SOME HOOP-LA FOR THE BOSS
I must say it wa'n't such a swell time for Mr. Robert to be indulgin' in
any complicated love affair. You know how business has been, specially
our line. And our directors was about as calm as a bunch of high school
girls havin' hysterics. Jumpy? Say, some of them double-chinned old
plutes couldn't reach for a glass of ice water without goin' through
motions like they was shakin' dice.
It's this sporty market that had got on their nerves. You know, all
these combine rumors--this bunk about Germany buyin' up plants
wholesale, and the grand scrabble to fill all them whackin' big foreign
orders, with steamer charters about as numerous as twin baby carriages
along Riverside Drive. Why, say, at one time there you could have sold
us ferryboats or garbage-scows, we was so hungry for anything that would
carry ocean freights.
And, of course, with Old Hickory Ellins at the helm, the Corrugated
Trust was right in the thick of it. About twice a week some fool yarn
was floated about us. We'd sold out to Krupps and was goin' to close;
we'd tied up with Bethlehem; we'd underbid on a flock of submarines and
was due for a receivership--oh, a choice lot of piffle!
But a few of them nervous old boys, who was placid enough at annual
meetin's watchin' a melon bein' cut, just couldn't stand the strain.
Every time they got fed up on some new dope from the Wall Street panic
peddlers, they'd come around howlin' for a safe and sane policy. I stood
it until here the other mornin' when a bunch of soreheads showed up
before nine o'clock and proceeds to hold an indignation meetin' in front
of my desk.
"Gwan!" says I. "Nobody's rockin' the boat but you. Go sit on your
checkbooks."
They just glares at me.
"Where is Old Hickory?" one of 'em wants to know.
"About now," says I, "Mr. Ellins would be finishin' the last of three
soft-boiled eggs. He'll show up here at nine-forty-five."
"Mr. Robert Ellins, then?" demands another.
"Say, I'm no puzzle editor," says I. "Maybe he'll be here to-day and
maybe he won't."
"But we couldn't find him yesterday, either," comes back an old goat
with tufts in his ears.
"That's a way he has these days," says I.
No use tryin' to smooth things over. It's Mr. Robert they'd been sore on
all along, suspectin' him of startin' all the wild schemes just because
he's young. I'd heard 'em, after they'd moved into the directors' room,
insistin' that he ought to be asked to resign. And what they was beefin'
specially about to-day was because of a tale that a Chicago syndicate
had jumped in and bought the _Balboa_, a 10,000-ton Norwegian freighter
that we was supposed to have an option on. It was the final blow. That
satisfied 'em they was being sold out, and their best guess was that Mr.
Robert was turnin' the trick.
I was standin' by, listenin' to the general grouch develop, and
wonderin' how long before they'd organize a lynchin' committee, when I
hears the brass gate slam, and into the private office breezes Mr.
Robert himself, lookin' fresh and chirky, his hat tilted well back, and
swingin' a bamboo walkin'-stick. When he sees me, he springs a wide grin
and grabs me by the shoulders.
"Torchy, you sunny-haired emblem of good luck!" he sings out. "What do
you think! I've--got--her!"
"Eh!" says I. "The _Balboa_?"
"The _Balboa_ be hanged!" says he. "No, no! Elsa--Miss Hampton, you
know! She's mine, Torchy; she's mine!"
"S-s-s-sh!" says I, noddin' towards the other room. "Forget her a minute
and brace yourself for a run-in with that gang of rag-chewers in there."
Does he? Say, without even stoppin' to size 'em up, he prances right in
amongst 'em, free and careless.
"Why, hello, Ryder!" says he, handin' out a brisk shoulder-pat. "Ah, Mr.
Larkin! Mr. Busbee! Well, well! You too, Hyde? Hail, all of you, and the
top of the morning! Gentlemen," he goes on, shakin' hands right and left
without noticin' how reluctant some of the palms came out, "I--er--I
have a little announcement to make."
"Humph!" snorts old Busbee. "Have you?"
"Yes," says Mr. Robert, smilin' mushy. "I--er--the fact is, I am going
to be married."
"The bonehead!" I whispers husky.
Old Lawson T. Ryder, the one with the bushy white eyebrows and the heavy
dewlaps, he puffs out his cheeks and works that under jaw of his
menacin'.
"Really!" says he. "But what about the _Balboa_? Eh?"
"Oh!" says Mr. Robert casual. "The _Balboa_? Yes, yes! Didn't I tell
someone to attend to that? A charter, wasn't it? Torchy, were you----"
I shakes my head.
"Perhaps it was Mr. Piddie, then," says he. "Anyway, I thought I
asked----"
"Here's Piddie now, sir," says I. "Looks like he'd been after
something."
He's a wreck, that's all. His derby is caved in, his black cutaway all
smooched with lime or something, and one eye is tinted up lovely. In his
right fist, though, he has a long yellow envelope.
"The charter!" he gasps out dramatic. "_Balboa!_"
And, by piecin' out more jerky bulletins, it's clear that Piddie has
pulled off the prize stunt of his whole career. He'd gone out after that
charter at lunchtime the day before, been stalled off by office clerks
probably subsidized by the opposition, spent the night hangin' around
the water-front, and got mixed up with a dock gang; but, by bein' on
hand early, he'd caught one of the shippin' firm and closed the option
barely two hours before it lapsed. And as he sinks limp into a chair he
glances appealin' at Mr. Robert, no doubt expectin' to be decorated on
the spot.
"By George!" says Mr. Robert. "Good work! But you haven't heard of my
great luck meantime. Listen, Piddie. I am to be married!"
I thought Piddie would croak.
"Think of that, gentlemen," cuts in old Busbee sarcastic. "He is to be
married!"
But it needs more 'n a little jab like that to bring Mr. Robert out of
his Romeo trance. Honest, the way he carries on is amazin'. You might
have thought this was the first case on record where a girl who'd said
she wouldn't had changed her mind. And, so far as any other happenin's
was concerned, he might have been deaf, dumb, and blind. The entire news
of the world that mornin' he could boil down into one official
statement: Elsa had said she'd have him! Hip, hip! Banzai! Elsa forever!
He flashed that miniature of her and passed it around. He nudges Lawson
T. Ryder playful in the short ribs, hammers Deacon Larkin on the back,
and then groups himself, beamin' foolish, with one arm around old Busbee
and the other around Mr. Hyde.
Maybe you know how catchin' that sort of thing is? It's got the measles
or barber's itch beat seven ways. That bunch of grouches just couldn't
resist. Inside of five minutes they was grinnin' with him, and when I
finally shoos 'em out they was formin' a committee to shake each other
down for two hundred per towards a weddin' present.
I finds it about as much use tryin' to get Mr. Robert to settle down to
business as it would be teachin' a hummin'-bird to sit for his
photograph. So I gives up, and asks for details of the big event.
"When does it come off?" says I.
"Oh, right away," says he. "I don't know just when; but soon--very
soon."
"Home or church?" says I.
"Oh, either," says he. "It doesn't matter in the least."
"Maybe it don't," says I, "but it's a point someone has to settle, you
know."
"Yes, yes," says he, wavin' careless. "I've no doubt someone will."
He was right. Up to then I hadn't heard much about Miss Hampton's fam'ly
except that she was an orphan, and I expect Mr. Robert had an idea there
wa'n't any nosey relations to butt in. But it ain't three days after the
engagement got noised around that a cousin of Elsa's shows up, a Mrs.
Montgomery Pulsifer--a swell party with a big place in the Berkshires.
Seems she'd been kind of cold and distant to Miss Hampton on account of
her bein' a concert singer; but, now that Elsa has drawn down a prize
like Robert Ellins, here comes Mrs. Pulsifer flutterin' to town, all
smiles and greatly excited. Where was the wedding to be? And the
reception? Not in this stuffy little hotel suite, she hopes! Why not at
Crag Oaks, her place near Lenox? There was the dearest little
ivy-covered church! And a perfectly charming rector!
Then Sister Marjorie is called in. Sure, she was strong for the frilly
stuff. If Brother Robert had finally decided to be married, it must be
done properly. And Mrs. Pulsifer's country house would be just the
place. Only, she had an idea that their old fam'ly friend, the Bishop,
ought to be asked to officiate. The perfectly charming rector might
assist.
"Why, to be sure!" says Mrs. Pulsifer. "The Bishop, by all means."
Anyway, it went something like that; and the first thing Mr. Robert
knows, they've doped out for him a regulation three-ring splicefest with
all the trimmin's, from a gold-braided carriage caller to a special
train for the Newport guests. And, bein' still busy with his rosy
dreams, Mr. Robert don't get wise to what's been framed up for him until
here Saturday afternoon out at Marjorie's, when they start to spring the
programme on him.
"Why, see here, sis," says he, "you've put this three weeks off!"
"The bridesmaids' gowns can't be finished a day sooner," says Marjorie.
"Besides, the invitations must be engraved; you can't get a caterer
like Marselli at a moment's notice; and there is the organ to be
installed, you know."
"Organ!" protests Mr. Robert. "Oh, I say!"
"You don't expect the Lohengrin March to be played on drums, I hope,"
said Marjorie. "Do be sensible! You've been best man times enough to
know that----"
"Great Scott, yes," says Mr. Robert. "But really, sis, I don't want to
go through all that dreary business--dragging in to the wedding-march,
with everyone looking solemn and holding their breath while they stare
at you! Why, it's deadly! Gloomy, you know; a relic of barbarism worthy
of some savage tribe."
"Why, Robert!" protests Marjorie.
"But it is," he goes on. "Haven't I pitied the poor victims who had to
go through with it? Think of having to run that gauntlet--morbidly
curious old women, silly girls, bored men--and trying to keep step to
that confounded dirge. Wedding march, indeed! They make it sound more
like the march of the condemned. _Tum-tum-te-dum!_ Ugh! I tell you,
Marjorie, I'm not going to have it. Nor any of this stodgy, grewsome
fuss. I mean to have a cheerful wedding."
"Humph!" says Marjorie. "I suppose you would like to hop-skip-and-jump
down to the altar?"
"Why not?" asks Mr. Robert.
"Don't be absurd, Robert," says she. "You'll be married quite
respectably and sanely, as other people are. Anyway, you'll just have
to. Mrs. Pulsifer and I are managing the affair, remember."
"Are you?" says Mr. Robert, lettin' out the first growl I'd heard from
him in over a week.
I nudges Vee and we exchanges grins.
"The groom always takes on that way," she whispers. "It's the usual
thing."
I was sorry for the Boss, too. He'd been havin' such a good time before.
But now he goes off with his chin down and his brow all wrinkled up.
Course we knew he'd go straight to Elsa and tell her his troubles. But I
couldn't see where that was goin' to do him any good. You know how women
are about such things. They may be willin' to take a chance along some
lines, but when it comes to weddin's and funerals they're stand-patters.
So Sunday afternoon, when I gets a 'phone call from Mr. Robert askin' me
to meet him at Miss Hampton's apartment, and he adds that he's decided
to duck the whole Crag Oaks proposition and do it his own way, I demands
suspicious:
"But how about Miss Elsa?"
"She feels just as I do about it," says he. "Come up. She will tell you
so herself."
And she does.
"I think it's the silly veil to which I object most," says she. "As if
anyone ever did see a blushing bride! Why, the ordeal has them half
scared to death, poor things! And no wonder. Yes, I quite agree with
Robert. Weddings should be actually happy affairs--not stiff, gloomy
ceremonies cumbered with outworn conventions. I've seen women weep at
weddings. If I should catch one doing that at mine, I should be tempted
to box her ears. Really! So we have decided that our wedding must be a
merry one. That is why, Torchy, we have sent for you."
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.
"You are to be best man," says Mr. Robert, clappin' me on the back.
"Me?" I gasps. "Ah, say!"
"Your Miss Verona," adds Elsa, "is to be my only bridesmaid."
"Well, that helps," says I. "But how--where----"
"It doesn't matter," says Mr. Robert. "Anywhere in the State--or I can
get a Connecticut or New Jersey license. It shall be wherever you
decide."
"Wha-a-at?" says I.
Mr. Robert chuckles.
"As best man," he goes on, "we appoint you general manager of the whole
affair; don't we, Elsa?"
She nods, smilin'.
"With full powers," says she.
"We'll motor out somewhere," adds Mr. Robert. "You and Miss Vee take the
limousine; we will go in the roadster. If Marjorie and Ferdie wish to
come along, they can join us in their car."
"How about a dominie?" says I. "Do I pick up one casual along the road?"
"Oh, I forgot the Reverend Percy," says Mr. Robert. "He's consented to
quit that East Side settlement work of his for a day. You'll have to
take him along. Now, how soon may we start? To-morrow morning, say?"
"Hel-lup!" says I. "I'm gettin' dizzy."
"Then Tuesday," says he, "at nine-thirty sharp."
"But say, Mr. Robert," says I, "just what----"
"Only make it as merry as you know how," he breaks in. "That's the main
idea; isn't it, Elsa?"
Another nod from Elsa.
"Robert has great faith in you as a promoter of cheerful affairs," says
she. "I think I have, too."
"That being the case," says I, "I got to live up to my rep. or strip a
gear. So here goes."
With which I breezes out and pikes uptown to consult Vee.
"Did you ever hear anything so batty?" says I.
"Why, I think it's perfectly splendid fun," says Vee. "Just think,
Torchy, you can do anything you choose!"
"It's the choosin' that's goin' to bother me," says I. "I'm no
matrimonial stage manager. I don't even know where to pull the thing
off."
"I've thought of just the place," says she. "Harbor Hill, the Vernon
Markleys' place out on Long Island. They're in the mountains now, you
know, and the house is closed; but----"
"You ain't thinkin' of borrowin' their garage for this, are you?" says
I.
"Silly!" says she. "Mrs. Markley's open-air Greek theater! You must have
seen pictures of it. It's a dream--white cement pergolas covered with
woodbine and pink ramblers, and a wonderful stretch of lawn in front. It
would be an ideal setting. She's a great friend of Aunty's. We'll just
wire for her permission; shall we?"
"Listens good," says I. "But we got to get busy. Tuesday, you know. What
about eats, though?"
"There's a country club only half a mile away," says she.
"You're some grand little planner," says I. "Now let me go plot out how
to put the tra-la-la business into the proceedin's."
I had a hunch that part would come easy, too; but after a couple of
hours' steady thinkin' I decided that as a joy producer I'd been
overrated. The best I could dig out was to hunt up some music, and by
Monday noon that was my total contribution. I'd hired a band. It's some
band, though--one of these fifteen-piece dance-hall combinations that
had just closed a Coney Island engagement and was guaranteed to tear off
this affair in zippy style. I left word what station they was to get off
at, and 'phoned for a couple of jitneys to meet 'em. For the rest, I was
bankin' on my luck.
And right on schedule we makes a nine-thirty getaway--three machines in
all; for, while Marjorie had thrown seventeen cat fits when she first
heard that Brother Robert had renigged, she shows up with Ferdie at the
last minute. Catch her missin' out on any kind of a weddin'!
"But just where, Robert," she demands, "is this absurd affair to take
place?"
"Haven't the least idea," says he. "Ask Torchy."
So I names the spot, gives the chauffeurs their route directions, and
off we booms across the College Point ferry and out towards the far end
of the north shore. The Reverend Percy turns out to be kind of a solemn,
serious-minded gink. Seems he'd been in college with Mr. Robert, had
rooms just across the hall, and accordin' to his tell them must have
been lively days.
"Although I can't say," he adds, "that at all times I enjoyed being
pulled out of bed at 2 A.M. to act as judge of an ethical debate between
a fuddled cab-driver and a star halfback who had been celebrating a
football victory. I fear I considered Bob's sense of humor somewhat
overdeveloped. Just like him, running off like this. I trust the affair
is not going to be made too unconventional."
I winks at Vee.
"Only an open-air performance," says I, "with maybe a little cheerin'
music to liven things up. His instructions are to have it merry."
"Ah, yes!" says the Reverend Percy. "Quite so. I understand."
If he did he was a better guesser than me. For I was more or less at
sea. We hadn't more than whirled in through the stone gate-posts of
Harbor Hill, too, than I begun to scent complications. For there, lined
up in front of the house, are four other machines, with a whole mob of
people around 'em.
"Why!" says Vee. "Who can they be?"
"Looks like someone had beaten us to it," says I. "I'll go do some
scoutin'."
Course, one close-up look is all that's needed. It's a movie outfit. I'm
just gettin' hot under the collar, too, when I discovers that the gent
in charge is none other than my old newspaper friend, Whitey Weeks. I'd
heard how he'd gone into the film game as stage director, but I hadn't
seen him at it yet. And here he is, big as life, wearin' a suit of noisy
plaids as usual, and bossin' this assorted bunch of screen favorites
like he'd done it all his life.
"A little lively with those grease-paints now, ladies," he's callin'
out. "This isn't for a next spring release, you know."
"Huh!" says I, strollin' up. "Got the same old nerve with you, eh,
Whitey?"
"Well, well!" says he. "The illustrious and illuminating Torchy! Don't
tell me you've just bought the estate?"
"Would it matter to you who owned it," says I, "if you wanted to use it
bad?"
"Such cruel suspicions!" says he. "Sir, my permit!"
He's got it, straight enough--a note to the lodge-keeper, signed by Mrs.
Vernon Markley, and statin' that the Unexcelled Film Company was to
have the courtesy of the grounds any afternoon between the 15th and
25th.
"You see," explains Whitey, "we're staging an old English costume piece,
and this Greek theater of Mrs. Markley's just fits in. Our president
worked the deal for us. And we've got to do a thousand feet between now
and five o'clock. Not in the same line, are you?"
And he glances towards our crowd, that's pilin' out of the cars and
gazin' puzzled towards us.
"Do we look it?" says I. "No, what we was plannin' to pull off here was
a weddin'. That's the groom there--my boss, Mr. Robert Ellins."
"Bob Ellins!" says Whitey. "Whe-e-ew!"
"Mrs. Markley must have forgot," says I. "Makes it kind of awkward for
us, though."
"But see here," says Whitey. "A real wedding, you say? Why, that's odd!
That's our stunt, with merry villagers and all that stuff. Now, say, why
couldn't we---- Let's see! Do you suppose Mr. Ellins would mind if----"
I got the idea in a flash.
"He won't mind anything," says I, "so long as he can be married merry.
He's leavin' that to me--the whole act."
"By Jove!" says Whitey. "The very thing, then. We'll---- But who else is
this arriving? Look, coming in, two motor-buses full!"
"That's our band," says I.
"Great!" says Whitey. "Rovelli's, too! Say, this is going to be a bit of
all right! Have him form 'em on between those cedars, out of range. Now
we'll just get your folks into costume, let our company trail along as
part of the wedding procession, and shoot the dear public the real
thing, for once. What do you say?"
Course, considerin' how Mr. Robert had shied at a hundred or so
spectators, this lettin' him in on a film exchange circuit might seem a
little raw; but it was too good a chance to miss. Another minute, and
I'm strollin' over, lookin' bland and innocent.
"Any hitch?" says Mr. Robert. "Have we got to the wrong place?"
"Not much," says I. "This is the right place at the right time. Didn't
you tell me to go as far as I liked, so long as I made it merry?"
"So I did, Torchy," he admits.
"Then prepare to cut loose," says I. "This way, everybody, and get on
your weddin' clothes!"
For a second or so Mr. Robert hangs back. He glances doubtful at Miss
Hampton. But say, she's a good sport, she is.
"Come along, Robert," says she. "I'm sure Torchy has planned something
unique."
I didn't dispute her. It was all of that. First we groups the ladies on
the south veranda behind a lot of screens, and herds the men around the
corner. Then we unpacks them suitcases of Whitey's and distributes the
things. Such regalias, too! What Mr. Robert draws is mostly two colored
tights, spangled trunks, a gorgeous cape, peak-toed shoes of red
leather, and a sword. Maybe he didn't look some spiffy in it!
You should have seen Ferdie, though, with a tow-colored wig clapped down
over his ears and his spindle shanks revealed to a cold and cruel world
in a pair of faded pink ballet trousers. For the Reverend Percy they dug
out a fuzzy brown bathrobe with a hood, and tied a rope around his
waist. Me, I'm dolled up in green tights and a leather coat, and get a
bugle to carry.
How frisky a few freak clothes make you feel, don't they? Mr. Robert
begins cuttin' up at once, and even Ferdie shows signs of wantin' to
indulge in frivolous motions, if he only knew how. The reg'lar movie
people gets the idea this is goin' to be some kind of a lark, and they
joins in, too. When the ladies appeared they sure looked stunnin'. Miss
Hampton has on a fancy flarin' collar two feet high, and a skirt like a
balloon; but she's a star in it just the same. Sister Marjorie, who's a
bit husky anyway, looks like a human hay-stack in that rig. And
Vee--well, say, she'd be a winner in any date costume you could name.
Meanwhile Whitey has posted his camera men in the shrubbery, where they
can get the focus without bein' seen, and has rounded us up for a little
preliminary coachin'.
"Remember," says he, "what we're supposed to be doing is a wedding, back
in the days of Robin Hood, with all the merry villagers given a day off.
So make it snappy. We want action, lots of it. Let yourselves go. Laugh,
kick up your heels, let out the hi-yi-yips! Now, then! Are you ready?"
"Wait until I start the band," says I. "Hey, there, Mr. Rovelli! Music
cue! Something zippy and raggy. Shoot it!"
Say, I don't know how them early English parties used to put it over
when they got together for a mad, gladsome romp on the greensward, but
if they had anything on us they must have been double-jointed. For, with
Mr. Robert and Miss Hampton skippin' along hand in hand, Vee and me
keepin' step behind, a couple of movie ladies rushin' the Reverend Percy
over the grass rapid, and the other couples with arms linked, doin'
fancy steps to a jingly fox-trot--well, take it from me, it was gay
doin's.
And when we'd galloped around over the lawn until we'd bunched for the
weddin' picture in front of this Greek theater effect, the Reverend
Percy had barely breath enough left to go through his lines. He does,
though, with Mr. Robert addin' joshin' remarks; and we winds up by
givin' the bride and groom three rousin' cheers and peltin' 'em with
roses as they makes a run through the double line we forms.
Yep, that was some weddin', if I do say it. And the sit-down luncheon
I'd ordered at the Country Club in Mr. Robert's name wa'n't any skimpy
affair, even though we did spring an extra number on 'em offhand. For
the boss insists on goin' just as we are, in our costumes, and luggin'
along all the movie people. The reckless way he buys fizz for 'em, too!
And, by the time the party breaks up, Whitey Weeks is so full of
gratitude and enthusiasm and other things that he near bubbles over.
"Torchy," says he, wringin' my hand fraternal, "you have given my
company the time of their lives. They're all strong for you. And, say,
I've got a thousand feet of film that's simply going to knock 'em cold
at the first-run houses. Any time I can----"
"Don't mention it," says I. "Specially about that film. The boss don't
know yet that you had the camera goin'. Thought it was only rehearsin',
I guess. All he's sure of now is that he's been married merry. And if he
ever forgets just how merry, for a dime he can go take a look and
refresh his mem'ry, can't he? But I'm bettin' he never forgets."
THE END
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree
that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine
lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he
finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the
_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and
the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder
chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."
THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come."
It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which
often springs the flower of civilization.
"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he
came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood,
seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and
mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming
waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in
the mountains.
A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of
moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the
heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two
impetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's"
charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in
the love making of the mountaineers.
Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some
of Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.
Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
ZANE GREY'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS
Colored frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton.
Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent Mexican
border of the present day. A New York society girl buys a ranch which
becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal cowboys defend her
property from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she is
captured by them. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful
close.
DESERT GOLD
Illustrated by Douglas Duer.
Another fascinating story of the Mexican border. Two men, lost in the
desert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go no
farther. The rest of the story describes the recent uprising along the
border, and ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectors
had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine.
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
Illustrated by Douglas Duer.
A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon
authority ruled. In the persecution of Jane Withersteen, a rich ranch
owner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisible
hand of the Mormon Church to break her will.
THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN
Illustrated with photograph reproductions.
This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones,
known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert
and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canons
and giant pines." It is a fascinating story.
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
Jacket in color. Frontispiece.
This big human drama is played in the Painted Desert. A lovely girl,
who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New
Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall
become the second wife of one of the Mormons----
Well, that's the problem of this sensational, big selling story.
BETTY ZANE
Illustrated by Louis F. Grant.
This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful
young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. Life
along the frontier, attacks by Indians, Betty's heroic defense of the
beleaguered garrison at Wheeling, the burning of the Fort, and Betty's
final race for life, make up this never-to-be-forgotten story.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK