As he left the taxi in front of the dirty brick archway and flight of
steps leading to the hall, where he expected to find Palla, he noticed
a small crowd of wrangling foreigners gathered there--men and
women--and a policeman posted near, calm and indifferent, juggling his
club at the end of its leather thong.
Jim paused to inquire if there had been any trouble there that
evening.
"Well," said the policeman, "there's two talking-clubs that chew
the rag in that joint. It's the Reds' night, but wan o' the ladies
of the other club showed up--Miss Dumont--and the Reds yonder was all
for chasing her out. So we run in a couple of 'em--that feller
Sondheim and another called Bromberg. They're wanted, anyhow, in
Philadelphia."
"Is there a meeting inside?"
"Sure. The young lady went in to settle it peaceful like; and she's
inside now jawin' at them Reds to beat a pink tea."
"Do you apprehend any violence?" asked Jim uneasily.
The policeman juggled his club and eyed him. "I--guess--not," he
drawled. And, to the jabbering, wrangling crowd on pavement and steps:
"--Hey, you! Go in or stay out, one or the other, now! Step lively;
you're blockin' the sidewalk."
A number of people mounted the steps and went in with Jim. As the
doors to the hall opened, a flare of smoky light struck him, and he
pushed his way into the hall, where a restless, murmuring audience,
some seated, others standing, was watching a number of men and women
on the rostrum.
There seemed to be more wrangling going on there--knots of people
disputing and apparently quite oblivious of the audience.
And almost immediately he caught sight of Palla on the platform. But
even before he could take a step forward in the crowded aisle, he saw
her force her way out of an excited group of people and come to the
edge of the platform, lifting a slim hand for silence.
"Put her out!" shouted some man's voice. A dozen other voices bawled
out incoherencies; Palla waited; and after a moment or two there were
no further interruptions.
"Please let me say what I have to say," she said in that shy and
gentle way she had when facing hostile listeners.
"Speak louder!" yelled a young man. "Come on, silk-stockings!--spit it
out and go home to mother!"
"I wish I could," she said.
Her rejoinder was so odd and unexpected that stillness settled over
the place.
"But all I can do," she added, in an even, colourless voice, "is to go
home. And I shall do that after I have said what I have to say."
At that moment there was a commotion in the rear of the hall. A dozen
policemen filed into the place, pushing their way right and left and
ranging themselves along the wall. Their officer came into the aisle:
"If there's any disorder in this place to-night, I'll run in the whole
bunch o' ye!" he said calmly.
"All right. Hit out, little girl!" cried the young man who had
interrupted before. "We gotta lot of business to fix up after you've
gone to bed, so get busy!"
"I, also, have some business to fix up," she said in the same sweet,
emotionless voice, "--business of setting myself right by admitting
that I have been wrong.
"Because, on this spot where I am standing, I have spoken against
the old order of things. I have said that there is no law excepting
only the law of Love and Service. I have said that there is no God
other than the deathless germ of deity within each one of us. I have
said that the conventions and beliefs and usages and customs of
civilisation were old, outworn, and tyrannical; and that there was
no need to regard them or to obey the arbitrary laws based on them.
"In other words, I have preached disorder while attempting to combat
it: I have preached revolution while counselling peace; I have
preached bigotry where I have demanded toleration.
"For there is no worse bigot than the free-thinker who demands that
the world subscribe to his creed; no tyrant like the under-dog when he
becomes the upper one; no autocracy to compare with mob rule!
"You can not obtain freedom for all by imposing that creed upon
anybody by the violence of revolutionary ukase!
"You can not wreck any edifice until all who enjoy ownership in it
agree to its demolition. You can not build for all unless each
voluntarily comes forward to aid with stone and mortar.
"Anarchy leaves the majority roofless. What is the use of saying, 'Let
them perish'? What is the use of trying to rebuild the world that way?
You can't do it, even if you set fire to the world and start your
endless war of human murder.
"If you were the majority you would not need to do it. But you are the
minority, and there are too many against you.
"Only by infinite pains and patience can you alter the social
structure to better it. Cautious and wary replacement is the only
method, not exploding a mine beneath the keystone.
"The world has won out from barbarism so far. It must continue to
emerge by degrees. And if beliefs and laws and customs be obsolete,
only by general agreement may they be modified without danger to all.
Not the violent revolt of one or a dozen or a thousand can alter what
has, so far, nourished and sustained civilisation.
"That is the Prussian belief. Bolshevism was sired by Karl Marx and
was hatched out in the shaggy gloom of the Prussian wilderness.
"It does not belong anywhere else; it does not belong on the plains of
Russia or in her forests or on her mountains. It is a Prussian
thing--a misbegotten monster born of a vile and decadent race,--a
horrible parasite, like that one which carries typhus, infects as it
spreads from the degraded race that hatched it, crawling from country
to country and leaving behind it dead minds, dead hearts, dead souls,
and rotting flesh.
"For order and disorder can not both reign paramount on this planet!
The one shall slay the other. And Bolshevism is disorder--a violent
and tyrannical and autocratic attempt to utterly destroy the vast
majority for the benefit of the microscopic minority.
"You can not do it, you Terrorists! Prussia tried terrorism on the
world. Where is she to-day? You can not teach by frightfulness. You
can not scare beliefs out of anybody.
"Method, order, education--there is no other chance for any
propagandist to-day.
"I have stood here night after night proclaiming that my personal
conception of right and wrong, of truth and falsehood, of law and
morals was the only intelligent one, and that I should ignore and
disregard any other opinion.
"What I preached was Bolshevism! And I was such a fool I didn't know
it. But that's what I preached. For it is an incitement to disorder to
proclaim one's self above obedience to what has been established as a
law to govern all.
"It is an insidious counsel to violence, revolution, Bolshevism and
utter anarchy to say to people that they should disregard any law
formed by all for the common weal.
"If the marriage law seems unnecessary, unjust, then only by common
consent can it be altered; and until it is altered, any who disregard
it strike at civilisation!
"If the laws governing capital and labour seem cruel, stupid,
tyrannical, only by general consent can they be altered safely.
"You of the Bolsheviki can not come among us dripping with human
blood, showing us your fangs, and expect from us anything except a
fusillade.
"And your propaganda, also, is not human. It is Prussian. Do you
suppose, you foreign-born, that you can come here among this free
people and begin your operations by cursing our laws and institutions
and telling us we are not free?
"Because we tolerate you, do you suppose we don't know that in most of
the larger cities there are now organised Soviets, similar to those
in Russia, that anarchists are now conducting schools, and that the
radical propaganda which has taken on new life since the signing of
the armistice is gaining headway in those parts of the country where
there are large foreign-born populations?
"Do you suppose we don't know Prussianism when we see it, after these
last four years?
"Do you suppose we have not read the _Staats-Zeitung_ editorial of
December 8, which in part was as follows:
"'Hundreds of thousands of our boys are standing now over there in the
old homeland, which for nineteen months was enemy country and is that
still, but which, as President Wilson promised, will soon be a land of
peace again, rich in diligent work, rich in true and good people....
As the whole happy life of this blessed region presents a picture to
the spectator, it is to be wondered whether his (the American
soldier's) memory will awaken on what he read of this country
(Germany) at home long ago, whether he will feel a slight blush of
shame in his cheeks and anger for those who, not from their own
knowledge but from doubtful sources, branded a whole great people,
70,000,000, as barbarians, huns, murderers of children and church
robbers. And whether he (the American soldier) will at the same time
make a pledge in his heart to combat those lies and rumours when he is
back home again, and to tell the truth about those (the Germans)
living behind those mountains.'"
Palla's face flushed and she came close to the edge of the platform:
"I have been warned that if I came here to-night I'd have trouble. The
anonymous writers who send me letters talk about bombs.
"Do you imagine because you murdered Vanya Tchernov in Philadelphia
the other day that you can frighten anybody dumb?
"I tell you you don't know what you're doing. You're dazed and scared
and bewildered by finding yourselves suddenly in the open world after
all those lurking years in hiding. As a forest wolf, his eyes dazzled
by the sun, runs blindly across a field of new mown hay, dodging where
there is nothing to dodge, leaping over shadows, so you, emerging from
darkness, start out across the fertile world, the sun of civilisation
blinding you so that you run as though stupefied and frightened,
shying at straws, dodging zephyrs, leaping a pool of dew as though it
were the Volga.
"What are you afraid of? You have nothing to fear except yourselves
out here in the sunny open!
"Behold your enemies--yourselves!--selfish, defiant, full of false
council, of envy, of cowardice, of treachery.
"For there would be no sorrow, no injustice in the world if
we--each one of us--were true to our better selves! You know it! You
can not come out of darkness and range the open world like wolves!
Civilisation will kill you!
"But you can come out of your long twilight bearing yourselves like
men--and find, by God's grace, that you _are_ men!--that you are
fashioned like other men to stand upright in the light without
blinking and slinking and dodging into cover.
"For the haymakers will not climb and stone you; the herds will not
stampede; no watch-dogs of civilisation will attack you if you come
out into the fields looking like men, behaving like men, asking to
share the world's burdens like men, and like men giving brain and
brawn to make more pleasant and secure the only spot in the solar
system dedicated by the Most High to the development of mankind!"
There was a dead silence in the place.
Palla slowly lifted her head and raised her right hand.
"I desire," she said in a low, grave voice, "to acknowledge here my
belief in law, in order, and in a divine, creative, and responsible
wisdom. And in ultimate continuation."
She turned away as a demonstration began, and Jim saw her putting on
her coat. There was some scattering applause, but considerable
disorder where men in the audience began to harangue each other and
shake dirty fingers under one another's noses. Two personal encounters
and one hair-pulling were checked by bored policemen: a girl got up
and began to shout that she was a striking garment worker and that she
had neither money, time, nor inclination to wait until some amateur
silk-stocking felt like raising her wages.
On the platform Karl Kastner had come forward, and his icy, incisive,
menacing voice cut the growing tumult.
"You haff heard with patience thiss so silly prattle of a rich young
girl--" he began. "Now it is a poor man who speaks to you out of a
heart full of bitterness against this law and order which you haff
heard so highly praised.
"For this much-praised law and order it hass to-night assassinated
free speech; it has arrested our comrades, Nathan Bromberg and Max
Sondheim; it hass fill our hall with policemen. And I wonder if
there iss, perhaps, a little too much law and order in the world,
und iff _vielleicht_, there may be too many policemen as vell as
capitalist-little-girls in thiss hall.
"Und, sometimes, too, I am wondering why iss it ve do not kill a
few----"
"That'll do!" interrupted the sergeant of police, striding down the
aisle. "Come on, now, Karl; you done it that time."
An angry roar arose all around him; he nodded to his men:
"Run in any cut-ups," he said briefly; climbed up to the rostrum, and
laid his hand on Kastner's arm.
At the same moment a stunning explosion shook the place and plunged it
into darkness. Out of the smoke-choked blackness burst an uproar of
shrieks and screams; plaster and glass fell everywhere; police
whistles sounded; a frantic, struggling mass of humanity fought for
escape.
As Jim reeled out into the lobby, he saw Palla leaning against the
wall, with blood on her face.
Before the first of the trampling horde emerged he had caught her by
the arm and had led her down the steps to the street.
"They've blown up the--the place," she stammered, wiping her face with
her gloved hand in a dazed sort of way.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked unsteadily.
"No, I don't think so----"
He had led her as far as the avenue, now echoing with the clang of
fire engines and the police patrol. And out of the darkness, from
everywhere, swarmed the crowd that only a great city can conjure
instantly and from nowhere.
Blood ran down her face from a cut over her temple. A tiny triangular
bit of glass still glittered in the wound; and he removed it and gave
her his handkerchief.
"Was Ilse there, too?" he asked.
"No. Nobody went to-night except myself.... Why were you there, Jim?"
"Why in God's name did _you_ go there all alone among those Reds!"
She shook her head wearily:
"I had to.... What a horrible thing to happen!... I am so tired, Jim.
Could you get me home?"
He found a taxi nearer Broadway and directed the driver to stop at a
drug-store. Here he insisted that the tiny cut on Palla's temple be
properly attended to. But it proved a simple matter; there was no
glass in it, and the bleeding ceased before they reached her house.
At the door he took leave of her, deeming it no time to subject her to
any further shock that night; but she retained her hold on his arm.
"I want you to come in, Jim."
"You said you were tired; and you've had a terrible shock----"
"That is why I need you," she said in a low voice. Then, looking up at
him with a pale smile: "I want you--just once more."
They went in together. Her maid, hearing the opening door, appeared
and took her away; and Jim turned into the living-room. A lighted lamp
on the piano illuminated his own framed photograph--that was the first
thing he noticed--the portrait of himself in uniform, flanked on
either side by little vases full of blue forget-me-nots.
He started to lift one to his face, but reaction had set in and his
hands were shaking. And he turned away and stood staring into the
empty fireplace, passionately possessed once more by the eternal
witchery of this young girl, and under the spell again of the
enchanted place wherein she dwelt.
The very air breathed her magic; every familiar object seemed to be
stealthily conspiring in the subdued light to reaccomplish his
subjection.
Her maid appeared to say that Miss Dumont would be ready in a few
minutes. She came, presently, in a clinging chamber-gown--a pale
golden affair with misty touches of lace.
He arranged cushions for her: she lighted a cigarette for him; and he
sank down beside her in the old place.
Both were still a little shaken. He said that he believed the
explosion had come from the outside, and that the principal damage had
been done next door, in Mr. Puma's office.
She nodded assent, listlessly, evidently preoccupied with something
else.
After a few moments she looked up at him.
"This is the second day of February," she said. "Within the last month
Jack Estridge died, and Vanya died.... To-day another man died--a man
I have known from childhood.... His name was Pawling. And his death
has ruined me."
"When--when did you learn that?" he asked, astounded.
"This morning. My housekeeper in Shadow Hill telephoned me that Mr.
Pawling had killed himself, that the bank was closed, and that
probably there was nothing left for those who had funds deposited
there."
"You knew that this morning?" he asked, amazed.
"Yes."
"And you--you still had courage to go to your Red Cross, to your
canteen and Hostess House--to that horrible Red Flag Club--and face
those beasts and make the--the perfectly magnificent speech you
made!----"
"Did--did _you_ hear it!" she faltered.
"Every word."
For a few moments she sat motionless and very white in her knowledge
that this man had heard her confess her own conversion.
Her brain whirled: she was striving to think steadily trying to find
the right way to reassure him--to forestall any impulsive chivalry
born of imaginary obligation.
"Jim," she said in a colorless voice, "there are so many worse things
than losing money. I think Mr. Pawling's suicide shocked me much more
than the knowledge that I should be obliged to earn my own living like
millions of other women.
"Of course it scared me for a few minutes. I couldn't help that. But
after I got over the first unpleasant--feeling, I concluded to go
about my business in life until it came time for me to adjust myself
to the scheme of things."
She smiled without effort: "Besides, it's not really so bad. I have a
house in Shadow Hill to which I can retreat when I sell this one; and
with a tiny income from the sale of this house, and with what I can
earn, I ought to be able to support myself very nicely."
"So you--expect to sell?"
"Yes, I must. Even if I sell my house and land in Connecticut I cannot
afford this house any longer."
"I see."
She smiled, keeping her head and her courage high without apparent
effort:
"It's another job for you," she said lightly. "Will you be kind enough
to put this house on your list?"
"If you wish."
"Thank you, Jim, I do indeed. And the sooner you can sell it for me
the better."
He said: "And the sooner you marry me the better, Palla."
At that she flushed crimson and made a quick gesture as though to
check him; but he went on: "I heard what you said to those filthy
swine to-night. It was the pluckiest, most splendid thing I ever heard
and saw. And I have seen battles. Some. But I never before saw a woman
take her life in her hands and go all alone into a cage of the same
dangerous, rabid beasts that had slain a friend of hers within the
week, and find courage to face them and tell them they _were_
beasts!--and more than that!--find courage to confess her own
mistakes--humble herself--acknowledge what she had abjured--bear
witness to the God whom once she believed abandoned her!"
She strove to open her lips in protest--lifted her disconcerted eyes
to his--shrank away a little as his hand fell over hers.
"I've never faltered," he said. "It damned near killed me.... But I'd
have gone on loving you, Palla, all my life. There never could have
been anybody except you. There was never anybody before you. Usually
there has been in a man's life. There never was in mine. There never
will be."
His firm hand closed on hers.
"I'm such an ordinary, every day sort of fellow," he said wistfully,
"that, after I began to realise how wonderful you are, I've been
terribly afraid I wasn't up to you.
"Even if I have cursed out your theories and creeds, it almost seemed
impertinent for me to do it, because you really have so many talents
and accomplishments, so much knowledge, so infinite a capacity for
things of the mind, which are rather out of my mental sphere. And I've
wondered sometimes, even if you ever consented to marry me, whether
such a girl as you are could jog along with a business man who likes
the arts but doesn't understand them very well and who likes some of
his fellow men but not all of them and whose instinct is to punch
law-breakers in the nose and not weep over them and lead them to the
nearest bar and say, 'Go to it, erring brother!'"
"Jim!"
For all the while he had been drawing her nearer as he was speaking.
And she was in his arms now, laughing a little, crying a little, her
flushed face hidden on his shoulder.
He drew a deep breath and, holding her imprisoned, looked down at
her.
"Will you marry me, Palla?"
"Oh, Jim, do you want me now?"
"Now, darling, but not this minute, because a clergyman must come
first."
It was cruel of him, as well as vigorously indelicate. Her hot blush
should have shamed him; her conversion should have sheltered her.
But the man had had a hard time, and the bitterness was but just
going.
"Will you marry me, Palla?"
After a long while her stifled whisper came: "You are brutal. Do you
think I would do anything else--now?"
"No. And you never would have either."
Lying there close in his arms, she wondered. And, still wondering, she
lifted her head and looked up into his eyes--watching them as they
neared her own--still trying to see them as his lips touched hers.
* * * * *
He was the sort of man who got hungry when left too long unfed. It was
one o'clock. They had gone out to the refrigerator together, his arm
around her supple waist, her charming head against his shoulder--both
hungry but sentimental.
"And don't you really think," she said for the hundredth time, "that
we ought to sell this house?"
"Not a bit of it, darling. We'll run it if we have to live on cereal
and do our own laundry."
"You mean I'll have to do that?"
"I'll help after business hours."
"You wonderful boy!"
There seemed to be some delectable things in the ice chest.
They sat side by side on the kitchen table, blissfully nourishing each
other. Birds do it. Love-smitten youth does it.
"To think," he said, "that you had the nerve to face those beasts and
tell them what you thought of them!"
"Darling!" she remonstrated, placing an olive between his lips.
"You should have the Croix de Guerre," he said indistinctly.
"All I aspire to is a very plain gold ring," she said, smiling at him
sideways.
And she slipped her hand into his.
"_Are_ you going back into the army, Jim?" she asked.
"Who said that?" he demanded.
"I--I heard it repeated."
"Not now," he said. "Unless--" His eyes narrowed and he sat swinging
his legs with an absent air and puckered brows.
And after a while the same aloof look came into her brown eyes, and
she swung her slim feet absently.
Perhaps their remote gaze was fixed on visions of a nearing future,
brilliant with happiness, gay with children's voices; perhaps they saw
farther than that, where the light grew sombre and where a shadowed
sky lowered above a blood-red flood, rising imperceptibly, yet ever
rising--a stealthy, crawling crimson tide spreading westward across
the world.
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Heart of the Sunset. By Rex Beach.
Heart of Thunder Mountain, The. By Edfrid A. Bingham.
Her Weight in Gold. By Geo. B. McCutcheon.
Hidden Children, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Hidden Spring, The. By Clarence B. Kelland.
Hillman, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Hills of Refuge, The. By Will N. Harben.
His Official Fiancee. By Berta Ruck.
Honor of the Big Snows. By James Oliver Curwood.
Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford.
Hound from the North, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katharine Green.
Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.
I Conquered. By Harold Titus.
Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
In Another Girl's Shoes. By Berta Ruck.
Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond.
Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Initials Only. By Anna Katharine Green.
Inner Law, The. By Will N. Harben.
Innocent. By Marie Corelli.
Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.
In the Brooding Wild. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Intriguers, The. By Harold Bindloss.
Iron Trail, The. By Rex Beach.
Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland.
I Spy. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Japonette. By Robert W. Chambers.
Jean of the Lazy A. By B. M. Bower.
Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Jennie Gerhardt. By Theodore Dreiser.
Judgment House, The. By Gilbert Parker.
Keeper of the Door, The. By Ethel M. Dell.
Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish.
Kent Knowles: Ouahaug. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Kingdom of the Blind, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
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King Spruce. By Holman Day.
King's Widow, The. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
Knave of Diamonds, The. By Ethel M. Dell.
Ladder of Swords. By Gilbert Parker.
Lady Betty Across the Water. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.
Land-Girl's Love Story, A. By Berta Ruck.
Landloper, The. By Holman Day.
Land of Long Ago, The. By Eliza Calvert Hall.
Land of Strong Men, The. By A. M. Chisholm.
Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey.
Laugh and Live. By Douglas Fairbanks.
Laughing Bill Hyde. By Rex Beach.
Laughing Girl, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Law Breakers, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Lifted Veil, The. By Basil King.
Lighted Way, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Lin McLean. By Owen Wister.
Lonesome Land. By B. M. Bower.
Lone Wolf, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.
Long Ever Ago. By Rupert Hughes.
Lonely Stronghold, The. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
Long Live the King. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Long Roll, The. By Mary Johnston.
Lord Tony's Wife. By Baroness Orczy.
Lost Ambassador. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Lost Prince, The. By Frances Hodgson Burnett.
Lydia of the Pines. By Honore Willsie.
Maid of the Forest, The. By Randall Parrish.
Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie E. Roe.
Maids of Paradise, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Major, The. By Ralph Connor.
Maker of History, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Malefactor, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Man from Bar 20, The. By Clarence E. Mulford.
Man in Grey, The. By Baroness Orczy.
Man Trail, The. By Henry Oyen.
Man Who Couldn't Sleep, The. By Arthur Stringer.
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Man with the Club Foot, The. By Valentine Williams.
Mary-'Gusta. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Mary Moreland. By Marie Van Vorst.
Mary Regan. By Leroy Scott.
Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.
Men Who Wrought, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Mischief Maker, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Miss Million's Maid. By Berta Ruck.
Molly McDonald. By Randall Parrish.
Money Master, The. By Gilbert Parker.
Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol.
Mountain Girl, The. By Payne Erskine.
Moving Finger, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Mr. Bingle. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Mr. Pratt's Patients. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Mrs. Belfame. By Gertrude Atherton.
Mrs. Red Pepper. By Grace S. Richmond.
My Lady Caprice. By Jeffrey Farnol.
My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish.
My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish.
Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The. By Anna K. Green.
Nameless Man, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach.
Nest Builders, The. By Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale.
Net, The. By Rex Beach.
New Clarion. By Will N. Harben.
Night Operator, The. By Frank L. Packard.
Night Riders, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Nobody. By Louis Joseph Vance.
Okewood of the Secret Service. By the Author of "The Man with the Club
Foot."
One Way Trail, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Open, Sesame. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
Otherwise Phyllis. By Meredith Nicholson.
Outlaw, The. By Jackson Gregory.
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Paradise Auction. By Nalbro Bartley.
Pardners. By Rex Beach.
Parrot & Co. By Harold MacGrath.
Partners of the Night. By Leroy Scott.
Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Passionate Friends, The. By H. G. Wells.
Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The. By Ralph Connor.
Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hays.
Pawns Count, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
People's Man, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Perch of the Devil. By Gertrude Atherton.
Peter Ruff and the Double Four. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Pidgin Island. By Harold MacGrath.
Place of Honeymoon, The. By Harold MacGrath.
Pool of Flame, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.
Postmaster, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Prairie Wife, The. By Arthur Stringer.
Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Promise, The. By J. B. Hendryx.
Proof of the Pudding, The. By Meredith Nicholson.
Rainbow's End, The. By Rex Beach.
Ranch at the Wolverine, The. By B. M. Bower.
Ranching for Sylvia. By Harold Bindloss.
Ransom. By Arthur Somers Roche.
Reason Why, The. By Elinor Glyn.
Reclaimers, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Red Mist, The. By Randall Parrish.
Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond.
Red Pepper's Patients. By Grace S. Richmond.
Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner.
Restless Sex, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.
Return of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Riddle of Night, The. By Thomas W. Hanshew.
Rim of the Desert, The. By Ada Woodruff Anderson.
Rise of Roscoe Paine, The. By J. C. Lincoln.
Rising Tide, The. By Margaret Deland.
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Rocks of Valpre, The. By Ethel M. Dell.
Rogue by Compulsion, A. By Victor Bridges.
Room Number 3. By Anna Katharine Green.
Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess.
Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond.
Second Choice. By Will N. Harben.
Second Violin, The. By Grace S. Richmond.
Secret History. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.
Secret of the Reef, The. By Harold Bindloss.
Seven Darlings, The. By Gouverneur Morris.
Shavings. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Sherry. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Side of the Angels, The. By Basil King.
Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach.
Sin That Was His, The. By Frank L. Packard.
Sixty-first Second, The. By Owen Johnson.
Soldier of the Legion, A. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.
Son of His Father, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Son of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Source, The. By Clarence Buddington Kelland.
Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens.
Spirit of the Border, The. (New Edition.) By Zane Grey.
Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach.
Steele of the Royal Mounted. By James Oliver Curwood.
Still Jim. By Honore Willsie.
Story of Foss River Ranch, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Story of Marco, The. By Eleanor H. Porter.
Strange Case of Cavendish, The. By Randall Parrish.
Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond.
Sudden Jim. By Clarence B. Kelland.
Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.
Tarzan of the Apes. By Edgar R. Burroughs.
Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.
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Tempting of Tavernake, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles. By Thos. Hardy.
Thankful's Inheritance. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
That Affair Next Door. By Anna Katharine Green.
That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright.
Their Yesterdays. By Harold Bell Wright.
Thirteenth Commandment, The. By Rupert Hughes.
Three of Hearts, The. By Berta Ruck.
Three Strings, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Threshold, The. By Marjorie Benton Cooke.
Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.
Tish. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
To M. L. G.; or, He Who Passed. Anon.
Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Trail to Yesterday, The. By Chas. A. Seltzer.
Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli.
Triumph, The. By Will N. Harben.
T. Tembarom. By Frances Hodgson Burnett.
Turn of the Tide. By Author of "Pollyanna."
Twenty-fourth of June, The. By Grace S. Richmond.
Twins of Suffering Creek, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Two-Gun Man, The. By Chas. A. Seltzer.
Uncle William. By Jeannette Lee.
Under Handicap. By Jackson Gregory.
Under the Country Sky. By Grace S. Richmond.
Unforgiving Offender, The. By John Reed Scott.
Unknown Mr. Kent, The. By Roy Norton.
Unpardonable Sin, The. By Major Rupert Hughes.
Up From Slavery. By Booker T. Washington.
Valiants of Virginia, The. By Hallie Ermine Rives.
Valley of Fear, The. By Sir A. Conan Doyle.
Vanished Messenger, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Vanguards of the Plains. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Virtuous Wives. By Owen Johnson.
Visioning, The. By Susan Glaspell.
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Waif-o'-the-Sea. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.
Wall of Men, A. By Margaret H. McCarter.
Watchers of the Plans, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Way Home, The. By Basil King.
Way of an Eagle, The. By E. M. Dell.
Way of the Strong, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Way of These Women, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
We Can't Have Everything. By Major Rupert Hughes.
Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker.
When a Man's a Man. By Harold Bell Wright.
When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish.
Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge.
Where There's a Will. By Mary R. Rinehart.
White Sister, The. By Marion Crawford.
Who Goes There? By Robert W. Chambers.
Why Not. By Margaret Widdemer.
Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Winds of Chance, The. By Rex Beach.
Wings of Youth, The. By Elizabeth Jordan.
Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
Wire Devils, The. By Frank L. Packard.
Winning the Wilderness. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Wishing Ring Man, The. By Margaret Widdemer.
With Juliet in England. By Grace S. Richmond.
Wolves of the Sea. By Randall Parrish.
Woman Gives, The. By Owen Johnson.
Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Woman in Question, The. By John Reed Scott.
Woman Thou Gavest Me, The. By Hall Caine.
Woodcarver of 'Lympus, The. By Mary E. Waller.
Wooing of Rosamond Fayre, The. By Berta Ruck.
World for Sale, The. By Gilbert Parker.
Years for Rachel, The. By Berta Ruck.
Yellow Claw, The. By Sax Rohmer.
You Never Know Your Luck. By Gilbert Parker.
Zeppelin's Passenger, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.