IX

The succeeding days brought one continuous round of simple pleasures.

Christmas and the holidays followed hard upon the wedding, and New

Year's Day being Sunday, Pert invited the members of the wedding party

to the house for from Friday to the Monday following.

At this season of the year there was nothing of actual work to be done

upon the place, and Checkers was free to hunt with the men or drive

with the girls, as he elected.

Whether it be for the reason that "misery loves company," or for the

much more probable and kindly reason that "our truest happiness lies in

making others happy," it is certain that most young married couples

have a very strong "weakness" for match-making. And Pert and Checkers

were no exception to this rule.

They decided that Arthur's truest good demanded that he marry Sadie;

and poor little Sadie showed but too plainly in what direction her

happiness lay.

But in spite of Pert's well-laid plans to leave them in quiet corners

together, in spite of her many little tactful suggestions, Arthur

remained unresponsive. He was attentive in a perfunctory way, but that

was all. And often Pert would blush to find him gazing at her with a

wistful, far-away look in his eyes, which told more surely than words

what was in his heart. In fact, Sadie timidly suggested to Pert one

day that Arthur was always distrait and silent after seeing her and

Checkers together; and that instead of making him desire a domestic

little home of his own, it seemed to embitter and sour him.

So, after the house party Checkers settled down to serious life on a

farm, and Pert busied herself with housekeeping, learning to cook from

her neat old colored servant "Mandy," trying new dishes herself, and

doing the thousand and one little things that go to make up "a woman's

work," which 't is said "is never done"--"done," of course, in the

sense of "finished."

And so the winter glided quickly into spring--the spring of '93; a year

that many of us will long remember.

One evening Checkers unfolded to Pert a long-cherished scheme, which

delighted her. This was nothing less than a plan to take her to

Chicago in May to see the World's Fair. "We 'll call it our wedding

trip, little girl," he said caressingly, "and we won't be gone but ten

days or two weeks."

But when Mr. Barlow heard of it, "he made a monkey of himself," as

Checkers put it. He ranted and swore, and told them both they would

end in the poorhouse with their reckless extravagance. But Checkers

laughed him off good-naturedly. He knew that the trip would be

expensive; but he felt that he could afford it, and he had another and

a deeper reason for taking Pert to Chicago. He was greatly worried

about her health, and he desired to have her consult some eminent

physician regarding herself.

One day, when they were out for a walk, she had run a playful race with

him along a level stretch of road, bending every energy to beat him.

He was running easily behind her, puffing and grunting to make her

think that she was really worsting him, when suddenly she stumbled,

tottered, and, putting her hand to her heart, sank limply upon a bed of

leaves at the side of the road. In an instant Checkers was kneeling

beside her. She had not fainted, but was as pale as death, and she

still held her hand to her heart and gasped for breath. Checkers

loosened her gown about her throat, then filling his hat with water at

a little stream near by, he bathed her brow and wet her lips. Fully an

hour passed before she was able with his assistance to walk to the

house, and though about, next day apparently as well as ever, she

complained thereafter, at intervals, of dizziness, chilly sensations

and strange flutterings at her heart.

The local doctor joked her about the size of her waist, and told her

that her trouble was probably due to a combination of lacing and

indigestion. But to Checkers he confided a fear that there might be

some affection of the heart, and earnestly advised that he consult some

worthy specialist.

So, while Checkers told nothing of his apprehensions to Pert, he would

brook no interference in his plans. The middle of May they left the

house in care of "Mandy," and set out for the land of "The Great White

City."

What delight they found in roaming about through those wonderful

buildings and marvelous displays! Checkers, alert and all-observing,

Pert, enthusiastic and wondering--they spent whole days in a single

building or upon the ever-interesting Midway.

Checkers had found cozy quarters in a small hotel not far from the

grounds, but they lunched and dined where it suited them best. Thus it

chanced that one night, when they were going to the theater, they dined

beforehand at Kinsley's, as related by Checkers in the opening chapters.

Meanwhile, Checkers did not neglect the more serious part of his

mission. He hunted up Murray, who was surprised and glad to see him,

and who evinced a genuine interest in the story of his marital felicity.

Upon the matter of a doctor for Pert, Murray happened to know "just the

man," a friend of his, to whom he gave Checkers a letter of

introduction. Checkers called and explained the case to the doctor,

and the next day Pert underwent a thorough examination. Checkers

awaited the verdict anxiously. In effect it was this: her heart action

was weak, and at times irregular, but there was no reason to apprehend

but what, with a careful diet, regular exercise, plenty of sleep and

fresh air, she would live as long as the average woman, and fully

recover from the troublesome symptoms which sudden over-exertion had

brought upon her. Violent exercise and excitement, however, were

especially to be avoided; and the use of all stimulants, narcotics and

anaesthetics must be set down as dangerous in the extreme.

Checkers breathed a sigh of relief. He had warned the doctor to make

as light of the case to Pert as his conscience would permit, explaining

that he himself would tell her gradually, as fitting occasion offered,

what had been said to him, and would see that all instructions were

carefully carried out. Violent exercise she was already warned

against, and Checkers felt that he could guard her against unusual

excitement. He carefully avoided the harrowing plays at the theater,

but took her to operas and burlesques. But it never occurred to him as

necessary to warn her specifically against stimulants and drugs.

A few days before their departure for home, they received a pleasant

surprise in the shape of a telegram from Arthur and Sadie, announcing

their marriage.

A letter from Sadie arrived the next day, in which she said that she

and Arthur had hoped to join them in Chicago and surprise them, but

that conditions were such at the store that Arthur's every available

moment was demanded, and he could not possibly get away. But this was

not the half of it. The panic of '93, of which premonitory notice had

been given by numerous bank failures, was now a stern reality.

Collections were bad, business was dead, and the firm of Kendall & Co.,

which had unfortunately laid in a larger stock of goods than usual that

season, found it all they could do to keep themselves from going to the

wall.

Checkers and Pert returned and soon fell into their accustomed grooves.

They called upon Arthur and Sadie, and found them reasonably happy

under new conditions, although Arthur was evidently carrying a load of

care and responsibility; while Judge Martin sat up and cheerfully

predicted "confusion and every evil work" as a result of the

demonetization of silver and other kindred political "outrages."

One morning as Checkers was working about the dooryard, he espied his

father-in-law coming up the road at a gait which presaged important

news. The old man reached him, out of breath. Checkers waited

expectantly.

"Well, what do ye think has happened now?" panted Mr. Barlow. "The

First National Bank of Little Rock has gone up--busted; got yer money."

There was in his voice and manner something of the triumph that mean

spirits feel at being the first to bring disastrous news, as well as a

show of personal injury at the thought of Checkers allowing himself to

lose what he himself had even the shadow of an interest in.

"My God!" exclaimed Checkers involuntarily, growing pale at the news.

Then for a moment he stood in silence, nervously biting his upper lip.

He had had long experience in controlling himself under trying

circumstances. "If that's so," he finally answered in a quiet voice,

"it 's tough."

This exasperated Mr. Barlow. "Tough," he repeated; "you nincompoop,

it's actual ruin; the bank has been robbed by its president--looted--ye

'll never see a cent of it ag'in," and he started toward the house.

"Hold on!" exclaimed Checkers, grabbing him by the arm. "Not a word of

this to Pert; it will only excite her, and not do any good."

But the old man shook him off and continued his way. Checkers picked

up a handy piece of scantling, and running up the steps, turned and

faced his father-in-law.

"Now, see here, old man," he exclaimed, "I 've taken as much of your

slack as I 'm going to--see? I tell you you can't come into this

house; and I give you fair warning, if you put your foot on one of

those steps I 'll smash you over the head;" and he swung his weapon

threateningly to his shoulder. "What I 've made or lost is mine, not

yours," he continued, "and it don't 'cut any pie' with you--you'll

never get a cent of it. My wife is mine, not yours, and I 'll take

care of her, what ever happens. But she is n't well, and the doctor

said any sudden excitement might kill her. I 'll tell her gradually

and quietly, and go down to Little Rock this noon and see if there 's

anything can be done. If I 'd let you tell her you 'd break the news

with an ax, and I tell you I ain't going to have it; so just 'jar

loose,' and 'pull your freight.'"

There was something in Checkers' determined look which cowed the old

man, but he would n't go without a last word. "Well, ye 'll both o' ye

end a couple of paupers and die in the poorhouse if this keeps up," he

said, "with your fancy furniture and trips to Chicago. How much did

you have in that bank?"

Just here Pert appeared in the doorway. Checkers' threatening attitude

and her father's question, which she overheard, surprised and startled

her. "What is it?" she cried, putting her arm around Checkers and

disarming him gently.

"Nothing much," he began.

"Nothing much," interrupted her father, "except that the Little Rock

bank is busted, and all yer money's gone."

Checkers reached for his stick, but Pert restrained him. "Never mind,

dearest," she said, "it may not be as bad as you think--things never

are; and we 've got the house and the farm, and the bonds; and,

whatever happens, we 've got each other."

"Yes; you 've got each other," said the old man cynically, "and that's

all ye will have, if things goes this way. If yer goin' to Little

Rock, boy," he said sharply, consulting his old silver watch, "ye must

hurry; ye ain't more 'n time to make it now."

Checkers saw that this was so, and going to his room, made a hasty

toilet. "Good-bye, Pert, darling," he said, as he emerged, catching

her up and embracing her lovingly. "I 'll be back soon; don't mind

what he says;" and with a warning glance at Mr. Barlow, he hurried off

down the road toward the station.

As he stood upon the platform awaiting the train he felt a sudden

presentiment of evil, and with a superstition born of his early

experience in gambling, he half decided to turn back. "I 've got a

feeling I ought n't to go," he muttered; "but I guess it's because I 'm

afraid the old man will worry Pert. Still, she seemed to take it calm

enough, and I ought to get there and look after my stuff." He boarded

the train and went steaming off, but he could not get rid of his

bugaboo.

The situation with Checkers at this time was about as follows: Of the

legacy left him, $20,000 had gone for the farm, or fruit ranch, which

he had given Pert. A thousand more had been spent in refitting and

furnishing the house. Most of the wedding expenses, which Checkers had

assumed, Part's presents, an elaborate wardrobe for himself, the

household expenses, and the trip to Chicago, had consumed about another

thousand. The balance, except ten government bonds and a few hundred

dollars in the bank at Clarksville, was on deposit at interest in this

bank which failed--$4,800, for which he held a certificate of deposit.

It was very unfortunate, and the sense of his loss kept growing upon

him as time went on.

Meanwhile Mr. Barlow had taken occasion to lecture Pert on her sinful

extravagance. With pencil and paper he sat before her, and showed her

how within six short months she and Checkers had spent one-tenth of

their fortune, and how with this loss at the bank they were poorer by a

third of all they had ever possessed.

"Figures won't lie, but liars will figure." He knew, but he did not

tell her, that of what was actual expense there would be little cause

for its repetition, and that most of the money expended was visible in

assets of one sort or another. He only made her feel perfectly

miserable, and wrought her up beyond the point of thinking or answering

intelligently.

When he had gone she tried for a while to busy herself about the house,

but she felt a growing lonesomeness--a desire for sympathy and

companionship--and she decided to put on her hat and go down to her

cousin Sadie's.

It was now high noon, and a stifling hot day; but she braved the heat

of the blistering sun, and trudged along the dusty way to her

destination. When she reached the Martins' house she was dizzy and

faint from the heat and the blinding glare.

Judge Martin and Arthur came home to dinner, and both expressed the

greatest sympathy for her and Checkers in their sudden misfortune. At

the table Pert tried to eat for appearance's sake, but her efforts

ended in mere pretense. Sadie noticed it, and insisted that after

dinner she go to a room on the cool side of the house and "take a nap."

To this Pert objected. "I can never sleep during the day," she said;

"the longer I lie, the wider awake I get. I am really all right," she

added, smiling bravely, "only my head aches--a very little."

"We'll soon fix that," exclaimed Arthur. "I 've been troubled with

headache and sleeplessness lately, myself, and I 've struck a remedy

that beats anything you ever saw; knocks a headache, and makes you

sleep like an infant. It's perfectly harmless, too--guaranteed.

Excuse me a minute; I'll get the box."

Pert felt too miserably weak and apathetic to further object to Sadie's

suggestion or Arthur's remedy; so, under her cousin's ministering

guidance, she retired to an upper room and prepared herself with what

comfort she could to rest, while Sadie opened the windows and drew the

shades.

"Now, Pert," said Sadie, "take one of these powders with a little

water, and I think you 'll feel better right away. I 'll leave the box

here on the table, near the bed, and if the first one does n 't cure

your headache and put you to sleep, take another. Now is there

anything more you want, dear? If there is, just call; I 'll leave the

door the least bit open." A sudden impulse prompted her, as she was

going out, to return and kiss Pert fondly, and though not an uncommon

thing between them, still both wondered for a moment afterward at the

unusual tenderness and feeling that each had unconsciously put into the

embrace.

Left alone, Pert tried to compose her mind and go to sleep; but in

spite of herself her brain dwelt anxiously upon Checkers in Little

Rock, and upon what her father had said to her. Half an hour passed

and still her fancy teemed, as she restlessly tossed from side to side.

She felt herself growing nervous, and her ear upon the pillow told her

that her heart was beating rapidly.

"At least my head feels a great deal better," she murmured, raising

herself upon her elbow; "now if I could only get to sleep I believe I

should wake up quite myself again. Perhaps another powder will do it;

I 'm afraid of them, though. Still, Arthur says they 're perfectly

harmless--I 'll take just one more. Checkers would n 't like it; he

told me never to take any medicine." She lifted her box from the

table. "Dear old Checkers," she said to herself, with a sigh,

preparing the powder; "how he loves me! His first thought was to keep

the news from me for fear I would worry." She took the draught and

sank back upon the pillow--"to be loved as he loves me--Oh, Checkers!

mother!!"

The afternoon wore on towards dusk. Sadie went about her household

duties, humming softly. Once she thought she heard Pert call, but as

the sound was not repeated, she fancied herself mistaken, and sat down

to read, happy in the thought that Pert must have fallen asleep. It

seemed to be blowing up cooler; the wind had shifted, and a few dark

clouds were rolling up from the west, with distant rumbling.

About five o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Barlow drove up in a buggy. Mrs.

Barlow got out, and Mr. Barlow drove on toward the store. Sadie saw

them and opened the door.

"Is Pert here, Sadie?" was the question which greeted her. "We 've

been up to her house, and 'Mandy' said she had come down here."

"Yes; she 's here, Auntie Barlow."

"The poor little thing! My husband only told me the news this

afternoon; he 's been down street all morning, and I wanted to see her

and comfort her."

"She wasn't feeling well," explained Sadie, "and after dinner I sent

her up stairs to sleep. You 'll find her in the bedroom over the

parlor. She must be awake by this time."

"Very well; I 'll go up." Mrs. Barlow ascended the stairs.

Sadie went to the window and looked out upon the gathering storm, now

vividly foretold by constant flashes of jagged lightning. Suddenly she

started, and stood transfixed, as though turned to ice with a chilling

horror. There had come to her ears from above an awful cry of bitter

anguish, quickly followed by a jarring, muffled sound, as of a falling

body.

"Auntie Barlow!" she gasped, regaining her faculties with a superhuman

effort, and rushing blindly toward the stairs. Staggering up with the

aid of the banister, she reached the landing and entered the room

beyond. There, prostrate upon the floor, lay Mrs. Barlow in a

deathlike swoon. Upon the bed lay the lifeless body of poor little

Pert--her pure, white soul had flown.

There are some who faint at the thought of a thing, but are brave when

they meet it face to face. Such a one was Sadie. She realized the

situation at a glance; and though the awfulness of it benumbed her, she

did, dry-eyed and mechanically, what she knew must be done. Mrs.

Barlow she could not lift, but, she sprinkled her face with water, and

put a pillow under her head. Then with the ghost of a hope that Pert

was but in a stupor, she rushed down the stairs, and out into the

street, toward the doctor's, a few doors away. She met him just coming

out of his gate. "Come, quick," she said; and as they hurried back she

told him in a few words what had happened.

Mrs. Barlow still lay in a state of semi-consciousness, moaning

pitifully at intervals. With all her soul in her eyes, Sadie watched

the doctor while he felt Pert's wrist and held a glass before her lips

for an indication of breathing. But his face gave never a sign of

hope, and his eyes, as he looked up, told her all. "She is dead," he

said softly. Sadie burst into a fit of uncontrollable weeping. The

doctor lifted Mrs. Barlow carefully and deposited her upon a bed in

another room.

The sound of voices was heard outside--those of Arthur and Judge Martin

talking to Mr. Barlow, who had just driven up and met them as they were

coming in. Sadie went slowly down the stairs and opened the door. The

sight of her tear-stained face startled them all. "What is it?" they

exclaimed simultaneously.

"Oh, Pert--" she began; but burst again into weeping and was unable to

continue.

The doctor appeared just behind her, and told the three men what had

happened. Mr. Barlow, his face set hard, and a ghastly white under his

yellow skin, tottered up the stairs, the doctor following. Judge

Martin penned a telegram to Checkers, and dispatched Arthur with it at

once.

"Pert is very sick. Come home," it read, and it was signed as though

from Mr. Barlow.

Fortunately, Checkers, in Little Rock, had but a few moments to wait

for the outgoing train after receiving the message; but every moment of

the journey was torture; every delay at way-stations, agony. When,

after what seemed to him like years, they at last pulled into

Clarksville, he jumped from the moving train to the platform.

Judge Martin had set for himself the unwelcome task of meeting him and

breaking the sad news. But his resolution all but failed him when

Checkers, grasping both his hands, asked breathlessly, "How is she,

sir?" his face upturned with a pleading look, as though upon the answer

depended his very life and salvation.

"She is very low, my poor boy," answered the Judge, the tears coming

into his eyes; "but you must be brave--"

"My God, my God!" breathed Checkers, raising his hand to his eyes in a

dazed way, as though to ward off the blow of the Judge's words, the

import of which was all too plain. The Judge laid his hand upon

Checkers' shoulder and drew him toward him, protectingly. "Come," he

said, gently; "she is at my house."

Checkers started as though from a dream. "At your house," he echoed,

"and I have been standing here wasting precious time."

With a sudden bound he jumped to the ground and flew up the street

through the darkness, toward the Judge's house, not many yards away.

Arthur heard the sound of his footsteps, and silently opened the door.

"Upstairs, Checkers," he whispered. Checkers hurried frantically up

the stairs, but paused at the threshold, ere he entered the room.

There before him, by the light of one dim, flickering candle, sat

Sadie, silently weeping. There upon the bed, cold and silent in death,

lay the mortal remains of his sweet girl-wife.

With an agonized cry he fell to his knees at the bedside, and taking

her cold little hand, he rubbed it and kissed it caressingly. "Pert,

my darling," he moaned, "come back to me! Don't leave me, Pert, my

precious one--tell me you won't dear--tell me you hear me!--" But only

the sound of Sadie's convulsive sobbing answered him as she stumbled

from the room.

The long threatened storm now suddenly broke in all its fury. The rain

blew fiercely in at a window near him, and drenched him through and

through with the flying spray; but he heeded it not. Kneeling at the

bedside, his face above the little hand clasped in both of his, he

uttered mingled incoherent prayers to Pert to come back, and to God to

take him too.

Judge Martin noiselessly entered the room and closed the window.

Gently he put a hand under each of Checkers' arms, and raised him up.

"Come, my boy," he said kindly, but firmly, "you must not stay here in

this condition. Try to bear up. It's an awful blow that has come upon

us; but God, in his inscrutable wisdom, has thought it best to take

her--"

Again, with a sudden burst of anguish, as though his very heart had

broken within him, Checkers threw himself to his knees by the bedside,

and burying his face between his outstretched arms, poured out in

bitter, choking sobs, his utter hopeless, despairing misery. So

terrible a strain, however, brought about, in the end, its own results.

Beneficent nature intervened, and toward the morning hours Judge Martin

and Arthur gently lifted the grief-stricken boy from the kneeling

position in which he had fallen asleep, and put him comfortably upon a

bed in another room, without his awakening.

Details of this sort are harrowing at best, but nothing imaginable

could have been sadder than was the funeral two days later. The rain,

which had never intermitted, fell with dismal hopelessness. Mrs.

Barlow had not been able to leave her bed since the shock, and, never

strong, her life was now almost despaired of.

Checkers stood uncovered in the down-pouring rain, beside the open

grave, his clear-cut face as hard and white as marble. In spite of the

draggling wet and clinging mud, the country people were out in force;

but their gapes, their nudges and whispers, were as little to him as

the falling rain. He was dead to everything but the sense of his

utter, hopeless desolation.

What made it all even sadder, if possible, was that a dreadful breach

had come between him and Sadie and Arthur.

On the morning following that first awful night, he had suddenly

confronted them with the box of powders crushed in his hand, and in his

eyes a tragic, questioning look which spoke, while he stood sternly

silent.

"Oh, Checkers," cried Sadie, falling to her knees and holding out her

hands entreatingly, "forgive us--we did n't know--we didn't know!

Forgive us; please forgive us!"

But his face only grew the harder. "Forgive you," he said, as he

raised his clenched hand to heaven, invokingly; "may God eternally--"

but he faltered, and his voice grew suddenly soft, "forgive you," he

added, dropping his arm and lowering his voice contritely. "But I," he

began again, in measured passionless words--"I can never forgive you.

I never want to see you--either of you--again." And from that hour he

never spoke to them, nor looked at them, any more than as though they

were not.

The funeral was over. He had come home. The rain had ceased. He sat

alone on his doorstep. The minister and some well-meaning but mistaken

friends, who had tried to comfort him, were gone. Over the western

hills the lowering sun broke through the heavy, moving clouds, painting

some a lurid tinge, and lining the heavier ones with silver. Checkers

noted it absently. "Another lie nailed," he muttered, as the trite old

proverb occurred to him. "My cloud is blacker and heavier than any of

those--and silver lining? Humph! Well, silver 's demonetized!" Over

his face there flitted the ghost of a smile. A smile, not at the sorry

jest, but at the thought that at this hour there should have come to

him so whimsical a fancy.

A number of days went by. He simply drifted, doing a few needful

duties mechanically; sometimes eating the food which Mandy prepared for

him, but oftener going without altogether; sitting, brooding, hours at

a time, gazing vacantly into space.

Mrs. Barlow--he learned one day from the doctor, who stopped a moment

in passing--had taken a slight turn for the better. Mr. Barlow, the

following morning appeared, as Checkers stood meditatively surveying a

fine old apple tree, from which a large limb, hanging heavy with fruit,

had been blown during the night.

"Thar," snorted the old man as he came up; "thar ye go, with yer

dog-durned laziness. If you 'd o' propped that limb weeks ago, as you

'd ought t' done, you 'd o' saved me a couple o' barrels o'

apples--Shannons, too. It's high time I was takin' a holt here myself.

Git the saw and the grafting-wax." Checkers obeyed, and stood

apathetically watching Mr. Barlow minister to the tree's necessity.

"Now," said the old man, when at last he had finished, "come and set in

the shade; I want to have a talk with ye;" and he led the way around to

the doorstep. Both sat down. The old man drew a plug of "Horseshoe"

from his pocket, and cut off a liberal piece, which he chewed into a

comfortable consistency before beginning.

"Now, boy," he said, "luck's ben a-comin' mighty hard for you and me

these last few weeks, and I ain 't a-sayin' it's over yit for both o'

us." Checkers made no response.

The old man chewed ruminatingly, and spat at a "devil's-horse" which

sat alertly atop of a shrub near by. "Y' see," he continued, "times is

gittin' wuss and wuss; banks failin' everywhar, and nawthin' wuth a

cent on th' shillin', 'cept Gov'ment bonds. Corn aint wuth nawthin;

farmers is feedin' their wheat to th' hogs, and cotton ye could n't

give away." Again there was a silence, and again the "devil's-horse"

narrowly escaped a deluge.

"By the way, whar 've ye got them Gov'ment bonds o' yourn?" Checkers

came out of his reverie at the question.

"Mr. Bradley 's got them put away in the safe for me at the store," he

answered.

"Mm-hmm!" mused the old man; "I was kinder wonderin' whether ye ever

give any on 'em away, like ye done th' place here;" and he glanced at

Checkers cunningly out of the corner of his eye.

"I never gave them away," said Checkers, drearily, "because there was

no occasion for it. What we had we owned together and shared in

common, and it makes little difference whether it was in my name or--or

any one else's."

"Yes; but it does. It makes a difference in the eye o' the law."

"Well, the law can leave it in its eye, or get it out, if it worries it

any."

The old man grinned sardonically on the side of his face away from

Checkers. He had never liked our little friend from the time when

Checkers had caused him to fall over a rocking-chair in the parlor the

night that he and Pert became engaged; and Checkers had fostered this

dislike by snubbing and belittling him whenever an opportunity

occurred. His entire make-up of sneaking, petty selfishness and greed

was abhorrent to one of Checkers' open, generous nature, and it was

only for Pert's sake that he had ever consented to have the old man

about or notice him at all.

"Wal," said Mr. Barlow, musingly, "that 's one thing I kin see stickin'

out; you ain't no kind o' hand to run a place like this--ye 're too

tarnal shif'less. Somebody 's got to look after things. Now, my place

down below 's all right for raisin' cotton and sich, but it 's

onhealthy, mighty. The doctor says it 's livin' down thar gives my

wife chills and ager. So, take it all 'round, and bein' 's ye 're

fixed so nice up here, but lonesome-like by yerself, I guess me an'

wife 'll close up the ole house an' move up here to live."

"Guess again."

"No; I 'low I guessed it right fust time," grinned the old man. "What

's the good in runnin' two houses when we kin all live together in one

jist ez well? Wife kin have the parlor bedroom all t' herself, and you

kin have the front or back room upstairs, either you like--I ain't

pertic'lar on that pint--"

"Now, see here," interrupted Checkers, jumping up with an impatient

gesture, "I 've listened to enough of this bloody nonsense. I 'll live

here by myself and run this place to suit myself. Now, when you go

out, close the gate--I 'm tired of talking, and I want to be left

alone."

But the old man never budged; and again the "devil's-horse" braved an

unrighteous fate with a stoicism worthy of a better cause.

"Young feller," said Mr. Barlow, after several moments' cogitation,

"you ain't never treated me with the perliteness and respect as is due

from a boy yer age t' his elders and betters. But I never harbored no

grudge, 'cause I knowed it was only a matter o' time when chickens like

them 'ud come home to roost."

Checkers had intended to move off and leave him sitting there alone;

but he stopped long enough to light a cigarette (a thing which the old

man abominated) and listen to this last remark.

[Illustration: MR. BARLOW]

"_Now it's roostin' time_," continued Mr. Barlow with emphasis, "and

onless ye come down off'n th' high horse ye 're ridin', ye 're goin'

ter hear suthin' drap that 'll kinder put a crimp in that pride o'

yourn."

This was a new tone for him to take, and Checkers turned and looked at

him surprisedly.

"The fact is," he went on, "you ain't got no head for bizness, and it

's providential things hez come round so 's I kin run this place and

make what they is to be made out'n it." He looked up as though he

expected to be interrogated.

"What's your lay?" asked Checkers.

"Wal, the situation, ez near ez I kin figger it out, accordin' to law,

is this: _I owns this ranch_."

Checkers stood silent for a moment, and then laughed. "You owns it?"

he mimicked; "nit."

"This real estate," began Mr. Barlow dryly, as though repeating a

well-conned lesson, "with the house upon it, was owned in fee by Persis

Barlow Campbell at the time o' her death. Said Persis Campbell died

intestate and without issue, and accordin' to th' laws o' the State of

Arkansas all real and personal property standin' in her name, or

belongin' to her at th' time o' her death, reverts to her next o' kin,

who 's her father. Now, what d 'ye say?"

"It's a lie," exclaimed Checkers, trembling with anger at the thought

of so outrageous a thing.

"It 's th' gospel truth," said Mr. Barlow, trying in vain to hide the

look of satisfaction which sat upon his face. His words and the tone

of his voice carried conviction. This was the final blow; the crowning

evil. Checkers staggered under it. The house and the trees floated

before his eyes like a stifling vapor, but with a mighty effort he

gathered himself together.

"If this is so," he began, his voice hoarse with passion, "it's the

most ungodly outrage that ever--I 'm going down to ask Judge Martin if

that's the law. But let me tell you," he added, "law or no law, you

shall never live in this house while I 'm alive and able to shoot a

gun. Do you understand?"

The old man was silent.

"Do you understand?" repeated Checkers, more vehemently.

"Pp-tttt," said the old man, and this time the "devil's-horse" fell a

victim to its too great temerity.

X

Sadly enough, it was all too true. Judge Martin, while forced to admit

the fact, cursed Mr. Barlow in no measured terms. "The damned old

pachyderm!" he exclaimed; "suppose it is the letter of the law, by

every sense of equity, justice, and decency, the place belongs to you,

and if he tries to take it, damme, I 'll head a movement to tar and

feather him."

Checkers went back in utter dejection.

Mandy had a tempting dinner ready, but he barely touched it. All the

afternoon he sat under the shade of the trees, thinking deeply. Mr.

Barlow he knew too well to believe that he could be dissuaded from any

purpose once formed, if he had the law on his side, and there was any

question of money in it. He was already miserable; but to be forced to

live with the old man, even with the mitigating circumstances of his

wife--to have him around all the time--would be wholly unbearable.

Then, too, stronger than this was the feeling that such an invasion of

the house would be a profanation. Every ornament, every chair, was

standing just as Pert had left it. No vandal hand should move or break

them, devoting them to secular use--not if he had power to help it; and

he believed he had.

He jumped up and hurried into the house. For two hours he worked in

eager haste, opening and closing drawers, and sorting articles into

different piles on the floor.

As night approached he entered the Kendall store, and related the whole

affair in a quiet tone to Mr. Bradley. That good old soul could hardly

contain himself for righteous indignation; but Checkers cut him short

by telling him he was in a hurry.

"There 's two things I want to ask of you, Mr. Bradley," said Checkers.

"I want that package of bonds you have for me in the safe, and I want

you to cash a check for two hundred dollars--it's just the balance I

have in the bank here. I 'm going away to-night--for a while, at

least."

Mr. Bradley gave him the package, and luckily had enough money on hand

to cash his check. "Thank you," said Checkers, "for this and for all

your other kindness to me. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, my son, and God bless you!" and Mr. Bradley wrung Checkers'

hand, while the tears welled up in his kind old eyes and trickled down

his wrinkled cheeks.

Outside, Checkers met Tobe, lumbering along with a pair of mules and a

lumber wagon.

"Tobe, you 're the very man I want!" he exclaimed; "come, turn round,

and drive up to my place." Tobe proceeded to obey without demur or

questioning.

Since last we saw him, Tobe had tried his luck with a fifth "woman,"

and lived in a two-room shanty on a clearing in the mountains.

Checkers walked ahead until they reached the house. "Drive up as near

to the door as you can, Tobe," he said. "I 'll be out in a minute."

Mandy was preparing his supper in the kitchen. "Mandy," said Checkers,

"I 'm afraid I 've got bad news for you. I 'm going away to-night, and

I may not come back again; so, Mandy, I 'm afraid I won't need you any

more."

Mandy's honest black face took on a comically serious look. Her lip

hung pendulously, as she slowly shook her gaudily turbaned head. "You

aint goin' sho' 'nough, is you, Marse Checkahs?" she asked, for lack of

something better to say.

"Yes, Mandy, I'm going to-night," he said, "and before I go I want to

lock up this house. So after you 've washed the dishes and put things

to rights, you 'd better arrange to go home. And, Mandy, there 's a

number of things here I 'll never need, that would make your cabin very

comfortable. Tobe is here with his wagon, and I 'll get him to give

you a lift with them to-night."

"Thank you, Marse Checkahs, thank you, sah," was all the poor old soul

could say.

Two hours later Tobe drove out of the gate with a wagonful of

furniture, carpets, bedding, and kitchen utensils, en route for Mandy's

cabin. Mandy sat beside him, rocking back and forth, and crooning to

herself in a curious mixture of boundless grief and delirious joy.

Tobe returned and piled another wagon-load even higher. This was

destined for the cabin in the mountains. Tobe's delight was

indescribable, and his efforts to express his thanks were quite as

futile as had been those of Mandy. Checkers had allowed the two to

take every useful article they chose from all save the parlor and

Pert's room. Those rooms remained inviolate.

"I will write to Judge Martin to-night, Tobe," said Checkers, "telling

him what I have done for you and Mandy, in case any one should question

how you came by all this plunder. This furniture belongs to me," he

muttered to himself, "whatever the law may do with the house and

ground, for I bought it and paid for it myself, and never gave it to

anybody."

"Now, Tobe, one thing more, here 's my trunk; put it on your wagon and

drop it off at the station on your way through town. That's it.

Good-bye, old fellow; my regards to the madam--I hope she 'll be

pleased with my wedding-gift."

Tobe buried Checker's hand in his great horny palm. "Mr. Checkers," he

said, and his voice grew husky, "ye 're God's own kind; may He have ye

in His keepin'!" and he climbed upon his wagon, and drove slowly out

into the night.

Checkers was alone. He went slowly into the house. A clock upon the

mantel was chiming ten. There was still two hours before train time.

He sat down and wrote a long letter to Judge Martin, sealed and stamped

it, and put it in his pocket. His hat and light overcoat lay upon a

chair beside him. He arose and put them on. His satchel, cane, and

umbrella he then carefully laid on the stoop outside, and stood a while

listening in the darkness. Apparently satisfied, he returned, and,

taking one last, lingering look around, put out the lights.

For perhaps ten minutes he was busy at something under the stairway.

He then silently emerged and locked the door.

The people of Clarksville and that vicinity are given to retiring

early. Had they been abroad, or even awake, as late as eleven o'clock

that night, they might have seen a startling spectacle in the

distance--that of a mass of ruthless, hungry flames devouring a little

white dwelling; leaping up in their fierce ecstacy to the heavens, and

painting the sky all about a lurid, smoky crimson.

Checkers sat perched upon the fence some distance off. One heel was

caught upon the first rail below him. His elbow rested upon his knee,

and his upturned palm supported his chin.

The poor little house writhed helpless in the withering grasp of the

remorseless flames. "This, then, was the final ending," he

thought--"ashes to ashes," literally. This was the awakening from his

short dream of bliss. Here he had lived six happy months; then

ill-fortune singled him out for a plaything. He laughed a bitter,

mirthless laugh.

The night was perfectly still and the myriad sparks from the flames

rose straight to heaven. "There 's one good thing about it all," he

mused, "and that is that I kept neglecting to insure the house and

furniture when I went to Little Rock. That being the case, it 's a

wonder I did n't burn out before this. I guess it was coming. I

probably got a lead of a couple of days on my luck, and beat it out a

length or two."

He looked at his watch. He had still half an hour before train time.

The fire was burning lower. Suddenly the whole standing structure fell

in with a muffled crash. Again the flames rose high and fierce; but

they rapidly died down, and soon there remained of the fair white

cottage but a blackened, smouldering ruin.

Checkers climbed down and went over near by. Nothing of value was

left. The very foundations were cracked and fallen in; but the sounds

of voices on the road now warned him that he must be going.

He turned for an instant in the direction of the Barlow house, and

bowed low. "Now, you thieving old highbinder," he said, "take the

change;" and, diving into a grove of trees he took a roundabout way

through the fields to avoid the gathering crows which, finally aroused,

now flocked to the scene of the disaster. Breathless, he arrived on

the nick of time. His trunk was thrown aboard the train; he entered

the sleeper and was whisked away toward Little Rock.

He went out again and stood upon the platform until the last vestige of

Clarksville was passed. He then found a seat in the smoking-room and

smoked until almost morning.

* * * * *

"Chicago!" Checkers stood once more upon his native heath. He had

come directly from Little Rock, had rented a modest room, and had taken

up again the thread of a drifting, devil-may-care existence.

Gradually, the constant, active, throbbing pain of his bereavement wore

away, and in its stead there came a sullen, morbid sense of the

uselessness of all things. He had neither friends nor acquaintances;

even Murray Jameson was out of town. He haunted the Fair grounds in

the daytime and the theatres at night.

"Excitement and Forgetfulness"--this might have been his watchword.

I feel that if I could have met him at this time instead of almost a

year later as I did, I might have brought an active pressure to bear

upon him, and saved to him the good that the refining influence of his

wife and his Clarksville connections had done him. But, alas! in this

busy world there is no such thing as standing still. We either advance

or retrograde. The hill is steep to climb, but going down is easy.

Checkers went down; gradually, it is true, but still he went down.

By degrees he met his fellow-roomers in the house--good fellows, all of

them, in their way, but worthless. Checkers craved companionship.

Often he sat in a poker game all night with them, in some one of their

rooms, or "did the Midway" with them, ever "mocking the spirit which

could be moved to such a thing," but sometimes finding in it a

temporary respite from the bitter, haunting memories of the past.

It would be difficult to follow, and uninteresting to read, the devious

windings of Checkers' way during the next few months. Hardened,

despondent, and utterly careless; without the restraining influence of

worthy friends or home ties to soften and hold him; with money, but no

occupation; time, but nothing to do with it--little wonder is it that,

after the great White City finally closed its gates, shutting him off

from his one simple pleasure, he gradually drifted back to the stirring

scenes of his youth--the races and the betting-ring.

The history of every one of the hundreds of thousands of men who have

"played the races" may be told in three short words: "They went

broke"--sooner or later. Generally sooner than later; but "they went

broke."

So it was with Checkers. Good information, careful betting--playing

horses for place when he thought they could win; sometimes not risking

a cent all day; watching the owners, standing in with the jockeys--all

this put him nicely ahead for a while, and staved off the evil day for

long. But the eternal law of average will not down, and the percentage

in the betting-ring is absurdly against the bettor. A streak of hard

luck; a slaughter of the favorites; a plunge; throwing good money after

bad; doubling up once or twice; a final coup. Pouf! One afternoon

Checkers found himself penniless.

That night he pawned his watch for all it would bring. This put him in

funds again, but gave him pause. He decided to stop gambling and go to

work. But the morning paper contained a tempting list of entries. It

was Saturday, and a short day.

He went to the track as usual, and at the end of the third race was

"broke." Then he met Murray Jameson. Both were surprised. Checkers

told him his story, and borrowed ten dollars. Murray lost fifty more

by playing Checkers' tips, against his own better judgment. Murray was

"sore"--Checkers apologetic. This was his first experience as a tout.

After that he picked up a precarious living, selling whatever articles

of value he possessed, one after another, until he had left but the

diamond star he had given Pert as a wedding gift, and a scanty wardrobe.

When necessity caused him to part with the star he forswore the races,

and for two full weeks conscientiously sought for legitimate

employment. But Chicago was filled with idle hands, which the closing

of the Fair months before had left there stranded. Everything was

overcrowded. Business was dead, and his search was unavailing. Then

he took up "touting" as a profession. He rotated between the various

"merry-go-rounds," which were open all seasons of the year. The tout's

stock devices--the "bank-roll" game, the "phoney" ticket, the "jockey's

cousin"--he worked with better success than most; but, as a rule, his

method was simple. He sought the acquaintance of such as he thought

might be "persuaded," and by showing confidence where they were

doubtful, knowledge where their own was lacking, he usually managed to

get some four or five men to make bets during the day. Those who won

were grateful, and generally paid him well for his "information." The

losers got an explanation of "how it was" and "a sure thing for the

next."

One thing, however, must be said for Checkers. He never "touted" a

horse unless he thought it had a best chance of winning. That is, if

there were five horses in a race, and Checkers had five men "on his

string," he never descended to the common practice of getting each one

of the five to bet on a different horse, and thus "land a sure winner."

All five were certain to have the same chance, and to stand or fall

upon Checkers' judgment.

Some weeks later it was that I first met him, at Washington Park, Derby

Day. He told me afterward that the minute he saw me he knew me for a

"mark" and tried to "get next."

Yet, for all, Checkers was not innately bad. He was weak, I 'll admit,

and cruelly mistaken; but he had a simple, lovable nature, and a

natural longing for higher things. A case in point: I learned by

chance that he never missed a Sunday at church since the death of his

wife. He had no predilection, and I espied him one day in my own

sanctuary. When questioned about it he told me these facts, and

confessed to the pleasure he found in going.

"I don't know," he said; "I always enjoy it. It's quiet and cool;

everybody 's well dressed, and I like to sit there, close my eyes,

think over my troubles, and listen to the music. And then,

again"--here his voice grew soft--"I 've a feeling that it pleases Pert

to know that I 'm there. She liked me to go to church, and I think she

knows it now when I go; do n't you? I would n't take a great deal of

money and think that she did n't know."

What Pert must have thought of his actions weekdays was perhaps a fair

question; but it was one that I had the heart not to ask. And so it

went on; my efforts to get him a position and reform him ending in

nothing, as I have previously related.

After the big meeting closed Checkers reached his lowest ebb. It was

during these days that he made my office a loafing place. I suppose

that for six weeks I practically supported him, lending him two or

three dollars at a time, to "square his room rent," "get out his

overcoat," "pay a doctor's bill," "play a good thing," and heaven knows

what not--each time assuring him that I positively would not succumb

again, but regularly doing so. Still, I never begrudged it. A couple

of hours with him was worth a few dollars at any time. I divided the

expense between my amusement and charity accounts; and, in truth, when

with him I never could tell whether pleasure or compassion had the

upper hand with me. I have tried to set down with some succinctness

the major part of his experiences as I heard them; but I fear they have

greatly lost, in the telling, that delicious flavor of originality

which Checkers' person, voice, and manner gave to them as I heard them

piecemeal. Many of his sayings, when repeated afterward by Murray or

me, scarcely caused a smile, while coming from him they had seemed to

us excruciatingly funny. But I believe the secret was this--he never

seemed to say anything with the primary idea of being funny. He always

looked up with genuine surprise when his listeners laughed, and only

joined them, when the mirth was infectious, by deepening a little the

cynical curves at either corner of his expressive mouth.

For two weeks I missed him. On a morning of the third he came in with

a look of happiness on his face. "I 've got a job," he said, simply.

I wrung his hand.

"Where?" I asked.

"With Mr. Richmond."

Richmond was one of my friends. He was a partner in a wholesale

paper-house. As a boy Checkers had worked in a paper-house and knew

the stock. As a consequence he had been after Richmond, whom he had

met through me, to give him a position. Richmond liked him, and, when

an opportunity offered, he sent for him and put him to work in the

stock. At the end of two weeks he determined to give Checkers a chance

upon the road. So Checkers was going out that night, and had come to

say good-bye. I was delighted, you may be sure. I gave him good

advice, and bade him Godspeed. A few days later I received this

characteristic letter, dated from some little town in Kansas:

"DEAR MR. PRESTON:

"I 'm here doing a stage-coach business--straining the leaders of my

legs, hustlin'. If trade keeps up I 'll have coin to melt when I get

home, and you bet I 'll melt it. The food out here would poison a dog.

I ain't got the health to go against it. I 've been sick ever since I

left Chicago, anyhow, on account of Murray Jameson. I met him at the

depot the night I left. He had a box of cigars he said a friend of his

brought him from Mexico. He gave me a handful. I got on the train,

and got busy with one--I like to croaked. Strong!!! Oh, no--it was

n't strong! Drop one of them in a can of dynamite and it's ten to one

it would 'do' the can. Start a 'Mexican' and a piece of Limburger in a

short dash, it's a hundred to one you 'd need a searchlight to find the

Limburger. I 've switched to cigarettes.

"I got in here at six to-night, and I 'm going to get away at one.

After supper (Supper! I 'll tell you about that later!) I went over to

the only shanty in the place that looked like a store, and opened the

door. There were a lot of 'Jaspers' sitting around the stove, chewing

tobacco and swapping lies. I asked the guy that got up when I came in

where he kept his stock (he had nothing in sight). He lighted a

lantern, walked me a quarter of a mile, and showed me four

'mooley-cows'--say, I was sore. But I 'm square with him--I gave him a

couple of 'Mexicans.'

"That supper! Well, say, it was a 'peach.' (I had an egg this morning

and it was a 'bird.') I sat down to the table with a St. Louis

shoe-man. We turned the things down one by one as they came in. A few

soda-crackers on the table saved our lives. We tried the

griddle-cakes. They were pieces of scorched, greasy dough, as big as

pie-plates. There were a couple of 'Rubes' at the other end of the

table; a short, little, fat one, and a long, lean, thin one. We shoved

the cakes on down their way. They ate their own and ours, and ordered

more. I bet the shoe-man five on the fat one. We ordered more

ourselves and pushed them along. The thin man finally began to weaken,

but the fat one got stronger every minute. My friend said I was

'pullin',' and wanted to draw the bet; but I made him 'give up.'

"Just as we were going, the waitress came up with a grouch on, stuck

out her chin, and says, 'Pie?'

"'Is it compulsory?' says the shoe-man.

"'Naw; it's mince.'

"'Well, that lets us out,' he says, and we skipped."

_Later_--

"I got interrupted here. The boys wanted me to play 'high-five' until

train-time; I picked up a little 'perfumery money,' and came up here to

Kansas City to spend Saturday night and Sunday.

"There 's a lot of 'rummies' I used to know hanging around here,

'broke.' They 've all 'got their hand out.' One of them made me a

talk last night for enough to get to St. Louis on--said he 'must get

there.'

"'Well,' I says, 'try the trucks; how are you on swinging under?'

"'Yes,' he says, 'you're in luck, and makin' a swell front, with your

noisy duds and plenty of money, but it's a wonder you would n't 'let

your blood gush' a little when you see an old friend of yours in

trouble.'

"That was a new one on me, and I 'loosened.' Well, perhaps he 'll do

me a good turn some time.

"Now, I must close. I see dinner's ready. There's a big, fat guy has

been beating me out in a race for a seat I want in the dining-room. I

'll 'put it over him a neck' to-day for the chair. The cross-eyed

fairy that waits on that table can dig up cream while the rest of the

waitresses are looking around to see if there 's any skimmed milk in

the joint.

"Yours till death--and as long after as they need me at the morgue.

"EDWARD CAMPBELL."

Occasionally I met Richmond and asked him how Checkers was doing. "Not

badly," was the usual answer. "He is handicapped, though," explained

Richmond one day, "by not thoroughly knowing our goods and those of

other houses. After this trip I shall put him to work in the store

again for a while."

But this never occurred. Either by mistake or through a serious error

in judgment, Checkers sold an unusually large bill at an absurdly low

figure. This brought a sharp reproof from the house, which he answered

cavalierly. His recall and prompt dismissal followed.

A month elapsed before I saw him. He had been trying to get another

position before coming to me, for his pride was lowered. One morning

he came in looking careworn and threadbare. I welcomed him cordially,

as usual. But though neither of us referred to his recent misfortune,

it caused an evident embarrassment in his manner. After a few moments'

desultory conversation he drew a letter from his pocket. "Read that,"

he said simply, handing it to me. With difficulty I read what seemed

to be a letter from Mr. Barlow, his father-in-law. In effect it set

forth that he was now alone. Mrs. Barlow was dead, and her last dying

request had been that he find Checkers and restore to him his own.

This he had solemnly promised to do. He complained that he was

"poorly" himself, and expected to be carried off at any time, with "a

misery in his chest." And he went on to say that if Checkers had not

married again (perish the thought!), and would come back and live with

him and take care of him, he would make him his heir to the old place

as well, and to what little else he had to leave. He "did n't bear no

grudge" for the loss of the house, as things had turned out--he "liked

a lad of sperrit." However, whether he found Checkers or not, "the

preacher and them whited sepulchers" at the church "should never finger

a cent of what he left." There followed a tirade which seemed to show

that the church people had made it hot for the old man after Checkers'

departure, and doubtless more so after the death of Mrs. Barlow.

"What do you think?" asked Checkers as I finished.

"Think! I think it's the best of good fortune."

"Yes; with a horrible string tied to it. Of course I want my place

back; but I 'd rather be hung than go back to Clarksville."

"Stuff and nonsense!" I exclaimed.

"Yes; everything is; what is n't 'stuff' is nonsense. But, say, the

funniest thing of all is that he seems to think I burnt up the house.

How do you suppose he got such a notion?" This with a laughable

expression of innocence.

"Isn't it possible, Checkers," I said, "that this letter is a ruse to

get you down there and have you arrested for arson?"

He thought a moment. "No," he replied; "I hardly think so. No judge

or jury down there would convict me, anyhow, when they heard the

facts--still, it's about his size. If I had a little money I would n't

need to be in a hurry. There 's some friends of mine got a bottled-up

'good thing' they 're going to 'turn loose' next week, that's a

'mortal'--'Bessie Bisland'--she 'll back in. If I had about fifty I 'd

win a lot of money, quit gamblin', and wait till the old man croaked."

"Checkers!"

"Still, that might be risky; these old guys 'take notice' again

scand'lous quick. While I was foolin' around some Arkansas fairy might

get in and nail down my little job."

"Yes," I laughed; "upon all accounts, the quicker you get there the

better."

Checkers closed one eye and fixed the other on a spot in the ceiling.

"I wonder," he murmured, "how the walking is between here and

Clarksville?"

"Checkers," I said, "are you broke again?"

"If you can find the price of a car ride on me, I 'll give it to

you--and I 'll help you hunt."

"Checkers, your acquaintance has been expensive for me," I said

soberly. "I suppose now you want me to give you the money to take you

to Clarksville."

"Mr. Preston!" he exclaimed, with an earnest expression, "I don't want

you to _give_ me _anything_. All the money I 've had from you has been

_borrowed_. I 've kept a strict tab on it, and I intend to repay it.

My farm down there is worth $20,000; when I get that back I 'll be 'in

the heart of town.' But I don't want to go back looking like a 'hobo,'

and I 've got to have some money 'to make a front with.' I could write

the old man that I 'm flat, and get him to send me some money easy

enough. But that would give him the upper hand of me, and queer me on

the start. If I drop in unexpectedly, looking as though I had money to

throw to the birds, he 's likely to 'unbelt' right away, and I 'll send

you your stuff the minute I get it."

Well, the upshot of it all was that I advanced to Checkers what he

needed--within reason. He consumed nearly a week in making his

preparations; but in the mean time I suggested that he advise Mr.

Barlow and Judge Martin of his coming. When the day finally arrived he

insisted that I dine with him before his departure; but I had an

engagement, and was forced to refuse. We compromised, however, on a

modest luncheon, during which I advised him earnestly and well.

"Now, Checkers," I said, before bidding him farewell, "you are about to

begin a new life; be a man, settle down, and make some good

resolutions."

"I have," he said. "It'll take me a year to live down those I have

made already. Just think of Bessie Bisland running this afternoon and

me with not a nickel on her."

"And, Checkers," I said, "you must school yourself to endure what may

come, however unpleasant. Treat the old man well--it won't be for

long; and remember what it means to you in the future. When you get

your property, whether soon or late, keep it, or rent it, and live

within your income."

"You bet I will," he replied, "and I believe I 'll hire three or four

little sleuths to go round with me all the time, and see that nobody

'does' me."

"Have Judge Martin advise you," I said. "He doubtless knows the law;

and write to me when you are settled--I shall be interested." I

clasped his hand warmly in one of mine, and rested my other upon his

shoulder. "And now good-bye, my boy," I said; "you have had a long run

of hard luck, and I am glad that fortune is about to smile upon you

again. Quit gambling; watch your opportunities and make the best of

them as they come. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Preston. What you say is no 'song without words,' and I

'll remember it. I have had hard luck, and, no matter what comes, I

can never be as happy as I 've been in the past. But we all have our

troubles, and I 'll try to make the best of things, like the old crone

who had only two teeth, but she said 'Thank God, they hit!' Good-bye."

Again we shook hands and parted silently, taking opposite directions.

* * * * *

Ten days have passed, and I have not heard from Checkers--it is

doubtless still a little early.

The morning after we parted I chanced to see in the paper that "Bessie

Bisland" "also ran." It is quite as well, therefore, that Checkers did

not defer his going, but went that night.

* * * * *