Part II

Midnight Sketches

AN EXPERIMENT IN MISERY

(From the Press, New York.)

It was late at night, and a fine rain was swirling softly down, causing

the pavements to glisten with hue of steel and blue and yellow in the

rays of the innumerable lights. A youth was trudging slowly, without

enthusiasm, with his hands buried deep in his trouser's pockets,

towards the down-town places where beds can be hired for coppers. He

was clothed in an aged and tattered suit, and his derby was a marvel

of dust-covered crown and torn rim. He was going forth to eat as the

wanderer may eat, and sleep as the homeless sleep. By the time he had

reached City Hall Park he was so completely plastered with yells of

"bum" and "hobo," and with various unholy epithets that small boys

had applied to him at intervals, that he was in a state of the most

profound dejection. The sifting rain saturated the old velvet collar of

his overcoat, and as the wet cloth pressed against his neck, he felt

that there no longer could be pleasure in life. He looked about him

searching for an outcast of highest degree that they too might share

miseries, but the lights threw a quivering glare over rows and circles

of deserted benches that glistened damply, showing patches of wet sod

behind them. It seemed that their usual freights had fled on this night

to better things. There were only squads of well-dressed Brooklyn

people who swarmed towards the bridge.

The young man loitered about for a time and then went shuffling off

down Park Row. In the sudden descent in style of the dress of the crowd

he felt relief, and as if he were at last in his own country. He began

to see tatters that matched his tatters. In Chatham Square there were

aimless men strewn in front of saloons and lodging-houses, standing

sadly, patiently, reminding one vaguely of the attitudes of chickens in

a storm. He aligned himself with these men, and turned slowly to occupy

himself with the flowing life of the great street.

Through the mists of the cold and storming night, the cable cars went

in silent procession, great affairs shining with red and brass, moving

with formidable power, calm and irresistible, dangerful and gloomy,

breaking silence only by the loud fierce cry of the gong. Two rivers of

people swarmed along the side walks, spattered with black mud, which

made each shoe leave a scar-like impression. Overhead elevated trains

with a shrill grinding of the wheels stopped at the station, which upon

its leg-like pillars seemed to resemble some monstrous kind of crab

squatting over the street. The quick fat puffings of the engines could

be heard. Down an alley there were sombre curtains of purple and black,

on which street lamps dully glittered like embroidered flowers.

A saloon stood with a voracious air on a corner. A sign leaning against

the front of the door-post announced "Free hot soup to-night!" The

swing doors, snapping to and fro like ravenous lips, made gratified

smacks as the saloon gorged itself with plump men, eating with

astounding and endless appetite, smiling in some indescribable manner

as the men came from all directions like sacrifices to a heathenish

superstition.

Caught by the delectable sign the young man allowed himself to be

swallowed. A bar-tender placed a schooner of dark and portentous beer

on the bar. Its monumental form up-reared until the froth a-top was

above the crown of the young man's brown derby.

"Soup over there, gents," said the bar-tender affably. A little yellow

man in rags and the youth grasped their schooners and went with speed

toward a lunch counter, where a man with oily but imposing whiskers

ladled genially from a kettle until he had furnished his two mendicants

with a soup that was steaming hot, and in which there were little

floating suggestions of chicken. The young man, sipping his broth, felt

the cordiality expressed by the warmth of the mixture, and he beamed

at the man with oily but imposing whiskers, who was presiding like a

priest behind an altar. "Have some more, gents?" he inquired of the two

sorry figures before him. The little yellow man accepted with a swift

gesture, but the youth shook his head and went out, following a man

whose wondrous seediness promised that he would have a knowledge of

cheap lodging-houses.

On the side-walk he accosted the seedy man. "Say, do you know a cheap

place to sleep?"

The other hesitated for a time gazing sideways. Finally he nodded in

the direction of the street, "I sleep up there," he said, "when I've

got the price."

"How much?"

"Ten cents."

The young man shook his head dolefully. "That's too rich for me."

At that moment there approached the two a reeling man in strange

garments. His head was a fuddle of bushy hair and whiskers, from

which his eyes peered with a guilty slant. In a close scrutiny it was

possible to distinguish the cruel lines of a mouth which looked as if

its lips had just closed with satisfaction over some tender and piteous

morsel. He appeared like an assassin steeped in crimes performed

awkwardly.

But at this time his voice was tuned to the coaxing key of an

affectionate puppy. He looked at the men with wheedling eyes, and began

to sing a little melody for charity.

"Say, gents, can't yeh give a poor feller a couple of cents t' git a

bed. I got five, and I gits anudder two I gits me a bed. Now, on th'

square, gents, can't yeh jest gimme two cents t' git a bed? Now, yeh

know how a respecter'ble gentlem'n feels when he's down on his luck,

an' I----"

The seedy man, staring with imperturbable countenance at a train which

clattered overhead, interrupted in an expressionless voice--"Ah, go t'

h--!"

But the youth spoke to the prayerful assassin in tones of astonishment

and inquiry. "Say, you must be crazy! Why don't yeh strike somebody

that looks as if they had money?"

The assassin, tottering about on his uncertain legs, and at intervals

brushing imaginary obstacles from before his nose, entered into a long

explanation of the psychology of the situation. It was so profound that

it was unintelligible.

When he had exhausted the subject, the young man said to him--

"Let's see th' five cents."

The assassin wore an expression of drunken woe at this sentence, filled

with suspicion of him. With a deeply pained air he began to fumble in

his clothing, his red hands trembling. Presently he announced in a

voice of bitter grief, as if he had been betrayed--"There's on'y four."

"Four," said the young man thoughtfully. "Well, look-a-here, I'm a

stranger here, an' if ye'll steer me to your cheap joint I'll find the

other three."

The assassin's countenance became instantly radiant with joy. His

whiskers quivered with the wealth of his alleged emotions. He seized

the young man's hand in a transport of delight and friendliness.

"B' Gawd," he cried, "if ye'll do that, b' Gawd, I'd say yeh was a

damned good fellow, I would, an' I'd remember yeh all m' life, I would,

b' Gawd, an' if I ever got a chance I'd return the compliment"--he

spoke with drunken dignity,--"b' Gawd, I'd treat yeh white, I would,

an' I'd allus remember yeh."

The young man drew back, looking at the assassin coldly. "Oh, that's

all right," he said. "You show me th' joint--that's all you've got t'

do."

The assassin, gesticulating gratitude, led the young man along a dark

street. Finally he stopped before a little dusty door. He raised his

hand impressively. "Look-a-here," he said, and there was a thrill of

deep and ancient wisdom upon his face, "I've brought yeh here, an'

that's my part, ain't it? If th' place don't suit yeh, yeh needn't git

mad at me, need yeh? There won't be no bad feelin', will there?"

"No," said the young man.

The assassin waved his arm tragically, and led the march up the

steep stairway. On the way the young man furnished the assassin with

three pennies. At the top a man with benevolent spectacles looked at

them through a hole in a board. He collected their money, wrote some

names on a register, and speedily was leading the two men along a

gloom-shrouded corridor.

Shortly after the beginning of this journey the young man felt his

liver turn white, for from the dark and secret places of the building

there suddenly came to his nostrils strange and unspeakable odours,

that assailed him like malignant diseases with wings. They seemed to

be from human bodies closely packed in dens; the exhalations from

a hundred pairs of reeking lips; the fumes from a thousand bygone

debauches; the expression of a thousand present miseries.

A man, naked save for a little snuff-coloured undershirt, was parading

sleepily along the corridor. He rubbed his eyes, and, giving vent to a

prodigious yawn, demanded to be told the time.

"Half-past one."

The man yawned again. He opened a door, and for a moment his form was

outlined against a black, opaque interior. To this door came the three

men, and as it was again opened the unholy odours rushed out like

fiends, so that the young man was obliged to struggle as against an

overpowering wind.

It was some time before the youth's eyes were good in the intense gloom

within, but the man with benevolent spectacles led him skilfully,

pausing but a moment to deposit the limp assassin upon a cot. He took

the youth to a cot that lay tranquilly by the window, and showing him a

tall locker for clothes that stood near the head with the ominous air

of a tombstone, left him.

The youth sat on his cot and peered about him. There was a gas-jet in

a distant part of the room, that burned a small flickering orange-hued

flame. It caused vast masses of tumbled shadows in all parts of the

place, save where, immediately about it, there was a little grey haze.

As the young man's eyes became used to the darkness, he could see upon

the cots that thickly littered the floor the forms of men sprawled out,

lying in death-like silence, or heaving and snoring with tremendous

effort, like stabbed fish.

The youth locked his derby and his shoes in the mummy case near him,

and then lay down with an old and familiar coat around his shoulders.

A blanket he handed gingerly, drawing it over part of the coat. The

cot was covered with leather, and as cold as melting snow. The youth

was obliged to shiver for some time on this affair, which was like a

slab. Presently, however, his chill gave him peace, and during this

period of leisure from it he turned his head to stare at his friend the

assassin, whom he could dimly discern where he lay sprawled on a cot in

the abandon of a man filled with drink. He was snoring with incredible

vigour. His wet hair and beard dimly glistened, and his inflamed nose

shone with subdued lustre like a red light in a fog.

Within reach of the youth's hand was one who lay with yellow breast and

shoulders bare to the cold drafts. One arm hung over the side of the

cot, and the fingers lay full length upon the wet cement floor of the

room. Beneath the inky brows could be seen the eyes of the man exposed

by the partly opened lids. To the youth it seemed that he and this

corpse-like being were exchanging a prolonged stare, and that the other

threatened with his eyes. He drew back watching his neighbour from the

shadows of his blanket edge. The man did not move once through the

night, but lay in this stillness as of death like a body stretched out

expectant of the surgeon's knife.

And all through the room could be seen the tawny hues of naked flesh,

limbs thrust into the darkness, projecting beyond the cots; upreared

knees, arms hanging long and thin over the cot edges. For the most part

they were statuesque, carven, dead. With the curious lockers standing

all about like tombstones, there was a strange effect of a graveyard

where bodies were merely flung.

Yet occasionally could be seen limbs wildly tossing in fantastic

nightmare gestures, accompanied by guttural cries, grunts, oaths. And

there was one fellow off in a gloomy corner, who in his dreams was

oppressed by some frightful calamity, for of a sudden he began to utter

long wails that went almost like yells from a hound, echoing wailfully

and weird through this chill place of tombstones where men lay like the

dead.

The sound in its high piercing beginnings, that dwindled to final

melancholy moans, expressed a red and grim tragedy of the unfathomable

possibilities of the man's dreams. But to the youth these were not

merely the shrieks of a vision-pierced man: they were an utterance of

the meaning of the room and its occupants. It was to him the protest

of the wretch who feels the touch of the imperturbable granite wheels,

and who then cries with an impersonal eloquence, with a strength not

from him, giving voice to the wail of a whole section, a class, a

people. This, weaving into the young man's brain, and mingling with his

views of the vast and sombre shadows that, like mighty black fingers,

curled around the naked bodies, made the young man so that he did not

sleep, but lay carving the biographies for these men from his meagre

experience. At times the fellow in the corner howled in a writhing

agony of his imaginations.

Finally a long lance-point of grey light shot through the dusty panes

of the window. Without, the young man could see roofs drearily white

in the dawning. The point of light yellowed and grew brighter, until

the golden rays of the morning sun came in bravely and strong. They

touched with radiant colour the form of a small fat man, who snored

in stuttering fashion. His round and shiny bald head glowed suddenly

with the valour of a decoration. He sat up, blinked at the sun, swore

fretfully, and pulled his blanket over the ornamental splendours of his

head.

The youth contentedly watched this rout of the shadows before the

bright spears of the sun, and presently he slumbered. When he awoke

he heard the voice of the assassin raised in valiant curses. Putting

up his head, he perceived his comrade seated on the side of the cot

engaged in scratching his neck with long finger-nails that rasped like

files.

"Hully Jee, dis is a new breed. They've got can-openers on their feet."

He continued in a violent tirade.

The young man hastily unlocked his closet and took out his shoes

and hat. As he sat on the side of the cot lacing his shoes, he

glanced about and saw that daylight had made the room comparatively

common-place and uninteresting. The men, whose faces seemed stolid,

serene or absent, were engaged in dressing, while a great crackle of

bantering conversation arose.

A few were parading in unconcerned nakedness. Here and there were men

of brawn, whose skins shone clear and ruddy. They took splendid poses,

standing massively like chiefs. When they had dressed in their ungainly

garments there was an extraordinary change. They then showed bumps and

deficiencies of all kinds.

There were others who exhibited many deformities. Shoulders were

slanting, humped, pulled this way and pulled that way. And notable

among these latter men was the little fat man, who had refused to allow

his head to be glorified. His pudgy form, builded like a pear, bustled

to and fro, while he swore in fish-wife fashion. It appeared that some

article of his apparel had vanished.

The young man attired speedily, and went to his friend the assassin.

At first the latter looked dazed at the sight of the youth. This face

seemed to be appealing to him through the cloud wastes of his memory.

He scratched his neck and reflected. At last he grinned, a broad smile

gradually spreading until his countenance was a round illumination.

"Hello, Willie," he cried cheerily.

"Hello," said the young man. "Are yeh ready t' fly?"

"Sure." The assassin tied his shoe carefully with some twine and came

ambling.

When he reached the street the young man experienced no sudden relief

from unholy atmospheres. He had forgotten all about them, and had been

breathing naturally, and with no sensation of discomfort or distress.

He was thinking of these things as he walked along the street, when he

was suddenly startled by feeling the assassin's hand, trembling with

excitement, clutching his arm, and when the assassin spoke, his voice

went into quavers from a supreme agitation.

"I'll be hully, bloomin' blowed if there wasn't a feller with a

nightshirt on up there in that joint."

The youth was bewildered for a moment, but presently he turned to smile

indulgently at the assassin's humour.

"Oh, you're a d----d liar," he merely said.

Whereupon the assassin began to gesture extravagantly, and take oath by

strange gods. He frantically placed himself at the mercy of remarkable

fates if his tale were not true.

"Yes, he did! I cross m'heart thousan' times!" he protested, and at

the moment his eyes were large with amazement, his mouth wrinkled in

unnatural glee.

"Yessir! A nightshirt! A hully white nightshirt!"

"You lie!"

"No, sir! I hope ter die b'fore I kin git anudder ball if there wasn't

a jay wid a hully, bloomin' white nightshirt!"

His face was filled with the infinite wonder of it. "A hully white

nightshirt," he continually repeated.

The young man saw the dark entrance to a basement restaurant. There was

a sign which read "No mystery about our hash!" and there were other

age-stained and world-battered legends which told him that the place

was within his means. He stopped before it and spoke to the assassin.

"I guess I'll git somethin' t' eat."

At this the assassin, for some reason, appeared to be quite

embarrassed. He gazed at the seductive front of the eating place for a

moment. Then he started slowly up the street. "Well, good-bye, Willie,"

he said bravely.

For an instant the youth studied the departing figure. Then he called

out, "Hol' on a minnet." As they came together he spoke in a certain

fierce way, as if he feared that the other would think him to be

charitable. "Look-a-here, if yeh wanta git some breakfas' I'll lend

yeh three cents t' do it with. But say, look-a-here, you've gota git

out an' hustle. I ain't goin' t' support yeh, or I'll go broke b'fore

night. I ain't no millionaire."

"I take me oath, Willie," said the assassin earnestly, "th' on'y thing

I really needs is a ball. Me t'roat feels like a fryin'-pan. But as I

can't get a ball, why, th' next bes' thing is breakfast, an' if yeh do

that for me, b' Gawd, I say yeh was th' whitest lad I ever see."

They spent a few moments in dexterous exchanges of phrases, in which

they each protested that the other was, as the assassin had originally

said, "a respecter'ble gentlem'n." And they concluded with mutual

assurances that they were the souls of intelligence and virtue. Then

they went into the restaurant.

There was a long counter, dimly lighted from hidden sources. Two or

three men in soiled white aprons rushed here and there.

The youth bought a bowl of coffee for two cents and a roll for one

cent. The assassin purchased the same. The bowls were webbed with brown

seams, and the tin spoons wore an air of having emerged from the first

pyramid. Upon them were black moss-like encrustations of age, and they

were bent and scarred from the attacks of long-forgotten teeth. But

over their repast the wanderers waxed warm and mellow. The assassin

grew affable as the hot mixture went soothingly down his parched

throat, and the young man felt courage flow in his veins.

Memories began to throng in on the assassin, and he brought forth long

tales, intricate, incoherent, delivered with a chattering swiftness as

from an old woman. "---- great job out'n Orange. Boss keep yeh hustlin'

though all time. I was there three days, and then I went an' ask 'im t'

lend me a dollar. 'G-g-go ter the devil,' he ses, an' I lose me job."

"South no good. Damn niggers work for twenty-five an' thirty cents a

day. Run white man out. Good grub though. Easy livin'."

"Yas; useter work little in Toledo, raftin' logs. Make two or three

dollars er day in the spring. Lived high. Cold as ice though in the

winter."

"I was raised in northern N'York. O-o-oh, yeh jest oughto live there.

No beer ner whisky though, way off in the woods. But all th' good hot

grub yeh can eat. B' Gawd, I hung around there long as I could till

th' ol' man fired me. 'Git t' hell outa here, yeh wuthless skunk, git

t' hell outa here, an' go die,' he ses. 'You're a hell of a father,' I

ses, 'you are,' an' I quit 'im."

As they were passing from the dim eating place, they encountered an old

man who was trying to steal forth with a tiny package of food, but a

tall man with an indomitable moustache stood dragon fashion, barring

the way of escape. They heard the old man raise a plaintive protest.

"Ah, you always want to know what I take out, and you never see that I

usually bring a package in here from my place of business."

As the wanderers trudged slowly along Park Row, the assassin began to

expand and grow blithe. "B' Gawd, we've been livin' like kings," he

said, smacking appreciative lips.

"Look out, or we'll have t' pay fer it t'night," said the youth with

gloomy warning.

But the assassin refused to turn his gaze toward the future. He went

with a limping step, into which he injected a suggestion of lamblike

gambols. His mouth was wreathed in a red grin.

In the City Hall Park the two wanderers sat down in the little circle

of benches sanctified by traditions of their class. They huddled in

their old garments, slumbrously conscious of the march of the hours

which for them had no meaning.

The people of the street hurrying hither and thither made a blend of

black figures changing yet frieze-like. They walked in their good

clothes as upon important missions, giving no gaze to the two wanderers

seated upon the benches. They expressed to the young man his infinite

distance from all that he valued. Social position, comfort, the

pleasures of living, were unconquerable kingdoms. He felt a sudden awe.

And in the background a multitude of buildings, of pitiless hues and

sternly high, were to him emblematic of a nation forcing its regal

head into the clouds, throwing no downward glances; in the sublimity

of its aspirations ignoring the wretches who may flounder at its feet.

The roar of the city in his ear was to him the confusion of strange

tongues, babbling heedlessly; it was the clink of coin, the voice of

the city's hopes which were to him no hopes.

He confessed himself an outcast, and his eyes from under the lowered

rim of his hat began to glance guiltily, wearing the criminal

expression that comes with certain convictions.

THE MEN IN THE STORM

The blizzard began to swirl great clouds of snow along the streets,

sweeping it down from the roofs, and up from the pavements, until

the faces of pedestrians tingled and burned as from a thousand

needle-prickings. Those on the walks huddled their necks closely in the

collars of their coats, and went along stooping like a race of aged

people. The drivers of vehicles hurried their horses furiously on their

way. They were made more cruel by the exposure of their position, aloft

on high seats. The street cars, bound up town, went slowly, the horses

slipping and straining in the spongy brown mass that lay between the

rails. The drivers, muffled to the eyes, stood erect, facing the wind,

models of grim philosophy. Overhead trains rumbled and roared, and the

dark structure of the elevated railroad, stretching over the avenue,

dripped little streams and drops of water upon the mud and snow beneath.

All the clatter of the street was softened by the masses that lay upon

the cobbles, until, even to one who looked from a window, it became

important music, a melody of life made necessary to the ear by the

dreariness of the pitiless beat and sweep of the storm. Occasionally

one could see black figures of men busily shovelling the white drifts

from the walks. The sounds from their labour created new recollections

of rural experiences which every man manages to have in a measure.

Later, the immense windows of the shops became aglow with light,

throwing great beams of orange and yellow upon the pavement. They

were infinitely cheerful, yet in a way they accentuated the force and

discomfort of the storm, and gave a meaning to the pace of the people

and the vehicles, scores of pedestrians and drivers, wretched with

cold faces, necks and feet, speeding for scores of unknown doors and

entrances, scattering to an infinite variety of shelters, to places

which the imagination made warm with the familiar colours of home.

There was an absolute expression of hot dinners in the pace of the

people. If one dared to speculate upon the destination of those who

came trooping, he lost himself in a maze of social calculation; he

might fling a handful of sand and attempt to follow the flight of each

particular grain. But as to the suggestion of hot dinners, he was in

firm lines of thought, for it was upon every hurrying face. It is a

matter of tradition; it is from the tales of childhood. It comes forth

with every storm.

However, in a certain part of a dark west-side street, there was a

collection of men to whom these things were as if they were not. In

this street was located a charitable house, where for five cents the

homeless of the city could get a bed at night, and in the morning

coffee and bread.

During the afternoon of the storm, the whirling snows acted as drivers,

as men with whips, and at half-past three the walk before the closed

doors of the house was covered with wanderers of the street, waiting.

For some distance on either side of the place they could be seen

lurking in the doorways and behind projecting parts of buildings,

gathering in close bunches in an effort to get warm. A covered wagon

drawn up near the curb sheltered a dozen of them. Under the stairs

that led to the elevated railway station, there were six or eight,

their hands stuffed deep in their pockets, their shoulders stooped,

jiggling their feet. Others always could be seen coming, a strange

procession, some slouching along with the characteristic hopeless gait

of professional strays, some coming with hesitating steps, wearing the

air of men to whom this sort of thing was new.

It was an afternoon of incredible length. The snow, blowing in twisting

clouds, sought out the men in their meagre hiding-places, and skilfully

beat in among them, drenching their persons with showers of fine

stinging flakes. They crowded together, muttering, and fumbling in

their pockets to get their red inflamed wrists covered by the cloth.

New-comers usually halted at one end of the groups and addressed a

question, perhaps much as a matter of form, "Is it open yet?"

Those who had been waiting inclined to take the questioner seriously

and became contemptuous. "No; do yeh think we'd be standin' here?"

The gathering swelled in numbers steadily and persistently. One could

always see them coming, trudging slowly through the storm.

Finally, the little snow plains in the street began to assume a leaden

hue from the shadows of evening. The buildings upreared gloomily save

where various windows became brilliant figures of light, that made

shimmers and splashes of yellow on the snow. A street lamp on the curb

struggled to illuminate, but it was reduced to impotent blindness by

the swift gusts of sleet crusting its panes.

In this half-darkness, the men began to come from their shelter places

and mass in front of the doors of charity. They were of all types, but

the nationalities were mostly American, German, and Irish. Many were

strong, healthy, clear-skinned fellows, with that stamp of countenance

which is not frequently seen upon seekers after charity. There were

men of undoubted patience, industry, and temperance, who, in time of

ill-fortune, do not habitually turn to rail at the state of society,

snarling at the arrogance of the rich, and bemoaning the cowardice of

the poor, but who at these times are apt to wear a sudden and singular

meekness, as if they saw the world's progress marching from them, and

were trying to perceive where they had failed, what they had lacked, to

be thus vanquished in the race. Then there were others of the shifting,

Bowery element, who were used to paying ten cents for a place to sleep,

but who now came here because it was cheaper.

But they were all mixed in one mass so thoroughly that one could not

have discerned the different elements, but for the fact that the

labouring men, for the most part, remained silent and impassive in the

blizzard, their eyes fixed on the windows of the house, statues of

patience.

The sidewalk soon became completely blocked by the bodies of the men.

They pressed close to one another like sheep in a winter's gale,

keeping one another warm by the heat of their bodies. The snow came

down upon this compressed group of men until, directly from above, it

might have appeared like a heap of snow-covered merchandise, if it

were not for the fact that the crowd swayed gently with a unanimous,

rhythmical motion. It was wonderful to see how the snow lay upon the

heads and shoulders of these men, in little ridges an inch thick

perhaps in places, the flakes steadily adding drop and drop, precisely

as they fall upon the unresisting grass of the fields. The feet of the

men were all wet and cold, and the wish to warm them accounted for the

slow, gentle, rhythmical motion. Occasionally some man whose ear or

nose tingled acutely from the cold winds would wriggle down until his

head was protected by the shoulders of his companions.

There was a continuous murmuring discussion as to the probability of

the doors being speedily opened. They persistently lifted their eyes

towards the windows. One could hear little combats of opinion.

"There's a light in th' winder!"

"Naw; it's a reflection f'm across th' way."

"Well, didn't I see 'em light it?"

"You did?"

"I did!"

"Well, then, that settles it!"

As the time approached when they expected to be allowed to enter, the

men crowded to the doors in an unspeakable crush, jamming and wedging

in a way that it seemed would crack bones. They surged heavily against

the building in a powerful wave of pushing shoulders. Once a rumour

flitted among all the tossing heads.

"They can't open th' door! Th' fellers er smack up agin 'em."

Then a dull roar of rage came from the men on the outskirts; but all

the time they strained and pushed until it appeared to be impossible

for those that they cried out against to do anything but be crushed

into pulp.

"Ah, git away f'm th' door!"

"Git outa that!"

"Throw 'em out!"

"Kill 'em!"

"Say, fellers, now, what th' 'ell? G've 'em a chance t' open th' door!"

"Yeh dam pigs, give 'em a chance t' open th' door!"

Men in the outskirts of the crowd occasionally yelled when a boot-heel

of one of trampling feet crushed on their freezing extremities.

"Git off me feet, yeh clumsy tarrier!"

"Say, don't stand on me feet! Walk on th' ground!"

A man near the doors suddenly shouted--"O-o-oh! Le' me out--le' me

out!" And another, a man of infinite valour, once twisted his head

so as to half face those who were pushing behind him. "Quit yer

shovin', yeh"--and he delivered a volley of the most powerful and

singular invective, straight into the faces of the men behind him. It

was as if he was hammering the noses of them with curses of triple

brass. His face, red with rage, could be seen upon it, an expression

of sublime disregard of consequences. But nobody cared to reply to

his imprecations; it was too cold. Many of them snickered, and all

continued to push.

In occasional pauses of the crowd's movement the men had opportunities

to make jokes; usually grim things, and no doubt very uncouth.

Nevertheless, they were notable--one does not expect to find the

quality of humour in a heap of old clothes under a snow-drift.

The winds seemed to grow fiercer as time wore on. Some of the gusts of

snow that came down on the close collection of heads, cut like knives

and needles, and the men huddled, and swore, not like dark assassins,

but in a sort of American fashion, grimly and desperately, it is true,

but yet with a wondrous under-effect, indefinable and mystic, as if

there was some kind of humour in this catastrophe, in this situation in

a night of snow-laden winds.

Once the window of the huge dry-goods shop across the street furnished

material for a few moments of forgetfulness. In the brilliantly-lighted

space appeared the figure of a man. He was rather stout and very well

clothed. His beard was fashioned charmingly after that of the Prince

of Wales. He stood in an attitude of magnificent reflection. He slowly

stroked his moustache with a certain grandeur of manner, and looked

down at the snow-encrusted mob. From below, there was denoted a supreme

complacence in him. It seemed that the sight operated inversely, and

enabled him to more clearly regard his own delightful environment.

One of the mob chanced to turn his head, and perceived the figure in

the window. "Hello, lookit 'is whiskers," he said genially.

Many of the men turned then, and a shout went up. They called to him

in all strange keys. They addressed him in every manner, from familiar

and cordial greetings, to carefully-worded advice concerning changes in

his personal appearance. The man presently fled, and the mob chuckled

ferociously, like ogres who had just devoured something.

They turned then to serious business. Often they addressed the stolid

front of the house.

"Oh, let us in fer Gawd's sake!"

"Let us in, or we'll all drop dead!"

"Say, what's th' use o' keepin' us poor Indians out in th' cold?"

And always some one was saying, "Keep off my feet."

The crushing of the crowd grew terrific toward the last. The men, in

keen pain from the blasts, began almost to fight. With the pitiless

whirl of snow upon them, the battle for shelter was going to the

strong. It became known that the basement door at the foot of a little

steep flight of stairs was the one to be opened, and they jostled and

heaved in this direction like labouring fiends. One could hear them

panting and groaning in their fierce exertion.

Usually some one in the front ranks was protesting to those in the

rear--"O-o-ow! Oh, say now, fellers, let up, will yeh? Do yeh wanta

kill somebody!"

A policeman arrived and went into the midst of them, scolding and

be-rating, occasionally threatening, but using no force but that of his

hands and shoulders against these men who were only struggling to get

in out of the storm. His decisive tones rang out sharply--"Stop that

pushin' back there! Come, boys, don't push! Stop that! Here you, quit

yer shovin'! Cheese that!"

When the door below was opened, a thick stream of men forced a way down

the stairs, which were of an extraordinary narrowness, and seemed only

wide enough for one at a time. Yet they somehow went down almost three

abreast. It was a difficult and painful operation. The crowd was like

a turbulent water forcing itself through one tiny outlet. The men in

the rear, excited by the success of the others, made frantic exertions,

for it seemed that this large band would more than fill the quarters,

and that many would be left upon the pavements. It would be disastrous

to be of the last, and accordingly men with the snow biting their

faces, writhed and twisted with their might. One expected that from the

tremendous pressure, the narrow passage to the basement door would be

so choked and clogged with human limbs and bodies that movement would

be impossible. Once indeed the crowd was forced to stop, and a cry

went along that a man had been injured at the foot of the stairs. But

presently the slow movement began again, and the policeman fought at

the top of the flight to ease the pressure of those that were going

down.

A reddish light from a window fell upon the faces of the men, when

they, in turn, arrived at the last three steps, and were about to

enter. One could then note a change of expression that had come over

their features. As they stood thus upon the threshold of their hopes,

they looked suddenly contented and complacent. The fire had passed from

their eyes and the snarl had vanished from their lips. The very force

of the crowd in the rear, which had previously vexed them, was regarded

from another point of view, for it now made it inevitable that they

should go through the little doors into the place that was cheery and

warm with light.

The tossing crowd on the sidewalk grew smaller and smaller. The snow

beat with merciless persistence upon the bowed heads of those who

waited. The wind drove it up from the pavements in frantic forms of

winding white, and it seethed in circles about the huddled forms

passing in one by one, three by three, out of the storm.

THE DUEL THAT WAS NOT FOUGHT

Patsy Tulligan was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could

throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral. There were men on

Cherry Street who had whipped him five times, but they all knew that

Patsy would be as ready for the sixth time as if nothing had happened.

Once he and two friends had been away up on Eighth Avenue, far out

of their country, and upon their return journey that evening they

stopped frequently in saloons until they were as independent of their

surroundings as eagles, and cared much less about thirty days on

Blackwell's.

On Lower Sixth Avenue they paused in a saloon where there was a good

deal of lamp-glare and polished wood to be seen from the outside,

and within, the mellow light shone on much furbished brass and more

polished wood. It was a better saloon than they were in the habit of

seeing, but they did not mind it. They sat down at one of the little

tables that were in a row parallel to the bar and ordered beer. They

blinked stolidly at the decorations, the bar-tender, and the other

customers. When anything transpired they discussed it with dazzling

frankness, and what they said of it was as free as air to the other

people in the place.

At midnight there were few people in the saloon. Patsy and his friends

still sat drinking. Two well-dressed men were at another table,

smoking cigars slowly and swinging back in their chairs. They occupied

themselves with themselves in the usual manner, never betraying by a

wink of an eyelid that they knew that other folk existed. At another

table directly behind Patsy and his companions was a slim little Cuban,

with miraculously small feet and hands, and with a youthful touch of

down upon his lip. As he lifted his cigarette from time to time his

little finger was bended in dainty fashion, and there was a green flash

when a huge emerald ring caught the light. The bar-tender came often

with his little brass tray. Occasionally Patsy and his two friends

quarrelled.

Once this little Cuban happened to make some slight noise and Patsy

turned his head to observe him. Then Patsy made a careless and rather

loud comment to his two friends. He used a word which is no more than

passing the time of day down in Cherry Street, but to the Cuban it was

a dagger-point. There was a harsh scraping sound as a chair was pushed

swiftly back.

The little Cuban was upon his feet. His eyes were shining with a rage

that flashed there like sparks as he glared at Patsy. His olive face

had turned a shade of grey from his anger. Withal his chest was thrust

out in portentous dignity, and his hand, still grasping his wine-glass,

was cool and steady, the little finger still bended, the great emerald

gleaming upon it. The others, motionless, stared at him.

"Sir," he began ceremoniously. He spoke gravely and in a slow way, his

tone coming in a marvel of self-possessed cadences from between those

lips which quivered with wrath. "You have insult me. You are a dog, a

hound, a cur. I spit upon you. I must have some of your blood."

Patsy looked at him over his shoulder.

"What's th' matter wi' che?" he demanded. He did not quite understand

the words of this little man who glared at him steadily, but he knew

that it was something about fighting. He snarled with the readiness of

his class and heaved his shoulders contemptuously. "Ah, what's eatin'

yeh? Take a walk! You h'ain't got nothin' t' do with me, have yeh?

Well, den, go sit on yerself."

And his companions leaned back valorously in their chairs, and

scrutinized this slim young fellow who was addressing Patsy.

"What's de little Dago chewin' about?"

"He wants t' scrap!"

"What!"

The Cuban listened with apparent composure. It was only when they

laughed that his body cringed as if he was receiving lashes. Presently

he put down his glass and walked over to their table. He proceeded

always with the most impressive deliberation.

"Sir," he began again. "You have insult me. I must have

s-s-satisfac-shone. I must have your body upon the point of my

sword. In my country you would already be dead. I must have

s-s-satisfac-shone."

Patsy had looked at the Cuban with a trifle of bewilderment. But at

last his face began to grow dark with belligerency, his mouth curve in

that wide sneer with which he would confront an angel of darkness. He

arose suddenly in his seat and came towards the little Cuban. He was

going to be impressive too.

"Say, young feller, if yeh go shootin' off fer face at me, I'll wipe

d' joint wid yeh. What'cher gaffin' about, hey? Are yeh givin' me er

jolly? Say, if yeh pick me up fer a cinch, I'll fool yeh. Dat's what!

Don't take me fer no dead easy mug." And as he glowered at the little

Cuban, he ended his oration with one eloquent word, "Nit!"

The bar-tender nervously polished his bar with a towel, and kept his

eyes fastened upon the men. Occasionally he became transfixed with

interest, leaning forward with one hand upon the edge of the bar and

the other holding the towel grabbed in a lump, as if he had been turned

into bronze when in the very act of polishing.

The Cuban did not move when Patsy came toward him and delivered his

oration. At its conclusion he turned his livid face toward where, above

him, Patsy was swaggering and heaving his shoulders in a consummate

display of bravery and readiness. The Cuban, in his clear, tense tones,

spoke one word. It was the bitter insult. It seemed to fairly spin from

his lips and crackle in the air like breaking glass.

Every man save the little Cuban made an electric movement. Patsy

roared a black oath and thrust himself forward until he towered almost

directly above the other man. His fists were doubled into knots of bone

and hard flesh. The Cuban had raised a steady finger.

"If you touch me wis your hand, I will keel you."

The two well-dressed men had come swiftly, uttering protesting cries.

They suddenly intervened in this second of time in which Patsy had

sprung forward and the Cuban had uttered his threat. The four men were

now a tossing, arguing, violent group, one well-dressed man lecturing

the Cuban, and the other holding off Patsy, who was now wild with rage,

loudly repeating the Cuban's threat, and manoeuvring and struggling

to get at him for revenge's sake.

The bar-tender, feverishly scouring away with his towel, and at times

pacing to and fro with nervous and excited tread, shouted out--

"Say, for heaven's sake, don't fight in here. If yeh wanta fight, go

out in the street and fight all yeh please. But don't fight in here."

Patsy knew only one thing, and this he kept repeating--

"Well, he wants t' scrap! I didn't begin dis! He wants t' scrap."

The well-dressed man confronting him continually replied--

"Oh, well, now, look here, he's only a lad. He don't know what he's

doing. He's crazy mad. You wouldn't slug a kid like that."

Patsy and his aroused companions, who cursed and growled, were

persistent with their argument. "Well, he wants t' scrap!" The whole

affair was as plain as daylight when one saw this great fact. The

interference and intolerable discussion brought the three of them

forward, battleful and fierce.

"What's eatin' you, anyhow?" they demanded. "Dis ain't your business,

is it? What business you got shootin' off your face?"

The other peacemaker was trying to restrain the little Cuban, who had

grown shrill and violent.

"If he touch me wis his hand I will keel him. We must fight like

gentlemen or else I keel him when he touch me wis his hand."

The man who was fending off Patsy comprehended these sentences that

were screamed behind his back, and he explained to Patsy--

"But he wants to fight you with swords. With swords, you know."

The Cuban, dodging around the peacemakers, yelled in Patsy's face--

"Ah, if I could get you before me wis my sword! Ah! Ah! A-a-ah!" Patsy

made a furious blow with a swift fist, but the peacemakers bucked

against his body suddenly like football players.

Patsy was greatly puzzled. He continued doggedly to try to get near

enough to the Cuban to punch him. To these attempts the Cuban replied

savagely--

"If you touch me wis your hand, I will cut your heart in two piece."

At last Patsy said--"Well, if he's so dead stuck on fightin' wid

swords, I'll fight 'im. Soitenly! I'll fight 'im." All this palaver had

evidently tired him, and he now puffed out his lips with the air of a

man who is willing to submit to any conditions if he can only bring on

the row soon enough. He swaggered, "I'll fight 'im wid swords. Let 'im

bring on his swords, an' I'll fight 'im 'til he's ready t' quit."

The two well-dressed men grinned. "Why, look here," they said to Patsy,

"he'd punch you full of holes. Why, he's a fencer. You can't fight him

with swords. He'd kill you in 'bout a minute."

"Well, I'll giv' 'im a go at it, anyhow," said Patsy, stout-hearted and

resolute. "I'll giv' 'im a go at it, anyhow, an' I'll stay wid 'im long

as I kin."

As for the Cuban, his lithe little body was quivering in an ecstasy of

the muscles. His face radiant with a savage joy, he fastened his glance

upon Patsy, his eyes gleaming with a gloating, murderous light. A most

unspeakable, animal-like rage was in his expression.

"Ah! ah! He will fight me! Ah!" He bended unconsciously in the posture

of a fencer. He had all the quick, springy movements of a skilful

swordsman. "Ah, the b-r-r-rute! The b-r-r-rute! I will stick him like a

pig!"

The two peacemakers, still grinning broadly, were having a great time

with Patsy.

"Why, you infernal idiot, this man would slice you all up. You better

jump off the bridge if you want to commit suicide. You wouldn't stand a

ghost of a chance to live ten seconds."

Patsy was as unshaken as granite. "Well, if he wants t' fight wid

swords, he'll get it. I'll giv' 'im a go at it, anyhow."

One man said--"Well, have you got a sword? Do you know what a sword is?

Have you got a sword?"

"No, I ain't got none," said Patsy honestly, "but I kin git one." Then

he added valiantly--"An' quick too."

The two men laughed. "Why, can't you understand it would be sure death

to fight a sword duel with this fellow?"

"Dat's all right! See? I know me own business. If he wants t' fight one

of dees d--n duels, I'm in it, understan'?"

"Have you ever fought one, you fool?"

"No, I ain't. But I will fight one, dough! I ain't no muff. If he want

t' fight a duel, by Gawd, I'm wid 'im! D'yeh understan' dat!" Patsy

cocked his hat and swaggered. He was getting very serious.

The little Cuban burst out--"Ah, come on, sirs: come on! We can take

cab. Ah, you big cow, I will stick you, I will stick you. Ah, you will

look very beautiful, very beautiful. Ah, come on, sirs. We will stop at

hotel--my hotel. I there have weapons."

"Yeh will, will yeh? Yeh bloomin' little black Dago," cried Patsy in

hoarse and maddened reply to the personal part of the Cuban's speech.

He stepped forward. "Git yer d--n swords," he commanded. "Git yer

swords. Git 'em quick! I'll fight wi' che! I'll fight wid anyting, too!

See? I'll fight yeh wid a knife an' fork if yeh say so! I'll fight yer

standin' up er sittin' down!" Patsy delivered this intense oration

with sweeping, intensely emphatic gestures, his hands stretched out

eloquently, his jaw thrust forward, his eyes glaring.

"Ah," cried the little Cuban joyously. "Ah, you are in very pretty

temper. Ah, how I will cut your heart in two piece, my dear, d-e-a-r

friend." His eyes, too, shone like carbuncles, with a swift, changing

glitter, always fastened upon Patsy's face.

The two peacemakers were perspiring and in despair. One of them blurted

out--

"Well, I'll be blamed if this ain't the most ridiculous thing I ever

saw."

The other said--"For ten dollars I'd be tempted to let these two

infernal blockheads have their duel."

Patsy was strutting to and fro, and conferring grandly with his friends.

"He took me for a muff. He tought he was goin' t' bluff me out, talkin'

'bout swords. He'll get fooled." He addressed the Cuban--"You're a fine

little dirty picter of a scrapper, ain't che? I'll chew yez up, dat's

what I will."

There began then some rapid action. The patience of well-dressed men

is not an eternal thing. It began to look as if it would at last be a

fight with six corners to it. The faces of the men were shining red

with anger. They jostled each other defiantly, and almost every one

blazed out at three or four of the others. The bar-tender had given up

protesting. He swore for a time, and banged his glasses. Then he jumped

the bar and ran out of the saloon, cursing sullenly.

When he came back with a policeman, Patsy and the Cuban were preparing

to depart together. Patsy was delivering his last oration--

"I'll fight yer wid swords! Sure I will! Come ahead, Dago! I'll fight

yeh anywheres wid anyting! We'll have a large, juicy scrap, an' don't

yeh forgit dat! I'm right wid yez. I ain't no muff! I scrap wid a man

jest as soon as he ses scrap, an' if yeh wanta scrap, I'm yer kitten.

Understan' dat?"

The policeman said sharply--"Come, now; what's all this?" He had a

distinctly business air.

The little Cuban stepped forward calmly. "It is none of your business."

The policeman flushed to his ears. "What?"

One well-dressed man touched the other on the sleeve. "Here's the time

to skip," he whispered. They halted a block away from the saloon and

watched the policeman pull the Cuban through the door. There was a

minute of scuffle on the sidewalk, and into this deserted street at

midnight fifty people appeared at once as if from the sky to watch it.

At last the three Cherry Hill men came from the saloon, and swaggered

with all their old valour toward the peacemakers.

"Ah," said Patsy to them, "he was so hot talkin' about this duel

business, but I would a-given 'im a great scrap, an' don't yeh forgit

it."

For Patsy was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could throw a

shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral.

AN OMINOUS BABY

A baby was wandering in a strange country. He was a tattered child with

a frowsled wealth of yellow hair. His dress, of a checked stuff, was

soiled, and showed the marks of many conflicts, like the chain-shirt

of a warrior. His sun-tanned knees shone above wrinkled stockings,

which he pulled up occasionally with an impatient movement when they

entangled his feet. From a gaping shoe there appeared an array of tiny

toes.

He was toddling along an avenue between rows of stolid brown houses.

He went slowly, with a look of absorbed interest on his small flushed

face. His blue eyes stared curiously. Carriages went with a musical

rumble over the smooth asphalt. A man with a chrysanthemum was going

up steps. Two nursery maids chatted as they walked slowly, while their

charges hobnobbed amiably between perambulators. A truck wagon roared

thunderously in the distance.

The child from the poor district made his way along the brown street

filled with dull grey shadows. High up, near the roofs, glancing

sun-rays changed cornices to blazing gold and silvered the fronts of

windows. The wandering baby stopped and stared at the two children

laughing and playing in their carriages among the heaps of rugs and

cushions. He braced his legs apart in an attitude of earnest attention.

His lower jaw fell, and disclosed his small, even teeth. As they moved

on, he followed the carriages with awe in his face as if contemplating

a pageant. Once one of the babies, with twittering laughter, shook a

gorgeous rattle at him. He smiled jovially in return.

Finally a nursery maid ceased conversation and, turning, made a gesture

of annoyance.

"Go 'way, little boy," she said to him. "Go 'way. You're all dirty."

He gazed at her with infant tranquillity for a moment, and then went

slowly off dragging behind him a bit of rope he had acquired in another

street. He continued to investigate the new scenes. The people and

houses struck him with interest as would flowers and trees. Passengers

had to avoid the small, absorbed figure in the middle of the sidewalk.

They glanced at the intent baby face covered with scratches and dust as

with scars and with powder smoke.

After a time, the wanderer discovered upon the pavement a pretty child

in fine clothes playing with a toy. It was a tiny fire-engine, painted

brilliantly in crimson and gold. The wheels rattled as its small owner

dragged it uproariously about by means of a string. The babe with his

bit of rope trailing behind him paused and regarded the child and

the toy. For a long while he remained motionless, save for his eyes,

which followed all movements of the glittering thing. The owner paid

no attention to the spectator, but continued his joyous imitations of

phases of the career of a fire-engine. His gleeful baby laugh rang

against the calm fronts of the houses. After a little the wandering

baby began quietly to sidle nearer. His bit of rope, now forgotten,

dropped at his feet. He removed his eyes from the toy and glanced

expectantly at the other child.

"Say," he breathed softly.

The owner of the toy was running down the walk at top speed. His tongue

was clanging like a bell and his legs were galloping. He did not look

around at the coaxing call from the small tattered figure on the curb.

The wandering baby approached still nearer, and presently spoke again.

"Say," he murmured, "le' me play wif it?"

The other child interrupted some shrill tootings. He bended his head

and spoke disdainfully over his shoulder.

"No," he said.

The wanderer retreated to the curb. He failed to notice the bit of

rope, once treasured. His eyes followed as before the winding course of

the engine, and his tender mouth twitched.

"Say," he ventured at last, "is dat yours?"

"Yes," said the other, tilting his round chin. He drew his property

suddenly behind him as if it were menaced. "Yes," he repeated, "it's

mine."

"Well, le' me play wif it?" said the wandering baby, with a trembling

note of desire in his voice.

"No," cried the pretty child with determined lips. "It's mine. My ma-ma

buyed it."

"Well, tan't I play wif it?" His voice was a sob. He stretched forth

little covetous hands.

"No," the pretty child continued to repeat. "No, it's mine."

"Well, I want to play wif it," wailed the other. A sudden fierce frown

mantled his baby face. He clenched his fat hands and advanced with a

formidable gesture. He looked some wee battler in a war.

"It's mine! It's mine," cried the pretty child, his voice in the treble

of outraged rights.

"I want it," roared the wanderer.

"It's mine! It's mine!"

"I want it!"

"It's mine!"

The pretty child retreated to the fence, and there paused at bay. He

protected his property with outstretched arms. The small vandal made a

charge. There was a short scuffle at the fence. Each grasped the string

to the toy and tugged. Their faces were wrinkled with baby rage, the

verge of tears. Finally, the child in tatters gave a supreme tug and

wrenched the string from the other's hands. He set off rapidly down the

street, bearing the toy in his arms. He was weeping with the air of

a wronged one who has at last succeeded in achieving his rights. The

other baby was squalling lustily. He seemed quite helpless. He rung his

chubby hands and railed.

After the small barbarian had got some distance away, he paused and

regarded his booty. His little form curved with pride. A soft, gleeful

smile loomed through the storm of tears. With great care he prepared

the toy for travelling. He stopped a moment on a corner and gazed at

the pretty child, whose small figure was quivering with sobs. As the

latter began to show signs of beginning pursuit, the little vandal

turned and vanished down a dark side street as into a cavern.

A GREAT MISTAKE

An Italian kept a fruit-stand on a corner where he had good aim at the

people who came down from the elevated station, and at those who went

along two thronged streets. He sat most of the day in a backless chair

that was placed strategically.

There was a babe living hard by, up five flights of stairs, who

regarded this Italian as a tremendous being. The babe had investigated

this fruit-stand. It had thrilled him as few things he had met with in

his travels had thrilled him. The sweets of the world had laid there

in dazzling rows, tumbled in luxurious heaps. When he gazed at this

Italian seated amid such splendid treasures, his lower lip hung low and

his eyes, raised to the vendor's face, were filled with deep respect,

worship, as if he saw omnipotence.

The babe came often to this corner. He hovered about the stand

and watched each detail of the business. He was fascinated by the

tranquillity of the vendor, the majesty of power and possession. At

times he was so engrossed in his contemplation that people, hurrying,

had to use care to avoid bumping him down.

He had never ventured very near to the stand. It was his habit to

hang warily about the curb. Even there he resembled a babe who looks

unbidden at a feast of gods.

One day, however, as the baby was thus staring, the vendor arose, and

going along the front of the stand, began to polish oranges with a

red pocket handkerchief. The breathless spectator moved across the

side walk until his small face almost touched the vendor's sleeve. His

fingers were gripped in a fold of his dress.

At last, the Italian finished with the oranges and returned to his

chair. He drew a newspaper printed in his language from behind a bunch

of bananas. He settled himself in a comfortable position, and began to

glare savagely at the print. The babe was left face to face with the

massed joys of the world. For a time he was a simple worshipper at this

golden shrine. Then tumultuous desires began to shake him. His dreams

were of conquest. His lips moved. Presently into his head there came a

little plan. He sidled nearer, throwing swift and cunning glances at

the Italian. He strove to maintain his conventional manner, but the

whole plot was written upon his countenance.

At last he had come near enough to touch the fruit. From the tattered

skirt came slowly his small dirty hand. His eyes were still fixed upon

the vendor. His features were set, save for the under lip, which had a

faint fluttering movement. The hand went forward.

Elevated trains thundered to the station and the stairway poured people

upon the sidewalks. There was a deep sea roar from feet and wheels

going ceaselessly. None seemed to perceive the babe engaged in a great

venture.

The Italian turned his paper. Sudden panic smote the babe. His hand

dropped, and he gave vent to a cry of dismay. He remained for a moment

staring at the vendor. There was evidently a great debate in his

mind. His infant intellect had defined this Italian. The latter was

undoubtedly a man who would eat babes that provoked him. And the alarm

in the babe when this monarch had turned his newspaper brought vividly

before him the consequences if he were detected. But at this moment the

vendor gave a blissful grunt, and tilting his chair against a wall,

closed his eyes. His paper dropped unheeded.

The babe ceased his scrutiny and again raised his hand. It was

moved with supreme caution toward the fruit. The fingers were bent,

claw-like, in the manner of great heart-shaking greed. Once he stopped

and chattered convulsively, because the vendor moved in his sleep. The

babe, with his eyes still upon the Italian, again put forth his hand,

and the rapacious fingers closed over a round bulb.

And it was written that the Italian should at this moment open his

eyes. He glared at the babe a fierce question. Thereupon the babe

thrust the round bulb behind him, and with a face expressive of the

deepest guilt, began a wild but elaborate series of gestures declaring

his innocence. The Italian howled. He sprang to his feet, and with

three steps overtook the babe. He whirled him fiercely, and took from

the little fingers a lemon.

AN ELOQUENCE OF GRIEF

The windows were high and saintly, of the shape that is found in

churches. From time to time a policeman at the door spoke sharply to

some incoming person. "Take your hat off!" He displayed in his voice

the horror of a priest when the sanctity of a chapel is defied or

forgotten. The court-room was crowded with people who sloped back

comfortably in their chairs, regarding with undeviating glances the

procession and its attendant and guardian policemen that moved slowly

inside the spear-topped railing. All persons connected with a case went

close to the magistrate's desk before a word was spoken in the matter,

and then their voices were toned to the ordinary talking strength. The

crowd in the court-room could not hear a sentence; they could merely

see shifting figures, men that gestured quietly, women that sometimes

raised an eager eloquent arm. They could not always see the judge,

although they were able to estimate his location by the tall stands

surmounted by white globes that were at either hand of him. And so

those who had come for curiosity's sweet sake wore an air of being in

wait for a cry of anguish, some loud painful protestation that would

bring the proper thrill to their jaded, world-weary nerves--wires that

refused to vibrate for ordinary affairs.

Inside the railing the court officers shuffled the various groups with

speed and skill; and behind the desk the magistrate patiently toiled

his way through mazes of wonderful testimony.

In a corner of this space, devoted to those who had business before

the judge, an officer in plain clothes stood with a girl that wept

constantly. None seemed to notice the girl, and there was no reason why

she should be noticed, if the curious in the body of the court-room

were not interested in the devastation which tears bring upon some

complexions. Her tears seemed to burn like acid, and they left fierce

pink marks on her face. Occasionally the girl looked across the room,

where two well-dressed young women and a man stood waiting with the

serenity of people who are not concerned as to the interior fittings of

a jail.

The business of the court progressed, and presently the girl, the

officer, and the well-dressed contingent stood before the judge.

Thereupon two lawyers engaged in some preliminary fire-wheels, which

were endured generally in silence. The girl, it appeared, was accused

of stealing fifty dollars' worth of silk clothing from the room of one

of the well-dressed women. She had been a servant in the house.

In a clear way, and with none of the ferocity that an accuser often

exhibits in a police-court, calmly and moderately, the two young women

gave their testimony. Behind them stood their escort, always mute.

His part, evidently, was to furnish the dignity, and he furnished it

heavily, almost massively.

When they had finished, the girl told her part. She had full, almost

Afric, lips, and they had turned quite white. The lawyer for the others

asked some questions, which he did--be it said, in passing--with the

air of a man throwing flower-pots at a stone house.

It was a short case and soon finished. At the end of it the judge said

that, considering the evidence, he would have to commit the girl for

trial. Instantly the quick-eyed court officer began to clear the way

for the next case. The well-dressed women and their escort turned one

way and the girl turned another, toward a door with an austere arch

leading into a stone-paved passage. Then it was that a great cry rang

through the court-room, the cry of this girl who believed that she was

lost.

The loungers, many of them, underwent a spasmodic movement as if they

had been knived. The court officers rallied quickly. The girl fell back

opportunely for the arms of one of them, and her wild heels clicked

twice on the floor. "I am innocent! Oh, I am innocent!"

People pity those who need none, and the guilty sob alone; but innocent

or guilty, this girl's scream described such a profound depth of

woe--it was so graphic of grief, that it slit with a dagger's sweep the

curtain of common-place, and disclosed the gloom-shrouded spectre that

sat in the young girl's heart so plainly, in so universal a tone of the

mind, that a man heard expressed some far-off midnight terror of his

own thought.

The cries died away down the stone-paved passage. A patrol-man leaned

one arm composedly on the railing, and down below him stood an aged,

almost toothless wanderer, tottering and grinning.

"Plase, yer honer," said the old man as the time arrived for him to

speak, "if ye'll lave me go this time, I've niver been dhrunk befoor,

sir."

A court officer lifted his hand to hide a smile.

THE AUCTION

Some said that Ferguson gave up sailoring because he was tired of the

sea. Some said that it was because he loved a woman. In truth it was

because he was tired of the sea and because he loved a woman.

He saw the woman once, and immediately she became for him the symbol

of all things unconnected with the sea. He did not trouble to look

again at the grey old goddess, the muttering slave of the moon. Her

splendours, her treacheries, her smiles, her rages, her vanities, were

no longer on his mind. He took heels after a little human being, and

the woman made his thought spin at all times like a top; whereas the

ocean had only made him think when he was on watch.

He developed a grin for the power of the sea, and, in derision, he

wanted to sell the red and green parrot which had sailed four voyages

with him. The woman, however, had a sentiment concerning the bird's

plumage, and she commanded Ferguson to keep it in order, as it

happened, that she might forget to put food in its cage.

The parrot did not attend the wedding. It stayed at home and

blasphemed at a stock of furniture, bought on the installment plan, and

arrayed for the reception of the bride and groom.

As a sailor, Ferguson had suffered the acute hankering for port; and

being now always in port, he tried to force life to become an endless

picnic. He was not an example of diligent and peaceful citizenship.

Ablution became difficult in the little apartment, because Ferguson

kept the wash-basin filled with ice and bottles of beer: and so,

finally, the dealer in second-hand furniture agreed to auction the

household goods on commission. Owing to an exceedingly liberal

definition of a term, the parrot and cage were included. "On the

level?" cried the parrot, "On the level? On the level? On the level?"

On the way to the sale, Ferguson's wife spoke hopefully. "You can't

tell, Jim," she said. "Perhaps some of 'em will get to biddin', and we

might get almost as much as we paid for the things."

The auction room was in a cellar. It was crowded with people and with

house furniture; so that as the auctioneer's assistant moved from one

piece to another he caused a great shuffling. There was an astounding

number of old women in curious bonnets. The rickety stairway was

thronged with men who wished to smoke and be free from the old women.

Two lamps made all the faces appear yellow as parchment. Incidentally

they could impart a lustre of value to very poor furniture.

The auctioneer was a fat, shrewd-looking individual, who seemed also to

be a great bully. The assistant was the most imperturbable of beings,

moving with the dignity of an image on rollers. As the Fergusons

forced their way down the stair-way, the assistant roared: "Number

twenty-one!"

"Number twenty-one!" cried the auctioneer. "Number twenty-one! A fine

new handsome bureau! Two dollars? Two dollars is bid! Two and a half!

Two and a half! Three? Three is bid. Four! Four dollars! A fine new

handsome bureau at four dollars! Four dollars! Four dollars! F-o-u-r

d-o-l-l-a-r-s! Sold at four dollars."

"On the level?" cried the parrot, muffled somewhere among furniture and

carpets. "On the level? On the level?" Every one tittered.

Mrs. Ferguson had turned pale, and gripped her husband's arm. "Jim! Did

you hear? The bureau--four dollars--"

Ferguson glowered at her with the swift brutality of a man afraid of a

scene. "Shut up, can't you!"

Mrs. Ferguson took a seat upon the steps; and hidden there by the thick

ranks of men, she began to softly sob. Through her tears appeared

the yellowish mist of the lamplight, streaming about the monstrous

shadows of the spectators. From time to time these latter whispered

eagerly: "See, that went cheap!" In fact when anything was bought at a

particularly low price, a murmur of admiration arose for the successful

bidder.

The bedstead was sold for two dollars, the mattresses and springs

for one dollar and sixty cents. This figure seemed to go through the

woman's heart. There was derision in the sound of it. She bowed her

head in her hands. "Oh, God, a dollar-sixty! Oh, God, a dollar-sixty!"

The parrot was evidently under heaps of carpet, but the dauntless bird

still raised the cry, "On the level?"

Some of the men near Mrs. Ferguson moved timidly away upon hearing her

low sobs. They perfectly understood that a woman in tears is formidable.

The shrill voice went like a hammer, beat and beat, upon the woman's

heart. An odour of varnish, of the dust of old carpets, assailed her

and seemed to possess a sinister meaning. The golden haze from the two

lamps was an atmosphere of shame, sorrow, greed. But it was when the

parrot called that a terror of the place and of the eyes of the people

arose in her so strongly that she could not have lifted her head any

more than if her neck had been of iron.

At last came the parrot's turn. The assistant fumbled until he found

the ring of the cage, and the bird was drawn into view. It adjusted its

feathers calmly and cast a rolling wicked eye over the crowd.

"Oh, the good ship Sarah sailed the seas,

And the wind it blew all day--"

This was the part of a ballad which Ferguson had tried to teach it.

With a singular audacity and scorn, the parrot bawled these lines at

the auctioneer as if it considered them to bear some particular insult.

The throng in the cellar burst into laughter. The auctioneer attempted

to start the bidding, and the parrot interrupted with a repetition

of the lines. It swaggered to and fro on its perch, and gazed at the

faces of the crowd, with so much rowdy understanding and derision that

even the auctioneer could not confront it. The auction was brought to a

halt; a wild hilarity developed, and every one gave jeering advice.

Ferguson looked down at his wife and groaned. She had cowered against

the wall, hiding her face. He touched her shoulder and she arose. They

sneaked softly up the stairs with heads bowed.

Out in the street, Ferguson gripped his fists and said: "Oh, but

wouldn't I like to strangle it!"

His wife cried in a voice of wild grief: "It--it m--made us a

laughing-stock in--in front of all that crowd!"

For the auctioning of their household goods, the sale of their

home--this financial calamity lost its power in the presence of the

social shame contained in a crowd's laughter.

THE PACE OF YOUTH

I

Stimson stood in a corner and glowered. He was a fierce man and had

indomitable whiskers, albeit he was very small.

"That young tarrier," he whispered to himself. "He wants to quit makin'

eyes at Lizzie. This is too much of a good thing. First thing you know,

he'll get fired."

His brow creased in a frown, he strode over to the huge open doors and

looked at a sign. "Stimson's Mammoth Merry-Go-Round," it read, and the

glory of it was great. Stimson stood and contemplated the sign. It was

an enormous affair; the letters were as large as men. The glow of it,

the grandeur of it was very apparent to Stimson. At the end of his

contemplation, he shook his head thoughtfully, determinedly. "No, no,"

he muttered. "This is too much of a good thing. First thing you know,

he'll get fired."

A soft booming sound of surf, mingled with the cries of bathers, came

from the beach. There was a vista of sand and sky and sea that drew to

a mystic point far away in the northward. In the mighty angle, a girl

in a red dress was crawling slowly like some kind of a spider on the

fabric of nature. A few flags hung lazily above where the bath-houses

were marshalled in compact squares. Upon the edge of the sea stood

a ship with its shadowy sails painted dimly upon the sky, and high

overhead in the still, sun-shot air a great hawk swung and drifted

slowly.

Within the Merry-Go-Round there was a whirling circle of ornamental

lions, giraffes, camels, ponies, goats, glittering with varnish and

metal that caught swift reflections from windows high above them. With

stiff wooden legs, they swept on in a never-ending race, while a great

orchestrion clamoured in wild speed. The summer sunlight sprinkled its

gold upon the garnet canopies carried by the tireless racers and upon

all the devices of decoration that made Stimson's machine magnificent

and famous. A host of laughing children bestrode the animals, bending

forward like charging cavalrymen, and shaking reins and whooping in

glee. At intervals they leaned out perilously to clutch at iron rings

that were tendered to them by a long wooden arm. At the intense moment

before the swift grab for the rings one could see their little nervous

bodies quiver with eagerness; the laughter rang shrill and excited.

Down in the long rows of benches, crowds of people sat watching

the game, while occasionally a father might arise and go near to

shout encouragement, cautionary commands, or applause at his flying

offspring. Frequently mothers called out: "Be careful, Georgie!" The

orchestrion bellowed and thundered on its platform, filling the ears

with its long monotonous song. Over in a corner, a man in a white apron

and behind a counter roared above the tumult: "Pop corn! Pop corn!"

A young man stood upon a small, raised platform, erected in a manner

of a pulpit, and just without the line of the circling figures. It was

his duty to manipulate the wooden arm and affix the rings. When all

were gone into the hands of the triumphant children, he held forth a

basket, into which they returned all save the coveted brass one, which

meant another ride free and made the holder very illustrious. The young

man stood all day upon his narrow platform, affixing rings or holding

forth the basket. He was a sort of general squire in these lists of

childhood. He was very busy.

And yet Stimson, the astute, had noticed that the young man frequently

found time to twist about on his platform and smile at a girl who shyly

sold tickets behind a silvered netting. This, indeed, was the great

reason of Stimson's glowering. The young man upon the raised platform

had no manner of licence to smile at the girl behind the silvered

netting. It was a most gigantic insolence. Stimson was amazed at it.

"By Jiminy," he said to himself again, "that fellow is smiling at my

daughter." Even in this tone of great wrath it could be discerned that

Stimson was filled with wonder that any youth should dare smile at the

daughter in the presence of the august father.

Often the dark-eyed girl peered between the shining wires, and, upon

being detected by the young man, she usually turned her head away

quickly to prove to him that she was not interested. At other times,

however, her eyes seemed filled with a tender fear lest he should

fall from that exceedingly dangerous platform. As for the young man,

it was plain that these glances filled him with valour, and he stood

carelessly upon his perch, as if he deemed it of no consequence that

he might fall from it. In all the complexities of his daily life and

duties he found opportunity to gaze ardently at the vision behind the

netting.

This silent courtship was conducted over the heads of the crowd who

thronged about the bright machine. The swift eloquent glances of the

young man went noiselessly and unseen with their message. There had

finally become established between the two in this manner a subtle

understanding and companionship. They communicated accurately all

that they felt. The boy told his love, his reverence, his hope in the

changes of the future. The girl told him that she loved him, that she

did not love him, that she did not know if she loved him, that she

loved him. Sometimes a little sign saying "cashier" in gold letters,

and hanging upon the silvered netting, got directly in range and

interfered with the tender message.

The love affair had not continued without anger, unhappiness, despair.

The girl had once smiled brightly upon a youth who came to buy some

tickets for his little sister, and the young man upon the platform

observing this smile had been filled with gloomy rage. He stood like

a dark statue of vengeance upon his pedestal and thrust out the basket

to the children with a gesture that was full of scorn for their hollow

happiness, for their insecure and temporary joy. For five hours he did

not once look at the girl when she was looking at him. He was going

to crush her with his indifference; he was going to demonstrate that

he had never been serious. However, when he narrowly observed her in

secret he discovered that she seemed more blythe than was usual with

her. When he found that his apparent indifference had not crushed

her he suffered greatly. She did not love him, he concluded. If she

had loved him she would have been crushed. For two days he lived

a miserable existence upon his high perch. He consoled himself by

thinking of how unhappy he was, and by swift, furtive glances at the

loved face. At any rate he was in her presence, and he could get a good

view from his perch when there was no interference by the little sign:

"Cashier."

But suddenly, swiftly, these clouds vanished, and under the imperial

blue sky of the restored confidence they dwelt in peace, a peace

that was satisfaction, a peace that, like a babe, put its trust in

the treachery of the future. This confidence endured until the next

day, when she, for an unknown cause, suddenly refused to look at

him. Mechanically he continued his task, his brain dazed, a tortured

victim of doubt, fear, suspicion. With his eyes he supplicated her to

telegraph an explanation. She replied with a stony glance that froze

his blood. There was a great difference in their respective reasons

for becoming angry. His were always foolish, but apparent, plain as

the moon. Hers were subtle, feminine, as incomprehensible as the stars,

as mysterious as the shadows at night.

They fell and soared, and soared and fell in this manner until they

knew that to live without each other would be a wandering in deserts.

They had grown so intent upon the uncertainties, the variations,

the guessings of their affair that the world had become but a huge

immaterial background. In time of peace their smiles were soft and

prayerful, caresses confided to the air. In time of war, their youthful

hearts, capable of profound agony, were wrung by the intricate emotions

of doubt. They were the victims of the dread angel of affectionate

speculation that forces the brain endlessly on roads that lead nowhere.

At night, the problem of whether she loved him confronted the young man

like a spectre, looming as high as a hill and telling him not to delude

himself. Upon the following day, this battle of the night displayed

itself in the renewed fervour of his glances and in their increased

number. Whenever he thought he could detect that she too was suffering,

he felt a thrill of joy.

But there came a time when the young man looked back upon these

contortions with contempt. He believed then that he had imagined his

pain. This came about when the redoubtable Stimson marched forward to

participate.

"This has got to stop," Stimson had said to himself, as he stood and

watched them. They had grown careless of the light world that clattered

about them; they were become so engrossed in their personal drama

that the language of their eyes was almost as obvious as gestures. And

Stimson, through his keenness, his wonderful, infallible penetration,

suddenly came into possession of these obvious facts. "Well, of all the

nerves," he said, regarding with a new interest the young man upon the

perch.

He was a resolute man. He never hesitated to grapple with a crisis. He

decided to overturn everything at once, for, although small, he was

very fierce and impetuous. He resolved to crush this dreaming.

He strode over to the silvered netting. "Say, you want to quit your

everlasting grinning at that idiot," he said, grimly.

The girl cast down her eyes and made a little heap of quarters into a

stack. She was unable to withstand the terrible scrutiny of her small

and fierce father.

Stimson turned from his daughter and went to a spot beneath the

platform. He fixed his eyes upon the young man and said--

"I've been speakin' to Lizzie. You better attend strictly to your own

business or there'll be a new man here next week." It was as if he had

blazed away with a shot-gun. The young man reeled upon his perch. At

last he in a measure regained his composure and managed to stammer:

"A--all right, sir." He knew that denials would be futile with the

terrible Stimson. He agitatedly began to rattle the rings in the

basket, and pretend that he was obliged to count them or inspect them

in some way. He, too, was unable to face the great Stimson.

For a moment, Stimson stood in fine satisfaction and gloated over the

effect of his threat.

"I've fixed them," he said complacently, and went out to smoke a cigar

and revel in himself. Through his mind went the proud reflection that

people who came in contact with his granite will usually ended in quick

and abject submission.

II

One evening, a week after Stimson had indulged in the proud reflection

that people who came in contact with his granite will usually ended

in quick and abject submission, a young feminine friend of the girl

behind the silvered netting came to her there and asked her to walk on

the beach after "Stimson's Mammoth Merry-Go-Round" was closed for the

night. The girl assented with a nod.

The young man upon the perch holding the rings saw this nod and judged

its meaning. Into his mind came an idea of defeating the watchfulness

of the redoubtable Stimson.

When the Merry-Go-Round was closed and the two girls started for the

beach, he wandered off aimlessly in another direction, but he kept

them in view, and as soon as he was assured that he had escaped the

vigilance of Stimson, he followed them.

The electric lights on the beach made a broad band of tremoring

light, extending parallel to the sea, and upon the wide walk there

slowly paraded a great crowd, intermingling, intertwining, sometimes

colliding. In the darkness stretched the vast purple expanse of the

ocean, and the deep indigo sky above was peopled with yellow stars.

Occasionally out upon the water a whirling mass of froth suddenly

flashed into view, like a great ghostly robe appearing, and then

vanished, leaving the sea in its darkness, from whence came those bass

tones of the water's unknown emotion. A wind, cool, reminiscent of the

wave wastes, made the women hold their wraps about their throats, and

caused the men to grip the rims of their straw hats. It carried the

noise of the band in the pavilion in gusts. Sometimes people unable

to hear the music, glanced up at the pavilion and were reassured upon

beholding the distant leader still gesticulating and bobbing, and the

other members of the band with their lips glued to their instruments.

High in the sky soared an unassuming moon, faintly silver.

For a time the young man was afraid to approach the two girls; he

followed them at a distance and called himself a coward. At last,

however, he saw them stop on the outer edge of the crowd and stand

silently listening to the voices of the sea. When he came to where they

stood, he was trembling in his agitation. They had not seen him.

"Lizzie," he began. "I----"

The girl wheeled instantly and put her hand to her throat.

"Oh, Frank, how you frightened me," she said--inevitably.

"Well, you know I--I----" he stuttered.

But the other girl was one of those beings who are born to attend

at tragedies. She had for love a reverence, an admiration that was

greater the more that she contemplated the fact that she knew nothing

of it. This couple, with their emotions, awed her and made her humbly

wish that she might be destined to be of some service to them. She was

very homely.

When the young man faltered before them, she, in her sympathy, actually

over-estimated the crisis, and felt that he might fall dying at their

feet. Shyly, but with courage, she marched to the rescue.

"Won't you come and walk on the beach with us?" she said.

The young woman gave her a glance of deep gratitude which was not

without the patronage which a man in his condition naturally feels for

one who pities it. The three walked on.

Finally, the being who was born to attend at this tragedy, said that

she wished to sit down and gaze at the sea, alone.

They politely urged her to walk on with them, but she was obstinate.

She wished to gaze at the sea, alone. The young man swore to himself

that he would be her friend until he died.

And so the two young lovers went on without her. They turned once to

look at her.

"Jennie's awful nice," said the girl.

"You bet she is," replied the young man, ardently.

They were silent for a little time.

At last the girl said--

"You were angry at me yesterday."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were, too. You wouldn't look at me once all day."

"No, I wasn't angry. I was only putting on."

Though she had, of course, known it, this confession seemed to make her

very indignant. She flashed a resentful glance at him.

"Oh, were you, indeed?" she said with a great air.

For a few minutes she was so haughty with him that he loved her to

madness. And directly this poem, which stuck at his lips, came forth

lamely in fragments.

When they walked back toward the other girl and saw the patience of

her attitude, their hearts swelled in a patronizing and secondary

tenderness for her.

They were very happy. If they had been miserable they would have

charged this fairy scene of the night with a criminal heartlessness;

but as they were joyous, they vaguely wondered how the purple sea, the

yellow stars, the changing crowds under the electric lights could be so

phlegmatic and stolid.

They walked home by the lake-side way, and out upon the water those gay

paper lanterns, flashing, fleeting, and careering, sang to them, sang a

chorus of red and violet, and green and gold; a song of mystic bands of

the future.

One day, when business paused during a dull sultry afternoon, Stimson

went up town. Upon his return, he found that the popcorn man, from his

stand over in a corner, was keeping an eye upon the cashier's cage, and

that nobody at all was attending to the wooden arm and the iron rings.

He strode forward like a sergeant of grenadiers.

"Where in thunder is Lizzie?" he demanded, a cloud of rage in his eyes.

The popcorn man, although associated long with Stimson, had never got

over being dazed.

"They've--they've--gone round to th'--th'--house," he said with

difficulty, as if he had just been stunned.

"Whose house?" snapped Stimson.

"Your--your house, I 'spose," said the popcorn man.

Stimson marched round to his home. Kingly denunciations surged, already

formulated, to the tip of his tongue, and he bided the moment when his

anger could fall upon the heads of that pair of children. He found his

wife convulsive and in tears.

"Where's Lizzie?"

And then she burst forth--"Oh--John--John-they've run away, I know they

have. They drove by here not three minutes ago. They must have done

it on purpose to bid me good-bye, for Lizzie waved her hand sad-like;

and then, before I could get out to ask where they were going or what,

Frank whipped up the horse."

Stimson gave vent to a dreadful roar.

"Get my revolver--get a hack--get my revolver, do you hear--what the

devil----" His voice became incoherent.

He had always ordered his wife about as if she were a battalion of

infantry, and despite her misery, the training of years forced her to

spring mechanically to obey; but suddenly she turned to him with a

shrill appeal.

"Oh, John--not--the--revolver."

"Confound it, let go of me," he roared again, and shook her from him.

He ran hatless upon the street. There were a multitude of hacks at the

summer resort, but it was ages to him before he could find one. Then he

charged it like a bull.

"Uptown," he yelled, as he tumbled into the rear seat.

The hackman thought of severed arteries. His galloping horse distanced

a large number of citizens who had been running to find what caused

such contortions by the little hatless man.

It chanced as the bouncing hack went along near the lake, Stimson gazed

across the calm grey expanse and recognized a colour in a bonnet and

a pose of a head. A buggy was travelling along a highway that led to

Sorington. Stimson bellowed--"There--there--there they are--in that

buggy."

The hackman became inspired with the full knowledge of the situation.

He struck a delirious blow with the whip. His mouth expanded in a grin

of excitement and joy. It came to pass that this old vehicle, with its

drowsy horse and its dusty-eyed and tranquil driver, seemed suddenly to

awaken, to become animated and fleet. The horse ceased to ruminate on

his state, his air of reflection vanished. He became intent upon his

aged legs and spread them in quaint and ridiculous devices for speed.

The driver, his eyes shining, sat critically in his seat. He watched

each motion of this rattling machine down before him. He resembled

an engineer. He used the whip with judgment and deliberation as the

engineer would have used coal or oil. The horse clacked swiftly upon

the macadam, the wheels hummed, the body of the vehicle wheezed and

groaned.

Stimson, in the rear seat, was erect in that impassive attitude that

comes sometimes to the furious man when he is obliged to leave the

battle to others. Frequently, however, the tempest in his breast came

to his face and he howled--

"Go it--go it--you're gaining; pound 'im! Thump the life out of 'im;

hit 'im hard, you fool." His hand grasped the rod that supported the

carriage top, and it was clenched so that the nails were faintly blue.

Ahead, that other carriage had been flying with speed, as from

realization of the menace in the rear. It bowled away rapidly, drawn

by the eager spirit of a young and modern horse. Stimson could see

the buggy-top bobbing, bobbing. That little pane, like an eye, was a

derision to him. Once he leaned forward and bawled angry sentences. He

began to feel impotent; his whole expedition was a tottering of an old

man upon a trail of birds. A sense of age made him choke again with

wrath. That other vehicle, that was youth, with youth's pace; it was

swift-flying with the hope of dreams. He began to comprehend those two

children ahead of him, and he knew a sudden and strange awe, because he

understood the power of their young blood, the power to fly strongly

into the future and feel and hope again, even at that time when his

bones must be laid in the earth. The dust rose easily from the hot road

and stifled the nostrils of Stimson.

The highway vanished far away in a point with a suggestion of

intolerable length. The other vehicle was becoming so small that

Stimson could no longer see the derisive eye.

At last the hackman drew rein to his horse and turned to look at

Stimson.

"No use, I guess," he said.

Stimson made a gesture of acquiescence, rage, despair. As the

hackman turned his dripping horse about, Stimson sank back with the

astonishment and grief of a man who has been defied by the universe. He

had been in a great perspiration, and now his bald head felt cool and

uncomfortable. He put up his hand with a sudden recollection that he

had forgotten his hat.

At last he made a gesture. It meant that at any rate he was not

responsible.

A DETAIL

The tiny old lady in the black dress and curious little black bonnet

had at first seemed alarmed at the sound made by her feet upon the

stone pavements. But later she forgot about it, for she suddenly came

into the tempest of the Sixth Avenue shopping district, where from the

streams of people and vehicles went up a roar like that from headlong

mountain torrents.

She seemed then like a chip that catches, recoils, turns and wheels, a

reluctant thing in the clutch of the impetuous river. She hesitated,

faltered, debated with herself. Frequently she seemed about to address

people; then of a sudden she would evidently lose her courage.

Meanwhile the torrent jostled her, swung her this and that way.

At last, however, she saw two young women gazing in at a shop-window.

They were well-dressed girls; they wore gowns with enormous sleeves

that made them look like full-rigged ships with all sails set. They

seemed to have plenty of time; they leisurely scanned the goods in the

window. Other people had made the tiny old woman much afraid because

obviously they were speeding to keep such tremendously important

engagements. She went close to the girls and peered in at the same

window. She watched them furtively for a time. Then finally she said--

"Excuse me!"

The girls looked down at this old face with its two large eyes turned

towards them.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where I can get any work?"

For an instant the two girls stared. Then they seemed about to exchange

a smile, but, at the last moment, they checked it. The tiny old lady's

eyes were upon them. She was quaintly serious, silently expectant.

She made one marvel that in that face the wrinkles showed no trace of

experience, knowledge; they were simply little, soft, innocent creases.

As for her glance, it had the trustfulness of ignorance and the candour

of babyhood.

"I want to get something to do, because I need the money," she

continued since, in their astonishment, they had not replied to her

first question. "Of course I'm not strong and I couldn't do very much,

but I can sew well; and in a house where there was a good many men

folks, I could do all the mending. Do you know any place where they

would like me to come?"

The young women did then exchange a smile, but it was a subtle tender

smile, the edge of personal grief.

"Well, no, madame," hesitatingly said one of them at last; "I don't

think I know any one."

A shade passed over the tiny old lady's face, a shadow of the wing of

disappointment.

"Don't you?" she said, with a little struggle to be brave, in her voice.

Then the girl hastily continued--"But if you will give me your address,

I may find some one, and if I do, I will surely let you know of it."

The tiny old lady dictated her address, bending over to watch the girl

write on a visiting card with a little silver pencil. Then she said--

"I thank you very much." She bowed to them, smiling, and went on down

the avenue.

As for the two girls, they walked to the curb and watched this aged

figure, small and frail, in its black gown and curious black bonnet.

At last, the crowd, the innumerable wagons, intermingling and changing

with uproar and riot, suddenly engulfed it.

*************************************

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,

London & Bungay.

*************************************

STEPHEN CRANE'S WORKS

---------

THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE

_Post 8vo, cloth, 3s. net; ornamental

wrapper, 2s. 6d. net._

[PIONEER SERIES.

_The Saturday Review_--"Mr. Stephen Crane's picture of the effect of

actual fighting on a raw regiment is simply unapproached in intimate

knowledge and sustained imaginative strength. In the supreme moments

of the fight he is possessed by the fiery breath of battle, and finds

an inspired utterance that will reach the universal heart of man. This

extraordinary book will appeal strongly to the insatiable desire to

know the psychology of war--how the sights and sounds, the terrible

details of the drama of battle, affect the senses and the soul of man."

_St. James's Gazette_--"This is not merely a remarkable book; it is a

revelation Mr. Crane has laid the War God on the dissecting-table, and

exposed his every bone and nerve and sinew and artery to the public

gaze."

_The Speaker_--"Every page is crowded, not merely with incidents such

as the war correspondent describes, but with the tragedy of life. The

reader sees the battle, not from afar, but from the inside. He hears

the laboured breathing of the wearied soldiers, sees the colour rising

and falling in their cheeks, and feels at heart as they themselves did

in this first act in the tremendous drama which so many people talk

about and so few understand.... As a work of art, _The Red Badge of

Courage_ deserves high praise. As a moral lesson that mankind still

needs, the praise it deserves is higher still."

---------

THE LITTLE REGIMENT

_Post 8vo, cloth, 3s. net; ornamental

wrapper, 2s. 6d. net._

[PIONEER SERIES.

_The Athenæum_--"The extraordinary power of imagination is more

wonderful than that of Defoe. It is in dialogue that he is at his

strongest, for in this the words are used as the soldiers would have

used them."

---------------

London: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford Street, W.C.

*************************************

STEPHEN CRANE'S WORKS

---------

THE THIRD VIOLET

_Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s._

_The Athenæum_--"A vividness of portraiture which puts _The Third

Violet_ on a high level--higher, we think, than Mr. Crane's very

different _Maggie_, though perhaps lower than _The Little Regiment_,

which is also very different. In his present book Mr. Crane is more

the rival of Mr. Henry James than of Mr. Rudyard Kipling. But he is

intensely American, which can hardly be said of Mr. Henry James, and

it is possible that if he continues in his present line of writing he

may be the author who will introduce the United States to the ordinary

English world. We have never come across a book that brought certain

sections of American society so perfectly before the reader as does

_The Third Violet_. The picture is an extremely pleasant one, and its

truth appeals to the English reader, so that the effect of the book

is to draw him nearer to his American cousins. _The Third Violet_

incidentally contains the best dog that we have come across in modern

fiction. Mr. Crane's dialogue is excellent, and it is dialogue of a

type for which neither _The Red Badge of Courage_ nor his other books

had prepared us."

_The Academy_--"By this latest product of his genius our impression of

Mr. Crane is confirmed: that for psychological insight, for dramatic

intensity, and for potency of phrase he is already in the front rank of

English-American writers of fiction, and that he possesses a certain

separate quality which places him apart. It is a short story and a

slender, but taking it in conjunction with what he has previously given

us, there remains, in our judgment, no room for doubt."

_The Bookman_--"An idyll, and a very pretty one. In _The Red Badge of

Courage_ and _Maggie_ there is an intenser force; but in this slighter

effort we feel the same directness, the same true reading of the

workings of the mind, the same contempt for conventions and clap-trap

sentiment."

_The Sketch_--"There is a strong human interest in it, and a boyish

vigour which is refreshing."

_The Scotsman_--"It is very light, very amusing, and very American. The

literary touch is singularly deft and felicitous, the strokes playful

but unerring.... The treatment has the distinction which only a vivid

imagination, a fine dramatic faculty and an intuitive perception of the

deeper things of human nature can give to a book."

_Manchester Guardian_--"It is invigorating to follow the breezy

mountain life up in the pine woods.... The book abounds in those

felicitous descriptions and bright dialogues of which Mr. Crane is

master.... One more delightful dog is added to the heroes of fiction."

_Daily Mail_--"We would not for the world have it other than it is....

In its short tantalisingly abrupt chapters, the tale gives the history

of a wooing, a history clear, simple, and often sparkling as a rill of

spring water."

---------

MAGGIE: A Child of the Streets

_12mo, buckram, gilt top, 2s._

_The Literary World_--"Contains all the force, all the power, and all

the reality which Mr. Crane has proved his pen to possess."

---------

THE BLACK RIDERS: Verse

_12mo, leather, gilt top, 3s. net._

---------------

London: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford Street, W.C.