The Latin salutatory was finished. Dougal Davis bowed and took his
seat and the applause began.
He had done well and he knew it, but he did not stop to dwell upon
that now. There would be plenty of time to feel pleased with himself
later on. At present his chief sensation was of jubilant relief at
telling himself that the thing was over with at last.
Not many of his audience had understood much of what he had been
saying, but that did not matter. The fellows smiled at the right time
when he said something about _puellas pulchras_, and they nodded their
heads knowingly when he made the reference to athletics, as he had
told them beforehand to do. And he had gotten through without
forgetting the paragraph beginning with "Postquam," as he feared he
would.
He was mopping his good-looking brow. His nerves were still quivering,
but he felt perfectly cool and unafraid of anything, and he sat very
still with his eyes half closed, and felt the tension on his nerves
soothingly relax. Then for the first time he heard the applause, and
it occurred to him that all those many people out there were clapping
their hands for him, and that for five minutes they had heard very
little else but his voice, and he felt without glancing up that they
were still looking at him and very likely thinking, "That is the man
that led the class." He told himself all this with an inward smile of
wonder at his own importance, and at his not being more impressed by
it.
Then he slowly raised his eyes and moved his gaze around over the many
fluttering fans to the right. He passed over it once without seeing
it, then he found the face he was searching for. She was looking up at
him with just the kind of a smile that he knew would be there, and
when she caught his eye, the smile became radiant, and he fancied he
saw a little look of triumph in it. This he answered with a shrug of
his engowned shoulder and an almost imperceptible grimace, and quickly
looked away again. No one else saw it, but she saw and she understood.
The applause had ceased, and the next man was introduced and the
audience turned their attention to him.
Davis took a long breath and looked about him. There was a fat old
lady fanning vigorously, and at every stroke of the fan a ray of
light was reflected in his face. Over there on the right of the
platform were the venerable trustees. Harry Lawrence's fine looking
father, with the handsome head of gray hair, was in the front row,
looking grave and indulgently interested. On the left were the faculty
in their black gowns. They appeared more or less accustomed to all
this. Down in front were his classmates, and back of these the many,
many people closely crowded together. Their faces looked like little
patches of white with dark marks for features, and nearly all of them
seemed to be fanning.
He remembered the lining up under the elms this morning in front of
North, and the band that played, and the girls that gazed, and the
many classes calling "'82 this way!" and "'61 this way!" and the
old-fashioned cheer that '79 gave. Then with the band taking a fresh
hold on the air, how the long procession had begun its march under the
trees toward the church, between the crowds of visitors who parted to
either side and looked at them as they filed by.
First came that member of the faculty who is always grand marshal and
carries an orange and black baton, then the august trustees followed
by the faculty in their gowns and mortar boards, and behind these
trooped the sons of Nassau; each class in the order of graduation, and
last of all those who were about to become graduates, over whom all
this fuss was being made, and who were somewhat impressed by it and by
the length of their gowns.
He remembered the slow, dignified march led by the grand usher and his
assistants up the aisle of the old church between the crowded pews of
smiling fathers and proud mothers and the girls with bright-colored
dresses. He recalled how amused and yet pleased he was at hearing a
junior whisper to a girl beside him, "There he is--that's Davis, the
one I was telling you about." This he remembered had interrupted the
silent rehearsal of the sentence with the ablative absolute in it. But
he did not have to rehearse it any more. All the salutatorian had to
do was to sit still and hear what the other speakers had to say and
feel good.
He was thinking about himself and the four years just past, and having
a right good time at it. He recalled how he had been a nobody at the
start, and he smiled as he remembered how some of these very fellows
in the pews before him had looked down on him in freshman year, and
how he had forced their respect and won their liking. He traced the
progress of it from the first step when he gained the one freshman
position on the _Princetonian_ board and overheard someone say, "What!
that poler?" up to the present time when people pointed him out on the
campus and said, "There goes Dougal Davis." Few ambitious men graduate
with as much to be proud of and as little to regret.
First there was the prize for leading the class in freshman year, then
came the sophomore essay prize, and the Washington's birthday debate,
and the next year a classical prize and two or three Hall honors,
including one of the four appointments for the inter-Hall junior
oratorical contest, in which he had won first place, and a number of
other prizes of which he did not stop to think in detail, and finally
the appointment as first representative of his Hall in the Lynde
debate which had taken place the night before, and the result of which
would be announced to-day. Intermingled with these were other honors,
such as the membership of an elective club, and the presidency of his
class in junior year, and the class oratorship on Class Day, and then
the Latin salutatory to-day.
You see he had just about all one man could get, and before he left
the room he was going to hear his name read out before everybody, as
the winner of still a few more honors. This was the culmination of a
rather successful career, and he told himself that he did not care how
conceited it was, he was going to enjoy it for all it was worth, for
before the sun set he would be an undergraduate no longer, and there
would be plenty of time to find how small he was.
Dougal Davis was the son of a foreign missionary, and he had entered
college with the intention of making a minister of the Gospel of
himself. He still had that intention. He was one of the most popular
men on the campus.
When he began his course he was as bristling with prejudices and as
redolent of sanctimony as many high-minded young men of noble purpose
and little tact, but unlike some of them he had sense of humor enough
to find out pretty promptly that he was a young prig.
He soon shed many of his prejudices, and he was fair-minded enough to
let the good wholesome atmosphere of the campus air out his
sanctimony. This is a way of saying that early in freshman year he
took himself in hand and decided that if he and a number of other
fellows looked at a number of things in vastly different ways it did
not necessarily follow that the other fellows were dead wrong. He was
in evidence at class prayer-meetings, but not more than at the
meetings at the lamp-post in front of Reunion, with his hands doubled
up under a sweater, gossiping with the crowd. That is the sort of a
fellow he was.
Davis's father had a small salary and a large family, like all
missionaries, and one of the girls had come back to the States when
Dougal did to go to a school in Philadelphia. So young Davis earned
the price of his education.
But this was not so hard as it sounds. Being a minister's son he had a
scholarship, which saved his tuition bills, and he ran a club, so that
his board cost nothing. Leading the class in freshman year not only
brought him the prize of $200, but the best kind of advertising with
the faculty as well, so that in sophomore year he had more tutoring
sent around to him than he knew what to do with. Then he became
Princeton correspondent for several papers, and dropped tutoring
except on special occasions and at very special rates. He had such a
reputation that he could have had any price he asked. "Go to Davis; he
can put you through any examination," they used to say.
In junior year he enlarged his newspaper correspondence and began
doing some syndicate work. He gained a bit of reputation with football
writing, and in his senior year he used to sign his name to a column
of it every week. "The joke of it is," Dougal used to explain, "I
don't know beans about the game." This was not strictly true, for no
one with eyes could go through four years of tramping down to 'varsity
field without absorbing enough to enlighten the average sporting
editor.
In short, before Davis was three-quarters of the way through his
college course, he was paying his expenses and making a surplus which
was considerably larger than that which poor young men who earn their
way through college to preach the Gospel are supposed to have.
Now he might have sent a portion of it out to his hard-working parents
in Persia, or have helped to defray the expenses of his ambitious
sister at school. This would have been noble of him, but he did
nothing of the kind. One does not need much money in Persia; there's
nothing to spend it on. His people had a large, comfortable home with
a dozen servants to look after it, and they seemed to have leisure
enough to write articles for English and American magazines now and
then. A rich aunt looked out for his sister, and she had the
reputation of dressing more artistically than any girl in the Walnut
Street school. The only thing he did for her was to send an occasional
box of candy, or a book, like any other brother. Davis did not even
save his money. He blew it in on himself and his friends, like any
other natural young man. What do you suppose he worked so hard for if
it were not to go in with the rest of the club for coaches at
Thanksgiving games, and to take runs to Philadelphia over Sunday, and
to give spreads in his room on Saturday nights, and to do the other
things for which one has sore need of money and for which he goes
broke for about twenty days of each month? If Davis had been a modern
undergraduate he would perhaps have spent money on good-looking
clothes, though I hardly think that of him.
The only disadvantage in his way of living was that it took time, so
that he did not have as much of it to loaf in as he would have liked.
Especially as he was mixed up in half-a-dozen outside interests of the
college world, and had a provokingly high stand in class to maintain
besides. For although the fellows used to say he kept on leading his
class from force of habit, as a matter of fact it took considerable
valuable time.
The worst of it was that he had to do his reviewing up regularly week
by week, for he was of no account at cramming all night for exams, he
said. Perhaps this was true. When the crowd used to gather in
half-undressed condition with wet towels around their heads and wild
looks on their faces, Dougal generally stretched out upon the divan
and drummed on a banjo, with his eyes half closed and a pipe in his
mouth, and listened to the others quizzing and getting excited, and at
twelve o'clock, except on rare occasions, he said good-night, and went
to bed and slept like a child, and the next day would saunter into
Examination Hall as fresh as a spring term Sunday, and write the best
paper in the class. It is in this way that many fellows remember him
best.
The reason he never seemed to be especially rushed was that he had the
knack of arranging his time, and had learned while still in college
that there are a great many moments in twenty-four hours. He went to
breakfast before chapel, and he crammed a great deal into those odd
hours that come between lectures, which most fellows spend in making
up their minds what to do, and he found he better appreciated a loaf
on Saturday night if he put in most of the daylight in work. It was in
that way he managed to find time to keep up his Hall work and attend
to his _Princetonian_ duties and committee meetings and write orations
and essays, besides managing one of the clubs and turning out an
average of one thousand words of copy a day in time to catch the
afternoon mail.
And it was in this way that he managed to keep from breaking down
under it. When the bell in North struck five he always tossed aside
his book and ran down the stairs three steps at a time and yelled,
"Hello, Tommy Tucker," or "Billy Nolan," or somebody with all his
might, and with him took a rattling hard walk--not down Nassau Street,
but 'cross country--or else an hour's pull at the weights in the
gymnasium with a cold shower-bath and a hard rub at the end of it, and
then walked tingling with health and content to the club, when he ate
the largest meal of anyone there--except when big Stehman was back
from the training-table.
After this he stretched his legs far under the table and leaned his
head against the back of the chair, and there lingered with the coffee
and gossip, blowing beautiful smoke rings for an hour. He had been
known to refuse a $5 tutoring offer for this hour, just as he had once
sacrificed an elective course in Greek philosophy for the five o'clock
one.
During the past year Davis had been making up his mind to a few
things. One of them was that he would go out to the foreign field. He
could not say that he felt himself called to it. He did not sign the
pledge that was circulated about in the colleges at that time as the
"Student volunteer movement."
Ever since he could remember he had intended to be a preacher, though
there was a period, which came about the same time as his first pair
of trousers, when he thought he would rather be a dragoman with a
fierce mustache and big buttons. And now he came to the conclusion
that he would become a foreign missionary, like his father.
He felt that he was pretty well suited to the work and would make a
success of it. He had a strong constitution, a good voice, and
adaptability to circumstances. He knew pretty well by nature how to
get at people, and the summer spent slumming down in Rivington Street,
New York, had taught him considerably more. Besides, he already had
the language down fine, and could stumble along tolerably well with
two of the low dialects.
What is more, he thought he would like it. He did not tell himself
that it was noble to go and bury himself way out there, for there
wasn't any burying about it. He liked the climate and expected to have
a good time in Persia, with a man-servant to bow low and make his
coffee in the morning, and to fill his big, long pipe every evening,
and he pictured himself on a horse riding beside a certain blue river
with peculiar big trees along the bank quite as often as saving souls.
At least this is the way he used to talk in pow-wows in fellows'
rooms. But there were certain long-faced friends of his that
misunderstood when he talked in this manner.
* * * * *
The salutatorian was not troubling himself about that just now, as he
sat there on the stage resting his chin on one hand and fanning
himself with a programme in the other. He had been idly listening to
Nolan as he thundered and perspired about Purity in Politics. For his
part he preferred gamey Billy Nolan, the all-round athlete, to earnest
William the orator. Nervous little poler Stacy was now straining his
lungs with his well-committed plea for the Greek Ideal. Davis was not
following it very closely. He glanced down at his classmates in the
front rows. He knew that before the day was over he was going to feel
pretty sad. That was not troubling him very much now either. But every
time he looked down there a certain thing bobbed up and spoiled the
pleasant taste in his mouth. It was hardly worth getting uncomfortable
over. This was the way it had begun, long ago last fall, as they sat
around the table after dinner talking football. And you can see how
ridiculous it was to worry about it.
Davis was holding forth at some length with considerable earnestness,
as he had a perfect right to do, of course, and Jim Linton had not
joined in the discussion. He seldom did. He was quietly sipping his
coffee at the end of the table and looking quizzically interested.
Presently he interrupted. "Oh, Dougal," he said. He had arisen to go
and was refilling his pipe.
Dougal stopped short. "Yes?" he said in an intense tone.
Linton looked at him a moment, folded up his pouch, put it in his
pocket, and struck a match.
Then he said, between puffs, "I'd a little rather you would not get
excited, Dougal," and started off for the billiard-room.
It was nothing but a bit of ordinary club chaff such as passes back
and forth every day, and Linton forgot the occurrence before he
finished chalking his cue. But Dougal's cheeks had flushed crimson,
and before he knew what he was saying he had come out with a muttered
remark in which the word "gentleman" was loud enough for all at the
table to hear, and that is a very awkward word to handle sometimes.
That was the reason no one said anything for a moment. Silences were
rare in that room. He did not go on with the discussion of the
defective coaching system. Nor did the others.
A little later as he started for the campus old Jack Stehman joined
him and said, in his sober, conscientious way, "Say, Dougal, you had
no business saying what you did about Jimmy. Of course you didn't mean
it, but you had better apologize, don't you think?"
Davis said he did not look at it in that way, and changed the subject.
Before he got to sleep that night he saw what a fool he had made of
himself, and made up his mind to apologize to Linton before the whole
table. But that was in the middle of the night.
The next day there were guests at the club. The following day Linton
dined out. The day after that Davis tried to make himself do it as
they sat about the fireplace, but he postponed it until some time when
his heart was not beating so loud, for he did not feel himself called
upon to make a scene before the whole club. When he thought over what
he meant to say it all seemed very ridiculous, and he blushed at the
thought of it. Linton of all fellows would dislike any slopping over
of this sort. So he changed his mind and decided to speak to Linton
alone about it.
But it was a very hard thing for a man like Davis to talk to a man
like Linton about a thing like this. There was something about Linton
that he did not understand. He was the one man that made him
self-conscious. He always felt as though Linton saw through him and
understood how ambitious he was, and was laughing at him for his
strenuous struggling. He told himself that he did not propose to be in
awe of a lazy dilettante who thought himself a clever reader of human
nature. But that did not help him to apologize. And the longer he put
it off the harder it became, naturally. And the longer he put it off
the more he found to dislike in Linton, which was also natural, only
you would not have thought this of Davis.
After a while he began wondering how he had taken to Linton in the
first place, and why the other fellows liked him so much. Every time
they were together he began comparing himself with him. By most
standards Davis ought to have been satisfied. Linton himself never
seemed to think of comparison. He seemed to calmly take it for granted
that Dougal was a wonderful man, and often referred to it as an
acknowledged fact. He seemed to be glad to speak of it. But he had a
way of making fellows love him that was galling to the man that led
the class.
All the college bowed down to Dougal Davis; not twenty under-classmen
knew who Linton was. But Timberly and Reddy Armstrong and Jack Stehman
had a way of throwing an arm about lazy Linton, whom they loved, that
it did not occur to them to do with the wonderful Dougal Davis, whom
they admired. Davis wanted that love. He wanted everything. You see he
had quite a disposition to contend with.
So he kept on having disagreeable times with himself and the
conscience which would not let up. Finally he made up his mind to
patch it all up on Commencement Day, and he had hit upon a plan by
which he could make just amends to Linton, he told himself, and duly
punish himself at the same time, and then he could graduate in peace.
Meanwhile he would have to stop thinking about that and walk down from
the stage with the other Commencement speakers, for Charles Benjamin
Howard had finished telling people about the Utility of Difference,
and the orchestra was playing "Ta-ra-ra boom de ay."
There was an intermission of ten minutes now. After that would come
the announcement of prizes and the conferring of degrees, then
Smith's valedictory, followed by the benediction, and then the class
would walk out into the world with their little diplomas under their
arms tied with pretty ribbons.
The audience changed their positions and looked about at the other
people there, whispered to each other, and went to fanning again. Some
of the fathers looked at their watches and yawned and wished
Commencement was over with behind their programmes, and fell to
thinking about things in the office which they had come here to
forget.
Other old grads. smiled kindly, and remembered how they used to do
when they were in college. The young alumnus looked pityingly at the
graduating class in the front rows and thought how little these boys
knew about the big world he knew so much of.
Meanwhile the juniors and the lower classmen were very active and
noisy in the rear of the old church. The Whig men were gathering on
the left-hand side, and Clio Hall on the right. Many reinforcements
were arriving that had not been near the church during the other
exercises. The aisles became jammed. The seats were already so.
Suddenly a man jumped up on a pew, and screamed, "Now, fellows! Clio
Hall, this way! Hip-hip!"
"Clio Hall--this way!" came out with startling force from many
throats.
This woke everyone up, and those that had never been there before were
a little shocked for a moment. The loud voices echoed strangely
against the old walls and among the old pillars and under the old
galleries, which by the way are used to all this and weren't surprised
a bit. No doubt they miss it these days.
Then the left-hand side of the church raised its voice and said, "Whig
Hall, this way! Whig Hall this wa-ay!" in still fiercer tones. Then
Clio called itself together again, and then Whig Hall cheered and so
did Clio, and gave a long cheer and so did Whig. Then both cheered for
themselves at once, and tried to drown each other out, and succeeded.
They kept this up until time was called. That is, the clerk of the
board of trustees arose and stretched his long neck and began to
announce the prizes from a long list in his hand. This was
interesting.
Whenever he read out an award in his strong voice, it was met with a
tremendous cheer from the Hall whose member won the prize. It mattered
not whether the honor was one for which a literary society's training
could count; they cheered anyway, whether it was a fellowship in
modern languages or a prize in the School of Science draughtsmanship.
Nor did it matter whether the man had never since the first week after
his initiation worked the combination lock of the Hall door. They
cheered him anyway. And when the two societies were in doubt as to
which he belonged to, they both cheered. It made magnificent noise.
There are a great many of these prizes. One has no idea until
Commencement comes that there are so many advertised in the catalogue;
and the clerk read each one out in a loud voice, and then waited for
the cheering to cease.
Dougal Davis had heard his name announced three times, and each time
the cheer rang out from the enthusiastic throng in the rear he felt
the little echoing thrill inside of him.
Once as he stepped down from the platform he caught a glimpse of a man
leading the cheer for him. The man's back was turned, but he saw him
standing there 'way up on the railing of the pew in his excitement,
and he saw his arms vigorously jerking out the cheer.
Davis was used to this sort of thing and he held his features very
well, though as he marched up for the third time he felt rather
foolish, for the audience were smiling audibly at the sight of Dougal
Davis, of Persia, running off with so many prizes. Timberly asked him
when he came down, "Why don't you stay up there, Dougal? I'd sit on
the edge platform and swing my legs."
It was only at the announcement of the Lynde prize debate that he felt
at all tremulous. His friends kept telling him that he was sure of it,
but he felt that he would not get it. This is, as everyone knows, the
greatest inter-Hall prize offered, and many people consider it the
greatest honor of a college lifetime. It was quite enough for a fellow
to feel weak at the stomach over. Dougal kept repeating under his
breath, "What's the difference, what's the difference?" and he
reminded himself that there were a second and a third prize as well as
the first, and that any way, even if he won none of them, it was a
pretty fine thing to have secured the appointment from his Hall.
Besides, he was doing so many things that he could afford to drop an
honor or two.
"The Lynde Prize Debate," came in the resonant tones of the tall,
gaunt clerk. Everything was very still.
The cheerers were silent. The two leaders were standing on tip-toe,
each with his elbows doubled up and mouth half open, ready to begin
the cheer. One of them, however, would have to keep still. Dougal shut
his lips.
"First prize awarded to Dougal Davis, of Pers----"
Then came the loud, eager "'Ray! 'Ray! 'Ray!'" of the quick cheer, and
then two more quick ones, and next a long one with "Davis!" on the
end, then the word "Davis! Davis! Davis!" that way, three times. Then
they began giving more quick cheers again and a few long ones, as if
they had just started.
Meanwhile the clerk kept his sober gaze upon the paper in his hand,
waiting to announce the second and third winners and pretending to be
annoyed at the delay, though enjoying it as much as any girl in the
audience.
"Good work, Dougal, good work," cried one of the four fellows pounding
him on the back.
Dougal did not smile slightly or look unconcerned. He grinned all over
his face and enjoyed it. As soon as the attention was taken away from
him he leaned back in the corner of the pew and enjoyed it some more.
That is the way to do.
He was still tense and excited from his victory when a few minutes
later he heard the clerk reading off something about the new
fellowship in Political Science. This was the one he had gone in for,
and he had felt doubtful over the result, because he had not been able
to spend as much time upon it as he wanted to, and it required a great
deal. However, the only other man in the race was nothing to be afraid
of. But all the same a little dart of dread shot through him now, and
he thought what if he should lose it after all. It would not do at
all. This was what he wanted more than any of the honors. He had a
particular reason for wanting to win it. This he failed to do.
Before he was quite aware of what was taking place the clerk had
already made the announcement and the crowd were wildly cheering,
cheering that other fellow as if they had never heard of Dougal Davis.
He felt like a man that steps off a bridge in the dark; he heard the
splash and felt a shock, but he did not know just what had happened.
He had never been beaten in anything before. It came very hard. But
that was not what made it hurt so much. It was because Linton had won
it.
He could not help thinking of the little speech he had planned to make
that evening--"Well, you see, Jimmie, I haven't time for it, anyway. I
have to go to the Seminary, and maybe to the Medical College after
that. So I thought I would resign, and I hope you'll apply for it and
come back to the old place for another year. You're sure to get it,
if you apply for it." Wasn't it a pretty little speech?
He turned and glanced over at Linton, who sat with his head nestled
contentedly against Reddy Armstrong's shoulder, while the
happy-looking fellows all around him were punching and pounding him
and rumpling up his hair as if they never would cease; and as if they
were glad Dougal Davis was beaten. Linton himself only raised his
eyebrows and shook his head deprecatingly. He seemed to take it all
very easily, as if he were accustomed to winning prizes and beating
Dougal Davis, and he still wore that imperturbable look, and Davis
knew that it would have been just as imperturbable and contented
looking if he had lost.
And this spoiled the salutatorian's day of triumph. He did not glance
back now to where his sister and aunt were sitting. He forgot to
unroll his sheepskin as the others did when they came down from the
stage with them. He blew his breath through it against the palm of his
hand and looked absent-mindedly at the scratched paint of the
old-fashioned pew. He remained thus all through Smith's valedictory,
except once when the speaker stretched out both arms and the class
arose; then he listened for a moment and said, "Biff!" under his
breath. When it was all over he passed out with his class and through
the gazing throng, thinking not of the much that he had won, but only
of the one thing he had lost, and this was unfortunate, because much
people were looking at him and thinking how fine it was to be Davis,
and that is fame, and it was too bad to miss it.
* * * * *
Linton had no ambition and he colored meerschaum beautifully. He was
usually mum in a crowd, but he was fine company on a long
cross-country walk, and he knew more about ordering a dinner than any
man on the campus, except one of the faculty.
When he did not want you in his room he told you so, and he was the
kind of a fellow you would do anything for after you came to know him.
He had a very efficient sense of humor, which does not mean that he
said funny things at the table. Some people thought him sarcastic. But
many fellows went to him for advice or sympathy, and it was not only
because he could keep his mouth absolutely closed.
Linton had a walking acquaintance with every road, lane, and pathway
within a radius of twenty miles of the campus. He knew how long it
took to cover any route, and where there were good places to stop and
rest, especially the quaint ones where they served it in mugs.
Here he used to sit and sip and smoke the golden afternoon away,
dreaming of how it all must have been years ago in the old stage coach
days when the horses drew up on the clattering cobble-stones and the
passengers alighted and looked about and asked how many more miles it
was, and the red-faced driver jumped down from the box and swaggered
into the tap-room, and called for a pint of ale, and told the landlord
how bad the pike was near New Brunswick.
He considered himself somewhat of an artist. There were ever so many
bits that he was fond of showing you if he thought you could
appreciate them; like the bend in the canal up toward Baker's basin,
with peculiar water and willow-coloring in springtime. Linton said it
was like a French water-color. He used to carry a gun over his
shoulder, and say he was going snipe-shooting; really it was to look
for things like this, and get up a big appetite for dinner. He could
also point out a view of gentle hills and rolling green fields on the
way to Kingston that was a good imitation of English landscape, he
said, and he knew just where the tower of the School of Science ought
to make an effect through treetops, like the view of Magdalen tower
from a point in Addison's walk, if it were only beautiful Gothic
instead of ugly Renaissance. But perhaps all this was merely to show
that he had once canoed down the Thames from Oxford to London.
He was very well up in the ancient history of the town, also. He knew
all about most of the old houses, and he had sketches of the best of
the old brass-knockers and colonial doorways. It is said that he used
to prowl about on moonlight nights for this purpose. Small
window-panes were another thing he was insane over. He had substituted
for the ordinary panes of his windows, dingy little square ones with
thick frames painted black. Some of the fellows said the reason he did
this was to be odd. Linton blew smoke, and said yes, that was the
reason.
But it was the old campus that he loved the most. He knew just about
all there was to find out about it, and dreamed a great deal more.
He had ever so many favorite aspects, such as the one of the back of
the Dean's house--with small, square window-panes--from away over at a
point between Whig and Clio Halls, and the rear view of Prospect
across the stretch of sloping meadow toward the canal, and a number of
congenial little spots that meant something to him, like the stone
buttress at the bottom of the tower of Witherspoon, a great place to
warm your back against in spring sunshine, with the blue smoke
trickling lazily from your mouth and the fellows batting up flies on
the old diamond; and then for midnight chats there were the smooth
steps of chapel with the elms saying things in low tones overhead. But
those midnight chats were all over now. It was Commencement Day, and
it was the saddest thing that had ever happened to Linton.
He was not at all anxious to spring forth into the world and battle
with opportunity and all the other things that the class-day speakers
and the valedictorian said that he was going to do. He thought this
little world was good enough for him, and there wasn't much spring in
him.
Ever since he could read he had been told that youth was the happiest
time in life, and he had come to the conclusion that it must be so. He
did not like the idea of giving it up. He had become well settled
where he was, and had just gotten rid of a persistent siege of
kid-pessimism--of which he was now very much ashamed--and was just
beginning to realize what a big, beautiful, real thing friendship was,
and now--Jack and Timber and Billy and Red, where would they all be in
three days' time? It seemed pretty sudden, this thing of breaking up.
And there was very little comfort to him in the thought of coming back
next year. What would the old place be without the old class. He did
not like to think about it.
It struck the class as a pretty joke for Jimmie Linton to bob up and
win a fellowship. "How did you happen to do it?" said Tucker, on the
way out of church. "I didn't know you had any brains."
"Didn't you?" said Linton; "I've quite a lot of them. And I worked
like a good little boy for that fellowship; but nobody will give me
any credit for it. They all know that if Dougal hadn't been too busy
with other things, I would have had no show." He was quite right.
There was nothing modest in this. Dougal Davis had about as good
powers of acquisition as anyone graduated since the time of Aaron
Burr.
Political science was not strictly in Linton's line. He wrote things
for the Lit., and elected all the English courses. He was a great
browser in Elizabethan literature, and when he dabbled in verse this
was evident. One of the exchanges once called him a nineteenth century
Herrick. Linton felt right pleased, and wrote something nice about the
University of Virginia man that said it in the next Lit., and also
made it an excuse to give one of his famous spreads. You would have
expected him to go in for an English fellowship, if for any. But he
did not go in for any deliberately. He was not in the habit of
studying his courses more than enough to get through the examinations,
except when he ran across something he was interested in, or a
professor he liked. There are many excuses for laziness.
In Political Economy, and such subjects, he liked the lecturer very
much, and he found himself becoming interested in the primitive man,
and the origin of society, and all that. The farther he went in the
course, the more interested he became. He went to the library, and
often walked past the Elizabethan alcove. Next he began buying the
books, because he liked to feel that he owned them, and rub them up
against his cheek, and he soon had a shelf full of Bagehot and big,
thick Sir Henry Maine and others.
Then because he had never done anything serious during his course, and
because he knew it would please his people and amuse the fellows, he
announced his intention of trying for the Political Science
fellowship. There was no one else in for it.
He went about it scientifically, and was surprised to find how much
enthusiasm he had aroused in himself. He had never known before what a
fine thing study was. He said he wished he had done more of it during
his college course.
He was surprised when he heard a few weeks later that Dougal Davis was
in the field. Historical work he thought was still further out of
Davis's line. But he only rolled over on the divan and went on
reading. For he argued thus: "I like this stuff and I don't see how it
can hurt me to learn a lot about something. If I don't fetch a
fellowship I won't have to correct examination papers. I'd hate to
correct examination papers."
One day at the club he asked Dougal--he sat opposite--what he wanted
with political science. Davis cleared his throat and said every
preacher of modern times should know something of sociology, which was
undoubtedly true. But that was not the reason. And somehow Linton
guessed it.
* * * * *
It was twilight and the class had gathered together on the steps of
Old North for their last senior singing. Only they were no longer
seniors; it was "by and by" now, and they were out in the "wide, wide
world." They huddled up close together as if half frightened at the
thought of its being the last time.
There were but few undergrads. stretched out under the elms to listen,
and most of these were the juniors--seniors they were now--waiting to
rapaciously take possession of the steps the moment the present
occupants marched off for their last supper together at nightfall.
These and a handful of the out-of-town visitors were all that were
left of the big Commencement crowds that had been gathering there
every evening to hear the seniors sing. Sometimes they had felt that
they would have preferred being left a little more to themselves, if
it were possible, during the last days of college life.
But now this unmolested aloneness only added to their dreariness and
made them feel the ghastly certainty of this evening's being the end
of all. The grass was trampled and faded, and the crowd that had
trodden it was gone. The bell in Old North belfry rang out painfully
loud.
"Well, fellows, let's sing," said the leader, rising slowly. He raised
his chin and then bobbed his head and started up, "The Orange and the
Black," just as they had all seen him do many times before.
They sang as they had never sung before. It did not matter what were
the words of the song. "They stole his wallet, they stole his staff,"
had nothing in it that was especially apropos of college friendships
or the sadness of farewell, but the way they sang it, with the
long-drawn "Ramski Ho," meant something. It was so full of
association. And no one noticed this time whether the man behind him
was on a key of his own. His only thought was, "When shall I hear
Billy's good old bark again after to-night?" And when Sam's and when
Ed's and Big Hill's and Little Hill's and where would be the fellow a
year from now whose shoulder was next to his own.
During the past month or two the class of Ninety Blank had been drawn
very close together by the thought of what was coming. They had never
been very seriously cliqued up, but what there was of dissension was
forgotten, and they were now one solid crowd. Fellows who had never
anything to do with each other before except to say, "Hello, there,
Ray!" and "Hello, Harry!" had taken to strolling around the campus
together arm-in-arm talking about what they were going to do next year
and wondering why they had never happened to see more of each other in
the past, and regretting that there were to be no opportunities for
doing so in the future.
But during the excitement of Commencement week, with the crowds of old
grads. and of girls and the big baseball game and the concerts and
Class Day full of its exhibition farewells in the church and around
the cannon, and the teas and the big dance on Tuesday night, and the
many other things that filled up every moment of every day and
night--together with the responsibility of seeing to the entertainment
of their guests--all this, and the feeling of importance at being the
cause of so much color and sound had in a measure distracted their
minds from the thought of what it all meant. But now all that was
changed.
The last of the display ceremonies was finished. The class had their
diplomas. It was all over. The rollicking old grads. with their many
reunions and their old-fashioned cheers and their funny songs had left
for the city and business again for a year. The girls and their
mothers and their parasols had vanished like the chinese lanterns
among the trees. The campus was almost deserted, and except for their
own voices, was as still as a cemetery. Each man on the steps was
realizing as he never had done before how glad had been those four
years, and how startlingly fast they had sped by, and how much more
these friends of his meant to him than he had ever imagined friends
could mean.
Two of the number had been obliged to pack their trunks and depart
during the afternoon without waiting for the banquet. The whole class
were at the station to see them off. They did it in the old-fashioned
way, with much cheering and singing, and the old custom of lifting
them up and putting them through the car windows. Then after each man
had shaken the hands of those departing, and said, "God bless you,
Tommy," they had watched while the little train rolled down the grade
and became smaller and smaller, and they cheered until the two men
waving their hats on the rear platform were hidden behind the curve.
Then they marched solemnly back across the campus again, and tried to
go on with the packing of their own trunks.
But few had been able to remain very long in the lonely, old, familiar
dens. There were too many things to suggest the old times which sent
big wedges into throats, and they realized that there were to be few
enough opportunities of being with those fellows out under the trees
to waste time in dreary packing. "It's too deuced hot up there in my
room," said Harry Lawrence to Billy Nolan.
For the most part they had spent the afternoon in silent, moody
wanderings, in groups of twos and fours and half dozens, all about the
old, dear, familiar landmarks of the campus. Now at evening they were
gathered together as a body again. This was to be the last time. And
that thought kept recurring to each man on the steps.
It was about dusk now. The front campus was wrapped in that strange
half-glow that sometimes comes at late senior singing time. It was
very much in keeping with other elements of the scene, and it had its
effect upon the fellows.
Old North seemed solemn and dignified, but somehow more gentle and
caressable than formerly. Even the old elms, who have seen this thing
happen so many, many times, ceased whispering for a space and
listened. John, the college policeman, left Reunion for his home down
William Street, and Sam, the night watchman, said, "Good-night, John,"
and took his place. Bill Leggett took down his lantern and started
around to light the campus lamps as he always did at this hour. The
village street seemed far off, and its lights and its bit of life
seemed part of another world. There was a pause in the singing.
It lasted a long time. Tucker scratched a match on the stone steps.
The crack seemed very loud. Those near by turned and watched him light
his pipe and watched him throw the match to the ground. It kept on
burning for a little while. They watched it until it went out.
Presently Doc. Devereaux, the leader, said, "Fellows, there are a lot
of chairs and benches scattered about. Let's drag them up here in
front of the steps and make a circle." They all arose and did it as if
it had been a command.
The rattling of the chairs against each other sounded harsh and
discordant, and yet no one seemed to want to lessen it. Some of the
fellows laughed and joked a little, as though they weren't thinking of
anything serious. It made a large circle. They sat down in comparative
silence. The Class President arose and said, "Say, fellows, let's sing
'Here's to you, my jovial friend,' all around the class, and each man
stand up while we're singing to him."
They started with the President and went around to the left. You know
that drinking song. It's a simple little salute, but there's more
heart in its swelling high notes than in anything ever written. But
perhaps that is because of its association.
"Here's to you, Jack Stehman," they sang.
"Here's to you, my jovial friend,
And we'll drink with all our heart,
For sake of company--
We'll drink before we part,
Here's to you, Jack Stehman."
Stehman, the President, had arisen when his name was called, and
remained standing while the song was carried through. The big fellow
seemed to loom up bigger than ever in the half dark. He arose with his
old, well-known slouch, and the sight of this little characteristic
brought up to every one of them the whole big, lovable personality of
the man.
He started to look around at the fellows and smile as they began to
sing, but the clear, warm notes rang out, "We'll drink before we
part," and he changed his mind and looked down at the grass under his
feet. He was not embarrassed. He merely preferred looking down. It was
so different from Class Day, when he had made his much-applauded
President's address, and told people in his nice set speech about the
sadness of farewell and the beauty of the elms. He was the one all the
girls had asked the most questions about. The class censor had guyed
him about his brand new dignity and his good looks. Nobody was
feeling like guying him now.
Little Stacy sat next. He did not stand up very high. There was not
much to him. He had been a poler all through the course, and you would
not have expected the thing to affect him very much, but you could see
his thin hands working nervously along the edge of his coat as he
looked about at the half-darkened crowd of faces, and he smiled his
foolish, little, self-conscious smile. The little chap had no idea
that they would ever sing to him in that way, and when he heard Harry
Lawrence's strong bass come out with "And we'll drink with all our
heart," he fairly quivered. When he sat down the President reached a
big arm about him.
Then came Reddy Armstrong. He was not very tall either. He stood up
very straight and stiff with his round, freckled face screwed up into
funny twists. He only stared straight ahead into nothing. He looked
dazed. He was dazed. He had been through some very queer things that
day. "Poor little Red," thought Linton as he looked at him.
All around the big circle went the song until it ended with Timberly,
who sat on Stehman's right. By this time it was too dark to see
Timberly's queer features. Perhaps it was just as well.
"Now," said the President, simply, "let's all cross hands and sing
'Auld Lang Syne.' Doc., start it up, please."
They arose, and each man gave his right-hand comrade his left hand,
and his left-hand comrade his right, and they sang the good old song
in the good old way, with the clasped hands swinging far up and down
in time to the music.
Presently the song was finished. It seemed to stop suddenly. They all
waited a moment in silence to see whether the leader had another verse
to begin.
But he did not. Jack Stehman stepped out into the middle of the ring.
"Now, fellows," he said, "let's give three good rousing cheers for the
dear old class--God bless every man in it--and then we'll give up the
steps to the juniors--the seniors I mean--and march four abreast to
the dinner. Are you ready? Hip! hip! ... another one--Hip! hip!"
Linton was standing apart over beside the steps. His back was turned
toward the others.
While the rest were cheering, Dougal Davis crossed over to him.
"Jim," he said, "I haven't congratulated you yet on winning the
fellowship."
Linton kept on looking at the newly planted class ivy. His hands were
in his pockets and his legs spread apart.
"Did you notice that I hadn't, Jim?"
Linton turned around suddenly. "Oh, yes, I noticed it. But that was
this morning." He put his hand on Davis's shoulder as in junior year.
"Shut up, Dougal," he said; "we haven't any time to waste in talk."
"All right," said Dougal. "Don't let's be left behind. They are
starting." He laughed a little. It was a foolish-sounding laugh.
Linton did not observe that. He laughed also, in very much the same
way.
They stepped in line with the others and marched off the campus
singing, with all their might,
"Nassau! Nassau! Ring out the chorus free.
Nassau! Nassau! Thy jolly sons are we.
Care shall be forgotten, all our sorrows flung away,
While we are marching thro' Princeton."
BRIEF LIST of Books of Fiction Published by Charles Scribner's Sons,
153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York.
_William Waldorf Astor._
=Valentino:= An Historical Romance. 12mo, $1.00. =Sforza:= A Story of
Milan. 12mo, $1.50.
"The story is full of clear-cut little tableaux of mediæval Italian
manners, customs and observances. The movement throughout is spirited,
the reproduction of bygone times realistic."--_The New York Tribune._
_Arlo Bates._
=A Wheel of Fire.= 12mo, paper, 50cts.; cloth, $1.00.
"The novel deals with character rather than incident, and is evolved
from one of the most terrible of moral problems with a subtlety not
unlike that of Hawthorne."--_The Critic._
_W. H. Bishop._
=A Pound of Cure.= 12mo, $1.00.
"A powerful and purposeful story, clean and strong and interesting
throughout."--_The Churchman._
_Hjalmar H. Boyesen._
=Falconberg.= Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50. =Gunnar.= Sq. 12mo, paper, 50
cts.; cloth, $1.25. =Tales from Two Hemispheres.= Sq. 12mo, $1.00. =Ilka
on the Hill Top=, and Other Stories. Sq. 12mo, $1.00. =Queen Titania.=
Sq. 12mo, $1.00. =Social Strugglers.= 12mo, $1.25.
"Mr. Boyesen's stories possess a sweetness, a tenderness and a
drollery that are fascinating, and yet they are no more attractive
than they are strong."--_The Home Journal._
_Robert Bridges._
=Overheard in Arcady.= 12mo, illustrated, $1.25.
"The cleverest book of the year. Aside from the humor, it is a keen
and subtile criticism of living authors."--_Atlanta Constitution._
_Noah Brooks._
=Tales of the Maine Coast.= 12mo, $1.00.
"They are all good; 'Pansy Pegg' is a classic. Hawthorne did few, if
any, better things than 'A Century Ago.'"--_Boston Advertiser._
_H. C. Bunner_.
=The Story of a New York House.= Illustrated by A. B. Frost. 12mo,
$1.25. =The Midge.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00. =Zadoc Pine=, and
Other Stories. 12mo, pap., 50 cts.; clo., $1.00.
"It is Mr. Bunner's delicacy of touch and appreciation of what is
literary art that give his writings distinctive quality. Everything
Mr. Bunner paints shows the happy appreciation of an author who has
not alone mental discernment, but the artistic appreciation."--_N. Y.
Times._
_Frances Hodgson Burnett._
=That Lass o' Lowrie's.= Illustrated. paper, 50 cts; cloth, $1.25.
=Haworth's.= Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25. =Through One Administration.= 12mo,
$1.50. =Louisiana.= 12mo, $1.25. =A Fair Barbarian.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.,
cloth, $1.25. =Vagabondia=: A Love Story. 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
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First Series. =Earlier Stories.= Second Series. 12mo, each, paper, 50
cts.; cloth, $1.25. =The Pretty Sister of José.= Illustrated by C. S.
Reinhart. 12mo, $1.00.
=Little Lord Fauntleroy.= Sq. 8vo, $2.00. =Sara Crewe.= Sq. 8vo, $1.00.
=Little Saint Elizabeth=, and Other Stories. Sq. 8vo, $1.50. =Giovanni
and the Other.= Sq. 8vo, $2.00. Illustrated by R. B. Birch.
"Mrs. Burnett discovers gracious secrets in rough and forbidding
natures--the sweetness that often underlies their bitterness--the soul
of goodness in things evil. She seems to have an intuitive perception
of character."--RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
_William Allen Butler_.
=Domesticus.= A Tale of the Imperial City. 12mo, $1.25.
_George W. Cable_.
=The Grandissimes.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts., cloth, $1.25. =Old Creole Days.=
12mo, cloth, $1.25; also in two parts, paper, each, 30 cts. =Dr.
Sevier.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25. =Bonaventure.= 12mo, paper,
50 cts; $1.25. _The set, 4 vols., $5.00_. =John March, Southerner.= (_In
Press._)
"There are few living American writers who can reproduce for us more
perfectly than Mr. Cable does, in his best moments, the speech, the
manners, the whole social atmosphere of a remote time and a peculiar
people. A delicious flavor of humor penetrates his stories."--_The New
York Tribune._
_Rebecca Harding Davis._
=Silhouettes of American Life.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.
"There are altogether thirteen stories in the volume, all written in
that direct, forcible style which is Mrs. Davis's distinctive merit as
a producer of fiction."--_Boston Beacon._
_Richard Harding Davis._
=Gallegher=, and Other Stories. 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.
"The freshness, the strength, and the vivid picturesqueness of the
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=Ivar the Viking.= 12mo, $1.50.
"The story of a typical Norseman in the third and fourth centuries.
The volume is a thrilling and an interesting one."--_Boston
Advertiser._
_Edward Eggleston._
=Roxy.= =The Circuit Rider.= Illustrated. Each, 12mo, $1.50.
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_Erckmann-Chatrian._
=The Conscript.= Illustrated. =Waterloo.= Illustrated. Sequel to The
Conscript. =Madame Thérèse.= =The Blockade of Phalsburg.= Illustrated. =The
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_The National Novels, each, $1.25; the set, 6 vols., $7.50._
=Friend Fritz.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25.
_Harold Frederic._
=Seth's Brother's Wife.= 12mo, $1.25. =The Lawton Girl.= 12mo, $1.25;
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Copperhead.= 12mo, $1.00. =Marsena=, and Other Stories. 12mo, $1.00.
"It is always a pleasure to welcome a vigorous new-comer in
literature, and the talents of Mr. Frederic abundantly entitle him to
this description. Mr. Frederic is a realist and his work is well
done."--_Boston Post._
_Eugene Field._
=A Little Book of Profitable Tales.= 16mo, $1.25.
"This pretty little volume promises to perpetuate examples of a wit,
humor and pathos, quaint and rare in their kind."--_New York Tribune._
_James Anthony Froude._
=The Two Chiefs of Dunboy.= An Irish Romance of the Last Century. 12mo,
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"The narrative is full of vigor, spirit and dramatic power. It will
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_Robert Grant._
=Face to Face.= 12mo, paper, 50cts.; cloth, $1.25. =The Reflections of a
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"In the 'Reflections,' Mr. Grant has given us a capital little book
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=Philip Nolan's Friends.= Illust'd. 12mo, paper, 50cts.; cloth, $1.50.
"There is no question, we think, that this is Mr. Hale's completest
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=Judith.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00. =Handicapped.= 12mo, $1.50.
=With the Best Intentions.= 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
"Fiction has afforded no more charming glimpses of old Virginia life
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=Free Joe,= and Other Georgian Sketches. 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
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"The author's skill as a story writer has never been more felicitously
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=The Jesuit's Ring.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.
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=The Governor=, and Other Stories. 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
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_Dr. J. G. Holland._
=Sevenoaks.= =The Bay Path.= =Arthur Bonnicastle.= =Miss Gilbert's Career.=
=Nicholas Minturn.= Each, 12mo, $1.25; the set, $6.25. =Sevenoaks= and
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pure and tranquil life in the modest social circles of the American
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hearts."--_The New York Tribune._
_Thomas A. Janvier._
=Color Studies, and a Mexican Campaign.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
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=Newport.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25. =An Echo of Passion.= 12mo,
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_Brander Matthews._
=The Secret of the Sea=, and Other Stories. 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
$1.00. =The Last Meeting.= 12mo, cloth, $1.00.
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Post-Express._
_George Meredith._
=Lord Ormont and His Aminta.= 12mo, $1.50.
"A novel for which the lover of literature will do well to put up his
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Mall Budget._
_George Moore._
=Vain Fortune.= 12mo, $1.00.
"How a woman's previous ideas and actions will completely change when
the medium of a wild, intense love is interposed, was never more
skillfully sketched."--_Boston Times._
_Fitz-James O'Brien._
=The Diamond Lens=, with Other Stories. 12mo, paper, 50 cts.
"These stories are the only things in literature to be compared with
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_Duffield Osborne._
=The Spell of Ashtaroth.= 12mo, $1.00.
"It has a simple but picturesque plot, and the story is told in a
vividly dramatic way."--_Chicago Times._
_Bliss Perry._
=The Broughton House.= 12mo, $1.25. =Salem Kittredge=, and Other Stories.
12mo, $1.00.
"A wonderfully shrewd and vivid picture of life in one of our hill
towns in summer."--_Hartford Post._
_Thomas Nelson Page._
=In Old Virginia.= Marse Chan and Other Stories. 12mo, $1.25. =On
Newfound River.= 12mo, $1.00. =Elsket=, and Other Stories. 12mo, $1.00.
=Marse Chan.= Ills. by Smedley. Sq. 12mo, $1.50. =Meh Lady.= Ills. by
Reinhart. Sq. 12mo, $1.50. =A New Volume of Stories= (_in press_).
"Mr. Page enjoys the distinction of having written the most exquisite
story of the war ('Marse Chan') which has yet appeared. His stories
are beautiful and faithful pictures of a society now become a portion
and parcel of the irrevocable past."--_Harper's Magazine._
_George I. Putnam._
=In Blue Uniform.= 12mo, $1.00. _On the Offensive._ 12mo, $1.00.
"An entertaining picture of life on the frontier by one who knows
whereof he is writing."--_The Churchman._
_Saxe Holm's Stories._
=First Series.= =Second Series.= Each, 12mo, paper, 50cts.; cloth, $1.00.
"Saxe Holm's characters are strongly drawn, and she goes right to the
heart of human experience, as one who knows the way. We heartily
commend them as vigorous, wholesome, and sufficiently exciting
stories."--_The Advance._
_Stories from Scribner._
=Stories of New York.=
=Stories of the South.=
=Stories of the Sea.=
=Stories of the Railway.=
=Stories of Italy.=
=Stories of the Army.=
Illustrated. Each, 16mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, 75 cts.; half calf,
$1.50.
"Only those who have regularly read Scribner's have any idea of the
delightful contents of these volumes, for they contain some of the
best stories written for that periodical. They are exquisitely bound,
clearly printed on fine paper, and admirably illustrated."--_Boston
Times._
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
=Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.= 12mo, paper, 25 cts.; cloth,
$1.00. =Kidnapped.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, ill., $1.25. =The Merry
Men=, and Other Tales and Fables. 12mo, paper, 35 cts.; cloth, $1.00.
=New Arabian Nights.= 12mo, paper, 30 cts.; cloth, $1.00. =The Dynamiter.=
12mo, paper, 30 cts.; cloth, $1.00. =The Black Arrow.= ill. 12mo, paper,
50 cts.; cloth, $1.00. =The Wrong Box.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
$1.00. =The Master of Ballantrae.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, ill.,
$1.25. =The Wrecker.= 12mo, ill., $1.25. =Island Nights' Entertainments.=
12mo, ill., $1.25. =David Balfour.= 12mo, $1.50.
"Stevenson belongs to the romantic school of fiction writers. He is
original in style, charming, fascinating, and delicious, with a
marvelous command of words, and with a manner ever delightful and
magnetic."--_Boston Transcript._
_Charles Warren Stoddard._
=South Sea Idyls.= 12mo, $1.50.
"Brimful of delicious descriptions of South Sea Island life. Neither
Loti nor Stevenson has expressed from tropical life the luscious,
fruity delicacy, or the rich wine-like bouquet of these
sketches."--_Independent._
_T. R. Sullivan._
=Day and Night Stories.= First and Second Series. Each, 12mo, cloth,
$1.00; paper, 50 cts. =Roses of Shadow.= 12mo, $1.00. =Tom Sylvester.=
12mo, $1.50.
"Mr. Sullivan's style is at once easy and refined, conveying most
happily that atmosphere of good breeding and polite society which is
indispensable to the novel of manners, but which so many of them
lamentably fail of."--_The Nation._
_Frederick J. Stimson_ (_J. S. of Dale_).
=Guerndale.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25. =The Crime of Henry
Vane.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00. =The Sentimental Calendar.=
Ill. 12mo, $1.00. =First Harvest.= 12mo, $1.25. =The Residuary Legatee.=
12mo, paper, 35 cts.; cloth, $1.00. =In the Three Zones.= 12mo, $1.00.
"No young novelist in this country seems better equipped than Mr.
Stimson is."--_The Philadelphia Bulletin._
_Frank R. Stockton._
=Pomona's Travels.= Illustrated by A. B. Frost. 12mo, $2.00. =Rudder
Grange.= 12mo, paper, 60 cts.; cloth, $1.25. Illustrated by A. B.
Frost. Sq. 12mo, $2.00. =The Late Mrs. Null.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.;
cloth, $1.25. =The Lady, or the Tiger?= and Other Stories. 12mo, paper,
50 cts.; cloth, $1.25. =The Christmas Wreck=, and Other Stories. 12mo,
paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25. =The Bee-Man of Orn=, and Other Fanciful
Tales. 12mo, cloth, $1.25. =Amos Kilbright=, with Other Stories. 12mo,
paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25. =The Rudder Grangers Abroad=, and Other
Stories. 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25. =Ardis Claverden=, new
edition. 12mo, $1.50.
"Of Mr. Stockton's stories what is there to say, but that they are an
unmixed blessing and delight? He is surely one of the most inventive
of talents, discovering not only a new kind in humor and fancy, but
accumulating an inexhaustible wealth of details in each fresh
achievement, the least of which would be riches from another
hand."--W. D. HOWELLS.
_Stories by American Authors._
_Cloth, 16mo, 50 cts. each; set, 10 vols., $5.00; cabinet edition, in
sets only, $7.50._
"The public ought to appreciate the value of this series, which is
preserving permanently in American literature short stories that have
contributed to its advancement."--_The Boston Globe._
_Octave Thanet._
=Expiation.= Illustrated by A. B. Frost. 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
$1.00. =Stories of a Western Town.= 12mo. Illustrated by A. B. Frost.
$1.25.
"Good, wholesome, and fresh. The Western character has never been
better presented."--_Boston Courier._
_John T. Wheelwright._
=A Child of the Century.= 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.
"A typical story of political and social life, free from cynicism of
morbid realism, and brimming over with fun."--_The Christian at Work._