TURNING A TRICK FOR BEANY
Where'd I collect the Flemish oak tint on muh noble br-r-r-ow? No, not
sunnin' myself down to Coney Island. No such tinhorn stunt for me! This
is the real plute color, this is, and I laid it on durin' a little bubble
tour we'd been takin' through the breakfast doughnut zone.
It was Pinckney's blow. He ain't had the gasolene-burnin' fever very hard
until this summer; but when he does get it, he goes the limit, as usual.
Course, he's been off on excursions with his friends, and occasionally
he's chartered a machine by the day; but I'd never heard him talk of
wantin' to own one. And then the first thing I knows he shows up at the
house last Monday night in the tonneau of one of these big seven-seater
road destroyers, all fitted out complete with spare shoes, hat box, and a
double-decker trunk strapped on the rack behind.
"Gee!" says I. "Why didn't you buy a private railroad train while you was
about it, Pinckney?"
"Precisely what I thought I was getting," says he. "However, I want you
and Sadie to help me test it. We'll start to-morrow morning at
nine-thirty. Be all ready, will you?"
"Got any idea where you're going, or how long you'll be gone?" says I.
"Nothing very definite," says he. "Purdy-Pell suggested the shore road to
Boston and back through the Berkshires."
"Fine!" says I. "I'd love to go meanderin' through the country with you
from now until Christmas; but sad to say I've got one or two----"
"Oh, Renee tells me we can make it in four days," says Pinckney, nodding
at the chauffeur. "He's been over the route a dozen times."
Well, I puts the proposition up to Sadie, expectin' she'd queer it first
jump; but inside of ten minutes she'd planned out just how she could
leave little Sully, and what she should wear, and it's all fixed. I tried
to show her where I couldn't afford to quit the studio for two or three
weeks, just at this time of year, when so many of my reg'lars need tunin'
up after their vacations; but my arguments don't carry much weight.
"Rubbish, Shorty!" says she. "We'll be back before the end of the week,
and Swifty Joe can manage until then. Anyway, we're not going to miss
this lovely weather. We're going, that's all!"
"Well," says I to Pinckney, "I've decided to go."
Now this ain't any lightnin' conductor rehash. Bubble tourin' has its
good points, and it has its drawbacks, too. If you're willin' to take
things as they come along, and you're travelin' with the right bunch, and
your own disposition's fair to middlin', why, you can have a bang up
time, just like you could anywhere with the same layout. Also, I'm
willin' to risk an encore to this partic'lar trip any time I get the
chance.
But there was something else I was gettin' at. It don't turn up until
along durin' the afternoon of our second day out. We was tearin' along
one of them new tar roads between Narragansett Pier and Newport, and I
was tryin' to hand a josh to Renee by askin' him to be sure and tell me
when we went through Rhode Island, as I wanted to take a glance at
it,--for we must have been hittin' fifty an hour, with the engine runnin'
as smooth and sweet as a French clock,--when all of a sudden there's a
bang like bustin' a paper bag, and we feels the car sag down on one
side.
"_Sacre!_" says Renee through his front teeth.
"Ha, ha!" sings out Pinckney. "My first blow-out!"
"Glad you feel so happy over it," says I.
It's a sensation that don't bring much joy, as a rule. Here you are,
skimmin' along through the country, glancin' at things sort of casual,
same's you do from a Pullman window, but not takin' any int'rest in the
scenery except in a general way, only wonderin' now and then how it is
people happen to live in places so far away.
And then all in a minute the scenery ain't movin' past you at all. It
stops dead in its tracks, like when the film of a movin' picture machine
gets tangled up, and there's only one partic'lar scene to look at. It's
mighty curious, too, how quick that special spot loses its charm. Also,
as a gen'ral rule, such things happen just at the wrong spot in the road.
Now we'd been sailin' along over a ridge, where we could look out across
Narragansett Bay for miles; but here where our tire had gone on the blink
was a kind of dip down between the hills, with no view at all.
First off we all has to pile out and get in Renee's way while he inspects
the damage. It's a blow-out for fair, a hole big enough to lay your two
hands in, right across the tread, where we'd picked up a broken bottle,
or maybe a cast horseshoe with the nails in it. Then, while he proceeds
to get busy with the jack and tire irons, we all makes up our minds to a
good long wait; for when you tackle one of them big boys, with the rims
rusted in, it ain't any fifteen-minute picnic, you know.
Course, Pinckney gets out his fireless bottles and the glasses and
improves the time by handin' around somethin' soothin' or cheerin',
accordin' to taste. Not bein' thirsty, I begins inspectin' the contagious
scenery. It wa'n't anything an artist would yearn to paint. Just back
from the road is a sort of shack that looks as though someone might be
campin' out in it, and behind that a mess of rough sheds and chicken
coops.
Next I discovers that the object down in the field which I'd taken for a
scarecrow was a live man. By the motions he's goin' through, he's diggin'
potatoes, and from the way he sticks to it, not payin' any attention to
us, it seems as if he found it a mighty int'restin' pastime. You'd most
think, livin' in an out of the way, forsaken place like that, that most
any native would be glad to stop work long enough to look over a hot
lookin' bunch like ours.
This one don't seem inclined that way, though. He keeps his back bent and
his head down and his hands busy. Now, whenever I've been out in a
machine, and we've had any kind of trouble, there's always been a gawpin'
committee standin' around, composed of every human being in sight at the
time of the casualty, includin' a few that seemed to pop up out of the
ground. But here's a case where the only party that can act as an
audience ain't doin' his duty. So a fool freak hits me to stroll over and
poke him up.
"Hey, you!" says I, vaultin' the fence.
He jerks his head up a little at that, kind of stares in my direction,
and then dives into another hill of spuds.
"Huh!" thinks I. "Don't want any city folks in his'n, by chowder! But
here's where he gets 'em thrust on him!" and I pikes over for a closer
view. Couldn't see much, though, but dirty overalls, blue outing shirt,
and an old haymaker's straw hat with a brim that lops down around his
face and ears.
"Excuse me," says I; "but ain't you missin' a trick, or is it because you
don't feel sociable to-day? How're the murphies pannin' out this
season?"
To see the start he gives, you'd think I'd crept up from behind and
swatted him one. He straightens up, backs off a step or two, and opens
his mouth. "Why--why----" says he, after one or two gasps. "Who are you,
please?"
"Me?" says I. "Oh, I'm just a stray stranger. I was being shot through
your cunnin' little State on a no-stop schedule, when one of our tires
went out of business. Hence this informal call."
"But," says he, hesitatin' and pushin' back the hat brim, "isn't
this--er--aren't you Professor McCabe?"
Say, then it was my turn to do the open face act! Course, knockin' around
as much as I have and rubbin' against so many diff'rent kinds of folks,
I'm liable to run across people that know me anywhere; but blamed if I
expected to do it just walkin' out accidental into a potato orchard.
Sure enough, too, there was something familiar about that long thin nose
and the droopy mouth corners; but I couldn't place him. Specially I'd
been willin' to pass my oath I'd never known any party that owned such a
scatterin' crop of bleached face herbage as he was sportin'. It looked
like bunches of old hay on the side of a hill. The stary, faded out blue
eyes wa'n't just like any I could remember, either, and I'm gen'rally
strong on that point.
"You've called my number, all right," says I; "but, as for returnin' the
compliment, you've got me going, neighbor. How do you think I'm
looking?"
He makes a weak stab at springin' a smile, about the ghastliest attempt
at that sort of thing I ever watched, and then he shrugs his shoulders.
"I--I couldn't say about your looks," says he. "I recognized you by your
voice. Perhaps you won't remember me at all. I'm Dexter Bean."
"What!" says I. "Not Beany, that used to do architectin' on the top floor
over the studio?"
"Yes," says he.
"And you've forgot my mug so soon?" says I.
"Oh, no!" says he, speakin' up quick. "I haven't forgotten. But I can't
see very well now, you know. In fact, I--I'm---- Well, it's almost night
time with me, Shorty," and by the way he chokes up I can tell how hard it
is for him to get out even that much.
"You don't mean," says I, "that--that you----"
He nods, puts his hands up to his face, and turns his head for a minute.
Well, say, I've had lumps come in my throat once in a while before on
some account or other; but I never felt so much like I'd swallowed a
prize punkin as I did just then. Most night time! Course, you hear of
lots of cases, and you know there's asylums where such people are taken
care of and taught to weave cane bottoms for chairs; but I tell you when
you get right up against such a case, a party you've known and liked, and
it's handed to you sudden that he's almost in the stick tappin'
class--well, it's apt to get you hard. I know it did me. Why, I didn't
know any more what to do or say than a goat. But it was my next.
"Well, well, Beany, old boy!" says I, slidin' an arm across his shoulder.
"This is all news to me. Let's get over in the shade and talk this thing
over."
"I--I'd like to, Shorty," says he.
So we camps down under a tree next to the fence, and he gives me the
story. As he talks, too, it all comes back to me about the first time
some of them boys from up stairs towed him down to the studio. He'd
drifted in from some Down East crossroads, where he'd taken a course in
mechanical drawin' and got the idea that he was an architect. And a
greener Rube than him I never expect to see. It was a wonder some
milliner hadn't grabbed him and sewed him on a hat before he got to
42d-st.
Maybe that gang of T Square sports didn't find him entertainin', too.
Why, he swallowed all the moldy old bunk yarns they passed over, and when
they couldn't hold in any longer, and just let loose the hee-haws, he
took it good natured, springin' that kind of sad smile of his on 'em, and
not even gettin' red around the ears. So the boss set him to sweepin' the
floors and tendin' the blueprint frames on the roof.
That's the way he broke in. Then a few months later, when they had a rush
of contracts, they tried him out on some detail work. But his drawin' was
too ragged. He was so good natured, though, and so willin' to do anything
for anybody, that they kept him around, mainly to spring new gags on, so
far as I could see.
It wa'n't until he got at some house plans by accident that they found
out where he fitted in. He'd go over a set of them puzzle rolls that mean
as much to me as a laundry ticket, and he'd point out where there was
room for another clothes closet off some chamber here, and a laundry
chute there, and how the sink in the butler's pantry was on the wrong
side for a right handed dish washer, and a lot of little details that
nobody else would think of unless they'd lived in just such a house for
six months or so. Beany the Home Expert, they called him after that, and
before any house plans was O. K.'d by the boss he had to revise 'em.
Then he got to hangin' round the studio after hours, helpin' Swifty Joe
clean up and listenin' to his enlightenin' conversation. It takes a
mighty talented listener to get Swifty started; but when he does get his
tongue once limbered up, and is sure of his audience, he enjoys nothin'
like givin' off his views in wholesale lots.
As for me, I never said a whole lot to Beany, nor him to me; but I
couldn't help growin' to like the cuss, because he was one of them
gentle, quiet kind that you cotton to without knowin' exactly why. Not
that I missed him a lot when he disappeared. Fact was, he just dropped
out, and I don't know as I even asked what had become of him.
I was hearin' now, though. It wa'n't any great tragedy, to start with.
Some of the boys got skylarkin' one lunch hour, and Beany was watchin'
'em, when a lead paper weight he was holdin' slipped out of his hand,
struck the end of a ruler, and flipped it up into his face. A sharp
corner hit him in the eye, that's all. He had the sore peeper bound up
for three or four days before he took it to a hospital.
When he didn't show up again they wondered some, and one of the firm
inquired for him at his old boardin' place. You know how it is in town.
There's so many comin' and goin' that it's hard to keep track of 'em all.
So Beany just faded out.
He told me that when the hospital doctor put it to him flat how bad off
his bum lamp was, and how the other was due to go the same way, he just
started out and walked aimless for two days and nights, hardly stoppin'.
Then he steadied down, pulled himself together, and mapped out a plan.
Besides architectin', all he knew how to do was to raise chickens. He
figured that if he could get a little place off where land was cheap, and
get the hang of it well in his head before his glim was doused
altogether, he might worry along. He couldn't bear to think of goin' back
to his old home, or hangin' around among strangers until he had to be
herded into one of them big brick barracks. He wanted to be alone and
outdoors.
He had a few dollars with him that he'd saved up, and when he struck this
little sand plot, miles from anywhere, he squat right down on it, built
his shack, got some settin' hens, and prepared for a long siege in the
dark. One eye was all to the bad already, and the other was beginnin' to
grow dim. Nice cheerful proposition to wake up to every mornin', wa'n't
it?
Does Beany whine any in tellin' it, though? Never a whimper! Gets off his
little jokes on himself about the breaks he makes cookin' his meals, such
as sweetenin' his coffee out of the salt bag, and bitin' into a cake of
bar soap, thinkin' it was a slice of the soggy bread he'd make. Keeps his
courage up, too, by trying to think that maybe livin' outdoors and
improvin' his health will help him get back his sight.
"I'm sure I am some better already," says he. "For months all I could see
out of my left eye was purple and yellow and blue rings. Now I don't see
those at all."
"That so?" says I, battin' my head for some come-back that would fit.
"Why--er--I should think you'd miss 'em, Beany."
Brilliant, wa'n't it? But Beany throws back his head and lets out the
first real laugh he's indulged in for over a year.
"No, hardly that," says he. "I don't care about carrying my rainbows
around with me."
"But look here, Beany," says I. "You can't stay here doin' the poultry
hermit act."
"It's the only thing I'm fit for," says he; "so I must."
"Then you've got to let us send you a few things occasionally," says I.
"I'll look up your old boss and----"
"No, no!" says he. "I'm getting along all right. I've been a little
lonesome; but I'll pull through."
"You ought to be doin' some doctorin', though," says I.
He shrugs his shoulders again and waves one hand. "What's the use?" says
he. "They told me at the hospital there wasn't any help. No, I'll just
stay here and plug it out by myself."
Talk about clear grit, eh! And maybe you can frame up my feelin's when he
insists there ain't a thing I can do for him. About then, too, I hears
'em shoutin' from the car for me to come along, as they're all ready to
start again. So all I does is swap grips with Beany, get off some fool
speech about wishin' him luck, and leave him standin' there in the potato
field.
Somehow I didn't enjoy the rest of that day's run very much, and when
they jollies me by askin' who's my scarecrow acquaintance I couldn't work
myself up to tellin' 'em about him. But all I could think of was Beany
back there pokin' around alone in the fog that was settlin' down thicker
and thicker every day. And in the course of two or three hours I had a
thought.
"Pinckney," says I, as we was puttin' up in Newport, "you know all sorts
of crackerjacks. Got any expert eye doctors on your list?"
He chews that over a minute or so, and concludes that he has, a Dr. Jason
Craige, who's right here in town.
"He's the real thing, is he?" says I.
"Most skillful oculist in the country," says Pinckney, "and charges
accordingly."
"As high as fifty a throw?" says I.
"Fifty!" says Pinckney. "You should see his Cliff Walk cottage."
"Let's," says I. "There's a friend of mine I'd like to have him take a
look at to-morrow."
"No use," says Pinckney. "He drops his practice entirely during his
vacation; wouldn't treat an Emperor then, I've heard him say. He's a good
deal of a crank on that--and billiards."
"But see here, Pinckney," says I, and I goes on to give him the whole
tale about Beany, puttin' it over as strong as I knew how.
"Sorry," says Pinckney; "but I know of no way in which I could induce him
to change his custom. He's Scotch, you know, and as obstinate as---- Hold
on, Shorty! I've an idea. How strong will you back my game of
billiards?"
Now of all the erratic cue performers I ever watched, Pinckney gets the
medal. There's times when he can nurse 'em along the cushion and run up
quite a string, and then again I've seen him play a game any duffer'd be
ashamed of. But I begins to smell out his scheme.
"If it means a chance for Beany," says I, "I'll bid good-by to five
twenties and let you do your worst."
"A wager of that sort would tempt Craige, if anything would," says
Pinckney. "We'll try it on, anyway."
Whether it was the bluff Pinckney threw, or the insultin' way he suggests
that the Doc don't dare take him up, I can't say. All I know is that
inside of half an hour we was in Jason Craige's private billiard room,
him and Pinckney peeled down to their shirts, and at it.
As a rule I could go to sleep watchin' the best three-ball carom game
ever played; but durin' this contest I holds the marker's stick and never
misses a move. First off Pinckney plays about as skillful as a trained
pig practicin' on the piano; but after four or five minutes of punk
exhibition he takes a brace and surprises himself.
No need going into details. Pinckney wins out, and the Doc slams his cue
into the rack with some remark about producin' the charity patient
to-morrow. Did I? I routs Renee out at daylight next mornin', has him
make a fifty-mile run at Vanderbilt Cup speed, and we has Beany in the
eye expert's lib'ry before he comes down for breakfast.
It takes Dr. Craige less'n three minutes to discover that the hospital
hand who told Beany he was bound to lose both lamps was a fat brained nut
who'd be more useful drivin' an ashcart. The Doc lays Beany out on a
leather couch, uses a little cocaine in the right place, monkeys around a
minute or so with some shiny hardware, and announces that after he's laid
up for twenty-four hours in a dark room, usin' the wash reg'lar, he'll be
able to see as well as any of us.
It's a fact, too; for Beany goes back on his old job next Monday
mornin'.
"By Jove!" says Pinckney, after the trick is turned. "A miracle,
Craige!"
"Miracle be blowed!" says the Doc. "You accomplished the miracle last
night, Pinckney, when you ran thirty-two buttons on scratch hits."
THE END
* * * * * *
THE NOVELS OF
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
GRAUSTARK. Illustrated with Scenes from the Play.
With the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of
story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. It is the story of
love behind a throne in a new and strange country.
BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.
This is a sequel to "Graustark." A bewitching American girl visits the
little principality and there has a romantic love affair.
PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by A. I. Keller.
The Prince of Graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of
"Graustark." Beverly's daughter, and an American multimillionaire with a
brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story.
BREWSTER'S MILLIONS.
Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo-Play.
A young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year, in order
to inherit _seven_, accomplishes the task in this lively story.
COWARDICE COURT.
Illus. by Harrison Fisher and decorations by Theodore Hapgood.
A romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in
the Adirondacks in which an English girl is tempted into being a traitor
by a romantic young American.
THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND. Illustrated by A. I. Keller.
A story of modern New York, built around an ancient enmity, born of the
scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth.
WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.
"What's-His-Name" is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who
is billboarded on Broadway under an assumed name. The very opposite
manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to
the story.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
* * * * * *
ZANE GREY'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS
A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier
warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by
bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close.
THE RAINBOW TRAIL
The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great
western uplands--until at last love and faith awake.
DESERT GOLD
The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with
the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who
is the story's heroine.
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon
authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the
story.
THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN
This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones,
known as the _preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert
and of a hunt in_ "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant
pines."
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young
New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall
become the second wife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem of
this great story.
THE SHORT STOP
The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and
fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are
followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty
ought to win.
BETTY ZANE
This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young
sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.
THE LONE STAR RANGER
After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along
the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a
young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down
upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one
side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.
THE BORDER LEGION
Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless
Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved
him--she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band,
and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader--and nurses him to
health again. Here enters another romance--when Joan, disguised as an
outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a
thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.
THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS,
By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey
The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by his
sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first
encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, then
near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the most
dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting account of
the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public life makes a
stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo Bill," whose
daring and bravery made him famous
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
* * * * * *
B. M. Bower's Novels
Thrilling Western Romances
Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated
CHIP, OF THE FLYING U
A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia
Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip's jealousy of Dr. Cecil
Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very
amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher.
THE HAPPY FAMILY
A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen
jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find
Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively
and exciting adventures.
HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT
A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners who
exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana
ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and the
effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities.
THE RANGE DWELLERS
Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited
action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet
courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull
page.
THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS
A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the
cowboys of the West, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "Bud"
Thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim
trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love.
THE LONESOME TRAIL
"Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional city
life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with the
atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown
eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story.
THE LONG SHADOW
A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a
mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of
life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to
finish.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York
* * * * * *
BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.
No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young
people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the
time when the reader was Seventeen.
PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.
This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic
things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a finished,
exquisite work.
PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.
Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases
of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness
that have ever been written.
THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.
Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his
father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a
fine girl turns Bibbs' life from failure to success.
THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.
A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country
editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love
interest.
THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.
The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,
drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to
lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor,
leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.
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Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
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GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS
THE KIND THAT ARE MAKING THEATRICAL HISTORY
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask far Grosset & Dunlap's list
WITHIN THE LAW. By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana. Illustrated by Wm.
Charles Cooke.
This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two
years in New York and Chicago.
The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed
against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years
on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent.
WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY. By Robert Carlton Brown. Illustrated with scenes
from the play.
This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly
thrown into the very heart of New York, "the land of her dreams," where
she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers.
The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres
all over the world.
THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM. By David Belasco. Illustrated by John Rae.
This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, as
Old Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success.
The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful,
both as a book and as a play.
THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.
This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit
barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness.
It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. The play has
been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.
BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace.
The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance on a
height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. The
clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect
reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of
the arena have kept their deep fascination. A tremendous dramatic
success.
BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. By George Broadhurst and Arthur Hornblow.
Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest
on the stage that is almost unparalleled. The scenes are laid in New
York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor.
The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show
the young wife the price she has paid.
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Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York
* * * * * *
THE NOVELS OF
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
THE BLAZED TRAIL. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.
A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed
his way to fortune through the heart of the Michigan pines.
THE CALL OF THE NORTH. Ills. with Scenes from the Play.
The story centers about a Hudson Bay trading post, known as "The
Conjuror's House" (the original title of the book.)
THE RIVERMAN. Ills. by N. C. Wyeth and C. F. Underwood.
The story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle between
honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the
other.
RULES OF THE GAME. Illustrated by Lejaren A. Hiller.
The romance of the son of "The Riverman." The young college hero goes
into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft," and comes into the
romance of his life.
GOLD. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.
The gold fever of '49 is pictured with vividness. A part of the story is
laid in Panama, the route taken by the gold-seekers.
THE FOREST. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.
The book tells of the canoe trip of the author and his companion into the
great woods. Much information about camping and outdoor life. A splendid
treatise on woodcraft.
THE MOUNTAINS. Illustrated by Fernand Lungren.
An account of the adventures of a five months' camping trip in the
Sierras of California. The author has followed a true sequence of
events.
THE CABIN. Illustrated with photographs by the author.
A chronicle of the building of a cabin home in a forest-girdled meadow of
the Sierras. Full of nature and woodcraft, and the shrewd philosophy of
"California John."
THE GRAY DAWN. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.
This book tells of the period shortly after the first mad rush for gold
in California. A young lawyer and his wife, initiated into the gay life
of San Francisco, find their ways parted through his downward course, but
succeeding events bring the "gray dawn of better things" for both of
them.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York