The result of her weariness and exposure was a sharp attack _Miss Mink's Soldier and Other Stories

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MISS MINK'S SOLDIER

AND OTHER STORIES

[Illustration: Then Miss Mink received a shock]

MISS MINK'S SOLDIER

AND OTHER STORIES

ALICE HEGAN RICE

Author of "MRS. WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH," "MR. OPP," "CALVARY ALLEY,"

ETC.

NEW YORK

THE CENTURY CO.

1918

_Published, October, 1918_

THE LADY OF THE DECORATION

A MEMENTO OF MANY HAPPY DAYS

SPENT TOGETHER "EAST OF SUEZ"

CONTENTS

MISS MINK'S SOLDIER

A DARLING OF MISFORTUNE

"POP"

HOODOOED

A MATTER OF FRIENDSHIP

THE WILD OATS OF A SPINSTER

CUPID GOES SLUMMING

THE SOUL OF O SANA SAN

MISS MINK'S SOLDIER

Miss Mink sat in church with lips compressed and hands tightly clasped

in her black alpaca lap, and stubbornly refused to comply with the

request that was being made from the pulpit. She was a small desiccated

person, with a sharp chin and a sharper nose, and narrow faded eyes that

through the making of innumerable buttonholes had come to resemble them.

For over forty years she had sat in that same pew facing that same

minister, regarding him second only to his Maker, and striving in

thought and deed to follow his precepts. But the time had come when Miss

Mink's blind allegiance wavered.

Ever since the establishment of the big Cantonment near the city, Dr.

Morris, in order to encourage church attendance, had been insistent in

his request that every member of his congregation should take a soldier

home to Sunday dinner.

Now it was no lack of patriotism that made Miss Mink refuse to do her

part. Every ripple in the small flag that fluttered over her humble

dwelling sent a corresponding ripple along her spinal column. When she

essayed to sing "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," in her high, quavering

soprano, she invariably broke down from sheer excess of emotion. But the

American army fighting for right and freedom in France, and the Army

individually tracking mud into her spotless cottage, were two very

different things. Miss Mink had always regarded a man in her house much

as she regarded a gnat in her eye. There was but one course to pursue in

either case--elimination!

But her firm stand in the matter had not been maintained without much

misgiving. Every Sunday when Dr. Morris made his earnest appeal,

something within urged her to comply. She was like an automobile that

gets cranked up and then refuses to go. Church-going instead of being

her greatest joy came to be a nightmare. She no longer lingered in the

vestibule, for those highly cherished exchanges of inoffensive gossip

that constituted her social life. Nobody seemed to have time for her.

Every one was busy with a soldier. Within the sanctuary it was no

better. Each khaki-clad figure that dotted the congregation claimed her

attention as a possible candidate for hospitality. And each one that

presented himself to her vision was indignantly repudiated. One was too

old, another too young, one too stylish, another had forgotten to wash

his ears. She found a dozen excuses for withholding her invitation.

But this morning as she sat upright and uncompromising in her short pew,

she was suddenly thrown into a state of agitation by the appearance in

the aisle of an un-ushered soldier who, after hesitating beside one or

two pews, slipped into the seat beside her. It seemed almost as if

Providence had taken a hand and since she had refused to select a

soldier, had prompted a soldier to select her.

During the service she sat gazing straight at the minister without

comprehending a word that he said. Never once did her glance stray to

that khaki-clad figure beside her, but her thoughts played around him

like lightning. What if she should get up her courage and ask him to

dinner, how would she ever be able to walk out the street with him! And

once she had got him to her cottage, what on earth would she talk to him

about? Her hands grew cold as she thought about it. Yet something warned

her it was now or never, and that it was only by taking the hated step

and getting it over with, that she could regain the peace of mind that

had of late deserted her.

The Doxology found her weakening, but the Benediction stiffened her

resolve, and when the final Amen sounded, she turned blindly to the man

beside her, and said, hardly above her breath:

"If you ain't got any place to go to dinner, you can come home with me."

The tall figure turned toward her, and a pair of melancholy brown eyes

looked down into hers:

"You will excuse if I do not quite comprehend your meaning," he said

politely, with a strong foreign accent.

Miss Mink was plunged into instant panic; suppose he was a German?

Suppose she should be convicted for entertaining a spy! Then she

remembered his uniform and was slightly reassured.

"I said would you come home to dinner with me?" she repeated weakly,

with a fervent prayer that he would decline.

But the soldier had no such intention. He bowed gravely, and picked up

his hat and overcoat.

Miss Mink, looking like a small tug towing a big steamer, shamefacedly

made her way to the nearest exit, and got him out through the

Sunday-school room. She would take him home through a side street, feed

him and send him away as soon as possible. It was a horrible ordeal, but

Miss Mink was not one to turn back once she had faced a difficult

situation. As they passed down the broad steps into the brilliant

October sunshine, she noticed with relief that his shoes were not

muddy. Then, before she could make other observations, her mind was

entirely preoccupied with a large, firm hand that grasped her elbow, and

seemed to half lift her slight weight from step to step. Miss Mink's

elbow was not used to such treatment and it indignantly freed itself

before the pavement was reached. The first square was traveled in

embarrassed silence, then Miss Mink made a heroic effort to break the

ice:

"My name is Mink," she said, "Miss Libby Mink. I do dress-making over on

Sixth Street."

"I am Bowinski," volunteered her tall companion, "first name Alexis. I

am a machinist before I enlist in the army."

"I knew you were some sort of a Dago," said Miss Mink.

"But no, Madame, I am Russian. My home is in Kiev in Ukrania."

"Why on earth didn't you stay there?" Miss Mink asked from the depths of

her heart.

The soldier looked at her earnestly. "Because of the persecution," he

said. "My father he was in exile. His family was suspect. I come alone

to America when I am but fifteen."

"Well I guess you're sorry enough now that you came," Miss Mink said,

"Now that you've got drafted."

They had reached her gate by this time, but Bowinski paused before

entering: "Madame mistakes!" he said with dignity. "I was _not_ drafted.

The day America enter the war, that day I give up my job I have held for

five years, and enlist. America is my country, she take me in when I

have nowhere to go. It is my proud moment when I fight for her!"

Then it was that Miss Mink took her first real look at him, and if it

was a longer look than she had ever before bestowed upon man, we must

put it down to the fact that he was well worth looking at, with his tall

square figure, and his serious dark face lit up at the present with a

somewhat indignant enthusiasm.

Miss Mink pushed open the gate and led the way into her narrow yard. She

usually entered the house by way of the side door which opened into the

dining room, which was also her bedroom by night, and her sewing room by

day. But this morning, after a moment's hesitation, she turned a key in

the rusty lock of the front door, and let a flood of sunshine dispel the

gloom of the room. The parlor had been furnished by Miss Mink's parents

some sixty years ago, and nothing had been changed. A customer had once

suggested that if the sofa was taken away from the window, and the table

put in its place, the room would be lighter. Miss Mink had regarded the

proposition as preposterous. One might as well have asked her to move

her nose around to the back of her head, or to exchange the positions of

her eyes and ears!

You have seen a drop of water caught in a crystal? Well, that was what

Miss Mink was like. She moved in the tiniest possible groove with her

home at one end and her church at the other. Is it any wonder that when

she beheld a strange young foreigner sitting stiffly on her parlor sofa,

and realized that she must entertain him for at least an hour, that

panic seized her?

"I better be seeing to dinner," she said hastily. "You can look at the

album till I get things dished up."

Private Bowinski, surnamed Alexis, sat with knees awkwardly hunched and

obediently turned the leaves of the large album, politely scanning the

placid countenances of departed Minks for several generations.

Miss Mink, moving about in the inner room, glanced in at him from time

to time. After the first glance she went to the small store room and got

out a jar of sweet pickle, and after the second she produced a glass of

crab apple jelly. Serving a soldier guest who had voluntarily adopted

her country, was after all not so distasteful, if only she did not have

to talk to him. But already the coming ordeal was casting its baleful

shadow.

When they were seated opposite one another at the small table, her worst

fears were realized. They could neither of them think of anything to

say. If she made a move to pass the bread to him he insisted upon

passing it to her. When she rose to serve him, he rose to serve her. She

had never realized before how oppressive excessive politeness could be.

The one point of consolation for her lay in the fact that he was

enjoying his dinner. He ate with a relish that would have flattered any

hostess. Sometimes when he put his knife in his mouth she winced with

apprehension, but aside from a few such lapses in etiquette he conducted

himself with solemn and punctilious propriety.

When he had finished his second slice of pie, and pushed back his chair,

Miss Mink waited hopefully for him to say good-bye. He was evidently

getting out his car fare now, searching with thumb and forefinger in his

vest pocket.

"If it is not to trouble you more, may I ask a match?" he said.

"A match? What on earth do you want with a match?" demanded Miss Mink.

Then a look of apprehension swept over her face. Was this young man

actually proposing to profane the virgin air of her domicile with the

fumes of tobacco?

"Perhaps you do not like that I should smoke?" Bowinski said instantly.

"I beg you excuse, I--"

"Oh! that's all right," said Miss Mink in a tone that she did not

recognize as her own, "the matches are in that little bisque figure on

the parlor mantel. I'll get you to leave the front door open, if you

don't mind. It's kinder hot in here."

Five o'clock that afternoon found Miss Mink and Alexis Bowinski still

sitting facing each other in the front parlor. They were mutually

exhausted, and conversation after having suffered innumerable relapses,

seemed about to succumb.

"If there's any place else you want to go, you mustn't feel that you've

got to stay here," Miss Mink had urged some time after dinner. But

Alexis had answered:

"I know only two place. The Camp and the railway depot. I go on last

Sunday to the railway depot. The Chaplain at the Camp advise me I go to

church this morning. Perhaps I make a friend."

"But what do the other soldiers do on Sunday?" Miss Mink asked

desperately.

"They promenade. Always promenade. Except they go to photo-plays, and

dance hall. It is the hard part of war, the waiting part."

Miss Mink agreed with him perfectly as she helped him wait. She had

never spent such a long day in her life. At a quarter past five he rose

to go. A skillful word on her part would have expedited matters, but

Miss Mink was not versed in the social trick of speeding a departing

guest. Fifteen minutes dragged their weary length even after he was on

his feet. Then Miss Mink received a shock from which it took her an even

longer time to recover. Alexis Bowinski, having at last arrived at the

moment of departure, took her hand in his and, bowing awkwardly, raised

it to his lips and kissed it! Then he backed out of the cottage, stalked

into the twilight and was soon lost to sight beyond the hedge.

Miss Mink sank limply on the sofa by the window, and regarded her small

wrinkled hand with stern surprise. It was a hand that had never been

kissed before and it was tingling in the strangest and most

unaccountable manner.

The following week was lived in the afterglow of that eventful Sunday.

She described the soldier's visit in detail to the few customers who

came in. She went early to prayer-meeting in order to tell about it. And

in the telling she subordinated everything to the dramatic climax:

"I never was so took back in my life!" she said. "After setting there

for four mortal hours with nothing to say, just boring each other to

death, for him to get up like that and make a regular play-actor bow,

and kiss my hand! Well, I never _was_ so took back!"

And judging from the number of times Miss Mink told the story, and the

conscious smile with which she concluded it, it was evident that she was

not averse to being "took back."

By the time Sunday arrived she had worked herself up to quite a state of

excitement. Would Bowinski he at church? Would he sit on her side of the

congregation? Would he wait after the service to speak to her? She put

on her best bonnet, which was usually reserved for funerals, and pinned

a bit of thread lace over the shabby collar of her coat.

The moment she entered church all doubts were dispelled. There in her

pew, quite as if he belonged there, sat the tall young Russian. He even

stepped into the aisle for her to pass in, helped her off with her coat,

and found the place for her in the hymn-book. Miss Mink realized with a

glow of satisfaction, that many curious heads were craning in her

direction. For the first time since she had gone forward forty years ago

to confess her faith, she was an object of interest to the congregation!

When the benediction was pronounced several women came forward

ostensibly to speak to her, but in reality to ask Bowinski to go home to

dinner with them. She waived them all aside.

"No, he's going with me!" she announced firmly, and Bowinski obediently

picked up his hat and accompanied her.

For the following month this scene was enacted each Sunday, with little

change to outward appearances but with great change to Miss Mink

herself. In the mothering of Bowinski she had found the great adventure

of her life. She mended his clothes, and made fancy dishes for him, she

knit him everything that could be knitted, including an aviator's helmet

for which he had no possible use. She talked about "my soldier" to any

one who would listen.

Bowinski accepted her attention with grave politeness. He wore the

things she made for him, he ate the things she cooked for him, he

answered all her questions and kissed her hand at parting. Miss Mink

considered his behavior perfect.

One snowy Sunday in late November Miss Mink was thrown into a panic by

his failure to appear on Sunday morning. She confided to Sister Bacon in

the adjoining pew that she was afraid he had been sent to France. Sister

Bacon promptly whispered to her husband that he _had_ been sent to

France, and the rumor spread until after church quite a little group

gathered around Miss Mink to hear about it.

"What was his company?" some one asked.

"Company C, 47th Infantry," Miss Mink repeated importantly.

"Why, that's my boy's company," said Mrs. Bacon. "_They_ haven't gone to

France."

The thought of her soldier being in the trenches even, was more

tolerable to Miss Mink than the thought of his being in town and failing

to come to her for Sunday dinner.

"I bet he's sick," she announced. "I wish I could find out."

Mrs. Bacon volunteered to ask her Jim about him, and three days later

stopped by Miss Mink's cottage to tell her that Bowinski had broken his

leg over a week before and was in the Base Hospital.

"Can anybody go out there that wants to?" demanded Miss Mink.

"Yes, on Sundays and Wednesdays. But you can't count on the cars running

to-day. Jim says everything's snowed under two feet deep."

Miss Mink held her own counsel but she knew what she was going to do.

Her soldier was in trouble, he had no family or friends. She was going

to him.

With trembling fingers she packed a small basket with some apples, a jar

of jelly and a slice of cake. There was no time for her own lunch, so

she hurriedly put on her coat and twisting a faded scarf about her neck

trudged out into the blustery afternoon.

The blizzard of the day before had almost suspended traffic, and when

she finally succeeded in getting a car, it was only to find that it ran

no farther than the city limits.

"How much farther is it to the Camp?" Miss Mink asked desperately.

"About a mile," said the conductor. "I wouldn't try it if I was you, the

walking's fierce."

But Miss Mink was not to be turned back. Gathering her skirts as high as

her sense of propriety would permit, and grasping her basket she set

bravely forth. The trip alone to the Camp, under the most auspicious

circumstances, would have been a trying ordeal for her, but under the

existing conditions it required nothing less than heroism. The snow had

drifted in places as high as her knees, and again and again she stumbled

and almost lost her footing as she staggered forward against the force

of the icy wind.

Before she had gone half a mile she was ready to collapse with

nervousness and exhaustion.

"Looks like I just can't make it," she whimpered, "and yet I'm going

to!"

The honk of an automobile sent her shying into a snowdrift, and when she

caught her breath and turned around she saw that the machine had stopped

and a hand was beckoning to her from the window.

"May I give you a lift?" asked a girl's high sweet voice and, looking

up, she saw a sparkling face smiling down at her over an upturned fur

collar.

Without waiting to be urged she climbed into the machine, stumbled over

the rug, and sank exhausted on the cushions.

"Give me your basket," commanded the young lady. "Now put your feet on

the heater. Sure you have room?"

Miss Mink, still breathless, nodded emphatically.

"It's a shame to ask anyone to ride when I'm so cluttered up," continued

the girl gaily. "I'm taking these things out to my sick soldier boys."

Miss Mink, looking down, saw that the floor of the machine was covered

with boxes and baskets.

"I'm going to the Hospital, too," she said.

"That's good!" exclaimed the girl. "I can take you all the way. Perhaps

you have a son or a grandson out there?"

Miss Mink winced. "No, he ain't any kin to me," she said, "but I been

sort of looking after him."

"How sweet of you!" said the pouting red lips with embarrassing ardor.

"Just think of your walking out here this awful day at your age. Quite

sure you are getting warm?"

Yes, Miss Mink was warm, but she felt suddenly old, old and shrivelled

beside this radiant young thing.

"I perfectly adore going to the hospital," said the girl, her blue eyes

dancing. "Father's one of the medical directors, Major Chalmers, I

expect you've heard of him. I'm Lois Chalmers."

But Miss Mink was scarcely listening. She was comparing the big luscious

looking oranges in the crate, with the hard little apples in her own

basket.

"Here we are!" cried Lois, as the car plowed through the snow and mud

and stopped in front of a long shed-like building. Two orderlies sprang

forward with smiling alacrity and began unloading the boxes.

"Aren't you the nicest ever?" cried Lois with a skillful smile that

embraced them both. "Those to the medical, those to the surgical, and

these to my little fat-faced Mumpsies."

Miss Mink got herself and her basket out unassisted, then stood in doubt

as to what she should do next. She wanted to thank Miss Chalmers for her

courtesy, but two dapper young officers had joined the group around her

making a circle of masculine admirers.

Miss Mink slipped away unnoticed and presented herself at the door

marked "Administration Building."

"Can you tell me where the broken-legged soldiers are?" she asked

timidly of a man at a desk.

"Who do you want to see?"

"Alexis Bowinski. He come from Russia. He's got curly hair and big sort

of sad eyes, and--"

"Bowinski," the man repeated, running his finger down a ledger, "A.

Bowinski, Surgical Ward 5-C. Through that door, two corridors to the

right midway down the second corridor."

Miss Mink started boldly forth to follow directions, but it was not

until she had been ejected from the X-ray Room, the Mess Hall, and the

Officers' Quarters, that she succeeded in reaching her destination. By

that time her courage was at its lowest ebb. On either side of the long

wards were cots, on which lay men in various stages of undress. Now Miss

Mink had seen pajamas in shop windows, she had even made a pair once of

silk for an ambitious groom, but this was the first time she had ever

seen them, as it were, occupied.

So acute was her embarrassment that she might have turned back at the

last moment, had her eyes not fallen on the cot nearest the door. There,

lying asleep, with his injured leg suspended from a pulley from which

depended two heavy weights, lay Bowinski.

Miss Mink slipped into the chair between his cot and the wall. After the

first glance at his pale unshaven face and the pain-lined brow, she

forgot all about herself. She felt only overwhelming pity for him, and

indignation at the treatment to which he was being subjected.

By and by he stirred and opened his eyes.

"Oh you came!" he said, "I mean you not to know I be in hospital. You

must have the kindness not to trouble about me."

"Trouble nothing," said Miss Mink, husky with emotion, "I never knew a

thing about it until to-day. What have they got you harnessed up like

this for?"

Then Alexis with difficulty found the English words to tell her how his

leg had not set straight, had been re-broken and was now being forced

into proper position.

"It is like hell, Madame," he concluded with a trembling lip, then he

drew a sharp breath, "But no, I forget, I am in the army. I beg you

excuse my complain."

Miss Mink laid herself out to entertain him. She unpacked her basket,

and spread her meagre offerings before him. She described in detail all

the surgical operations she had ever had any experience with, following

some to their direst consequences. Alexis listened apathetically. Now

and then a spasm of pain contracted his face, but he uttered no word of

complaint.

Only once during the afternoon did his eyes brighten. Miss Mink caught

the sudden change in his expression and, following his glance, saw Lois

Chalmers coming through the ward. She had thrown aside her heavy fur

coat, and her slim graceful little figure as alert as a bird's darted

from cart to cot as she tossed packages of cigarettes to right and left.

"Here you are, Mr. Whiskers!" she was calling out gaily to one. "This is

for you, Colonel Collar Bone. Where's Cadet Limpy? Discharged? Good for

him! Hello, Mr. Strong Man!" For a moment she poised at the foot of

Bowinski's cot, then recognizing Miss Mink she nodded:

"So you found your soldier? I'm going back to town in ten minutes, I'll

take you along if you like."

She flitted out of the ward as quickly as she had come, leaving two long

rows of smiling faces in her wake. She had brought no pity, nor

tenderness, nor understanding, but she had brought her fresh young

beauty, and her little gift of gayety, and made men forget, at least for

a moment, their pain-racked bodies and their weary brains.

Miss Mink reached her cottage that night weary and depressed. She had

had nothing to eat since breakfast, and yet was too tired to prepare

supper. She made her a cup of tea which she drank standing, and then

crept into bed only to lie staring into the darkness tortured by the

thought of those heavy weights on Bowinski's injured leg.

The result of her weariness and exposure was a sharp attack of

tonsilitis that kept her in bed several weeks. The first time she was

able to be up, she began to count the hours until the next visiting day

at the Camp. Her basket was packed the evening before, and placed beside

the box of carnations in which she had extravagantly indulged. It is

doubtful whether Miss Mink was ever so happy in her life as during that

hour of pleased expectancy.

As she moved feebly about putting the house in order, so that she could

make an early start in the morning, she discovered a letter that the

Postman had thrust under the side door earlier in the day. Across the

left hand corner was pictured an American flag, and across the right was

a red triangle in a circle. She hastily tore off the envelop and read:

Dear Miss Mink:

I am out the Hospital, getting along fine. Hope you are in the same

circumstances. I am sending you a book which I got from a Dear Young

Lady, in the Hospital. I really do not know what to call her because

I do not know her name, but I know she deserve a nice, nice name for

all good She dose to all soldiers. I think she deserve more

especially from me than to call her a Sweet Dear Lady, because that

I have the discouragement, and she make me to laugh and take heart.

I would ask your kind favor to please pass the book back to the

Young Lady, and pleas pass my thankful word to her, and if you might

be able to send me her name before that I go to France, which I

learn is very soon. Excuse all errors if you pleas will. This is

goodby from

Your soldier friend,

A. BOWINSKI.

Miss Mink read the letter through, then she sat down limply in a kitchen

chair and stared at the stove. Twice she half rose to get the pen and

ink on the shelf above the coal box, but each time she changed her mind,

folded her arms indignantly, and went back to her stern contemplation of

the stove. Presently a tear rolled down her cheek, then another, and

another until she dropped her tired old face in her tired old hands, and

gave a long silent sob that shook her slight body from head to foot.

Then she rose resolutely and sweeping the back of her hand across her

eyes, took down her writing materials. On one side of a post card she

wrote the address of Alexis Bowinski, and on the other she penned in

her cramped neat writing, one line:

"Her name is Lois Chalmers. Hotel LeRoy."

This done she unpacked her basket, put her half dozen carnations in a

tumbler of water and carried them into the dark parlor, pulled her chair

up to the kitchen table, drew the lamp closer and patiently went back to

her buttonholes.

A DARLING OF MISFORTUNE

A shabby but joyous citizen of the world at large was Mr. Phelan

Harrihan, as, with a soul wholly in tune with the finite, he half sat

and half reclined on a baggage-truck at Lebanon Junction. He wag

relieving the tedium of his waiting moments by entertaining a critical

if not fastidious audience of three.

Beside him, with head thrust under his ragged sleeve, sat a small and

unlovely bull-terrier, who, at each fresh burst of laughter, lifted a

pair of languishing eyes to the face of his master, and then manifested

his surplus affection by ardently licking the buttons on the sleeve of

the arm that encircled him.

It was a moot question whether Mr. Harrihan resembled his dog, or

whether his dog resembled him. That there was a marked similarity

admitted of no discussion. If Corp's nose had been encouraged and his

lower jaw suppressed, if his intensely emotional nature had been under

better control, and his sentimentality tempered with humor, the analogy

would have been more complete. In taste, they were one. By birth,

predilection, and instinct both were philosophers of the open,

preferring an untrammeled life in Vagabondia to the collars and

conventions of society. Both delighted in exquisite leisure, and spent

it in pleased acquiescence with things as they are.

Some twenty-five years before, Phelan had opened his eyes upon a

half-circle of blue sky, seen through the end of a canvas-covered wagon

on a Western prairie, and having first conceived life to be a

free-and-easy affair on a long, open road, he thereafter declined to

consider it in any other light.

The only break in his nomadic existence was when a benevolent old

gentleman found him, a friendless lad in a Nashville hospital, cursed

him through a fever, and elected to educate him. Those were years of

black captivity for Phelan, and after being crammed and coached for what

seemed an interminable time, he was proudly entered at the University,

where he promptly failed in every subject and was dropped at the

mid-year term.

The old gentleman, fortunately, was spared all disappointment in regard

to his irresponsible protégé, for he died before the catastrophe,

leaving Phelan Harrihan a legacy of fifteen dollars a month and the

memory of a kind, but misguided, old man who was not quite right in his

head.

Being thus provided with a sum more than adequate to meet all his

earthly needs, Phelan joyously abandoned the straight and narrow path of

learning, and once more betook himself to the open road.

The call of blue skies and green fields, the excitement of each day's

encounter, the dramatic possibilities of every passing incident, the

opportunity for quick and intimate fellowship, and above all an

inherited and chronic disinclination for work, made Phelan an easy

victim to that malady called by the casual tourist "wanderlust," but

known in Hoboland as "railroad fever."

Only once a year did he return to civilization, don a stiff collar, and

recognize an institution. During his meteoric career at the University

he had been made a member of the Alpha Delta fraternity, in recognition

of his varied accomplishments. Not only could he sing and dance and tell

a tale with the best, but he was also a mimic and a ventriloquist, gifts

which had proven invaluable in crucial conflicts with the faculty, and

had constituted him a hero in several escapades. Of such material is

college history made, and the Alpha Delta, recognizing the distinction

of possessing this unique member, refused to accept his resignation, but

unanimously demanded his presence at each annual reunion.

On June second, for five consecutive years, the ends of the earth had

yielded up Phelan Harrihan; by a miracle of grace he had arrived in

Nashville, decently appareled, ready to respond to his toast, to bask

for his brief hour in the full glare of the calcium, then to depart

again into oblivion.

It was now the first day of June and as Phelan concluded his tale,

which was in fact an undress rehearsal of what he intended to tell on

the morrow, he looked forward with modest satisfaction to the triumph

that was sure to be his. For the hundredth time he made certain that the

small brown purse, so unused to its present obesity, was safe and sound

in his inside pocket.

During the pause that followed his recital, his audience grew restive.

"Go on, do it again," urged the ragged boy who sold the sandwiches,

"show us how Forty Fathom Dan looked when he thought he was sinking.

"I don't dare trifle with me features," said Phelan solemnly. "How much

are those sandwiches. One for five, is it? Two for fifteen, I suppose.

Well, here's one for me, and one for Corp, and keep the change, kid.

Ain't that the train coming?"

"It's the up train," said the station-master, rising reluctantly; "it

meets yours here. I've got to be hustling."

Phelan, left without an audience, strolled up and down the platform,

closely followed by Corporal Harrihan.

As the train slowed up at the little Junction, there was manifestly some

commotion on board. Standing in the doorway of the rear car a small,

white-faced woman argued excitedly with the conductor.

"I didn't have no ticket, I tell you!" she was saying as the train came

to a stop. "I 'lowed I'd pay my way, but I lost my pocket-book. I lost

it somewheres on the train here, I don't know where it is!"

"I've seen your kind before," said the conductor wearily; "what did you

get on for when you didn't have anything to pay your fare with?"

"I tell you I lost my pocket-book after I got on!" she said doggedly; "I

ain't going to get off, you daren't put me off!"

Phelan, who had sauntered up, grew sympathetic. He, too, had experienced

the annoyance of being pressed for his fare when it was inconvenient to

produce it.

"Go ahead," demanded the conductor firmly, "I don't want to push you

off, but if you don't step down and out right away, I'll have it to do."

The woman's expression changed from defiance to terror. She clung to the

brake with both hands and looked at him fearfully.

"No, no, don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't make me get off! I've got to

get to Cincinnati. My man's there. He's been hurt in the foundry.

He's--maybe he's dying now."

"I can't help that, maybe it's so and maybe it ain't. You never had any

money when you got on this train and you know it. Go on, step off!"

"But I did!" she cried wildly; "I did. Oh, God! don't put me off."

The train began to move, and the conductor seized the woman's arms from

behind and forced her forward. A moment more and she would be pushed off

the lowest step. She turned beseeching eyes on the little group of

spectators, and as she did so Phelan Harrihan sprang forward and with

his hand on the railing, ran along with the slow-moving train.

With a deft movement he bent forward and apparently snatched something

from the folds of her skirt.

"Get on to your luck now," he said with an encouraging smile that played

havoc with the position of his features; "if here ain't your pocket-book

all the time!"

The hysterical woman looked from the unfamiliar little brown purse in

her hand, to the snub-nosed, grimy face of the young man running along

the track, then she caught her breath.

"Why,--" she cried unsteadily, "yes--yes, it's my purse."

Phelan loosened his hold on the railing and had only time to scramble

breathlessly up the bank before the down train, the train for Nashville

which was to have been his, whizzed past.

He watched it regretfully as it slowed up at the station, then almost

immediately pulled out again for the south, carrying his hopes with it.

"Corporal," said Phelan, to the dog, who had looked upon the whole

episode as a physical-culture exercise indulged in for his special

benefit, "a noble act of charity is never to be regretted, but wasn't I

the original gun, not to wait for the change?"

His lack of business method seemed to weigh upon him, and he continued

to apologize to Corporal:

"It was so sudden, you know, Corp. Couldn't see a lady ditched, when I

had a bit of stuffed leather in my pocket. And two hundred miles to

Nashville! Well I'll--be--jammed!"

He searched in his trousers pockets and found a dime in one and a hole

in the other. It was an old trick of his to hide a piece of money in

time of prosperity, and then discover it in the blackness of adversity.

He held the dime out ruefully: "That's punk and plaster for supper, but

we'll have to depend on a hand-out for breakfast. And, Corp," he added

apologetically, "you know I told you we was going to ride regular like

gentlemen? Well, I've been compelled to change my plans. We are going to

turf it twelve miles down to the watering tank, and sit out a couple of

dances till the midnight freight comes along. If a side door Pullman

ain't convenient, I'll have to go on the bumpers, then what'll become of

you, Mr. Corporal Harrihan?"

The coming ordeal cast no shadow over Corporal. He was declaring his

passionate devotion, by wild tense springs at Phelan's face, seeking in

vain to overcome the cruel limitation of a physiognomy that made kissing

well-nigh impossible.

Phelan picked up his small bundle and started down the track with the

easy, regular swing of one who has long since gaged the distance of

railroad ties. But his step lacked its usual buoyancy, and he forgot to

whistle, Mr. Harrihan was undergoing the novel experience of being

worried. Of course he would get to Nashville,--if the train went, _he_

could go,--but the prospect of arriving without decent clothes and with

no money to pay for a lodging, did not in the least appeal to him. He

thought with regret of his well-laid plans: an early arrival, a Turkish

bath, the purchase of a new outfit, instalment at a good hotel,

then--presentation at the fraternity headquarters of Mr. Phelan

Harrihan, Gentleman for a Night. He could picture it all, the dramatic

effect of his entrance, the yell of welcome, the buzz of questions, and

the evasive, curiosity-enkindling answers which he meant to give. Then

the banquet, with its innumerable courses of well-served food, the

speeches and toasts, and the personal ovation that always followed Mr.

Harrihan's unique contribution.

Oh! he couldn't miss it! Providence would interfere in his behalf, he

knew it would, it always did. "Give me my luck, and keep your lucre!"

was a saying of Phelan's, quoted by brother hoboes from Maine to the

Gulf.

All the long afternoon he tramped the ties, with Corporal at his heels.

As dusk came on the clouds that had been doing picket duty, joined the

regiment on the horizon which slowly wheeled and charged across the sky.

Phelan scanned the heavens with an experienced weather eye, then began

to look for a possible shelter from the coming shower. On either side,

the fields stretched away in undulating lines, with no sign of a

habitation in sight. A dejected old scarecrow, and a tumble-down shed in

the distance were the only objects that presented themselves.

Turning up his coat-collar Phelan made a dash for the shed, but the

shower overtook him half-way. It was not one of your gentle little

summer showers, that patter on the shingles waking echoes underneath; it

was a large and instantaneous breakage in the celestial plumbing that

let gallons of water down Phelan's back, filling his pockets, hat brim,

and shoes and sending a dashing cascade down Corporal's oblique profile.

"Float on your back, Corp, and pull for the shore!" laughed Phelan as he

landed with a spring under the dilapidated shed. "Cheer up, old pard;

you look as if all your past misdeeds had come before you in your

drowning hour."

Corporal, shivering and unhappy, crept under cover, and dumbly demanded

of Phelan what he intended to do about it.

"Light a blaze, sure," said Phelan, "and linger here in the air of the

tropics till the midnight freight comes along."

Scraping together the old wood and débris in the rear of the shed, and

extricating with some difficulty a small tin match-box from his

saturated clothes, he knelt before the pile and used all of his

persuasive powers to induce it to ignite.

At the first feeble blaze Corporal's spirits rose so promptly that he

had to be restrained.

"Easy there! Corp," cautioned Phelan. "A fire's like a woman, you can't

be sure of it too soon. And, dog alive, stop wagging your tail, don't

you see it makes a draft?"

The fire capriciously would, then it wouldn't. A tiny flame played

tantalizingly along the top of a stick only to go sullenly out when it

reached the end. Match after match was sacrificed to the cause, but at

last, down deep under the surface, there was a steady, reassuring,

cheerful crackle that made Phelan sit back on his heels, and remark

complacently:

"They most generally come around, in the end!"

In five minutes the fire was burning bright, Corporal was dreaming of

meaty bones in far fence corners, and Phelan, less free from the

incumbrances of civilization, was divesting himself of his rain-soaked

garments.

From one of the innumerable pockets of his old cutaway coat he took a

comb and brush and clothes-brush, and carefully deposited them before

the fire. Then from around his neck he removed a small leather case,

hung by a string and holding a razor. His treasured toilet articles thus

being cared for, he turned his attention to the contents of his dripping

bundle. A suit of underwear and a battered old copy of Eli Perkins were

ruefully examined, and spread out to dry.

The fire, while it lasted, was doing admirable service, but the wood

supply was limited, and Phelan saw that he must take immediate advantage

of the heat. How to dry the underwear which he wore was the question

which puzzled him, and he wrestled with it for several moments before an

inspiration came.

"I'll borrow some duds from the scarecrow!" he said half aloud, and

went forth immediately to execute his idea.

The rain had ceased, but the fields were still afloat, and Phelan waded

ankle deep through the slush grass, to where the scarecrow raised his

threatening arms against the twilight sky.

"Beggars and borrowers shouldn't be choosers," said Phelan, as he

divested the figure of its ragged trousers and coat, "but I have a

strong feeling in my mind that these habiliments ain't going to become

me. Who's your tailor, friend?"

The scarecrow, reduced now to an old straw hat and a necktie, maintained

a dignified and oppressive silence.

"Well, he ain't on to the latest cut," continued Phelan, wringing the

water out of the coat. "But maybe these here is your pajamas? Don't tell

me I disturbed you after you'd retired for the night? Very well then,

aurevoy."

With the clothes under his arm he made his way back to the shed, and

divesting himself of his own raiment he got into his borrowed property.

By this time the fire had died down, and the place was in

semi-darkness. Phelan threw on a handful of sticks and, as the blaze

flared up, he caught his first clear sight of his newly acquired

clothes. They were ragged and weather-stained, and circled about with

broad, unmistakable stripes.

"Well, I'll be spiked!" said Phelan, vastly amused. "I wouldn't 'a'

thought it of a nice, friendly scarecrow like that! Buncoed me, didn't

he? Well, feathers don't always make the jail-bird. Wonder what poor

devil wore 'em last? Peeled out of 'em in this very shed, like as not.

Well, they'll serve my purpose all right, all right."

He took off his shoes, placed them under his head for a pillow, lit a

short cob pipe, threw on fresh wood, and prepared to wait for his

clothes to dry.

Meanwhile the question of the banquet revolved itself continually in his

mind. This time to-morrow night, the preparations would be in full

swing. Instead of being hungry, half naked, and chilled, he might be in

a luxurious club-house dallying with caviar, stuffed olives, and

Benedictine. All that lay between him and bliss were two hundred miles

of railroad ties and a decent suit of clothes!

"Wake up, Corp; for the love of Mike be sociable!" cried Phelan when the

situation became too gloomy to contemplate. "Ain't that like a dog now?

Hold your tongue when I'm longing for a word of kindly sympathy an'

encouragement, and barking your fool head off once we get on the

freight. Much good it'll be doing us to get to Nashville in this fix,

but we'll take our blessings as they come, Corp, and just trust to luck

that somebody will forget to turn 'em off. I know when I get to the

banquet there'll be one other man absent. That's Bell of Terre Haute.

Him and me is always in the same boat, he gets ten thousand a year and

ain't got the nerve to spend it, and I get fifteen a month, and ain't

got the nerve to keep it! Poor old Bell."

Corporal, roused from his slumbers, sniffed inquiringly at the many

garments spread about the fire, yawned, turned around several times in

dog fashion, then curled up beside Phelan, signifying by his bored

expression that he hadn't the slightest interest in the matter under

discussion.

Gradually the darkness closed in, and the fire died to embers. It would

be four hours before the night freight slowed up at the water tank, and

Phelan, tired from his long tramp, and drowsy from the heat and the

vapor rising from the drying clothes, shifted the shoe-buttons from

under his left ear, and drifted into dreamland.

How long he slept undisturbed, only the scarecrow outside knew. He was

dimly aware, in his dreams, of subdued sounds and, by and by, the sounds

formed themselves into whispered words and, still half asleep, he

listened.

"I thought we'd find him along here. This is the road they always take,"

a low voice was saying; "you and Sam stand here, John and me'll tackle

him from this side. He'll put up a stiff fight, you bet."

Phelan opened his eyes, and tried to remember where he was.

"Gosh! look at that bulldog!" came another whisper, and at the same

moment Corporal jumped to his feet, growling angrily.

As he did so, four men sprang through the opening of the shed, and

seized Phelan by the arms and legs.

"Look out there," cried one excitedly; "don't let him escape; here's the

handcuffs."

"But here," cried Phelan, "what's up; what you doing to me?"

By this time Corporal, thoroughly roused, made a vicious lunge at the

nearest man. The next minute there was a sharp report of a pistol, and

the bull-terrier went yelping and limping out into the night.

"You coward!" cried Phelan, struggling to rise, "if you killed that

dog--"

"Get those shackles on his legs," shouted one of the men. "Is the wagon

ready, Sam? Take his legs there, I've got his head. Leave the truck

here, we've got to drive like sand to catch that train!"

After being dragged to the road and thrown into a spring wagon, Phelan

found himself lying on his back, jolting over a rough country road, his

three vigilant captors sitting beside him with pistols in hand.

Any effort on his part to explain or seek information was promptly and

emphatically discouraged. But in time he gathered, from the bits let

fall by his captors, that he was an escaped convict, of a most desperate

character, for whom a reward was offered, and that he had been at large

twenty-four hours.

In vain did he struggle for a hearing. Only once did he get a response

to his oft-repeated plea of innocence. It was when he told how he had

come by the clothes he had on. For once Phelan got a laugh when he did

not relish it.

"Got 'em off a scarecrow, did you?" said the man at his head, when the

fun had subsided; "say, I want to be 'round when you tell that to the

Superintendent of the Penitentiary--I ain't heard him laugh in ten

years!"

So, in the face of such unbelief, Phelan lapsed into silence and gloom.

What became of him concerned him less, at the moment, than the fate of

Corporal, and the thought of the faithful little beast wounded and

perhaps dying out there in the fields, made him sick at heart.

Just as they came in sight of the lights of the station, the whistle of

the freight was heard down the track and the horses were beaten to a

gallop.

Phelan was hurried from the wagon into an empty box car, with his full

guard in attendance. As the train pulled out he heard a little whimper

beside him and there, panting for breath after his long run, and with

one ear hanging limp and bloody, cowered Corporal. Phelan's hands were

not at his disposal, but even if they had been it is doubtful if he

would have denied Corp the joy for once of kissing him.

Through the rest of the night the heavy cars rumbled over the rails, and

the men took turn about sleeping and guarding the prisoner. Only once

did Phelan venture another question:

"Say, you sports, you don't mind telling me where you are taking me, do

you?"

"Listen at his gaff!" said one. "He'll know all right when he gets to

Nashville."

Phelan sent such a radiant smile into the darkness that it threatened

to reveal itself. Then he slipped his encircled wrists about Corporal's

body and giving him a squeeze whispered:

"It's better'n the bumpers, Corp."

At the Penitentiary next day there was consternation and dismay when

instead of the desperate criminal, who two days before had scaled the

walls and dropped to freedom, an innocent little Irishman was presented,

whose only offense apparently was in having donned, temporarily, the

garb of crime.

As the investigation proceeded, Phelan found it expedient, to become

excessively indignant. That an American citizen, strolling harmlessly

through the fields of a summer evening, and being caught in a shower,

should attempt to dry his clothes in an unused shed, and find himself

attacked and bound, and hurried away without his belongings to a distant

city, was an inconceivable outrage. If a shadow of doubt remained as to

his identity, a score of prominent gentlemen in the city would be able

to identify him. He named them, and added that he was totally unable to

hazard a guess as to what form their resentment of his treatment would

assume.