So the big companies spoke at last. And as I read the papers, at home

that day at breakfast, I remembered what Eleanore's father had said:

"Don't let yourself forget for one minute that the men behind me are

going to stamp out this strike." Not without a fight, I thought. But I

was anxious and depressed. Dillon had not come of late, he had felt that

we wanted to be alone. As now I glanced at Eleanore, whose eyes were

intent on the news of the day, I saw with a rush of pity and love how

alone she suddenly felt in all this. A moment later she looked up.

"Pretty bad, isn't it, dear?" she said.

"It doesn't look very fine just now."

"Are you going down to the docks?"

"Yes, they'll want me," I replied, "to write some answer to this stuff."

"Can you wait a few moments?" Eleanore rose. "I'll get on my hat. I

promised Nora Ganey I'd run her relief station for her to-day." I took

her a moment in my arms:

"You're no quitter, are you?" I said.

"We're in this now," she answered, just a little breathlessly. "And so

of course we'll see it through."

So we went down together.

The waterfront looked different now. In front of the docks where work

had begun a large space had been roped off. Inside the rope was an

unbroken cordon of police. And without, but pressing close, the

multitude of people for whom in a day so much had been changed, moved

restlessly, no longer sure of its power, no longer sure of anything but

a fast rising hatred of the men who had taken their jobs. As at times

the police lines tightened and the negroes came out for more freight,

thousands of ominous eyes looked on. Standing here at one such time, I

saw a negro striker pass. His head was down and he walked quickly--for

race feeling had begun.

The first ship sailed that evening. Tens of thousands watched her sail.

And a bitter voice beside me said,

"Laughing ain't going to be enough."

Among men on strike there are two kinds of attitudes toward those who

take their places. The first is the scorn of the man who is winning.

"You are a dirty scab," it says. "You're a Judas to the working class

and a thief who is trying to steal my job. But you won't get it, we're

bound to win, and you're barely worth kicking out of the way." The

second is quite a different feeling. In this is the fear of the man who

is losing--and fear, as an English writer has said, is the great mother

of violence. "You _may keep_ my job! And if you do I'll be left with

nothing to live on!" It is this second attitude which is dreaded by

strike leaders, for it leads to a loss of all control, to machine guns

and defeat.

With a deepening uneasiness I saw this feeling now appear. Starting in

small groups of men, I saw it spread out over the mass with the speed of

a prairie fire. I felt it that afternoon on the Farm, changing with a

startling speed that sure and mighty giant, the crowd, into a blind

disordered throng, a mottled mass of groups of men angrily discussing

the news. Threats against "scabs" were shouted out, the word "scab"

arose on every side. Bitter things were said against "coons," not only

"scabs" but "all of 'em, God damn 'em!" There were hints of violence and

open threats of sabotage, things done to dock machinery.

But presently, by slow degrees, as though by a deep instinct groping for

the giant spirit that had been its life and soul, I felt the crowd now

gather itself. Slowly the cries all died away and all eyes turned to the

leader. Facing them with arms upraised, Marsh stood on the speakers'

pile, his own face imperturbable, his own voice absolutely sure.

"Boys," he said, when silence had come, "one lonesome ship has gone to

sea--so badly loaded, they tell me, that she ain't got even a chance in

a storm. She was loaded by scabs."

A savage storm of "booh's" burst forth. He waited until it subsided and

then continued quietly:

"We have no use for scabs, black or white. But we have use for strikers,

_both_ black and white--our negro brothers are with us still, and we'll

show them we know that they are our brothers. We're going to stand

together, we won't let the bosses split us apart. And when we read the

papers to-morrow we're going to ask if the news is all there--not the

little news in big headlines about a ship or two leaving port, but the

big news in a little paragraph, that you have so stopped this nation's

trade that now its Congress is demanding that your masters come to

terms! And as for this lonesome ship that has sailed, if you want to see

just how much that means, go down and look at Wall Street. They say down

there, 'We're all right now.' But their market prices say, 'We're all

wrong!'"

Suddenly out of the multitude there came a high, clear voice:

"You seem to know Wall Street, Brother Marsh. Have you been selling

short down there? Who's your private broker?"

Instantly there was a rush toward the questioner, but a group of police

formed quickly around him and he was hurried out of the way.

"Get after that, Jim, get after it quick!" said Joe by my side. And

Marsh lost not a moment.

"Let that man go!" he shouted. "He was sent here to try to stir up a

riot. That lie was framed up 'way downtown! But it is a lie and you all

know it--you know how I live and how my wife lives--we don't exactly

roll in wealth! But even if I were a crook, or if I were dead, this

strike would go on exactly the same--for think a minute and you'll see

that whatever has been done in this struggle has been done each time by

you. It's you who have decided each point. It's you who have been called

here to-day to decide the one big question. Congress has said,

'Arbitrate.' It's for you all to decide on our answer. This is no

one-man union, there is no one man they can fix, nor even a small

committee. We're a committee of fifty thousand here to make our own laws

for ourselves. As you lift up your hands and vote, so it will be

decided. But before you do I want to say this. I care so little for Wall

Street and I am so sure we'll win this strike, that with all the

strength I have in me I beg you to answer, 'No arbitration, nothing half

way! All or nothing!' If this is your answer, hold up your hands!"

Up went the hands by thousands, the crowd was all together now and again

it spoke in one great roar. And with a sudden rush of hope I told

myself, "It's still alive! This fight has only just begun!"

"That is our answer to Congress," said Marsh, when again quiet had been

restored. "That is the law which we have enacted. This strike is to be

fought through to the end. We are not to be scared by Wall Street or

worked upon by their hired thugs and so resort to violence. I am not

afraid of violence," he continued sharply, "I am here to preach it. But

the only violence I preach is the violence of folded arms. You have

folded your arms and their ships are dead. No other kind is so deadly as

that. Only hold to this kind of violence, and though they may send out a

ship here and there, this great port of New York will stay

closed--bringing ruin all over the land--till the nation turns to Wall

Street and says, 'We cannot wait! You will have to give in!'"

As he ended his speech, it seemed to me as though he were reaching far

out, gripping that throng and holding it in. But for how long could he

hold them?

Every paper that they read had suddenly turned against them and

prophesied their swift defeat. Two more ships sailed that night. And as

Marsh had foretold, their sailing was played up in pictures and huge

headlines, while the statement that I wrote was cut to one small

paragraph and put upon the second page.

That night, with the eager aid of strikers of five nationalities, I

wrote a message to the crowd, translated it into German and French,

Spanish, Italian and Polish. A socialist paper loaned us their press,

and by noon our message was scattered in leaflets all up and down the

waterfront. This message went out daily now. For the greater part of

each night I sat in strike headquarters and wrote direct to the

tenements.

* * * * *

The next day Marsh proposed a parade, and the Farm took it up with

prompt acclaim. He challenged the mayor of the city to stop it. To

friends who came to him later he said:

"You tell the mayor that I'm doing my best to give these men something

peaceful to do. If he wants to help me, all well and good. If he don't,

let him try to stop this parade."

And the mayor granted a permit.

The next afternoon the Fifth Avenue shops all closed their doors, and

over the rich displays in their windows heavy steel shutters were rolled

down. The long procession of motors and cabs with their gaily dressed

shoppers had disappeared, and in their place was another procession,

men, women and children, old and young. All around me as I marched I

heard an unending torrent of voices speaking many languages, uniting in

strange cheers and songs brought from all over the ocean world.

Bright-colored turbans bobbed up here and there, for there was no

separation of races, all walked together in dense crowds, the whole

strike family was here. And listening and watching I felt myself a

member now. Behind me came a long line of trucks packed with sick or

crippled men. At their head was a black banner on which was painted,

"Our Wounded." Behind the wagons a small cheap band came blaring forth a

funeral dirge, and behind the band, upon men's shoulders, came eleven

coffins, in which were those dock victims who had died in the last few

days. This section had its banner too, and it was marked, "Our Dead."

But at one point, late in the afternoon, some marcher just ahead of me

suddenly started to laugh. At first I thought he was simply in fun. But

he kept on. Those near him then caught the look on his face and they all

began to laugh with him. Each moment louder, uglier, it swept up the

Avenue. And as it swelled in volume, like the menace of some furious

beast, the uncontrollable passion I heard filled me again with a sharp

foreboding of violence in the crisis ahead.

"Why are you here?" I asked myself. "You can't join in a laugh like

that--you're no real member of this crowd--their world is not where you

belong!"

But from somewhere deep inside me a voice rose up in answer:

"If the crowd is growing blind--is this the time to leave it? Wait."

CHAPTER XVI

Five more vessels sailed that day. And in the evening Eleanore said:

"The women who came to our station to-day kept asking, 'Why can't they

close up the saloons? They're just the places for trouble to start.'"

"We'll try," I said, and that same night Marsh sent word through a

friend to the mayor asking him to close all barrooms on the waterfront

during the strike. The mayor sent back a refusal. He said he had no

power.

Late that night I went down the line and found each barroom packed with

men who were talking of those ships that had sailed. And they talked of

"scabs." Speakers I had not heard before were now shouting and pounding

the bar with their fists. The papers the next morning ran lurid accounts

of these saloons and the open threats of violence there. They censured

the mayor for his weakness and called for the militia. Why wait for mobs

and bloodshed?

To that challenge I heard the reply of the crowd, on the Farm that

afternoon, in their applause of the fiery speech of a swarthy little

Spaniard. Francesco Vasca was his name.

"They are sending hired murderers who will come here to shoot us down!

But when they come," he shouted, "I want you to remember this! A jail

cell is no smaller than our holes in the bottoms of their ships, the

food is no worse than the scouse we shall eat if we give in and go back

to our jobs! And so we shall not be driven back! When the militia come

against us, armed with guns and bayonets, then let us go to meet them

armed----"

He stopped short, and from one end to the other of that motionless mass

of men there fell a death-like silence. Then he grimly ended his speech:

"Armed with patience, courage and a deep belief in our cause."

In the sudden storm of cheers and "booh's" I leaned over to Joe at my

side:

"Why did you let that man speak?"

The frown tightened on Joe's face.

"Because he's one of us," he said.

Seven more ships had sailed by that night.

In front of the docksheds, outside the double line of police, the throng

had grown denser day by day, and each time the "scabs" came out there

had been a burst of imprecations, a fierce pressing forward. The police

had repeatedly used their clubs. Now late in the afternoon a red

hospital ambulance came clanging down the waterfront. It was greeted by

triumphant shouts. "Some black bastard hurt at last!" There was a quick

gathering of police and a lane was formed reaching into the dock.

Through this lane drove the ambulance, and as presently it emerged it

was greeted by tumultuous cheers.

The papers the next morning said that a raging, howling mob had tried to

reach the injured man. Cries of "Sabotage!" had been heard. Two men,

they said, had been injured and one killed on the docks the day before.

Was this Sabotage? Had the strikers fixed the winches with the purpose

of killing strike-breakers? Why not? Their leaders had openly preached

it. Not only the Spaniard but Marsh himself was quoted as favoring

violence, and from that special Sabotage Issue of Joe Kramer's paper

long extracts were reprinted. Were not these three leaders responsible

for the death of that innocent black man? And should leaders such as

these be allowed to go on preaching murder? Put them in jail! Quell this

insurrection while still there was time! So spoke the press.

The rumor quickly spread about that Marsh and the Spaniard and Joe

Kramer were to be arrested that day. All three remained at strike

headquarters, and a dozen burly strikers kept the throng from pouring

in. "Go on home," I could hear them shouting. But far from going, the

throng increased until it filled the whole street outside. Suddenly we

heard their cries rise into a raging din.

"Well, boys," said Marsh, "I guess they're here." He gave a few more

sharp directions to his aides and then went out into the hall. A dozen

Central Office police in plain clothes were just coming in at the door.

"All right," said Marsh, "we're ready. But unless you men were sent here

with the idea of starting trouble, suppose you leave here now without

us. Each one of us will meet you at any place and time you say."

"We can't take your orders, Mr. Marsh."

"You mean you _were_ sent here for trouble?"

"I mean I have warrants for the arrest of yourself, Joseph Kramer and

Francesco Vasca on a charge of incitement to murder."

And in less than a minute I saw Marsh, the Spaniard and Joe Kramer each

handcuffed to two men, one on either side. As they left the hall I came

close behind with a score of eager reporters.

The crowd, to my excited eyes, was like a crouching tiger now, glaring

out of countless eyes. Through the solid mass of men that packed the

street from wall to wall, the police had forced a narrow lane from the

patrol wagon to the door. On either side of this lane I saw a line of

faces, eyes. Some looked anxious, frightened, and were trying to press

back, but at the sight of their leaders now with a roar the multitude

swept in. In a moment the lane was gone, and some fifty police had

formed in a circle around the prisoners. Quickly their clubs rose and

fell, and men dropped all around them. But furious hundreds kept rushing

in from every side, women and children caught in the tide were swept

helplessly forward, came under the clubs and went down with the rest,

and still the mass poured over them. Now at last the circle of bluecoats

was broken, policemen alone and in small clusters were rushed and

whirled this way and that. Outnumbered twenty to one, they began to go

down in the scrimmage.

Then I heard a quick shout:

"Use your guns!"

After that, two pistol shots. Then more in a sharp, steady crackle. The

mass began breaking, out on the edges I could see men starting to run.

But down the street came a troop of mounted police on the gallop, and

straight through the multitude they rode. I saw the three prisoners

seized and surrounded and thrown into the wagon. I saw it go rapidly

away. The police were now making wholesale arrests. That deep strident

roar of the crowd had died down and broken into panting voices,

everywhere were struggling forms.

Just before me the throng opened and I saw a woman at my feet. Her face

was bleeding from a club. As I stooped to lift her, I felt a big hand

grip my arm and then a heavy, crushing weight press down upon my head. I

felt myself sink down and down into an empty darkness.

When I came to, I was being half pushed and half thrown by police up

into one of their wagons. I remember a blurred glimpse of more fighting

forms around me. Then a gong clanged and our wagon was off. And in a few

moments we had emerged out of all this turbulence into the quiet

commonplace streets of a city of every-day business life.

In the wagon a voice began singing. I looked up and saw our Italian

musician, the leader of those gay excursions on _The Internationale_.

Now he was singing the song of that name. And as all came in on the

chorus, I caught a glimpse of his face. One cheek was bleeding profusely

and with one hand he was keeping the blood from trickling down. With

the other hand he was beating time. And his black eyes were blazing.

Soon after, we came to Jefferson Market and stopped at the entrance of

the jail. As we were hustled out of the wagon, and in the stronger light

our cuts and swelling bruises came suddenly in view, two young girls

among us began to laugh hysterically. In a moment we were inside the

jail and shoved into a striker group that had come in wagons ahead of

ours. A grim old sergeant at the desk was taking down names and

addresses and sending the prisoners to their cells.

I found my cell a cool relief after all that fever of cries. With

surprise I noticed it was clean. I had thought all cells were filthy

holes. Still in a daze, I sat down on my cot and felt the big bruise on

my head.

"Where am I? What has happened? What has all this to do with me? What is

it going to mean in my life?"

I heard a nasal voice from somewhere say:

"I know this pen. They're putting the girls with the prostitutes."

I heard clanging gongs outside and soon the banging of steel doors as

more prisoners were put into cells. And little by little, through it

all, I made out a low, eager murmur.

"Say," inquired a drunken old voice. "Who are all you damn fools? What

is this party, anyhow?"

"It is a revolution!" a sharp little voice replied. And at that, from

all sides other voices broke out. Then from his cell our musical friend

again started up the singing, his strained tenor voice rising high over

all. The song rose in volume, grew more intense.

"Heigh! Quit that noise!" a policeman shouted.

"Aw, let 'em alone," said another. "They'll soon work it off."

But we seemed to be only working it up. Up and up, song followed song,

and then short impassioned speeches came out of cells, and there was

applause. A voice asked each one of us to name his nationality, and we

found we were Americans, Irish, Scotch and Germans, Italians and

Norwegians, and three of us were Lascars and one of us was a Coolie.

Then there were cheers for the working class all over the world, and

after that a call for more singing. And now, as one of the songs died

away, we heard from the woman's part of the jail the young girls singing

in reply.

And slowly as I listened to those songs that rose and swelled and beat

against those walls of steel, I felt once more the presence of that

great spirit of the crowd.

"That spirit will go on," I thought. "No jail can stop the thing it

feels!"

And at last with a deep, warm certainty I felt myself where I belonged.

CHAPTER XVII

Early in the evening I was taken out to the visitor's room, and there I

found Eleanore's father. When he saw me, Dillon smiled.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked. "You're not in the Bastille--or

even Libby Prison. You're in the Jefferson Market Jail."

"It hasn't felt that way," I said.

"Probably not. But it is that way, and there's Eleanore to be thought

of."

"Eleanore will understand."

I saw his features tighten. I noticed now that his face was drawn, as

though he, too, had been through a good deal.

"Yes," he said, "she understands. But it's a bit tough on her, isn't it?

Jail is not quite in her line."

I felt my throat contracting:

"I know all that. I'm sorry enough--on her account----"

"Then let's get out of this," he said. "I've brought you bail. No use

staying in here all night."

"None at all," I agreed. "I want to get back to the waterfront. We're

going to issue an answer to this. They'll need me for the writing."

Dillon watched me a moment.

"You won't be allowed to do that," he said. "They're under martial law

down there."

I looked up at him quickly:

"The troops are here?"

"Yes," he replied, and there was a pause.

"These arrests, this riot," I said a little huskily. "Weren't they all

framed up ahead? They needed the riot to get in the troops."

"The troops are here."

"Rather damnable. Do you think the people on the docks will just sit

back and take it all?"

"They'll have to," he said gently. "The world's work has been clogged up

a little. It's to go on again now."

On the street outside he took my hand:

"My boy, when this is over we'll get together, you and I."

"All right--when it's over," I said.

* * * * *

The Farm that night again changed to my eyes. It was now an orderly

village of tents, two regiments of militia were here, and their sentries

reached for a mile to the north watching the big companies' docks.

I walked up along the line and had talks with some of the sentries. I

remember one in particular, a thin, nervous little man, a shoe-clerk in

a department store. Every work-day for six years he had fitted shoes on

ladies' feet; he had been doing it all that morning. And now here he was

down on the waterfront with only the stars above him and great shadowy

spaces all around, out of which at any moment he expected rushes by

strikers. These strikers to him were not human, they were "foreigners,"

for the moment gone mad, to be treated very much as mad dogs. And here

he was all by himself, his nerves on edge, with a gun in his hands. The

absurdity of that gun in his hands! And the serious danger.

I went into many tenements, into homes I had come to know in the strike.

And they, too, were different now. Their principal leaders taken away

and their headquarters closed by the police, the disorganization was

complete. That spirit they had relied upon, that strange new spirit of

the mass which they had created by coming together, was now dead--and

each one felt the weakness of being alone, the weakness of his separate

self. Blindly they fought against their despair. I found them packing

tenement rooms, gathering instinctively in search of their great friend,

the crowd.

But from such gatherings as these, the weaker, the more timid and the

wiser kept away. Rash spirits led these meetings, and here was the same

hot passion that I had felt back in the jail. These people did not want

to think, the time for thinking had gone by. They wanted to act, to do

something quick. Their minds were fiercely set on the "scabs," the

police and the militia.

Their strike was not yet lost. Their friends and sympathizers were

working hard that very night to get their leaders out on bail. In

Washington a House committee was striving still to compel arbitration.

Everywhere the more moderate spirits were drawing together, trying to

work out something safe.

But these people did not know this. They were in their tenements, they

were scattered far apart. They only knew how they had been clubbed, that

three had been killed and many more wounded, and that now the troops

were here. And the more fiery ones among them were feeling only one

thing now, that when you are hit you must hit back, you must show you're

not scared, you must show you're a man.

And so on the next morning, no women and no children but huge, silent

throngs of men drifted out of the tenements down to the docks and moved

slowly along the sentry lines.

The chance to show they were not afraid came late in the afternoon. The

clear, sweet call of a bugle came floating gaily on the air, then the

long, hard roll of drums, and from their camp on the Farm the troops

came on the double-quick up along the waterfront. Now thousands of

strikers were running that way. From the foot of a city street across

the wide open space to a pier the militia formed in two double lines,

each line facing outward. Then down that street came mounted police and

behind them a score of trucks loaded with freight.

At first I had hopes that the mass would not move. But out of the

silence came angry shouts and those behind pushed forward. Those in

front were pressed close up to the sharp lines of bayonets, were prodded

savagely by the troops. Militia youngsters but half trained, in two thin

lines opposing what appeared to them a furious sea of faces, fists and

angry cries--no wonder they were nervous. Bricks came flying from all

sides and even heavy paving-stones, and then a few pistol shots out of

the mass. I saw a militia man drop on one knee and slowly topple over. I

saw an excited young officer shout at his men and wave his sword. I saw

long rows of guns make quick rhythmic movements, then level straight

out, and there were two long flashes of fire.

Disordered throngs were running now. Only a few men here and there

turned to fire their pistols or to shout back frenzied, quivering oaths.

Behind them a few soldiers were still shooting without orders. Near the

sand-pile on which I stood I saw a young militia man enough like that

little shoe-clerk to have been his brother. His face was white and his

eyes wild, he was panting, pumping his lever and blindly firing shot

after shot.

"God damn 'em, slaughter 'em, slaughter 'em!"

An officer knocked up his gun.

* * * * *

That night the waterfront was still. Only the long, slow moving line of

the figures of sentries was to be seen. The troops were back in their

camp on the Farm. Bivouac fires were burning down there, but up here was

only a dark, empty space.

Here scattered about on the pavement, after the firing had ceased, I had

seen the dark inert bodies of men. Most of them had begun to move, until

fully half were crawling about. They had been picked up and counted.

Thirty-nine wounded, fourteen dead. These, too, had all been taken away.

From the high steel docksheds there came a deep, harsh murmur made up of

faint whistles, the rattle of winches, the shouts of the foremen, the

heavy jar and crash of crates. A tug puffed smoothly into a slip with

three barges in her wake. I walked slowly out that way. The tugmen and

the bargemen talked in quiet voices as they made fast their craft to the

pier. Below them the water was lapping and slapping.

"The world's work has been clogged up a little. It's to go on again

now."

* * * * *

The next day three heavy battleships steamed sluggishly through the

Narrows and came to anchor in the bay. When interviewed by reporters,

their commanders were vastly amused. No, they said, the United States

Navy was not governed as to its movements by strikes. They simply

happened to be here through orders issued weeks ago. But their coming

was featured in headlines.

I saw something else in the papers that night, a force greater than all

battleships. As a week before I had felt a whole country in revolt, I

felt now a country of law and order, a whole nation of angry tradesmen

impatiently demanding an end to all this "foreign anarchy."

"We want no more of your strikes," it said. "None of your new crowd

spirit, none of your wild talk and dreams! We want no change in this

country of ours!"

The authorities obeyed this will. Bail was denied to Marsh, Vasca and

Joe, and for them a speedy trial was urged. The press now held them

responsible not only for that first negro's death, but for all the

deaths since their arrest. Let them pay the full penalty! Let them be

made an example of! Let this business of anarchy be dealt with and

settled once and for all!

The work of crushing the strike went on. More troops were brought to the

harbor. On the docks there were not only negroes now, thousands of

immigrant laborers were brought from Ellis Island and put to work at

double pay, and on every incoming vessel the stokers were all kept on

board. Among the strikers there was a break that swiftly spread and

became a stampede. And in the following week the work of the harbor went

on as before, with its regular commonplace weekly toll of a hundred

killed and injured. Peace had come again at last.

* * * * *

On Saturday morning of that week I stood on the deck of a ferryboat

packed with little commuters who waved and cheered a huge ocean liner

bound for Europe. Lying deep in the water, her hold laden heavy with the

products of this teeming land, her decks thronged with travelers with

money in their pockets, her band playing, her flags streaming out, and

over all on the captain's bridge the officers up there in command--she

was a mighty symbol of order and prosperity and of that Efficiency which

to me had been a religion for so many years. We all followed the great

ship with our eyes as, gathering headway, she steamed out past the

Statue of Liberty toward the battleships beyond.

"Well," said an amused little man close by me, "I guess that'll be about

all from the strikers."

"Oh my smiling little citizen--you've only seen the beginning," I

thought.

What were the strikers thinking now, and what would they be thinking

soon? They had wanted easier lives, they had wanted to feel themselves

powers here. Caught up in the tide of democracy now sweeping all around

the earth, they had wanted to feel themselves running themselves in all

this work they were doing. So they had come out on strike and become a

crowd, and in the crowd they had suddenly found such strength as they

never dreamed could be theirs. And they would not easily forget. The

harbor was already seeing to that, for already its work had gone on with

a rush, and all its heavy labor was weighing down upon them--"like a

million tons of brick on their chests." I remembered what Joe Kramer had

said: "It's got so they can't even breathe without thinking."

Was the defeat of this one strike the end?

The grim battleships answered, "Yes, it is the end."

But the restless harbor answered, "No."

What change was coming in my life? I did not know. Of one thing only I

was sure. The last of my gods, Efficiency, whose feet had stood firm on

mechanical laws and in whose head were all the brains of all the big men

at the top, had now come tottering crashing down. And in its place a

huge new god, whose feet stood deep in poverty and in whose head were

all the dreams of all the toilers of the earth, had called to me with

one deep voice, with one tremendous burning passion for the freedom of

mankind.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

Once I saw the harbor in a February storm. And in the wind and skurrying

snow I saw it all together like one whirling thing alive. But the next

morning the storm had died away, and a wind from the south had brought

banks of fog that moved sluggishly low down on the water dividing the

whole region into many separate parts. And from above, a dazzling sun

shone down upon three objects near me, a ferryboat, a puffing tug, and a

tramp which lay at anchor, shone so brightly on these three they seemed

alone, with nothing but mist all about them.

So it was now for a time with me. The strike, which had so suddenly

drawn me into its whirling crowd-life, now as suddenly dropped away. And

personal troubles piled one on the other. In place of that mass of

thousands, I saw only a few people I loved, and I saw them so intensely

that for a time we were quite alone, with nothing but mist all around

us.

* * * * *

Sue sent for me one morning and I went over to our house. I was startled

by the change in her face. It looked not only tired, it looked so

disillusioned, done, so through with all the absorbing ideas and warm

enthusiasms that had given it abundant life.

"I'm not going to marry Joe Kramer," she said. "And I want you to tell

him so."

I stared at her blankly.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Are you?" There was just a worn shadow of her old smile.

"I don't know why I said that," I replied. "My head's rather dull this

morning. All right, Sis, I'll tell him." Still I watched her pityingly.

Poor old Sue. What a crash in her life.

"I'd like you to tell him the whole truth," my sister went on sharply,

"just why I've decided as I have. Don't say it's because of father. When

I wanted Joe, Dad didn't count, he was nothing to me but a back number.

But I _don't_ want him now--Joe, I mean--I don't love him any more. If I

went to him to-day in his cell and said I'd stick by him no matter what

happened because he was the man I loved--I'd be lying--that wouldn't be

me. The real me is a much smaller person than that. I don't love Joe

because I've been scared--because he's in a common jail--waiting to be

tried for murder." Her face contracted slightly. "I suppose it's the way

I've been brought up."

"But Sue----"

"Don't stop me, Billy, let me talk!" And she talked on intensely, so

absorbed in this fierce impulsive confession that she seemed to forget I

was there. "I've been thinking what's to become of me. I've been

thinking about all the things I've been in, and none seem real any

longer--I wanted a thrill and I got it--that's all. Then I met Joe and I

got it again, I got a thrill out of all his life and the big things it

was made of. I got a _great_ thrill out of the strike. Don't you

remember how I talked three weeks ago when you were here? Dad was the

Old and I was the New. I saw everything beginning. I read Walt Whitman's

'Open Road' and I felt like Joe's 'camarado.' Well, and I kept on like

that. And like a little idiot I couldn't keep it to myself, I went and

told some of my friends. That's what's really the hardest now, what

hurts the most--I told my friends. I posed as a young Joan of Arc. I

was going to marry, give up everything, chuck myself into this fight for

the people, into revolution! Thrills, I tell you, thrills and thrills!

"But then Joe got arrested. I knew he was in a cell in the Tombs, in

Murderers' Row. And that drove all the thrills away. That was real. Dad

made it worse. He talked about the coming trial, Sing Sing and the death

house there. One morning he tried to read to me an account of an

execution. I ran away, but I came back and read it myself, I read all

the hideous details right up to the iron chair. And just because there

was a chance of Joe's being like that, all at once I stopped loving him.

Not just because I was frightened, it wasn't so simple as a scare. It

was something inside of me shuddering, and saying 'how revolting!' I

tried to shake it out of me, I tried to keep on loving him! But I

couldn't shake it out of me! Joe had become--revolting, too! It's

because of the way I've been brought up and because of the way I've

always lived! I can't stand what's real--if it's ugly! That's me!"

She broke off and looked down. I came and sat beside her, and took her

cold, quivering hands in mine:

"I guess I _am_ sorry, Sue old girl----"

"Don't be," she retorted. "I'm too sorry for myself as it is! That's

another part of me!" Again she broke off with a hard little laugh.

"Let's forget me for a minute. What has this sweet strike done to

_you_?"

"I'm not sure yet," I answered. "Where is Dad?"

"Up in his room."

"Tell me about him," I said. Sue drew an anxious little breath:

"Oh Billy, he has been getting so queer. It has all been such a strain

on his mind. Every day he kept reading the news of the strike--and some

days he would stamp and rage about till I was afraid to be with him. He

talked about that death cell until I thought that I'd go mad. Sometimes

when we were talking I thought that we had both gone mad."

I went upstairs and found him in a chair by the window. With unnatural,

clumsy motions he rose and came to meet me.

"I'm all right, my boy." His voice had a mumbling quality and I noticed

the strangeness in his eyes. "I'm all right. I'm glad to see you." Then

his face clouded and hardened a little, and he tried to speak to me

sternly:

"I'm glad you're clean out of that strike and its notions--glad you've

come to your senses," he said. "You're lucky in having such a wife.

She's been over here often lately--and she's worth a dozen like you and

Sue. Have you seen Sue?"

"Yes."

"Well, _she's_ all right."

I said nothing to this, and he shot a sidelong look at me:

"I had quite a time, my boy--I had to keep right at her." Another quick

look. "I suppose she's told you how I went at her."

"Never mind, Dad, it's over now."

"I had to make her feel the noose, I mean the chair," he went on in

those thick, mumbling tones, "and that she'd have to choose between that

and a decent Christian home--like the home her mother had. She was a

wonderful woman, your mother," he wandered off abruptly. "If she'd only

understood me--seen what it was I was trying to do--for American

shipping--Yankee sails!" He sank down in his chair exhausted, and I

noticed he was breathing hard. "I'm all right, my boy, I'm quite all

right----"

With a sudden rush of pity and of love and deep alarm, I bent gently

over him:

"Of course you are--why Dad, old boy--just take it easy--quiet, you

know--we're going to pull right out of this----"

The tears welled suddenly up in his eyes:

"I'm lonely, boy--I'm glad you're here!"

Presently I went down to Sue:

"When is the doctor coming next?"

"Not till this afternoon," she said.

"I'll be home to-night for supper. Phone me what he says."

"All right--where are you going now? To Joe?"

"Yes, Sis," I said.

She turned and went quickly out of the room.

* * * * *

In the Tombs, when Joe was brought out to me, I saw that he, too, had

been through a deep change. He had been quiet enough all through the

strike, except for that one big speech of his--but he had been _tensely_

quiet. Now the tension appeared to be gone. He seemed wrapped up in

thoughts of his own.

"Have you seen Sue?" he asked me at once.

"Yes Joe, I've just been with her."

"What did she say?"

I began to tell him.

"I knew it," he interrupted me. "I made up my mind to this the first

night I spent here in my cell. It couldn't have happened, it wouldn't

have worked. Tell her I understand all about it, tell her that I'm sure

she's right. Tell her--it's funny but it's true--tell her this infernal

pen has worked the same way on me as on her. I mean it has made me not

want her now. I feel sorry for her and that's all--deeply and infernally

sorry. I was a fool to have let her into it. My only excuse for being so

blind was that damned fever that left me so weak. At any other time I

would have seen what a farce it was. I wasn't booked for a life like

that. It doesn't fit in with this job of mine." He smiled a little

bitterly. "I used to say," he continued, "that if I had time I'd like to

do something yellow enough so that I'd be cut off for life from any

chance of church bells. And I guess I've done it this time--no danger

of getting respectable now."

"How do you look at this, Joe?" I asked him. "What do you think they'll

do to you?"

"I don't know." Again he smiled slightly and wearily. "And I can't say I

_care_ a damn. I feel like those fellows over in Russia, the

revolutionist chaps I met, who didn't know if they'd croak in a month

and didn't care one way or the other. But as a matter of fact," he

added, "I think this time it's mainly bluff. They wanted to get us away

from the crowd and keep us away while they broke the strike. Now that

it's over you'll probably find they'll let us all off with light

sentences. Of course the murder charge can't hold.... By the way," he

added, smiling, "I hear they got you, too."

"Yes," I answered, smiling back. "The Judge fined me ten dollars and let

me go. He said he hoped this would be a lesson."

Joe looked at me curiously:

"How much of a lesson, Kid, do you think this strike has been to you?"

"Quite a big one, Joe," I said.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I haven't decided."

"How is Eleanore taking it all?"

"She's not saying much and neither am I. We're both doing some thinking

before we talk."

"You're a quiet pair," J. K. remarked. "I shouldn't wonder if you'd nose

along quite a distance before you get through--I mean in our direction."

"That's what we're thinking about," I replied. Again he turned to me

curiously:

"You two can think together--without talking--can't you?"

"Yes--sometimes we can."

"I never got that far with Sue." All at once he came closer, his whole

manner changed: "Say, Bill--tell her all I've said--will you? I'm

sorry! Honest Injun! Make her feel how damnably sorry I am that I ever

let her in for this!"

When I left him I went off for a walk, for I wanted to be alone awhile.

I wondered just how sure Joe felt about his fast approaching trial. It

seemed to me that he had a good chance of going where Sue had pictured

him.

CHAPTER II

That evening I learned that my father was worse, and I spent the next

day by his bedside. He had had a stroke in the morning and was not

expected to live through the night.

I found him mumbling fast to himself and making slight, restless efforts

to move. At last he grew quiet, and presently his half-open gnarled

right hand came groping out over the covers. I took it in mine, and at

once I felt it close on mine with a quick, convulsive strength. His hand

was moist, his eyes saw nothing. I sat there thus for a long time. Then

suddenly,

"Good boy," he muttered thickly. "Good boy--good--always good to your

mother!" He kept repeating this over and over, with pauses between, then

again with an effort, fiercely, as though from a distance his mind were

set on getting this message over to me, over from an age that was dying

into an age that was coming to life, a last good-by to hold me back.

Soon he was only mumbling figures, names of ships and distant ports,

freight consignments. Now and then his finger would go to his lips, as

he turned phantom pages in feverish haste. Again, in gasping whispers,

he would break out into arguments for the protection of Yankee sails.

"Protection!" he would whisper. "Damn fools not to see it!

Discriminating tariffs! Subsidies! A Navy!... Don't forget the Navy!

Remember War of 1812!... Nothing without fighting!"

"Nothing without fighting." He had been learning this all his life--and

after he had said it now, he stopped speaking and grew still. Little by

little his movements grew weaker. Finally he lay like a log, and the

doctor said he would be so until dead.

I went up to my old bedroom and sat down by the open window. It was a

beautiful night. From the garden below, where long ago I had felt such

shivers over the ocean and heathen lands, a graceful poplar rose. Behind

it from the river the huge, dim funnel of a steamer rose over the roof

of the warehouse. Overhead to the right swept the Great Bridge of my

childhood. But behind it were other bridges now, and off across the

river the buildings of Manhattan loomed in loftier masses to their apex

in the tower of lights. How changed it all was since I was a boy. And

yet how like. On the harbor still the hurrying lights, yellow, blue and

green and red. The same deep, restless hum of labor. And from the

waterfront below the same puffs and coughs of engines, the same sharp

toots and treble pantings, the same raucous whine of wheels.

There came a rough salt breeze from the sea, and it made me think of

billowy sails and the days of my father's boundless youth, and of the

harbor of long ago that had so gripped and molded him--as I felt mine

now molding me. And for what? I asked. To what were we both

adventuring--out of these little harbors of ours?

Toward dawn a tramp came down the river. Dimly as she passed below I

could see how old she was, how worn and battered by the waves. A

desolate and lonely craft, the smoke draggled out of her funnel. I

watched her steam into the Upper Bay and pass around Governor's Island.

I watched till in the first raw light of day I could see only her smoke

through the Narrows. Then even this became but a blur, which crept away

in that strange dawn light out into the wide ocean.

A few hours later my father died.

One by one, from different parts of the port, the queerest old men came

into our house on the day of my father's funeral--men who still

believed in American ships, still thrilled to the dream of the Stars and

Stripes wherever there is an ocean breeze; men who still believed in

ships that had sails and moved along with the force of the winds; who

still believed that cabin boys could rise by the sheer force of their

wills to be powers in the ocean world; men who had for the common crowd

only the iron discipline, the old brute tyranny of the sea. These

strange old men stood with their white heads bowed, a little group,

looking down into my father's grave.

"He was a magnificent fighter," I heard one of them say as we left. "He

wrecked his own business for what he believed in. How many of us would

go that far?"

* * * * *

From the grave Sue came to our apartment. Eleanore had packed her trunk.

"Sue must keep out of that dreary old house," she told me. "Luckily she

has a friend out of town whom she's going to visit. When she comes back

we must have the house closed, and I hope she'll live with us for a

while."

We talked of this that evening, for Sue seemed to want to talk. We

stayed up until late and planned and planned. Many different kinds of

work for Sue were taken up and discussed by us all. She surprised me by

the brave effort she made.

"I've got to want something--that's sure," she said. "I can't just yet.

I've wanted so many things so hard, one after the other for nearly eight

years, that now I feel as though I'd used up all the wanting that I've

got. But of course I haven't. If I have I'm a back number--and I'd a

great deal rather be dead. So don't you people worry. Depend upon it, in

less than a year I'll be all wrapped up in something new. I'll be

tremendously enthused," she ended, smiling wearily.

She agreed with me that the house be sold, and after she had left us I

made every effort to sell it at once. I found it was heavily mortgaged

now, but when at last I made a sale there was enough to clear off all

debts and leave about two thousand dollars for Sue. She would have at

least something to start on.

As we set about to dismantle the house, various things thickly covered

with dust came out of closets, drawers and shelves. And these objects

brought near again to me my mother's life and that hunger of hers for

the things that were "fine," that hospitable door which had waited for

friends from the handsome old homes all around us. These homes all along

the street had now lost their quiet dignity. Some were empty and marked

for sale, others that had already been sold were cheerless boarding

houses. The most handsome home of all, with its ample yard where I used

to play, was gone, and in its place rose an apartment building which

made the old houses all seem dwarfs.

Her world and his were both slipping away. Her life and his, her creed

and his, were little now but memories--memories which in Sue and in me

must take their chance with the warm, new feelings, the cravings, hopes,

loves, doubts and dreams of this absorbing world of our own. For the

harbor was still molding lives.

How anxious Eleanore seemed to be through, I thought a little

bitterly.

CHAPTER III

But Eleanore had good reason. When at last the house had been closed,

back at home one evening she told me what she had known for weeks but

had kept to herself until I should be free from other things. We were to

have another child.

The news was a shock, it frightened me. "Where's the money to come

from?" flashed into my mind. In an instant it had passed and I was

holding her tight in my arms. But she must have caught that look in my

face, for I could feel her trembling.

"The same funny old world, my dearest one," she whispered, "with its

same old trick of starting out. But oh my dear, in spite of it all--or

because of it all--how good it is to be alive! More than ever--a hundred

times!"

"You darling girl," I whispered back, "you're the bravest one of all!"

* * * * *

Her father came to us the next night, and after Eleanore went to bed he

and I talked long together. He looked worn and tired, but the same quiet

affection was in his eyes.

"Let's see where we are," he said, "and what we've got to go on. To

begin with, thank God, you and I are still friends. Then there's

Eleanore and your small son and the smaller one that's coming. We're

just starting in on a long, hot summer. She must of course be got out of

town. How much have you in the bank?"

"Thirty-seven dollars," I said.

He looked thoughtfully at his cigar.

"You've never yet taken money from me," he continued, after a moment.

"Still, you'd do it if you had to--because this is _our_ affair. But

unluckily, just at present, I'm nearly as high and dry as yourself. The

men who have backed my harbor work have lost so heavily in the strike

that they feel now they must recoup. I've already proposed to them a

plan which they have as good as accepted. They'll provide enough money

to pay the rent of a smaller office. I can borrow enough to pay half my

men. The rest I'll have to let go for a time."

"And _your_ salary?" I ventured.

"Is left out," he answered. "I mean it is if I stay here. I want to stay

here, I want to put through this job if I can, you see it has taken six

years of my life. And besides," he added wistfully, "in a very few weeks

they'll finish the work at Panama--and the ships of the world will begin

to crowd into a harbor that isn't ready here--we haven't even completed

our plans. It's not a good time to stop our work. But of course if you

and Eleanore get into a hole that is serious--as I said before and

you'll agree, you'd have to let me help you--even if to do it I should

have to give up my work for a while and take up something that will

pay."

"No sir!"

"Yes sir," he replied. "Unless you can earn enough money yourself."

We looked at each other a moment.

"You know how to bring pressure, don't you?" I said.

"Yes, I'm bringing pressure. I want to see you go on as before."

"That won't be easy," I remarked.

"Shall we talk it over a little?"

"Yes."

"All right," he said. "Since that talk we had together the day

Eleanore's first child was born, what a splendid start you made in your

writing. You were not only earning big pay, you were doing fine work,

work that was leading somewhere. I could see you learning to use your

tools, getting a broad, sane view of life--and of yourself--training

yourself and building yourself. You were right on the threshold of big

results. But then your friend Kramer came along. He had not built

himself, he had chucked himself over, neglected himself, his health

included. So he took typhoid and came to your home. His being there was

a drain on your pocket and a heavy strain on your nerves. He got you

unsettled. Then came the strike. And what has it done? It has taken your

time, health, money. It has left two good workmen stranded--you and me.

And I don't see that it's done the crowd any good. What has the strike

given you in return for all it has taken away?"

"A deeper view of life," I said. "I saw something in that strike so much

bigger than Marsh or Joe or that crude organization of theirs--something

deep down in the people themselves that rises up out of each one of them

the minute they get together. And I believe that power has such

possibilities that when it comes into full life not all the police and

battleships and armies on earth can stop it."

The look in Dillon's eyes was more anxious than impatient.

"Billy," he said, "I've lived a good deal closer than you have to the

big jobs of this world. And I know those jobs are to get still bigger,

even more complex. They're to require even bigger men." I smiled a bit

impatiently.

"Still the one man in a million," I said.

"Yes," said Dillon, "his day isn't over, it has only just begun. He may

have his bad points--I'll admit he has--but compared to all the little

men his vision is wide and it goes deep. And if they'll only leave him

alone and give him a chance, he'll take me and the other engineers, and

the chemists and doctors and lawyers, and he'll make a world--he's doing

it now--where ignorance and poverty will in time be wiped completely

out."

"They're not going to leave him alone," I said. "I'm sure of that now.

Whether he grafts or whether he's honest won't make any difference. The

crowd is going to pull him down. Because it's not democracy. The trouble

with all your big men at the top is that they're trying to do for the

crowd what the crowd wants to do for itself. And it may not do it half

so well--but all the time it will be learning--gathering closer every

year--and getting a spirit compared to which your whole clean clear

efficiency world is only cold and empty!"

He must have caught the look in my eyes.

"You're thinking that I'm getting old," he said softly. "I and all the

men like me who have been building up this country. You're thinking that

we're all following on after your father into the past." As I looked

back I felt suddenly humble. Dillon's voice grew appealing and kind.

"But you belong with us, Billy," he said. "It was under us you won your

start. And what I want now," he added, "is not only for Eleanore's sake,

but your own. I want you to try to write again about all the work we are

doing and see what it will do for you. Why not give it another chance?

You're not afraid of it, are you?"

"No," I said, "I'm not afraid--and I'll give it another chance if you

like--I don't want to be narrow about it, God knows. But before I tackle

anything else I'll finish my story of the strike."

"All right," he agreed. "That's all I ask. Now suppose you take Eleanore

up to the mountains and write your strike article up there. Let me loan

you a little just at the start."

"How much money have _you_ in the bank?"

"Enough to send Eleanore where she belongs."

"Eleanore belongs right here," said a voice from the other room, and

presently Eleanore appeared. She surveyed us both with a scorn in her

eyes that made us quake a little. "I never heard," she went on calmly,

"of anything quite so idiotic. Go home, Dad, and go to bed, and please

drop this insane idea that I'm afraid of July in New York, or of August

or September. Do you know what you're going to do to-morrow, both of you

poor foolish boys? You're going sensibly to work and worry about nothing

at all. And to-morrow night we're all three of us going to forget how it

feels to work or think, and get on an open trolley and go down and hear

Harry Lauder. Thank Heaven he happens to be in town. To hear you talk

you'd think the whole American people had forgotten how to laugh.

"Now Billy," she ended smoothly, "go to the icebox and get two bottles

of nice cool beer--and make me a tall glass of lemonade. And don't use

too much sugar."

CHAPTER IV

The next day and the next evening Eleanore's program was carried out.

But after that night the laughing stopped. For Joe Kramer was coming to

trial.

I had not seen Joe for over two weeks, and I had taken his view of his

case, that there was no serious danger. But now I learned from a good

source that Joe and both his colleagues were to be brought to trial at

once, while the public feeling was still hot against them. As the time

of the trials drew near every paper in town took up the cry. Let these

men be settled once and for all, they demanded. Let them not be set free

for other strikes, for wholesale murder and pillage. Let them pay the

full penalty for their crimes!

In the face of this storm, I found myself on Joe's defense committee,

the best part of my time each day and evening taken up with raising

money, helping to find witnesses and doing the press work for parades

and big mass meetings of labor.

Through this work, in odd hours, I finished my story of the strike. It

all came back to me vividly now and I tried to tell what I had seen. I

took it to my editor.

"Print that?" he said when he'd read it. "You're mad."

"It's the truth," I remarked.

"As you see it," he said. "And you've seen it only from one side. If

this story had been written and signed by Marsh or your friend Kramer,

we might have run it, with a reply from the companies. But I don't want

to see _you_ stand for this--in our magazine or anywhere else--it means

too much to you as a writer. Look out, my boy," he added, with a

return to the old brusque kindliness which he had always shown me in the

years I had worked under him. "We think a lot of you in this office. For

God's sake don't lose your head. Don't be one more good reporter

spoiled."

I took my story of the strike to every editor I knew, and it was

rejected by each in turn. They thought it all on the side of the crowd,

an open plea for revolution. Then I took it to Joe in the Tombs.

"Will you sign this, Joe?" I asked, when he had read it.

"No," he replied. "It's too damn mild. You've given too much to the

other side. All these bouquets to efficiency and all this about the weak

points of the crowd. The average stoker reading this would think that

the revolution won't come till we are all white-haired."

"I don't believe it will," I said.

"I know you don't. That's why you're no good to us," he said. "We want

our stuff written by men who are sure that a big revolution is just

ahead, men who are certain that a strike, to take in half the civilized

world, is coming in the next ten years."

"I don't believe that."

"I know. You can't. You're still too soaked in the point of view of your

efficiency father-in-law."

"So you don't feel you can sign this?"

"No."

That day I sent my story to a small magazine in New England, which from

the time of the Civil War had retained its traditions of breadth of

view. Within a week the editor wrote that he would be glad to publish

it. "Our modest honorarium will follow shortly," he said at the end. The

modest honorarium did. Meanwhile I had sent him a sketch of Nora Ganey

which I had written just after the strike. I received a letter equally

kind, and another honorarium. I began to see a future of modest

honoraria.

In the meantime, to meet our expenses at home, I had borrowed money and

given my note. And the note would soon fall due. Those were far from

pleasant days. On the one side Joe in his cell waiting to be tried for

his life; on the other, Eleanore at home waiting for a new life to be

born. By a lucky chance for me, Joe's trial was again postponed, so I

could return to my own affairs. I had to have some money quick. I went

back to my magazine editor and asked for a job in his office.

"I'm ready now to be sane," I said.

"Glad to hear it," he replied. "I'll give you a steady routine job where

you can grind till you get yourself right."

"Till I get back where I was, you mean?"

"Yes, if you can," he answered.

I went for a walk that afternoon to think over the proposition he'd

made.

"I have seen three harbors," I said to myself. "My father's harbor which

is now dead, Dillon's harbor of big companies which is very much alive,

and Joe Kramer's harbor which is struggling to be born. It's an

interesting age to live in. I should like to write the truth as I see it

about each kind of harbor. But I need the money--my wife is going to

have a child. So I'll take that steady position and try to grind part of

the truth away."

* * * * *

"What have you been doing?" Eleanore asked when I came home. "You look

like a ghost."

"Not at all," I replied. "I've been getting a job."

"Tell me about it."

I told her part. She went and got her sewing, and settled herself

comfortably for a quiet evening's work. Eleanore loved baby clothes.

"Now begin again and tell me all," she ordered. And she persisted until

I did.

"It won't do," she said, when I had finished.

"It will do," I replied decidedly. "It's the best thing in sight. It

will see us through till the baby is born. After all, it's only for a

year."

"It's a mighty important year for you, my love," said Eleanore. She

thoughtfully held up and surveyed a tiny infant's nightgown. "If you do

this you'll be giving up. It's not writing your best. It's giving up

what you think is the truth. And that's a bad habit to get into."

"It's settled now. Please leave it alone."

"Oh very well," she said placidly. "Let's talk of what I've been doing."

"What _you've_ been doing?"

"Precisely. I've taken a little apartment downtown, over by the river.

The rent is twenty-eight dollars a month. It's on the top floor and has

plenty of air, and there's a nice roof for hot summer evenings. You're

to carry two wicker chairs up there each night after supper."

"I'll do nothing of the kind," I rejoined indignantly. "You're going to

pack up at once and go to the mountains! And when you come back you're

coming right here!"

"Oh no I'm not," she answered.

"Don't be an idiot, Eleanore! Think of moving out of here now! In your

condition!"

"It's better than moving out of your work. Dad has kept right on with

his, even when they stopped his pay. Well, now they've stopped your pay,

that's all, and we've got to do the best we can. We've simply got to

live for a while on modest honorariums. Now don't talk, wait till I get

through. You've got to work harder than ever before but for much less

money. But with less money than before we're going to be happier than

we've ever been in all our lives. And you can't do a thing to stop it.

If you do take that office work and bring a lot of money home, do you

know what I'll do? I'll move to that little flat just the same, and all

the extra money you bring will go to Mrs. Bealey."

"Who in God's name is Mrs. Bealey?"

"One of my oldest charity cases. She was here this afternoon. The

trouble with you is, my dear," my wife continued smoothly, "that you've

been so wrapped up in your own little changes you haven't given a

thought to mine. Well, I've done some changing, too. Every time that Sue

or you have taken up a new idea I've taken up a Mrs. Bealey. I did the

same thing in the strike. I went with Nora Ganey into the very poorest

of all the tenements down by the docks. I saw the very worst of it

all--and I tried to do what I could to help. But I felt like a drop in

the ocean. And that's how I've changed. Things are so wrong in the

tenements that big reforms are needed. I don't know what they are and

I'm not sure anyone else does. But I'm sure that if any reforms worth

while are to be made, we've got to see just where we are. And that means

that quite a number of people--you for instance--have got to tell the

truth exactly as they see it. So I'd rather put our money in that and

let old Mrs. Bealey forget our address. That's another reason for

moving.

"There's nothing noble about it at all," she said as she threaded her

needle. "I mean to be perfectly comfortable. I saw this coming long ago,

and since the strike was over I've spent weeks picking out a nice place

where we can get the most for our money. About thirty thousand babies,

I'm told, are to be born in the city this summer--and their mothers

aren't going first to the mountains or even for a walk in the Park. I

don't see why I shouldn't be one. As a matter of fact I won't be one, my

baby won't be born until Fall, and I'll have a clean, comfortable flat

with one maid instead of a dirty tenement with all the cooking and

washing to do. You'll probably find magazines who'll pay enough

honorariums to make a hundred dollars a month, which is just about three

times as much as Mrs. Bealey lives on. So that's settled and we move

this week."

We moved that week.

CHAPTER V

One night about a month later, when we had ensconced ourselves for the

evening out on the roof of our new home, where the summer's night was

cooled by a slight breeze from the river, our maid came up and told me

there was a strange gentleman below. I went down and brought him up, I

was deeply pleased and excited. For he was the English novelist whom I

most admired these days. He had come to me during the strike and had

been deeply interested in the great crowd spirit I had found. He was

going back to England now.

"I'm curious," he told me, "to see how much your striker friends have

kept of what they got in the strike--what new ideas and points of view.

How much are they really changed? That, I should think, is by far the

most valuable part of it all."

"It's just what I've been trying to find out for myself," I replied.

"Really? Will you tell me?"

I told him how on docks, on tugs and barges, in barrooms and in

tenements, I was having talks with various types of men who had been

strikers, how I was finding some dull and hopeless, others bitter, but

more who simply felt that they had bungled this first attempt and were

already looking forward to more and greater struggles. The socialists

among them were already hard at work, urging them to carry their strike

on into the political field, vote together in one solid mass and build

up a government all their own. Through this ceaseless ferment I had gone

in search of significant characters, incidents, new points of view. I

was writing brief sketches of it all.

"How did you feel about all this," the Englishman asked, "before you

were drawn into the strike?" And turning from me to Eleanore, "And you?"

he added.

Gradually he got the stories of our lives. I told how all my life I had

been raising up gods to worship, and how the harbor had flowed silently

in beneath, undermining each one and bringing it down.

"It seems to have such a habit of changing," I ended, "that it won't let

a fellow stop."

"Lucky people," he answered, smiling, "to have found that out so

soon--to have had all this modern life condensed so cozily into your

harbor before your eyes--and to have discovered, while you are still

young, that life is growth and growth is change. I believe the age we

live in is changing so much faster than any age before it, that a man if

he's to be vital at all must give up the idea of any fixed creed--in his

office, his church or his home--that if he does not, he will only wear

himself out butting his indignant head against what is stronger and

probably better than he. But if he does, if he holds himself open to

change and knows that change is his very life, then he can get a

serenity which is as much better than that of the monk as living is

better than dying."

We talked of books being written in England and France, in Germany and

Russia, all dealing with deep changes in the views and beliefs and

desires of men.

"Any man," he said, "who thinks that modern Europe will go smoothly,

quietly on, needs a dose of your harbor to open his eyes."

He turned to me with a sudden thought.

"Why don't you write a book," he asked, "about this harbor you have

known!"

Eleanore made a quick move in her chair.

"That's just what you ought to do!" she exclaimed.

"I wonder if I could," I said. "It would be hard to see it now, as it

looked at all the different times."

"You'll hardly be able to do that," the Englishman answered quietly.

"Because to each one of us, I suppose, not only his present but his past

is constantly changing to his view. But I wouldn't let that bother you.

What would interest me as a reader would be your view of your life as

you look back upon it to-day--in this present stage of your growth.

"I was raised in the Alps myself," he went on. "So _my_ picture of life

is the mountain path. As I climb and turn now and then to look back, the

twisting little path below appears quite different each time. But still

I keep on writing--my changing view of the slope behind and of the

rising peaks ahead. And now and then by working my hardest I've felt the

great joy of writing the truth. As you know, it isn't easy. But year by

year I've felt my readers grow in number. I believe they are going to

grow and grow, not mine nor yours but the readers of all the chaps like

ourselves, the readers who pick up each new book with the hope that one

more fellow has done his best--not to please them but to please

himself--by telling of life as he has seen it--his changing life through

his changing eyes."

* * * * *

After he left us there was a long silence. Both of us were thinking

hard. And as Eleanore looked up to the stars I saw their brightness in

her eyes.

"Yes," she said at last, "I'm sure. I'm sure you'd better take his

advice--and write as truthfully as you can the whole story as you see it

now--of this strange harbor you have known."

We talked long and eagerly that night.

CHAPTER VI

I began my story of the harbor. Every hour that I could spare from the

stories and sketches of tenement life by which I made a scant living

those days, I spent in gathering memories of my long struggle with this

place, arranging and selecting and setting them in order for this record

of the great life I had seen.

* * * * *

But this wide world has many such lives, many heaving forces. And ever

since I had been born, while I had been building for myself one after

the other these gods of civilization and peace--all unheeded by my eyes

a black shadow had been silently creeping over the whole ocean world.

Now from across the water there came the first low grumble of war.

Within one short portentous week that grumble had become a roar, and

before all the startled peoples had time to realize what was here, vast

armies were being rushed over the lands, all Europe was in chaos--and

the world was on the eve of the most prodigious change of all.

And like the mirror of the world that it had always been to me, the

harbor at once reflected this change. Only a little time before, I had

seen it almost empty, except for that crude boat of the crowd; the

_Internationale_, with its songs of brotherhood and of a world where

wars should cease. Now I saw it jammed with ships from whose masts flew

every flag on the seas, and from the men who came ashore I heard of how

they had been chased, some fired upon, by battleships--I heard of war

upon the seas. I felt my father's world reborn, an ocean world where

there was nothing without fighting, and where every nation fought.

Ours had already entered the lists, with a loud clamor for ships of our

own in which to seize this sudden chance for our share of the trade of

the world. The great canal was open at last, and Europe in her turmoil

had had not even a moment to look. The East and South lay open to

us--rush in and get our share at last! Make our nation strong at sea!

And while in blind confusion I groped for some new footing here, strove

to see what it was going to mean to that fair world of brotherhood which

I had seen struggling to be born--suddenly as though in reply there came

a sharp voice out of the crowd.

Joe Kramer came to trial for his life. Before his case went to the jury,

Joe rose up and addressed them. And he spoke of war and violence. He

spoke of how in times of peace this present system murders men--on ships

and docks and railroads, in the mills and down in the mines. And as

though these lives were not enough, the powers above in this scramble

for theirs for all the profits in the world, all the sweated labor they

could wring out of humankind, had now flown at each others' throats. And

the blood of the common people was pouring out upon the earth.

"My comrades over the water," he said, "saw this coming years ago. They

worked day and night to gather the workers of Europe together against

this war that will blacken the world. For that they were called

anti-patriots, fiends, men without a country. And some were imprisoned

and others were shot. And over here--where in times of peace the number

of killed and wounded is over five hundred thousand a year--for

rebelling against this murder they have called me murderer--and have

placed me here on trial for my life.

"And what I want to ask you now is that you take no halfway course.

Either send me out of this dock a free man or up the river to the chair.

For this is no year for compromise. Am I a murderer? Yes or no. Decide

with your eyes wide open. If you set me free I shall still rebel. I

shall join my comrades over the sea who already are going about in the

camps and saying to the rank and file--'You can stop this slaughter! You

can save this world gone mad! You can end this murder--both in time of

war and peace!'"

* * * * *

And the jury set Joe free.

Early in the following week I went down to his room by the docks for a

last evening with him there. Joe was sailing that same night. Under a

name not his own he had taken passage in the steerage of the big fast

liner which was to sail at one o'clock. Into his room all evening poured

his revolutionist friends, and the chance of revolution abroad was

talked of in cool practical terms. Nothing could be done, they said, in

the first few months to stop this war. Years ago the man in France, who

had led the anti-war movement, had predicted that if war broke out every

government rushing in would force on its people the belief that this was

no war of aggression but one of defense of the fatherland from a fierce

onrushing foe. And so in truth it had come about, and against that

appeal to fight for their homes no voice of reason could stem the tide.

The socialists had been swept on with the rest. By tens and hundreds of

thousands they had already gone to the front. But it was upon this very

fact that Joe and his friends now rested their hopes. For just so soon

as in the camps the first burst of enthusiasm had begun to die away, as

the millions in the armies began to grow sick of the sight of blood, the

groans and the shrieks of the wounded and dying, the stench of the

dead--and themselves weary of fighting, worn by privation and disease,

began to think of their distant homes, their wives and children starving

there--then these socialists in their midst, one at every bivouack fire,

would begin to ask them:

"Why is it that we are at war? What good is all this blood to us? Is it

to make our toil any lighter, life any brighter in our homes--or were we

sent out by our rulers to die only in order that they in their scramble

might take more of the earth for themselves? And if this is true why not

rise like men and end this fearful carnage?"

Already these thousands were in the camps. Into Joe's room that evening

came men to give him the names and regiments of those comrades he could

trust. Joe with a few hundred others was to make his dangerous way into

the camps and the barracks, wherever that was possible, of French and

Russians and Germans alike, to carry news from one to the other, to make

ready and to plan.

Now and then, in the talk that night, I felt the thrilling presence of

that rising god, that giant spirit of the crowd, not dead but only

sleeping now to gain new strength for what it must do. And again in

gleams and flashes I saw the vision of the end--the world for all the

workers. For in this crowded tenement room, forgotten now by

governments, this rough earnest group of men seemed so sure of this

world of theirs, so sure that it was now soon to be born.

One by one they went away, and Joe and I were left alone. Slowly he

refilled his pipe. I thought of the talks we had had in ten years.

"Well Bill," he inquired at last, "what are you going to do with

yourself?"

"Write what I see in the crowd," I said, "from my new point of

view--this year's point of view," I added. I went on to tell him what

the English writer had said. And I told of my book on the harbor.

"Well," said Joe when I was through, "I guess it's about the best you

can do. You've got a wife to think of."

"You don't know her," I rejoined, and I told him how she had changed our

home in order not to stop my work.

"But don't you see what she's up to?" said Joe.

"What the devil do you mean?" I asked indignantly. Joe blew a pitying

puff of smoke.

"You poor blind dub of a husband," he said with his old affectionate

smile, "she's making you love her all the more. You're anchored worse

than ever. _You_ can't go over to Europe and take a chance at being

shot. Don't you see the hole you're in? You've got to care what happens

to you."

"I'm not so sure of that, Joe," I said. "Things in this world are

changing so fast that it's hard for any man in it to tell where he'll be

in a year from now--or even a few short months from now. It's the year

that no man can see beyond."

"You mean you're coming over?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. Just now I'm going to finish this book. I'm going to see

Eleanore through till the baby is born. But after that--if over in

Europe the people rise against this war--I don't just see how I can keep

out."

Joe looked at me queerly. And with a curious gruffness,

"I hope you will keep out," he said. "There aren't many women like your

wife."

He pulled an old grip from under his bed and began throwing in a few

books and clothes. From a drawer he swept a few colored shirts, some

underclothes and a small revolver.

"J. K.," I said, "I've been thinking about us. And I think our youth is

gone."

"What's youth?" asked Joe indifferently.

"Youth," I replied, "is the time when you can think anything, feel

anything and go anywhere."

"I'm still going anywhere," he remarked.

"But you can't think anything," I rejoined. "You say I'm tied to a wife

and home. All right, I'm glad I am. But you're tied, too. You're tied to

a creed, Mister Syndicalist--a creed so stiff that you can't think of

anything else."

"All right, I'm glad I am," he echoed. "I'm sorry youth lasted as long

as it did."

He closed his grip and strapped it. Then he took up his hat and coat and

threw a last look about the room where he had lived for a year or more.

"Breaking up home ties," he said with a grin. "Don't come to the boat,"

he added downstairs. "She don't sail for an hour or two and I'll be

asleep in my bunk long before."

"All right. Good-by, J. K.--remember we may meet over there----"

Again that gruffness came into his voice:

"If you do, you'll be taking a mighty big chance," he said. "Good-by,

Bill--it's just possible we may never meet again. Glad to have made your

acquaintance, Kid. Here's wishing you luck."

He turned and went off down the Farm with that long swinging walk of

his, his big heavy shoulders bent rather more than before. And as I

stood looking after him I thought of the lonely winding road that he was

to travel day and night, into slums of cities and in and out among the

camps.

* * * * *

I walked slowly back through the tenements toward the new home among

them that Eleanore had made.

In the summer's night the city streets were still alive with people. I

passed brightly lighted thoroughfares where I saw them in crowds, and I

knew that this tide of people flowed endlessly through the hundreds of

miles of streets that made up the port of New York. Hurrying, idling,

talking and laughing, quarreling, fighting, here stopping to look at

displays in shop windows, there pouring into "Movies"--and walking,

walking, walking on. Going up into their tenement homes to eat and

drink, love, breed and sleep, to wake up and come down to another day.

So the crowd moved on and on, while the great harbor surrounding their

lives and shaping their lives, went on with its changes unheeded.

I tried to think of this harbor as being run by this common crowd--of

the railroads, mines and factories, of the colleges, hospitals and all

institutions of research, and the theaters and concert halls, the

picture galleries, all the books--all in the power of the crowd.

"It will be a long time," I thought. "Before it comes the crowd must

change. But they will change--and fast or slow, I belong with them while

they're changing."

Something Joe had once said came into my mind:

"They're the ones who get shot down in wars and worked like dogs in time

of peace."

And I thought of the crowds across the sea--of men being rushed over

Europe on trains, or marching along starlit roads, or tramping across

meadows. And I thought of long lines of fire at dawn spurting from the

mouths of guns--from mountainsides, from out of woods, from trenches in

fast blackening fields--and of men in endless multitudes pitching on

their faces as the fire mowed them down.

And with those men, it seemed to me, went all the great gods I had

known--gods of civilization and peace--the kind god in my mother's

church and the smiling goddess in Paris, the clear-eyed god of

efficiency and the awakening god of the crowd--all plunging into this

furnace of war with the men in whose spirits all gods dwell--to shrivel

and melt in seething flame and emerge at last in strange new forms. What

would come out of the furnace?

I thought of Joe and his comrades going about in towns and camps,

speaking low and watching, waiting, hoping to bring a new dawn, a new

order, out of this chaotic night.

And I heard them say to these governments:

"Your civilization is crashing down. For a hundred years, in all our

strikes and risings, you preached against our violence--you talked of

your law and order, your clear deliberate thinking. In you lay the hope

of the world, you said. You were Civilization. You were Mind and

Science, in you was all Efficiency, in you was Art, Religion, and you

kept the Public Peace. But now you have broken all your vows. The

world's treasures of Art are as safe with you as they were in the Dark

Ages. Your Prince of Peace you have trampled down. And all your Science

you have turned to the efficient slaughter of men. In a week of your

boasted calmness you have plunged the world into a violence beside which

all the bloodshed in our strikes and revolutions seems like a pool

beside the sea. And so you have failed, you powers above, blindly and

stupidly you have failed. For you have let loose a violence where you

are weak and we are strong. We are these armies that you have called

out. And before we go back to our homes we shall make sure that these

homes of ours shall no more become ashes at your will. For we shall stop

this war of yours and in our minds we shall put away all hatred of our

brother men. For us they will be workers all. With them we shall rise

and rise again--until at last the world is free!"

The voice had ceased--and again I was walking by myself along a crowded

tenement street. Immigrants from Europe, brothers, sons and fathers of

the men now in the camps, kept passing me along the way. As I looked

into their faces I saw no hope for Europe there. Such men could take and

hold no world. But then I remembered how in the strike, out of just such

men as these, I had seen a giant slowly born. Would that crowd spirit

rise again? Could it be that the time was near when this last and

mightiest of the gods would rise and take the world in his hands?

* * * * *

At home I found Eleanore asleep. For a time I sat at my desk and made

some notes for my writing. I read and smoked for a little, then

undressed and went to bed. But still I lay there wide awake--thinking of

this home of mine and of where I might be in a few months more, in this

year that no man can see beyond. For all the changes in the world seemed

gathering in a cyclone now.

I was nearly asleep when I was roused by a thick voice from the harbor.

Low in the distance, deep but now rising blast on blast, its waves of

sound beat into the city--into millions of ears of sleepers and

watchers, the well, the sick and the dying, the dead, the lovers, the

schemers, the dreamers, the toilers, the spenders and wasters. I shut my

eyes and saw the huge liner on which Joe was sailing moving slowly out

of its slip. Down at its bottom men shoveling coal to the clang of its

gong. On the decks above them, hundreds of cabins and suites de

luxe--most of them dark and empty now. Bellowing impatiently as it swept

out into the stream, it seemed to be saying:

"Make way for me. Make way, all you little men. Make way, all you habits

and all you institutions, all you little creeds and gods. For I am the

start of the voyage--over the ocean to heathen lands! And I am always

starting out and always bearing you along! For I am your molder, I am

strong--I am a surprise, I am a shock--I am a dazzling passion of

hope--I am a grim executioner! I am reality--I am life! I am the book

that has no 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.

* * * * *

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list

LADDIE.

Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story

is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it

is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs

of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie, the

older brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess, an English

girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family

there hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the book and a

double wedding at the close.

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.

"The Harvester," David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who

draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If the

book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be

notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," and the

Harvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life

which has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic

quality.

FRECKLES, Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford.

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he

takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great

Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to

the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The

Angel" are full of real sentiment.

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of

the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness

towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of

her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and

unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp.

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The

story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.

The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and

its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.

MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romance

finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love to

the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the

prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned love stories, * * * a

rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy,

of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity.

A SPINNER IN THE SUN.

Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story in which

poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a clever and

entertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she always displays

a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of pathos which give a

touch of active realism to all her writings. In "A Spinner in the Sun"

she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in

solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a

mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of

romance.

THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso

is the reverent possessor of a genuine "Cremona." He consents to take

for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for

technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth has led the happy,

careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American and he cannot, with

his meagre past, express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life

and all its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all its

fulness. But a girl comes into his life--a beautiful bit of human

driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home, and through

his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to

give--and his soul awakes.

Founded on a fact that all artists realize.

GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS

THE KIND THAT ARE MAKING THEATRICAL HISTORY

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

WITHIN THE LAW. By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana. Illustrated by Wm.

Charles Cooke.

This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for

two years in New York and Chicago.

The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed

against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three

years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent.

WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY. By Robert Carlton Brown. Illustrated with scenes

from the play.

This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly

thrown into the very heart of New York, "the land of her dreams," where

she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers.

The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played in

theatres all over the world.

THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM. By David Belasco. Illustrated by John Rae.

This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, as

Old Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success.

The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful,

both as a book and as a play.

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.

This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit

barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness.

It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. The play has

been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.

BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace.

The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance on a

height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. The

clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect

reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere

of the arena have kept their deep fascination. A tremendous dramatic

success.

BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. By George Broadhurst and Arthur Hornblow.

Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an

interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. The scenes are laid

in New York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor.

The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which

show the young wife the price she has paid.

GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS

Original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are

making theatrical history.

MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. Illustrated with

scenes from the play.

A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not

forgive an error of her youth. Her love for her son is the great final

influence in her career. A tremendous dramatic success.

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.

An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and

love in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged this season with magnificent cast

and gorgeous properties.

THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew. Wallace.

A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinary

power the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the

warm underglow of an Oriental romance. As a play it is a great dramatic

spectacle.

TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White. Illust. by Howard

Chandler Christy.

A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University

student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of

those about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of the

season.

YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph Chester. Illust. by F. R. Gruger

and Henry Raleigh.

A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of

which is just on the safe side of a State's prison offence. As

"Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of

money manipulation ever seen on the stage.

THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse. Illustrations by Will Grefe.

Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglary

adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of "A Gentleman

of Leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers.

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.

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.As

_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK