings one fat, sweaty, wrinkled 
 baby, and you see the girl in a new and sweeter light than 
 ever before, see her in a thousand ways rising above her 
 former stature to a wonderful womanhood beyond even your 
 dreams — how are you going to get more capacity out of that 
 boiler without breaking it, when the load calls for four 
 hundred pounds? Now these problems puzzled the young 
 man, living at that time in his eight-room house with a bath, 
 and he sat up nights to work them. And some times there 
 were two heads at work on the sums, and once in a while 
 three heads, but the third head talked a various language, 
 whose mild and healing sympathy stole the puzzle from the 
 problem and began chewing on it before they were aware. 
 So Nathan put the troubles of the mine on the hook whereon 
 he hung his coat at night, and if he felt uneasy at the trend 
 of the day's events, his uneasiness did not come to him at 
 home. He had heard it whispered about — once by the men 
 and once in a directors' meeting — that the clash with Grant 
 Adams was about to come. If Nathan had any serious wish 
 in relation to the future, it was the ardent hope that the 
 clash would come and come soon. 
 
 For the toll of death in the "Wahoo Valley was cruel and 
 inexorable. The mines, the factories, the railroads, the 
 smelters, all were death traps, and the maimed, blind and 
 helpless were cast out of the great industrial hopper like 
 chaff. Every little neighborhood had its cripple. From the 
 mines came the blind — whose sight was taken from them by 
 cheap powder; from the railroad yards came the maimed — 
 the handless, armless, legless men who, in their daily tasks 
 had been crushed by inferior car couplings; the smelters 
 sent out their sick, whom the fumes had poisoned, and 
 sometimes there would come out a charred trunk that had 
 gone into the great molten vats a man. The factories took 
 hands and forearms, and sometimes when an accident of 
 
394 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 unusual horror occurred in the Valley, it would seem like a 
 place of mourning. The burden of all this bloodshed and 
 death was upon the laborers. And more than that, — the 
 burden of the widows and orphans also was upon labor. 
 Capital charged off the broken machinery, the damaged 
 buildings, the worn-out equipment to profit and loss with an 
 easy conscience, while the broken men all over the Valley, 
 the damaged laborers, the worn-out workers, who were thrown 
 to the scrap heap in maturity, were charged to labor. And 
 labor paid this bill, chiefly because capital was too greedy to 
 provide safe machinery, or sanitary shops, or adequate tools ! 
 
 Nathan Perry, first miner, then pit-boss and finally super- 
 intendent, and always member of Local Miners' Union No. 
 10, knew what the men were vaguely beginning to see and 
 think. When some man who had been to court to collect 
 damages for a killed or crippled friend, some man who had 
 heard the Judge talk of the assumed risk of labor, some 
 man who had heard lawyers split hairs to cheat working 
 men of what common sense and common justice said was 
 theirs, when some such man cried out in hatred and agony 
 against society, Nathan Perry tried to counsel patience, tried 
 to curb the malice. But in his heart Nathan Perry knew that 
 if he had suffered the wrongs that such a man suffered, he 
 too would be full of wrath and class hatred. 
 
 Sometimes, of course, men rose from the pit. Foremen 
 became managers, managers became superintendents, super- 
 intendents became owners, owners became rich, and society 
 replied — "Look, it is easy for a man to rise." Once at 
 lunch time, sitting in the shaft house, Nathan Perry with his 
 hands in his dinner bucket said something of the kind, when 
 Tom "Williams, the little "Welsh miner, who was a disciple and 
 friend of Grant Adams, cried: 
 
 "Yes — that's true. It is easy for a man to rise. It was 
 easy for a slave to escape from the South — comparatively 
 easy. But is it easy for the class to rise ? "Was it easy for 
 the slaves to be free ? That is the problem — the problem of 
 lifting a whole class — as your class has been lifted, young 
 fellow, in the last century. Why, over in "Wales a century 
 ago, a mere tradesman's son like you — was — was nobody. 
 
THE OLD SPIDER DIVIDES HIS FLIES 395 
 
 The middle classes had nothing — that is, nothing much. 
 They have risen. They rule the world now. This century 
 must see the rise of the laboring class ; not here and there as 
 a man who gets out of our class and then sneers at us, and 
 pretends he was with us by accident — but we must rise as a 
 class, boy — don't you see?" 
 
 And so, working in the mine, with the men, Nathan Perry 
 completed his education. He learned — had it ground into 
 him by the hard master of daily toil — that while bread and 
 butter is an individual problem that no laborer may neglect 
 except at his peril, the larger problems of the conditions un- 
 der which men labor — their hours of service, their factory 
 surroundings, their shop rights to work, their relation to 
 accidents and to the common diseases peculiar to any trade — 
 those are not individual problems. They are class problems 
 and must be solved — in so far as labor can solve them alone, 
 not by individual struggle but by class struggle. So Nathan 
 Perry came up out of the mines a believer in the union, and 
 the closed shop. He felt that those who would make the 
 class problem an individual problem, were only retarding 
 the day of settlement, only hindering progress. 
 
 Rumor said that the truce in the Wahoo Valley was near 
 an end. Nathan Perry did not shrink from it. But Market 
 Street was uneasy. It seemed to be watching an approach- 
 ing cyclone. When men knew that the owners were .ready 
 to stop the organization of unions, the cloud of unrest seemed 
 to hover over them. But the clouds dissolved in rumor. 
 Then they gathered again, and it was said that Grant Adams 
 was to be gagged, his Sunday meetings abolished or that he 
 was to be banished from the Valley. Again the clouds dis- 
 solved. Nothing happened. But the cloud was forever on 
 the horizon, and Market Street was afraid. For Market 
 Street — as a street — was chiefly interested in selling goods. 
 It had, of course, vague yearnings for social justice — yearn- 
 ings about as distinct as the desire to know if the moon was 
 inhabited. But as a street, Market Street was with Mrs. 
 Herdicker — it never talked against the cash drawer. Mar- 
 ket Street, the world over, is interested in things as they are. 
 The statuo quo is God and laissez faire is its profit! So 
 
396 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 Market Street murmured, and buzzed — and then Market 
 Street also organized to worship the god of things as they 
 are. 
 
 But Mr. Brotherton of the Brotherton Book & Stationery 
 Company held aloof from the Merchants' Protective Asso- 
 ciation. Mr. Brotherton at odd times, at first by way of 
 diversion, and then as a matter of education for his growing 
 business, had been glancing at the contents of his wares. 
 Particularly had he been interested in the magazines. More- 
 over, he was talking. And because it helped him to sell 
 goods to talk about them, he kept on talking. 
 
 About this time he affected flowing negligee bow ties, and 
 let his thin, light hair go fluffy and he wrapped rather casu- 
 ally it seemed, about his elephantine bulk, a variety of loose) 
 baggy garb, which looked like a circus tent. But he was a 
 born salesman — was Mr. Brotherton. He plastered litera- 
 ture over Harvey in carload lots. 
 
 One day while Mr. Brotherton was wrapping up "Little 
 "Women" and a "Little Colonel" book and "Children of 
 the Abbey ' ' that Dr. Nesbit was buying for Lila Van Dorn, 
 the Doctor piped, "Well, George, they say you're getting 
 to be a regular anarchist — the way you're talking about con- 
 ditions in the Valley ? ' ' 
 
 "Not for a minute," answered Mr. Brotherton. "Why, 
 man, all I said was that if the old spider kept making the 
 men use that cheap powder that blows their eyes out and their 
 hands off, and their legs off, they ought to unionize and 
 strike. And if it was my job to handle that powder I 'd tie 
 the old devil on a blast and blow him into hamburger. ' ' Mr. 
 Brotherton 's rising emotions reddened his forehead under 
 his thin hair, and pulled at his wind. He shook a weary 
 head and leaned on a show case. "But I say, stand by the 
 boys. Maybe it will make a year of bad times or maybe 
 two; but what of that? It'll make better times in the end." 
 
 "All right, George — go in. I glory in your spunk!" 
 chirped the Doctor as he put Lila's package under his arm. 
 "Let me tell you something," he added, "I've got a bill I'm 
 going to push in the next legislature that will knock a hole 
 in that doctrine of the assumed risk of labor, you can drive 
 a horse through. It makes the owners pay for the accidents 
 
THE OLD SPIDER DIVIDES HIS FLIES 397 
 
 of a trade, instead of hiding behind that theory, that a man 
 assumes those risks when he takes a job. " 
 
 The Doctor put his head to one side, cocked one eye and 
 cried : ' ' How would that go ? " 
 
 "Now you're shoutin', Doc. Bust a machine, and the com- 
 pany pays for it. Bust a man, the man pays for it or his 
 wife and children or his friends or the county. That's not 
 fair. A man's as much of a part of the cost of production 
 as a machine ! ' ' 
 
 The Doctor toddled out, clicking his cane and whistling a 
 merry tune and left Mr. Brotherton enjoying his maiden 
 meditations upon the injustices of this world. In the midst 
 of his meditations he found that he had been listening for 
 five minutes to Captain Morton. The Captain was expound- 
 ing some passing dream about his Household Horse. Ap- 
 parently the motor car, which was multiplying rapidly in 
 Harvey, had impressed him. He was telling Mr. Brother- 
 ton that his Household Horse, if harnessed to the motor car, 
 would save much of the power wasted by the chains. He was 
 dreaming of the distant day when motor cars would be used 
 in sufficient numbers to make it profitable for the Captain 
 to equip them with his power saving device. 
 
 But Mr. Brotherton cut into the Captain's musings with: 
 "You tell the girls to wash the cat for I'm coming out to- 
 night." 
 
 "Girls? — huh — girls?" replied the Captain as he looked 
 over his spectacles at Mr. Brotherton. " 'T gory, man, 
 what's the matter with me — eh? I'm staying out there on 
 Elm Street yet — what say?" And he went out smiling. 
 
 When the Captain entered the house, he found Emma get- 
 ting supper, Martha setting the table and Ruth, with a candy 
 box before her at the piano, going over her everlasting "Ah- 
 ah-ah-ah-ahs" from "C to C" as Emma called it. 
 
 Emma took her father 's hat, put it away and said : ' ' "Well, 
 father — what's the news?" 
 
 "Well," replied the Captain, with some show of delibera- 
 tion, ' ' a friend of mine down town told me to tell you girls 
 to wash the cat for he '11 be along here about eight o 'clock. ' ' 
 
 "Mr. Brotherton," scoffed Ruth. "It's up to you two," 
 she cried gayly in the midst of her eternal journey from 
 
398 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 "C" to "0." "He never wears his Odd Fellows' pin un- 
 less he's been singing at an Odd Fellows' funeral, so that 
 lets me out to-night. ' ' 
 
 "Well," sighed Emma, "I don't know that I want him 
 even if he has on his Shriner's pin. I just believe I'll go to 
 bed. The way I feel to-night I 'm so sick of children I believe 
 I wouldn't marry the best man on earth." 
 
 "Oh, well, of course, Emma," suggested the handsome 
 Miss Morton, "if you feel that way about it why, I — " 
 
 "Now Martha—" cried the elder sister, "can't you let me 
 alone and get out of here? I tell you, the superintendent 
 and the principal and the janitor and the dratted Calvin kid 
 all broke loose to-day and I'm liable to run out doors and 
 begin to jump and down in the street and scream if you 
 start on me. ' ' 
 
 But after supper the three Misses Morton went upstairs, 
 and did what they could to wipe away the cares of a long and 
 weary day. They put on their second best dresses — all but 
 Emma, who put on her best, saying she had nothing else that 
 wasn't full of chalk and worry. At seven forty-five, they 
 had the parlor illuminated. As for the pictures and bric-a- 
 brac — to-wit, a hammered brass flower pot near the grate, 
 and sitting on an onyx stand a picture of Richard Harding 
 Davis, the contribution of the eldest Miss Morton's callow 
 youth, also a brass smoking set on a mission table, the con- 
 tribution of the youngest Miss Morton from her first choir 
 money — as for the pictures and bric-a-brac, they were dusted 
 until they glistened, and the trap was all set, waiting for 
 the prey. 
 
 They heard the gate click and the youngest Miss Morton 
 said quickly: "Well, if he's an Odd Fellow, I guess I'll 
 take him. But," she sighed, "I'll bet a cooky he's an Elk 
 and Martha gets him." 
 
 The Captain went to the door and brought in the victim 
 to as sweet and demure a trio of surprised young women 
 and as patient a cat, as ever sat beside a rat hole. After he 
 had greeted the girls — it was Ruth who took his coat, and 
 Martha his hat, but Emma who held his hand a second the 
 longest, after she spied the Shriner's pin — Mr. Brotherton 
 picked up the cat. 
 
THE OLD SPIDER DIVIDES HIS FLIES 399 
 
 "Well, Epaminondas, " he puffed as he stroked the animal 
 and put it to his cheek, ' ' did they take his dear little kitties 
 away from him — the horrid things. ' ' 
 
 This was Mr. Brotherton's standard joke. Ruth said she 
 never felt the meeting was really opened until he had teased 
 them about Epaminondas' pretended kittens. 
 
 For the first hour the talk ranged with obvious punctility 
 over a variety of subjects — but never once did Mr. Brother- 
 ton approach the subject of politics, which would hold the 
 Captain for a night session. Instead, Mr. Brotherton spun 
 literary tales from the shop. Then the Captain broke in and 
 enlivened the company with a description of Tom Van Dorn's 
 new automobile, and went into such details as to cams and 
 cogs and levers and other mechanical fittings that every one 
 yawned and the cat stretched himself, and the Captain inci- 
 dentally told the company that he had got Van Dorn's per- 
 mission to try the Household Horse on the old machine be- 
 fore it went in on the trade. 
 
 Then Ruth rose. "Why, Ruth, dear, ' ' said Emma sweetly, 
 "where are you going?" 
 
 "Just to get a drink, dear," replied Ruth. 
 
 But it took her all night to finish drinking and she did 
 not return. Martha rose, began straightening up the lit- 
 tered music on the piano, and being near the door, slipped 
 out. By this time the Captain was doing most of the talk- 
 ing. Chiefly, he was telling what he thought the sprocket 
 needed to make it work upon an automobile. At the hall 
 door of the dining room two heads appeared, and though 
 the door creaked about the time the clock struck the half 
 hour, Mr. Brotherton did not see the heads. They were 
 behind him, and four arms began making signs at the Cap- 
 tain. He looked at them, puzzled and anxious for a minute 
 or two. They were peremptorily beckoning him out. 
 Finally, it came to him, and he said to the girls : ' ' Oh, yes 
 — all right." This broke at the wrong time into something 
 Mr. Brotherton was saying. He looked up astonished and 
 the Captain, abashed, smiled and after shuffling his feet, 
 backed up to the base burner and hummed the tune about 
 the land that was fairer than day. Emma and Mr. Brother- 
 ton began talking. Presently, the Captain picked up the 
 
400 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 spitting eat by the scruff of the neck and held him a mo- 
 ment under his chin. ' ' Well, Emmy, ' ' he cut in, interrupt- 
 ing her story of how Miss Carhart had told the principal if 
 "he ever told of her engagement before school was out in 
 June, she 'd just die, ' ' with : 
 
 "I suppose there'll be plenty of potatoes for the hash?" 
 
 And not waiting for answer, he marched to the kitchen 
 with the cat, and in due time, they heard the "Sweet Bye 
 and Bye" going up the back stairs, and then the thump, 
 thump of the Captain's shoes on the floor above them. 
 
 The eldest Miss Morton, in her best silk dress, with her 
 mother's cameo brooch at her throat, and with the full, 
 maidenly ripeness of twenty-nine years upon her brow, with 
 her hair demurely parted on said brow, where there was the 
 faintest hint of a wrinkle coming — which Miss Morton at- 
 tributed to a person she called "the dratted Calvin kid," — 
 the eldest Miss Morton, nair, cameo, silk dress, wrinkle, the 
 dratted Calvin kid and all, did or did not look like a siren, 
 according to the point of view of the spectator. If he was 
 seeking the voluptuous curves of the early spring of youth — 
 no : but if he was seeking those quieter and more restful 
 lines that follow a maiden with a true and tender heart, who 
 is a good cook and who sweeps under the sofa, yes. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton did not know exactly what he desired. He 
 had been coming to the Morton home on various errands 
 since the girls were little tots. He had seen Emma in her 
 first millinery store hat. He had bought Martha her first 
 sled ; he had got Ruth her last doll. But he shook his head. 
 He liked them all. And then, as though to puzzle him more, 
 he had noticed that for two or three years, he had never got 
 more than two consecutive evenings with any of them — or 
 with all of them. The mystery of their conduct baffled him. 
 He sometimes wondered indignantly why they worked him 
 in shifts? Sometimes he had Ruth twice; sometimes Emma 
 and Martha in succession — sometimes Martha twice. He 
 like them all. But he could not understand what system 
 they followed in disposing of him. So as he sat and toyed 
 with his Shriner's pin and listened to the tales of a tepid 
 schoolmistress' romance that Emma told, he wondered if 
 
THE OLD SPIDER DIVIDES HIS FLIES 401 
 
 after all — for a man of his tastes, she wasn't really the 
 flower of the flock. 
 
 "You know, George," she was old enough for that, and 
 at rare times when they were alone she called him George, 
 "I'm working up a kind of sorrow for Judge Van Dorn — 
 or pity or something. When I taught little Lila he was al- 
 ways sending her candy and little trinkets. Now Lila is in 
 the grade above me, and do you know the Judge has taken 
 to walking by the schoolhouse at recess, just to see her, and 
 walking along at noon and. at night to get a word with her. 
 He has put up a swing and a teeter-totter board on the 
 girls' playgrounds. This morning I saw him standing, gaz- 
 ing after her, and he was as sad a figure as I ever saw. He 
 caught me looking at him and smiled and said : 
 
 " 'Fine girl, Emma,' and walked away." 
 
 "Lord, Emma," said Mr. Brotherton, as he brought his 
 big, baseball hands down on his fat knees. "I don't blame 
 him. Don't you just think children are about the nicest 
 things in this world ? ' ' 
 
 Emma was silent. She had expressed other sentiments 
 too recently. Still she smiled. And he went on : 
 
 "Oh, wow! — they're mighty fine to have around." 
 
 But Mr. Brotherton was restless after that, and when the 
 clock was striking ten he was in the hall. He left as he had 
 gone for a dozen years. And the young woman stood watch- 
 ing him through the glass of the door, a big, strong, hand- 
 some man — who strode down the walk with clicking heels of 
 pride, and she turned away sadly and hurried upstairs. 
 
 "Martha," she asked, as she took down her hair, "was it 
 ordained in the beginning of the world that all school teach- 
 ers would have to take widowers?" 
 
 And without hearing the answer, she put out the light. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton, stalking — not altogether unconsciously 
 down the walk, turned into the street and as he went down 
 the hill, he was aware that a boy was overtaking him. He 
 let the boy catch up with him. "Oh, Mr. Brotherton," cried 
 the boy, " I 've been looking for you ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, here I am; what's the trouble?" 
 
 "Grant sent me," returned the boy, "to ask you if he 
 
402 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 could see you at eight o'clock to-morrow morning at the 
 store?" 
 
 Brotherton looked the boy over and exclaimed : 
 
 "Grant?" and then, "Oh — why, Kenyon, I didn't know 
 you. You are certainly that human bean-stalk, son. Let's 
 take a look at you. Well, say — " Mr. Brotherton stopped 
 and backed up and paused for dramatic effect. Then he 
 exploded: "Say, boy, if I had you in an olive wood frame, 
 I could get $2.75 or $3.00 for you as Narcissus or a boy 
 Adonis ! You surely are the angel child ! " 
 
 The boy's great black eyes shone up at the man with 
 something wistful and dream-like in them that only his 
 large, sensitive mouth seemed to comprehend. For the rest 
 of the child's face was boy — boy in early adolescence. The 
 boy answered simply: 
 
 "Grant said to tell you that he expects the break to- 
 morrow and is anxious to see you. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Brotherton looked at the boy again — the eyes haunted 
 the man — he could not place them, yet they were familiar to 
 him. 
 
 "Where you been, kid?" he asked. "I thought you were 
 in Boston, studying." 
 
 "It's vacation, sir," answered Kenyon. 
 
 Brotherton pulled the lad up under the next corner elec- 
 tric lamp and again gazed at him. Then Mr. Brotherton 
 remembered where he had seen the eyes. The second Mrs. 
 Van Dorn had them. This bothered the man. 
 
 The eyes of the boy that flashed so brightly into Mr. 
 Brotherton 's eyes, certainly puzzled him and startled him. 
 But not so much as the news the boy carried. For then Mr. 
 Brotherton knew that Market Street would be buzzing in 
 the morning and that the cyclone clouds that were lowering, 
 soon would break into storm. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 A LONG CHAPTER BUT A BUST ONE, IN WHICH KENYON ADAMS 
 
 AND HIS MOTHER HAVE A STRANGE MEETING, AND LILA 
 
 VAN DORN TAKES A NIGHT RIDE 
 
 THE next morning at eight o'clock, Grant Adams came 
 hurrying into Brotherton's store. As he strode 
 down the long store room, Brotherton thought that 
 Grant in his street clothes looked less of a person than 
 Grant in his overalls. But the big man rose like a frisky 
 mountain in earthquake and called: 
 
 "Hello there, Danton — going to shake down the furnace 
 fires of revolution this morning, I understand." 
 
 Grant stared at Brotherton. Solemnly he said, as he stood 
 an awkward moment before sitting. "Well, Mr. Brotherton, 
 the time has come, when I must fight. To-day is the day ! ' ' 
 
 "Yes," replied Brotherton, "I heard a few minutes ago 
 that they were going to run you out of the district to-day. 
 The meeting in the Commercial Club rooms is being called 
 now. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," said Grant, "and I've been asked to appear before 
 them." 
 
 ' ' I guess they are going to try and bluff you out, Grant, ' ' 
 said Brotherton. 
 
 "I got wind of it last night," said Grant, "when they 
 nailed up the last hall in the Valley against me. One after 
 another of the public halls has been closed to me during the 
 past year. But to-day is to be our first public rally of the 
 delegates of the Wahoo Valley Trades Council. We have 
 rented office rooms in the second floor of the Vanderbilt 
 House in South Harvey, and are coming out openly as an 
 established labor organization, ready for business in the 
 Valley, and we are going to have a big meeting — somewhere 
 ■ — I don't know where now, but somewhere — " his face 
 turned grim and a fanatic flame lighted his eyes as he spoke. 
 
 403 
 
404 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 ' ' Somewhere the delegates of the Council will meet to-night, 
 and I shall talk to them — or — " 
 
 "Soh, boss — soh, boss — don't get excited," counseled Mr. 
 Brotherton. "They'll blow off a little steam in the meeting 
 this morning, and then you go on about your business." 
 
 "But you don't know what I know, George Brotherton," 
 protested Grant as he leaned forward. "I have converted 
 enough spies — oh, no — not counting the spies who were con- 
 verted merely to scare me — but enough real spies to know 
 that they mean business ! " He stopped, and sitting back in 
 his chair again, he said grimly, "And so do I — I shall talk 
 to the men to-night, or — -" 
 
 "All right, son ; you'll talk or 'the boy, oh, where was he?' 
 I'll tell you what," cried Mr. Brotherton; "you'll fool 
 around with the buzz saw till you'll get killed. Now, look 
 here, Grant — I'm for your revolution, and six buckets of 
 blood. But you can't afford to lose 'em! You're dead 
 right about the chains of slavery and all that sort of thing, 
 but don't get too excited about it. You live down there 
 alone with your father and he is talking to spooks, and you're 
 talking to yourself; and you've got a kind of ingrown idea 
 of this thing. Give the Lord a little time, and he '11 work out 
 this pizen in our social system. I'll help you, and maybe 
 before long Doc '11 see the light and help you; but now you 
 need a regulator. You ought to have a wife and about six 
 children to hook you up to the ordinary course of nature! 
 And see here, Grant," Mr. Brotherton dropped a weighty 
 hand on Grant's shoulder, "if you don't be careful you'll 
 furnish the ingredients of a public funeral, and where will 
 your revolution be then — and the boys in the Valley and 
 your father and Kenyon?" 
 
 While Brotherton was speaking, Grant sat with an im- 
 passive face. But when Kenyon 's name was uttered he 
 looked up quickly and answered : 
 
 "That is why I am here this morning; it's about Kenyon. 
 George Brotherton, that boy is more than life to me. ' ' The 
 fanatic light was gone from Grant's eyes, and the soft glow 
 in them revealed a man that George Brotherton had not seen 
 in years. "Mr. Brotherton," continued Grant, "father is 
 getting too old to do much for Kenyon. The Nesbits have 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 405 
 
 borne practically all the expense of educating him. But the 
 Doctor won't always be here." Again he hesitated. Then 
 he went ahead as if he had decided for the last time. 
 "George Brotherton, if I should be snuffed out, I want you 
 to look after Kenyon — if ever he needs it. You have no 
 one, and — " Grant leaned forward and grasped Brotherton 's 
 great hands and cried, ' ' George Brotherton, if you knew the 
 gold in that boy's heart, and what he can do with a violin, 
 and how his soul is unfolding under the spell of his music. 
 He's so dumb and tongue-tied and unformed now ; and yet — ' ' 
 
 "Well — say!" It came out of Mr. Brotherton with a 
 crash like a falling tree, ' ' Grant — well, say ! Through sick- 
 ness and health, for better or for worse, till death do us 
 part — if that will satisfy you." He put his big paw over 
 and grabbed Grant's steel hook and jerked him to his feet. 
 "You've sure sold Kenyon into bondage. When I saw him 
 last night — honest to God, man — I thought I'd run into a 
 picture roaming around out of stock without a frame ! Him 
 and me together can do Ariel and Prospero without a scratch 
 of make-up." Grant beamed, but when Brotherton ex- 
 claimed as an afterthought, ' ' Say, man, what about that boy 's 
 eyes?" Grant's features mantled and the old grim look 
 overcast his face, as Brotherton went on: "Why, them eyes 
 would make a madonna's look like fried eggs! Where did 
 he get 'em — they're not Sands and they're not Adams. He 
 must take back to some Peri that blew into Massachusetts 
 from an enchanted isle." Brotherton saw that he was an- 
 noying Grant in some way. Often he realized that his lan- 
 guage was not producing the desired effect; so he veered 
 about and said gently, "You're not in any danger, Grant; 
 but so long as I 'm wearing clothes that button up the front 
 — don't worry about Kenyon, I'll look after him." 
 
 Five minutes later, Grant was standing in the front door 
 of Brotherton 's store, gazing into Market Street. He saw 
 Daniel Sands and Kyle Perry and Tom Van Dorn walking 
 out of one store and into the next. He saw John Kollander 
 in a new blue soldier uniform stalking through the street. 
 He saw the merchants gathering in small, volatile groups 
 that kept forming and re-forming, and he knew that Mr. 
 Brotherton 's classic language was approximately correct 
 
406 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 when he said there was a hen on. Grant eyed the crowd that 
 was hurrying past him to the meeting like a hungry hound 
 watching a drove of chickens. Finally, when Grant saw that 
 the last straggler was in the hall, he turned and stalked 
 heavily to the Commercial Club rooms, yet he moved with 
 the self-consciousness of one urged by a great purpose. His 
 head was bent in reflection. His hand held his claw behind 
 him, and his shoulders stooped. He knew his goal, but the 
 way was hard and uncertain, and he realized the peril of 
 a strategic misstep at the outset. Heavily he mounted the 
 steps to the hall, entered, and took a seat in the rear. He 
 sat with his head bowed and his gaze on the floor. He was 
 aware that Judge Van Dorn was speaking; but what the 
 Judge was saying did not interest Grant. His mind seemed 
 aloof from the proceedings. Suddenly what he had pre- 
 pared to say slipped out of his consciousness completely, as 
 he heard the Judge declare, "We deem this, sir, a life and 
 death struggle for our individual liberties ; a life and death 
 struggle for our social order; a life and death struggle for 
 our continuance to exist as individuals." There was a long 
 repetition of the terms "life and death." They appealed to 
 some tin-pan rhythmic sense in the Judge's oratorical mind. 
 But the phrase struck fire in Grant Adams's heart. Life and 
 death, life and death, rang through his soul like a clamor of 
 bells. "We have given our all," bellowed the Judge, "to 
 make this Valley an industrial hive, where labor may find 
 employment — all of our savings, all of our heritage of Anglo- 
 Saxon organizing skill, and we view this life and death strug- 
 gle for its perpetuity — " But all Grant Adams heard of 
 that sentence was "life and death," as the great bell of his 
 soul clanged its alarm. "We are a happy, industrial fam- 
 ily," intoned the Judge, the suave Judge, who was some- 
 thing more than owner; who was Authority without re- 
 sponsibility, who was the voice of the absentee master; the 
 voice, it seemed to Grant, of an enchanted peacock squawking 
 in the garden of a dream; the voice that cried: "and to 
 him who would overthrow all this contentment, all this ad- 
 mirable adjustment of industrial equilibrium we offer the 
 life and death alternative that is given to him who would 
 violate a peaceful home. ' ' 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 407 
 
 But all that Grant Adams sensed of his doom in the 
 Judge's pronouncement was the combat of death with life. 
 Life and death were meeting for their eternal struggle, and 
 as the words resounded again and again in the Judge's or- 
 atory, there rushed into Grant Adams's mind the phrase, 
 "I am the resurrection and the life," and he knew that in 
 the life and death struggle for progress, for justice, for a 
 more abundant life on this planet, it would be finally life 
 and not death that would win. 
 
 As he sat blindly glaring at the floor, there may have 
 stolen into his being some ember from the strange flame 
 burning about our earth, whose touch makes men mad with 
 the madness that men have, who come from the wildernesses 
 of life, from the lowly walks and waste places — the madness 
 of those who feed on locusts and wild honey; who, like St. 
 Francis and Savonarola, go forth on hopeless quests for the 
 unattainable ideal, or like John Brown, who burn in the 
 scorching flame all the wisdom of the schools and the courts, 
 and for one glorious day shine forth with their burning 
 lives a beacon by which the world is lighted to its own sad 
 shame. 
 
 Grant never remembered what he said by way of introduc- 
 tion as he stood staring at the crowd. It was a different 
 crowd from audiences he knew. To Grant it was the market 
 place; merchants, professional men; clerks, bankers, — well- 
 dressed men, with pale, upturned faces stretched before him 
 to the rear of the hall. It was all black and white, and as 
 his soul cried "life and death" back of his conscious speech, 
 the image came to him that all these pale, black-clad figures 
 were in their shrouds, and that he was talking to the visible 
 body of death — laid out stiffly before him. 
 
 What answer he made to Van Dora does not matter. 
 Grant Adams could not recall it when he had finished. But 
 ever as he spoke through his being throbbed the electrical 
 beat of the words, "I am the resurrection and the life." 
 And he was exultant in the consciousness that in the struggle 
 of "life and death," life would surely win. So he stood and 
 spoke with a tongue of flame. 
 
 ' ' If you have given all — and you have, we also have given 
 all. But our all is more vitally our all — than yours; for 
 
408 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 it is gut bodies, our food and clothing; our comfortable 
 homes; our children's education, our wives' strength; our 
 babies' heritage; many of us have indeed given our 
 sons' integrity and our daughters' virtue. All these we 
 have put into the bargain with you. "We have put them 
 into the common hopper of this industrial life, and you have 
 taken the grain and we the chaff. It is indeed a life 
 and death struggle. And this happy family, this well-bal- 
 anced industrial adjustment, this hell of labor run through 
 your mills like grist, this is death; death is the name 
 for all your wicked system, that shrinks and cringes before 
 God's ancient justice. 'I am the resurrection and the life' 
 was not spoken across the veil that rises from the grave. 
 It was spoken for men here in the flesh who shall soon come 
 into a more abundant life. Life and death, life and death 
 are struggling here this very hour, and you — you, ' ' he leaned 
 forward shaking his steel claw in their faces, ' ' you and your 
 greedy system of capital are the doomed; you are death's 
 embodiment. ' ' 
 
 Then came the outburst. All over the house rose cries. 
 Men jumped from their chairs and waved their arms. But 
 Judge Van Dorn quieted them. He knew that to attack 
 Grant Adams physically at that meeting would inflame the 
 man's followers in the Valley. So he pounded the gavel for 
 quiet. To Adams he thundered, "Sit down, you villain!" 
 Still the crowd hissed and jeered. A great six-footer in new 
 blue overalls, whom Grant knew as one of the recent spies, 
 one of the sluggers sent to the Valley, came crowding to 
 the front of the room. But Judge Van Dorn nodded him 
 back. "When the Judge had stilled the tumult, he said in his 
 sternest judicial manner, "Now, Adams — we have heard 
 enough of you. Leave this district. Get out of this Valley. 
 You have threatened us ; we shall not protect you in life or 
 limb. You are given two hours to leave the Valley, and after 
 that you stay here at your own peril. If you try to hold 
 your labor council, don't ask us, whom you have scorned, to 
 surround you with the protection of the society you would 
 overthrow in bloodshed. Now, go — get out of here," he 
 cried, with all the fire and fury that an outraged re- 
 spectability could muster. But Grant, turning, twisted his 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 409 
 
 hook in the Judge's coat, held him at arm's length, and lean- 
 ing toward the crowd, with the Judge all but dangling from 
 his steel arm, cried: "I shall speak in South Harvey to- 
 night. This is indeed a life and death struggle, and I shall 
 preach the gospel of life. Life," he cried with a trumpet 
 voice, "life — the life of society, and its eternal resurrection 
 out of the forces of life that flow from the everlasting divine 
 spring ! " 
 
 After the crowd had left the hall, Grant hurried toward 
 the street leading to South Harvey. As he turned the 
 corner, the man whom Grant had seen in the hall met him, 
 the man whom Grant recognized as a puddler in one of the 
 smelters. He came up, touched Grant on the shoulder and 
 asked : 
 
 ' ' Adams f ' ' Grant nodded. 
 
 "Are you going down to South Harvey?" 
 
 Grant replied, "Yes, I'm going to hold a meeting there 
 to-night. ' ' 
 
 "Well, if you try," said the man, pushing his face close 
 to Grant's, "you'll get your head knocked off — that's all. 
 We don't like your kind — understand?" Grant looked at 
 the man, took his measure physically and returned : 
 
 "All right, there'll be some one around to pick it up — 
 maybe ! ' ' 
 
 The man walked away, but turned to say: 
 
 "Mind now — you show up in South Harvey, and we'll fix 
 you right ! ' ' 
 
 As Grant turned to board a South Harvey car, Judge Van 
 Dorn caught his arm, and said : 
 
 "Wait a minute, the next car will do." 
 
 The Judge 's wife was with him, and Grant was shocked to 
 see how doll-like her face had become, how the lines of char- 
 acter had been smoothed out, the eyelids stained, the eye- 
 brows penciled, the lips colored, until she had a bisque look 
 that made him shudder. He had seen faces like hers, and 
 fancied that he knew their story. 
 
 ' ' I would like to speak with you just a minute. Come up 
 to the office. Margaret, dearie," said Van Dorn, "you wait 
 for me at Brotherton's." In the office, Van Dorn squared 
 himself before Grant and said: 
 
410 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "It's no use, sir. You can't hold a meeting there to- 
 night — the thing's set against you. I can't stop them, but 
 I know the rough element there will kill you if you try. 
 You've done your best — why risk your head, man — for no 
 purpose? You can't make it — and it's dangerous for you 
 to try." 
 
 Grant looked at Van Dorn. Then he asked : 
 
 "You represent the Harvey Fuel Company, Judge?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the Judge with much pride of authority, 
 "and we— " 
 
 Grant stopped him. "Judge," he said, "if you blow your 
 horn — I'll ring my bell and — If I don't hold my meeting 
 to-night, your mines won't open to-morrow morning." The 
 Judge rose and led the way to the door. 
 
 "Oh, well," he sneered, "if you won't take advice, there's 
 no need of wasting time on you. ' ' 
 
 "No," answered Grant, "only remember what I've said." 
 
 When Grant alighted from the car in South Harvey, he 
 found his puddler friend waiting for him. The two went 
 into the Vanderbilt House, where Grant greeted Mrs. Wil- 
 liams, the landlady, as an old friend, and the puddler cried : 
 "Say, lady — if you keep this man — we'll burn your house." 
 
 "Well, burn it — it wouldn't be much loss," retorted the 
 landlady, who turned her back upon the puddler and said to 
 Grant: "We've given you the front room upstairs, Grant, 
 for the committee. It has the outside staircase. Your room 
 is ready. You know the Local No. 10 boys from the Inde- 
 pendent are all coming around this afternoon — as soon as 
 they learn where the meeting is. ' ' 
 
 The puddler walked away and Grant went out into the 
 street ; looked up at the wooden structure with the stairway 
 rising from the sidewalk and splitting the house in two. 
 Mounting the stairs, he found a narrow hall, leading down 
 a long line of bedrooms. He realized that he must view his 
 location as a general looks over a battlefield. 
 
 The closing of the public halls to Grant and his cause had 
 not discouraged him. He knew that he still had the great 
 free out-of-doors, and he had thought that an open air meet- 
 ing would give the cause dramatic setting. He felt that to 
 be barred from the halls of the Valley helped rather than 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 411 
 
 hurt his meeting. The barring proved to the workers the 
 righteousness of their demands. So Grant sallied forth to 
 locate a vacant lot ; he shot out of his room full of the force 
 of his enthusiasm, but his force met another force as strong 
 as his, and ruthless. God's free out of doors, known and 
 beloved of Grant from his boyhood, was preempted: What 
 he found in his quest for a meeting place was a large red 
 sign, "No trespassing," upon the nearest vacant lot, and a 
 special policeman parading back and forth in front of the 
 lot on the sidewalk. He found a score of lots similarly 
 placarded and patrolled. He sent men to Magnus and Foley 
 scurrying like ants through the Valley, but no lot was avail- 
 able. 
 
 Up town in Harvey, the ants also were busy. The company 
 was sending men over Market Street, picking out the few in- 
 dividuals who owned vacant lots, leasing them for the month 
 and preparing to justify the placarding and patrolling that 
 already had been done. One of the ants that went hurrying 
 out of the Sands hill on this errand, was John Kollander, 
 and after he had seen Wright & Perry and the few other 
 merchants who owned South Harvey real estate, he en- 
 countered Captain Ezra Morton, who happened to have a 
 vacant lot, given to the Captain in the first flush of the South 
 Harvey boom, in return for some service to Daniel Sands. 
 John Kollander explained his errand to the Captain, who 
 nodded wisely, and stroked his goatee meditatively. 
 
 "I got to think it over," he bawled, and walked away, leav- 
 ing John Kollander puzzled and dismayed. But Captain 
 Morton spent no time in academic debate. In half an hour 
 he was in South Harvey, climbing the stairs of the Vander- 
 bilt House, and knocking at Grant Adams's door. Throwing 
 open the door Grant found Captain Morton, standing to at- 
 tention with a shotgun in his hands. The Captain marched 
 in, turned a square corner to a chair, but slumped into it 
 with a relieved sigh. 
 
 "Well, Grant — I heard your speech this morning to the 
 Merchants' Association. You're crazy as a bed bug — eh? 
 That's what I told 'em all. And then they said to let you 
 go to it — you couldn't get a hall, and the company could keep 
 you off the lots all over the Valley, and if you tried to speak 
 
412 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 on the streets they'd run you in — what say?" His old eyes 
 snapped with some virility, and he lifted up his voice and 
 cried : 
 
 "But 'y gory — is that the way to do a man, I says? No 
 — why, that ain't free speech! I remember when they done 
 Garrison and Lovejoy and those old boys that way before the 
 war. I fit, bled and died for that, Grant — eh ? And I says 
 to the girls this noon : ' Girls — your pa 's got a lot in South 
 Harvey, over there next to the Red Dog saloon, that he got 
 way back when they were cheap, and now that the company's 
 got all their buildings up and don't want to buy any lots — 
 why, they're cheaper still — what say?' 
 
 "And 'y gory, I says to the girls — 'If your ma was liv- 
 ing I know what she'd say. She'd say, "You just go over 
 there and tell that Adams boy that lot's hisn, and if any 
 one tries to molest him, you blow 'em to hell" — that's what 
 your ma'd say' — only words to that effect — eh? And so by 
 the jumping John Rogers, Grant — here I am!" 
 
 He looked at the shotgun. "One load's bird shot — real 
 fine and soft, with a small charge of powder." He put his 
 hand to his mouth sheepishly and added apologetically, "I 
 suppose I won't need it, — but I just put the blamedest load 
 of buck shot and powder in that right barrel you ever saw — 
 what say?" 
 
 Grant said: "Well, Captain — this isn't your fight. You 
 don't believe in what I'm talking about 1 — you've proved your 
 patriotism in a great war. Don't get into this, Captain." 
 
 ' ' Grant Adams, ' ' barked the Captain as if he were drilling 
 his company, "I believe if you're not a Socialist, you're just 
 as bad. But 'y gory, I fought for the right of free speech, 
 and free meetings, and Socialist or no Socialist, that's your 
 right. I'm going to defend you on my own lot." He rose 
 again, straightened up in rheumatic pain, marched to the 
 door, saluted, and said: 
 
 "I brought my supper along with me. It's in my coat 
 pocket. I'm going over to the lot and sit there till you come. 
 I know this class of people down here. They ain 't worth hell 
 room, Grant," admonished the Captain earnestly. "But if 
 I'm not there, the company will crowd their men in on that 
 lot as sure as guns, when they know you are to meet there. 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 413 
 
 And I 'm going there to guard it till you come. Good day — 
 sir." 
 
 And with that he thumped limpingly down the narrow 
 stairs, across the little landing, out of the door and into the 
 street. 
 
 Grant stood at the top of the stairs and watched him out 
 of sight. Then Grant pulled himself together, and went out 
 to see the gathering members of the Labor Council in the 
 hotel office and the men of Local No. 10 to announce the 
 place of meeting. Later in the afternoon he met Nathan 
 Perry. When he told Nathan of the meeting, the young man 
 cried in his rasping Yankee voice : 
 
 "Good — you're no piker. They said they had scared the 
 filling out of you at the meeting this morning, and they've 
 bragged they were going to beat you up this afternoon and 
 kill you to-night. You look pretty husky — but watch out. 
 They really are greatly excited." 
 
 "Well," replied Grant grimly, "I'll be there to-night." 
 
 "Nevertheless," returned Nathan, snapping off his words 
 as though he was cutting them with steel scissors, ' ' Anne and 
 I agreed to-day, that I must come to Mrs. Williams's and take 
 you to the meeting. They may get ugly after dark." 
 
 Half an hour later on the street, Grant was passing his 
 cousin Anne, wheeling Daniel Kyle Perry out to take the 
 air. He checked his hurried step when he caught her smile 
 and said, "Well, Anne, Nate told me that you wish to send 
 him over to the meeting to-night, as my body guard. I don 't 
 need a body guard, and you keep Nate at home. ' ' He smiled 
 down on his cousin and for a moment all of the emotional 
 storm in his face was melted by the gentleness of that smile. 
 "Anne," he said — "what a brick you are!" 
 
 She laughed and gave him the full voltage of her joyous 
 eyes and answered : 
 
 "Grant, I'd rather be the widow of a man who would 
 stand by you and what you are doing, than to be the wife of 
 a man who shrank from it." She lowered her voice, "And 
 Grant, here's a curious thing: this second Mrs. Van Dorn 
 called me up on the phone a little bit ago, and said she knew 
 you and I were cousins and that you and Nate were such 
 friends, but would I tell Nate to keep you away from any 
 
414 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 meeting to-night? She said she couldn't tell me, but she 
 had just learned some perfectly awful things they were going 
 to do, and she didn't want to see any trouble. Wasn't that 
 queer ? ' ' 
 
 Grant shook his head. "Well, what did you say?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, I said that while they were doing such perfectly 
 awful things to you, your friends wouldn't be making lace 
 doilies! And she rang off. What do you think of it?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Just throwing a scare into me — under orders," responded 
 the man and hurried on. 
 
 When Grant returned to the hotel at supper time, he found 
 Mr. Brotherton sitting in a ramshackle rocking chair in the 
 upstairs bedroom, waiting. 
 
 "I thought I'd come over and bring a couple of friends," 
 explained Mr. Brotherton, pointing to the corner, where two 
 shotguns leaned against the wall. 
 
 "Why, man," exclaimed Grant, "that's good of you, but 
 in all the time I've been in the work of organization, I've 
 never carried a gun, nor had one around. I don't want a 
 gun, Mr. Brotherton." 
 
 "I do," returned the elder man, "and I'm here to say 
 that moral force is a grand thing, but in these latitudes when 
 you poke Betsy Jane under the nose of an erring comrade, 
 he sees the truth with much more clearness than otherwise. 
 I stick to the gun — and you can go in hard for moral suasion. 
 
 "Also," he added, "I've just taken a survey of these 
 premises, and told the missus to bring the supper up here. 
 There may be an early curtain raiser on this entertainment, 
 and if they are going to chase you out of town to-night, I 
 want a good seat at the performance. ' ' He grinned. ' ' Nate 
 Perry will join us in a little quiet social manslaughter. I 
 called him up an hour ago, and he said he'd be here at six- 
 thirty. I think he's coming now." In another minute the 
 slim Yankee figure of Nathan was in the room. It was 
 scarcely dusk outside. Mrs. Williams came up with a tray 
 of food. As she set it down she said : 
 
 "There's a crowd around at the Hot Dog, you can see 
 them through the window." 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 415 
 
 Nate and Grant looked. Mr. Brotherton went into the 
 supper. "Crowd all right," assented Nate. There was no 
 mistaking the crowd and its intention. There were new men 
 from the day shift at the smelter, imported by the com- 
 pany to oppose the unions. A thousand such men had been 
 brought into the district within a few months. 
 
 "There's another saloon across the road here," said Mr. 
 Brotherton, looking up from his food. "My understanding 
 is that they're going to make headquarters across the street 
 in Dick's Place. You know I got a pipe-line in on the 
 enemy through the Calvin girl. She gets it at home, and 
 her father gets it at the office. Our estimable natty little 
 friend Joe will be down here — he says to keep the peace. 
 That's what he tells at home. I know what he's coming 
 for. Tom Van Dorn will sit in the back room of that saloon 
 and no one will know he 's there, and Joseph will issue Tom 's 
 orders. Lord," cried Mr. Brotherton, waving a triangle of 
 pie in his hand, "don't I know 'em like a book." 
 
 While he was talking the crowd slowly was swelling in 
 front of the Hot Dog saloon. It was a drinking and noisy 
 crowd. Men who appeared to be leaders were taking other 
 men in to the bar, treating them, then bringing them out 
 again, and talking excitedly to them. The crowd grew rap- 
 idly, and the noise multiplied. Another crowd was gath- 
 ering- — just a knot of men down the street by the Com- 
 pany's store, in the opposite direction from the Hot Dog 
 crowd. Grant and Nate noticed the second crowd at the 
 same time. It was Local No. 10. Grant left the window and 
 lighted the lamp. He wrote on a piece of paper, a few lines, 
 handed it to Nathan, saying : 
 
 "Here, sign it with me." It read: 
 
 "Boys — whatever you do, don't start anything — of any 
 kind — no matter what happens to us. We can take care of 
 ourselves. ' ' 
 
 Nathan Perry signed it, slipped down the stairs into the 
 hall, and beckoned to his men at the Company's store. The 
 crowd at the Hot Dog saw him and yelled, but Evan Evans 
 came running for the note and took it back. Little Tom 
 Williams came up the stairs with Nathan, saying : 
 
 "Well — they're getting ready for business. I brought a 
 
416 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 gun up to No. 3 this afternoon. I'm with Grant in this." 
 
 The little landlord went into No. 3, appeared with a rifle, 
 and came bobbing into the room. 
 
 Grant at the window could see the crowd marching from 
 the Hot Dog to Dick's Place, yelling and cursing as it went. 
 The group in the bedroom over the street opened the street 
 windows to see better and hear better. An incandescent 
 over the door of the saloon lighted the narrow street. In 
 front of the saloon and under the light the mob halted. The 
 men in the room with Grant were at the windows watching. 
 Suddenly — as by some prearranged order, four men with re- 
 volvers in their hands ran across the street towards the ho- 
 tel. Brotherton, Williams and Perry ran to the head of 
 the stairs, guns in hand. Grant followed them. There they 
 stood when the door below was thrown open, and the four 
 men below rushed across the small landing to the bottom of 
 the stairs. It was dark in the upper hall, but a light from 
 the street flooded the lower hall. The men below did not 
 look up ; they were on the stairs. 
 
 "Stop," shouted Brotherton with his great voice. 
 
 That halted them. They looked up into darkness. They 
 could see no faces — only four gun barrels. The men farthest 
 up the stairs literally fell into the arms of those below. Then 
 the four men below scrambled down the stairs as Mr. Broth- 
 erton roared: 
 
 "I'll kill the first man who puts his foot on the bottom 
 step again." 
 
 "With a cry of terror they rushed out. The crowd at the 
 Company store hooted, and the mob before the saloon jeered. 
 But the four men scurried across the street, and told the 
 crowd what had happened. For a few minutes no move was 
 made. Then Grant, who had left the hallway and was look- 
 ing through the window, saw the little figure of Joseph Calvin 
 moving officiously among the men. He went into the saloon, 
 and came out again after a time. Then Grant cried to 
 Brotherton at the head of the stairs : 
 
 "Watch out — they're coming; more of them this time." 
 And half a dozen armed men rushed across the street and 
 appeared at the door of the hallway. 
 
 "Stop," yelled Brotherton— whose great voice itself 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 417 
 
 sounded a terrifying alarm in the darkened hallway. The 
 feet of two men were on the first steps of the stairs — they 
 looked up and saw three gun barrels pointing down at them, 
 and heard Brotherton call "one — two — three," but before 
 he could say "fire" the men fell back panic stricken and ran 
 out of the place. 
 
 The crowd left the sidewalk and moved into the saloon, 
 and the street was deserted for a time. Local No. 10 held 
 its post down by the Company Store. It seemed like an age 
 to the men at the head of the stairs. Yet Mr. Brotherton 's 
 easy running fire of ribaldry never stopped. He was ex- 
 cited and language came from his throat without restraint. 
 
 Then Grant's quick ear caught a sound that made him 
 shudder. It was far away, a shrill high note; in a few 
 seconds the note was repeated, and with it the animal cry 
 one never mistakes who hears it — the cry of an angry mob. 
 They could hear it roaring over the bridge upon the "Wahoo 
 and they knew it was the mob from Magnus, Plain Valley 
 and Foley coming. On it came, with its high-keyed horror 
 growing louder and louder. It turned into the street and 
 came roaring and whining down to the meeting place at the 
 saloon. It filled the street. Then appeared Mr. Calvin fol- 
 lowing a saloon porter, who was rolling a whiskey barrel 
 from the saloon. The porter knocked in the head, and threw 
 tin cups to the crowd. 
 
 "What do you think of that for a praying Christian?" 
 snarled Mr. Brotherton. No one answered Mr. Brotherton, 
 for the whiskey soon began to make the crowd noisy. 
 But the leaders waited for the whiskey to make the crowd 
 brave. The next moment, Van Dorn's automobile — the old 
 one, not the new one — came chugging up. Grant, at the 
 window, looked out and turned deathly sick. For he saw 
 the puddler who had bullied him during the day get out of 
 the car, and in the puddler 's grasp was Kenyon — with white 
 face, but not whimpering. 
 
 The men made way for the puddler, who hurried the boy 
 into the saloon. Grant did not speak, but stood unnerved 
 and horror-stricken staring at the saloon door which had 
 swallowed up the boy. 
 
 "Well, for God—" cried Brotherton. 
 
418 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 "A screen — they're going to use the boy as a shield — the 
 damn cowards ! ' ' rasped Nathan Perry. 
 
 The little Welshman moaned. And the three men stood 
 staring at Grant whose eyes did not shift from the saloon 
 door. He was rigid and his face, which trembled for a mo- 
 ment, set like molten bronze. 
 
 "If I surrender now, if they beat me here with anything 
 less than my death, the whole work of years is gone — the 
 long struggle of these men for their rights." He spoke not 
 to his companions, but through them to himself. "I can't 
 give up— not even for Kenyon," he cried. "Tom— Tom," 
 Grant turned to the little Welshman. "You stood by and 
 heard Dick Bowman order Mugs to hold the shovel over my 
 face ! Did he shrink? Well, this cause is the life and death 
 struggle of all the Dicks in the Valley — not for just this 
 week, but for always." 
 
 Below the crowd was hushed. Joe Calvin had appeared 
 and was giving orders in a low tone. The hulking figure of 
 the puddler could be seen picking out his men ; he had three 
 set off in a squad. The men in the room could see the big 
 beads of sweat stand out on Grant's forehead. "Kenyon — 
 Kenyon," he cried in agony. Then George Brotherton let 
 out his bellow, "Grant — look here — do you think I'm going 
 to fire on — " 
 
 But the next minute the group at the window saw some- 
 thing that made even George Brotherton 's bull voice stop. 
 Into the drab street below flashed something all red. It 
 was the Van Dorn motor car, the new one. But the red of 
 the car was subdued beside the scarlet of the woman in the 
 back seat — a woman without hat or coat, holding something 
 in her arms. The men at the window could not see what 
 those saw in the street; but they could see Joe Calvin fall 
 back; could see the consternation on his face, could see him 
 waving his hands to the crowd to clear the way. And then 
 those at the window above saw Margaret Van Dorn rise in the 
 car and they heard her call, "Joe Calvin! Joe Calvin — " 
 she screamed, "bring my husband out from behind that wine 
 room door — quick — quick," she shrieked, "quick, I say." 
 
 The mob parted for her. The men at the hotel window 
 could not see what she had in her arms. She made the 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 419 
 
 driver wheel, drive to the opposite side of the street directly 
 under the hotel window — directly in front of the besieged 
 door. In another instant Van Dorn, ghastly with rage, came 
 bareheaded out of the saloon. He ran across the street cry- 
 ing: 
 
 "You she devil, what do you — " 
 
 But he stopped without finishing his sentence. The men 
 above looked down at what he was looking at and saw a 
 child — Tom Van Dorn's child, Lila, in the car. 
 
 "My God, Margaret — what does this mean?" he almost 
 whispered in terror. 
 
 "It means," returned the strident voice of the woman, 
 "that when you sent for your car and the driver told me 
 he was going to Adamses — I knew why — from what you 
 said, and now, by God," she screamed, "give me that boy — 
 or this girl goes to the union men as their shield. ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn did not speak. His mouth seemed about to be- 
 gin, but she stopped him, crying : 
 
 "And if you touch her I'll kill you both. And the child 
 goes first. ' ' 
 
 The woman had lost control of her voice. She swung a 
 pistol toward the child. 
 
 "Give me that boy!" she shrieked, and Van Dorn, dumb 
 and amazed, stood staring at her. "Tell them to bring that 
 boy before I count five : One, two," she shouted, "three — " 
 
 "Oh, Joe," called Van Dorn as his whole body began to 
 tremble, "bring the Adams boy quick — here!" His voice 
 broke into a shriek with nervous agitation and the word 
 "here" was uttered with a piercing yell, that made the 
 crowd wince. 
 
 Calvin brought Kenyon out and sent him across the street. 
 Grant opened a window and called out : ' ' Get into the car 
 with Lila, Kenyon — please." 
 
 The woman in the car cried : ' ' Grant, Grant, is that you 
 up there ? They were going to murder the boy, Grant. Do 
 you want his child up there ? ' ' 
 
 She looked up and the arc light before the hotel revealed 
 her tragic, shattered face — a wreck of a face, crumpled and 
 all out of line and focus as the flickering glare of the arc- 
 light fell upon it. ' ' Shall I send you his child ? " she babbled 
 
420 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 hysterically, keeping the revolver pointed at Lila — "His 
 child that he's silly about?" 
 
 Van Dorn started for her car, but Brotherton at the win- 
 dow bellowed across a gun sight: "Move an inch and I'll 
 shoot." 
 
 Grant called down: "Margaret, take Lila and Kenyon 
 home, please." 
 
 Then, with Mr. Brotherton 's gun covering the father in 
 the street below, the driver of the car turned it carefully 
 through the parting crowd, and was gone as mysteriously 
 and as quickly as he came. 
 
 "Now," cried Mr. Brotherton, still sighting down the gun 
 barrel pointed at Van Dorn, standing alone in the middle of 
 the street, "you make tracks, and don't you go to that 
 saloon either — you go home to the bosom of your family. 
 Stop," roared Mr. Brotherton, as the man tried to break 
 into a run. Van Dorn stopped. ' ' Go down to the Company 
 store where the union men are, ' ' commanded Mr. Brotherton. 
 "They will take you home. 
 
 "Hey — you Local No. 10," howled the great bull voice of 
 Brotherton. "You fellows take this man home to his own 
 vine and fig tree. ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn, looking ever behind him for help that did not 
 come, edged down the street and into the arms of Local No. 
 10, and was swallowed up in that crowd. A rock from across 
 the street crashed through the window where the gun barrels 
 were protruding, but there was no fire in return. Another 
 rock and another came. But there was no firing. 
 
 Grant, who knew something of mobs, felt instinctively 
 that the trouble was over. Nathan and Brotherton agreed. 
 They stood for a time — a long time it seemed to them — 
 guarding the stairs. Then some one struck a match and 
 looked at his watch. It was half past eight. It was too 
 late for Grant to hold his meeting. But he felt strongly 
 that the exit of Van Dorn had left the crowd without a 
 leader and that the fight of the night was won. 
 
 "Well," said Grant, drawing a. deep breath. "They'll 
 not run me out of town to-night. I could go to the lot now 
 and hold the meeting; but it's late and it will be better to 
 
A STRANGE MEETING AND A NIGHT RIDE 421 
 
 wait until to-morrow night. They should sleep this off — 
 I'm going to talk to them." 
 
 He stepped to an iron balcony outside the window and 
 putting his hands to his mouth uttered a long horn-like blast. 
 The men saw him across the street. "Come over here, all 
 of you — " he called. "I want to talk to you — just a 
 minute. ' ' 
 
 The crowd moved, first one or two, then three or four, then 
 by tens. Soon the crowd stood below looking up half curi- 
 ously — half angrily. 
 
 "You see, men," he smiled as he shoved his hand in his 
 pocket, and put his head humorously on one side : 
 
 "We are more hospitable when you all come than when 
 you send your delegations. It's more democratic this way 
 — just to kind of meet out here like a big family and talk it 
 over. Some way," he laughed, "your delegates were in a 
 hurry to go back and report. Well, now, that was right. 
 That is true representative government. You sent 'em, they 
 came; were satisfied and went back and told you all about 
 it." The crowd laughed. He knew when they laughed 
 that he could talk on. "But you see, I believe in democratic 
 government. I want you all to come and talk this matter 
 over — not just a few. ' ' 
 
 He paused; then began again: "Now, men, it's late. 
 I've got so much to say I don't want to begin now. I don't 
 like to have Tom Van Dorn and Joe Calvin divide time with 
 me. I want the whole evening to myself. And, ' ' he leaned 
 over clicking his iron claw on the balcony railing while his 
 jaw showed the play of muscles in the light from below, 
 "what's more I'm going to have it, if it takes all summer. 
 Now then," he cried: "The Labor Council of the Wahoo 
 Valley will hold its meeting to-morrow night at seven-thirty 
 sharp on Captain Morton's vacant lot just the other side of 
 the Hot Dog saloon. I'll talk to that meeting. I want you 
 to come to that meeting and hear what we have to say about 
 what we are trying to do." 
 
 A few men clapped their hands. Grant Adams turned 
 back into the room and in due course the crowd slowly dis- 
 solved. At ten o'clock he was standing in the door of the 
 
422 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Vanderbilt House looking at his watch, ready to turn in 
 for the- night. Suddenly he remembered the Captain. He 
 hurried around to the Hot Dog, and there peering into the 
 darkness of the vacant lot saw the Captain with his gun 
 on his shoulder pacing back and forth, a silent, faithful sen- 
 try, unrelieved from duty. 
 
 When Grant had relieved him and told him that the 
 trouble was over, the little old man looked up with his 
 snappy eyes and his dried, weazened smile and said: " 'T 
 gory, man — I'm glad you come. I was just a- thinking I bet 
 them girls of mine haven't cooked any potatoes to go with 
 the meat to make hash for breakfast — eh? and I'm strong 
 for hash. ' ' 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 IN WHICH WE WITNESS A CEREMONY IN THE TEMPLE OF LOVE 
 
 GEORGE BROTHERTON took the Captain to the 
 street car that night. They rode face to face and all 
 that the Captain had seen and more, outside the 
 Vanderbilt House, and all that George Brotherton had seen 
 within its portals, a street car load of Harvey people heard 
 with much " 'Y gorying" and "Well — saying," as the car 
 rattled through the fields and into Market Street. Amiable 
 satisfaction with the night's work beamed in the moonface 
 of Mr. Brotherton and the Captain was drunk with martial 
 spirit. He shouldered his gun and marched down the full 
 length of the car and off, dragging Brotherton at his chariot 
 wheels like a spoil of battle. 
 
 "Come on, George," called the Captain as the audience 
 in the car smiled. "Young man, I need you to tell the girls 
 that their pa ain't gone stark, staring mad — eh? And I 
 want to show 'em a hero ! — What say ? A genuine hee-ro ! ' ' 
 
 It was half an hour after the Captain bursting upon his 
 hearthstone like a martial sky rocket, had exploded the last 
 of his blue and green candles. The three girls, sitting 
 around the cold base burner, beside and above which Mr. 
 Brotherton stood in statuesque repose, heard the Captain's 
 tale and the protests of Mr. Brotherton much as Desdemona 
 heard of Othello 's perils. And when the story was finished 
 and retold and refinished and the Captain was rising with 
 what the girls called the hash-look in his snappy little eyes, 
 Martha saw Ruth swallow a vast yawn and Martha turned 
 to Emma an appreciative smile at Ruth's discomfiture. 
 
 But Emma's eyes were fixed upon Mr. Brotherton and 
 her face turned toward him with an aspect of tender adora- 
 tion. Mr. Brotherton, who was not without appreciation of 
 his own heroic caste, saw the yawn and the smile and then 
 he saw the face of Emma Morton. 
 
 423 
 
424 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 It came over him in a flash of surprise that Ruth and 
 Martha were young things, not of his world ; and that Emma 
 was of his world and very much for him in his world. It 
 got to him through the busy guard of his outer consciousness 
 with a great rush of tenderness that Emma really cared for 
 the dangers he had faced and was proud of the part he had 
 played. And Mr. Brotherton knew that, with Ruth and 
 Martha, it was a tale that was told. 
 
 As he saw her standing among her sisters, his heart hid 
 from him the little school teacher with crow's feet at her 
 eyes, but revealed instead the glowing heart of an exalted 
 woman, who did not realize that she was uncovering her love, 
 a woman who in the story she had heard was living for a 
 moment in high romance. Her beloved, imperiled, was re- 
 stored to her ; the lost was found and the journey which ends 
 so happily in lovers' meetings was closing. 
 
 His eyes filled and his voice needed a cough to prime it. 
 The fire, glowing in Emma Morton's eyes, steamed up George 
 Brotherton 's will — the will which had sent him crashing for- 
 ward in life from a train peddler to a purveyor of literature 
 and the arts in Harvey. Deeds followed impulses with him 
 swiftly, so in an instant the floor of the Morton cottage was 
 shaking under his tread and with rash indifference, high and 
 heroic, ignoring with equal disdain two tittering girls, an 
 astonished little old man and a cold base burner, the big man 
 stalked across the room and cried : 
 
 "Well, say — why, Emma — my dear!" He had her hands 
 in his and was putting his arm about her as he bellowed: 
 "Girls — " his voice broke under its heavy emotional load. 
 "Why, dammit all, I'm your long-lost brother George! 
 Cap, kick me, kick me — me the prize jackass — the grand 
 sweepstake prize all these years ! ' ' 
 
 "No, no, George," protested the wriggling maiden. "Not 
 — not here! Not — " 
 
 "Don't you 'no — no' me, Emmy Morton," roared the big 
 man, pulling her to his side. "Girl — girl, what do we 
 care?" He gave her a resounding kiss and gazed proudly 
 around and exclaimed, "Ruthie, run and call up the Times 
 and give 'em the news. Martha, call up old man Adams — 
 and I'll take a bell to-morrow and go calling it up and down 
 
IN THE TEMPLE OF LOVE 425 
 
 Market Street. Then, Cap, you tell Mrs. Herdicker. This 
 is the big news." As he spoke he was gathering the amazed 
 Euth and Martha under his wing and kissing them, crying, 
 "Take that one for luck — and that to grow on." Then he 
 let out his laugh. But in vain did Emma Morton try to 
 squirm from his grasp ; in vain she tried to quiet his clatter. 
 "Say, girls, cluster around Brother George's knee — or knees 
 — and let's plan the wedding." 
 
 "You are going to have a wedding, aren't you, Emma?" 
 burst in Euth, and George cut in : 
 
 "Wedding — why, this is to be the big show — the laughing 
 show, all the wonders of the world and marvels of the deep 
 under one canvas. Why, girls — " 
 
 "Well, Emma, you've just got to wear a veil," laughed 
 Martha hysterically. 
 
 "Veil nothing — shame on you, Martha Morton. Why, 
 George hasn't asked — " 
 
 ' ' Now ain 't it the truth ! ' ' roared Brotherton. ' ' Why veil ! 
 Veil?" he exclaimed. "She's going to wear seven veils and 
 forty flower girls — forty — count 'em — forty! And Morty 
 Sands best man — " 
 
 "Keep still, George," interrupted Euth. "Now, Emma, 
 when — when, I say, are you going to resign your school?" 
 
 Mr. Brotherton gave the youngest and most practical Miss 
 Morton a look of quick intelligence. "Don't you fret; 
 Euthie, I 'm hog. tied by the silken skein of love. She 's go- 
 ing to resign her school to-morrow." 
 
 ' ' Indeed I am not, George Brotherton — and if you people 
 don't hush—" 
 
 But Mr. Brotherton interrupted the bride-to-be, inciden- 
 tally kissing her by way of punctuation, and boomed on in 
 his poster tone, "Morty Sands best man with his gym class 
 from South Harvey doing ground and lofty tumbling up and 
 down the aisles in pink tights. Doc Jim in linen pants 
 whistling the Wedding March to Kenyon Adams's violin 
 obligato, with the General hitting the bones at the organ! 
 The greatest show on earth and the baby elephant in evening 
 clothes prancing down the aisle like the behemoth of holy 
 writ! Well, say — say, I tell you ! " 
 
 The Captain touched the big man on the shoulder apolo- 
 
426 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 getically. "George, of course, if you could wait a year till 
 the Household Horse gets going good, I could stake you for 
 a trip to the Grand Canyon myself, but just now, 'y gory, 
 man ! ' ' 
 
 "Grand Canyon!" laughed Brotherton. "Why, Cap, 
 we're going to go seven times around the world and twice 
 to the moon before we turn up in Harvey. Grand Can- 
 yon—" 
 
 "Well, at least, father," cried Martha, "we'll get her 
 that tan traveling dress and hat she's always wanted." 
 
 "But I tell you girls to keep still," protested the bride- 
 to-be, still in the prospective groom's arms and proud as 
 Punch of her position. "Why, George hasn't even asked 
 me and — " 
 
 ' ' Neither have you asked me, Emma, ' 'eathen idol made of 
 mud what she called the Great God Buhd.' " He stooped 
 over tenderly and when his face rose, he said softly, "And 
 a plucky lot she cared for tan traveling dresses when I 
 kissed her where she stud ! ' ' And then and there before the 
 Morton family assembled, he kissed his sweetheart again, a 
 middle-aged man unashamed in his joy. 
 
 It was a tremendous event in the Morton family and the 
 Captain felt his responsibility heavily. The excited girls, 
 half -shocked and half-amused and wholly delighted, tried to 
 lead the Captain away and leave the lovers alone after 
 George had hugged them all around and kissed them again 
 for luck. But the Captain refused to be led. He had many 
 things to say. He had to impress upon Mr. Brotherton, 
 now that he was about to enter the family, the great fact that 
 the Mortons were about to come into riches. Hence a dis- 
 sertation on the Household Horse and its growing popularity 
 among makers of automobiles; Nate Perry's plans in blue 
 print for the new factory were brought in, and a wilderness 
 of detail spread before an ardent lover, keen for his first 
 hour alone with the woman who had touched his bachelor 
 heart. A hundred speeches came to his lips and dissolved 
 — first formal and ardent love vows — while the Captain rat- 
 tled on recounting familiar details of his dream. 
 
 Then Ruth and Martha rose in their might and literally 
 dragged their father from the room and upstairs. Half an 
 
IN THE TEMPLE OF LOVE 427 
 
 hour later the two lovers in the doorway heard a stir in 
 the house behind them. They heard the Captain cry : 
 
 "The hash — George, she's the best girl — 'Y gory, the best 
 girl in the world. But she will forget to chop the hash over 
 night!" 
 
 As George Brotherton, bumping his head upon the eternal 
 stars, turned into the street, he saw the great black hulk of 
 the Van Dorn house among the trees. He smiled as he won- 
 dered how the ceremonies were proceeding in the Temple of 
 Love that night. 
 
 It was not a ceremony fit for smiles, but rather for the 
 tears of gods and men, that the priest and priestess had per- 
 formed. Margaret Van Dorn had taken Kenyon home, then 
 dropped Lila at the Nesbit door as she returned from South 
 Harvey. "When she found that her husband had not reached 
 home, she ran to her room to fortify herself for the meeting 
 with him. And she found her fortifications in the farthest 
 corner of the bottom drawer of her dresser. From its hid- 
 ing place she brought forth a little black box and from the 
 box a brown pellet. This fortification had been her refuge 
 for over a year when the stress of life in the Temple of Love 
 was about to overcome her. It gave her courage, quickened 
 her wits and loosened her tongue. Always she retired to her 
 fortress when the combat in the Temple threatened to strain 
 her nerves. So she had worn a beaten path of habit to her 
 refuge. 
 
 Then she made herself presentable ; took care of her hair, 
 smoothed her face at the mirror and behind the shield of 
 the drug she waited. She heard the old car rattling up the 
 street, and braced herself for the struggle. She knew — she 
 had learned by bitter experience that the first blow in a 
 rough and tumble was half the battle. As he came raging 
 through the door, slamming it behind him, she faced him, 
 and before he could speak, she sneered : 
 
 "Ah, you coward — you sneaking, cur coward — who would 
 murder a child to win — Ach!" she cried. "You are loath- 
 some — get away from me!" 
 
 The furious man rushed toward her with his hands 
 clinched. She stood with her arms akimbo and said slowly : 
 
 "You try that— just try that." 
 
428 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 He stopped. She came over and rubbed her body against 
 his, purring, with a pause after each word: 
 
 "You are a coward — aren't you?" 
 
 She put her fingers under his jaw, and sneered, "If ever 
 you lay hands on me — just one finger on me, Tom Van 
 Dorn — " She did not finish her sentence. 
 
 The man uttered a shrill, insane cry of fury and whirled 
 and would have run, but she caught him, and with a gross 
 physical power, that he knew and dreaded, she swung him 
 by force into a chair. 
 
 "Now," she panted, "sit down like a man and tell me 
 what you are going to do about it? Look up — dawling!" 
 she cried, as Van Dorn slumped in the chair. 
 
 The man gave her a look of hate. His eyes, that showed 
 his soul, burned with rage and from his face, so mobile and 
 expressive, a devil of malice gaped impotently at his wife, as 
 he sat, a heap of weak vanity, before her. He pulled himself 
 up and exclaimed : 
 
 "Well, there's one thing damn sure, I'll not live with you 
 any more — no man would respect me if I did after to-night." 
 
 ' ' And no man, ' ' she smiled and said in her mocking voice, 
 "will respect you if you leave me. How Laura's friends 
 will laugh when you go, and say that Tom Van Dorn simply 
 can't live with any one. How the Nesbit crowd will titter 
 when you leave me, and say Tom Van Dorn got just what 
 he had coming! "Why — go on — leave me — if you dare! 
 You know you don't dare to. It's for better or worse, Tom, 
 until death do us part — dawling ! ' ' 
 
 She laughed and winked indecently at him. 
 
 "I will leave you, I tell you, I will leave you," he burst 
 forth, half rising. "All the devils of hell can't keep me 
 here." 
 
 "Except just this one," she mocked. "Oh, you might 
 leave me and go with your present mistress! By the way, 
 who is our latest conquest — dawling ? I 'm sure that would be 
 fine. Wouldn't they cackle — the dear old hens whose claws 
 scratch your heart so every day ? ' ' She leaned over, caress- 
 ing him devilishly, and cried, "For you know when you get 
 loose from me, you'll pretty nearly have to marry the other 
 
IN THE TEMPLE OF LOVE 429 
 
 lady — wouldn't that be nice? 'Through sickness and 
 health, for good or for ill,' — isn't it nice?" she scoffed. 
 Then she turned on him savagely, "So you will try to hide 
 behind a child, and use him for a shield — Oh, you cur — you 
 despicable dog," she scorned. Then she drew herself up and 
 spoke in a passion that all but hissed at him. "I tell you, 
 Tom Van Dorn, if you ever, in this row that 's coming, harm 
 a hair of that boy's head — you'll carry the scar of that hair 
 to your grave. I mean it. ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn sprang up. He cried : "What business is it of 
 yours? You she devil, what's the boy to you? Can't I run 
 my own business ? Why do you care so much for the Adams 
 brat? Answer me, I tell you — answer me," he cried, his 
 wrath filling his voice. 
 
 ' ' Oh, nothing, dawling, ' ' she made a wicked, obscene eye at 
 him, and simpered: "Oh, nothing, Tom — only you see I 
 might be his mother ! ' ' 
 
 She played with the vulgar diamonds that hid her fingers 
 and looked down coyly as she smiled into his gray face. 
 
 "Great God," he whispered, "were you born a — " he 
 stopped, ashamed of the word in his mouth. 
 
 The woman kept twinkling her indecent eyes at him and 
 put her head on one side as she replied: "Whatever I am, 
 I'm the wife of Judge Van Dorn; so I'm quite respectable 
 now — whatever I was once. Isn't that lawvly, dawling!" 
 She began talking in her baby manner. 
 
 Her husband was staring at her with doubt and fear and 
 weak, footless wrath playing like scurrying clouds across 
 his proud, shamed face. 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, tell me the truth," he moaned, as the fear 
 of the truth baffled him — a thousand little incidents that had 
 attracted his notice and passed to be stirred up by a puzzled 
 consciousness came rushing into his memory — and the doubt 
 and dread overcame even his hate for a moment and he 
 begged. But she laughed, and scouted the idea and then 
 called out in anguish: 
 
 "Why — why have you a child to love — to love and live for 
 even if you cannot be with her — why can I have none ? ' ' 
 
 Her voice had broken and she felt she was losing her grip 
 
430 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 on herself, and she knew that her time was limited, that her 
 fortifications were about to crumble. She sat down before 
 her husband. 
 
 "Tom," she said coldly, "no matter why I'm fond of 
 Kenyon Adams — that's my business; Lila is your business, 
 and I don't interfere, do I? Well," she said, looking the 
 man in the eyes with a hard, mean, significant stare, "you 
 let the boy alone — do you understand ? Do what you please 
 with Grant or Jasper or the old man; but Kenyon — hands 
 off!" " 
 
 She rose, slipped quickly to the stairway, and as she ran 
 up she called, ' ' Good night, dawling. ' ' Before he was on his 
 feet he heard the lock click in her door, and with a horrible 
 doubt, an impotent rage, and a mantling shame stifling him, 
 he went upstairs and from her distant room she heard the 
 bolt click in the door of his room. And behind the bolted 
 doors stood two ghosts — the ghosts of rejected children, call- 
 ing across the years, while the smudge of the extinguished 
 torch of life choked two angry hearts. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 GRANT ADAMS VISITS THE SONS OF ESAU 
 
 4 ' TV If Y dear, ' ' quoth the Doctor to his daughter as he 
 \\\ sat poking his feet with his cane in her little 
 
 -i. ™ A office at the Kindergarten, after they had dis- 
 cussed Lila's adventure of the night before, "I saw Tom up 
 town this morning and he didn't seem to be exactly happy. 
 I says, 'Tom, I hear you beat God at his own game last 
 night!' and," the Doctor chuckled, "Laura, do you know, he 
 wouldn 't speak to me!" As he laughed, the daughter inter- 
 rupted : 
 
 "Why, father — that was mean — " 
 
 "Of course it was mean. Why — considering everything, 
 I'd liek a man if he'd talk that mean to me. But my Een- 
 jiany devil kind of got control of my forbearing Christian 
 spirit and I cut loose. ' ' 
 
 The daughter smiled, then she sighed, and asked: 
 "Father — tell me, why did that woman object to Tom's use of 
 Kenyon in the riot last night?" 
 
 Doctor Nesbit opened his mouth as if to answer her. Then 
 he smiled and said, "Don't ask me, child. She's a bad 
 
 egg!" 
 
 "Lila says," continued the daughter, "that Margaret ap- 
 pears at every public place where Kenyon plays. She seems 
 eager to talk to him about his accomplishments, and has a 
 sort of fascinated interest in whatever he does, as nearly as 
 I can understand it ? Why, father ? What do you suppose 
 it is? I asked Grant, who was here this morning with a 
 Croatian baby whose mother is in the glass works, and Grant 
 only shook his head." The father looked at his daughter 
 over his glasses and asked : 
 
 "Croatians, eh? That's what the new colony is down in 
 Magnus. Well, we've got Letts and Lithuanians and why 
 
 431 
 
432 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 not Croatians ? What a mix we have here in the Valley ! I 
 wouldn 't wash 'em for 'em ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, father, I would. And when you get the dirt off 
 they're mostly just folks — just Indiany, as you call it. 
 They all take my flower seeds. And they all love bright 
 colors in their windows. And they are spreading the glow 
 of blooms across the district, just as well as the Germans and 
 the French and the Belgians and the Irish. And they are 
 here for exactly the same thing which we are here for, father. 
 We're all in the same game." 
 
 He looked at her blankly, and ventured, "Money?" 
 "No — you stupid. You know better. It's children. 
 They're here for their children — to lift their children out of 
 poverty. It 's the children who carry the banner of civiliza- 
 tion, the hope of progress, the real sunrise. These people 
 are all confused and more or less dumb and loggy about 
 everything else in life but this one thing; they all hope 
 greatly for their children. For their children they joyfully 
 endure the hardships of poverty ; the injustice of it ; to live 
 here in these conditions that seem to us awful, and to work 
 terrible hours that their children may rise out of the worse 
 condition that they left in Europe. And they have left 
 Europe, father, spiritually as well as physically. Here they 
 are reborn into America. The first generation may seem 
 foreign, may hold foreign ways — on the outside. But these 
 American born boys and girls, they are American — as much 
 as we are, with all their foreign names. They are of our 
 spirit. When America calls they will hear and follow. 
 Whatever blood they will shed will be real American blood, 
 because as children, born under the same aspiring genius 
 for freedom under which we were born, as children they be- 
 came Americans. Oh, father, it's for the children that these 
 people here in Harvey — these exploited people everywhere 
 in this country,— plant the flowers and brighten up their 
 homes. It 's for their children that they are going with Grant 
 to organize for better things. The fire of life runs ahead of 
 us in hope for our children, and if we haven't children or 
 the love of them in our hearts — why, father, that's what's 
 eating Tom's heart out, and blasting this miserable woman's 
 life! Grant said to-day: 'This baby here symbolizes all 
 
GRANT ADAMS VISITS THE SONS OF ESAU 433 
 
 that I stand for, all that I hope to do, all that the race 
 dreams ! ' ' 
 
 The Doctor had lighted his pipe, and was puffing medi- 
 tatively. He liked to hear his daughter talk. He took little 
 stock in what she said. But when she asked him for help — 
 he gave it to her unstinted, but often with a large, tolerant 
 disbelief in the wisdom of her request. As she paused he 
 turned to her quickly, "Laura — tell me, what do you make 
 out of Grant?" 
 
 He eyed her sharply as she replied: "Father, Grant is a 
 lonely soul without chick or child, and I'm sorry for him. 
 He goes — ' ' 
 
 "Well, now, Laura," piped the little man, "don't be too 
 sorry. Sorrow is a dangerous emotion." 
 
 The daughter turned her face to her father frankly and 
 said: "I realize that, father. Don't concern yourself 
 about that. But I see Grant some way, eating the locusts 
 and wild honey in the wilderness, calling out to a stiff-necked 
 generation to repent. His eyes are focussed on to-morrow. 
 He expects an immediate millennium. But he is at least 
 looking forward, not back. And the world back of us is so 
 full of change, that I am sure the world before us also must 
 be full of change, and maybe sometime we shall arrive at 
 Grant's goal. He's not working for himself, either in fame 
 or in power, or in any personal thing. He's just following 
 the light as it is given him to see it, here among the poor. ' ' 
 
 The daughter lifted a face full of enthusiasm to her father. 
 He puffed in silence. "Well, my dear, that's a fine speech. 
 But when I asked you about Grant I was rising to a sort of 
 question of personal privilege. I thought perhaps I would 
 mix around at his meeting to-night ! If you think I should, 
 just kind of stand around to give him countenance — and," 
 he chuckled and squeaked : "To bundle up a few votes ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Do, father — do — you must ! ' ' 
 
 "Well," squeaked the little voice, "so long as I must I'm 
 glad to know that Tom made it easy for me, by turning all 
 of Harvey and the Valley over to Grant at the riot last 
 night. Why, if Tom tried to stop Grant's meeting to-night 
 Market Street itself would mob Tom — mob the very Temple 
 of Love." The Doctor chuckled and returned to his own 
 
434 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 affairs. "Being on the winning side isn't really important. 
 But it's like carrying a potato in your pocket for rheuma- 
 tism: it gives a feller confidence. And after all, the devil's 
 rich and God's poor have all got votes. And votes count!" 
 He grinned and revived his pipe. 
 
 He was about to speak again when Laura interrupted him, 
 "Oh, father — they're not God's poor, whose ever they are. 
 Don't say that. They're Daniel Sands 's poor, and the 
 Smelter Trust's poor, and the Coal Trust's poor, and the 
 Glass and Cement and Steel company's poor. I've learned 
 that down here. Why, if the employers would only treat the 
 workers as fairly as they treat the machines, keeping them fit, 
 and modern and bright, God would have no poor ! ' ' 
 
 The Doctor rose and stretched and smiled indulgently at 
 his daughter. "Heigh-ho the green holly," he droned. 
 "Well, have it your way. God's poor or Dan's poor', they're 
 my votes, if I can get 'em. So we '11 come to the meeting to- 
 night and blow a few mouthfuls on the fires of revolution, 
 for the good of the order ! ' ' 
 
 He would have gone, but his daughter begged him to stay 
 and dine with her in South Harvey, before they went to the 
 meeting. So for an hour the Doctor sat in his daughter's 
 office by the window, sometimes giving attention to the drab 
 flood of humanity passing along the street as the shifts 
 changed for evening in the mines and smelters, and then 
 listening to the day 's stragglers who came and went through 
 his daughter's office: A father for medicine for a child, a 
 mother for advice, a breaker boy for a book, a little girl from 
 the glass works for a bright bit of sewing upon which she 
 was working, a woman from Violet Hogan's room with a 
 heartbreak in her problem, a group of women from little 
 Italy with a complaint about a disorderly neighbor in their 
 tenement, a cripple from the mines to talk over his career, 
 whether it should be pencils or shoe strings, or a hand organ, 
 or some attempt at handicraft; the head of a local labor 
 union paying some pittance to Laura, voted by the men to 
 help her with her work ; a shy foreign woman with a badly 
 spelled note from her neighbor, asking for flower seeds and 
 directions translated by Laura into the woman's own lan- 
 guage telling how to plant the seeds; a belated working 
 
GRANT ADAMS VISITS THE SONS OF ESAU 435 
 
 mother calling for the last little tot in the nursery and ex- 
 plaining her delay. Laura heard them all and so far as she 
 could, she served them all. The Doctor was vastly proud 
 of the effective way in which she dispatched her work. 
 
 It was six o 'clock, but the summer sun still was high and 
 the traffic in the street was thick. For a time, while a 
 woman with a child with shriveled legs was talking to Laura 
 about the child's education, the Doctor sat gazing into the 
 street. When the room was empty, he exclaimed, "It's a 
 long weary way from the sunshine and prairie grass, child ! 
 How it all has changed with the years! Ten years ago I 
 knew 'em all, the men and the employers. Now they are 
 all newcomers — men and masters. Why, I don't even know 
 their nationalities ; I don 't even know what part of the earth 
 they come from. And such sad-faced droves of them; so 
 many little scamps, underfed, badly housed for generations. 
 The big, strapping Irish and Germans and Scotch and the 
 wide-chested little Welshmen, and the agile French — how 
 few of them there are compared with this slow-moving horde 
 of runts from God knows where ! It's been a long time since 
 I've been down here to see a shift change, Laura. Lord — 
 Lord have mercy on these people — for no one else seems to 
 care ! ' ' 
 
 "Amen, and Amen, father," answered the daughter. 
 "These are the people that Grant is trying to stir to con- 
 sciousness. These are the people who — " 
 
 "Well, yes," he turned a sardonic look upon his daughter, 
 "they're the boys who voted against me the last time because 
 Tom and Dan hired a man in every precinct to spread the 
 story that I was a teetotaler, and that your mother gave a 
 party on Good Friday — and all because Tom and Dan were 
 mad at me for pushing that workingmen's compensation 
 bill ! But now I look at 'em — I don't blame 'em ! What do 
 they know about workingmen's compensation ! " The Doctor 
 stopped and chuckled; then he burst out: "I tell you, 
 Laura, when a man gets enough sense to stand by his friends 
 — he no longer needs friends. When these people get wise 
 enough not to be fooled by Tom and old Dan, they won't 
 need Grant! In the meantime — just look at 'em — look at 
 'em paying twice as much for rent as they pay up town: 
 
436 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 gouged at the company stores down here for their food and 
 clothing; held up by loan sharks when they borrow money; 
 doped with aloes in their beer, and fusil oil in their whiskey, 
 wrapped up in shoddy clothes and paper shoes, having their 
 pockets picked by weighing frauds at the mines, and their 
 bodies mashed in speed-up devices in the mills; stabled in 
 filthy shacks without water or sewers or electricity which we 
 uptown people demand and get for the same money that they 
 pay for these hog-pens — why, hell's afire and the cows are out 
 — Laura! by Godfrey's diamonds, if I lived down here I'd get 
 me some frisky dynamite and blow the whole place into 
 kindling." He sat blinking his indignation; then began to 
 smile. ' ' Instead of which, ' ' he squeaked, ' ' I shall endeavor 
 by my winning ways to get their votes. ' ' He waved a gay 
 hand and added, ' ' And with God be the rest ! ' ' 
 
 Towering above a group of workers from the South of Eu- 
 rope — a delegation from the new wire mill in Plain Valley, 
 Grant Adams came swinging down the street, a Gulliver 
 among his Lilliputians. Although it was not even twilight, 
 it was evident to the Doctor that something more than the 
 changing shifts in the mills was thickening the crowds in the 
 street. Little groups were forming at the corners, good-na- 
 tured groups who seemed to know that they were not to be 
 molested. And the Doctor at his window watched Grant 
 passing group after group, receiving its unconscious homage ; 
 just a look, or a waving hand, or an affectionate, half-abashed 
 little cheer, or the turning of a group of heads all one way 
 to catch Grant's eyes as he passed. 
 
 At the Captain's vacant lot, Grant rose before a cheering 
 throng that filled the lot, and overflowed the sidewalk and 
 crowded far down the street. Two flickering torches flared 
 at his head. An electric in front of the Hot Dog and a big 
 arc-light over the door of the smelter lighted the upturned 
 faces of the multitude. When the crowd had ceased cheer- 
 ing, Grant, looking into as many eyes of his hearers as he 
 could catch, began: 
 
 "I have come to talk to Esau— the disinherited — to Esau 
 who has forfeited his birthright. I am here to speak to 
 those who are toiling in the world's rough work unrequited 
 — I am here, one of the poor to talk to the poor." 
 
GRANT ADAMS VISITS THE SONS OF ESAU 437 
 
 His voice held back so much of his strength, his gaunt, 
 awkward figure under the uncertain torches, his wide, impas- 
 sioned gestures, with the carpenter's nail claw always before 
 his hearers, made him a strange kind of specter in the 
 night. Yet the simplicity of his manner and the directness 
 of his appeal went to the hearts of his hearers. The first 
 part of his message was one of peace. He told the workers 
 that every inch they gained they lost when they tried to 
 overcome cunning with force. "The dynamiter tears the 
 ground from under labor — not from under capital; he 
 strengthens capital," said Grant. "Every time I hear of a 
 bomb exploding in a strike, or of a scab being killed I think 
 of the long, hard march back that organized labor must make 
 to retrieve its lost ground. And then," he cried passion- 
 ately, and the mad fanatic glare lighted his face, "my soul 
 revolts at the iniquity of those who, by craft and cunning 
 while we work, teach us the false doctrine of the strength of 
 force, and then when we use what they have taught us, 
 point us out in scorn as lawbreakers. Whether they pay 
 cash to the man who touched the fuse or fired the gun or 
 whether they merely taught us to use bombs and guns by 
 the example of their own lawlessness, theirs is the sin, and 
 ours the punishment. Esau still has lost his birthright — 
 still is disinherited." 
 
 He spoke for a time upon the aims of organization, and 
 set forth the doctrine of class solidarity. He told labor 
 that in its ranks altruism, neighborly kindness that is the 
 surest basis of progress, has a thousand disintegrated ex- 
 pressions. "The kindness of the poor to the poor, if ex- 
 pressed in terms of money, would pay the National debt over 
 night, ' ' he said, and, letting out his voice, and releasing his 
 strength, he begged the men and women who work and sweat 
 at their work to give that altruism some form and direction, 
 to put it into harness — to form it into ranks, drilled for 
 usefulness. Then he spoke of the day when class conscious- 
 ness would not be needed, when the unions would have served 
 their mission, when the class wrong that makes the class 
 suffering and thus marks the class line, would disappear just 
 as they have disappeared in the classes that have risen dur- 
 ing the last two centuries. 
 
438 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Oh, Esau," he cried in the voice that men called insane 
 because of its intensity, "your birthright is not gone. It 
 lies in your own heart. Quicken your heart with love — and 
 no matter what you have lost, nor what you have mourned in 
 despair, in so much as you love shall it all be restored to 
 you." 
 
 They did not cheer as he talked. But they stood leaning 
 forward intently listening. Some of his hearers had ex- 
 pected to hear class hatred preached. Others were expecting 
 to hear the man lash his enemies and many had assumed 
 that he would denounce those who had committed the mis- 
 takes of the night before. Instead of giving his hearers 
 these things, he preached a gospel of peace and love and 
 hope. His hearers did not understand that the maimed, 
 lean, red-faced man before them was dipping deeply into 
 their souls and that they were considering many things 
 which they had not questioned before. 
 
 "When he plunged into the practical part of his speech, 
 an explanation of the allied unions of the Valley, he told in 
 detail something of the ten years' struggle to bring all the 
 unions together under one industrial council in the "Wahoo 
 Valley, and listed something of the strength of the organiza- 
 tion. He declared that the time had come for the organiza- 
 tion to make a public fight for recognition ; that organization 
 in secret and under cover was no longer honorable. "The 
 employers are frankly and publicly allied," said Grant. 
 "They have their meetings to talk over matters of common 
 interest. Why should not the unions do the same thing? 
 The smelter men, the teamsters, the miners, the carpenters, 
 the steel workers, the painters, the glass workers, the print- 
 ers — all the organized men and women in this district have 
 the same common interests that their employers have, and we 
 should in no wise be ashamed of our organization. This 
 meeting is held to proclaim our pride in the common ground 
 upon which organized labor stands with organized capital in 
 the Wahoo Valley." 
 
 He called the rolls of the unions in the trades council and 
 for an hour men stood and responded and reported condi- 
 tions among workers in their respective trades. It was an 
 impressive roll call. After their organization had been com- 
 
GRANT ADAMS VISITS THE SCNS OF ESAU 43& 
 
 pleted, a great roar of pride rose and Grant Adams threw 
 out his steel claw and leaning forward cried : 
 
 "We have come to bring brotherhood into this earth. For 
 in the union every man sacrifices something to the common 
 good; mutual help means mutual sacrifice, and self-denial 
 is brotherly love. Fraternity and democracy are synony- 
 mous. We must rise together by self-help. I know how 
 easy it is for the rich man to become poor. I know that 
 often the poor man becomes rich. But when Esau throws 
 off the yoke of Jacob, when the poor shall rise and come into 
 their own, the rise shall not be as individuals, but as a class. 
 The glass workers are better paid than the teamsters; but 
 their interests are common, and the better paid workers can- 
 not rise except their poorly paid fellow workmen rise with 
 them. It is a class problem and it must have a class solu- 
 tion." 
 
 Grant Adams stood staring at the crowd. Then he 
 spread out his two gaunt arms and closed his eyes and 
 cried : ' ' Oh, Esau, Esau, you were faint and hungry in 
 that elder day when you drank the red pottage and sold 
 your birthright. But did you know when you bartered it 
 away, that in that bargain went your children's souls? 
 Down here in the Valley, five babies die in infancy where 
 one dies up there on the hill. Ninety per cent, of the boys in 
 jail come from the homes in the Valley and ten per cent, 
 from the homes on the hill. And the girls who go out in 
 the night, never to come home — poor girls always. Crime 
 and shame and death were in that red pottage, and its bit- 
 terness still burns our hearts. And why — why in the name 
 of our loving Christ who knew the wicked bargain Jacob 
 made — why is our birthright gone? Why does Esau still 
 serve his brother unrequited?" Then he opened his eyes 
 and cried stridently — "I'll tell you why. The poor are 
 poor because the rich are rich. We have been working a 
 decade and a half in this Valley, and profits, not new capi- 
 tal, have developed it. Profits that should have been divided 
 with labor in wages have gone to buy new machines — miles 
 and miles of new machines have come here, bought and paid 
 for with the money that labor earned, and because we nave 
 not the machines which our labor has bought, we are poor — 
 
440 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 we are working long hours amid squalor surrounded with 
 death and crime and shame. Oh, Esau, Esau, what a pottage 
 it was that you drank in the elder day ! Oh, Jacob, Jacob, 
 wrestle, wrestle with thy conscience; wrestle with thy accus- 
 ing Lord; wrestle, Jacob, wrestle, for the day is breaking 
 and we will not let thee go ! How long, Lord, how long 
 will you hold us to that cruel bargain!" 
 
 He paused as one looking for an answer — hesitant, eager, 
 expectant. Then he drew a long breath, turned slowly and 
 sadly and walked away. 
 
 No cheer followed him. The crowd was stirred too 
 deeply for cheers. But the seed he had sown quickened in 
 a thousand hearts even if in some hearts it fell among 
 thorns, even if in some it fell upon stony ground. The 
 sower had gone forth to sow. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 BEING NO CHAPTER AT ALL BUT AN INTERMEZZO BEFORE THE 
 LAST MOVEMENT 
 
 THE stage is dark. In the dim distance something is 
 moving. It is a world hurrying through space. 
 Somewhat in the foreground but enveloped in the 
 murk sit three figures. They are tending a vast loom. Its 
 myriad threads run through illimitable space and the woof 
 of the loom is time. The three figures weaving through the 
 dark do not know whence comes the power that moves the 
 loom eternally. .They have not asked. They work in the 
 pitch of night. 
 
 From afar in the earth comes a voice — high-keyed and 
 gentle : 
 
 A Voice, pianissimo: 
 
 ' ' This business of governing a sovereign people is losing its 
 savor. I must be getting some kind of spiritual necrosis. 
 Generally speaking, about all the real pleasure a grand llama 
 of politics finds in life, is in counting his ingrates — his gov- 
 ernors and senators and congressmen! Why, George, it's 
 been nearly ten years since I've cussed out a senator or a 
 governor, yet I read Browning with joy and the last time 
 I heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, I went stark mad. 
 But woe is me, George ! Woe is me. When the Judge and 
 Dan Sands named the postmaster last month without con- 
 sulting me, I didn't care. I tell you, George, I must be 
 getting old!" 
 
 Second Voice, fortissimo: 
 
 "No, Doc — you're not getting old — why, you're not sixty 
 — a mere spring chicken yet — and Dan Sands is seventy- 
 five if he's a day. What's the matter with you in this here 
 Zeitgeist that Carlyle talks about! It's this restless little 
 time spirit that's the matter with you. You're all broke 
 
 441 
 
442 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 out and sick abed with the Zeitgeist. You've got no more 
 necrosis than a Belgian hare's got paresis — I'm right here to 
 tell you and my diagnosis goes. ' ' 
 
 Third Voice, adagio: 
 
 "James, my guides say that we're beginning a great move- 
 ment from the few to the many. That is their expression. 
 Cromwell thinks it means economic changes; but I was 
 talking with Jefferson the other night and he says no — it 
 means political changes in order to get economic. He says 
 Tilden tells him—" 
 
 The Second Voice, fortissimo: 
 
 "Who cares what Tilden says! My noodle tells me that 
 there's to be a big do in this world, and my control tinkles 
 the cash register, pops into the profit account, eats up ten 
 cent magazines, and gets away with five feet of literary 
 dynamite fuse every week. I'm that old Commodore Noah 
 that's telling you to get out your rubbers for the flood." 
 
 The First Voice, andante con expression: 
 
 "It's a queer world — a mighty queer world. Here's 
 Laura's kindergarten growing until it joins with Violet Ho- 
 gan's day nursery and Laura's flower seeds splashing color 
 out of God's sunshine in front yards clear down to Plain 
 Valley. Money coming in about as they need it. Dan 
 Sands and Morty, Wright and Perry and the Dago saloon 
 keeper, Joe Calvin, John Dexter and the gamblers — all the 
 robbers, high and low, dividing their booty. With all the 
 prosperity we are having, with all the opening of mills and 
 factories — it 's getting easier to make money and consequently 
 harder to respect it. The more money there is, the less it 
 buys, and that is true in public sentiment just as it is in gro- 
 ceries and furniture. Do you fellows realize that it's been 
 ten years since the Times has run any of those ' Pen Portraits 
 of Self -Made Men'?" A silence, then the voice continues: 
 
 "George, I honestly believe, if money keeps getting 
 crowded farther and farther into the background of life — 
 we'll develop an honest politician. We know that to give a 
 bribe is just as bad as to take one. Think of the men de- 
 bauched with money disguised as campaign expenses, or with 
 offices or with franks and passes and pull and power ! Think 
 of all the bad government fostered, all the injustices legal- 
 
AN INTERMEZZO 443 
 
 ized, just to win a sordid game ! The best I can do now is to 
 cry, ' Lord have mercy on me, a sinner ! The harlot and the 
 thief are my betters. ' ' ' 
 
 The voices cease. The earth whirls on. The brooding 
 spirits at the loom muse in silence, for they need no voices. 
 
 The First Fate : "The birds! The birds! I seemed to 
 hear the night birds twittering to bring in the dawn. ' ' 
 
 The Second Fate : ' ' The birds do not bring in the dawn. 
 The dawn comes." 
 
 The First Fate: "But always and always before the 
 day, we hear these voices. ' ' 
 
 The Third Fate: "World after world threads its time 
 through our loom. We watch the pattern grow. Days and 
 eras and ages pass. We know nothing of meanings. We 
 only weave. We know that the pattern brightens as new 
 days come and always voices in the dark tell us of the 
 changing pattern of a new day." 
 
 The First Fate: "But the birds — the birds! I seem 
 to hear the night birds' voices that make the dawn." 
 
 The Second Fate : ' ' They are not birds calling, but the 
 whistle of shot and shell and the shrill, far cries of man in 
 air. But still I say the dawn comes, the voices do not bring 
 it." 
 
 The Third Fate: "We do not know how the awakening 
 voices in the dark know that the light is coming. We do not 
 know what power moves the loom. We do not know who 
 dreams the pattern. We only weave and muse and listen 
 for the voices of change as a world threads its events through 
 the woof of time on our loom." 
 
 The stage is dark. The weavers weave time into circum- 
 stances and in the blackness the world moves on. Slowly it 
 grays. A thousand voices rise. Then circumstance begins 
 to run brightly on the loom, and a million voices join in the 
 din of the dawn. The loom goes. The weavers fade. The 
 light in the world pales the thread of time and the whirl of 
 the earth no longer is seen. But instead we see only a town. 
 Half of it shines in the morning sun — half of it hides in the 
 smoke. In the sun on the street is a man. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 HERB WE HAVE THE FELLOW AND THE GIKL BEGINNING TO 
 PREPARE FOR THE LAST CHAPTER 
 
 A T ALL, ' spare, middle-aged person was Thomas Van 
 Dorn in the latter years of the first decade of the 
 twentieth century ; tall and spare and tight-skinned. 
 The youthful olive texture of the skin was worn off and had 
 been replaced by a leathery finish — rather reddish brown in 
 color. The slight squint of his eyes was due somewhat to the 
 little puffs under them, and a suspicious, crafty air had 
 grown into the full orbs, which once glowed with emotion, 
 when the younger man mounted in his oratorical flights. His 
 hands were gloved to match his exactly formal clothes, and 
 his hat — a top-hat when Judge Van Dorn was in the East, 
 and a sawed-off compromise with the local prejudice against 
 top-hats when he was in Harvey — was always in the latest 
 mode. Often the hat was made to match his clothes. He 
 had become rigorous in his taste in neckties and only grays 
 and blacks and browns adorned the almost monkish severity 
 of his garb. Harsh, vertical lines had begun to appear at 
 the sides of the sensuous mouth, and horizontal lines — per- 
 haps of hurt pride and shame — were pressed into his wide, 
 handsome forehead and the zigzag scar was set white in a 
 reddening field. 
 
 All these things a photograph would show. But there was 
 that about his carriage, about his mien, about the personality 
 that emerged from all these things which the photograph 
 would not show. For to the eyes of those who had known 
 him in the flush of his youth, something — perhaps it was 
 time, perhaps the burden of the years — seemed to be sapping 
 him, seemed to be drying him out, fruitless, pod-laden, dry 
 and listless, with a bleached soul, naked to the winds that 
 blow across the world. The myriad criss-crosses of minute red 
 veins that marked his cheek often were wet with water from 
 
 444 
 
THE FELLOW AND THE GIRL 445 
 
 the eyes that used to glow out of a very volcano of a person- 
 ality behind them. But after many hours of charging up 
 and down the earth in his great noisy motor, red rims be- 
 gan to form about the watery eyes and they peered furtively 
 and savagely at the world, like wolves from a falling temple. 
 
 As he stood by the fire in Mr. Brotherton's sanctuary, 
 holding his Harper's Weekly in his hand, and glancing idly 
 over the new books carelessly arranged on the level of the 
 eye upon the wide oak mantel, the Judge came to be con- 
 scious of the presence of Amos Adams on a settee near by. 
 
 "How do you do, sir?" The habit of speaking to every 
 one persisted, but the suave manner was affected, and the 
 voice was mechanical. The old man looked up from his 
 book — one of Professor Hyslop's volumes, and answered, 
 "Why, hello, Tom — how are you?" and ducked back to his 
 browsing. 
 
 "That son of yours doesn't seem to have set the Wahoo 
 afire with his unions in the last two or three years, does he ? " 
 said Van Dorn. He could not resist taking this poke at the 
 old man, who replied without, looking up : 
 
 "Probably not." 
 
 Then fearing that he might have been curt the old man 
 lifted his' eyes from his book and looking kindly over his 
 glasses continued : ' ' The Wahoo isn 't ablaze, Tom, but you 
 know as well as I that the wage scale has been raised twice 
 in the mines, and once in the glass factory and once in the 
 smelter in the past three years without strikes — and that's 
 what Grant is trying to do. More than that, every concern 
 in the Valley now recognizes the union in conferring with 
 the men about work conditions. That's something — that's 
 worth all his time for three years or so, if he had done noth- 
 ing else." 
 
 "Well, what else has he done?" asked Van Dorn quickly. 
 
 "Well, Tom, for one thing the men are getting class con- 
 scious, and in a strike that will be a strong cement to make 
 them stick. ' ' 
 
 Van Dorn's neck reddened, as he replied: "Yes — the 
 damn anarchists — class consciousness is what undermines 
 patriotism. ' ' 
 
 "And patriotism," replied the old man, thumbing the 
 
446 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 lapel of his coat that held his loyal legion button, "patriotism 
 is the last resort — of plutocrats!" 
 
 He laughed good-naturedly and silently. Then he rose 
 and said as he started to go : 
 
 "Well, Tom, — we won't quarrel over a little thing like 
 our beloved country. Why, Lila — " the old man looked up 
 and saw the girl, "bless my eyes, child, how you do grow, 
 and how pretty you look in your new ginghams — just like 
 your mother, twenty years ago ! ' ' Amos Adams was talking 
 to a shy young girl — blue-eyed and brown-haired, who was 
 walking out of the store after buying a bottle of ink of Miss 
 Calvin. Lila spoke to the old man and would have gone 
 with him, but for the booming voice of Mr. Brotherton, the 
 gray-clad benedict, who looked not unlike the huge, pot- 
 bellied gray jars which adorned "the sweet serenity of books 
 and wall paper. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Brotherton had glanced up from his ledger at Amos 
 Adams's mention of Lila's name. Coming forward, he saw 
 her in her new dress, a bright gingham dress that reached 
 so nearly to her shoe tops that Mr. Brotherton cried : ' ' Well, 
 look who's here — if it isn't Miss Van Dorn! And a great 
 pleasure it is to see and know you, Miss Van Dorn." 
 
 He repeated the name two or three times gently, while 
 Lila smiled in shy appreciation of Mr. Brotherton 's ambushed 
 joke. Her father, standing by a squash-necked lavender jug 
 in the "serenity," did not entirely grasp Mr. Brotherton 's 
 point. But while the father was groping for it, Mr. Brother- 
 ton went on : 
 
 "Miss Van Dorn, once I had a dear friend — such a dear 
 little friend named Lila. Perhaps you may see her some- 
 times? Maybe sometimes at night she comes to see you — 
 maybe she peeps in when you are alone and asks to play. 
 Well, say — Lila," called Mr. Brotherton as gently as a fog 
 horn tooting a nocturne, "if she ever comes, if you ever see 
 her, will you give her my love? It would be highly im- 
 proper for a married gentleman with asthmatic tendencies 
 and too much waistband to send his love or anything like 
 it to Miss Van Dorn; it would surely cause comment. But 
 if Lila ever comes, Miss Van Dorn, ' ' frolicked the elephant, 
 "give her my love and tell her that often here in the 
 
THE FELLOW AND THE GIRL 447 
 
 serenity, I shut my eyes and see her playing out on Elm 
 Street, a teenty, weenty girl — with blue hair and curly eyes 
 — or maybe it was the other way around," Mr. Brotherton 
 heaved a prodigious sigh and waved a weary, fat hand — • 
 ' ' and here, my lords and gentlemen, is Miss Van Dorn with 
 her dresses down to her shoe tops ! ' ' 
 
 The girl was smiling and blushing, sheepishly and happily, 
 while Mr. Brotherton was mentally calculating that he would 
 be in his middle fifties before a possible little girl of his 
 might be putting on her first long dresses. It saddened him 
 a little, and he turned, rather subdued, and called into the 
 alcove to the Judge and said : 
 
 "Tom, this is our friend, Miss Van Dorn — I was just send- 
 ing a message by her to a dear — a very dear friend I used 
 to have, named Lila, who is gone. Miss Van Dorn knows 
 Lila, and sees her sometimes. So now that you are here, 
 I'm going to send this to Lila," he raised the girl's hand to 
 his lips and awkwardly kissed it, as he said clumsily, "well, 
 say, my dear — will you see that Lila gets that?" 
 
 Her father stepped toward the embarrassed girl and spoke : 
 
 "Lila — Lila — can't you come here a moment, dear?" 
 
 He was standing by the smoldering fire, brushing a rolled 
 newspaper against his leg. Something within him — per- 
 haps Mr. Brotherton 's awkward kiss stirred it — was trying 
 to soften the proud, hard face that was losing the mobility 
 which once had been its charm. He held out a hand, and 
 leaned toward the girl. She stepped toward him and asked, 
 "What is it?" 
 
 An awkward pause followed, which the man broke with, 
 "Well — nothing in particular, child; only I thought maybe 
 you'd like — well, tell me how are you getting along in High 
 School, little girl." 
 
 "Oh, very well; I believe," she answered, but did not lift 
 her eyes to his. Mr. Brotherton moved back to his desk. 
 Again there was silence. The girl did not move away, 
 though the father feared through every painful second that 
 she would. Finally he said: "I hear your mother is get- 
 ting on famously down in South Harvey. Our people down 
 there say she is doing wonders with her cooking club for 
 girls. ' ' 
 
448 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Lila smiled and answered: "She'll be glad to know it, 
 I'm sure." Again she paused, and waited. 
 
 "Lila," he cried, "won't you let me help you — do some- 
 thing for you? — I wish so much — so much to fill a father's 
 place with you, my dear — so much. ' ' 
 
 He stepped toward her, felt for her hand, but could not 
 find it. She looked up at him, and in her eyes there rose 
 the old cloud of sadness that came only once in a long time. 
 It was a puzzled face that he saw looking steadily into his. 
 
 "I don't know what you could do," she answered simply. 
 
 Something about the pathetic loneliness of his unfathered 
 child, evidenced by the sadness that flitted across her face, 
 touched a remote, unsullied part of his nature, and moved 
 him to say : 
 
 "Oh, Lila — Lila — Lila — I need you — I need you — God 
 knows, dear, how I do need you. Won't you come to me 
 sometimes? Won't your mother ever relent — won't she? 
 If she knew, she would be kind. Oh, Lila, Lila," he called 
 as the two stood together there in the twilight with the glow 
 of the coals in the fireplace upon them, "Lila, won't you let 
 me take you home even — in my car? Surely your mother 
 wouldn't care for that, would she?" 
 
 The girl looked into the fire and answered, "No," and 
 shook her head. "No — mother would be pleased, I think. 
 She has always told me to be kind to you — to be respectful 
 to you, sir. I've tried to be, sir?" 
 
 Her voice rose in a question. He answered by taking her 
 arm and pleading, "Oh, come — won't you let me take you 
 home in my car, Lila — it's getting late — won't you, Lila?" 
 
 But the girl turned away; he let her arm drop. She an- 
 swered, shaking her head : 
 
 "I think, sir, if you don't mind — I'd rather walk." 
 
 In another second she was gone. Her father leaned 
 against the mantel and the dying coals warmed tears in his 
 hungry, furtive eyes, and his face twitched for a moment 
 before he turned, and walked with some show of pride to his 
 grand car. Half an hour later he was driving homeward, 
 looking neither to the right nor to the left, when his ear 
 caught the word, "Lila," in a girlish treble near him. He 
 looked up to see a young miss — a Calvin young miss, in fact 
 
THE FELLOW AND THE GIRL 449 
 
 — running and waving her hands toward a group of boys and 
 girls in their middle teens and late teens, trooping up the 
 hill along the sidewalk. They were neighborhood children, 
 and Lila seemed to be the center of the circle. He slowed 
 down his car to watch them. Near Lila Was Kenyon Adams, 
 a tall, beautiful youth, fiddle box in hand, but still a boy 
 even though he was twenty. Other boys played about the 
 group and through it, but none was so striking as Kenyon, 
 tall, lithe, with a beautifully poised head of crinkly chestnut 
 hair, who strode gayly among the youths and maidens and 
 yet was not quite of them. Even the Judge could see that 
 Kenyon did not exactly belong — that he was rare and ex- 
 otic. But as her father's car crept unnoticed past the 
 group, he could see that Lila belonged. She was in no way 
 exotic among the Calvins and Kollanders and the Wrights, 
 and the children of the neighbors in Elm Street. Lila's 
 clear, merry laugh — a laugh that rang like an old bell 
 through Tom Van Dorn's heart — rose above the adolescent 
 din of the group and to the father seemed to be the dominant 
 note in the hilarious cadenza of young life. It struck him 
 that they were like fireflies, glowing and darting and dis- 
 appearing and weaving about. 
 
 And fireflies indeed they were. For in them the fires of 
 life were just beginning to sparkle. Slowly the great bat of 
 a car moved up past them, then darted around the block like 
 the blind creature that it was, and whirling its awkward cir- 
 cle came swooping up again to the glowing, animated stars 
 that held him in a deadly fascination. For those twinkling, 
 human stars playing like fireflies in exquisite joy at the first 
 faint kindling in their hearts of the fires that flame forever 
 in the torch of life, might well have held in their spell a 
 stronger man than Thomas Van Dorn. For the first evan- 
 escent fires of youth are the most sacred fires in the world. 
 And well might the great, black bat of a car circle again and 
 again and even again around and come always back to the 
 beautiful light. 
 
 But Thomas Van Dorn came back not happily but in sad 
 unrest. It was as though the black bat carried captive on 
 its back a weary pilgrim from the Primrose Hunt, jaded and 
 spent and dour, who saw in the sacred fires what he had 
 
450 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 cast away, what he had deemed worthless and of a sudden 
 had seen in its true beauty and in its real value. Once again 
 as the fireflies played their ceaseless game with the ever 
 flickering glow of youth shining through eyes and cheeks 
 from their hearts, the great bat carrying its captive swooped 
 around them — and then out into the darkness of his own 
 charred world. 
 
 But the fireflies in the gay spring twilight kept darting 
 and criss-crossing and frolicking up the walk. One by one, 
 each swiftly or lazily disappeared from the maze, and at 
 last only two, Kenyon and Lila, went weaving up the lawn 
 toward the steps of the Nesbit house. 
 
 It had been one of those warm days when spring is just 
 coming into the world. All day the boy had been roaming 
 the wide prairies. The voices of the wind in the brown grass 
 and in the bare trees by the creek had found their way into 
 his soul. A curious soul it was — the soul of a poet, the soul 
 of one who felt infinitely more than he knew — the soul of a 
 man in the body of a callow youth. 
 
 As he and Lila walked up the hill, all the dreams that had 
 swept across him out in the fields came to him. They sat 
 on the south steps of the Nesbit house watching the spring 
 that was trying to blossom in the pink and golden sunset. 
 The girl was beginning to look at the world through new, 
 strange eyes, and out on the hills that day the boy also had 
 felt the thrill of a new heaven and a new earth. 
 
 Their talk was finite and far short of the vision of warm, 
 radiant life-stuff flowing through the universe that had 
 thrilled Kenyon in the hills. Out there, looking eastward 
 over the prairies checked in brown earth, and green wheat, 
 and old grass faded from russet to lavender, with the gray 
 woods worming their way through the valleys, he had found 
 voice and had crooned melodies that came out of the wind 
 and sun, and satisfied his soul. Over and over he had re- 
 peated in various cadences the words : 
 
 "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, whence cometh my 
 help." 
 
 And he had seemed to be forming a great heart-filling 
 anthem. It was all on his tongue's tip, with the answering 
 chorus coming from out of some vast mystery, "Behold, thou 
 
THE FELLOW AND THE GIRL 451 
 
 art fair, my love — behold, thou art fair — thou hast dove's 
 eyes." There in the sunshine upon the prairie grass it was 
 as real and vital a part of his soul's aspiration as though it 
 had been reiterated in some glad symphony. But as he sat 
 in the sunset trying to put into his voice the language that 
 stirred his heart, he could only drum upon a box and look 
 at the girl's blue eyes and her rosebud of a face and utter 
 the copper coins of language for the golden yearning of his 
 soul. She answered, thrilled by the radiance of his eyes: 
 
 "Isn't the young spring beautiful — don't you just love it, 
 Kenyon? I do." 
 
 He rose and stood out in the sun on the lawn. The girl 
 got up. She was abashed ; and strangely self-conscious with- 
 out reason, she began to pirouette down the walk and dance 
 back to him, with her blue eyes fastened like a mystic sky- 
 thread to his somber gaze. A thousand mute messages of 
 youth twinkled across that thread. Their eyes smiled. The 
 two stood together, and the youth kicked with his toes in the 
 soft turf. 
 
 "Lila," he asked as he looked at the greening grass of 
 spring, "what do you suppose they mean when they say, 
 'I will lift up mine eyes to the hills' ? The line has been wig- 
 gling around in my head all morning as I walked over the 
 prairie, that and another that I can't make much of, about, 
 ' Behold, thou art fair, my love — behold, thou art fair. ' Say, 
 Lila, ' ' he burst out, ' ' do you sometimes have things just pop 
 into your head all fuz2y with — oh, well, say feeling good and 
 you don't know why, and you are just too happy to eat? 
 I do." 
 
 He paused and looked into her bright, unformed face with 
 the fleeting cloud of sadness trailing its blind way across 
 her heart. 
 
 "And say, Lila — why, this morning when I was out there 
 all alone I just sang at the top of my voice, I felt so bang-up 
 dandy — and — I tell you something — honest, I kept thinking 
 of you all the time — you and the hills and a dove's eyes. It 
 just tasted good way down in me — you ever feel that way?" 
 
 Again the girl danced her answer and sent the words she 
 could not speak through her eyes and his to his innermost 
 consciousness. 
 
452 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "But honest, Lila — don't you ever feel that way — kind of 
 creepy with good feeling — tickledy and crawly, as though 
 you'd swallowed a candy caterpillar and was letting it go 
 down slow — slow, slow, to get every bit of it — say, honest, 
 don't you? I do. It's just fine— out on the prairie all alone 
 with big bursting thoughts bumping you all the time — gee !" 
 
 They were sitting on the steps when he finished and his 
 heel was denting the sod. She was entranced by what she 
 saw in his eyes. 
 
 ' ' Of course, Kenyon, ' ' she answered finally. ' ' Girls are — 
 oh, different, I guess. I dream things like that, and some- 
 times mornings when I'm wiping dishes I think 'em — and 
 drop dishes — and whoopee! But I don't know — girls are 
 not so woozy and slazy inside them as boys. Kenyon, let me 
 tell you something: Girls pretend to be and aren't — not 
 half; and boys pretend they aren't and are — lots more." 
 
 She gazed up at him in an unblinking joy of adoration as 
 shameless as the heart of a violet baring itself to the sun. 
 Then she shut her eyes and the lad caught up his instrument 
 and cried: 
 
 "Come on, Lila, — come in the house. I've got to play out 
 something — something I found out on the prairie to-day 
 about 'mine eyes unto the hills' and 'the eyes of the dove' 
 and the woozy, fuzzy, happy, creepy thoughts of you all the 
 time." 
 
 He was inside the door with the violin in his hands. As 
 she closed the door he put his head down to the brown violin 
 as if to hear it sing, and whispered slowly : 
 
 "Oh, Lila — listen — just hear this." 
 
 And then it came! "The Spring Sun," it is known pop- 
 ularly. But in the book of his collected music it appears as 
 "Allegro in B." It is the throb of joy of young life asking 
 the unanswerable question of God : what does it mean — this 
 new, fair, wonderful world full of life and birth, and joy; 
 charged with mystery, enveloped in strange, unsolved gran- 
 deur, like the cloud pictures that float and puzzle us and 
 break and reform and paint all Heaven in their beauty and 
 then resolve themselves into nothing. Many people think 
 this is Kenyon Adams's most beautiful and poetic message. 
 Certainly in the expression of the gayety and the weird, 
 
THE FELLOW AND THE GIRL 453 
 
 vague mysticism of youth and poignant joy he never reached 
 that height again. Death is ignored; it is all life and the 
 aspirations of life and the beckonings of life and the ban- 
 tering of life and the deep, awful, inexorable call of life to 
 youth. Other messages of Kenyon Adams are more pro- 
 found, more comforting to the hearts and the minds of rea- 
 soning, questioning men. But this Allegro in B is the song 
 of youth, of early youth, bidding childhood adieu and turn- 
 ing to life with shining countenance and burning heart. 
 
 When he had finished playing he was in tears, and the girl 
 sitting before him was awestricken and rapt as she sat with 
 upturned face with the miracle of song thrilling her soul. 
 Let us leave them there in that first curious, unrealized 
 signaling of soul to soul. And now let us go on into this 
 story, and remember these children, as children still, who do 
 not know that they have opened the great golden door into 
 life! 
 
CHAPTER XLI 
 
 HERE WE SEE GRANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS THIRD AND LAST 
 
 DEVIL 
 
 IN the ebb and flow of life every generation sees its waves 
 of altruism washing in. But in the ebb of altruism in 
 America that followed the Civil "War, Amos Adams's 
 ship of dreams was left high and dry in the salt marsh. 
 Finally a time came when the tide began to boom in. But 
 in no substantial way did his newspaper feel the impulse of 
 the current. The Tribune was an old hulk ; it could not ride 
 the tide. And its skipper, seedy, broken with the years, 
 always too gentle for the world about him, even at his best, 
 ever ready to stop work to read a book, Amos Adams, who 
 had been a crank for a third of a century, remained a crank 
 when much that he preached in earlier years was accepted 
 by the multitude. 
 
 Amos Adams might have made the Harvey Tribune a 
 financial success if he could have brought himself to follow 
 John Kollander's advice. But Amos could not abide the 
 presence much less the counsel of the professional patriot, 
 with his insistent blue uniform and brass buttons. Under 
 an elaborate pretense of independence, John Kollander was 
 a limber-kneed time-server, always keen-eyed for the crumbs 
 of Dives' table; odd jobs in receiverships, odd jobs in law- 
 suits for Daniel Sands — as, for instance, furnishing unex- 
 pected witnesses to prove improbable contentions — odd jobs 
 in his church, odd jobs in his party organization, always 
 carrying a per diem and expenses ; odd jobs for the Commer- 
 cial Club, where the pay was sure; odd jobs for Tom Van 
 Dorn, spreading slander by innuendo where it would do the 
 most good for Tom in his business; odd jobs for Tom and 
 Dick and for Harry, but always for the immediate use and 
 benefit of John Kollander, his heirs and assigns. But if 
 Amos Adams ever thought of himself, it was by inadver- 
 
 454 
 
GEANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS DEVIL 455 
 
 tence. He managed, Heaven only knows how, to keep the 
 Tribune going. Jasper bought back from the man who fore- 
 closed the mortgage, his father's homestead. He rented it 
 to his father for a dollar a year and ostentatiously gave the 
 dollar to the Lord — so ostentatiously, indeed, that when 
 Henry Fenn gayly referred to Amos, Grant and Jasper as 
 Father, Son and Holy Ghost, the town smiled at his impiety, 
 but the holy Jasper boarded at the Hotel Sands, was made 
 a partner at "Wright & Perry's, and became a bank director 
 at thirty. For Jasper was a Sands ! 
 
 The day after Amos Adams and Tom Van Dorn had met 
 in the Serenity of Books and Wallpaper at Brotherton 's, 
 Grant was in the Tribune office. "Grant," the father was 
 getting down from his high stool to dump his type on the 
 galley ; ' ' Grant, I had a tiff with Tom Van Dorn yesterday. 
 Lord, Lord," cried the old man, as he bent over, straighten- 
 ing some type that his nervous hand had knocked down. "I 
 wonder, Grant" — the father rose and put his hand on his 
 back, as he stood looking into his son's face — "I wonder if 
 all that we feel, all that we believe, all that we strive and 
 live for — is a dream? Are we chasing shadows? Isn't it 
 wiser to conform, to think of ourselves first and others 
 afterward — to go with the current of life and not against it ? 
 Of course, my guides — " 
 
 "Father," cried Grant, "I saw Tom Van Dorn yesterday, 
 too, in his big new car — and I don't need your guides to 
 tell me who is moving with the current and who is buffeting 
 it. Oh, father, that hell-scorched face — don't talk to me 
 about his faith and mine!" The old man remounted his 
 printer's stool for another half -hour's work before dusk 
 deepened, and smiled as he pulled his steel spectacles over 
 his clear old eyes. 
 
 One would fancy that a man whose face was as seamed 
 and scarred with time and struggle as Grant Adams's face, 
 would have said nothing of the hell-scorched face of Tom 
 Van Dorn. Yet for all its lines, youth still shone from 
 Grant Adams's countenance. His wide, candid blue eyes 
 were still boyish, and a soul so eager with hope that it some- 
 times blazed into a mad intolerance, gazed into the world 
 from behind them. Even his arm and claw became an ani- 
 
456 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 mate hand when Grant waved them as he talked; and his 
 wide, pugnacious shoulders, his shock of nonconforming red 
 hair, his towering body, and his solid workman 's legs, firm as 
 oak beams, — all, — claw, arms, shoulders, trunk and legs, — 
 translated into human understanding the rebel soul of Grant 
 Adams. 
 
 Yet the rebellion of Grant Adams's soul was no new thing 
 to the world. He was treading the rough road that lies 
 under the feet of all those who try to divert their lives from 
 the hard and wicked morals of their times. For the king- 
 doms of this earth are organized for those who devote them- 
 selves chiefly, though of course not wholly, to the considera- 
 tion of self. The world is still vastly egoistic in its balance. 
 And the unbroken struggle of progress from Abel to yes- 
 terday's reformer, has been, is, and shall be the battle with 
 the spirit that chains us to the selfish, accepted order of the 
 passing day. So Grant Adams 's face was battle scarred, but 
 his soul, strong and exultant, burst through his flesh and 
 showed itself at many angles of his being. And a grim and 
 militant thing it looked. The flinty features of the man, his 
 coarse mouth, his indomitable blue eyes, his red poll, waving 
 like a banner above his challenging forehead, wrinkled and 
 seamed and gashed with the troubles of harsh circumstance, 
 his great animal jaw at the base of the spiritual tower of his 
 countenance — all showed forth the warrior's soul, the war- 
 rior of the rebellion that is as old as time and as new as 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Working with his hands for a bare livelihood, but sitting 
 at his desk four or five days in the week and speaking at 
 night, month after month, year after year, for nearly twenty 
 years, without rest or change, had taken much of the bounce 
 of youth from his body. He knew how the money from the 
 accumulated dues was piling up in the Labor Union's war 
 chest in the valley. He had proved what a trade solidarity 
 in an industrial district could do for the men without strikes 
 by its potential strength. Black powder, which killed like 
 the pestilence that stalketh in darkness, was gone. Electric 
 lights had superseded torches in the runways of the mines. 
 Bathhouses were found in all the shafts. In the smelters 
 the long, killing hours were abandoned and a score of safety 
 
GRANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS DEVIL 457 
 
 devices were introduced. But each gain for labor had come 
 after a bitter struggle with the employers. So the whole 
 history of the Wahoo Valley was written in the lines of his 
 broken face. 
 
 The reformer with his iridescent dream of progress often 
 hangs its realization upon a single phase of change. Thus 
 when Grant Adams banished black powder from the district, 
 he expected the whole phantasm of dawn to usher in the 
 perfect day for the miners. When he secured electric lights 
 in the runways and baths in the shaft house, he confidently 
 expected large things to follow. While large things hesi- 
 tated, he saw another need and hurried to it. 
 
 Thus it happened, that in the hurrying after a new need, 
 Grant Adams had always remained in his own district, 
 except for a brief season when he and Dr. Nesbit sallied 
 forth in a State-wide campaign to defend the Doctor's law 
 to compel employers to pay workmen for industrial acci- 
 dents, as the employers replace broken machinery — a law 
 which the Doctor had pushed through the Legislature and 
 which was before the people for a referendum vote. When 
 Grant went out of the Wahoo Valley district he attracted 
 curious crowds, crowds that came to see the queer labor leader 
 who won without strikes. And when the crowds came under 
 Grant's spell, he convinced them. For he felt intensely. 
 He believed that this law would right a whole train of inci- 
 dental wrongs of labor. So he threw himself into the fight 
 with a crusader's ardor. Grant and the Doctor journeyed 
 over the State through July and August ; and in September 
 the wily Doctor trapped Tom Van Dorn into a series of 
 joint debates with Grant that advertised the cause widely 
 and well. From these debates Grant Adams emerged a 
 somebody in politics. For oratory, however polished, and 
 scholarship, however plausible, cannot -stand before the 
 wrath of an indignant man in a righteous cause who can 
 handle himself and suppress his wrath upon the platform. 
 
 As the week of the debate dragged on and as the pageant 
 of it trailed clear across the State, with crowds hooting and 
 cheering, Doctor Nesbit 's cup of joy ran over. And when 
 Van Dorn failed to appear for the Saturday meeting at the 
 capital, the Doctor's happiness mounted to glee. 
 
458 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 That night, long after the midnight which ended the day's 
 triumph, Grant and the Doctor were sitting on a baggage 
 truck at a way station waiting for a belated train. Grant 
 was in the full current of his passion. Personal triumph 
 meant little to him — the cause everything. His heart was 
 afire with a lust to win. The Doctor kept looking at Grant 
 with curious eyes — appraising eyes, indeed — from time ,to 
 time as the younger man's interminable stream of talk of 
 the Cause flowed on. But the Doctor had his passion also. 
 When it burst its bonds, he was saying: "Look here, you 
 crazy man — take a reef in your canvas picture of jocund 
 day upon the misty mountain tops — get down to grass 
 roots." Grant turned an exalted face upon the Doctor in 
 astonishment. The Doctor went on : 
 
 ' ' Grant, I can give the concert all right — but, young man, 
 you are selling the soap. That's a great argument you have 
 been making this week, Grant." 
 
 "There wasn't much to my argument, Doctor," answered 
 Grant, absently, "though it was a righteous cause. All I 
 did was to make an appeal to the pocketbooks of Market 
 Street all over the State, showing the merchants and farm- 
 ers that the more the laboring man receives the more he will 
 spend, and if he is paid for his accidents he will buy more 
 prunes and calico ; whereas, if he is not paid he will burden 
 the taxes as a pauper. Tom couldn't overcome that argu- 
 ment, but in the long run, our cause will not be won per- 
 manently and definitely by the bread and butter and taxes 
 argument, except as that sort of argument proves the justice 
 of our cause and arouses love in the hearts of you middle- 
 class people." 
 
 But Dr. Nesbit persisted with his figure. "Grant," he 
 piped, "you certainly can sell soap. Why don't you sell 
 some soap on your own hook? Why don't you let me run 
 you for something — Congress — governor, or something? 
 We can win hands down." 
 
 Grant did not wait for the Doctor to finish, but cried in 
 violent protest: "No, no, no — Doctor — no, I must not do 
 that. I tell you, man, I must travel light and .alone. I 
 must go into life as naked as St. Francis. The world is 
 stirring as with a great spirit of change. The last night 
 
GRANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS DEVIL 459 
 
 I was at home, up stepped a little Belgian glassblower to 
 me. I'd never seen him before. I said, 'Hello, comrade!' 
 He grasped my hands with both hands and cried 'Com- 
 rade! So you know the password. It has given me wel- 
 come and warmth and food in France, in England, in Aus- 
 tralia, and now here. Everywhere the workers are com- 
 rades!' Everywhere the workers are comrades. Do you 
 know what that means, Doctor ? ' ' 
 
 The Doctor did not answer. His seventy years, and his 
 habit of thinking in terms of votes and parties and factions, 
 made him sigh. 
 
 "Doctor," cried Grant, "electing men to office won't help. 
 But this law we are fighting for — this law will help. Doctor, 
 I'm pinning the faith of a decade of struggle on this law." 
 
 The Doctor broke the silence that followed Grant's decla- 
 ration, to say: "Grant, I don't see it your way. I feel 
 that life must crystallize its progress in institutions — politi- 
 cal institutions, before progress is safe. But you must work 
 out your own life, my boy. Incidentally," he piped, "I 
 believe you are wrong. But after this campaign is over, I 'm 
 going up to the capital for one last fling at making a United 
 States Senator. I've only a dozen little white chips in the 
 great game, five in the upper house and seven in the lower 
 house. But we may deadlock it, and if we do, — you'll see 
 thirty years drop off my head and witness the rejuvenation 
 of Old Linen Pants." 
 
 Grant began walking the platform again under the stars 
 like an impatient ghost. The Doctor rose and followed him. 
 
 "Grant, now let me tell you something. I am half in- 
 clined at times to think it's all moonshine — this labor law 
 we're working to establish. But Laura wants it, and God 
 knows, Grant, she has little enough in her life down there in 
 the Valley. And if this law makes her happy — it's the 
 least I can do for her. She hasn 't had what she should have 
 had out of life, so I'm trying to make her second choice 
 worth while. That 's why I 'm on the soap wagon with you ! ' ' 
 He would have laughed away this serious mood, but he 
 could not. 
 
 Grant stared at the Doctor for a moment before answer- 
 ing: "Why, of course, Dr. Nesbit, I've always known that. 
 
460 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 But — I— Doctor— I am consecrated to the cause. It is my 
 reason for living. ' ' 
 
 The day had passed in the elder's life when he could rise 
 to the younger man's emotions. He looked curiously at 
 Grant and said softly: 
 
 "Oh, to be young — to be young — to be young!" He 
 rose, touched the strong arm beside him. " 'And the young 
 men shall see visions. ' To be young — just to be young ! But 
 'the old men shall dream dreams.' Well, Grant, they are un- 
 important — not entirely pleasant. "We young men of the 
 seventies had a great material vision. The dream of an 
 empire here in the West. It has come true — increased one 
 hundred fold. Yet it is not much of a dream." 
 
 He let the arm drop and began drumming on the truck as 
 he concluded: "But it's all I have — all the dream I have 
 now. 'All of which I saw, and part of which I was,' yet," 
 he mused, "perhaps it will be used as a foundation upon 
 which something real and beautiful will be builded." 
 
 Far away the headlight of their approaching train 
 twinkled upon the prairie horizon. The two men watched it 
 glow into fire and come upon them. And without resuming 
 their talk, each went his own wide, weary way in the world 
 as they lay in adjoining berths on the speeding train. 
 
 At the general election the Doctor's law was upheld by a 
 majority of the votes in the State, but the Doctor himself 
 was defeated for reelection to the State Senate in his own 
 district. Grant Adams waited, intently and with fine faith, 
 for this law to bring in the millennium. But the Doctor had 
 no millennial faith. 
 
 He came down town the morning after his defeat, gay and 
 unruffled. He went toddling into the stores and offices of 
 Market Street, clicking his cane busily, thanking his friends 
 and joking with his foes. But he chirruped to Henry Fenn 
 and Kyle Perry whom he found in the Serenity at the close of 
 the day: "Well, gentlemen, I've seen 'em all! I've taken 
 my medicine like a little man ; but I won't lick the spoon. I 
 sha'n't go and see Dan and Tom. I'm willing to go as far 
 as any man in the forgiving and forgetting business, but the 
 Lord himself hasn't quit on them. Look at 'em. The devil's 
 mortgage is recorded all over their faces and he's getting 
 
GRANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS DEVIL 461 
 
 about ready to foreclose on old Dan! And every time Dan 
 hears poor Morty cough, the devil collects his compound 
 interest. Poor, dear, gay Morty — if he could only put up a 
 fight!" 
 
 But he could not put up a fight and his temperature rose 
 in the afternoon and he could not meet with his gymnasium 
 class in South Harvey in the evening, but sent a trainer 
 instead. So often weeks passed during which Laura Van 
 Dorn did not see Morty and the daily boxes of flowers that 
 came punctiliously with his cards to the kindergarten and 
 to Violet Hogan's day nursery, were their only reminders 
 of the sorry, lonely, footless struggle Morty was making. 
 
 It was inevitable that the lives of Violet Hogan and Laura 
 Van Dorn in South Harvey should meet and merge. And 
 when they met and merged, Violet Hogan found herself 
 devoting but a few hours a day to her day nursery, while 
 she worked six long, happy hours as a stenographer for 
 Grant Adams in his office at the Vanderbilt House. For, 
 after all, it was as a stenographer that she remembered her- 
 self in the grandeur and the glory of her past. So Henry 
 Fenn and Laura Van Dorn carried on the work that Violet 
 began, and for them souls and flowers and happiness bloomed 
 over the Valley in the dark, unwholesome places which death 
 had all but taken for his own. 
 
 It was that spring when Dr. Nesbit went to the capital 
 and took his last fling at State politics. For two months he 
 had deadlocked his party caucus in the election of a United 
 States Senator with hardly more than a dozen legislative 
 votes. And he was going out of his dictatorship in a golden 
 glow of glory. 
 
 And this was the beginning of the golden age for Captain 
 Morton. The Morton-Perry Axle Works were thriving. 
 Three eight-hour shifts kept the little plant booming, and 
 by agreement with the directors of the Independent mine, 
 Nathan Perry spent five hours a day in the works. He 
 and the Captain, and the youngest Miss Morton, who was 
 keeping books, believed that it would go over the line from 
 loss to profit before grass came. The Captain hovered about 
 the plant like an earth-bound spirit day and night, inter- 
 rupting the work of the men, disorganizing the system that 
 
462 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Nathan had installed, and persuading himself that hut for 
 him the furnaces would go dead and the works shut down. 
 
 It was one beautiful day in late March, after the November 
 election wherein the Doctor's law had won and the Doctor 
 himself had lost, that Grant Adams was in Harvey figuring 
 with Mr. Brotherton on supplies for his office. Captain 
 Morton came tramping down the clouds before him as he 
 swept into the Serenity and jabbed a spike through the 
 wheels of commerce with the remark : ' ' Well, George — what 
 do you think of my regalia — eh?" 
 
 Mr. Brotherton and Grant looked up from their work. 
 They beheld the Captain arrayed in a dazzling light gray 
 spring suit — an exceedingly light gray suit, with a hat of the 
 same color and gloves and shoe spats to match, with a red 
 tie so red that it all but crackled. "First profits of the 
 business. We got over the line yesterday noon, and I had a 
 thousand to go on, and this morning I just went on this 
 spree — what say?" 
 
 "Well, Cap, when Morty Sands sees you he will die of 
 envy. You're certainly the lily of the Valley and the bright 
 and morning star — the fairest of ten thousand to my soul! 
 Grant," said Brotherton as he turned to his customer, "be- 
 hold the plute ! " 
 
 The Captain stood grinning in pride as the men looked 
 him over. 
 
 " 'Y gory, boys, you'd be surprised the way that House- 
 hold Horse has hit the trade. Orders coming in from auto- 
 mobile makers, and last week we decided to give up making 
 the little power saver and make the whole rear axle. We're 
 going to call it the Morton-Perry Axle, and put in a big 
 plant, and I was telling Ruthy this morning, I says, 'Ruth,' 
 says I, 'if we make the axle business go, I'll just telephone 
 down to Wright & Perry and have them send you out some- 
 thing nobby in husbands, and, 'y gory, a nice thousand-mile 
 wedding trip and maybe your pa will go along for company — 
 what say?' " 
 
 He was an odd figure in his clothes — for they were ready- 
 made — made for the figure of youth, and although he had 
 been in them but a few hours, the padding was bulging at 
 the wrong places ; and they were wrinkled where they should 
 
GRANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS DEVIL 463 
 
 be tight. His bony old figure stuck out at the knees, and 
 the shoulders and elbows, and the high collar would not fit 
 his skinny neck. But he was happy, and fancied he looked 
 like the pictures of college boys in the back of magazines. 
 So he answered Mr. Brotherton 's question about the opinion 
 of the younger daughter as to the clothes by a profound 
 wink. 
 
 "Scared — scared plumb stiff — what say? I caught Mar- 
 thy nodding at Ruth and Ruthy looking hard at Marthy, and 
 then both of 'em went to the kitchen to talk over calling up 
 Emmy and putting out fly poison for the women that are 
 lying in wait for their pa. Scared — why, scared 's no name 
 for it — what say?" 
 
 "Well, Captain," answered Mr. Brotherton, "you are cer- 
 tainly voluptuous enough in your new stage setting to have 
 your picture on a cigar box as a Cuban beauty or a Spanish 
 seiiorita." 
 
 The Captain was turning about, trying to see how the 
 coat set in the back and at the same time watching the hang 
 of the trousers. Evidently he was satisfied with it. For he 
 said: "Well — guess I'll be going. I'll just mosey down 
 to Mrs. Herdicker's to give Emmy and Marthy and Ruthy 
 something to keep 'em from thinking of their real troubles — 
 eh?" And with a flourish he was gone. 
 
 When Grant's order was filled, he said, "Violet will call 
 for this, George ; I have some other matters to attend to. ' ' 
 
 As he assembled the goods for the order, Mr. Brotherton 
 called out, "Well, how is Violet, anyway?" Grant smiled. 
 "Violet is doing well. She is blooming over again, and 
 when she found herself before a typewriter — it really seemed 
 to take the curve out of her back. Henry declares that the 
 typewriter put ribbon in her hair. Laura Van Dorn, I be- 
 lieve, is responsible for Violet's shirt waists. Henry Fenn 
 comes to the office twice a day, to make reports on the 
 sewing business. But what he's really doing, George, is to 
 let her smell his breath to prove that he's sober, and so 
 she runs the two jobs at once. Have you seen Henry re- 
 cently?" 
 
 "Well," replied Brotherton, "he was in a month or so 
 ago to borrow ten to buy a coat — so that he could catch up 
 
464 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 with the trousers of that suit before they grew too old. He 
 still buys his clothes that way." 
 
 Grant threw back his red head and grinned a grim, silent 
 grin: "Well, that's funny. Didn't you know what is 
 keeping him away?" Again Grant grinned. "The day he 
 was here he came wagging down with that ten-dollar bill, 
 but his conscience got the best of him for lavishing so much 
 money on himself, so he slipped it to Violet and told her to 
 buy her some new teeth — you know she's been ashamed to 
 open her mouth now for years. Violet promised she would 
 get the teeth in time for Easter. And pretty soon in walks 
 Mrs. Maurice Stromsky — who scrubs in the Wright & Perry 
 Building, whose baby died last summer and had to be buried 
 in the Potter's field — she came in; and she and Violet got to 
 talking about the baby — and Violet up and gave that ten to 
 Mrs. Stromsky, to get the baby out of the Potter's field." 
 
 Mr. Brotherton laughed his great laugh. Grant went on : 
 
 "But that isn't all. The next day in walks Mrs. Maurice 
 Stromsky, penitent as a dog, and I heard her squaring her- 
 self with Violet for giving that old saw-buck of yours to the 
 Delaneys, whose second little girl had diphtheria and who 
 had no money for antitoxin. I never saw your ten again, 
 George," said Grant. "It seemed to be going down for the 
 last time." He looked at Brotherton quizzically for a second 
 and asked : 
 
 "So old Henry hasn't been around since — isn't that joy- 
 ous 1 Well — anyway, he '11 show up to-day or to-morrow, for 
 he's got the new coat; he got it this morning. Jasper was 
 telling me." 
 
 In an hour Grant, returning after his morning's errands, 
 was standing by the puny little blaze that John Dexter had 
 stirred out of the logs in the Serenity. The two were stand- 
 ing together. Mr. Brotherton, reading his Kansas City 
 paper at his desk, called to them: "Well, I see Doc Jim's 
 still holding his deadlock and they can't elect a United 
 States Senator without him!" 
 
 A telegraph messenger boy came in, looked into the Se- 
 renity, and said, "Mr. Adams, I was looking for you." 
 
 Grant signed the boy's book, read the telegram, and stood 
 dumbly gazing at the fire, as he held the sheet in his hand. 
 
GEANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS DEVIL 465 
 
 The fire popped and snapped and the little blaze grew 
 stronger when a log dropped in two. A customer came in — 
 picked up a magazine — called, "Charge it, please," then 
 went out. The door slammed. Another customer came and 
 went. Miss Calvin stepped back to Mr. Brotherton. The 
 bell of the cash register tinkled. Then Grant Adams turned, 
 looked at the minister absently for a moment, and handed 
 him the sheet. It read : 
 
 "I have pledged in writing five more votes than are 
 needed to make you the caucus nominee and give you a 
 majority on the joint ballot to-night for United States 
 Senator. Come up first train." 
 
 It was signed "James Nesbit." The preacher dropped his 
 hand still holding the yellow sheet, and looked into the fire. 
 
 "Well?" asked Grant. 
 
 "You say," returned John Dexter, and added: "It 
 would be a great opportunity — give you the greatest forum 
 for your cause in Christendom — give you more power than 
 any other labor advocate ever held in the world before." 
 
 He said all this tentatively and as one asking a question. 
 Grant did not reply. He sat pounding his leg with his 
 claw, abstractedly. 
 
 ' ' You needn 't be a mere theorist in the Senate. You could 
 get labor laws enacted that would put forward the cause of 
 labor. Grant, really, it looks as though this was your life's 
 chance. ' ' 
 
 Grant reached for the telegram and read it again. The 
 telegram fluttering in his hands dropped to the floor. He 
 reached for it — picked it up, folded it on his claw carefully, 
 and put it away. Then he turned to the preacher and said 
 harshly : 
 
 "There's nothing in it. To begin: you say I'll have 
 more power than any other labor leader in the world. I tell 
 you, labor leaders don't need personal power. "We don't 
 need labor laws — that is, primarily. "What we need is senti- 
 ment — a public love of the under dog that will make our pres- 
 ent laws intolerable. It isn 't power for me, it isn 't clean pol- 
 itics for the State, it isn't labor laws that's my job. My job, 
 
466 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 dearly beloved," he hooked the minister's hand and tossed it 
 gently, "my job, oh, thou of little faith," he cried, as a 
 flaming torch of emotion seemed to brush his face and kindle 
 the fanatic glow in his countenance while his voice lifted, 
 "is to stay right down here in the "Wahoo Valley, pile up 
 money in the war chest, pile up class feeling among the men 
 — comradeship — harness this love of the poor for the poor 
 into an engine, and then some day slip the belt on that en- 
 gine — turn on the juice and pull and pull and pull for some 
 simple, elemental piece of justice that will show the world 
 one phase of the truth about labor." 
 
 Grant's face was glowing with emotion. "I tell you, the 
 day of the Kingdom is here — only it isn't a kingdom, it's 
 Democracy — the great Democracy. It's coming. I must go 
 out and meet it. In the dark down in the mines I saw the 
 Holy Ghost rise into the lives of a score of men. And now 
 I see the Holy Ghost coming into a great class. And I must 
 go* — go with neither purse nor script to meet it, to live for it, 
 and maybe to die for it." He shook his head and cried 
 vehemently : 
 
 "What a saphead I'd be if I fell to that bait!" He 
 turned to the store and called to Miss Calvin. "Ave — is 
 there a telegraph blank in the desk?" 
 
 Mr. Brotherton threw it, skidding, across the long counter. 
 Grant fumbled in his vest for a pen, held the sheet firmly 
 with his claw and wrote : 
 
 "You are kindness itself. But the place doesn't interest 
 me. Moreover, no man should go to the Senate representing 
 all of a State, whose job it is to preach class consciousness to 
 a part of the State. Get a bigger man. I thank you, how- 
 ever, with all my heart. ' ' 
 
 Grant watched the preacher read the telegram. He read 
 it twice, then he said: "Well — of course, that's right. 
 That's right — I can see that. But I don't know— don't you 
 think— I mean aren't you kind of— well, I can't just express 
 it; but— " 
 
 "Well, don't try, then," returned Grant. 
 
 However, Doctor Nesbit, having something rather more 
 
GRANT ADAMS CONQUERING HIS DEVIL 467 
 
 than the ethics of the case at stake, was aided by his emo- 
 tions in expressing himself. He made his views clear, 
 and as Grant sat at his desk that afternoon, he read this in a 
 telegram from the Doctor : 
 
 "Well, of all the damn fools!" 
 
 That was one view of the situation. There was this other. 
 It may be found in one of those stated communications from 
 perhaps Ruskin or Kingsley, which the Peach Blow Philoso- 
 pher sometimes vouchsafed to the earth and it read: 
 
 ' ' A great life may be lived by any one who is strong enough 
 to fail for an ideal." 
 
 Still another view may be had by setting down what John 
 Dexter said to his wife, and what she said to him. Said he, 
 when he had recounted the renunciation of Grant Adams : 
 
 ' ' There goes the third devil. First he conquered the temp- 
 tation to marry and be comfortable ; next he put fame behind 
 him, and now he renounces power. ' ' 
 
 And she said: "It had never occurred to me to consider 
 Laura Van Dorn, or national reputation, or a genuine chance 
 for great usefulness as a devil. I'm not sure that I like your 
 taste in devils." 
 
 To which answer may be made again by Mr. Left in a com- 
 munication he received from George Meredith, who had re- 
 cently passed over. It was verified by certain details as to 
 the arrangement of the books on the little table in the little 
 room in the little house on a little hill where he was wont 
 to write, and it ran thus : 
 
 "Women, always star-hungry, ever uncompromising in their demand 
 for rainbows, nibbling at the entre' and pushing aside the roast, though 
 often adoring primitive men who gorge on it, but ever in the end 
 rewarding abstinence and thus selecting a race of spiritually-minded 
 men for mates, are after all the world's materialists." 
 
CHAPTER XLII 
 
 A CHAPTER WHICH IS CONCEENED LARGELY WITH THE LOVE 
 AFFAIRS OF "THE FULL STRENGTH OF THE COMPANY" 
 
 THIS story, first of all, and last of all, is a love story. 
 The emotion called love and its twin desire hunger, 
 are the two primal passions of life. From love have 
 developed somewhat the great altruistic institutions of 
 humanity — the family, the tribe, the State, the nation, and 
 the varied social activities — religion, patriotism, philan- 
 thropy, brotherhood. "While from hunger have developed 
 war and trade and property and wealth. Often it happens 
 in the growth of life that men have small choice in matters of 
 living that are motived by hunger or its descendant concerns ; 
 for necessity narrows the choice. But in affairs of the heart, 
 there comes wide latitudes of choice. It is reasonably just 
 therefore to judge a man, a nation, a race, a civilization, an 
 era, by its love affairs. So a book that would tell of life, 
 that would paint the manners of men, and thus show- their 
 hearts, must be a love story. "As a man thinketh in his 
 heart, so is he," runs the proverb, and, mind you, it says 
 heart — not head, not mind, but heart ; as a man thinketh in 
 his heart, in that part of his nature where reside his altruistic 
 emotions — so is he. 
 
 It is the sham and shame of the autobiographies that flood 
 and dishearten the world, that they are so uneandid in their 
 relation of those emotional episodes in life — episodes which 
 have to do with what we know for some curious reason as 
 "the softer passions." Caesar's Gaelic wars, his bridges, his 
 trouble with the impedimenta, his fights with the Helvetians 
 — who cares for them? "Who cares greatly for Napoleon's 
 expedition against the Allies? Of what human interest is 
 Grant's tale of the "Wilderness fighting? But to know of 
 Calpurnia, of her predecessors, and her heirs and assigns in 
 
 468 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 469 
 
 Caesar's heart; to know the truth about Josephine and the 
 crash in Napoleon's life that came with her heartbreak — if a 
 crash did come, or if not, to know frankly what did come; 
 to know how Grant got on with Julia Dent through poverty 
 and riches, through sickness and in health, for better or for 
 worse — with all the strain and stress and struggle that life 
 puts upon the yoke that binds the commonplace man to the 
 commonplace woman rising to eminence by some unimportant 
 quirk of his genius reacting on the times — these indeed would 
 be memoirs worth reading. 
 
 And whatever worth this story holds must come from its 
 value as a love-story, — the narrative of how love rose or fell, 
 grew or withered, bloomed and fruited, or rotted at the core 
 in the lives of those men and women who move through the, 
 scenes painted upon this canvas. After all, who cares that 
 Thomas Van Dorn waxed fat in the land, that he received 
 academic degrees from great universities which his masters 
 supported, that he told men to go and they went, to come 
 and they came? These things are of no consequence. Men 
 are doing such things every minute of every day in all the 
 year. 
 
 But here sits Thomas Van Dorn, one summer afternoon, 
 with a young broker from New York — one of those young 
 brokers with not too nice a conscience, who laughs too easily 
 at the wrong times. He and Thomas Van Dorn are upon the 
 east veranda of the new Country Club building in Harvey 
 — the pride of the town — and Thomas is squinting across the 
 golf course at a landscape rolling away for miles like a sea, a 
 landscape rich in homely wealth. The young New Yorker 
 comes with letters to Judge Van Dorn from his employers in 
 Broad Street, and as the two sip their long cool glasses, and 
 betimes smoke their long black cigars, the former judge falls 
 into one of those self-revealing philosophical moods that may 
 be called the hypnoidal semi-conscious state of common sense. 
 Said Van Dorn : 
 
 "Well, boy — what do you think of the greatest thing in 
 the world?" And not waiting for an answer the older man 
 continued as he held his cigar at arm 's length and looked be- 
 tween his elevated feet at the landscape : " ' Stay me with 
 flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ' Great 
 
470 IN THE HEART OP A POOL 
 
 old lover — Solomon. Rather out of the amateur class — with 
 his thousand wives and concubines ; perhaps a virtuous man 
 withal, but hardly a fanatic on the subject; and when he said 
 he was sick of love — probably somewhere in his fifties, — Solo- 
 mon voiced a profound man's truth. Most of us are. 
 Speaking generally of love, my boy, I am with Solomon. 
 There is nothing in it. " 
 
 The cigar in his finely curved mouth — the sensuous mouth 
 of youth, that had pursed up dryly in middle age — was 
 pointed upward. It stood out from a reddish lean face and 
 moved when the muscles of the face worked viciously in re- 
 sponse to some inward reflection of Tom Van Dorn. 
 
 He drawled on, ' ' Think of the time men fool away chasing 
 calico. I 've gone all the gaits, and I know what I 'm talking 
 about. Ladies and Judy O'Gradies, married and single, de- 
 cent and indecent — it's all the same. I tell you, young man, 
 there's nothing in it! Love," he laughed a little laugh: 
 "Love — why, when I was in the business," he sniffed, "I 
 never had any trouble loving any lady I desired, nor getting 
 her if I loved her long enough and strong enough. When 
 I was a young cub like you," Van Dorn waved his weed 
 grandly toward the young broker, "I used to keep myself 
 awake, cutting notches in my memory — naming over my con- 
 quests. But now I use it as a man does the sheep over the 
 fence, to put me to sleep, and I haven't been able to pass my 
 fortieth birthday in the list for two years, without snoozing. 
 "What a fool a man can make of himself over calico! The 
 ladies, God bless 'em, have got old John Barleycorn beaten 
 a mile, when it comes to playing hell with a man's life. 
 Again speaking broadly, and allowing for certain exceptions, 
 I should say—" he paused to give the judicial pomp of re- 
 flection to his utterances — "the bigger fool the woman is, 
 the greater fool a man makes of himself for her. And all 
 for what?" 
 
 His young guest interjected the word "Love?" in the 
 pause. The Judge made a wry face and continued : 
 
 "Love? Love — why, man, you talk like a school girl. 
 There is no love. Love and God are twin myths by which 
 we explain the relation of our fates to our follies. The only 
 thing about me that will live is the blood I transmit to my 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 471 
 
 children! We live in posterity. As for love and all the 
 mysteries of the temple — waugh — woof ! " he shuddered. 
 
 He put back his cigar into the corner of his hard mouth. 
 He was squinting cynically across the rolling golf course. 
 "What he saw there checked his talk. He opened his eyes 
 to get a clearer view. His impression grew definite and un- 
 mistakable. There, half playing and half sporting, like 
 young lambs upon the close-cropped turf, were Kenyon 
 Adams and Lila Van Dorn! They were unconscious of all 
 that their gay antics disclosed. They were happy, and were 
 trying only to express happiness as they ran together after 
 the ball, that flew in front of them like a mad butterfly. But 
 in the sad lore of his bleak heart, the father read the meaning 
 of their happiness. Youth in love was never innocent for 
 him. Looking at Lila romping with her lover, he turned sick 
 at heart. But he held himself in hand. Only the zigzag 
 scar on his forehead flashing white in the pink of his brow 
 betrayed the turmoil within him. He tried to keep his eyes 
 off the golf course. A sharp dread that he might transmit 
 himself in nature to posterity only through the base blood of 
 the Adamses, struck him. He closed his eyes. But the wind 
 brought to him the merriment of the young voices. A jeal- 
 ousy of Kenyon, and an anger at him, flared up in the father. 
 So Tom Van Dorn drew down the corners of his mouth — and 
 batted his furtive eyes, and put on his bony knee a mottled, 
 nervous hand, with brown splotches at the wrist, coming up 
 over the veined furrows that led to his tapering fingers, as he 
 cried harshly in a tone that once had been soft and mellif- 
 luous, and still was deep and chesty: "Still me with 
 flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love ! ' ' 
 
 He would have gone away from the torture that came, as 
 he stared at the lovers, but his devil held him there. He was 
 glad when a noise of saw and hammer at the lake drowned 
 the voices on the lawn. His gladness lasted but a moment. 
 For soon he saw the young people quit chasing their crazy 
 butterfly of a golf ball, and wander half way up the hill from 
 the lake, to sit in the snug shade of a wide-spreading, low- 
 branched elm tree. Then the father was nervous, because he 
 could not hear their voices. As he sat with the young broker, 
 snarling at the anonymous phantoms of his past which were 
 
472 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 bedeviling him, a gray doubt kept brushing across his mind. 
 He realized clearly that he had no legal right to question 
 Lila's choice of companions. He understood that the law 
 would not justify anything that he might do, or say, or think, 
 concerning her and her fortunes. Yet there unmistakably 
 was the Van Dorn set to her pretty head and a Van Dorn 
 gesture in her gay hands that had come down from at least 
 four generations in family tradition. And he had no right 
 even to be offended when she would merge that Van Dorn 
 blood with the miserable Adams heredity. His impotence in 
 the situation baffled him, and angered him. The law was 
 final to his mind ; but it did not satisfy his wrathful question- 
 ing heart. For in his heart, he realized that denial was not 
 escape from the responsibility he had renounced when he 
 tripped down the steps of their home and left Lila pleading 
 for him in her mother's arms. He bit his ragged cigar and 
 cursed his God, while the young man with Tom Van Dorn 
 thought, ""Well, what a dour old Turk he is !" 
 
 The hammering and sawing, which drowned the voices of 
 the young people under the tree, came from the new bathing 
 pavilion near by. Grant Adams was working on a two days' 
 job putting up the pavilion for the summer. He was out 
 of Van Dorn's view, facing another angle of the long three- 
 faced veranda. Grant saw Kenyon lying upon the turf, 
 slim and graceful and with the beauty of youth radiating 
 from him, and Grant wondered, as he worked, why his son 
 should be there playing among the hills, while the sons of 
 other men, making much more money than he — much more 
 money indeed than many of the others who flitted over the 
 green — should toil in the fumes of South Harvey and in the 
 great industrial Valley through long hard hours of work, 
 that sapped their heads and hearts by its monotony of 
 motion, and lack of purpose. As he gazed at the lovers, their 
 love did not stick in his consciousness — even if he realized it. 
 Their presence under the elm tree at midday rose as a prob- 
 lem which deepened a furrow here and there in his seamed 
 face and he hammered and sawed away with a will, working 
 out in his muscles the satisfaction which his mind could not 
 bring him. 
 
 As the two fathers from different vistas looked upon their 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 473 
 
 children, Kenyon and Lila beneath the elm tree were shyly 
 toying with vagrant dreams that trailed across their hearts. 
 He was looking up at her and saying : 
 
 "Lila — who are we — you and I? I have been gazing 
 at you three minutes while you were talking, and I see some 
 one quite different from the you I knew before. Looking 
 up at you, instead of down at you, is like transposing you. 
 You are strangely new in this other key. ' ' 
 
 The girl did not try to respond in kind — with her lips at 
 least. She began teasing the youth about his crinkly hair. 
 Breaking a twig as she spoke, she threw it carelessly at his 
 hair, and it stuck in the closely curled locks. She laughed 
 gayly at him. Perhaps in some way rather subtly than sud- 
 denly, as by a ghostly messenger from afar, he may have 
 been made aware of her beautiful body, of the exquisite lines 
 of her figure, of the pink of her radiant skin, or the red of 
 her girlish lips. For the consciousness of these things 
 seemed to spend his soul in joy. 
 
 The blazing eyes of Tom Van Dorn, squinting down upon 
 the couple under the tree, could see the grace that shone from 
 a thousand reactions of their bodies and faces. He opened 
 his mouth to voice something from the bitterness of his heart 
 but did not speak. Instead he yawned and cried : "And so 
 we rot and we rot and we rot." 
 
 Now it matters little what the lovers chattered about there 
 under the elm tree, as they played with sticks and pebbles. 
 It was what they would have said that counts — or perhaps 
 what they should have said, if they had been able to voice 
 their sense of the gift which the gods were bestowing. But 
 they were dumb humans, who threw pebbles at each other's 
 toes, though in the deep places of their souls, far below the 
 surface waves of bashful patter, heart might have spoken to 
 heart in passing thus : 
 
 "Oh, Lila, what is beauty? "What is it in the soul, run- 
 ning out glad to meet beauty, whether of line, of tone, of 
 color, of form, of motion, of harmony?" 
 
 And the answer might have been trumpeted back through 
 the deep : 
 
 "Maybe beauty is the God that is everywhere and every- 
 thing, releasing himself in matter. Perhaps for our eyes and 
 
474 IN THE HEAET OF A FOOL 
 
 ears and fingers, the immanent God had an equation, whose 
 answer is locked in our souls that are also a part of God — 
 created in his image. And when in curve or line, in se- 
 quence of notes or harmony, or in thrilling touch sense, the 
 equation is stated in terms of radiation, God seeking our 
 soul's answer, speaks to us." 
 
 But none of this trumpet call of souls reached the two 
 fathers who were watching the lovers. For one man was too 
 old in selfishness to understand, and the other had grown 
 too old in bearing others' burdens to know what voices speak 
 through the soul's trumpet, when love first comes into the 
 heart. So the hammers hammered and the saws groaned in 
 the pavilion, and a hard heart hammered and a soul groaned 
 and a tongue babbled folly on the veranda. But under the 
 elm tree, eyes met, and across space went the message that 
 binds lives forever. She picked up a twig longer than most 
 twigs about her, reached with it and touched his forehead 
 furtively, stroked his crinkled hair, blushing at her boldness. 
 His head sank to the earth, he put his face upon the grass, 
 and for a second he found joy in the rush of tears. They 
 heard voices, bringing the planet back to them; but voices 
 far away. On the hill across the little valley they could see 
 two earnest golfers, working along the sky-line. 
 
 The couple on the sky-line hurried along in the heat. The 
 man mopped his face, and his brown, hairy arms, and his big 
 sinewy neck. The woman, rather thin, but fresh and with 
 the maidenly look of one who isn't entirely sure what that 
 man will do next, kept well in the lead. 
 
 "Well, Emma — there's love's young dream all right." 
 He stopped to puff, and waved at the couple by the tree. 
 Then he hitched up his loose, baggy trousers, gave a jerk to 
 his big flowing blue necktie, let fly at the ball and cried 
 "Fore." When he came up to the ball again, he was red 
 and winded. "Emma," he said; "let's go have something 
 to eat at the house — my figure '11 do for an emeritus bride- 
 groom — won't it?" And thus they strolled over the fields 
 and out of the game. 
 
 But on another hill, another couple in the midst of a flock 
 of children attracted by one of Mr. Brotherton's smashing 
 laughs, looked down and saw Lila and Kenyon. The quick 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 475 
 
 eyes of love caught the meaning of the figures under the 
 tree. 
 
 "Look, mamma — look," said Nathan Perry, pointing to- 
 ward the tree. 
 
 " Oh, Nate, " cried Anne, " — isn 't it nice ! Lila and Ken- 
 yon!" 
 
 "Well, mamma — are you happy?" asked Nathan, as he 
 leaned against the tree beside her. She nodded and directed 
 their glances to the children and said gently, "And they 
 justify it— don't they?" 
 
 He looked at her for a moment, and said, "Yes, dear — 
 I suppose that's what the Lord gave us love for. That is 
 why love makes the world go around." 
 
 "And don't the people who don't have them miss it — my! 
 Nate, if they only knew — if these bridge-playing, childless 
 ones knew how dear they are — what joy they bring — just 
 as children — not for anything else — do you suppose they 
 would—" 
 
 "Oh, you can't tell," answered the young father. "Per- 
 haps selfish people shouldn't have children; or perhaps it's 
 the children that make us unselfish, and so keep us happy. 
 Maybe it's one of those intricate psychical reactions, like a 
 chemical change — I don't know! But I do know the kids 
 are the best things in the world." 
 
 She put her hand in his and squeezed it. "You know, 
 Nate, I was just thinking to-day as I put up the lunch — I'm 
 a mighty lucky woman. I've had all these children and kept 
 every one so far; I've had such joy in them — such joy, and 
 we haven't had death. Even little Annie's long sickness, and 
 everything — Oh, dear, Nate — but isn't she worth it — isn't she 
 worth it?" 
 
 He kissed her hand and replied, "You know I'm so glad we 
 went down to South Harvey to live, Anne. I can see — well, 
 here's the way it is. Lots of families down there — families 
 that didn't have anymore to go on than we had then, started 
 out, as we did. They had a raft of kids — " he laughed, 
 "just as we did. But, mamma — they're dead — or worse, 
 they're growing up under-fed, and are hurrying into the 
 works or the breaker bins. I tell you, Anne-^here 's the thing. 
 Those fathers and mothers didn't have any mork money than 
 
476 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 we had — but we did have more and better training than they 
 had. You knew better than to feed our kids trash, you knew 
 how to care for them — we knew how to spend our little, so 
 that it would count. They didn 't. "We have ours, and they 
 have doctors' and undertakers' bills. It isn't blood that 
 counts so much — as the difference in bringing up. We're 
 lovers because of our bringing up. Otherwise, we'd be fight- 
 ing like cats and dogs, I 'd be drinking, you 'd be slommicking 
 around in wrappers, and the kids would be on the streets." 
 
 The children playing on the gravel bank were having a 
 gay time. The mother called to them to be careful of their 
 clothes, and then replied : 
 
 "Nate, honestly I believe if I had two or three million 
 dollars, and could give every girl in South Harvey a good 
 education — teach her how to cook and keep house and care 
 for babies before she is eighteen, that we could change the 
 whole aspect of South Harvey in a generation. If I had just 
 two or three million dollars to spend — I could fill that town 
 just as full as Harvey of happy couples like us. Of course 
 there 'd be the other kind — some of them — just as there are 
 the other kind in Harvey — people like the Van Dorns — but 
 they would be the exception in South Harvey, as the Van 
 Dorns are the exception in Harvey. And two or three mil- 
 lion dollars would do it." 
 
 "Yes, mamma, — that's the hell of it — the very hell of it 
 that grinds my gizzard — your father and my father and 
 the others who haven 't done a lick of the work — and who are 
 entitled only to a decent interest and promoters' profits, have 
 taken out twenty million dollars from Soiith Harvey in 
 dividends in the last thirty years — and this is the result. 
 Hell for forty thousand people down there, and — you and I 
 and a few dozen educated happy people are the fruit of it. 
 Sometimes, Anne, I look at our little flock and look at you 
 so beautiful, and think of our life so glorious, and wonder 
 how a just God can permit it. " 
 
 They looked at the waving acres of blue-grass, dotted with 
 trees, at the creek winding its way through the cornfields, 
 dark green and all but ready to tassle, then up at the clear 
 sky, untainted with the smoke of Harvey. 
 
 Then they considered the years that "lay back of them. 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 477 
 
 "I think, Nate," she answered, "that to love really and truly- 
 one man or one woman makes one love all men and women. 
 I feel that way even about the little fellow that's coming. 
 I love him so, that even he makes me love everything. And 
 so I can't just pray for him — I have to pray for all the 
 mothers carrying babies and all the babies in the world. I 
 think when love comes into the world it is immortal. We die, 
 but the sum of love we live, we leave ; it goes on ; it grows. 
 It is the way God gets into the world. Oh, Nate," she 
 cried, "I want to live in the next world — personally — with 
 you — to know the very you. I don't want the impersonal 
 immortality — I want just you. But, dear — I — why, I'd give 
 up even that if I could be sure that the love we live would 
 never leave this earth. Think what the love of Christ did 
 for the earth and He is still with us in spirit. And I know 
 when we go away — when any lovers go away, the love they 
 have lived will never leave this earth. It will live and joy — 
 yes, and agonize too at the injustice of the world — live and 
 be crucified over and over again, so long as injustice exists. 
 Only as love grows in the world, and is hurt — is crucified — 
 will wrongs be righted, will the world be saved." 
 
 He patted her hand for a minute. 
 
 "Kyle, Nate, Annie — come here, children," cried the fa- 
 ther. After some repetition of the calling, they came troop- 
 ing up, asking: "What is it?" 
 
 "Nothing at all," answered the father, "we just wanted 
 to kiss you and feel and see if your wings were sprouting, so 
 that we could break them off before you fly away," where- 
 upon there was a hugging bee all around, and while every 
 one was loving every one else, a golf ball flew by them, and 
 a moment later the white-clad, unbent figure of Mrs. Bedelia 
 Satterthwaite Nesbit appeared, bare-headed and bare-armed, 
 and behind her trotted the devoted white figure of the Doctor, 
 carrying two golf sticks. 
 
 "Chained to her chariot — to make a Roman holiday," 
 piped the Doctor. "She's taking this exercise for my 
 health." 
 
 "Well, James," replied his wife rather definitely, "I know 
 you need it ! " 
 
 "And that settles it," cried the little man shrilly, "say, 
 
478 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 Nate, if we men ever get the ballot, I'm going to take a stand 
 for liberty. ' ' 
 
 "I'm with you, Doctor," replied the young man. 
 
 "Nate," he mocked in his comical falsetto, "as you grow 
 older and get further and further from your mother's loving 
 care, you'll find that there was some deep-seated natural rea- 
 son why we men should lead the sheltered life and leave the 
 hurly-burly of existence to the women. ' ' 
 
 From long habit, in such cases Mrs. Nesbit tried not to 
 smile and, from long habit, failed. "Doctor Jim," she cried 
 as he picked up her ball, and set it for her, "don't make a 
 fool of yourself." 
 
 The little man patted the earth under the ball, and looked 
 up and said as he took her hand, and obviously squeezed it 
 for the spectators, as he rose, 
 
 "My dear — it's unnecessary. You have made one of me 
 every happy minute for forty years," and smiling at the 
 lovers and their children, he took the hand held out for him 
 after she had sent the ball over the hill, and they went away 
 as he chuckled over his shoulder and cheeped: "Into the 
 twilight's purple rim — through all the world she followed 
 him," and trotting behind her as she went striding into the 
 sunset, they disappeared over the hill. 
 
 When they had disappeared Anne began thinking of her 
 picnic. She and Nathan left the children at the lake, and 
 walked to the club house for the baskets. On the veranda 
 they met Captain Morton in white flannels with a gorgeous 
 purple necktie and a panama hat of a price that made 
 Anne gasp. He came bustling up to Anne and Nathan and 
 said: 
 
 "Surprise party— I'm going to give the girls a little sur- 
 prise party next week — next Tuesday, and I want you to 
 come — what say? Out here — next Tuesday night — going 
 to have all the old friends — every one that ever bought a 
 window hanger, or a churn, or a sewing machine, or a Peer- 
 less cooker, or a Household Horse — but keep it quiet— sur- 
 prise on the girls, eh ? " 
 
 When they had accepted, the Captain lowered his voice 
 and said mysteriously: " 'Y gory— the old man's got some 
 ginger in him yet— eh?" and bustled away with a card in 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 479 
 
 his hands containing the names of the invited guests, check- 
 ing the Perrys from the list as he went. 
 
 As Captain Morton rounded the corner of the veranda and 
 came into the out-of-door dining room, he found Margaret 
 Van Dorn, sitting at a table by a window with Ahab Wright 
 — flowing white side whiskers and white necktie inviolate and 
 pristine in their perfection. Ahab was clearly confused 
 when the Captain sailed into the room. For there was a 
 breeziness about the Captain's manner, and although Ahab 
 respected the Captain's new wealth, still his years of poverty 
 and the meanness of his former calling as a peddler of in- 
 significant things, made Ahab "Wright feel a certain squeam- 
 ishness when he had to receive Captain Morton upon the 
 term which, in Ahab 's mind, a man of so much money should 
 be received. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dorn was using her eyes on Ahab. Perhaps 
 they cast the spell. She was leaning forward with her chin 
 in her hands, with both elbows on the table, and Ahab 
 Wright, of the proud, prosperous and highly respectable 
 firm of Wright & Perry, was in much the mental and moral 
 attitude of the bird when the cat creeps up to the tree-trunk. 
 He was not unhappy ; not terrorized — just curious and rather 
 resistless, knowing that if danger ever came he could fly. 
 And Mrs. Van Dorn, who had tired of the toys at hand, was 
 adventuring rather aimlessly into the cold blue eyes of Ahab, 
 to see what might be in them. 
 
 "For many years," she was saying, and pronounced it 
 "yee-ahs," having remembered at the moment to soften her 
 "r's," "I have been living on a highah plane wheyah one 
 ignoahs the futuah and foahgets the pahst. On this plane 
 one rises to his full capacity of soul strength, without the 
 hampah of remoahs or the terror of a vindictive Provi- 
 dence." 
 
 She might as well have been reciting the alphabet back- 
 wards so far as Ahab understood or cared what she said. 
 He was fascinated by her resemblance to a pink and white 
 marshmallow — rather over-powdered. But she was still for- 
 tifying herself from that little black box in the farthest 
 corner in the bottom drawer of her dresser — and fortifying 
 herself with two brown pellets instead of one. So she ogled 
 
4S0 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Ahab Wright by way of diversion, and sat in the recesses 
 of her soul and wondered what she would say next. 
 
 The Captain pulling his panama off made a tremendous 
 bow as Margaret was saying: "Those who grahsp the 
 great Basic Truths in the Science of Being—" and just as 
 the Captain was about to open his mouth to invite Ahab 
 Wright to his party, plumb came the ghastly consciousness to 
 him that the Van Dorns were not on his list. For the Van 
 Dorns, however securely they were entrenched socially 
 among the new people who had no part in the town's old 
 quarrel with Tom, however the oil and gas and smelter 
 people and the coal magnates may have received the Van 
 Dorns — still they were under the social ban of the only social 
 Harvey that Captain Morton knew. So as a man falling 
 from a balloon gets his balance, the Captain gasped as he 
 came up from his low bow and said : 
 
 "Madam, I says to myself just now as I looks over to 
 that elm tree yonder, ' ' he pointed to the place were Kenyon 
 and Lila were sitting, "soon we'll be having the fourth gen- 
 eration here in Harvey, and I says, that will interest Tom! 
 An 'y gory, ma'am, as I saw you sitting here, I says as it 
 was well in my mind, 'Here's Tom's lady love, and I'll just 
 go over and pass my congratulations on to Tom through the 
 apple of his eye, as you may say, and not bother him and the 
 young man around the corner there in their hoss trade, eh? 
 What say 1 " He was flushed and red, and he did not know 
 exactly where to stop, but it was out — and after a few spar- 
 ring sentences, he broke away from the clutch of his bungling 
 intrusion and was gone. But as the Captain left the couple 
 at the table, the spell was broken. Life had intruded, and 
 Ahab rose hastily and went his way. 
 
 Margaret Van Dorn sat looking out at a dreary world. 
 Even the lovers by the elm tree did not quicken her pulse. 
 Scarcely more did they interest her than her vapid adventure 
 with Ahab Wright. All romantic adventure, personal or vi- 
 carious, was as ashes on her lips. But emotion was not all 
 dead in her. As she gazed at Lila and Kenyon, Margaret 
 wondered if her husband could see the pair. Her first emo- 
 tional reaction was a gloating sense that he would be boiling 
 with humiliation and rage when he saw his child so obviously 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 481 
 
 and publicly, even if unconsciously, adoring an Adams. So 
 she exulted in the Van Dorn discomfiture. As her first spite- 
 ful impulse wore away, a sense of desolation overcame Mar- 
 garet Van Dorn. Probably she had no regrets that she had 
 abandoned Kenyon. For years she had nursed a daily horror 
 that the door which hid her secret might swing open, but that 
 horror was growing stale. She felt that the door was forever 
 sealed by time. So in the midst of a world at its spring, a 
 budding world, a world of young mating, a gay world going 
 out on its vast yearly voyage to hunt new life in new joy, a 
 quest for ever new yet old as God's first smile on a world 
 unborn, this woman sat in a drab and dreary desolation. 
 Even her spite withered as she sat playing with her tall 
 glass. And as spite chilled, her loneliness grew. 
 
 She knew better than any one else in Harvey — better even 
 than the Nesbits — what Kenyon Adams really promised in 
 achievement and fame. They knew that he had some Euro- 
 pean recognition. Margaret in Europe had been amazed to 
 see how far he was going. In New York and Boston, she 
 knew what it meant to have her son's music on the best con- 
 cert programs. Her realization of her loss increased her 
 loneliness. But regret did not produce remorse. She was 
 always and finally glad that the door was inexorably sealed 
 upon her secret. She saw only her husband angered by her 
 son's association with her husband's daughter, and when 
 malice spent itself, she was weary and lonely and out of 
 humor, and longed to retire to her fortification. 
 
 After Captain Morton had bowed himself away from Mar- 
 garet Van Dorn, he stood at the other end of the veranda 
 looking down toward the lake. The carpenters were quitting 
 work for the day on the new bathing pavilion and he saw 
 the tall figure of Grant Adams in the group. He hurried 
 down the steps near by, and came bustling over to Grant. 
 
 "Just the man I want to see! I saw Jap chasing around 
 the golf course with Ruthie and invited him, but he said 
 your pa wasn't very spry and mightn't be uptown to- 
 morrow, so you just tell him for me that you and he are 
 to come to my party here next Tuesday night — surprise 
 party for the girls — going to break something to them they 
 don't know anything about — what say? Tell your pa that 
 
482 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 his old army friend is going to send his car — my new car — 
 great, big, busting gray battleship for your pa — makes Tom's 
 car look like an ash cart. Don't let your pa refuse. I want 
 to bring you all up here to the party in that car in style — 
 you and Amos and Jap and Kenyon ! eh ? Say, Grant — tell 
 me — " he wagged his head at Kenyon and Lila still loitering 
 by the tree. "What's Kenyon 's idea in loafing around so 
 much here in Harvey? He's old enough to go to work. 
 "What say?" Grant tried to get it to the Captain that Ken- 
 yon 's real job in the world was composing music, and that 
 sometimes he tired of cities and came down to Harvey to get 
 the sunshine and prairie grass and the woods and the waters 
 of his childhood into his soul. But the Captain waved the 
 idea aside, "Nothing in the fiddling business, Grant — two 
 dollars a day and find yourself, is all the best of 'em make," 
 protested the Captain. "Let him do like I done — get at 
 something sound and practical early in life and 'y gory, man 
 ■ — look at me. What say?" 
 
 Grant did not answer, but when the Captain veered around 
 to the subject of his party, Grant promised to bring the whole 
 Adams family. A moment later the Captain saw the Sands 's 
 motor car on the road before them, and said: 
 
 "Excuse me, Grant — here are the Sandses — I've got to 
 invite them — Hi there, Dan'l, come alongside." While the 
 Captain was inviting Daniel Sands, the Doctor's electric 
 came purring up the hill to the club house driven by Laura 
 Van Dorn. Grant was trotting ahead to join the other car- 
 penters who were going to the street-car station, when Laura 
 passing, hailed him: 
 
 "Wait a minute, Grant, till I take this to father, and I'll 
 go with you." 
 
 As Laura Van Dorn turned her car around the club house, 
 she stopped it under the veranda overlooking the golf-course 
 and the rolling prairie furrowed by the slowly winding 
 stream. The afternoon sun slanting upon the landscape 
 brought out all its beauty — its gay greens, its somber, con- 
 trasting browns, and its splashing of color from the fruit 
 trees across the valley that blushed pink and went white in 
 the first unsure ecstasies of new life. Then she saw Ken- 
 yon and Lila slowly walking up the knoll to the road. 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 483 
 
 The mother noted with quick instinct the way their hands 
 jostled together as they walked. The look that flashed from 
 their eyes when their hands touched — the look of proprietor- 
 ship in each other — told Laura Van Dorn that her life's work 
 with Lila was finished. The daughter's day of choice had 
 come ; and whatever of honesty, whatever of sense, and senti- 
 ment, whatever of courage or conscience the mother had put 
 into the daughter's heart and mind was ready for its life- 
 long test. Lila had embarked on her own journey; and 
 motherhood was ended for Laura Van Dorn. 
 
 As she looked at the girl, the mother saw herself, but she 
 was not embittered at the sad ending of her own journey 
 along the road which her daughter was taking. For years 
 she had accepted as the fortunes of war, what had come to 
 her with her marriage, and because she had the daughter, the 
 mother knew that she was gainer after all. For to realize 
 motherhood even with one child, was to taste the best that 
 life held. So her face reflected, as a cloud reflects the glory 
 of the dawn, something of the radiance that shone in the two 
 young faces before her ; and in her faith she laid small stress 
 upon the particular one beside her daughter. Not his grow- 
 ing fame, not his probable good fortune, inspired her satis- 
 faction. When she considered him at all as her daughter's 
 lover, she only reflected on the fact that all she knew of 
 Kenyon was honest and frank and kind. Then she dismissed 
 him from her thoughts. 
 
 The mother standing on the hillock looking at the youth 
 and maiden sauntering toward her, felt the serene reliance in 
 the order of things that one has who knows that the worst 
 life can do to a brave, wise, kind heart, is not bad. For she 
 had felt the ruthless wrenches of the senseless wheels of fate 
 upon her own flesh. Yet she had come from the wheels 
 bruised, and in agony, but not broken, not beaten. Her peace 
 of mind was not passive. It amounted to a militant pride 
 in the strength and beauty of the soul she had equipped 
 for the voyage. Laura Van Dorn was sure of Lila and was 
 happy. Her eyes filled with grateful tears as she looked 
 down upon her daughter. 
 
 Her father, toddling ahead of Mrs. Nesbit a hundred paces, 
 reached the car first. She nodded at the young people 
 
484 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 trudging up the slope. "Yes," said the Doctor, "we have 
 been watching them for half an hour. Seems like the voice 
 of the turtle is heard in the land." 
 
 The daughter alighted from the runabout, her father got 
 in and waited for his wife. The three turned their backs 
 on the approaching lovers and pretended not to see them. 
 As Laura walked around the corner of the house, she found 
 Grant waiting for her at the car station, and the two having 
 missed the car that the other carpenters had taken, stood 
 under the shed waiting. 
 
 "Well — Laura," he asked, "are you leaving the idle rich 
 for the worthy poor?" She laughed and explained: 
 
 "The electric was for father and mother, and so long as 
 I have to go down to my girls' class in South Harvey this 
 evening for their picnic, I'm going to ride in your car, if 
 you don't mind?" 
 
 The street car came wailing down on them and when they 
 had taken a rear seat on the trailer together, Grant began: 
 "I'm glad you've come just now — just to-night. I've been 
 anxious to see you. I've got some things to talk over — 
 mighty big things — for me. In the first place — " 
 
 "In the first place and before I forget it, let me tell you the 
 good news. A telegram has just come from the capital to 
 father, saying that the State supreme court had upheld his 
 labor bill— his and your bill that went through the refer- 
 endum." 
 
 " 'Referendum J.' probably was the judge who wrote the 
 opinion," said Grant grimly. He took off his hat, and the 
 cooling breeze of the late afternoon played with his hair, 
 without fluttering the curly, wiry red poll, turning light 
 yellow with the years. ""Well, whoever influenced the court 
 —I'm glad that's over. The men have been grumbling for 
 a year and more because we couldn't get the benefits of the 
 law. But their suits are pending— and now they ought to 
 have their money." 
 
 As the car whined along through the prairie streets, Grant, 
 who had started to speak twice, at last said abruptly, "I've 
 got to cut loose." He turned around so that his eyes could 
 meet hers and went on : "Your father and George Brother- 
 ton and a lot of our people seem to think that we can patch 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 485 
 
 things up — I mean this miserable profit system. They think 
 by paying the workmen for accidents and with eight hours, 
 a living wage, and all that sort of thing, we can work out 
 the salvation of labor. I used to think that too; but it 
 won't do, Laura — I've gone clean to the end of that road, 
 and there's nothing in it. And I'm going to cut loose. 
 That's what I want to see you about. There's nothing in 
 this step-at-a-time business. I'm for the revolution!" 
 
 She showed clearly that she was surprised, and he seemed 
 to find some opposition in her countenance, for he hurried 
 on : " The Kingdom — I mean the Democracy of labor — is at 
 hand; the day is at its dawn. I want to throw my weight 
 for the coming of the Democracy. ' ' 
 
 His voice was full of emotion as he cried : 
 
 "Laura — Laura, I know what you think; you want me 
 to wait; you want me to help on the miserable patchwork 
 job of repairing the profit system. But I tell you — I 'm for 
 the revolution, and with all the love in my heart — I'm go- 
 ing to throw myself into it !" 
 
 No one sat in the seat before them, as they whirled through 
 the lanes leading to town, and he rested his head in his 
 hand and put his elbow on the forward seat. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked, looking anx- 
 iously into her troubled face. "I have been feeling strongly 
 now for a month — waiting to see you — also waiting to be 
 dead sure of myself. Now I am sure!" The mad light in 
 his eye and the zealot's enthusiasm flaming in his battered 
 face, made the woman pause a moment before she replied: 
 
 "Well," she smiled as she spoke, "don't you think you are 
 rather rushing me off my feet? I've seen you coming up to 
 it for some time — but I didn't know you were so far along 
 with your conviction." 
 
 She paused and then : "Of course, Grant, the Socialists — 
 I mean the revolutionary group — even the direct action 
 people — have their proper place in the scheme of things — 
 but, Grant — " she looked earnestly at him with an anxious 
 face, "they are the scouts — the pioneers ahead of the main 
 body of the troops! And, Grant," she spoke sadly, "that's 
 a hard place — can't you find enough fighting back witli the 
 main body of the troops — back with the army ? ' ' 
 
486 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 He beat the seat with his iron claw impatiently and cried : 
 "No — no — I'm without baggage or equipment. I'm trav- 
 eling light. I must go forward. They need me there. I 
 must go where the real danger is. I must go to point the 
 way." 
 
 "But what is the way, Grant — what is it? Tou don't 
 know — any more than we do — what is beyond the next dec- 
 ade's fight! What is the way you are going to point out 
 so fine and gay — what is it ? " she cried. 
 
 "I don't know," he answered doggedly. "I only know 
 I must go. The scouts never know where they are going. 
 Every great movement has its men who set out blindly, full 
 of faith, full of courage, full of joy, happy to fail even in 
 showing what is not the way — if they cannot find the path. 
 I must go," he cried passionately, "with those who leave 
 their homes to mark the trail — perhaps a guide forward, 
 perhaps as a warning away — but still to serve. I'm going 
 out to preach the revolution for I know that the day of the 
 Democracy of labor is at hand ! It is all but dawning. ' ' 
 
 She saw the exultation upon him that hallowed his seamed 
 features and she could not speak. But when she got herself 
 in hand she said calmly: "But, Grant — that's stuff and 
 nonsense — there is no revolution. There can be no Democ- 
 racy of labor, so long as labor is what it is. "We all want 
 to help labor — we know that it needs help. But there can 
 be no Democracy of labor until labor finds itself; until it 
 gets capacity for handling big affairs, until it sees more 
 clearly what is true and what is false. Just now labor is 
 awakening, is growing conscious — a little — but, Grant, come 
 now, my good friend, listen, be sensible, get down to earth. 
 Can't you see your fine pioneering and your grand scouting 
 won't help — not now?" 
 
 "And can't you understand," he replied almost angrily, 
 "that unless I or some one else who can talk to these people 
 does go out and preach a definite ideal, a realizable hope — 
 even though it may not be realized, even though it may not 
 take definite «hape — they will never wake up? Can't you 
 see, girl, that when labor is ready for the revolution — it won't 
 need the revolution? Can't you see that unless we preach 
 the revolution, they will never be ready for it? When the 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIKS OF THE COMPANY 487 
 
 workers can stand together, can feel class consciousness and 
 strike altogether, can develop organizing capacity enough to 
 organize, to run their own affairs — then the need for class 
 consciousness will pass, and the demand for the revolution 
 will be over? Can't you see that I must go out blindly and 
 cry discontent to these people?" 
 
 She smiled and shook her head and answered, "I don't 
 know, Grant — I don't know." 
 
 They were coming into town, and every few blocks the 
 car was taking on new passengers. She spoke low and almost 
 whispered when she answered : 
 
 "I only know that I believe in you — you are my faith; 
 you are my social gospel." She paused, hesitated, flushed 
 slightly, and said, "Where you go I shall go, and your people 
 shall be my people! Only do — Oh, do consider this well 
 before you take the final step. ' ' 
 
 "Laura, I must go," he returned stubbornly. "I am go- 
 ing to preach the revolution of love — the Democracy of labor 
 founded on the theory that the Holy Ghost is in every heart 
 — poor as well as rich — rich as well as poor. I'm not going 
 to preach against the rich — but against the system that 
 makes a few men rich without much regard to their talent, at 
 the expense of all the rest, without much regard to their 
 talents. ' ' 
 
 The woman looked at him as he turned his blue eyes upon 
 her in a kind of delirium of conviction. He hurried on as 
 their car rattled through the town: 
 
 "We must free master as well as slave. For while there 
 is slavery — while the profit system exists— the mind of the 
 slave and the mind of the master will be cursed with it. 
 There can be no love, no justice between slave and master — 
 only deceit and violence on each side, and I'm going out to 
 preach the revolution — to call for the end to a system that 
 keeps love out of the world." 
 
 "Well, then, Grant," said the woman as the car jangled 
 its way down Market Street, "hurrah for the revolution." 
 
 She smiled up at him, and they rode without speaking until 
 they reached South Harvey. He left her at the door of her 
 kindergarten, and a group of young girls, waiting for her, 
 surrounded her. 
 
488 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 When he reached his office, he found Violet Hogan work- 
 ing at her desk. 
 
 "You'll find all your mail opened, and I've noted the 
 things that have been attended to," she said, as she turned 
 to him. "I'm due over to the girls' class with Miss Laura — 
 I'm helping her to-night with her picnic." 
 
 Grant nodded, and fell to his work. Violet went on : 
 
 "The letters for your signature are here on my desk. 
 Money seems to be coming in. New local showing up down 
 in Magnus — from the tile works." She rose, put on her 
 coat and hat, and said as she stood in the door, "To-mor- 
 row will be your day in — won't it?" He nodded at his 
 work, and she called out, "Well, — bye, bye — I'll be in about 
 noon." 
 
 Daylight faded and he turned on the electric above his 
 desk and was going over his work, making notations on let- 
 ters for Violet, when he heard a footstep on the stairs. He 
 recognized the familiar step of Henry Fenn. 
 
 "Come in — come in, Henry," cried Grant. 
 
 Fenn appeared, saw Grant at his work, slipped into a chair, 
 and said: 
 
 "Now go right on — don't mind me, young man." Fenn 
 pulled a newspaper from his cheap neat coat, and sat read- 
 ing it, under a light that he made for himself at Violet's 
 desk. The light fell on his thin whitening hair — still coarse, 
 and close cropped. In his clean, washed-out face there was 
 the faded glow of the man who had been the rising young at- 
 torney thirty years before. Grant knew that Fenn did not 
 expect the work to stop, so he went on with it. "I'm going 
 to supper about eight o'clock," said Grant, and asked: 
 "Will that be all right?" 
 
 "Don't mind me," returned Fenn, and smiled with a 
 dim reflection of the old incandescence of his youth. 
 
 Fenn's hands trembled a little, but his eyes were steady 
 and his voice clear. His clothes were shabby but decent, 
 and his whole appearance was that of one who is making it 
 a point to keep up. When Grant had finished his corre- 
 spondence, and was sealing up his letters, Fenn lent a hand 
 and began : 
 
 "Well, Grant, I'm in trouble— Oh, it's not that," he 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 489 
 
 laughed as Grant looked quickly into the clean, alert old face. 
 "That's not bothered me for — Oh, for two years now. But 
 it's Violet — she wants me to marry her." He blurted it out 
 as if it had been pent in, and was hard to hold. 
 
 "Why — well — what makes you — well, has she proposed, 
 Henry?" asked the younger man. 
 
 "Naw — of course not," answered Fenn. "Boy, you don't 
 know anything about women." 
 
 Fenn shook his head knowingly, and winked one eye 
 slowly. "Children — she's set the children on me. You 
 know, Grant — " he turned his smile on with what candle- 
 power he could muster, "that's my other weakness — chil- 
 dren. And they're the nicest children in the world. But I 
 can't — I tell you, man, I can't," protested Mr. Fenn, as 
 if he believed Grant in league with the woman to kidnap 
 him. 
 
 "Well, then, don't," said Grant, rising and gathering up 
 his mail. 
 
 "But how can I help it?" Fenn cried helplessly. "What 
 can a man do? Those kids need a father. I need a 
 family — I've always needed a family — but I don't want 
 Violet — nor any one else." Grant towed him along to the 
 restaurant, and they sat alone. After Grant had ordered 
 his supper he asked, "Henry — why can't you marry Vio- 
 let? She's a sensible, honest woman — she's got over her 
 foolishness; what's wrong with her?" 
 
 "Why, of course, she is a good woman. If you'd see her 
 chasing out nights — picking up girls, mothering 'em, loving 
 'em, working with 'em — she knows their language; she can 
 talk to 'em so they get it. And I've known her time and 
 again to get scent of a new girl over there at Bessie Wilson's 
 and go after her and pull her out and start her right again. 
 I tell you, Grant, Violet has her weaknesses — as to hair 
 ribbons and shirtwaists and frills for the kids — but she's 
 got a heart, Grant — a mighty big heart. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Then why not marry her ? ' ' persisted Grant. 
 
 "That's just it," answered Fenn. 
 
 He looked hopelessly at Grant and finally said as he 
 reached his hands across the table and grasped Grant's big 
 flinty paw, "Grant — let me tell you something — it's Mar- 
 
490 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 garet. I'm a fool — a motley fool i' the forest, Grant, but I 
 can't help it; I can't help it," he cried. "So long as she 
 lives — she may need me. I don't trust that damn scoundrel, 
 Grant. She may need me, and I stand ready to go to hell it- 
 self with her if I live a thousand years. It's not that I want 
 her any more; but, Grant — maybe you know her; maybe 
 you understand. She used to hate you for some reason, and 
 maybe that will help you to know how I feel. But — I know 
 I'm weak — God knows I'm putty in my soul. And I'm 
 ashamed. But I mustn't get married. It wouldn't be fair. 
 It wouldn't be square to Violet, nor the kids, nor to any one. 
 So long as Margaret is on this earth — it's my job to stand 
 guard and wait till she needs me. ' ' 
 
 He turned a troubled, heartbroken face up to the younger 
 man and concluded, ' ' I know she despises me — that she loathes 
 me. But I can't help it, Grant — and I came to you to kind 
 of help me with Violet. It wouldn't be right to — well, to 
 let this thing go on." He heaved a deep sigh, then he 
 added as he fumbled with the red tablecloth, "What a fool 
 a man is — Lord, what a fool!" 
 
 In the end, Grant had to agree to let Violet know, by some 
 round about procedure devised by Mr. Fenn's legal mind, 
 that he was not a marriageable person. At the same time, 
 Grant had to agree not to frighten away the Hogan children. 
 
 The next morning as Grant and his father rode from 
 their home into town, Grant told his father of the invitation 
 to the Captain's party. 
 
 "If your mother could have lived just to see the Captain 
 on his grand plutocratic spree, Grant — " said his father. 
 He did not finish the sentence, but cracked the lines on the 
 old mare's back and looked at the sky. He turned his white 
 beard and gentle eyes upon his son and said, ' ' There was a 
 time last night, before you came in, when I thought I had 
 her. Some one was greatly interested in you and some new 
 project you have in mind. Emerson thinks well of it," said 
 Amos, "though," he added, "Emerson thinks it won't 
 amount to much — in practical immediate results. But I 
 think, Grant, now of course, I can't be sure," the father 
 rubbed his jaw and shook a meditative head, "it certainly did 
 seem to me mother was there for a time. Something kept 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 491 
 
 bothering Emerson — calling Grantie — the way she used to 
 — all the time he was talking ! ' ' 
 
 The father let Grant out of the buggy at the Vanderbilt 
 House in South Harvey, and the old mare and her driver 
 jogged up town to the Tribune office. There he creaked out 
 of the buggy and went to his work. It was nine o'clock 
 before the Captain came capering in, and the two old codgers 
 in their seventies went into the plot of the surprise party with 
 the enthusiam of boys. 
 
 After the Captain had explained the purpose of the sur- 
 prise, Amos Adams sat with his hands on his knees and 
 smiled. "Well — well, Ezry — I didn't realize it. Time cer- 
 tainly does fly. And it's all right," he added, "I'm glad 
 you're going to do it. She certainly will approve it. And 
 the girls — " the old man chuckled, "you surely will settle 
 them for good and all." 
 
 He laughed a little treble laugh, cracked and yet gleeful. 
 "Nice girls — all of 'em. But Grant says Jap's a kind of 
 shining around your Ruth — that's the singing one, isn't it? 
 Well, I suppose, Ezry, either of 'em might do worse. Of 
 course, this singing one doesn't remember her mother much, 
 so I suppose she won't be much affected by your surprise?" 
 He asked a question, but after his manner went on, "Well, 
 maybe it was Jap and Ruth that was bothering Mary last 
 night. I kind of thought someway, for the first time maybe 
 I'd get her. But nothing much came of it," he said sadly. 
 "It's funny about the way I've never been able to get her 
 direct, when every one else comes — isn't it?" 
 
 The Captain was in no humor for occult things, so he cut 
 in with : ' ' Now listen here, Amos — what do you think of me 
 asking Mrs. Herdicker to sit at one end of the table, eh? 
 Of course I know what the girls will think — but then," he 
 winked with immense slyness, "that's all right. I was talk- 
 ing to her about it, and she's going to have a brand new 
 dress — somepin swell — eh? By the jumping John Rogers, 
 Amos — there's a woman — eh?" 
 
 And tightening up his necktie — a scarlet creation of much 
 pride — he pulled his hat over his eyes, as one who has great 
 affairs under it, and marched double-quick out of the office. 
 
 You may be sure that some kind friend told the Morton 
 
492 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 girls of what was in store for them, the kind friend being 
 Mr. George Brotherton, who being thoroughly married, re- 
 garded any secret from his wife in the light of a real in- 
 fidelity. So he told her all that he and Market Street knew. 
 Now the news of the party — a party in whose preparations 
 they were to have no share, roused in the Misses Morton, 
 and their married sister, jointly and severally, that devil 
 of suspicion which always tormented their dreams. 
 
 "And, Emma," gasped Martha, when Emma came over 
 for her daily visit, "just listen! Mrs. Herdicker is having 
 the grandest dress made for the party! She told the girls 
 in the store she had twenty-seven dollars' worth of jet on it 
 — just jet alone." Here the handsome Miss Morton 
 turned pale with the gravity of the news. "She told the 
 girls to-day, this very afternoon, that she was going to take 
 the three o'clock morning train right after the party for New 
 York to do her fall buying. Fall buying, indeed! Fall 
 buying," the handsome Miss Morton's voice thickened and 
 she cried, "just because papa's got a little money, she 
 thinks—" 
 
 But what she thought Miss Morton never said, for Mrs. 
 Brotherton, still familiar with the gossip of the schoolhouse, 
 cut in to say: "And, Martha, what do you think those 
 Copini children say? They say father's got their father's 
 orchestra to practice all the old sentimental music you ever 
 heard of — 'Silver Threads Among the Gold,' and 'Do You 
 Love Me, Molly Darling,' and 'Lorena,' and 'Robin Adair,' — 
 and oh," cried Mrs. Brotherton, shaking a hopeless head, 
 "I don't know what other silly things." 
 
 "And yes, girls," exclaimed the youngest Miss Morton 
 flippantly, "he's sent around to the Music School for Miss 
 Howe to come and sing ' Promise Me ' ! " 
 
 "The idea!" cried the new Mrs. Brotherton. 
 
 "Why, the very idea!" broke out the handsome Miss 
 Morton, sitting by the dining-room table. 
 
 "The idea!'' echoed the youngest Miss Morton, putting 
 away her music roll, and adding in gasping excitement: 
 "And that isn't the worst. He sent word for her to sing 
 it just after the band had finished playing the wedding 
 march!" 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 493 
 
 Now terror came into the house of Morton, and when the 
 tailor's boy brought home a package, the daughters tore it 
 open ruthlessly, and discovered — as they sat limply with it 
 spread out in its pristine beauty on the sofa before them — 
 a white broadcloth dinner suit — with a watered silk vest. 
 Half an hour later, when a pleated dress shirt with pearl 
 buttons came, it found three daughters sitting with tight lips 
 waiting for their father — and six tigers' eyes glaring hun- 
 grily at the door through which he was expected. At six 
 o'clock, when they heard his nimble step on the porch, they 
 looked at one another in fear, and as he burst into the room, 
 each looked decisively at the other as indicating a command 
 to begin. 
 
 He came in enveloping them in one all-encompassing hug 
 and cried : 
 
 "Well 'y gory, girls, you certainly are the three graces, 
 the three fates, and the world, the flesh and the devil all in 
 one — what say?" 
 
 But the Morton daughters were not to be silenced. Ruth 
 took in a deep breath and began : 
 
 "Well, now see here, father, do you know what people 
 are saying about — " 
 
 "Of course — I was just coming to that, Ruthie," an- 
 swered the Captain. "Amos Adams he says, 'Well, Cap,' 
 say he, 'I was talking to Cleopatra and she says Queen Vic- 
 toria had a readin' to the effect that there was a boy named 
 Amos Ezra Morton Adams over on one of the stars in the 
 southwest corner of the milky way that would be busting into 
 this part of the universe in about three years, more or less' — 
 what say?" 
 
 The old man laughed and Ruth flushed red, and ran 
 away. The Captain saw his suit lying on the sofa. 
 
 "Somepin new — " interjected the Captain. "Thought 
 I'd kind o' bloom out; sort o' to let folks know that the 
 old man had a little kick in him yet — eh ? And now, girls — 
 listen; let's all go out to the Country Club for dinner to- 
 night, and I'll put on my new suit and you kind of rig Up 
 in your best, and we'll make what George calls a killing— 
 what say?" He put his hands in his pockets and looked 
 critically at his new clothes. The flight of Ruth had quieted 
 
494 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 Emma, but Martha came swooping down on him with "Now, 
 father — look here— about that Country Club party — " 
 
 The Captain shot a swift glance at Martha, and saw Emma 
 looking at him from the kitchen door. 
 
 ' ' What party ? " he exclaimed. ' ' Can 't I ask my girls out 
 for a little innocent dinner without its being called a party — 
 eh? Now, you girls get your things on and come on. As 
 for me, the limousine will be at the door at eight!" 
 
 He disappeared up the stairs and in the Morton house- 
 hold, two young women, woeful and heavy hearted, went 
 about their toilets, while in the Brotherton establishment, 
 one large fat man in suspenders felt the rush of sudden tears 
 on his shirt front and marveled at the ways of the sex. 
 "When the Mortons were in the midst of their moist and lu- 
 gubrious task, the thin, cracked little voice of the Captain 
 called out: 
 
 "Girls — before you go, don't forget to put that cold beef 
 on and stew it to-night for hash in the morning — eh ? ' ' 
 
 It was a beautiful party that Captain Morton gave at the 
 Country Club house that evening. And at the end of a most 
 gorgeously elaborate dinner, wherein were dishes whose very 
 names the Captain did not know, he rose among his guests 
 seated at the U-shaped table in the big dining room with 
 the heavy brown beams in the ceiling, a little old man by 
 his big chair, which stood beside a chair unoccupied. 
 
 "Friends," he said, "when a man gets on in his seven- 
 ties, at that uncertain time, when he does not know whether 
 to be ashamed of his years or proud of his age," he smiled 
 at Daniel Sands, who clicked his false-teeth in appreciation 
 of the phrase, "it would seem that thoughts of what the 
 poet calls 'the livelier iris' on the 'burnished dove' would not 
 inconvenience him to any great extent — eh ? At seventy-five 
 a young fellow 's fancy ought to be pretty well done lightly 
 turning to thoughts of love — what say? But by cracky — 
 they don't." 
 
 He paused. The Morton girls in shame looked at their 
 plates. "So, I just thought I'd have this little party to tell 
 you about it. I wanted to surprise the girls." There was 
 only a faint clapping of hands ; for tears in the eyes of the 
 three Morton daughters discouraged merriment. 
 
THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE COMPANY 495 
 
 "A man, as I was saying, never gets too old — never gets 
 too crabbed, for what my friend Amos's friend Emerson calls 
 'a ruddy drop of manly blood' — eh? So, when that 'ruddy 
 drop of manly blood' comes a surging up in me, I says I'll 
 just about have a party for that drop of manly blood! I'm 
 going to tell you all about it. There's a woman in my mind 
 — a very beautiful woman; for years — a feller just as well 
 breakdown and confess — eh? — well for years she's been in 
 my mind pretty much all the time — particularly since Ruthie 
 there was a baby and left alorn and alone — as you may say 
 — eh? And so," he reached down and grasped a goblet of 
 water firmly, and held it before him, ' ' and so, ' ' he repeated, 
 and his old eyes glistened and his voice broke, "as it was 
 just fifty years ago to-night that heaven opened and let her 
 come to me, before I marched off to war — so," he hur- 
 ried along, ' ' I give you this toast — the vacant chair — may it 
 always, always, always be filled in my heart of hearts ! ' ' 
 
 He could not drink, but sank with his head on his arms, 
 and when they had ceased clapping their hands, the old man 
 looked up, signaled to the orchestra, and cried in a tight, 
 cracked voice, "Now, dern ye — begin yer fiddlin'!" 
 
 Whereupon the three Morton daughters wept and the old 
 ladies gathered about them and wept, and Mrs. Hilda Her- 
 dicker's ton of jet heaved as in a tidal wave, and the old men 
 dried their eyes, and only Lila Van Dorn and Kenyon Adams, 
 holding hands under the table, really knew what it was all 
 about. 
 
 Now they have capered through these pages of this chapter 
 — all of the people in this story in their love affairs. Hand 
 in hand, they have come to the footlights, hand in hand they 
 have walked before us. We have seen that love is a passion 
 with many sides. It varies with each soul. In youth, in 
 maturity, in courtship, in marriage, in widowhood, in inno- 
 cence, and in the wisdom of serpents, love reflects the soul 
 it shines on. For love is youth in the heart — youth that 
 always beckons, that always shapes our visions. Love ever 
 sheens and shimmers brightly from within us; but what 
 it shows to the world — that is vastly different with each of 
 us. For that is the shadow of his inmost being. 
 
CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 WHEREIN WE FIND GRANT ADAMS CALLING UPON KENTON *S 
 MOTHER, AND DARKNESS PALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 
 
 ONCE in a while an item appeared in the Harvey 
 Tribune that might have been found nowhere else, 
 and for reasons. For instance, the issue of the Trib- 
 une that contained the account of the Captain's party also 
 contained this item, which Daniel Sands had kept out of 
 every other paper in town : 
 
 "Mortimer Sands, son of D. Sands of the Traders' Bank, has re- 
 turned from Arizona, where he has been seeking health. He is hopeful 
 of ultimate recovery." 
 
 Another item of interest appeared in the same issue of the 
 paper. It related that T. Van Dorn, former Judge of the 
 District Court, is in Washington, D. C., on legal business. 
 
 The Adams family item, which the paper never failed to 
 contain, was this: 
 
 "K. Adams will leave next week for New York, where his new opera, 
 'Rachel,' will have its first appearance next autumn. He will be 
 missed in our midst." 
 
 And for a paper with no subscribers and no patronage, it 
 is curious to note that the Tribune carried the news above 
 mentioned to all of Harvey, and all of Harvey discussed the 
 news. Not that the town did not know more or less of the 
 facts as hereinabove related ; but when a fact is read in print 
 it becomes something different from a fact. It becomes a 
 public matter, an episode in the history of the world. 
 
 In the same issue of the paper was a statement from Grant 
 Adams that he had decided to throw his life with the Social- 
 
 496 
 
DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 497 
 
 ists and with that group known as the revolutionary So- 
 cialists. Grant was enough of a personage, and the declara- 
 tion was short enough and interesting enough, to give it a 
 place in the newspapers of the country for a day. In the 
 State where he lived, the statement created some comment — 
 mostly adverse to Dr. Nesbit, whose political association with 
 Grant Adams had linked the Doctor's name with Grant's. 
 Being out of power, Dr. Nesbit felt these flings. So it hap- 
 pened that when, the Sunday following the announcement, 
 Grant came with his father and Kenyon in the rattling old 
 buggy up to the Nesbit home on Elm Street, Amos Adams 
 found a rollicking, frivolous, mischievous host — but Grant 
 Adams found a natty, testy, sardonic old man, who made no 
 secret of his ill-humor. 
 
 Kenyon found Lila, and the two with their music indoors 
 made a background for the talk on the veranda. Nathan 
 Perry, who came up for a pill or a powder for one of his 
 flock, sat for a time on the veranda steps. For all his friv- 
 oling with the elder Adams, Nathan could see by the way the 
 loose, wrinkled skin on the Doctor's face kept twitching when 
 Grant spoke, that the old man had something on his mind. 
 
 "Grant," cried the Doctor, in his excited treble, "do 
 you realize what an ornate, unnecessary, unmitigated con- 
 spicuous, and elaborate jack you've made of yourself? Do 
 you — young man ? Well, you have. Your revolution — your 
 revolution!" shrilled the old man. "Damn sight of revolu- 
 tion you'll kick up charging over the country with your 
 water-tank patriots — your — your box-car statesmen — now, 
 won't you?" 
 
 ' ' Here — Doctor, — come — be — ' ' 
 
 But the Doctor would not let Grant talk. The chirrup of 
 the shrill old voice bore in upon the younger man's protest 
 with, "Now, you let me say my say. The world's moving 
 along — moving pretty fast and generally to one end, and 
 that end is to put food in the bellies, clothes on the back, 
 and brains in the head of the working man. The whole trend 
 of legislation all over the world has gone that way. Hell's 
 afire, Grant — what more do you want ? We 've given you the 
 inheritance tax and the income tax and direct legislation to 
 manipulate it, and, by Ned, instead of staying with the game 
 
498 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 and helping us work these things out in wise administration, 
 you fly the coop, and go squawking over the country with 
 your revolution and leave me — damn it, Grant," piped the 
 little, high voice, sputtering with rage, "you leave me — with 
 my linen pants on a clothes-line four miles from home!" 
 
 Then slowly the little lines began to break in his loose skin. 
 A faint smile, then a grin and then a laugh, spread over the 
 old face, and he wiped his watering eyes as he shook his 
 head mournfully. 
 
 Grant was gathering himself to reply when Nate Perry 
 rasped in with his high-keyed Yankee voice : "I guess that 
 about covers my views, Grant — if any one should ask you." 
 
 The crusader rose in Grant: "It's you men who have no 
 sense," he cried. "You think because I declare war on the 
 profit system that I propose to sail out and overturn it with 
 a few bombs over night. Look here, men ; what I propose to 
 do is to demonstrate right here in the "Wahoo Valley, where 
 there are all sorts of laboring people, skilled, unskilled, con- 
 tinuous, overpaid and underpaid, foreign and American — 
 utterly unlike, incoherent, racially and industrially — that 
 they have in them capacities for organizing ; unused abilities, 
 untried talents that will make them worthy to take a higher 
 place in the economic scale than they now have. If I can 
 amalgamate them, if I can weld them into a consistent, coher- 
 ent labor mass — the Irish, the Slav, the Jews, the Italians, 
 the Poles, the French, the Dutch, the Letts, and the Mexi- 
 cans — put to some purpose the love of the poor for the poor, 
 so that it will count industrially, you can't stop the revolu- 
 tion." He was wagging his head, waving his stump of an 
 arm and his face showed the temperamental excitement that 
 was in him. 
 
 "Go ahead, Grant," said Perry. "Play out all your line 
 — show us your game. ' ' 
 
 ""Well, then — here's my game. For five years we've been 
 collecting a district strike fund — all our own, that doesn't 
 belong to any other organization or federation anywhere. 
 It's ours here in the "Wahoo. It's independent of any state 
 or national control. I've collected it. It's been paid be- 
 cause these men here in the Valley have faith in me. We 
 have practically never spent a penny of it. There are about 
 
DAKKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 499 
 
 ten thousand workers in the Valley — some, like the glass- 
 blowers, are the aristocracy of labor ; others, like the breaker 
 boys, are at the bottom of the scale. But we've kept wages 
 up, kept conditions as high as they are anywhere in the 
 country — and we 've done it without strikes. They have faith 
 in me. So we've assessed them according to their wages, 
 and we have on hand, with assessments and interest, over a 
 third of a million dollars." 
 
 He looked at Perry, and nodded his head at the Doctor. 
 "You fellows think I'm a cream-puff reformer. I'm not. 
 Now, then — I 've talked it over with our board — we are going 
 to invest that money in land up and down the Valley — put 
 the women and children and old men on it — in tents — during 
 the growing season, and cultivate that land in three-acre 
 tracts intensively. Our Belgian glassblowers and smelter 
 men have sent for their gardeners to teach us. Now it's 
 merely a question of getting the land and doing the prelimi- 
 nary organization. We want to get as much land as we can. 
 Now, there's my game. With that kind of a layout we can 
 win any strike we call. And we can prove to the world that 
 labor has the cohesive cooperating faculty required to man- 
 age the factories — to take a larger share of the income of 
 industry, if you please. That's my revolution, gentlemen. 
 And it's going to begin right here in the Wahoo Valley." 
 
 "Well," returned Nate Perry, "your revolution looks in- 
 teresting. It's got some new gears, at least." 
 
 "Go it while you're young," piped the Doctor. "In just 
 about eighteen months, you will be coming to me to go on 
 your bond — to keep out of jail. I 've seen new-fangled revo- 
 lutions peter out before." 
 
 "Just the same," replied Grant, "I've pinned my faith to 
 these men and women. They are now working in fear of 
 poverty. Give them hope of better things instead of fear 
 and they will develop out of poverty, just as the middle class 
 came out under the same stimulus. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know anything about that," interrupted Perry, 
 "but I do know that I could take that money and put three 
 thousand families to work on the land in the Wahoo Valley 
 and develop the best labor in the country." 
 
 He laughed, and Grant gazed, almost flared, so eager was 
 
500 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 his look, at Perry for a moment, and said: "When the day 
 of the democracy of labor comes — and it will come and come 
 soon — men like you will take leadership." 
 
 There was more high talk, and Nathan Perry went home 
 with his pill. 
 
 When he was gone, the music from indoors came to the 
 three men. "That's from his new opera, father," said 
 Grant, as his attention was attracted to the violin and piano. 
 
 "Good Lord," exclaimed the Doctor, "I've heard so much 
 of that opera that I caught myself prescribing a bar from 
 the opening chorus for the grip the other day!" 
 
 The two elder men looked at each other, and the Doctor 
 said, "Well, Amos — that's mostly why I asked you to come 
 up to-day. It wasn't for the society of your amateur revo- 
 lutionist — you may be sure of that. ' ' 
 
 The Doctor tempered his words with a smile, but they had 
 pricks, and Grant winced. "I suppose we may as well con- 
 sider Lila and Kenyon as before the house?" 
 
 "Kenyon came to me last night," said Grant, "wanting 
 to know whether he should come to father first, or go to Dr. 
 Nesbit, or — well, he wondered if it would be necessary to 
 talk with Lila's own father." All the grimness in Grant's 
 countenance melted as he spoke of Kenyon and the battered 
 features softened. 
 
 "And that is what I wish to talk about, Grant," said the 
 Doctor gently. "They don't know who Kenyon is — I mean, 
 they don't know about his parentage." Grant looked at 
 the floor. Slowly as the old shame revived in him, its flush 
 rose from his neck to his face and met his tousled hair. The 
 two old men looked seriously at one another. The Doctor 
 emphasized the solemnity of the occasion by lighting a pipe. 
 
 "I don't know — I really don't know what is right here," 
 he said finally. "Is it fair to Laura to let her daughter 
 marry the son of a woman who, more than any other woman 
 in the world, has wronged her? I'm sure Laura cherishes 
 no malice toward Kenyon 's mother. Yet, of course," the 
 Doctor spoke deliberately and puffed between his words, 
 "blood is blood. But I don't know how much blood is blood, 
 I mean how much of what we call heredity in human beings 
 is due to actual blood transmission of traits, and how much 
 
DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 501 
 
 is due to the development of traits by family environment. 
 I'm not sure, Amos, that this boy's bad blood has not been 
 entirely eliminated by the kindly, beautiful family environ- 
 ment he has had with you and yours. There seems to be 
 nothing of the Midlers in him, but his face and his music — 
 I take it his music is of German origin." 
 
 "I don't know — I don't know, Doctor," answered Amos. 
 "I've tried to take him apart, and put him together again, 
 but I can't find where the parts belong." 
 
 And so they droned on, those three wiseacres — two oldish 
 gentlemen and a middle-aged man, thinking they could 
 change or check or dam the course of true love. While 
 inside at the piano on the tide of music that was washing in 
 from God only knows what bourne where words are useless 
 and passions speak the primitive language of souls, Lila and 
 Kenyon were solving all the problems set for them by their 
 elders and betters. For they lived in another world from 
 those who established themselves in the Providence business 
 out on the veranda. And on this earth, even in the same 
 houses, and in the same families, there is no communication 
 between the worlds. With our powerful lenses of memory 
 we men and women in our forties gaze earnestly and long at 
 the distant planets of youth, wondering if they are really in- 
 habited by real people — or mere animals, perchance — if they 
 have human institutions, reasonable aspirations or finite 
 intelligences. We take temperatures, make blood counts and 
 record blood pressure, reckon the heart-beats, and think we 
 are wondrous wise. But wig-wag as we may, signal with 
 what mysterious wireless of evanescent youth-fire we still 
 hold in our blood, we get nothing but vague hints, broken 
 reminiscences, and a certain patchwork of our own subcon- 
 scious chop logic of middle age in return. There is no real 
 communication between the worlds. Youth remains another 
 planet — even as age and childhood are other planets. 
 
 Now, after the three wise men had considered the star 
 glowing before them, they decided thus : 
 
 "Well," quoth the Doctor, "it seems absolutely just that 
 Lila should know who her husband is, and that Laura should 
 know whom her child is marrying. So far as I am con- 
 cerned, I know this Adams blood; I'll trust it to breed out 
 
502 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 any taint; but I have no right to decide for Lila; I have 
 no right to say what Laura will do — though, Grant, I know 
 in my heart that she would rather have her child marry 
 yours than to have anything else come about that the world 
 could hold for her. And yet — she should know the truth." 
 
 Grant sat with his head bowed, and his eyes on the floor, 
 while the Doctor spoke. Without looking up, he said: 
 "There's some one else to consider, Doctor — there's Mar- 
 garet — after all, it's her son; it's her secret. It's — I don't 
 know what her rights are — perhaps she's forfeited them. 
 But she is at least physically his mother." 
 
 The Doctor looked up with a troubled face. He ran his 
 hand over the place where his pompadour once used to rise, 
 and where only a fuzz responded to the stroke of his dry 
 palm, and answered: 
 
 ' ' Grant — through it all — through all the tragedy that she 
 has brought here, I've kept that secret for Margaret. And 
 until she releases me, I can never break my silence. A 
 doctor — one of the right sort- — never could. Whatever you 
 feel are her rights — you and she must settle. It must be 
 you, not I, to tell this story, even to my own flesh and 
 blood, Grant." 
 
 Grant rose and walked the long, straight stretch of the 
 veranda. His shoulders, pugnacious, aggressive, and defiant, 
 swayed as he walked heavily and he gazed at the floor as one 
 in shame. Finally he whirled toward the Doctor and said: 
 
 " I 'm going to his mother. I 'm going now. She may have 
 mighty few rights in this matter — she cast him off shame- 
 fully. But she has just one right here — the right to know 
 that I shall tell her secret to Laura, and I'm going to talk 
 to her before I tell Laura. Even if Margaret clamors against 
 what I think is right, I shall not stop. But I'm not going 
 to sneak her secret away without her knowing it. I suppose 
 that's about the extent of her rights in Kenyon: to know 
 before I tell his wife who he really is, so that Margaret will 
 know who knows and who does not know her relation to 
 him. It seems to me that is about the justice of the case." 
 The Doctor puffed at his pipe, and nodded a slow assent. 
 
 "Now's as good a time as any," answered the Doctor, and 
 added: "By the way, Amos— I had a telegram from Wash- 
 
DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 503 
 
 ington this morning, saying that Tom is to be made Federal 
 judge in the new district. That's what he's doing in Wash- 
 ington just now. He is one of those ostansible fellows," 
 piped the Doctor. "Ostensibly he's there trying to help 
 land another man; but Tom's the Van Dorn candidate." 
 
 He smoked until his pipe revived and added, "Well, Tom 
 can afford it; he's got all the money he needs." 
 
 Grant, who heard the Doctor's news, did not seem to be 
 disturbed by it. His mind was occupied with more personal 
 matters. He stood by a pillar, looking off into the summer 
 day. 
 
 "Well, I suppose," he looked at his clothes, brushed the 
 dust from the top of his shoes by rubbing them separately 
 against the calves of his legs, straightened his ready-made 
 tie and felt of the buttons on his vest, "I suppose," he re- 
 peated, "I may just as well go now as at any other time," 
 and he strode down the steps and made straight for the Van 
 Dorn home. 
 
 When he came to the Van Dorn house he saw Margaret 
 sitting alone in the deep shade of a vine-screened piazza. 
 She wore a loose flowing purple house garment, of a bizarre 
 pattern which accented her physical charms. But not until 
 he had begun to mount the steps before her did he notice 
 that she was sound asleep in a gaping and disenchanting 
 stupor. Yet his footstep aroused her, and she started and 
 gazed wildly at him: "Why — why — you — why, Grant!" 
 
 "Yes, Margaret," he answered as he stood hat in hand 
 on the top step before her, ignoring her trembling and the 
 terror in her eyes. "I've come to have a talk with you — 
 about Kenyon." 
 
 She looked about her, listened a second, shuddered, and 
 said with quivering facial muscles and shaky voice, "Yes — 
 oh, yes — about Kenyon — yes — Kenyon Adams. Yes, I 
 know." 
 
 The eyes she turned on him were dull and her face was 
 slumped, as though the soul had gone from it. A tremor was 
 visible in her hands, and the color was gone from her droop- 
 ing lips. She stared at him for a moment, stupidly, then 
 irritation came into her voice, as he sat unbidden in a porch 
 chair near her. "I didn't tell you to sit down." 
 
504 IN THE HEAET OF A FOOL 
 
 "No." He turned his face and caught her eyes. "But 
 I'll be comfortable sitting down, and we've got more or less 
 talking to do." 
 
 He could see that she was perturbed, and fear wrote itself 
 all over her face. But he did not know that she was vainly- 
 trying to get control of herself. The power of the little 
 brown pellets left her while she slept, and she was uncertain 
 of herself and timid. "I— I'm sick— well — I — I — why, I 
 can't talk to you now. Go 'way," she cried. "Go 'way, 
 won't you, please — please go 'way, and come some other 
 time." 
 
 "No — now's as good a time as any," he replied. "At 
 any rate, I'll tell you what's on my mind. Mag, now pay 
 attention." He turned his face to her. "The time has 
 come when Lila Van Dorn and her mother must know who 
 Kenyon is." 
 
 She looked vacantly at him, then started and chattered, 
 "Wh-wh-wh-wha-what are you s-s-sas-saying — do you 
 mean?" 
 
 She got up, closed the door into the house, and came tot- 
 tering back and stood by her chair, as the man answered : 
 
 "I mean, Maggie, exactly what I said. Kenyon wants to 
 marry Lila. But I think, and Doctor Nesbit thinks, that 
 before it is settled, Lila and her mother, and you might as 
 well include Mrs. Nesbit, must know just who their daughter 
 is marrying — I mean what blood. Now do you get my 
 idea?" 
 
 As he spoke, the woman, clutching at her chair back, tried 
 to quiet her fluttering hands. But she began panting and a 
 sickly pallor overcame her and she cried feebly: "Oh, you 
 devil — you devil — will you never let me alone ? ' ' 
 
 He answered, "Look here, Mag — what's the matter with 
 you? I'm only trying to play fair with you. I wouldn't 
 tell 'em until you — " 
 
 "Ugh!" She shut her eyes. "Grant — wait a minute. I 
 must get my medicine. I'll be back." She turned to go. 
 "Oh, wait a minute — I'll be back in five minutes — I promise, 
 honest to God, I'll be right back, Grant." She was at the 
 door. As she fumbled with the screen, he nodded his assent 
 and smiled grimly as he said, "All right, Maggie." 
 
DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 505 
 
 "When he was alone, he looked about him, at the evidence 
 of the Van Dora money in the temple of Love. The outdoor 
 room was furnished with luxuries he had never seen. He 
 sniffed as though he smelled the money that was evident 
 everywhere. Beside Margaret's chair, where she had 
 dropped it when she went to sleep, was a book. It was a 
 beautifully bound copy of the Memoirs of some titled harlot 
 of the old French court. He was staring absentmindedly 
 at the floor where the book lay when she came to the door. 
 
 She came out, sat down, looked steadily at him and began 
 calmly: "Now, what is it you desire?" 
 
 She said "desiah," and Grant grunted as she went on: 
 "I'm shuah no good can come and only hahm, great suffer- 
 ing — and Heaven knows what wrong, by this — miserable 
 plan. "What good can it do?" 
 
 Her changed attitude surprised him. ""Well, now, Mag- 
 gie," he returned, "since you want to talk it over sensibly, 
 I'll tell you how we feel — at least how I feel. The chief 
 business of any proper marriage is children. This marriage 
 between Kenyon and Lila — if it comes — should bring forth 
 fruit. I claim Lila has a right to know that he has my 
 blood and yours in him before she goes into a life partner- 
 ship with him." 
 
 "Oh, Grant, Grant," cried Margaret passionately, "the 
 sum of your hair-splitting is this : that you bring shame upon 
 your child 's mother, and then cant like a Pharisee about its 
 being for a good purpose. That 's the way with you — you — 
 you — " She could not quite finish the sentence. 
 
 She sat breathing fast, waiting for strength to come to 
 her from the fortifying little pill. Grant picked up his hat. 
 "Well— I've told you. That's what I came for." 
 
 She caught his arm and cried, "Sit down — haven't I a 
 right to be heard? Hasn't a mother any rights — " 
 
 "No," cut in Grant, "not when she strangles her mother- 
 hood?" 
 
 "But how could I take my motherhood without disgracing 
 my boy ? ' ' she asked. 
 
 He met her eyes. They were steady eyes, and were bright- 
 ening. The man stared at her and answered: "When I 
 brought him to you after mother died, a little, toddling, 
 
506 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 motherless boy, when I wanted you to come with us t» 
 mother him — and I didn't want you, Maggie, any more than 
 you wanted me, but I thought his right to a mother was 
 greater than either of our rights to our choice of mates — 
 then and there, you made, your final choice." 
 
 "What does God mean," she whined, "by hounding me all 
 my life for that one mistake ! ' ' 
 
 "Maggie — Maggie," answered the man, sitting down as 
 she sank into a chair, "it wasn't the one mistake that has 
 made you unhappy." 
 
 "That's twaddle," she retorted, "sheer twaddle. Don't 
 I know how that child has been a cancer in my very heart — 
 burning and gnawing and making me wretched? Don't I 
 know?" 
 
 "No, you don't, Mag. If you want the truth," replied 
 Grant bluntly, "you looked upon the boy as a curse. He 
 has threatened you every day of your life. The very love 
 you think you have for him, which I don't doubt for a 
 minute, Mag, made you do a mad, foolish, infinitely cruel, 
 spiteful thing — that night at the South Harvey riot. Per- 
 haps you might care for Kenyon's affection now, but you 
 can't have that even remotely. For all his interest in you 
 is limited by the fact that you robbed Lila of her father. 
 All your cancer and heart burnings, Mag, have been your 
 own selfishness. Lord, woman — I know you." 
 
 He turned his hard gaze upon her and she winced. But 
 she clearly was enjoying the quarrel. It stimulated her taut 
 nerves. The house behind her was empty. She felt free to 
 brawl. 
 
 "And you? And you?" she jeered. "I suppose he's 
 made a saint of you." 
 
 The man's face softened, as he said simply, "I don't 
 claim to be a saint, Mag. But I owe Kenyon everything I 
 am in the world — everything. " 
 
 "Well, it isn't much of a debt," she laughed. 
 
 "No," he repeated, "it's not much of a debt." After a 
 moment he added, "Doctor Nesbit has kept this secret all 
 these years. Now it's time to let these people know. You 
 can see why, and the only reason I came to you — " 
 
DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 507 
 
 "You came to me, Grant," she cried, "to tell me you were 
 going to shame me before that — that — before her — that old, 
 yellow-haired tabby, who goes around doing good! Ugh — " 
 
 Grant stared at her blankly a full, uncomprehensive min- 
 ute. Finally Margaret went on : " And I suppose the next 
 thing you long-nosed busybodies will do will be to get chicken 
 hearted about Tom Van Dorn's rights in the matter. Ah, 
 you hypocrites!" she cried. 
 
 "Well, I don't know," answered Grant sternly; "if Lila 
 should go to her father for advice — why shouldn't he have 
 all the facts?" 
 
 Margaret rose. Her bright, glassy eyes flashed. Anger 
 colored her face. Her bosom rose and fell as she exclaimed : 
 "But she'll not go to him. Oh, he's perfectly foolish about 
 her. Every time a photographer in this town takes her pic- 
 ture, he snoops around and gets one. He has her picture in 
 his watch, in which he thinks she looks like the Van Dorns. 
 When he goes away he takes her picture in a leather frame 
 and puts it on his table in the hotel — except when I'm 
 around." She laughed. "Ain't it funny? Ain't it 
 funny," she chattered hysterically, "him doddering the way 
 he does about her, and her freezing the life out of him?" 
 She shook with" mirth, and went on: "Oh, the devil's 
 coming round for Tom Van Dorn's soul — and all there is of 
 it — all there is of it is the little green spot where he loves 
 this brat. The rest 's all rotted out ! ' ' 
 
 She laughed foolishly. Then Grant said : 
 
 "Well, Mag — I must be going. I just thought it would be 
 square to tell you before I go any further. About the 
 other — the affair of Lila and her father is no concern of 
 mine. That's for Lila and her mother to settle. But you 
 and I and Kenyon are bound together by the deepest tie in 
 the world, Maggie. And I had to come to you." She 
 stared into his gnarled face, then shut her eyes, and in an 
 instant wherein they were closed she lapsed into her favor- 
 ite pose and disappeared behind her mask. 
 
 "Vurry kind of you, I'm shuah. Chahmed to have this 
 little talk again." 
 
 He gazed at the empty face, saw the drugged eyes, and 
 
508 IN THE HEAKT OF A POOL 
 
 the smirking mouth, and felt infinitely sad as a flash of hex 
 girlhood came back to his memory. "Well, good-by, Mag," 
 he said gently, and turned and went down the steps. 
 
 The messenger boy whom Grant Adams passed as he went 
 down the walk to the street from the Van Dorn home, put 
 a telegram into Mrs. Van Dorn's lap. It was from Wash- 
 ington and read : 
 
 "Appointment as Federal Judge assured. Notify Sands. Have Cal- 
 vin prepare article for Monday's Times and other papers.'' 
 
 She re-read it, held it in her hand for a time as she looked 
 hungrily into the future. 
 
 While Grant Adams and Margaret were talking, the two 
 old men on the porch, who once would have grappled with 
 the problems of the great first cause, dropped into cackling 
 reminiscences of the old days of the sixties and seventies 
 when they were young men in their twenties and Harvey was 
 an unbleached yellow pine stain on the prairie grass. So 
 they forgot the flight of time, and forgot that indoors the 
 music had stopped, and that two young voices were cooing 
 behind the curtains. Upstairs, Laura Van Dorn and her 
 mother, reading, tried with all their might and main to be 
 oblivious to the fact that the music had stopped, and that 
 certain suppressed laughs and gasps and long, silent gaps in 
 the irregular conversation meant rather too obvious love- 
 making for an affair which had not been formally recognized 
 by the family. Yet the formality was all that was lacking. 
 For if ever an affair of the heart was encouraged, was pro- 
 moted, was greeted with everything but hurrahs and ho- 
 sannas by the family of the lady thereunto appertaining, 
 it was the love affair of Kenyon Adams and Lila Van 
 Dorn. 
 
 The youth and the maiden below stairs were exceedingly 
 happy. They went through the elaborate business of love- 
 making, from the first touch of thrilling fingers to such pas- 
 sionately rapturous embraces as they might steal half 
 watched and half tolerated, and the mounting joy in their 
 hearts left no room for fear of the future. As they sat toy- 
 ing and frivoling behind the curtains of the wide living 
 room in the Nesbit home, they saw Grant Adams's big, awk- 
 
DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 509 
 
 ward figure hurrying across the lawn. He walked with 
 stooping shoulders and bowed head, and held his claw hand 
 behind him in his flinty, red-haired hand. 
 
 "Where has he been?" asked Kenyon, as he peered 
 through the open curtain, with his arm about the girl. 
 
 "I don't know. The Mortons aren't at home this after- 
 noon ; they all went out in the Captain 's big car, ' ' answered 
 the girl. 
 
 "Well, — I wonder — " mused the youth. 
 
 Lila snatched the window curtain, and closing it, whis- 
 pered: "Quick — quick — we don't care — quick — they may 
 come in when he gets on the porch." 
 
 Through a thin slit in the closed curtains they watched 
 the gaunt figure climb the veranda steps and they heard 
 the elders ask: 
 
 "Well?" and the younger man replied, "Nothing — noth- 
 ing — " he repeated, "but heartbreak." 
 
 Then he added as he walked to the half -open door, "Doc- 
 tor — it seems to me that I should go to Laura now ; to Laura 
 and her mother." 
 
 "Yes," returned the Doctor, "I suppose that is the thing 
 to do." 
 
 Grant's hand was on the door screen, and the Doctor's 
 eyes grew bright with emotion, as he called : 
 
 "You're a trump, boy." 
 
 The two old men looked at each other mutely and watched 
 the door closing after him. Inside, Grant said: "Lila — 
 ask your mother and grandmother if they can come to the 
 Doctor's little office — I want to speak to them." After the 
 girl had gone, Grant stood by Kenyon, with his arm about 
 the young man, looking down at him tenderly. When he 
 heard the women stirring above on the stairs, Grant patted 
 Kenyon 's shoulder, while the man's face twitched and the 
 muscles of his hard jaw worked as though he were chewing 
 a bitter cud. 
 
 The three, Grant and the mother and the mother 's mother, 
 left the lovers in such awe as love may hold in the midst of 
 its rapture, and when the office door had closed, and the 
 women were seated, Grant Adams, who stood holding to a 
 chair back, spoke : 
 
510 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "It's about Kenyon. And I don't know, perhaps I should 
 have spoken sooner. But I must speak now." 
 
 The two women gazed inquiringly at him with sympa- 
 thetic faces. He was deeply embarrassed, and his embar- 
 rassment seemed to accentuate a kind of caste difference 
 between them. 
 
 "Yes, Grant," said Mrs. Nesbit, "of course, we know about 
 Lila and Kenyon. Nothing in the world could please us 
 more than to see them happy together." 
 
 "I know, ma'am," returned Grant, twirling his chair 
 nervously. "That's just the trouble. Maybe they can't be 
 happy together." 
 
 "Why, Grant," exclaimed Laura, "what's to hinder?" 
 
 "Stuff!" sniffed Mrs. Nesbit. 
 
 He looked up then, and the two women could see that he 
 flinched. 
 
 "Well, — I don't know how to say it, but you must know 
 it." He stopped, and they saw anguish in his face. "But 
 I — Laura," he turned to the younger woman and made a 
 pitiful gesture with his whole hand, ' ' do you remember back 
 when you were a girl away at school and I stopped writing 
 to you?" 
 
 "Yes, Grant," replied Laura, "so well — so well, and you 
 never would say — " 
 
 "Because I had no right to," he cut in, "it was not my 
 secret — to tell — then." 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit sat impatiently on her chair edge, as one wait- 
 ing for a foolish formality to pass. She looked at the 
 clumsy, hulky figure of a man in his ill-fitting Sunday 
 clothes, and obviously was rather irritated at his ill-timed 
 interjection of his own childhood affair into an entirely 
 simple problem of true love running smoothly. But her 
 daughter, seeing the anguish in the man's twisted face, was 
 stricken with a terror in her heart. Laura knew that no 
 light emotion had grappled him, and when her mother said, 
 "Well?" sharply, the daughter rose and went to him, touch- 
 ing his hand gently that had been gripping the chair- 
 back. She said, "Yes, Grant, but why do you have to tell 
 it now?" 
 
 "Because," he answered passionately, "you should know, 
 
DARKNESS FALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 511 
 
 and Lila should know and your mother should know. Your 
 father and I and my father all think so. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit sat back further in her chair. Her face 
 showed anxiety. She looked at the two others and when 
 Laura's eyes met her mother's, there was a warning in the 
 daughter's glance which kept her mother silent. 
 
 ' ' Grant, ' ' said Laura, as she stood beside the gaunt figure, 
 on which a mantle of shame seemed to be falling, "there is 
 nothing in the world that should be hard for you to tell me — 
 or mother." 
 
 "It isn't you," he returned, and then lifting his face and 
 trying to catch the elder woman's eyes, he said slowly: 
 
 "Mrs. Nesbit — I'm Kenyon's father." 
 
 He caught Laura's hand in his own, and held her from 
 stepping back. Laura did not speak. Mrs. Nesbit gazed 
 blankly at the two and in the silence the little mantel clock 
 ticked into their consciousnesses. Finally the elder woman, 
 who had grown white as some old suspicion or fatal recol- 
 lection flashed through her mind, asked in an unsteady voice: 
 "And his mother?" 
 
 "His mother was Margaret Miiller, Mrs. Nesbit," an- 
 swered the man. 
 
 Then anger glowed in the white face as Mrs. Nesbit rose 
 and stepped toward the downcast man. "Do you mean to 
 tell me you — " She did not finish, but began again, not 
 noticing that the door behind her had let in her husband: 
 "Do you mean to say that you have let me go on all these 
 years nursing that — that, that — creature's child and — " 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said the Doctor, touching her arm, and 
 taking her hand, "I have." She turned on her husband her 
 startled, hurt face and exclaimed, "And you, Jim — you too 
 — you too?" 
 
 "What else could I do in honor, my dear? And it has 
 been for the best." 
 
 "No," she cried angrily; "no, see what you have brought 
 to us, Jim — that hussy's — her, why, her very — " 
 
 The years had told upon Doctor Nesbit. He could not 
 rise to the struggle as he could have risen a decade before. 
 His hands were shaking and his voice broke as he replied : 
 "Yes, my dear — I know — I know. But while she bore him, 
 
512 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 we have formed him." To her darkening face he repeated: 
 "You have formed him — and made him — you and the 
 Adamses — with your love. And love," his soft, high voice 
 was tender as he concluded, "love purges everything — 
 doesn't it, Bedelia?" 
 
 "Yes, father, — love is enough. Oh, Grant, Grant — it 
 doesn't matter — not to me. Poor — poor Margaret, what 
 she has lost — what she has lost!" said the younger woman, 
 as she stood close to Grant and looked deeply into his an- 
 guished face. Mrs. Nesbit stood wet-eyed, and spent of her 
 wrath, looking at the three before her. 
 
 "0 God — my God, forgive me — but I can't — Oh, Laura — 
 Jim — I can't, I can't, not that woman's — not her — her — " 
 She stopped and cried miserably, "You all know what he is, 
 and whose he is." Again she stopped and looked beseech- 
 ingly around. "Oh, you won't let Lila — she wouldn't do 
 that — not take that woman's — that woman who disgraced 
 Lila's mother — Lila must not take her child — Oh, Jim, you 
 won't let that—" 
 
 As she spoke Mrs. Nesbit sank to a sofa near the door, and 
 turned her face to the pillow. The three who watched her 
 turned blank, inquiring faces to one another. 
 
 "Perhaps," the Doctor began hesitatingly and impotently, 
 "Lila should— " 
 
 "What does she know — what can a child of twenty 
 know," answered the grandmother from her pillow, "of the 
 taint of that blood, of the devil she will transmit? "Why, 
 Jim — Oh, Jim — Lila's not old enough to decide. She mustn't 
 — she mustn't — we mustn't let her." Mrs. Nesbit raised her 
 body and asked as one who grasps a shadow, ' ' Won 't you ask 
 her to wait — to wait until she can understand ? ' ' 
 
 A question passed from face to face among those who 
 stood beside the elder woman, and Dr. Nesbit answered it. 
 Strength — the power that came from a habit of forty years 
 of dominating situations — came to him and he stepped to 
 his wife's side. The two stood together, facing the younger 
 pair. The Doctor^ spoke, not as an arbiter, but as an advo- 
 cate: 
 
 "Laura, your mother has her right to be considered here. 
 
DARKNESS PALLS UPON TWO LOVERS 513 
 
 All three of you; Kenyon himself, and you and Lila— she 
 has reared. She has made you all what you are. Her wishes 
 must be regarded now." Mrs. Nesbit rose while the Doctor 
 was speaking. He took her hand as was his wont and turned 
 to her, saying : ' ' Mother, how will this do : Let 's do noth- 
 ing now, not to-day at any rate. You must all adjust your- 
 selves to the facts that reveal this new relation before you 
 can make an honest decision. When we have done that, let 
 Laura and her mother tell Lila the truth, and let each tell 
 the child exactly how she feels; and then, if you can bring 
 yourself to it, leave it to her; if she will wait for a time 
 until she understands her grandmother 's point of view — very 
 well. If not—" 
 
 "If not, mother, Lila's decision must stand." This came 
 from Laura, who stepped over and kissed her mother's 
 hand. The father looked tenderly at his daughter and shook 
 his head as he answered softly : "If not — no, I shall stand 
 with mother — she has her right — the realest right of all ! " 
 
 And so it came to pass that the course of true love in the 
 hearts of Lila Van Dorn and Kenyon Adams had its first 
 sharp turning. And all the world was overclouded for two 
 souls. But they were only two souls and the world is full of 
 light. And the light falls upon men and women without 
 much respect for class or station, for good deeds or bad deeds, 
 for the weak or for the strong, for saints or sinners. For 
 know well, truly beloved, that chance and circumstance fall 
 out of the great machine of life upon us, hodge podge and 
 helter skelter; good is not rewarded by prizes from the 
 wheel of fortune nor bad punished by its calamities. Only 
 as our hearts react on life, do we get happiness or misery, 
 not from the events that follow the procession of the days. 
 
 Now for a moment let us peep through the clouds that 
 lowered over the young souls aforesaid. Clouds in youth are 
 vastly black ; but they are never thick. And peering through 
 those clouds, one may see the lovers, groping in the umbrage. 
 It does not matter much to us, and far less does it matter 
 to them how they have made their farewell meeting. It is 
 night and they are coming from Captain Morton 's. 
 
 Hand in hand they skip across the lawn, and soon are hid- 
 
514 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 den in the veranda. They sit arm in arm, on a swinging 
 porch chair, and have no great need for words. "What is 
 it — what is the reason?" asked the youth. 
 
 "Well, dear" — it is an adventure to say the word out loud 
 after whispering it for so many days — "dear," she repeated, 
 and feels the pressure of his arm as she speaks, "it's some- 
 thing about you ! ' ' 
 
 "But what?" he persisted. 
 
 "We don't know now," she returns. "And really what 
 does it matter, only we can't hurt grandma, and it won't 
 be for long. It can't be for long, and then — " 
 
 "We don't care now, — not to-night, do we?" She lifts 
 her head from his shoulder, and puts up her lips for the 
 answer. It is all new — every thrill of the new-found joy of 
 one another's being is strange; every touch of the hands, 
 of cheeks, every pressure of arms — all are gloriously beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 Once in life may human beings know the joy these lovers 
 knew that night. The angels lend it once and then, if we 
 are good, they let us keep it in our memories always. If 
 not, then God sends His infinite pity instead. 
 
CHAPTEE XLIV 
 
 IN WHICH WE SUPPER LITTLE CHILDREN, WITH GEORGE BROTH- 
 
 ERTON, AND IN GENERAL CONSIDER THE HABITANTS 
 
 OP THE KINGDOM 
 
 ME. BROTHEETON had been pacing the deck of his 
 store like the captain of a pirate ship in a storm. 
 Nothing in the store suited him; he found Miss 
 Calvin's high fagade of hair too rococo for the attenuated 
 lines of gray and lavender and heliotrope that had replaced 
 the angular effects in red and black and green and brown of 
 former years. He had asked her to tone it down to make it 
 match the long-necked gray jars and soft copper vases that 
 adorned the gray burlapped Serenity, and she had appeared 
 with it slopping over her ears, "as per yours of even date!" 
 And still he paced the deck. 
 
 He picked up Zola's "Fecundite," which he had taken 
 from stock; tried to read it; put it down; sent for "Tom 
 Sawyer"; got up, went after Dickens's "Christmas Books," 
 and put them down; peeped into "Little Women," and 
 watched the trade, as Miss Calvin handled it, occasionally 
 dropping his book for a customer; hunted for "The Three 
 Bears," which he found in large type with gorgeous pic- 
 tures, read it, and decided that it was real literature. 
 
 Amos Adams came drifting in to borrow a book. He 
 moved slowly, a sort of gray wraith almost discarnate and 
 apart from things of the earth. Brotherton, looking at the 
 old man, felt a candor one might have in addressing a state 
 of mind. So the big voice spoke gently : 
 
 "Here, Mr. Adams," called Brotherton. "Won't you 
 come back here and talk to me?" But the shopkeeper felt 
 that he should put the elder man at his ease, so he added; 
 "You're a wise guy, as the Latin fathers used to say. Any- 
 way, if Jasper ever gets to a point where he thinks marriage 
 will pay six per cent, over and above losses, you may be a 
 
 515 
 
516 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 kind of step-uncle-in-law of mine. Tell me, Mr. Adams — 
 what about children — do they pay? You know, I've always 
 wanted children. But now — well, you see, I never thought 
 but that people just kind of picked 'em off the bushes as 
 you do huckleberries. I'm getting so that I can't look at a 
 great crowd of people without thinking of the loneliness, 
 suffering and self-denial that it cost to bring all of them into 
 the world. Good Lord, man, I don 't want lots of children — 
 not now. And yet, children — children — why, if we could 
 open a can and have 'em as we do most things, from sar- 
 dines to grand opera, I'd like hundreds of them. Yet, I 
 dunno, ' ' Mr. Brotherton wagged a thoughtful head. 
 
 But Amos Adams rejoined : ' ' Ah, yes, George, but when 
 you think of what it means for two people to bring a child 
 into the world — what the journey means — the slow, inexora- 
 ble journey into the valley of the shadow means for them, 
 close together; what tenderness springs up; what sacrifices 
 come forth; what firm knitting of lives; what new kind of 
 love is bred — you are inclined to think maybe Providence 
 knew what it was about when it brought children into life by 
 the cruel path." 
 
 Mr. Brotherton nodded a sympathetic head. 
 
 "Let me tell you something, George," continued Amos. 
 "It's through their hope of bettering the children that 
 Grant has moved his people in the Valley out on the little 
 garden plots. There they are — every warmish day thou- 
 sands of mothers and children and old men, working their 
 little plots of ground, trudging back to the tenements in 
 the evening. The love of children is the one steady, un- 
 swerving passion in these lives, and Grant has nearly har- 
 nessed it, George. And it's because Nate Perry has that 
 love that he's giving freely here for those poor folks a talent 
 that would make him a millionaire, and is running his mines, 
 and his big foundry with Cap Morton besides. It 's perfectly 
 splendid to see the way a common fatherhood between him 
 and the men is making a brotherhood. Why, man," cried 
 Amos, "it refreshes one's faith like a tragedy." 
 
 "Hello, Aunt Avey," piped the cheery voice of the little 
 old Doctor, as he came toddling through the front door. 
 "It's a boy— Joe Calvin the Third." The Doctor came back 
 
SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN 517 
 
 to the desk where Amos was standing and took a chair, anc 
 as Amos drifted out of the store as impersonally as he came 
 the. Doctor began to grin. 
 
 "We were just talking of children," said Brotherton witl 
 studied casualness. "You know, Doctor," Brothertoi 
 smiled abashed, "I've always thought I'd like lots of chil 
 dren. But now — ' ' 
 
 "I see 'em come, and I see 'em go every day. I'm kinc 
 of getting used to death, George. But the miracle of birtl 
 grows stranger and stranger. ' ' 
 
 "So young Joe Calvin's a proud parent, is he? Boy, yoi 
 say?" 
 
 "Boy," chuckled the Doctor, "and old Joe's out then 
 having a nervous breakdown. They've had ten births ir 
 the Calvin family. I 've attended all of 'em, and this is th< 
 first time old Joe's ever been allowed in the house. To-daj 
 the old lady 's out there with a towel around her head, prac 
 tically having that baby herself. The poor daughter-inJais 
 hasn't seen it. You'd think she was only invited in as i 
 sort of paying guest. And old lady Calvin comes in everj 
 few minutes and delivers homilies on the joys of large fam- 
 ilies!" 
 
 The Doctor laughed until his blue old eyes watered, anc 
 he chirped when he had his laugh out: "How soon we 
 forget! Which, I presume, is one of God's semi-precious 
 blessings ! ' ' 
 
 When the Doctor went out, Brotherton found the ston 
 deserted, except for Miss Calvin, who was in front. Broth- 
 erton carried a log to the fireplace, stirred up the fire, and 
 when he had it blazing, found Laura Van Dorn standing 
 beside him. 
 
 "Well, George," she said, "I've just been stealing awaj 
 from my children in the Valley for a little visit witl 
 Emma." 
 
 "Very well, then," said Mr. Brotherton, "sit down e 
 minute with me. Tell me, Laura — about children — are thej 
 worth it?" 
 
 She was a handsome woman, with youth still in her eyes 
 and face, who sat beside George Brotherton, looking at the 
 fire that March day. "George — good old friend," she said 
 
518 IN THE HEART OE A FOOL 
 
 gently, "there's nothing else in the world so worth it as 
 children." 
 
 She hesitated before going so deeply into her soul, per- 
 haps picking her verbal way. "George — no man ever de- 
 graded a woman more than I was degraded. Yet I brought 
 Lila out of it, and I thank God for her, and I don't mind the 
 price — not now. ' ' She turned to look at Mr. Brotherton in- 
 quiringly as she said: "But what I come in to talk to you 
 about, George, was Grant. Have you noticed in the last few 
 months — that growing — well — it's more than enthusiasm, 
 George ; it's a fanaticism. Since he has been working on the 
 garden plan — Grant has been getting wilder and wilder in 
 his talk about the Democracy of labor. Have you noticed it 
 — or am I oversensitive?" 
 
 Brotherton, poking idly in the fire, did not answer at 
 once. At length he said: 
 
 "Grant's a zealot. He's full of this prisms, prunes and 
 peace idea, this sweetness and. light revolution, this notion 
 of hitching their hop-dreams to these three-acre plots, and 
 preaching non-resistance. It's coming a little fast for me, 
 Laura — just a shade too many at times. But, on the other 
 hand — there's Nate Perry. He's as cold-blooded a Yankee 
 as ever swindled a father — and he's helping with the scheme. 
 He's—" 
 
 "He has no faith in the Democracy of Labor. He hoots," 
 interrupted Laura. "What he's doing is working for a more 
 efficient lot of laboring men, so that when the time comes 
 when the unions shall ask and get more definite control of 
 the factories and mines, in the way of wage-setting, and 
 price-making, they will bring some sense with their control. 
 He's merely looking after himself — in the last analysis; but 
 Grant's going mad. George, he actually believes that when 
 this thing wins here in the Valley — the peaceful strike, the 
 rise of labor, and the theory of non-resistance — he's going 
 over the world, and in a few years will have labor emanci- 
 pated. Have you heard him — that is, recently?" 
 
 "Well, yes, a week or so ago," answered Brotherton, "and 
 he was going it at a pretty fair clip for a minute then. 
 Well, say — I mean — what should we do?" he asked, drum- 
 ming with the poker on the hearth. "Laura," Brotherton 
 
SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN 519 
 
 ran his eyes from the poker until they met her frank, gray 
 eyes, "Grant would listen to you before he would listen to 
 any one else on earth or in Heaven — I 'm sure of that. ' ' 
 
 "Then what shall we do?" she asked. "We mustn't let 
 him wreck himself — and all these people? What ought I — " 
 
 A shadow fell across the door, and in another moment 
 there stood in the opening of the alcove the tall, lean figure 
 of Thomas Van Dorn. 
 
 When Laura was gone, Van Dorn, after more or less polite 
 circumlocution, began to unfold a plan of Market Street to 
 buy the Daily Times and bring Jared Thurston back to 
 Harvey to run it in the interests of the property owners in 
 the town and in the Valley. Incidentally he had come to 
 warn George on behalf of Market Street that he was har- 
 boring Grant Adams, contrary to the judgment of Market 
 Street. But George Brotherton's heart was far from Mar- 
 ket Street ; it was out on the hill with Emma, his wife, and 
 his mouth spoke from the place of his treasure. 
 
 "Tom — tell me, as between man and man, what do you 
 think of children ? You 're sort of in the outer room of the 
 Blue Lodge of grandfatherdom, with Lila and Kenyon get- 
 ting ready for the preacher, and you ought to know, Tom — 
 honest, man, how about it?" 
 
 A wave of self-pity enveloped the Judge. His voice broke 
 as he answered: "George, I haven't any little girl — she 
 never even has spoken to me about this affair that the whole 
 town knows about. Oh, I haven't any child at all." 
 
 He looked a miserable moment at Brotherton, perhaps re- 
 viewing the years which they had lived and grown from 
 youth to middle age together and growled : ' ' Not a thing — 
 not a damned thing in it — George, in all this forty years 
 of fighting to keep ahead of the undertaker! Not a God 
 damned thing!" And so he left the Sweet Serenity of 
 Books and Wall Paper and went back to the treadmill of 
 life, spitting ashes from his gray lips ! 
 
 And then Daniel Sands toddled in to get the five-cent 
 cigars which he had bought for a generation — one at a 
 time every day, and Brotherton came to Daniel with his 
 problem. 
 
 The old man, whose palsied head forever was denying 
 
520 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 something, as if he had the assessor always in his mind, shut 
 his rheumy eyes and answered: "My children — bauch — " 
 He all but spat upon their names. "Morty — moons around 
 reading Socialist books, with a cold in his throat and dish- 
 water in his brains. And the other, she's married a dirty 
 traitor and stands by him against her own flesh and blood. 
 Ba-a-a-ch ! " He showed his blue, old mouth, and cried : 
 
 "I married four women to give those children a home — 
 and what thanks do I get ? Ingrates — one a milk-sop — God, 
 if he'd only be a Socialist and get out and throw dyna- 
 mite; but he won't; he won't do a thing but sit around 
 drooling about social justice when I want to eat my meals 
 in peace. And he goes coughing all day and night, and 
 granting, and now he's wearing a pointed beard — he says 
 it's for his throat, but I know — it's because he thinks it's 
 romantic. And that Anne — why, she's worse," but he did 
 not finish the sentence. His old head wagged violently. 
 Evidently another assessor had suddenly pounced in upon 
 his imagination. For he shuffled into the street. 
 
 Mr. Brotherton sat by the fire, leaning forward, with his 
 fingers locked between his knees. The warning against 
 Grant Adams that Tom Van Dorn had given him had im- 
 pressed him. He knew Market Street was against Grant 
 Adams. But he did not realize that Market Street's atti- 
 tude was only a reflex of the stir in the Valley. All Market 
 streets over the earth feel more or less acutely changes 
 which portend in the workshops, often before those changes 
 come. "We are indeed "members one of another," and the 
 very aspirations of those who dream of better things register 
 in the latent fears of those who live on trade. We are so 
 closely compact in our organization that a man may not even 
 hope without crowding his neighbor. And in that little sec- 
 tion of the great world which men knew as Market Street 
 in Harvey, the surest evidence of the changing attitude of 
 the men in the Valley toward their work, was found not in 
 the crowds that gathered in Belgian Hall week after week 
 to hear Grant Adams, not in the war-chest which was filling 
 to overflowing, not in the gardens checkered upon the hill- 
 sides, but rather in the uneasiness of Market Street. The 
 reactions were different in Market Street and in the Valley ; 
 
SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN 521 
 
 but it was one vision rising in the same body, each part re- 
 sponding according to its own impulses. Of course Market 
 Street has its side, and George Brotherton was not blind to 
 it. Sitting by his fire that raw March day, he realized that 
 Market Street was never a crusader, and why. He could 
 see that the men from whom the storekeepers bought goods 
 on ninety days' time, 3 per cent, off for cash, were not cru- 
 saders. When a man turned up among them with a six- 
 months' crusade for an evanescent millennium, flickering 
 just a few years ahead, the wholesalers of the city and the 
 retailers of Market Street nervously began thumbing over 
 their rapidly accumulating "bills payable" and began using 
 crisp, scratchy language toward the crusader. 
 
 It made Brotherton pause when he thought how they might 
 involve and envelop him — as a family man. For as he sat 
 there, the man's mind kept thinking of children. And his 
 mind wandered to the thought of his wife and his home — and 
 the little ones that might be. As his mind clicked back to 
 Amos Adams, and to the strange family that would produce 
 three boys as unlike as Grant and Jasper and Kenyon, he 
 began to consider how far Kenyon had come for a youth in 
 his twenties. And Brotherton realized that he might have 
 had a child as old as Kenyon. Then Mr. Brotherton put his 
 hands over his face and tried to stop the flying years. 
 
 A shadow fell, and Brotherton greeted Captain Morton, in 
 a sunburst of mauve tailoring. The Captain pointed 
 proudly to a necktie pin representing a horse jumping 
 through a horseshoe, and cried: "What you think of it? 
 Real diamond horseshoe nails — what say?" 
 
 "Now, Captain, sit down here," said Mr. Brotherton. 
 "You'll do, Captain — you'll do." But the subject nearest 
 the big man's heart would not leave it. "Cap," he said, 
 "what about children — do they pay?" 
 
 "That's just it," put in the Captain. "That's just what 
 I said to Emmy this morning. I was out to see her after 
 you left and stayed until Laura Van Dorn came and chased 
 me off. Emmy's mighty happy, George — mighty, mighty 
 happy — eh? Her mother always was that way. I was the 
 one that was scared." George nodded assent. "But to- 
 day — well, we just sat there and cried — she's so happy about 
 
522 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 it — eh? "Wimmin, George, ain't scared a bit. I know 'em, 
 I've been in their kitchins for thirty years, George, and 
 let me tell you somepin funny," continued the Captain. 
 "Old Ahab Wright has taken to smoking in public to get 
 the liberal vote! Let me tell you somepin else. They've 
 decided to put the skids under Grant Adams and his 
 gang down in the Valley, and the other day they ran into 
 a snag. You know Calvin & Calvin are representing the 
 owners since Tom's got this life job, though he's got 
 all his money invested down there and still advises 'em. 
 "Well, anyway, they decided to put a barbed-wire trocha 
 around all the mines and the factories. Well, four car- 
 loads of wire and posts shows up down in the Valley this 
 week, and, 'y gory, man, — they can't get a carpenter in town 
 or down there to touch it. Grant's got 'em sewed up. But 
 Tom says he'll fix 'em one of these days, if they get before 
 him in his court — what say?" 
 
 "I suppose he will, Captain," replied Mr. Brotherton, 
 and took up his theme. "But getting back to the subject 
 of children — I've been talking all morning about 'em to all 
 kinds of folks, and I've decided the country's for 'em. 
 Children, Cap," Mr. Brotherton rose, put on his coat and 
 took the Captain's arm, "children, Captain," he repeated, 
 as they reached the sidewalk and were starting for the street 
 car, "children, I figure it out — children are the see-ment of 
 civilization ! Well, say — thus endeth the reading of the first 
 lesson!" 
 
 As they stood in the corner transfer shed waiting for the 
 car, Grant Adams came up. ' ' Say, Grant, ' ' called Brother- 
 ton, "what you goin' to do about that barbed wire trocha?" 
 
 "Oh," smiled Grant, "I've just about settled it. The 
 boys will begin on it this afternoon. A lot of them were 
 angry when they heard what the owners were up to, but I 
 said, 'Here: we've got justice on our side. We claim a 
 partnership interest in all those mines and factories down 
 there. We contend that we who labor there now are the 
 legatees of all the labor that's been killed and maimed and 
 cheated by long hours and low wages down in the Valley 
 for thirty years, and if we have a partnership right in those 
 mines and factories, it's our business to protect them.' So I 
 
SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN 523 
 
 talked the boys into putting up the trocha. I tell you, 
 George, ' ' said Grant, and the tremor of emotion strained his 
 voice as he spoke, "it won't be long until we'll have a part- 
 nership in that troeha, just as we'll have an interest in 
 every hammer and bolt, and ledge and vein in the Valley. 
 It's coming, and coming fast — the Democracy of Labor. I 
 have faith, the men and women have faith — all over the 
 Valley. We've found the right way — the way of peace. 
 When labor has proved its efficiency — " 
 
 "Ah — you're crazy, Grant," snapped the Captain. 
 "This class of people down here — these ignorant foreigners 
 — why, they^ couldn't run a peanut stand — eh?" 
 
 Dick Bowman and his son came up, and not knowing a 
 discussion was in the wind, Dick shook hands around. And 
 after the Captain had taken his uptown car, Grant stood 
 apart, lost in thought, but Dick said: "Well, Benny, we 
 got here in time for the car ! ' ' Then craning his long neck, 
 the father laughed: "Ben, here's a laboring man and his 
 shift goes on at one — so he's in a hurry, but we'll make it." 
 
 "Dick," began Brotherton, looking at the thin shadow of 
 a man who was hardly Brotherton 's elder by half a dozen 
 years. "Dick, you're a kind of expert father, you and Joe 
 Calvin, and to-day Joe's a granddaddy — tell me about the 
 kiddies — are they worth it?" 
 
 Bowman threw his head back and craned his long neck. 
 "Not for us — not for us poor — maybe for you people here," 
 said Bowman, who paused and counted on his fingers: 
 "Eight born, three dead — that's too many. Joe Calvin, he's 
 raised all his and they're doing fairly well. That's his girl 
 in here — ain't it?" Bowman sighed. "Her and my Jean 
 played together back in their little days; before we moved 
 to South Harvey. ' ' He lowered his voice. 
 
 "George, mother hasn't heard from Jean for going on two 
 year, now. She went off with a fellow; told us she married 
 him — she was just a child — but had been working around in 
 the factories — and, well, I don't say so, but I guess she just 
 has got where she's ashamed to write — maybe." 
 
 His voice rose in anger as he cried: "Why didn't she 
 have a show, like this girl of Joe's? He's no better than I. 
 And you know my wife — well, she's no Mrs. Joe Calvin — 
 
524 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 she's been as happy about 'em when they came as if they 
 were princes of the blood. ' ' He stopped. 
 
 "Then there's Mugs — I dunno, George, — it seems like we 
 tried with Mugs, but all them saloons and— well, the gam- 
 bling and the women under his nose from the time he was 
 ten years old — well, I can't make him work. Little Jack is 
 steady enough for a boy of twenty— he's in the Company 
 mines, and we've put Ben in this year. He is twelve— 
 though, for Heaven's sake, don't go blabbing it; he's sup- 
 posed to be fourteen. And little Betty, she's in school yet. 
 I don't know how she'll turn out. No, George," he went 
 on, "children for us poor, children's a mighty risky, uncer- 
 tain crop. But," he smiled reflectively, "I'm right here to 
 tell you they're lots of fun as little shavers — growing up. 
 Why, George, you ought to hear Benny sing. Them Co- 
 pinis of the Hot Dog found he had a voice, and they've 
 taught him some dago songs." Ben was a bright-faced boy 
 of twelve — big for his age, with snappy, brown eyes and 
 apples of cheeks and curly hair. He slipped away to look 
 into a store window, leaving the two men alone. Mr. Broth- 
 erton was in a mellow mood. He put his great paw on the 
 small man's shoulder and said huskily: 
 
 "Say, Dick, honest, I'd rather have just one boy like that 
 than the whole damn Valley— that's right!" 
 
 The ear came bowling up and the South Harvey people 
 boarded it. Grant Adams rode down into the Valley with 
 great dreams in his soul. He talked little to the Bowmans, 
 but looked out of the window and saw the dawn of another 
 day. It is the curse of dreamers that they believe that 
 when they are convinced of a truth, they who have pursued 
 it, who have suffered for it, who have been exalted by it, 
 they have only to pass out their truth to the world to re- 
 make the universe. But the world is made over only when 
 the common mind sees the truth, and the common heart 
 feels it. So the history of reform is a history of disappoint- 
 ment. The reform works, of course. But in working it 
 does only the one little trick it is intended to do, and the 
 long chain of incidental blessings which should follow, which 
 the reformers feel must inevitably follow, wait for other 
 leformers to bring them into being. So there is always 
 
SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN 525 
 
 plenty of work for the social tinker, and no one man ever 
 built a millennium. For God is ever jealous for our prog- 
 eny, and leaves an unfinished job always on the work bench 
 of the world. 
 
 Grant Adams believed that he had a mission to bring 
 labor into its own. The coming of the Democracy of Labor 
 was a real democracy to him — no mere shibboleth. And as 
 he rode through the rows of wooden tenements, where he 
 knew men and women were being crushed by the great indus- 
 trial machine, he thought of the tents in the fields; of the 
 women and children and of the old and the sick going out 
 there to labor through the day to piece out the family wage 
 and secure economic independence with wholesome, self- 
 respecting work. It seemed to him that when he could bring 
 the conditions that were starting in Harvey, to every great 
 industrial center, one great job in the world would be done 
 forever. 
 
 So he drummed his iron claw on the seat before him, put 
 his hard hand upon his rough face, and smiled in the joy 
 of his high faith. 
 
 Dick Bowman and his boy left Grant at the car. He 
 waved his claw at little Ben when they parted, and sighed 
 as he saw the little fellow scampering to shaft No. 3 of the 
 Wahoo Fuel Company's mines. There Grant lost sight of 
 the child, and went to his work. In two hours he and Violet 
 Hogan had cleaned off his desk. He had promised the 
 Wahoo Fuel Company to see that the work of constructing 
 the trocha was started that afternoon, and when Violet had 
 telephoned to Mechanics' Hall, Grant and a group of men 
 went to the mines to begin on the trocha. They passed down 
 the switch into the yards, and Grant heard a brakeman say : 
 
 ' ' That Frisco car there has a broken brake — watch out for 
 her." 
 
 And a switchman reply: 
 
 "Yes — I know it. I tried to get the yardmaster not to 
 send her down. But we'll do what we can." 
 
 The brakeman on the car signaled for the engineer to 
 pull the other cars away, and leave the Frisco car at the top 
 of a slight grade, to be shoved down by the men when an- 
 other ear was needed at the loading chute. Grant walked 
 
526 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 toward the loading chute, and a roar from the falling coal 
 filled his ears. He saw little Ben under a car throwing 
 back the coal falling from the faulty chute on to the ground. 
 
 Through the roar Grant heard a yell as from a man in 
 terror. He looked back of him and saw the Frisco car 
 coming down the grade as if shot from a monster catapult! 
 
 "The boy — the boy — !" he heard the man on the car 
 shriek. He tried to clamber over the coal to the edge of the 
 car, but before he could reach the side, the Frisco car had 
 hit the loading car a terrific blow, sending it a car length 
 down the track. 
 
 One horrible scream was all they heard from little Ben. 
 Grant was at his side in a moment. There, stuck to the rail, 
 were two little legs and an arm. Grant stooped, picked up 
 the little body, pulled it loose from the tracks, and carried 
 it, running, to the company hospital. 
 
 As Grant ran, tears fell in the little, coal-stained face, and 
 made white splotches on the child's cheeks. 
 
CHAPTER XLV 
 
 IN WHICH IJDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE AND TOM 
 VAN DORN WINS ANOTHER VICTORY 
 
 FOR a long and weary night and a day of balancing 
 doubt, and another dull night, little Ben Bowman 
 lay limp and crumpled on his cot — a broken lump of 
 clay hardly more than animate. Lida Bowman, his mother, 
 all that time sat in the hall of the hospital outside the door 
 of his room. The stream of sorrow that winds through a 
 hospital passed before her unheeded. Her husband came, 
 sat with her silently for a while, went, and came again, many 
 times. But she did not go. In the morning of the second 
 day as she stood peering through the door crack at the child 
 she saw his little body move in a deep sigh, and saw his black 
 eyes open for a second and close as he smiled. Dr. Nesbit, 
 who stood beside her, grasped her hand and led her away. 
 
 "I think the worst is over, Lida," he said, and held her 
 hand as they walked down the hall. He sat with her in 
 the waiting room, into which the earliest tide of visitors 
 had not begun to flow, and promised her that if the child 
 continued to rally from the shock, she might stand by his 
 bed at noon. Then for the first time she wept. He stood by 
 the window looking out at the great pillars of smoke that were 
 smudging the dawn, at the smelter fumes that were staining 
 the sky, at the hurrying crowd of men and women and 
 children going into the mines, the mills, the shops, hurrying 
 to work with the prod of fear ever in their backs — fear of 
 the disgrace of want, fear of the shame of beggary, fear to 
 hear some loved one ask for food or warmth or shelter and 
 to have it not. When the great motherly body had ceased 
 its paroxysms, he went to Mrs. Bowman and touched her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Lida," he said, "it isn't much — but I'm glad of one 
 
 527 
 
528 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 thing. My bill is on the statutes to give people who are 
 hurt, as Ben was, their money from the company without 
 going to law and dividing with the lawyers. It is on the 
 books good and tight; referred to the people and approved 
 by them and ground clear through the state supreme court 
 and sustained. It isn't much, Lida — Heaven knows that — 
 but little Ben will get his money without haggling and that 
 money will help to start him in life. ' ' 
 
 She turned a tear-swollen face to him, but again her 
 grief overcame her. He stood with one wrinkled hand upon 
 her broad shoulder, and with the other patted her coarse 
 hair. When she looked up at him, again he said gently: 
 
 "I know, Lida, that money isn't what you mothers want — 
 but—" 
 
 "But we've got to think of it, Doc Jim — that's one of the 
 curses of poverty, but, oh, money! — It won't bring them 
 back strong and whole — who leave us to go to work, and 
 come back all torn and mashed." 
 
 She sat choking down the sobs that came surging up from 
 her great bosom, and weaving to and fro as she fought back 
 her tears. The Doctor sat beside her and took her red un- 
 shapely hands unadorned except by the thin gold wedding 
 ring that she had worn in toil for over thirty years. 
 
 "Lida, sometimes I think only God and the doctors know 
 how heavy women's loads are," said the Doctor. 
 
 "Ain't that so— Doc Jim!" she cried. "Ain't that the 
 truth? I've had a long time to think these two days and 
 nights — and I 've thought it all over and all out. Here I am 
 nearly fifty and eight times you and I have fought it out 
 with death and brought life into this world. I'm strong 
 — I don't mind that. I joyed at their coming, and made the 
 others edge over at the table, and snuggle up in the bed, and 
 we've been happy. Even the three that are dead — I'm 
 glad they came; I'm thankful for 'em. And Dick he's been 
 so proud of each one, and cuddled it, and muched it — " 
 
 Her voice broke and she sobbed, "Oh, little Ben — little 
 Ben, how pappy made over his hair — he was born with hair 
 — don't you mind, Doc Jim?" 
 
 The Doctor laughed and looked into the past as he piped, 
 "Curliest headed little tyke, and don't you remember Laura 
 
LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE 529 
 
 gave him Lila's baby things she 'd saved for all those years ? ' ' 
 "Yes, Doc Jim — don't I? God knows, Doc, she's been a 
 mother to the whole Valley — when I got up I found I was 
 the twentieth woman up and down the Valley she'd given 
 Lila's little things to — just to save our pride when she 
 thought we would not take 'em any other way. Don't I know 
 — all about it — and she's still doing it — God bless her, and 
 she's been here every morning, noon and night since — since 
 — she came with a little beef tea, or some of her own wine, 
 or a plate of hot toast in her basket — that she made me eat. 
 Why, if it wasn't for her and Henry and Violet and Grant 
 — what would God's poor in this Valley do in trouble — I 
 sure dunno." 
 
 There came an unsteady minute, when the Doctor stroked 
 her hand and piped, "Well, Lida — you folks in the Valley 
 don't get half the fun out of it that the others get. It's pie 
 for them." 
 
 The woman folded her hands in her lap and sighed deeply. 
 "Doc Jim," she began, "eight times I've brought life into 
 this world. The three that went, went because we were 
 poor — because we couldn't buy life for 'em. They went into 
 the mills and the mines with Dick's muscle. One is at home, 
 waiting till the wheels get hungry for her. Four I've fed 
 into the mills that grind up the meat we mothers make." 
 She stared at him wildly and cried ' ' God — God, Doc Jim — 
 what justice is there in it? I've been a kind of brood-mare 
 bearing burden carriers for Dan Sands, who has sold my 
 blood like cheese in his market. My mother sent three boys 
 to the war who never came back and I've heard her cry 
 and thank God He'd let her. But my flesh and blood — the 
 little ones that Dick and me have coddled and petted and 
 babied — they've been fed into the wheels to make profits — 
 profits for idlers to squander — profits to lure women to 
 shame and men to death. That's what I've been giving my 
 body and soul for, Doc Jim. Little Ben up there has given 
 his legs and his arms — oh, those soft little arms and the cun- 
 ning little legs I used to kiss — for what? I'll tell you — 
 he's given them so that by saving a day's work repairing a 
 car, some straw boss could make a showing to a superinten- 
 dent, and the superintendent could make a record for econ- 
 
530 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 omy to a president, and a president could increase dividends 
 — dividends to be spent by idlers. And idleness makes 
 drunkards who make harlots who make hell — and all my lit- 
 tle boy's arms and legs will go for is for sin and shame." 
 
 The Doctor returned to the window and she cried bitterly : 
 "Oh, you know that's the truth — the God's truth, Doc Jim. 
 Where's my Jean? She went into the glass factory — 
 worked twelve hours a day on a job that would have crip- 
 pled her for life in another year, and then went away with 
 that Austrian blower — and when he threw her out, she was 
 ashamed to write — and for a long time now I've read the 
 city papers of them women who kill themselves — hoping to 
 find she was dead. And Mugs — you know what South Har- 
 vey's made of him — " 
 
 She rose and walked to the window. Standing beside him 
 she cried: 
 
 "I tell you, Doc Jim — I hate it." She pointed to the 
 great black mills and mine shafts and the piles of brick 
 and lumber and sheet iron that stretched before her for a 
 mile. "I hate it, and I'm going to hit it once before I die. 
 Don't talk peace to me. I've got a right to hit it and hit it 
 hard — and if my time ever comes — " 
 
 A visitor was shown into the room, and Mrs. Bowman 
 ceased speaking. She was calm when the Doctor left her 
 and at noon she stood beside the cot, and saw little Ben 
 smile at her. Then she went away in tears. As she passed 
 out of the door of the hospital into the street, she met Grant 
 Adams coming in to inquire about little Ben. 
 
 "He knows me now," she said. "I suppose he'll get well 
 — without legs — and with only one arm — I've seen them on 
 the street selling pencils — oh, little Ben!" she cried. Then 
 she turned on Grant in anger. "Grant Adams — go on with 
 your revolution. I'm for it — and the quicker the better- 
 but don't come around talking peace to me. Us mothers 
 want to fight." 
 
 "Fighting, in the long run, will do no good, Mrs. Bow- 
 man," said Grant. "It will hurt the cause. 
 
 "But it will do us good," she answered. 
 
 "Force against force and we lose — they have the guns," 
 he persisted. 
 
LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HEE UNIVERSE 531 
 
 "Well, I'd rather feed my babies to good merciful guns 
 than to wheels," she replied, and then softened as she took 
 his hand. 
 
 "I guess I'm mad to-day, Grant. Go on up. Maybe 
 they'll let you look at him. He smiled at me — just as he 
 did when Doctor Nesbit showed him to me the day he was 
 born." 
 
 She kept back her tears with an effort, and added, "Only 
 the Doc tried to tell me that babies don't smile. But I know 
 better, Ben smiled — just like the one to-day. ' ' 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Bowman," rejoined Grant, "there's one com- 
 fort. Dr. Nesbit 's law makes it possible for you to get your 
 damages without going to law and dividing with some lawyer. 
 However the Doctor and I may differ — we down here in the 
 mines and mills must thank him for that." 
 
 "Oh, Doc Jim's all right, Grant," answered Mrs. Bow- 
 man, relapsing into her lifetime silence. 
 
 It was nearly three months later and spring was at its 
 full, before they discharged little Ben from the hospital. 
 But the last fortnight of his stay they had let him visit out- 
 side the hospital for a few hours daily. And to the joy of 
 a great crowd in the Hot Dog saloon, he sat on the bar and 
 sang his little heart out. They took him down to Belgian 
 hall at noon, and he sang the "Marseillaise" to the crowd 
 that gathered there. In the hospital, wherever they would 
 let him, after he had visited the Hot Dog, he sang — sang 
 in the big ward where he sat by a window, sang in the 
 corridors, whenever the patients could hear him, and sang 
 Gospel hymns in his cot at bedtime. 
 
 He was an odd little bundle, that Henry Fenn carried into 
 the offices of the Wahoo Valley Fuel Company one after- 
 noon in early June, with Dick Bowman following proudly, as 
 they made the proof of the claim, for compensation for the 
 accident. The people in the offices were kind and tenderly 
 polite to the little fellow. Henry saw that all the papers 
 were properly made out, and the clerk in the office told Dick 
 and Henry to call for the check next day but one — which 
 was pay day. 
 
 So they carried little Ben away and Mrs. Bowman — 
 though it was barely five o'clock— began fixing Ben up for 
 
532 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 the wedding of Jasper Adams and Ruth Morton. It was 
 the first public appearance as a singer that little Ben had 
 made in Harvey. His appearance was due largely to the 
 notion of Captain Morton, supported and abetted by George 
 Brotherton. So little Ben Bowman was smuggled behind 
 a palm in the choir loft and permitted to sing "0 Promise 
 Me" during the services. 
 
 "Not," explained the Captain to Mr. Brotherton in the 
 barn where he was smoking, the afternoon before the cere- 
 mony, "not that I cared a whoop in Texas about Ben — 
 though 'y gory, the boy sings like a canary; but it was the 
 only excuse I could find for slipping a hundred dollars to 
 the Bowman family, without making Dick and Lida think it 
 was charity — eh?" 
 
 The wedding made a dull evening for Grant. He carried 
 little Ben in his arms out of the crowd at the church, and 
 gathering up the Bowmans and his father, went home with- 
 out stopping for the reception or for the dance or for any 
 of the subsidiary attractions of the ceremony which Jasper 
 and the Captain, each delighting in tableaux and parades, 
 had arranged for. Little Ben's arm was clinging to Grant's 
 neck as he piloted his party to the street car. They passed 
 the Van Dorn house and saw old Daniel Sands come tottering 
 down the walk from the Van Dorn home, between Ahab 
 "Wright and young Joe Calvin. Daniel Sands stumbled as 
 he shuffled past Amos Adams and Amos put out an arm 
 to catch Daniel. He regained his balance and without recog- 
 nizing who had helped him, cackled : 
 
 "Tom's a man of his word, boys — when he promises — 
 that settles it. Tom never lies." And his senile voice 
 shrilled in a laugh. Then the old banker recognized Amos 
 Adams with Grant in the moonlight. "Hi, old spook 
 chaser," he chirped feebly, still holding to Amos Adams's 
 arm; "sorry I couldn't get to my nevvy's wedding — Morty 
 went — Morty 's our social man," he laughed again. "But I 
 had some other important matters — business — very impor- 
 tant business." 
 
 The Sands' party was moving toward the Sands' limousine, 
 which stood purring at the curb. Ahab Wright and young 
 Joe Calvin boosted the trembling old man into the car, and 
 
LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE 533 
 
 Ahab Wright slipped back and returned to the wedding re- 
 ception, from which he had stolen away. Ahab was ob- 
 viously embarrassed at being caught in the conference with 
 Sands and Van Dorn, but Daniel Sands as he climbed into 
 the car, sinking cautiously among the cushions and being 
 swathed in robes by the chauffeur, was garrulous. He kept 
 carping at Amos Adams who stood by with his son and the 
 Bowmans, waiting for the street car. 
 
 "Lost your only sane son, Amos," he said. "The fool 
 takes after you, and the fiddler after his mother — but Jap 
 — he's real Sands — he's like me." 
 
 He laughed at his joke, and when his breath came back he 
 went on. 
 
 "There's Morty— he's like both the fool and the fiddler— 
 both the fool and the fiddler — and not a bit like me." 
 
 "Morty isn't very well, Daniel," said Amos Adams, ig- 
 noring all that the old man had said. "Don't you think, 
 Daniel, you're letting that disease get too deep a hold on 
 Morty? With all your money, Dan, I think you'd — " 
 
 "With all my money — with all my money, Amos," cried 
 the old man, shaking his hands, "with all my money — I can 
 just stand and wait. Amos — he's a fool, I know — but he's 
 the only boy I've got — the only boy. And with all my money 
 — what gcod will it do me? Anne won't have it — and 
 Morty 's all I've got and he's going before I do. Amos — 
 Amos — tell me, Amos — what have I done to deserve this of 
 God? Haven't I done as I ort? Why is this put on me?" 
 He sat panting and blinking and shaking his ever-denying, 
 palsied head. Amos did not reply. The chauffeur was tak- 
 ing his seat in the car. "Ain't I paid my share in the 
 church? Ain't I give parks to the city? Ain't I had fam- 
 ily prayers for fifty years? Ain't I been a praying mem- 
 ber all my life nearly? Ain't I supported missions? 
 Why," he panted, "is it put on me to die without a son to 
 bear my name and take care of my property? I made over 
 two millions to him the other day. But why, Amos, ' ' the old 
 man's voice was broken and he whimpered, "has the Lord 
 sent this to Morty?" 
 
 Amos did not reply, but the big voice of Grant spoke very 
 softly: "Uncle Dan, Morty 's got tuberculosis — you know 
 
534 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 that. Tuberculosis has made you twenty per cent, interest 
 for twenty years — those hothouses for consumption of yours 
 in the Valley. But it's cost the poor scores and scores of 
 lives. Mortyhasit." Grant's voice rose solemnly. "Venge- 
 ance is mine sayeth the Lord, I will repay. You 've got your 
 interest, and the Lord has taken his toll. ' ' 
 
 The old man showed his colorless gums as he opened a 
 raging mouth. 
 
 "You — you — eh, you blasphemer!" He shook as with a 
 chill and screamed, "But we've got you now — we'll fix you!" 
 
 The car for Harvey came, and the Adamses climbed in. 
 
 Amos Adams, sitting on the hard seat of the street car 
 looking into the moonlight, considered seriously his brother- 
 in-law, and his low estate. That he had to be helped into 
 his limousine, that he had to be wrapped up like a baby, 
 that his head was palsied and his hands fluttering, seemed 
 strange and rather inexplicable to Amos. He counted Dan- 
 iel a young man, four years his junior, barely seventy-nine ; 
 a man who should be in his prime. Amos did not realize that 
 his legs had been kept supple by climbing on and off a high 
 printer's stool hourly for fifty years, and that his body had 
 buffeted the winds of the world unprotected all those years 
 and had kept fit. But Daniel Sands 's sad case seemed 
 pathetic to the elder Adams and he cut into some rising 
 stream of conversation from Grant and the Bowmans in- 
 advertently with: "Poor Daniel — Morty doomed, and Dan- 
 iel himself looking like the breaking up of a hard winter — 
 poor Daniel ! He doesn't seem to have got the hang of things 
 in this world; he can't seem to get on some way. I'm sorry 
 for Daniel, Grant; he might have made quite a man if he'd 
 not been fooled by money. ' ' 
 
 Clearly Amos was meditating aloud ; no one replied and the 
 talk flowed on. But the old man looked into the moonlight 
 and dreamed dreams. 
 
 The. next day was Grant's day at his carpenter's bench, 
 and when he came to his office with his kit in his hands at five 
 o'clock in the afternoon, he found Violet Hogan waiting 
 with the letters he was to sign, and with the mail opened 
 and sorted. As he was signing his letters Violet gave him 
 the news of the day : 
 
LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE 535 
 
 "Dick Bowman ran in at noon and asked me to see if I 
 could get Dr. Nesbit and George Brotherton and Henry 
 Fenn down here this evening to talk over his investment of 
 little Ben's money. The check will come to-morrow." 
 Grant looked up from his desk, but before he could ask a 
 question Violet answered : ' ' They '11 be down at eight. The 
 Doctor is that proud ! And Mr. Brotherton is cutting lodge 
 — the Shriners, themselves — to come down." 
 
 It was a grave and solemn council that sat by Grant 
 Adams's desk that evening discussing the disposal of little 
 Ben's five thousand. Excepting Mr. Brotherton, no one 
 there had ever handled that much money at one time. For 
 though the Doctor was a man of affairs the money he han- 
 dled in politics came easy and went easy, and the money 
 he earned Mrs. Nesbit always had invested for him. So he 
 and Lida Bowman sat rather apart while Dick and Brother- 
 ton considered the safety of bonds and mortgages and time 
 deposits and other staple methods of investing the vast sum 
 which was about to be paid to them for Ben's accident. 
 They also considered plans for his education — whether he 
 should learn telegraphy or should cultivate his voice, or 
 go to college or what not. In this part of the council the 
 Doctor took a hand. But Lida Bowman kept her wonted 
 silence. The money could not take the bitterness from her 
 loss; though it did relieve her despair. While they talked, 
 as a mere incident of the conversation, some one spoke of 
 having seen Joe Calvin come down to the Wahoo Fuel Com- 
 pany's offices that day in his automobile. Doctor Nesbit 
 recalled having seen Calvin conferring with Tom Van Dorn 
 and Daniel Sands in Van Dorn's office that afternoon. Then 
 Dick Bowman craning his neck asked for the third time 
 when Henry Fenn would show up; and for the third time 
 it was explained that Henry had taken the Hogan children 
 to the High School building in Harvey to behold the spec- 
 tacle of Janice Hogan graduating from the eighth grade into 
 the High School. Then Dick explained : 
 
 "Well, I just thought Henry would know about this paper 
 I got to-day from the constable. It's a legal document, and 
 probably has something to do with getting Benny's money 
 or something. I couldn't make it out so I thought I 'd just let 
 
536 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 Henry figure on it and tell me what to do." And when a 
 few minutes later Fenn came in, with a sense of duty to the 
 Hogans well done, Dick handed Fenn the paper and asked 
 with all the assurance of a man who expects the reassurance 
 of an affirmative answer: 
 
 "Well, Henry — she's all right, ain't she? Just some legal 
 formality to go through, I suppose ? ' ' 
 
 Henry Fenn took the document from Bowman's hand. 
 Henry stood under the electric, read it and sat thinking for 
 a few seconds, with widely furious eyes. 
 
 "Well," he said, "they've played their trump, boys. Doc 
 Jim — your law's been attacked in the federal court — under 
 Tom Van Dorn — damn him ! ' ' 
 
 The group barked a common question in many voices. 
 Fenn replied: "As I make it out, they got a New York 
 stockholder of the Wahoo Valley Fuel Company to ask for an 
 injunction against paying little Ben his money to-morrow, 
 and the temporary injunction has been granted with the 
 hearing set for June 16." 
 
 "And won't they pay us without a suit?" asked Bowman. 
 "Why, I don't see how that can be — they've been paying for 
 accidents for a year now." 
 
 "Why, the law's through all the courts!" queried Broth- 
 erton. 
 
 "The state courts — yes," answered Fenn, "but they didn't 
 own the federal court until they got Tom in." 
 
 Bowman's jaw began to tremble. His Adam's apple 
 bobbed like a cork, and no one spoke. Finally Dr. Nesbit 
 spoke in his high-keyed voice : "I presume legal verbiage is 
 all they talk in hell!" and sat pondering. 
 
 "Is there no way to beat it?" asked Brotherton. 
 
 "Not in this court, George," replied Fenn, "that's why 
 they brought suit in this court." 
 
 "That means a long figh1>-a big law suit, Henry?" asked 
 Bowman. 
 
 "Unless they compromise or wear you out," replied the 
 lawyer. 
 
 "And can't a jury decide?" 
 
 "No — it's an injunction. It's up to the court, and the 
 court is Tom Van Dorn," said Fenn. 
 
LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE 537 
 
 Then Dick Bowman spoke: "And there goes little Ben's 
 school and a chance to make something out of what's left of 
 him. Why, it don't look right when the legislature's passed 
 it, and the people 's confirmed it and nine lawyers in all the 
 state courts have said it's law, — for the attorney for the 
 company holding a job as judge to turn over all them forms 
 of law. Can 't we do something ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes," spoke the big voice of Grant Adams for the first 
 time since Fenn made his announcement, "we can strike — 
 that's one thing we can do. Why," he continued, full of 
 emotion, ' ' I could no more hold those men down there against 
 a strike when they hear this than I could fly. They'll have 
 to fight for this right, gentlemen ! ' ' 
 
 "Be calm now, Grant," piped the Doctor; "don't go off 
 half cocked." 
 
 Grant's eyes flared — his nose dilated and the muscles 
 of his heavy jaw worked and knotted. He answered in a 
 harsh voice: 
 
 "Oh, I'll be calm all right, Doctor. I'm going down in 
 the morning and plead for peace. But I know my people. 
 I can't hold 'em." 
 
 Those in the room stood for a moment in dazed silence; 
 then the Doctor and Brotherton, realizing the importance of 
 further discussion that night, soon withdrew from the room, 
 leaving Dick voluble in his grief and Lida, his wife, stony 
 and speechless beside him. She shook no sympathizing 
 hand, not even Grant's, as the Bowmans left for home. But 
 she climbed out of the chair and down the stairs on tired, 
 heavy feet. 
 
 In the morning there was turmoil in the Valley. In the 
 Times Jared Thurston, with the fatuous blundering which 
 characterizes all editors of papers like his, printed the news 
 that little Ben Bowman would be denied his rights, as a glor- 
 ious victory over the reformers. In an editorial, written in 
 old Joe Calvin's best style, the community was congratu- 
 lated upon having one judge at last who would put an end 
 to the socialistic foolishness that had been written by dema- 
 gogues on the state statute books, and hinting rather broadly 
 that the social labor program adopted by the people at the 
 last election through the direct vote would go the way of the 
 
538 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 fool statute under which the Bowman lad hoped to cheat the 
 courts of due process of law. 
 
 In vain did Grant Adams try to rally carpenters to the 
 trocha. He pleaded with the men to raise a special fund 
 to take little Ben's case through the federal courts; but he 
 failed. 
 
 The Wahoo Valley saw in the ease of little Ben Bowman 
 the drama of greed throttling poverty, all set forth in stark, 
 grim terms that no one could question. The story appealed 
 directly to the passions of the Valley and the Valley's voice 
 rose in the demand to resort to its last weapon of defense. 
 The workers felt that they must strike or forfeit their self- 
 respect. And day by day the Times, gloating at the coming 
 downfall in Van Dorn's program of labor-repression, threw 
 oil on the naming passions of the Valley, so labor raged 
 and went white hot. The council of the Wahoo Valley 
 Trades Workers came together to vote on the strike. Every 
 unit of seven was asked to meet and vote. Grant sat in his 
 office with the executive committee a day and a night count- 
 ing the slowly returning votes. Grant had influence enough 
 to make them declare emphatically for a peaceful strike. 
 But the voice of the Valley was for a strike. The spring was 
 at its full. The little garden plots were blooming. The men 
 felt confident. A conference of the officials of the council 
 was called to formulate the demands. Grant managed to 
 put off the strike until the hearing on the temporary injunc- 
 tion, June 16, was held. But the men drew up their de- 
 mands and were ready for the court decision which they felt 
 would be finally against them. 
 
 The Wahoo Valley was stirred deeply by the premonitions 
 of the coming strike. It was proud of its record for in- 
 dustrial peace, and the prospect of war in the Valley over- 
 turned all its traditions. 
 
 Market Street had its profound reaction, too. Market 
 Street and the Valley, each in its own way, felt the dreaded 
 turmoil coming, knew what commercial disaster the struggle 
 meant, but Market Street was timid and powerless and panic- 
 stricken. Yet life went on. In the Valley there were births 
 and deaths and marriages, and on the hill in Harvey, Mrs. 
 Bedelia Nesbit was working out her plans to make over 
 
LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE 539 
 
 the Nesbit house, while Lila, her granddaughter, was flutter- 
 ing about in the seventh Heaven, for she was living under 
 the same sky and sun and stars that bent over Kenyon, her 
 lover, home from Boston for the Morton-Adams wedding. 
 He might be hailed as a passing ship once or twice a day, if 
 she managed to time her visits to Market Street properly, or 
 he might be seen from the east veranda of her home at the 
 proper hour, and there was a throb of joy that blotted out 
 all the rest of the pale world. There was one time; two 
 times indeed they were, and a hope of a third, when slipping 
 out from under the shadow of her grandmother's belligerent 
 plumes, Lila had known the actual fleeting touch of hands; 
 the actual feasting of eyes and the quick rapture of meeting 
 lips at a tryst. And when Mrs. Nesbit left for Minneapolis 
 to consult an architect, and to be gone two weeks — Harvey 
 and the Valley and the strike slipped so far below the skyline 
 of the two lovers that they were scarcely aware that such 
 things were in the universe. 
 
 Kenyon could not see even the grim cast of decision man- 
 tling Grant's face. Day by day, while the votes assembled 
 which ordered the strike, the deep abiding purpose of Grant 
 Adams's soul rose and stood ready to master him. He and 
 the men seemed to be coming to their decision together. As 
 the votes indicated by a growing majority their determina- 
 tion, in a score of ways Grant made it evident to those about 
 him, that for him time had fruited ; the day was ready and the 
 hour at hand for his life plans to unfold. Those nearest 
 him knew that the season of debate for Grant Adams had 
 passed. He was like one whose sails of destiny are set and 
 who longs to put out into the deep and let down his nets. 
 So he passed the long days impatiently until the hearing of 
 the injunction in little Ben's suit arrived, and every day 
 burned some heavier line into his face that recorded the 
 presence of the quenchless fire of purpose in his heart. 
 
 A smiling, affable man was Judge Thomas Van Dorn in his 
 court the morning of June 16. He had his ticket bought 
 for Chicago and a seat in the great convention of his party as- 
 sured. He walked through the court room, rather dapperly. 
 He put his high silk hat on the bench beside him, by way of 
 adding a certain air of easy informality to the proceedings. 
 
540 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 His red necktie brought out every thin wrinkle in his bur- 
 nished brown face and upon the pink brow threaded by a 
 chain lightning of a scar. The old mushy, emotional voice 
 of his youth and maturity had thickened, and he talked 
 loudly. He listened to arguments of counsel. Young Joe 
 Calvin, representing the Fuel Company, was particularly 
 eloquent. Henry Fenn knew that his case was hopeless, but 
 made such reply as he could. 
 
 "Well," cut in the court before Fenn was off his feet at 
 the close of his argument, "there's nothing to your conten- 
 tion. The court is familiar with those cases, cited by counsel. 
 Either the constitution means what it says or it doesn't. This 
 court is willing to subscribe to a fund to pay this Bowman 
 child a just compensation. This is a case for charity and the 
 company is always generous in its benevolence. The Social- 
 ists may have the state courts, and the people are doubtless 
 crazy — but this court will uphold the constitution. The in- 
 junction is made permanent. The court stands adjourned." 
 
 The crowd of laborers in the court room laughed in the 
 Judge's face. They followed Grant Adams, who with head 
 bowed in thought walked slowly to the street car. "Well, 
 fellows," said Grant, "here's the end. As it stands now, 
 the law considers steel and iron in machinery more sacred 
 than flesh and blood. The court would have allowed them 
 to appropriate money for machines without due process of 
 law; but it enjoins them from appropriating money for 
 flesh and blood." He was talking to the members of the 
 Valley Labor Council as they stood waiting for a car. "We 
 may as well miss a car and present our demands to the Cal- 
 vins. The sooner we get this thing moving, the better. ' ' 
 
 Ten minutes later the Council walked into the office of 
 Calvin and Calvin. There sat Joseph Calvin, the elder, a 
 ratty little man still, with a thin stringy neck and with a 
 bald head. His small, mousy eyes blinked at the work- 
 men. He was exceedingly polite. He admitted that he was 
 attorney for the owners' association in the Valley, that he 
 could if he chose speak for them in any negotiations they 
 might desire to make with their employees, but that he was 
 authorized to say that the owners were not ready to consider 
 or even to receive any communication from the men upon 
 
LIDA BOWMAN CONSIDERS HER UNIVERSE 541 
 
 any subject — except as individual employees might desire to 
 confer with, superintendents or foremen in the various mines 
 and mills. 
 
 So they walked out. At labor headquarters in South Har- 
 vey, Nathan Perry came sauntering in. 
 
 "Well, boys — let's have your agreement — I think I know 
 what it is. We're ready to sign." 
 
 In an hour men were carrying out posters to be distributed 
 throughout the Valley, signed by Grant Adams, chairman of 
 the Wahoo Valley Trades Workers ' Council. It read : 
 
 STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE 
 
 The managers of our mines and mills in the Wahoo Valley have 
 refused to confer with representatives of the workers about an im- 
 portant matter. Therefore we order a general strike of all workers 
 in the mines and mills in this District. Workers before leaving will 
 see that their machines are carefully oiled, covered, and prepared to 
 rest without injury. For we claim partnership interest in them, and 
 should protect them and all our property in the mines and mills in 
 this Valley. During this strike, we pledge ourselves. 
 
 To orderly conduct. 
 
 To keep out of the saloons. 
 
 To protect our property in the mines and mills. 
 
 To use our influence to restrain all violence of speech or conduct. 
 And we make the following demands: 
 
 First. That prices of commodities turned out in this district shall 
 not be increased to the public as a result of concessions to us in this 
 strike, and to that end we demand. 
 
 Second. That we be allowed to have a representative in the offices 
 of all concerns interested, said representative to have access to all 
 books and accounts, guaranteeing to labor such increases in wages 
 as shall be evidently just, allowing 8 per cent, dividends on stock, the 
 payment of interest on bonds, and such sums for upkeep, maintenance, 
 and repairs as shall not include the creation of a surplus or fund for 
 extensions. 
 
 Third, we demand that the companies concerned shall obey all laws 
 enacted by the state or nation to improve conditions of industry until 
 such laws have been passed upon by the supreme courts of the state 
 and of the United States. 
 
 Fourth, we demand that all negotiations between the employers and 
 the workers arising out of the demands shall be conducted on behalf 
 of the workers by the Trades Workers' Council of the Wahoo Valley or 
 their accredited representatives. 
 
 During this strike we promise to the public righteous peace; after 
 the strike we promise to the managers of the mines and mills ef- 
 ficient labor, and to the workers always justice. 
 STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE 
 
542 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 At two o'clock that June afternoon the whistle of the big 
 engine in the smelter in South Harvey, the whistle in the 
 glass factory at Magnus, and the siren in the cement mill at 
 Foley blew, and gradually the wheels stopped, the machines 
 were covered, the fires drawn, the engines wiped and covered 
 with oil, and the men marched out of all the mills and mines 
 and shops in the district. There was no uproar, no rioting, 
 but in an hour all the garden patches in the Valley were 
 black with men. The big strike of the Wahoo Valley was on. 
 
CHAPTBE XLVI 
 
 WHEREIN GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE AND L1DA BOWMAN 
 SPEAKS HER MIND 
 
 A WAR, being an acute stage of discussion about the 
 ownership of property, is a war even though "the 
 lead striker calls it a strike," and even though he pro- 
 poses to conduct the acute stage of the discussion on high 
 moral grounds. The gentleman who is being relieved of what 
 he considers at the moment his property, has no notion of 
 giving it up without a struggle, no matter how courteously 
 he is addressed, nor upon what exalted grounds the dis- 
 cussion is ranging. It is a world-old mistake of the Have- 
 nots to discount the value which the Haves put upon their 
 property. The Have-nots, generally speaking, hold the prop- 
 erty under discussion in low esteem. They have not had the 
 property in question. They don't know what a good thing 
 it is — except in theory. But the Haves have had the prop- 
 erty and they will fight for it, displaying a degree of feeling 
 that always surprises the Have-nots, and naturally weakens 
 their regard for the high motives and disinterested citizen- 
 ship of the Haves. 
 
 Now Grant Adams in the great strike in the "Wahoo Valley 
 was making the world-old mistake. He was relying upon the 
 moral force of his argument to separate the Haves from 
 their property. He had cared little for the property. The 
 poor never care much for property — otherwise they would 
 not be poor. So Grant and his followers in the Valley — and 
 all over the world for that matter, — (for they are of the great 
 cult who believe in, a more equitable distribution of property, 
 through a restatement of the actual values of various servants 
 to society), went into their demands for partnership rights 
 in the industrial property around them, in a sublime and 
 beautiful but untenable faith that the righteousness of their 
 
 543 
 
544 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 cause would win it. The afternoon when the men walked 
 out of the mines and mills and shops, placards covered the 
 dead walls of the Valley and the hired billboards in Harvey- 
 setting forth the claims of the men. They bought and paid 
 for twenty thousand copies of Amos Adams's Tribune, and 
 distributed it in every home in the district, setting forth 
 their reasons for striking. Great posters were spread over 
 the town and in the Valley declaring "the rule of this strike 
 is to be square, and to be square means that the strikers will 
 do as they would be done by. There will be no violence." 
 
 Now it would seem that coming to the discussion with these 
 obviously high motives, and such fair promises, the strikers 
 would have been met by similarly altruistic methods. But 
 instead, the next morning at half past six, when a thousand 
 strikers appeared bearing large white badges inscribed with 
 the words, "We stand for peace and law and order," and 
 when the strikers appeared before the entrance to the shaft 
 houses and the gates and doors of the smelters and mills, to 
 beg men and women not to fill the vacant places at the mills 
 and mines, the white-badged brigade was met with five hun- 
 dred policemen who rudely ordered the strikers to move on. 
 
 The Haves were exhibiting feeling in the matter. But 
 the mines and mills did not open ; not enough strike-breakers 
 appeared. So that afternoon, a great procession of white- 
 badged men and white-clad women and children, formed in 
 South Harvey, and, headed by the Foley Brass Band, marched 
 through Market Street and for five miles through the streets 
 of Harvey singing. Upon a platform carried by eight white- 
 clad mothers, sat little Ben Bowman swathed in white, 
 waving a white flag in his hand, and leading the singing. 
 Over the chair on which he sat were these words on a great 
 banner. "For his legal rights and for all such as he we 
 demand that the law be enforced." 
 
 For two hours the procession wormed through Harvey. 
 The streets were crowded to watch it. It made its impression 
 on the town. The elder Calvin watched it with Mayor Ahab 
 Wright, in festal side whiskers, from the office of Calvin & 
 Calvin. Young Joe Calvin from time to time came and looked 
 over their shoulders. But he was for the most part too busily 
 engaged, making out commissions for deputy sheriffs and 
 
GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 545 
 
 extra policemen, to watch the parade. As the parade came 
 back headed for South Harvey, the ear of the young man 
 caught a familiar tune. He watched Ahab Wright and his 
 father to see if they recognized it. The placid face of the 
 Mayor betrayed no more consciousness of the air than did 
 his immaculate white necktie. The elder Calvin's face 
 showed no appreciative wrinkles. The band passed down 
 the street roaring the battle hymn of labor that has become 
 so familiar all over the world. The great procession paused 
 uncovered in the street, while Little Ben waved his flag 
 and raised his clear, boyish voice with its clarion note and 
 sang, as the procession waved back. And at the spectacle 
 of the crippled child, waving his one little arm, and lifting 
 his voice in a lusty strain, the sidewalk crowd cheered and 
 those who knew the tune joined. 
 
 Young Joe Calvin stood with his hands on the shoulders 
 of the two sitting men. "Mr. Mayor, do you know that 
 tune?" said Young Joe. 
 
 Mr. Mayor, whose only secular tune was "Yankee Doodle," 
 confessed his ignorance. "Listen to the words," suggested 
 Young Joe. Old Joe put his hand to his right ear. Ahab 
 "Wright leaned forward, and the words of the old, old cry 
 of the Reds of the Midi came surging up : 
 
 "To arms! to arms! — ye brave! 
 The avenging sword unsheathe! 
 March on! March on! all hearts resolved 
 On victory or death." 
 
 When Ahab Wright caught the words he was open mouthed 
 with astonishment. "Why — why," he cried, "that — why, 
 that is sedition; They're advocating murder!" 
 
 Young Joe Calvin's face did not betray him, and he nodded 
 a warning head. Old Joe looked the genuine consternation 
 which he felt. 
 
 "We can't have this, Ahab — this won't do — a few days of 
 this and we'll have bloodshed." 
 
 It did not occur to Ahab Wright that he had been singing 
 "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and "I Am a Soldier of the 
 Cross," and "I'll Be Washed in the Blood of the Lamb," 
 all of his nious life, without ever meanine anything narticu- 
 
546 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 larly sanguinary. He heard the war song of the revolution, 
 and being a literal and peth-headed man, prepared to defend 
 the flag with all the ardor that had burned in John Kol- 
 lander's heart for fifty years. 
 
 "I tell you, Mr. Mayor, we need the troops. The Sheriff 
 agrees with me — now you hear that, ' ' said young Joe. ' ' Will 
 you wait until some one is killed or worse, until a mine is 
 flooded, before sending for them 1 ' ' 
 
 "You know, Ahab," put in old Joe, "the Governor said 
 on the phone this morning, not to let this situation get away 
 from you." 
 
 The crowd was joining the singing. The words — the in- 
 spiring words of the labor chant had caught the people on the 
 sidewalk, and a great diapason was rising: 
 
 "March on! March on! — all hearts resolved 
 On victory or death." 
 
 ' ' Hear that— hear that, Ahab ! ' ' cried old Joe. ' ' Why, the 
 decent people up town here are going crazy — they're all 
 singing it — and that little devil is waving a red flag with the 
 white one!" 
 
 Ahab Wright looked and was aghast. "Doesn't that mean 
 rebellion — anarchy — and bloodshed?" he gasped. 
 
 "It means socialism," quoth young Joe, laconically, 
 "which is the same thing." 
 
 "Well, well! my! my! Dear me," fretted Ahab, "we 
 mustn't let this go on." 
 
 "Shall I get the Governor on the phone — you know we 
 have the Sheriff's order here — just waiting for you to join 
 him?" asked young Joe. 
 
 The Haves were moving the realm of the discussion about 
 their property from pure reason to the baser emotions. 
 
 "Look, look!" cried the Mayor. "Grant Adams is stand- 
 ing on that platform — and those women have to hold him up 
 — it's shameful. Listen!" 
 
 "I want to say to my old neighbors and friends here in 
 Harvey," cried Grant, "that in this strike we shall try with 
 all our might, with all our hearts' best endeavors, to do unto 
 others as we would have them do unto us. Our property in 
 the mines and mills in this Valley, we shall protect, just as 
 
GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 547 
 
 sacredly as our partners on Wall Street would protect it. 
 It is our property — we are the legatees of the laborers who 
 have piled it up. You men of Harvey know that these mines 
 represent little new capital. They were dug with the profits 
 from the first few shafts. The smelters rose from the profits 
 of the first smelters in the district. Where capital has 
 builded with fresh investment — we make no specific claim, 
 but where capital has builded here in this district from profits 
 made in the district — profits made by reason of cheating the 
 crippled and the killed, profits made by long deadly hours 
 of labor, profits made by cooking men's lungs on the slag 
 dump, profits made by choking men to death, unrequited, in 
 cement dust, profits sweated out of the men at the glass 
 furnaces — where capital has appropriated unjustly, we ex- 
 pect to appropriate justly. We shall take nothing that we 
 do not own. This is the beginning of the rise of the Democ- 
 racy of Labor — the dawn of the new day." He waved his 
 arm and his steel claw and chanted : 
 
 "March on! — March on! — all hearts resolved," 
 
 And in a wave of song the response came 
 
 "To victory or death." 
 
 Grant Adams flaunted his black slouch hat ; then he sprang 
 from the platform, and hurried to the front of the procession. 
 The band struck up a lively tune and the long trail of white- 
 clad women and white-badged men became animate. 
 
 "Well, Ahab —you heard that? That is rebellion," said 
 old Joe, squinting his mole-like eyes. ' ' What are you going 
 to do about that — as the chief priest of law and order in 
 this community?" 
 
 Five minutes later Ahab Wright, greatly impressed with 
 the dignity of his position, and with the fact that he was talk- 
 ing to so superior a person as a governor, was saying : 
 
 "Yes, your excellency — yes, I wanted to tell you of our 
 conditions here in the Valley. It's serious — quite serious." 
 To the Governor's question the Mayor replied: 
 
 "No — no — not yet, but we want to prevent it. This man 
 Adams — Grant Adams, you've heard about him — " 
 
548 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 And then an instant later he continued, "Yes — that's 
 the man, Governor — Dr. Nesbit's friend. Well, this man 
 Adams has no respect for authority, nor for property rights, 
 and he's stirring up the people." 
 
 Young Joe Calvin winked at his father and said during the 
 pause, 
 
 "That's the stuff — the old man's coming across like a 
 top." 
 
 Ahab went on: "Exactly — 'false and seditious doc- 
 trines, ' and I 'm afraid, Governor, that it will be wise to send 
 us some troops." 
 
 The Calvins exchanged approving nods, and young Joe, 
 having the enthusiasm of youth in his blood, beat his desk in 
 joyous approval of the trend of events. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know as to that," continued Ahab, answer- 
 ing the Governor. "We have about four thousand men — 
 perhaps a few more out. You know how many troops can 
 handle them. ' ' 
 
 "Tell him we'll quarter them in the various plants, Ahab," 
 cut in old Joe, and Ahab nodded as he listened. 
 
 "Well, don't wait for the tents," he said. "Our people 
 will quarter the men in the buildings in the centers of the dis- 
 turbance. Our merchants can supply your quartermaster 
 with everything. We have about a thousand policemen and 
 deputy sheriffs — " 
 
 While the Mayor was listening to the Governor, Calvin 
 senior said to his son, "Probably we'd better punch him up 
 with that promise about the provo marshal, ' ' and young Joe 
 interrupted : 
 
 "And, Mr. Mayor, don't forget to remind him of the prom- 
 ise he made to Tom Van Dorn, — about me." 
 
 Ahab nodded and listened. ' ' Wait, ' ' he said, putting his 
 hand over the telephone receiver, and added in a low voice 
 to those in the room : "He was just talking about that and 
 thinks he will not proclaim martial law until there is actual 
 violence — which he feels will follow the coming of the troops, 
 when the men see he is determined. He said then that he 
 expected Captain Calvin of the Harvey Company to take 
 charge, and the Governor will speak to the other officers 
 
GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 549 
 
 about it." Ahab paused a moment for further orders. 
 "Well," said the elder Calvin, "I believe that's all." 
 
 "Will there be anything else to-day, Joe?" asked Ahab, 
 unconsciously assuming his counter manner to young Joe 
 Calvin, who replied without a smile : 
 
 "Well — no — not to-day, thank you," and Ahab went back 
 to the Governor and ended the parley. 
 
 The Times the next morning with flaring headlines an- 
 nounced that the Governor had decided to send troops to 
 the Wahoo Valley to protect the property in the mines and 
 mills for the rightful owners and to prevent any further 
 incendiary speaking and rioting such as had disgraced Mar- 
 ket Street the day before. In an editorial the Governor was 
 advised to proclaim martial law, as only the strictest repres- 
 sion would prevent the rise of anarchy and open rebellion to 
 the authorities. 
 
 The troops came on the early morning trains, and filed into 
 the sheds occupied by the workmen before the strike. The 
 young militiamen immediately began pervading South Har- 
 vey, Foley and Magnus, and when the strikers lined up before 
 the gates and doors of their former working places at seven 
 o 'clock that morning they met a brown line of youths — devil- 
 may-care young fellows out for a lark, who liked to prod the 
 workmen with their bayonets and who laughingly ordered the 
 strikers to stop trying to keep the strike-breakers from go- 
 ing to work. The strikers were bound by their pledges to the 
 Trades Council not to touch the strike-breakers under any cir- 
 cumstances. The strikers — white-badged and earnest-faced 
 — made their campaign by lining up five on each side of a 
 walk or path through which the strike-breakers would have 
 to pass to their work, and crying : 
 
 "Help us, and we'll help you. Don't scab on us — keep 
 out of the works, and we'll see that you are provided for. 
 Join us — don't turn your backs on your fellow workers." 
 
 They would stretch out their arms in mute appeal when 
 words failed, and they brought dozens of strike-breakers 
 away from their work. And on the second morning of the 
 strike not a wheel turned in the district. 
 
 All morning Grant Adams moved among the men. He 
 
550 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 was a marked figure — with his steel claw — and he realized 
 that he was regarded by the militiamen as an ogre. A young 
 militiaman had hurt a boy in Magnus — pricked him in the 
 leg and cut an artery. Grant tried to see the Colonel of 
 the company to protest. But the soldier had been to the 
 officer with his story, and Grant was told that the boy at- 
 tacked the militiaman — which, considering that the boy was 
 a child in his early teens and the man was armed and in his 
 twenties, was unlikely. But Grant saw that his protests 
 would not avail. He issued a statement, gave it to the press 
 correspondents who came flocking in with the troops, and 
 sent it to the Governor, who naturally transferred it back to 
 the militiamen. 
 
 In the afternoon the parade started again — the women and 
 children in white, and the men in white coats and white work- 
 ing caps. It formed on a common between Harvey and 
 South Harvey, and instead of going into Harvey turned 
 down into the Valley where it marched silently around the 
 quiet mills and shafts and to the few tenements where the 
 strike-breakers were lodged. A number of them were sit- 
 ting at the windows and on the steps and when the strikers 
 saw the men in the tenements, they raised their arms in mute 
 appeal, but spoke no word. Down the Valley the proces- 
 sion hurried and in every town repeated this performance. 
 The troops had gathered in Harvey and were waiting, and 
 it was not until after three o'clock that they started after 
 the strikers. A troop of cavalry overtook the column in 
 Foley, and rode through the line a few times, but no one 
 spoke, and the cavalrymen rode along the line but did not try 
 to break it. So the third day passed without a fire in a 
 furnace in the district. 
 
 That night Grant Adams addressed the strikers in Belgian 
 Hall in South Harvey, in Fraternity Hall in Magnus and on 
 a common in Foley. The burden of his message was this: 
 "Stick—^tick to the strike and to our method. If we can 
 demonstrate the fact that we have the brains to organize, to 
 abandon force, to maintain ourselves financially, to put our 
 cause before our fellow workers so clearly that they will join 
 us— we can win, we can enter into the partnership in these 
 mills that is ours by risrht. The Democrat nf Lahnr is » 
 
GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 551 
 
 Democracy of Peace — only in peace, only by using the higher 
 arts of peace under great provocation may we establish that 
 Democracy and come into our own. Stick — stick — stick to 
 the strike and stick to the ways of peace. Let them rally 
 to their Colonels and their tin soldiers — and we shall not fear 
 — for we are gathered about the Prince of Peace." 
 
 The workmen always rose to this appeal and in Foley where 
 the Letts had worked in the slag-dump, one of them, who 
 did not quite understand the association of words implied 
 by the term the Prince of Peace, cried : 
 
 "Hurrah for Grant, he is the Prince of Peace," and the 
 good natured crowd laughed and cheered the man's mistake. 
 
 But the Times the next morning contained this head : 
 
 "Shame on Grant Adams, Trying to Inflame Ignorant Foreigners. 
 
 Declares he is the Prince of Peace and gets Applause from his Excited 
 
 Dupes — Will he Claim to be Messiah?" 
 
 It was a good story — from a purely sensational viewpoint, 
 and it was telegraphed over the country, that Grant Adams, 
 the labor leader, was claiming to be a messiah and was 
 rallying foreigners to him by supernatural powers. The 
 Times contained a vicious editorial calling on all good citizens 
 to stamp out the blasphemous cult that Adams was propa- 
 gating. The editorial said that the authorities should not 
 allow such a man to speak on the streets maintained by tax- 
 payers, and that with the traitorous promises of ownership 
 of the mines and mills backing up such a campaign, rebellion 
 would soon be stalking the street and bloodshed such as had 
 not been seen in America for a generation would follow. The 
 names which the Times called Grant Adams indicated so 
 much malice, that Grant felt encouraged, and believed he 
 had the strike won, if he could keep down violence. So 
 triumph flambeaued itself on his face. For two peaceful 
 days had passed. And peace was his signal of victory. 
 
 But during the night a trainload of strike-breakers came 
 from Chicago. They were quartered in the railroad yards, 
 and Grant ordered a thousand pickets out to meet the men 
 at daybreak. Grant called out the groups of seven and each 
 lodging house, tenement and car on the railroad siding was 
 parceled out to a group. Moreover, Grant threw his army 
 
552 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 into action by ordering twenty groups into Sands Park, 
 through which the strike-breaking smelter men would pass 
 after the pickets had spoken to the strike-breakers in their 
 door yards. Lining the park paths, men stood in the early 
 morning begging working men not to go into the places made 
 vacant by the strike. In addition to this, he posted other 
 groups of strikers to stand near the gates and doors of the 
 working places, begging the strike-breakers to join the 
 strikers. 
 
 Grant Adams, in his office, was the motive power of the 
 strike. By telephone his power was transferred all over the 
 district. Violet Hogan and Henry Fenn were with him. 
 Two telephones began buzzing as the first strikers went into 
 Sands Park. Fenn, sitting by Grant, picked up the first 
 transmitter; Violet took the other. She took the message 
 in shorthand. Fenn translated a running jargon between 
 breaths. 
 
 "Police down in Foley — Clubbing the Letts. — No blood- 
 shed. — They are running back to their gardens." 
 
 "Tell the French to take their places," said Grant — 
 "There are four French sevens — tell him to get them out 
 right away — but not to fight the cops. Militia there?" 
 
 "No," answered Fenn, "they are guarding the mill doors, 
 and this happened in the streets near the lodging houses." 
 
 "Mr. Adams," said Violet, reading, "there's some kind 
 of a row in Sands Park. The cavalry is there and Ira Dooley 
 says to tell you to clear out the Park or there will be trouble." 
 
 "Get the boys on the phone, Violet, and tell them I said 
 leave the Park, then, and go to the shaft houses in Magnus — 
 but to march in silence — understand ? ' ' 
 
 Fenn picked up the transmitter again, "What's that — 
 what's that — " he cried. Then he mumbled on, "He says 
 the cops have ax-handles and that down by the smelters they 
 are whacking our people right and left — Three in an ambu- 
 lance? — The Slavs won't take it? Cop badly hurt?" asked 
 Fenn. 
 
 Grant Adams groaned, and put his head in his hand, and 
 leaned on the desk. He rose up suddenly with a flaming 
 face and said: " I 'm going down there — I can stop it." 
 
 He bolted from the room and rattled down the stairs. In 
 
GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 553 
 
 a minute he came running up. "Violet — " he called to the 
 woman who was busy at the telephone — "shut that man off 
 and order a car for me quick — they've stolen my crank and 
 cut every one of my tires. For God's sake be quick — I must 
 get down to those Slavs." 
 
 In a moment Violet had shut off her interviewer, and was 
 calling the South Harvey Garage. Henry Fenn, busy with 
 his phone, looked up with a drawn face and cried : 
 
 "Grant — the Cossacks — the Cossacks are riding down 
 those little Italians in Sands Park — chasing them like dogs 
 from the paths — they say the cavalry is using whips ! ' ' 
 
 Grant stood with bowed head and arched shoulders listen- 
 ing. The muscles of his jaw contracted, and he snapped 
 his teeth. 
 
 "Any one hurt?" he asked. Fenn, with the receiver to 
 his ear went on, "The Dagoes are not fighting back — the 
 cavalrymen are shooting in the air, but — the lines are 
 broken — the scabs are marching to the mines through a line 
 of soldiers — we've stopped about a third from the cars — 
 they are forming at the upper end of the Park — our men, 
 they—" 
 
 "Good-by," shouted Grant, as he heard a motor car whirr- 
 ing in the distance. 
 
 Turning out of the street he saw a line of soldiers block- 
 ing his way. He had the driver turn, and at the next corner 
 found himself blocked in. Once more he tried, and again 
 found himself fenced in. He jumped from the car, and ran, 
 head down, toward the line of young fellows in khaki block- 
 ing the street. As he came up to them he straightened up, 
 and, striking with his hook a terrific blow, the bayonet that 
 would have stopped him, Grant caught the youth 's coat in the 
 steel claw, whirled him about and was gone in a second. 
 
 He ran through alleys and across commons until he caught 
 a street car for the smelters. Here he heard the roar of the 
 riot. He saw the new ax-handles of the policemen beating 
 the air, and occasionally thudding on a man's back or head. 
 The Slavs were crying and throwing clods and stones. 
 Grant ran up and bellowed in his great voice : 
 
 "Quit it — break away — there, you men. Let the cops 
 alone. Do you want to lose this strike?" 
 
554 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 A policeman put his hand on Grant's shoulder to arrest 
 him. Grant brushed him aside. 
 
 "Break away there, boys," he called. The Slavs were 
 standing staring at him. Several bloody faces testified to 
 the effectiveness of the ax-handles. 
 
 "Stand back — stand back. Get to your lines," he called, 
 glaring at them. They fell under his spell and obeyed. 
 When they were quiet he walked over to them, and said 
 gently : 
 
 "It's all right, boys — grin and bear it. "We'll win. You 
 couldn't help it — I couldn't either." He smiled. "But try 
 — try next time." The strike-breakers were huddled back 
 of the policemen. 
 
 "Men," he shouted to the strike-breakers over the heads 
 of the policemen, "this strike is yours as well as ours. We 
 have money to keep you, if you will join us. Come with us — 
 comrades — Oh, comrades, stand with us in this fight ! Go in 
 there and they'll enslave you — they'll butcher you and kill 
 you and offer you a lawsuit for your blood. We offer you 
 justice, if we win. Come, come," he cried, "fellow workers 
 — comrades, help us to have peace. ' ' 
 
 The policemen formed a line into the door of the shaft 
 house. The strike-breakers hesitated. Grant approached 
 the line of policemen, put up his arm and his maimed hand, 
 lifted his rough, broken face skyward and cried, "0 — — 
 0, God, pour Thy peace into their hearts that they may have 
 mercy on their comrades." 
 
 A silence fell, the strike-breakers began to pass through 
 the police lines to join the strikers. At first only one at a 
 time, then two. And then, the line broke and streamed 
 around the policemen. A great cheer went up from the 
 street, and Grant Adams's face twitched and his eyes filled 
 with tears. Then he hurried away. 
 
 It was eight o'clock and the picketing for the day was 
 done, when Grant reached his office. 
 
 "Well," said Fenn, who had Violet's notes before him, 
 "it's considerably better than a dog fall. They haven't a 
 smelter at work. Two shafts are working with about a third 
 of a force, and we feel they are bluffing. The glass works 
 
GEANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 555 
 
 furnaces are cold. The cement mills are dead. They beat 
 up the Italians pretty badly over in the Park. ' ' 
 
 The Times issued a noon extra to tell of the incident in 
 front of the smelter, and expatiated upon the Messianic 
 myth. A tirade against Grant Adams in black-faced type 
 three columns wide occupied the center of the first page 
 of the extra, and in Harvey people began to believe that 
 he was the "Mad Mullah" that the Times said he was. 
 
 When Dr. Nesbit drove his electric home that noon, he 
 found his daughter waiting for him. She stood on the front 
 porch, with a small valise beside her. She was dressed in 
 white and her youthful skin, fresh lips, glowing eyes and 
 heightened color made her seem younger than the woman of 
 forty that she was. Her father saw in her face the burning 
 purpose to serve which had come to indicate her moments 
 of decision. The Doctor had grown used to that look of 
 decision and he knew that it was in some way related to 
 South Harvey and the strike. For during her years of 
 work in the Valley, its interests had grown to dominate her 
 life. But the Valley and its interests had unfolded her soul 
 to its widest reach, to its profoundest depths. And in her 
 features were blazoned, at times, all the love and joy and 
 strength that her life had gathered. These were the times 
 when she wore what her father called "the Valley look." 
 She had "the Valley look" in her face that day when she 
 stood waiting for her father with the valise beside her — a 
 beautiful woman. 
 
 "Father — now don't stop me, dear. I'm going to Grant. 
 Mother will be home in a few days. I've told Lila to stay 
 with Martha Morton when you are not here. It's always 
 secure and tranquil up here, you know. But I 'm going down 
 in the Valley. I 'm going to the strike. ' ' 
 
 "Going to the strike?" repeated her father. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, turning her earnest eyes upon him 
 as she spoke. "It's the first duty I have on earth — to be 
 with my people in this crisis. All these years they have 
 borne me up; have renewed my faith; they have given me 
 courage. Now is my turn, father. Where they go, I go 
 also. ' ' She smiled gently and added, " I 'm going to Grant. ' ' 
 
556 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 She took her father's hands. "Father — Oh, my good 
 friend — you understand me — Grant and me? — don't you? 
 Every man in the crisis of his life needs a woman. I've 
 been reading about Grant in the papers. I can see what 
 really has happened. But he doesn 't understand how what 
 they say happens, for the next few days or weeks or months, 
 while this strike is on, is of vastly more importance than what 
 really happens. He lacks perspective on himself. A woman, 
 if she is a worthy friend — gives that to a man. I'm going to 
 Grant — to my good friend, father, and stand with him — very 
 close, and very true, I hope ! ' ' 
 
 Trouble moved over the Doctor's face in a cloud. "I 
 don't know about Grant, Laura," he said. "All this Messiah 
 and Prince of Peace tomfoolery — and — " 
 
 "Why, you know it never happened, don't you, father? 
 You know Grant is not a fool — nor mad?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so, Laura — but he approximates both at 
 times," piped the father raspingly. 
 
 "Father — listen here — listen to me, dear. I know Grant — 
 I've known him always. This is what is the matter with 
 Grant. I don't think one act in all his life was based on a 
 selfish or an ulterior motive. He has spent his life lavishly 
 for others. He has given himself without let or hindrance 
 for his ideals — he gave up power and personal glory — all for 
 this cause of labor. He has been maimed and broken for it — 
 has failed for it ; and now you see what clouds are gathering 
 above him — and I must go to him. I must be with him. ' ' 
 
 "But for what good, Laura?" asked her father impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 "For my own soul's good and glory, dear," she answered 
 solemnly. "To live my faith; to stand by the people with 
 whom I have cast my lot ; to share the great joy that I know 
 is in Grant's heart — the joy of serving; to triumph in his 
 failure if it comes to that ! — to be happy — with him, as I 
 know him no matter what chance and circumstance surround 
 him. Oh— father— " 
 
 She looked up with brimming eyes and clasped his hand 
 tightly while she cried: "I must go— Oh, bless me as I 
 go — " And the father kissed her forehead. 
 
 An hour later, while Grant Adams, in his office, was s-ivinsr 
 
GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 557 
 
 directions for the afternoon parade a white-clad figure bright- 
 ened the doorway. 
 
 "Well, Grant, I have come to serve," she smiled, "under 
 you." 
 
 He turned and rose and took her hands in his one flinty 
 hand and said quietly: "We need you — we need you badly 
 right this minute. ' ' 
 
 She answered, "Very well, then — I 'm ready ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, go out and work — talk peace, don't let them fight, 
 hold the line calm and we '11 win, ' ' he said. 
 
 She started away and he cried after her, ' ' Come to Belgian 
 Hall to-night — we may need you there. The strike com- 
 mittee and the leader of each seven will be there. It will be 
 a war council. ' ' 
 
 Out to the works went Laura Van Dorn. Mounted police- 
 men or mounted deputies or mounted militiamen stood at 
 every gate. As the strike-breakers came out they were sur- 
 rounded by the officers of the law, who marched away with 
 the strangers. The strikers followed, calling upon their 
 fellow workers, stretching out pleading arms to them and at 
 corners where the strikers were gathered in any considerable 
 numbers, the guards rode into the crowd waving their whips. 
 At a corner near the Park a woman stepped from the crowd 
 and cried to the officers : 
 
 "That's my boy in there — I've got a right to talk to him." 
 
 She started to crowd between the horses, and the policemen 
 thrust her back. 
 
 "Karl — Karl," she cried, "you come out of there; what 
 would papa say — and you a scab." 
 
 She lifted her arms beseechingly and started toward the 
 youth. A policeman cursed her and felled her with a club. 
 
 She lay bleeding on the street, and the strikers stood by 
 and ground their teeth. Laura Van Dorn stooped over the 
 woman, picked her up and helped her to walk home. But 
 as she turned away she saw five men walk out of the ranks 
 of the strike-breakers and join the men on the corner. A 
 cheer went up, and two more came. 
 
 Belgian Hall was filled with workers that night — men 
 and women. In front of the stage at a long table sat the 
 strike committee. Before them sat the delegates from the 
 
558 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 various "locals" and the leaders of the sevens. A thousand 
 men and women filled the hall — men and women from every 
 quarter of the globe. That night they had decided to admit 
 the Jews from the Magnus paint works — the Jews whom the 
 Russians scorned, and the Lettish people distrusted. Behind 
 all of the delegates in a solid row around the wall stood the 
 police, watching Grant Adams. He did not sit with the 
 strike committee but worked his way through the crowd, 
 talking to a group here and encouraging a man or woman 
 there — but always restless, always fearing trouble. It was 
 nine o'clock when the meeting opened by singing "The In- 
 ternational. ' ' It was sung in twenty tongues, but the chorus 
 swelled up and men and women wept as they sang. 
 
 "Oh, the Brotherhood of men 
 Shall be the human race." 
 
 Then the delegates reported. A Greek woman told how she 
 had been chased by men on horseback through the woods, in 
 the Park. A Polack man showed a torn hand that had 
 come under an ax-handle. A Frenchman told how he had 
 been pursued by a horseman while going for medicine for his 
 sick child. A Portuguese told how he had brought from the 
 ranks of the strike-breakers a big fellow worker whom he 
 knew in New Jersey. The Germans reported that every 
 one of their men in the Valley was out and working in his 
 garden. Over and over young girls told of insults they had 
 received. A mania of brutality seemed to have spread 
 through the officers of the law. A Scotch miner's daughter 
 showed a tear in her dress made by a soldier's bayonet — 
 
 " ' In fun, ' he said, but I could see na joke. ' ' 
 
 In all the speeches there was a spirit of camaraderie — of 
 fellowship, of love. "We are one blood now," a Danish 
 miner cried, in broken English, "we are all Americans, and 
 America will be a brotherhood — a brotherhood in the De- 
 mocracy of Labor, under the Prince of Peace." A great 
 shout arose and the crowd called: 
 
 "Grant— Grant— Brother Grant." 
 
 But he stood by the table and shook his head. After a 
 girl picket and a woman — one a "Welsh girl, the other a Manx 
 
 minpr's mrvther — Viari tnlrl hnw +1ipv wpt-p apt. nnrvn in the 
 
GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE 559 
 
 Park by the soldiers, up rose a pale, trembling woman from 
 among the Hungarians, her brown, blotched face and her 
 big body made the men look down or away. She spoke in 
 broken, uncertain English. 
 
 "We haf send to picket our men and yet our boys, and 
 they beat them down. We haf our girls send, and they come 
 home crying. But I say to God this evening — Oh, is there 
 nothing for me — for me carrying child, and He whisper yais 
 — these soldiers, he haf wife, he haf mother." She paused 
 and shook with fear and shame. "Then I say to you — 
 call home your man — your girl so young, and we go — we 
 women with child — we with big bellies, filled with unborn 
 — we go — 0, my God, He say we go, and this soldier — he 
 haf wife, he haf mother — he will see; — we — we — they will 
 not strike us down. Send us, oh, Grant, Prince of Peace, to 
 the picket line next morning." 
 
 Her voice broke and she sat down covering her head with 
 her skirt and weeping in excitement. 
 
 "Let me go," cried a clear voice, as a brown-eyed Welsh 
 woman rose. ' ' I know ten others that will go. ' ' 
 
 "I also," cried a German woman. "Let us organize to- 
 night. We can have two hundred child-bearing women!" 
 
 "Yes, men," spoke up a trim-looking young wife from 
 among the glassworkers, "we of old have been sacred — let 
 us see if capital holds us sacred now — before property. ' ' 
 
 Grant leaned over to Laura and asked, "Would it do? 
 Wouldn't they shame us for it?" 
 
 The eyes of Laura Van Dorn were filled with tears. They 
 were streaming down her face. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she cried, "no deeper symbol of peace is in 
 the earth than the child-bearing woman. Let her go." 
 
 Grant Adams rose and addressed the chair: "Mr. Chair- 
 man — I move that all men and all women except those chosen 
 by these who have just spoken, be asked to keep out of the 
 Park to-morrow morning, that all the world may know how 
 sacred we hold this cause and with what weapons of peace 
 we would win it." 
 
 So it was ordered, and the crowd sang the International 
 Hymn again, and then the Marseillaise, and went home 
 dreaming high dreams. 
 
560 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 As Grant and Laura walked from the hall, the last to leave 
 the meeting, after the women had finished making out their 
 list of pickets, the streets were empty and they met — or 
 rather failed to meet, Mrs. Dick Bowman, with Mugs in tow, 
 who crossed the street obviously to avoid Grant and his com- 
 panion. 
 
 Grant and Laura, walking briskly along and planning the 
 next day's work, passed the smelters where the soldiers were 
 on sentry duty. They passed the shaft houses where Harvey 
 militiamen were bunked and guarded by sentinels. They 
 passed the habiliments of war in a score of peaceful places. 
 
 "Grant," cried Laura, "I really think now we'll win — 
 that the strike of peace will prove all that you have lived 
 for." 
 
 "But if we fail," he replied, "it proves nothing — except 
 perhaps that it was worth trying, and will be worth trying 
 and trying and trying — until it wins!" 
 
 It was half past twelve. Grant Adams, standing before 
 the Vanderbilt House, talking with Henry Fenn, was saying, 
 "Well, Henry, one week of this — one week of peace — and 
 the triumph of peace will be — " 
 
 A terrific explosion shut his mouth. Across the night he 
 saw a red glare a few hundred feet away. An instant later 
 it was dark again. He ran toward the place where the glare 
 had winked out. As he turned a corner, he saw stars where 
 there should have been shaft house No. 7 of the Wahoo Fuel 
 Company's mines, and he knew that it had been destroyed. 
 In it were a dozen sleeping soldiers of the Harvey Militia 
 Company, and it flashed through his mind that Lida Bowman 
 at last had spoken. 
 
CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 IN WHICH GRANT ADAMS AND LAURA VAN DORN TAKE A WALK 
 
 DOWN MARKET STREET AND MRS. NESBIT ACQUIRES A 
 
 LONG LOST GRANDSON-IN-LAW 
 
 GRANT ADAMS and Henry Fenn were among the first 
 to arrive at the scene of the explosion. Henry Fenn 
 had tried to stop Grant from going so quickly, think- 
 ing his presence at the scene would raise a question of his 
 guilt, but he cried : 
 
 "They may need me, Henry — come on — what's a quibble 
 of guilt when a life's to save?" 
 
 When they came to the pile of debris, they saw Dick 
 Bowman coming up — barefooted, coatless and breathless. 
 Grant and Fenn had run less than fifteen hundred feet — Dick 
 lived a mile from the shaft house. Grant Adams's mind 
 flashed suspicion toward the Bowmans. He went to Dick 
 across the wreckage and said : 
 
 ' ' Oh, Dick — I 'm sorry you didn 't get here sooner. ' ' 
 
 "So am I — so am I," cried Dick, craning his long neck 
 nervously. 
 
 "Where is Mugs?" asked Grant, as the two worked with 
 a beam over a body — the body of handsome Fred Kollander 
 — lying near the edge of the litter. 
 
 "He's home in bed and asleep — and so's his mother, too, 
 Grant, sound asleep. ' ' 
 
 During the first minutes after the explosion, men near by 
 like Grant and Fenn came running to the scene of the 
 wrecked shaft by the scores, and as Grant and Dick Bowman 
 spoke the streets grew black with men, workmen, policemen, 
 soldiers, citizens, men by the hundreds came hurrying up. 
 The great siren whistles of the water and light plants began 
 to bellow ; fire bells and church bells up in Harvey began to 
 ring, and Grant knew that the telephone was alarming the 
 town. Ten minutes after the explosion, while Grant was 
 
 561 
 
562 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 ordering his men in the crowd to organize for the rescue, a 
 militia colonel appeared, threw a cordon of men about the 
 ruins and the police and soldiers took charge, forcing Grant 
 and his men away. The first few moments after he had been 
 thrust out of the relief work, Grant spent sending his men 
 in the crowd to summon the members of the Council; then 
 he turned and hurried to his office in the Vanderbilt House. 
 For an hour he wrote. Henry Fenn came, and later Laura 
 Van Dorn appeared, but he waved them both to silence, and 
 without telling them what he had written he went with 
 them to the hall where the Valley Council was waiting in a 
 turmoil of excitement. It was after two o'clock. South 
 Harvey was a military camp. Thousands of citizens from 
 Harvey were hurrying about. As he passed along the street, 
 the electric lights showed him little groups about some grief- 
 stricken parent or brother or sister of a missing militiaman. 
 Automobiles were roaring through the streets carrying offi- 
 cers, policemen, prominent citizens of Harvey. Ahab Wright 
 and Joe Calvin and Kyle Perry were in a car with John 
 Kollander who had come down to South Harvey to claim the 
 body of his son, Fred. Grant saw the Sands 's car with Morty 
 in it supporting a stricken soldier. The car was halted at the 
 corner by the press of traffic, and as Grant and Laura and 
 Henry passed, Morty said under the din: "Grant — Grant, 
 be careful — they are turning Heaven and earth to find your 
 hand in this; it will be only a matter of days — maybe only 
 hours, until they will have their witnesses hired!" 
 
 Grant nodded. The car moved on and Grant and his 
 friends pressed through the throng to the hall where the 
 Valley Council was waiting. There Grant stood and read 
 what he had written. It ran thus : 
 
 "For the death by dynamite of the militiamen who 
 perished at midnight in shaft No. 7 of the Wahoo Fuel Com- 
 pany's mines, I take full responsibility. I have assumed a 
 leadership in a strike which caused these deaths. I shirk no 
 whit of my share in this outrage. Yet I preached only peace. 
 I pleaded for orderly conduct. I appealed to the workers to 
 take their own not by force of arms but by the tremendous 
 force of moral right. That ten thousand workers respected 
 this appeal, I am exceedingly proud. That one out of 
 
A WALK DOWN MARKET STREET 563 
 
 all the ten thousand was not convinced of the justice of our 
 cause and the ultimate triumph by the force of righteousness 
 I am sorry beyond words. I call upon my comrades to wit- 
 ness what a blow to our cause this murder has been and to 
 stand firm in the faith that the strike must win by ways of 
 peace. 
 
 "Yet, whoever did this deed was not entirely to blame — 
 however it may cripple his fellow-workers. A child mangled 
 in the mines denied his legal damages ; men clubbed for tell- 
 ing of their wrongs to their fellow-laborers who were asked 
 to fill their places; women on the picket line, herded like 
 deer through the park by Cossacks whipping the fleeing crea- 
 tures mercilessly ; these things inflamed the mind of the man 
 who set off the bomb; these things had their share in the 
 murder. 
 
 "But I knew what strikes were. I know indeed what 
 strikes still are and what this strike may be. I sorrow with 
 those families whose boys perished by the bomb in shaft house 
 No. 7. I grieve with the families of those who have been 
 beaten and broken in this strike. But by all this innocent 
 blood — blood shed by the working people — blood shed by 
 those who ignorantly misunderstand us, I now beg you, my 
 comrades, to stand firm in this strike. Let not this blood be 
 shed in vain. It may be indeed that the men of the master 
 class here have not descended as deeply as we may expect 
 them to descend. They may feel that more blood must be 
 spilled before they let us come into our own. But if blood 
 is shed again, we must bleed, but let it not be upon our 
 hands. 
 
 "Again, even in this breakdown of our high hopes for a 
 strike without violence, I lift my voice in faith, I hail the 
 coming victory, I proclaim that the day of the Democracy 
 of Labor is at hand, and it shall come in peace and good 
 will to all." 
 
 When he had finished reading his statement, he sat down 
 and the Valley Council began to discuss it. Many objected 
 to it; others wished to have it modified; still others agreed 
 that it should be published as he had read it. In the end, 
 he had his way. But in the hubbub of the discussion, Laura 
 Van Dorn, sitting near him, asked : 
 
564 IN THE HBAET OF A FOOL 
 
 "Grant, why do you take all this on your shoulders? It 
 is not fair, and it is not true — for that matter. ' ' 
 
 He answered finally: "Well, that's what I propose to 
 do." 
 
 He was haggard and careworn and he stared at the woman 
 beside him with determination in his eyes. But she would 
 not give up. Again she insisted : ' ' The people are inflamed 
 — terribly inflamed and in the morning they will be in no 
 mood for this. It may put you in jail — put you where you 
 are powerless. ' ' 
 
 He turned upon her the stubborn, emotional face that she 
 rarely had seen but had always dreaded. He answered her: 
 
 ' ' If anything were to be gained for the comrades by wait- 
 ing — I'd wait." Then his jaws closed in decision as he said: 
 "Laura, that deed was done in blind rage by one who once 
 risked his life to save mine. Then he acted not blindly 
 but in the light of a radiance from the Holy Ghost in his 
 heart! If I can help him now — can even share his shame 
 with him — I should do it. And in this case — I think it will 
 help the cause to make a fair confession of our weakness." 
 
 "But, Grant," cried the woman, "Grant — can't you see 
 that the murder of these boys — these Harvey boys, the boys 
 whose mothers and fathers and sweethearts and young wives 
 and children are going about the streets as hourly witnesses 
 against you and our fellow-workers here — will arouse a mob 
 spirit that is dangerous?" 
 
 "Yes — I see that. But if anything can quell the mob 
 spirit, frank, open-hearted confession will do it." He 
 brushed aside her further protests and in another instant 
 was on his feet defending his statement to the Valley Coun- 
 cil. Ten minutes later the reporters had it. 
 
 At six o'clock in the morning posters covered South Harvey 
 and the whole district proclaiming martial law. They were 
 signed by Joseph Calvin, Jr., provost marshal, and they 
 denied the right of assembly, except upon written order of 
 the provost marshal, declared that incendiary speech would 
 be stopped, forbade parades except under the provost mar- 
 shal's inspection, and said that offenders would be tried by 
 court-martial for all disobediences to the orders of the proc- 
 lamation. The proclamation was undlprKP.nred in its re- 
 
A WALK DOWN MARKET STREET 565 
 
 quirements that no meeting of any kind might be held in 
 the district or on any lot or in any building except upon 
 written consent of the owner of the lot or building and with 
 the permission of the provost marshal. Belgian Hall was a 
 rented hall, and the Wahoo Fuel Company controlled most of 
 the available town lots, leaving only the farms of the work- 
 ers, that were planted thick with gardens, for even the most 
 inoffensive meeting. 
 
 And at ten o'clock Grant Adams had signed a counter 
 proclamation declaring that the proclamation of martial law 
 in a time of peace was an usurpation of the constitutional 
 rights of American citizens, and that they must refuse to 
 recognize any authority that abridged the right of free as- 
 semblage, a free press, free speech and a trial by jury. 
 Amos Adams sent the workers an invitation to meet in the 
 grove below his house. Grant called a meeting for half -past 
 twelve at the Adams homestead. It was a direct challenge. 
 
 The noon extra edition of the Times, under the caption, 
 "The Governor Is Right," contained this illuminating edi- 
 torial : 
 
 "Seven men dead — dynamited to death by Grant Adams; seven men 
 dead — the flower of the youth of Harvey; seven men dead for no crime 
 but serving their country, and Grant Adams loose, poisoning the 
 minds of his dupes, prating about peace in public and plotting cowardly 
 assassination in private. Of course, the Governor was right. Every 
 good citizen of this country will commend him for prompt and vigor- 
 ous action. In less than an hour after the bomb had sent the seven 
 men of the Harvey Home Guards to eternity, the Governor had pro- 
 claimed martial law in this district, and from now on, no more in- 
 cendiary language, no more damnable riots, miscalled parades will 
 menace property, and no more criminal acts done under the cover of the 
 jury system will disgrace this community under the leadership of this 
 creature Adams. 
 
 "In his manifesto pulingly taking the blame for a crime last night 
 so obviously his that mere denial would add blood to the crime itself, 
 Adams says in extenuation that 'women were herded before the Cos- 
 sacks like deer in the park,' while they were picketing. But he does 
 not say that in the shameful cowardice so characteristic of his leader- 
 ship in this labor war, he forced, by his own motion, women unfit to 
 be seen in public, much less to fight his battles, under the hoofs of the 
 horses in Sands Park this morning, and if the Greek woman, who 
 claims she was dragooned should die, the fault, the crime of her death 
 in revolting circumstances, will be upon Grant Adams's hands. 
 
 "When such a leader followed by blind zealots like the riff-raff who 
 
566 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 are insanely trailing after this Mad Mullah who claims divine powers 
 — save the mark — when such leaders and such human vermin as these 
 rise in a community, the people who own property, who have built up 
 the community, who have spent their lives making Harvey the proud 
 industrial center that she is — the people who own property, we repeat, 
 should organize to protect it. The Governor suspending while this 
 warlike state exists the right of anarchists who turn it against law 
 and order, the right of assembling, and speech and trial by jury, 
 has set a good example. We hear from good authority that the Adams 
 anarchists are to be aided by another association even more reckless 
 than he and his, and that Greeley county will be flooded by bums and 
 thugs and plug-uglies who will fill our jails and lay the burden of 
 heavy taxes upon our people pretending to defend the rights of free 
 speech. 
 
 "A law and order league should be organized among the business 
 men of Harvey to rid the county of these rats breeding social disease, 
 and if courageous hearts are needed, and extraordinary methods neces- 
 sary — all honest people will uphold the patriots who rally to this 
 
 At twelve o 'clock crowds of working people began to swarm 
 into Adams's grove. Five hundred horsemen were lined 
 up at the gate. Around a temporary speaker's stand a squad 
 of policemen was formed. The crowd stood waiting. Grant 
 Adams did not appear. The crowd grew restless ; it began 
 to fear that he had been arrested, that there had been some 
 mishap. Laura Van Dorn, sensing the uncertainty and dis- 
 couragement of the crowd, decided to try to hold it. It 
 seemed to her as she watched the uneasiness rising slowly 
 to impatience in the men and women about her, that it was 
 of much importance — tremendous importance indeed — to 
 hold these people to their faith, not especially in Grant, 
 though to her that seemed necessary, too, but at bottom to 
 hold their faith firm in themselves, in their own powers to 
 better themselves, to rise of their own endeavors, to build 
 upon themselves! So she walked quickly to the policeman 
 before the steps leading to the stand and said smilingly : 
 
 "Pardon me," and stepped behind him and was on the 
 stand before he realized that he had been fooled. Her white- 
 clad figure upon the platform attracted a thousand eyes in a 
 second, and in a moment she was speaking : 
 
 "I am here to defend our ancient rights of meeting, speak- 
 ing, and trial by jury. ' ' A policeman started for her. She 
 
A WALK DOWN MAKKET STREET 567 
 
 smiled and waved him back with such a dignity of mien 
 that her very manner stopped him. 
 
 When he hesitated, knowing that she was a person of conse- 
 quence in Harvey, she went on: "No cause can thrive until 
 it maintains anew its right to speech, to assemble and to 
 have its day in court before a jury. Every cause must fight 
 this world-old fight — and then if it is a just cause, when it 
 has won those ancient rights — which are not rights at all but 
 are merely ancient battle grounds on which every cause must 
 fight, then any cause may stand a chance to win. I think we 
 should make it clear now that as free-born Americans, no 
 one has a right to stop us from meeting and speaking ; no one 
 has a right to deny us jury trials. I believe the time has 
 come when we should ignore rather definitely — " she paused, 
 and turned to the policeman standing beside her, "we should 
 ignore rather finally this proclamation of the provost marshal 
 and should insist rather firmly that he shall try to enforce it. ' ' 
 
 A policeman stepped suddenly and menacingly toward 
 her. She did not flinch. The dignity of five generations of 
 courtly Satterthwaites rose in her as she gazed at the clumsy 
 officer. She saw Grant Adams coming up at a side entrance 
 to the grove. The policeman stopped. She desired to divert 
 the policeman and the crowd from Grant Adams. The crowd 
 tittering at the quick halt of the policeman, angered him. 
 Again he stepped toward her. His face was reddening. 
 The Satterthwaite dignity mounted, but the Nesbit mind 
 guided her, and she said coldly: "All right, sir, but you 
 must club me. I '11 not give up my rights here so easily. ' ' 
 
 Three officers made a rush for her, grabbed her by the 
 arms, and, struggling, she went off the platform, but she 
 left Grant Adams standing upon it and a cheering crowd 
 saw the ruse. 
 
 "I'm here," he boomed out in his great voice, "because 
 'the woods were man's first temples' and we'll hold them for 
 that sacred right to-day. ' ' The police were waiting for him 
 to put his toe across the line of defiance. "We'll transgress 
 this order of little Joe Calvin 's — why, he might as well post 
 a trespass notice against snowslides as against this forward 
 moving cause of labor." His voice rose, "I'm here to tell 
 
568 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 you that under your rights as citizens of this Republic, and 
 under your rights in the coming Democracy of Labor, I bid 
 you tear up these martial law proclamations to kindle fires 
 in your stoves." 
 
 He glared at the policemen and held up his hand to stop 
 them as they came. "Listen," he cried, "I'm going to give 
 you better evidence than that against me. I, as the leader 
 of this strike — take this down, Mr. Stenographer, there — 
 I'll say it slowly; I, as the leader of this movement of 
 the Democracy of Labor, as the preacher preaching the era 
 of good will and comradeship all over the earth, bid you, 
 my fellow-workers, meet to preach Christ's workingman's 
 gospel wherever you can hire a hall or rent a lot, to pa- 
 rade your own streets, and to bare your heads to clubs and 
 your breasts to bullets if need be to restore in this district the 
 right of trial by jury in times of peace. And now," — the 
 crowd roared its approval. He glared defiance at the police- 
 men. He raised his voice above the din, "And now I want 
 to tell you something more. Our property in these mills and 
 mines — " again the crowd bellowed its joyous approval of his 
 words and Grant's face lighted madly, "our property — the 
 property we have earned, we must guard against the vio- 
 lence of the very master class themselves ; for under this in- 
 fernal Russian ukase of little Joe Calvin, the devil only 
 knows what arson and loot and murder — " the crowd howled 
 wildly ; a policeman blew his whistle and when the melee was 
 over Grant Adams was in the midst of the blue-coated squad 
 marching toward the gate. 
 
 At the gate, on a pawing white horse, sat young Joe 
 Calvin. The crowd, following the officers, came upon the 
 first squad of policemen — the squad that took Laura Van 
 Dorn from the stand. The two squads joined with their pris- 
 oners, and back of the officers came the yelling, hooting 
 crowd, pushing the officers along. As the officers came up, 
 the provost marshal cried : 
 
 "Turn them over to my men here. Men, handcuff them 
 together." In an instant it was done. 
 
 Then the cavalry formed in two lines, and between them 
 marched Laura Van Dorn and Grant Adams, manacled to- 
 gether. Up through the weed-grown commons between South 
 
A WALK DOWN MARKET STREET 569 
 
 Harvey and the big town they marched under the broiling 
 sun. The crowd trudged after them — trailing behind for 
 the most part, but often running along by the horsemen 
 and calling words of sympathy to Grant or reviling the 
 soldiers. 
 
 Down Market Street they all came — soldiers, prisoners 
 and straggling crowd. The town, prepared by telephone for 
 the sight, stood on the streets and hurrahed for Joe Calvin. 
 He had brought in his game, and if one trophy was a trifle 
 out of caste for a prisoner, a bit above her station, so much 
 the worse for her. The blood of the seven dead soldiers was 
 crying for vengeance in Harvey — the middle-class nerve had 
 been touched to the quick — and Market Street hooted at the 
 prisoners, and hailed Joe Calvin on his white charger as a 
 hero of the day. 
 
 For the mind of a crowd is a simple mind. It draws no 
 fine distinctions. It has no memory. It enjoys primitive 
 emotions, and takes the most rudimentary pleasures. The 
 mind of the crowd on Market Street in Harvey that bright, 
 hot June day, when Joe Calvin on his white steed at the 
 head of his armed soldiers led Grant Adams and Laura Van 
 Dorn up the street to the court house, saw as plainly as any 
 crowd could see anything that Grant Adams was the slayer 
 of seven mangled men, whose torn bodies the crowd had seen 
 at the undertaker's. It saw death and violation of property 
 rights as the fruit of Grant Adams's revolution, and if this 
 woman, who was of Market Street socially, cared to lower her- 
 self to the level of assassins and thugs, she was getting only 
 her deserts. 
 
 So Grant and Laura passed through the ranks of men and 
 women whom they knew and saw eyes turned away that 
 might have recognized them, saw faces averted to whom they 
 might have looked for sympathy — and saw what power on a 
 white horse can make of a mediocre man ! 
 
 But Grant was not interested in power on a white horse, 
 nor was he interested in the woman who marched with him. 
 His face kept turning to the crowd from South Harvey that 
 straggled beside him outside of the line of horsemen about 
 him. Now and then Grant caught the eyes of a leader or of a 
 friend and to such a one he would speak some earnest word 
 
570 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 of cheer or give some belated order or message. Only once 
 did Laura divert him from the stragglers along the way. It 
 was when Ahab Wright ducked his head and drew down his 
 office window in the second story of the Wright & Perry 
 building. ' ' At least, ' ' said Laura, " it 's a lesson worth learn- 
 ing in human nature. I '11 know how much a smile is worth 
 after this or the mere nod of a head. Not that I need it 
 to sustain me, Grant," she went on seriously, "so far as 
 I'm concerned, but I can feel how it would be to — well, to 
 some one who needed it. ' ' 
 
 Under the murmur of the crowd, Laura continued: "I 
 know exactly with what emotion pretty little Mrs. Joe Calvin 
 will hear of this episode." 
 
 "What?" queried Grant absently. His attention left her 
 again, for the men from South Harvey at whom he was di- 
 recting volts of courage from his blazing eyes. 
 
 "Well — she'll be scared to death for fear mother and I 
 will cut her socially for it! She's dying to get into the 
 inner circle, and she'll abuse little Joe for this — which," 
 smiled Laura, "will be my revenge, and will be badly needed 
 by little Joe. ' ' But she was talking to deaf ears. 
 
 A street car halted them before Brotherton's store for a 
 minute. Grant looked anxiously in the door way, and saw 
 only Miss Calvin, who turned away her head, after smiling 
 at her brother. 
 
 "I wonder where George can be?" asked Grant. 
 
 "Don't you know?" replied Laura, looking wonderingly 
 at him. "There's a little boy at their house!" 
 
 The crowd was hooting and cheering and the procession 
 was just ready to turn into the court house corner, when 
 Grant felt Laura's quick hand clasp. Grant was staring at 
 Kenyon, white and wild-eyed, standing near them on the 
 curb. 
 
 "Yes," he said in a low voice, "I see the poor kid." 
 
 "No — no," she cried, "look down the block — see that elec- 
 tric! There comes father, bringing mother back from the 
 depot — Oh, Grant — I don't mind for me, I don't mind 
 much for father — but mother — won 't some one turn them up 
 that street ! Oh, Grant — Grant, look ! ' ' 
 
 Less than one hundred feet before them the electric run- 
 
A WALK DOWN MARKET STREET 571 
 
 about was beginning to wobble unsteadily. The guiding 
 hand was trembling and nervous. Mrs. Nesbit, leaning for- 
 ward with horror in her face, was clutching at her husband's 
 arm, forgetful of the danger she was running. The old 
 Doctor's eyes were wide and staring. He bore unsteadily 
 down upon the procession, and a few feet from the head of 
 the line, he jumped from the machine. He was an old man, 
 and every year of his seventy-five years dragged at his legs, 
 and clutched his shaking arms. 
 
 "Joe Calvin — you devil," he screamed, and drew back his 
 cane, "let her go — let her go." 
 
 The crowd stood mute. A blow from the cane cracked 
 on the young legs as the Doctor cried : 
 
 "Oh, you coward — " and again lifted his cane. Joe Cal- 
 vin tried to back the prancing horse away. The blow hit 
 the horse on the face, and it reared, and for a second, while 
 the crowd looked away in horror, lunged above the helpless 
 old man. Then, losing balance, the great white horse fell 
 upon the Doctor; but as the hoofs grazed his face, Kenyon 
 Adams had the old man round the waist and flung him aside. 
 But Kenyon went down under the horse. Calvin turned his 
 horse; some one picked up the fainting youth, and he was 
 beside Mrs. Nesbit in the car a moment later, a limp, un- 
 conscious thing. Grant and Laura ran to the car. Dr. 
 Nesbit stood dazed and impotent — an old man whose glory 
 was of yesterday — a weak old man, scorned and helpless. He 
 turned away trembling with a nervous palsy, and when he 
 reached the side of the machine, his daughter, trying to hide 
 her manacled hand, kissed him and said soothingly : 
 
 "It's all right, father — young Joe's vexed at something 
 I said down in the Valley; he'll get over it in an hour. 
 Then I '11 come home. ' ' 
 
 "And," gasped Mrs. Nesbit, "he — that whippersnapper, " 
 she gulped, "dared — to lay hands on you; to—" 
 
 Laura shook her head, to stop her mother from speaking 
 of the handcuff, — "to make you walk through Market Street 
 —While," but she could get no further. The crowd sur- 
 rounded them. And in the midst of the jostling and mill- 
 ing, the Doctor's instinct rose stronger than his rage. He 
 was fumbling for his medicine case, and trying to find some- 
 
572 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 thing for Kenyon. The old hands were at the young pulse, 
 and he said unsteadily: 
 
 "He'll be around in a few minutes." 
 
 Some one in the crowd offered a big automobile. The 
 Doctor got in, waved to his daughter, and followed Mrs. 
 Nesbit up the hill. 
 
 "You young upstart," he cried, shaking his fist at Calvin 
 as the car turned around, "I'll be down in ten minutes and 
 see to you!" The provost marshal turned his white steed 
 and began gathering up his procession and his prisoners. 
 But the spell was broken. The mind of the crowd took in an 
 idea. It was that a shameful thing was happening to a 
 woman. So it hissed young Joe Calvin. Such is the grati- 
 tude of republics. 
 
 In the court house, the provost marshal, sitting behind an 
 imposing desk, decided that he would hold Mrs. Van Dorn 
 under $100 bond to keep the peace and release her upon her 
 own recognizance. 
 
 "Well," she replied, "Little Joe, I'll sign no peace bond, 
 and if it wasn't for my parents — I'd make you lock me up." 
 
 Her hand was free as she spoke. "As it is — I'm going 
 back to South Harvey. I'll be there until this strike is set- 
 tled; you'll have no trouble in finding me." She hurried 
 home. As she approached the house, she saw in the yard 
 and on the veranda, groups of sympathetic neighbors. In 
 the hall way were others. Laura hurried into the Doctor's 
 little office just as he was setting Kenyon 's broken leg and 
 had begun to bind the splints upon it. Kenyon lay uncon- 
 scious. Mrs. Nesbit and Lila hovered over him, each with 
 her hands full of surgical bandages, and cotton and medicine. 
 Mrs. Nesbit 's face was drawn and anxious. 
 
 ' ' Oh, mamma — mamma — I 'm so sorry — so sorry — you had 
 to see." The proud woman looked up from her work and 
 sniffed : 
 
 "That whippersnapper — that — that — " she did not finish. 
 The Doctor drew his daughter to him and kissed her. ' ' Oh, 
 my poor little girl — they wouldn't have done that ten years 
 ago-" 
 
 "Father," interrupted the daughter, "is Kenyon all 
 risrht?" 
 
A "WALK DOWN MARKET STREET 573 
 
 "Just one little bone broken in his leg. He'll be out from 
 under the ether in a second. But I'll— Oh 3 I'll make that 
 Calvin outfit sweat ; I'll — " 
 
 "Oh, no, you won't, father— little Joe doesn't know any 
 better. Mamma can just forget to invite his wife to our next 
 party— which I won't let her do — not even that — but it would 
 avenge my wrongs a thousand times over. ' ' 
 
 Lila had Kenyon's hand, and Mrs. Nesbit was rubbing his 
 brow, when he opened his eyes and smiled. Laura and the 
 Doctor, knowing their wife and mother, had left her and 
 Lila together with the awakening lover. His eyes first caught 
 Mrs. Nesbit 's who bent over him and whispered: 
 
 "Oh, my brave, brave boy — my noble — chivalrous son — " 
 
 Kenyon smiled and his great black eyes looked into the 
 elder woman's as he clutched Lila's hand. 
 
 "Lila," he said feebly, "where is it — run and get it." 
 
 "Oh, it's up in my room, grandma — wait a minute — it's 
 up in my room." She scurried out of the door and came 
 dancing down the stairs in a moment with a jewel on her 
 finger. The grandmother's eyes were wet, and she bent over 
 and kissed the young, full lips into which life was flowing 
 back so beautifully. 
 
 "Now — me!" cried lila, and as she, too, bent down she 
 felt the great, strong arms of her grandmother enfolding her 
 in a mighty hug. There, in due course, the Doctor and 
 Laura found them. A smile, the first that had wreathed his 
 wrinkled face for an hour, twitched over the loose skin about 
 his old lips and eyes. 
 
 "The Lord," he piped, "moves in a mysterious way — my 
 dear — and if Laura had to go to jail to bring it — the Lord 
 giveth and the Lord taketh away — blessed be — " 
 
 "Well, Kenyon," the grandmother interrupted the Doc- 
 tor, stooping to put her fingers lovingly upon his brow, "we 
 owe everything to you; it was fine and courageous of you, 
 son!" 
 
 And with the word "son" the Doctor knew and Laura 
 knew, and Lila first of all knew that Bedelia Nesbit had 
 surrendered. And Kenyon read it in Lila's eyes. Then 
 they all fell to telling Kenyon what a grand youth he was 
 and how he had saved the Doctor's life, and it ended as those 
 
574 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 things do, most undramatically, in a chorus of what I saids, 
 and you saids to me, and I thought, and you did, and he 
 should have done, until the party wore itself out and thought 
 of Lila, sitting by her lover, holding his hands. And then 
 what with a pantomime of eyes from Laura and the Doctor 
 to Mrs. Nesbit, and what with an empty room in a big house, 
 with voices far — exceedingly far — obviously far away, it 
 ended with them as all journeys through this weary world 
 end, and must end if the world wags on. 
 
CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 WHEREIN WE ERECT A HOUSE BUILT UPON A ROCK 
 
 THAT evening in the late twilight, two women stood at 
 the wicket of a cell in the jail and while back of the 
 women, at the end of a corridor, stood a curious group 
 of reporters and idlers and guards, inside the wicket a tall, 
 middle-aged man with stiff, curly, reddish hair and a homely, 
 hard, forbidding face stood behind the bars. The young 
 woman put her hand with the new ring on it through the 
 wicket. 
 
 "It's Kenyon's ring — Kenyon's," smiled Lila, and to bis 
 questioning look at ber mother, the daughter answered: 
 "Yes, grandma knows. And what is more, grandpa told 
 us both — Kenyon and me — what was bothering grandma — 
 and it's all— all— right!" 
 
 The happy eyes of Laura Van Dorn caught the eyes of 
 Grant as they gazed at her from some distant landscape of his 
 turbulent soul. She could not hold his eyes, nor bring them 
 to a serious consideration of the occasion. His heart seemed 
 to be on other things. So the woman said: "God is good, 
 Grant." She watched her daughter and cast a glance at the 
 shining ring. Grant Adams heard and saw, but while he 
 comprehended definitely enough, what he saw and heard 
 seemed remote and he repeated : 
 
 "God is good — infinitely good, Laura!" His eyes lighted 
 up. "Do you know this is the first strike in the world — I 
 believe, indeed the first enterprise in the world started and 
 conducted upon the fundamental theory that we are all gods. 
 Nothing but the divine spark in those men would hold them 
 as they are held in faith and hope and fellowship. Look at 
 them," he lifted his face as one seeing Heavenly legions, 
 "ten thousand souls, men and women and children, cheated 
 for years of their rights, and when they ask for them in 
 
 575 
 
576 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 peace, beaten and clubbed and killed, and still they do not 
 raise their hands in violence ! Oh, I tell you, they are get- 
 ting ready — the time must be near." He shook his head in 
 exultation and waved his iron claw. 
 
 Laura said gently, "Yes, Grant, but the day always is near. 
 "Whenever two or three are gathered — " 
 
 "Oh, yes — yes," he returned, brushing her aside, "I know 
 that. And it has come to me lately that the day of the 
 democracy is a spiritual and not a material order. It must 
 be a rising level of souls in the world, and the mere dawn 
 of the day will last through centuries. But it will be none- 
 theless beautiful because it shall come slowly. The great 
 thing is to know that we are all — the wops and dagoes and 
 the hombres and the guinnies — all gods! to know that in 
 all of us burns that divine spark which environment can fan 
 or stifle — that divine spark which makes us one with the 
 infinite ! ' ' He threw his face upward as one who saw a vision 
 and cried: "And America — our America that they think is 
 so sordid, so crass, so debauched with materialism — what fools 
 they are to think it ! From all over the world for three hun- 
 dred years men and women have been hurrying to this coun- 
 try who above everything else on earth were charged with 
 aspiration. They were lowly people who came, but they had 
 high visions ; this whole land is a crucible of aspirations. We 
 are the most sentimental people on earth. No other land is 
 like it, and some day — oh, I know God is charging this bat- 
 tery full of His divine purpose for some great marvel. Some 
 time America will rise and show her face and the world will 
 know us as we are ! ' ' 
 
 The girl, with eyes fascinated by her engagement ring, 
 scarcely understood what the man was saying. She was too 
 happy to consider problems of the divine immanence. There 
 was a little mundane talk of Kenyon and of the Nesbits and 
 then the women went away. 
 
 An hour later an old man sitting in the dusk with a pencil 
 in his left hand, was startled to see these two women de- 
 scending upon him, to tell him the news. He kissed them 
 both with his withered lips, and rubbed the soft cheek of the 
 maiden against his old gray beard. 
 
 And when they were gone, he picked up the pencil again, 
 
A HOUSE BUILT UPON A ROCK 577 
 
 and sat dumbly waiting, while in his heart he called eagerly 
 across the worlds : "Mary — Mary, are you there? Do you 
 know? Oh, Mary, Mary!" 
 
 The funeral of the young men killed in the shaft house 
 brought a day of deepening emotion to Harvey. Flags were 
 at half mast and Market Street was draped in crape. The 
 stores closed at the tolling of bells which announced the 
 hour of the funeral services. Two hundred automobiles fol- 
 lowed the soldiers who escorted the bodies to the cemetery, 
 and when the bugle blew taps, tears stood in thousands of 
 eyes. 
 
 The moaning of the great-throated regimental band, the 
 shrilling of the fife and the booming of the drum ; the blare 
 of the bugle that sounded taps stirred the chords of hate, and 
 the town came back from burying its dead a vessel of wrath. 
 In vain had John Dexter in his sermon over Fred Kollander 
 tried to turn the town from its bitterness by preaching from 
 the text, "Ye are members one of another," and trying 
 to point the way to charity. The town would have no 
 charity. 
 
 The tragedy of the shaft house and the imprisonment of 
 Grant Adams had staged for the day all over the nation in 
 the first pages of the newspapers an interesting drama. 
 Such a man as Grant Adams was a figure whose jail sentence 
 under military law for defending the rights of a free press, 
 free speech, free assemblage and trial by jury, was good for a 
 first page position in every newspaper in the country — what- 
 ever bias its editorial columns might take against him and his 
 cause. Millions of eyes turned to look at the drama. But 
 there were hundreds among the millions who saw the drama 
 in the newspapers and who decided they would like to see it in 
 reality. Being foot loose, they came. So when the funeral 
 procession was hurrying back into Harvey and the policemen 
 and soldiers were dispersing to their posts, they fell upon half 
 a dozen travel-stained strangers in the court house yard ad- 
 dressing the loafers there. Promptly the strangers were 
 haled before the provost marshal, and promptly landed in 
 jail. But other strangers appeared on the streets from time 
 to time as the freight trains came clanging through town, 
 and by sundown a score of young men were in the town 
 
578 IN THE HBAET OP A FOOL 
 
 lockup. They were happy-go-lucky young blades; rather 
 badly in need of a bath and a barber, but they sang lustily 
 in the calaboose and ate heartily and with much experience 
 of prison fare. One read his paperbound Tolstoy; another 
 poured over his leaflet of Nietzsche, a third had a dog-eared 
 Ibsen from the public library of Omaha, a fourth had a 
 socialist newspaper, which he derided noisily, as it was not 
 his peculiar cult of discontent ; while others played cards and 
 others slept, but all were reasonably happy. And at the 
 strange spectacle of men jail-bound enjoying life, Harvey 
 marveled. And still the jail filled up. At midnight the 
 policemen were using a vacant storeroom for a jail. By day- 
 break the people of the town knew that a plague was upon 
 them. 
 
 Every age has its peculiar pilgrims, whose pilgrimages are 
 reactions of life upon the times. When the shrines called 
 men answered; when the new lands called men hastened to 
 them ; when wars called the trumpets woke the sound of hur- 
 rying feet — always the feet of the young men. For Youth 
 goes out to meet Danger in life as his ancient and ever-beloved 
 comrade. So in that distant epoch that closed half a decade 
 ago, in a day when existence was easy ; when food was always 
 to be had for the asking, when a bed was never denied to the 
 weary who would beg it the wide land over, there arose a 
 band of young men with slack ideas about property, with 
 archaic ideas of morality — ideas perhaps of property and 
 morals that were not unfamiliar to their elder comrades of 
 the quest and the joust, and the merry wars. These modern 
 lads, pilgrims seeking their olden, golden comrade Danger, 
 sallied forth upon the highroads of our civilization, and as 
 the grail was found, and the lands were bounded and the 
 journeys over and the trumpets seemed to be forever muffled, 
 these hereditary pilgrims of the vast pretense, still looking for 
 Danger, played blithely at seeking justice. It was a fine 
 game and they found their danger in fighting for free speech, 
 and free assemblage. They were tremendously in earnest 
 about it, even as the good Don Quixote was with his wind- 
 mills in the earlier, happier days. They were of the blithe 
 cult which wooes Danger in Folly in times of Peace and in 
 treason when war comes. 
 
A HOUSE BUILT UPON A EOCK 579 
 
 And so Harvey in its wrath, in its struggle for the divine 
 right of Market Street to rule, Harvey fell upon these blithe 
 pilgrims with a sad sincerity that was worthy of a better 
 cause. And the more the young men laughed, the more they 
 played tricks upon the police, reading the Sermon on the 
 Mount to provoke arrest, reading the Constitution of the 
 United States to invite repression, even reading the riot act 
 by way of diversion for the police, the more did the wooden 
 head of Market Street throb with rage and the more did the 
 people imagine a vain thing. 
 
 And when seventy of them had crowded the jail, and their 
 leaders blandly announced that they would eat the taxes all 
 out of the county treasury before they stopped the fight for 
 free speech, Market Street awoke. Eating taxes was some- 
 thing that Market Street could understand. So the police 
 began clubbing the strangers. The pilgrims were meeting 
 Danger, their lost comrade, and youth's blood ran wild at 
 the meeting and there were riots in Market Street. A lodg- 
 ing house in the railroad yards in South Harvey was raided 
 one night — when the strike was ten days old, and as it was 
 a railroadmen's sleeping place, and a number of train- 
 men were staying there to whom the doctrines of peace 
 and non-resistance did not look very attractive under a po- 
 liceman's ax-handle — a policeman was killed. 
 
 Then the Law and Order League was formed. Storekeep- 
 ers, clerks, real estate men, young lawyers, the heart of 
 that section of the white-shirted population whom Grant 
 Adams called the "poor plutes," joined this League. And 
 deaf John Kollander was its leader. Partly because of his 
 bereavement men let him lead, but chiefly because his life's 
 creed seemed to be vindicated by events, men turned to him. 
 The bloodshed on Market Street, the murder of a policeman 
 and the dynamiting of the shaft house with their sons inside, 
 had aroused a degree of passion that unbalanced men, and 
 John Kollander 's wrath was public opinion dramatized. The 
 police gave the Law and Order League full swing, and 
 John Kollander was the first chief in the city. Prisoners; 
 arrested for speaking without a permit were turned over to 
 the Law and Order League at night, and taken in the city 
 auto-truck to the far limits of the city, and there — a mile: 
 
580 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 from the residential section, in the high weeds that fringed 
 the town and confined the country, the Law and Order 
 League lined up under John Kollander and with clubs and 
 whips and sticks, compelled the prisoners to run a gauntlet 
 to the highroad that leads from Harvey. Men were stripped, 
 and compelled to lean over and kiss an American flag — spread 
 upon the ground, while they were kicked and beaten before 
 they could rise. This was to punish men for carrying a red 
 flag of socialism, and John Kollander decreed that every loyal 
 citizen of Harvey should wear a flag. To omit the flag was to 
 arouse suspicion ; to wear a red necktie was to invite arrest. 
 It was a merry day for blithe devotees of Danger ; and they 
 were taking their full of her in Harvey. 
 
 The Law and Order League was one of those strange mad- 
 nesses to which any community may fall a victim. Kyle 
 Perry and Ahab "Wright — with Jasper Adams a nimble echo, 
 church men, fathers, husbands, solid business men, were its 
 leaders. 
 
 They endorsed and participated in brutalities, cowardly 
 cruelties at which in their saner moments they could only 
 shudder in horror. But they made Jared Thurston chair- 
 man of the publicity committee and the Times, morning after 
 morning, fanned the passions of the people higher and higher. 
 "Skin the Rats," was the caption of his editorial the morn- 
 ing after a young fellow was tarred and feathered and beaten 
 until he lost consciousness and was left in the highway. The 
 editorial under this heading declared that anarchy had lifted 
 its hydra head; that Grant Adams preaching peace in the 
 Valley was preparing to let in the jungle, and that the bums 
 who were flooding the city jail were Adams's tools, who 
 soon would begin dynamiting and burning the town, when 
 it suited his purpose, while his holier-than-thou dupes in the 
 Valley were conducting their goody-goody strike. 
 
 Plots of dynamiting were discovered. Hardly a day 
 passed for nearly a week that the big black headlines of the 
 Times did not tell of dynamite found in obviously conspicu- 
 ous places — in the court house, in the Sands opera house, 
 in the schoolhouses, in the city hall. So Harvey grew class 
 conscious, property conscious, and the town went stark mad. 
 
A HOUSE BUILT UPON A ROCK 581 
 
 It was the gibbering fear of those who make property of 
 privilege, and privilege of property, afraid of losing both. 
 
 But for a week and a day the motive power of the strike 
 was Grant Adams's indomitable will. Hour after hour, day 
 after day he paced his iron floor, and dreamed his dream of 
 the conquest of the world through fellowship. And by the 
 power of his faith and by the example of his imprisonment 
 for his faith, he held his comrades in the gardens, kept the 
 strikers on the picket lines and sustained the courage of the 
 delegates in Belgian Hall, who met inside a wall of blue- 
 coated policemen. The mind of the Valley had reached a 
 place where sympathy for Grant Adams and devotion to him, 
 imprisoned as their leader, was stronger than his influence 
 would have been outside. So during the week and a day, the 
 waves of hate and the winds of adverse circumstance beat 
 upon the house of faith, which he had builded slowly through 
 other years in the Valley, and it stood unshaken. 
 
CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 HOW MORTY SANDS TURNED AWAY SADLY AND JUDGE VAN 
 DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 
 
 GRANT ADAMS sat in his cell, with the jail smell of 
 stone and iron and damp in his nostrils. As he 
 read the copy of Tolstoy's "The Resurrection," 
 which his cell-mate had left in his hurried departure the night 
 before, Grant moved unconsciously to get into the thin direct 
 rays of the only sunlight — the early morning sunlight, that 
 fell into his cage during the long summer day. The morn- 
 ing Times lay on the floor where Grant had dropped it after 
 reading the account of what had happened to his cell-mate 
 when the police had turned him over to the Law and Order 
 League, at midnight. To be sure, the account made a great 
 hero of John Kollander and praised the patriotism of the 
 mob that had tortured the poor fellow. But the fact of his 
 torture, the fact that he had been tarred and feathered, and 
 turned out naked on the golf links of the country club, was 
 heralded by the Times as a warning to others who came to 
 Harvey to preach Socialism, and flaunt the red flag. Grant 
 felt that the jailer's kindness in giving him the morning 
 paper so early in the day, was probably inspired by a desire 
 to frighten him rather than to inform him of the night's 
 events. 
 
 Gradually he felt the last warmth of the morning sun 
 creep away and he heard a new step beside the jailer's velvet 
 footfall in the corridor, and heard the jailer fumbling with 
 his keys and heard him say: "That's the Adams cell there 
 in the corner," and an instant later Morty Sands stood at 
 the door, and the jailer let him in as Grant said : 
 
 "Well, Morty — come right in and make yourself at home." 
 
 He was not the dashing young blade who for thirty years 
 
 had been the Beau Blrummel of Georee Brotherton's estab- 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 583 
 
 lishment; but a rather weazened litle man whose mind il- 
 lumined a face that still clung to sportive youth, while pre- 
 mature age was claiming his body. 
 
 He cleared his throat as he sat on the bunk, and after 
 dropping Grant's hand and glancing at the book title, said: 
 "Great, isn't it? "Where 'd you get it?" 
 
 "The brother they ran out last night. They came after 
 him so suddenly that he didn't have time to pack," an- 
 swered Grant. 
 
 "Well, he didn't need it, Grant," replied Morty. "I just 
 left him. I got him last night after the mob finished with 
 him, and took him home to our garage, and worked with 
 him all night fixing him up. Grant, it's hell. The things 
 they did to that fellow — unspeakable, and fiendish." Morty 
 cleared his throat again, paused to gather courage and went 
 on. "And he heard something that made him believe they 
 were coming for you to-night." 
 
 The edge of a smile touched the seamed face, and Grant 
 replied: "Well — maybe so. You never can tell. Besides 
 old John Kollander, who are the leaders of this Law and 
 Order mob, Morty?" 
 
 "Well," replied the little man, "John Kollander is the re- 
 sponsible head, but Kyle Perry is master of ceremonies — the 
 stuttering, old coot ; and Ahab gives them the use of the po- 
 lice, and Joe Calvin backs up both of them. However," 
 sighed Morty, "the whole town is with them. It's stark mad, 
 Grant — Harvey has gone crazy. These tramps filling the 
 jails and eating up taxes — and the Times throwing scares 
 into the merchants with the report that unless the strike is 
 broken, the smelters and glassworks and cement works will 
 move from the district — it's awful! My idea of hell, Grant, 
 is a place where every man owns a little property and thinks 
 he is just about to lose it. ' ' 
 
 The young-old man was excited, and his eyes glistened, 
 but his speech brought on a fit of coughing. He lifted his 
 face anxiously and began: "Grant, — I'm with you in this 
 fight." He paused for breath. "It's a man's scrap, Grant 
 — a man's fight as sure as you're born." Grant sprang to 
 his feet and threw back his head, as he began pacing the 
 narrow cell. As he threw out his arms, his claw clicked 
 
584 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 on the steel bars of the cell, and Morty Sands felt the sudden 
 contracting of the cell walls about the men as Grant cried — 
 
 "That's what it is, Morty — it's a man's fight — a man's 
 fight for men. The industrial system to-day is rotting out 
 manhood — and womanhood too — rotting out humanity be- 
 cause capitalism makes unfair divisions of the profits of in- 
 dustry, giving the workers a share that keeps them in a 
 man-rotting environment, and we're going to break up the 
 system — the whole infernal profit system — the blight of cap- 
 italism upon the world. ' ' Grant brought down his hand on 
 Morty 's frail shoulder in a kind of frenzy. "Oh, it's com- 
 ing — the Democracy of Labor is coming in the earth, bring- 
 ing peace and hope — hope that is the 'last gift of the gods 
 to men' — Oh, it's coming! it's coming." His eyes were blaz- 
 ing and his voice high pitched. He caught Morty 's eyes 
 and seemed to shut off all other consciousness from him but 
 that of the idea which obsessed him. 
 
 Morty Sands felt gratefully the spell of the strong mind 
 upon him. Twice he started to speak, and twice stopped. 
 Then Grant said: "Out with it, Morty — what's on your 
 chest?" 
 
 "Well, — this thing," he tapped his throat, "is going to get 
 me, Grant, unless — well, it's a last hope; but I thought," he 
 spoke in short, hesitating phrases, then he started again. 
 "Grant, Grant," he cried, "you have it, this thing they call 
 vitality. You are all vitality, bodily, mentally, spiritually. 
 Why have I been denied always, everything that you have! 
 Millions of good men and bad men and indifferent men are 
 overflowing with power, and I — I — why, why can't I — what 
 shall I do to get it? How can I feel and speak and live as 
 you ? Tell me. ' ' He gazed into the strong, hard visage look- 
 ing down upon him, and cried weakly: "Grant — for God's 
 sake, help me. Tell me — what shall I do to — Oh, I want to 
 live — I want to live, Grant, can't you help me!" 
 
 He stopped, exhausted. Grant looked at him keenly, and 
 asked gently, 
 
 "Had another hemorrhage this morning — didn't you?" 
 
 Morty looked over his clothes to detect the stain of blood, 
 and nodded. "Oh, just a little one. Up all night working 
 with Folsom, but it didn't amount to anything." 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 585 
 
 Grant sat beside the broken man, and taking his white 
 hand in his big, paw-like hand : 
 
 "Morty — Morty — my dear, gentle friend; your trouble is 
 not your body, but your soul. You read these great books, 
 and they fascinate your mind. But they don't grip your 
 soul ; you see these brutal injustices, and they cut your heart ; 
 but they don't reach your will." The strong hand felt the 
 fluttering pressure of the pale hand in its grasp. Morty 
 looked down, and seemed about to speak. 
 
 "Morty," Grant resumed, "it's your money — your soul- 
 choking money. You've never had a deep, vital, will-moving 
 conviction in your life. You haven't needed this money. 
 Morty, Morty," he cried, "what you need is to get out of 
 your dry-rot of a life ; let the Holy Ghost in your soul wake 
 up to the glory of serving. Face life barehanded, conse- 
 crate your talents — you have enough — to this man 's fight for 
 men. Throw away your miserable back-breaking money. 
 Give it to the poor if you feel like it ; it won't help them par- 
 ticularly." He shook his head so vigorously that his vigor 
 seemed like anger, and hammered with his claw on the iron 
 bunk. "Money," he cried and repeated the word, "money 
 not earned in self-respect never helps any one. But to get 
 rid of the damned stuff will revive you ; will give you a new 
 interest in life — will change your whole physical body, and 
 then — if you live one hour in the big soul-bursting joy of 
 service you will live forever. But if you die — die as you are, 
 Morty — you'll die forever. Come." Grant reached out his 
 arms to Morty and fixed his luminous eyes upon his friend, 
 "Come, come with me," he pleaded. "That will cure your 
 soul — and it doesn't matter about your body." 
 
 Morty 's face lighted, and he smiled sympathetically; but 
 the light faded. He dropped his gaze to the floor and sighed. 
 Then he shook his head sadly. "It won't work, Grant — it 
 won't work. I'm not built that way. It won't work." 
 
 His fine sensitive mouth trembled, and he drew a deep 
 breath that ended in a hard dry cough. Then he rose, held 
 out his hand and said: 
 
 "Now you watch out, Grant — they'll get you yet. I tell 
 you it's awful — that's the exact word — the way hate has 
 driven this town mad." He shook the cage door, and the 
 
586 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 jailer came from around a corner, and unlocked the door, 
 and in a moment Morty was walking slowly away with his 
 eyes on the cold steel of the cell-room floor. 
 
 When his visitor was gone, Grant Adams went back to 
 his book. At the end of an hour he went to the slit in his 
 cell, which served as window, and looked on a damp court- 
 yard that gave him a narrow slice of Market Street and the 
 Federal court house in the distance. Men and women walk- 
 ing in and out of the little stereoscopic view he had of the 
 street, seemed to the prisoner people in a play, or in another 
 world. They were remote from him. At the gestures they 
 made, the gaits they fell into, the errands they were going 
 upon, the spring that obviously moved them, he gazed as 
 one who sees a dull pantomime. During the middle of the 
 morning, as he looked, he saw Judge Van Dorn's big, black 
 motor car roll up to the curb before the Federal court house 
 and unload the spare, dried-up, clothes-padded figure of the 
 Judge, who flicked out of Grant's eyeshot. A hundred 
 other figures passed, and Ahab Wright, with his white side- 
 whiskers bristling testily, came bustling across the stereop- 
 ticon screen and turned to the court house and was gone. 
 Young Joe Calvin, dismounting from his white horse, came 
 for a second into the picture, and soon after the elder Cal- 
 vin came trotting along beside Kyle Perry with his heavy- 
 footed gait, and the two turned as the Judge had turned — 
 evidently into the court house, where the Judge had his office. 
 
 Grant took up his book. After noon the jailer came with 
 Henry Fenn, who, as Adams' attorney, visited him daily. 
 But the jailer stood by while the lawyer talked to the pris- 
 oner through the bars. Henry Fenn wore a troubled face 
 and Grant saw at once that his friend was worried. So 
 Grant began : 
 
 "So you've heard my cell-mate's message — eh, Henry? 
 Well, don't worry. Tell the boys down in the Valley, what- 
 ever they do — to keep off Market Street and out of Harvey 
 to-night." 
 
 The listening jailer looked sharply at Fenn. It was ap- 
 parent the jailer expected Fenn to protest. But Fenn turned 
 his radiant smile on the jailer and said: "The smelter men 
 say they could go through this steel as if it was pasteboard 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 587 
 
 in ten minutes — if you'd say the word." Penn grinned at 
 the prisoner as he added: "If you want the boys, all the 
 tin soldiers and fake cops in the State can't stop them. But 
 I've told them to stay away — to stay in their fields, to keep 
 the peace ; that it is your wish. ' ' 
 
 "Henry," replied Grant, "tell the boys this for me. 
 We've won this fight now. They can't build a fire, strike a 
 pick, or turn a wheel if the boys stick — and stick in peace. 
 I'm satisfied that this story of what they will do to me to- 
 night, while I don't question the poor chap who sent the 
 word — is a plan to scare the boys into a riot to save me and 
 thus to break our peace strike." 
 
 He walked nervously up and down his cell, clicking the 
 bars with his claw as he passed the door. "Tell the boys 
 this. Tell them to go to bed to-night early; beware of 
 false rumors, and at all hazards keep out of Harvey. I'm 
 absolutely safe. I'm not in the least afraid — and, Henry, 
 Henry," cried Grant, as he saw doubt and anxiety in his 
 friend's face, "what if it's true; what if they do come 
 and get me? They can't hurt me. They can only hurt 
 themselves. Violence always reacts. Every blow I get will 
 help the boys — I know this — I tell you — " 
 
 "And I tell you, young man," interrupted Fenn, "that 
 right now one dead leader with a short arm is worth more 
 to the employers than a ton of moral force ! And Laura and 
 George and Nate and the Doctor and I have been skirmish- 
 ing around all day, and we have filed a petition for your 
 release on a habeas corpus in the Federal court — on the 
 ground that your imprisonment under martial law without 
 a jury trial is unconstitutional. ' ' 
 
 "In the Federal court before Van Dorn?" asked Grant, 
 incredulously. 
 
 "Before Van Dorn. The State courts are paralyzed by 
 young Joe Calvin 's militia ! ' ' returned Fenn, adding : ' ' We 
 filed our petition this morning. So, whether you like it or 
 not, you appear at three-thirty o'clock this afternoon before 
 Van Dorn." 
 
 Grant smiled and after a moment spoke: "Well, if I 
 was as scared as you people, I'd — look here, Henry, don't 
 lose your nerve, man — they can 't hurt me. Nothing on this 
 
588 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 earth can hurt me, don't you see, man — why go to Van 
 Dorn?" 
 
 Fenn answered: "After all, Tom's a good lawyer in a 
 life job and he doesn't want to be responsible for a decision 
 against you that will make him a joke among lawyers all 
 over the country when he is reversed by appeal." Grant 
 shook his dubious head. 
 
 "Well, it's worth trying," returned Fenn. 
 
 At three o'clock Joseph Calvin, representing the employ- 
 ers, notified Henry Fenn that Judge Van Dorn had been 
 called out of town unexpectedly and would not be able to hear 
 the Adams' petition at the appointed time. That was all. 
 No other time was set. But at half -past five George Broth- 
 erton saw a messenger boy going about, summoning men to 
 a meeting. Then Brotherton found that the Law and Or- 
 der League was sending for its members to meet in the Fed- 
 eral courtroom at half-past eight. He learned also that 
 Judge Van Dorn would return on the eight o'clock train 
 and expected to hear the Adams' petition that night. So 
 Brotherton knew the object of the meeting. In ten minutes 
 Doctor Nesbit, Henry Fenn and Nathan Perry were in the 
 Brotherton store. 
 
 "It means," said Fenn, "that the mob is going after 
 Grant to-night and that Tom knows it." 
 
 "Why?" asked the thin, sharp voice of Nathan Perry. 
 
 "Otherwise he would have let the case go over until 
 morning." 
 
 "Why?" again cut in Perry. 
 
 Because for the mob to attack a man praying for re- 
 lease under habeas corpus in a federal court might mean 
 contempt of court that the federal government might in- 
 vestigate. So Tom's going to wash his hands of the matter 
 before the mob acts to-night." 
 
 "Why?" again Perry demanded. 
 
 "Well," continued Fenn, "every day they wait means ac- 
 cumulated victory for the strikers. So after Tom refuses to 
 release Grant, the mob will take him. ' ' 
 
 "Well, say — let's go to the Valley with this story. We 
 can get five thousand men here by eight o'clock," cried 
 Brotherton. 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 589 
 
 "And precipitate a riot, George," put in the Doctor softly, 
 "which is one of the things they desire. In the riot the 
 murder of Grant could be easily handled and I don't believe 
 they will do more than try to scare him otherwise." 
 
 "Why?" again queried Nathan Perry, towering thin and 
 nervous above the seated council. 
 
 "Well," piped the Doctor, with his chin on his cane, "he's 
 too big a figure nationally for murder — " 
 
 "Well, then — what do you propose, gentlemen?" asked 
 Perry who, being the youngest man in the council, was im- 
 patient. 
 
 Penn rose, his back to the ornamental logs piled decora- 
 tively in the fireplace, and answered : 
 
 "To sound the clarion means riot and bloodshed — and 
 failure for the cause. ' ' 
 
 "To let things drift," put in Brotherton, "puts Grant in 
 danger. ' ' 
 
 "Of what?" asked the Doctor. 
 
 "Well, of indignities unspeakable and cruel torture," re- 
 turned Brotherton. 
 
 "I'm sure that's all, George. But can't we — we four 
 stop that?" said Fenn. "Can't we stand off the mob? A 
 mob's a coward." 
 
 "It's the least we can do," said Perry. 
 
 "And all you can do, Nate," added the Doctor, with the 
 weariness of age in his voice and in his counsel. 
 
 But when the group separated and the Doctor purred up 
 the hill in his electric, his heart was sore within him and he 
 spoke to the wife of his bosom of the burden that was on 
 his heart. Then, after a dinner scarcely tasted, the Doc- 
 tor hurried down town to meet with the men at Brotherton 's. 
 
 As Mrs. Nesbit saw the electric dip under the hill, her first 
 impulse was to call up her daughter on the telephone, who 
 was at Foley that evening. For be it remembered Mrs. Nes- 
 bit in the days of her prime was dubbed "the General" by 
 George Brotherton, and when she saw the care and hover- 
 ing fear in the pink, old face of the man she loved, she was 
 not the woman to sit and rock. She had to act and, because 
 she feared she would be stopped, she did not pick up the 
 telephone receiver. She went to the library, where Kenyon 
 
590 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 Adams with his broken leg in splints was sitting while Lila 
 read to him. She stood looking at the lovers for a moment. 
 
 "Children," she said, "Grant Adams is in great danger. 
 We must help him. ' ' 
 
 To their startled questions, she answered: "He is asking 
 your father, Lila, to release him from the prison to-night. 
 If he is not released, a mob will take Grant as they took 
 that poor fool last night and — " She stopped, turned toward 
 them a perturbed and fear-wrinkled face. Then she said 
 quickly: "I don't know that I owe Grant Adams anything 
 but— you children do—" She did not complete her sen- 
 tence, but burst out: "I don't care for Tom Van Dorn's 
 court, his grand folderol and mummery of the law. He's 
 going to send a man to death to-night because his masters 
 demand it. And we must stop it — you and Lila and I, 
 Kenyon. ' ' 
 
 Kenyon reached out, tried to rise and failed, but grasped 
 her strong, effective hand, as he cried: "What can we do — 
 what can I do?" 
 
 She went into the Doctor's office and brought out two old 
 crutches. 
 
 "Take these," she said, "then I'll help you down the 
 porch steps — and you go to your mother! That's what you 
 can do. Maybe she can stop him — she has done a number of 
 other worse things with him." 
 
 She literally lifted the tottering youth down the veranda 
 steps and a few moments later his crutches were rattling 
 upon the stone steps that rose in front of the proud house 
 of Van Dorn. Margaret had seen him coming and met him 
 before he rang the bell. 
 
 She looked the dreadful wonder in her mind and as he took 
 her hand to steady himself, he spoke while she was helping 
 him to sit. 
 
 "You are my mother," he said simply. "I know it now." 
 He felt her hand tighten on his arm. She bent over him and 
 with finger on lips, whispered: "Hush, hush, the maid is 
 in there — what is it, Kenyon?" 
 
 "I want you to save Grant." 
 
 She still stood over him, looking at him with her glazed 
 eyes shot with the evidence of a strong emotion. 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 591 
 
 "Kenyon, Kenyon — my boy— my son!" she whispered, 
 then said greedily : "Let me say it again — my son!" She 
 whispered the word "son" for a moment, stooping over him, 
 touching his forehead gently with her fingers. Then she 
 cried under her breath: "What about that man — your — 
 Grant ? What have I to do with him ? " 
 
 He reached for her hands beseechingly and said: "We 
 are asking your husband, the Judge, to let him out of jail 
 to-night, for if the Judge doesn't release Grant — they are 
 going to mob him and maybe kill him! Oh, won't you save 
 him? You can. I know you can. The Judge will let him 
 out if you demand it. ' ' 
 
 "My son, my son!" the woman answered as she looked 
 vacantly at him. "You are my son, my very own, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 She stooped to look into his eyes and cried : ' ' Oh, you 're 
 mine" — her trembling fingers ran over his face. "My eyes, 
 my hair. You have my voice — God — why haven't they 
 found it out?" Then she began whispering over again the 
 words, "My son." 
 
 A clock chimed the half -hour. It checked her. "He'll 
 be back in half an hour," she said, rising; then — "So 
 they're going to mob Grant, are they? And he sent you 
 here asking me for mercy ! ' ' 
 
 Kenyon shook his head in protest and cried : "No, no, no. 
 He doesn't even know — " 
 
 She looked at the young man and became convinced that 
 he was telling the truth; but she was sure that Laura Van 
 Dorn had sent him. It was her habit of mind to see the 
 ulterior motive. So the passion of motherhood flaring up 
 after years of suppression quickly died down. It could not 
 dominate her in her late forties, even for the time, nor even 
 with the power which held her during the night of the riot in 
 South Harvey, when she was in her thirties. The passion 
 of motherhood with Margaret Van Dorn was largely a mem- 
 ory, but hate was a lively and material emotion. 
 
 She fondled her son in the simulation of a passion that 
 she did not feel — and when in his eagerness he tried vainly 
 to tie her to a promise to help his father, she would only 
 reply : 
 
592 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Kenyon, oh, my son, my beautiful son — you know I'd 
 give my life for you — " 
 
 The son looked into the dead, brassy eyes of his mother, 
 saw her drooping mouth, with the brown lips that had not 
 been stained that day; observed the slumping muscles of 
 her over-massaged face, and felt with a shudder the caress 
 of her fingers — and he knew in his heart that she was deceiv- 
 ing him. A moment after she had spoken the automobile 
 going to the station for the Judge backed out of the garage 
 and turned into the street. 
 
 "You must go now," she cried, clinging to him. "Oh, 
 son — son — my only son — come to me, come to your mother 
 sometimes for her love. He is coming now in a few minutes 
 on the eight o'clock train. You must not let him see you 
 here." 
 
 She helped Kenyon to rise. He stumbled across the floor 
 to the steps and she helped him gently down to the lawn. 
 She stood play-acting for him a moment in whisper and 
 pantomime, then she turned and hurried indoors and met 
 the inquisitive maid servant with : 
 
 "Just that Kenyon Adams— the musician — awfully dear 
 boy, but he wanted me to interfere with the Judge for that 
 worthless brother, Grant. The Nesbits sent him. You 
 know the Nesbit woman is crazy about that anarchist. Oh, 
 Nadine, did Chalmers see Kenyon? You know Chalmers 
 just blabs everything to the Judge. ' ' 
 
 Nadine indicated that Chalmers had recognized Kenyon 
 as he crawled up the veranda steps and Mrs. Van Dorn 
 replied: "Very well, I'll be ready for him." And half an 
 hour later, when the Judge drove up, his wife met him as 
 he was putting his valise in his room : 
 
 ' ' Dahling, ' ' she said as she closed the door, ' ' that Kenyon 
 Adams was over here, appealing to me for his brother, 
 Grant." 
 
 "Well?" asked the Judge contemptuously. 
 
 "You have him where we want him now, dahling," she 
 answered. "If you refuse him his freedom, the mob will 
 get him. And oh, oh, oh," she cried passionately, "I hope 
 they'll hang him, hang him, higher 'n Haman. That will 
 take the tuck out of the old Nesbit cat and that other, his— 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 593 
 
 his sweetheart, to have her daughter marrying the brother 
 of a man who was hanged ! That'll bring them down." 
 
 A flash across the Judge's face told the woman where her 
 emotion was leading her. It angered her. 
 
 "So that holds you, does it? That binds the hands of 
 the Judge, does it? This wonderful daughter, who snubs 
 him on the street — she mustn't marry the brother of a man 
 who was hanged ! ' ' Margaret laughed, and the Judged glow- 
 ered in rage until the scar stood white upon his purple brow. 
 
 "Dahling," she leered, "remember our little discussion 
 of Kenyon Adams's parentage that night! Maybe our dear 
 little girl is going to marry the son, the son," she repeated 
 wickedly, "of a man who was hanged!" 
 
 He stepped toward her crying: "For God's sake, quit! 
 Quit!" 
 
 "Oh, I hope he'll hang. I hope he'll hang and you've got 
 to hang him! You've got to hang him!" she mocked ex- 
 ultingly. 
 
 The man turned in rage. He feared the powerful, physi- 
 cal creature before him. He had never dared to strike her. 
 He wormed past her and ran slinking down the hall and out 
 of the door — out from the temple of love, which he had 
 builded — somewhat upon sand perhaps, but still the temple 
 of love. A rather sad place it was, withal, 'in which to rest 
 the weary bones of the hunter home from the hills, after a 
 life-long ride to hounds in the primrose hunt. 
 
 He stood for a moment upon the steps of the veranda, 
 while his heart pumped the bile of hate through him; and 
 suddenly hearing a soft footfall, he turned his head quickly, 
 and saw Lila — his daughter. As he turned toward her in 
 the twilight it struck him like a blow in the face that she in 
 some way symbolized all that he had always longed for — his 
 unattainable ideal; for she seemed young — immortally 
 young, and sweet. The grace of maidenhood shone from her 
 and she turned an eager but infinitely wistful face up to 
 his, and for a second the picture of the slim, white-clad 
 figure, enveloping and radiating the gentle eagerness of a 
 beautiful soul, came to him like the disturbing memory of 
 some vague, lost dream and confused him. While she spoke 
 he groped back to the moment blindly and heard her say : 
 
594 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 "Oh, you will help me now, this once, this once when I beg 
 it • you will help me?" As she spoke she clutched his arm. 
 Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Father, don't let them 
 murder him — don't, oh, please, father — for me, won't you 
 save him for me — won't you let him out of jail now?" 
 
 "Lila, child," the Judge held out his hand unsteadily, 
 "it's not what I want to do ; it's the law that I must follow. 
 Why, I can't do—" 
 
 "If Mr. Ahab "Wright was in jail as Grant is and the 
 workmen had the State government, what would the law 
 say?" she answered. Then she gripped his hands and cried: 
 "Oh, father, father, have mercy, have mercy! We love him 
 so and it will kill Kenyon. Grant has been like a father to 
 Kenyon; he has been — " 
 
 "Tell me this, Lila," the Judge stopped her; he held her 
 hands in his cold, hard palms. "Who is Kenyon — who is his 
 father — do you know ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I know," the daughter replied quietly. 
 
 "Tell me, then. I ought to know," he demanded. 
 
 "There is just one right by which you can ask," she be- 
 gan. ' ' But if you refuse me this — by what other right can 
 you ask? Oh, daddy, daddy, " she sobbed. "In my dreams 
 I call you that. Did you ever hear that name, daddy, 
 daddy — I want you — for my sake, to save this man, daddy." 
 
 The Judge heard the words that for years had sounded in 
 his heart. They cut deep into his being. But they found 
 no quick. 
 
 "Well, daughter," he answered, "as a father — as a father 
 who will help you all he can — I ask, then, who is Kenyon 
 Adams's father?" 
 
 "Grant," answered the girl simply. 
 
 "Then you are going to marry an illegitimate — " 
 
 ' ' I shall marry a noble, pure-souled man, father. ' ' 
 
 "But, Lila — Lila," he rasped, "who is his mother?" 
 
 Then she shrank away from him. She shook her head 
 sadly, and withdrew her hands from his forcibly as she 
 cried : 
 
 "0 father — father — daddy, have you no heart — no heart 
 at all?" She looked beseechingly up into his face and be- 
 fore he could reply, she seemed to decide upon some further 
 
JUDGE VAN DORN UNCOVERED A SECRET 595 
 
 plea. "Father, it is sacred — very sacred to me, a beautiful 
 memory that I carry of you, when I think of the word 
 'Daddy.' I have never, never, not even to mother, nor to 
 Kenyon spoken of it. But I see you young, and straight 
 and tall and very handsome. Tou have on light gray clothes 
 and a red flower on your coat, and I am in your arms hug- 
 ging you, and then you put me down, and I stand crying 
 'Daddy, daddy,' after you, when you are called away some- 
 where. Oh, then — then, oh, I know that then — I don't know 
 where you went nor anything, but then, then when I snuggled 
 up to you, surely you would have heard me if I had asked you 
 what I am asking now." 
 
 The daughter paused, but the father did not answer at 
 once. He looked away from her across the years. In the 
 silence Lila was aware that in the doorway back of her 
 father, Margaret Van Dorn stood listening. Her husband 
 did not know that she was there. 
 
 "Lila," he began, "you have told me that Kenyon 's father 
 is Grant, Adams, why do you shield his mother ? ' ' 
 
 The daughter stood looking intently into the brazen eyes 
 of her father, trying to find some way into his heart. 
 "Father, Grant Adams is before your court. He is the 
 father of the man whom I shall marry. Tou have a right 
 to know all there is to know about Grant Adams." She 
 shook her head decisively. "But Kenyon 's mother, that has 
 nothing to do with what I am asking you!" She paused, 
 then cried passionately: " Kenyon 's mother — oh, father, 
 that's some poor woman's secret, which has no bearing on 
 this case. If you had any right on earth to know, I should 
 tell you ; but you have no right. ' ' 
 
 "Now, Lila," answered her father petulantly — "look here 
 — why do you get entangled with those Adamses ? They are 
 a low lot. Girl, a Van Dorn has no business stooping to 
 marry an Adams. Miserable mongrel blood is that Adams 
 blood child. Why the Van Dorns — " but Lila's pleading, 
 wistful voice went on : 
 
 "In all my life, father, I have asked you only this one 
 thing, and this is just, you know how just it is — that you 
 keep my future husband's father from a cruel, shameful 
 death. And — now — " her voice was quivering, near the 
 
596 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 breaking point, and she cried : ' ' And now, now you bring in 
 blood and family. What are they in an hour like this ! Oh, 
 father — father, would my daddy — the fine, strong, loving 
 daddy of my dreams do this? Would he — would he — oh, 
 daddy — daddy — daddy!" she cried, beseechingly. 
 
 Perhaps he could see in her face the consciousness that 
 some one was behind him, for he turned and saw his wife 
 standing in the doorway. As he saw her, there rose in him 
 the familiar devil she always aroused, which in the first 
 years wore the mask of love, but dropped that mask for the 
 sneer of hate. It was the devil's own voice that spoke, 
 quietly, suavely, and with a hardness that chilled his daugh- 
 ter 's heart. "Lila, perhaps the secret of Kenyon's mother 
 is no affair of mine, but neither is Grant Adams's fate after I 
 turn him back to the jailer, an affair of mine. But you make 
 Grant's affair mine; well, then — I make this secret an af- 
 fair of mine. If you want me to release Grant Adams — 
 well, then, I insist." The gray features of his wife stopped 
 him; but he smiled and waved his hand grandly at the 
 miserable woman, as he went on: "You see my wife has 
 bragged to me once or twice that she knows who Kenyon's 
 mother is, Lila, and now — " 
 
 The daughter put her hands to her face 'and turned away, 
 sick with the horror of the scene. Her heart revolted against 
 the vile intrigue her father was proposing. She turned 
 and faced him, clasping her hands in her anguish, lifted her 
 burning face for a moment and stared piteously at him, as 
 she sobbed: "O dear, dear God — is this my father?" and 
 shaking with shame and horror she turned away. 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 JUDGE VAN DOEN SINGS SOME MERRY SONGS AND THEY TAKE 
 GRANT ADAMS BEHIND A WHITE DOOR 
 
 AFTER arguments of counsel, after citation of cases, 
 after the applause of Market Street at some inci- 
 dental obiter dicta of Judge Van Dorn's about the 
 rights of property, after the court had put on its tortoise- 
 shell rimmed glasses, which the court had brought home 
 from its recent trip to Chicago to witness the renomination 
 of President Taft, after the court, peering through its brown- 
 framed spectacles, was fumbling over its typewritten opin- 
 ion from the typewriter of the offices of Calvin & Calvin, 
 written during the afternoon by the court's legal alter ego, 
 after the court had cleared its throat to proceed with the 
 reading of the answer to the petition in habeas corpus of 
 Grant Adams, the court, through its owlish glasses, saw the 
 eyes of the petitioner Adams fixed, as the court believed, 
 malignantly on the court. 
 
 ' ' Adams, ' ' barked the court, ' ' stand up ! " With his black 
 slouch hat in his hand, the petitioner Adams rose. It was a 
 hot night and he wiped his brow with a red handkerchief 
 twisted about his steel claw. 
 
 "Adams," began the court, laying down the typewritten 
 manuscript, "I suppose you think you are a martyr." 
 
 The court paused. Grant Adams made no reply. The 
 court insisted: 
 
 "Well, speak up. Aren't you a martyr?" 
 
 "No," meeting the eye of the court, "I want to get out 
 and get to work too keenly to be a martyr." 
 
 "To get to work," sneered the court. "You mean to keep 
 others from going to work. Now, Adams, isn't it true that 
 you are trying to steal the property of this district from its 
 legal owners by riot and set yourself up as the head of your 
 Democracy of Labor, to fatten on the folly of the working 
 
 597 
 
598 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 men ? ' ' The court did not pause for a reply, but continued : 
 "Now, Adams, there is no merit to the contentions of your 
 counsel in this hearing, but, even if there was mere tech- 
 nical weight to his arguments, the moral issues involved, 
 the vast importance of this case to the general welfare of 
 this Republic, would compel this court to take judicial no- 
 tice of the logic of its decision in your favor. For it would 
 release anarchy, backed by legal authority, and strike down 
 the arm of the State in protecting property and suppressing 
 crime. ' ' 
 
 The court paused, and, taking its heavy spectacles in its 
 fingers, twirled them before asking : ' ' Adams, do you think 
 you are a God? What is this rot you're talking about the 
 Prince of Peace? What do you mean by saying nothing 
 can hurt you? If you know nothing can hurt you, why 
 do you let your attorney plead the baby act and declare that, 
 if you are not released to-night, a mob will wait on you? 
 If you are a God, why don't you help yourself — quell the 
 mob, overcome the devil?" 
 
 The crowd laughed and the court perfunctorily rapped 
 for order. The laugh was frankincense and myrrh to the 
 court. So the court clearly showed its appreciation of its 
 own fine sarcasm as it rapped for order and continued in- 
 solently: "See here, Adams, if you aren't crazy, what are 
 you trying to do ? What do you expect to get out of all this 
 glib talk about the power of spiritual forces and the peace- 
 ful revolution and the power greater than bullets and your 
 fanatical ranting about the Holy Ghost in the dupes you are 
 inciting to murder? Come now, maybe you are crazy? 
 Maybe if you'd talk and not stand there like a loon — " 
 
 Again the crowd roared and again the court suppressed 
 its chuckle and again order was restored. "Maybe if you'd 
 not stand there grouching, you'd prove to the court that 
 you are crazy, and on the grounds of insanity the court 
 might grant your prayer. Come, now, Adams, speak up ; go 
 the whole length. Give us your creed!" 
 
 "Well," began Adams, "since you want — " 
 
 "Don't you know how to address a court?" The court 
 bellowed. 
 
 "To say 'Your honor' would be a formality which even 
 
SOME MERRY bONGS 599 
 
 your friends would laugh at," replied Grant quietly. The 
 crowd hissed ; the court turned purple. Grant Adams stood 
 rigid, with white face and quivering muscles. His jaws 
 knotted and his fist clenched. Yet when he spoke he held his 
 voice down. In it was no evidence of his tension. Facing 
 for the first few moments of his speech the little group of his 
 friends — Dr. Nesbit, George Brotherton, Captain Morton, 
 Nathan Perry and Amos Adams — who sat at the lawyers' 
 table with Henry Fenn, Grant Adams plunged abruptly into 
 his creed : "I believe that in every human adult conscious- 
 ness there is a spark of altruism, a divine fire, which marks 
 the fatherhood of God and proves the brotherhood of man. 
 Environment fans that spark or stifles it. Its growth is 
 evidenced in human institutions, in scales and grades of 
 civilization. Christ was a glowing flame of this fire." The 
 court gave a knowing wink to Ahab Wright, who grinned at 
 the court's keen sense of humor. Adams saw the wink, but 
 proceeded: "That is what He means when He says: 'I 
 am the resurrection and the life,' for only as men and na- 
 tions, races and civilization by their institutions fan that 
 spark to fire, will they live, will they conquer the forces of 
 death ever within them." 
 
 Thus far Grant Adams had been speaking slowly, ad- 
 dressing himself more to his friends and the court stenogra- 
 pher than the crowd. Now he faced the crowd defiantly as 
 he let his voice rise and cried : ' ' This is no material world. 
 Humanity is God trying to express Himself in terms of 
 justice — with the sad handicap of time and space ever hold- 
 ing the Eternal Spirit in check. "We are all Gods. ' ' 
 
 Again Market Street, which worshiped the god material, 
 hissed. Grant turned to the men in the benches a mad, 
 ecstatic face and throwing his crippled arm high above his 
 head, cried aloud: 
 
 "0 men of Harvey, men with whom I have lived and 
 labored, I would give my life if you could understand me; 
 if you could know in your hearts how passionately I yearn 
 to get into your souls the knowledge that only as you give 
 you will have, only as you love these men of the mines and 
 mills, only as you are brothers to these ginks and wops and 
 guinnies, will prosperity come to Harvey. 'I am the resur- 
 
600 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 rection and the life' should ring through your souls; for 
 when brotherhood, expressed in law and customs, gives these 
 men their rightful share in the products of their labor, our 
 resurrected society will begin to live." He stopped dead 
 still for a moment, gazing, almost glaring, into the eyes of. 
 the crowd. Ahab Wright dropped his gaze. But John 
 Hollander, who heard nothing, glared angrily back. Then 
 leaning forward and throwing out his claw as if to grapple 
 them, Grant Adams, let out his great voice in a cry that 
 startled Market Street into a shudder as he spoke. "Come, 
 come, come with us and live, oh, men of Market Street, you 
 who are dead and damned! Come with us and live. 'I am 
 the way and the life.' " He checked his rising voice, then 
 said : ' ' Come, let us go forward together, for only then will 
 God, striving for justice in humanity, restore your dead and 
 atrophied souls. Have faith that as you give you will have ; 
 as you love, will you live." His manner changed again. 
 The court was growing restless. Grant's voice was low 
 pitched, but it showed a heavy tension of emotion. He 
 stretched his hand as one pleading: "Oh, come with us. 
 Come with us — your brothers. We are one body, why should 
 we have different aims ? We are ten thousand here, you are 
 many more. Perhaps we are only dreaming a mad dream, 
 but if you come with us we shall all awake from our dream 
 into a glorious reality." 
 
 Market Street laughed. John Kollander bawled: "He's 
 an anarchist — a socialist!" Grant looked at the deaf old 
 man in his blue coat and brass buttons adorned with many 
 little flags, to advertise his patriotism. Taking a cue from 
 John Kollander, Grant cried : "I am moving with the cur- 
 rent of Heavenly love, I am a part of that love that is wash- 
 ing into this planet from the infinite source of life beyond 
 our ken. I am moved, I know not how. I am inspired to 
 act, I know not whence. I go I know not where — only I have 
 faith, faith that fears nothing, faith that tells me that in- 
 somuch as I act in love, I am a part of the Great Purpose 
 moving the universe, immortal, all powerful, vital, the in- 
 carnation of Happiness! I am trying — trying — ah, God, 
 how I am trying, to bring into the world all the love that my 
 soul will carry. I am — " 
 
SOME MERRY SONGS 601 
 
 "That's enough," snapped the court; and turning to Jo- 
 seph Calvin, Judge Van Dorn said: "That man's crazy. 
 This court has no jurisdiction over the insane. His family 
 can bring a proceeding in habeas corpus before the probate 
 court of the county on the ground of the prisoner's insanity. 
 But I have no right to take judicial notice of his insanity." 
 The Judge folded up his opinion, twirled his heavy glasses 
 a moment, blinked wisely and said : ' ' Gentlemen, this is no 
 case for me. This is a crazy man. I wash my hands of the 
 whole business!" 
 
 He rose, put away his glasses deliberately, and was step- 
 ping from his dais, when up rose big George Brotherton and 
 cried : 
 
 "Say, Tom Van Dorn — if you want this man murdered, 
 say so. If you want him saved, say so. Don't polly-fox 
 around here, dodging the issue. You know the truth of the 
 matter as well as — " 
 
 The court smiled tolerantly at the impetuous fellow, who 
 was clearly in contempt of court. The crowd waited breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 "Well, George," said the suave Judge with condescension 
 in his tone as he strutted into the group of lawyers and re- 
 porters about him, "if you know so much about this case, 
 what is the truth?" The crowd roared its approval. "But 
 hire a hall, George — don't bother me with it. It's out of my 
 jurisdiction." 
 
 So saying, he elbowed his way out of the room into his 
 office and soon was in his automobile, driving toward the 
 Country Club. He had agreed to be out of reach by tele- 
 phone during the evening and that part of the agreement 
 he decided to keep. 
 
 After the Judge left the room Market Street rose and 
 filed out, leaving Grant standing among the little group of 
 his friends. The sheriff stood near by, chatting with the 
 jailer and as Brotherton came up to bid Grant good-night, 
 Brotherton felt a piece of paper slip into his hands, when 
 he shook hands with Grant. "Don't let it leave your pocket 
 until you see me again," said Grant in a monotone, that no 
 one noticed. 
 
 The group — Dr. Nesbit, Nathan Perry, George Brotherton 
 
602 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 and Captain Morton — stood dazed and discouraged about 
 Grant. No one knew exactly what note to strike — whether 
 of anger or of warning or of cheer. It was Captain Morton 
 who broke the silence. 
 
 " 'Y gory, man— free speech is all right, and I'm going to 
 stay with you, boy, and fight it out; but, Grant, things do 
 look mighty shaky here, and I wonder if it's worth it — for 
 that class of people, eh ?,' ' 
 
 From the Captain, Nathan Perry took his cue. "I should 
 say, Grant, that they'll make trouble to-night. Shouldn't 
 we call out the boys from the Valley, and — " 
 
 Grant cut in: 
 
 "Men, I know what you fear, ■' he said. "You are afraid 
 they will kill me. "Why, they can't kill me! All that I am 
 that is worth living is immortal. What difference does it 
 make about this body ? ' ' His face was still lighted with the 
 glow it wore while he was addressing the court. "Ten 
 thousand people in the Valley have my faith. And now I 
 know that even this strike is not important. The coming 
 Democracy of Labor is a spiritual caste. And it has been 
 planted in millions of minds. It can never die. It too is 
 immortal. "What have guns and ropes and steel bars to do 
 with a vision like this ? ' ' He threw back his head, his blue 
 eyes blazed and he all but chanted his defiance of material 
 things: "What can they do to me, to my faith, to us, to 
 these Valley people, to the millions in the world who see 
 what we see, who know what we know and strive for what 
 we cherish? Don't talk to me about death — there is no 
 death for God's truth. As for this miserable body here — " 
 He gazed at his friends for a moment, shook his head sadly 
 and walked to the jailer. 
 
 For an hour after the sheriff took Grant to his cell as the 
 town went home and presumably to bed, George Brotherton 
 with Henry Fenn and Nathan Perry, rolled his car around 
 the court house square in the still, hot June night. The Doc- 
 tor stood by his electric runabout, for half an hour or more. 
 Then, the Doctor feeling that a false alarm had been spread, 
 whirred up the hill. The younger men stayed on Market 
 Street. They left it long after midnight, deserted and still. 
 
 As the watching party broke up, a telephone message from 
 
SOME MERRY SONGS 603 
 
 the offices of Calvin & Calvin winged its way to Sands Park, 
 and from the shades there came silently a great company 
 of automobiles with hooded lights. One separated from the 
 others and shot down into the Valley of the Wahoo. The 
 others went into Market Street. 
 
 At three o'clock the work there was done. The office of the 
 Harvey Tribune was wrecked, and in one automobile rode 
 Amos Adams, a prisoner, while before him, surrounded by a 
 squad of policemen, rode Grant Adams, bound and gagged. 
 
 Around the policemen the mob gathered, and at the city 
 limits the policemen abandoned Grant and Amos. Their in- 
 structions were to take the two men out of town. The police- 
 men knew the mob. It was not Market Street. It was the 
 thing that Market Street had made with its greed. The igno- 
 rance of the town, the scum of the town — men, white and 
 black, whom Market Street, in thoughtless greed the world 
 over, had robbed as children of their birthright; men whose 
 chief joy was in cruelty and who lusted for horror. The 
 mob was the earth-bound demon of Market Street. Only 
 John Kollander in his brass buttons and blue soldier clothes 
 and stuttering Kyle Perry and one or two others of the 
 town's respectability were with the mob that took Grant 
 Adams and his father after the policemen released the father 
 and son at the city limits. The respectables directed; the 
 scum and the scruff of the town followed, yelping not unlike 
 a pack of hungry dogs. 
 
 John Kollander led the way to the country club grounds. 
 There was a wide stretch of rolling land, quiet, remote from 
 passing intruders, safe; and there great elm trees cast their 
 protecting shade, even in the starlight, over such deeds as 
 men might wish to do in darkness. 
 
 It was nearly four o 'clock and the clouds, banked high in 
 the west, were naming with heat lightning. 
 
 On the wide veranda of the country club alone, with a 
 siphon and a fancy, square, black bottle, sat Judge Thomas 
 Van Dorn. He was in his shirt sleeves. His wilted collar, 
 grimy and bedraggled, lay on the floor beside him. He was 
 laughing at something not visible to the waiter, who sat 
 drowsing in the door of the dining room, waiting for the 
 Judge either to go to sleep or to leave the club in his car. 
 
604 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 The Judge had been singing to himself and laughing quietly 
 at his own ribaldry for nearly an hour. The heat had smoth- 
 ered the poker game in the basement and except for the 
 Judge and the waiter the club house was deserted. The 
 Judge hit the table with the black bottle and babbled : 
 
 "Dog bit a rye straw, 
 Dog bit a riddle-0 ! 
 Dog bit a little boy 
 Playing on a fiddle-O!" 
 
 Then he laughed and said to the sleepy waiter: "Didn't 
 know I could sing, did you, Gustave ! ' ' 
 
 The waiter grinned. The Judge did not hear a footstep 
 behind him. The waiter looked up and saw Kyle Perry. 
 
 "Oh, I know a maid 
 And she's not afraid 
 To face — 
 
 "Why, hello Kyle, you old stuttering scoundrel — have one 
 on me — cleanses the teeth — sweetens the breath and makes 
 hair grow on your belly!" 
 
 He laughed and when Kyle broke in : 
 
 "S-s-say, T-T-Tom, the f-f -fellows are all over in the 
 g-g-golf 1-1-links." 
 
 ' ' The hell they are, Kyle, ' ' laughed the Judge. "Tell 'em 
 to come over and have a cold one on me — Gustave, you go — " 
 
 "B-b-but they d-don't want a drink. The p-p-poker 
 b-b-bunch said you were here and th-th-they s-s-sent m-m-me 
 to — " 
 
 "S-s-s-sure they d-d-did, Kyle," interrupted Van Dorn. 
 "They sent you to read the Declaration of Independence to- 
 morrow and wanted you to begin now and get a g-g-good 
 st-st-start!" He broke into song: 
 
 "Oh, there was an old man from Dundee 
 
 Who got on a hell of a spree, 
 Oh, he wound up the clock, 
 With- 
 
 "Say, Kyle," the Judge looked up foolishly, "you didn't 
 know that I was a cantatrice." He laughed and repeated 
 the last word slowly three times and then giggled. 
 
SOME MERRY SONGS 605 
 
 "Still sober. I tell Mrs. Van Dorn that when I can say 
 cantatrice or specification," he repeated that word slowly, 
 "I'm fit to hold court." 
 
 "Oh, the keyhole in the door — 
 The keyhole in the door — " 
 
 he bellowed. 
 
 "Now, 1-1-listen, T-T-Tom," insisted Perry. "I t-t-tell 
 you the bunch has g-g-got Grant Adams and the old man out 
 there in the g-g-golf 1-links and they heard you were h-h-here 
 and they s-s-sent me to tell you they were g-g-going to 
 g-g-give him all the d-d-degrees and they w-w-want to t-t-tie 
 a s-s-sign on him when they t-t-turn him loose and h-h-head 
 him for Om-m-ma-h-ha — " 
 
 "B-b-better h-h-h-head him for h-h-hell," mocked the 
 Judge. 
 
 "Well, they've g-got an iron b-b-band they've b-b-bound 
 on h-h-him and they've got a b-b-board and some t-t-tar and 
 they w-w-want a m-motto. ' ' 
 
 The Judge reached for his fountain pen in his white vest 
 and when the waiter had brought a sheet of paper, he scrib- 
 bled while he sang sleepily : 
 
 "Oh, there was a man and he could do, 
 He could do — he could do; 
 
 "Here," he pushed the paper to Perry, who saw the 
 words: 
 
 "Get on to the Prince of Peace, 
 Big Boss of the Democracy of Lahor." 
 
 "That's k-k-kind of t-t-tame, don't y-y-you think?" said 
 Kyle. 
 "That's all right, Kyle — anyway, what I've written goes! 
 
 "Oh, there was an old woman in Guiana." 
 
 He sang and waved Kyle proudly away. And in another 
 hour the waiter had put him to bed. 
 
 It was nearly dawn when George Brotherton had told his 
 
606 IN THE HEART OF A POOL 
 
 story to Laura. They sat in the little, close, varnish-smell- 
 ing room to which he called her. 
 
 She had come through rain from Harvey. As she came 
 into the dreary, shabby, little room in South Harvey, with 
 its artificial palms and artificial wreaths — cheap, commer- 
 cial habiliments of ostentatious mourning, Laura Van Dorn 
 thought how cruel it was that he should be there, in a public 
 place at the end, with only the heavy hands of paid attend- 
 ants to do the last earthly services for him — whose whole 
 life was a symbol of love. 
 
 But her heart was stricken, deeply, poignantly stricken 
 by the great peace she found behind the white door. Yet 
 thus the dust touches our souls ' prof oundest depths — always 
 with her memory of that great peace, comes the memory of 
 the odor of varnish and carbolic acid and the drawn, spent 
 face of George Brotherton, as he stood before her when she 
 closed the door. He gazed at her piteously, a wreck of a 
 man, storm-battered and haggard. His big hands were 
 shaking with a palsy of terrible grief. His moon face was 
 inanimate, and vagrant emotions from his heart flicked 
 across his features in quivers of anguish. His thin hair 
 was tousled and his clothes were soiled and disheveled. 
 
 "I thought you ought to know, Laura — at once," he said, 
 after she had closed the white door behind her and sat 
 numb and dumb before him. "Nate and Henry and I got 
 there about four o 'clock. Well, there they were — by the big 
 elm tree — on the golf course. His father was there and he 
 told me coming back that when they wanted Grant to do any- 
 thing — they would string up Amos — poor old Amos ! They 
 made Grant stoop over and kiss the flag, while they kicked 
 him ; and they made him pull that machine gun around the 
 lake. The fools brought it up from the camp in South 
 Harvey." Brotherton 's face quivered, but his tears were 
 gone. He continued: "They strung poor old Amos up 
 four times, Laura— four times, he says." Brotherton looked 
 wearily into the street. "Well, as we came down the hill in 
 our car, we could see Grant. He was nearly naked — about 
 as he is now. We came tearing down the hill, our siren 
 screaming and Nate and me yelling and waving our guns. 
 At the first scream of our siren, there was an awful roar and 
 
SOME MERRY SONGS 607 
 
 a flash. Some one, ' ' Brotherton paused and turned his hag- 
 gard eyes toward Laura — "it was deaf John Hollander, he 
 turned the lever and fired that machine gun. Oh, Laura, 
 God, it was awful. I saw Grant wilt down. I saw — " 
 
 The man broke into tears, but bit his lips and continued: 
 "Oh, they ran like snakes then — like snakes — like snakes, 
 and we came crashing down to the tree and in a moment 
 the last machine had piked — but I know 'em, every man- 
 jack!" he cried. "There was the old man, tied hand and 
 foot, three yards from the tree, and there, half leaning, half 
 sitting by the tree, the boy, the big, red-headed, broken and 
 crippled boy — was panting his life out. ' ' Brotherton caught 
 her inquiring eyes. ' ' It was all gone, Laura, ' ' he said softly, 
 "all gone. He was the boy, the shy, gentle boy that we used 
 to know — and always have loved. AH this other that the 
 years have brought was wiped from his eyes. They were so 
 tender and — " He could go no further. She nodded her 
 understanding. He finally continued: "The first thing he 
 said to me was, 'It's all right, George.' He was tied, they 
 had pulled the claw off and his poor stumped arm was show- 
 ing and he was bleeding — oh, Laura. ' ' 
 
 Brotherton fumbled in his pocket and handed an en- 
 velope to her. 
 
 " 'George,' he panted, as I tried to make him comfortable 
 — 'have Nate look after father.' And when Nate had gone 
 he whispered between gasps, 'that letter there in the court 
 room — ' He had to stop a moment, then he whispered 
 again, 'is for her, for Laura.' He tried to smile, but the 
 blood kept bubbling up. We lifted him into an easier posi- 
 tion, but nothing helped much. He realized that and when 
 we quit he said : 
 
 " 'Now then, George, promise me this — they're not to 
 blame. John Hollander isn 't to blame. It was funny ; Kyle 
 Perry saw him as I did, and Kyle — ' he almost laughed, 
 Laura. 
 
 " 'Kyle,' he repeated, 'tried to yell at old John, but got 
 so excited stuttering, he couldn't! I'm sure the fellows 
 didn't intend — ' he was getting weak; 'this,' he said. 
 
 " 'Promise me and make — others; you won't tell. I know 
 father — he won't. They're not — it's — society. Just that,' 
 
608 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 he said. 'This was society!' He had to stop. I felt his 
 hand squeeze. 'I'm — so — happy,' he said one word at a 
 time, gripping my hand tighter and tighter till it ached." 
 Brotherton put out his great hand, and looked at it imper- 
 sonally, as one introducing a stranger for witness. Then 
 Brotherton lifted his eyes to Laura's and took up his story: 
 
 " 'That's hers,' he said; 'the letter,' and then 'my mes- 
 sages — happy.' " 
 
 The woman pressed her letter to her lips and looked at 
 the white door. She rose and, holding her letter to her 
 bosom, closed her eyes and stood with a hand on the knob. 
 She dropped her hand and turned from the white door. 
 The dawn was graying in the ugly street. But on the clouds 
 the glow of sunrise blushed in promise. She walked slowly 
 toward the street. She gazed for a moment at the glorious 
 sky of dawn. 
 
 When her eyes met her friend 's, she cried : 
 
 "Give me your hand — that hand!" 
 
 She seized it, gazed hungrily at it a second, then kissed 
 it passionately. She looked back at the white door, and 
 shook with sobs as she cried : 
 
 "Oh, you don't think he's there — there in the night — be- 
 hind the door? "We know — oh, we do know he's out here — 
 out here in the dawn." 
 
CHAPTEE LI 
 
 IN WHICH WE END AS WE BEGAN AND ALL LIVE HAPPILY 
 EVER AFTER 
 
 THE great strike in the "Wahoo Valley now is only an 
 episode in the history of this struggle of labor for 
 its rights. The episode is receding year by year 
 further and more dimly into the past and is one of the long, 
 half -forgotten skirmishes wherein labor is learning the truth 
 that only in so far as labor dares to lean on peace and effi- 
 ciency can labor move upward in the scale of life. The 
 larger life with its wider hope, requires the deeper fellow- 
 ship of men. The winning or losing of the strike in the 
 Wahoo meant little in terms of winning or losing; but be- 
 cause the men kept the peace, kept it to the very end, the 
 strike meant much in terms of progress. For what they 
 gained was permanent; based on their own strength, not on 
 the weakness of those who would deny them. 
 
 But the workers in the mines and mills of the "Wahoo 
 Valley, who have gone to and from their gardens, planting 
 and cultivating and harvesting their crops for many chang- 
 ing seasons, hold the legend of the strong man, maimed and 
 scarred, who led them in that first struggle with themselves, 
 to hold themselves worthy of their dreams. In a hundred 
 little shacks in the gardens, and in dingy rooms in the tene- 
 ments may be found even to-day newspaper clippings pinned 
 to the wall with his picture on them, all curled up and yel- 
 low with years. Before a wash-stand, above a bed or pasted 
 over the kitchen stove, soiled and begrimed, these clippings 
 recall the story of the man who gave his life to prove his 
 creed. So the fellowship he brought into the world lives on. 
 And the fellowship that came into the world as Grant 
 Adams went out of it, touched a wider circle than the group 
 with whom he lived and labored. The sad sincerity with 
 
 609 
 
610 IN THE HEART OP A FOOL 
 
 which he worked proved to Market Street that the man was 
 consecrated to a noble purpose, and Market Street's heart 
 learned a lesson. Indeed the lives of that long procession of 
 working men who have given themselves so freely — where 
 life was all they had to give — for the freedom of their fel- 
 lows from the bondage of the times, the lives of these men 
 have found their highest value in making the Market Street 
 eternal, realize its own shame. So Grant Adams lay down 
 in the company of his peers that Market Street might under- 
 stand in his death what his fellows really hoped for. He 
 was a seed that is sown and falls upon good ground. For 
 Market Street after all is not a stony place ; seeds sown there 
 bring forth great harvests. And while the harvest of Grant 
 Adams's life is not at hand; the millennium is not here; 
 the seed is quickening in the earth. And great things are 
 moving in the world. 
 
 Of course, there came a time in Harvey, even in the house 
 of Nesbit, when there was marrying and giving in marriage. 
 It was on a winter's night when the house inside the deep, 
 dark Moorish verandas, celebrating Mrs. Nesbit 's last bout 
 with the spirit of architecture, glowed with a jewel of light. 
 
 And in due course they appeared, Rev. Dr. John Dexter 
 leading the way, followed by a thin, dark-skinned young 
 man with eyes to match and a rather slight, shortish girl, 
 blond and pink with happy trimmings and real pearls on 
 her eyelashes. The children jabbered, and the women wept 
 and the men wiped their eyes, and it was altogether a gay 
 occasion. Just as the young people were ready to look the 
 world squarely in the face, George Brotherton, thinking he 
 heard some one moving outside in the deep, dark veranda, 
 flicked on the porch light, and through the windows he 
 saw — and the merry company could not help seeing two 
 faces — two wan, unhappy faces, staring hungrily in at the 
 bridal pair. They stood at different corners of the house 
 and did not seem to know of one another's presence until 
 the light revealed them. Only an instant did their faces 
 flash into the light, as John Dexter was reading from the 
 Bible a part of the service that he loved to put in, "and 
 
ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER 611 
 
 forbid them not, for of such, is the kingdom of Heaven." 
 The faces vanished, there was a scurrying across the cement 
 floor of the veranda and two figures met on the lawn in 
 shame and anger. 
 
 But they in the house did not know of the meeting. For 
 everybody was kissing everybody else, and the peppermint 
 candy in little Grant Brotherton's mouth tasted on a score 
 of lips in three minutes, and a finger dab of candy on 
 Jasper Adams's shirt front made the world akin. 
 
 After the guests had gone, three old men lingered by the 
 smoldering logs. "Well, now, Doc Jim," asked Amos, 
 "why shouldn't I? Haven't I paid taxes in Greeley County 
 for nearly fifty years ? Didn 't I make the campaign for that 
 home in the nineties, when they called it the poor house — 
 most people call it that now. I only stay there when I am 
 lonesome and I go out in a taxi-cab at the county's expense 
 like a gentleman to his estate. And I guess it is my estate. 
 I was talking to Lincoln about it the other night, and he 
 says he approves. Ruskin says I am living my religion like 
 a diamond in the rock." 
 
 To the Captain's protest he answered, "Oh, yes, I know 
 that — but that would be charity. My pencils and shoe- 
 strings and collar buttons and coat hangers keep me in 
 spending money. I couldn't take charity even from you 
 men. And Jasper's money," the gray poll wagged, and 
 he cried, "Oh, no — not Ahab Wright's and Kyle Perry's — 
 not that money. Kenyon is forever slipping me fifty. But 
 I don't need it. John Dexter keeps a room always ready 
 for me, and I like it at the Dexters' almost as much as I 
 do at the county home. So I don't really need Kenyon 's 
 money, however much joy he takes in giving it. And I raise 
 the devil's own fuss to keep him from doing it." 
 
 The Doctor puffed, and the Captain in his regal garments 
 paraded the long room, with his hands locked under his 
 coattails. 
 
 "But, Amos," cried the Captain, "under the law, no man 
 wearing that button," and the Captain looked at the tri- 
 color of the Loyal Legion, proudly adorning the shiny coat, 
 "no soldier under the law, has. to go out there. They've 
 
612 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 got to keep you here in town, and besides you're entitled 
 to a whopping lot of pension money for all these unclaimed 
 years. ' ' 
 
 The white old head shook and the pursed old lips smiled, 
 as the thin little voice replied, "Not yet, Ezra — not yet — I 
 don 't need the pension yet. And as for the Home — it 's not 
 lonesome there. A lot of 'em are bedfast and stricken and 
 I get a certain amount of fun — chirping 'em up on cloudy 
 days. They like to hear from Emerson and John A. Logan, 
 and Sitting Bull and Huxley and their comrades. So I 
 guess I 'm being more or less useful. ' ' He stroked his scraggy 
 beard and looked at the fire. "And then," he added, "she 
 always seems nearer where there is sorrow. Grant, too, is 
 that way, though neither of 'em really has come." 
 
 The Captain finding that his money was ashes in his hands, 
 and not liking the thought and meditation of death, changed 
 the subject, and when the evening was old, Amos Adams 
 called a taxi-cab, and at the county's expense rode home. 
 
 At the end of a hard winter day, descending tardily into 
 the early spring, they missed him at the farm. No one 
 knew whether he had gone to visit the Dexters, as was his 
 weekly wont, or whether he was staying with Captain Mor- 
 ton in town, where he sometimes spent Saturday night after 
 the Grand Army meeting. 
 
 The next day the sun came out and melted the untimely 
 snow banks. And some country boys playing by a lime- 
 stone ledge in a wide upland meadow above the Wahoo, far 
 from the smoke of town, came upon the body of an old man. 
 Beside him was strewn a meager peddler's kit. On his 
 knees was a tablet of paper; in his left hand was a pencil 
 tightly gripped. On the tablet in a fine, even hand were the 
 words: "I am here, Amos," and his old eyes, stark and 
 wide, were drooped, perhaps to look at the tri-color of the 
 Loyal Legion that shone on his shrunken chest and told of 
 a great dream of a nation come true, or perhaps in the dead, 
 stark eyes was another vision in another world. 
 
 And so as in the beginning, there was blue sky and sun- 
 shine and prairie grass at the end. 
 
CHAPTER LII 
 
 NOT EXACTLY A CHAPTER BUT RATHER A Q E D OR A HIC 
 PABUIiA DOCET 
 
 ** A ^^ *^ e ^ 00 ^ sa ^ ™ ^ s h ear *> there is no God!" 
 /\ And this fable teaches, if it teaches anything, that 
 
 A. JL the fool was indeed a fool. Now do not think that 
 his folly lay chiefly in glutting his life with drab material 
 things, with wives and concubines, with worldly power and 
 glory. That was but a small part of his folly. For that con- 
 cerned himself. That turned upon his own little destiny. 
 The vast folly of the fool came with his blindness. He could 
 not see the beautiful miracle of progress that God has been 
 working in this America of ours during these splendid fifty 
 years that have closed a great epoch. 
 
 And what a miracle it was ! Here lay a continent — rich, 
 crass, material, beckoning humanity to fall down and worship 
 the god of gross and palpable realities. And, on the other 
 hand, here stood the American spirit — the eternal love of 
 freedom, which had brought men across the seas, had bid 
 them fight kings and principalities and powers, had forced 
 them into the wilderness by the hundreds of thousands to 
 make of it "the homestead of the free"; the spirit that had 
 called them by the millions to wage a terrible civil war for a 
 great ideal. 
 
 This spirit met the god of things as they are, and for a 
 generation grappled in a mighty struggle. 
 
 And men said: The old America is dead; America is 
 money mad ; America is a charnel house of greed. Millions 
 and millions of men from all over the earth came to her 
 shores. And the world said : They have brought only their 
 greed with them. And still the struggle went on. The con- 
 tinent was taken ; man abolished the wilderness. A new civi- 
 lisation rose. And because it was strong, the world said it 
 
 613 
 
614 IN THE HEART OF A FOOL 
 
 was not of the old America, but of a new, soft, wicked order, 
 which, wist not that God had departed from it. 
 
 Then the new epoch dawned ; clear and strong came the call 
 to Americans to go forth and fight in the Great War — not for 
 themselves, not for their own glory, nor their own safety, but 
 for the soul of the world. And the old spirit of America rose 
 and responded. The long inward struggle, seen only by the 
 wise, only by those who knew how God's truth conquers in 
 this earth, working beneath the surface, deep in the heart of 
 things, the long inward struggle of the spirit of America for 
 its own was won. 
 
 So it came to pass that the richness of the continent was 
 poured out for an ideal, that the genius of those who had 
 seemed to be serving only Mammon was devoted passionately 
 to a principle, and that the blood of those who came in seem- 
 ing greed to America was shed gloriously in the high emprise 
 which called America to this new world crusade. Moses in 
 the burning bush speaking with God, Saul on the road to 
 Damascus, never came closer to the force outside ourselves 
 which makes for righteousness, — the force that has guided 
 humanity upward through the ages, — than America has come 
 in this hour of her high resolve. And yet for fifty years she 
 has come into this holy ground steadily, and unswervingly; 
 indeed, for a hundred years, for three hundred years from 
 Plymouth Rock to the red fields of France, America has come 
 a long and perilous way — yet always sure, and never falter- 
 ing. 
 
 To have lived in the generation now passing, to have seen 
 the glory of the coming of the Lord in the hearts of the 
 people, to have watched the steady triumph in our American 
 life of the spirit of justice, of fellowship over the spirit of 
 greed, to have seen the Holy Ghost rise in the life of a whole 
 nation, was a blessed privilege. And if this tale has reflected 
 from the shallow paper hearts of those phantoms flitting 
 through its pages some glimpse of their joy in their pilgrim- 
 age, the story has played its part. If the fable of Grant 
 Adams's triumphant failure does not dramatize in some way 
 the victory of the American spirit — the Puritan conscience — 
 in our generation, then, alas, this parable has fallen short of 
 its aim. But most of all, if the story has not shown how 
 
NOT EXACTLY A CHAPTER 615 
 
 sad a thing it is to sit in the seat of the scornful, and to deny 
 the reality of God 's purpose in this world, even though it is 
 denied in pomp and power and pride, then indeed this nar- 
 rative has failed. For in all this world one finds no other 
 place so dreary and so desolate as it is in the heart of a fool. 
 
 THE END 
 
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