Contents

I. STRICTLY BUSINESS

II. THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED

III. BABES IN THE JUNGLE

IV. THE DAY RESURGENT

V. THE FIFTH WHEEL

VI. THE POET AND THE PEASANT

VII. THE ROBE OF PEACE

VIII. THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT

IX. THE CALL OF THE TAME

X. THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY

XI. THE THING'S THE PLAY

XII. A RAMBLE IN APHASIA

XIII. A MUNICIPAL REPORT

XIV. PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER

XV. A BIRD OF BAGDAD

XVI. COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

XVII. A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA

XVIII. THE GIRL AND THE HABIT

XIX. PROOF OF THE PUDDING

XX. PAST ONE AT ROONEY’S

XXI. THE VENTURERS

XXII. THE DUEL

XXIII. “WHAT YOU WANT”

I

STRICTLY BUSINESS

I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You’ve been

touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and

the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the

long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your

ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like

this:

Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no

better than your own (madam) if they weren’t padded. Chorus girls are

inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back

to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses

reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their

step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew’s real name is Boyle O’Kelley. The

ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first

sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.

Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.

All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne

and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving

pictures have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.

Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the

profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the

players with an eye full of patronizing superiority—and we go home and

practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking

glasses.

Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light.

It seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring

bacchanalians and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk,

students and ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real

estate, and conducting their private affairs in as orderly and

unsensational a manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the

chariot wheels of the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.

Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true

one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little

story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only

the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of

Keetor’s old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of

gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch—and where I

last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time

to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.

The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had

been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years

with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes

with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a

buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the

bass-viol player in more than one house—than which no performer ever

received more satisfactory evidence of good work.

The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful

performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order

to give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest

Broadway corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a

matinée offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime

of a minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with

that most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles—the audible contact of

the palm of one hand against the palm of the other.

One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known

vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and

got his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.

A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and

passed into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others

of the audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob

Hart, “All the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself,” sat with his face

as long and his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for

his grandmother to wind into a ball.

But when H came on, “The Mustard” suddenly sat up straight. H was the

happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs

and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;

but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to

the old man’s account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and

ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed

you ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old

log school-house besides cipherin’ and nouns, especially “When the

Teach-er Kept Me in.” Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham

apron-strings, she reappeared in considerably less than a “trice” as a

fluffy “Parisienne”—so near does Art bring the old red mill to the

Moulin Rouge. And then—

But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else.

He thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short

order stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of

“Helen Grimes” in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the

tray of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal

actor, grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a

play tucked away somewhere. They tuck ’em in trays of trunks, trunks of

trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit

vaults, handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call.

They belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.

But Bob Hart’s sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He

called it “Mice Will Play.” He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever

since he wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception

of “Helen Grimes.” And here was “Helen” herself, with all the innocent

abandon, the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that

his critical taste demanded.

After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and

got Cherry’s address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty

old house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.

By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her

hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have

been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon’s daughter, in the

great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.

“I know your act, Mr. Hart,” she said after she had looked over his

card carefully. “What did you wish to see me about?”

“I saw you work last night,” said Hart. “I’ve written a sketch that

I’ve been saving up. It’s for two; and I think you can do the other

part. I thought I’d see you about it.”

“Come in the parlor,” said Miss Cherry. “I’ve been wishing for

something of the sort. I think I’d like to act instead of doing turns.”

Bob Hart drew his cherished “Mice Will Play” from his pocket, and read

it to her.

“Read it again, please,” said Miss Cherry.

And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by

introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the

dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the

pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen

Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to

all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on

the sketch’s weaker points. That was her woman’s intuition that he had

lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the

judgment, experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that

“Mice Will Play” would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of

the circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings

of her smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with

the end of a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.

“Mr. Hart,” said she, “I believe your sketch is going to win out. That

Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a

handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the

Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers’ Bazaar. And I’ve seen you

work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is

business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?”

“Two hundred,” answered Hart.

“I get one hundred for mine,” said Cherry. “That’s about the natural

discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every

week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all

right. I love it; but there’s something else I love better—that’s a

little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six

ducks wandering around the yard.

“Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me

to play the opposite part in your sketch, I’ll do it. And I believe we

can make it go. And there’s something else I want to say: There’s no

nonsense in my make-up; I’m _on the level_, and I’m on the stage for

what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I’m

going to save my money to keep me when I’m past doing my stunts. No Old

Ladies’ Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.

“If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all

nonsense cut out of it, I’m in on it. I know something about vaudeville

teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want

you to know that I’m on the stage for what I can cart away from it

every pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it,

where the cashier has licked the flap. It’s kind of a hobby of mine to

want to cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I

want you to know just how I am. I don’t know what an all-night

restaurant looks like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at

a stage entrance in my life, and I’ve got money in five savings banks.”

“Miss Cherry,” said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, “you’re in

on your own terms. I’ve got ‘strictly business’ pasted in my hat and

stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a

five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap

cooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title

deeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on

the side porch, reading Stanley’s ‘Explorations into Africa.’ And

nobody else around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss

Cherry?”

“Not any,” said Cherry. “What I’m going to do with my money is to bank

it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I’ve

been earning, I’ve figured out that in ten years I’d have an income of

about $50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest

some of the principal in a little business—say, trimming hats or a

beauty parlor, and make more.”

“Well,” said Hart, “You’ve got the proper idea all right, all right,

anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who

couldn’t fix themselves for the wet days to come if they’d save their

money instead of blowing it. I’m glad you’ve got the correct business

idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this

sketch will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it

shaped up.”

The subsequent history of “Mice Will Play” is the history of all

successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,

remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and

business, changed the lines, restored ’em, added more, cut ’em out,

renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger

for the pistol, restored the pistol—put the sketch through all the

known processes of condensation and improvement.

They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the

rarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour

would occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the

unloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling

climax of the sketch.

Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a

real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen

Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and

daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private

secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,

“Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch

that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,

L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow

Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving

you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case

may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman

should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.

Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of

play, whether we admit it or not—something along in between “Bluebeard,

Jr.,” and “Cymbeline” played in the Russian.

There were only two parts and a half in “Mice Will Play.” Hart and

Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always

played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a

panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn

down the gas fire in the grate by the manager’s orders.

There was another girl in the sketch—a Fifth Avenue society

swelless—who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine

when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his

money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic

state—Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan—of the

Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.

And now for the thriller. Old “Arapahoe” Grimes dies of angina pectoris

one night—so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the

footlights—while only his secretary was present. And that same day he

was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just

received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts

for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.

Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his

(alleged) croak.

“Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed—” you sabe, don’t

you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue

Girl—who doesn’t come on the stage—and can we blame her, with the

vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be

buttoned in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?

But, wait. Here’s the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,

is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine

is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop

$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like

the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to

make any perfect lady mad. So, then!

They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk

heads (didn’t the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the

dénouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a

play unless it be when the prologue ends.

Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?

The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra

hadn’t left their seats; and no man could get past “Old Jimmy,” the

stage door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as

a guarantee of eligibility.

Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack

Valentine: “Robber and thief—and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts,

this should be your fate!”

With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.

“But I will be merciful,” goes on Helen. “You shall live—that will be

your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to

the death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I

will send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have

pierced your craven heart.”

And she does it. And there’s no fake blank cartridges or assistants

pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet—the actual bullet—goes through

the face of the photograph—and then strikes the hidden spring of the

sliding panel in the wall—and lo! the panel slides, and there is the

missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.

It’s great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a

target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the

sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,

covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the

same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same

spot, and she had to shoot steady and true every time.

Of course old “Arapahoe” had tucked the funds away there in the secret

place; and, of course, Jack hadn’t taken anything except his salary

(which really might have come under the head of “obtaining money

under”; but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New

York girl was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the

Bronx; and, necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson—and

there you are.

After Hart and Cherry had gotten “Mice Will Play” flawless, they had a

try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house

wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a

theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,

being dressed for it, swam in tears.

After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed

fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was

what it panned out.

That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good

night at her boarding-house door.

“Mr. Hart,” said she thoughtfully, “come inside just a few minutes.

We’ve got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to

do is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can.”

“Right,” said Bob. “It’s business with me. You’ve got your scheme for

banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap

cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net

receipts will engage my attention.”

“Come inside just a few minutes,” repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.

“I’ve got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a

lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine—and

all on business principles.”

“Mice Will Play” had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten

weeks—rather neat for a vaudeville sketch—and then it started on the

circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid

drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.

Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor’s New York houses, said of Hart &

Cherry:

“As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.

It’s a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard

workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,

straight home after their act, and each of ’em as gentlemanlike as a

lady. I don’t expect to handle any attractions that give me less

trouble or more respect for the profession.”

And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of

the story:

At the end of its second season “Mice Will Play” came back to New York

for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was

never any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had

his bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit

bank books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the

instalment plan to hold them.

I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can’t believe it,

that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding

ambitions—just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the

grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious to

flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be

allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that

they often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.

But, listen.

At the first performance of “Mice Will Play” in New York at the

Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous.

When she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel,

the bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the

disk, went into the lower left side of Bob Hart’s neck. Not expecting

to get it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most

artistic manner.

The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy

in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with

great enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang

the curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and

more or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The

next turn went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.

The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was

waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B’ty roses. The doctor

examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.

“No headlines for you, Old Sport,” was his diagnosis. “If it had been

two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as

far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,

you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from

any one of the girls’ Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by

the parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you’ll be all right.

Excuse me; I’ve got a serious case outside to look after.”

After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he

lay came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a

solemn man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys

and maple sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played.

Vincente had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was

their peripatetic friend.

“Bob,” said Vincente in his serious way, “I’m glad it’s no worse. The

little lady is wild about you.”

“Who?” asked Hart.

“Cherry,” said the juggler. “We didn’t know how bad you were hurt; and

we kept her away. It’s taking the manager and three girls to hold her.”

“It was an accident, of course,” said Hart. “Cherry’s all right. She

wasn’t feeling in good trim or she couldn’t have done it. There’s no

hard feelings. She’s strictly business. The doctor says I’ll be on the

job again in three days. Don’t let her worry.”

“Man,” said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,

“are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry’s crying her

heart out for you—calling ‘Bob, Bob,’ every second, with them holding

her hands and keeping her from coming to you.”

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. “The

sketch’ll go on again in three days. I’m not hurt bad, the doctor says.

She won’t lose out half a week’s salary. I know it was an accident.

What’s the matter with her?”

“You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool,” said Vincente. “The girl

loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What’s the matter with

_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you.”

“Loves me?” asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which

he lay. “Cherry loves me? Why, it’s impossible.”

“I wish you could see her and hear her,” said Griggs.

“But, man,” said Bob Hart, sitting up, “it’s impossible. It’s

impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing.”

“No human being,” said the Tramp Juggler, “could mistake it. She’s wild

for love of you. How have you been so blind?”

“But, my God,” said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, “it’s _too late_.

It’s too late, I tell you, Sam; _it’s too late_. It can’t be. You must

be wrong. It’s _impossible_. There’s some mistake.

“She’s crying for you,” said the Tramp Juggler. “For love of you she’s

fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don’t dare to raise

the curtain. Wake up, man.”

“For love of me?” said Bob Hart with staring eyes. “Don’t I tell you

it’s too late? It’s too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married

two years!_”

II

THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED

A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores

you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.

Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not

gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in

his bottle of testing acid.

Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George

the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that

quarter, and this is their shibboleth: “‘Nit,’ says I to Frohman, ‘you

can’t touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,’ and out I walks.”

Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets

where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical

warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is “El

Refugio,” a café and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from

the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of

Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the

cloaked and sombreroed señores, who are scattered like burning lava by

the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to

lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist

filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at

long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.

In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the

palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the

story thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the

Gallic chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a

fish—bluefish, shad or pompano from the Gulf—baked after the Spanish

method. Tomatoes give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado

bestows upon it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish

piquancy and mystery, and—but its crowning glory deserves a new

sentence. Around it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity—but never in

it—hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that

only the Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not

say that garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than

as if the spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that

lingers in the parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in

life, “by hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others.” And

then, when Conchito, the waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles

and a carafe of wine that has never stood still between Oporto and El

Refugio—ah, Dios!

One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen.

Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The

General was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch

waist and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache

of a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas

congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.

Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire

his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that

neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that

read, “Hotel Español.” In the window was a card in Spanish, “Aqui se

habla Español.” The General entered, sure of a congenial port.

In the cozy office was Mrs. O’Brien, the proprietress. She had

blond—oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,

and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with

his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables

sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of

a bunch.

“Spanish or Dago?” asked Mrs. O’Brien, pleasantly.

“I am a Colombian, madam,” said the General, proudly. “I speak the

Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken

here. How is that?”

“Well, you’ve been speaking it, ain’t you?” said the madam. “I’m sure I

can’t.”

At the Hotel Español General Falcon engaged rooms and established

himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders

of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the

wonderful golden hair of Mme. O’Brien. “It is here,” said the General

to himself, no doubt in his own language, “that one shall find the most

beautiful señoras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among

our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to

think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion.”

At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became

involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset

him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an

inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He

scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle

of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. “Válgame Dios! What

devil’s city is this?”

As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded

snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was

“Bully” McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm

and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of

the asphalt was “Spider” Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.

In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the

quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.

“G’wan!” he commanded harshly. “I saw it first.” McGuire slunk away,

awed by superior intelligence.

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Kelley, to the General, “but you got balled up in

the shuffle, didn’t you? Let me assist you.” He picked up the General’s

hat and brushed the dust from it.

The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered

and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a

caballero with a most disinterested heart.

“I have a desire,” said the General, “to return to the hotel of

O’Brien, in which I am stop. Caramba! señor, there is a loudness and

rapidness of going and coming in the city of this Nueva York.”

Mr. Kelley’s politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to

brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel

Español they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the

street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to

whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a “Dago

joint.” All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of

“Dagoes” and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair

thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.

An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in

the conspirator’s corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were

between them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his

mission to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase

arms—2,000 stands of Winchester rifles—for the Colombian

revolutionists. He had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank

on its New York correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other

revolutionists were shouting their political secrets to their

fellow-plotters; but none was as loud as the General. He pounded the

table; he hallooed for some wine; he roared to his friend that his

errand was a secret one, and not to be hinted at to a living soul. Mr.

Kelley himself was stirred to sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the

General’s hand across the table.

“Monseer,” he said, earnestly, “I don’t know where this country of

yours is, but I’m for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United

States, though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us

Columbia, too, sometimes. It’s a lucky thing for you that you butted

into me to-night. I’m the only man in New York that can get this gun

deal through for you. The Secretary of War of the United States is me

best friend. He’s in the city now, and I’ll see him for you to-morrow.

In the meantime, monseer, you keep them drafts tight in your inside

pocket. I’ll call for you to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that

ain’t the District of Columbia you’re talking about, is it?” concluded

Mr. Kelley, with a sudden qualm. “You can’t capture that with no 2,000

guns—it’s been tried with more.”

“No, no, no!” exclaimed the General. “It is the Republic of Colombia—it

is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.

Yes.”

“All right,” said Mr. Kelley, reassured. “Now suppose we trek along

home and go by-by. I’ll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date

with him. It’s a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky

himself can’t do it.”

They parted at the door of the Hotel Español. The General rolled his

eyes at the moon and sighed.

“It is a great country, your Nueva York,” he said. “Truly the cars in

the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly

makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Señor Kelley—the señoras with hair

of much goldness, and admirable fatness—they are magnificas! Muy

magnificas!”

Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary’s

café, far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.

“Is that Jimmy Dunn?” asked Kelley.

“Yes,” came the answer.

“You’re a liar,” sang back Kelley, joyfully. “You’re the Secretary of

War. Wait there till I come up. I’ve got the finest thing down here in

the way of a fish you ever baited for. It’s a Colorado-maduro, with a

gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and

a statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I’ll be up on the next

car.”

Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence

line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout

drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but

the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing

in New York. It was the ambition of “Spider” Kelley to elevate himself

into Jimmy’s class.

These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary’s. Kelley

explained.

“He’s as easy as a gumshoe. He’s from the Island of Colombia, where

there’s a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they’ve sent

him up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He

showed me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank

here. ’S truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn’t have

it in thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now,

we’ve got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us.”

They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; “Bring him to

No. –––– Broadway, at four o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”

In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Español for the General. He

found the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs.

O’Brien.

“The Secretary of War is waitin’ for us,” said Kelley.

The General tore himself away with an effort.

“Ay, señor,” he said, with a sigh, “duty makes a call. But, señor, the

señoras of your Estados Unidos—how beauties! For exemplification, take

you la Madame O’Brien—que magnifica! She is one goddess—one Juno—what

you call one ox-eyed Juno.”

Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the

fire of their own imagination.

“Sure!” he said with a grin; “but you mean a peroxide Juno, don’t you?”

Mrs. O’Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye

rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except

in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.

When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway

address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then

admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,

with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to

the Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known

by his old friend, Mr. Kelley.

“Ah—Colombia!” said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to

understand; “I’m afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.

The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the

established government, while I—” the secretary gave the General a

mysterious but encouraging smile. “You, of course, know, General

Falcon, that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed

requiring all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this

country to pass through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything

for you I will be glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley.

But it must be in absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said,

does not regard favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in

Colombia. I will have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now

in the warehouse.”

The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T.

on his cap stepped promptly into the room.

“Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory,” said the Secretary.

The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary

studied it closely.

“I find,” he said, “that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is

shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the

Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule

is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.

My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of

arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer’s price. And you will

forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the

Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!”

As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his

esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War

was extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases

and filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse

rented for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to

the Hotel Español, Mrs. O’Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from

his lapel, and said:

“Say, señor, I don’t want to ‘butt in,’ but what does that

monkey-faced, cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?”

“Sangre de mi vida!” exclaimed the General. “Impossible it is that you

speak of my good friend, Señor Kelley.”

“Come into the summer garden,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “I want to have a

talk with you.”

Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.

“And you say,” said the General, “that for the sum of $18,000 can be

purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with

this garden so lovely—so resembling unto the patios of my cara

Colombia?”

“And dirt cheap at that,” sighed the lady.

“Ah, Dios!” breathed General Falcon. “What to me is war and politics?

This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to

continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of

mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel

Español and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on

guns.”

Mrs. O’Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the

Colombian patriot.

“Oh, señor,” she sighed, happily, “ain’t you terrible!”

Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to

the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented

warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his

friend Kelley to fetch the victim.

Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Español. He found the

General behind the desk adding up accounts.

“I have decide,” said the General, “to buy not guns. I have to-day buy

the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General

Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O’Brien.”

Mr. Kelley almost strangled.

“Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish,” he spluttered,

“you’re a swindler—that’s what you are! You’ve bought a boarding house

with money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is.”

“Ah,” said the General, footing up a column, “that is what you call

politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best

that one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to

keep hotels and be with that Juno—that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of

the gold it is that she have!”

Mr. Kelley choked again.

“Ah, Senor Kelley!” said the General, feelingly and finally, “is it

that you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O’Brien

she make?”

III

BABES IN THE JUNGLE

Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West,

says to me once in Little Rock: “If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and

get too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In

the West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in

chunks of roe—you can’t count ’em!”

Two years afterward I found that I couldn’t remember the names of the

Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I

knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver’s advice.

I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And

I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of

haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his

nails with a silk handkerchief.

“Paresis or superannuated?” I asks him.

“Hello, Billy,” says Silver; “I’m glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me

that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I’ve been

saving New York for dessert. I know it’s a low-down trick to take

things from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and

fro and think ever and anon. I’d hate for my mother to know I was

skinning these weak-minded ones. She raised me better.”

“Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that

does skin grafting?” I asks.

“Well, no,” says Silver; “you needn’t back Epidermis to win to-day.

I’ve only been here a month. But I’m ready to begin; and the members of

Willie Manhattan’s Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to

contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well

send their photos to the _Evening Daily_.

“I’ve been studying the town,” says Silver, “and reading the papers

every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an

O’Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when

you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my

room and I’ll tell you. We’ll work the town together, Billy, for the

sake of old times.”

Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects

lying about.

“There’s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,”

says Silver, “than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C.

They’ll bite at anything. The brains of most of ’em commute. The wiser

they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have.

Why, didn’t a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of

Rockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto’s celebrated painting of the

young Saint John!

“You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That’s gold

mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two

hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy

it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,

and then I took it off the market. I don’t want people to give me their

money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction

to keep my pride from being hurt. I want ’em to guess the missing

letter in Chic—go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent

of money.

“Now there’s another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit

it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor

on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told ’em I was Admiral

Dewey’s nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand,

but I didn’t know my uncle’s first name. It shows, though, what an easy

town it is. As for burglars, they won’t go in a house now unless

there’s a hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on ’em.

They’re slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I

guess, taking the town from end to end, it’s a plain case of assault

and Battery.”

“Monty,” says I, when Silver had slacked, up, “you may have Manhattan

correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I’ve only

been in town two hours, but it don’t dawn upon me that it’s ours with a

cherry in it. There ain’t enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I’d

be a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or

more in their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch

charms. They don’t look easy to me.”

“You’ve got it, Billy,” says Silver. “All emigrants have it. New York’s

bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You’ll

be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because

they don’t send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide

sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears

the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper’s wife, and

Bella, the Buncosteerer’s bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than

a blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I’ll

break the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of

twenties.”

“I hope you are right, Monty,” says I; “but I wish all the same I had

been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of

farmers is never so short out there but what you can get a few of ’em

to sign a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200

at the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of

self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured

enough to tackle this game.”

“Don’t worry,” says Silver. “I’ve got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown

correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River

ain’t a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway

who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their

lives! A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous

enough here inside of three months to incur either Jerome’s clemency or

Lawson’s displeasure.”

“Hyperbole aside,” says I, “do you know of any immediate system of

buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the

Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould’s doorsteps?”

“Dozens of ’em,” says Silver. “How much capital have you got, Billy?”

“A thousand,” I told him.

“I’ve got $1,200,” says he. “We’ll pool and do a big piece of business.

There’s so many ways we can make a million that I don’t know how to

begin.”

The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous

and stirred with a kind of silent joy.

“We’re to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon,” says he. “A man I know in

the hotel wants to introduce us. He’s a friend of his. He says he likes

to meet people from the West.”

“That sounds nice and plausible,” says I. “I’d like to know Mr.

Morgan.”

“It won’t hurt us a bit,” says Silver, “to get acquainted with a few

finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with

strangers.”

The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o’clock Klein brought his

Wall Street friend to see us in Silver’s room. “Mr. Morgan” looked some

like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left

foot, and he walked with a cane.

“Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud,” says Klein. “It sounds superfluous,” says

he, “to mention the name of the greatest financial—”

“Cut it out, Klein,” says Mr. Morgan. “I’m glad to know you gents; I

take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you’re from Little

Rock. I think I’ve a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of

you guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I—”

“Now, Pierpont,” cuts in Klein, “you forget!”

“Excuse me, gents!” says Morgan; “since I’ve had the gout so bad I

sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never

knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He

lived in Seattle, New Mexico.”

Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane

and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.

“They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?”

asks Klein, smiling.

“Stocks! No!” roars Mr. Morgan. “It’s that picture I sent an agent to

Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it

ain’t to be found in all Italy. I’d pay $50,000 to-morrow for that

picture—yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I

cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to—”

“Why, Mr. Morgan,” says Klein; “I thought you owned all of the De

Vinchy paintings.”

“What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?” asks Silver. “It must be as big

as the side of the Flatiron Building.”

“I’m afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver,” says Morgan.

“The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called ‘Love’s Idle Hour.’

It represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank

of a purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to

this country. My collection will never be complete without that

picture. Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours.”

Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked

about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said

what a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I

said I thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a

stroll after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward

Seventh Avenue to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that

instigate his admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while

he buys ’em.

After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me

and waves his hands.

“Did you see it?” says he. “Did you see it, Billy?”

“What?” I asks.

“Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It’s hanging in that pawnshop,

behind the desk. I didn’t say anything because Klein was there. It’s

the article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can

make them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any

skirts, and they’re doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with

the blues. What did Mr. Morgan say he’d give for it? Oh, don’t make me

tell you. They can’t know what it is in that pawnshop.”

When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing

there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a

drink. We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.

“That’s a violent specimen of a chromo you’ve got up there,” remarked

Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. “But I kind of enthuse over the girl

with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for

it cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in

hurrying it off the nail?”

The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.

“That picture,” says he, “was pledged a year ago by an Italian

gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called ‘Love’s Idle Hour,’

and it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired,

and it became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is

worn a great deal now.”

At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and

walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started

for Morgan’s office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two

hours Silver comes back.

“Did you see Mr. Morgan?” I asks. “How much did he pay you for it?”

Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.

“I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan,” he says, “because Mr. Morgan’s been

in Europe for a month. But what’s worrying me, Billy, is this: The

department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for

$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone—that’s what I can’t

understand.”

IV

THE DAY RESURGENT

I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes

to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions

of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.

First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have

free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper

number of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the

well-known model, will pose for it in the “Lethergogallagher,” or

whatever it was that Trilby called it.

Second—the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.

This is magazine-covery, but reliable.

Third—Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.

Fourth—Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy

and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.

Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the

higher criticism has hard-boiled them.

The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of

all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our

conception. It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented

it. Going back still further to the first spring, we can see Eve

choosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.

Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth

the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a

holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in

the footsteps of Danny McCree.

Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on

the calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at

10.30 Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed

his face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his

hard, smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of

soap, and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot

grounder between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant

lot in Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the

front room of the flat Danny’s father sat by an open window smoking his

pipe, with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He

still clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two

years before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off

without permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason

that they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news

read to you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors

of the headlines?

“’Tis Easter Day,” said Mrs. McCree.

“Scramble mine,” said Danny.

After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of

the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur—frock coat, striped

trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest, and

wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein’s

(between Fourteenth Street and Tony’s fruit stand) Saturday night sale.

“You’ll be goin’ out this day, of course, Danny,” said old man McCree,

a little wistfully. “’Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it’s fine

spring weather. I can feel it in the air.”

“Why should I not be going out?” demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest

tones. “Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my

team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast

you’ve just eat, I’d like to know? Answer me that!”

“All right, lad,” said the old man. “I’m not complainin’. While me two

eyes was good there was nothin’ better to my mind than a Sunday out.

There’s a smell of turf and burnin’ brush comin’ in the windy. I have

me tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your

mother had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the

hippopotamus—but let that be.”

“Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?” asked Danny

of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. “Have you been taking

him to the Zoo? And for what?”

“I have not,” said Mrs. McCree. “He sets by the windy all day. ’Tis

little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I’m thinkin’

they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without

stoppin’ for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there’s lard

burnin’ in the fryin’ pan. There is not. He says I do not understand.

’Tis weary days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny.

There was no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes.

’Tis a fine day, son. Injoy yeself ag’inst the morning. There will be

cold supper at six.”

“Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?” asked Danny of Mike, the

janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.

“I have not,” said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. “But ’tis the

only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that

I’ve not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or

else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,

then?”

“It was the old man who spoke of it,” said Danny. “Likely there’s

nothing in it.”

Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into

the heart of the district where Easter—modern Easter, in new, bright

raiment—leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the

blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were

moving parterres of living flowers—so it seemed when your eye looked

upon the Easter girl.

Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the

background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands.

The windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most

opulent creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.

Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked

Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.

“Why, Corrigan,” he asked, “is Easter? I know it comes the first time

you’re full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March—but why?

Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it

out of politics?”

“’Tis an annual celebration,” said Corrigan, with the judicial air of

the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, “peculiar to New York. It extends

up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and

Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion ’tis not political.”

“Thanks,” said Danny. “And say—did you ever hear a man complain of

hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean.”

“Nothing larger than sea turtles,” said Corrigan, reflecting, “and

there was wood alcohol in that.”

Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously

a Sunday and a festival day was his.

The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often

that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made

garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the

griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the

Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,

attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,

and took his pleasure sadly.

The family entrance of Dugan’s café was feasible; so Danny yielded to

the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,

linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the

mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.

“Say, Tim,” he said to the waiter, “why do they have Easter?”

“Skiddoo!” said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. “Is that a new one?

All right. Tony Pastor’s for you last night, I guess. I give it up.

What’s the answer—two apples or a yard and a half?”

From Dugan’s Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir

in him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong

diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.

A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They

pumped hands on the corner.

“Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up,” said Katy. “What’s wrong?

Come away with me to church and be cheerful.”

“What’s doing at church?” asked Danny.

“Why, it’s Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin’

you might come around to go.”

“What does this Easter stand for, Katy,” asked Danny gloomily. “Nobody

seems to know.”

“Nobody as blind as you,” said Katy with spirit. “You haven’t even

looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it’s when all the girls put on

new spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?”

“I will,” said Danny. “If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought

to be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain’t a beauty.

The green roses are great.”

At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke

rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;

but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his

theme—resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of

the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a

wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth

pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.

After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique

in her sky-blue eyes.

“Are you coming along to the house?” she asked. “But don’t mind me.

I’ll get there all right. You seem to be studyin’ a lot about

something. All right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr.

McCree?”

“I’ll be around Wednesday night as usual,” said Danny, turning and

crossing the street.

Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny

stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,

at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep in

his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening

that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender

than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and

deeper-rooted than the love of woman—for had he not turned away from

green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny

did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his

dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to

follow the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.

Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.

“Hippopotamus!” he shouted to an elevated road pillar. “Well, how is

that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was

driving at now.

“Hippopotamus! Wouldn’t that send you to the Bronx! It’s been a year

since he heard it; and he didn’t miss it so very far. We quit at 469 B.

C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn’t have guessed what

he was trying to get out of him.”

Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his

labor supported.

Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on

the sill.

“Will that be you, lad?” he asked.

Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the

outset of committing a good deed.

“Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” he

snapped, viciously. “Have I no right to come in?”

“Ye’re a faithful lad,” said old man McCree, with a sigh. “Is it

evening yet?”

Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt

letters, “The History of Greece.” Dust was on it half an inch thick. He

laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of

paper. And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:

“Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?”

“Did I hear ye open the book?” said old man McCree. “Many and weary be

the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great

likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. ’Tis a fine day

outside, lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used

to me chair by the windy and me pipe.”

“Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not

hippopotamus,” said Danny. “The war began there. It kept something

doing for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of

Macedon, in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision

at the battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I’ll read it.”

With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree

sat for an hour, listening.

Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree

was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man

McCree’s eyes.

“Do you hear our lad readin’ to me?” he said. “There is none finer in

the land. My two eyes have come back to me again.”

After supper he said to Danny: “’Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now

ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough.”

“Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?” said

Danny, angrily. “Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is

yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the

kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman

Empire. Am I nothing in this house?”

V

THE FIFTH WHEEL

The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They

were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of

Fifth Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet,

looked at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had

evicted them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues.

The Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture

looming mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood

for the tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by

the winged walking delegate of the Lord.

Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the

Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north

wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you

a man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you

credit.

The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over

the list of things one may do for one’s fellow man, and had assumed for

himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box

on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for

other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,

this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all

might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and

the rent man and business go to the deuce.

The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,

dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth’s

monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with

conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the

Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian

coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a

squad of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in

terms beautifully devoid of eloquence—splendid with the deadly,

accusative monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners

fades you must hear one phrase of the Preacher’s—the one that formed

his theme that night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white

ribbons in the world.

_“No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky.”_

Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to

the Potter’s Field.

A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless

emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his

coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still

showed signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling

goose. But, conscientiously, I must warn the milliner’s apprentice who

reads this, expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no

further. The young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman,

discharged for drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the

grimy ranks of the one-night bed seekers.

If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family

carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The

carriage is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old

lady Van Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year’s Eve

feather tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van

Smuythe bays and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady’s

maid. But it is one of the saddest things about romance that a tight

shoe or an empty commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary

heretic of any Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas’s physical troubles were not

few. Therefore, his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost

lady’s maid than it was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent

things that his racked nerves almost convinced him were flying,

dancing, crawling, and wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above

and around the dismal campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of

straight whisky and a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles

often guarantees a psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing,

angry, beset by phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy

and intercourse.

The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own

age, shabby but neat.

“What’s the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?” asked Thomas, with the

freemasonic familiarity of the damned—“Booze? That’s mine. You don’t

look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the

lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that

ever made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now!

Say; how do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale.”

The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy

ex-coachman.

“No,” said he, “mine isn’t exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow

that Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion

of my unforgiving relatives. I’ve been out of work for a year because I

don’t know how to work; and I’ve been sick in Bellevue and other

hospitals for months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I

was turned out of the hospital yesterday. And I haven’t a cent. That’s

my tale of woe.”

“Tough luck,” said Thomas. “A man alone can pull through all right. But

I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it.”

Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,

so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that

it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and

pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.

When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire

became loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in

the wake of the flying car.

Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among

the Preacher’s goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,

swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On

both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving

canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up

with the lost tire.

One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so

grand an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and

save his pride.

Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled

chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent

sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.

Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner and

a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be

suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to

higher denominations.

But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received

the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,

and muttered to himself inscrutable words.

“Strange—strange!” said he. “Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied

that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?”

Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful

Thomas.

“Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,

if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in

Washington Square North?”

“Oughtn’t I to?” replied Thomas. “I lived there. Wish I did yet.”

The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.

“Step in please,” he said. “You have been expected.”

Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a

motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after

the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its

course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.

“Maybe the guy hasn’t got any change,” was his diagnosis. “Lots of

these swell rounders don’t lug about any ready money. Guess he’ll dump

me out when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug.

Anyhow, it’s a cinch that I’ve got that open-air bed convention beat to

a finish.”

Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed,

himself, to marvel at the surprises of life. “Wonderful! amazing!

strange!” he repeated to himself constantly.

When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward

a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front

houses.

“Be kind enough to enter my house with me,” said the sealskinned

gentleman when they had alighted. “He’s going to dig up, sure,”

reflected Thomas, following him inside.

There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a

door to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute

darkness. Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly

in the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly

appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy

tales.

The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with

fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped

portières of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The

furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman’s

feet sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three

or four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet

drapery.

Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with

one eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor—to find

that he had disappeared.

“B’gee!” muttered Thomas, “this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn’t

wonder if it ain’t one of these Moravian Nights’ adventures that you

read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy.”

Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the

illuminated globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a

brilliant electric glow.

With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of

Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the

terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a

crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with

light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold

portières parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered

the room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and

accurate taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long

and wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult

eyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can

conceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah’s throne-room advancing to

greet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of

his manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t’s_ to be mindful

of his _p’s_ and _q’s_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and

somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.

“Say, doc,” said he resentfully, “that’s a hot bird you keep on tap. I

hope I didn’t break anything. But I’ve nearly got the williwalloos, and

when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a

snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the

sideboard.”

“That is merely a mechanical toy,” said the gentleman with a wave of

his hand. “May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you

to my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with

the psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to

the point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know

the Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North.”

“Any silver missing?” asked Thomas tartly. “Any joolry displaced? Of

course I know ’em. Any of the old ladies’ sunshades disappeared? Well,

I know ’em. And then what?”

The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.

“Wonderful!” he murmured. “Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the

Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you,” he continued, “that

there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you

that very good fortune awaits you. We will see.”

“Do they want me back?” asked Thomas, with something of his old

professional pride in his voice. “I’ll promise to cut out the booze and

do the right thing if they’ll try me again. But how did you get wise,

doc? B’gee, it’s the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its

flashlight owls and so forth.”

With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two

minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the

chauffeur, who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious

apartment, he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by

his witty and genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the

cold streets from which he had been so recently and so singularly

rescued. A servant brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a

glass of miraculous wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop

him. Thus half an hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned

motor car at the door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with

another soft petition for a brief absence.

Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front

door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall

through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was

screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double

portières. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely

tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were

scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or

toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.

The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She

was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,

took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an

attendant might have done.

“You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco,” said the elder woman, wearily.

“I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I’ve about

lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to

your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it.”

“Madam,” said the professor, with his princeliest smile, “the true Art

cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes

requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the

crystal, the stars, the magic formulæ of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of Po.

But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean

Chiroscope has been successful in our search.”

The professor’s voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in

his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more

interest.

“Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on

it,” she said. “What do you mean?”

“The words were these,” said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full

magnificent height: “_‘By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall

come.’_”

“I haven’t seen many chariots,” said the lady, “but I never saw one

with five wheels.”

“Progress,” said the professor—“progress in science and mechanics has

accomplished it—though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an

extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I

repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only

answer the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before

your eyes the proof thereof.”

And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.

“O professor!” she cried anxiously—“When?—where? Has he been found? Do

not keep me in suspense.”

“I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes,” said Professor

Cherubusco, “and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the

true Art.”

Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl

when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.

“Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a

welcome and restoration to favor?” he asked, with his courteous, royal

smile.

“Do I look bughouse?” answered Thomas. “Enough of the footback life for

me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways

as a nut on a new axle.”

“My dear young man,” said the other, “she has been searching for you

everywhere.”

“Great!” said Thomas. “I’m on the job. That team of dropsical

dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman

like myself; but I’ll take the job back, sure, doc. They’re good people

to be with.”

And now a change came o’er the suave countenance of the Caliph of

Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.

“May I ask what your name is?” he said shortly.

“You’ve been looking for me,” said Thomas, “and don’t know my name?

You’re a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office

gumshoers. I’m Thomas McQuade, of course; and I’ve been chauffeur of

the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago

for—well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on

booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing

in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.

Now, what’s the prize for the best answer to all this?”

To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and

dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was

opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,

disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian’s shoe.

As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he

hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.

“Crazy guy,” was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. “Just

wanted to have some fun kiddin’, I guess. He might have dug up a

dollar, anyhow. Now I’ve got to hurry up and get back to that gang of

bum bed hunters before they all get preached to sleep.”

When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of

the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the

proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file

in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals

and something of a wife and child.

“Sorry to see you back again,” said the young man, turning to speak to

him. “I hoped you had struck something better than this.”

“Me?” said Thomas. “Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep

warm! I see the public ain’t lending to the Lord very fast to-night.”