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 WB Library 
 
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 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022231876 
 
Our Square 
 
Cyrus wondered what this half fairy ^ half flower, was doing in 
 so grubby an environment (j>age 7) 
 
OUR SQUARE AND 
 THE PEOPLE IN IT 
 
 Br 
 
 Samuel Hopkins Adams 
 
COPYRIGHT, I916, BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, I916 AND I917, BY F. ir. COLLIER & SON, INC. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RBSERVSD 
 
 Published October jqij 
 
 
Contents 
 
 Our Square 
 
 The Chair that Whispered : An Idyl of Our 
 
 Square 84 
 
 MacLachan of Our Square 122 
 
 The Great Peacemaker: A Story of Neu- 
 trality in Our Square 148 
 
 Orpheus, who Made Music in Our Square 172 
 
 " Tazmun " : A Tale of White Magic in 
 
 Our Square 111 
 
 The Meanest Man in Our Square 266 
 
 Paula of the Housetop 314 
 
 The Little Red Doctor of Our Square 3 74 
 
Illustrations 
 
 Cyrus wondered what this half fairy, half 
 flower, was doing in so grubby an envi- 
 ronment Frontispiece 
 
 Whirled her up out of a pit of blackness, and 
 supported her through a reeling world 40 
 
 " Read from left to right," she said curtly 56 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie's hands slipped up to his 
 shoulder 82 
 
 "Te knew I was killing myself for lo — ,for 
 shame of ye" 144 
 
 " We have successfully terminated the nego- 
 tiations. Madam Tallafferr" 260 
 
 "I puh-hut it in my huh-huh-hair, and it 
 stu-huh-huck " 330 
 
 Jogging appreciatively along behind Schutz's 
 mouse-hued mare 384 
 
 The illustrations are reproduced through the courtesy of 
 the publishers of E'verybody's Magamine and Collier'' s. 
 
Our Square 
 
 W'ALLED in by slums stands Our Square, 
 a valiant green space, far on the flank of 
 the Great City. Ours is an inglorious little world. 
 Sociologists have not yet remarked and classified us. 
 The Washington Square romancers who hold sen- 
 timental revel at the foot of Fifth Avenue reck 
 nothing of their sister park, many blocks to the 
 east. But we are patient of our obscurity. Close- 
 knit, keeping our own counsel, jealous of our own 
 concerns, and not without our own pride of place, 
 we live our quiet lives, a community sufficient 
 unto itself. So far as may be for mortals under the 
 sway of death and love and fate, we maintain our- 
 selves with little change amid the kaleidoscopic 
 shiftings of the surrounding metropolis. Few come 
 into Our Square except of necessity. Few go out 
 but under the same stern impulsion. Some of us 
 are held by tradition, some by poverty, some by 
 affection, and some through loyalty to what once 
 was and is no more. Here we live, and here hope 
 to die, " the kind hearts, the true hearts that loved 
 the place of old." And of all, there is no truer heart 
 or kinder than that of the gentle, shrewd, and 
 neighborly old dominie through whose lips I tell 
 these tales, the real historian of the folk whom I, 
 too, have known and loved in Our Square. 
 
Our Square 
 I 
 
 OUR Square lies broad and green and 
 busy, in the forgotten depths of 
 the great city. By day it is bright with the 
 laughter of children and shrill with the 
 bickering of neighbors. By night the voice 
 of the spellbinder is strident on its corners, 
 but from the remoter benches float mur- 
 murs where the young couples sit, and 
 sighs where the old folk relax their wear- 
 iness. New York knows little of Our 
 Square, submerged as we are in a circle 
 of slums. Yet for us, as for more Elysian 
 fields, the crocus springs in the happy 
 grass, the flash and song of the birds stir 
 our trees, and Romance fans us with the 
 wind of its imperishable wing. 
 
 The first robin was singing in our one 
 lone lilac when the Bonnie Lassie came out 
 
Our Square 
 
 of the Somewhere Else into Our Square 
 and possessed herself of the ground floor 
 of our smallest house, the nestly little 
 dwelling with the quaint old door and the 
 broad, friendly vestibule, next but one to the 
 Greek church. Before she had been there 
 a month she had established eminent do- 
 main over all of us. Even MacLachan, the 
 dour tailor on the corner, used to burst 
 into song when she passed. It was he who 
 dubbed her the Bonnie Lassie, and as it 
 was the first decent word he 'd spoken of 
 living being within the memory of Our 
 Square, the name stuck. Apart from that, 
 it was eminently appropriate. She was a 
 small girl who might have been perhaps 
 twenty-three or twenty-four if she had n't 
 (more probably) been twenty, and looked 
 a good deal like a thoughtful kitten when 
 she was n't twinkling at or with some- 
 body. When she twinkled — and she did 
 it with eyes, voice, heart, and soul all at 
 once — the cart-peddlers stopped business 
 
 4 
 
Our Square 
 
 to look and listen. You can't go further 
 than that, not in Our Square at least. 
 
 How long Cyrus the Gaunt had been 
 there before she discovered him is a mat- 
 ter of conjecture. He slipped in from the 
 Outer Darkness quite unobtrusively and 
 sat about looking thoughtful and lonely. 
 He was exaggeratedly long and loose and 
 mussed-up and melancholy-looking, and 
 first attracted local attention on a bench 
 which several other people wanted more 
 than he did. So he got up and gave it to 
 them. Later, when the huskiest of them 
 met him and explained, by way of put- 
 ting him in his proper place, what would 
 have happened to him if he hadn't been 
 so obliging, Cyrus absent-mindedly said, 
 "Oh, yes," threw the belligerent one into 
 our fountain, held him under water quite as 
 long as was safe, dragged him out, hauled 
 him over to Schwartz's, and bought him 
 a drink. Thereafter Cyrus was still con- 
 sidered an outlander, but nobody actively 
 
Our Square 
 
 objected to his sitting around Our Square, 
 looking as melancholy and queer as he 
 chose. Nobody, that is, until the Bonnie 
 Lassie took him in hand. 
 
 Nothing could have been more correct 
 than their first meeting, sanctioned as it 
 was by the majesty of the law. Terry the 
 Cop, who presides over the destinies of 
 Our Square, led the Bonnie Lassie to 
 Cyrus's bench and said : " Miss, this is the 
 young feller you asked me about. Make 
 you two acquainted." 
 
 Thereupon the young man got up and 
 said, " How-d'ye-do ? " wonderingly, and 
 the young woman nodded and said, " How- 
 d'ye-do?" non-committally, and the young 
 policeman strolled away, serene in the con- 
 sciousness of a social duty well performed. 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie regarded her new 
 acquaintance with soft, studious eyes. 
 There was something discomfortingly de- 
 humanizing in that intent appraisal. He 
 wriggled. 
 
 6 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Yes, I think you'll do," she rumi- 
 nated slowly. 
 
 "Thanks," murmured Cyrus, wonder- 
 ing for what. 
 
 " Suppose we sit down and talk it over," 
 said she. 
 
 Studying her unobtrusively from his 
 characteristically drooping position, Cyrus 
 wondered what this half-fairy, half-flower, 
 with the decisive manner of a mistress of 
 destiny, was doing in so grubby an environ- 
 ment. 
 
 On her part, she reflected that she 
 had seldom encountered so homely a face, 
 and speculated as to whether that was its 
 sole claim to interest. Then he lifted his 
 head; his eyes met hers, and she modified 
 her estimate, substituting for "homely," 
 first "queer," then "quaint," and finally 
 "unusual." Also there was something 
 impersonally but hauntingly reminiscent 
 about him ; something baffling and discon- 
 certing, too. The face was n't right. 
 
 1 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Do you mind answering some ques- 
 tions?" she asked. 
 
 " Depends," he replied guardedly. 
 
 "Well, I '11 try. Do you live here?" 
 
 " Just around the corner." 
 
 "What do you do?" 
 
 "Nothing much." 
 
 "How long have you been doing it ?" 
 
 "Too long." 
 
 "Why don't you stop?" 
 
 For the second time Cyrus the Gaunt 
 lifted his long, thin face and looked her 
 in the eye. "Beautiful Incognita," he 
 drawled with mild impertinence, " did you 
 write the Shorter Catechism or are you 
 merely plagiarizing?" 
 
 " Oh ! " she said. Surprise and the slight- 
 est touch of dismay were in the monosyl- 
 lable. "I'm afraid I 've made a mistake. I 
 thought — the policeman said you were a 
 do wn-and-outer." 
 
 "I'm the First Honorary Vice-President 
 of the Life Branch of the Organization." 
 
 8 
 
Our Square 
 
 He slumped back into his former atti- 
 tude. Again she studied him. "No, I don't 
 understand," she said slowly. 
 
 But the dehumanizing tone had gone 
 from the soft voice. Cyrus began to rescue 
 his personality from her impersonal ignor- 
 ing of it. He also felt suddenly a livelier 
 interest in life. Then, unexpectedly, she 
 turned his flank. 
 
 " You lurk and stare at my house in the 
 dark," she accused. 
 
 "Which house?" he asked, startled. 
 
 "You know quite well. You should n't 
 stare at strange houses. It embarrasses 
 them." 
 
 " Is that the miniature mansion with the 
 little bronzes of dancing street-children in 
 the windows?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I stare? There's a 
 secret in that house ! " 
 
 "A secret? What secret?" 
 
 " The secret of happiness. Those danc- 
 
 9 
 
Our Square 
 
 ing kiddies have got it. I want it. I want 
 to know what makes 'em so happy." 
 
 "I do," said the girl promptly. 
 
 "Yes. I shouldn't be surprised," he as- 
 sented, lifting his head to contemplate her 
 with his direct and grave regard. " Do you 
 live there with them?" 
 
 "They're mine. I model them. I'm 
 a sculptor." 
 
 " Good Lord ! You ! But you 're a very 
 good one, are n't you ? — if you did those." 
 
 " I've been, a very bad one. Now I 'm 
 trying to be a very good one." 
 
 A gleam of comprehension lit his eye. 
 " Oh, then it 's as a subject that you thought 
 I 'd do. You wanted to sculp me." 
 
 "Yes, i do. For my collection. You see, 
 I 've adopted this Square." 
 
 "And now you're sculping it. I see." 
 He raised himself to peer across at the 
 windows where the blithe figures danced, 
 tiny monads of the gutter, Bacchae of the 
 asphalt. " But I don't see why on earth 
 
 lO 
 
Our Square 
 
 you want me. Do you think you could 
 make me happy?" 
 
 "I shouldn't try." 
 
 " Hopeless job, you think ? As a sculptor 
 you ought to be a better judge of charac- 
 ter. You ought to pierce through the ex- 
 ternals and perceive with your artistic eye 
 that beneath this austere mask I 'm as 
 merry a little cricket as ever had his chirp 
 smothered by the slings and arrows of out- 
 rageous Fortune." 
 
 It was then that she twinkled at him, 
 and the twinkle grew into a laugh, such 
 golden laughter as brightened life to the 
 limits of its farthest echo. Cyrus had the 
 feeling that the gray April sky had mo- 
 mentarily opened up and sent down a sun- 
 ray to illumine the proceedings. 
 
 "How wonderfully you mix them!" 
 she cried. " Shall I sculp you in cap and 
 bells?" 
 
 "Why should I letyou sculp me at all ?" 
 
 She stopped laughing abruptly and 
 II 
 
Our Square 
 
 looked up at him with wondering eyes and 
 parted lips, drooping just the tiniest bit at 
 the corners. , " Everybody does," she said. 
 
 At once he understood why everybody 
 did that or anything else she wished. " All 
 right," he yielded. "What am I to sit 
 for?" 
 
 "Fifty cents an hour." 
 
 Then the Bonnie Lassie got her second 
 surprise from him. His face changed 
 abruptly. An almost animal eagerness 
 shone in his eyes. " Fif-fif-fif — " he be- 
 gan, then recovered himself. " Pardon my 
 performing like a deranged steam-whistle, 
 but do I understand that you offer to pay 
 me for sitting about doing nothing while 
 you work ? Did all those cheerful dancers 
 in the window collect pay at that rate?" 
 
 "Some of them did. Others are my 
 friends." 
 
 "Ah, you draw social distinctions, I 
 perceive." 
 
 "I think we needn't fence," said the 
 
 12 
 
Our Square 
 
 girl spiritedly. " When 1 came to you I 
 thought you were of Our Square. If you 
 will tell me just what variety of masquer- 
 ader you are, we shall get on faster." 
 
 " Do you think I don't belong quite as 
 much to Our Square as you do ? " 
 
 " Oh, I ! This is my workshop. This is 
 my life. But you — I should have sus- 
 pected you from the first word you spoke.. 
 What are you? Don't tell me that you 
 are here Settlementing or Sociologizing 
 or Improving the Condition of Somebody 
 Else ! Because I really do need your face," 
 she concluded with convincing earnestness. 
 
 " It 's yours at fifty cents an hour." 
 
 " And you 're not an Improver ? " 
 
 " Absolutely not. Do I look as if I 'd 
 improved myself?" 
 
 " You would n't do at all for my pres- 
 ent purpose, improved," she observed. 
 " Please don't forget that. When can you 
 come to me?" 
 
 " Any time." 
 
 13 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Haven't you anything else to do?" 
 
 " Nothing but look out for odd jobs. 
 That 's why I 'm so grateful for regular 
 employment." 
 
 " But this is n't regular employment." 
 His face fell. " It 's most irregular, and 
 there 's very little of it." 
 
 " Oh, well, it 's fifty cents an hour. 
 And that's more than I 've ever earned 
 in my life. Miss Sculptor." 
 
 " I am Miss Willard.", 
 
 " Then, Miss Willard, you 're employ- 
 ing Cyrus Murphy, Do you think I '11 
 sculp up like a Murphy?" 
 
 " I don't think you '11 sculp up like a 
 Murphy at all, and I 've too many friends 
 who are Murphys to believe that you are 
 one. In fact, I could do you much better 
 if I knew what you are." 
 
 " That 's quite simple. I 'm a suicide. 
 I walked right spang over the edge of life 
 and disappeared. Splash ! Bubble-bubble ! 
 There goes nothing. The only difference 
 
Our Square 
 
 between me and a real suicide is that I 
 have to eat. At times it's difficult." 
 
 " Haven't you any trade? Can't you do 
 anything? " With a sweep of her little hand 
 she indicated the bustling activities with 
 which the outer streets whirred. " Is n't 
 there any place for you in all this?" 
 
 He contemplated the world's work as 
 exemplified around Our Square. His gaze 
 came to rest upon a steam-roller, ponder- 
 ously clanking over a railed-ofF portion of 
 the street. " I suppose I could run that." 
 
 "Could you? That's a man's job at 
 least. Have you ever run one ? " 
 
 " No, but I know I could. Any kind of 
 machinery just eats out of my hand." 
 
 " Well, that 's something. It 's better 
 than being a model. Be at my house to- 
 morrow at nine please." 
 
 For an hour thereafter Cyrus the Gaunt 
 sat on the bench musing upon a small, 
 flower-like, almost absurdly efficient young 
 person who had contracted, as he viewed 
 
 IS 
 
Our Square 
 
 it, to inject light and color into life at fifty 
 cents an hour, and who had plainly inti- 
 mated that, in her view, he was not a man. 
 It was that precise opinion expressed by 
 another and a very unlike person which 
 was responsible for his being where he 
 was. At that time it had made him furi- 
 ous. Now it made him thoughtful. 
 
 Presently he went through his pockets, 
 reckoned his assets, rose up from the 
 bench, and made a trip to MacLachan's 
 "Home of Fashion," where he left his 
 clothes to be pressed overnight. In the 
 morning he reappeared again, shaved to 
 the closest limit of human endurance, and 
 thus addressed the Scot : — 
 
 ** Have you got my clothes pressed ? " 
 
 " Aye," said the tailor. 
 
 " Well, unpress 'em again." 
 
 "Eh?" said the tailor. 
 
 " Unpress 'em. Sit on 'em. Roll 'em on 
 the floor. Muss 'em up. Put all the 
 wrinkles back, just as they were." 
 i6 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Mon, ye shud leave the whiskey be," 
 advised the tailor. 
 
 Thereupon Cyrus caught up his neatly 
 creased suit and proceeded to play football 
 with it, after which he put it on and viewed 
 himself with satisfaction. 
 
 " And I almost forgot that she would n't 
 have any use for me, improved," he mut- 
 tered as he wended his way to the little, 
 old friendly house. " Lord, I might have 
 lost my job ! " 
 
 Any expectation of social diversion at 
 fifty cents an hour which Cyrus the Gaunt 
 may have cherished was promptly quashed 
 on his arrival. It was a very business- 
 like little sculptor who took him in 
 hand. 
 
 " Sit here, please — the right knee far- 
 ther forward — let the chin drop a little 
 — " and all that sort of thing. 
 
 He might not even watch the soft, strong 
 little hands as they patted and kneaded, 
 nor the vivid face as plastic as the material 
 
 17 
 
Our Square 
 
 from which the hands worked their won- 
 ders, for when he attempted it : — 
 
 " I don't wish you to look at me. I 
 wish you to look at nothing, as you do 
 when you sit on the bench. Make your 
 eyes tired again." 
 
 The difficulty was that his eyes, tired so 
 long with that weariness which lies at the 
 very roots of being, didn't feel tired at 
 all in the little studio. For one thing, there 
 was an absurd, fluffed-up whirlwind of a 
 kitten who performed miracles of obstacle- 
 racing all over the place. Then, in the most 
 unexpected crannies and corners lurked tiny 
 bronzes, instinct with life: a wistful dog 
 submitting an injured paw to a boy hardly 
 as large as himself; " Androcles " this one 
 was labeled. Then there was " Mystery," 
 a young, ill-clad girl, looking down at a 
 dead butterfly; "Remnants," a withered 
 and bent old woman, staggering under her 
 load of builders' refuse; "The Knight," 
 a small boy astride across the body of 
 18 
 
Our Square 
 
 his drunken father, brandishing a cudgel 
 against a circle of unseen tormentors ; and 
 many others, all vivid with that feeling 
 for the human struggle which alone can 
 make metal live, 
 
 " Recess ! " cried the worker presently. 
 " You 're doing quite well ! " 
 
 Thus encouraged, Cyrus ventured a 
 question : — 
 
 " Where are the dancers ? " 
 
 " They 're all in the window." 
 
 " But this in here is quite as big work, 
 is n't it ? Why is n't some of it on dis- 
 play?" 
 
 " It's for outsiders. It is n't for my peo- 
 ple." She put a world of protectiveness in 
 the two final words. 
 
 " I can't see why not." 
 
 " Because the people of Our Square 
 don't need to be told of the tragedy of 
 life. Joy and play and laughter is what 
 they need. So I give it to them." 
 
 A light came into his tired, old-young 
 
 19 
 
Our Square 
 
 eyes. "Do you know, I begin to think 
 you 're a very wonderful person." 
 
 " Time to work again," said she. 
 
 Whereby, being an understanding young 
 man, he perceived that there would be no 
 safe divergence from the strict relations of 
 employer and employed, for the present 
 at least. Haifa dozen times he sat for her, 
 sometimes collecting a dollar, sometimes 
 only fifty cents, the money being inva- 
 riably handed over with a demure and 
 determined air of business procedure, and 
 duly entered in a tiny book, which was a 
 never-failing source of suppressed amuse- 
 ment to him. Then one day the basis 
 abruptly changed, for a reason he did not 
 learn about until long after. 
 
 It had to do with a process which I must 
 regretfully term eavesdropping, on the part 
 of the little sculptor. The subjects were 
 two-on-a-bench, in Our Square. One was 
 Cyrus the Gaunt ; the other an inconsid- 
 erable and hopeless lounger, grim and wan. 
 20 
 
Our Square 
 
 Silver passed between them, and something 
 else, less tangible, something which lighted 
 a sudden flame of hope in the hopeless face. 
 
 " A real job ? " the lurking sculptor over- 
 heard him say, hoarsely. 
 
 Cyrus nodded. "Nine o'clock to-mor- 
 row morning, here," said he. 
 
 Slipping quietly away, the girl almost 
 ran into the grim and wan lounger, no 
 longer so grim and several degrees less wan, 
 as he rounded the opposite curve of the cir- 
 cle and passed out on the street in front of 
 her. The next instant Cyrus shot by her at 
 a long-legged gallop and caught the man 
 by the shoulder. 
 
 "Here! Wait! Not nine o'clock," he 
 cried breathlessly. " I forgot. I 've got an 
 engagement, a — very important business 
 engagement." 
 
 The other's jaw dropped. "What the 
 — " he began, when there appeared before 
 them both a trim and twinkling vision of 
 femininity. 
 
 21 
 
Our Square 
 
 "I'm glad I saw you," said the vision 
 to Cyrus, " because I shan't want you until 
 ten-thirty to-morrow." Then she passed 
 on, so deep in thought that she hardly re- 
 sponded to the greetings which accosted 
 her on all sides. " I don't understand it at 
 all" she murmured. 
 
 Promptly upon the morrow's hour Cyrus 
 appeared at the studio, rumpled and mussed 
 as usual. "How do you do?" the artist 
 greeted him. " Before we go to work I 
 want you to meet Fluff." 
 
 Cyrus glancisd at the kitten, who was 
 chasing a phantom mouse up the sway- 
 ing curtain. " I already know Fluff," said 
 he. 
 
 "Oh, no, you don't," she corrected 
 gently. " That is. Fluff does n't know you. 
 She does n't know that you are alive. Fluff 
 is a person of fine distinctions. Come 
 here. Mischief." The kitten gave over the 
 chase, after one last lightning swipe, and 
 trotted across the room. " Fluff," said her 
 
 22 
 
Our Square 
 
 mistress, " this is our friend, Cyrus." The 
 kitten purred and nosed Cyrus's foot. 
 
 "Thank you," said the young man 
 gratefully. "I also am not wholly insen- 
 sible to fine distinctions. Fluff, do you 
 know how those ancient barbarian parties 
 looked and acted when they were called 
 ' friend of the state of Rome * ? Well, re- 
 ,gard me." 
 
 His employer twinkled at him with her 
 eyes. "I 've sold you," she remarked. 
 
 "At a good price?" 
 
 "Yes. You were really very good." 
 
 " It would have been kind to let me see 
 myself before you bartered me away into 
 eternal captivity." 
 
 « Kinder not." 
 
 " You mean I should n't have liked your 
 idea of me?" 
 
 " Did n't I say that it was good F " she 
 returned with composed pride. " My idea 
 of you wouldn't be good, as modeling. 
 This is the real you, the man underneath." 
 
 23 
 
Our Square 
 
 "That's worse. You think I ought n't 
 to like myself as I am." 
 
 She looked up at him with intimate and 
 sympathetic friendliness. " Well, do you ? " 
 was all she said. 
 
 "Whether I do or not, it's pretty evi- 
 dent what you think of me." 
 
 " It ought to be. I *ve introduced you 
 to Fluff. One can't be too careful as to 
 whom one introduces to one's young and 
 guileless daughter." 
 
 "Thank you." For the first time in 
 their acquaintance he smiled. The smile 
 changed his face luminously. 
 
 She tossed the tiny iron with which she 
 was working into the far corner of the studio. 
 " That settles it," she said. "I'm through." 
 
 "For the day?" 
 
 "Wrong! All wrong I " she cried vehe- 
 mently, disregarding his question. "Why 
 did you have to go and smile that way ? 
 I have n't done you at all. Do you know 
 what I 've been sculping you as ? " 
 24 
 
Our Square 
 
 "You wouldn't tell me, you know. 
 Nothing very flattering, I judged." 
 
 "As a disenchanted and uncontrolled 
 drifter." 
 
 "And now you think perhaps I'm 
 not?" 
 
 " I don't know what you are, but I 
 think I might as well be clicking the shut- 
 ter of a camera, for all I 've done with 
 you. The point is, that I 've come to the 
 end of you for the present." 
 
 "You don't want me any more?" he 
 cried, aghast. 
 
 " If I did, you would n't have time. 
 I 've got you a real man's job." 
 
 " What kind of slavery have you sold 
 me into this time ? " 
 
 " The steam-roller. I 've used my influ- 
 ence — you don't know what a pull I've 
 got around here — and I can name my man 
 for the late night-shift. Will you take it ? " 
 
 His face was elate. "Will I take it! 
 Will a duck eat pie ? " 
 
 25 
 
Our Square 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know. Will it?" 
 
 "It will if it can't get anything else to 
 eat. How long is this job good for?" 
 
 " All summer and more. How long are 
 you?" 
 
 " Till released." 
 
 "You have made a promise. I '11 enter 
 it in my ledger." Which she did, writing 
 it down in her absurd little booklet with 
 a delicious solemnity of importance. 
 
 " But can't I come and sit for you after- 
 noons?" he pleaded. 
 
 " How many wages do you want to 
 earn ? No ; not at present. But Miss FlufF 
 and I are at home to honest working friends 
 on Friday evenings. Come here. Miss FlufF, 
 and tell the new engineer that we'll be 
 glad to have him come and tell us about the 
 job when he 's learned it." But the kitten 
 paid no heed, being at that moment en- 
 gaged in treacherously and scientifically 
 stalking an imaginary butterfly along the 
 window-sill. 
 
 26 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Before I 'm banished," said Cyrus, 
 "may I ask a question?" 
 
 "You might try it." 
 
 " Do you mind telling me your given 
 name? Not for use," he added, as she looked 
 up at him with her grave, speculative gaze, 
 " but just as a guaranty of good faith. I 
 set great store by other people's names, 
 having been cursed since birth with my 
 own Persian abomination." 
 
 " I don't think Cyrus is bad at all," she 
 said. " Mine is Carol." 
 
 " Oh," said he blankly. 
 
 "Don't you like it?" 
 
 " It 's a very nice name, for some peo- 
 ple," he said guardedly. 
 
 " You don't like it. Why?" 
 
 There was no evading the directness of 
 that demand. " I never knew but one girl 
 named Carol," he said. " She squinted." 
 
 "What of it? I don't squint. Do I? 
 Dol} DO I?" 
 
 With each repetition of her defiance she 
 27 
 
Our Square 
 
 took one step nearer him, until at the last 
 she was fairly standing on tiptoe under his 
 nose. Cyrus the Gaunt looked down into 
 those radiant eyes that grew wider and 
 deeper and deeper and wider, until his 
 heart, which had been slipping perilously 
 of late, fell into them and was hopelessly 
 lost. " Do I ? " she demanded once more, 
 
 Cyrus responded with a loud yell. In- 
 appropriate as the outcry was, it saved a 
 situation becoming potentially dangerous, 
 for not far below those luminous eyes was 
 a dimple that flickered at the corner of a 
 challenging mouth ; unconsciously chal- 
 lenging, doubtless, yet — And then Fluff, 
 opportunely descrying her imaginary but- 
 terfly on the side of Cyrus's trouser-leg, 
 made a flying leap and drove ten keen claws 
 through the fabric into the skin beneath. 
 Her mistress dislodged the too ardent en- 
 tomologist, and apologized demurely. 
 
 "You see," said she, " you 've become an 
 intimate of the household. When you 're 
 
 28 
 
Our Square 
 
 too busy to come and see us. Fluff and 
 I will peek out and admire you as you go 
 plunging past on your irresistible course." 
 
 "It's going to be a lonely job," said 
 Cyrus the Gaunt wistfully, " compared 
 to this one." 
 
 " Nonsense! " she retorted briskly as she 
 handed him a dollar bill. " Here 's your 
 pay. You '11 be too busy to be lonely. 
 Good luck, Mr. Engineer." 
 
 II 
 
 Thus Cyrus the Gaunt became a toiler 
 in, and by slow degrees a citizen of. Our 
 Square. We are a doubtful people where 
 strangers are concerned. The ritual of 
 initiation for Cyrus was, at first, chance 
 words and offhand nods, then an occasional 
 bidding to sit in at Schwartz's, and finally 
 consultations and confidences on matters 
 of import, political, social, or private. 
 Thus was Cyrus the Gaunt adopted as one 
 
 29 
 
Our Square 
 
 of us. Quite from the outset of his job he 
 became a notable pictorial asset of the 
 place, standing out, lank and ^black, in 
 the intermittent gleam of his own engine, 
 as he rolled on his appointed course amidst 
 firmamental thunderings. Acting as chauf- 
 feur to ten tons of ill-balanced metal, he 
 promptly discovered, is an occupation to 
 which the tyro must pay explicit heed if 
 he would keep within the bounds of his 
 precinct. About the time when he was 
 beginning to feel at ease with his charger, 
 he came to a stop, one misty night, di- 
 rectly opposite the window of a taxicab,and 
 met a pair of eyes which straightway be- 
 came fixed in a paralysis of amazed doubt. 
 
 " No ; it is n't. It can't be," said the 
 owner of the eyes presently. 
 
 "Yes, it is," contradicted Cyrus. 
 
 « Well, I 'm jiggered ! " 
 
 " That 's all that the pious young Pres- 
 byterian boss of a fashionable church has 
 a right to be." 
 
 30 
 
Our Square 
 
 "What2cre you doing up there?" 
 
 " Piloting a submarine under Gover- 
 nor's Island." 
 
 " So I see." The taxi-door opened, and 
 some six feet of well-tailored manhood 
 mounted nimbly to Cyrus's side. " What 's 
 the fare? And why? Is it a bet?" 
 
 Cyrus the Gaunt grinned amiably in 
 the face of the Reverend Morris Cart- 
 wright, whose appearance in that quarter 
 did not greatly surprise him. " How did 
 you know? It's leaked out at the club, 
 has it?" 
 
 " Not that I know of. I guessed it." 
 
 " Thought nothing short of a bet would 
 account for such a reversal of form, eh? 
 Keep it to yourself, and I '11 tell you the 
 rest." 
 
 "You've hired an ear," observed the 
 young cleric. 
 
 " Maybe you heard that I had a nervous 
 breakdown last spring. Kind of a mixture 
 of things." 
 
 31 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Yes ; I know the mixture. Three of 
 gin to one of Italian." 
 
 " You know too much for a minister," 
 growled the other. " Besides, it was only 
 part that. I just sort of got sick of doing 
 nothing and being nothing, and the sick- 
 ness struck in, I expect. Well, one morn- 
 ing, after a night of bridge, I came out 
 into the breakfast-room nine hundred plus 
 to the good, and about ready to invest the 
 whole in any kind of painless dope that 
 would save me from being bored with this 
 life any more. There sat Doc Gerritt, pink 
 and smooth like a cherry-stone clam. I 
 stuck out my hand, and it was shaking. I 
 dare say my voice was shaking, too, for 
 Gerry looked up pretty sharp, when I said, 
 
 * Doc, can you do anything for me ? * 
 ' No,' says he. ' Is it as bad as that ? ' I 
 asked. ' It ',s worse,* says he. ' I 'm a busy 
 man with no time to waste on sure losses. 
 Flat down, Cyrus, you are n't worth it.* 
 
 * This is all I 've got of me,' I said. • I *m 
 
 32 
 
Our Square 
 
 worth it to myself.' * Then do it for your- 
 self,' he snapped. * You 're the only one 
 that can.' 'Will you tell me how?' *I 
 will,' says he. ' But you won't do it. You 
 are n't man enough.' • Gerry,' I said, * you 
 may be a good doctor, but you 're a damn 
 liar.' 'Am I ?' says he. ' Prove it. Cut the 
 booze and go to work.' 'Work won't do 
 me any good,' I said. * I 've tried it, and 
 it bored me worse than the other thing. 
 When I 'm bored, I naturally reach for a 
 drink.' (There 's a great truth in that, you 
 know, Carty, if the temperance people 
 would only grab it: boredom and booze — 
 cause and effect.) 'That's a hot line of 
 advice. Doc,' I said. * Maybe you '11 think 
 better of it when you get my bill for fifty,' 
 says he. (I got it, too. I 've still got it.) 
 ' I don't mean Wall Street, Cyrus,' says he. 
 * I mean work. You 've never tried work. 
 You 've just played at it. I '11 bet you a 
 thousand,' he went on (he was playing me 
 up to this all the time, Carty), ' that you 'd 
 
Our Square 
 
 starve in six months if you tried to make 
 your living where nobody knows you.' 
 Well, Carty, you know how I am with a 
 bet. It comes just as natural to me to say 
 * You 're on,' as ' Here 's how,' or ' Have 
 another.' I said it, and here I am. I '11 
 bet Doc Gerritt's laughing yet," he con- 
 cluded with a wry face. 
 
 "They say he's the best diagnostician 
 going, in his own line." The young cler- 
 gyman studied Cyrus out of the corner of 
 his eye. " I would n't wonder if it were true. 
 Hovy do you like the prescription so far ?" 
 
 "Interesting," said Cyrus the Gaunt. 
 " I 've been hungry, and I 've been lonely, 
 and I 've been scared, and I 've even been 
 near-yellow, but I haven't been bored for 
 a minute. You never get bored, Carty, 
 when you have the probabilities of your 
 next meal to speculate on, pro and con. 
 Odd jobs have been my stay mostly, before 
 I landed this. And when there wasn't 
 anything in my own line, I kept up my 
 
 34 
 
Our Square 
 
 nerve by catching 'em on the way down 
 and shoving 'em into jobs on Jink Here- 
 ford's Canadian preserve." 
 
 "Good man!" approved the Reverend 
 Morris Cartwright. "What '11 you have ?" 
 he added. 
 
 " Frankfurters and a glass of milk, if it 's 
 an open order. But you'll have to fetch it 
 to me from Schwartz's. I can't leave this 
 here skittish little pet of mine." 
 
 Then and there some Sunday supple- 
 ment missed a "throbbing human-interest 
 story " in that no reporter was present to 
 witness one of New York's fashionable 
 young pastors emerging from an obscure 
 saloon bearing food and drink to the grimy 
 driver of an all-night thunder- wagon. 
 
 "And now," said Cyrus the Gaunt, 
 handing down the empty glass, "if it is n't 
 one of your disgraceful secrets, what are 
 you doing in this galley ? Heading off some 
 poor unfortunate who wants to go to the 
 devil peacefully, in his own way?" 
 
 35 
 
Our Square 
 
 "No, I leave that to the doctors," re- 
 torted the other mildly. 
 
 " Quite so," chuckled Cyrus. " Throw 
 some water in my face and drag me to my 
 corner, will you?" 
 
 "This is an errand of diplomacy," con- 
 tinued Cartwright. " I 'm an envoy. Do 
 you happen to know which house — " 
 His ranging vision fell upon the row of 
 figures joyously dancing in the window. 
 "Never mind," he said, "I 've found it." 
 He disappeared between the portals of the 
 old-fashioned, hospitable door. 
 
 Quite a considerable part of his week's 
 wages would Cyrus the Gaunt have for- 
 feited to interpret the visitor's expression 
 when he came out, a long hour later. He 
 looked at once harassed, regretful, and yet 
 triumphant, as one might look who had 
 achieved the object of a thankless errand. 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie came to the door 
 with him and stood gazing out across the 
 flaring lights and quivering shadows of 
 36 
 
Our Square 
 
 Our Square. It seemed to Cyrus that the 
 flower-face drooped a little. 
 
 And indeed the Bonnie Lassie was not 
 feeling very happy. When one's adopted 
 world goes well, the claims that draw 
 one back become irksome ties. The mes- 
 senger from the world which she had tem- 
 porarily foregone was far from welcome. 
 But at least she had claimed and won some 
 months of respite and freedom for her 
 work. 
 
 So engrossed did she become with that 
 work that she saw little or nothing of 
 Cyrus the Gaunt until Chance brought 
 them together in the climatic fashion so 
 dear to that Protean arbiter of destinies. 
 Returning one evening from a call upon a 
 small invalid friend in a tenement quite 
 remote from Our Square, the Bonnie Las- 
 sie essayed a cross-cut which skirted the 
 mouth of a blind alley. From within there 
 sounded a woman's scream of pain and fear. 
 
 37 
 
Our Square 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie hesitated. It was a 
 forbidding alley, and the scream was not 
 inspiriting. It was repeated. Not for noth- 
 ing is one undisputed empress of Our 
 Square. The Bonnie Lassie had the courage 
 of one who rules. She swooped into that 
 black byway like a swallow entering a 
 cave. Now the screams were muffled, with 
 a grisly, choked sound. They led her fly- 
 ing feet toward a narrow side passage. But 
 before she reached the turn, a towering 
 bulk sped by her, almost filling the thin 
 slit between the walls. 
 
 When she came within view, the matter 
 was apparently settled. A swarthy, vividly 
 clad woman cringed against one wall. 
 Against the other Cyrus had pinned a 
 swarthier man. The man, helpless, seemed 
 to be wheedling and promising. With a 
 final shake and a growl — the girl likened 
 it in her mind to that of a great, magnani- 
 mous dog — the gaunt one released the 
 Sicilian and stopped to pick up his hat, 
 38 
 
Our Square 
 
 which had fallen in the struggle. Then the 
 girl's heart leaped and clogged her throat 
 with terror, for, as Cyrus turned, the pre- 
 tense fell from the face of his opponent 
 and it changed to a mask of murder. His 
 hand darted to his breast and came forth 
 clutching the thin, terrible, homemade 
 stiletto of the rag-picking tribe, a file 
 ground to a rounded needle-point. The 
 girl strove to cry out. It seemed to her 
 only the whisper of a nightmare. But it 
 was enough. 
 
 Cyrus spun around and leaped back. 
 His arm went out stiff as a bar. At the end 
 of it was a formidable something which 
 flashed with an ugly glint of metal in the 
 Sicilian's face. Whether or not she heard a 
 report, the terror-stricken onlooker could 
 not have said. But the would-be murderer 
 screamed, tottered, withered. His weapon 
 tinkled upon the coping. Then an arm of 
 inordinate size and strength encircled the 
 Bonnie Lassie, whirled her up out of a 
 
 39 
 
Our Square 
 
 pit of blackness, and supported her through 
 a reeling world. At her ear a quietly ur- 
 gent voice kept insisting that she must walk 
 — walk — walk, and not let herself lapse. 
 A shock jolted her brain. It was the smell 
 of ammonia. The darkness dissipated, be- 
 came an almost intolerable light, and she 
 found herself seated opposite Cyrus the 
 Gaunt at a polished metal table in an ice- 
 cream parlor. 
 
 " Don't let go of my hand," she whis- 
 pered faintly. 
 
 His big, reassuring clasp tightened. 
 " We got away before the crowd came," 
 he said. "You have wonderful nerve. I 
 thought you were gone." 
 
 " Don't speak of it," she shuddered. " I 
 can't stand it." 
 
 Not until, after a slow, silent walk, they 
 were seated on a bench in Our Square 
 could she gather her resolution for the 
 dreadful question. " Did you kill him ? " 
 
 " Good Lord, no ! " 
 40 
 
Whirled her up out of a pit of blackness^ and supported her 
 through a reeling world 
 
Our Square 
 
 " But — but — you shot him ! " 
 " Yes, with this." He thrust his hand 
 in his pocket, and again, as she closed her 
 eyes against the sight, she caught faintly the 
 pungent stimulus that had revived her. 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Ammonia-pop. Model of my own." 
 Her eyes flew open, the color flooded 
 into her cheeks, but receded again. " He 
 might have killed you ! " she exclaimed. 
 " I thought when you turned away and I 
 saw the dagger that — Oh, how could you 
 take such a desperate chance?" 
 
 " Just fool-in-the-head, I guess. I sup- 
 posed he was through. Don't know that 
 breed, you see. But for you, he'd have 
 got me." 
 
 "But ioT you" she retorted, "I don't 
 
 know what might have happened to me. 
 
 How came you to be down in that slum?" 
 
 " Oh," said he carelessly, " I prowl." 
 
 " As far away as that ?" She looked at 
 
 him, sidelong. 
 
 41 
 
Our Square 
 
 "All around. I know that neighbor- 
 hood like a book." , 
 
 " What 's the name of that alley ? " 
 
 " Alley ? Er — what alley ? " 
 
 " Mr. Cyrus Murphy, how long have 
 you been following me about ? " 
 
 He turned an unpicturesque, dull red. 
 " Well, that 's no place for a girl alone," 
 he growled. 
 
 " You know, one evening I thought I 
 saw you, down near Avenue C, but I 
 could n't be sure. Was it?" 
 
 " It might have been," he grudged. 
 " Avenue C is a public thoroughfare." 
 
 " And you 've been guarding me," she 
 murmured. 
 
 Her eyes brooded on him, and the color 
 was rising in her face to match his. But, 
 while Cyrus blushed like a brick, the Bon- 
 nie Lassie blushed like the hue of flying 
 clouds after sunset. 
 
 " Why don't you take a policeman ? " 
 he blurted out. " If anything should hap- 
 42 
 
Our Square 
 
 pen to you — It is n't safe," he concluded 
 lamely. 
 
 " Not even when I 'm chaperoned with 
 an ammonia popgun ?" she smiled. "Why 
 do you carry that ? " 
 
 " For dogs. Dogs don't always like me. 
 It 's my clothes, I suppose." 
 
 " Any dog who would n't like and trust 
 you on sight," she pronounced with in- 
 tense conviction, " is an imbecile." 
 
 He smiled his acknowledgment. At 
 that her face altered. 
 
 "There you go, smiling once more," 
 she said fretfully. " You do it very seldom, 
 but — " 
 
 " I 'm always smiling, deep inside me, 
 at you," he said quietly. 
 
 " But when you smile outside, it makes 
 you so different. And I find I 've done you 
 all wrong." 
 
 " Are you still sculping me ? " he asked 
 in surprise. 
 
 "I — I have been, but I stopped." She 
 
 43 
 
Our Square 
 
 paused, trying again to think of him as 
 merely a model, and found, to her discom- 
 fiture, that it caused a queer, inexplicable 
 little pang deep inside her heart. Never- 
 theless, the artist rose overpoweringly 
 within her at his next question. 
 
 " Do you want me to sit for you again ? " 
 
 " Oh, would you ? Now ?" 
 
 He glanced at the church clock. " I 've 
 forty-seven minutes," he said. 
 
 Much may be accomplished in forty- 
 seven minutes. In the studio she sprang 
 to her work with a sort of contained fury. 
 And as the eager, intent eyes regarded him 
 with an ever-increasing impersonality, a 
 pain was born in his heart and grew and 
 burned, because to this woman who had 
 clung to him in the abandonment of mor- 
 tal weakness but an hour before, whose 
 pulses had leaped and fluttered for his peril, 
 he had become only a subject for exploi- 
 tation, something to further her talent, 
 wax to her deft hand. 
 
 44 
 
Our Square 
 
 Perhaps he had been that since the first. 
 Well, what right had he to expect any- 
 thing more? 
 
 Nothing of this reached the absorbed 
 worker. She was intent upon her model's 
 mouth and chin, whereon she had caught 
 the sense of significant changes. Had she 
 but once come forth from her absorption 
 to see and interpret the man's eyes, she 
 might have known. For only in the eyes 
 does a brave man's suffering show ; the rest 
 of his face he may control beyond betrayal. 
 Something happily restrained her from 
 offering payment as usual, when she finally 
 threw the cloth over the unfinished sketch. 
 
 " You spoke of dogs not liking your 
 clothes," she said lightly. " Do you always 
 sleep in them ?" 
 
 " Oh, no. They sleep on the floor at 
 the foot of my bed and keep watch. May 
 I have them pressed?" 
 
 " It would be an interesting change. 
 But why ask my permission?" 
 
 45 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Because vou told me once to come * as 
 
 yo 
 
 is.'" 
 
 "So I did," she laughed. "But that 
 was before you were an honest working- 
 man. Go and get pressed out." 
 
 " No more use for me as a model?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't say that." 
 
 " But I 'm to see you sometimes ? " he 
 persisted. 
 
 " How could it be otherwise, with you 
 doing patrol duty in front of my door?" 
 she twinkled. 
 
 With unnecessary emphasis she shut the 
 door upon the retiring form of Cyrus the 
 Gaunt. But his double, already inaliena- 
 ble, returned to the studio with her and 
 formed a severely accusative third party to 
 her dual self-communion. Said the woman 
 within her, woefully : " I must n't see him 
 again. I must n't ! I must n't! " Said the 
 sculptor within her, exultingly : " I 've got 
 him. I 've got what I wanted. It 's there 
 and I 've fixed it forever." Which was a 
 46 
 
Our Square 
 
 mistake of the sculptor's, however nearly 
 right or wrong the woman may have been. 
 
 Thenceforward, it appeared to Cyrus 
 the Gaunt, the Bonnie Lassie exhibited an 
 increasing tendency toward invisibility. 
 When he did see her, there were sure to 
 be other people about, and she seemed 
 subdued and distrait. Presently the suspi- 
 cion dawned upon Cyrus that she was 
 avoiding him. Being a simple, direct per- 
 son, he laid his theory before her. She 
 denied it with unnecessary heat ; but that 
 did n't go far toward rehabilitating the old 
 cheerful and friendly status. Cyrus the 
 Gaunt, despite a wage which assured three 
 excellent meals per day, began to grow 
 gaunter. Our Square commented upon it 
 with concern. 
 
 There came a time when, for ten con- 
 secutive days, Cyrus the Gaunt never set 
 eyes upon the Bonnie Lassie, nor did his 
 ear so much as catch a single lilt of her 
 laughter. At the end of that period, stroll- 
 
 47 
 
Our Square 
 
 ing moodily past his now flavorless job 
 full two hours early, he beheld mounting 
 the steps of the funny little mansion a 
 heavy male figure, clad from head to foot 
 in what had a grisly suggestion of profes- 
 sional black. The sight sent a chill . to 
 Cyrus's heart. The chill froze solid when 
 on a nearer approach to the house he heard 
 the sound of voices within, joined in a slow 
 chant. Half-blind and shaking, he made 
 his way to the rail and clung there. Slowly 
 the words took form and meaning, and 
 this was their solemn message : — 
 
 The Good Man, 
 
 When-he-falleth-in-Love 
 
 And-getteth-Snubbed, 
 
 Breaketh Forth In-to 
 
 Tears : 
 
 But-the-Ungawdly Careth Notta 
 
 Damn! 
 
 For Woman, 
 
 S he-is-but- Vanity, 
 
 Ay, Verily, and-False-Car/f. 
 
 And-the- Wooing Thereof Is 
 
 Bitterness. 
 
 For-he-Wasteth-his-Substance-Upon-Her, 
 
 48 
 
Our Square 
 
 Taking-her-Pic-nics and 
 
 Balls. 
 
 And she Danceth with some 
 
 Oth-ther Feller. 
 
 Oh-hh SLUSH ! ! ! 
 
 A window-shade floated sideways, re- 
 vealing to the peerer's gaze a gnome with 
 blue ears beating out the tempo with the 
 fire-tongs for a quartette, consisting of an 
 aeroplane, a Salvation Army captain, a 
 white rabbit, and an Apache, while a mot- 
 ley crowd circulated around them. In the 
 intensity of his relief, Cyrus the Gaunt 
 took a great resolve : " Invited or not in- 
 vited, I 'm going to that party." 
 
 MacLachan's "Home of Fashion" on 
 the corner was long since dark, but Cyrus's 
 pedal fantasia on the panels brought forth 
 the indignant proprietor. 
 
 "What have you got for me to go to a 
 fancy party in, Mac ? " demanded his dis- 
 turber. 
 
 "Turnverein or Pansy Social Circle?" 
 inquired the practical tailor. 
 
 49 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Neither. A dead swell party." 
 
 "Go as ye are-rr, ye fule!" said the 
 Scot, and slammed the door. 
 
 "Perfectly simple," said Cyrus the 
 Gaunt. « I '11 do it." 
 
 He hastened around to Schwartz's to 
 wash his hands and smut his face artisti- 
 cally. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Upon the reiterated testimony of the 
 Oldest Inhabitant, Our Square had never 
 before witnessed such scenes or heard such 
 sounds of revelry by night as the Bonnie 
 Lassie's surprise party, given for her by her 
 friends of the far-away world. None of us 
 was bidden in at first, as the Bonnie Las- 
 sie had not the inviting in her hands. But 
 to her — little loyalist that she is ! — a cele- 
 bration without her own neighbors was un- 
 thinkable ; so she sent her messengers forth 
 and gathered us in from our beds, from 
 Schwartz's, from Lavansky's Pinochle Par- 
 
 50 
 
Our Square 
 
 lors, from the late shift of the " Socialist 
 Weekly Battlecry," and even from the 
 Semi-Annual Soiree and Ball of the Sons 
 of Gentlemen of Goerck Street, far out on 
 our boundaries of influence; and though 
 we wore no fancier garb than our best, we 
 made a respectable showing, indeed. 
 
 Along with the early comers, and while 
 Cyrus the Gaunt was still putting the final 
 touches to his preparation, there appeared 
 at the hospitable door an unexpected guest, 
 a woman of sixty with a strong, bent fig- 
 ure, and a square face lighted by gleaming 
 eyes with fixed lines about them. The 
 black-hued Undertaker who had consti- 
 tuted himself master of ceremonies met 
 her at the door, and immediately hustled 
 her within. 
 
 "While I have not the privilege of 
 this lady's personal acquaintance," he an- 
 nounced, " I have the honor of presenting, 
 ladies and gentlemen, the eminent and pro- 
 fessional chaperon, Mrs. Sparkles." 
 
 SI 
 
Our Square 
 
 The newcomer paused, blinking and ir- 
 resolute. "But I did not know — " she 
 began, in a faintly foreignized accent. 
 
 From a far corner the Bonnie Lassie 
 spied her, and flew across the fl'oor, flushed, 
 radiant, and confused. "You! "she cried 
 — and there was something in her voice 
 that drew upon the pair curious looks from 
 the other guests. "Oh, Madame! Why 
 did n't you let me know ? " 
 
 The newcomer set her finger to her lips. 
 "I am incognita. What is it the somber 
 person called me? Mrs. Sparkles? Yes." 
 The Bonnie Lassie nodded her compre- 
 hension. " If I had known that you were 
 making fete this evening — I cannot see 
 your work now." 
 
 " Indeed, you can. I '11 shut just us two 
 into the studio. They won't miss me." She 
 gently pushed the new guest through a 
 side door, which she closed after them. 
 Confronted with the little sculptor's work, 
 the visitor moved about with a swift cer- 
 
 52 
 
Our Square 
 
 tainty of judgment, praising this bit with 
 a brief word, shrugging her shoulders over 
 that, indicating by a single touch of the 
 finger the salient defect of another, while 
 her hostess followed her with anxious eyes. 
 
 "Not bad," murmured the critic. "You 
 have learned much. What is under that 
 sheet?" 
 
 "Experiments," answered the girl re- 
 luctantly. 
 
 The woman swept the covering aside. 
 Beneath were huddled a number of studies, 
 some finished, others in the rough, un- 
 grouped. 
 
 "All the same subject, n'est-ce-pasf* 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The visitor examined them carefully. 
 Very interesting. Any more of this?" 
 Some notes in pencil." 
 
 " Let me see them." 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie drew out and sub- 
 mitted a sheaf of papers. 
 
 "You have done very badly with this," 
 
 53 
 
 « 
 « 
 
Our Square 
 
 was the. verdict, after concentrated study. 
 " Or else — you have w^orked hard and 
 honestly upon it ? " 
 
 " Harder than on anything I 've done." 
 
 " There are signs of that, too. What is 
 it you are aiming at ? What is the subject? 
 Inside, I mean ? " She tapped her forehead 
 and regarded with her luminous stare the 
 eager girl-face before her. 
 
 "Why, I hardly know. At first it was 
 one thing, then it changed. I had thought 
 of doing him as ' The Pioneer.' * Some- 
 thing lost beyond the ranges,' you know." 
 The woman nodded. " Then later, I wanted 
 to do * The Last American,' and I modeled 
 him for that." 
 
 "Good!" The older woman's endorse- 
 ment was emphatic. " How Lincoln-like 
 the formation of the face is, here." She 
 touched one of the unfinished bits. " That 's 
 the American of it. Or is it? Albrecht 
 Diirer did the same thing in his ideal 
 Knight four centuries ago. You know it? 
 
 54 
 
Our Square 
 
 It 's like a portrait of Lincoln. Did you 
 consciously mould that line in?" 
 
 "Ah ! " The girl contemplated her own 
 work with glowing eyes. "That's the 
 haunting resemblance I felt but could n't 
 catch when I first saw my model." 
 
 " It is n't in most of these." 
 
 "My fault. It must have been there, 
 underneath, all the time." 
 
 " Hm ! You consider those pretty faith- 
 ful studies?" 
 
 "As faithful as I could make them. But 
 I have n't been able to catch and fix the face. 
 It 's most provoking," she added fretfully, 
 "but I 'm constantly having to remodel." 
 
 Before she had finished, the elderly 
 woman's swift hands were busy with the 
 figures, manipulating them here and there, 
 until they were presently set out in a sin- 
 gle row with the sketches interspersed. 
 " Read from left to right," she said curtly. 
 " Is not that the order of time in which 
 the work was done ? " 
 
 55 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Pure magic ! " breathed the girl. " How 
 could you know ?" 
 
 " How could I help but know ? Child, 
 child ! Can't you see you have the biggest 
 subject ready to your hand that any artist 
 could pray for?" The girl looked her 
 question mutely. "The man is making 
 himself. How? God knows — the God 
 that helps all real work. Look! See how 
 the lines of grossness there" — she touched 
 the first figure in her marshaled line — 
 " have planed out here." The swift finger 
 found a later study. " How could you miss 
 it ! The upbuilding of character, resolve, 
 manhood, and with it all something gentler 
 and finer softening it. You have half-done 
 it, but only half, because you have not un- 
 derstood. Why have you not understood ? " 
 
 "Because I'm not a genius." 
 
 "Who knows? To have half-done it is 
 much. The master-genius. Life, has been 
 carving that face out before your eyes. You 
 need but follow." 
 
" Read from left to right" she said curtly 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Tell me what to do." 
 
 " Leave it alone for six months. Come 
 back and take the face as it will be 
 then." 
 
 " 'Then' will be too late," said the girl 
 in a low voice. 
 
 "What!" cried the critic, startled. 
 " Your model is n't dying, is he ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I — I had something else in 
 mind." 
 
 " Dismiss it. Have nothing else in mind 
 but to finish this." She paused. "I have 
 seen all I need to. Let us return to your 
 friends." 
 
 Hardly had the hostess seated her guest 
 in the most comfortable corner of the big 
 divan when there was a stir at the door, 
 and a rangy, big-boned figure, clad in the 
 unmistakable garb of honest labor, ap- 
 peared, blinking a little at the lights. In- 
 stantly the Undertaker, in his r5le of offi- 
 cial announcer, dashed forward to greet 
 him. "Gentlemen and ladies," he pro- 
 
 57 
 
Our Square 
 
 claimed, "introducing Mr. Casey Jones, 
 late of the Salt Lake Line." 
 
 "Sing it, you Son of Toil!" shouted 
 somebody, and Cyrus the Gaunt promptly 
 obliged, in a clear and robust baritone, lead- 
 ing the chorus which came in jubilantly. 
 
 The elderly "Mrs. Sparkles" was not 
 interested in the harmony; but she was 
 interested in the face of her hostess, which 
 had flushed a startled pink. She asked a 
 question under cover of the music. 
 
 "That is your model, is it not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What is he in real life?" 
 
 "As you see him." 
 
 "In — deed? What is he doing it for?" 
 
 "Two and a half a day, I believe." 
 
 " Quite .enough. But why?" 
 
 "I never asked him." And the Bonnie 
 Lassie tripped over to her newest guest, 
 leaving her next-to-newest quite busy with 
 thought. 
 
 Owing to the demands upon a hostess, 
 
 58 
 
Our Square 
 
 Cyrus the Gaunt saw very little of her in 
 the brief hour remaining to him. One 
 dance he succeeded in claiming. 
 
 "You see," he remarked, "I came to 
 your party anyway, although uninvited." 
 
 "I didn't give it. It was a surprise," 
 she explained. "But the job?" 
 
 "They've put me on an hour later." 
 
 "You still like it?" 
 
 " It limits one socially more than being 
 a model," he replied solemnly. 
 
 "But you are sticking to it?" she per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I 'm sticking to it, all right." 
 
 " Even if — No matter what happens ?" 
 
 "What is going to happen?" he asked 
 gravely. 
 
 "Nothing," she said hurriedly. "But 
 it's the job for the job's sake with you 
 now, is n't it?" 
 
 " I like the feel of it, if that 's what you 
 mean. The feel of being competent to hold 
 it down." 
 
 59 
 
Our Square 
 
 She nodded with content in her eyes. 
 But he was troubled. 
 
 " You had something in mind — " he 
 began, when another partner claimed her, 
 while he was dragged off to assist in an 
 improvised glee-club^ 
 
 His time was up all too soon, and with- 
 out chance of a further word from her, 
 other than a formal farewell. In the little 
 rear hallway whither he had made his way 
 through his protesting fellow-revelers, he 
 reached up for his coat, and felt something 
 lightly brush the top of his head. He looked 
 up. It was a sprig of mistletoe. At the same 
 moment two firm hands closed over his 
 eyes, and light, swift lips just grazed his 
 cheek. 
 
 Cyrus the Gaunt fell a-trembling. He 
 turned slowly, and found himself confront- 
 ing a total stranger. The stranger had gray 
 hair and a tired face lighted by crinkly eyes. 
 "Oh!" said Cyrus the Gaunt with an ir- 
 repressible bitterness of disappointment. 
 60 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Frankness," observed his salutant, 
 *' may or may not be a compliment to the 
 object of it." Cyrus remained mute. "Who 
 did you hope it was?" Silence seemed still 
 the best policy. " If you are offended " — 
 the eyes twinkled with added keenness — 
 " I will apologize honorably." 
 
 "Let me do it for you," said Cyrus the 
 Gaunt politely, and kissed the unknown 
 square upon the lips. 
 
 She drew back. " Well ! " she began ; 
 then she laughed. "The entente cordiale 
 having been established, what are you doing 
 here, Cyrus Staten ? " 
 
 He gasped and gaped. " Do I know 
 you?" 
 
 " Having neither memory nor manners, 
 you do not. But I spent weeks at your 
 country place when you were a boy, paint- 
 ing your father. Permit me to introduce 
 myself." And she gave a name so great that 
 even Cyrus's comprehensive carelessness of 
 art was not ignorant of it. 
 6i 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Great snakes!" he ejaculated. "I — 
 I 'm sorry I kissed you." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm human. I rather liked it," 
 she chuckled, " even though I am old and 
 stately. But how have you contrived to pre- 
 serve your incognito ? " 
 
 " Easy enough. This is another world. 
 Look out ! " he added as the curtain be- 
 hind them moved. "Somebody 's coming," 
 
 The hanging swung aside and the Bon- 
 nie Lassie emerged. " Oh ! " she said in 
 surprise. "Do you know each other?" 
 
 "We were becoming acquainted when 
 you interrupted," replied the woman. She 
 turned a disconcerting gaze upon her host- 
 ess. " Where did you get him ? " she de- 
 manded, exactly as if Cyrus were n't there. 
 
 "Oh, please!" cried the girl. 
 
 " Don't mind me," said Cyrus politely, 
 sensible that something was going on which 
 he did n't grasp. " I 'm used to it." He 
 turned to the mighty artist. " You see, in 
 real life I 'm a studio model." 
 62 
 
Our Square' 
 
 "Are you?" retorted the genius. "I 
 thought you were an engineer. Now I be- 
 gin to suspect you are a fraud. Well, I 
 have something to say to Miss Prim, here. 
 Run you away and play with your job." 
 
 "So that's your young Lincoln," she 
 observed, as Cyrus moodily accepted his 
 dismissal, and passed out. 
 
 "He does n't know it." 
 
 "You have missed even more than I 
 thought, in him." 
 
 " I 've done my best," said the girl dis- 
 piritedly. " He 's too big for little me." 
 
 " Hm ! You have n't told me yet where 
 you got him." 
 
 " * The wild wind blew l;iim to my close- 
 barred door,' " quoted the girl. 
 
 " A good many wild winds have blown 
 about Cyrus Staten from time to time." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Cyrus Staten; don't you know him?" 
 
 " No, I picked him up from the bench 
 in Our Square." 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Which the Statens used to own, by the 
 way. Well, thefacilis descensus of an idle 
 waster from the world of white lights and 
 black shadows to a park-bench is nothing 
 new." 
 
 "Does he look like an idle waster?" 
 
 "He does not. Therein lies a miracle. 
 What is he doing now ?" 
 
 "Running the steam-roller, outside." 
 The face of the girl melted into lovely 
 and irrepressible mirth. 
 
 "Ah! That explains much. But not all. 
 What is your part in this?" 
 
 "You have seen it." She nodded back- 
 ward toward the studio. 
 
 " Not that. As a woman ? What have 
 you been doing to that boy to make him 
 what he is?" 
 
 The girl took her soft lip grievously 
 between her teeth for a moment before 
 answering. " I 've been playing my child's 
 tricks with a real man — and now I 'm be- 
 ing sorry." 
 
 64 
 
Our Square 
 
 "And paying for it?" 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie's head drooped. 
 
 "Is he paying for it, too?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " No ? Well, when I played a little sur- 
 prise on him and kissed him under the 
 mistletoe, I thought that tall and massive 
 youth was going to faint away like a school- 
 miss in my supporting arms, until he saw 
 who it was. What do you suppose his ex- 
 pectations — " 
 
 " You had no right to take such an ad- 
 vantage," flashed the girl, turning crimson. 
 
 "So?" The great woman smiled. "But 
 I think my own thoughts. When one pays, 
 or the other pays, that is well. It is the 
 chance of the play. But when both pay — 
 oh, that is wrong, wrong, wrong as wrong 
 can be ! " 
 
 " I can't help it," said the girl, very low. 
 "There is a previous debt." And she turned 
 aside a face so woe-begone that her inter- 
 rogator forbore further pressure. 
 
 65 
 
Our Square 
 
 "At least," she said, "the artist must 
 complete the work, at whatever cost to 
 the woman. You will finish that?" She 
 jerked her head toward the studio. 
 
 "I — I suppose so. If I can." 
 
 On the way home the genius caught a 
 glimpse of Cyrus the Gaunt upon his tri- 
 umphal chariot, and halted her auto the 
 better to laugh. As the lumbering, clamor- 
 ing monster drew opposite, she signaled. 
 Cyrus did something abstruse to the mech- 
 anism, which groaned and clanked itself 
 into stillness. 
 
 "Young man," she hailed, "I have a 
 message for you." 
 
 "From whom?" said Cyrus hopefully. 
 
 "From myself. This is it: Be careful." 
 
 "I am," said Cyrus with conviction, 
 " the carefulest captain that ever ploughed 
 the stormy pave." 
 
 "Be careful," she repeated, disregarding 
 his interpretation, " or she '11 make a man 
 of you yet. The process is sometimes pain- 
 66 
 
Our Square 
 
 ful — like most creative processes. Home, 
 Joseph." 
 
 Many of the^Bonnie Lassie's outlander 
 guests passed Cyrus the Gaunt that night, 
 but none other identified or noticed him. 
 The latest departures were two heavily 
 swathed youths who paused to light ciga- 
 rettes in the lee of Cyrus's iron steed. 
 
 ** Some little farewell party, was n't it ? " 
 the engineer overheard them say. " Why 
 was n't the happy Bascom there?" 
 
 " Not back from Europe yet. I under- 
 stand Morris Cartwright fixed things up, 
 and the engagement is to be formally an- 
 nounced on his return." 
 
 ** It 's a shame," growled the first 
 speaker. " Bascom 's all right, but he 's 
 old enough to be her father. Was n't she 
 a dream and a vision to-night ! " 
 
 " It was one of those legacy engage- 
 ments, I believe. Dead-father's-wish sort 
 of thing. All right, I suppose, so long as 
 there 's no one else. W^ho was the engi- 
 67 
 
Our Square 
 
 neer guy? He seemed to be a reg'lar 
 feller." 
 
 The twain passed on, leaving Cyrus the 
 Gaunt stiff and stricken in his seat. How 
 he got through the next hour he hardly 
 knew. He remembered vaguely a protest 
 from sundry citizens who resented being 
 charged off the cross-walks by a zigzag- 
 ging juggernaut, a query from Terry the 
 Cop whether he was off his feed, and the 
 startled face of old man Sittser, who paused 
 to pass the time of night on his way home 
 from the late shift on the linotype and was 
 incontinently cursed for his pains. Full 
 consciousness of the practical world was 
 brought back to Cyrus by the purring of 
 a sleek auto close at hand as he curved out 
 at the corner for his straightaway course. 
 He was just gathering momentum when 
 he caught sight of the Bonnie Lassie's face, 
 white and wistful, soft-eyed and miserable, 
 confronting darkness and vacancy from 
 within the luxurious limousine. 
 68 
 
Our Square 
 
 Well, nobody can catch a sixty-horse- 
 power motor-car with a ten-ton steam- 
 roller. 
 
 Cyrus, to do him justice, tried his best. 
 They stopped one dollar and forty cents 
 out of his Saturday's envelope for what he 
 and the roller did to the barriers and lan- 
 terns. By the time he had swung into the 
 cross-street, trailing wreckage, the Bonnie 
 Lassie was out of sight and out of his world. 
 
 IV 
 
 Winter comes, stern and sharp, like an 
 unpaid landlord, to Our Square, with sleet 
 and gale for its agents of eviction. No 
 longer are the benches blithe with the 
 voice of love or play or gossip. The wind 
 has blown them all away. A few tenacious 
 leaves still cling, withered, brown, and 
 clattering, to the trees, "bare, ruin'd 
 choirs where late* the sweet birds sang," 
 and a few hardy stragglers beat across the 
 69 
 
Our Square 
 
 unprotected spaces, just to maintain, as it 
 were, the human right of way against the 
 gray rigor of the skies. But, for the most 
 part, we of Our Square, going about our 
 concerns, huddle as close as may be to the 
 lee of walls, for — though we would not 
 for the world have it known — many of 
 us are none too warmly clad. Behind the 
 blank opaqueness of the bordering windows 
 one may surmise much want and penury 
 and cold, which, also, we keep to ourselves. 
 Our Square has its pride. We do not pub- 
 lish our trials. 
 
 Perhaps Cyrus the Gaunt knew as much 
 of them as any. For, by imperceptible 
 gradations, he had become the 'confidant, 
 the judge, the arbiter of our difficulties, 
 and the friend of the [shyest, the hardest, 
 and the proudest of us alike. His engine- 
 seat was become a throne, from whence 
 he dispensed every good thing but charity. 
 That word and all that follows in its train 
 he hated. Which shows that he had learned 
 70 
 
Our Square 
 
 Our Square. After hours he would "drop 
 in," almost secretly, on some friend ; and 
 it was a curious coincidence that Cyrus's 
 friends were chosen apparently on the basis 
 of need and distress. He had that rare 
 knack of helping out without involving 
 the aided one in the coils of obligation. 
 There is nothing Our Square wouldn't 
 have done for Cyrus the Gaunt. I believe 
 he could even have been elected alderman. 
 Winter drove Cyrus from his perch and 
 put a brake on the thunder-wagon before 
 the job was quite finished. There still re- 
 mained some final repairs which^must now 
 wait for the spring, on the side where the 
 Bonnie Lassie's little house stood, bleak and 
 desolate. Not wholly deserted, however, 
 for one brave and happy dancer still stuck 
 to her post in the window, lifting a thrilled 
 face to the sky. Other employment claimed 
 Cyrus the Gaunt until his iron steed should 
 come out of the stable; a day job on a sta- 
 tionary engine around in Pike Street. Our 
 
 71 
 
Our Square 
 
 Square remarked with concern that the in- 
 door employment did n't seem to suit Cyrus 
 the Gaunt. He became gaunter and thinner 
 and more melancholy-looking, and more 
 than once he was seen on wild nights, 
 when nobody was supposed to be out late, 
 staring at the now quite unembarrassed 
 house with the quaint little door and the 
 broad vestibule. But though the light and 
 cheer that Our Square had seen grow in 
 Cyrus's face in the early days of his job, 
 were graying over, there increased the new 
 understanding and sympathy and determi- 
 nation, in lines that he had put there him- 
 self in the building of his new manhood. 
 Thus, only, in this perplexing world, does 
 a man lift himself by his own boot-straps. 
 Though Cyrus the Gaunt could boast a 
 thousand friends, he had accepted but one 
 intimate. That was MacLachan the tailor. 
 Every day they lunched on frankfurters 
 and kohlrabi at Schwartz's. Thither Cyrus 
 was wont to have his scanty mail sent from 
 72 
 
Our Square 
 
 the house where he lodged. One blustery 
 December day the tailor arrived late, to 
 find his friend fingering a pink slip of 
 paper, of suggestive appearance. 
 
 " Ye '11 have been airnin' a bit ootside ! " 
 commented MacLachan. 
 
 Cyrus flipped the paper over to him. 
 
 " Save us ! " cried the awe-stricken Scot. 
 " It 's a thousan' dollars. All in the one 
 piece ! " 
 
 " Two months overdue. He did n't have 
 my address, I suppose." 
 
 " Ha'e ye been drawin' a lottery ? " 
 
 " No. It 's a bet. Also my release. I 'd 
 almost forgotten. My time 's up." 
 
 "Ye '11 not be leavin' us?" said the tailor. 
 
 Cyrus avoided his eyes. " I 'm through, 
 Mac," he said dully. " It 's no use. It 's 
 not worth while. Nothing 's worth while." 
 
 There was a long pause. " Mon," said 
 MacLachan finally, "ha'e ye tho't what 
 .his '11 mean to Our Square ? " 
 
 Cyrus the Gaunt thought. Behind the 
 
 73 
 
Our Square 
 
 curtain of his impenetrable face there 
 passed a panorama of recent memories; 
 events which had, for the first time in his 
 career, made him one with the fabric of 
 life. Faces appealed to him ; hands were 
 outstretched to him confidently for the 
 friendly help that he could give so well ; 
 the voices of the children hailed him as a 
 fellow; the baseball team which did most 
 of its practice at noon on the asphalt 
 claimed a corner of his memory ; his ears 
 rang with the everyday greetings of his own 
 people, and another panorama, summoned 
 up by the pink slip, faded away. Cyrus 
 folded the check and put it carefully in the 
 pocket of his overalls. 
 
 " Ye '11 be stayin' here," said MacLachan 
 contentedly, having read his expression. 
 
 Cyrus nodded. Then the tailor's dour- 
 ness fell from him for the moment. He 
 laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. " Lad- 
 die," he said, " the little bronze dancer is 
 in the window yet." 
 
 74 
 
Our Square 
 
 Cyrus turned a haggard face to him. 
 " I know," he said. 
 
 "Do ye make nothin' o' that?" 
 
 " Nothing. You know why — what she 
 went away for." 
 
 "I ha'e haird." 
 
 "Well, I 'm learning to forget." 
 
 **The little bronze dancer is in the win- 
 dow yet," repeated the obstinate Scot. 
 
 How Cyrus won through that long win- 
 ter is his own affair. Our Square respects 
 other people's troubles. It asked no ques- 
 tions. Finally winter broke and fled before 
 a southeast wind full of fragrance, and the 
 trees began to whisper important tidings 
 to each other ; and a pioneer butterfly of 
 the deepest, most luminous purple-black, 
 with buff edges to its wings, arrived and 
 led the whole juvenile populace such a 
 chase as surely never was since the Pied 
 Piper fluted his seductions long ago ; and 
 the benches came out of their long retreat, 
 fresh-painted, to stand sturdy and stiff in 
 
 75 
 
Our Square 
 
 their old places ; and so did Cyrus's thun- 
 der-wagon, whereon he perched nightly 
 once more, and was even more than be- 
 fore the taciturn, humorous, kindly, secret, 
 friendly adviser to all and sundry. 
 
 Then, one crisp March evening he be- 
 came aware of a strong, bent, feminine 
 figure beckoning him from the curbstone. 
 Clanging to a halt, he heard a voice, un- 
 forgettable through its tinge of foreign 
 accent, say : — 
 
 "How do you do? I have been seeing 
 your face all through my travels." Cyrus 
 took off his working-cap and shook hands. 
 *' So I have come back to look at it. It 's 
 thin. Would you like to be painted ? " 
 
 " I don't think so, thank you. I 've been 
 sculped within an inch of my life." ' 
 
 "So I have understood," said the Very 
 Great Woman with a smile not devoid of 
 sympathy. " You are not done with it yet. 
 She is coming." 
 
 The face of Cyrus the Gaunt lighted 
 76 
 
Our Square 
 
 marvelously. .; " Coming back to Our 
 Square?" he cried. Then the light faded. 
 " But — " 
 
 " But me no huts. She is coming. I did 
 it. I found that she had never finished you. 
 So I told her that if she did not come back 
 and finish, I would take you away from 
 her and finish you myself. And, oh, I am 
 as bad a sculptor as I am a good painter 
 — almost ! " Her laughter rang in the chill 
 air. " So she comes. And I have traveled 
 all the way to this impossible spot to play 
 traitor. The question is : Are you a man ? 
 You look it, at last ! » 
 
 "The question is — Will you answer 
 me one?" 
 
 "No! No! No! No! No! Put your 
 questions where they belong. Farewell, 
 my Phaethon of the Slums." 
 
 The world was mad with the wine of 
 the wind the night the Bonnie Lassie came 
 back to Our Square. All our trees waved 
 
 77 
 
Our Square 
 
 their lean arms in welcome and sent down 
 little buds as messengers of joy over her re- 
 turn. Of living welcomers there was none, 
 for the gale had swept all humans before 
 it, except Terry the Cop, and he did n't 
 recognize her, from the distance, in her 
 other-worldly raiment. That must have 
 cost her a pang. Unnoticed she crept into 
 the little, old, quaint, friendly house, and 
 its doors closed behind her like the reas- 
 surance of a friendly arm. She set herself 
 in the dark window where the blithe dancer 
 still tripped it, faithful and lonely, and 
 waited for Cyrus the Gaunt. But when she 
 saw his face, the Bonnie Lassie did n't sculp. 
 She cried. 
 
 Cyrus mounted to his seat and pulled the 
 lever over. The engine was running badly 
 that night, and the wind almost blew him 
 from his perch. Aside from the improba- 
 bility that the little sculptor would brave 
 such weather, the charioteer was presently 
 so immersed in his own immediate con- 
 78 
 
Our Square 
 
 cerns that he all but forgot the prospective 
 visit. When he had brought his charge to 
 its senses and reduced it to some control, 
 he was interrupted by the plight of a be- 
 lated push-cart woman, who was dragging 
 anchor and drifting fast to leeward under 
 the furious impulsion of the nor'easter. 
 Cyrus had just dragged her almost from 
 under his ponderous wheels, when a beam 
 flashed in his eyes, and he looked up to see 
 a truck close upon them. His yell split the 
 darkness. The truck-driver, with a mighty 
 wrench, swung his vehicle sharp to the left, 
 and up on the sidewalk. 
 
 The uptilted lights shone full into the 
 lower window of the little, old, friendly 
 house. Pressed against that window Cyrus 
 saw the apparition of a tear-softened, des- 
 olate visage. Reason, prudence, and pro- 
 priety deserted their posts in his brain 
 simultaneously. A dozen long-legged leaps 
 carried him as far as the vestibule of the 
 little house. There his knees basely weak- 
 
 79 
 
Our Square 
 
 ened. Perhaps her heart divined his step 
 and sent her forth to meet him ; or perhaps 
 it was his old ally. Chance, that brought 
 her into the vestibule as he stood there 
 shaking. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, and shrank back into 
 a corner, with a deprecatory movement, 
 which to him was infinitely pathetic. 
 
 " I 'm sorry," said Cyrus. " I saw your 
 face and thought you were in trouble. If 
 — if you wanted me to sit for you again," 
 he said composedly, " I should be very glad 
 to, until you 've finished your sketch." 
 
 "Oh, no. I could n't ask you. I could n't 
 think of — after — what — what — " Her 
 voice waned into silence. 
 
 " Don't feel that way at all," he encour- 
 aged her with resolved cheerfulness. "I 
 cani be a model and nothing more, again, 
 I assure you." 
 
 Her upturned eyes implored him. 
 " Don't be cruel," she said. 
 
 "Cruel?" he repeated wonderingly. 
 80 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Not at all. I '11 be polite. It is n't too 
 late to offer my best wishes. Though I 'm 
 not sure I know the name." 
 
 "What name?" 
 
 "Your — your married name." 
 
 " Then you don't know ? " she gasped. 
 
 The brain of Cyrus the Gaunt suddenly 
 went numb. " I know you went away from 
 us to get married." 
 
 " I did," she quavered. " But I could n't. 
 I — I — I tried to make myself go through 
 with it. I could n't. No woman could 
 when — when — " Her voice trembled 
 into silence. 
 
 A boisterous back-draft of the tempest 
 thrust its way through the door and puffed 
 out the little vestibule light. With a sense 
 of irreparable loss impending he felt, rather 
 than heard, her moving from him into the 
 blackness of the outer world. Yet his mind 
 seemed clogged and chained as he strove 
 to grasp the meaning of what she had said 
 — or was it what she had left unsaid? 
 
Our Square 
 
 And in a moment she would be gone for- 
 ever. 
 
 Suddenly — miracle of miracles! — he 
 felt those soft, strong hands on his arm, 
 and heard her sobbing appeal : "Oh, Cyrus ! 
 Are n't you ever going to smile at me in- 
 side again?" 
 
 His arms went out. The Bonnie Lassie's 
 hands slipped up to his shoulder. The 
 flower-face pressed, close and cold and 
 sweet, against his. 
 
 " Love of my heart ! " he cried, " I '11 
 never do anything else all my life long." j 
 
 Summer is tyrant in Our Square now. 
 The leaves droop, flaccid and dusty, on the 
 trees, and the sun gives a shrewish wel- 
 come to the faithful who still cling to the 
 benches. Gone is Cyrus's chariot of flame 
 and thunder. The work is done. Gone, 
 too, is Cyrus, and with him the Bonnie 
 Lassie, after a wedding duly set forth 
 with much pomp and splendor in the 
 82 
 
The Bonnie Lassie's hands slipped up to his shoulder 
 
Our Square 
 
 public prints. Among those present was 
 Our Square, 
 
 So now the little, quaint, old, friendly 
 house stands vacant, with eager sunbeams 
 darting about it in search of entry. Vacant 
 but not cheerless, for behind the panes, 
 against which the Bonnie Lassie once 
 pressed her sorrowful face, troop the elfin 
 company of her dream-children, the danc- 
 ing figurines. Cyrus the Gaunt would 
 have it so. He deeded her the house as a 
 wedding-gift, that the happy dancers might 
 remain with us lonely and unforgetting 
 folk. They are the promise that one day 
 Our Bonnie Lassie will come back to Our 
 Square. 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 An Idyl of Our Square 
 
 SPRING was in Our Square when I first 
 saw the two of them. They sat on a 
 bench under the early lilacs. It must have 
 been the beginning of it all for them, I 
 think, for there was still a dim terror in 
 her face, and he gestured like one arguing 
 stormily. At the last she smiled and drew 
 a cluster of the lilac bloom down to her 
 cheek. It was not deeper-hued than her 
 eyes, nor fresher than her youth. They 
 rose and passed me, alone on my bench, 
 and I, who am wise in courtships, having 
 watched so many bud and blossom on the 
 public seats of Our Square, saw that this 
 was no wooing, but some other persuasion, 
 though what I could not guess. 
 
 So those two drifted out of sight; out 
 of mind, too, for life in our remote, un- 
 84 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 considered, and slum-circled little park is 
 a complex and swiftly changing actuality, 
 and it crowds in with many pressures upon 
 a half-idle old pedagogue like myself. It 
 was the Little Red Doctor who, weeks 
 later, recalled the episode, one blistering 
 evening of the summer's end. He captured 
 me as I emerged from the "penny-circu- 
 lator " with my thumb in a book. 
 
 " What are we ruining our eyes with 
 to-night ? " he demanded. 
 
 I held up the treasure. 
 
 « ' Victory,' " he read. « Good ! He '11 
 like Conrad," 
 
 Perceiving what was expected, I ful- 
 filled the requirements by asking: "Who 
 will like Conrad?" 
 
 " The Gnome." 
 
 I remembered that I had not seen Leon 
 Coventry since the day he passed me with 
 the girl who had youth and spring and 
 terror in her face. 
 
 " Am I to loan it to 'him ? " 
 
 85 
 
Our Square 
 
 " You 're to read it to him." 
 
 « When ? " 
 
 " To-night. It 's your turn to sit up." 
 
 "Is the Gnome ill?" 
 
 " Worse." 
 
 "Mad?" 
 
 "Haunted." 
 
 " Since when has your practice branched 
 out into the supernatural, doctor?" 
 
 " Oh, as for that, his trouble is physical 
 too." 
 
 " Is it anything that a simple lay mind 
 could grasp?" 
 
 The Little Red Doctor grunted. " His 
 legs have turned to lamp-wicking, I don't 
 vouch for the diagnosis. It 's his ow^n." 
 
 " Paralysis ? " I hazarded. 
 
 " Grip," was the Little Red Doctor's 
 curt rejoinder. 
 
 "Don't tell me that grip turns a young 
 Hercules' s legs to lamp-wicks?" I ob- 
 jected. 
 
 " Grip does if the young Hercules's legs 
 86 
 
'The Chair that Whispered 
 
 are fools enough to carry him out and 
 around the city with a temperature of one- 
 naught-four-point-two," retorted the Lit- 
 tle Red Doctor with bitter exactitude. 
 " Under such conditions grip turns to 
 pneumonia. And pneumonia is the favor- 
 ite ally of my old friend. Death." 
 
 " You don't mean that the Gnome is 
 going to die ? " 
 
 " Not of pneumonia : that fight was 
 fought out some weeks ago. But what 
 pneumonia doesn't do to a young Her- 
 cules worry may. Another aid of my old 
 friend. Death, worry is. That 's a bother- 
 some Gnome, tossing about in the heat 
 with his sick brain full of plots to get 
 away and no legs to carry 'em out. His 
 next try will be his last." 
 
 "Then he got away once?" 
 
 " On all fours. As far as the sidewalk. 
 There Cyrus the Gaunt and the Bonnie 
 Lassie found him and brought him back. 
 Cyrus was on duty again last night." 
 
 87 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I began to see. I 'm to be watchdog. 
 It's No. 7, isn't it? At what hour?" 
 
 "No. 7. Top floor. Nine o'clock." 
 
 " I'll be there." 
 
 Thanks for neighborly services, which 
 are a taken-for-granted part of our close- 
 pressed life, are not deemed good form in 
 Our Square. The Little Red Doctor nodded 
 and prepared to pass on to the rounds 
 of his unending bout with his old, friend 
 and antagonist, Death. I detained him. 
 
 " Just a moment. What is the object of 
 the Gnome's excursions? To get work?" 
 
 " No. To search." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 The Little Red Doctor moved toward 
 an approaching horse car, almost the last 
 of that perishing genus in New York City. 
 " Heaven knows ! " he called back. " And 
 Mac, the tailor, at least suspects. That 's 
 as far as I can get." 
 
 He leaped upon the bobtailed vehicle, 
 was immediately held up by a forehanded 
 
'The Chair that Whispered 
 
 conductor, and too tardily bethought him- 
 self of a forgotten point. " The chair ! 
 The chair ! " he bellowed, " Look out for 
 the chair ! " 
 
 "What chair?" I shouted back. 
 
 He made as if he would jump off and 
 return. But he had already paid his nickel, 
 so he only waved despairingly. Nickels 
 count in Our Square. 
 
 No. 7 opened to me with a musty smell 
 of stale heat. Built in the magnificent days 
 of the neighborhood, by a senator of the 
 United States, it had fallen to the base 
 uses of machine workers on the lower and 
 furnished lodgings on the upper floors. 
 The very walls seemed to sweat as I made 
 my way up to the dim light at the top, 
 where the Gnome's door stood open, hope- 
 lessly inviting a draft. Upon my entrance 
 a huge and fumbling creature from the 
 lithographic plant where the Gnome was 
 an assistant rose and made gloomy and 
 bashful adieus. 
 
 89 
 
Our Square 
 
 Leon Coventry reached a great, thin 
 hand across the littered bed to make me 
 welcome. Even in his illness he preserved 
 that suggestion of bowed and gnarled 
 power, strangely alien to his youthfulness, 
 which had given him his nickname in 
 Our Square. Some would have called him 
 ugly of face. But his mouth had the aus- 
 tere sweetness of a saint or a sufferer, and 
 in his eyes glowed a living fire which 
 might tame beasts or subdue hearts. 
 
 "How are you feeling to-night?" I 
 asked perfunctorily. 
 
 " Wild," he answered. "When are they 
 going to let me out? When? When?" 
 
 The little Red Doctor had given me no 
 hint upon this point. So I said non-com- 
 mittally: "Soon, I think," and moved 
 around the bed to where an easy-chair in- 
 vited. It was a wicker chair, broad-seated, 
 wide-armed, and welcoming, a chair made 
 conformable and gracious by long usage, 
 a chair for lovers, for high hopes and for 
 90 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 dreams, a chair to solace troubles and soothe 
 weariness. Into it I would have dropped 
 gratefully, when the sick man's fingers 
 closed on my wrist like the jaws of an ani- 
 mal, and I was all but jerked from my feet. 
 
 "Not there ! " he snarled insanely. " Not 
 there!" 
 
 " I beg your pardon," I said, much dis- 
 composed. 
 
 "I didn't mean to hurt you," he re- 
 turned with a return to that habitual gen- 
 tleness of address which, by its contrast 
 with his formidable physique, gave him 
 the aspect of a kindly and companionable 
 bear. "But if you don't mind sitting here 
 on the bed ? Or yonder on the sofa ? Or 
 anywhere except — " 
 
 " Not in the least," I assured him. "The 
 fact is, I detest wicker chairs anyway. I 
 had to get rid of mine." 
 
 "Did you? Why?" 
 
 " It was no companion for an old, lonely 
 man." 
 
 91 
 
Our Square 
 
 The Gnome clutched me again. His 
 fingers quivered as they bit into my arm. 
 
 "I know! It whispered. Didn't it?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " So does mine. Strange things. Echoes 
 of what you can't forget." 
 
 " Yes, yes. I know." 
 
 " Do you, now ? I wonder. Perhaps you 
 do." He studied my face with his lumi- 
 nous eyes, and then closed them and fell 
 back, speaking slowly and dreamily. " In 
 the darkness when I can see the chair just 
 enough to know that it 's empty as — as an 
 empty heart — I hear it stirring, stirring 
 softly, adjusting itself to — to what is not 
 there. And I hold my breath and pray. 
 But — nothing more." He opened his 
 eyes that seemed to gaze out across bar- 
 riers of pain and incomprehension. " Dom- 
 inie, does yours — did yours keep its se- 
 crets ? " 
 
 That way, obviously, ran the boy's mal- 
 ady toward madness. Regretting that I 
 92 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 had chanced upon so unfortunate a topic, 
 I said nothing. But he took my assent for 
 granted. 
 
 " So does mine," he sighed. " It has not 
 been moved nor touched since it was left 
 vacant." 
 
 " Shall I read to you ?" I asked, to turn 
 his mind aside. 
 
 " No. Talk to me. Tell me what they 
 are doing in the Square." 
 
 So I gave him the news of Tailor Mac- 
 Lachan's latest drunk, and Pushcart To- 
 nic's luck in the lottery, and Grandma 
 Souchet'sy^zwA: pas at the movies (her first 
 experience) when she rose and yelled for 
 the police to stop the pickpocket in the 
 flagrant act of abstracting the heroine's 
 aged father's watch, thereby disgracing her 
 (grandma's) progeny and making them a 
 derision and a byword even unto the third 
 and fourth generation; and the Morrissey 
 mumps, the whole kit and b'ilin' of juve- 
 nile Morrisseys having been sent to school 
 
 92> 
 
Our Square 
 
 looking like five little red balloons, where- 
 by holiday for the rest of the scholars and 
 great rejoicing, and the unavailing wrath 
 of the authorities upon Mrs. Morrissey's 
 head; and Terry the Cop's extra stripe; 
 and the passing of the skat championship 
 into the unworthy but preposterously lucky 
 hands of the Avenue B Evening Dress Suit 
 Club; and the battle over Orpheus the 
 Piper (which was a jest of the Lords of 
 High Derision, touching the boundaries 
 of uttermost tragedy) ; and the exotic third 
 stage of the affair, not yet ended, between 
 Mary Moore and the Weeping Scion of 
 Wealth ; and the newspaper discovery of 
 a barroom poet at Schmidt's free-lunch 
 counter ; and the joke which his fashion- 
 able uptown club put up on Cyrus the 
 Gaunt ; and politics and social doings, and 
 the whisper of scandal ; exactly as it might 
 be in any other little world than Our 
 Square ; and, finally, for I was leading up 
 to a delicate and difficult point, my own 
 
 94 
 
'The Chair that Whispered 
 
 little smile of fortune, in the form of a 
 small textbook finally accepted and ad- 
 vance royalty duly paid thereon. For the 
 difficult and dangerous point was how to 
 help the Gnome in case he needed it. 
 Offer of charity, even when glossed over 
 with the euphemism of a " loan," is not 
 accepted in ease of spirit by the people of 
 Our Square. In fact, it isn't accepted at 
 all, as a rule. The likelihood of ability to 
 pay back is too dubious and remote. So it 
 was in my most offhand manner that I 
 inquired : — 
 
 " By the way, how are you off for ready 
 cash ? " 
 
 Leon fluttered his hand among the 
 papers on the bed. They were opened 
 envelopes. 
 
 " Look inside them," he directed. 
 
 Within were checks. They were on 
 various mercantile and commercial firms. 
 Mostly the amounts were small ; two dol- 
 lars, two-and-a-half, three, and four, and 
 
Our Square 
 
 the largest for ten dollars. Totaled up 
 they amounted to affluence as Our Square 
 understands the term. 
 
 " Something new ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes. Advertising sketches. They 've 
 caught on." 
 
 " I did n't know that you could draw, 
 Leon." 
 
 " Neither did I, beyond scratchy, 
 sketchy blobs, until the Bonnie Lassie told 
 me." 
 
 " If the Bonnie Lassie has been giving 
 you lessons, you 're in a good school," I 
 said, for the local sculptress, nymph, and 
 goddess of Our Square had already begun 
 to make us and herself famous with her 
 tiny bronzes. 
 
 " Not lessons exactly. But pointers." 
 
 " You 're in luck to be making money 
 while you 're laid up." 
 
 " The doc says I ought n't to work at 
 it. But I had to do something or go crazy. 
 A man can't live by just waiting ; can he? 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 So when I can't sleep I sketch. And the 
 checks come in. It 's like a miracle. Only 
 — it is n't the miracle that I want. When 
 do you think I '11 be strong enough to get 
 out ? Can't you tell me ? Can't you find 
 out from doc ? I 'd get better if I only had 
 something to go on ! " 
 
 Always that was the beginning and end 
 of our talks ; talks which often skirted the 
 borders of thp secret that was wearing his 
 life down, but never revealed it. When I 
 sought to shift the burden of the query 
 upon the Little Red Doctor, he looked 
 glum and shook his head. 
 
 " But go there when you can, dominie. 
 He likes to have you. You rest him. 
 Sometimes he sleeps after you 've gone." 
 
 Though the Gnome never spoke of it 
 again, I knew why he liked me with him. 
 The bond of sympathy was that in my 
 life, too, had been "an empty chair that 
 whispered. So the harsh summer elongated 
 itself like the stretching of a white-hot 
 
 97 
 
Our Square 
 
 metal bar, and through the swelter and 
 hush of long nights I watched the rugged 
 Gnome slowly dwindle. 
 
 My first weekly watch night in Sep- 
 tember came with one of the savagest on- 
 slaughts of belated heat in the memory of 
 Our Square. For the sake of what little 
 air there was I had drawn the couch out 
 between the two windows. Discouraged 
 by the handicap of a forearrn which stuck 
 clammily to his drawing board, the Gnome 
 had turned off his overhead light, and now 
 lay rigid. But I knew that he did not 
 sleep. From some merciful cleft in the 
 brazen sky came a waft of coolness. It 
 fanned me into a doze. 
 
 I awoke with a start, to hear the Gnome's 
 voice, in a hard-breathed whisper : " My 
 heart ! Oh, my heart ! " 
 
 "This," I thought, "is the end." I 
 tried to rise, but a paralysis of the will 
 held me, though my senses seemed preter- 
 naturally acute. 
 
 98 
 
T'he Chair that Whispered 
 
 From the bedside I heard the stir of the 
 wicker chair. The withes moved softly 
 upon themselves with delicate, smooth 
 rustlings. The chair, whispering, sagged 
 and yielded as if to the pressure of some 
 light, sweet burden. Then the voice of the 
 Gnome came, out of the darkness, again, 
 and I knew that my fear was without 
 cause, for he was leaning toward the chair 
 and speaking to that which whispered. 
 
 "My Heart! Oh, my Heart! Will 
 you never come back ? Don't you know 
 that I can't come to find you ? I 've tried. 
 God of pity, how I 've tried ! Can't you 
 hear me, can't you feel me calling for you ? 
 If I could see you once again ! Only once. 
 It is n't so much to ask. And the time is 
 short. Come back to me, my Heart!" 
 
 I heard the chair whispering, whisper- 
 ing messages beyond the little reach of 
 human understanding. Then the beggar 
 of ghosts fell back, and the bed creaked 
 and shook. I knew what made it creak 
 
 99 
 
Our Square 
 
 and shake. Chairs that whisper have no 
 balm for that misery. 
 
 Two of us lay still and wakeful through 
 the rest of that night. In the morning we 
 faced each other pallidly. 
 
 " Did you hear me in the night ? " 
 asked my host. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 **Then I 'm going to tell you the rest, 
 for I think I haven't much longer time to 
 tell anything." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " I protested ; but it was 
 lip speech only, and he smiled at the pre- 
 tense. 
 
 "Of course, nonsense, if you like. But 
 I '11 go, shriven of that secret. The wicker 
 chair is where She used to sit." 
 
 "That much I gathered." 
 
 " How can I describe Her to you ? How 
 can I make you understand as you would 
 if you 'd seen Her ? " 
 
 "Perhaps I have." 
 
 "When? Where?" 
 
 lOO 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 " Sitting with you on a bench in the 
 Square the week the lilacs bloomed. She 
 looked afraid." 
 
 "She was. A brute of a foreman had in- 
 sulted her. So she lost her job as a feather 
 finisher — did you see her beautiful hands ? 
 — and she could find no other, and there 
 was nobody in the world for her to turn to. 
 Down below her last dollar, and twenty 
 years old, and lovely. There 's terror 
 enough in that, is n't there ? " 
 
 My mind went back to certain black- 
 and-scarlet tragedies which Our Square 
 makes brave pretense of having forgotten ; 
 tragedies of its unforgotten daughters. 
 Terror enough, indeed ! 
 
 "Was she some one you knew?" 
 
 No ; she was not some one whom the 
 Gnome knew. How to get to know her 
 and help her (for help was his one, all- 
 effacing, loyal purpose from the first mo- 
 ment he looked into her face) ; there was 
 the heart of the problem. At any moment 
 
 lOI 
 
Our Square 
 
 she might pass on, out of reach of his 
 aid. 
 
 Yet to speak to her was too much risk. 
 She sat poised as ready for startled flight 
 as a bird. Into which deadlock of fateful 
 chances intruded Susan Gluck's Orphan, 
 aged six, and with a passion for scientific 
 pursuits. The immediate object of his re- 
 search was to discover what treasure so 
 strongly interested a honeybee in a lilac 
 bell, and if need be assist in the operation, 
 his honorable purpose algo being to help. 
 Unfortunately the Busy One misunderstood 
 and resented, whereupon Susan Gluck's 
 Orphan lifted up his voice and smote the 
 far heavens with his lamentations. To him, 
 running in agonized circles with his finger 
 in his mouth, the girl extended arms and 
 invitation to come and be comforted. The 
 voice, with its clear, soft, mothering ap- 
 peal, tugged at the Gnome's heart-strings; 
 to Susan Gluck's Orphan it was, however, 
 but the voice of a stranger, and therefore 
 
 I02 
 
'The Chair that W^hispered 
 
 to be feared. There, however, sat Leon 
 the Gnome, unnoted before, but now an 
 appreciated refuge. For to the young of 
 the species in Our Square the Gnome is a 
 delight, because of his athletic habit of 
 using a child — and sometimes two — in 
 evening dumb-bell exercises, for the up- 
 keep of his mighty muscles. To his knees 
 fled the wailful orphan. Gently though 
 clumsily the Gnome extracted the stinger, 
 in astonished contemplation of which the 
 sufferer temporarily forgot his woes ; pres- 
 ently, however, as the poison took hold 
 of the nerves, lapsing again into woe. 
 
 All this the girl had been watching 
 from the corner of her eye, making, one 
 may guess, a private estimate of the sin- 
 gular-looking youth who had been cov- 
 ertly spying upon her fear and despair. 
 Wise in a lore of which the Gnome was 
 as ignorant as the Orphan, she now offered 
 wet mud. It was applied, and the adoptive 
 pride of the Glucks raced off to vaunt his 
 103 
 
Our Square 
 
 wounds to his fellows, leaving two people 
 with quick-beating hearts gazing at each 
 other. The Gnome took a quick resolve. 
 
 " I have been frightened, too, in my 
 time." 
 
 " He is well over it," answered the girl, 
 following the now boasting Orphan with 
 her gaze. 
 
 " I don't mean that. I have been hun- 
 gry too." 
 
 Now she understood, and drew back, 
 flushing. But she, too, was one to go 
 straight to a point. Perhaps two more di- 
 rect spirits than those twain seldom meet. 
 "You mean me.?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I 'm not hungry, and I 'm not afraid," 
 she lied. 
 
 " Could you believe," he said slowly, 
 "that I mean as well to you as I did to 
 that child — and the same?" 
 
 She did not answer at once, but the de- 
 fensive look wavered in her eyes. 
 104 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 " Do you ever gamble ? " was his next 
 question. 
 
 "Gamble?" she repeated in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Like matching pennies. I '11 match 
 you for the dinners." 
 
 "I — I Ve only got a dollar," she said. 
 
 " Plenty." 
 
 " It is n't really a dollar," she mur- 
 mured. " I 've only got — forty-three cents 
 — in the w^orld." 
 
 It was her first confidence, and he 
 thrilled to it. But he accepted it quite as 
 a matter of course. 
 
 " Even on that it can be done. Come ; 
 where are you any worse off, even if you 
 lose ? And, at dinner, we might figure out 
 some way for you to be better oflF." 
 
 She got out a penny and looked at it a 
 long time and then said : " Do I toss it 
 up?" And of course the Gnome said no; 
 because a tossed penny shows for itself. So 
 they matched, and he looked at his coin 
 105 
 
Our Square 
 
 (which showed the winning side up) and 
 said : — 
 
 "I lose; I didn't match you." 
 
 And then her lost misgiving surged over 
 her and they sat and argued it. That is 
 when I first noticed them. The Gnome 
 won. Of course. 
 
 " So I took her to Marot's," said the 
 young giant, sitting up against his pillows 
 and letting his gaze fare out into the hum- 
 ming heat of the day; "because I knew 
 that, on a pinch, Mme. Marot would look 
 after her. And I had an awful time keep- 
 ing the bill of fare away from her and mak- 
 ing her believe that she was getting only 
 forty-three cents' worth. Courage came 
 back to her with the food. She told me a 
 little of her story; not much, then or after- 
 ward. I think she did n't want to claim 
 anything of me, ever, not even sympathy. 
 You see ? " 
 
 I did see, if only vaguely. Leon the 
 Gnome was building up a character to 
 1 06 
 
'The Chair that Whispered 
 
 match the curious beauty of the face I 
 had seen that once. 
 
 " That foreman brute was n't her first 
 experience. She had had to fight before ; 
 to leave good employment. To her the 
 world was a jungle full of men who were 
 only a horrible sort of pursuing ape. That 
 came out later when I knew her better. 
 My business there at that first dinner at 
 Marot's was to get her to believe in me. 
 Well," he sighed, as over the memory of a 
 formidable task accomplished, " I did it ! " 
 
 He did it ! Think of the gulf between 
 those two ; full, for her, of shameful mem- 
 ories and bristling fears; a gulf to be 
 crossed with a shrinking heart before she 
 could trust him ; and across it he had led 
 her by the mere power of words. Well, 
 no ; not words alone. Something shining 
 and clear and trust-compelling back of the 
 words ; the nature of the man. Have I said 
 that our Gnome was rather a wonderful 
 person ? He was. 
 
 107 ' 
 
Our Square 
 
 "But how did you do it, miracle 
 worker?" I demanded. 
 
 " No miracle at all, I don't understand 
 you. I just told her about myself." 
 
 " Quite so. What, for example ? " 
 
 " Oh, everything," he said, with a ges- 
 ture of his big hands, indicating a broad 
 generality. " Just a sort of outline of my 
 life. I wanted her to know me as I was." 
 
 I wondered how many youths of my 
 acquaintance in Our Square, or out, could 
 afford to tell " everything " as a method 
 of winning a young girl's confidence. But 
 the Gnome, as I have indicated, was some- 
 thing of a phenomenon. 
 
 " So I lent her money and courage to go 
 on with. And that evening, when we had 
 walked and talked I said to her : * Where 
 will you go to-night ? ' and she said : ' Tell 
 me.' So I brought her here to live." 
 
 "Here?" I exclaimed, 
 
 " What are you thinking ? " he growled. 
 " Don't think it. Open that door." 
 io8 
 
'The Chair that Whispered 
 
 He pointed to the far corner of the room. 
 I did as directed, " Look on the other side 
 of it. What do you see?" 
 
 What I saw on the further side of the 
 door was an oak bar set in iron clamps. Be- 
 yond was a tiny room and a tiny white bed 
 and a flower in a pot on the window sill, 
 dead and withered in the heat. Opposite 
 the window an exit led to the hallway, 
 
 " There she lived and sang and was happy 
 for fifty-five days. Each day was more glo- 
 rious than the last for me. She stopped be- 
 ing afraid almost at once. It was just an 
 even week after she came that she tapped 
 on the door, when I had settled down to 
 read my evening away. 
 
 " * May I come in ?' she asked. 
 
 " ' Yes,' I said. 
 
 " For quite a time she made no move. 
 Then : • Are you sure ? ' she said. 
 
 " I understood. That was her way — to 
 make you understand more than she said." 
 The sick man leaned out from his pillow 
 109 
 
Our Square 
 
 toward the little door. " I can see her now, 
 as she came into the room. She was all in 
 fresh white, with a touch of some color at 
 her waist. I had bought that dress for her. 
 Do you know the delight of buying the 
 realities of life for the woman you love ? 
 Oh, yes ! I loved her then. I had loved her 
 from the first sight, when I spoke to her on 
 the bench because she seemed so desolate 
 and scared. 
 
 " She came straight to me, and I stood 
 up and put down my book. She looked me 
 in the eyes, hard. Then she held out her 
 hand. 'Shake hands,' she said. I shook. 
 * I '11 keep the bargain,' I said. ' I know 
 you will,' said she. She sat down in the 
 wicker chair. No one has sat in it since ; 
 not even the Bonnie Lassie when she came. 
 Yes ; she sat down in the chair as if she 
 were adopting it for her own. And we 
 talked." 
 
 "What did you talk about?" I asked. 
 A foolish question, for what do youth and 
 no 
 
'The Chair that Whispered 
 
 youth always talk about, when they en- 
 counter ? But his reply surprised me. 
 
 " Money, mostly, that first evening. We 
 went over accounts. She was keeping strict 
 record of every cent I spent on her, to pay 
 back when she got a job. Room rent, too. 
 Oh, it was all very businesslike through- 
 out. Afterward we talked about life and 
 books and things. I lent her my books. I 
 read a good deal, you know ; all of us in the 
 printing trades are great readers," he added 
 with a touch of guild pride. "She was 
 better educated than I, though. Where did 
 she get it ? I never found out. Of course I 
 did n't ask any questions. That was part 
 of the bargain, as I understood it. She 
 asked me a million. She turned me inside 
 out and sometimes she laughed at me. But 
 her laughter never hurt. It was n't that 
 kind." 
 
 "Mightn't she have thought that your 
 not asking questions of your own showed 
 a lack of interest in her?" I suggested. 
 Ill 
 
Our Square 
 
 "How could she? I hadn't the right 
 to ask questions. I had n't the right to do 
 anything but watch over her and guard her 
 and keep to my bargain. Every evening 
 she knocked and came in and sat in the 
 wicker chair, and we talked. It was the 
 sweetest thing in life to me, that absolute 
 confidence. But the greater her confidence 
 grew the more I was bound not to let her 
 see what I felt for her. Is n't it so ? You 
 see, I know nothing about women." 
 
 Having my grave doubts upon the point, 
 I offered no advice. 
 
 " She got a job. I don't know where. 
 Next week she began to pay me up." 
 
 *• Did you make any protests ? " I asked, 
 sounding him. 
 
 " Protests ? Certainly not. I could n't, 
 could I? It was a question of her self- 
 respect." 
 
 " Of course. I beg your pardon for 
 asking." 
 
 "There was one night — we had been 
 
 I 12 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 to a concert, Dutch treat, of course — and 
 she came into my room to sit and talk 
 it over for a few minutes. Passing me 
 on her way back to her own room, she 
 stopped behind my chair, and I felt some- 
 thing just brush my temple; and then the 
 door shut behind her and the bar fell, and 
 I heard her voice: 'Good-night, Gala- 
 had.' For the next three days I never set 
 eyes on her." 
 
 « Did that tell you nothing ? " 
 
 "What should it tell me?" retorted 
 that pathetic young idiot. " It was just 
 part of her mystery, of the mystery of 
 woman, I suppose. The next Saturday 
 night that drunken sot, MacLachan, came 
 and ruined everything." 
 
 " Soft words, Leon," I protested, for 
 the dour-faced, harsh-spoken, sore-hearted 
 tailor of Our Square has his own reasons 
 for drink and forgetfulness, and, drunk or 
 sober, he is my friend." 
 
 " I wish he had broken his neck on the 
 
 "3 
 
Our Square 
 
 stairs," said the Gnome savagely. "He 
 sat over there, bleating to me some gib- 
 berish about Scotch philosophy, w^hen 
 Vera came into her room, and knocked 
 as she always did. It was he that called 
 
 * Come in.' She came and stopped, look- 
 ing at him with surprise. 'Oh,' she said, 
 
 * I did n't know.' * No more did I,' said 
 MacLachan, standing up with solemn, 
 drunken politeness. *I was not aweer 
 there was a Mrs. Leon Coventry here.' 
 She turned color, but looked him in the 
 eye. 'There isn't,' said she. 'Then take 
 shame to yerself,' he said. ' Ye should 
 make at least the pretex'.' 
 
 "If she had n't jumped between us, I 
 would have pitched him out of the win- 
 dow. But she checked me long enough 
 for him to get away and run down the 
 stairs. It was the first time I had felt her 
 arms and it turned me sick with longing. 
 She backed away from me and said : • I 'm 
 sorry, Leon. I did n't know there was 
 114 
 
l^he Chair that Whispered 
 
 any one here/ * Wait,' I said. * We 've 
 got to be married now.' If you could have 
 seen her face, you 'd have thought I 'd 
 struck her." He stopped and swept the 
 beads of sweat from his temples. 
 
 "Is that all you said?" I asked. 
 
 He stared at me. " That 's almost what 
 she asked, me ? " he replied. " She said : 
 * Is that all you have to say to me, Leon ? ' 
 I didn't get her meaning. I was intent 
 on the one thing — the bargain : that I 
 mustn't make love to her; that I must 
 n't catch her in my arms and hold her 
 against my heart that was bursting with 
 love of her. The fever was on me, then, 
 too, and I suppose that kept me to the 
 one idea that was burning in my brain. 
 
 " * We can go to the Greek church, 
 on the other side of the square,' I said. 
 ' When can you be ready ? ' 
 
 *' She walked back into her room, and 
 I never saw her again." 
 
 " God forgive you for a fool ! " I said. 
 
 "5 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Why did n't you tell her what every 
 woman wants to hear, that you loved 
 her?" 
 
 "Why, she must have known it; she 
 must have realized it a thousand times, by 
 a thousand signs. Yet she left me — that 
 way." 
 
 " You 've had nothing from her since?" 
 
 "Yes. A money order for the balance 
 of what she owed me." An involuntary, 
 jealous clutch at his pillow told me that 
 the money order had not been and would 
 not be cashed. 
 
 " No word with it ? " 
 
 " Just gratitude." The Gnome's sensi- 
 tive lips quivered. " What do I want 
 with gratitude? I want her! I want to 
 find her. Suppose she were in trouble 
 again. She 's so young and helpless ! " 
 
 " MacLachan never meant — " 
 
 " I went out to kill MacLachan next 
 day. I was having pretty good luck at it 
 too, when Terry the Cop came in. They 
 ii6 
 
'The Chair that Whispered 
 
 brought me back here and called the doc- 
 tor, and MacLachan cried out of one eye, 
 for the other was closed." 
 
 I recalled the tailor's black eye. Fur- 
 ther I recalled that when some other-world 
 business had taken me to Fifth Avenue I 
 had there encountered Mac (of all persons) 
 in (of all places) a millinery store. The frag- 
 ments of his conversation which I caught 
 related to ostriches. To my inquiry he re- 
 plied that he was pursuing a will-o'-the- 
 wisp, and that it was a lawful occupation. 
 The suspicion now lodged in my mind that 
 Mac had been searching for a lost trail. Of 
 this I said nothing to Leon. 
 
 "Sometimes at night," the sick man 
 went on, " when I am not longing to smash 
 up all the world because I can't get out and 
 find her, she comes and sits in the wicker 
 chair, and I hear the pressure of her dear 
 body against the withes, and I feel her 
 breath in the silence, but she never speaks. 
 Is she dead, do you think?" 
 117 
 
Our Square 
 
 I most emphatically declined to enter- 
 tain any such hypothesis. As for the Gnome, 
 it seemed that he soon might be. The Lit- 
 tle Red Doctor's visits grew more frequent, 
 and his brow more corrugated, and his eyes 
 more perplexed. Once he went so far as to 
 observe in my hearing that nature could go 
 just about so far without sleep and then it 
 cracked. 
 
 "Through that crack," he remarked, 
 "enters sometimes my old friend. Death, 
 sometimes madness. Let's pray that it 
 won't be madness in the Gnome's case." 
 
 Indications seemed to point in that di- 
 rection, however. Leon's association with 
 the spirit of the chair became closer and 
 more constant. Night after night I heard 
 him murmuring in the darkness, and the 
 soft creak and rustle and whisper of the 
 chair in reply, until the hairs of my neck 
 quivered. 
 
 There came a night when the heat broke 
 under a pressure qf wild wind and rain from 
 ii8 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 the northwest that swept Our Square like 
 an aerial charge. It whirled me, breathless, 
 into No. 7, and pursued me up the stairs, 
 puffing out the light at the top. The Gnome 
 was working. Beside him on a stand rus- 
 tled a little pile of checks, weighted down. 
 
 "I 'm going to leave a legacy," he said 
 gayly. " Will you be my executor ? You '11 
 have to find Her, you know." 
 
 " Ask me ten years from now, if I 'm 
 alive," I answered. "What's to-night? 
 Reading ? " 
 
 "Sleep, for you. You look done up. 
 Take the couch and a blanket." 
 
 I took them and, with them, what I 
 had originally planned to be a brief nap, 
 for there was medicine to be given now. 
 When I woke up the room was dark. It 
 seemed to me that a cold draft had passed 
 over and roused me. Above the rush and 
 whistle of the wind I could hear the chair 
 whispering. 
 
 "My Heart! Oh, my Heart! Have 
 119 
 
Our Square 
 
 you come back?" pleaded the Gnome's 
 voice in the silence. 
 
 Then all the blood in my body made 
 one great leap and stopped. The chair had 
 sobbed. 
 
 " It has seemed so often that I could 
 stretch out my hand and touch you," went 
 on the piteous, quiet voice from the bed. 
 " But you were never there. And my soul 
 is tired w;ith waiting and longing." 
 
 The chair rustled again with the sound 
 of release from weight. There was a broken 
 cry of love and fear and gladness that was 
 of this and not the other world, and I knew 
 without seeing that it was a woman of 
 flesh and blood who lay on the Gnome's 
 breast, covering his face with her kisses. 
 
 " Darling fool ! Darling fool ! Why 
 didn't you tell me?" she sobbed. "Why 
 did n't you tell me that you loved me ? " 
 
 " I thought that I did," said the Gnome, 
 and I started at the changed voice, for it 
 had suddenly taken on life and vigor. " I 
 
 I20 
 
The Chair that Whispered 
 
 thought I told you in every word and look 
 that you were all my world," There was a 
 pause, then : " Who did tell you ? " 
 
 "Mr. MacLachan. He found me at 
 last. He took me by the arm and said : 
 • Lassie, the love o' you is the life o' him. 
 An' it 's going if you don't come back an' 
 save him ! ' Is it true, dearest one ? " she 
 cried passionately. "Tell me I 'm not too 
 late." 
 
 Then I judged it best to tiptoe quite 
 circumspectly out of the room. On the 
 landing below I met the Little Red Doc- 
 tor. 
 
 "Who went up the stairs just now?" 
 he cried. 
 
 " Love," said L " Did you fear it was 
 Death?" 
 
MacLachan of Our Square 
 
 MACLACHAN, the tailor, is as 
 Scotch as his name and as dour as 
 the Scotch. Our Square goes to his Home 
 of Fashion to have its clothes made, re- 
 paired, and, on rare and special occasions, 
 pressed, as a matter of local loyalty, which 
 does not in the least imply that it either 
 likes or approves MacLachan. It is, in fact, 
 rather difficult to like him. He has a gray- 
 granite face with a mouth like a snapped 
 spring, toppling brows, and a nose wrinkled 
 into the expression of one suspicious of all 
 mankind and convinced that his worst sus- 
 picions are well founded. He has also the 
 Scotch habit of the oracle, and deals largely 
 in second-hand aphorisms. 
 
 Once he had a daughter, a wild-rose girl, 
 who lived over the Home of Fashion with 
 him, and kept him and the place in speck- 
 
 122 
 
MacLachan 
 
 less order. But she is gone, three years 
 since, and in her place MacLachan has 
 only a bitter memory and a devouring 
 shame. What they quarreled about Our 
 Square never knew. The hard-bitten tailor 
 vi^as easy to quarrel with at any time. No 
 information was ofFered by him, and pub- 
 lic opinion in the neighborhood does not 
 favor vain and curious inquiries into an- 
 other man's family troubles. The night 
 that Meg left, with her gray eyes blazing 
 like two clear flames and her little chin 
 so fiercely set that the dimple disappeared 
 from it totally, MacLachan went out 
 blackly glowering, and came back drunk 
 and singing "The Cork Leg." 
 
 What affinity may exist, even in a Scotch- 
 man's mind, between that naive and chatty 
 ballad and strong liquor is beyond my im- 
 agination. But our dour, sour tailor then 
 and there chose it and has since retained it 
 for the slogan of his spirituous outbreaks, 
 and sings it only when he is, in his own 
 123 
 
Our Square 
 
 phrase, "a bit drink-taken." The Bonnie 
 Lassie has one of her queer theories that 
 he used to sing Meg to sleep with it when 
 she was a baby. " And that 's why, you see,' ' 
 says she. I don't see at all ; it seems to me 
 a psychologically unsound theory. Still, 
 some of the unsoundest theories I have ever 
 heard from the Bonnie Lassie's lips have 
 been inexplicably borne out by the facts 
 afterward. When I marvel at this she 
 laughs and says that an old pedagogue who 
 has spent his life with books must n't ex- 
 pect to understand people. 
 
 As for the wild-rose Meg, she passed 
 wholly out of the little, close-knit, se- 
 cluded world of Our Square. Even those 
 few of us who knew MacLachan and 
 counted ourselves his friends feared to men- 
 tion her name, not so much because of his 
 known temper as of the haunting pain that 
 grew in his eyes. With the temerity of 
 youth, Henry Groll, one of Meg's many 
 local adorers, and the best second tenor in 
 124 
 
MacLachan 
 
 the Amalgamated Glee Clubs, did put it 
 to the tailor, having come to the Home of 
 Fashion on a matter of international com- 
 plications, viz., to ascertain whether red 
 Hungarian wine would come out of a 
 French pique waistcoat. 
 
 "By the way, what d' you hear from 
 Meg?" inquired the young man. 
 
 " What ! " The tailor's heavy shears 
 went off at such a bias across the cloth he 
 was cutting that Lawyer Stedman's coat, 
 when completed, never could be coaxed to 
 set exactly right under the left arm. 
 
 "I — I only ast ye," said the visitor, 
 somewhat disconcerted. "What's Meg 
 doin' now ? " 
 
 Three inches lower — the Little Red 
 Doctor assured Henry a few moments after 
 his ill-advised query, binding up the spot 
 where the flung scissors had struck — and 
 he would never again have sung second 
 tenor nor anything else calling for the em- 
 ployment of intact vocal cords. Henry sent 
 125 
 
Our Square 
 
 a messenger after the waistcoat. That night 
 MacLachan reeled home bellowing " The 
 Cork Leg " in a voice that brought Terry 
 the Cop bounding across Our Square like 
 a dissuasive antelope. 
 
 My one first-hand experience with the 
 ballad of MacLachan's lapse from sobriety 
 was brought about long after through the 
 Bonnie Lassie's procuring. She thrust a 
 sunny head from her studio window and 
 beckoned me from the sidewalk with her 
 modeling tool. 
 
 " Dominie, have you seen MacLachan, 
 the tailor, to-day?" she called when she 
 secured my attention. 
 
 " No. Is he looking for me ?" 
 " You should be looking for him." 
 I examined my clothing for possible 
 rents or stains. My sober black was re- 
 spectable if shiny. The Bonnie Lassie 
 made a gesture of annoyance with the 
 modeling tool which nearly cost her latest 
 creation its head. 
 
 126 
 
MacLachan 
 
 " Do you know what day this is ? " 
 
 "Tuesday, the sev — " 
 
 " Don't be a calendar, please ! What day 
 is it in MacLachan's life ? " 
 
 I groped. "Is it his birthday?" (Not 
 that we are much given to celebrating 
 birthdays in Our Square.) 
 
 " Oh, you men ! You men ! I 've just 
 telephoned the Little Red Doctor and he 
 did n't know either. It 's the second anni- 
 versary of the day MacLachan's Meg left 
 him. Do you remember what happened 
 last year, dominie?" 
 
 Did I remember ! When Lawyer Sted- 
 man had lured me to perjure my immor- 
 tal soul before a magistrate, who let Mac 
 off only upon the strength of a character 
 sketch (by me) that would have over- 
 praised any one of the Twelve Apostles ! 
 I did remember. 
 
 " Very well, then. You and the doctor 
 are to take him away this evening. Far 
 away and bring him back sober." 
 127 
 
Our Square 
 
 We did our best. And we almost suc- 
 ceeded. For it was close on midnight and 
 Mac was sleepily homebound between us 
 before what he had drunk — against a ris- 
 ing current of our protests — awoke the 
 devil of music in his brain. We were cut- 
 ting across Second Avenue when he began : 
 
 " I '11 tell you a story without any sham. 
 In Holland there lived Mynheer van Flam, 
 Who every morning said : ' I am 
 The richest merchant in Rotterdam, 
 Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nu — da — na — day ! 
 Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nay ! ' " 
 
 From the shadow of a tree there moved 
 one of those brazen and piteous she-ghosts 
 that haunt the locality. She addressed 
 the three of us with hopeful impartiality. 
 MacLachan shook himself free of our arms 
 and walked close to her, staring strangely 
 into her face. 
 
 " I 've got a daughter in your line of 
 trade," he said. 
 
 He spoke quietly, but the she-ghost read 
 128 
 
MacLachan 
 
 his eyes. She shrank backtrembUng, stam- 
 mered something, and hurried away. 
 
 Not until we entered Our Square, after 
 ten minutes of strained silence, did Mac- 
 Lachan look up from the pavement. 
 
 "Was there a lassie I spoke to?" he 
 asked vaguely. "What did I say to her?" 
 
 The Little Red Doctor told him cir- 
 cumstantially. " Personally, I think you 're 
 a liar," he added. 
 
 " Do ye ? " wistfully answered the tailor, 
 slumping upon a bench. " I take it kind of 
 ye that ye do. But I 'm no liar. Once and 
 for all I '11 tell ye both. Then ye '11 know, 
 and we '11 bury it. When my Meg left me 
 I began to die — inside. The last thing in 
 me to die was my pride. When that was 
 dead too — or I thought it so — I set out 
 to seek her. I found her. It was just off 
 Sixth Avenue. In the broad o' the after- 
 noon it was, and there she stood bedizened 
 like yon poor hussy that spoke to us. Rad- 
 dled with paint too ; raddled to the eyes. 
 129 
 
Our Square 
 
 But the eyes had not changed. They looked 
 at me straight and brave and hard. I had 
 meant well by her, however I might find 
 her. God knows I did ! But at the sight 
 of her so, my gorge rose. ' What are ye,' 
 says I, • that ye should come into the light 
 of day wearing shame on yer face ? ' Her 
 look never wavered — you mind how fear- 
 less she always was, dominie — though she 
 must have seen I was near to killing her 
 with my naked hands. * I 'm as you see me. 
 Take me or leave me,' she says. So I left 
 her to go her ways, and I went mine." 
 
 There was a long silence. Then the 
 Little Red Doctor deliberately measured 
 off a short inch on MacLachan's fore- 
 finger. 
 
 " You 're not that much of a man, Mac," 
 said he, and flipped the hand from him. 
 " Do you take him home, dominie ; I 
 have n't the stomach for any more of him 
 to-night." 
 
 With any other than the Little Red 
 130 
 
MacLachan 
 
 Doctor it would have been a lasting quar- 
 rel. But the official physician and healer 
 of bodies (and souls at times) to Our Square 
 is too full of other and more important 
 things to find room for resentment. So 
 when, a fortnight later, MacLachan sallied 
 forth to the tune of " The Cork Leg," and 
 came back raving with pneumonia, it was, 
 of course, the Red One who pulled him 
 through it. And in that period of delirium 
 and truth the wise little physician saw deep 
 into the true MacLachan and realized that 
 a spirit as wistful and craving as a child's 
 was beating itself to death against the bars 
 of the dour Scotch tradition of silence and 
 repression. 
 
 "He'll kill himself with the drink," 
 said the Little Red Doctor to me after the 
 tailor was restored to the Home of Fashion. 
 "Though I'll stop him if I can. That's 
 my business. Even so, maybe I '11 be wrong. 
 For the man's heart is breaking slowly. 
 I 've a notion that my old friend, Death, 
 
 131 
 
Our Square 
 
 might do better with the case than I 
 can." 
 
 At shorter and ever shortening intervals 
 thereafter the booming baritone rendition 
 of "The Cork Leg" apprised Our Square 
 that the tailor was " on it again." One late 
 August day, as the doctor was passing the 
 Home of Fashion, he heard from behind 
 the closed door the sound of MacLachan's 
 mirthless revelry. He stepped in and found 
 the Scot, cross-legged and with a bottle at 
 his elbow, rocking in time to his own 
 melody while he stylishly braided mine 
 host Schmidt's pants ("trousers" is an 
 effete term not favored by Arbiter Mac- 
 Lachan) for the morrow's picnic and out- 
 ing of the Pinochle Club : — 
 
 " One day when he 'd stuffed him as full as an egg 
 A poor relation came to beg, 
 But he kicked him out without broaching a keg. 
 And in kicking him out he broke his own leg. 
 Ri-tu, di-nu, di — " 
 
 "Shut up, Mac! Stop it." 
 
 132 
 
MacLachan 
 
 " I 've stopped. You 've rooned my mu- 
 sic. The noblest song, bar Bobbie Burns 
 — What 's yer wish, little mannie?" 
 
 " I 've some work for you." 
 
 " I 've no time — " 
 
 " It 's important. I must surely have it 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " * Must is a master word, but will not is 
 no man's slave,' " pronounced MacLachan, 
 the oracle. 
 
 " Listen, Mac," pleaded the other. " I 've 
 a consultation to-morrow, and I must have 
 my other coat fixed up for it." 
 
 " What 's wrong wi' the garrment ? " 
 
 " It 's — it 's ripped : torn across the 
 skirt," floundered the Little Red Doctor, 
 who is a weak, unreliable prevaricator at 
 best. 
 
 The dour tailor leaned forward and 
 shook his goose at the visitor. " Peril yer 
 salvation with no more black lies about 
 yer black coat," said he firmly. " It 's the 
 drink ye 're strivin' to wean me from. But 
 
 133 
 
Our Square 
 
 I 'm proof against yer strategy, ye pill-an'- 
 pellet Macchiavelli ! Ye 've no more rip 
 nor tear in yer black coat than I 've a ring 
 in my nose." 
 
 "Well, I 'd have made one, then," re- 
 turned the shameless doctor. 
 
 "Ye'd have wasted time and money. 
 Go yer ow^n gait an' fight yer old friend, 
 Death. But leave me w^ith my friend, the 
 Drink." 
 
 "Listen to me, Mac. As sure as you 
 keep it up, just so sure the dissecting-room 
 will get your kidneys and the devil will get 
 your soul." 
 
 Carefully setting aside the bottle, Mac- 
 Lachan leaned forward to fasten a claw on 
 the Little Red Doctor's shoulder. 
 
 " Do you listen now, and I '11 tell ye a 
 secret. While I 'm still sober I '11 tell it 
 ye, so you '11 believe it and fash me no 
 more about the drink. Ye say the devil will 
 get rny soul. Ye 're a backward prophet, 
 mannie. He 's got it. Yes, he 's got it, an' 
 
 134 
 
MacLachan 
 
 another of the sarfte blood to boot. An' all 
 he ever gave me in trade is this," he cried, 
 pointing to the bottle. " So go an' save 
 them as w^ants it, or stay an' listen : — 
 
 " ' Mr. Doctor,' says he, ' now you've done your work. 
 By your sharp knife I lose one fork, 
 But on two crutches I never will stalk. 
 For I '11 have a beautiful leg of cork.' " 
 
 « Mac." 
 
 " Don't delay my work. I 've to finish 
 these pants before John Nelson comes to 
 fetch me. " 
 
 "Who 's John Nelson?" 
 
 " Friend of my seafarin' days. Now 
 Captain Nelson, if ye please, in the coast- 
 wise trade, new back from the deep seas 
 and the roaring trades with a tropical thirst. 
 *T is he sent me yon messenger," and he 
 indicated the bottle of rum. "Be easy. I'll 
 not come back to Our Square till I 'm 
 sober." 
 
 " If you do, I '11 swear you into Belle- 
 vue with my own right hand," declared 
 
 135 
 
Our Square 
 
 the Little Red Doctor disgustedly. He 
 slammed the door as he went out. 
 
 The next person to open that door was 
 Captain John Nelson. There was a brief 
 ceremonial in which the captain's mes- 
 senger played an important role, the new- 
 comer joined his voice, for old friendship's 
 sake, in the refrain of MacLachan's favor- 
 ite ballad, and shortly thereafter the twain 
 were seen arm in arm making a straight 
 course across the open for unknown lands. 
 All that we of Our Square had to judge 
 MacLachan's sea comrade by was a stump- 
 ing gait, a plump figure, a brown and good- 
 humored face, and a most appalling in- 
 terpretation of the second part in simple 
 harmony. 
 
 We were to see him once again, briefly ; 
 to hear from his lips the events of that 
 astonishing evening. Of the Odyssey of 
 the sailor and the tailor there is little to 
 be said. Crisscross and back, along Broad- 
 way, from Fourteenth Street upward, it 
 136 
 
MacLachan 
 
 ran, coming to a stop shortly before theater- 
 closing time at a small restaurant which, 
 I am told, has a free-and-easy rather than 
 an unsavory repute. There they sat down 
 to a bit of supper, having had, as the cap- 
 tain pathetically stated later, not a bite to 
 eat since dinner at eight o'clock. I still 
 possess the worthy mariner's " chart of the 
 operations," as he terms it, sketched in 
 order that we landlubbers of Our Square 
 might comprehend fully how it all devel- 
 oped. From this masterpiece of cartogra- 
 phy I learn that the two friends occu- 
 pied a side table some halfway down the 
 room, Captain Nelson facing the rear. At 
 the next table back, and therefore directly 
 in his view, sat a couple, the lady spread- 
 ing so much canvas that she covered all 
 of ninety degrees, whereby the mariner 
 means, I take it, that his neighbor's hat 
 shut off his view of the prospect beyond. 
 Food and drinks being ordered, Mac- 
 Lachan had just leaned back to a discus- 
 
 137 
 
Our Square 
 
 sion of the relative merits of Burns and 
 Carlyle when the orchestra struck into a 
 tune not unlike " The Cork Leg." To the 
 scandal and distress of the captain, Mac- 
 Lachan straightway lifted up his voice : — 
 
 " A tinker in Rotterdam, 't would seem. 
 Had made cork legs his study and theme. 
 Each joint was as strong as an iron beam 
 And the springs were a compound of clockwork 
 
 and steam. 
 Ri-tu — " 
 
 The diplomatic dissuasions of the head 
 waiter, added to the pained and profane 
 protests of his companion, induced the 
 singer to stop at that point. But the lady- 
 under-full-sail arose with a proud, dis- 
 gusted expression and stalked out, drawing 
 her escort in her wake and uttering loud 
 and refined reflections upon the vulgar 
 environment. Thus was left to Captain 
 Nelson, resuming his seat, a clear view to 
 the far-rear table. This table, he was ses- 
 thetically pleased to note, was occupied by 
 138 
 
MacLachan 
 
 a distinctively pretty girl. The girl, as he 
 was humanly affected in perceiving, w^as 
 exhibiting what, all silly mock modesty 
 apart, he could interpret only as a marked 
 interest in his own romantic and attractive 
 personality. 
 
 " What for are you swelling up like a 
 bullpout, John ?" inquired his companion, 
 who, having his back turned, had seen 
 nothing of the byplay. 
 
 The sailor waved a jaunty hand. " Noth- 
 ing ; nothing at all. It often happens to 
 me. Just a pretty lass in the offing flying 
 signals." 
 
 Without turning, MacLachan made 
 some references of a libelous character 
 concerning a Babylonian lady whose an- 
 tiquity is the only excuse for her even 
 being mentioned by respectable lips. 
 
 "Babylon, Long Island?" queried the 
 captain. " I 've got an aunt lives there. 
 You think this young lady comes from 
 those parts?" 
 
 139 
 
Our Square 
 
 "How do I know? " growled the tailor, 
 and explained in biting terms that his 
 citation was symbolic, not geographic. 
 
 "Hum!" said the seafarer. "She's a 
 little high-colored, I admit, but that don't 
 make her what you say. Anyway, I '11 just 
 run down and speak a word of politeness 
 to her. By the time you 've finished that 
 drink and the next I '11 be back." 
 
 The incognita received Captain Nelson 
 with a direct and unsmiling handshake. 
 
 "You know me," she instructed him 
 under her breath as a waiter came up. 
 " We 're old acquaintances." Then in full 
 voice : " I hardly recognized you at first. 
 How long is it since I 'veseen you?" 
 
 Necessity for immediate invention was 
 obviated by the opportune arrival of the 
 waiter. Glancing at the tall, icy glass in 
 front of his new acquaintance, the bold 
 mariner said: "I'll take the same," and was 
 considerably disconcerted when the waiter 
 passed along the word : " One lemonade." 
 140 
 
MacLachan 
 
 " Now," said the girl sharply as soon as 
 the waiter had left, " who is your friend 
 that sings?" 
 
 " His name 's MacLachan, He 's all 
 right, only — " 
 
 " Bring him here." 
 
 "But first can't I — " 
 
 " Bring him here," repeated the girl 
 inexorably. " I like his voice." 
 
 Sadly the shattered seafarer retraced his 
 course. MacLachan listened, demurred, 
 growled, acquiesced. As the pair walked 
 along, the tailor reeling a bit, the girl 
 was busy searching for something under 
 the table. She did not lift her face until 
 the men were beside her. Then she rose 
 and looked up at MacLachan. 
 
 " Dad," she said. 
 
 MacLachan went stark, staring sober 
 in one pulse-beat. But all he said was 
 "Oh ! " That is all, I am told, that men 
 say when they are shot through the heart. 
 Nelson slid a chair behind his friend's 
 141 
 
Our Square 
 
 trembling knees. He sat down. Bend- 
 ing forward, he glared into the garishly 
 splotched face of his daughter and put his 
 hand to his throat, struggling for speech. 
 A door behind closed, and a cheerful, 
 boyish voice said : — 
 
 " Hello, little girl. Been waiting long ? " 
 
 The wild-rose face dimpled and blos- 
 somed into sweetness under the layers of 
 paint. " Hello, Jim-boy. Get yourself a 
 chair." 
 
 " Introduce me to your friends," said 
 the newcomer. 
 
 "That one used to be my old dad," 
 said the girl slowly. 
 
 The young man whistled as he drew in 
 his chair. " Quite a family party," he 
 remarked. 
 
 "Who is this ?" demanded MacLachan. 
 
 " My husband." 
 
 " Your — your husb — " MacLachan 
 took a deep gulp from the lemonade glass 
 which the resourceful captain thoughtfully 
 142 
 
MacLachan 
 
 thrust into his hand. " Why, he — he 's 
 a mere laddie. Can he support ye?" 
 
 " He 's making seventy-five a week 
 every week in the year," said the girl 
 quietly. " And I 'm good for about that 
 average." 
 
 " You ? In what trade ? " demanded 
 the father slowly and fearfully. 
 
 " The movies. Both of us. He 's a set 
 designer. I 'm an ingenue. Why else 
 would I be all gommered up like this " 
 (she touched her cheeks), " not having 
 time to wash off my make-up ? " 
 
 " How long have ye been in the busi- 
 ness?" faltered MacLachan. 
 
 " Since I left. It was hard at first." 
 
 "When I saw ye in the street that 
 day — " 
 
 She nodded. "Yes; I was just out of 
 rehearsal." 
 
 Then the devil's pride of the Scot, re- 
 calling with fierce self-pity his long heart- 
 break and loneliness, rose in a flame of 
 
 H3 
 
Our Square 
 
 resentment and seared the flowering love 
 in his heart. 
 
 " Ye gave me no word," he snarled, 
 rising. " Ye knew I was killing myself 
 for lo — , for shame of ye, and ye let be. 
 What do I owe ye but a curse ! " 
 
 "That's enough," said the boy hus- 
 band ; but his voice had become that of a 
 man. 
 
 " Dad ! " cried the girl. 
 
 MacLachan, the dour, turned away. 
 Nelson set a hand on his arm, but he 
 struck it down. 
 
 " Oh, Jim-boy ! " whispered the girl to 
 her husband. " I can't let him go again." 
 
 He was a youth of resource, that hus- 
 band; I'm not prepared to say that he 
 did n't have even a touch of genius. 
 " Granddad ! " he said. 
 
 "Eh?" MacLachan stopped, as if 
 stricken in his tracks. 
 
 "What do you think of her?" Jim- 
 boy had produced, quick as conjuring, a 
 144 
 
"^ 
 
 
 «. 
 
 5 
 
 <3 
 
MacLachan 
 
 little leather-mounted photograph which 
 he held up before MacLachan's eyes. 
 " Did Meg look like her when she was a 
 baby?" 
 
 " The varra spit an' image," cried. Mac- 
 Lachan, reverting to his broadest Scotch. 
 Then, with a cry that shook him : " My 
 bairnie ! " 
 
 Meg went to his arms in a leap. 
 
 "And you may believe it or not — I 
 would not, on the oath of a chaplain if I 
 had not seen it with my own eyes," ran 
 Captain Nelson's subsequent narrative to 
 Our Square, " but I saw the tears on those 
 twin gray rocks that serve MacLachan for 
 cheeks. So I drifted down to leeward and 
 gathered my coat and gave three waiters 
 a quarter each for not staring and came 
 away to tell you. And you '11 forgive me 
 for waking the two of you up, and it gone 
 eight bells — I mean midnight — but that 
 was Mac's last word as I left, that I was 
 to tell you. He said you 'd be glad." 
 
Our Square 
 
 Glad we were, and all Our Square 
 joined in the gladness, for it was a changed 
 and softened MacLachan that came back 
 to us, sober and strangely, gently awk- 
 ward, the next day after a night spent 
 with " my family." 
 
 "Ye '11 not see me drink-taken again," 
 he promised the Little Red Doctor. 
 
 That good word went swiftly. Conse- 
 quently it was the greater shock when, on 
 the very next Thursday afternoon, several 
 of us who had run into the Bonnie Las- 
 sie's studio for tea and the weekly inspec- 
 tion of ourselves as mirrored in her w^ork, 
 heard in the familiar rumbling baritone 
 from the open park space : — 
 
 " Horror and fright were in his face, 
 The neighbors thought he was running a race. 
 He clung to a lamp-post to stay his pace. 
 But the leg broke away and kept up the chase, 
 Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nu — di — na — day ! 
 Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nay ! " 
 
 " My God! " cried the Little Red Doc- 
 tor in consternation. " Mac 's off again." 
 
 146 
 
MacLachan 
 
 He jumped up, but the Bonnie Lassie 
 was quicker. " Let me get him," she 
 said, and ran from the room. 
 
 Almost at once she was back, her face 
 quivering. " Come and look ! " she bade 
 us. 
 
 We crowded the front windows. On 
 a bench in Our Square slouched a thin, 
 hard, angular figure, terminating in a 
 thin, hard, angular face, at the moment 
 wide open and pouring forth unabashed 
 melody for the apparent benefit of a much 
 befrilled vehicle, which was being pro- 
 pelled back and forth by a thin, long leg. 
 MacLachan was entertaining his grand- 
 daughter. 
 
The Great ^Peacemaker 
 
 A Story of Neutrality in Our 
 \ Square 
 
 ONE of the notable sporting events of 
 Our Square is the nightly chess duel 
 at Thornsen's Elite Restaurant. Many a 
 beer, not a few dinners, and once even a 
 bottle of real champagne won and lost, 
 have marked the enthusiasm and partisan- 
 ship of the backers. Personally I prefer 
 David's cavalry dash as exemplified in 
 long-range handling of doubled rooks, but 
 there are plenty who swear and bet by 
 the sapper-and-miner doggedness of Jona- 
 than's pawn manipulations. The contest- 
 ants have been known as David and Jona- 
 than to Our Square for ten years, except 
 for the late, melancholy months following 
 the combat which broke off all relations 
 and left the corner table at Thornsen's 
 148 
 
The Great Peacemaker 
 
 vacant. Since then the light-minded — 
 such as Cyrus the Gaunt — have called 
 them David and Goliath. 
 
 David is a little, old, hot-hearted French- 
 man whose real name is Henri Dumain. 
 Hermann GroU, alias Jonathan, alias (alas !) 
 Goliath, is a ponderous and gentle old Ger- 
 man. Their first meeting was at Thomson's, 
 back early in the century, when there were 
 only ten tables in the place and the front 
 window shyly invited the public through 
 the medium of a guinea-chicken, a fish in 
 season, and two chops with their paper- 
 frilled shanks engaged like buttoned foils. 
 In those days Henri, a newcomer, sat back 
 against the side wall and unobtrusively 
 watched a guerrilla campaign between 
 Hermann and a nondescript casual patron 
 with weak eyes and a deprecating man- 
 ner, of whom none of us knew anything 
 except that he came from somewhere on 
 Avenue B and had an irritating trick of 
 answering queen's gambit by pawn to 
 149 
 
Our Square 
 
 king's rook 4. But one evening two thick- 
 booted strangers interrupted the game and 
 took away the eccentric pawn-pusher. He 
 had, it appeared, flavored his aged aunt's 
 soup with arsenic. Life has its thrills in 
 Our Square ! 
 
 Hermann was disconsolate. "A pity," 
 he murmured. "I should have check- 
 mated in four moves." 
 
 " Your pardon, but I think not," said 
 a courteous but positive voice. 
 
 Hermann looked up and saw Henri. 
 " You think not ? " he said mildly. " Maybe 
 so. We will try. Sit down." 
 
 They played it out. Owing to an un- 
 foreseen brilliant diversion on the part of 
 the newcomer's knight, the struggle was 
 prolonged for twenty moves before vic- 
 tory went to the Teuton. He rose. 
 . "The sacrifice of the rook's pawn," 
 he observed, " was able. Very able. To- 
 morrow evening ? " 
 
 " With pleasure," answered his adver- 
 150 
 
T'he Great Peacemaker 
 
 sary. Thereafter they played nightly, with 
 almost equal fortunes, and as they played 
 their association ripened into friendship, 
 and their friendship, through sympathies 
 subtle and strange in two characters so ap- 
 parently unlike, into the love that passeth 
 the love of woman. They became David 
 and Jonathan indeed, and one of the pleas- 
 antest sights that helped me to peaceful 
 dreams was the frequent glimpse I got of 
 the big German and the little Frenchman 
 walking home after the battle arm in arm 
 across Our Square. 
 
 Each had been a lone spirit, craving 
 companionship. And nearest to the lonely 
 heart of each was the struggle and achieve- 
 ment of an only son in the other half of 
 the world ; - one carving out a business 
 career in Algiers, the other introducing 
 American ideas in horticulture to the staid 
 garden scientists of Wurtemberg. Pres- 
 ently they took to reading their boys' letters 
 in common ; and they would chuckle, or 
 
 151 
 
Our Square 
 
 look serious, or debate, or prophesy with a 
 single and equal interest whether it were 
 a matter of Hermann, Jr., or of young 
 Robert in Africa. Comradeship can go no 
 deeper. The flash of a foreign postage 
 stamp across the marble-topped table was 
 the signal for Elsa, the polyglot cashier 
 of the Elite, to set down one more drink 
 than usual, for it invariably meant a pro- 
 longed and confidential confab after the 
 game was over. Tradition held their chosen 
 table always in reserve. And tradition has 
 all the force and more than the respect of 
 law in Our Square. 
 
 Judge, then, of our amazement at the 
 unprecedented behavior of Inky Mike on 
 a certain evening a little before the reg- 
 ular hour for the chess-players to appear. 
 The world without was big with the pres- 
 age of tremendous events just then, but 
 this was forgotten for the moment in the 
 shock of Mike's performance. He saun- 
 tered down the length of the aisle, an ex- 
 152 
 
'The Great Peacemaker 
 
 pression of self-confidence upon his smeary 
 countenance, and coolly dropped into 
 Jonathan's chair, nodding to Elsa, the 
 pretty polyglot. Now Inky Mike plumes 
 himself upon a "connection with the 
 press" (through the rollers, it is under- 
 stood in Our Square, though he is loftily 
 vague about it) and the passion of his life 
 is to pick news "off the wires" and an- 
 nounce it in advance of print, in some 
 startling manner. This might be one of his 
 coups. Elsa regarded him with puzzled 
 suspicion. Then she descended upon him, 
 polite but with firm purpose of eviction. 
 
 "Bitte," she said, with the queenly ges- 
 ture of one accustomed to command. 
 
 Mike lifted one eyebrow, and that with 
 an effort. Otherwise he stirred not. 
 
 "S'il "uous plait!" said the little cashier 
 determinedly. 
 
 " Mine 's a beer," returned the smeary 
 one. 
 
 " If you please ! " she stamped her foot 
 
 ^S2 
 
Our Square 
 
 in the universal and unmistakable lan- 
 guage. 
 
 " Oh, I got you the foist time," drawled 
 Mike. "You should worry. They won't 
 be here." 
 
 " No — o — o — oah ? " queried Elsa in a 
 soaring whoop of amazement. 
 
 "Not this evenin', nor any other eve- 
 nin' ! You can plant a ' To Let ' sign on 
 their table. They won't care." 
 
 "Warum? Pourquoi pas? W'y not?" 
 
 The repository of terrible secrets deliv- 
 ered himself of his theme in complacent 
 triumph. " War 's just declared between 
 France and Germany. That 's w'y not." 
 
 Thus the tremendous news came to 
 Thornsen's. On the heels of it came the 
 Teutonic Jonathan. Inky Mike rose as- 
 tounded and hastily moved, for he is suf- 
 ficiently one of us to respect the Square's 
 traditions. 
 
 "Excuse me," he apologized. "Is Mis- 
 ter — is your side pardner coming?" 
 
 154 
 
The Great Peacemaker 
 
 The answer to the question was given 
 in the person of the Gallic David. Inky 
 Mike gaped at them. 
 
 "Will they mix it, d'ye think ? "he 
 inquired in an awed and hopeful tone of 
 Cyrus the Gaunt, who was eating ice 
 cream at an adjoining table with the 
 Bonnie Lassie. Those were the days when 
 the Bonnie Lassie was sculping Cyrus the 
 Gaunt and Cyrus was acting as chauffeur 
 to ten tons of steam roller on a bet, and 
 each was discovering the other to be the 
 most wonderful person in the world — in 
 which they were n't so far wrong as a 
 cynical mind might suppose. 
 
 Cyrus did not think; at least not for 
 the inkful one's benefit. He acted. It was 
 done unobtrusively, his shifting to the table 
 next the chess rivals. They did not notice 
 it. They did not notice anything but each 
 other. David was breathing hard, as he 
 took his seat, and a queer light flickered 
 in his eyes. 
 
Our Square 
 
 " You take black to-night," said Jona- 
 than slowly. 
 
 His friend pushed the chessboard aside. 
 " You have heard ? " he said, and pulling 
 a newspaper from his pocket slapped it on 
 the table. 
 
 Now the doubly damned devil of mis- 
 chance influenced him to reach into the 
 wrong pocket, so he drew forth not the 
 "Extry — Extry" which he had just 
 bought of Cripple Chris on the corner, but 
 an earlier copy of the " Courrier des Etats- 
 Unis." Jonathan stifl?ened in his chair. 
 
 " I do not read that language," he said 
 deliberately. 
 
 " You have then perhaps lost your mind 
 since yesterday," said the fiery little French- 
 man. 
 
 " I have the mind I have always had. 
 It is a German mind," was the grim re- 
 sponse. 
 
 " Then it is the mind of a savage ! " 
 cried the other. 
 
 156 
 
The Great Peacemaker 
 
 The big man got to his feet. The little 
 one was up as quickly. Cyrus the Gaunt 
 laid a hand, every finger of which had the 
 grip of a lobster's claw, on the shoulder 
 of each. 
 
 "Sit down," he said quietly. "Let's 
 arbitrate." 
 
 " But," began the Frenchman, "I — 
 he—" 
 
 " There 's a lady waiting to speak to 
 you," interrupted Cyrus. 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie stood, smiling but 
 anxious-eyed, behind his shoulder. David 
 sprang to get her a chair. Then they in- 
 vited me into consultation, and we sat in 
 solemn conclave while Inky Mike hov- 
 ered, with diminishing hopes, on the out- 
 skirts. At the close there was ratified what 
 I believe to have been the first agreement 
 of total neutrality in the present world 
 conflict. By its provisions every topic hav- 
 ing to do with the war or any of the par- 
 ties to it was rigorously tabooed. Both the 
 
Our Square 
 
 German and the French language, even 
 for purposes of exclamation and emphasis, 
 were to be eschewed. Literature, art, and 
 music were, however, to remain open top- 
 ics, irrespective of nationality. And chess, 
 that studious mimicry of what is most ter- 
 rible in the world, was to proceed as usual. 
 That evening David and Jonathan walked 
 homeward across Our Square arm in arm. 
 By what unremitting exercise of self- 
 control and loyalty those two kept the 
 pact through the tinder-and-powder events 
 of succeeding months only they them- 
 selves know. It was pitiful and at the 
 same time beautiful to see the subterfuges 
 whereby they preserved their affection 
 from the blight of the all-devouring war, 
 even in its remote associations. There 
 came a day when mails arrived by a 
 Holland steamer. That evening David 
 waited expectant. But his friend gave out 
 no news. The natural impatience of the 
 Frenchman broke bounds. 
 158 
 
l^he Great Peacemaker 
 
 " And the young Hermann ? " he de- 
 manded. " How goes it with our special 
 assistant to Mother Nature?" 
 
 " It goes — it goes well," answered 
 Jonathan. 
 
 "He persuades the others to his ideas, 
 always ? " 
 
 " Hermann is no longer in the gardens. 
 He — he has left." 
 
 "Left!" cried David. "Given up — " 
 He stopped short, looking into the face 
 of his friend, a face whose eyes shifted un- 
 easily away from his. Then comprehen- 
 sion came to him, and he did a fine and 
 beautiful thing. 
 
 "To the brave," said he, lifting his 
 glass, " who face death for the country 
 that they love." 
 
 Was there, perhaps, a small savor of salt 
 to the beer which Jonathan set down after 
 his draught ? If so, he need not have been 
 ashamed. It seemed to me, when I saw 
 them going home that night, that their 
 
Our Square 
 
 arms were hooked a little closer than 
 common. 
 
 Not long after it was David's turn to 
 get a letter. He sat fingering it when 
 Jonathan entered. 
 
 "From our young Robert?" asked the 
 German. 
 
 David nodded. 
 
 " Am I to see it ? " 
 
 " He says — he says some things about 
 — about the war," faltered the Frenchman . 
 "Youth is perhaps harsh. And he is a high 
 spirit — my boy." 
 
 Something in the tone told the Ger- 
 man, " He has enlisted ? " 
 
 The other father nodded. 
 
 " I am glad," said the German simply. 
 " And may God bring him safely through! " 
 
 How that could have happened which 
 did thereafter come to pass between two 
 souls so fine, so brave, so forbearing, is 
 one of the mysteries of the madness of 
 the human heart. It was on the evening 
 1 60 
 
The Great Peacemaker 
 
 when Elsa, the polyglot, had just com- 
 pleted her chef-d' aeuvre of embroidery 
 which still hangs upon the wall. It is a 
 legend subscribed in a double scroll, which 
 is held in the beak of a dove of peace 
 about half the size of the scroll, the whole 
 being tastefully surrounded by a frieze of 
 olive branches done in blue, Elsa's green 
 yarn having given out prematurely. The 
 legend reads : — 
 
 BE NEUTRAL 
 
 SPEAK ENGLISH 
 
 THINK AMERICAN 
 
 Out of compliment she had hung it 
 over the chess-players' table. The game 
 developed a swift and interesting attack, 
 that evening, down an open center, David 
 having castled on the queen's side, and 
 brought both rooks into early action. All 
 was going well for him, when a band out- 
 side halted and began to play " Die Wacht 
 am Rhein." That they played it atro- 
 ciously out of tune is unimportant to the 
 i6i 
 
Our Square 
 
 issue. Rendered by a celestial choir that 
 particular song would probably have in- 
 spired David with frenzy. The first symp- 
 tom was that he moved his queen upon a 
 diagonal with his king, open to an oppos- 
 ing bishop. Just what the course of events 
 subsequently was I cannot say, as my table 
 was in the far end. But I heard Elsa's 
 lamentable voice, startled quite out of the 
 practice of the language neutrality which 
 she preached, and this is what I heard : — 
 
 "Oh, Messieurs! Oh! Meine Herren!! 
 Gents!!!" 
 
 Crash! The chessboard was swept to 
 the floor, and the contestants rolled after 
 it, tight clinched. They tipped over two 
 neighboring tables, and a plate of salad, a 
 soft-shell crab, and a fried chicken, violat- 
 ing their neutrality, descended to take a 
 conspicuous part in the fight. Over and 
 over rolled the combatants, now one on 
 top, now the other, clawing, kicking, 
 pummeling, and filling the air with bi- 
 162 
 
'The Great Peacemaker 
 
 lingual fury. It was all very comic, for the 
 onlookers who did n't understand, and the 
 " Tribune " reporter made a good story of 
 it next day. But he did not know — how 
 could he? — the underlying tragedy; the 
 tragedy of hate, where love had been and 
 loneliness in the place of comradeship. 
 With ordinary luck it might have been 
 kept out of the newspapers and the police 
 court, but, unfortunately, Terry the Cop, 
 a wise young Daniel of Our Square, was 
 followed in by a strange policeman. "And 
 so," Terry explained to me, regretfully, 
 " I had to make the pinch. Would n't it 
 make you sick?" he added. "Two good 
 old guys like them ! War sure is hell ! " 
 
 Of the subsequent proceedings. Inky 
 Mike brought us a fuller report than the 
 newspapers. The Little Red Doctor, be- 
 ing appealed to to procure bail, had done 
 so, and had further taken two stitches in 
 the big man's head and set a disjointed 
 thumb for the little man. In the police 
 163 
 
Our Square 
 
 court, thanks to Terry, who "put him 
 wise," the judge had bidden the two bel- 
 ligerents shake hands and go free. They 
 shook hands, at arm's length, and went 
 free, separately. 
 
 "No rnore David an' Jonathan stuff," 
 gloated Inky Mike. " David and Goliath 
 is more in their line. This finishes their 
 game." 
 
 "Ah, Smart Aleck!" said Elsa resent- 
 fully. " You know nothing. 'S macht 
 nichts aus! ^a ne signifie rienl Fudge is 
 what I try to say. They come back this 
 evening, good as new." 
 
 Come back they did not, however. In 
 vain did Elsa keep her eyes on the clock 
 and her hopes high. When nine o'clock 
 struck and the table beneath her desk was 
 still vacant she burst into tears, gave a 
 Magyar from Second Avenue eight dollars 
 and sixty cents change out of a five-dollar 
 bill (the Magyar has n't been seen since), 
 and rushed forth from the place with her 
 164 
 
'The Great Peacemaker 
 
 apron over her head, finding refuge on a 
 bench of Our Square, where she sat openly 
 waiHng until Terry the Cop lied her home. 
 
 " Will they never come back to their 
 little table, do you think?" miserably in- 
 quired Polyglot Elsa of the Little Red 
 Doctor several evenings later, gazing w^ith 
 blurred eyes dow^n upon the stolidly op- 
 posing armies of chessmen in their brave 
 array. 
 
 The Little Red Doctor shook a dubious 
 head. " That 's a bad mess," he said. 
 
 " But they have nothing else but them- 
 selves ! " cried the girl. " So sad it is. Per- 
 haps," she added with timid hopefulness, 
 "you could make a peace again between 
 them." 
 
 " I 've tried. The only peacemaker 
 strong enough to bring them together, 
 I 'm afraid, is my old friend Death." 
 
 Jonathan almost wholly disappeared from 
 Our Square after the rupture. Not so David. 
 He was much in evidence. Usually he 
 165 
 
Our Square 
 
 whistled as he walked with a lightsome 
 and swaggering step to show that he had n't 
 a care in the world. But when you got 
 near him you saw the hollows under his 
 eyes. Pride carried him even into Thorn- 
 sen's, and almost to the vacant table in the 
 corner. Not quite. For thereon stood the 
 little wood soldiers, sturdy and stanch, and 
 above them leaned Elsa, smiling welcome 
 to him — and hope. David, the irrecon- 
 cilable, stopped short, dropped into the 
 nearest chair, turned his back upon that 
 haunted corner, and ordered his favorite 
 refreshment in a voice so cheerful that it 
 almost chirped. Halfway through his cara- 
 fon, having caught Elsa's gaze, melancholy, 
 accusing, and imploring, he swore, choked 
 over his vin ordinaire, and retreated in bad 
 order to the shelter of the outer darkness 
 without paying his check. 
 
 How long he wandered about Our Square 
 I cannot say. He was there when I crossed 
 to Thornsen's at nine o'clock. He was 
 i66 
 
'The Great Peacemaker 
 
 there when I peered out at ten. He was 
 still there when I returned home at eleven- 
 fifteen. 
 
 So was Jonathan. The reason why we of 
 the Square had not seen him of late was 
 that he had chosen for his promenade an 
 hour when he would be unlikely to en- 
 counter any of us. This time he met Da- 
 vid. They passed each other within a foot. 
 Jonathan was profoundly absorbed in the 
 condition of a tree trunk which he had 
 passed without interest some thousands 
 of times. David studied the constellation 
 Orion with a concentrated attention quite 
 creditable in one so new to a passion for 
 astronomy? I sat down on a bench and 
 gave vent to my feelings. Said Terry the 
 Cop to me, approaching solicitously : — 
 
 " Are ye laughing, dominie, or choking 
 to death ? " 
 
 "I am laughing, Terry," I said. 
 
 " And why are ye laughing, dominie ? " 
 
 "I am laughing, Terry," I informed 
 167 
 
Our Square 
 
 him, "because it is better to laugh than 
 to do a certain other thing." And I de- 
 clined, with proper dignity, his well-meant 
 but ill-informed oiFer to escort me home. 
 
 There came a black day for our fiery 
 old French David when the Dutch liner 
 arrived bearing assorted mails. That after- 
 noon he paced, stony-eyed and silent, a 
 square swept vacant by savage rain blasts, 
 with a half-ounce of letter over his heart 
 and a thousand tons of grief pressing down 
 above it. Presently another bedraggled 
 wayfarer entered the Square, wandered 
 aimlessly, and sprawled his ponderous bulk 
 upon the corner bench, where the um- 
 brella tree affords a partial shelter. The 
 Teuton Jonathan was also braving the 
 storm. 
 
 Back and forth, back and forth, through 
 the fierce, gray slant of the rain, marched 
 the Frenchman, drawing at each turn a 
 little nearer to the corner bench. The 
 German did not move nor look up. He 
 i68 
 
'The Great Peacemaker 
 
 seemed lost in reverie. A square of white 
 cardboard lay on his knee. His eyes stared 
 out over it, brooding. At length the 
 marcher in the rain came to the right- 
 about directly in front of the bench and 
 stopped, rubbing his forehead like a man 
 struggling out of a dream. David had rec- 
 ognized Jonathan. 
 
 He took an impetuous step forward. A 
 gust of wind plucked the square of card- 
 board from the unheeding German's knee. 
 It fell, displaying to the newcomer the 
 double eagle of imperial Germany. David's 
 face, which had softened, became a mask 
 of fury. Another step forward and he saw 
 something else above the insigne, a bar of 
 black. He stooped and picked up the card. 
 Jonathan neither saw nor moved. 
 
 Beneath the symbol on the card stood 
 a line of German script. David lifted his 
 eyes from it and looked about him. In 
 the doorway of the Elite Restaurant, just 
 across the asphalt, he saw Polyglot Elsa. 
 169 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Behilte!" cried Elsa when she saw 
 his face. " Satnte Vierge I What has hap- 
 pened ? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle, translate for me," cried 
 the little old Frenchman : " ' Auf dem 
 Felde der Fibre gefallen.' " 
 
 " ' Dead on the field of honor.' What — " 
 
 But he was already halfway back, fight- 
 ing his way through the gusts. With grave 
 misgivings Elsa saw him advance upon his 
 former friend and bitter foe. She wished 
 Terry would come. Terry was a mighty 
 discourager of trouble and violence. 
 
 David advanced to the sheltered bench 
 without speaking. Quietly he seated him- 
 self beside Jonathan. Jonathan might 
 have been dead for all that he heeded. 
 His mind was in another world. David 
 touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 " Hein?" said the big German vaguely. 
 "'S ist du?" using involuntarily the ten- 
 der pronoun of affection. Comprehension 
 and remembrance came back to him in- 
 
 170 
 
l^he Great Peacemaker 
 
 stantly, and he shrank away with an inar- 
 ticulate snarl of hatred. 
 
 David drew from his pocket the letter 
 that had crushed the heart beneath it. 
 He spread it on his knee. 
 
 " I have seen, Hermann," he said bro- 
 kenly. " Look you." 
 
 Hermann looked. He looked from the 
 gallant tricolor to the words below, and 
 one phrase stood forth and went to his 
 heart. " Mort dans la gloire pour la patrie : 
 Robert Dumain." 
 
 Jonathan's fingers crept to David's knee 
 and clung there. David's hand went to 
 Jonathan's shoulder. The two old heads 
 sagged lower and lower and closer and 
 closer. 
 
 And Terry the Cop, who had crossed 
 the street in five leaps with the liveliest 
 anticipation of trouble in the first degree, 
 took one look, turned hastily away, and 
 huskily commanded a storm-beaten spar- 
 row in the path to move on. 
 
Orpheus 
 
 Who Made Music in Our Square 
 
 A PLAYWRIGHT named Euripides 
 was the means of bringing us to- 
 gether. He sat hunched upon a bench in 
 Our Square — not Euripides, of course, 
 but this strange disciple of his — over a 
 little book. When the church clock 
 struck twelve he arose and unfolded him- 
 self to preposterous lengths. He stepped 
 casually over a four-foot wire, strode 
 across forbidden grass plots, and leaned 
 pensively against the northern boundary 
 fence. Although it was a six-foot fence, 
 he jutted considerably above it. I glanced 
 from him back to the bench he had just 
 quitted. There lay his book. I picked it 
 up. It was "The Bacchae." In the origi- 
 nal, if you please! 
 
 172 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 Now, to find a gigantic and unexplained 
 stranger in the metropolitan hurry and 
 stress of Our Square perusing the classic 
 version of the very fGreekest and most 
 mystic of dramas, by the spluttering ray 
 of Jove's own lightning pent up and set 
 to work in a two-by-one frosted globe at 
 so many cents per kilowatt, is a startling 
 experience for a quiet, old semi-retired 
 pedagogue like myself. I pocketed the 
 volume (which was in a semiuncial text 
 like running tendrils) and sat down to 
 consider its owner. Another of the Thun- 
 derer's bottled bolts diffused its light where 
 he now stood, and set forth his face. It 
 was young and comely and gallant, with 
 a wrapt, intent melancholy ; the face of a 
 seeker, baffled but still defiant of despair. 
 It seemed to be turned toward a star that 
 I could not see. 
 
 I sat and waited for Terry the Cop to 
 arrive on his stated rounds. If that shrewd 
 young guardian of the local peace did not 
 
 173 
 
Our Square 
 
 already know about the classical stranger, 
 he could be depended upon to find out. 
 When his heavy tread paused before my 
 bench I indicated the trespassing giant. 
 
 "Terry," said I, "what is that?" 
 
 "That," replied Terry promptly, "is 
 a Nut." 
 
 " Where does it come from ? " 
 
 "Search me, dominie. It just kinda 
 drops in." 
 
 "Often?" 
 
 " Every night." 
 
 " Why have n't I seen it before ? " 
 
 " You hit the hay too early. This bird 
 is an owl, and it don't begin to hoot till 
 late." 
 
 " Hoot ? " I repeated. Terry's symbol- 
 ism sometimes tends to the obscure. 
 
 " Stick around a few minutes," advised 
 the wise young policeman, " and you '11 
 hear something." 
 
 "Is he an amateur astronomer?" I 
 asked. " Or what is it he is staring at ?" 
 
 174 
 
Orpheus 
 
 Terry pointed. "Look between those 
 two roofs. See a little light, way up 
 there?" I did. "That 'sit. That's the 
 window." 
 
 " Ah," said I. " Romeo, I suppose." 
 
 " Long-distance to the balcony," re- 
 turned Terry the Cop, who does not lack 
 literary background. " That 's the upper 
 wing of the Samaritan Hospital, two blocks 
 away. Sh-h-h ! He 's going to begin." 
 
 The stranger had taken from his coat 
 a short, slender object which he fitted to- 
 gether with precision. Now he threw up 
 his head and set it to his lips. Faint and 
 pure as the song of a bird, heard across 
 the hushed reaches of a forest, the music 
 came to us. It was a wild, soaring mel- 
 ody unknown to me, but as I listened I 
 thought of all the songs with which reed 
 and pipe have ever answered to the breath 
 of man ; Pan's minstrels, and the glorified 
 penny whistle of Svengali and the horns 
 of elfland faintly blowing, and the witchery 
 
 175 
 
Our Square 
 
 of the Pied Piper of Hamelin; and it 
 seemed to me that all these and more 
 blended in the rise and fall of those magic 
 measures. 
 
 Silence fell. A wakened sleeper in a 
 tree twittered a sleepy request for more. 
 The player had lowered his instrument 
 and was leaning against the rail, gazing. 
 At that distance there could have been no 
 answer from the far hospital window ; the 
 tones of his pipe were so soft as hardly to 
 be audible where we stood. Yet he pres- 
 ently nodded and threw up his hand, and 
 his face was transfigured with a wistful 
 passion as he lifted the slender pipe to his 
 lips again. This time, indeed, I knew what 
 he played. It was that music which, above 
 all other, embodies the soul and spirit of 
 immortal youth; youth that hopes and 
 fears and despairs and hopes again ; youth 
 that hungers and loves and suffers; youth 
 that ever, through all turmoil and grief 
 and wreckage, is imperishably young and 
 176 
 
Orpheus 
 
 immortally lovely, the music of " Bo- 
 heme." Again the strains sank and died 
 in the darkness. 
 
 " That 's all," Terry the Cop informed 
 me. "It's their signal. And he always 
 ends on that." 
 
 "Signal? At that distance? Do you 
 mean to tell me she — whoever she is — 
 can hear?" 
 
 "Whether she hears or not, she seems 
 to get somethin' over to this Romeo guy." 
 
 " No, Terry," I said. " Not Romeo. An 
 
 older singer and a greater." And, with my 
 
 hand on the little volume in my pocket, 
 
 I gave my policeman friend the benefit of 
 
 Gilbert Murray's matchless translation : — 
 
 " In the elm woods and the oaken. 
 
 There where Orpheus harped of old, 
 And the trees awoke and knew him. 
 And the wild things gathered to him. 
 As he sang amid the broken 
 
 Glens his music manifold." 
 
 " Some rag ! " said Terry the Cop admir- 
 ingly. 
 
 177 
 
Our Square 
 
 " That, Terry," said I, indicating the 
 stranger, who was once more lost in watch-, 
 fulness, "is Orpheus." 
 
 This was too much of a strain on Terry's 
 classic lore. "You 're in wrong there, dom- 
 inie. He don't belong to any Orpheus nor 
 Arion nor Liedertafel. He 's a Greek and 
 his name is Philip, two pops, and an oulos." 
 
 " All very well, Terry," said I, trying him 
 out. "But does that give him the right to 
 play a musical instrument in a public place 
 at an unlawful hour?" 
 
 "Come off, dominie," said Terry the 
 Cop uneasily. " He ain't doing any harm." 
 
 " Disturbing the peace," I pursued se- 
 verely, " and tramping down the park grass 
 against the statute thereunto made and pro- 
 vided. What do you let him do it for, 
 Terry?" 
 
 " Aw, I kinda like the guy," admitted 
 
 Terry shamefacedly. " He 's a nut. But 
 
 he 's a good nut. I 'm sorry for him. He 's 
 
 up against it with that girl. She ain't ever 
 
 178 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 coming out of the hospital, I guess. Be- 
 sides, he did me a good turn once." 
 
 The good turn, it appeared, had con- 
 sisted in the prompt and effective wielding 
 of a cane, unceremoniously borrowed from 
 a passer-by when a contingent of the Shadow 
 Gang from Second Avenue had undertaken, 
 in pure wantonness of spirit, to "jump " 
 Terry. Subsequently, Orpheus had initi- 
 ated Terry into some technical and abstruse 
 mysteries of stick work, whereby, he ex- 
 plained, the Orthian shepherds defended 
 themselves against robbers and wolves alike. 
 
 " I told him to keep a stick with him," 
 said Terry. " He '11 need it, for that bunch 
 will get to him some time. They don't 
 forget." 
 
 No weapon was in the Greek's hand, 
 however, as he turned away toward the 
 nearest exit. Halfway there he paused, felt 
 in his pocket, and hurried over to his bench 
 with a look of dismay. I met him, hold- 
 ing out the precious book. He took it with 
 179 
 
Our Square 
 
 a sigh of relief, thanking me with precise 
 but curiously accented courtesy. 
 
 " It is a beautiful text," I observed. 
 
 "You can read it?" he said with kin- 
 dling eyes. "You read the Greek?" 
 
 "Sure," put in Terry the Cop. "The 
 dominie knows all the languages from 
 Chinese to Williamsburg. Dominie, make 
 you acquainted with Mr. Phil." 
 
 Thus I met Orpheus. We sat on a bench 
 until the stroke ol three brought me to my 
 senses, while he declaimed selected passages 
 in a voice as of rolling waters. That was 
 the first of many nights of Dionysian rev- 
 elry on the slopes of Mount Olympus, 
 with "The Bacchas" for guidebook and 
 the strange piper for leader. Never would 
 he pipe for me, however. If I wished to 
 hear the soft marvel of his music I must 
 wait until midnight and stand apart in the 
 shadow to listen while he played to the 
 far-away beam of light in the hospital 
 wing. Though our acquaintance ripened 
 180 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 swiftly into a species of intimacy, he made 
 no reference to the devotion in which his 
 life centered. He had the gift of an im- 
 penetrable reserve. 
 
 Concerning himself, he was only less 
 reticent. From casual references, however, 
 I gathered that he was the son of a mer- 
 chant of Lamia, educated in England, and 
 sent to this country on an errand of com- 
 merce, and that he would long since have 
 returned but for the light in that window. 
 
 It is not good for man to live on hope 
 alone. So I sought to involve my Greek in 
 the close-woven interests of Our Square. 
 I took him to dine at the Elite Restaurant, 
 and introduced him to Polyglot Elsa, the 
 cashier (who put a fearful strain on his cour- 
 tesy with her barbarous modern Greek), 
 and impressed him into the amateur police 
 to escort JVJacLachan the Tailor home, 
 drunk and singing " The Cork Leg," and 
 even got him to pipe gay tunes of an early 
 evening for our little asphalt-dancers to 
 i8i 
 
Our Square 
 
 practice by ; but always back of his gentle 
 courtesy and tolerant kindness there was 
 an aloofness of the spirit, as if he had but 
 stepped out, a godlike spectator, from the 
 limbo of some remote world hidden be- 
 hind the tendrils and leafage of that won- 
 derful semiuncial text. Then one night, 
 when he had sent his heart and hope and 
 longing out upon the wings of music 
 through the night, I asked him to help 
 me soothe the wakefulness of Leon Cov- 
 entry. Together we climbed the stifling 
 stairs of the old mansion to the top floor 
 where Leon the Gnome lay eating his heart 
 out and staring from an empty chair that 
 whispered to the door of an empty room, 
 its oaken bar fallen, its little white bed 
 smooth, its one flower withered and dead 
 on the window sill. Little was said be- 
 tween the swarthy Gnome on the bed and 
 the splendid young god sitting beside him, 
 but there passed between them some sub- 
 tle understanding of the spirit. Orpheus 
 182 
 
Orpheus 
 
 made his music for the sick man ; almost 
 such music as he had sent winging through 
 the outer darkness. At the end he took 
 the Gnome's gnarled hand in his own. 
 
 "She will come back," he said. "Be- 
 lieve always that she will come back. It 
 is only by faith that we hold the dreams 
 that are truer than reality." 
 
 Outside Orpheus turned to me. "You 
 believe that, do you not ? " he asked. 
 
 I muttered something. 
 
 " I must believe it," he said vehemently. 
 "I must — or there is nothing left." 
 
 Then, simply, as if he were relating 
 some impersonal anecdote, he told me 
 his story, one of those swift, inevitable, 
 pregnant romances of two outlanders in 
 this great wilderness which we call New 
 York. 
 
 " I met her in a language class. We 
 were both taking Spanish. It was to help 
 her in the corporation office where she 
 worked. We lunched at the same place. 
 
 183 
 
Our Square 
 
 We used to talk, to help out over les- 
 sons. She was French. Her name was 
 Toinette." 
 
 He handed me his watch, open. The 
 print was dim and vague, but in the very 
 poise of the head was the incarnation of 
 mirth and youth. " She is very lovely," I 
 said. I should have said it in any case. In 
 this case it happened to be true. 
 
 " She is little and quick and brown and 
 laughing. We Greeks love laughter. She 
 laughed at me because she said I had sol- 
 emn eyes like an owl. Then I kissed her 
 and she did not laugh, but clung to me, 
 and I felt her tears. That evening we heard 
 * La Boheme,' hand in hand, and I played 
 it to her afterward. I have played it to her 
 ever since. When I would speak to her 
 of marriage she would set her fingers to 
 my lips and the joy would die out of her 
 face. Once she said I must go back and 
 forget her, Then it was my turn to laugh. 
 We do not love and forget, we Greeks. 
 184 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 " She had a brother serving in the Ar- 
 gonne. He died dragging a wounded com- 
 rade to safety. She was very proud of it. 
 But the heart that had been working so 
 poorly almost stopped working at all when 
 they brought her the news. She sent for 
 me to tell me that she must go to the 
 hospital. That was why she would not let 
 me speak of marriage. Her heart had 
 always been weak, and she feared she might 
 be an invalid and a burden on me. As if 
 that mattered ! ' So I could not let you 
 speak,' she said, * because I loved you so, 
 and I might have been weaker than my 
 heart.' They took her to the Samaritan. 
 That is her room, just beyond where you 
 see the speck of light. Every night I stand 
 where I can see it and make my music 
 for her. So it was arranged between us." 
 
 " But," I began, and bit my tongue into 
 silence. 
 
 "True," he said equably. " At such a 
 distance she cannot hear. It does not 
 185 
 
Our Square 
 
 matter. She knows I make my music for 
 her. That is all that matters." 
 
 " How long since you have seen her?" 
 
 " April the 24th," 
 
 " And this is August ! Four months ! 
 Good Heavens, man, how is that ? " 
 
 " 'Anangke,' Fate." he murmured. " It 
 could not be otherwise." 
 
 " Surely it could," I protested, " Won't 
 they let you see her ?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " But that 's barbarous ! Think what 
 she must be suffering." 
 
 " Oh, no. She understands. It is I who 
 sufFer." 
 
 "Needlessly," I cried. "It can be ar- 
 ranged. You must see her. Four months! 
 Will you let me arrange it?" 
 
 " It is useless." 
 
 I believe I took him by the shoulder 
 and shook him, " Don't be a fool," I bade 
 him savagely. " I tell you, you shall see 
 her. At once. To-morrow." 
 186 
 
Orpheus 
 
 He turned upon me eyes like those of 
 an animal that pleads dumbly against tor- 
 ture. " It cannot be," he said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " She is dead," he whispered. 
 
 "Dead?" I loosed my grasp on him. 
 " But you play — How can she — When 
 did you — " All my thought and speech 
 were jumbled within me. "Dead?" I 
 finally contrived to get out, " When did 
 she die?" 
 
 " On the last day of April. When they 
 told me of it the little children were danc- 
 ing in the park. She was like a little lovely 
 child herself. They told me she was dead, 
 but it is only at times that I am weak 
 enough to believe them." 
 
 I gazed at him, utterly bewildered. He 
 returned my look with a gaze of infinite 
 despair. 
 
 " To-morrow," he said bravely, " I 
 shall again know that she is alive and 
 loving me." 
 
 187 
 
Our Square 
 
 Later I learned how the blow had fallen ; 
 a grim and brutal experience for so gentle 
 a spirit as his. 
 
 Three weeks after his Toinette was ad- 
 mitted to the Samaritan a forlorn-hope 
 operation was determined upon. Happily, 
 Orpheus knew nothing about it until it 
 was all over, with unexpected promise of 
 success and even complete cure. Once a 
 week they let him see her. On the other 
 six days he might call at the office for such 
 information as a stolid and blank official 
 chose to dole out. But no official could 
 interpose his stolidity between Orpheus, 
 piping at dead of night, and his Eurydice 
 lying happily awake in the far upper wing 
 of the hospital, knowing that he made his 
 music for her and perhaps hearing it — 
 who knows? — vvith the finer ear of the 
 spirit. Vary his choice as he might, he told 
 me, she always knew what he had played 
 and could tell when they next saw each 
 other. So all went well with those two 
 i88 
 
Orpheus 
 
 young, brave hearts, and the meager re- 
 ports grew increasingly hopeful, until one 
 bright spring morning Orpheus paid his 
 unfailing daily visit for information. A 
 brusque young brute of an interne was at 
 the desk, the regular official having stepped 
 out. 
 
 " Twenty-one? " he repeated in reply to 
 Orpheus's gentle-voiced question. " That 's 
 the heart case. Died yesterday afternoon." 
 
 " But last night I played to her," pro- 
 tested Orpheus in a piteous, stricken whis- 
 per, " and she heard and answered. It can- 
 not be." 
 
 " Nutty ! " said the interne to the infor- 
 mation official who returned at this point. 
 *' Takes 'em that way sometimes. Better 
 get him out before he busts loose." 
 
 They got him out without trouble. He 
 wandered into Our Square and watched 
 the children dancing-in the May. They 
 seemed to him like unreal creatures mov- 
 ing in a world of unrealities. More and 
 189 
 
Our Square 
 
 more unreal grew everything about him 
 until late that night he faced the grim re- 
 ality of a barred door which kept him from 
 his beloved dead, and that door he attacked 
 with such fury and power that it took two 
 policemen, in addition to the hospital 
 corps, to subdue him. As he was a for- 
 eigner and vague and sorrow-stricken, the 
 magistrate naturally gave him two months. 
 He came out dazed but steadied. The one 
 hold he had upon happiness was the delu- 
 sion to which he so pathetically clung, the 
 pretense, passionately cherished, that she 
 was still alive. Poor Orpheus ! He had in- 
 deed gone down into Hades for his Eury- 
 dice and stayed there. If he could find 
 solace in his limbo of minor madness, per- 
 haps that was best for him. 
 
 So thought the Little Red Doctor, wise 
 in human suffering, to whom alone I told 
 the story of Orpheus. Said the Little Red 
 Doctor first : " There are times when I 
 blame my old friend Death for doing a 
 190 
 
Orpheus 
 
 job by halves" ; and second: " Cure him ? 
 Who wants to cure peace with pain ! Let 
 him play his music " ; and third : " God 
 help that interne if I ever meet up with 
 him ! " 
 
 If Death resented his friendly oppo- 
 nent's strictures, he never showed it, but 
 kept on doing business as usual in Our 
 Square. And Orpheus continued to] make, 
 among the broken glens of our brick-and- 
 stucco sky line, his music manifold to ears 
 that heard not. As for the interne, the 
 Little Red Doctor did, in the fullness of 
 time, meet up with him, and improved 
 the occasion to lay down certain ethics 
 and principles of conduct as pertaining to 
 the profession of healing. Whereupon the 
 interne,' who should have known better, 
 being not more than half again as big as 
 the Little Red Doctor, treated the lesson 
 in a light and flippant vein, and asserted 
 that when he wished to learn his business 
 he would n't apply to a half-boiled shrimp. 
 191 
 
Our Square 
 
 Thus it happened that he who had come 
 forth from the hospital an interne intact 
 and unafraid returned thereto a battered 
 and terrified patient with a broken nose 
 and two displaced ribs urgently requiring 
 attention. The practice of medicine in 
 Our Square, as exemplified by so thorough- 
 going an exponent as the Little Red Doc- 
 tor, is not wholly a lily-fingered science. 
 
 Minora cam! And why should I sing 
 of such lesser matters as the correction of 
 the interne, when there awaits my histor- 
 ical pen a conflict worthy of Euripides's 
 own strophes ! Cyrus the Gaunt and the 
 Bonnie Lassie had been serving the mid- 
 night rarebit to three of their uptown 
 friends who had dropped down through 
 the slums to the friendly little old house 
 with the dancing figurines in the window, 
 and Cyrus had undertaken to pilot his 
 friends to the corner, lest their evening 
 raiment be locally misinterpreted and re- 
 sented. Coming, later than my wont, from 
 192 
 
Orpheus 
 
 the Elite Restaurant, I crossed Our Square 
 a few rods in advance of them. Orpheus 
 stood in his corner, piping to his lost young 
 love. From without there approached him 
 swiftly a dark group, close gathered. It 
 was the Shadow Gang, from Second Ave- 
 nue, bent upon reprisals. There were eight 
 or nine of them, under the leadership of 
 " Mixer " Boyle, a local middle-weight 
 of ill repute. They closed in upon the 
 Greek, and as I ran, shouting for Terry 
 the Cop, I saw him go down under the 
 pack. More than music was in that soul, 
 however. If he was Orpheus, he had some- 
 thing, too, in him of Thersites and Achilles 
 and Agamemnon. Like a bear struggling 
 from beneath an onset of dogs, he up- 
 heaved his big shoulders. From behind 
 me came an answering shout, not Terry 
 the Cop, indeed, but the next best thing, 
 Cyrus the Gaunt, followed closely by the 
 Rev. Morris Cartwright, Gerrit Bascom, 
 and two other visions of white shirt fronts 
 
 ^9i 
 
Our Square 
 
 protruding and black coat tails streaming in 
 the wind. They passed me as if I were a 
 milestone, and the battle was joined. 
 
 Cyrus the Gaunt is a rhighty man of 
 his hands. But the hands are those of an 
 amateur. Mixer Boyle's are those of a 
 professional. They crossed, and Cyrus went 
 down under a left swing. Before the Mixer 
 could turn he was toppled with the bless- 
 ing (full arm to the ear) of the Rev. Mor- 
 ris Cartwright. Two others fell upon the 
 Rev. Morris and the Rev. Morris fell upon 
 the Mixer, and then they all rose and went 
 at it again. 
 
 I am old who once was young, but 
 never do I look upon the stricken field 
 without remembering that in my prime 
 I was a man of deeds and juggled deftly 
 with seventy-five-pound dumb-bells. Tal- 
 ents of this sort are never wholly wasted. 
 Upon attaining the outskirts of the mSlee 
 I selected the largest hostile bulk in reach, 
 seized it around the hips, and lifted it 
 194 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 clear. It struggled and developed a solid 
 fist which, in contact with my jaw, utterly 
 destroyed my equilibrium. I fell, but con- 
 trived so to twist myself that the hostile 
 bulk fell beneath me. It lay quiet. But 
 when I strove to rise, a paralysis across 
 my shoulders strongly advised against it. 
 So I sat upon my captive's chest and diz- 
 zily watched the combat. 
 
 Now do I fully understand why war 
 correspondents are not permitted at the 
 front. It destroys their special usefulness. 
 The fighting spirit and historical accuracy 
 are totally incompatible. Nobody could 
 have had a better view of the stirring 
 events which succeeded than I. The forces 
 and topography of the combat were clear 
 in my mind : nearly two to one in favor 
 of the enemy, but with our party fighting 
 on home soil and in momentary hope of 
 reenforcements. Yet all that I can recall 
 is the sound of thumps and stifled curses 
 and a confused mess of strained faces, vio- 
 
 195 
 
Our Square 
 
 lently working arms, and broad white shirt 
 fronts now splotched with a harsher color. 
 Then it seemed to me that I saw a little 
 circle cleared about the mighty Greek, 
 and a heavy cane which he brandished by 
 the middle in both hands gave me the 
 clue. The odds were balancing better, 
 though still with the invaders. As if the 
 Fates themselves were concerned to assure 
 a more even field, there sounded a far, 
 furious whoop, and the Little Red Doc- 
 tor descended joyously upon the riot. At 
 this critical juncture my captive came to 
 and bit me in the leg. I lost all interest, 
 temporarily, in the art and practice of war 
 correspondence. 
 
 Having secured a hold (not prescribed 
 by the formal rules of wrestling, I am in- 
 formed) with my knee upon my oppo- 
 nent's neck, I turned to view the battle 
 again. The defenders were against the 
 fence now ; but alas ! the Rev. Morris 
 Cartwright was on his hands and knees, and 
 196 
 
Orpheus 
 
 one of the other uptown knights was reel- 
 ing. The gangsters pressed in hard, striv- 
 ing to edge around the Greek and get him 
 in the rear. Cyrus, with his heavy fists, 
 guarded one side of him ; the Little Red 
 Doctor was fighting like a fury on the 
 other. I prayed (kneeling upon my cap- 
 tive's neck) for Heaven's success . to the 
 just, and Terry the Cop. 
 
 A shrill shout marked the next swift 
 development. 
 
 " Look out 1 He ' J got a knife ! " 
 A bright gleam of steel slanted toward 
 Cyrus's shoulder. But the deft Greek had 
 seen it. He chopped with his stick. The 
 knife whirled free and descended. Like a 
 football team plunging for a loose ball, 
 the contestants dived for it. For a mo- 
 ment they groveled, struggling. Then out 
 of the mass rose a shriek of the uttermost 
 agony. It seemed to me that the group 
 was stricken into sudden silence and im- 
 mobility. Slowly it disintegrated, drawing 
 197 
 
Our Square 
 
 apart in two sections. A half-doubled fig- 
 ure ran, staggering and dodging, into the 
 shadows. A policeman's whistle shrilled. 
 The gangsters turned and ran. Mine ran 
 too. He tried, I regret to say, to give me 
 a parting kick as I let him up. On the 
 ground lay the knife. There was just a lit- 
 tle trickle of red on it. 
 
 Cyrus picked it up and looked around. 
 Every man of our party was battered, but 
 none was stabbed. 
 
 " Must have got his own man in the 
 mix-up," quoth the Little Red Doctor. 
 "Come to my place and get fixed up." 
 
 After much minor repairing with plas- 
 ter and patch we separated upon our re- 
 spective ways, disheveled, disreputable, but 
 exultant. Orpheus, with his face one 
 mass of cuts and bruises, went back, if 
 you will believe it, to play the final 
 "Boh6me" to the little beam of light in 
 the window. 
 
 "I hope," he whispered to me, "that 
 198 
 
Orpheus 
 
 she could not hear the noise. It would 
 frighten her." 
 
 In consideration of my strained back the 
 Little Red Doctor escorted me home. As 
 we set foot to the steps we heard a soft 
 groan from the black ar-eaway. From be- 
 tween two barrels the physician dragged 
 a cowering wretch. His hands were pressed 
 to his abdomen. There was a pool of blood 
 where he had crouched. 
 
 " The Samaritan Hospital for you," said 
 the Little Red Doctor. 
 
 " Not me ! " snarled the youth. "Guess 
 again." 
 
 •* Got any last message ? " asked the 
 doctor coolly. 
 
 The young fellow's eyelids fluttered. 
 " Am I croaked ? " he said. 
 
 "Unless you're on the table within the 
 hour." 
 
 The gangster summoned his bravado, 
 f ' Let 'er go as she lies. No Samaritan for 
 mine. I was there oncet. They don't allow 
 199 
 
Our Square 
 
 you no cigs. ' No smoking.' I '11 croak 
 foist." 
 
 The Little Red Doctor scratched his 
 head in perplexity. I looked at the wounded 
 man. His face was sullen and brave, but his 
 hands were quivering. 
 
 " Take him up to my room, doctor," I 
 said. 
 
 That is how I came by my first lodger. 
 His name was Pinney the Rat. 
 
 After the Little Red Doctor had saved 
 his body, many and various visitors climbed 
 my stair for the purpose of saving the Rat's 
 soul. The Rev. Morris Cartwright came 
 all the way downtown (with an ear taste- 
 fully framed in surgeon's plaster) to con- 
 vert him to decency. Cyrus the Gaunt 
 strove manfully to convert him to the gos- 
 pel of work with offers of regenerating labor 
 in Canadian wildernesses. MacLachan the 
 Tailor undertook to curse him into so- 
 briety. Our French David and our German 
 Jonathan dropped in separately to forecast 
 200 
 
Orpheus 
 
 to him respectively the Entente and the 
 Alliance arguments of the Great War and 
 to hint at enlistment when he should be 
 recovered. Herman GroU undertook to 
 convert him to music. All of this he ac- 
 cepted with noncommittal and rather con- 
 temptuous tolerance. It served to pass the 
 time of his halting recovery. As a patient 
 he was docile ; as a guest he was not incon- 
 siderate, though I could hardly say that he 
 was grateful. To Orpheus alone of his vis- 
 itors he exhibited a distinctive attitude. 
 When the Greek dropped in upon us Fin- 
 ney's face became a mask of cold watch- 
 fulness. He would freeze up into silence, 
 following the big, gentle visitor's every 
 movement with his unwinking eyes. The 
 Little Red Doctor noted this with uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 "That's not a rat," he warned me. " It's 
 a rattlesnake. And I don't like the way it 
 looks at our Greek friend." 
 
 "What can he have against Orpheus ? " 
 20 1 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Probably thinks it was he that knifed 
 him." 
 
 " It was n't. I can swear to that much." 
 
 " Save your breath. You '11 never argue 
 the resolve to get even out of the mind of 
 a gangster." 
 
 "What shall I do? Tell Orpheus to 
 keep away ? " 
 
 "No. But see that our patient does n't 
 get his hands on any sort of weapon." 
 
 Strangely enough, the wounded man 
 seemed to exercise a strange fascination 
 upon the Greek. Day after day he would 
 come and sit, talking or reading, while the 
 gangster lay silent, maturing murder in his 
 soul. What a pair they made; the secre- 
 tive, time-abiding, venomous Rat and the 
 gentle madman ! 
 
 In time the Rat's patience was rewarded. 
 He got his weapon. He got it from the 
 Bonnie Lassie. She had taken to dropping 
 in upon us to see my lodger. She, at least, 
 did not try to convert him. At first she 
 202 
 
Orpheus 
 
 just sat and twinkled at him, and the man 
 does not live who can resist the Bonnie 
 Lassie when she twinkles. On her second 
 visit she brought him cigarettes in pro- 
 fusion and announced that she was going 
 to sculp him in miniature, and proceeded 
 forthwith to do it. Before the job was done 
 they were sworn comrades. She would sit 
 by his couch with her modeling tools and 
 clay and work while he boasted in a hoarse, 
 thin pipe of the evil things he had done. 
 He was openly flattered that she should 
 make him the chief figure of a group to be 
 called "Ambush." One day while she was 
 absorbed in a difficult line he quietly an- 
 nexed her compasses. A pair of compasses 
 is two excellent stilettos. Pinney the Rat 
 secreted his booty in the bed. That eve- 
 ning I found him cautiously practicing, 
 first with his right, then with his left 
 hand, what I supposed to be that method 
 pugilistically termed an uppercut. Had 
 I been more expert, I might have noted 
 203 
 
Our Square 
 
 that his thumb was turned sidewise and 
 upward. 
 
 Concern and ignorance were choicely 
 blended in the Rat's manner when, next 
 day, the Bonnie Lassie came in to inquire 
 for her lost tool, bringing as usual some 
 " smokes." 
 
 "Do you like this kind better?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " They 're all right," said the Rat. " But, 
 say, lady, not wishin' to ast too much — " 
 
 "Go on," she encouraged him as he 
 paused. 
 
 "Woddya know," pursued the patient 
 hesitantly, " about a big, fat cig with funny 
 letters like this on?" 
 
 "Those look like Greek letters," said 
 the Bonnie Lassie, studying the marks 
 which he had scrawled. " I '11 see if I can 
 get some for you." 
 
 Search for that brand proved unavailing, 
 however. It seemed to be a special impor- 
 tation. 
 
 204 
 
Orph 
 
 ^eus 
 
 "Where did you ever smoke them?" 
 she asked the Rat. 
 
 " Over to th' S'maritan." 
 
 " Do they serve cigarettes in the hos- 
 pital?" 
 
 "They do — I don't think! It was a 
 little lady there give 'em to me on the 
 quiet. She seen what them big stiffs o' 
 doctors never seen, that I was goin' batty 
 for a smoke. She sneaked 'em in to me. 
 She was one real baby ! Some guy outside 
 useter send 'em in to her to give me." 
 
 "Was she a nurse ?" 
 
 " No ; a case. Pretty near all in when 
 she came. After she got well nobody 
 wanted her to leave ; and she did n't want 
 to, I guess. So they made a job for her. 
 I useter tell her she was hired out for 
 sunshine. I ain't seen her since." He 
 sighed. 
 
 " Would you like to see her ? " 
 
 Pinney the Rat's eyes became human. 
 " Oh, Gee ! " he murmured. 
 205 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I '11 bring her," said the Bonnie Las- 
 sie. " Whom shall I ask for ? " 
 
 " Jus' leave word for Miss Tony that 
 Pin — that No. 7, Men's Surgical — is 
 hurted again, but O. K., and could she 
 come and see him, maybe, some day." 
 
 She came at once, Pinney the Rat's 
 Miss Tony. She was little and quick and 
 brown and lovely, but not laughing. There 
 was a depth of woe and loss in her big 
 eyes. Let that be my excuse that I did 
 not at once identify her as Eurydice — 
 that and the fact that, as far as I knew, 
 Eurydice was dead and buried these four 
 months and lived only in Orpheus's reso- 
 lutely self-deluded mind. 
 
 For Pinney's sake, his visitor summoned 
 up the phantom of past gayety. She shook, 
 first her finger and then her little fist at 
 him, upbraiding him in quaintly accented 
 English, while he lay and visibly wor- 
 shiped. 
 
 " You haf sayed that you will go straight. 
 206 
 
Orpheus 
 
 An' now voila you, wit' your pro-mess 
 broke an' a stick in your estomac." 
 
 " Yessum," said Pinney the Rat. 
 
 " That learn you something ? That 
 learn you to be'ayve?" 
 
 " Yessum," assented that murderous 
 gangster like an abashed schoolboy. 
 
 " You give me your han' now that you 
 be a good boy an' go no more wit' les 
 Apaches an' get you a job ? " 
 
 The Rat's face hardened. He squirmed 
 away from those clear eyes. " I got one 
 little account to square up," he muttered. 
 " After that if I make my getaway, I '11 
 join the Salvationists if you tell me to. 
 An' say. Miss Tony, you know them cigs 
 you useta gimme ? Them with the dinky 
 letters on ? " 
 
 The girl's trembling hand went to her 
 throat. She looked at him strangely. 
 
 " If I could get a handful o' them," he 
 continued shyly, " they — I — it 'd kinda 
 remind me when — when you ain't here. 
 aoy 
 
Our Square 
 
 How's me unknown friend on the out- 
 side that useta send 'em in ? " 
 
 Miss Tony leaned her head against the 
 wall and burst into a passion of tears. I 
 led her out, still sobbing, while the ex- 
 Men's Surgical No. 7 sat up in his bed 
 and cursed himself with wild, blasphe- 
 mous, wondering oaths. 
 
 Whatever surmise our young gangster 
 may have entertained he kept to himself. 
 And, on the following morning, sterner 
 matters claimed his attention, for, while 
 I was out, Orpheus, the Greek, dropped 
 in, and Pinney, once more the Rat, saw 
 the hour of his revenge upon his supposed 
 assailant at hand. For the Greek, forget- 
 ful of caution, had seated himself well 
 within arm's length of the patient's couch. 
 Beneath the sheet the Rat clutched the 
 needle - pointed compasses and waited. 
 Should he risk the jump and the stroke ? 
 No ! He might miss. And he knew, from 
 the memory of the Battle of Our Square, 
 208 
 
Orpheus 
 
 the Greek's swiftness of eye and hand. He 
 must get him nearer. It was a time for 
 strategy. 
 
 "Hey, sport. Got a smoke on you ? " 
 Orpheus drew a box from his pocket, 
 extracted a fattish cylinder, and leaned 
 forward to the other — not quite far 
 enough. " Gimme a light, will ye ? " 
 piped the Rat hoarsely, taking the cigar- 
 ette in his left hand. 
 
 His right was working, wriggling slowly, 
 slowly out from beneath the sheet. Or- 
 pheus struck a match and leaned toward 
 the bed. His heart was almost over the 
 lurking point. Slowly advancing the tip 
 for the flame, Pinney the Rat — now the 
 Rattlesnake with death in his stroke — 
 raised his arm to blind his victim's vision 
 against the blow. The movement brought 
 the flimsy-papered cylinder directly before 
 his own eyes. Familiar characters leaped 
 out at him from the paper. 
 
 Gawd ! " croaked Pinney the Rat. 
 209 
 
 « 
 
Our Square 
 
 Though it had the sound of an oath, it 
 was perhaps as near a prayer as the gang- 
 ster had ever uttered. His frame, tense as 
 a spring, slumped back among the covers. 
 Orpheus dropped the match. "What is it?" 
 he cried with quick concern. "You suffer?" 
 
 " Where didje get that cig ?" 
 
 " The cigarette ? From Greece. I al- 
 ways smoke this kind." 
 
 "Have ye — didje ever send 'em to a 
 little lady in the S'maritan Hospital fer a 
 — a guy she was good to ? " 
 
 " Yes." The Greek's eyes widened. He 
 began to shake through all his frame. 
 " My God ! You knew her ? " 
 
 "Did I know her?" The Rat turned 
 away and closed his eyes. His right hand 
 moved furtively under the bed clothing, 
 away from his body. Something fell, with 
 a soft clink between the bed and the wall. 
 The Rat shuddered and sighed like a man 
 freed from a great peril. <' Go on. Spiel," 
 he bade Orpheus. 
 
 2IO 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 "Spiel ? " queried the trembling Greek, 
 "Spill your talk. Tell me about her." 
 Orpheus opened his heart and spoke. 
 To that silent listener (for Pinney the Rat 
 uttered no word) he poured forth his love 
 and longing and his delusion, speaking of 
 the girl as if she still lived. One word from 
 Pinney might have brought the climax, 
 perhaps disastrously, for that mind, desper- 
 ately clinging to its delusion, might have 
 collapsed under too sudden a shock of real- 
 ity. The Rat lay quiet, drinking it in and 
 revolving tangled problems. There were 
 strange echoes in the Greek's talk which 
 he failed to understand. 
 
 As I came in I met, on the stairs, Or- 
 pheus going out. His face was alight with 
 a strange radiance. 
 
 "That Mr. Pinney knows her," he 
 said. " He knows my Toinette. She was 
 once good to him." Then, in a confiden- 
 tial and triumphant whisper : " So she lives 
 in another heart beside my own." It was 
 
 211 
 
Our Square 
 
 as if his delusion, his creed, his religion 
 of love that was stronger than death, had 
 been blessed with convincing proof. 
 
 Wondering greatly, I returned to my 
 patient. He was lost in thought and greeted 
 me only with an absent nod. Not until I 
 started theteafor our lunch eon did bespeak. 
 
 " Say, boss, about that big wop." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " He 's a good guy, ain't he ? " 
 
 « He is." 
 
 "But — say. A little bit on the slant 
 here ? " He knuckled his head. " Huh ? " 
 
 " Perhaps. What have you been say- 
 ing to him? " 
 
 " Nothin'. I been listenin'. A great line 
 of talk about the little lady. But — say, 
 boss. What 's his kink ? " 
 
 "Couldn't you tell?" 
 
 " Sometimes I thought I got him," said 
 the Rat reflectively. "And sometimes I 
 don't get him at all. Seems like he speaks 
 of her like she was a dead person." 
 
 212 
 
Orpheus 
 
 " Well, she is." 
 
 The Rat's jaw dropped. " Who is ? " 
 
 " Orpheus's — the wop, as you call him 
 — the woman he loved." 
 
 " Are you nutty, too ? Was n't she in 
 here to see me only yesterday?" 
 
 Light broke in upon me in a great wave. 
 " Merciful powers ! " I shouted. " Tour 
 Miss Tony — his Toinette ? It can't be. 
 She died in a hospital the day before May 
 Day." 
 
 " Ferget it ! She moved out cured a week 
 before May Day. Don't I know ? Did n't 
 I go humping up to Room 21 to see her, 
 and find an old hen with a face like a mus- 
 tard plaster and a busted mainspring ? " 
 
 The number woke remembrance within 
 me. " What became of the woman in 2 1 ? " 
 
 " Croaked a few days later." 
 
 Then the whole tragic comedy of errors 
 was made plain to me. In turn I made it 
 clear to my lodger. 
 
 "Who's loony now?" he demanded 
 
 213 
 
Our Square 
 
 triumphantly. " You chase out an' find 
 the wop an' let's square this." 
 
 All very simple, but there was the 
 matter of Orpheus's mental condition to 
 be considered. What would be the out- 
 come of so violent a confirmation of his 
 delusion? Or was it a delusion, since it 
 was a fact ? Neither the Rat nor I could 
 lay any claim to be metaphysicians. Ob- 
 viously this was a case for the Little Red 
 Doctor, together with such consultants as 
 he might care to call in. 
 
 At the summons of its official physician 
 Our Square mustered its intellectual forces 
 in the Bonnie Lassie's Studio and sat in sol- 
 emn conclave upon the problem. First of 
 all we sent for the Rat's Miss Tony, and 
 what the Bonnie Lassie said to her in the 
 little back room and what she said to the 
 Bonnie Lassie is a secret of womankind. 
 Not even Cyrus the Gaunt was told. All 
 that we heard of it was a cry and a sound 
 of happy sobbing and another sound of bro- 
 214 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 ken laughter; and then the little, quick, 
 brown, lovely face was turned to us from 
 the steps outside, and MacLachan observed 
 that two Bonnie Lassies in one house was 
 a strain on human credulity as well as on 
 human eyesight, and the Bonnie Lassie 
 returned to us with her eyesight looking a 
 trifle strained. 
 
 "Somebody at the Greek consulate," 
 said she, " told her that Mister Phil-il-op 
 — Mr. Orpheopoulos had gone back to 
 Greece, and she 's been breaking her poor 
 dear little heart over it. Men are all im- 
 beciles." 
 
 " Thanking you in behalf of one and 
 all," returned Cyrus the Gaunt, "will 
 the volcano of wisdom whom I have the 
 felicity of calling wife tell us who is to 
 break it to Orpheus?" 
 
 " Pinney the Rat." 
 
 Several protests were promptly entered. 
 " That roughneck ? " said MacLachan, 
 whose urgency in the cause of abstinence 
 215 
 
Our Square 
 
 had not been well received. " Take thought 
 of the effect on the poor, stray-witted 
 Greek lad." 
 
 "I'm not thinking of the effect upon 
 him at all," said the Bonnie Lassie. " I 'm 
 thinking of the effect upon Pinney." 
 
 "Think aloud," invited the Little Red 
 Doctor. "What beneficial effect v^^ill the 
 reunion of two loving hearts have upon 
 an incised stab wound in a third party's 
 abdomen ? " 
 
 " Is n't this wound healed ?" 
 
 " Practically." 
 
 " Did you ever know any person to go 
 crazy or get crazier from joy?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " There are your two patients disposed 
 of, on the medical side. What I am at- 
 tempting is an experiment in psychology. 
 You 've all had your chance at saving the 
 Rat's soul. I '11 have mine." 
 
 She perched herself upon a modeling 
 stool and expounded. The Rat, she ex- 
 216 
 
Orpheus 
 
 plained, had never had an opportunity to 
 do anything but harm in his life. There- 
 fore he did harm with pride, because it 
 was doing something. " He 's like all of 
 us ; he wants to work to some effect. Give 
 him a chance to make himself effective for 
 good, and you may see a change." 
 
 Upon which theory of vice and virtue 
 the Little Red Doctor commented: — 
 
 " Sometimes the Bonnie Lassie thinks 
 around queer corners with her mind, but 
 she 's got the wisest heart in Our Square." 
 
 So Pinney the Rat got his instructions 
 and reluctant leave from his doctor to in- 
 dulge in a brief midnight stroll that very 
 night. 
 
 Our Square was haunted that midnight 
 by uneasy figures slinking about in shad- 
 owy backgrounds. One by one Terry the 
 Cop trailed them down only to be discom- 
 fited by successive discoveries of his own 
 particular friends. The one logical object 
 of suspicion, Pinney the Rat, sat openly 
 217 
 
Our Square 
 
 on a bench and smoked and waited for 
 Orpheus to finish his music. When it was 
 over, the little guttersnipe went to meet 
 the big Olympian. Carefully indeed had 
 we rehearsed the Rat in a modulated 
 method of breaking the news. But the 
 gangster was an undisciplined soul and a 
 direct. At the crisis he reverted to his own 
 way, which perhaps was best. He put a 
 hand on Orpheus's shoulder. 
 
 "Say, bo'," he said, "yer in wrong 
 about the lady." 
 
 The Greek's face quivered, in anticipa- 
 tion of another blow at the fabric of his 
 precious dream. " I know," he said. 
 
 " No, yeh don't know. She did n't 
 croak. She's alive." 
 
 Orpheus's hands went to his temples. ' 
 
 " She 's alive and waiting for you in the 
 dominie's hallway. Come wit' me. Ready ? 
 Hep!" 
 
 Then Cyrus the Gaunt, Terry the Cop, 
 and I had to fall on the Little Red Doc- 
 218 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 tor and pin him to a bench to keep him 
 from ruining it all, for the great bulk of 
 the Greek loosened in every fibre and he 
 collapsed into the clutch of the fragile 
 Rat in a manner calculated (so the mad- 
 dened physician informed us in technical 
 and violent terms) to rip every condemned 
 stitch out of the latter's foreordained peri- 
 toneum. Presumably, however, the Little 
 Red Doctor had stitched better than he 
 knew. For Pinney straightened the big 
 man up and marched him across the way. 
 As the strange pair mounted the steps the 
 vestibule door opened. A little, quick fig- 
 ure sped to meet them. We heard across 
 the leafage of Our Square the cry of a man 
 vv^ho has come back to life and of a woman 
 vs^ho has come back to love. When my 
 eyes, vv^hich are growing old and play me 
 strange tricks, had cleared, the doors were 
 closed and Pinney the Rat was playing 
 w^atchdog on the steps, jealously guarding 
 that sacred vestibule. 
 219 
 
Our Square 
 
 Oh, the vestibules of Our Square ! What 
 Arcadia has fostered a thousandth part of 
 their romance ! Between those narrow 
 walls, behind those ill-guarded doors, in 
 that pathetic travesty of solitude which is 
 all that our teeming hive affords, what 
 heights and depths of love and anguish, 
 what hope and despair, what triumphs, 
 what abnegations, what partings, what 
 "infinite passion and the pain of finite 
 hearts that yearn," pass, and are forgotten ! 
 When the blight of ages shall lie heavy 
 and dusty over a forgotten metropolis, 
 when the last human habitation totters to 
 its fall in some far future cataclysm, two 
 lovers shall stand clasped in its vestibule 
 forgetful of ruin, of death, of all but each 
 other. Oh, for the pen of Euripides to 
 celebrate fittingly those narrow and en- 
 chanted spaces ! Or the pipe of my friend 
 Orpheus to turn their echoes into golden 
 music ! 
 
 They came out, those two, arm enlaced 
 220 
 
Orph 
 
 eus 
 
 in arm, with the glory on their faces, into 
 a world that was theirs alone for the time. 
 They vanished into the shadows, and the 
 watcher on the step lifted his head and 
 saw them go. But the face of Pinney was 
 no longer the face of the Rat. 
 
 He rose and slouched down the steps. 
 We went forward to meet him. 
 
 " I wanta drink," he muttered. 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie put her hand out to 
 him. " No, you do not," said she. 
 
 " No, I do not," said Pinney. He turned 
 to Cyrus the Gaunt. 
 
 " When do I git that job ?" he asked. 
 
A Tale of White Magic in Our 
 Square 
 
 STRANGERS in Our Square stop and 
 stare at No. 17. In itself the house is 
 unremarkable; a dull, brown rectangle 
 with a faintly mildewed air about the 
 cornices. It is this sign on the front 
 which attracts the startled notice of the 
 wayfarer : — 
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEATH 
 One Flight Up and Ring Bell 
 
 To us of the Square the placard is a 
 commonplace, and the Angel of Death 
 just Boggs, a chunky, bristly little man 
 with gold teeth and a weak, meek, peanut- 
 whistle voice, who conducts not a private 
 bomb factory or a suicide club, as unin- 
 
 222 
 
azmun 
 
 formed romantics hopefully surmise upon 
 a first reading, but a worthy though hum- 
 ble enterprise of hygiene and cleanliness 
 more specifically set forth in the legend 
 running, crimson, across the top of his 
 business card : — 
 
 BoGGS Kills Bugs 
 
 Once in the long ago that explicit an- 
 nouncement had flamed upon the house 
 front. It yielded to the more dignified 
 form when Madam TallafFerr took Mr. 
 Boggs's top floor. She said that it was ob- 
 jectionable and that she could not live over 
 it, and the landlord, duly impressed, sac- 
 rificed his prized alliteration rather than 
 lose a lodger so elegant and aristocratic. 
 Mr. Boggs had a vast, albeit distant, rev- 
 erence for aristocracy, and he recognized 
 in Madam TallafFerr a true exponent. So 
 the sign came down and she went up. 
 With her went her furniture, scanty but 
 magnificent, a silver-inlaid lock box lo- 
 223 
 
Our Square 
 
 cally credited with safeguarding the Pem- 
 berton family diamonds, Sempronius, who 
 was fat and black and a cat, and Old 
 Sally, who was fat and black and a thief. 
 For five years Madam TallafFerr dwelt 
 above the lethal Boggs, and at the end of 
 that period Our Square knew hardly more 
 of her than on the day of her arrival. She 
 was polite, but resolutely aloof as befitted 
 her station in life. 
 
 For Mr. Boggs's lodger was all that is 
 most glorious in Southern lineage. Her 
 full style and title was Madam Rachel 
 Pinckney Pemberton Tallafferr, with two 
 Is, two fs, and two rs, if you valued her 
 favor. She was passionately devoted to the 
 Lost Cause, and belonged to no less than 
 seven "Daughters-of " organizations with 
 sumptuous stationery. Mr.. Boggs was very 
 proud of her mail. He said she had the 
 swellest correspondence in Our Square. 
 When letters arrived bearing her name 
 without the requisite double Is, fs, and rs, 
 224 
 
azmun 
 
 they were invariably returned to the post- 
 man indorsed in a firm, fine hand: "No 
 such individual known here." But if the 
 letters appeared important, the kindly and 
 admiring Angel of Death used to intercept 
 them and supply the missing consonants 
 from his own inkwell. In this way he ac- 
 cumulated considerable information, and 
 was able to apprise Our Square that his 
 lodger was superstitious, subscribed to a 
 dream magazine, and belonged to a Spirit 
 Guidance Group. He darkly suspected the 
 spirits of giving her bad advice about in- 
 vestments. 
 
 In person Madam Tallaflferr was spare, 
 tall, and straight. Her age when she first 
 came to us was, to borrow caution from 
 the war-zone censorship, " somewhere in 
 the sixties," though to Old Sally she was 
 still "my young mist' ess." Age had sharp- 
 ened her personality, like her features, to 
 a fine point. She was, I think, the most 
 serene, incisive, and authoritative person I 
 225 
 
Our Square 
 
 have ever encountered. Her speech w^as 
 precise and trenchant. She dressed always 
 in elegant, rustling black. Mr. Boggs said 
 that she v^alked like a duchess. Quite 
 likely. Though where Mr. Boggs got his 
 data, I don't know. Our Square is not ex- 
 tensively haunted by persons of ducal rank. 
 However, she became known to the lo- 
 cality, behind her back, as the Duchess. 
 She and Old Sally were supposed to live 
 in sumptuous luxury above the sign of the 
 Destroyer. They had come to Our Square 
 for their sojourn because, generations be- 
 fore in the days of its glory, madam's ma- 
 ternal grandfather had visited a distant 
 cousin in that same No. 1 7. From beneath 
 the ominous signboard she made occa- 
 sional excursions, going westward and up- 
 town, sometimes actually in an automobile, 
 and always escorted by Old Sally. It was 
 understood (from the boastful Mr. Boggs) 
 that on such occasions his lodger was going 
 into Society. 
 
 226 
 
Tazmun 
 
 Once, that Our Square knew of, she put 
 her ante-bellum principles into practice. 
 She undertook disciplinary measures upon 
 Old Sally, who in a moment of exaltation 
 had been bragging indiscreetly of past 
 glories " back in Fuhginia." With a light 
 but serviceable cane she corrected that in- 
 discretion. Yes, in this emancipated twen- 
 tieth century, among thepopulous, crowded 
 habitations of our little metropolitan com- 
 munity, within earshot of Terry the Cop, 
 the conscientious and logical slave-owner 
 committed the startling anachronism of 
 beating her slave. Hearing the resultant 
 groans, Mr. Boggs, the lethal, rushed up to 
 his top floor in great perturbation of spirit 
 and burst in upon the finale of the per- 
 formance. From what he could observe 
 the castigation was purely formal and in- 
 nocuous and the outcries merely a conces- 
 sion to what was expected and proper in 
 the circumstances. But when he made his 
 presence known, the Duchess in few cold 
 227 
 
Our Square 
 
 and measured terms explained to him his 
 exact purport and significance in the cos- 
 mic scheme, which he promptly perceived 
 to be an approximate zero. " She wizened 
 me up," said the Angel of Death, "like a 
 last season's roach." 
 
 One after another she wizened us all up 
 sufficiently to convince Our Square that 
 she desired no personal share in its loosely 
 communal, kindly, and village-like life. 
 
 But though aloof she was not alien. As 
 befitted her name and station, she could 
 in time of need descend from her remote 
 Olympus above the insecticidal Mr. Boggs 
 and lend a hand. The first occasion was 
 when a sudden and disastrous spring epi- 
 demic of that Herod of diseases, diphthe- 
 ria, swept down upon Our Square, bring- 
 ing panic in its train, an insane and bestial 
 panic which barred doors against the au- 
 thorities, against help, against medicine, 
 against even our fiery and beloved Little 
 Red Doctor, who stands like a bulwark 
 
 228 
 
'Tazmun 
 
 between us and death and the fear of death. 
 Then the Duchess appeared. She con- 
 sulted briefly with the Little Red Doctor. 
 She put on the black silk of splendor, the 
 Pinckney laces and the Pemberton dia- 
 monds, and thus girded for the fray went 
 forth, a spare, thin-lipped, female St. 
 George, against our local dragon. Wher- 
 ever that sane and confident presence ap- 
 peared, panic gave way to reason and mu- 
 tiny to obedience. There were no heroics. 
 She nursed no dying children, saved no 
 sudden emergency. She simply restored 
 and enforced courage through the author- 
 ity of a valiant and assured personality. 
 Just before the Little Red Doctor col- 
 lapsed, at the close of the crisis, he deliv- 
 ered his estimate of her. 
 
 " Cold nerve and tradition. Our Square 
 ought to put up a statue to her — in steel." 
 
 Against which may be set off the Duch- 
 ess's complacent and bland summing up 
 of the Little Red Doctor : — 
 229 
 
Our Square 
 
 " He seems a worthy young man." 
 
 In retort, Mr. Boggs, for once forget- 
 ting his reverential attitude, indignantly 
 piped : " God give you understanding ! " 
 
 The Duchess merely lifted her eye- 
 brows fractionally. Being a Pemberton 
 by birth and a TallafFerr by name, she 
 perceived no necessity of understanding 
 lesser forms of life. 
 
 Yet she possessed understanding, too, 
 and of a subtle, fine, and profound kind. 
 Otherwise she could never have done for 
 Schepstein what she did when Schep- 
 stein's twenty-year-old Metta killed her- 
 self through taking poison tablets (by 
 mistake of course, as the Little Red Doc- 
 tor perjuriously certified). In his hour of 
 lonely grief and shame. Our Square turned 
 its back upon the little cross-eyed, cross- 
 grained, agnostic trafficker in old debts, old 
 furniture, old books, old stamps, old silver, 
 and anything else old which he could buy 
 from the uninformed and sell to the covet- 
 230 
 
'Tazmun 
 
 ous ; not because he had at one time or an- 
 other got the better of most of us in some 
 deal and was the best-hated habitant within 
 the four inclosing streets, but because we 
 did not know what to do for him and 
 feared his savage and cynical rebuffs. But 
 when the furtive hearse and the one car- 
 riage for Schepstein, which was to have 
 been the whole of little Metta's funeral, 
 drew up at night before the Schepstein flat. 
 Madam Rachel Pinckjiey Pemberton Tal- 
 lafferr descended her steps, and crossed Our 
 Square, rustling and in the high estate of 
 black silk and lace. She must have been 
 watching. Behind her waddled Old Sally 
 with an armful of white roses. They met 
 Schepstein at the foot of his steps, follow- 
 ing his dead. As the casket passed her, 
 Madame TallafFerr took the wealth of 
 bloom from the servant and scattered its 
 snowy purity above the girl. At that the 
 face of Schepstein, which had been cold 
 lead-gray, changed and flushed and soft- 
 231 
 
Our Square 
 
 ened, and he staggered suddenly where he 
 stood and might have fallen had not that 
 strong old woman thrust an arm under his 
 to help him on his way. So two mourners 
 went" in the lone carriage to little Metta's 
 funeral. 
 
 Only long afterward was this known to 
 Our Square. What established the Duchess 
 as a local heroine and an Olympian con- 
 troller of destinies was her handling of 
 MacLachan the Tailor. MacLachan, on 
 his black, alcoholic 4ays, was wont to sing 
 "The Cork Leg" under circumstances 
 which I have set forth elsewhere. On this 
 occasion he sang it, sitting on the coping 
 of the fountain with his legs in the water, 
 and beating time with a revolver which 
 might or might not have been loaded. No- 
 body knew at the time. Regarding Mac- 
 Lachan there was no such room for doubt. 
 Between stanzas he would announce his 
 purpose of presently ending all his troubles 
 with a bullet, previous to which, candidates 
 232 
 
Tazmun 
 
 for coffins would be considered in the order 
 of their applications. In the natural logic 
 of events this was a case for Terry the Cop, 
 but Polyglot Elsa of the Elite Restaurant 
 had early observed MacLachan's ready 
 weapon, and with more cunning than con- 
 science had dispatched the intrepid Terry 
 to the farther end of the beat upon a purely 
 fictitious Italian riot. For reasons of her 
 own she did not wish Terry punctured. 
 Hence Our Square, deprived of the of- 
 ficial protection to which we were entitled, 
 lurked about in the night shadows, watch- 
 ing the balladist from a respectful distance 
 and wondering what would come next. 
 
 The Duchess came next. She rustled 
 stiffly up to the fountain and bade Mac- 
 Lachan hold his peace. Old Sally followed 
 with a market basket. MacLachan elevated 
 his voice a pitch. 
 
 " Horror and fright were in his face. 
 The neighbors thought he was running a race ; 
 He clung to a lamp-post to stay his pace. 
 But the leg broke away and kept up the chase," 
 
Our Square 
 
 bellowed MacLachan. " I am not aweer," 
 he added, still rhythmic, though with a 
 change of meter, " that now and here, you 
 possess any legal authority in this Squeer ! " 
 
 The Duchess pointed a stiletto-like fin- 
 ger at MacLachan. " You are a rum- wast- 
 rel," she pronounced severely. 
 
 MacLachan pointed his revolver at the 
 Duchess, though rather waveringly. " I 
 am," said he, " and proud of it." 
 
 " You will do some harm with that fire- 
 arm." 
 
 "I will," said MacLachan, "and glad 
 to do it." 
 
 " Go home to your bed and pray," or- 
 dered the stiff old lady contemptuously. 
 
 MacLachan regarded her gravely. " Fly, 
 witch," he said. "Awa' wi' ye on yer 
 broomstick. I have a silver bullet for yer 
 life." 
 
 " Give me that pistol," she directed 
 and stretched out a hand for it. 
 
 Quietly but firmly MacLachan shot 
 
 234 
 
azmun 
 
 her. At the same moment Old Sally hit 
 him expertly on the head with a bottle 
 which she took from her market basket. 
 MacLachan slumped forward and took his 
 whirling thoughts carefully between his 
 two hands. "I ha' done wrong," he pres- 
 ently concluded. " I ha' murdered my 
 aged an' respectable aunt in cold blood. 
 Tak' my weepon an' hale me to the 
 gallus." 
 
 He passed his revolver over to a firm 
 grasp. It was that of the Duchess. She 
 was bleeding very slightly, the merest 
 trickle, from the ear which MacLachan 's 
 bullet had grazed. 
 
 " Do not strike him again," she bade 
 Old Sally, composedly, and that faithful 
 amazon dropped her bottle and lost fifty 
 cents' worth of catchup. 
 
 " Come home before you get into 
 trouble," was the lady's command to the 
 now cowed and repentant tailor. 
 
 Whimpering and rubbing his head, he 
 
Our Square 
 
 suffered himself to be marched back to his 
 Home of Fashion. So promptly was the 
 retirement executed that Terry the Cop 
 never knew (officially) what had taken 
 place. Unofficially all of Our Square knew. 
 And the following day a deputation of us 
 marched MacLachan around to No. 17 
 to apologize. As we stood on the stair- 
 way awaiting her pleasure, we could hear 
 Madam Rachel Pinckney Pemberton Tal- 
 lafferr directing Old Sally to inform the 
 deputation that she had not, to the best 
 of her recollection, evinced any intention 
 of receiving on that particular day, and 
 that she sent her compliments to us, and 
 was not at home. 
 
 " That *s the high-toned way of saying 
 she don't want to see us," chirped the ad- 
 miring Mr. Boggs between gratification 
 and apology. "Aristocrat to the finger 
 tips ! Have n't I always told you so ?" 
 
 He had, to the uttermost wearying of 
 the flesh. But there came a time when 
 236 
 
re 
 
 azmun 
 
 he boasted less assuredly of his top-floor 
 grandeur. To the little circle at the Elite 
 Restaurant it became evident that some- 
 thing was preying upon the blithe spirit of 
 the Angel of Death, something having to do 
 with his Duchess, One evening, in a burst 
 of confidence, he unburdened himself to 
 the Little Red Doctor and me. Madam 
 was, he feared, losing interest in the lofty 
 social sphere to which she had been called. 
 Seldom, nowadays, did she go in her full 
 regalia uptown. Automobiles came no 
 more to his flattered door. Worst of all, 
 her fascinating mail had dwindled. Where 
 formerly there would be as many as eight 
 or ten envelopes per week, decorated with 
 splendid and significant insignia and inclos- 
 ing proud and stiffcardboard, now there was 
 but one regular communication of the sort, 
 the letter bearing the mystic double circle 
 of the Spirit of Guidance Group and, as that 
 was postmarked Brooklyn, Mr. Boggs had 
 a small notion of its social import. Most 
 
 m 
 
Our Square 
 
 of her days the aristocratic lodger now 
 spent at solitaire, with Sempronius, the 
 black cat, for critic. Mr. Boggs surniised 
 sadly that the goddess of his top-floor 
 Olympus was growing old. 
 
 Very likely the phenomenon would have 
 gone unexplained to this day had not both 
 the Rosser twins fallen into the fountain 
 simultaneously, contrary to their usual cus- 
 tom, which is for one of them to take the 
 careless plunge while the other dances fran- 
 tically on terra firma and yells till help 
 comes. Madam TallafFerr once termed 
 them " Death's playmates," because of this 
 ineradicable passion for gambling on the 
 brink of the pool which is just deep enough 
 to cover their two-year-old heads. On this 
 occasion Old Sally was the nearest aid. So 
 she waddled fatly over and hauled them 
 out easily enough. Then, quite inexplica- 
 bly, she fell in herself and lay gently oscil- 
 lating at the bottom of three feet of water. 
 Still more inexplicably, she refused to come 
 238 
 
azmun 
 
 to properly when Mr. Boggs and I fished 
 her out after not more than thirty seconds' 
 immersion. Also she looked queerly flat- 
 tened and misshapen and unnatural. So we 
 ran her into the Little Red Doctor's office 
 and awaited the verdict. 
 
 It was a long wait. When at length the 
 Little Red Doctor emerged there was a 
 wild kind of glint in his eye. 
 
 " D' you know what 's the matter with 
 that old black idiot ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Martyr to her own hee-roism," sug- 
 gested Mr. Boggs, the romantic. " Is she 
 drowned?" 
 
 The Little Red Doctor snorted : " She 's 
 starved. That 's what she is ! " 
 
 " She *s as fat as butter," I protested. 
 
 " Fat like a sliver ! " retorted the phy- 
 sician scornfully. " Padded ! " 
 
 " What on earth should she pad for ? " I 
 cried. 
 
 " To fool her mistress. She 's been going 
 without food so as to buy more for madam." 
 
 239 
 
Our Square 
 
 At this information the eyes of the De- 
 stroying Angel bade fair to pop from their 
 sockets and injure the Little Red Doctor 
 toward whom they were violently protrud- 
 ing. " D' ye meantersay they 're poor ? " 
 he gasped. 
 
 The Little Red Doctor outlined the 
 history of the aristocratic pair, as he had 
 extracted it from Old Sally. In the ex- 
 traction he had grossly violated his profes- 
 sional ethics, as he shamelessly admitted, 
 by giving her a half glass of port, which, 
 on her pinched stomach operated as a 
 tongue-loosener and betrayed her secret 
 into his hands. 
 
 "I'm not going to have two aged fe- 
 males dying of want in Our Square just for 
 the sake of a paper ethic or two," he de- 
 clared rebelliously. 
 
 According to what he had learned, the 
 Duchess had left Virginia to save money 
 and appearances, dragging along like a fet- 
 ter a debt of honor contracted by a worth- 
 240 
 
azmun 
 
 less scamp of a brother. Of course it was 
 not in any sense a legal debt, but she, with 
 her old-world ideas, had considered it to 
 be a blot upon the family 'scutcheon, and 
 had been paying interest, and bit by bit the 
 principal, from her rigidly conserved little 
 income. Presently an investment which 
 had been indicated through the Spirit of 
 Guidance Group's interpretation of one of 
 madam's dreams reduced its dividends and 
 madam cut off a few of her filial member- 
 ships. Another recommended by the dream 
 magazine went wholly wrong. More 
 memberships were reluctantly resigned. 
 Old Sally, as head of the commissary, with 
 full powers and responsibilities, was com- 
 pelled to operate on a radically reduced 
 apportionment. Two items took prece- 
 dence of all else — the rent and the debt. 
 
 "You meantertellme," chirped Mr. 
 Boggs, "that Madam Tallafferr hasn't 
 had enough to eat ? " 
 
 "I do not," said the Little Red Doctor 
 241 
 
Our Square 
 
 emphatically. " She has. Old Sally has n't. 
 But her mistress does n't know that." 
 
 Mr. Boggs raised pious eyes to the ceil- 
 ing. " Wotche going to do about it ? " he 
 inquired. He was, I take it, reminding 
 Providence of its responsibility in the 
 matter. 
 
 The Little Red Doctor was n't for leav- 
 ing it to Providence. "We've got to find 
 a way to help." 
 
 " Charity ? To madam ? " twittered Mr. 
 Boggs. " I 'd hate to try it on." 
 
 The Little Red Doctor scratched his 
 large red head in perplexity. 'Then he 
 called Old Sally in. 
 
 ,"Now, Sally," said he, "we're all 
 friends of yours here." 
 
 "Yessuh," said Old Sally gratefully. 
 
 "And friends of your mistress's." 
 
 Old Sally bristled. " My young mist'ess 
 ain' needin' no frierCs 'roun' yeah. She 
 hoi's her haid high ! " 
 
 " Well, admirers, then," the Little Red 
 242 
 
azmun 
 
 Doctor tactfully amended. "The point 
 is, we want to help. Now, have n't you got 
 some things there you could sell without 
 missing them ? Some of that old furniture 
 must be valuable." 
 
 " Sell the TallafFeh homestead fuhni- 
 ture ! " cried Old Sally, scandalized. 
 
 " Well, perhaps madam has more of 
 that old lace than shfe needs." 
 
 " The Pinckney lace ! " said Old Sally 
 in a tone of flat finality, which settled that 
 point. 
 
 " Possibly, then, the diamonds," I sug- 
 gested diffidently. 
 
 At this Old Sally's lips, which had been 
 pressed firmly inward, inverted themselves. 
 She began to blubber. The blubbering be- 
 came a sobbing. The sobs waxed to sub- 
 dued howls. From the midst of the howls 
 one coherent and astounding statement 
 emerged : — 
 
 " I stole 'em." 
 
 " Stole the Pemberton diamonds ! " 
 
 243 
 
Our Square 
 
 cried Mr. Boggs in consternation. His 
 structure of social splendor was fast dis- 
 integrating. "What did you do with 
 'em?" 
 
 " Hocked," wept that sorry and shrunk- 
 en old negress. " Gossome cheap trash in 
 deir place to fool my young mist' ess. Her 
 sight ain' good no mo'." 
 
 " And the money went for food," I 
 suggested. 
 
 " Some. Rest I put on a dream figgah." 
 
 " Policy," explained the Little Red 
 Doctor, who is wise in the ways of the 
 world. " She dreamed a number and put 
 her money on it in a policy shop. And it 
 did n't come out. They never do." 
 
 " Ef it had," said Old Sally eagerly, " I'd 
 'a' had money to pay dat eighteen hund'ed 
 an' fo'ty-five dollahs an' fifty cents debt, 
 an' plenty mo' besides." Obviously she 
 had been wearing that hair-shirt debt next 
 to her soul's skin. " But I must 'a' disre- 
 membered my dream figgah." 
 244 
 
'Tazmun 
 
 "Very likely," agreed the Little Red 
 Doctor gravely. " Come now, Sally; think. 
 Is n't there anything you could sell out of 
 the house?"' 
 
 The old face began to work again. " My 
 young mist'ess she '11 like to skin me if I 
 tell," she whimpered. 
 
 " I '11 cross your eyes like Schepstein's, 
 if you don't," threatened the Little Red 
 Doctor savagely. 
 
 A deep breath signified the termination 
 of her struggle between two fears. 
 
 ** Tazmun," she enunciated in a mys- 
 tical voice. 
 
 We looked at each other, puzzled. 
 " What ? " queried Mr. Boggs. 
 
 " Tazmun. You know, tazmun." 
 
 " What on earth is tazmun ? " 
 
 " Tazmun," she repeated determinedly. 
 *' Like whut you keep aroun' you to fotch 
 luck." Seeing us still at a loss, she sought 
 and evolved an illustration. 
 
 " Rabbit foot 's a tazmun." 
 245 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Talisman," I translated in a burst of 
 inspiration. 
 
 " Dass it, tazmun." 
 
 " But you can't sell a talisman," ob- 
 jected the Little Red Doctor. 
 
 " Dis tazmun you can," eagerly asserted 
 Old Sally. " Wuth a heap o' money. My 
 young mist' ess keep it locked up in her 
 jool box. Lawzee ! How I has tried to 
 get my ban's on 'at ol' tazmun lettah. 
 'Cause we sho' need de money fo' it." 
 
 " A letter ? " 
 
 " Dass it. Aut'graph tazmun letter. 
 Fum Gen'al Stonewall Jackson, wrote to 
 ol' Massah Pemberton, befo' de war." 
 
 Mr. Boggs turned to me. " Dominie, 
 you know everything." (This is one of 
 the perquisites of professing the classics 
 in Our Square ; it has also its drawbacks 
 in the shape of disappointed expectations.) 
 " Would that kind of letter be worth real 
 money ?" 
 
 "It's a fo'tellin' lettah," put in Old 
 246 
 
azmun 
 
 Sally eagerly. " It fo'tells de wah mo' 
 dan ten yeahs befo' de wah." 
 
 In that case, I thought, it might be valu- 
 able historically. Anyway it would do no 
 harm to get an offer from an expert. But 
 could " young mist'ess " be induced to let 
 it out of her hands ? Young mist'ess's Old 
 Sally thought it doubtful. Young mist'ess, 
 with her passion for the things of the Lost 
 Cause, held that document in sacred vener- 
 ation. Once a week she took it from its 
 neatly addressed envelope to read it. Her 
 spirit guide had repeatedly advised her of 
 its preciousness, and had declared that it 
 would eventually bring fortune and hap- 
 piness to her, if she would await the sign. 
 What sign ? Old Sally did not know. But 
 she was certain that a marvelous " tazmun " 
 such as General Stonewall Jackson's fore- 
 telling letter would furnish a sign beyond 
 all misconception. 
 
 " Sign ? She shall have a sign," mut- 
 tered the Little Red Doctor, who is wholly 
 247 
 
Our Square 
 
 without conscience in any matter where he 
 can pamper his insatiable appetite for help- 
 ing others. Then to Sally : *• But don't you 
 say a word to her of what you have told us." 
 
 " Cotch me ! " said that aged crone. " I 
 don' want to get skint." 
 
 How to come to negotiations with the 
 secluded and exclusive Madam Rachel 
 Pinckney Pemberton TallafFerr was some- 
 thing of a pfoblem. Strategy was useless 
 against that keen old woman. The direct 
 way was decided upon and Mr. Boggs was 
 appointed emissary. He respectfully pe- 
 titioned that the lady grant a conference 
 to the Little Red Doctor, myself, and him- 
 self upon a matter of business. Prefacing 
 her gracious consent with the comment 
 that she could not conceive what it was 
 about, she set an hour for receiving us. 
 When we climbed to the top floor above 
 the Angel of Death sign, we found her a 
 faded and splendid figure amid the faded 
 splendor of her belongings. She was clad 
 248 
 
Tazmun 
 
 in her stifFest black, she sat in the biggest 
 TallafFerr chair, her throat emerged from 
 the delicate and precious Pinckney lace, 
 and there glittered in her innocent ears a 
 grotesque travesty upon the small but time- 
 honored Pemberton diamonds. I knew 
 on sight what she would say. She said it : 
 "To what am I indebted, sirs, for this 
 visit.?" 
 
 The Little Red Doctor explained that 
 we were interested, historically, in a docu- 
 ment which she possessed. The Duchess's 
 sharp glance passed over me to rest sar- 
 donically upon Mr. Boggs, seeming to 
 inquire with what historical interest that 
 insecticidal nemesis might be credited ; 
 then leaped upon and fixed the spokes- 
 man : " How, may I ask, did you learn of 
 this document?" 
 
 " Through a dream," replied that shame- 
 less one. 
 
 Her glance livened. "Strange," she 
 murmured. " Ypu dreamed — what ? " 
 249 
 
Our Square 
 
 " That there was preserved at the top 
 of this house a prophetic letter of Stone- 
 wall Jackson's." 
 
 The old lady's eyebrows twitched. He 
 had touched the right chord of supersti- 
 tion. Her voice was quite animated as 
 she asked : " And you actually expect this 
 dream to be confirmed?" 
 
 " Pardon me ; it is already confirmed. 
 A few days after, I saw a newspaper clip- 
 ping, stating that such a letter was said to 
 be in existence, but that its whereabouts 
 was unknown." 
 
 I shuddered. Could n't the reckless idiot 
 foresee the next question ? It came, straight 
 and sharp : — 
 
 " Have you the clipping ? " 
 
 " I have," 
 
 I gasped with relief, wonder, and ad- 
 miration. 
 
 He had. That wise young Ananias had 
 quietly provided for it all by getting Inky 
 Mike, who loftily terms himself a journal- 
 250 
 
azmun 
 
 ist (being a pressman's assistant in a social- 
 ist weekly office), to set up and strike off a 
 brief and vague article which the Little 
 Red Doctor himself had composed for the 
 occasion. Madam TallafFer read it with 
 heightened color. 
 
 " This," she said to Old Sally calmly, 
 " is without doubt the Sign." 
 
 From a beautifully inlaid box she rev- 
 erently took an old buff envelope, stamped 
 and postmarked, and put it in the Little 
 Red Doctor's hands. " This, sirs," said she, 
 " is my talisman. It was given to me, as his 
 most prized possession, by my father, to 
 whom it was written." 
 
 "What do you value this at. Madam 
 TallafFerr?" asked the physician. 
 
 Her reply came without hesitation. 
 "Eighteen hundred and forty-five dollars 
 and fifty cents." 
 
 The Little Red Doctor's jaw fell. 
 " Eighteen — did I understand you to say 
 eighteen hundred V^ 
 
 251 
 
Our Square 
 
 " And forty-five dollars and fifty cents. 
 That is the miniijium. It is perhaps worth 
 more." 
 
 "Er — yes. Certainly. Very likely," said 
 the Little Red Doctor jerkily, 
 
 "I bid you good day, sirs," said the 
 Duchess. "You will, of course, exercise 
 every care of General Jackson's letter." 
 
 We bowed ourselves out. On the side- 
 walk we looked upon each other in dis- 
 may. "And Old Sally down to the last 
 dollar," said the Little Red Doctor, neg- 
 lecting to mention that he had given her 
 the dollar. 
 
 " Let 's try the letter on the trade, any- 
 way," piped Boggs hopefully. " You can't 
 tell but maybe it might be worth the 
 money. Is there an autograph trade, domi- 
 nie?" 
 
 In my capacity of omniscience, I 
 
 chanced, happily for my reputation, to be 
 
 informed upon this and to be able to make 
 
 some definite suggestions. We went to Mr. 
 
 25a 
 
Tazmun 
 
 Barker's small and recherche curio shop, 
 with the talisman. Mr. Barker did not 
 bark. He purred. The substance of his 
 purring was that while the letter was au- 
 thentic beyond question and would be of 
 interest to some Southern historical so- 
 ciety, it could claim no special value. As 
 for the prophetic feature, upon which so 
 much stress had been laid, a mere opinion 
 that, " Be it sooner or be it later, the moot 
 question of State rights will demand a final 
 settlement," could hardly be regarded as an 
 inspired forecast of the Civil War. How- 
 ever, should we say twenty-five dollars ? 
 
 As the business brains of our delegation, 
 Mr. Boggs, intrusted with the bargain- 
 ing, would not say twenty-five dollars. Mr. 
 Boggs would not say anything remotely 
 suggesting twenty-five dollars. Mr. Boggs 
 would say good day, which he forthwith 
 did in great disgust of spirit. From Mr. 
 Barker we went to Mr. Pompany. Mr. 
 Pompany neither barked nor purred. He 
 
Our Square 
 
 mumbled. The upshot of his submaxillary 
 communication was a dim "Twenty dol- 
 lars, take it or leave it." We left it, and 
 Mr. Pompany, the latter with a Parthian 
 arrow sticking in his soul (if he had one) 
 in the form of Mr. Boggs's firm opinion, 
 delivered in a baleful squeak, that he might 
 be only an ignoramus, but had rather the 
 appearance and bearing of a swindler. 
 
 "Thieves!" piped Mr. Boggs on the 
 sidewalk. "Thieves and fatheads, the 
 whole trade. What now ? " 
 
 " Schepstein," said the Little Red Doc- 
 tor. "He's a thief too. But he knows." 
 
 Schepstein received us in his grubby, 
 grimy, desolated front room, which did 
 duty as an office, with a malevolent cross-fire 
 from his distorted eyes. " Bit of business? " 
 he repeated after Mr. Boggs. " What busi- 
 ness? State your business." 
 
 "For sale," piped Mr. Boggs, handing 
 him the letter which he had taken from 
 the envelope. 
 
 254 
 
Tazmun 
 
 Hardly a glance did Schepstein give it. 
 " Thomas Jonathan Jackson ? Who 's he ? 
 And who 's this Major Pemberton?" 
 
 Mr. Boggs explained, in indignant pic- 
 colo tones, who Thomas Jonathan Jack- 
 son was. Not about Major Pemberton, 
 however. No authority had been given to 
 our deputation to disclose the ownership 
 of the letter. So far as we were aware at 
 that time, it would have meant nothing 
 to Schepstein anyway. We had no reason, 
 then, to suppose that he even knew Madam 
 TallafFerr. 
 
 " Humph ! " grunted Schepstein. "Stone- 
 wall Jackson, eh ? Might be worth some- 
 thing. Lessee the envelope." 
 
 He looked it over carefully, front and 
 back, folded the letter which he had not 
 even read, and slipped it back in. " Leave 
 it with me overnight," he suggested neg- 
 ligently. " I '11 think it over and make you 
 a price in the morning." 
 
 "Think as much as you like," returned 
 
 255 
 
Our Square 
 
 Mr. Boggs, retrieving the treasure. "We'll 
 keep this. And we '11 be back at eleven 
 to- morrow^." 
 
 Observe, novr, the advantages of living 
 in a small self-centered community like 
 Our Square, w^here everybody has an in- 
 timate (if not invariably friendly) interest 
 in everybody else's affairs. Inky Mike had 
 noted w^ith curiosity our visit to Schepstein. 
 As a press tender, the inky one naturally 
 aspires to be a reporter, but his ideal re- 
 porter, being derived mainly from journal- 
 ism as set forth in the movies, is a species 
 of glorified compromise betw^een Sherlock 
 Holmes and Horace Greeley in a rich 
 variety of disguises. He had no disguise 
 handy, but he washed his face and followed 
 Schepstein when that astute bargainer set 
 forth immediately after our visit. Further, 
 he listened outside the booth while the 
 object of his sleuthing phoned a telegram. 
 As he reported it in great excitement to 
 our trio, it was addressed to a gentleman 
 256 
 
azmun 
 
 named Olds, in Cincinnati and read to this 
 esoteric effect : — 
 
 " Alexandra local five forty-six perfect. 
 What price ? Answer quick." 
 
 "Who's Olds?" asked the Little Red 
 Doctor. 
 
 "Olds? Doncher know Olds?" cried 
 Inky Mike. " The oil king ? The multa- 
 millionaire ? " ' 
 
 "What has this to do with us ?" I asked. 
 " It seems to be some oil quotation. What 
 does 'Alexandra local' mean?" 
 
 "Search me!" offered the amateur 
 sleuth, " But don'choo fool yourself! It's 
 your business, awright. He snook out after 
 you went, shakin' all over." 
 
 Mr. Boggs, who from the first had been 
 profoundly impressed by his Duchess's 
 tradition-inspired estimate of the auto- 
 graph, nodded a sagacious head. " Trust 
 old Schep ! " he fluted. 
 
 " When I 've his money in hand ; not 
 before," grunted the Little Red Doctor. 
 
 257 
 
Our Square 
 
 When we called at the dingy and lonely 
 flat on the following morning, Schepstein's 
 face was a mask of smiling craft. 
 
 "It's worth possibly — pos-sib-bly fif- 
 teen dollars as a spec," he said. 
 
 "No," cheeped Mr. Boggs. 
 
 " But the autograph market is looking 
 up. I '11 take a chanst and give you twenty- 
 five. Cash," he added impressively. 
 
 "No," repeated Mr. Boggs. 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" de- 
 manded Schepstein with rising truculence. 
 " D'you wanta sell or don't cha r What 's 
 your price ?" 
 
 " Eighteen hundred and forty-five dol- 
 lars and fifty cents," said Mr, Boggs in a 
 clear, businesslike soprano. 
 
 Schepstein did not sneer, nor explode, 
 nor curse, nor do any of the things which 
 I confidently expected him to do. His 
 convergent vision seemed to focus on the 
 buff envelope in Mr. Boggs's lumpy hand. 
 He looked thoughtful, and, it seemed to 
 258 
 
T'azmun 
 
 me, almost respectful. "As she stands?" 
 he asks. 
 
 "As she stands," assented Mr. Boggs. 
 
 " Bought," said Schepstein. And he 
 wrote out a check to " Bearer." 
 
 At this the Little Red Doctor lost his 
 head and profoundly altered the situation. 
 " By thunder ! " he cried, " Madam Tal- 
 lafFerr knew what she was talking about all 
 the time." 
 
 Schepstein dropped his pen. " Who ? " 
 he asked in a rasping voice. 
 
 " Madam TallafFerr, across Our Square 
 in Seventeen." 
 
 "Was that her letter?" 
 
 " Yes. We are acting as her agents." 
 
 " Ah, hell ! " said Schepstein softly. 
 
 Then an astounding thing happened. 
 Two small, pinched tears welled out from 
 the ill-matched points of flint which serve 
 Schepstein for eyes. They were followed 
 by two more. The little, gnarly, cross- 
 grained Jew drooped over the desk and his 
 259 
 
Our Square 
 
 shoulders shook. A voice of falsetto anguish 
 roused him. 
 
 "Don't cry on the check! You'll 
 smudge it." 
 
 Schepstein lifted his head and gloomed 
 at Boggs. " Nevamind that; it 's all off," 
 he gulped. " I got something to tell you 
 people." 
 
 Between queer, shamed breath-catch- 
 ings, he told us about his Metta's funeral. 
 At the end he read us a telegram from 
 Quentin Olds. When I was able to assimi- 
 late its full meaning, I found myself shak- 
 ing hands with Schepstein, while Mr. 
 Boggs danced a jig with the Little Red 
 Doctor. Then Schepstein tore up the 
 check for 1 1845.50 and invited us around 
 to the Elite Restaurant to luncheon, thereby 
 affording a sensational titbit of news for 
 Polyglot Elsa's relating for a fortnight 
 after. " Mr. Schepstein, he paid the whole 
 compte. Was kennst du about that ! " 
 
 Three days were required to finish the 
 260 
 

 s 
 
 ^<5 
 
 fco 
 
 ^ 
 
 
azmun 
 
 deal. Then through Old Sally the deputa- 
 tion trio sought and obtained another audi- 
 ence from the Duchess. Mr. Boggs did the 
 talking in terms worthy of his environment. 
 " We have successfully terminated the ne- 
 gotiations, Madame TallafFerr," he began. 
 
 The Duchess bowed in silent dignity. 
 
 " And I have now the honor of turning 
 over to you eighteen hundred and forty- 
 five dollars and fifty cents, as — " 
 
 " Hally-loo-yah, tazmun ! " burst out 
 Old Sally. "Rally — hally — hally—" 
 She caught her mistress's austere glance. 
 " I knowed it was comin' so all along," 
 she concluded, heroically compressing her- 
 self to a calm if belated assurance. 
 
 " — as the minimum price stipulated," 
 pursued Mr. Boggs. 
 
 " I thank you," said the Duchess. 
 
 "Also," concluded the agent, "a bal- 
 ance, after deducting all expenses, of two 
 thousand one hundred and fifty-three dol- 
 lars and twenty cents." 
 261 
 
Our Square 
 
 The Duchess's face never so much as 
 changed. "That is entirely satisfactory," 
 she observed. " I have to thank you all 
 for your successful efforts in securing a 
 suitable price. My only regret," the quiet 
 voice faltered a little, " is that circum- 
 stances should have forced me to part w^ith 
 an expression of esteem for my beloved 
 father from one who w^as the greatest mili- 
 tary hero of all history." 
 
 " You 're in wrong, lady," caroled Mr. 
 Boggs, his rhetoric suddenly melting in his 
 excitement. " We sold the envelope alone 
 for four thousand dollars net. There's 
 only three other of them 1846 Alexan- 
 dria postmaster's stamps in the world to- 
 day. So here's your Stonewall letter as 
 good as new." 
 
 " My Gawsh ! " said old Sally, and fell 
 down upon the floor and rolled and gave 
 praise after the manner of her race, unre- 
 buked this time of her mistress. 
 
 That aged and grand dame took back 
 262 
 
T^azmun 
 
 the letter with a hand which, for all that 
 it had been rock-firm when it received 
 MacLachan's revolver, now trembled a 
 little. But her sole comment was : " And 
 yet there are those so obstinate and short- 
 sighted as to deny that the spirits guide us 
 for our own good." 
 
 Once more, finely embossed stationery 
 came pouring in at No. 1 7, Our Square, 
 proudly edifying the soul of Mr. Boggs. 
 Once more Madam TallafFerr went forth 
 on missions of social splendor, westward 
 and uptown, sometimes in an automobile. 
 Once more the restored Pemberton dia- 
 monds glistened in the fine, withered ears. 
 Old Sally having confessed and been duly 
 beaten and forgiven. 
 
 Old Sally herself, replete and pompous, 
 trotted to and fro in Our Square, brimful of 
 smiling hints of a great honor that was to 
 come to us. Her young mist' ess, she let it be 
 known, was graciously pleased to be recog- 
 
Our Square 
 
 nizant of the part, useful though humble, 
 which Our Square had played in her rees- 
 tablished fortunes, and she was about to 
 acknowledge it in a manner worthy of her 
 family and her traditions. In Old Sally's 
 own words, she was going to " mo' dan 
 even it up wif you all." Curiosity, specu- 
 lation, and surmise had become almost 
 morbid in Our Square, when one morning 
 there burst upon us, in an effulgence of 
 glory, a mail as splendid as any which had 
 ever brightened Mr. Boggs's worshiping 
 eyes on its passage upward to his top floor. 
 To Mr. Boggs himself it came, to Schep- 
 stein, to the Little Red Doctor, to me, 
 to Polyglot Elsa, and to many others, 
 even down the scale as far as Inky Mike, 
 this big white envelope, sealed with a square 
 of black sealing wax and inclosing a most 
 gratifyingly proud and stiffpasteboard card. 
 That card still stands carefully dusted on 
 many a mantel of Our Square, a guer- 
 don and manifesto of social glory. At the 
 264 
 
re 
 
 azmun 
 
 top of it is blazoned the crest of the 
 TallafFerrs, standing between the flag of the 
 Confederacy and the coat of arms of Old 
 Virginia. Below runs this legend — in real 
 engraving if you please : — 
 
 Madam Rachel Pinckney Pemberton Tallafferr 
 
 solicits the honor of your presence at 
 Number Seventeen, Our Square, on Friday, 
 November Eighteenth, to view an autograph 
 letter indited to her honored father , the late 
 Major Bently Pemberton, by 
 
 LIEUTENANT (aFTERWARD GENERAl) 
 THOMAS JONATHAN JACKSON 
 
 Of the Army of the Confederate 
 
 States of America. 
 
 Refreshments. R. S. V. P 
 
 Our Square had won social recognition. 
 
The Meanest Man in Our 
 Square 
 
 MILES MORSE was his name. He 
 lived over on the north side of Our 
 Square, two doors from the Varick Man- 
 sion, in a small, neat, solid, and very pri- 
 vate house. His age was uncertain. His 
 appearance was arid. His garb was plain 
 and black. His expression was unfriendly. 
 His business was making money and his 
 pleasure keeping the money when made. 
 He was a fixture of long standing in our 
 little community, as much so as the paving 
 stones in the park space facing his house, 
 and as insensate to the human struggle 
 around him as they. As to his neighbors, 
 he asked nothing and gave nothing. Be- 
 hind his back, and not always very far be- 
 hind it, he was called the Meanest Man 
 in Our Square. 
 
 266 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 Every morning at eight o'clock the 
 Meanest Man went to his office some- 
 where far downtown where, it was under- 
 stood, he did something sly and under- 
 handed connected with notes and loans. 
 Every afternoon at four o'clock he visited 
 the local Y. M. C. A., where he was (mis- 
 takenly) supposed to put in his hour and 
 a half in reading, on the theory that it was 
 cheaper to patronize that library than to 
 buy books or rent them from the penny 
 circulator. The rest of his life was strictly 
 and determinedly private. Passing to and 
 fro upon his concerns, he faced the deni- 
 zens of Our Square with the blank regard 
 of huge, horn-rimmed, blue glasses which 
 he always wore out of doors. Only for 
 Terry the Cop, MacLachan, the Little 
 Red Doctor, and Cyrus the Gaunt, did 
 he have a curt, silent nod, and for the 
 Bonnie Lassie an awkward bow. The 
 rest of us might as well not have existed. 
 Naturally there were few who had a good 
 267 
 
Our Square 
 
 word for him. Of these Terry the Cop 
 was one. 
 
 " Anyway, he has a grand pair of hands," 
 Terry has been heard to aver. 
 
 On the strength of this opinion, the 
 Bonnie Lassie, who needed a really superior 
 pair of hands for a sculpture which she 
 was then employed upon, made a point of 
 catching Miles Morse in the park and com- 
 pelling him to shake hands with her, to 
 his resentful embarrassment. Subsequently 
 she took our guardian of the peace to task. 
 
 "I don't know what you could have 
 been thinking of, Terry," she declared. 
 " His hands are knuckly outside and puffy 
 inside." 
 
 " You should see 'em in the court," said 
 Terry cryptically. 
 
 Not clearly comprehending what stand- 
 ing in court Mr. Morse's hands would 
 give him, the Bonnie Lassie dropped the 
 subject. On her own account, however, 
 she had a suspicion of redeeming qualities 
 268 
 
'The Meanest Man 
 
 in the Meanest Man. For one thing, she 
 knew of a battered and disreputable kitten, 
 rescued by Miles Morse from a strong and 
 hostile combination of small boys and big 
 dogs, at no small peril to himself, and taken 
 to the very private house, w^here it grew 
 into battered and disreputable but com- 
 petent cathood and now welcomed him 
 home every evening with extravagant dem- 
 onstrations of regard. Also a certain scene 
 enacted in sight of her studio windows had 
 stuck in her memory ; a powerful and half- 
 drunken brute of a teamster flaying an over- 
 done horse ; the interposition of the Mean- 
 est Man ; the infuriated descent, whip in 
 hand, of the driver ; the rush at the spare, 
 trim, uncombative-looking man who had 
 removed his spectacles and pocketed them ; 
 then the inexplicable and dismayed check 
 in mid onset of the assailant. The Bonnie 
 Lassie could n't understand it at all ; she 
 could n't see why that avalanche of wrath, 
 profanity, and bulk didn't simply over- 
 269 
 
Our Square 
 
 whelm its object — until she ran to the 
 door and opened it. Then she saw Miles 
 Morse's face and understood. It had hard- 
 ened into a contraction of rage so savage, 
 so concentrated, so murderous, that the 
 drink-inspired fury of the human brute 
 paled before it. 
 
 " Back on your wagon ! " ordered Morse. 
 He spoke not as man speaks to man, but 
 as man speaks to beast. 
 
 " Wot — wotcha goin' t' do, boss ? " fal- 
 tered the other. 
 
 " Put you in jail." 
 
 Sobered now, and cowed, the man 
 jumped to his seat and whipped up his 
 horses, in the hope of escaping. The 
 Meanest Man broke into a long, effortless 
 stride. There was no need to tell the wit- 
 ness that he would not be shaken off until 
 the quarry was in the hands of the police. 
 
 Now it happened that the High Gods 
 of Council who unofficially rule Our 
 Square held conference not long thereafter 
 270 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 upon a project, advanced by the Little Red 
 Doctor, for a local legal-aid organization 
 with an office and an attendant. Money- 
 was needed, and money is one of our rarest 
 phenomena. 
 
 It was the Bonnie Lassie who suggested 
 that the Meanest Man in Our Square be 
 approached for a contribution. Polite jeers 
 greeted the proposal. Thereupon the 
 Bonnie Lassie narrated the instance of 
 the beaten horse and backed it up with 
 Emerson : — 
 
 " 'T is a sin to Heaven above 
 One iota to abate 
 Of a just, impartial hate." 
 
 " Where does that get in with the Mean- 
 est Man ? " inquired Cyrus the Gaunt. 
 
 "He does n't hate anything except 
 giving up money," added the Little Red 
 Doctor. 
 
 " He hates cruelty," retorted the Bonnie 
 Lassie. " And he 's brave. Two points to 
 his credit. I believe you could do any- 
 
Our Square 
 
 thing with the Meanest Man if you could 
 get him mad enough," 
 
 "Well, my dearest," said Cyrus the 
 Gaunt with that condescending surrender 
 which is one of his few faults as a husband, 
 "since you have so good an opinion of 
 Mr. Morse, suppose you tackle him for a 
 contribution." 
 
 " I will," said the Bonnie Lassie. " I '11 
 go now." 
 
 She went. Presently she returned. It 
 was not the return of a victress. 
 
 "How much?" asked the Little Red 
 Doctor. 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie threw out empty and 
 eloquent hands. 
 
 " And what did he say ? " inquired Cyrus 
 the Gaunt. 
 
 " He indicated that he 'dsee me in Hades 
 first." 
 
 "Then I '11 go over and knock his head 
 off," declared her husband, reddening. 
 " I 've always wanted to do it anyway." 
 272 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 " Nothing of th e sort — goose ! I did n't 
 say he said it. I said he indicated it. It 
 was his manner. Verbally he was polite 
 enough. Said he did n't believe in charity." 
 
 Cyrus the Gaunt snorted. 
 
 " Gave his reasons too. He said he does 
 n't believe in charity because it makes the 
 recipient think too ill of himself, which is 
 bad, and the giver think too well of him- 
 self, which is worse." 
 
 " Something in that," grudged the Little 
 Red Doctor. 
 
 " Is n't- there! I tried to explain the 
 usefulness of the Legal Aid Society, but he 
 said that people who got into court were 
 fools and people who hired lawyers to lie 
 for them were knaves. Then" — the Bon- 
 nie Lassie dimpled — "he caught me sniff- 
 ing at his musty old house and asked me 
 what was the matter, and I asked him if 
 it had ever been dusted and aired, and he 
 said that he was afraid he'd have to get a 
 housekeeper and if I 'd get him one — the 
 
 273 
 
Our Square 
 
 right kind of a one — an old, respectable, 
 honest woman who 'd do all the work 
 while he was away so that he 'd never have 
 to see her, he'd contribute to our fund" 
 — the Bonnie Lassie paused for effect — 
 "ten dollars." 
 
 When the assembled council had finished 
 expressing its various emotions the speaker 
 continued : — 
 
 " I 've got a month to do it in. So I 
 made him make out the check and hold 
 it, unsigned." 
 
 " What 's the idea. Lassie ? " asked Mac- 
 Lachan the Tailor. 
 
 " The leak-in-the-dike principle," she 
 explained profoundly. "The ten dollars 
 is just the first trickle. If we ever get him 
 started. Heaven help him before we let 
 him stop. I 'm going to get that ten dol- 
 lars if I have to take the position myself." 
 
 But she was not driven to that length. 
 It is a recognized fact in Our Square that 
 when the Bonnie Lassie determines to get 
 274 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 anything done, Providence, with rank 
 favoritism, invariably steps in and does it 
 for her. This powerful and unfailing ally 
 it was that brought Molly Dunstan to Our 
 Square, white-faced, hot-eyed, and with 
 a gnawing fire of despair at her heart, 
 plunging blindly against the onset of a 
 furious March wind, until the lights of 
 Schoenkind's drug store guided her to har- 
 bor. In the absence of Schoenkind, who 
 was dining late at the Elite Restaurant, 
 young Irvy Levinson was keeping shop, 
 and as Young Irvy is of a cheerful, care- 
 free, and undiscriminating disposition he 
 made no bones of selling the wind-beaten 
 customer a bottle of a certain potent drug 
 which has various properties and virtues 
 back of its skull-and-crossbones label, one 
 of the latter being that it is prompt though 
 painful. With her purchase, Molly plunged 
 back into the storm, turned toward the 
 dim park space, and bumped violently into 
 the Little Red Doctor, Gently releasing 
 275 
 
Our Square 
 
 her, he caught a glimpse of her face. Its 
 aspect was not reassuring. Young women 
 who come blundering out of drug stores 
 with that expression and make for the 
 nearest quiet spot not infrequently cause 
 needless trouble to the busy authorities. 
 Opening Schoenkind's door, the Little 
 Red Doctor thrust into the aperture his 
 earnest face and this no less earnest query : 
 
 "What did that last customer buy?" 
 
 " Carbolic," replied Young Irvy light- 
 heartedly. "For a dog, Ast if it hurt 
 much." 
 
 The door slammed with much the effect 
 of an oath, and the questioner sprinted for 
 the park. Being wise in the way of human 
 misery, he knew that mysterious instinct 
 of suicides which guides them, no matter 
 what their chosen method of self-destruc- 
 tion, toward water. Therefore he took the 
 shortest route for Our Fountain. 
 
 Young Irvy's customer sat huddled on 
 a bench at the water's edge. The bottle 
 276 
 
The Meanest Man' 
 
 was in her hand, uncorked. She had just 
 made a trial of the liquid on her hand, 
 and was crying softly because it burned. 
 As the Little Red Doctor's grip closed on 
 her wrist, she gasped and sought to raise 
 the drug to her lips. 
 
 " Drop it ! " said her captor in the voice 
 of authority. 
 
 She obeyed. But she misinterpreted the 
 authority. " Is it to jail ye '11 be taking 
 me?" she asked despairingly. 
 
 The soft appeal of the voice, with its 
 faint touch of the brogue, shook the Little 
 Red Doctor. One glance at the piteously 
 lined young face conquered him. He for- 
 mulated his program on the spot. 
 
 "Jail?" he echoed in affected surprise. 
 "What for?" 
 
 She glanced mutely at the shattered 
 bottle. 
 
 "Oh, that's foolish stuff to use for 
 warts," he observed carelessly, lifting the 
 hand, which was as soft and smooth and 
 277 
 
Our Square 
 
 free from blemish as a moth's wing. 
 " Now, you come with me to a friend of 
 mine, and she '11 fix that burnt finger." 
 
 Many men there are in whom dogs con- 
 fide instinctively ; fewer who win offhand 
 the confidence of children, and a rare few 
 whom women trust at sight. Of this few is 
 the Little Red Doctor. His captive fol- 
 lowed him without protest to the nestling 
 little house with the quaint old door and 
 the broad, friendly vestibule which had 
 been her husband's wedding gift to the 
 Bonnie Lassie. There, without fuss or 
 query, Molly Dunstan was accepted as a 
 guest, and presently, too worn out even to 
 wonder, she was deep in healing sleep, in 
 the spare room over the studio. 
 
 In the morning she presented herself to 
 her hostess's unobtrusive but keen observa- 
 tion : a wistful slip of a woman of perhaps 
 twenty-five, with hollow cheeks, deep- 
 brown, frightened eyes, a softly drooping 
 mouth, and a satiny skin from which the 
 278 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 color had ebbed; a woman whose dainty 
 prettiness had been overlaid but not im- 
 paired by privation and some stress of ex- 
 istence only to be guessed at. For all her 
 simple and worn dress (all black) and the 
 echo of brogue in her speech, she bore her- 
 self with a certain native dignity and con- 
 fidence. 
 
 "It's good ye'vc been to me, and I '11 
 not know how to thank you, now that I '11 
 be going," she said, and the silken-soft voice 
 with its touch of accent won the Bonnie 
 Lassie's soft and wise heart from the first. 
 
 " But you 're not to go yet," protested 
 the latter. " You must stay until you 're 
 well. And then 1 want to sculp you, if 
 you '11 let me. I 'm an artist, and I think 
 you would make a wonderful model." 
 
 " It 's kind ye are," returned the other. 
 " But how can I be beholden ? " 
 
 " You won't be. It 's you that will be 
 doing the favor. As soon as you 're well 
 enough — " 
 
 279 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I 'm well enough now. There 's noth- 
 ing the matter with me." But her voice 
 was without life or hope. 
 
 So, in many slow sittings, the Bonnie 
 Lassie sculped Molly Dunstan ; and from 
 those sittings grew the heart-moving 
 bronze, "The Broken Wing," a figure 
 of a quaintly, pitifully birdlike woman in 
 the foreground of a group in a hospital 
 clinic, with the verdict of science written 
 in her face, looking out upon life in the 
 dread realization of helplessness. As the 
 work progressed the heart of Molly Dun- 
 stan opened little by little, and her story 
 came out. 
 
 While a young girl in a good Irish school 
 she had met a traveling American, Henry 
 Dunstan, and, half for love and half in the 
 elfin Irish spirit of adventurousness, had run 
 away with him. He was a good husband to 
 her, and they were happy in a little country 
 place which he had bought and which she 
 turned to skillful account, raising ducks 
 a8o 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 and chickens for the market to eke out his 
 income — "until the drink took him." It 
 took him the full length of its well-beaten 
 path, from debt to ruin ; from ruin to 
 broken will and health, and presently to 
 death. When his debts were cleared up the 
 place was gone, and the little widow had 
 a scant two thousand dollars of his life 
 insurance in the bank. Being sturdy, able, 
 and courageous, she had come to New 
 York, had found some fine sewing to do, 
 and had maintained herself, always with 
 the idea of getting back into the country 
 and to her poultry raising, which she loved. 
 Here the simple story came to a full stop 
 with the words : " So I bought a bit of 
 a place, and they took it away from me." 
 
 " Who took it away from you .? " asked 
 the Bonnie Lassie. 
 
 " Mr. Wiggett," replied Molly, and fell 
 into such a fit of shuddering that the Bon- 
 nie Lassie forebore to question her further 
 concerning the transaction. 
 281 
 
Our Square 
 
 Little by little, however, there came out 
 bits of information which the Bonnie Las- 
 sie deftly wove together, with the eventual 
 result that Cyrus the Gaunt looked up an 
 advertisement in a certain newspaper fa- 
 mous for its traps and pitfalls, and paid a 
 visit to the office, on St. Mark's Place, 
 of " D. Wiggett & Co., City and Sub- 
 urban Real Estate." He returned much 
 depressed, declaring that the laws against 
 homicide ought to provide for exceptions 
 in the case of such persons as D. Wiggett. 
 
 "There he sat and grinned, a great, 
 plump, pink, powerful, smirking gorilla; 
 and said that the transaction with Mrs. 
 Dunstan was perfectly legal — perfectly 
 — and there was n't anything further to be 
 said." 
 
 " Did you say it ? " inquired the Bonnie 
 Lassie, who knew her Cyrus. 
 
 " I did. And he threatened to have 
 me arrested for defamatory language. But 
 he 's right — legally. He 's got your little 
 282 
 
^he Meanest Man 
 
 widow's two thousand dollars, every cent 
 of it, and she 's got a piece of stamped 
 paper." 
 
 " Why is n't it a case for our Legal 
 Aid?" 
 
 " I 've just been to Merrivale. There 
 is n't a thing to be done." Following the 
 " Legal Aid " line, Cyrus's mind took a sud- 
 den but logical jump. " I never expected 
 to meet a meaner cuss than the Meanest 
 Man in Our Square," he observed. " But 
 I have." 
 
 "The very thing!" cried the Bonnie 
 Lassie. " How clever of you, Cyrus ! 1 
 mean, how clever of me ! Molly wants a 
 place. She 's all over that foolish suicide 
 notion. She shall be Mr. Miles Morse's 
 housekeeper." 
 
 " But he wanted an old woman," ob- 
 jected Cyrus. 
 
 "How is he to tell if he never sees 
 her ? I '11 manage that," retorted his wife 
 confidently. " The only thing is, will she 
 283 
 
Our Square 
 
 take a place that is almost like domestic 
 service?" 
 
 As to this Molly made not the slightest 
 difficulty. She had regained her courage 
 and her Irish fighting spirit, and she was 
 now ready to face life and make it give her 
 an honest return for honest work again ; 
 ready for anything, indeed, except an at- 
 tempt to get her money back which might 
 involve her seeing Mr. D. Wiggett. At the 
 mere mention of his name she fell into a 
 cold and shuddering silence. 
 
 With brief preliminaries, and on the 
 Bonnie Lassie's guarantee of "old Mrs. 
 Dunstan's " reliability, that semi-mythi- 
 cal person was installed as Miles Morse's 
 housekeeper and general factotum, having 
 taken the informal triple oath of her em- 
 ployment: industry, senility, and invisi- 
 bility. Six dollars a week was the wage 
 which the Goddess from the Machine had 
 wrung from the Meanest Man's violent 
 protests, with a warning that it would have 
 284 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 to be increased later on. The instructions 
 given to the new employee were that she 
 was to keep out of her employer's sight; 
 or if he should arrive at an untimely hour 
 she was to huddle into a shawl or hand- 
 kerchief and conceal her age behind a 
 toothache. 
 
 For six weeks all went well and simply. 
 Miles Morse was obliged to confess, grudg- 
 ingly, that his house was more livable and 
 comfortable. Dust disappeared. The fur- 
 niture took to arranging itself with less 
 stiffness and more amiability. When he 
 gave a whist party of an evening, the cigars 
 were in place, the ash trays ready, the 
 rooms aired and fresh, and the ice box 
 stocked, all by invisible hands. Orders 
 were issued and requisitions made through 
 the Bonnie Lassie. Meeting her neighbor 
 in Our Square one day, the Bonnie Lassie 
 hinted at the ten-dollar check for the Legal 
 Aid Society. " When I 'm sure I 'm sat- 
 isfied," said the Meanest Man, bending 
 285 
 
Our Square 
 
 frowning brows from above his owlish 
 glasses upon her. " D' you know what that 
 old hag has been up to ?" 
 
 "What old hag?" inquired the Bonnie 
 Lassie unguardedly. 
 
 " The Dunstan woman." 
 
 "Oh, you've seen her, then?" 
 
 "Not to speak of. She was curled up 
 like a worm, and had her face swathed 
 up like a harem, and talked like the croak 
 of a frog. And she 's been putting flowers 
 on my breakfast table," he concluded with 
 the accents of one detailing an intolerable 
 outrage. 
 
 "What of it?" inquired the surprised 
 agent. 
 
 " What of it ! Flowers cost money, don't 
 they?" 
 
 " Have you received any bill for flowers 
 yet?" 
 
 " I 've received bills for brooms, mops, 
 pails, towels, cups, plates, nails, tacks, pic- 
 ture hangers, baking tins, soap, and God 
 286 
 
"The Meanest Man 
 
 knows what all," replied Mr. Morse in a 
 breathless and ferocious voice. 
 
 " Yes ? And which of those do you find 
 in the floral catalogues ? " queried the Bon- 
 nie Lassie interestedly. "If you want to 
 know," she added as the Meanest Man 
 struggled for competent utterance, " those 
 flowers came from your own back yard. 
 Look at it some time. You '11 be pleased." 
 
 The Meanest Man was pleased when 
 he looked, so pleased that one fresh and 
 glorious June day when he should by the 
 known regimen of his life have been at 
 the Y. M. C. A. (supposedly reading) he 
 came home early to putter about among 
 the pansies. At the moment of his arrival 
 Molly Dunstan, her work finished and her 
 shawl laid aside, was standing in her neat, 
 close-fitting black dress, inside the area 
 railing, brooding with deep eyes over the 
 glad flush of summer which glorified Our 
 Square, and thinking, if the unromantic 
 truth must be told, of the little place up 
 287 
 
Our Square 
 
 near White Plains where her ducks and 
 chickens would have been so happy and 
 productive if D. Wiggett (she shivered) 
 had n't kept the place and her money too. 
 The owner of the house stood regarding 
 her with surprise and disfavor. " What are 
 you doing here?" he barked. 
 
 With a startled jump, Molly came out 
 of her brown study and returned the nat- 
 ural but undiplomatic answer : "I'm the 
 housekeeper." 
 
 " You ! What has become of Mrs. Dun- 
 stan?" 
 
 " I 'm Mrs. Dunstan." Realization of 
 her self-betrayal came to her. The soft 
 tears welled up into her soft eyes. " Oh, 
 dear ; oh, dear ! " she mourned. 
 
 "Don't make that noise," he ordered tes- 
 tily ; "what's the matter with the woman ! " 
 
 "Ye '11 not — not be wanting me here 
 any more." 
 
 " Oh, I don't say that," returned the 
 cautious Mr. Morse. "You're not wholly 
 288 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 unsatisfactory. But what does that mum- 
 mery of an old woman mean?" 
 
 In vain Molly tried to penetrate the blue 
 glasses which masked his expression. Any- 
 way, his voice had mollified. " I '11 tell ye 
 it all, if ye '11 listen," she said wistfully. 
 
 Miles Morse surprised himself by 
 promptly saying : " I '11 listen." 
 
 No one could have wished a more in- 
 tent listener. Molly told it all, including 
 the deal whereby D. Wiggett had secured 
 her money. At the conclusion her em- 
 ployer suggested that Molly bring him the 
 deed, or other documents in the case, on 
 the morrow. She did so. He read the prin- 
 cipal document with a queer tightening of 
 the lips which Molly could n't understand 
 at all, but which the Bonnie Lassie, had 
 she been present, would have interpreted 
 readily enough since she had seen it on an- 
 other occasion, when the spare and arid 
 man had set out to trail the horse-flaying 
 teamster to justice. 
 
 289 
 
Our Square 
 
 " This is n't a deed at all," said he. 
 
 ** That 's what Mr. Wiggett was telling 
 me. 
 
 " What else did he tell you ? " 
 
 "He told me if I 'd pay him the two 
 thousand dollars and would go out there 
 he'd see I got enough embroidery work 
 so that I could easily make the twenty- 
 dollar-a-month payments till I owned it 
 all." 
 
 " He did n't tell you that if you failed 
 in a payment you'd lose it all.?" 
 
 " Not till after." 
 
 " It 's here in the agreement to sell. 
 That 's all this paper is" ; - — he flecked the 
 document with a contemptuous finger — 
 " an agreement to sell ; not a deed. You've 
 bought nothing but empty print. Did you 
 never read this ?" 
 
 She shook her head. " I trusted Mr. 
 Wiggett. He seemed so kind and helpful 
 at first." 
 
 "Until the fly was in his web. You 
 290 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 signed that paper without knowing what 
 you were undertaking," he accused. " Did 
 you know that you were promising to pay 
 taxes, interest, and insurance on the build- 
 ings?" 
 
 " No," said Molly Dunstan meekly. 
 
 " And to keep the buildings in good re- 
 pair and painted? What buildings were 
 they ? " 
 
 " A house and a barn. They leaked." 
 
 " Naturally. Also " — Miles Morse re- 
 ferred to the document in his hand — " * to 
 plant a good, live California privet hedge 
 and to entertain the same.' What 's your 
 notion of a California privet hedge and 
 entertaining the same ? Could you do 
 that?" 
 
 Into Molly Dunstan's Irish-brown eyes 
 there crept a little Irish devil of a twinkle. 
 " Could I not ! " said she. " Can ye not 
 see me, of a moonlight night, taking me 
 foot in me hand, and going out to enter- 
 tain me dull and lonely hedge with a turn 
 291 
 
Our Square 
 
 of Kilkenny jigging ! " Her sole tapped 
 the ground as she spoke. 
 
 " Don't do it here," he interposed hastily. 
 " How you can joke about it is beyond 
 me, with your two thousand dollars in the 
 pocket of D. Wiggett. And what makes 
 you look sick at the name of him ? " he 
 concluded sharply. 
 
 " That 's a terrible man," she answered 
 with a catch of the breath. " When I went 
 to him to ask for a bit more time he swore 
 at me. He threatened me with jail. He 
 said he 'd ruin my reputation. He said if 
 I sent a lawyer there he 'd hammer him to 
 pulp. He could do it, for he 's a terrible, 
 big, strong, angry man. I came away sick 
 to live in the same world with him. And 
 that 's why I got the carbolic," she finished 
 in a low, shamed tone. 
 
 " Carbolic ! You were going to kill 
 yourself? " 
 
 " Did n't Mrs. Staten tell ye ? " 
 
 "She told me nothing — but lies." 
 292 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 Miles Morse spoke harshly because he was 
 experiencing within himself a stir of strange 
 and wrathful and protective emotion. Ab- 
 ruptly he changed the subject. " Would 
 you," he said hesitantly, " for a raise of 
 wa — ahem — salary, come a little earlier 
 and get me my breakfast ? " 
 
 " I '11 not wait on table," she returned 
 with a flash of color. 
 
 " It was not my idea," he said quite 
 humbly. " But if you would have a coffee 
 machine and a toaster and sit opposite at 
 the table, and — and — it would save me 
 money as against the restaurant," he added 
 lamely. 
 
 " I '11 consult my manager," returned 
 his housekeeper with a twinkle. 
 
 The gist of her consultation with the 
 Bonnie Lassie bore upon the point as to 
 whether Our Square, which was already 
 adopting her since she had rented a little 
 room there, would regard the new basis as 
 proper. 
 
 293 
 
Our Square 
 
 " That old thing ! " said the arbitress 
 of destinies scornfully. " He 's a hundred 
 years old, and he '11 be two hundred, I 'm 
 afraid," she added ruefully, " before I get 
 that check out of him." 
 
 Molly looked dubious, " I 'm not sure 
 he 's so old," she said. " And I 'm sure 
 he 's not so mean as people think him. 
 But I do need the money." 
 
 Behold, then, Mrs. Molly Dunstan, 
 housekeeper, seated opposite Miles Morse, 
 the Meanest Man in Our Square, with a 
 coffee apparatus, a toaster, and a little cen- 
 terpiece bright with flowers, both of them 
 breakfasting in a dim and painful silence. 
 But food is a great solvent of embarrass- 
 ment, and breakfast coffee has powers be- 
 yond the spirit of grape, corn, or rye, to 
 break down the barriers between human 
 and human. So that, by the end of a week, 
 Molly was chattering like a cheery bird 
 with just enough instigation from her em- 
 ployer to keep her going. One subject was 
 294 
 
ne Meanest Man 
 
 tacitly tabooed as a kill-joy; to wit, the 
 devil as embodied by Mr. D. Wiggett and 
 all his works. 
 
 Not that Miles Morse had forgotten. 
 Quite the contrary. But he was a calcu- 
 lating, careful, and meticulous person, 
 prone to plan out every step before taking 
 it. On a Monday morning some six weeks 
 after Molly's installation as a breakfast 
 fixture he spoke abruptly : " I 've been up 
 there." 
 
 " Where ? " she asked. 
 
 " To the place you thought you 'd 
 bought. It 's a trap." 
 
 " I 'm out of it, at least with my life." 
 
 " You are not the only one that 's been 
 caught. He's fleeced four others that I 
 know of on that plant — all perfectly legal. 
 I have a notion," said Miles Morse with 
 an effect of choosing his words, "that 
 D. Wiggett & Co. was incorporated in 
 hell, and the silent partner is his Satanic 
 Majesty." 
 
 295 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Why did ye go up there ?" 
 
 " Curiosity." 
 
 " Not kindness — just a little bit ? " 
 
 " I wanted to see the work of a man 
 meaner than the Meanest Man in Our 
 Square," he said with a sour grin. 
 
 Molly Dunstan flushed. 
 
 " I 'd not be letting them call me that ! " 
 she declared. " And I '11 not believe it 
 true of ye." This was, indeed, an advance 
 upon the dim realm of personal relation- 
 ship, but Molly's loyal Irish blood was up. 
 " What ails ye at the world, at all ! " she 
 demanded. 
 
 " I '11 tell you since you ask," he re- 
 replied defiantly. " I 'm getting even with 
 it for treating me like a dog." 
 
 "So that's it." There was a pause. 
 " Would ye tell me about it ! " she asked 
 shyly. 
 
 Much to his astonishment. Miles Morse 
 discovered that he wanted to tell her about 
 it. Quite to his chagrin, he found that it 
 296 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 didn't seem a very convincing indictment, 
 when he tried to formulate it. -However, 
 he did his best. 
 
 "A man that I thought my friend 
 cheated me out of the first ten thousand 
 dollars that I made." 
 
 " Whish ! Ye made more, did n't ye ?" 
 she replied calmly. " I would n't be hating 
 the world for that." 
 
 "Then there was a woman," he said 
 with more difficulty. "I thought — she 
 made me believe she cared for me. I was 
 young. She got me into a fake stock propo- 
 sition with some confederates, and they 
 fleeced me." 
 
 "Whoof!" Molly blew an imaginary 
 thistledown from her dainty fingers. " She 
 was a light thing. 'T was your bank ac- 
 count she hurt, not your heart." 
 
 Suddenly Miles Morse realized that this 
 was so. It was n't wholly pleasant, how- 
 ever, to have his cherished grudges thus 
 lightly dismissed. 
 
 297 
 
Our Square 
 
 " There 's nothing else worth speaking 
 of," he said, a bit sullenly, "except a bit 
 of boy's silliness that you 'd laugh at." 
 
 " Tell it to me." 
 
 " It was when I was seven years old and 
 we lived in the country. My father was a 
 hard sort of man ; he saw no sense in play 
 or such nonsense, and when Fourth of July 
 came he'd give me no fireworks nor let me 
 draw any of my little money out of the 
 bank. All the other boys had firecrackers 
 but me. So I got a spool and filled it with 
 sand and put a bit of string in it and I 
 lighted the end. When it didn't go off I 
 ran away and hid and felt pretty bad. I 've 
 always laid that up against things. Foolish, 
 is n't it ! " 
 
 The little woman opposite lifted eyes 
 which had grown suddenly bright and soft 
 with a disturbing hint of tears. " Ye poor 
 lamb ! " she said. 
 
 « Tut-tut ! " gruffly retorted the Mean- 
 est Man in Our Square, who had never 
 298 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 before been called a poor lamb. He spoke 
 without conviction. 
 
 " But that should n't make ye hate 
 the world," argued Molly earnestly. " It 
 should only make ye hate what's mean and 
 unfair in the world." 
 
 "Well, there's D. Wiggett," replied 
 the other hopefully. " I think I could 
 learn to hate him. In fact, I think I '11 
 make a trial of it by calling on him to- 
 day." 
 
 " Oh, don't do that," she implored trem- 
 ulously. " He '11 do ye harm. He 's a terri- 
 ble man, and twice the size of ye ! " 
 
 " This will be a strictly peaceable er- 
 rand," he averred, meaning what he said. 
 
 By no means reassured, Molly Dunstan 
 made her way, at the hour when she 
 thought that her employer would call upon 
 D. Wiggett & Co., to a spot in St. Mark's 
 Square which gave her a good view of the 
 real-estate office. After an hour's wait, de- 
 voted to the most dismal forebodings, she 
 299 
 
Our Square 
 
 saw her employer stride around the corner 
 and enter the door. Had she actually sum- 
 moned the nerve to interpose, as she had 
 vaguely designed to do, there was no time. 
 Her brief and alarmed glimpse of Miles 
 Morse had oppressed her with a quality 
 hitherto unknown in him. He was clad in 
 his accustomed neat and complete black, 
 even to the black string tie. His big blue 
 glasses were set as solemnly level as usual 
 upon his ample nose. His spare figure was 
 held stiffly erect, in its characteristic atti- 
 tude. But there was something about the 
 way he walked which suggested an arrow 
 going to keep an important engagement 
 with a bull's-eye. 
 
 Three minutes later Mr. Miles Morse 
 emerged. 
 
 He emerged by force and arms ; a great 
 deal of the former and a large number 
 of the latter. To the terrified watcher 
 there seemed to be at least half a dozen 
 tangled persons engaged in the eviction of 
 300 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 Mr. Morse, of whom D. Wiggett was not 
 one. Having propelled the unwelcome 
 guest out upon the stoop, the persons with- 
 drew in pell-mell haste, and the sound of 
 a door being violently barred after them 
 eloquently testified to their distaste for any 
 more of Mr. Morse's society. That gen- 
 tleman descended the steps as one who 
 walks upon the clouds, albeit with a con- 
 siderable limp. 
 
 Molly ran to meet him. Five yards away 
 she stopped dead, lifting dismayed hands 
 to heaven. Mr. Morse was a strange and 
 moving sight. A small stream of blood 
 was trickling from the corner of his mouth, 
 which was expanded in an astounding and 
 joyous smile. His sober black string neck- 
 tie was festooned over his left ear. Half 
 of his large, solemn blue spectacles was 
 jammed do.wn his neck inside a dislocated 
 collar ; the other half presented a scandal- 
 ous and sightless, appearance, having lost 
 its lens. His coat was split in three places 
 301 
 
Our Square 
 
 and torn in one. His hat simply was 
 not ; it could be identified as a hat solely 
 from the circumstance that it was jammed 
 inextricably down upon his head. From 
 his right cheek bone there had already 
 sprouted a " hickey " fit to hang a bucket 
 on. But these were minor injuries com- 
 pared to the condition. of Mr. Morse's 
 hands. Bruised and cut, scarified, scalped, 
 and swelling, the " grand pair of hands " 
 which Terry the Cop so admired, testified 
 unmistakably to having come into violent 
 and repeated contact with some heavy 
 and hard object. Horror-stricken, Molly 
 turned her eyes from them to the real- 
 estate office of D. Wiggett & Co. A 
 front window flew up. The countenance 
 of D. Wiggett appeared therein, and Molly 
 at once identified it as the heavy and hard 
 object to which her employer's manual 
 plight was due. The countenance opened, 
 somewhat slantwise, and sent forth a gasp- 
 ing and melancholy bellow : " Police ! " 
 302 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 Without a word, Molly seized one of 
 the battered hands and ran. Perforce, her 
 employer ran with her. A taxi was prowl- 
 ing up Second Avenue. Mollie hailed it. 
 
 On the trip Mr. Miles Morse exhibited 
 silent but alarming symptoms. Arrived at 
 home, he flatly refused to enter. " Air and 
 space," he said, were his special and im- 
 mediate needs. He made his way to the 
 most secluded bench in the park, followed 
 by his dismayed housekeeper, sat down, 
 and began to chuckle. The chuckle grew 
 into a laugh, the laugh into a series of 
 chokes, the chokes into a protracted con- 
 vulsion of mirth. When at length it had 
 passed, leaving him spent and gasping, 
 Molly Dunstan spoke seriously to him. 
 
 " Are ye finished ? " 
 
 " I am." 
 
 ** Have ye been drinking ? " 
 
 " I have not." 
 
 " What did ye do to him ? " 
 
 " I did everything," said Mr. Miles 
 
 303 
 
Our Square 
 
 Morse with a long reminiscent sigh of 
 utter satisfaction, " but bite him." 
 
 " Ye told me," accused Molly with heav- 
 ing bosom, "that it would be a strictly 
 peaceable errand." 
 
 " So it would," replied the other calmly, 
 " if he had n't said something about you." 
 
 Molly's brown eyes widened and bright- 
 ened with amazement. Her lips parted. 
 " About me ! " she said. Then she com- 
 mitted what the lawyers call a non sequitur, 
 " Mother of all the Saints ! " cried Molly. 
 " How old are ye ?" 
 
 " Thirty-seven years and four months," 
 replied the Meanest Man in Our Square 
 gravely. 
 
 " And me thinking — " He never found 
 out what she was thinking, for she broke off 
 abruptly, and said : " Clap a bit of raw beef 
 to that cheek," and vanished from his sight. 
 
 No Molly appeared for breakfast in the 
 morning. In her stead arrived a court offi- 
 cer with a warrant in which the term 
 
 304 
 
'The Meanest Man 
 
 " feloniously " played a conspicuous and 
 dispiriting part. At court Miles Morse, 
 prisoner, found a delegation from Our 
 Square awaiting hini, including Molly, 
 Cyrus the Gaunt, the Bonnie Lassie, Terry 
 the Cop, and Inky Mike, the tipster dis- 
 guised in a clean collar and taking copious 
 notes with an absorbed and ferocious ex- 
 pression, with a view to daunting wrong- 
 doers by the prospective fierce white light 
 of the Press. This was part of the Bonnie 
 Lassie's strategy. So also was the presence 
 of Merrivale, the young lawyer of the Le- 
 gal Aid branch, for the Bonnie Lassie had 
 correctly guessed that the accused would 
 disdain to spend money on a lawyer. As 
 he awaited his turn at the bar of judgment 
 (before Wolf Tone Hanrahan, the Human 
 Judge, his friends remarked with satisfac- 
 tion) Terry the Cop caught sight of his 
 damaged knuckles. " I always said he had 
 a grand pair of hands," murmured Terry 
 to the Bonnie Lassie. 
 
 305 
 
Our Square 
 
 " And here they are in court, where 
 you said they were at their best," she com- 
 mented. 
 
 An expression of bewilderment gave 
 place to a grin on Terry's handsome face. 
 " jTi^^ court," I said, " the hand-ball court 
 at the Y. M. C. A. He packs a wallop in 
 either hand 'ud kill a bull." 
 
 Then the plaintiff came in, and there 
 was no further need of explanations. 
 
 D. Wiggett was a horrid sight. He would 
 have been a horrider sight if he had n't 
 been almost totally obscured by bandages. 
 The gist of his testimony was comprised 
 in the frequently repeated word " murder." 
 
 The accused put in no defense. In the 
 Human Judge's eye were doubt and inde- 
 cision. Obviously there was something be- 
 hind this case. As he hesitated, the Legal 
 Aid lawyer came forward with the light- 
 pink document of D. Wiggett & Co., and 
 handed it to the judge with a few words. 
 D. Wiggett's lawyer entered vehement 
 306 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 objections. Stilling his protests with a wav- 
 ing hand. Magistrate Hanrahan read the 
 " Agreement to Sell." Then he called for 
 Mrs. Molly Dunstan. More objections. 
 Overruled. At the conclusion of Molly 's tes- 
 timony he turned to the protesting lawyer. 
 
 " Did ye drah up this dockyment ? " 
 
 " I did, your honor." 
 
 *• It 's as full of holes as the witch's cul- 
 lender. Y'otta be disbarred fer it ! " 
 
 The lawyer hastily receded. The re- 
 mains of D. Wiggett were led forward to 
 listen to a few brief but pointed dicta by 
 the court, while Inky Mike (under prompt- 
 ings) edged up and took copious notes in 
 a book such as no reporter ever carried 
 except upon the stage. At the end of the 
 ordeal, D. Wiggett, in broken and terrified 
 accents, disclosed that his motives were of 
 spotless purity, that his document was a 
 harmless joke, and that Mrs. Dunstan 
 could have the place and a deed thereto if 
 she'd just make the payments. 
 
 307 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I '11 guarantee that," put in Cyrus the 
 Gaunt. 
 
 " And I '11 see that she gets work to keep 
 going on," added the Bonnie Lassie. 
 
 Whereupon both D. Wiggett, the party 
 of the first part (in the document) and 
 Mrs. M. Dunstan, the party of the second 
 part, dissolved in tears, though for very 
 different reasons. The court then pro- 
 ceeded to the sentence of the defendant. 
 Judgment was delivered in two mediums ; 
 full-voiced for the proper judicial process, 
 and sotto voice for the benefit of those 
 most concerned. 
 
 " Prisoner at the Bar-r-r : Ye have 
 brootally assaulted a peaceful citizen {not 
 more than half-agin as big as yerself\. Ye 
 have bate him to a poolp (an^ him but a 
 scant tin years younger, an' with a repitation 
 for bein' a roughneck — with women and 
 childer). Ye have haff murdered him {an' 
 take shame to yerself ye didn't do th' other 
 haff). Because of yer youth an' inexperi- 
 308 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 ence (/ mane yer age an' the wallop ye carry^ 
 I will let ye off light with a fine of fifty 
 dollars (an' if ye 'II sind me word when yer 
 gain' to operate again I'll remit the fine'). 
 NixT Ca-ase ! " 
 
 For a culprit who had got off easy, Mr. 
 Miles Morse presented far from a cheer- 
 ful appearance when Molly Dunstan pre- 
 sented herself on the following morning. 
 Molly exhibited strange and inexplicable 
 symptoms, flushing and paling, finding no 
 place for her regard to rest, until she dis- 
 covered that Miles Morse was much worse 
 confused than herself. Thereupon, after 
 the manner of women, she became quite 
 composed and easy. Through breakfast he 
 was very silent. After lingering over his 
 coffee to an unwonted degree, he finally 
 arose, with an air of great determination, 
 said " Well " in what was meant to be a 
 businesslike tone, walked briskly to the 
 door, then turned and stood in the most 
 awkward unease. 
 
 309 
 
Our Square 
 
 "The house won't be like a home with- 
 out you," said he desolately. 
 
 "Won't it?" said Molly. 
 
 " You '11 be going out to your own place 
 very soon now ? " 
 
 "Suppose I don't want to." 
 
 " It 's all arranged. I 've been talking to 
 Mr. and Mrs. Staten,'.' 
 
 " Have ye now ! " said Molly with a 
 mutinous uptilt of the chin. 
 
 " She 's arranged for you to get your own 
 kind of work out there." 
 
 " I like my own job here." 
 
 " It 's all arranged," said Miles Morse 
 with dismal iteration. 
 
 "Does that mean I'm discharged?" 
 
 " If you want to put it that way." 
 
 "And I 'm to go up there to the cotm- 
 try — alone — and entertain my California 
 privet hedge ?" 
 
 Her little foot tapped the ground as it 
 had on the unforgettable occasion of that 
 first interview. The Meanest Man in Our 
 310 
 
'The Meanest Man 
 
 Square winced. Molly saw it, and her eyes 
 grew tender, but her tone was still un- 
 compromising. "What am I discharged 
 for ? » 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " For not being old enough to be your 
 housekeeper?" She looked the merest 
 wisp of a girl with her color coming and 
 going as she spoke. 
 
 He muttered something undistinguish- 
 able. 
 
 " For not being ugly enough ?" And she 
 contrived to look bewilderingly pretty. 
 
 "Why do you plague me, Molly?" he 
 burst out. 
 
 She pointed a finger at his chin. " I dare 
 ye. Miles Morse," she said, her voice flut- 
 tering in her throat, for all her audacious 
 words; "I dare ye to discharge me. For 
 all ye 're called the Meanest Man in Our 
 Square, ye would n't be that mean as to 
 send me away from ye ! " 
 
 And, with the finger still leveled, she 
 
 3" 
 
Our Square 
 
 Walked straight to him and was caught 
 and held close to the sober and respect- 
 able black coat. 
 
 " I 'd never dared have asked you, 
 Molly," said Miles Morse in the voice 
 of one who walks ecstatic amid the won- 
 ders of a dream. 
 
 ** Don't I know that ! " she retorted. 
 And then, w^ith a quiver : " Oh, Miles, 
 it 's I will make it up to you for that sand- 
 and-spool firecracker ! " 
 
 Opening her morning mail on the fol- 
 lowing day, the Bonnie Lassie (for whose 
 schemes and stratagems the stars in their 
 courses fight) gave a little cry and let a bit 
 of paper slip through her fingers. Quickly 
 retrieving it, she turned it over to Cyrus 
 the Gaunt. It was the promised check of 
 Mr. Miles Morse to the Legal Aid So- 
 ciety. Between the words " ten " and " dol- 
 lars " was a caret, and, above, the added 
 word " hundred " with an indorsement. 
 The signature had also undergone an ad- 
 312 
 
The Meanest Man 
 
 dendum. It now read: " Miles Morse, per 
 Mrs. M. M. M." 
 
 The Meanest Man in Our Square had 
 abdicated. 
 
Taula of the Housetop 
 
 WHAT first struck you about the 
 house was that it frowned. Not an- 
 grily, but with a kind of dull scorn. Per- 
 haps this was its way of emphasizing its 
 superior aloofness from the other houses 
 in Our Square which had gone down in 
 the social scale while it maintained its aris- 
 tocracy untainted. It was squat and broad 
 and drab, like the first Varick who had built 
 it, and the succeeding Varicks who had in- 
 herited and dwelt in it even to the sixth 
 and seventh generations. Being numbered 
 1 3, it would naturally have a sinister re- 
 pute ; and this was not improved by the 
 two suicides which had marked its occu- 
 pancy; suicides not of despair or remorse 
 or fury, but of cold, grim disgust. Then 
 there was the episode of old Vernam Var- 
 ick, who dabbled in diabolical mixtures in 
 
 314 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 his secret room on the third floor front 
 under the tutelage of no less an instructor 
 than the Devil, and, having quarreled vs^ith 
 Old Nick over a moot point in alchemy, 
 chased him out of the v^indow and fol- 
 low^ed, himself, to the accompaniment of 
 a loud and sulphurous detonation. What 
 became of His Satanic Majesty has never 
 been properly determined, but old Ver- 
 nam arrived upon the pavement in due 
 time, crumpled up, and thereafter circu- 
 lated in a vs^heeled chair, sniffing about 
 after real-estate investments to pass the 
 time. He it was whose purchases of 
 uptown property (when anything above 
 Forty-second Street was "uptown") se- 
 verely reprehended by the rest of the clan, 
 subsequently reestablished the Varick for- 
 tunes, piling up riches beyond the imag- 
 ination of Our Square. Except that he had 
 more imagination, he was a pattern of all 
 the Varicks, each broad and squat of ar- 
 chitecture like the house they dwelt in; 
 
Our Square 
 
 each, if possible, more crabbed and pig- 
 headed and stupidly haughty than his pred- 
 ecessor. In time, his son, heritor of the 
 qualities of the breed, grew up and mar- 
 ried. And then the dull generations burst 
 into flower in Paula Varick. So the Varicks 
 put her in a cage. 
 
 Old Vernam built the cage out of gas 
 pipe and thick-meshed wire and estab- 
 lished it on the roof. From my front win- 
 dow, looking diagonally across Our Square, 
 I command a view of it. How well I re- 
 member the day that little Paula was put 
 into it ! A black-and-white-banded nurse 
 led her in by the hand, held up an admon- 
 itory finger for half a minute of directions, 
 and disappeared down the scuttle door, 
 leaving her alone in a remote world. One 
 might have expected the little girl to cry. 
 She did n't. She set about playing, like a 
 happy little squirrel. Presently there floated 
 across the tree-tops a strange and alien 
 sound for that grim mansion to be making 
 316 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 — a sweet, light, joyous, childish piping. 
 The little Paula was singing. 
 
 Her song disturbed young Carlo and me 
 at our lesson. Carlo was my one educa- 
 tional luxury. An assistant professor of a 
 forgotten branch of learning, already in 
 middle age, as I was then, who ekes out 
 his income by tutoring, cannot well afford 
 to take pupils for love. But Carlo's father 
 had paid in the beginning, and, when he 
 could no longer pay, the boy's vivid, leap- 
 ing imagination and his passionate love for 
 all that was fine and true in reading had 
 captivated me. I could not let him go. So 
 we kept up the lessons, and ranged the field 
 of the classics, Greek and Latin, English, 
 French, and German, together. He was 
 to be a poet, I foresaw, or perhaps a dram- 
 atist, and I believe I bragged of him un- 
 conscionably to my associates. Well, they 
 are kindly souls and have forborne to taunt 
 the prophet ! Carlo's father was a Northern 
 Italian, the second son of a noble family, 
 
 317 
 
Our Square 
 
 who quarreled with the head of the clan 
 and came to this country and a top floor in 
 Our Square to paint masterpieces, and sub- 
 sequently died at three o'clock one win- 
 ter morning, pressing another man's coat. 
 MacLachan the Tailor, then just starting 
 his Home of Fashion, had given him the 
 work to save the pair from being evicted, 
 after their money gave out. At the last the 
 elder Trentano took to drink. Then Carlo 
 got jobs as a model, for he was strong and 
 beautiful like a young woods creature. But 
 he let nothing interfere with our lessons. 
 
 Paula, the happy singer, did interfere, 
 however. From time to time my pupil's 
 eyes wandered from his book to fix them- 
 selves with a puzzled gaze on the roof be- 
 yond the tree-tops. Curiosity proved too 
 much for him at length. 
 
 "Dominie!" he said. 
 
 « Well ? " 
 
 " Why do they put the little girl in a 
 cage?" 
 
 318 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 "To keep her from falling ofFthe roof." 
 
 "Why do they put her on the roof?" 
 
 " To play." 
 
 " Why does n't she play in Our Square ?" 
 
 " She is not allowed to play with the 
 children in Our Square." 
 
 Carlo pondered this. A theory born of 
 temporary local conditions occurred to him. 
 
 " Has she got measles?" 
 
 This was an easy way out. To enlighten 
 Carlo as to the reasons why the descend- 
 ant of all the Varicks was not permitted to 
 take part in the degenerated social activi- 
 ties of Our Square, would be to undermine 
 my carefully instilled doctrine of the bless- 
 ings of democracy where all are free and 
 equal. Therefore with mendacious, though 
 worthy, intent I answered : — 
 
 " Not measles, exactly." 
 
 "Oh!" said Carlo. "She must get 
 lonesome." 
 
 " Doubtless." 
 
 The cheery singing had ceased now, and 
 
Our Square 
 
 the child was busy with some other con- 
 cern. Carlo's sharper vision identified it. 
 
 " She 's setting a tea-table." 
 
 " Is she ? " 
 
 "And nobody will come to tea at it, 
 will they ? " 
 
 " Perhaps her dolls." 
 
 " I don't see any dolls." His lustrous 
 eyes brooded on the lonely little hostess. 
 " Dominie, do you think she'd like it if I 
 came?" 
 
 "Are you thinking of storming the 
 house ? " I asked, amused. 
 
 " That's our roof there." He pointed to 
 a shabby structure overtopping the squat 
 Varick domicile by some ten feet, and 
 separated from it by a well, four or five 
 feet broad. " I could lean over and speak 
 to her, could n't I ? " 
 
 " I hardly think her family would ap- 
 prove." 
 
 " Her family are mean," declared Carlo 
 heatedly, " to shut her up in a cage." 
 320 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 " Come back from the realms of ro- 
 mance," I bade him sternly, " and attend 
 to the lesson." 
 
 Before it was over the black-and-white- 
 banded nurse had retrieved her charge and 
 taken her below. 
 
 Three days later I beheld two small 
 figures on the Varick roof. One was inside 
 the cage ; one. outside. They appeared to 
 be engaged in amicable discourse. The 
 caged figure was little Paula. As to the 
 free one, I could scarcely believe my eyes 
 which tried to assure me that it was Carlo 
 Trentano. It had come about in this way : 
 
 For two days rain had kept the little 
 prisoner from the roof. She was swaying 
 to and fro on a rocking-horse, crooning 
 to herself, and this was the burden of her 
 improvised chant: — 
 
 " I wi-ish I had some one to play-ay-ay wif ! 
 Oh, I wi-ish I had some one to play-ay-ay wif! 
 Oh, I wi-ish I had somehuddy to play-ay wif! 
 I don't like to play all alone ! " 
 
 321 
 
Our Square 
 
 Perhaps she had sung it over ten or 
 twelve times when her wish materialized 
 from behind the broad chimney at the 
 rear. She heard his footfall first and then 
 her sweet, wondering eyes beheld the vis- 
 itor, a shabby, clean, and marvelous boy, 
 some years her elder and about twice her 
 size. Nevertheless, with the superiority 
 of sex she immediately addressed him as 
 "Little Boy." 
 
 " Little Boy, where did you come 
 from?" 
 
 "Up, there," replied her caller, pointing. 
 
 The caged one turned her solemn re- 
 gard "up there" and saw a great, white, 
 softly rolling mass floating in a sky of azure. 
 
 "From that?" she inquired. 
 
 Carlo considered the cloud and was 
 pleased with it as a source. "Yes," he 
 said. 
 
 " It looks soft and sleepy," she observed, 
 after a more critical consideration. 
 
 They contemplated each other in a 
 322 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 silence which threatened to become a 
 deadlock, when he broke it. 
 
 " Do you like gum ? " he asked. 
 
 "What's gum?" 
 
 " Chewing-gum, of course." 
 
 " I don't know what that is." 
 
 He stared at her in utter incredulity. 
 "You honestly never chewed gum?" A 
 shake of the tawny head answered him. 
 "Nor ate an all-day sucker?" Another 
 shake. "Nor played marbles?" Still an- 
 other mute denial. " Nor flew kites, nor 
 pegged the cat, nor rollered on the asphalt, 
 nor spun tops ? " The questions came too 
 fast for detailed answer, but the child's 
 face grew more and more dismal as she was 
 thus led, step by step, to confront a wasted 
 life. Her inquisitor drew a long breath. 
 "What did they put you in for?" he asked. 
 
 "In where?" 
 
 " In that cage." 
 
 "To play." Her inventiveness rose in 
 arms to offset the recondite and mysterious 
 
Our Square 
 
 joys which he had enumerated, and with it 
 her spirits. " I play I 'm a wild animal. 
 Gr-rr-rr-rr ! If I could get out I 'd eat you 
 up. Little Boy." 
 
 He played up to her. " I know what 
 you are. You're a tiger. A big stripy 
 tiger. 
 
 'Tiger! Tigfer! burning bright — 
 In the forests of the night ! ' " 
 
 "Say some more," she demanded im- 
 periously. "I like poetry." 
 
 " That 's all I remember. I '11 tell you ; 
 I 'lll)e a keeper, and I '11 come to the cage 
 to feed you." He felt in his pocket and 
 produced a fresh stick of gum which he 
 thrust through the wire meshes. Being a 
 realist, Paula promptly bit him on the 
 finger. 
 
 " Ow ! " he exclaimed and dropped the 
 gum. She pounced upon it, growling fe- 
 rociously. "You play awfully hard, don't 
 you?" he observed, caressing the mark of 
 a sharp little tooth. 
 
 324 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 " You have to when you don't have 
 anybody but yourself to play with, or it 
 is n't real," replied the child with uncon- 
 scious pathos. " Now I 'm going to eat 
 this all up !" 
 
 " Don't swallow it," he warned. "You 
 just chew it. It 's gum." 
 
 " Um-m-m ! " mumbled the Tiger ap- 
 preciatively. " I like it. I like you. When 
 do you have to go back to your cloud?" 
 She looked up apprehensively at that 
 fleecy domicile which was moving rapidly 
 away. 
 
 "Oh, any time. No, I'll tell you," 
 he added confidentially ; " I did n't really 
 come from the cloud. I came from that 
 roof up there." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Down a rope." 
 
 " Did you ? I like that almost as well. 
 Where did you get the rope?" 
 
 " It was over the fire escape. I live on 
 the top floor there." 
 
 325 
 
Our Square 
 
 " S'posen you'd fall right down between 
 the two houses," surmised the little Tiger. 
 
 "Then I 'd be killed." This, as a matter 
 of fact, was highly probable. But Carlo, 
 like most of the highland Italians, was 
 strong, supple, and daring; ingenious, 
 too, for he had made loops in his rope to 
 help him climb up again. 
 
 Paula the Tiger was now considering 
 cognate matters with appropriate gravity. 
 " I think I 'd rather have you live in the 
 cloud," she decided. "Angels live in 
 clouds. If you 're an angel, you won't fall 
 and get killed," she continued, finding a 
 kindly refuge in theology. " I 'd rather 
 have you an angel." 
 
 "All right. I '11 be an angel," he agreed. 
 
 "Nurse doesn't let me play with little 
 boys and girls. Maybe she would n't let 
 me play with an angel either. I think 
 you 'd better come when nurse is n't here. 
 When will you come again. Angel?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 2,ie 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 " Must I give back the nice gum ? " she 
 asked anxiously. 
 
 " No. But you 'd better leave it in your 
 cage. Grow^n-ups don't like gum around," 
 he instructed her with precocious worldly 
 wisdom. 
 
 "Thank you, Angel. Good-bye, An- 
 gel." 
 
 " Good-bye, little girl." 
 
 " Gr-rr-rr-rr ! " The growl was a savage 
 reminder of the dramatic proprieties. 
 
 Carlo was quick of apprehension. 
 " Good-bye, Tiger," he amended. And the 
 Tiger purred. 
 
 Often thereafter I saw them, at the hour 
 when the banded nurse took her outing, 
 playing together on opposite sides of the 
 barrier. Many, various, and ingenious were 
 the diversions which Carlo the free found 
 to amuse the captivity of Paula the caged. 
 There were delightful things to be con- 
 trived out of knotted strings, in which 
 Carlo was of incomparable skill. He in- 
 
 327 
 
Our Square 
 
 vented a ganie of marbles which could be 
 played by opponents on different sides of 
 a twelve-foot steel mesh; an abstruse pas- 
 time, but apparently interesting, since it 
 developed into an almost daily contest in 
 which, to judge from the joyous prancings 
 about the cage at the conclusion, she was 
 invariably allowed to win. Also, there were 
 gifts of candy shared, and the delights of 
 the. chase with a bean-shooter for weapon 
 and the indignant sparrows for quarry, and 
 instructions in the principles of kinetic, 
 stasis as exemplified by the rotary or spin- 
 ning top. All of which was doubtless very 
 wicked and deceitful and clandestine, and, 
 being so, should have been stopped by a 
 word from me before disaster could come. 
 For, any day. Carlo might slip from that 
 swaying rope and break his precious neck. 
 Or the Varicks might learn of what was 
 going on above their heads, and banish 
 the little Tiger from her happy cage, or 
 perhaps even wholly, from the contami- 
 328 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 nated atmosphere of Our Square. This last 
 would have been a blow to me, for she also 
 was my pupil, and a profitable one, since 
 her father, Putnam Varick, a dry, snuffy, 
 stern, lethargic, ill-natured, liverish man, 
 paid me liberally to come five times a week 
 and give her a grounding in Latin and 
 French. But I could not find it in my 
 heart to deprive my little Paula of her one 
 taste of real childhood. 
 
 Discovery was, of course, inevitable. 
 One day Paula came into the dim and 
 solemn Varick library where lessons were 
 conducted with her big, wistful, gray eyes 
 all wet and wincing, and her queer, 
 sprightly little face like a mask of grief. 
 Behind her came nurse with the expression 
 of a hanging judge. The culprit, it ap- 
 peared, had been found in the possession 
 of contraband goods — to wit, a wad of 
 much-chewed gum. Worse, it had been 
 discovered in a most inappropriate place. 
 
 "I puh-hut it in my huh-huh-hair," 
 
Our Square 
 
 wept the sorrowful little Tiger, "and it 
 stu-huh-huck." 
 
 "She won't tell me where she got it," 
 said nurse. 
 
 "I did. I to-hold you an angel gave it 
 to me," declared the Tiger, clinging with 
 pathetic resolution to her drama of the 
 roof. 
 
 Nurse sniffed. Her theological imagi- 
 nation did not extend to heavenly visitors 
 who dispensed that kind of manna. It was 
 her opinion for what it was worth (sniff) 
 that somebody had been throwing things 
 (sniff) on the roof. Next time it might be 
 (sniff) poison. Nurse did have an imagina- 
 tion of a kind. 
 
 It was n't poison next time. It was 
 a kite. Carlo had flown it from his own 
 roof and had brought the twine down in 
 his teeth, and had passed the ball through 
 the netting to the Tiger. Oh, the thrill of 
 ecstasy running up her arm, to spread and 
 glow on live wires through every nerve. 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 as she felt for the first time the tug and 
 tremor of the beautiful, soaring, captive 
 thing swaying far, far above her, higher 
 than the highest roof-top she could see, 
 higher than the biggest mountain in her 
 geography, as high as the vanished cloud 
 vs^hence the beneficent angel of her happy 
 drama had descended to brighten a hith- 
 erto correct and humdrum existence. Alas 
 for angels' visits! From a bench in Our 
 Square, nurse sawr the aerial messenger and 
 traced the string to the Varick roof. She 
 hurried home and upstairs to the roof-top 
 a good tw^enty minutes before her sched- 
 uled return. 
 
 But the scuttle stuck, and Carlo's quick 
 ear, catching the sound, warned him. 
 With a quick word to his playfellow, he 
 dodged behind the chimney and began to 
 climb the looped rope. There was a little 
 space in which the climber always emerged 
 above the chimney into the view of the 
 child in the cage before he surmounted 
 
Our Square 
 
 the coping of the upper roof. Paula's eyes 
 were fixed upon this point. The nurse's 
 glance followed hers. Carlo appeared, 
 climbing in hot haste. He missed one of 
 the loops. There was a muffled cry. His 
 body turned, swayed, and plunged down 
 into the fifty-foot abyss between the two 
 buildings. The nurse, scared out of her 
 senses, rushed down the scuttle-way and 
 hid in her room, accusing herself of be- 
 ing an involuntary murderess, while poor 
 Paula tore and battered with her tender 
 fingers at the cruel iron meshes in a passion 
 of grief and despair, long after nurse had 
 disappeared, 
 
 A low call from above stopped her. 
 Her angel leaned over the roof. 
 
 "Has she gone?" he asked. 
 
 The child ijodded in silent terror and 
 wonder. He came down the rope swiftly 
 and steadily. When he approached the 
 cage, she saw that he was bleeding from 
 a gash above his temple. 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 "I struck on a clothesline," he said. 
 " It tipped me into a balcony. Just below 
 your roof. Lucky ! " 
 
 "I thought you were killed," she whis- 
 pered. "Oh, Angel, I thought you were 
 dead." 
 
 "Not hurt a bit," he averred valiantly. 
 " Did she see me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then they won't let me come any 
 more." 
 
 "They'll take me away," wailed the 
 Tiger. 
 
 There was a pause. "I'll be sorry," 
 said the boy. 
 
 "So '11 I." 
 
 " I '11 be aw'f 'ly sorry," said the boy pain- 
 fully. 
 
 "So '11 I." 
 
 "I'll come and find you when I'm 
 grown up." 
 
 "Will you?" she cried eagerly. 
 
 " Cross my heart." 
 
Our Square 
 
 " And I '11 keep your gum forevern — 
 evern — ever," she promised solemnly. 
 " I 've got a piece yet. Hidden. Listen. 
 Somebody 's coming ! " 
 
 "Good-bye, Tiger," said the boy. 
 
 "Good-bye, Angel," said the girl. 
 
 She put her trembling little lips against 
 the cold mesh of the wires. For a moment 
 he hesitated in boyish shamefacedness. 
 Then he bent over to her. 
 
 " I '11 never forget you — never," said 
 the free little boy. 
 
 "Nor I," said the caged little girl. 
 
 He ran and climbed: climbed out of 
 her sight and out of her life; For the 
 scandalized Varicks took her from that 
 desecrated roof to the country, and when 
 they came back Carlo's father was dead, 
 and Carlo left with very little visible means 
 of support. So they passed on their sun- 
 dered ways. He went about his business 
 of the fight for existence and his place in 
 the world. She went about her business in 
 
 334 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 a life of developing sunshine and beauty, 
 herself the developing embodiment of 
 both. The cage stood on the roof, lifeless, 
 grim, and sad. 
 
 Outw^ardly Our Square changes little. 
 Inwardly it suffers from the depredations 
 of the years and an encroaching populace. 
 No more significant evidence of its fail- 
 ing fortunes could be adduced than the sale 
 of the Varick mansion. It was purchased by 
 a Swedish labor contractor, who sold it to 
 a professional gambler, who in turn leased 
 it to a boarding-house keeper, and that 
 sinister third-floor front wherefrom Ver- 
 nam Varick had so vehemently ousted his 
 Satanic mentor came to be occupied (to 
 what base uses!) by a piano-tuner. The 
 cage of the wistful Tiger was found con- 
 venient for the week's wash. 
 
 As for the Varicks, Our Square knew 
 them no more. The fussy, fubsy, mean- 
 tempered father of Paula became finan- 
 
 335 
 
Our Square 
 
 cially venturous (for a Varick), dipped 
 extensively into water-rights and power- 
 plants in the Southwest, and, having thus 
 further improved the fortune handed down 
 to him by Vernam the Devil-Chaser, built 
 himself a smugly splendid palace on the 
 Park, wherein to house Paula. 
 
 This, indeed, was no cage. For the tiny 
 captive of the housetop had grown beyond 
 all human captivity ; had become such a 
 woman as the great dreamers and poets 
 enshrine in the sunlit mist of verse. It is 
 not for a simple, old pedagogue who had 
 loved the child to describe the woman. 
 Her face is the common property of the 
 public, like a ruling monarch's, so often 
 has it appeared in the Sunday papers, for 
 at twenty-three she was one of the reign- 
 ing beauties of a city of lovely women. 
 What no camera could catch or painter 
 fix was the joyous and joy-giving quality 
 of her personality. It was as if arrears of 
 happiness from her cramped and denied 
 336 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 childhood had returned upon her ten- 
 fold to be scattered in largess wherever she 
 went. A great painter who had painted 
 a great portrait of her, which delighted 
 every one but himself, had convicted him- 
 self of failure because, he said, while he 
 had caught the flowerlike delicacy and the 
 sunlike radiance and the touch of Varick 
 imperiousness in the background of the 
 face, he had failed to fix the charm that 
 made her different and more lovely than 
 a dozen other equally lovely women (he 
 was a dealer in paradox, that great painter) ; 
 the look of quiet, unconscious, waiting 
 deep in the wide, gray eyes. And a great 
 poet, whoVas also of her adorers, said that 
 was why she had not married. And a great 
 cynic whose cynicism had fallen before 
 her said that was why she never would 
 marry unless a star came down from the 
 heavens to claim her. 
 
 About the time of the height of her 
 triumphs, .Cyrus the Gaunt came to Our 
 
 337 
 
Our Square 
 
 Square to run the ten thousand-pound 
 steam roller at night and sit for sculpture 
 by day, and eventually marry the Bonnie 
 Lassie and go to live in the little, quaint, 
 old friendly house with the hospitable 
 door, almost opposite the Varick mansion. 
 Because Cyrus the Gaunt's forbears had 
 owned Our Square when it was the Staten 
 Farm and before the first Varick had ar- 
 rived upon the scene, Mr. Putnam Var- 
 ick was willing enough that his daughter 
 should go to see Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus 
 Staten, albeit he had heard with misgiv- 
 ings that some of their dinners were laxly 
 Bohemian, combining, as they did, mil- 
 lionaires, bishops, and diplomats with mu- 
 sicians, explorers, reformers, and other an- 
 archists. That is how Paula Varick came 
 back into Our Square after fifteen years of 
 absence and change. 
 
 Another revenant came back about that 
 time, along the dimly blazed trails of fate. 
 As I was sunning myself on my favorite 
 
 338 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 bench, one afternoon, I felt two sinewy 
 hands on my shoulders, and turned to face 
 a big, smiling stranger. There was some- 
 thing in him that told at first sight of the 
 making of the man ; told that the best life 
 of the open had formed him and the best 
 life of the cities had finished him. There 
 was a certain gravity and stability about his 
 face, but the lips were mobile as a boy's 
 and a shining mirthfulness gleamed from 
 the straight-looking black eyes, 
 
 "Dominie! " he said. Then, at my as- 
 tonished look : " I have n't made a mis- 
 take, have I?" 
 
 " Not in the title at least," I said. 
 
 He shook me in his iron grip. " Call 
 on your memory. It 's ungrateful to forget 
 a man who — who owes you money," he 
 laughed. 
 
 "That doesn't help me," I said, prob- 
 ing the vivid face. 
 
 " Have I changed so, where nothing 
 else has changed? " he said, looking around 
 
 339 
 
Our Square 
 
 — "except that they 've put a fire escape 
 outside the window where I used to sleep." 
 
 I followed his glance, and memory flashed 
 its belated recognition : " Carlo Trentano ! " 
 
 He gave me another powerful, afl?ec- 
 tionate shake. It was like being petted by 
 a lion. "No longer," he said. "That's 
 buried with — with bim" He looked again 
 toward the high-roofed house where his 
 father had died. " I 'm all American now, 
 Charles Trent, at your service." 
 
 " Where have I heard that name ?" 
 
 " Seen it in the papers probably. They 've 
 had their fun with me in the Senate Com- 
 mittee hearings." 
 
 "Ah ! So you 're the Trent who 's been 
 making all the trouble for the water-power 
 people in the Southwest ! And I thought 
 that wonderful boy's imagination of yours 
 was going to make a poet of you, or at 
 least a dramatist." 
 
 " It made me see visions," he explained 
 with gravity — " visions that had to be ex- 
 
 340 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 pressed in facts. After I had worked my 
 way through college, I went out to the 
 desert country. And I saw visions of water 
 brought from the mountains. What I saw 
 I made other people see. Now there are 
 growing cities and fertile farms where there 
 used to be only dry sand and my imagina- 
 tion. Isn't that poetry, dominie, — and 
 drama ? " 
 
 It was all said quite simply, and without 
 brag, as a man would explain the working 
 of some power outside of himself. 
 
 " But where did you get the money ? " 
 
 " People brought it to me. The people 
 of the dry country first. Afterward it came 
 in from all over, much of it from New 
 York; and when I needed more for my 
 biggest projects I went to Europe and 
 raised it." 
 
 "You know what they say of you now ? 
 That you 're advocating government con- 
 trol because you 've got all you can get, 
 and wish to shut out the others." 
 
 341 
 
Our Square 
 
 "I'm offering to put my companies on 
 the same terms with the others," he said 
 impatiently. "All I demand is that even- 
 tually, when the development concerns 
 have made their fair profit, the rights 
 should, revert to the people. So I 'm an 
 anarchist," he laughed. "And I've come 
 here to preach my anarchy in the face of 
 Wall Street." 
 
 "And fifteen years ago you were a boy 
 of—" 
 
 "Sh-h-h-h," he warned with mock se- 
 riousness. "I pass for thirty-five. It's a 
 studied solemnity of demeanor that does 
 the trick. You should see me at a board 
 meeting! This is holiday." He seized and 
 hugged me until my old ribs cracked. 
 
 "Yet you say you're all American," I 
 protested, extricating myself. "You'll be 
 a Latin till the day you die." 
 
 " Not enough to impair my business 
 sense. Which reminds me. You 've got a 
 small, accumulated interest in one of my 
 342 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 early projects. It isn't much, — just the 
 debt for my lessons, — but it pays a twenty- 
 five per cent dividend. Now, dominie, I 
 don't wish to hear any protests. What do 
 you know about business matters?" He 
 stretched himself like a big, lithe animal 
 and took another comprehensive glance 
 about Our Square. "Who's left?" he 
 asked, "Any one I knew?" 
 
 " MacLachan the Tailor. And Thorn- 
 sen of the filite Restaurant. Calder the 
 artist is dead. And do you remember — " 
 I cut myself short, on second thought, of 
 mentioning Paula Varick. A better idea 
 had come to me. The Bonnie Lassie loves 
 and loves forever the friend who will 
 bring to her house any one genuinely new 
 and interesting, provided only that he 
 be presentable. Carlo, otherwise Charles 
 Trent, was all three in an eminent degree. 
 "Would you care to dine at thepleasantest 
 house in Our Square?" I amended. 
 
 "If I have the time." 
 
 343 , 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Make the time," I advised. "And 
 I '11 see if I can make the place. It '11 
 be Wednesday evening." For the Bonnie 
 Lassie was giving one of her little dinners 
 then, and I knew that Paula Varick was 
 to be there. 
 
 Carlo agreed, gave me his address at a 
 golden caravansary, and left to call on 
 MacLachan and Thornsen. I sought out 
 the Bonnie Lassie. 
 
 "Madam," said I, "I am not coming 
 to your dinner." 
 
 " You are," she retorted. " Paula Varick 
 will be there. You 'd crawl to San Fran- 
 cisco to see Paula." 
 
 " That 's the very reason. I 've got a 
 substitute." And I explained. 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie, who is an inveterate 
 romanticist, was delighted. " I '11 have him 
 take her in," she said. "No, I can't do 
 that. The new Ambassador to Spain is to 
 take her in. He shall sit on her left." 
 
 "When you present him, introduce her 
 
 344 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 as Miss Mumbleplum or something inar- 
 ticulate and non-committal of that sort. 
 She won't know his name, of course. Let 's 
 see if they '11 discover." 
 
 "And you accuse me of fixing up dra- 
 matic situations," said the Bonnie Lassie 
 scornfully, for she has never quite forgiven 
 my comments upon her management of 
 the affair between Ethel Bennington and 
 the Little Red Doctor, which was so 
 nearly ruined by the hard, prosaic fact of 
 a toothache. " You 're worse than an old 
 maid. But you may come to the dinner 
 just the same. I don't mind an extra 
 man." 
 
 So I went to the -dinner, and a very 
 wonderful dinner it was, as all the din- 
 ners in the Bonnie Lassie's house are. Mr. 
 Charles Trent was very much present, 
 looking typically American with his se- 
 verely correct clothes, and big, graceful 
 figure, until you noticed his eyes, which 
 were n't American at all, or anything else 
 
 345 
 
Our Square 
 
 but individual. Miss Paula Varick was also 
 very much present, looking — well, look- 
 ing as only Paula can look, to the utter 
 wreck and ruin of the peace of man- 
 kind's mind. In presenting Carlo to Miss 
 Mumbleplum (as pre-arranged) the hostess 
 gave them a lead by saying : — 
 
 " Mr. Trent can tell you all about your 
 water-rights. He 's a sort of magic lord of 
 the dry desert." 
 
 "A baron of sand and cactus," said 
 Trent, smiling. But the new Ambassador 
 to Spain arrived just then, and nothing 
 more was said. 
 
 At the first opportunity afforded by the 
 diplomat. Miss Varick turned to the guest 
 on her left. 
 
 " I 'm a landed proprietor in your coun- 
 try," she said. " I own ten whole shares 
 of stock in a company of some sort." 
 
 " Then you 're my fellow citizen," he 
 claimed. " Perhaps it 's one of the com- 
 panies I 'm interested in." 
 
 346 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 She named it, and he was amused to 
 learn that her little ownership was in the 
 corporation which was fighting him and 
 his plans most savagely. She did not men- 
 tion that her father was a principal stock- 
 holder and an officer in that same corpo- 
 ration. Nor did Trent deem it necessary 
 to define his position. He did n t wish 
 to talk politics to this wonderful flower- 
 woman next him. But he did wish, most 
 determinedly, to keep those luminous eyes 
 turned in his direction. What Charles 
 Trent determinedly wished he usually got, 
 and he achieved this particular end by talk- 
 ing so well that the fresh-bloomed diplo- 
 mat on the farther side began presently to 
 get fretful. As for Mr. Trent's right side, 
 it mattered not a whit whether it knew 
 what his left side was doing, for it was on 
 his right that I sat. Carlo fell to telling 
 Paula of the romance of the hunt for the 
 treasure of water in a dry land — more 
 thrilling to a pioneer of imagination than 
 
 347 
 
Our Square 
 
 any search for gold or silver or copper be- 
 cause it meant something more basic than 
 wealth : it meant life in a country which 
 was dead. There were searches for lost 
 caiions and unmapped rivers ; explorations 
 of wild gorges where the adventurers in 
 improvised boats shot down along thou- 
 sand-foot-deep cracks in the earth toward 
 unknown rapids, listening for the thunder 
 of possible cataracts; and, out of all this 
 rude peril, the growth of vast projects and 
 the gathering in from far cities of dollars, 
 pounds, francs, marks, and even roubles, 
 that a desert land might flower and new 
 cities arise. 
 
 "What about your own hairbreadth 
 'scapes in the imminent, deadly thingum- 
 bob — I never can remember the whole 
 of a quotation ? " she inquired. "You're 
 very modest about your own share. Tell 
 me the narrowest escape you ever had." 
 
 He answered, thoughtfully : " Curiously 
 enough, I fancy the narrowest escape I 
 
 348 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 ever had was less than a block from here. 
 I fell down between two houses." 
 
 The girl's eyes widened suddenly. " On 
 Our Square?" 
 
 " Yes. Except for the prosaic matter of 
 the week's wash on a clothesline which 
 shunted me off, I probably should n't be 
 here to-day." 
 
 "Mr. Trent," said she slowly, "do you 
 mind turning around this way? Farther. 
 Thank you. Is that scar over your tem- 
 ple— " 
 
 " Yes. I got it there. How could you 
 know?" 
 
 Then recognition flashed between them. 
 They laughed excitedly, like two children. 
 To the scandal of the bewildered Ambas- 
 sador's ears, they then entered upon the 
 following incredible conversation : — 
 
 " Little Boy, where did you come 
 from?" 
 
 " Up there." 
 
 "From that cloud?" (The diplomat 
 
 349 
 
Our Square 
 
 looking at the ceiling with pained amaze- 
 ment.) 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Let — me — see," said the girl dream- 
 ily. " What comes next ? We must n't lose 
 it." 
 
 "Do you like gum?" he supplied 
 quickly. (The ambassadorial eyes began 
 to protrude.) 
 
 "What's gum?" 
 
 "Chewing-gum, of course. But alas! 
 I have n't any with me," lamented Carlo. 
 "Then there was something about a ti- 
 
 "Oh, yes! I'm a tiger in my cage. 
 Gr-rr-rr-rr ! If I could get out I 'd eat you 
 up. Little Boy." 
 
 " Of course ! 
 
 ' Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright — 
 In the forests of the night ! ' " 
 
 " Say some more. You could n't remem- 
 ber it, though, could you? Can you re- 
 member it now?" 
 
 350 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 He leaned over to her the merest tri- 
 fle:— 
 
 " ' What immortal hand and eye 
 
 Framed thy wondrous symmetry ? ' " 
 
 he quoted (slightly altering the text for 
 his own purposes) with a look so direct 
 and an intonation so profound that Paula, 
 with all her armored experience, felt her- 
 self growing pink. 
 
 "Then you brought me wonderful 
 things to play with and a kite to fly and 
 gum to chew," she said. 
 
 "And you put it in your hair." 
 
 "So I did. And they found it. But I 
 did n't tell. I said an angel brought it to 
 me. You remember ? You were Angel." 
 
 "And you were Tiger." 
 
 Now, I realize that diplomats of am- 
 bassadorial degree do not snort. But the 
 eminent gentleman on Miss Varick's left 
 delivered his emotions of what, in a lesser 
 mortal, would have been dangerously near 
 a snort, and thenceforward devoted his at- 
 
 351 
 
Our Square 
 
 tention to his hostess exclusively; thereby 
 seriously hampering her in her efforts to 
 follow the progress of the reunion of old 
 playmates. 
 
 Dinner being over, the Bonnie Lassie 
 took the pair into her studio to see her new 
 series of unfinished bronzes, and, having 
 got them there, obeyed an imperative (and 
 purely imaginary) summons from without, 
 and left them. Quite unwisely^ for she 
 had forgotten one important incident her- 
 self — the Tiger reproached the Angel 
 with his failure to remember her. 
 
 "You promised," she accused. "You 
 said you'd never forget — never." 
 
 Now, a less ready wit than Carlo's might 
 have retorted with the "ettu" argument, 
 which would have been poor strategy. 
 Carlo did better. 
 
 "I have forgotten nothing," he said 
 calmly. 
 
 "You forgot me. You did n't know me 
 from — from any other tiger." 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 "There never was any other tiger. 
 There couldn't be. Also, I remember 
 every episode of our last meeting when I 
 promised never to forget. Do you?" 
 
 Something significant in his tone caused 
 the Tiger certain misgivings. She began 
 to feel dimly that her accusation was un- 
 fortunate. 
 
 "Do you?" persisted the Angel. 
 
 " I remember the dreadful feeling of see- 
 ing you disappear, down into that hole. And 
 your coming back with the blood trickling 
 down your cheek. You were very brave." 
 
 " And our parting. Do you remember ? 
 When you came close to the wire mesh, 
 and lifted your face — Ah, I see you do 
 remember," he concluded quietly. 
 
 For suddenly the blood had flown into 
 Paula Varick's face, and she stood there, 
 amazed, confused, thrilling with an alarm 
 new to her womanhood, and wholly glori- 
 ous. In a moment she had recovered her 
 poise. 
 
 353 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I remember that I had a true and loyal 
 friend," she said sweetly. " Have I still ? " 
 
 He bent and lifted her finger-tips to his 
 lips, " For as long as you will command 
 him," he said. 
 
 So it was assumed, without definite ar- 
 rangement, that on his return from Wash- 
 ington they were to see each other, and so 
 far had their thoughts wandered from the 
 distant Southwestern desert that neither 
 conceived the smallest misgivings as to the 
 conflicting interests there of the Trent 
 projects and the Varick interests. In the 
 course of a day or two the Bonnie Lassie 
 had the pair to tea, and afterward she and 
 Cyrus the Gaunt and I stood at the front 
 window, watching them as they crossed 
 Our Square. They paused to look up at 
 the cage on the housetop. The Bonnie 
 Lassie spoke. 
 
 " You remember Tarrant, the portrait- 
 painter, bewailing himself over Paula?" 
 she asked. 
 
 354 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 " Because he could n't catch the look 
 of unconscious waiting in her eyes ? " 
 
 " Yes. It 's gone," said the Bonnie 
 Lassie. 
 
 " Is there something else in its place ? " 
 
 " Wonder," said the Bonnie Lassie. 
 
 As for Carlo, there was no mistaking 
 what had happened to him. He came to 
 see me later, and tried hard not to talk of 
 Paula Varick, but all the time his eyes 
 kept wandering to the cage on the roof. 
 Once he asked me whether I thought the 
 Varick mansion could be bought. As for 
 his affairs in Washington, I think he must 
 have commuted while the Senate hearings 
 were in progress, for there were few days 
 when he was n't in New York. By what 
 devices he succeeded in being around Our 
 Square when his playmate of other days 
 came down to see the Bonnie Lassie, I do 
 not know. Probably the Bonnie Lassie was 
 in the conspiracy. • It would be like her. 
 
 All of which may have been going on 
 
 355 
 
Our Square 
 
 for a fortnight when I stopped in at the 
 quaint, little, nestly, old-fashioned house 
 which radiates the happiness of Cyrus the 
 Gaunt and the Bonnie Lassie all through 
 Our Square and beyond, and found the 
 sculptress hard at work in her studio. My 
 particular purpose was to consult her about 
 Orpheus the Greek and his pipings to his 
 lost Eurydice. Before I could begin the 
 Bonnie Lassie removed her finger from the 
 eye of old Granny Glynn (in wet clay) and 
 pointed it at me. 
 
 " Plotter ! " she said. 
 
 By that I knew that something had gone 
 wrong. "Tell me the worst," I besought. 
 
 " You did it," she accused, still holding 
 me up at the point of that pink and leveled 
 digit. 
 
 " Guilty ! " I pleaded. " What did I do, 
 when, how, and to whom?" 
 
 "You brought those two ex-infants 
 together. And now look at the poor 
 things!" 
 
 356 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 "Are they engaged?" I cried, in high 
 hope. 
 
 "Engaged! Have you seen the morn- 
 ing papers?" 
 
 She waved a modeling tool at a heap 
 of print in the corner and relieved her 
 feelings by giving Granny Glynn a vicious 
 w^hack on the nose with the implement. 
 I caught up the top paper and read : — 
 
 VARICK FLAYS TRENT 
 
 AS A FAKER AND SELF-SEEKER AT 
 
 SENATE HEARING 
 
 "Oh, that's only politics," I said, with 
 an attempt at easiness. 
 
 "Putnam Varick himself turned Mr. 
 Trent out of the house when he went to 
 see Paula," said the Bonnie Lassie, a bright 
 spot of color burning in each soft cheek. 
 "Is that politics?" 
 
 "That," said I, "is war. What is Paula 
 going to do about it?" 
 
 " What can she do ? " > 
 
 357 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Meet him outside, I suppose." 
 
 " Do you think Paula Varick is the kind 
 of girl to practice hole-and-corner meet- 
 ings at museums or restaurants?" said the 
 sculptress scornfully. 
 
 " There are other places. Here, for in- 
 stance. Though I suppose you would n't 
 allow that." 
 
 This reasonable hypothesis nearly cost 
 old Mrs. Glynn an ear. " Indeed I would ! 
 I'd do anything to get ahead of that father 
 of Paula's. The mean old skinkum ! " said 
 the Bonnie Lassie, who under great provo- 
 cation sometimes uses violent language. 
 "But Paula wouldn't come. It's the 
 Varick pride — all that there is of Varick 
 in her, thank Heaven ! " 
 
 " It has its disadvantages," I said. " But 
 the point is, does she care for him ?" 
 
 " Have you seen them together lately ? 
 But then, what 's the use ! You 're only a 
 man," said the Bonnie Lassie with sov- 
 ereign contempt. For the moment she 
 
 358 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 ceased to be an artist and became a phi- 
 losopher. " Some people," she pronounced 
 sagely, "just naturally fall in love by de- 
 grees. Some" — her face turned uncon- 
 sciously toward the outer room where 
 Cyrus the Gaunt was busy, and became 
 dreamy and tender — " run away from love 
 and are overtaken by it. And some go open- 
 hearted and open-armed, to meet it when 
 it comes. That is Paula. She 's the type 
 of woman to whom there is only one pos- 
 sible man in the world. He has found her." 
 
 " Does she know it?" 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie, smiling, poised her 
 tool above a difficult problem of artistry 
 pertaining to Granny Glynn's front hair 
 (which was false). "You're less stupid 
 than you might be. Her heart does. But 
 her mind has n't admitted it." 
 
 "Does he know it?" 
 
 "No. He hardly dares hope. He's so 
 terribly afraid." 
 
 "It's the first time in his life, then." 
 
 359 
 
Our Square 
 
 "I believe you, dominie. Perhaps it's 
 the first time he 's been in love, too. It 's 
 good for his soul, but it 's hard on the poor 
 man. When he came this morning for a 
 sitting he looked more like a pale martyr 
 in a stained-glass window than a flesh-and- 
 blood man. I had to send him away." 
 
 "Oh, well," I said comfortably, "if 
 they really care for each other, time will 
 straighten it out." 
 
 "It will," she- retorted. "About three 
 days' time. The Varicks start for the Far 
 East on Saturday." 
 
 " Without Paula's seeing Carlo again ?" 
 I asked in dismay. 
 
 " Mr. Varick has written a note to Mr. 
 Trent saying that it is by Paula's own wish, 
 and that she does not want to see him 
 again." 
 
 "That's a lie, isn't it?" I asked. 
 
 " Probably it is. But I don't think Paula 
 will see him. If she has promised her father, 
 she certainly won't. Now, what are you 
 360 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 going to do about it?" she concluded 
 calmly, laying down her implement and 
 fixing me with an accusing eye. 
 
 "What am/—" 
 
 " Don't try to evade your responsibility, 
 dominie. It's all your doing," 
 
 ** Just because it is n't turning out right," 
 I said hotly. ** You know perfectly well, 
 lassie, that if everything had gone smoothly 
 you would have — " 
 
 " Claimed all the credit." The Bonnie 
 Lassie, dimpling, took the words out of 
 my mouth. "And quite right too. When 
 I manage things they 're — they 're man- 
 aged. Once again I ask you, dominie : 
 What are you going to do about it?" 
 
 I walked over to the window and looked 
 out, leaning on my cane. Against a pale 
 corner of the sky, the cage top loomed 
 haggard and grim. A swift and soaring 
 notion sprang into being in my mind. 
 
 " I 'm going to borrow your telephone," 
 said I. 
 
 361 
 
Our Square 
 
 Getting Miss Paula Varick was no slight 
 task. I had to run the gauntlet of half a 
 dozen questioners — they were guarding 
 her against the onslaught of the predatory 
 Trent, I suppose — before she answered 
 me, not in the softly ringing music of her 
 familiar voice, but with a deadened tone- 
 lessness which both startled and reassured 
 me. When I had delivered my message, 
 I returned to the studio. 
 
 " Well ?" queried the Bonnie Lassie. 
 
 " I have just talked with Paula." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 " She said, as nearly as I recall, ' Oh ! ' 
 Also, * Thank you, dominie ! ' " 
 
 " Don't be a horrid and exasperating 
 old man. What did you say to her ? " 
 
 " I gave her some interesting news 
 about a local landmark." 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie came over to me in 
 three swift little bounds like a kitten, and 
 pointed some sort of high-art tool at my chin. 
 " Tell me at once," she commanded. 
 362 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 " I 've just informed Miss Varick that 
 the cage on the roof of No. 13 has 
 been ordered removed not later than to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Has it?" 
 
 " Thinking," I pursued serenely, " that 
 she might wish to take a final look at the 
 place where she first tasted the delights 
 of chewing-gum, — these crucial experi- 
 ences of childhood, you know — " 
 
 " Don't be a goose, dominie. Suppose 
 she does n't come ? " 
 
 "Then you were wrong, and she does 
 n't really care for him." 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie lowered her tool 
 and bestowed a glance of approval upon 
 me which encouraged me to continue. 
 
 " She might even want to go up to the 
 housetop once more." 
 
 " She might," agreed the Bonnie Lassie 
 thoughtfully. " That could be arranged — 
 in case she does." 
 
 " A little judicious stimulus to her 
 
 363 
 
Our Square 
 
 mind," I suggested, " if it does n't occur 
 to her." 
 
 " Leave it to me." 
 
 One of the many delightful things about 
 the Bonnie Lassie is that it 's never nec- 
 essary to draw diagrams for her. So I left 
 it to her and went to telephone Carlo. He 
 said that he had a business engagement 
 or two for the following morning, but it 
 did n't matter (in a voice which indicated 
 that nothing in the world mattered any 
 more), and if I wished to see him of course 
 he 'd come. 
 
 So I bade the Bonnie Lassie good-day 
 and went home to mature a reasonable 
 excuse for summoning one of the busiest 
 young men in America to my side. By 
 the time he arrived the next day I had a 
 plausible sort of lie fixed up about a stock 
 concerning which I wished some advice. 
 Schepstein, our local financier, had coached 
 me on it. But when Carlo inquired at the 
 start whether it was common or preferred 
 
 364 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 I was talking about, I had to admit that I 
 did n't know. 
 
 " What did you send for me for, then, 
 dominie?" he asked patiently. 
 
 A motor-car which I recognized had 
 arrived at and departed from the Bonnie 
 Lassie's door. I played desperately for 
 time, while Carlo's disconsolate regard 
 wandered to the wire-mesh structure, seen 
 only dimly now through the half-bare 
 branches of trees which had been small 
 when he was a boy and my pupil. From 
 where he sat he could not see — I ma- 
 neuvered his seat to manage that — what 
 I saw; two girlish figures cross Our Square 
 and separate at the entrance to No. 13. 
 The Bonnie Lassie had done her part. Now 
 for mine. 
 
 " Carlo," I said, " are you looking at 
 the Tiger's cage?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " They 're tearing it down to-day or 
 to-morrow." 
 
 365 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Are they ? " said he vaguely, and lost 
 himself in a sad maze. 
 
 I reflected with bitterness that senti- 
 ment in the man and sentiment in the 
 woman often assume different manifesta- 
 tions. 
 
 " I was in your garret last week," I con- 
 tinued. " It is n't much changed." 
 
 " What is it being used for ?" 
 
 " A sort of loft. The wall panel your 
 father sketched in crayon is still there." 
 
 " I 'd like to see that," said Carlo. 
 
 " Nothing easier," I replied with ela- 
 tion. "I know the people. Come along." 
 
 Five minutes later we were climbing 
 the stairs to the top floor. Carlo sought 
 out the blurred sketch and stood before 
 it. " Poor old padre," he mused. " He 
 believed that he was destined to become 
 a great painter. I wonder." 
 
 His glance roamed. " There 's where I 
 used to sleep when the nights were hot. 
 And there 's my study corner. You were 
 366 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 good to me, dominie. What 's the mat- 
 ter ? Are n't you well?" 
 
 " It 's close here," I said with desperate 
 strategy, and pushed open the dormer 
 half-door leading to the roof. 
 
 Carlo's face, which had grown dreamy, 
 suddenly became overspread with gloom 
 as he looked out upon the roof. He hesi- 
 tated. And the precious moments were 
 passing. Paula must be on her former roof 
 at that moment. Any minute she might 
 leave. Would Carlo go out for a look, or — 
 
 He went out. I followed. A high, in- 
 spiring wind was blowing. It hummed 
 and cried through the meshes of the cage 
 on the roof below with the voice of a thou- 
 sand imperative and untranslatable mes- 
 sages. The girl in the cage held her face 
 toward it, yearning to its dim and pregnant 
 music, and I thought I had never seen a 
 face so lovely, so lonely, so desolate. Then 
 I turned to Carlo and was glad to the root- 
 nerves of my heart that I had brought him. 
 
 367 
 
Our Square 
 
 That gladness lasted about one heart- 
 beat and died a death of terror. For, with- 
 out a word. Carlo stepped upon the coping, 
 lowered himself over the grim well-space 
 between the houses, then threw his body 
 outward, with a swift, powerful impulsion. 
 He hurtled down the ten feet, which 
 might be fifty, and destruction, if his out- 
 thrust were not forceful enough. But he 
 landed, one hundred and ninety-odd pounds 
 of hard, lithe manhood, on the edge of the 
 roof, as light and firm as a cat. At the 
 sound she turned and saw him coming to 
 her from behind the chimney, as he had 
 come in the days of her lonely childhood. 
 
 " Little Tiger," he said very softly. 
 
 " Angel ! " She tried bravely to laugh,, 
 but it was an uncertain, fluttering sound. 
 " Have you dropped from your cloud 
 again ? 
 
 He came straight to the cage door and 
 stood, looking at her with his soul in his 
 eyes, and she strove to meet his gaze, her 
 368 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 own look fluttering away before the sweet 
 terror of full realization. 
 
 Carlo set his hand to the latch. Some 
 unknown imbecile, solicitous for the safety 
 of the week's wash, had put some sort of 
 an infernal patent spring lock upon the 
 door. It resisted. His hand fell. 
 
 "Will you open it to me?" he said 
 quietly. 
 
 "I — I can't," said the girl. 
 
 " Is it to be the old barrier, then ? " he 
 said passionately — " the barrier that has 
 always been set between us ? " 
 
 She made no reply. But there came to 
 her face a wonderful color, and to her lips 
 a wonderful smile. 
 
 " Paula," said Carlo, " nothing can stand 
 between us except your will," He raised 
 both hands to the heavy meshes. " Shall 
 I come?" 
 
 "Come!" she said. 
 
 Then that gate sprang from its hinges 
 with a shriek of tortured metal, the voice, 
 
 369 
 
Our Square 
 
 as it might be, of all the generations of 
 Varicks, raised in frenzied, ineffectual pro- 
 test. Oh, yes, I suppose the sockets were 
 rusted out and ready to give way ; never- 
 theless, it was a startling and thrilling thing 
 to see. He tossed the door behind him, 
 where it fell with a harsh rattle. And Paula, 
 uncaged at last, came to his heart with a 
 cry, and clung there. 
 
 Age warms itself in reflected fires. I was 
 sitting on my favorite bench in Our Square 
 some weeks later, meditating with a mild 
 glow upon the outcome of the encounter 
 between Carlo and his Tiger (for which, 
 by the way, the Bonnie Lassie put in a 
 wholly unjustified claim of half-credit), 
 when two figures walking quite close to- 
 gether approached and stopped in front 
 of me. They were very good to look at, 
 those two, as youth and joy and the splen- 
 dor of love are always good for old age to 
 look at. I welcomed them to a corner 
 
 37° 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 of my bench, facing the Varick mansion, 
 which was poor policy. 
 
 "So you haven't gone to the Far East?" 
 I said to Miss Paula. 
 
 "No," she said, "father decided not to 
 take me. He has gone for his health." 
 
 " Nothing serious, I trust," I said po- 
 litely. 
 
 "He is suffering," said Miss Paula 
 primly, " from unrequited objection?." 
 Her smiling and happy regard rested on 
 Carlo and then passed dreamily to the 
 squat and broad and drab old mansion fac- 
 ing us. 
 
 "Why!" she cried, "the cage is still 
 there!" 
 
 "So it is," I answered as nonchalantly 
 as I could. 
 
 "Then they did n't tear it down." 
 
 "Apparently they did n't." 
 
 " You told me they were going to. And 
 you told Ang — Carlo they were going 
 to." 
 
 371 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Did I? So I did. They must have 
 changed their minds." 
 
 "Who ordered it down?" inquired 
 Carlo mildly. 
 
 " The fire department," I said promptly. 
 
 " On account of the inflammable nature 
 of steel wire, I suppose." 
 
 " I mean the sanitary inspectors," I has- 
 tily corrected myself. 
 
 ."For fear that somebody might sleep 
 in it and catch cold ! Of course ! " 
 
 " Well, the fact is — " 
 
 " The fact is," said Miss Paula Varick, 
 " that you 're a wicked old, scheming old, 
 blessed old fibber." 
 
 And she then and there pounced upon 
 me and. kissed me under the left ear, in the 
 full and astounded sight of Our Square. 
 Carlo's hand covered hers as it rested on 
 my shoulder, and we three lifted our faces 
 again to the cage, standing unchanged on 
 the housetop, gaunt and grim and lifeless. 
 As we looked, the sun, striking through 
 
 372 
 
Paula of the Housetop 
 
 the edges of a cloud, — such as angels 
 descend from, — touched the harsh, dull 
 metal to flaming crimson and glowing 
 gold, and made of it a living glory, as love 
 makes a living glory of life. 
 
The Little %ed T>octorofOur 
 Square 
 
 LET me tell the worst of the Little 
 Red Doctor at once and get it over 
 with. He has a hair-trigger temper and a 
 jaw that does not forget or forgive read- 
 ily. He insists on regarding gravely many 
 things which most of us treat flippantly, 
 such as love and death. He has a brutal 
 disregard of the finesse of illness and never 
 gives, even to an old man and an old pa- 
 tient like myself, medicine unless one 
 needs it. For the rest, the nickname which 
 Our Square gave him long since describes 
 him. One thing more ; though he is our 
 friend and fellow and counselor, the safe 
 repository of our secrets, our sturdy de- 
 fender against the final enemy, yet Our 
 Square does not call him " Doc." There 
 is something about him which forbids. 
 You would have to seeThim to understand. 
 
 374 
 
"The Little Red Doctor 
 
 Seeing him, you would not see very 
 much. Nature has done a slack job with 
 the Little Red Doctor's outside. Even the 
 Bonnie Lassie, stickler though she is for 
 the eminence of nature as an artist, heret- 
 ically admits this. She tried to better it in 
 sculpture, and by force of the genius in 
 her slim fingers she did succeed in getting 
 at the dominant meaning of those queer 
 quirks in his queer face — quirks of hu- 
 mor, of compassion, of sympathy — and 
 thereby in expressing something of his 
 fiery tenderness, his intrepid wisdom, his 
 inclusive charity of heart toward good and 
 bad alike, the half-boyish, half-knightly 
 valor of self-sacrifice which arms him in 
 the lists for the endless combat with his 
 unconquerable antagonist, " my old friend. 
 Death." With her happy sense of charac- 
 ter she called her miniature bronze " The 
 Idealist," and refused to sell it because, she 
 said, some day Our Square would want to 
 put up a monument to the Little Red 
 
 375 
 
Our Square 
 
 Doctor and her attempt might help some 
 bigger artist to be worthy of the task. 
 
 " Do you know," she observed to Cyrus 
 the Gaunt the day that she finished, " I 've 
 discovered something about that face ? 
 There 's no happiness in it. And it so de- 
 serves happiness ! " 
 
 "Some fool of a girl probably turned 
 him down and he came here to bury him- 
 self," surmised Cyrus the Gaunt. "We 
 homely, good men are never properly ap- 
 preciated. Look at me ! " 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie looked at him and 
 then kissed him on the ear. "Just the 
 same I think you 're wrong," she said 
 thoughtfully. " When I first saw the Lit- 
 tle Red Doctor, I wondered whether any 
 woman could possibly love him. Since 
 I 've known him I 've wondered how any 
 woman could possibly help it." 
 
 "That 's a pleasant thing for a man 
 to hear from his wife," observed Cyrus 
 cheerfully. " Anyway, there 's a photo- 
 
 376 
 
7>6^ Little Red Doctor 
 
 graph been scraped out of the inside of 
 his watch. Mendel, the watchmaker, told 
 Polyglot Elsa so." 
 
 Barring this tenuous evidence, what- 
 ever may have passed in the Little Red 
 Doctor's former existence was wholly un- 
 known to Our Square, even after he be- 
 came one of us. He trailed no clouds of 
 glory and apparently no clues from his 
 previous existence. All that we knew was 
 that he landed from a long voyage in trop- 
 ical lands and set up his shingle, " Dr. 
 Smith," at No. ii. Business did not rush 
 to him. We are a conservative and cau- 
 tious community in Our Square. We 
 watched and weighed him. Presently he 
 got a little foothold in the reeking slum 
 tenements which surround our struggling 
 and cherished respectability. It could not 
 have been a profitable practice. But it af- 
 forded experience. Sometimes he came 
 back with triumph in his face ; sometimes 
 with stern gloom ; sometimes with a black 
 
 377 
 
Our Square 
 
 eye, for the practice of medicine as carried 
 on in our immediate environment involves 
 sundry departments not taught in the 
 schools, and branches out into strange and 
 eclectic activities. In those early days I 
 overheard Terry the Cop assert that the 
 nevv^ physician could " lick his vv^eight 
 in vv^ildcats." But when I informed Terry 
 that this vv^ould mean at least five of the 
 species, Terry replied airily that he was 
 no Zoo attendant, but he knew a scrapper 
 when he saw one. 
 
 If one may credit the Murphy family, 
 the Little Red Doctor gained his real foot- 
 hold in Our Square through force, inva- 
 sion, violence, and brutal assault. The 
 Murphys occupy the ground floor of the 
 corner house abutting on Our Alley, un- 
 der the workroom of Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
 who, through their unwitting instrumen- 
 tality, became sponsor for the Little Red 
 Doctor. Dead-Men's-Shoes comes by his 
 name from his business, which is the pur- 
 378 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 chase and resale of the apparel of the re- 
 cently deceased, collected on wagon trips 
 over a wide radius about New York. 
 Thus it comes about that the feet of the 
 mighty have been represented in Our 
 Square, and more than one of us has worn 
 the giant's robe as tailored on Fifth Ave- 
 nue. The ol'-clo' man's real name is Dad- 
 mun Schutz, and he is a Yankee from 
 Connecticut where there are many Dad- 
 muns and more Schutzes, but how and 
 why he came to Our Square is a story that 
 I do not care to tell. The slight alteration 
 in his name to fit his trade was so logical 
 as to be inevitable. Dead-Men's-Shoes is 
 tall and rugged and powerful and slow, 
 and he always wears an extinct species of 
 silk hat on his business rounds. In the 
 day which introduced him to the Little 
 Red Doctor, the Murphys had declared 
 holiday and gone fishing and caught 
 fish. Naturally they held alcoholic cele- 
 bration in the evening. Passing the 
 
 379 
 
Our Square 
 
 house, the Little Red Doctor heard the 
 sounds of revelry; also another sound 
 which checked his progress. He stuck 
 his head in at the window, took a hasty 
 survey, followed the head into the room 
 and laid hands upon Timmy Murphy cetat 
 ten. Astonished but in no way dismayed 
 by the invasion. Paterfamilias Murphy 
 immediately threw a whiskey bottle at 
 the intruder and rushed to the rescue, fol- 
 lowed by the partner of his bosom. It was 
 no time for diplomacy or fine distinctions 
 as to the rights of the non-combatant sex. 
 The Little Red Doctor acted with promp- 
 titude and both hands, and the Murphys 
 came to in the kitchen with the door 
 barred against reentry. Thereupon they 
 raised such lamentable outcry that Dad- 
 mun Schutz loped downstairs to the res- 
 cue. Seeing a stranger in the act of throt- 
 tling the scion of the house of Murphy, 
 the ol'-clo' man undertook to dissuade him 
 by fixing a bony hand in his collar; but 
 380 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 in so doing forgot the existence of what 
 is technically termed, I understand, the 
 pivot blow. Upon discovering its uses he 
 lay down in the hallway to meditate upon 
 it. The Little Red Doctor finished his job 
 before Terry the Cop's substitute arrived 
 to arrest him. He went peacefully. Dead- 
 Men's-Shoes followed to the court, escort- 
 ing Murphy senior, who was extensively 
 bandaged. The bench was occupied and 
 ornamented by Magistrate Wolfe Tone 
 Hanrahan, the Irish Solon of Avenue B. 
 Judge Hanrahan possesses a human stratum 
 in his judicial temperament. His exam- 
 ination of the prisoner (suppressed from 
 the stenographer's official notes) proceeded 
 as follows : — 
 
 "The Judge — What were you doing in 
 Murphys' flat? 
 
 The Accused — I was there professionally. 
 
 The Judge — Professionally, say ye ? (With 
 a look at the ill-repaired Murphys.) Are ye a 
 prize-fighter ? 
 
 The Accused — I am a physician and surgeon. 
 
Our Square 
 
 The Judge — Mostly surgeon, I 'm thinkin'. 
 Ye seem to have removed three teeth from the 
 patient an' partly ampytated an ear. Besides, he 
 swears ye tried to murder the boy. Is such yer 
 usual practice ? 
 
 The Accused — The boy had a fish bone in his 
 throat. He was strangling. Here is the bone. 
 The boy is in bed. I ought to be with him now. 
 
 The Judge — Officer, ye 're a fool. Murphy, 
 y' oughta get ten days. Mrs. Murphy, back 
 to yer child ! Defendant, cud ye come to my 
 house. No. 2^, to-morra mornin'? My cook 
 has a^bile on her neck. I like yer style. Yere 
 discharged. 
 
 Dead-Men's-Shoes escorted the phy- 
 sician back apologizing at every step, and 
 thenceforth touted for him (greatly to 
 his embarrassment) until Our Square grevsr 
 afraid to call in any other practitioner lest 
 the partisan ol'-clo' man should accuse us 
 of attempted suicide by negligence. Within 
 a year of his arrival the little Red Doctor 
 had become, as it were, official healer to 
 the whole place. And where he began as 
 physician he ended as friend and ally. 
 382 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 The Little Red Doctor was intensely 
 personal in his permanent engagenaent 
 with his old friend. Death. 
 
 While I am, of course, a part of the Lit- 
 tle Red Doctor's large practice, I do not add 
 much to his meager income. In fact, he 
 usually laughs me and my minor ailments 
 out of court and declines to administer 
 anything but free advice. On the particu- 
 lar June evening when I unwittingly be- 
 came a partner of the fates, nothing really 
 ailed me except that I had not been sleep- 
 ing for some nights and was tired of it. 
 The Little Red Doctor went over me 
 briefly and prescribed. 
 
 "One full day in the open sunrise to 
 sundown." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 He reflected. " Go crepe-hunting with 
 Dead-Men's-Shoes," he said at length. 
 
 Thus it was that from nine o'clock on, 
 of a balmy, sweet-scented morning, the 
 sleek and raucous automobiles of West- 
 
 38.3 
 
Our Square 
 
 Chester County hooted disdainfully at 
 Dadmun Schutz and myself, jogging ap- 
 preciatively along behind Schutz's mouse- 
 hued mare, Dolly Gray, through a world 
 so alien to Our Square as to suggest another 
 scheme of creation ; a world of birds and 
 butterflies and bees and trees and flowers 
 and song and color and blithe winds. This 
 world was, most appropriately, inhabited 
 by a brown-and-gold fairy. Any one could 
 tell that she was a fairy by the sunlight in 
 her hair, and the starlight in her eyes, and 
 the fact that, at the moment when we dis- 
 covered her, two butterflies were engaged 
 in aerial combat to decide which one 
 should settle on the pink rose above her 
 ear. The flower flaunted there like a chal- 
 lenge against the somberness of her cos- 
 tume, for the fairy was dressed entirely 
 in black. She was leaning on a gate in 
 a tall hedge. Through the opening we 
 could see, across broad flower gardens, a 
 solid, spacious, kindly house, amid rustling 
 
 384 
 

 ■S 
 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 shade, flying the insignium of death at its 
 door. 
 
 At the sight Dead-Men's-Shoes pulled 
 up and took off his extinct hat. It was one 
 of the most extinct hats wherewith I have 
 ever known him to grace his calling. Its 
 brim was fractured in two places, its crown 
 leaned like Pisa's Tower, and it bristled in 
 universal offense against the outer world. 
 Despite all this it was indisputably a Silk 
 Hat, and, as such, official to the lawful oc- 
 casions of the wearer. The brown-and-gold 
 fairy looked at it with unfeigned surprise. 
 From its interior Dead-Men's-Shoes ex- 
 tracted a slip of paper which he perused. 
 He then addressed the fairy in a soft and 
 respectful tone. 
 
 "You ain't on the list, mum." 
 "What list?" inquired the fairy with 
 interest. "And why should I be on it?" 
 "Not you, mum. The house." 
 He re-covered his head and contem- 
 plated her speculatively. She returned his 
 
 385 
 
Our Square 
 
 regard with sparkling eyes and a dimpling 
 and twitching mouth. 
 
 "Why do you wear that extraordinary 
 hat?" she broke out. 
 
 *• Business," murmured Dead-Men's- 
 Shoes. "It's my business hat. If I could 
 have a few words with you on business?" 
 
 "You 've come at an unfortunate time," 
 said the brown-and-gold fairy. "There 
 is a death in the family." 
 
 "Yessum. I observed that the Grim 
 Reaper had visited the premises," said 
 Dead-Men's-Shoes, who prides himself 
 upon a stock of correct, elegant, and fe- 
 licitous mortuary phrases. " May I proffer 
 my humble condolences?" He removed 
 the silk hat with an official and solemn 
 flourish. "Are you the bereaved, mum?" 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "The relic of the late lamented?" 
 
 " No ; only -a cousin, but my father and 
 I are Mr. Bennington's nearest relatives. 
 What is it you wish ? " 
 386 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 " In that case," said Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
 with evident relief, " an' beggin' your par- 
 don for intrudin' on your nach'ral grief an' 
 distress, we might trade." He coughed 
 austerely. " About clothes now," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Clothes? What clothes?" said the 
 fairy. 
 
 "The deceased's. Or shoes, maybe? 
 Or even hats." 
 
 " What on earth do you mean, you ex- 
 traordinary pprson?" 
 
 "I mean fair," said Dead-Men's-Shoes 
 firmly. " I 'm here to buy the deceased's 
 garments. You see, lady, I read all the 
 death notices in the N'York papers, an' 
 when I 've got ten or a dozen good pros- 
 pects in one locality I hitch up Dolly 
 Gray an' make my rounds. An' though 
 you ain't on my list, I won't count that 
 against you when we come to dicker." 
 
 " But we don't want to sell Cousin Ben.'s 
 clothes," said the fairy in bewilderment. 
 
 387 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Dont-cha ! " Dead-Men's Shoes took 
 on a persuasively argumentative air. " Lis- 
 sen, lady. Wotcha goin' to do with them 
 garments?" 
 
 **I hadn't thought about it." 
 
 " Was the late lamented a charitable gent ? 
 Good to the poor and that sort of thing?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 " There you are, then ! " said he tri- 
 umphantly. " Sell me the garments for a 
 lot o' money. I 'm soft on swell garments. 
 Take the cash an' give it to charity. Le's 
 begin with shoes. How many pair of shoes 
 would you say the untimely victim had?" 
 
 Mirth quivered at the corners of the 
 fairy's soft lips. " He was n't an untimely 
 victim. He was seventy-six years old and 
 he had gout so dreadfully that he had to 
 have one shoe made much longer than the 
 other." 
 
 My companion's face fell, but imme- 
 diately brightened with hope. "Which 
 foot?" 
 
 388 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 She considered. " The left." 
 
 " If they was right in size an' price," 
 he mused, " they might do for the Little 
 Red Doctor." 
 
 The brown-and-gold fairy's eyes widened. 
 
 "For whom?" she asked. 
 
 "The Little Red Doctor." 
 
 " Why do you call him that ? " 
 
 " Because he 's little an' red-headed an' 
 the smartest doctor in N'York. An* if 
 your loved-an'-lost one had had him, he 'd 
 be alive to-day," he added with profound 
 conviction. 
 
 "Where does he live?" 
 
 "Down in Our Square — No. ii, on 
 the East Side ; office hours nine to one. If 
 you was any ways ailin' you could n't do 
 better'n to call." 
 
 "And there is something the matter 
 with his left foot ? " she pursued, ignoring 
 this vvell-meant advice. "What?" 
 
 " It 's dummed hard to fit," replied 
 Dead-Men's-Shoes disconsolately. 
 
 389 
 
Our Square 
 
 "I can tell you," I interjected. "He 
 injured it while swimming." 
 
 " Oh ! " said the brown-and-gold fairy. 
 "And — and this gentleman's description 
 of him is accurate?" 
 
 " But not adequate," I said. " He is 
 wise (a confirmatory nod from the brown- 
 and-gold fairy) and brave (another nod) 
 and unselfish (a third nod) and obstinate 
 (two nods) and beautiful — " 
 
 " Oh ! " said the brown-and-gold fairy, 
 with obvious disappointment. 
 
 " — to us who know him, I mean." 
 
 She smiled up at me. " And his name 
 is Smith." 
 
 " It is," I averred. 
 
 At this juncture Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
 who had been fidgeting on his wagon seat, 
 deemed it time to interfere in the interests 
 of commerce. " Don't butt in, dominie," 
 he protested in an injured aside. " These 
 mourners has to be handled with tac'. It 
 takes a professional. You 're spoilin' trade." 
 
 390 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 Herein he did me injustice. The brown- 
 and-gold fairy threw the gate open and 
 invited Dead-Men's-Shoes in to bargain. 
 Highly advantageous bargaining it was, I 
 judged from the ill-suppressed jubilance 
 of my associate's face when he emerged 
 some minutes later, tottering under a bur- 
 den of assorted clothing, while she brought 
 up the rear, carrying one pair of shoes. 
 The rose was gone from her hair. 
 
 " Remember," she cautioned him, " the 
 suits you may dispose of as you please, 
 but the shoes are to go to the — the 
 Little Red Doctor just as they are. Will 
 you see that they do ? " She appealed to 
 me. 
 
 " I '11 take them myself," I promised. 
 
 " Will you ? That 's kind of you. But 
 you mustn't tell him where they came 
 from." She looked up at me and I seemed 
 to discern something wistful in her eyes. 
 " You are a friend of Dr. Smith's ? " 
 
 "Yes. And you?" 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I used to be," said she indifferently. 
 
 Dead-Men's-Shoes climbed into the 
 wagpn and lifted the lines. " Accept the 
 assurances of my respec'ful sympathy," he 
 recited, "an' remember the address if 
 there 's anything further in my line. Wake 
 up, Dolly Gray." 
 
 The brown-and-gold fairy floated out 
 through the gate and came to my side. 
 
 " Does he still limp ?" she asked in a 
 half whisper. 
 
 " Imperceptibly," I answered. 
 
 " I don't want him to limp," she cried 
 imperiously and was gone. 
 
 Dolly Gray took us and the shoes of 
 the deceased cousin on our way. The day's 
 journey ended in front of the Little Red 
 Doctor's office. The Little Red Doctor 
 looked up from some sort of compli- 
 cated mechanism which he was making 
 for crippled Molly Rankin (who could 
 never by any possibility pay him for it) 
 and appeared astonished at the sight of 
 
 39^ 
 
T'he Little Red Doctor 
 
 the very elegant footwear which Dead- 
 Men's-Shoes extended to him. 
 
 " What for ? " he asked. " I 'm not buy- 
 ing second-hand shoes." 
 
 "Ask the dominie," said Dead-Men's 
 Shoes. 
 
 " They 're a present," I explained. 
 
 The Little Red Doctor looked both 
 puzzled and suspicious. ** They won't fit 
 my queer foot," he objected. 
 
 " Try," encouraged Dead-Men's-Shoes. 
 
 The Little Red Doctor tried on the left 
 boot. " Pretty good," he said. He stood 
 up to stamp his foot down. Then he 
 bounded into the air like a springbok, 
 and on alighting, tore off the shoe, saying 
 something harsh and profane about prac- 
 tical jokers. "There's a pin in it," he 
 growled. 
 
 " Gosh ! " exclaimed Dead-Men's-Shoes, 
 greatly perturbed at this evidence of 
 woman's perfidy. " An' her in the soUim 
 presence of death, too ! " 
 Z9Z 
 
Our Square 
 
 "Her? Who?" demanded the Little 
 Red Doctor, looking up from his explora- 
 tions after the pin. 
 
 " Dadmun," said I, " you are too 
 loquacious. Go out and look after Dolly 
 Gray." 
 
 Duly impressed and oppressed by my 
 well-chosen word, the ol'-clo' man trudged 
 out and leaned against the railing. The 
 Little Red Doctor extracted a small object 
 from the shoe. It proved to be a pink rose, 
 impaled upon a fine golden wire which 
 might once have been a hairpin. The wire 
 held in place a thin strip of paper. When 
 he saw the handwriting on the paper the 
 Little Red Doctor gave another leap. It 
 was not as athletic and deerlike as his first, 
 but was still a creditable performance. 
 Then he flung the whole combination out 
 through the open window. 
 
 " Ow ! " ejaculated Dead-Men's-Shoes 
 from his place against the railing. 
 
 We could hear him scuffling around 
 
 394 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 after the missile, which had evidently hit 
 him on a tender spot. His voice came 
 clearly to us reading painfully in the dim 
 light. 
 
 " * An'-no-bird-sings-in-Arcady ! ' " 
 
 " Dadmun," said I, severely, " that 
 letter is not addressed to you." 
 
 "It ain't a letter," retorted Dead- 
 Men's-Shoes aggrievedly. " It ain't begun 
 like a letter oughta be. It ain't signed, 
 like a letter oughta be. It 's just that one 
 fool line. Where 's Arcady an' what 's to 
 stop the birds singin' there if they want 
 to? Here 's yer valentine." 
 
 He flipped it back through the win- 
 dow. We heard the creaking of the wagon 
 springs, Dolly Gray's patient, responsive 
 grunt and her retreating footsteps on the 
 asphalt. I retrieved the carrier rose and 
 turned to the Little Red Doctor. 
 
 "Well?" I said. "Where is Arcady, 
 my friend? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 7>9S 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I know that song," I continued. 
 " How does the verse run ? 
 
 "And no bird sings in Arcady; 
 The little fauns have left the hill ; 
 Even the tired dafFodil 
 Has closed its gilded doors, and still — " 
 
 "Don't!" said the Little Red Doctor 
 hoarsely. " I used to know that song." He 
 lifted haggard eyes to me. " You 've seen 
 her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How did she look?" 
 
 I meditated. " Like a child that does n't 
 understand why it is n't happy," I said at 
 length. 
 
 I saw the Little Red Doctor's sensitive 
 mouth quiver; but the jaw set hard and 
 firm and ended that struggle. 
 
 " I won't ask you where," he said. 
 
 " It would be no use. I could n't tell 
 you. 
 
 " No." He accepted that. " Then why, 
 in the name of Heaven," he cried, look- 
 396 
 
"The Little Red Doctor 
 
 ing at the rose, "should she — Oh, 
 well, never mind that." He sat thought- 
 fully for a time. " Dominie," he said, 
 " I 'm going to tell you. It will do me 
 good, I think. And then I '11 forget it 
 again." 
 
 It was not altogether a pretty story. Four 
 years before, it began, when the brown- 
 and-gold fairy must have been little more 
 than a child. At a fashionable cottage place 
 which is merely a glowing, newspaper- 
 glorified name to Our Square, the Little Red 
 Doctor, who had come down for a tennis 
 tournament, had jumped off a pier after a 
 small boy who hadfallen in. He referred to 
 it and to the brown-and-gold fairy's ro- 
 mantic view of it with tolerant contempt. 
 "The hee-ro business," he said with the 
 medical man's disdain of the more obvi- 
 ous forms of physical peril. " I run more 
 real risks every day of my life." However, 
 a well-meaning but blundersome launch 
 had broken his foot with its wheel, and 
 
 397 
 
Our Square 
 
 the girl, who had seen the whole adven- 
 ture, carried him off in her motor-car. 
 Followed the usual discovery of friends in 
 common, and by the time the crutches 
 were discarded, the victim was hopelessly 
 enslaved. Whether they were ever actu- 
 ally engaged or not did not clearly appear. 
 The Little Red Doctor was carefully and 
 gallantly defensive of her course. Never- 
 theless, knowing the Little Red Doctor 
 as I do, I was resentfully sure that she had 
 treated him shamefully. Finally there was 
 an issue of principle between them. He 
 alluded to it vaguely. " She did n't really 
 care, of course," he said. " Why should 
 she ? So I went away and knocked about 
 the world for a bit. Then I came here 
 because in Our Square there would n't be 
 much chance of meeting her, you see. 
 There 's just one thing to do. Forget her. 
 So I've forgotten her." And the Little 
 Red Doctor, taking the rose from the 
 table where I had tossed it, held it cher- 
 
 398 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 ishingly in his hands as if it were a hu- 
 man, beating heart. 
 
 "Forget her." Quite so! It was just 
 and simple and sensible. Yet, while I 
 agreed heartily, I had my private misgiv- 
 ings that it might not be so easy to forget a 
 face with that particular quality of witch- 
 ery about it, a witchery wholly distinct 
 from mere beauty. I 've known quite 
 homely women to have it. Not that the 
 brown-and-gold fairy was homely. But I 
 cannot quite think that she was beautiful, 
 either, by the standards of calm and bal- 
 anced judgment. Only, the calmest judg- 
 ment would be put to it to preserve its 
 balance with those eyes turned upon it. 
 She had an unbalancing personality, that 
 brown-and-gold fairy, even to an old and 
 rusty-fusty pedagogue like myself. 
 
 In fact, she was quite unreasonably vivid 
 to my thoughts for weeks after my one 
 brief meeting with her. I believe that I 
 was actually thinking about her and the 
 
 399 
 
Our Square 
 
 Little Red Doctor, seated on my favorite 
 bench in Our Square, on the August morn- 
 ing when a small, soft voice quite close 
 behind me said : — 
 
 " Mr. Dominie." 
 
 I got up and turned around. There 
 stood the browii-and-gold fairy. I frowned 
 upon her severely. Not as severely as she 
 doubtless deserved, considering how the 
 Little Red Doctor had winced at the 
 mention of her, but as severely as was 
 practicable in the fa;ce of the way she was 
 smiling at me. 
 
 " What do you mean by coming up be- 
 hind me and startling me with your * Mr. 
 Dominie ' ? " I demanded. 
 
 " I heard the man with the funny hat 
 call you that. Is n't it your name ? " 
 
 " It will serve. What are you doing in 
 Our Square ? " 
 
 " I came down to see the place." 
 
 " You came down to see the Little Red 
 Doctor," I charged. 
 
 400 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 " Oh, no," she protested softly. " Just 
 to see the place where he lives. I went 
 near there, but he came out and I ran 
 away." 
 
 "You need n't have," I said. "He has 
 forgotten you." 
 
 " I don't think it nice of you to say 
 that, Mr. Dominie." 
 
 There was a little break in her voice. I 
 looked away hastily. Though, if I had 
 made her cry, it served her right. I 
 looked back and found that she was not 
 crying. She was laughing. At me ! 
 
 "He has forgotten you," I repeated 
 positively, " as he ought." 
 
 " Yes ; I suppose he ought," she as- 
 sented dolorously. " But he has n't," she 
 added with a sudden change to an ador- 
 able impertinence. " You know he has 
 n't. Nobody ever forgets me. You did n't 
 forget me, did you? And you 'd only seen 
 me once." 
 
 " Why am I seeing you now ? " 
 401 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Because you 're old and wise and you 
 look kind." 
 
 " I am very old and extremely wise," 
 I answered, " but my kindly expression is 
 mere senile deterioration of the facial 
 muscles, I am really brutal." 
 
 " But you '11 be kind to me," she averred 
 trustfully. 
 
 I surrendered. " What about ? " 
 
 " I want to see the — the Little Red 
 Doctor, and yet I — I don't want to see 
 him. Do you know what I mean ?" 
 
 "No. Do you?" 
 
 " N-n-no. I suppose I don't exactly. 
 Do you think he 'd like to see me?" 
 
 " I 'm sure he would n't." 
 
 Her lip quivered. " And you said you 'd 
 be kind to me," she murmured plaintively. 
 
 " Not at all ! Tou said I 'd be kind to 
 you. Are you in love with the Little Red 
 Doctor?" 
 
 "Of course I 'm not ! " she asserted vio- 
 lently. 
 
 402 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 "Then why are you here in Our Square 
 at all ? Does the scenery entice you ? Are 
 you enthralled by our social advantages ? 
 Would you like to meet some of our lead- 
 ing local lights?" 
 
 " I would like to meet somebody who 
 is really wise and kind, too wise and kind 
 to make fun of poor little me." 
 
 "That 's the Bonnie Lassie," said I with 
 sudden, inspired conviction. " Come with 
 me. 
 
 "Where?" asked the brown-and-gold 
 fairy, hanging back doubtfully. 
 
 " To her studio where she sculps won- 
 derful and beautiful things. If I 'm any 
 judge she '11 sculp you as a butterfly that *s 
 lost its way in this wicked — " 
 
 "I 'm not a butterfly," interrupted my 
 companion. " I 'm a very serious person 
 on a very serious errand," 
 
 « — world," I proceeded. "And she'll 
 talk to you about the Little Red Doc- 
 tor — " 
 
 403 
 
Our Square 
 
 " Will she ? " murmured the brown-and- 
 gold fairy, moving after me. 
 
 " — whom she loves devotedly — " 
 
 "Does she!" said the brow^n-and-gold 
 fairy, stopping short. 
 
 " — as every one in Our Square does 
 and ought to — " 
 
 " Oh ! " remarked the fairy, catching up 
 VS^ith me again. 
 
 " — for reasons which you should know 
 as well as any one." 
 
 "I don't," retorted the fairy, muti- 
 nously. "Who is the Bonnie Lassie? You 
 all have such queer names here, Mr. 
 Dominie ! " 
 
 " In private life she's Mrs. Cyrus Staten: 
 otherwise Cecily Willard." 
 
 The golden lights in the fairy's eyes 
 deepened with astonishment. "Not the 
 famous Miss Willard who does the figu- 
 rines! Does she live 'way down here in 
 this — this — " 
 
 "Slum," I supplied. '^ Don't be afraid to 
 404 
 
'The Little Red Doctor 
 
 say it. Our Square is n't sensitive to what 
 outsiders think of us." 
 
 " This nice, queer old park," concluded 
 the fairy with dignity. "And I suppose she 
 is very old and wise and— is she kind?" 
 
 "She is very young and lovely to look 
 at and as wise as she needs to be for her 
 own happiness and — come along and see 
 her." 
 
 "But you mustn't tell her — "was as 
 far as she got when the Bonnie Lassie 
 came out of the studio with a smudge of 
 clay on the tip of her chin, and regarded 
 my pink and captive fairy with undis- 
 guised amazement. 
 
 "This young discovery of mine," I 
 explained, "has come to Our Square for 
 the purpose of not seeing the Little Red 
 Doctor. Dead-Men's-Shoes struck up a 
 professional acquaintance with her in the 
 country and told her about the Doctor — 
 whom she doesn't want to see — being in 
 Our Square. As she has n't seen him for 
 405 
 
Our Square 
 
 several years and as he has been trying hard 
 and conscientiously to forget her, she has 
 come, incognita, where he is, in order to 
 keep on not seeing him and to discover 
 vi^hether he has forgotten. It's all just as 
 simple as it sounds." 
 
 My fairy suddenly became a person, and 
 a very decided person. "I beg your par- 
 don," she said. " I am not incognita. My 
 name is Ethel Bennington, and I think 
 you are a very unkind old man." 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie set a slender, strong 
 hand on the visitor's wrist and drew her 
 within. "Never mind him, my dear," she 
 said softly. " He is n't really unkind. He's 
 just a tease." She paused and studied her 
 caller a moment. Then, with her irresist- 
 ible smile, she said : " I know it 's dread- 
 ful of me — but, would you mind if I just 
 sketched you hastily ?" 
 
 Now, that may have been the artist of 
 it breaking through, or it may have been 
 just the way of her invincible tact and 
 406 
 
T'he Little Red Doctor 
 
 management ; you never can tell, with the 
 Bonnie Lassie. But it 's a proven fact that 
 nobody can sit to her without giving up 
 his heart's secrets, and sometimes she puts 
 them in the bronze. Most unfairly I was 
 banished, for the brown-and-gold fairy with 
 a flush of pleasure said she 'd sit at once. 
 And from that sitting grew another sit- 
 ting and another and many to follow. 
 Sometimes I was bidden in. It was a sheer 
 delight to sit there and watch those two 
 young creatures, the sculptress gay and 
 sunny and splendid in the glad beauty 
 of power and achievement; the model, 
 wistful, sweet, and vivid by turns, a fairy 
 from a brighter world bringing her fairy 
 gold to our grim and dusty neighborhood. 
 Out of a w^orking silence the brown-and- 
 gold fairy spoke one day. 
 
 "Is he poor?" 
 
 "Is who — " I began. 
 
 But the quicker apprehension of the 
 artist cut in on me. 
 
 407 
 
Our Square 
 
 " It is n't exactly a fashionable practice, 
 the Little Red Doctor's. Is it, dominie?" 
 
 "No. But poor — certainly not, by the 
 standards of Our Square. He has a new 
 black suit for professional service every 
 year." 
 
 " Um ! " said the fairy doubtfully. Then, 
 after a pause, " He could have been rich, 
 you know." 
 
 "Could he?" said the Bonnie Lassie, 
 holding her iron poised over the shadow 
 of a flying dimple. 
 
 "An invention. Something to do with 
 his surgery," explained the girl. " Father 
 said there were big possibilities in it. He 
 offered to finance it himself. But he — 
 the Lit — Dr. Smith would n't even take 
 out a patent on it." 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie lowered her weapon. 
 "Do you mean the pressure brace for 
 atrophy?" 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, surprised. " How 
 do you know about it?" 
 408 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 "Cyrus's uncle — he's Dr. Hardaman, 
 the great orthopedic surgeon — says that 
 there are thousands of children walking 
 to-day who owe their legs to that brace 
 of the Little Red Doctor's," 
 
 " You never told any of us about that ! " 
 I cried. 
 
 "No," she answered composedly. "It 
 seemed to make the Little Red Doctor 
 uncomfortable when Cyrus spoke of it. So 
 we kept it quiet." 
 
 "You see, he might really have made 
 a fortune by patenting it," said the brown- 
 and-gold fairy. 
 
 "Thlt is what I asked Uncle Charles. 
 He said that physicians, the best type, 
 don't take out patents. You see, the pat- 
 ent would have made the brace cost more, 
 and the more it cost the fewer people could 
 buy it, and that would mean more chil- 
 dren who ought to have walked and 
 couldn't. And, oh, my dear! if you could 
 see the poor, pitiful, wee things as we see 
 409 
 
Our Square 
 
 them in Our Square, withered and hob- 
 bling like old, worn-out folk — " 
 
 "Don't! Don't!" cried the girl. "I 
 
 — I never thought of it that way." 
 "Why should you.? But the Little Red 
 
 Doctor would." 
 
 " Yes, but he did n't explain it that 
 way," said the brown-and-gold fairy mis- 
 erably. "He said something stupid about 
 ethics, and I said something I did n't mean 
 
 — and," — her head drooped, — " and that 
 was our last quarrel." 
 
 " And you loved him all the time, and 
 still do," said the Bonnie Lassie gently. 
 
 " I did n't 1 I don't ! " denied the brown- 
 and-gold fairy vehemently. 
 
 " Then why have you come down here ? " 
 demanded the inexorable sculptress. 
 
 "Because," said the fairy in a fairy's 
 whisper, "I — I just wanted to see him 
 again. All the other men are so alike." 
 
 "Yes; yes, I know," said the Bonnie 
 Lassie and threw an arm over her shoulder, 
 410 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 and gave me a swift and wordless com- 
 mand to go away and be quick about it. 
 
 For the subsequent developments of the 
 affair I expressly disclaim all responsibility. 
 True, I was made an agent. But that was 
 coercion, such coercion as the Bonnie Las- 
 sie practices on all of us. The scheme was 
 hers and hers alone. If there is a weakness 
 in the Bonnie Lassie's character, it is over- 
 fondness for the romantic and the dra- 
 matic. She loves to set the stage and move 
 the puppets, and be the goddess from the 
 machine generally. Miss Ethel Benning- 
 ton, cast for the leading part, accepted it 
 all implicitly, for in the strange environ- 
 ment of Our Square she was uncertain 
 and self-distrustful, and she readily fell in 
 with the dramatist's principal theme ; to 
 wit, that she had treated the Little Red 
 Doctor very ill, and said wounding things 
 hard to be forgiven by a high-spirited, 
 sensitive, and red-headed lover ; that any 
 basis of pardon and understanding would 
 411 
 
Our Square 
 
 be difficult and painful to arrive at, but 
 that if he found her in straits and needing 
 him, then the truth would come out and 
 she would know at once whether he still 
 cared for her or not, a point upon which 
 my brown-and-gold fairy had her dismal 
 doubts, it seems. Therefore she would 
 please buy herself a working outfit and 
 take a job with — well — with Dead^ 
 Men's-Shoes. Just the thing! Dead-Men's- 
 Shoes, knowing so miich of the matter, 
 would require little explanation. 'The la- 
 bor, sorting over and classifying his resid- 
 uary apparel, would be not too violent; 
 and the Little Red Doctor passed by the 
 door daily on his way to the top floor to 
 visit little Fannie McKay who had the 
 rickets. It was only a question of time 
 when he would find the fairy there toil- 
 ing in poverty. Such was the setting de- 
 vised by the Bonnie Lassie to bring those 
 two together. For the rest, let Fate take 
 its course. 
 
 . 412 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 Fate did. For their own private rea- 
 sons, or perhaps in sheer derision of the 
 human dramatist's puny efforts, the High 
 Gods of Drama took a hand in the affair. 
 They smote the Little Red Doctor, if not 
 exactly hip and thigh, at least, tooth and 
 jaw ; so that he was incapacitated for any 
 sort of decent, peaceable human associa- 
 tion. They gave him an abominable tooth- 
 ache. The Bonnie Lassie came across Our 
 Square to apprise me of the fact, with dis- 
 may in her face. 
 
 "What 's a toothache," I said, "in such 
 circumstances ! " 
 
 The Bonnie Lassie looked at me scorn- 
 fully- " Men have no sense," she sighed. 
 " Do you think I 'm going to have their 
 meeting spoiled by a wretched thing like 
 that, after all these years ? Besides, he 's 
 all swollen on one side." 
 
 " I see. You don't wish his classic 
 beauty impaired on this occasion." 
 
 "Don't be disagreeable. And do be good. 
 
 413 
 
Our Square 
 
 Go to the Little Red Doctor and tell him 
 he must have it fixed." 
 
 I went to the Little Red Doctor and 
 told him that very thing. To this day I 
 believe that my age alone saved me from 
 a murderous assault. "Have it fixed?" 
 howled the Little Red Doctor. " Don't 
 you suppose I want to have it fixed? 
 Don't be an imbecile, dominie." 
 
 " Then come along now to Doc Selters 
 and get it filled." 
 
 " I don't want it filled. I want it pulled. 
 I want to get it out and stamp on it ! " 
 
 « Well, he will pull it." 
 
 " He will not. He says it 's got to be 
 saved. He 's killing the nerve — on the 
 Spanish Inquisition principle. I 'd go to 
 the fifty cent yankers this minute if I did 
 n't have a saw-off with Selters." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 " A saw-off. A professional exchange. 
 He owes me two liver-attacks and a dif- 
 fuse laryngitis ; and the best he '11 do," 
 414 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 cried the Little Red Doctor, dancing with 
 rage and pain, " is to say that the worst 
 of it is over. D n his eyes ! " 
 
 Plainly, the Bonnie Lassie was right. 
 The Little Red Doctor was in no state to 
 meet vital issues. I went over to Dead- 
 Men 's-Shoes' place, and there beheld the 
 brown-and-gold fairy skillfully sewing 
 trouser buttons on waistcoats. She looked 
 tired and pathetic, and when she saw me 
 she jumped up and ran to me. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Dominie ! " she cried. 
 " Where is he ? " 
 
 I shook my head. Somehow I had n't 
 the heart to obtrude as unpoetic a motif li^ 
 a toothache upon that prospective romance. 
 
 " I 've worked and worked and worked," 
 she said, with a drooping mouth, " and 
 he does n't come. And Miss Willard won't 
 tell me why. I 'm sure something has hap- 
 pened to him. Has there ? " 
 
 "Why, no," I said. "That is — er — 
 certainly not ! " 
 
 415 
 
Our Square 
 
 "There has!" She set her hands on 
 my shoulders and explored my face with 
 her sweet, anxious eyes. " Tell me. You 
 must tell me ! It was you who brought me 
 here." (Oh, the justice of womankind !) 
 
 " Was it, indeed ! " 
 
 " Well, it is your fault that — that I 
 came. You encouraged me." She let her 
 hands drop and her eyes darkened with re- 
 proach. "Won't you tell me if he is ill? " 
 
 " He is n't ill. On honor." 
 
 Despite her workaday garb, she was in- 
 stantly metamorphosed into the brown- 
 and-gold fairy again. " Then, when is he 
 coming ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You do ! But you won't tell. You 're 
 playing with me, you and Miss Willard," 
 
 " Did n't you play with the Little Red 
 Doctor ? What about that clandestine 
 message in the toe of the shoe ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " She had the grace to blush 
 (and a brown-and-gold fairy's blush is 
 416 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 something to cherish in memory). But 
 at once curiosity overbore shame. " Did 
 you give him the shoes yourself? What 
 did he say when he put them on ? " 
 
 Recalling the impassioned monosyllable 
 which signalized the Little Red Doctor's 
 original discovery of the hairpin, I replied 
 truthfully enough : " I don't think that 
 would interest you." 
 
 " Don't you? Then how did he look?" 
 
 " Severe." 
 
 " I know 1 Oh, how well I know ! " 
 Her voice declined to a caressing murmur. 
 " And all the time there 's that twinkle 
 of fun and sympathy underneath the frown. 
 Oh, ever so deep underneath ! It took me 
 a long time to find it." 
 
 " And longer to forget it ? " I suggested 
 with malice. 
 
 "I don't want to forget it," retorted the 
 fairy loftily. " I could if I chose. You 're 
 sure there is n't anything the matter with 
 him?" 
 
 417 
 
Our Square 
 
 " I never said there was n't anything 
 the matter with him. I said he was n't 
 ill." 
 
 *' Oh, well, I think it 's very mean of 
 you. You may go and sit on that pile of 
 coats — the unpressed ones — and watch 
 me work my poor fingers to the bone 
 sewing on buttons until your hard heart 
 softens and you come to a properer frame 
 of mind." 
 
 Accordingly I sat down and contem- 
 plated, not without a certain grim satis- 
 faction, the spectacle of a brown-and-gold 
 fairy sentenced to honest labor. Shadows 
 deepened in the room until she was al- 
 most in darkness. If the necessity of labor 
 weighed upon her blithe spirit, she gave 
 no evidence of it, for presently she began 
 to hum to herself in a soft, crooning un- 
 dertone, " speech half-asleep or song half- 
 awake." Clearer and clearer grew the 
 melody, waxing to full awakeness, as the 
 fresh and lovely young voice filled the 
 418 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 ' — ■ ■ .... - I ■ ■»■■, — - ■■■ ■ 
 
 room with the verse, one single line of 
 which had dragged the Little Red Doc- 
 tor's heart back across the unforgetting 
 years : — 
 
 " The falling dew is cold and chill, 
 And no bird sings in Arcady ; 
 The little fauns have left the hill ; 
 Even the tired daffodil 
 Has closed its gilded doors, and still 
 My lover comes not back to me." 
 
 The girlish voice trembled and stopped. 
 The singer's hands fell into her lap. Her 
 eyes dreamed. I think she must have for- 
 gotten, in the spell of music that she wove, 
 the presence of an old man in the dark- 
 ening room. I heard a soft, weary little 
 catch of the breath, and then a name pro- 
 nounced low and beseechingly, " Chris." 
 
 Now, this drama, as laid out by that 
 romantic manageress the Bonnie Lassie, 
 did not include music. The fairy song,- 
 I strongly suspect, was the interposition 
 of the Higher Gods of Destiny. For the 
 spell of it evolved and made real the past, 
 419 
 
Our Square 
 
 and out of the past stepped the Little Red 
 Doctbr and stood trembling in the door- 
 way of the ol'^lo' repository. 
 
 "Who sang?" he gasped. 
 
 I sat motionless. Neither the Bonnie 
 Lassie nor the Higher Fates had assigned 
 me a speaking part in the crisis. 
 
 " Whose voice was that ? " said the Little 
 Red Doctor fearfully. "Am I hearing 
 sounds that don't exist?" 
 
 Out of the deepest of the shadows came 
 the voice, broken, and thrilling. 
 
 " Chris ! Oh, Chris, is it really you ? " 
 
 " Ethel ! " said the Little Red Doctor 
 in a breathless cry. 
 
 He stumbled halfway across the dim 
 room, encountered a chair, and stopped. 
 " What are you doing here ? " he de- 
 manded. His voice had hardened sud- 
 denly to that of a cross-examiner. 
 
 Ail the appealing and dramatic fiction 
 which the Bonnie Lassie had carefully in- 
 stilled into her subject for this crisis — the 
 420 
 
"The Little Red Doctor 
 
 once rich and careless butterfly girl now 
 brought low in the world and working for 
 her precarious living — went by the board. 
 "I — I d-d-d-don't know," stammered the 
 brown-and-gold fairy. 
 
 "You — don't — know," he repeated. 
 Then, vehemently; "You must know." 
 
 Silence from the dim corner. 
 
 " Have you come back here to make 
 my life wretched with longing again ? " 
 
 "No. Oh, no I" 
 
 "Well? Why, then?" 
 
 " Don't be cruel to me, Chris," pleaded 
 the voice, a very wee, piteous voice now. 
 Brown-and-gold fairies should not be bul- 
 lied by little, red, fierce men with the 
 toothache. They are not accustomed to 
 it and they don't know how to defend 
 themselves. Up to this moment my one 
 purpose had been to tiptoe unobtrusively 
 to the door and escape. Now I wondered 
 whether I ought not to stay and offer aid 
 to the abused fairy. At the next word from 
 421 
 
Our Square 
 
 the Little Red Doctor, however, I gave 
 up that notion, and resumed my cautious 
 retreat. 
 
 "I? Cruel — to you?" he said deso- 
 lately. Then, after a long pause : " I can't 
 see you. I 'm glad I can't see you. If you 
 could knovs^ hovv^ many times I 've seen 
 you since — since I went away." 
 
 ".Seen me? Where?" 
 
 "Nowhere. Everywhere. Night after 
 weary night. For a year. Or perhaps it 
 was two years. Only, then you were n't 
 real. You did n't sing." 
 
 "Ah ! " The exclamation hardly stirred 
 the air. But I knew, as well as if I had 
 seen it, that the woman's eyes of the 
 brown-and-gbld fairy were yearning to 
 him and that her hands were pressed over 
 her woman's heart, which yearned to him, 
 too. 
 
 "No, You never sang to me. You 
 spoke. You said the same thing 'over and 
 over again. You said, ' I don't love you 
 422 
 
The Little Red Doctor 
 
 and I never did love you and I never could 
 love you.' " 
 
 There w^as a stifled cry from the dark- 
 ness, and a rustle and the sound of swift, 
 light feet. Two dim figures met and 
 merged in one. The fairy voice, with a 
 desperate effort to be still a voice and not 
 quite a sob of mingled pity and joy, mur- 
 mured brokenly: "I — I d-d-don't love 
 you. But I c-c-can't live away from you." 
 
 And I passed out, on tiptoe, unnoted. 
 The tiptoe feature was, I dare say, super- 
 fluous. I suppose I might have marched 
 out to the blare of a brass band and with 
 a salvo of artillery, and still have been as 
 a formless, soundless wraith to the Little 
 Red Doctor who stood holding all heaven 
 and earth in his arms. 
 
 Quarter of an hour afterward I sat on 
 the front steps of the house of Dead-Men's- 
 Shoes musing. The Little Red Doctor arid 
 the brown-and-gold fairy came out to- 
 gether. They were conversing in demure 
 
 423 
 
Our Square 
 
 tones and with a commonplace air about 
 the prospects of rain. So wholly at ease 
 and natural did they seem that I began to 
 have misgivings. It did n't seem in hu^ 
 man nature that they should be calmly dis- 
 cussing the weather. Could I have fallen 
 asleep on my heap of mortuary clothing 
 and dreamed all that happiness of theirs ? 
 I rose and intercepted them. 
 
 " How is the toothache ? " I asked the 
 Little Red Doctor. 
 
 The Little Red Doctor turned on me 
 a face tranisfigured. "What toothache?" 
 he said vaguely. 
 
 Then I knew that my dream was reality. 
 
 THE END 
 
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A