BOOK III

E-text prepared by Al Haines

THE ENCHANTED CANYON

by

HONORÉ WILLSIE

Author of

"The Forbidden Trail," "Still Jim," "The Heart of the Desert," "Lydia

of the Pines," etc.

A. L. Burt Company

Publishers -------- New York

Published by arrangement with William Morrow and Company, Inc.

Copyright, 1921, by

Honoré Willsie Morrow

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign

languages

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

BOOK I

BRIGHT ANGEL

Chapter

I MINETTA LANE

II BRIGHT ANGEL

BOOK II

THE SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR

III TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER

IV DIANA ALLEN

V A PHOTOGRAPHER OF INDIANS

VI A NEWSPAPER REPORTER

BOOK III

THE ENCHANTED CANYON

VII THE DESERT

VIII THE COLORADO

IX THE CLIFF DWELLING

X THE EXPEDITION BEGINS

XI THE PERFECT ADVENTURE

XII THE END OF THE CRUISE

XIII GRANT'S CROSSING

XIV LOVE IN THE DESERT

BOOK IV

THE PHANTASM DESTROYED

XV THE FIRING LINE AGAIN

XVI CURLY'S REPORT

XVII REVENGE IS SWEET

BOOK I

BRIGHT ANGEL

CHAPTER I

MINETTA LANE

"A boy at fourteen needs a mother or the memory of a mother as he does

at no other period of his life."--_Enoch's Diary_.

Except for its few blocks that border Washington Square, MacDougal

Street is about as squalid as any on New York's west side.

Once it was aristocratic enough for any one, but that was nearly a

century ago. Alexander Hamilton's mansion and Minetta Brook are less

than memories now. The blocks of fine brick houses that covered

Richmond Hill are given over to Italian tenements. Minetta Brook, if

it sings at all, sings among the sewers far below the dirty pavements.

But Minetta Lane still lives, a short alley that debouches on MacDougal

Street. Edgar Allan Poe once strolled on summer evenings through

Minetta Lane with his beautiful Annabel Lee. But God pity the

sweethearts to-day who must have love in its reeking precincts! It is

a lane of ugliness, now; a lane of squalor; a lane of poverty and

hopelessness spelled in terms of filth and decay.

About midway in the Lane stands a two-story, red-brick house with an

exquisite Georgian doorway. The wrought-iron handrail that borders the

crumbling stone steps is still intact. The steps usually are crowded

with dirty, quarreling children and a sore-eyed cat or two. Nobody

knows and nobody cares who built the house. Enough that it is now the

home of poverty and of ways that fear the open light of day. Just when

the decay of the old dwelling began there is none to say. But New

Yorkers of middle age recall that in their childhood the Lane already

had been claimed by the slums, with the Italian influx just beginning.

One winter afternoon a number of years ago a boy stood leaning against

the iron newel post of the old house, smoking a cigarette. He was

perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, but he might have been either

older or younger. The city gives even to children a sophisticated look

that baffles the casual psychologist.

The children playing on the steps behind the boy were stocky, swarthy

Italians. But he was tall and loosely built, with dark red hair and

hard blue eyes. He was thin and raw boned. Even his smartly cut

clothes could not hide his extreme awkwardness of body, his big loose

joints, his flat chest and protruding shoulder blades. His face, too,

could not have been an Italian product. The cheek bones were high, the

cheeks slightly hollowed, the nose and lips were rough hewn. The suave

lines of the three little Latins behind him were entirely alien to this

boy's face.

It was warm and thawing so that the dead horse across the street, with

the hugely swollen body, threw off an offensive odor.

"Smells like the good ol' summer time," said the boy, nodding his head

toward the horse and addressing the rag picker who was pulling a burlap

sack into the basement.

"Like ta getta da skin. No good now though," replied Luigi. "You

gotta da rent money, Nucky?"

"Got nuttin'," Nucky's voice was bitter. "That brown Liz you let in

last night beats the devil shakin' dice."

"We owe three mont' now, Nucky," said the Italian.

"Yes, and how much trade have I pulled into your blank blank second

floor for you durin' the time, you blank blank! If I hear any more

about the rent, I'll split on you, you--"

But before Nucky could continue his cursing, the Italian broke in with

a volubility of oaths that reduced the boy to sullen silence. Having

eased his mind, Luigi proceeded to drag the sack into the basement and

slammed the door.

"Nucky! Nucky! He's onlucky!" sang one of the small girls on the

crumbling steps.

"You dry up, you little alley cat!" roared the boy.

"You're just a bastard!" screamed the child, while her playmates took

up the cry.

Nucky lighted a fresh cigarette and moved hurriedly up toward MacDougal

Street. Once having turned the corner, he slackened his gait and

climbed into an empty chair in the bootblack stand that stood in front

of the Café Roma. The bootblack had not finished the first shoe when a

policeman hoisted himself into the other chair.

"How are you, Nucky?" he grunted.

"All right, thanks," replied the boy, an uneasy look softening his cold

eyes for the moment.

"Didn't keep the job I got you, long," the officer said. "What was the

rip this time?"

"Aw, I ain't goin' to hold down ho five-dollar-a-week job. What do you

think I am?"

"I think you are a fool headed straight for the devil," answered the

officer succinctly. "Now listen to me, Nucky. I've knowed you ever

since you started into the school over there. I mind how the teacher

told me she was glad to see one brat that looked like an old-fashioned

American. And everything the teachers and us guys at the police

station could do to keep you headed right, we've done. But you just

won't have it. You've growed up with just the same ideas the young

toughs have 'round here. All you know about earnin' money is by

gambling." Nucky stirred, but the officer put out his hand.

"Hold on now, fer I'm servin' notice on you. You've turned down every

job we got you. You want to keep on doing Luigi's dirty work for him.

Very well! Go to it! And the next time we get the goods on you,

you'll get the limit. So watch yourself!"

"Everybody's against a guy!" muttered the boy,

"Everybody's against a fool that had rather be crooked than straight,"

returned the officer.

Nucky, his face sullen, descended from the chair, paid the boy and

headed up MacDougal Street toward the Square.

A tall, dark woman, dressed in black entered the Square as Nucky

crossed from Fourth Street. Nucky overtook her.

"Are you comin' round to-night, Liz?" he asked.

She looked at him with liquid brown eyes over her shoulder.

"Anything better there than there was last night?" she asked.

Nucky nodded eagerly. "You'll be surprised when you see the bird I got

lined up."

Liz looked cautiously round the park, at the children shouting on the

wet pavements, at the sparrows quarreling in the dirty snow drifts.

Then she started, nervously, along the path.

"There comes Foley!" she exclaimed. "What's he doin' off his beat?"

"He's seen us now," said Nucky. "We might as well stand right here."

"Oh, I ain't afraid of that guy!" Liz tossed her head. "I got things

on him, all right."

"Why don't you use 'em?" Nucky's voice was skeptical. "He's going down

Waverly Place, the blank, blank!"

Liz grunted. "He's got too much on me! I ain't hopin' to start

trouble. You go chase yourself, Nucky. I'll be round about midnight."

Nucky's chasing himself consisted of the purchase of a newspaper which

he read for a few minutes in the sunshine of the park. Even as he sat

on the park bench, apparently absorbed in the paper, there was an air

of sullen unhappiness about the boy. Finally, he tossed the paper

aside, and sat with folded arms, his chin on his breast.

Officer Foley, standing on the corner of Washington Place and MacDougal

Street waved a pleasant salute to a tall, gray-haired man whose

automobile drew up before the corner apartment house.

"How are you, Mr. Seaton?" he asked.

"Rather used up, Foley!" replied the gentleman, "Rather used up!

Aren't you off your beat?"

The officer nodded. "Had business up here and started back. Then I

stopped to watch that red-headed kid over there." He indicated the

bench on which Nucky sat, all unconscious of the sharp eyes fastened on

his back.

"I see the red hair, anyway,"--Mr. Seaton lighted a cigar and puffed it

slowly. He and Foley had been friends during Seaton's twenty years'

residence on the Square.

"I know you ain't been keen on boys since you lost Jack," the officer

said, slowly, "but--well, I can't get this young Nucky off my mind,

blast the little crook!"

"So he's a crook, is he? How old is the boy?"

"Oh, 'round fourteen! He's as smart as lightning and as crooked as he

is smart. He turned up here when he was a little kid, with a woman who

may or may not have been his mother. She lived with a Dago down in

Minetta Lane. Guess the boy mighta been six years old when she died

and Luigi took him on. We were all kind of proud of him at first.

Teachers in school all said he was a wonder. But for two or three

years he's been going wrong, stealing and gambling, and now this fellow

Luigi's started a den on his second floor that we gotta clean out soon.

His rag-picking's a stall. And he's using Nucky like a kid oughtn't to

be used."

"Why don't you people have him taken away from the Italian and a proper

guardian appointed?"

"Well, he's smart and we kinda hoped he'd pull up himself. We got a

settlement worker interested in him and we got jobs for him, but

nothing works. Judge Harmon swears he's out of patience with him

and'll send him to reform school at his next offense. That'll end

Nucky. He'll be a gunman by the time he's twenty."

"You seem fond of the boy in spite of his criminal tendencies," said

Seaton.

"Aw, we all have criminal tendencies, far as that goes," growled Foley;

"you and I and all of us. Don't know as I'm what you'd call fond of

the kid. Maybe it's his name. Yes, I guess it's his name. Now what

is your wildest guess for that little devil's name, Mr. Seaton?"

The gray-hatred man shook his head. "Pat Donahue, by his hair."

"But not by his face, if you could see it. His name is Enoch

Huntingdon. Yes, sir, Enoch Huntingdon! What do you think of that?"

The astonishment expressed in Seaton's eyes was all that the officer

could desire.

"Enoch Huntingdon! Why, man, that gutter rat has real blood in him, if

he didn't steal the name."

"No kid ever stole such a name as that," said Foley. "And for all he's

homely enough to stop traffic, his face sorta lives up to his name.

Want a look at him?"

Mr. Seaton hesitated. The tragic death of his own boy a few years

before had left him shy of all boys. But his curiosity was roused and

with a sigh he nodded.

Foley crossed the street, Seaton following. As they turned into the

Square, Nucky saw them out of the tail of his eye. He rose, casually,

but Foley forestalled his next move by calling in a voice that carried

above the street noises, "Nucky! Wait a moment!"

The boy stopped and stood waiting until the two men came up. Seaton

eyed the strongly hewn face while the officer said, "That person you

were with a bit ago, Nucky--I don't think much of her. Better cut her

out."

"I can't help folks talking to me, can I?" demanded the boy,

belligerently.

"Especially the ladies!" snorted Foley. "Regular village cut-up, you

are! Well, just mind what I say," find he strolled on, followed by

Seaton.

"He'll never be hung for his beauty," said Seaton. "But, Foley, I'll

wager you'll find that lad breeds back to Plymouth Rock!"

Foley nodded. "Thought you'd be interested. Every man who's seen him

is. But there's nothing doing. Nucky is a hard pill."

"Maybe he needs a woman's hand," suggested Seaton, "Sometimes these

hard characters are clay with the right kind of a woman."

"Or the wrong kind," grunted the officer.

"No, the right kind," insisted Mr. Seaton. "I'm telling you, Foley, a

good woman is the profoundest influence a man can have. There's a deep

within him he never gives over to a bad woman."

Foley's keen gray eyes suddenly softened. He looked for a moment above

the tree tops to the clouds sailing across the blue. "I guess you're

right, Mr. Seaton," he said, "I guess you're right! Well, poor Nucky!

And I must be getting back. Good day, Mr. Seaton."

"Good day, Foley!"

And Nucky, staring curiously from the Square, saw the apartment house

door close on the tall, well-dressed stranger, and saw a taxi-cab

driver offer a lift to his ancient enemy, Officer Foley.

"Thinks he's smart, don't he!" he muttered aloud, starting slowly back

toward the Café Roma. "I wonder what uplifter he's got after me now?"

In the Café Roma, Nucky sat down at a little table and ordered a bowl

of ministrone with red wine. He did not devour his food as the normal

boy of his age would have done. He ate slowly and without appetite.

When he was about half through the meal, a young Irishman in his early

twenties sat down opposite him.

"Hello, Nucky! What's doin'?"

"Nothin' worth talking about. What's doin' with you?"

"O, I been helping Marty, the Dude, out. He's going to be alderman

from this ward, some day."

"That's the idea!" cried Nucky. "That's what I'd like to be, a

politician. I'd rather be Mayor of N' York than king of the world."

"I thought you wanted to be king o' the dice throwers," laughed the

young Irishman.

"If I was, I'd buy myself the job of Mayor," returned Nucky. "Coming

over to-night?"

"I might, 'long about midnight. Anything good in sight?"

"I hope so," Nucky's hard face looked for a moment boyishly worried.

"Business ain't been good, eh?"

"Not for me," replied Nucky. "Luigi seems to be goin' to the bank

regular. You bet that guy don't risk keepin' nothin' in the house."

"I shouldn't think he would with a wonder like you around," said the

young Irishman with a certain quality of admiration in his voice.

Nucky's thin chest swelled and he paid the waiter with an air that

exactly duplicated the café manner of Marty, the Dude. Then, with a

casual nod at Frank, he started back toward Luigi's, for his evening's

work.

It began to snow about ten o'clock that night. The piles of dirty ice

and rubbish on MacDougal Street turned to fairy mountains. The dead

horse in Minetta Lane might have been an Indian mound in miniature. An

occasional drunken man or woman, exuding loathsome, broken sentences,

reeled past Officer Foley who stood in the shadows opposite Luigi's

house. He was joined silently and one at a time by half a dozen other

men. Just before midnight, a woman slipped in at the front door. And

on the stroke of twelve, Foley gave a whispered order. The group of

officers crossed the street and one of them put a shoulder against the

door which yielded with a groan.

When the door of the large room on the second floor burst open, Nucky

threw down his playing cards and sprang for the window. But Foley

forestalled him and slipped handcuffs on him, while Nucky cursed and

fought with all the venom that did the eight or ten other occupants of

the room. Tables were kicked over. A small roulette board smashed

into the sealed fire-place. Brown Liz broke a bottle of whiskey on an

officer's helmet and the reek of alcohol merged with that of cigarette

smoke and snow-wet clothes. Luigi freed himself for a moment and

turned off the gas light roaring as he did so.

"Get out da back room! Da backa room!"

But it was a well-planned raid. No one escaped, and shortly, Nucky was

climbing into the patrol wagon that had appeared silently before the

door. That night he was locked in a cell with a drunken Greek. It was

his first experience in a cell. Hitherto, Officer Foley had protected

him from this ignominy. But Officer Foley, as he told Nucky, was

through with him.

The Greek, except for an occasional oath, slept soddenly. The boy

crouched in a corner of the cell, breathing rapidly and staring into

black space. At dawn he had not changed his position or closed his

eyes.

It was two days later that Officer Foley found a telephone message

awaiting him in the police station. "Mr. John Seaton wants you to call

him up, Foley."

Foley picked up the telephone. Mr. Seaton answered at once. "It was

nothing in particular, Foley, except that I wanted to tell you that the

red-headed boy and his name, particularly that name, in Minetta Lane,

have haunted me. If he gets in trouble again, you'd better let me

know."

"You're too late, Mr. Seaton! He's in up to his neck, now." The

officer described the raid. "The judge has given him eighteen months

at the Point and we're taking him there this afternoon."

"You don't mean it! The young whelp! Foley, what he needs is a

licking and a mother to love him, not reform school."

"Sure, but no matter how able a New York policeman is, Mr. Seaton, he

can't be a mother! And it's too late! The judge is out o' patience."

"Look here, Foley, hasn't he any friends at all?"

"There's several that want to be friends, but he won't have 'em. He's

sittin' in his cell for all the world like a bull pup the first time

he's tied."

Mr. Seaton cleared his throat. "Foley, let me come round and see him

before you send him over the road, will you?"

"Sure, that can be fixed up. Only don't get sore when the kid snubs

you."

"Nothing a boy could do could hurt me, Foley. You remember that Jack

was not exactly an angel."

"No, that's right, but Jack was always a good sport, Mr. Seaton.

That's why it's so hard to get hold of these young toughs down here!

They ain't sports!" And Foley hung up the receiver with a sigh.

Mr. Seaton preferred to introduce himself to Nucky. The boy was

sitting on the edge of his bunk, his red hair a beautiful bronze in the

dim daylight that filtered through the high window.

"How are you, Enoch?" said Mr. Seaton. "My name is John Seaton.

Officer Foley pointed you out to me the other day as a lad who was

making bad use of a good name. That's a wonderful name of yours, do

you realize it?"

"Every uplifter I ever met's told me so," replied Nucky, ungraciously,

without looking up.

Mr. Seaton smiled. "I'm no uplifter! I'm a New York lawyer!

Supposing you take a look at me so's to recognize me when we meet

again."

Nucky still kept his gaze on the floor. "I know what you look like.

You got gray hair and brown eyes, you're thin and tall and about fifty

years old."

"Good work!" exclaimed Enoch's caller. "Now, look here, Enoch, can't I

help you out of this scrape?"

"Don't want to be helped out. I was doin' a man's job and I'll take my

punishment like a man."

Seaton spoke quickly. "It wasn't a man's job. It was a thief's job.

You're taking your sentence like a common thief, not like a man."

"Aw, dry up and get out o' here!" snarled Nucky, jumping to his feet

and looking his caller full in the face.

Seaton did not stir. In spite of its immaturity, its plainness and its

sullenness, there was a curious dignity in Nucky's face, that made a

strong appeal to his dignified caller.

"You guys always preachin' to me!" Nucky went on, his boyish voice

breaking with weariness and excitement. "Why don't you look out for

your own kids and let me alone?"

"My only boy is beyond my care. He was killed three years ago,"

returned Seaton. "I've had nothing to do with boys since. And I don't

give a hang about you. It's your name I'm interested in. I hate to

see a fine name in the hands of a prospective gunman."

"And you can't get me with the sob stuff, either," Nucky shrugged his

shoulders.

Seaton scowled, then he laughed. "You're a regular tough, eh, Enoch?

But you know even toughs occasionally use their brains. Do you want to

go to reform school?"

"Yes, I do! Go on, get out o' here!"

"You infernal little fool!" blazed Seaton, losing his temper. "Do you

think you can handle me the way you have the others? Well, it can't be

done! Huntingdon is a real name in this country and if you think any

pig-headed, rotten-minded boy can carry that name to the pen, without

me putting up a fight, you're mistaken! You've met something more than

your match this time, you are pretty sure to find out sooner or later,

my sweet young friend. My hair was red, too, before--up to three years

ago."

Seaton turned and slammed out of the cell. When Foley came to the door

a half hour later, Nucky was again sitting on the edge of the bunk,

staring sullenly at the floor.

"Come out o' this, Nucky," said the officer.

Nucky rose, obediently, and followed Foley into the next room. Mr.

Seaton was leaning against the desk, talking with Captain Blackly.

"Look here, Nucky," said Blackly, "this gentleman has been telephoning

the judge and the judge has paroled you once more in this gentleman's

hands. I think you're a fool, Mr. Seaton, but I believe in giving a

kid as young as Huntingdon the benefit of the doubt. We've all failed

to find a spark of decent ambition in him. Maybe you can. Just one

word for you, young fellow. If you try to get away from Mr. Seaton,

we'll get you in a way you'll never forget."

Nucky said nothing. His unboyish eyes traveled from one face to

another, then he shrugged his shoulders and dropped his weight to the

other hip. John Seaton, whose eyes were still smoldering, tapped Nucky

on the arm.

"All right, Enoch! I'm going to take you up to my house to meet Mrs.

Seaton. See that you behave like a gentleman," and he led the way into

the street. Nucky followed without any outward show of emotion. His

new guardian did not speak until they reached the door of the apartment

house, then he turned and looked the boy in the eye.

"I'm obstinate, Enoch, and quick tempered. No one but Mrs. Seaton

thinks of me as a particularly likable chap. You can do as you please

about liking me, but I want you to like my wife. And if I have any

reason to think you've been anything but courteous to her, I'll break

every bone in your body. You say you don't want sob stuff. You'll get

none of it from me."

Not a muscle of Nucky's face quivered. Mr. Seaton did not wait for a

reply, but led the way into the elevator. It shot up to the top floor

and Nucky followed into the long, dark hall of the apartment.

"Put your hat and coat here," said his guardian, indicating the hat

rack on which he was hanging his own overcoat. "Now follow me." He

led the boy into the living room.

A small woman sat by the window that overlooked the Square. Her brown

hair was just touched with gray. Her small round face was a little

faded, with faint lines around eyes and lips. It was not an

intellectual face, but it was sweet and patient, from the delicate

curve of the lips to the slight downward droop of the eyebrows above

the clear blue eyes. All the sweetness and patience was there with

which the wives of high tempered, obstinate men are not infrequently

blessed.

"Mary, this is young Enoch Huntingdon," said Seaton.

Mrs. Seaton offered her hand, which Nucky took awkwardly and

unsmilingly. "How do you do, Enoch! Mr. Seaton told me about your red

hair and your fine old name. Are you going to stay with us a little

while?"

"I don't know, ma'am," replied Enoch.

"Sit down, Enoch! Sit down!" Seaton waved Enoch impatiently toward a

seat while he took the arm chair beside his wife. "Mary, I've got to

take that trip to San Francisco, after all. Houghton and Company

insist on my looking into that Jameson law-suit for them."

Mary Seaton looked up, a little aghast. "But mercy, John! I can't get

away now, with Sister Alice coming!"

"I know that. So I'm going to take Enoch with me."

"Oh!" Mary looked from her husband to Enoch, sitting awkwardly on the

edge of the Chippendale chair. His usually pale face was a little

flushed and his thin lips were set firmly together. From her scrutiny

of Enoch's face, she turned to his hands. They were large and bony and

the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand were yellow.

"You don't look as if you'd been eating the right kind of things,

Enoch," she said, kindly. "And it's cigarettes that give your lips

that bad color. You must let me help you about that. When do you

start, John dear?"

"To-morrow night, and I'm afraid I'll be gone the best part of three

weeks. By that time, I ought to know something about Enoch, eh?"

For the first time Enoch grinned, a little sheepishly, to be sure, and

a little cynically. Nevertheless it was the first sign of tolerance he

had shown and Mr. Seaton was cheered by it.

"That will give time to get Enoch outfitted," said Mary. "We'll go up

to Best's to-morrow morning."

"This suit is new," said Nucky.

"It looks new," agreed Mrs. Seaton, "but a pronounced check like that

isn't nice for traveling. And you'll need other things."

"I got plenty of clothes at home, and I paid for 'em myself," Nucky's

voice was resentful.

"Well, drop a line to that Italian you've been living with, and tell

him--" began Mr. Seaton.

"Aw, he'll be doin' time in Sing Sing by the time I get back,"

interrupted Nucky, "and he can't read anyhow. I always 'tended to

everything but going to the bank for him."

"Did you really?" There was a pleasant note of admiration in Mrs.

Seaton's voice. "You must try to look out for Mr. Seaton then on this

trip. He is so absent-minded! Come and I'll show you your room,

Enoch. You must get ready for dinner."

She rose, and led the boy down the hall to a small room. It was

furnished in oak and chintz. Enoch thought it must have been the dead

boy's room for there was a gun over the bureau and photographs of a

football team and a college crew on the walls.

"Supper will be ready in ten or fifteen minutes," said Mrs. Seaton, as

she left him. A moment later, he heard her speaking earnestly in the

living-room. He brushed his hair, then amused himself by examining the

contents of the room. The supper bell rang just as he opened the

closet door. He closed it, hastily and silently, and a moment later,

Mr. Seaton spoke from the hall:

"Come, Enoch!" and the boy followed into the dining-room.

His table manners were bad, of course, but Mrs. Seaton found these less

difficult to endure than the boy's unresponsive, watchful ways. At

last, as the pudding was being served, she exclaimed:

"What in the world are you watching for, Enoch? Do you expect us to

rob you, or what?"

"I dunno, ma'am," answered Nucky,

"Do you enjoy your supper?" asked Mrs. Seaton.

"It's all right, I guess. I'm used to wine with my supper."

"Wine, you young jack-donkey!" cried John Seaton. "And don't you

appreciate the difference between a home meal like this and one you

pick up in Minetta Lane?"

"I dunno!" Nucky's face darkened sullenly and he pushed his pudding

away.

There was silence around the table for a few moments. Mrs. Seaton,

quietly watching the boy, thought of what her husband had told her of

Officer Foley's account. The boy did act not unlike a bull pup put for

the first time on the lead chain. She was relieved and so was Mr.

Seaton when Nucky, immediately after the meal was finished, said that

he was sleepy, and went to bed.

"I don't envy you your trip, John," said Mary Seaton, as she settled to

her embroidery again. "What on earth possesses you to do it? The boy

isn't even interesting in his badness."

"He's got the face either of a great leader or a great criminal," said

Seaton, shaking out his paper. "He makes me so mad I could tan his

hide every ten minutes, but I'm going to see the thing through. It's

the first time in three years I've felt interested in anything."

Quick tears sprang to his wife's eyes. "I'm so glad to have you feel

that way, John, that I'll swallow even this impossible boy. What makes

him so ugly? Did he want to go to reform school?"

"God knows what any boy of his age wants!" replied John briefly. "But

I'm going to try in the next three weeks to find out what's frozen him

up so."

"Well, I'll dress him so that he won't disgrace you."

Mrs. Seaton smiled and sighed and went on with her careful stitching.

Nobody tried to talk to Nucky at the breakfast table. After the meal

was over and Mr. Seaton had left for the office, the boy sat looking

out of the window until Mrs. Seaton announced herself ready for the

shopping expedition. Then he followed her silently to the waiting

automobile.

The little woman took great care in buying the boy's outfit. The task

must Have been painful to her. Only three years before she had been

buying clothes for Jack from this same clerk. But Mary Seaton was a

good soldier and she did a good job. When they reached home in

mid-afternoon Nucky was well equipped for his journey.

To Mary's surprise and pleasure he took care of her, helping her in and

out of the automobile, and waiting on her vigilantly. He was awkward,

to be sure, and silent, but Mary was secretly sure that he was less

resentful toward her than he had been the day before. And she began to

understand her husband's interest in the strong, immature, sullen face.

The train left at six o'clock. Mrs. Seaton went with them to the very

train gates.

"You'll really try to look out for Mr. Seaton, won't you, Enoch?" she

said, taking the boy's limp hand, after she had kissed her husband

good-by.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Nucky.

"Good-by, Enoch! I truly hope you'll enjoy the trip. Run now, or

you'll miss the train. See, Mr. Seaton's far down the platform!"

Nucky turned and ran. Mr. Seaton waited for him at the door of the

Pullman. His jaw was set and he looked at Nucky with curiosity not

untinged with resentment. Nucky had not melted after a whole day with

Mary! Perhaps there were no deeps within the boy. But as the train

moved through the tunnel something lonely back of the boy's hard stare

touched him and he smiled.

"Well, Enoch, old man, are you glad to go?"

"I dunno," replied Nucky.

CHAPTER II

BRIGHT ANGEL

"I was sure, when I was eighteen, that if I could but give to the world

a picture of Boyhood, flagellated by the world's stupidity and

brutality, the world would heed. At thirty, I gave up the

hope."--_Enoch's Diary_.

No one could have been a less troublesome traveling companion than

Nucky. He ate what was set before him, without comment. He sat for

endless hours on the observation platform, smoking cigarettes, his keen

eyes on the flying landscape. His blue Norfolk suit and his carefully

chosen cap and linen restored a little of the adolescent look of which

the flashy clothing of his own choosing had robbed him. No one glanced

askance at Mr. Seaton's protegé or asked the lawyer idle questions

regarding him.

And yet Nucky was very seldom out of John Seaton's thoughts: Over and

over he tried to get the boy into conversation only to be checked by a

reply that was half sullen, half impertinent. Finally, the lawyer fell

back on surmises. Was Nucky laying some deep scheme for mischief when

they reached San Francisco? John had believed fully that he and Nucky

would be friends before Chicago was passed. But he had been mistaken.

What in the world was he to do with the young gambler in San Francisco,

that paradise of gamblers? He could employ a detective to dog Nucky,

but that was to acknowledge defeat. If there were only some place

along the line where he could leave the boy, giving him a taste of out

of door life, such as only the west knows!

For a long time Seaton turned this idea over in his mind. The train

was pulling out of Albuquerque when he had a sudden inspiration. He

knew Nucky too well by now to ask him for information or for an

expression of opinion. But that night, at dinner, he said, casually,

"We're going to leave the main line, at Williams, Enoch, and go up to

the Grand Canyon. There's a guide at Bright Angel that I camped with

two years ago. It's such bad weather that I don't suppose there'll be

many people up there and I telegraphed him this afternoon to give me a

week or so. I'm going to turn you over to him and I'll go on to the

Coast. I'll pick you up on my way back."

"All right," said Nucky, casually.

Mr. Seaton ground his teeth with impatience and thought of what Jack's

enthusiasm would have been over such a program. But he said nothing

and strolled out to the observation car.

It was raining and sleeting at Williams. They had to wait for hours in

the little station for the connecting train to the Canyon. It came in,

finally, and Seaton and Nucky climbed aboard, the only visitors for the

usually popular side trip. It was a wild and lonely run to the

Canyon's rim. Nucky, sitting with his face pressed against the window,

saw only vague forms of cactus and evergreens through the sleet which,

as the grade rose steadily, changed to snow. It was mid-afternoon when

they reached the rim. A porter led them at once into the hotel and

after they were established, Seaton went into Nucky's room. The boy

was standing by the window, staring at the storm.

"We can't see the Canyon from our windows," said John. "I took care of

that! It isn't a thing you want staring at you day and night! Nucky,

I want you to get your first look at the Canyon, alone. One always

should. You'd better put on your coat and go out now before the storm

gets any worse. Don't wander away. Stick to the view in front of the

hotel. I'll be out in a half hour."

Nucky pulled on his overcoat, picked up his cap and went out. A porter

was sweeping the walk before the main entrance.

"Say, mister, I want to see the Canyon," said Nucky.

"Nothin' to hinder. Yonder she lies, waiting for you, son!" jerking

his thumb over his shoulder.

Nucky looked in the direction indicated. Then he took a deep, shocked

breath. The snow flakes were falling into nothingness! A bitter wind

was blowing but Nucky felt the sweat start to his forehead. Through

the sifting snow flakes, disappearing before his gaze, he saw a void,

silver gray, dim in outline, but none the less a void. The earth gaped

to its center, naked, awful, before his horrified eyes. Yet, the same

urgent need to know the uttermost that forces one to the edge of the

skyscraper forced Nucky to the rail. He clutched it. A great gust of

wind came up from the Canyon, clearing the view of snow for the moment,

and Nucky saw down, down for a mile to the black ribbon of the Colorado

below.

"I can't stand it!" he muttered. "I can't stand it!" and turning, he

bolted for the hotel. He stopped before the log fire in the lobby. A

little group of men and women were sitting before the blaze, reading or

chatting. One of the women looked up at the boy and smiled. It seemed

impossible to Nucky that human beings could be sitting so calmly, doing

quite ordinary things, with that horror lying just a few feet away.

For perhaps five minutes he struggled with his sense of panic, then he

went slowly out and forced himself to the railing again.

While he had been indoors, it had ceased to storm and the view lay

clear and clean before him. Although there was a foot of level snow on

the rim, so vast were the ledges and benches below that the drifts

served only as high lights for their crimson and black and orange.

Just beneath Nucky were tree tops, heavy laden with white. Far, far

below were tiny shrubs that the porter said were trees and below

these,--orderly strips of brilliant colors and still below, and

below--! Nucky moistened his dry lips and once more bolted to the

hotel.

Just within the door, John Seaton met him.

"Well, Enoch?"

There was no coldness in Nucky's eyes now. They were the frightened

eyes of a child.

"I can't stand that thing!" he panted. "I gotta get back to N' York,

now!"

Seaton looked at Nucky curiously. "For heaven's sake, Enoch! Where's

your nerve?"

"What good would nerve do a guy lookin' at hell!" gasped Nucky.

"Hell? Why the Canyon is one of the beautiful sights of the world!

You're crazy, Enoch! Come out with me and look again."

"Not on your life!" cried Nucky. "I'm going back to little old N'

York."

"It can't be done, my boy. There'll be no trains out of here for at

least twelve hours, because of the storm. And listen, Enoch! No

nonsense! Remember that if you wander away from the hotel, you're

lost. There are no trolleys in this neck of the woods, and no

telephones and no police. Wait a moment, Enoch, there's Frank Allen,

the guide."

Seaton hailed a tall, rather heavily built man in corduroys and high

laced boots, who had lounged up to the cigar stand. As he approached,

Nucky saw that he was middle aged, with a heavily tanned face out of

which the blue of his eyes shone conspicuously.

"Here he is, Frank!" exclaimed Seaton. "Nucky, this is the man who is

going to look out for you while I'm gone."

"Well, young New York! What're you going to do with the Canyon?"

Frank slapped the boy on the shoulder.

Nucky grinned uncertainly. "I dunno!" he said.

"Had a look at it?" demanded the guide.

"Yes!" Nucky spoke with sudden firmness. "And I don't like it. I

want to go back to New York."

"Come on out with Frank and me and get used to it," suggested John

Seaton.

"I'm not going near it again," returned Nucky.

Allen looked at the boy with deliberate interest. He noted the pasty

skin, the hollow chest, the strong, unformed features, the thin lips

that were trembling, despite the cigarette stained fingers that pressed

against them.

"Did you ever talk to Indians?" asked Allen, suddenly.

"No," said Nucky.

"Well, let's forget the Canyon and go over to the hogan, yonder. Is

that the best you two can do on shoes? I'm always sorry for you

lady-like New Yorkers. Come over here a minute. I guess we can rent

some boots to fit you."

"I'm going to write letters, Frank," said Seaton. "You and Enoch'll

find me over at one of the desks. Fit the boy out as you think best."

Not long after, Nucky trailed the guide through the lobby. He was

wearing high laced boots, with a very self-conscious air. Once

outside, in the glory of the westering sun, Frank took a deep breath.

"Great air, boy! Get all you can of it into those flabby bellows of

yours. Before we go to the hogan, come over to the corral. My Tom

horse has got a saddle sore. A fool tourist rode him all day with a

fold in the blanket as big as your fist."

"Is he a bronco?" asked Nucky, with sudden animation.

"He was a bronco. You easterners have the wrong idea. A bronco is a

plains pony before he's broken. After he's busted he's a horse. See?"

"Aw, you're dead wrong, Frank!" drawled a voice.

Nucky looked up in astonishment to see a tall man, whose skin was a

rich bronze, offering a cigarette to the guide.

"Dry up, Mike!" returned Frank with a grin. "What does a Navaho know

about horses! Enoch, this is a sure enough Indian. Mike, let me

introduce Mr. Enoch Huntingdon of New York City."

The Navaho nodded and smiled. "You look as if a little Canyon climbing

would do you good," said he. "I was looking at Tom horse, Frank. He's

in bad shape. How much did that tender-foot weigh that rode him?"

"I don't know. I wasn't here the day they hired him out. I know the

cuss would have weighed a good deal less if I'd been here when that

saddle was taken off! Going down to-morrow with Miss Planer?"

"Not unless some one breaks trail for us. Are you going to try it?"

"Not unless my young friend here gets his nerve up. Want to try it,

Enoch?"

"Try what?" asked Nucky.

"The trip down Bright Angel."

"Not on your life!" cried Nucky.

Both men laughed, the Indian moving off through the snow in the

direction of a dim building among the cedars, while Frank led on to the

corral fence. Fifteen or twenty horses and mules were moving about the

enclosure. Allen crossed swiftly among them, with Nucky following,

apprehensively, close behind him. Frank's horse was in the stable, but

while he seemed to examine the sore spot on the animal's back, Frank's

real attention was riveted on Nucky. The boy was obviously ill at ease

and only half interested in the horse.

"These are the lads that take us down the trail," said Allen finally,

slapping a velvety black mule on the flank.

"We can't trust the horses. A mule knows more in a minute than a horse

knows all his life."

"Will you go with me to take another look at it?" asked Nucky.

An expression of understanding crossed Frank's weather-beaten face.

"Sure I will, boy! Let's walk up the rim a little and see if you can

steady your nerves."

"I'd rather stay by the rail," replied Nucky, doggedly.

"All right, old man! Don't take this thing too hard, you know! After

all, it's only a crack in the earth."

Nucky grinned feebly, and trudged steadily up to the rail. The sun was

setting and the Canyon was like the infinite glory of God. Untiring as

was his love for the view Allen preferred, this time, to watch the

strange young face beside him. Nucky's pallor was still intense in

spite of the stinging wind. His deep set eyes were strained like a

child's, listening to a not-to-be-understood explanation of something

that frightens him. For a full five minutes he gazed without speaking.

Then the sun sank and the Canyon immediately was filled with gloom.

Nucky's lips quivered. "I can't stand it!" he muttered again, "I can't

stand it!" and once more he bolted.

This time he went directly to his room. Neither Allen nor Seaton

attempted to follow him.

"He is some queer kid!" said Frank, taking the cigar Seaton offered

him. "He may be a born crook or he may not, but believe me, there's

something in him worth finding out about."

"Just what I say!" agreed Seaton. "But don't be sure you're the one

that can unlock him. Mrs. Seaton couldn't and if she failed, any woman

on earth would. And I still believe that a chap that's got any good in

him will open up to a good woman."

"_His_ woman, man! _His_! Not to somebody else's woman." Allen's

tone was impatient.

"_His_ woman! Don't talk like a chump, Frank! Enoch's only fourteen."

"Makes no difference. Your wife is an angel as I learned two years

ago, but she may not have Enoch's number, just the same. If I were

you, I'd mooch up to the kid's room if he doesn't come down promptly to

supper. His nerves are in rotten shape and he oughtn't to be alone too

long."

Seaton nodded, and shortly after seven he knocked softly on Nucky's

door. There was an inarticulate, "Come in!" Nucky was standing by the

window in the dark room.

"Supper's ready, old man. You'd better have it now and get to bed

early. Jumping from sea level to a mile in the air makes a chap

sleepy. Are you washed up?"

"I'm all ready," mumbled Nucky.

He went to bed shortly after eight. Something forlorn and childish

about the boy's look as he said good night moved John Seaton to say,

"Tell a bell boy to open the door between our rooms, will you, Enoch?"

and he imagined that a relieved look flickered in Nucky's eyes.

Seaton himself went to bed and to sleep early. He was wakened about

midnight by a soft sound from Nucky's room and he lay for a few moments

listening. Then he rose and turned on the light in his room, and in

Nucky's. The boy hastily jerked the covers over his head. Seaton

pulled the extra blanket at the bed foot over his own shoulders, then

he sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on Nucky's heaving

back.

"Don't you think, if it's bad enough to make you cry, that it's time

you told a friend about it, Enoch?" he said, his voice a little husky.

For a moment sobs strangled the boy's utterance entirely. Finally, he

pulled the covers down but still keeping his head turned away, he said,

"I want to go home!"

"Home, Enoch? Where's your home?"

"N' York's my home. This joint scares me."

"Whom do you want to see in New York, Enoch?"

"Anybody! Nobody! Even the police station'd look better'n that thing.

I can feel it out there now, waitin' and listenin'!"

Seaton stared blankly at the back of Nucky's head. His experiment was

not turning out at all as he had planned. Jack often had puzzled him

but there had always been something to grasp with Jack. His own boy

had been such a good sport! A good sport! Suddenly Seaton cleared his

throat.

"Enoch, among the men you know, what is the opinion of a squealer?"

"We hate him," replied the boy, shortly.

"And the other night when you were arrested, you were rather proud of

standing up and taking your punishment without breaking down. If one

of the men arrested at that time had broken down, you'd all have

despised him, I suppose?"

"Sure thing," agreed Nucky, turning his head ever so little toward the

man.

"Enoch, why are you breaking down now?"

"Aw, what difference does it make?" demanded the boy. "You despise me

anyhow!"

"Oh!" ejaculated Seaton as a sudden light came to his groping mind.

"Oh, I see! What a chump you are, old man! Of course, I despise the

kind of life you've led, but I blame Minetta Lane for that, not you.

And I believe there is so much solid fine stuff in you that I'm giving

you this trip to show you that there are people and things outside of

Minetta Lane that are more worth a promising boy's time than gambling.

But, you won't play the game. You are so vain and ignorant, you refuse

to see over your nose."

"I told you, you despised me," said Nucky, sullenly.

The man smiled to himself. Suddenly he took the boy's hand in both his

own.

"I suppose if Jack had been reared in Minetta Lane, he'd have been just

as wrong in his ideas as you are. Look here, Enoch, I'll make a

bargain with you. I want you to try the Canyon for a week or so, until

I get back from the Coast. If, at the end of that time, you still want

Minetta Lane, I'll land you back there with fifty dollars in your

pocket, and you can go your own gait."

Nucky for the first time turned and looked Seaton in the face.

"Honest?" he gasped.

Seaton nodded.

"Do I have to go down the Canyon?" asked Nucky.

"You don't have to do anything except play straight, till I get back."

"I--I guess I could stand it,"--the boy's eyes were a little pitiful in

their fear.

"That isn't enough. I want your promise, Enoch!"

Nucky stared into Seaton's steady eyes. "All right, I'll promise.

And--and, Mr. Seaton, would you sit with me till I get to sleep?"

Seaton nodded. Nucky had made no attempt to free his hand from the

kindly grasp that imprisoned it. He lay staring at the ceiling for a

long moment, then his eyelids fluttered, dropped, and he slept. He did

not stir when Seaton rose and went back to his own bed.

It did not snow during the night and the train that had brought Nucky

and Mr. Seaton up announced itself as ready for the return trip to

Williams, immediately after breakfast. Nucky slept late and only

opened his eyes when Frank Allen clumped into the room about nine

o'clock.

"Hello, New York! Haven't died, have you? Come on, we're going to

break trail down the Canyon, you and I."

"Not on your life!" Nucky roused at once and sat up in bed, his face

very pale under its thatch of dark red hair.

"John Seaton turned you over to me. Said to tell you he thought you

needed the sleep more than you did to say good-by to him."

"He told me last night," exclaimed Nucky; "that I didn't have to go

down the Canyon."

"And you don't, you poor sissy! You aren't afraid to get up and dress,

are you?" Allen's grin took away part of the sting of his speech.

"Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes, Enoch," and he turned on his

heel.

Nucky was down in less than the time allotted. As he leaned against

the office desk, waiting for the guide, the room clerk said, "So you're

the kid that's afraid to go down the trail. Usually it's the old

ladies that kick up about that. Most boys your age are crazy for the

trip."

Nucky muttered something and moved away. In front of the fire the

woman who had smiled at him the day before, smiled again.

"Afraid too, aren't you! They can't get me onto that trail, either."

Nucky smiled feebly then looked about a little wildly for Frank Allen.

When he espied the guide at the cigar-stand, he crossed to him

hurriedly.

"Say now, Mr. Allen, listen!"

"I'm all ears, son!"

"Now don't tell everybody I'm afraid of the trail!"

"Oh, you're the kid!" exclaimed a bell boy. "Say, there was an old

lady here once that used to go out every morning and pray to the Lord

to close the earth's gap, it made her so nervous! Why don't you try

that, kid? Maybe the Lord would take a suggestion from a New Yorker."

Nucky rushed to the dining room. He was too angry and resentful to eat

much. He drank two cups of coffee, however, and swallowed some toast.

"Ain't you going to eat your eggs?" demanded the waitress. "What's the

matter with you? Folks always stuff themselves, here. Say, don't let

the trail scare you. I was that way at first, but finally I got my

nerve up and there's nothing to it. Say, let me give you some advice.

There's only a few folks here now, so the guides and the hotel people

have got plenty of time on their hands. They're awful jokers and

they'll tease the life out of you, till you take the trip. You just

get on a mule, this morning, and start. Every day you wait, you'll

hate it more."

Nucky's vanity had been deeply wounded. Greater than his fear, which

was very great indeed, was Nucky's vanity. He gulped the second cup of

coffee, then with the air of bravado which belonged to Marty the Dude,

he sauntered up to the cigar stand where the guide still lounged.

"All right, Frank," said Nucky. "I'm ready for Bright Angel when you

are."

The guide looked at the boy carefully. Two bright red spots were

burning in Nucky's cheeks. He was biting his lips, nervously. But his

blue eyes were hard and steady.

"I'll be ready in half an hour, Enoch. Meet me at the corral. We'll

camp down below for a night or two if you hold out and I'll have to

have the grub put up. You go over to the store room yonder and get a

flannel shirt and a pair of denim pants to pull on over those you're

wearing. Mr. Seaton left his camera for you. I put it on your bureau.

Bring that along. Skip now!"

Nucky's cheeks were still burning when he met Allen at the corral.

Three mules, one a well loaded pack mule, the others saddled, were

waiting. Frank leaned against the bars.

"Enoch," said the man, "there's no danger at all, if you let your mule

alone. Don't try to guide him. He knows the trail perfectly. All you

have to do is to sit in the saddle and look up, not down! Remember,

up, not down! I shall lead. You follow, on Spoons. Old Foolish Face

brings up the rear with the pack. Did you ever ride, before?"

"I never touched a horse in my life," replied Nucky, trying to curb the

chattering of his teeth.

"You had better mount and ride round the road here, for a bit. Take

the reins, so. Stand facing the saddle, so. Now put this foot in the

stirrup, seize the pommel, and swing the other leg over as you spring.

That's the idea!"

Nucky was awkward, but he landed in the saddle and found the other

stirrup, the mule standing fast as a mountain while he did so. Spoons

moved off at Allen's bidding, and Nucky grasped at the pommel. But

only for a moment.

"Don't he shake any worse than this?" he cried.

"No, but it's not so easy to stay in the saddle when the grade's steep.

Pull on your right rein, Enoch, and bring old Spoons in behind me.

Well done! We're off! See the bunch on the hotel steps! Guess you

fooled 'em this time, New York!"

Half a dozen people, including the clerk were standing on the steps,

watching the little cavalcade. As the mules filed by, somebody began

to clap.

"What's the excitement, Frank?" demanded Nucky.

Frank turned in his saddle to smile at the boy. "Out in this country

we admire physical nerve because we need a lot of it. And you're

showing a good quality, old chap. Just sit easy now and when you want

me to stop, yell."

Nucky was sitting very straight with his thin chest up, and he managed

to maintain this posture as the trail turned down over the rim. Then

he grasped the pommel in both hands.

It was a wonderful trail, carved with infinite patience and ingenuity

out of the canyon wall. To Allen it was as safe and easy as a flight

of stairs. Nucky, trembling in the saddle would have felt quite as

comfortable standing on the topmost window ledge of the Flat Iron

building, in New York. And, to Nucky, there was no trail! Only a

narrow, corkscrew shelf, deep banked with snow into which the mules set

their small feet gingerly. For many minutes, the boy saw only this

trackless ledge, and the sickening blue depths below.

"I can never stand it!" he muttered. "I can never stand it! If this

mule makes just one mis-step, I'm dead." He felt a little nauseated.

"I can never stand it! 'Twould have been better if I'd just let 'em

tease me. Hey, Frank!"

The guide looked back. The red spots were gone from Nucky's cheeks now.

"We got to go back! I can't get away with it!" cried the boy.

"It's impossible to turn here, Enoch! Look up, man! Look up! And

just trust old Spoons! Are you cold? It was only eight above zero,

when we left the top. But the snow'll disappear as we go down and when

we reach the river it'll be summer. See that lone pine up on the rim

to your right? They say an Indian girl jumped from the top of that

because she bore a cross-eyed baby. Look up, Enoch, as we round this

curve and see that streak of red in the wall. An Indian giant bled to

death on the rim and his blood seeped through the solid rock to this

point. Watch how the sky gets a deeper blue, the farther down we go.

And now, Enoch look out, not down. You may come down Bright Angel a

thousand times and never see the colors you see to-day. The snowfall

has turned the world into a rainbow, by heck!"

Slowly, very slowly, Nucky turned his head and clinging to the pommel,

he stared across the canyon. White of snow; sapphire of sky; black of

sharp cut shadow. Mountains rising from the canyon floor thrust

scarlet and yellow heads across his line of vision. Close to his left,

as the trail curved, a wall of purest rose color lifted from a bank of

snow that was as blue as Allen's eyes. Beyond and beyond and ever

beyond, the vast orderliness of the multi-colored canyon strata melted

into delicate white clouds that now revealed, now concealed the

mountain tops.

Nucky gazed and gazed, shuddering, yet enthralled. Another sharp twist

in the trail and his knee scraped against the wall. He cried out

sharply. Frank turned to look but he did not stop the mules.

"Spoons thinks it's better to amputate your leg, once in a while than

to risk getting too close to the outer edge of the trail in all this

snow. He's an old warrior, is Spoons! He could carry a grand piano

down this trail and never scrape the varnish. Look up, Enoch! We'll

soon reach a broad bench where I'll let you rest."

"Don't you think I'll ever get off this brute till we reach bottom!"

shuddered Nucky.

The guide laughed and silence fell again. The mules moved as silently

through the snow as the mists across the mountain tops. In careful

gradation the trail zigzagged downward. The snow lessened in depth

with each foot of drop. The bitter cold began to give way to the

increasing warmth of the sun. Sensation crept back into Nucky's feet

and hands. By a supreme effort for many moments he managed to fix his

eyes firmly on Frank's broad back, and though he could not give up his

hold on the pommel, he sat a little straighter. Then, of a sudden,

Spoons stopped in his tracks, and as suddenly a little avalanche of

snow shot down the canyon wall, catching the mule's forelegs. Spoons

promptly threw himself inward, against the wall. Nucky gave a startled

look at the sickening depths below and when Frank turned in his saddle,

Nucky had fainted, half clinging to Spoons' neck, half supported

against the wet, rocky wall.

With infinite care, and astonishing speed, Frank slid from his mule and

made his way back to the motionless Spoons.

"Always said you were more than human, old chap," said Allen, kicking

the snow away from the mule's fore legs. "Easy now! Don't lose your

passenger!" The mule regained his balance and stepped carefully

forward out of the drift, while the guide, balanced perilously on the

outer edge of the trail, kept a supporting hand on Nucky's shoulders.

But there was no need of the flask Frank pulled from his pocket. Nucky

opened his eyes almost immediately. Whatever emotion Frank may have

felt, he kept to himself. "I told you Spoons was better than a life

insurance policy, Enoch."

Enoch slowly pushed himself erect. He looked from Frank's quizzical

eyes to Spoons' twitching ears, then at his own shaking hands.

"I fainted, didn't I?" he asked.

Allen nodded, and something in the twist of the man's lips maddened

Nucky. He burst forth wildly:

"You think I'm a blank blank sissy! Well, maybe I am. But if New York

couldn't scare me, this blank blank hole out here in this blank blank

jumping off place can't. I'm going on down this trail and if I fall

and get killed, it's up to you and Mr. Seaton."

"Good work, New York!" responded Allen briefly. He edged his way

carefully back to his mule and the cavalcade moved onward. Perhaps

five minutes afterward, as they left the snow line, the guide looked

back. Nucky was huddled in the saddle, his eyes closed tight, but his

thin lips were drawn in a line that caused Allen to change his purpose.

He did not speak as he had planned, but led the way on for a long half

hour, in silence, his eyes thoughtful.

But Nucky did not keep his eyes closed long. The pull of horror, of

mystery, of grandeur was too great. And after the avalanche, his

confidence in Spoons was established. He was little more than a child

and under his bravado and his watchfulness there was a child's

recklessness. If he were to fall, at least he must see whither he was

to fall. He forced himself to look from time to time into the depths

below. The trail dropped steadily, while higher and higher soared

canyon wall and mountain peak. It was still early when the trail met

the plateau on which lie the Indian gardens.

Frank's mule suddenly quickened his stride as did Spoons. But Nucky,

although he was weary and saddle sore had no intention of crying a

halt, now that the trail was level. His pulse began to subside and

once more he sat erect in the saddle. When the mules rushed forward to

bury their noses in a cress-grown spring, he grinned at Frank.

"Well, here I am, after all!"

Frank grinned in return. "If I could put through a few more stunts

like this, you'd look almost like a boy, instead of a potato sprout.

Get down and limber up."

Nucky half scrambled, half fell off his mule. "Must be spring down

here," he cried, staring about at grass and cottonwood.

"Just about. And it'll be summer when we reach the river."

"That was some trail, wasn't it, Frank! Do many kids take it?"

"Lots of 'em, but only with guides, and you were the worst case of

scared boy I've ever seen."

Nucky flushed. "Well, you might give me credit for hanging to it, even

if I was scared."

"I'll give you a lot of credit for that, old man. But if the average

New York boy has nerves like yours, I'm glad many of them don't come to

the Canyon, that's all. Your nerves would disgrace a girl."

"The guys I gamble with never complained of my lack of nerves," cried

Nucky, angrily.

"Gambling! Thunder! What nerve does it take to stack the cards

against a dub? But this country out here, let me tell you, it takes a

man to stand up to it."

"And I've been through police raids too, and never squealed and I know

two gunmen and they say I'm as hard as steel."

"They should have seen you with your arms around Spoons' neck, back up

the trail there," said Allen dryly. "Come! Mount again, Enoch! I

want to have lunch at the river."

Enoch was sullen as they started on but his sullenness did not last

long. As his fear receded, his curiosity increased. He gazed about

him with absorbed interest, and he began to bombard the guide with

questions in genuine boy fashion.

"How far is it to the river? Do we have any steeper trails than the

ones we've been on, already? Did any one ever swim across the river?

Was any one ever killed when he minded what the guide told him? What

guys camp in the Indian gardens? How much does it cost? Did any one

ever climb up the side of the Canyon, say like one yonder where it

looked like different colored stair steps going up? Did any one ever

find gold in the canyon? How did they know it when they found it? Did

Frank ever do any mining? What was placer mining?" And on and on,

only the intermittently returning fear of the trail silencing him until

Frank ordered him to dismount in a narrow chasm within sight of the

roaring, muddy Colorado.

"One of the ways Seaton employed to persuade me to take care of you for

a week was by telling me you were a very silent kid," added the guide.

Nucky grinned sheepishly, and turned to stare wonderingly at the black

walls that here closed in upon them breathlessly. Their lunch had been

prepared at the hotel. Frank fed the mules, then handed Nucky his box

lunch and proceeded to open his own.

"Does it make you sore to have me ask you questions?" asked the boy.

"No! I guess it's more natural for a kid than the sulks you've been

keeping up with Seaton."

"I'm not such a kid. I'm going on fifteen and I've earned my own way

since I was twelve. And I earn it with men, too." Nucky jerked his

head belligerently.

Frank ate a hard boiled egg before speaking. Then, with one eyebrow

raised, he grunted, "What'd you work at?"

"Cards and dice!" this very proudly.

"You poor nut!" Frank's voice was a mixture of contempt and

compassion. Nucky immediately turned sulky and the meal was finished

in silence. When the last doughnut had been devoured, Frank stretched

himself in the warm sand left among the rocks by the river at flood.

"Must be eighty degrees down here," he yawned. "We'll rest for a half

hour, then we'll make the night camp. It's after two now and it will

be dark in this narrow rift by four."

Nucky looked about him apprehensively. The Canyon here was little more

than a gorge whose walls rose sheer and menacing toward the narrow

patch of blue sky above. He could not make up his mind to lie down and

relax as Frank had done. All was too new and strange.

"Are there snakes round here?" he demanded.

Frank's grunt might have been either yes or no. Nucky glanced

impatiently at the guide's closed eyes, then he began to clamber

aimlessly and languidly over the rocks to the river edge. At a

distance of perhaps a hundred feet from Frank he stopped, looked at the

bleak, blank wall of the river opposite, bit his nails and shuddering

turned back. He crouched on a rock, near the guide, smoking one

cigarette after another until Frank jumped to his feet.

"Three o'clock, New York! Time to get ready for the night."

"I don't want to stay in this hole all night!" protested Nucky, "I

couldn't sleep."

"You'll like it. You've no idea how comfortable I'm going to make you.

Now, your job is to gather drift wood and pile it on that flat topped

rock yonder. Keep piling till I tell you to quit. The nights are cold

and I'll keep a little blaze going late, for you."

"What's the idea?" demanded Nucky. "Why stay down here, like lost

dogs, when there's a first class hotel back up there?"

Frank sighed. "Well, the idea is this! A real he man likes camping in

the wilds better'n he likes anything on earth. Seaton thought maybe

somewhere in that pindling carcass of yours there was the making of a

he man and that you'd like the experience. I promised him I'd try you

out and I'm trying you, hang you for an ungrateful, cowardly cub."

Nucky turned on his heel and began to pick up drift wood. He was in

poor physical trim but the pile, though it grew slowly, grew steadily.

By the time Frank announced the camp ready, Nucky's fuel pile was of

really imposing dimensions. And dusk was thickening in the gorge.

Before a great flat faced rock that looked toward the river, was a

stretch of clean dry sand. Against this rock, the guide had placed a

rubber air-mattress and a plentiful supply of blankets. A small

folding table stood before a rough stone fire place. A canvas shelter

stretched vertically on two strips of driftwood, shut off the night

wind that was beginning to sweep through the Canyon. The mules were

tethered close to the camp.

"Where'd that mattress come from?" exclaimed Nucky.

"Partly off old Funny Face's back and part out of a bicycle pump.

Didn't want to risk your sickly bones on the ground until you harden up

a bit. Pretty good pile of timber for an amateur, New York." Frank

looked up from the fire he was kindling into Nucky's thin, tired face.

"Now, son, you sit down on the end of your bed and take it easy. I'm

an old hand at this game and before we've had our week together I'm

banking on you being glad to help me. But to-day you've had enough."

"Thanks," mumbled Nucky, as he eagerly followed the guide's suggestions.

The early supper tasted delicious to the boy although every muscle in

his body ached. Bacon and flap jacks, coffee and canned peaches he

devoured with more appetite than he ever had brought to ministrone and

red wine. A queer and inexplicable sense of comfort and a desire to

talk came over him after the meal was finished, the camp in order, and

the fire replenished.

"This ain't so bad," he said. "I wish some of the guys that used to

come to Luigi's could see me now."

"And who was Luigi?" asked Frank, lighting his pipe and stretching

himself on a blanket before the fire.

"He was the guy I lived with after my mother died. He ran a gambling

joint, and we was fixing the place up for women, too, when we all got

pinched." This very boastfully.

"Who were your folks, Enoch?"

"Never heard of none of 'em. Luigi's a Dago. He wouldn't have been so

bad if he didn't pinch the pennies so. Were you ever in New York,

Frank?" This in a patronizing voice.

"Born there," replied the guide.

Nucky gasped with surprise. "How'd you ever happen to come out here?"

"I can't live anywhere else because of chronic asthma. I don't know

now that I'd want to live anywhere else. I used to kick against the

pricks, but you get more sense as you grow older--after it's too late."

"I should think you'd rather be dead," said Nucky sincerely. "If I

thought I couldn't get back to MacDougal Street I'd want to die."

"MacDougal Street and the dice, I suppose, eh? Enoch, you're on the

wrong track and I know, because that's the track I tried myself. And I

got stung."

"But--" began Nucky.

"No but about it. It's the wrong track and you can't get to decency or

happiness or contentment on it. There's two things a man can never

make anything real out of; cards or women."

"I didn't want to make anything out of women. I want to get even with

'em, blank blank 'em all," cried Nucky with sudden fury. And he burst

into an obscene tirade against the sex that utterly astonished the

guide. He lay with his chin supported on his elbow, staring at the

boy, at his thin, strongly marked features, and at the convulsive

working of his throat as he talked.

"Here! Dry up!" Frank cried at last. "I'll bet these canyon walls

never looked down on such a rotten little cur as you are in all their

history. You gambling, indecent little gutter snipe, isn't there a

clean spot in you?"

"You were a gambler yourself!" shrieked Nucky.

"Yes, sir, I know cards and I know women, and that's why I know just

what a mess of carrion your lovely young soul is. Any kid that can see

the glory o' God that you've seen to-day and then sit down and talk

like an overflowing sewer isn't fit to live. I didn't know that before

I came out to this country, but I know it now. You get to bed. I

don't want to hear another word out of you to-night. Pull your boots

off. That's all."

Half resentful, half frightened, Nucky obeyed. For a while, with

nerves and over-tired muscles twitching, he lay watching the fire.

Then he fell asleep.

It was about midnight when he awoke. He had kicked the blankets off

and was cold. The fire was out but the full moon sailed high over the

gorge. Frank, rolled in his blankets, his feet to the dead fire, slept

noisily. Nucky sat up and pulled his blankets over him, but he did not

lie down again. He sat staring at the wonder of the Canyon. For a

long half hour he was motionless save for the occasional moistening of

his lips and turning of his head as he followed the unbelievable

contour of the distant silvered peaks. Then of a sudden he jumped from

his bed and, stooping over Frank, shook him violently.

"Wake up!" he cried. "Wake up! I gotta tell somebody or the Canyon'll

drive me crazy. I'll tell you why I'm bad. It's because my mother was

bad before me. She was Luigi's mistress. She was a bad lot. It was

born in me."

Frank sat up, instantly on the alert. "How old were you when she

died?" he demanded.

"Six," replied Nucky.

"Shucks! you don't know anything about it, then! Who told you she was

bad?"

"Luigi! I guess he'd know, wouldn't he?"

"Maybe he did and maybe he didn't. At any rate, I wouldn't take the

oath on his deathbed of a fellow who ran a joint like Luigi's and

taught a kid what he's taught you. He told you that, of course, to

keep a hold on you."

"But she lived with him. I remember that myself."

"I can't help that. I'll bet you my next year's pay, she wasn't your

mother!"

"Not my mother?" Nucky drew himself up with a long breath. "Certainly

she was my mother."

Frank uncovered some embers from the ashes and threw on wood. "I'll

bet she wasn't your mother," he repeated firmly. "Seaton told me that

that policeman friend of yours said she might and might not be your

mother. Seaton and the policeman both think she wasn't, and I'm with

'em."

"But why? Why?" cried Nucky in an agony of impatience.

"For the simple reason that a fellow with a face like your's doesn't

have a bad mother."

In the light of the leaping flames Nucky's face fell. "Aw, what you

giving us! Sob stuff?"

"I'm telling you something that's as true as God. You can't see Him or

talk to Him, but you know He made this Canyon, don't you?"

Nucky nodded quickly.

"All right, then I'm telling you, every line of your face and head says

you didn't come of a breed like the woman that lived with Luigi. I'll

bet if you show you have any decent promise, Seaton will clear that

point up. A good detective could do it."

"I never thought of such a thing," muttered Nucky. He continued to

stare at Frank, his pale boy's face tense with conflicting hope and

fear. The guide picked up his blanket, but Nucky cried out:

"Don't go to sleep for a minute, please! I can't stand it alone in

this moonlight. I never thought such thoughts in my life as I have

down here, about God and who I am and what a human being is. I tell

you, I'm going crazy."

Frank nodded, and began to fill his pipe. "Sit down close to the fire,

son. That's what the Canyon does to anybody that's thin skinned. I

went through it too. I tell you, Nucky, this life here in the Canyon

and the thoughts you think here, are the only real things. New York

and all that, is just the outer shell of living. Understand me?"

The boy nodded, his eyes fixed on Frank's with pitiful eagerness.

"It's clean out here. This country isn't all messed up with men and

women's badness. Everybody starts even and with a clean slate. Lord

knows, I was a worthless bunch when I struck here, fifteen years ago.

I'd been expelled from Yale in my senior year for gambling. I'd run

through the money my father'd left me. I'd gotten into a woman scrape

and I'd alienated every member of my family. Just why I thought a deck

of cards was worth all that, I can't tell you. But I did. Then I came

down here to see what the Canyon could do for my asthma and it cured

that, and by the Eternal, it cured my soul, too. Now listen to me,

son! You go back and lie down and put yourself to sleep thinking about

your real mother. Boys are apt to take their general build from their

mothers, so she was probably a big woman, not pretty, but with an

intellectual face full of character. Go on, now, Enoch! You need the

rest and we've got a full day to-morrow."

Nucky passed his hand unsteadily over his eyes, but rose without a

word, and Frank tucked him into his blankets, then sat quietly waiting

by the fire. It was not long before deep breaths that were

pathetically near to sobs told the guide that Nucky was asleep. Then

he rolled himself in his own blankets. The moon passed the Canyon wall

and utter darkness enwrapped the Canyon and the river which murmured

harshly as it ran.

Nucky wakened the next morning to the smell of coffee. He sat up and

eyed Frank soberly.

"Hello, New York! This is the Grand Canyon!" Frank grinned as he

lifted the coffee pot from the fire.

Nucky grinned in response. Shortly after, when he sat down to his

breakfast the grin had disappeared, but with it had gone the look of

sullenness that had seemed habitual.

"Frank," said Nucky, when breakfast was over, "do you care if I talk to

you some more about--you know--you know what you said last night? I

never talked about it to any one but Luigi, and it makes me feel

better."

"Sure, go ahead!" said Frank.

"My mother--" began Nucky.

"You mean Luigi's wife," corrected the guide.

"Luigi's wife was crazy about me. She loved me just as much as any

mother could. Luigi's always been jealous about it. That's why he

treated me so rotten."

"Bad women can be just as fond of kids as good women," was Frank's

comment. "What did she look like? Can you remember?"

"I don't know whether I remember it or if it's just what folks told me.

She had dark blue eyes and dark auburn hair. Luigi said she was

Italian."

"If she was, she was North Italian," mused the guide. "Did any one

ever give you any hints about your father?"

A slow, painful red crept over Nucky's pale face. "I never asked but

once. Maybe you can guess what Luigi said."

"If Luigi were in this part of the country," growled Allen, "I'd lead a

lynching party to call on him." He paused, eying Nucky's boyish face

closely, then he asked, "Did you love your mother?"

"I suppose I did. But Luigi kept at me so that now I hate her and all

other women. Mrs. Seaton seemed kind of nice, but I suppose she is

like the rest of 'em."

"Don't you think it! And did you know that Seaton thinks you were

kidnapped?"

Nucky drew a quick breath and the guide went on, "I think so too. You

never belonged to an Italian. I can't tell you just why I feel so

certain. But I'd take my oath you are of New England stock. John

Seaton is a first-class lawyer. As I said to you last night, if you

show some decent spirit, he'd try to clear the matter up for you."

Nucky's blue eyes were as eager and as wistful as a little child's.

His thin, mobile lips quivered. "I never thought of such a thing,

Frank!"

"Well, you'd better think of it! Now then, you clean up these dishes

for me while I attend to the stock. I want to be off in a half hour."

During the remainder of that very strenuous day, Nucky did not refer

again to the matter so near his heart. He was quiet, but no longer

sullen, and he was boyishly interested in the wonders of the Canyon.

The sun was setting when they at last reached the rim. For an hour

Nucky had not spoken. When Allen had turned in the saddle to look at

the boy, Nucky had nodded and smiled, then returned to his absorbed

watching of the lights and shadows in the Canyon.

They dismounted at the corral. "Now, old man," said Frank, "I want you

to go in and tuck away a big supper, take a hot bath and go to bed.

To-morrow we'll ride along the rim just long enough to fight off the

worst of the saddle stiffness."

"All right!" Nucky nodded. "I'm half dead, that's a fact. But I've

got to tell the clerk and the bell boy a thing or two before I do

anything."

"Go to it!" Frank laughed, as he followed the mules through the gate.

Nucky did not open his eyes until nine o'clock the next morning. When

he had finished breakfast, he found the guide waiting for him in the

lobby.

"Hello, Frank!" he shouted. "Come on! Let's start!"

All that day, prowling through the snow after Allen, Nucky might have

been any happy boy of fourteen. It was only when Frank again left him

at dusk that his face lengthened.

"Can't I be with you this evening, Frank?" he asked.

Frank shook his head. "I've got to be with my wife and little girl."

"But why can't I--" Nucky hesitated as he caught the look in Frank's

face. "You'll never forget what I said about women, I suppose!"

"Why should I forget it?" demanded Allen.

The sullen note returned to Nucky's voice. "I wouldn't harm 'em!"

"No, I'll bet you wouldn't!" returned Allen succinctly.

Nucky turned to stare into the Canyon. It seemed to the guide that it

was a full five minutes that the boy gazed into the drifting depths

before he turned with a smile that was as ingenuous as it was wistful.

"Frank, I guess I made an awful dirty fool of myself! I--I can't like

'em, but I'll take your word that lots of 'em are good. And nobody

will ever hear me sling mud at 'em again, so help me God--and the

Canyon!"

Frank silently held out his hand and Nucky grasped it. Then the guide

said, "You'd better go to bed again as soon as you've eaten your

supper. By to-morrow you'll be feeling like a short trip down Bright

Angel. Good-night, old top!"

When Nucky came out of the hotel door the next morning, Frank, with a

cavalcade of mules, was waiting for him. But he was not alone. Seated

on a small mule was a little girl of five or six.

"Enoch," said Frank, "this is my daughter, Diana. She is going down

the trail with us."

Nucky gravely doffed his hat, and the little girl laughed, showing two

front teeth missing and a charming dimple.

"You've got red hair!" she cried.

Nucky grunted, and mounted his mule.

"Diana will ride directly behind me," said Frank. "You follow her,

Enoch."

"Can that kid go all the way to the river?" demanded Nucky.

"She's been there a good many times," replied Frank, looking proudly at

his little daughter.

She was not an especially pretty child, but had Nucky been a judge of

feminine charms he would have realized that Diana gave promise of a

beautiful womanhood. Her chestnut hair hung in thick curls on her

shoulders. Her eyes were large and a clear hazel. Her skin, though

tanned, was peculiarly fine in texture. But the greatest promise of

her future beauty lay in a sweetness of expression in eye and lip that

was extraordinary in so young a child. For the rest, she was thin and

straight and wore a boy's corduroy suit.

Diana feared the trail no more than Nucky feared MacDougal Street. She

was deeply interested in Nucky, turning and twisting constantly in her

saddle to look at him.

"Do you like your mule, Enoch? He's a very nice mule."

"Yes, but don't turn round or you'll fall."

"How can I talk if I don't turn round? Do you like little girls?"

"I don't know any little girls. Turn round, Diana!"

"But you know me!"

"I won't know you long if you don't sit still in that saddle, Miss."

"Do you like me, Enoch?"

Nucky groaned. "Frank, if Diana don't quit twisting, I'll fall myself,

even if she don't!"

"Don't bother Enoch, daughter!"

"I'm not bothering Enoch, Daddy. I'm making conversation. I like him,

even if he has red hair."

Nucky sighed, and tried to turn the trend of the small girl's ideas.

"I'll bet you don't know what kind of stone that is yonder where the

giant dripped blood."

"There isn't any giant's blood!" exclaimed Diana scornfully. "That is

just red quartz!"

"Oh, and what's the layer next to it?" demanded Nucky skeptically.

"That's black basalt," answered the little girl. Then, leaning far out

of the saddle to point to the depths below, "and that--"

"Frank!" shouted Nucky. "Diana is bound to fall! I just can't stand

looking at her."

This time Frank spoke sternly. "Diana, don't turn to look at Enoch

again!" and the little girl obeyed.

Had Nucky been other than he was, he might have been amused and not a

little charmed by Diana's housewifely ways when they made camp that

afternoon. She helped to kindle the fire and to unpack the provisions.

She lent a hand at arranging the beds and set the table, all with eager

docility and intelligence. But Nucky, after doing the chores Frank set

him, wandered off to a seat that commanded a wide view of the trail,

where he remained in silent contemplation of the wonders before him

until called to supper.

He was silent during the meal, giving no heed to Diana's small attempts

at conversation, and wandered early to his blankets. In the morning,

however, he was all boy again, even attempting once or twice to tease

Diana, in a boy's offhand manner. That small person, however, had

become conscious of the fact that Enoch was not interested in her, and

she had withdrawn into herself with a pride and self-control that was

highly amusing to her father. Nor did she unbend during the day.

The return trip was made with but one untoward incident. This occurred

after they had reached the snow line. Much of the snow had thawed and

by late afternoon there was ice on the trail. Frank led the way very

gingerly and the mules often stopped of their own accord, while the

guide roughened the path for them with the axe. In spite of this care,

as they rounded one last upper curve, Diana's mule slipped, and it was

only Diana's lightning quickness in dismounting and the mule's skill in

throwing himself inward that saved them both.

Diana did not utter a sound, but Nucky gave a hoarse oath and, before

Frank could accomplish it, Nucky had dismounted, had rushed up the

trail and stood holding Diana in his lank, boyish arms, while the mule

regained his foothold.

"Now look here, Frank, Diana rides either in your lap or mine!" said

Nucky shortly, his face twitching.

Frank raised his eyebrows at the boy's tone. "Set her down, Enoch!

We'll all walk to the top. It's only a short distance, and the ice is

getting pretty bad."

Nucky obediently set the little girl on her feet, and Diana tossed her

curls and followed her father without a word. And Frank, as he led the

procession, wore a puzzled grin on his genial face.

* * * * * *

Exactly ten days after Nucky's first trip down Bright Angel trail, John

Seaton descended somewhat wearily from the Pullman that had landed him

once more at the Canyon's rim. He had telegraphed the time of his

arrival and Nucky ran up to meet him.

"Hello, Mr. Seaton!" he said.

Seaton's jaw dropped. "What on earth--?" Then he grinned.

Nucky was wearing high laced boots, a blue flannel shirt, gauntlet

gloves and a huge sombrero.

"Some outfit, Enoch! Been down Bright Angel yet?"

"Three times," replied the boy, with elaborate carelessness. "Say, Mr.

Seaton, can't we stay one more day and you take the trip with us?"

"I think I can arrange it." Seaton was trying not to look at the boy

too sharply. "I'll be as sore as a dog, for I haven't been in a saddle

since I was out here before. But Bright Angel's worth it."

"Sore!" Nucky laughed. "Say, Mr. Seaton, I just don't try to sit down

any more!"

They had reached the hotel desk now and as Seaton signed the register

the clerk said, with a wink:

"If you'll leave young Huntingdon behind, we'll take him on as a guide,

Mr. Seaton."

Nucky tossed his head. "Huh! and you might get a worse guide than me,

too. Frank says I got the real makings in me and I'll bet Frank knows

more about guiding than any white in these parts. Navaho Mike told me

so. And Navaho Mike says he knows I could make money out here even at

fourteen."

"How, Enoch?" asked Seaton, as they followed the bell boy upstairs. He

was not looking at Nucky, for fear he would show surprise. "How? at

cards?"

"Aw, no! Placer mining! It don't cost much to outfit and there's

millions going to waste in the Colorado! Millions! Frank and Mike say

so. You skip, Billy,"--this to the bell boy,--"I'm Mr. Seaton's bell

hop."

The boy pocketed the tip Nucky handed him, and closed the door after

himself. Nucky opened Seaton's suitcase.

"Shall I unpack for you?" he asked.

"No, thanks, I shan't need anything but my toilet case, for I'm going

to get into an outfit like yours, barring the hat and gloves."

"Ain't it a pippin!" giving the hat an admiring glance. "Frank gave it

to me. He has two, and I rented the things for you, Mr. Seaton. Here

they are," opening the closet door. "Shall I help you with 'em? Will

you take a ride along the rim now? Shall I get the horses? Now? I'll

be waiting for you at the main entrance with the best pony in the

bunch."

He slammed out of the room. John Seaton scratched his head after he

had shaken it several times, and made himself ready for his ride.

Frank rapped on the door before he had finished and came in, smiling.

"Well, I understand you're to be taken riding!" he said.

"For the love of heaven, Frank, what have you done to the boy?"

"Me? Nothing! It was the Canyon. Let me tell you about that first

trip." And he told rapidly but in detail, the story of Nucky's first

two days in the Canyon.

Seaton listened with an absorbed interest. "Has he spoken of his

mother to you since?" he asked, when Frank had finished.

"No, and he probably never will again. Do you think you can clear the

matter up for him?"

"I'll certainly try! Do you like the boy, Frank?"

"Yes, I do. I think he's got the real makings in him. Better leave

him out here with me, Seaton."

Seaton's face fell. "I--I hoped he'd want to stick by me. But the

decision is up to the boy. If he wants to stay out here, I'll raise no

objections."

"I'm sure it would be better for him," said Frank. "Gambling is a

persistent disease. He's got years of struggle ahead of him, no matter

where he goes."

"I know that, of course. Well, we'll take the trip down the trail

to-morrow before we try to make any decisions. I must go along now.

He's waiting for me."

"Better put cotton in one ear," suggested Allen, with a smile.

The ride was a long and pleasant one. John Seaton gave secondary heed

to the shifting grandeur of the views, for he was engrossed by his

endeavor to replace the sullen, unboyish Nucky he had known with this

voluble, high strung and entirely adolescent person who bumped along

the trail regardless of weariness or the hour.

The trip down Bright Angel the next day was an unqualified success.

They took old Funny Face and camped for the night. After supper, Frank

muttered an excuse and wandered off toward the mules, leaving Nucky and

Seaton by the fire.

"Frank thinks you ought to stay out here with him, Enoch," said Seaton.

"What did you say to him when he told you that?" asked Nucky eagerly.

"I said I hoped you'd go back to New York with me, but that the

decision was up to you."

Nucky said nothing for the moment. Seaton watched the fire glow on the

boy's strong face. When Nucky looked up at his friend, his eyes were

embarrassed and a little miserable.

"Did Frank tell you about our talk down here?"

Seaton nodded.

"Do you know?" the boy's voice trembled with eagerness. "Was she my

mother?"

"Foley thinks not. He says she spoke with an accent he thought was

Italian. When I get back to New York I'll do what I can to clear the

matter up for you. Queer, isn't it, that human beings crave to know

even the worst about their breed."

"I got to know! I got to know! Mr. Seaton, I ran away from Luigi one

time. I guess I was about eight. I wanted to live in the country.

And I got as far as Central Park before they found me. He got the

police on my trail right off. And when he had me back in Minetta Lane,

first he licked me and then he told me how bad my mother was, and he

said if folks knew it, they'd spit on me and throw me out of school,

and that I was lower than any low dog. And he told me if I did exactly

what he said he'd never let any one know, but if I didn't he'd go over

and tell Miss Brannigan. She was a teacher I was awful fond of, and

he'd tell the police, and he'd tell all the kids. And after that he

was always telling me awful low things about my mother--"

Seaton interrupted firmly. "Not your mother. Call her Luigi's wife."

Nucky moistened his lips. "Luigi's wife. And it used to drive me

crazy. And he told me all women was like that only some less and some

worse. Mr. Seaton, is that true?"

"Enoch, it's a contemptible, unspeakable lie! The majority of women

are pure and sweet as no man can hope to be. I'd like to kill Luigi,

blast his soul!"

"Maybe you don't know!" persisted Nucky.

"I know! And what's more, when we get back to New York, I'll prove it

to you. The world is full of clean, honest, kindly people, Enoch.

I'll prove it to you, old man, if you'll give me the chance."

"But if she was my mother, how can I help being rotten?"

"Look here, Enoch, a fellow might have the rottenest mother and

rottenest father on earth, but the Lord will start the fellow out with

a clean slate, just the same. Folks aren't born bad. You can't

inherit your parents' badness. You could inherit their weak wills, for

instance, and if you live in Minetta Lane where there's only badness

about you, your weak will wouldn't let you stand out against the

badness. But you can't inherit evil. If that were possible, humanity

would have degenerated to utter brutality long ago. And, Enoch, you

haven't inherited even a weak will. You're as obstinate as old Funny

Face!"

"Then you think--" faltered the boy.

"I don't think! I know that you come of fine, upstanding stock! And

it's about time you moved out of Minetta Lane and gave your good blood

a chance!"

Enoch's lips quivered, and he turned his head toward the fire. Seaton

waited, patiently. After a while he said, "Enoch, the most important

thing in a man's life is his philosophy. What do you think life is

for? By what principles do you think a man ought to be guided? Do you

think that the underlying purpose of life is dog eat dog, every man for

himself, by whatever method? That's your gambler's philosophy. Or do

you think we're put here to make life better than we found it? That

was Abraham Lincoln's philosophy. Before you decide for the Grand

Canyon or for New York, you ought to discover your philosophy. Do you

see what I'm driving at?"

"Yes," said Nucky, "and I don't have to wait to discover it, for I've

done that this week. I want to go into politics so I can clean out

Minetta Lane."

Seaton looked at the lad keenly. "Good work, Nucky, old man!"

The boy spoke quickly. "Don't call me Nucky! I'm Enoch, from now on!"

"From now on, where?" asked Frank, strolling into the firelight.

"New York!" replied Enoch. "I'd rather stay here, but I got to go

back."

"Mr. Seaton, have you been using bribery?" Frank was half laughing,

half serious.

"Well, nothing as attractive as guiding on Bright Angel trail!"

exclaimed John.

"And that's the only job I was ever offered I really wanted!" cried

Enoch ruefully.

The men both laughed, and suddenly the boy joined them, laughing long

and a little hysterically. "O gee!" he said at last, "I feel as free

and light as air! I got to take a run up and down the sand," and a

moment later they heard his whistle above the endless rushing of the

Colorado.

"Ideas are important things," said Seaton, thoughtfully. "Such a one

as that beast Luigi has planted in Enoch's mind can warp his entire

life. He evidently is of a morbidly sensitive temperament, proud to a

fault, high strung and introspective. Until some one can prove to him

that his mother was not a harlot, he'll never be entirely normal. And

it's been my observation that one of the most fundamentally weakening

things for a boy's character is his not being able to respect his

father or mother. Luigi caught Enoch when his mind was like modeling

clay."

"Do you think you can clear the matter up?" asked Frank.

"I'll try my utmost. It's going to be hard, for Foley's no fool, and

he's done a lot of work on it with no results. If I don't settle the

matter, Enoch is going to be hag-ridden by Minetta Lane all his life.

I know of a chap who was lame for twenty years because when he was

about ten, he had a series of extraordinarily vivid dreams portraying a

curious accident that he was not able to distinguish from actual

happenings. It was not until he was a man and had accidentally come in

contact with a psychologist who analyzed the thing down to facts for

him that he was cured. I could cite you a hundred cases like this

where the crippling was mental as well as physical. And nothing but an

absolute and tangible proof of the falsity of the idea will make a

cure. Some day there are going to be doctors who will handle nothing

but ideas."

"The boy's worth saving!" Frank lighted his pipe thoughtfully.

"There's a power of will there for good or evil that can't be ignored.

And I have faith in any one the Canyon gets a real grip on. It sure

has got this boy. I never saw a more marked case."

The lawyer nodded and both men sat smoking, their eyes on the distant

rim.

BOOK II

THE SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR

CHAPTER III

TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER

"It sometimes seemed to me that the Colorado said as it rushed through

the Canyon, 'Nothing matters! Nothing! Nothing!'"--_Enoch's Diary_.

One burning morning in July, Jonas, in a cool gray seersucker suit, his

black face dripping with perspiration, was struggling with the electric

fan in the private office of the Secretary of the Interior. The

windows were wide open and the hideous uproar of street traffic filled

the room. It was a huge, high-ceilinged apartment, with portraits of

former Secretaries on the walls. The Secretary's desk, a large,

polished conference table, and various leather chairs, with a handsome

Oriental rug, completed the furnishings.

As Jonas struggled vainly with the fan, a door from the outer office

opened and a young man appeared with the day's mail. Charley Abbott

was nearing thirty but he looked like a college boy. He was big and

broad and blonde, with freckles disporting themselves frankly on a nose

that was still upturned. His eyes were set well apart and his lips

were frank. He placed a great pile of opened letters on Enoch's desk.

"Better peg along, Jonas," he said. "The Secretary's due in a minute!"

Jonas gathered the fan to his breast and scuttled out the side door as

Enoch Huntingdon came in at the Secretary's private entrance.

The years had done much for Enoch. He stood six feet one in his socks.

He was not heavy but still had something of the rangy look of his

boyhood. He was big boned and broad chested. College athletics had

developed his lungs and flattened his shoulder blades. His hair was

copper-colored, vaguely touched with gray at the temples and very thick

and unruly. His features were still rough hewn but time had hardened

their immaturity to a rugged incisiveness. His cheek bones were high

and his cheeks were slightly hollowed. His eyes were a burning,

brilliant blue, deep set under overhanging brows. His mouth was large,

thin lipped and exceedingly sensitive; the mouth of the speaker. He

wore a white linen suit.

"Good morning, Mr. Abbott," he said, dropping his panama hat on a

corner of the conference table.

"Good morning, Mr. Secretary! I hope you are rested after yesterday.

Seems to me that was as hard a day as we ever had."

Enoch dropped into his chair. "Was it really harder, Abbott, or was it

this frightful weather?"

"Well, we didn't have more appointments than usual, but some of them

were unusually trying. That woman who wanted to be reappointed to the

Pension Office, for example."

Enoch nodded. "I'd rather see Satan come into this office than a

woman. Try to head them off, Abbott, whenever you can."

"I always do, sir! Will you run through this correspondence, Mr.

Huntingdon, before I call in the Idaho contingent?"

Enoch began rapidly to read letters and to dictate terse replies. They

were not more than a third of the way down the pile when a buzzer

sounded. Enoch looked up inquiringly.

"I told Jonas to buzz for me at 9:20," explained young Abbott. "I

don't dare keep the people in the waiting-room watching the clock

longer than that. We'll fit this in at odd times, as usual. Remember,

Mr. Secretary, you can't give these people more than fifteen minutes.

Shall I come in and speak to you, at that time?"

"Perhaps you'd better," replied Enoch.

Abbott opened the door into the outer room. "Gentlemen, the Secretary

will receive you," he said. "Mr. Secretary, allow me to present Mr.

Reeves, Mr. Carleton, Mr. Schmidt, Mr. Dunkel, Mr. Street, Mr.

Swiftwater and Mr. Manges."

The men filing into the room bowed and mumbled. Enoch looked after

Abbott's retreating back admiringly. "I've been hearing Abbott do that

sort of thing for two years, but it never fails to rouse my

admiration," he said.

"A wonderful memory!" commented one of the visitors.

"Abbott is going into politics later," Enoch went on. "A memory such

as his will carry him far."

"Not as far as a silver tongue," suggested another man, with a twinkle

in his eye.

"That remains to be seen," smiled Enoch. He had a very pleasant smile,

showing even, white teeth. "Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?"

"Mr. Secretary," said the spokesman of the delegation, "as you know, we

represent the business men of the State of Idaho. There is a very

bitter controversy going on in our State over your recent ruling on the

matter of Water Power Control. We believe your ruling works an

injustice on the business men of our state and as nothing came of

correspondence, we thought we'd come along East and have a talk with

you."

"I'm glad you did," said Enoch. "You see, my work is of such a nature

that unless you people on the firing line keep in touch with me, I may

go astray on the practical, human side. You are all States' Rights

men, of course."

The delegation nodded.

"My ideas on Water Power are simple enough," said Enoch. "The time is

approaching when oil, gas, and coal will not supply the power needed in

America. We shall have to turn more and more to electricity produced

by water power. There is enough water in the streams of this country

to turn every wheel in every district. But it must be harnessed, and

after it is harnessed it must be sold to the people at a just price.

What I want to do is to produce all the available water power latent in

our waterways. Then I want the poorest people in America to have

access to it. There is enough power at a price possible even to the

poorest."

"We all agree with you so far, Mr. Secretary," said the chair-man of

the delegation.

"I thought you would!" Enoch's beautiful voice had a curious dignity

for all its geniality. "Now my policy aims to embody the idea that the

men who develop the water power of America shall not develop for

themselves and their associates a water power monopoly."

"We fear that as much as you do, Mr. Secretary," said one of the

delegates. "But let the state control that. We fear too much

bureaucracy and centralization of authority here in Washington. And

don't forget, if it came to a scratch, we could say to Uncle Sam, you

own the stream, but you shan't use a street or a town facility reaching

it."

Enoch raised his eyebrows. "Uncle Sam doesn't want more power. If the

states had not been so careless and so corrupt in regard to their

public lands and their waters, there would be no need now for the

Department of the Interior to assert its authority. Show me, Mr.

Delegate, that there are neither politics nor monopolistic dreams in

Idaho's attitude toward her Water Power problem and I'd begin to

de-centralize our policy toward your state."

Abbott opened the door and tip-toed to Enoch's desk. "I'm sorry, Mr.

Secretary," he said softly, "but Senator Far has been waiting five

minutes."

"I'm sorry too," replied Enoch. "Gentlemen, we have used up the time

allotted. Will you make arrangements with Mr. Abbott for a longer

conference, to-morrow? Come back with the proofs!" He smiled, and the

gentlemen from Idaho smiled in return, but a little ruefully. The last

one had not turned his back when Enoch began an attack on the pile of

letters.

A ruddy-faced, much wrinkled man appeared in the door.

"Senator Far, Mr. Secretary," announced Abbott. Enoch rose and held

out his hand. "Senator, you look warm. Oh, Abbott, tell Jonas to turn

on the fan. What can I do for Arkansas, Senator?"

Jonas came in hurriedly. "Mr. Secretary, that fan's laid down on me.

How come it to do it, I haven't found out yet. I tried to borrow one

from a friend of mine, but--"

"Never mind, Jonas," said Enoch. "I don't expect you to be an

electrician. Perhaps the power's still off in the building. I noticed

there were no lights when I came in."

Jonas' eyes grew as big as saucers. "It sure takes brains to be a

Secretary," he muttered, as he turned to hurry from the room.

The two men grinned at each other. "What I wanted was an appointment

for a friend of mine," said Senator Far. "He's done a lot for the

party and I want to get him into the Reclamation Service."

"He's an engineer?" asked Enoch, lighting the cigar the Senator gave

him.

"I don't think so. He's been playing politics ever since I knew him.

He has a good following in the state."

"Why the Reclamation Service then! By the eternal, Senator, can't you

fellows leave one department clear of the spoils system? I'm here to

tell you, I'm proud of the Service. It's made up of men with brains.

They get their jobs on pure ability. And you fellows--"

"Oh, all right, Mr. Huntingdon!" interrupted Senator Far, rising, "I'm

always glad to know where you stand! Good morning!"

He hurried from the room and Enoch sighed, looked out the window, then

read a half dozen letters before Abbott announced the next caller, a

man who wanted his pension increased and who had managed to reach the

Secretary through a letter from the president of a great college. Then

followed at five and ten minute intervals a man from Kansas who had

ideas on the allotment of Indian lands; a Senator who wanted light on a

bill the Secretary wished introduced; a man from Alaska who objected to

the government's attitude on Alaskan coal mines; the chairman of a

State Central Committee who wanted three appointments, and a well known

engineer who had a grievance against the Patent Office. Followed

these, an hour's conference with the Attorney General regarding the New

Pension Bill, and at noon a conference with the head of the Reclamation

Service on the matter of a new dam.

When this conference was over, Enoch once more attacked the

correspondence pile which, during the morning, having been constantly

fed by the indefatigable Abbott, was now of overwhelming proportions.

It was nearly two o'clock when Jonas, having popped his head in and out

of the door a half dozen times, evidently waiting for the Boss to look

up, entered the room with a tray.

"Luncheon is served, sir," he said.

"Put it right here, Jonas." Enoch did not raise his head.

Jonas set the tray firmly on the conference table. "No, sir, Mr.

Secretary, I ain't goin' to sit it there. You're going to git up and

come over here and keep your mind on your food. How come you think you

got iron insides?"

Enoch sighed. "All right, Jonas, I'm coming." He rose, stretched and

moved over to the table. The man ceremoniously pulled out a chair for

him, then lifted the towel from the tray and hung it over his arm. On

the tray were a bottle of milk, a banana and some shredded wheat

biscuit, with two cigars.

"Any time you want me to change your lunch, Mr. Secretary, you say so,"

said Jonas.

Enoch laughed. "Jonas, old man, how long have I been eating this

fodder for lunch?"

"Ever since you was Secretary to the Mayor, boss!"

"And how many times do you suppose you've told me you were willing to

change it, Jonas?"

"Every time, boss. How come you think I like to see a smart man like

you living on baby food?"

Enoch grunted. "And how many times have I told you the only way for me

to live through the banquets I have to attend is to keep to this sort

of thing when I am alone?"

Jonas did not reply. Enoch's simple lunches never ceased to trouble

him.

"Where do I go to-night, Jonas?"

"The British Ambassador's, Mr. Secretary."

Enoch finished his lunch rapidly and had just lighted the first of the

cigars when Abbott appeared.

"There's a woman out here from the Sunday Times, Mr. Secretary. She

wants to interview you on your ideas on marriage. She has a letter

from Senator Brownlee or I wouldn't have disturbed you. She looks as

if she could make trouble, if she wanted to."

"Tell her I'm sorry, but that I have no ideas about marriage and that

Jonas is as near a wife as I care to get. He henpecks me enough, don't

you, Jonas, old man! Abbott, just remember, once for all, I won't see

the women."

"Very well," replied Abbott. "Will you dictate a few moments on your

report to the President on the Pension controversy?"

"Yes!" Enoch pulled a handful of notes out of his pocket and began to

dictate clearly and rapidly. For ten minutes his voice rose steadily

above the raucous uproar that floated in at the window. Then the

telephone rang. Abbott answered it.

"The White House, Mr. Secretary," he said. Enoch picked up the

receiver. After a few moments' conversation he rose, his face eager.

"Abbott, the Mexican trouble appears to be coming to a crisis and the

President has called a cabinet meeting. I doubt if I can get back here

until after five. Will you express my regrets to the Argentine

delegation and make a new appointment? Is there any one in the

waiting-room?"

"Six people. I can get rid of them all except Alton of the Bureau of

Mines. I think you must see him."

"Send him in," said Enoch. "I'll ask him to ride as far as the White

House with me. And I'll be back to finish the letters, Abbott. I dare

not let them accumulate a single day."

Abbott nodded and hurried out. A tall, bronzed man, wiping the sweat

from his bald head, came in just as Jonas announced, "The carriage, Mr.

Secretary."

"Come along, Alton," said Enoch. "We'll talk your model coal mine as

we go."

It was six o'clock when Enoch appeared again in his office. His linen

suit was wrinkled and sweat stained between the shoulders. He tossed

his hat on a chair.

"Abbott, will you telephone Señor Juan Cadiz and ask him to meet me at

my house at ten thirty to-night? He is at the Willard. Tell Jonas to

interrupt us promptly at seven, I mustn't be late to dinner. Now, for

this mess."

Once more he began the attack on the day's mail, which Abbott had

already reduced to its lowest dimensions. Enoch worked with a power of

concentration and a quick decisiveness that were ably seconded by

Charley Abbott. It was a quarter before seven when Enoch picked up the

last letter. He read it through rapidly, then laid it down slowly, and

stared out of the window for a long moment. Abbott gave his chief's

face a quick glance, then softly shoved under his hand the pile of

letters that were waiting signature. The letter that Enoch had just

read was dated at the Grand Canyon.

"Dear Mr. Secretary," it ran, "it is twenty-two years since I took a

red-headed New York boy down Bright Angel trail. You and I have never

heard from each other since, but, naturally I have followed your career

with interest. And now I'm going to ask a favor of you. My daughter

Diana wants a job in the Indian Bureau and she's coming to Washington

to see you. Don't give her a job! She doesn't have to work. I can

take care of her. I'm an old man and selfish and I don't like to be

deprived of my daughter for my few remaining years.

"With heart-felt congratulations on your great career,

"I am yours most respectfully,

"FRANK ALLEN."

Enoch drew a deep breath and took up his fountain pen. He signed with

a rapid, illegible scrawl that toward the end of the pile became a mere

hieroglyphic. Jonas put his black face in at the door just as he

finished the last.

"Coming, Jonas!" said the Secretary. "By the way, Abbott, I'll answer

that letter from Frank Allen the first thing in the morning. Good

night, old man! Rather a lighter day than yesterday, eh?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Secretary!" agreed Abbott, as Enoch picked up his hat

and went hastily out the door Jonas held open for him.

It was seven twenty when Enoch reached home. His house was small, with

a lawn about the size of a saucer in front, and a back yard entirely

monopolized by a tiny magnolia tree. Enoch rented the house furnished

and it was full of the home atmosphere created by the former diplomat's

wife from whom he leased it. Jonas was his steward and his valet.

While other servants came and went, Jonas was there forever. He

followed Enoch upstairs and turned on the bath water, then hurried to

lay out evening clothes. During the entire process of dressing the two

men did not exchange a word but Jonas heaved a sigh of satisfaction

when at ten minutes before eight he opened the hall door. Enoch

smiled, patted him on the shoulders and ran down the stairs.

A dinner at the British Ambassador's was always exceedingly formal as

to food and service, exceedingly informal as to conversation. Enoch

took in a woman novelist, a woman a little past middle age who was very

small and very famous.

"Well," she said, as she pulled off her gloves, "I've been wanting to

meet you for a long time."

"I'm not difficult to meet," returned Enoch, with a smile.

"As to that I've had no personal experience but three; several friends

of mine have been trampled upon by your secretary. They all were

women, of course."

"Why, of course?" demanded Enoch.

"One of the qualities that is said to make you so attractive to my sex

is that you are a woman hater. Now just why do you hate us?"

"I don't hate women." Enoch spoke with simple sincerity. "I'm afraid

of them."

"Why?"

"I don't think I really know. Do you like men?"

"Yes, I do," replied Mrs. Rotherick promptly.

"Why?" asked Enoch.

"They aren't such cats as women," she chuckled. "Perhaps cat fear is

your trouble! What are you going to do about Mexico, Mr. Huntingdon?"

Enoch smiled. "I told the President at great length, this afternoon,

what I thought we ought to do. He gave no evidence, however, that he

was going to take my advice, or any one else's for that matter."

"Of course, I'm not trying to pick your confidence. Mr. Secretary!"

Mrs. Rotherick spoke quickly. "You know, I've lived for years in

Germany. I say to you, beware of Germany in Mexico, Mr. Huntingdon."

"What kind of people did you know in Germany?" asked Enoch.

"Many kinds! But my most intimate friend was an American woman who was

married to a German General, high in the confidence of the Kaiser. I

know the Kaiserin well. I know that certain German diplomats are

deeply versed in Mexican lore--its geography, its geology, its people.

I know that Germany must have more land or burst. Mr. Secretary,

remember what I say, Germany is deeply interested in Mexico and she is

the cleverest nation in the world to-day."

"What nation is that, Mrs. Rotherick?" asked the Ambassador.

"Germany!" replied the little woman.

"Possibly you look at Germany through the eyes of a fiction writer,"

suggested the Englishman.

"It's impossible to fictionize Germany," laughed Mrs. Rotherick. "One

could much more easily write a rhapsody on--"

"On the Secretary of the Interior," interrupted the Ambassador.

"Or on the Bank of England," laughed Mrs. Rotherick. "Very well,

gentlemen! I hope you never will have cause to remember my warning!"

It was just as the ladies were leaving the table that Enoch said to

Mrs. Rotherick: "Will you be so kind as to write me a letter telling me

of your suspicions of Germany in Mexico? I shall treat it as

confidential."

Mrs. Rotherick nodded, and he did not see her again that evening. Just

before Enoch departed for his engagement with Señor Cadiz, the

Ambassador buttonholed him.

"Look here, Huntingdon," he said, "that little Mrs. Rotherick knows a

thing or two. She's better informed on international relations than

many chaps in the diplomatic service. If I were you I'd pump her."

"Thanks, Mr. Johns-Eaton," replied Enoch. "Look here, just how much of

a row are you fellows going to make about those mines in the Alaskan

border country? Why shouldn't Canada take that trouble on?"

"Just how much trouble are you going to make about the seal

misunderstanding?" demanded Johns-Eaton.

"Well," replied Enoch, with a wide smile, "I have a new gelding I'd

like to try out, to-morrow morning. If you'll join me at seven-thirty

on that rack of bones you call a bay mare, I'll tell you all I know."

"You will, like thunder!" laughed Johns-Eaton. "But I'll be there and

jolly well give you the opportunity!"

Señor Juan Cadiz was prompt and so was Enoch. For a long hour the two

sat in the breathless heat of the July night while the Mexican answered

Enoch's terse questions with a flow of dramatic speech, accentuated by

wild gestures. Shortly after eleven-thirty Jonas appeared in the

doorway with two tinkling glasses.

"You are sure as to your facts about this bandit leader?" asked Enoch

in a low voice.

"Of an absolute sureness. If I--"

The Secretary interrupted. "Could you go to Mexico for me, in entire

secrecy?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! If you could but see him and he you! If he could

but know an American of your type, your fairness, your kindness, your

justice! We have been taught to despise and hate Americans, you must

know."

"Who has taught you?"

"Sometimes, I think partly by the Germans who have come among the

people. But why should Germany do so?"

"Why indeed?" returned Enoch, and the two men stared at each other,

deep intelligence in the gaze of each. Jonas tinkled the glasses again

and Señor Cadiz jumped to his feet.

"I know, Señor Jonas!" he laughed. "That is the good night cap, eh!"

Jonas grinned acquiescence, and five minutes later he turned off the

lights in the library. Enoch climbed the stairs, somewhat wearily.

His room was stifling despite the wide-flung windows and the electric

fan. He slowly and thoughtfully got himself into his pajamas, lighted

a cigarette, and walked over to the table that stood in the bay window.

He unlocked the table drawer and took out a large blank book of loose

leafed variety, opened it, and seating himself he picked up his pen and

began to write.

"July 17.--Rather an easier day than usual, Lucy, which was fortunate,

for the heat has been almost unbearable and at the end of the office

day came that which stirred old memories almost intolerably. A letter

from Frank Allen! You remember him, Lucy? I told you about him, when

I first began my diary. Well, he has written that his daughter, Diana,

is coming to Washington to ask me for a job which he does not wish me

to give her. I cannot see her! Only you know the pain that such a

meeting could give me! It would be like going to Bright Angel again.

And while the thought of going back to the Grand Canyon has intrigued

me for twenty-two years, I must go in my own way and in my own time.

And I am not ready yet. I had forgotten, by the way, that Frank had a

daughter. There was, now that I think of it, a little thing of five or

six who went down Bright Angel with us. I have only the vaguest

recollection of what she looked like.

"Minetta Lane and the Grand Canyon! What a hideous, what a grotesque

coupling of names! I have never seen the one of them since I was

fourteen and the other but once, yet these two have absolutely made my

life. Don't scold me, Lucy! I know you have begged me never to

mention Minetta Lane again. But to you, I must. Do you know what I

thought to-night after I left the British Ambassador? I thought that

I'd like to be in Luigi's second floor again, with a deck of cards and

the old gang. The old gang! They've all except Luigi been in

Sing-Sing or dead, these many years. Yet the desire was so strong that

only the thought of you and your dear, faithful eyes kept me from

charging like a wild elephant into a Pullman office and getting a berth

to New York."

Enoch dropped his pen and stared long at the only picture in his room,

a beautiful Moran painting of Bright Angel trail. Finally, he rose and

turned off the light. When Jonas listened at the door at half after

midnight, the sound of Enoch's steady, regular breathing sent that

faithful soul complacently to bed.

CHAPTER IV

DIANA ALLEN

"If only someone had taught me ethics as Christ taught them, while I

was still a little boy, I would be a finer citizen, now."--_Enoch's

Diary_.

It rained the next day and the Secretary of the Interior and the

British Ambassador did not attempt the proposed ride. Enoch did his

usual half hour's work with the punching bag and reached his office

punctual to the minute, with his wonted air of lack of haste and

general physical fitness. Before he even glanced at his morning's

mail, he dictated a letter to Frank Allen.

"Dear Frank: Your letter roused a host of memories. Some day I shall

come to Bright Angel again and you and I will camp once more in the

bottom of the Canyon. Whatever success I have had in after life is due

to you and John Seaton. I wonder if you know that he has been dead for

twenty years and that his devoted wife survived him only by a year?

"I will do my best to carry out your request in regard to your daughter.

"Cordially and gratefully yours,

"ENOCH HUNTINGDON."

After he had finished dictating this, the Secretary stared out of the

window thoughtfully. Then he said, "Let me have that at once, Mr.

Abbott. Who is waiting this morning?"

"Mr. Reeves of Idaho. I made an appointment yesterday for the

delegation to meet you at nine-fifteen. Reeves has turned up alone.

He says the committee decided it would get further if you saw him

alone."

"Reeves was the short, stout man with small eyes set close together!"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary."

Enoch grunted. "Any one else there you want to tell me about before

the procession begins?"

"Do you recall the man Armstrong who was here six months ago with ideas

on the functions of the Bureau of Education? I didn't let him see you,

but I sent you a memorandum of the matter. He is back to-day and I've

promised him ten minutes. I think he's the kind of a man you want in

the Bureau. He doesn't want a job, by the way."

"I'll see him," said Enoch. "It you can, let us have fifteen minutes."

Abbott sighed. "It's impossible, Mr. Secretary. I'll bring Reeves in

now."

The delegate from Idaho shook hands effusively.

"The rain is a great relief, Mr. Secretary."

"Yes, it is. Washington is difficult to endure, in the summer, isn't

it? Well, did you bring in the proofs, Mr. Reeves?" Enoch seated

himself and his caller sank into the neighboring chair.

"Mr. Secretary," he began, with a smile, "has it ever occurred to you

that we have been stupid in the number and kind of Bureaus we have

accumulated in Department of the Interior?"

"Yes," replied Enoch. "I suppose you are thinking of Patents,

Pensions, Parks, Geological Survey, Land, Indians and Education. Do

you know that beside these we have, American Antiquities, the

Superintendent of Capitol Buildings, the Government Hospital for the

Insane, Freedman's Hospital, Howard University, and the Columbia

Institution for the Deaf and Dumb?"

Reeves laughed.

"No, I didn't. But it only goes to prove what I say. It's impossible

for the Secretary of the Interior to find time to understand local

conditions. Why not let the states manage the water and land problems?"

"It would be illegal," replied Enoch briefly.

"Oh, illegal! You're too good a lawyer, Mr. Secretary, to let that

thought hamper your acts!"

"On the contrary," returned Enoch, succinctly, "I was a poor lawyer.

In some ways of course it is impossible for me to understand local

conditions in Idaho. I am told, though, that your present state

administration is corrupt as Tammany understands corruption."

Reeves cleared his throat and would have spoken, but Enoch pushed on.

"I have found, as the head of this complex Department that I must limit

myself as much as possible to formulating simple, basic policies and

putting these policies into the hands of men who will carry them out.

In general, my most important work is to administer the public domain.

That is, I must discover how best the natural resources that the

Federal Government still controls can be put into public service and

public service that is the highest and best. I believe that the water,

the land, the mines, ought to be given to the use of the average

citizen. I do not think that a corrupt politician nor a favor-seeking

business man has the best good of the plain citizen at heart."

"That is very interesting from the dreamer's point of view," said

Reeves. "But a government to be successful must be practical. Who's

going to develop the water power in our Idaho streams?"

"The people of Idaho, if they show a desire to make a fair interest on

their investment. The government of the United States, if the people

of Idaho fail to show the proper spirit."

"And who is to be the judge in the matter?" demanded Reeves.

"The Secretary of the Interior will be the judge. And he is not one

whit interested in you and your friends growing wealthy. He is

interested in Bill Jones getting electricity up on that lonely ranch of

his. Never forget, Mr. Reeves, that the ultimate foundations of this

nation rest on the wise distribution of its natural resources. The

average citizen, Mr. Reeves, must have reason to view the future with

hope. If he does not, the nation cannot endure."

"And why do you consider yourself competent to deal with these

problems?" asked the caller, with a half-concealed sneer.

"Any man with education and horse sense can handle them, provided that

his philosophy is sound. You have come to Washington with the idea,

Mr. Reeves, of getting at me, of tempting me with some sort of share in

the wealth you see in your streams. Other men have come to the Capitol

with the same purpose. I have my temptations, Mr. Reeves, but they do

not lie in the desire to graft. I think there are jobs more

interesting in life than the job of getting rich. All the grafting in

the world couldn't touch in interest the job of directing America's

inland destiny. And I have a foolish notion that a man owes his

country public service, that he owes it for no reward beyond a living

and for no other reason than that he is a man with a brain."

Reeves, whose face had grown redder and redder, half rose from his

chair.

"One moment," said Enoch. "Have you a sound, fair, policy for Idaho

water power, that will help Bill Jones in the same proportion that it

helps you?"

"I had no policy. I came down here to get yours. I've got it all

right, and I'm going back and tell my folks they'd better give up any

idea of water power during the present administration."

"I wouldn't tell them that," said Enoch, "because it wouldn't be true.

I am considering a most interesting proposition from Idaho farmers. I

thought perhaps you had something better."

Reeves jumped to his feet. "I'll not be made a monkey of any longer!"

he shouted. "But I'll get you for this yet," and he rushed from the

office.

Enoch shrugged his shoulders as he turned to the inevitable pile of

letters. Abbott came in with a broad smile.

"Mr. Secretary, Miss Diana Allen is in the outer office."

Enoch scowled. "Have I got to see her?"

"Well, she's mighty easy to look at, Mr. Secretary! And more than

that, she announces that if you're engaged, she'll wait, a day, a week,

or a month."

Enoch groaned. "Show her in, Abbott, and be ready to show her out in

five minutes."

Abbott showed her in. She entered the room slowly, a tall woman in a

brown silk suit. Everything about her it seemed to Enoch at first was

brown, except her eyes. Even her skin was a rich, even cream tint.

But her eyes were hazel, the largest, frankest, most intelligent eyes

Enoch ever had seen in a woman's head. And with the eyes went an

expression of extraordinary sweetness, a sweetness to which every

feature contributed, the rather short, straight nose, the full,

sensitive lips, with deep, upturned corners, the round chin.

True beauty in a woman is something far deeper, far less tangible than

mere perfection of feature. One grows unutterably weary of the Venus

de Milo type of face, with its expressionless perfection. And yet, so

careless is nature that not twice in a lifetime does one see a woman's

face in which are combined fineness of intelligence and of character,

and beauty of feature. But Diana was the thrice fortunate possessor of

this combination. She was so lovely that one's heart ached while it

exulted in looking at her. For it seemed a tragic thing that beauty so

deep and so rare should embody itself in a form so ephemeral as the

human body.

She was very slender. She was very erect. Her small head with the

masses of light brown hair shining beneath the simple hat, was held

proudly. Yet there was a matchless simplicity and lack of

self-consciousness about Diana that impressed even the careless

observer: if there was a careless observer of Diana!

Enoch stood beside his desk in his usual dignified calm. His keen eyes

swept Diana from head to foot.

"You are kind to see me so quickly, Mr. Secretary," said Diana, holding

out her hand.

Enoch smiled, but only slightly. It seemed to Diana that she never had

seen so young a man with so stern a face.

"You must have arrived on the same train with your father's note, Miss

Allen. Is this your first trip east?"

"Yes, Mr. Huntingdon," replied Diana, sinking into the chair opposite

Enoch's. "If he had had his way, bless his heart, I wouldn't have had

even a first trip. Isn't it strange that he should have such an

antipathy to New York and Washington!"

The Secretary looked at the girl thoughtfully. "As I recall your

father, he usually had a good reason for whatever he felt or did.

You're planning to stay in Washington, are you, Miss Allen?"

"If I can get work in the Indian Bureau!" replied Diana.

"Why the Indian Bureau?" asked Enoch.

"I'm a photographer of Indians," answered Diana simply. "I've been

engaged for years in trying to make a lasting pictorial record of the

Indians and their ways. I've reached the limit of what I can do

without access to records and books and I can't afford a year of study

in Washington unless I work. That's why I want work in the Indian

Bureau. Killing two birds with one stone, Mr. Secretary."

Enoch did not shift his thoughtful gaze from the sweet face opposite

his for a long moment after she had ceased to speak. Then he pressed

the desk button and Abbott appeared. He glanced at his chief, then his

eyes fastened themselves on Diana's profile.

"Mr. Abbott, will you ask the Commissioner of Indian Affairs to come

in? I believe he is with the Assistant Secretary this morning."

Charley nodded and disappeared.

"I brought a little portfolio of some of my prints," Diana spoke

hesitatingly. "I left them in the other room. Mr. Abbott thought you

might like to see them, but perhaps--you seem so very busy and I think

there must be at least a thousand people waiting to see you!"

"There always are," said Enoch, without a smile as he pressed another

button. Jonas' black head appeared. "Bring in the portfolio Miss

Allen left in the other room, please, Jonas!"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary," replied Jonas, withdrawing his eyes slowly from

Diana's eager face.

The portfolio and the Indian Commissioner arrived together. After the

introduction had been made, Enoch said:

"Watkins, do you know anything about Indians?"

"Very little, Mr. Secretary," with a smile.

"Would you be interested in looking at some photographs of Indian life?"

"Made by this young lady?" asked Watkins, looking with unconcealed

interest at Diana.

"Yes," said Enoch.

"And shown and explained by her?" asked the Indian Commissioner, a

twinkle in his brown eyes.

Diana laughed, and so did Abbott. Enoch's even white teeth flashed for

a moment.

"I wish I had time to join you," he said. "What I want to suggest, Mr.

Watkins, is that you see if Miss Allen will qualify to take care of

some of the research work you received an appropriation for the other

day. You were speaking to Abbott, I think, of the difficulty of

finding people with authentic knowledge of the Indians."

The Indian Commissioner nodded and tucked Diana's portfolio under his

arm. "Come along, Miss Allen!"

Diana rose. "If we don't leave now, I have an idea we will be asked to

do so," she said, the corners of her mouth deepening suddenly. "What

happens if one doesn't leave when requested?"

"One is cast in a dungeon, deep under the Capitol building," replied

Enoch, holding out his hand.

Diana laughed. "Thank you for seeing me and helping me, Mr.

Huntingdon," she said, and a moment later Jonas closed the door behind

her and the Commissioner.

"How come that young lady to stay so long, Mr. Abbott?" Jonas asked

Charley in a low voice, as he helped the young man bring in a huge pile

of Reclamation reports.

"Did you get a good look at her, Jonas?" demanded Abbott in the same

tone.

"Yes," replied Jonas.

"Then why ask foolish questions?"

"The boss don't like 'em, no matter what they look like."

"Every man has his breaking point, Jonas," smiled Charley.

Enoch turned from the window where he had been standing for a moment in

unprecedented idleness.

"I think you'd better let me have ten or fifteen minutes on that report

to the President, Abbott."

"I will, Mr. Secretary. By the way, here is the data you asked me to

get for your speech at the Willard to-night."

Enoch nodded, pocketed the notes and began to dictate. The day went on

as usual, but it seemed to Jonas, when he helped the Secretary to dress

for dinner that night that he was unusually weary.

"How come you to be so tired to-night, boss?" he asked finally.

"I don't know, old man! Jonas, how long since I've had a vacation?"

"Seven years, boss."

"Sometimes I think I need one, Jonas."

"Need one! Boss, they work you to death! They all say so. Your own

work's enough to kill three men. And now they do say the President is

calling on you for all the hard jobs he don't dare trust nobody else to

do. How come he don't do 'em hisself?"

"Oh, I'm not doing more than my share, Jonas! But you and I'll have to

have a vacation one of these days, sure. Maybe we'll go to Japan.

I'll be home early, if I can make it, Jonas."

Jonas nodded, and looked out the window. "Carriage's here, sir," and

Enoch ran quickly down the stairs. It was only eleven o'clock when he

reached home. The rain had ceased at sundown and the night was humid

and depressing. When Enoch was once more in his pajamas, he unlocked

the desk drawer and, taking out the journal, he turned to the first

page and began to read with absorbed interest.

"May 12.--This is my eighteenth birthday. I've had a long ride on the

top of the bus, thinking about Mr. Seaton. He was a fine chap. He

gave me a long lecture once on women. He said a guy must have a few

clean, straight women friends to keep normal. Of course he was right,

but I couldn't tell him or anybody else how it is with me. He said

that if you can share your worries with your friends they're finished.

And he was right again. But they're some things a guy can't share. I

did it once, back there in the Canyon, and I'll always be glad I did.

But I was just a kid then. The hunch that pulled me up straight then

wouldn't work now. They never did prove she was not my mother. They

never found out a thing about me, except what Luigi and the neighbors

had to tell. She was my mother, all right. And I don't feel as if I

ever can believe in any of them. I don't want to. All I want of women

is for them to let me alone and I'll let them alone. But a few weeks

ago I had a fine idea--to invent a girl of my own! I got the idea in

English Literature class, from a poem of Wordsworth's.

"Three years she grew in sun and shower;

Then nature said, A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This child I to myself will take,

She shall be mine and I will make

A lady of my own."

"I've invented her and I'm going to keep a journal to her and I'll tell

her all the things I'd tell my mother, if she'd been decent, and to my

sweetheart, if I could believe in them. I don't know just how old she

is. Somewhere in her twenties, I guess. She's tall and slim and she

has a creamy kind of skin. Her hair is light brown, almost gold. It's

very thick. She has it in braids wound all round her head. Her eyes

are hazel and she has a sweet mouth and she is very beautiful. And she

is good, and tender, and she understands everything about me. She

knows just how bad I've been and the fight I'm putting up to keep

straight. And every night before I go to bed, I'll tell her what my

day has been. I'll begin to-night by telling her about myself.

"I don't know where I was born, Lucy, or who my father was. My mother

was the mistress of an Italian called Luigi Giuseppi. She died a

rotten death, leaving me at six to Luigi. He treated me badly but he

needed me in his gambling business, and he kept me by telling me how

bad my mother was and threatening to tell other people. From the time

I was eight till I was fourteen, I don't suppose a day passed without

his telling me of the rot I had inherited from my mother. I began

gambling for him when I was about ten.

"When I was fourteen I was arrested in a gambling raid and paroled in

the care of John Seaton, a lawyer. He took me to the Grand Canyon. He

and Frank Allen, a guide, suggested to me the idea that Luigi's

mistress was not my mother. Such an idea never had occurred to me

before. They first gave it to me in the bottom of the Canyon.

"I can't put into writing what that suggestion, coupled with my first

view of the Canyon meant to me. But it was as if I had met God face to

face and He had taken pity on a dirty little street mucker and He had

lifted me in His great hands and had told me to try to be good and He

would help me. I never had believed in God before. And I came back

from that trip resolved to put up a fight.

"Mr. Seaton began the search for my folks right off, but he didn't find

anything before he died, which was only a year later. But I made him a

solemn promise I'd go through college and study law and I'm going to do

it. He was not a rich man but he left me enough money to see me

through college. In one more year I'll finish the High School. I

still play cards once in a while in a joint on Sixth Avenue. I know

it's wrong and I'm trying hard to quit. But sometimes I just can't

help it, especially when I'm worried.

"Luigi will be in the pen another seven years. When he comes out I am

going to beat him up till he tells me about my mother and father.

Though perhaps he's been telling the truth!"

"May 13.--Lucy, I made a speech in third year rhetoric to-day and the

teacher kept me after class. He said he'd been watching me for some

time and he wanted to tell me he thought I'd make a great orator, some

day. He's going to give me special training out of school hours, for

nothing. I'm darned lucky. If a guy's going into politics, oratory's

the biggest help. But to be famous as a speaker isn't why I'm going

into politics. I'm going to clean Minetta Lane up. I'm going to try

to fix it in New York so's a fellow couldn't have a mother and a

stepfather like mine. You know what I mean, don't you? Darn it, a kid

suffers so! You know that joint on Sixth Avenue where I go and play

cards once in a while? Well, it was raided to-day. I wonder what Mr.

Seaton would have said if he'd been alive and I'd been there and got

pinched again!

"I'm going to throw no bluffs with you, Lucy. Gambling's in my blood.

Luigi used to say I came by my skill straight. And I get the same kind

of craving for it that a dope fiend does for dope. I don't care to

tell anybody about it, or they'd send me to an insane asylum. When I

first came from the Canyon and moved out of Minetta Lane, I swore I'd

never put foot in it again until I went in to clean it up. And I

haven't and I won't. But for the first year my nails were bitten to

the quick. If my mother--but what's the use of that! Mr. Seaton said

every man has to have a woman to whom he opens up the deep within him.

I have you and you know you've promised to help me."

"June 1.--Lucy, I've got a job tutoring for the summer. The rhetoric

teacher got it for me. It's the son of an Episcopal vicar. He is a

boy of twelve and they want him taught English and declamation. Lord!

If they knew all about me! But the kid is safe in my hands. I know

how kids of twelve feel. At least, the Minetta Lane variety. So I'll

be at the sea shore all summer. Going some, for Minetta Lane, eh?

"Lucy, I made fifty dollars last night at poker from a Senior in the

Student's Club. This morning I made him take it back."

Enoch closed the book and leaned back in his chair as Jonas appeared at

the door with a pitcher of ice water.

"How come you don't try to get a little rest, boss?" asked Jonas,

glancing disapprovingly at the black book.

"I am resting, old man! Don't bother your good old head about me, but

tumble off to sleep yourself!"

"I don't never sleep before you do. I ain't for thirteen years, and I

don't calculate to begin now." Jonas turned the bed covers back and

marched out of the room.

Enoch smiled and, opening the book again, he turned the pages slowly

till another entry struck his eye.

"February 6.--If I could only see you, touch you, cling to your tender

hand to-night, Lucy! You know that I was chosen to represent Columbia

in the dedication of the Lincoln statue. It was to have taken place

next Wednesday. But the British Ambassador, who was to be the chief

Mogul there, was called home to England for some reason or other and

they shoved the dedication forward to to-day, so as to catch him before

he sailed. And some of the speakers weren't prepared, so it came about

that I, an unknown Columbia senior, had to give the chief speech of the

day. Not that anybody, let alone myself, realized that it was going to

be the chief speech. It just turned out that way. Lucy dear, they

went crazy over it! And all the papers to-night gave it in full. It

was only a thousand words. Why in the name of all the fiends in Hades

do you suppose nothing relieves me in moments of great mental stress

but gambling? You notice, don't you, that I talk to you of Minetta

Lane only when something tremendous, either good or bad, has happened

to me? Other men with the same weakness, you say, turn to drink. I

suppose so, poor devils. Oh, Lucy, I wish I were in the Grand Canyon

to-night! I wish you and I were together in Frank's camp at the foot

of Bright Angel. It is sunset and the Canyon is full of unspeakable

wonder. Even the thought of it rests me and makes me strong. . . .

Those stars mean that I've torn into a million pieces a hundred-dollar

bill I won in Sixth Avenue to-night."

Enoch turned many pages and then paused.

"March 28.--There is a chance, Lucy, that I may be appointed secretary

to the reform Mayor of New York. I would be very glad to give up the

practice of law. Beyond my gift for pleading and a retentive memory, I

have no real talents for a successful legal career. You look at me

with those thoughtful, tender gray eyes of yours. Ah, Lucy, you are so

much wiser than I, wise with the brooding, mystical wisdom of the

Canyon in the starlight. You have intimated to me several times that

law was not my end. You are right, as usual. Law has its face forever

turned backward. It is searching always for precedent rather than

justice. A man who is going into politics should be ever facing the

future. He should use the past only in helping him to avoid mistakes

in going forward. And, perhaps I am wrong. I am willing to admit that

my unfortunate boyhood may have made me over inclined to brood, but it

seems to me very difficult to stick to the law, make money, and be

morally honest, in the best sense. If I clear Bill Jones, who is, as I

know, ethically as guilty as Satan, though legally within his rights,

can I face you as a man who is steel true and blade straight? I hope I

get that appointment! I was tired to-night, Lucy, but this little talk

with you has rested me, as usual."

"March 29.--I have the appointment, Lucy. This is the beginning of my

political career--the beginning of the end of Minetta Lane. You have a

heavy task before you, dear, to keep me, eyes to the goal, running the

race like a thoroughbred. Some day, Lucy, we'll go back to the Canyon,

chins up, work done, gentlemen unafraid!"

Enoch turned more pages, covering a year or so of the diary.

"March 30.--I've been in the City Hall two years today. Lucy, the only

chance on earth I'll ever have to clean out the rookeries of New York

would be to be a Tammany Police Commissioner. And Tammany would

certainly send its best gunman after a Police Commissioner who didn't

dote on rookeries. Lucy, can't city governments be clean? Is human

nature normally and habitually corrupt when it comes to governing a

city? The Mayor and all his appointees are simply wading through the

vast quagmire of the common citizen's indifference, fought every step

by the vile creatures who batten on the administration of the city's

affairs. Do you suppose that if the schools laid tremendous stress on

clean citizenship and began in the kindergarten to teach children how

to govern in the most practical way, it would help? I believe it

would. I'm going to tuck that thought in the back of my head and some

day I may have opportunity to use it. I wish I could do something for

the poor boys of New York. I wish the Grand Canyon were over in

Jersey!"

"Sept. 4.--I am unfit to speak to you, but oh, I need you as I never

did before. Don't turn those kind, clear-seeing eyes away from me,

Lucy! Lucy! It happened this way. I wanted, if possible to make our

Police Commissioner see Minetta Lane through my eyes. And I took him

down there, three days ago. It's unchanged, in all these years, except

for the worse. And Luigi was dragging a sack of rags into his

basement. He was gray and bent but it was Luigi. And he recognized me

and yelled 'Bastard!' after me. Lucy, I went back and beat him, till

the Commissioner hauled me off. And the dirty, spluttering little

devil roared my story to all that greedy, listening crowd! I slipped

away, Lucy, and I hid myself in a place I know in Chinatown. No! No!

I don't drink and I don't hit the pipe. I _gamble_. My luck is

unbelievable. And when the fit is on me, I'd gamble my very soul away.

Jonas found me. Jonas is a colored porter in the City Hall who has

rather adopted me. And Jonas said, 'Boss, how come you to do a stunt

like this? The Police Commissioner say to the Mayor and I hear 'em, an

Italian black hander take you for somebody else and he have him run in.

I tell 'em you gone down to Atlantic City. You come home with me,

Boss.' He put his kind black hand on my shoulder, and Lucy, his eyes

were full of tears. I left my winnings with the Chinaman, and came

back here with Jonas. Lucy! Oh, if I could really hear your voice!"

"Sept. 5.--I had a long talk with the Police Commissioner to-day. I

can trust him the way I used to trust Mr. Seaton, Lucy. I told him the

truth about Luigi and me and he promised to do what he could to ferret

out the truth about my people. If I could only know that my father was

half-way decent, no matter what my mother was, it would make an

enormous difference to me."

Enoch turned another year of pages.

"Oct. 12.--Lucy, the Police Commissioner says he has to believe that

Luigi's mistress was my mother. He advises me to close that part of my

life for good and all and give myself to politics. Easy advice! But I

am going to play the game straight in spite of Minetta Lane."

Enoch paused long over this entry, then turned on again.

"Nov. 6.--Well, my dear, shake hands with Congressman Huntingdon. Yes,

ma'am! It's true! Aren't you proud of me? And, Lucy, listen! Don't

have any illusions on how I got there. It wasn't brains. It wasn't

that the people wanted me to put over any particular idea or ideal for

them. I simply so intrigued them with flights of oratory that they

decided I was a natural born congressman! Well, bless 'em for doing

it, anyhow, and I'll play the game for them. If I ever had had a

father I'd like to talk politics with him. He must have had some

decency in him, or I'd have been all bad, like my mother. Or maybe I'm

a throw-back from two degenerate parents. Well, we'll end the breed

with me.

"Lucy, it would have been romantic if I could have cleaned out Minetta

Lane and other New York rookeries. But it would have been about like

satisfying one's self with washing a boy's face when his body was a

mass of running sores. We've got to cure the sores and in order to do

that we've got to find the cause. No one thing is going to prove a

panacea. I wonder if it's possible to teach children so thoroughly

that each one owes a certain amount of altruistic, clean service to his

local and his federal government that an honest, responsible citizenry

would result?"

Enoch drank of the ice water and continued to turn the close-written

pages.

"April 12.--I don't boast much about my career as a Congressman. I've

been straight and I've gabbed a good deal. That about sums up my

history. If I go back as Police Commissioner, I shall feel much more

useful.

"Lucy, love is a very important thing in a man's life. Sometimes, I

think that the less he has of it, the more important it becomes. I had

thought that as I grew older my career would more and more fill my

life, that youth and passion were synonymous and that with maturity

would come calm and surcease. This is not the truth. The older I grow

the more difficult it becomes for me to feel that work can fully

satisfy a man. Nor will merely caring for a woman be sufficient. A

man must care for a woman whom he knows to be fine, who can meet his

mental needs, or love becomes merely physical and never satisfies him.

Well, I must not whimper. I have talent and tremendous opportunities,

many friends and splendid health. And I have you. And each year you

become a more intrinsic part of my life. How patient you have been

with me all these years! I've been wondering, lately, if you haven't

rather a marked sense of humor. It seems to me that nothing else could

make you so patient, so tender and so keen! I'm sure I'm an object of

mirth to Jonas at times, so I must be to you. All right! Laugh away!

I laugh at myself!

"Lucy, it has been over eighteen months since I touched a card."

Jonas put his head in at the door, but Enoch turned on to the middle of

the book.

"Dec. 1.--They won't let me keep it up long, Lucy, but Lord, Lord,

hasn't the going been good, my dear, while it lasted! I've twisted

Tammany's tail till its head's dropped off! I've 'got long poles and

poked out the nests and blocked up the holes. I shall consult with the

carpenters and builders and leave in our town not even a trace of the

rats.' I've routed out hereditary grafters and looters. I've run down

wealthy gunmen and I've turned men's fame to a notoriety that carried a

stench. But they'll get me, Lucy! They'll either kill me or send me

back to Congress."

Enoch turned more pages.

"Nov. 1.--Congress again, eh, Lucy? And you care for Washington as

little as I! Dear, this has been a hard day. I've been saying good-by

to the force! By the eternal, but they are men! And now all that

wonderful machine, built up, really, by the men themselves, must fall

apart! What a waste of human energy! Yet, I've come to the conclusion

that the man who devotes himself to public service loses much of his

usefulness if he allows himself to grow pessimistic about human nature.

If there were not more good than bad in the world, we'd still be

monkeys! I have ceased to search for some great single ideal for which

I can fight. Whatever abilities I have in me I shall devote to helping

to administer government cleanly. After all, we gave New York a great

object lesson in the possibilities of cleaning out Tammany's pest

house. Perhaps somebody's great-grandchild, inspired by the history of

my attempt will try again and be successful for a longer period. And

oh, woman! It was a gorgeous fight!

"Jonas is delighted that we are returning to Washington. He says we

are to keep house. I am a great responsibility to Jonas. He is very

firm with me, but I think he's as fond of me as I am of him.

"Lucy, how am I to go on, year after year like this, with only my dream

of you? How am I to do my work like a man, with only half a man's life

to live? What can all the admiring plaudits mean to me when I know

that you are only a dream, only a dream?"

Enoch sat forward in his chair, laid the book on the desk, opened to

the last entry and seized his pen.

"So your name is not Lucy, but Diana! Oh, my dearest, and you did not

recognize me at all, while my very heart was paralyzed with emotion!

You must have been a very lovely little girl that the memory of you

should have been so impressed on my subconsciousness. Oh, how

beautiful you are! How beautiful! And to think that I must never let

you know what you are to me. Never! Never! The strain stops with me."

He dropped his pen abruptly and, turning off the light, flung himself

down on his bed. Jonas, listening long at the door, waited for the

full, even breathing that would mark the end of his day's work. But it

did not come, and dawn struggling through the hall window found Jonas

sitting on the floor beside the half-opened door, his black head

drooping on his breast, but his eyes open.

Enoch reached his office on the stroke of nine, as usual. His face was

a little haggard and set but he came in briskly and spoke cheerfully to

Charley Abbott.

"A little hotter than ever, eh, Abbott? I think you're looking

dragged, my boy. When are you going to take your vacation?"

"In the fall, after you have had yours, Mr. Secretary." The two men

grinned at each other.

"Did the Indian Commissioner find work for Miss Allen?" asked Enoch

abruptly.

"Oh, yes! And she was as surprised and pleased as a child."

"How do you know that?" demanded the Secretary.

Charley looked a little confused. "I took her out to lunch, Mr.

Huntingdon. Jove, she's the most beautiful woman I ever saw!"

"Well, let's finish off that report to the President, Mr. Abbott. That

must go to him to-morrow, regardless of whom or what I have to neglect

to-day."

Abbott opened his note book. But the dictation hardly had begun when

the telephone rang and Enoch was summoned to the White House. It was

noon when he left the President. Washington lay as if scorching under

a burning glass. The dusty leaves drooped on the trees. Even the

carefully cherished White House lawn seemed to have forgotten the

recent rains. Enoch dismissed his carriage and crossed slowly to

Pennsylvania Avenue. It had occurred to him suddenly that it had been

many weeks since he had taken the noon hour outside of his office. He

had found that luncheon engagements broke seriously into his day's

work. He strolled slowly along the avenue, watching the sweltering

noon crowds unseeingly, entirely unconscious of the fact that many

people turned to look at him. He paused before a Johnstown Lunch sign,

wondering whimsically what Jonas would say if it were reported that the

boss had eaten here. And as he paused, the incessantly swinging door

emitted Miss Diana Allen.

Enoch's pause became a full stop. "How do you do, Miss Allen?" he said.

Diana flushed a little. "How do you do, Mr. Secretary! Were you

looking for a cheap lunch?"

"Jonas provides the cheapest lunch known to Washington," said Enoch.

"I was looking for some one to walk up Pennsylvania Avenue with me."

"You seem to be well provided with company." Diana glanced at the knot

of people who were eagerly watching the encounter.

Enoch did not follow her glance. His eyes were fastened on Diana's

lovely curving lips. "And I want to hear about the work in the Indian

Bureau."

Diana fell into step with him. "I think the work is going to be

interesting. Mr. Watkins is more than kind about my pictures. I'm to

send home for the best of my collection and he is going to give an

exhibition of them."

"Is he giving you a decent salary?" asked Enoch.

"Ample for all my needs," replied Diana.

"Do your needs stop with the Johnstown Lunch?" demanded Enoch.

"Well," replied Diana, "if you'd lived on the trail as much as I have,

you'd not complain of the Johnstown Lunch. I've made worse coffee

myself, and I've seen more flies, too."

Enoch chuckled. "What does Watkins call your job?"

"I'm a special investigator for the Indian Bureau."

Enoch chuckled again. "Right! And that title Watkins counts as worth

at least five dollars a week. The remainder is the equivalent of a

stenographer's salary. I know him!"

"He is quite all right," said Diana quickly. "It must be extremely

difficult to manage a budget. No matter how large they are, they're

always too small. To administer the affairs of a dying race with

inadequate funds--"

Diana hesitated.

"And in entire ignorance of the race itself," added Enoch quietly. "I

know! But I had to choose between a rattling good administrator and a

rattling good ethnologist."

Diana nodded slowly. "Your choice was inevitable, I suppose. And Mr.

Watkins seems very efficient."

"Well, and where does your princely salary permit you to live?" Enoch

concluded.

"On New Jersey Avenue, in a brown stone front with pansies in front and

cats in the rear, an old Confederate soldier in the basement and rats

in the attic. As for odors and furniture, any kind whatever, provided

one is not too particular."

"My word! how you are going to miss the Canyon!" exclaimed Enoch.

Diana nodded. "Yes, but after all one's avocation is the most

important thing in life."'

"Is it?" asked Enoch. "I've tried to make myself believe that, but so

far I've failed."

"You mean," Diana spoke quickly, "that I ought to have stayed with my

father?"

"No, I don't!" returned Enoch, quite as quickly. "At least, I mean

that I know nothing whatever about that. I would say as a general

principle, though, that parents who have adequate means, are selfish to

hang on the necks of their grown children."

"Father misses mother so," murmured Diana, with apparent irrelevance.

Enoch said nothing. They were opposite the Post Office now and Diana

paused. "I must go to the Post Office! Good-by, Mr. Secretary."

"Good-by, Miss Allen," said Enoch, taking off his hat and holding out

his hand. "Let me know if there is anything further I can do for you!"

"Oh, I'm quite all right and shall not bother you again, thank you,"

replied Diana cheerfully.

Enoch was very warm when he reached his office. Jonas and the bottle

of milk were awaiting him. "How come you to be so hot, boss?" demanded

Jonas.

"I walked back. It was very foolish," replied Enoch meekly.

"I don't dare to let you out o' my sight," said Jonas severely.

"I think I do need watching," sighed Enoch, beginning his belated

luncheon.

That night the Secretary wrote to Diana's father.

"My dear Frank: Diana came and I found a job for her in the Indian

office. I feel like a dog to have broken my word with you, but her

work is very interesting and very important, and I feel that she ought

to have her few months of study in Washington. She is very beautiful,

Frank, and very fine. You must try to forgive me. Faithfully yours,

"ENOCH HUNTINGDON."

CHAPTER V

A PHOTOGRAPHER OF INDIANS

"When I tutored boys I wondered most at their selfishness and their

generosity. They had so much of both! And I believe that as men they

lose none of either."--_Enoch's Diary_.

Enoch knew what it was to fight himself. Perhaps he knew more about

such lonely, unlovely battles than any man of his acquaintance. The

average man is usually too vain and too spiritually lazy to fight his

inner devils to the death. But Enoch had fought so terribly that it

seemed to him that he could surely win this new struggle. Nothing

should induce him to break his vow of celibacy. He cursed himself for

a weak fool in not obeying Frank Allen's request. Then he gathered

together all his resources, to protect Diana from himself.

A week or so went by, during which Enoch made no attempt to see Diana

or to hear from her. The office routine ground on and on. The Mexican

cloud thickened. Alaska developed a threatening attitude over her coal

fields. The farmers of Idaho suddenly withdrew their proposals

regarding water power. Calmly and with clear vision, Enoch met each

day's problems. But the lines about his mouth deepened.

One day, early in August, Charley Abbott came to the Secretary's desk.

"Miss Diana Allen would like to see you for a few moments, Mr.

Secretary."

Enoch did not look up. "Ask her to excuse me, Mr. Abbott, I am very

busy."

Charley hesitated for an instant, then went quickly out.

"Luncheon is served, boss," said Jonas, shortly after.

"Is Abbott gone?" asked Enoch.

"Yes, sir! He's took that Miss Allen to lunch, I guess. He's sure

gone on that young lady. How come everybody thinks she's so beautiful,

boss?"

"Because she is beautiful, Jonas, very, very beautiful."

The faithful steward looked keenly at the Secretary. He had not missed

the appearance of a line in the face that was the whole world to him.

"Boss," he said, "don't you ever think you ought to marry?"

Enoch looked up into Jonas' face. "A man with my particular history

had best leave women alone, Jonas."

Jonas' mouth twitched. "They ain't the woman ever born fit to darn

your socks, boss."

Enoch smiled and finished his lunch in silence. He would have given a

month of his life to know what errand had brought Diana to his office.

But Charley Abbott, returning at two o'clock with the complacent look

of a man who has lunched with a beautiful girl, showed no intention of

mentioning the girl's name. And Enoch went on with his conferences.

But it was many days before he opened the black book again.

Diana's exhibition must have been of unusual quality, for jaded and

cynical Washington learned of its existence, spoke of it and went to

see it. It seemed to Enoch that every one he met took special delight

in mentioning it to him.

Even Jonas, one night, as he brought in the bed-time pitcher of ice

water, said, "Boss, I saw Miss Allen's pictures this evening. They

sure are queersome. That must be hotter'n Washington out there. How

come you ain't been, Boss?"

"How do you know I haven't seen them, Jonas?" asked Enoch quickly.

"Don't I know every place you go, boss? Didn't you tell me that was my

job, years ago? How come you think I'd forget?" Jonas was eyeing the

Secretary warily. "Mr. Abbott, he's got a bad case on that Miss Allen.

He's give me at least a dollar's worth of ten cent cigars lately so's

I'll stand and smoke and let him talk to me about her."

Enoch grunted.

"He says she--" Jonas rambled on.

Enoch looked up quickly. "I don't want to hear it, Jonas." Jonas drew

himself up stiffly. The Secretary laid his own broad palm over the

black hand that still held the handle of the water pitcher. "Spare me

that, old friend," he said.

Jonas put his free hand on Enoch's shoulder. "Are you sure you're

right, boss?" he asked huskily.

"I know I'm right, Jonas."

"Well, I don't see it your way, boss, but what's right for you is right

for me. Good night, sir," and shaking his head, Jonas slowly left the

room.

But Enoch was destined to see the pictures after all. One day, after

Cabinet meeting, the President, in his friendly way, clapped Enoch on

the shoulder.

"First time in a great many years, Huntingdon, that the Indian Bureau

has distinguished itself for anything but trouble! I saw Miss Allen's

pictures last night. My word! What a sense of heat and peace and,

yes, by jove, passion! those photographs tell. The Bureau ought to own

those pictures, old man. Especially the huge enlargement of Bright

Angel trail and the Navaho hunters. Eh?"

"Well, to tell the truth, Mr. President," said Enoch slowly, "I haven't

seen the pictures."

"Not seen them! Why some one said you discovered Miss Allen!"

"In a way I did, but I don't deserve any credit for that."

"Not if he saw her first!" exclaimed the Secretary of State, who had

loitered behind the others.

The President nodded. "She is very lovely. I saw her at a distance,

and I want to meet her. Now, Mr. Huntingdon, it's very painful for me

to have to chide you for dereliction in office. But a man who will

neglect those pictures for the--well, the coal fields of Alaska, should

be dealt with severely."

"Hear! Hear!" cried the Secretary of State.

The President laughed. "And so I must ask you, Mr. Huntingdon, to

bring Miss Allen to see me, after you have gone carefully over the

pictures. Jokes aside, you know my keen interest in Indian ethnology?"

Enoch nodded, and the President went on. "If this girl has the brains

and breadth of vision I'm sure she must have to produce a series of

photographs like those, I want to know her and do what I can to push

her work. So neglect Mexico and Alaska for a little while, tomorrow,

will you, Huntingdon?"

Enoch's laughter was a little grim, but with a quick leap of his heart,

he answered. "A man can but obey the Commander in Chief, I suppose!"

As the door swung to behind him, the President said to the Secretary of

State, "Huntingdon is working too hard, I'm afraid. Does he ever play?"

"Horseback riding and golf. But he's a woman hater. At least, if not

a hater, an avoider!"

"I like him," said the President. "I want him to play."

That evening Enoch went to see the pictures. There were perhaps a

hundred of them, telling the story of the religion of the Navahos.

Only one whom the Indians loved and trusted could have procured such

intimate, such dramatic photographs. They were as unlike the usual

posed portraits of Indian life as is a stage shower unlike an actual

thunder storm. There was indeed a subtle passion and poignancy about

the pictures that it seemed to Enoch as well as to the President, only

a fine mind could have found and captured. He had made the rounds of

the little room twice, threading his way abstractedly through the

crowd, before he came upon Diana. She was in white, standing before

one of the pictures, answering questions that were being put to her by

a couple of reporters. She bowed to Enoch and he bowed in return, then

stood so obviously waiting for the reporters to finish that they

actually withdrew.

Enoch came up and held out his hand. "These are very fine, Miss Allen."

"I thought you were not coming to see them," said Diana. "It makes me

very happy to have you here!"

"Does it?" asked Enoch quickly. "Why?"

"Because--" here Diana hesitated and looked from Enoch's stern lips to

his blue eyes.

"Yes, go on, do!" urged Enoch. "For heaven's, sake, treat me as if I

were a human being and not--"

It was his turn to hesitate.

"Not the Washington Monument?" suggested Diana.

Enoch laughed. "Am I as bad as that?" he asked.

Diana nodded. "Very nearly! Nevertheless, for some reason I don't

understand, I've had the feeling that you would like the pictures and

get what I was driving at, better than any one."

"Thank you," said Enoch slowly. "I do like them. So much so that I

wish that I might own them, instead of the Indian Bureau. The

President, to-day, told me the Indian Bureau ought to buy them. And

also, he asked me to bring you to see him to-morrow."

A sudden flush made roses in Diana's beautifully modeled cheeks.

"Did he! Mr. Huntingdon, how am I ever going to thank you?"

"I deserve no thanks at all. It was entirely the President's own idea.

In fact, I had not intended to come to your exhibition."

"No? Why not? Do you dislike me so much as that? And, after all, Mr.

Secretary, if the pictures are interesting, the fact that a woman took

them should not prejudice you against them."

"Abbott's been giving me a bad reputation, I see," said Enoch. "I'll

have to get Jonas to tell you what a really gentle and affectionate and

er--mild, person I am. I've a notion to reduce Abbott's salary."

"Charley Abbott is a dear, and he's a devoted admirer of yours," Diana

exclaimed.

"And of yours," rejoined Enoch.

"He's very discerning," said Diana, her eyes twinkling and the corners

of her mouth deepening. "But you shall not evade me this way, Mr.

Huntingdon. Why didn't you want to see my pictures?"

"I didn't say that I didn't want to see them. Women are always

inaccurate, or at least, so I have heard."

"I would say that Mr. Abbott had a great deal more data on the general

subject of women than you, Mr. Secretary. You really ought to get him

to check you up! Please, why didn't you intend to come to my

exhibition?"

"I have been swamped with extra work of late," answered Enoch.

"Yes?" Diana's eyebrows rose and her intelligent great eyes were

fastened on Enoch's with an expression so discerning and so

sympathetic, that he bit his lip and turned from her to the Navaho, who

prayed in the burning desert before him. The reporters, who had been

hovering in the offing, closed in on Diana immediately. When she was

free once more, Enoch turned back and held out his hand.

"Good night, Miss Allen. If you don't mind coming over to my office at

twelve to-morrow, I can take you to the White House then."

"I shall not mind!--too much! Good night, Mr. Secretary," replied

Diana, with the deepening of the corners of her mouth that Enoch now

recalled had belonged to the little girl Diana.

Enoch made an entry in the black book that night.

"I wonder, Diana, how much Frank has told you of me and my unhappy

history. I wonder how you would feel if a man whose mother was a

harlot who died of an unspeakable disease were to ask you to marry him.

Oh, my dear, don't be troubled! I shall never, never, ask you. Your

pictures moved me more than I dared try to express to you. It was as

if you had carried me in a breath to the Canyon and once more I beheld

the wonder, the kindliness, the calm, the inevitableness of God's ways.

I'm going to try, Diana, to make a friend of you. I believe that I

have the strength. What I am very sure of is that I have not the

strength to know that you are in Washington and never see you."

The clock struck twelve the next day, when Abbott came to the

Secretary's desk. Enoch was deep in a conference with the Attorney

General.

"Miss Allen is here," he said softly.

"Give me five minutes!" exclaimed the Attorney General.

"I'm sorry." Enoch rose from his desk. "I'm very sorry, old fellow,

but this is an appointment with the President. Can you come about

three, if that suits Abbott's schedule?"

"Not till to-morrow, I'm afraid," said the Attorney General.

Enoch nodded. "It's just as well. I think I'll have some private

advices from Mexico by then that may somewhat change our angle of

attack. All right, Jonas! I'm coming. Ask Miss Allen to meet me at

the carriage."

But he overtook Diana in the elevator. She wore the brown silk suit,

and Enoch thought she looked a little flushed and a little more lovely

than usual.

"I'm a marked person, Mr. Secretary," she said, with a twinkle in her

eyes. "You'd scarcely believe how many total strangers have asked me

to introduce them to you, since you walked up Pennsylvania Avenue with

me."

"I'm glad you have an appreciative mind," returned Enoch. "I hope that

you are circumspect also, and won't impose on me because of my

condescension."

"I'll try not to," Diana answered meekly, as Enoch followed her into

the carriage.

They smiled at each other, and Enoch went on, "Of course, I've been

feeling rather proud of the opportunity to display myself before

Washington with you. I've been called indifferent to women. I'm

hoping now that the gossips will say, 'Aha! Huntingdon's a deep one!

No wonder he's been indifferent to the average woman!'"

Diana eyed him calmly. "That doesn't sound at all like Washington

Monument," she murmured.

"More like Charley Abbott, I suppose!" retorted Enoch.

"No," answered Diana thoughtfully, "hardly like Mr. Abbott's method. I

would say that he belonged to a different school from you."

"Yes? What school does Abbott represent?"

"Well, he has a dash, an ease, that shows long and varied experience.

Charley Abbott is a finished ladies' man. It almost discourages me

when I contemplate the serried ranks of women that must have

contributed to his perfect finesse."

"Discourages you?" queried Enoch.

Diana did not answer. "But," she went on, "while Charley is a graduate

of the school of experience and you--"

She paused.

"Yes, and I--," pressed Enoch.

"I won't impose on your condescension by telling you," said Diana.

"Pshaw!" muttered the Secretary of the Interior.

Suddenly Diana laughed. Enoch, after a moment, laughed with her, and

they entered the White House grounds still chuckling.

The President did not keep them waiting. "I may not be able to order

my wife and daughter about," he said, as he shook hands with Enoch,

"but I certainly have my official family well under control. Did you

see the pictures, Huntingdon?"

"I saw and was conquered, Mr. President," replied Enoch.

"What would you say, Miss Allen, if I tell you that I had to force this

fellow into going to see your wonderful pictures?" the President asked.

"It wouldn't surprise me," replied Diana, in an enigmatical voice that

made both men smile.

"I see you understand our Secretary of the Interior," the President

said complacently. "Sit down, children, and Miss Allen, talk to me.

How long did it take you to make that collection of photographs?"

"I began that particular collection ten years ago. Those pictures have

been sifted out of nearly two thousand prints."

"Did you take any other pictures during that period?" asked the

President.

"Oh, yes! I was, I think, fourteen or fifteen when I first determined

to give my life to Indian photography. I didn't at that time think of

making a living out of it. I had a dream of making a photographic

history of the spiritual life of some of the South-western tribes. It

didn't occur to me that anything but a museum or possibly a library

would care for such a collection. But to my surprise there was a ready

market for really good prints of Indians and Indian subjects. So while

I have kept always at work on my ultimate idea, I've made and sold

many, many pictures of Indians on all sorts of themes."

Enoch looked from Diana's half eager, half abashed eyes, to the

President's keen, hawk-like face, then back to Diana.

"What gave you the idea to begin with?" asked the President.

Diana looked thoughtfully out of the window. Both men watched her with

interest. Enoch's rough hewn face, with its unalterably somber

expression, was set in an almost painful concentration. The

President's eyes were cool, yet eager.

"It is hard for me to put into words just what first led me into the

work," said Diana slowly. "I was born in a log house on the rim of the

Grand Canyon. My father was a canyon guide."

"Yes, Frank Allen, an old Yale man. I know him."

"Do you remember him?" cried Diana. "He'll be so delighted! He took

you down Bright Angel years ago."

"Of course I remember him. Give him my regards when you write to him.

And go on with your story."

"My mother was a California woman, a very good geologist. My nurse was

a Navajo woman. Somehow, by the time I was into my teens, I was

conscious of the great loss to the world in the disappearance of the

spiritual side of Indian life. I knew the Canyon well by then and I

knew the Indians well and the beauty of their ceremonies was even then

more or less merged in my mind with the beauty of the Canyon. Their

mysticism was the Canyon's mysticism. I tried to write it and I

couldn't, and I tried to paint it, and I couldn't. And then one day my

mother said to me, 'Diana, nobody can interpret Indian or Canyon

philosophy. Take your camera and let the naked truth tell the story!'"

Diana paused. "I'm not clever at talking. I'm afraid I've given you

no real idea of my purpose."

"One gets your purpose very clearly, when one recalls your Death and

the Navajo, for instance, eh, Huntingdon?"

"Yes, Mr. President!"

"I suppose the two leading Indian ethnologists are Arkwind and Sherman,

of the Smithsonian, are they not, Miss Allen?" asked the President.

"Oh, without doubt! And they have been very kind to me."

The President nodded. "They both tell me that your work is of

extraordinary value. They tell me that you have actually photographed

ceremonies so secret, so mystical, that they themselves had only heard

vaguely of their existence. And not only, they say, have you

photographed them, but you have produced works of art, pictures

'pregnant with celestial fire.'"

Diana's cheeks were a deep crimson. "Oh, I deserve so little credit,

after all!" she exclaimed. "I was born in the midst of these things.

And the Indians love me for my old nurse's sake! But human nature is

weak and what you tell me makes me very happy, sir."

The men glanced at each other and smiled.

"Suppose, Miss Allen," said the President, "that you had the means to

outfit an expedition. How long would it take you to complete the

entire collection you have in mind?"

Diana's eyes widened. "Why, I could do nothing at all with an

expedition! I simply wander about canyon and desert, sometimes with

old nurse Na-che, sometimes alone. The Indians have always known me.

I'm as much a part of their lives as their own daughters. I--I believe

much of their inner hidden religion and so--oh, Mr. President, an

expedition would be absurd, for me!"

"Well, then, without an expedition?" insisted the President.

Diana sighed. "You see, I'm not able to give all my time to the work.

Mother died five years ago, and father is lonely and, while he thinks

his little income is enough for both of us, it's enough only if I stay

at home and play about the desert with my camera, cheaply as I do, and

keep the house. It does not permit me to leave home. It seems to me,

that working as I have in the past, it would take me at least ten years

more to complete my work."

"The patience of the artist! It always astounds me!" exclaimed the

President. "Miss Allen, I am not a rich man, but I have some wealthy

friends. I have one friend in particular, a self-made man, of enormous

wealth. The interest he and I have in common is American history in

all its aspects. It seems to me that you are doing a truly important

work. I want you to let this friend of mine fund you so that you may

give all your time to your photography."

"Oh, Mr. President, I don't need funds!" protested Diana. "There is no

hurry. This is my life work. Let me take a life-time for it, if

necessary."

"That is all very well, Miss Allen, but what if you die, before you

have finished? No one could complete your work because no one has your

peculiar combination of information and artistic ability. People like

you, my dear, belong not to themselves, but to the country."

Enoch spoke suddenly. "Why not arrange the matter with the Indian

Bureau, Mr. President?"

"Why not arrange it with the Circumlocution Office!" exclaimed the

President. "I'm surprised at you, Huntingdon! You know what the

budget and red tape of Washington does to a temperament like Miss

Allen's. On the other hand, here is my friend, who would give her

absolutely free rein and take an intense pride in providing the money."

Diana laughed. "You speak, sir, as if I needed some vast fund. It

costs a dollar a day in the desert to keep a horse and another dollar

to keep a man. Camera plates and clothing--why a hundred dollars a

month would be luxury! And I don't need help, truly I don't! The mere

fact of your interest is help enough for me."

"A hundred dollars a month for your expenses," said the President,

making a memorandum in his notebook, "and what is your time worth?"

"My time? You mean what would I charge somebody for doing this work?

Why, Mr. President, this is not a job! It's an avocation! I wouldn't

take money for it. It's a labor of love."

The chief executive suddenly rose and Diana, rising too, was surprised

at the look that suddenly burned in the hawk-like eyes.

"You are an unusual woman, Miss Allen! Your angle on life is one

seldom found in Washington." He took a restless turn up and down the

room, glanced at Enoch, who stood beside the desk, utterly absorbed in

contemplation of Diana's protesting eyes, then said, "This friend of

mine is a disappointed man. He had believed that in amassing a great

fortune he would find satisfaction. He has found that money of itself

is dust and ashes and it is too late for him to take up a new work.

Miss Allen, I too am a disappointed man. I had believed that the

President of a great nation was a full man, a contented man. I find

myself an automaton, whirled about by the selfish desires of a

politically stupid and indifferent constituency. One of the few

consolations I find in my high office is that once in a while I come

upon some one who is contributing something permanent to this nation's

real advancement, and I am able to help that person. Miss Allen, will

you not share your great good fortune with my friend and me?"

"Gladly!" exclaimed Diana quickly. Then she added, with a little

laugh, "I think I understand now, why you are President of the United

States!"

Enoch and the President joined in the laugh, and Diana was still

smiling when they descended the steps to the waiting carriage. But the

smile faded with a sudden thought.

"The President mustn't think I will take more than expense money!" she

exclaimed.

Enoch laughed again as he replied, "I don't think that need bother you,

Miss Allen. I imagine a yearly sum will be placed at your disposal.

You will use what you wish."

Diana shook her head uneasily. "I don't more than half like the idea.

But the President made it very difficult to refuse."

Enoch nodded. The carriage stopped before the Willard Hotel. "Miss

Allen, will you lunch with me?" he asked.

Diana hesitated. "I'll be late getting back to the office," she said.

"I'll ask Watkins not to dock you," said Enoch soberly.

"Docking my salary," touching Enoch's proffered hand lightly as she

sprang to the curb, "would be almost like taking something from

nothing. I've never lunched in the Willard, Mr. Secretary."

"The Johnstown lunch still holds sway, I suppose!" said Enoch,

following Diana down the stairs to Peacock Row.

They were a rather remarkable pair together. At least the occupants of

the Row evidently felt so, for there was a breathless craning of necks

and a hush in conversations as they passed, Diana, with her

heart-searching beauty, Enoch with his great height and his splendid,

rugged head. The head waiter did not actually embrace Enoch in

welcoming him, but he managed to convey to the dining-room that here

was a personal and private god of his own on whom the public had the

privilege of gazing only through his generosity. Finally he had them

seated to his satisfaction in the quietest and most conspicuous corner

of the room.

"Now, my dear Mr. Secretary, what may we give you?" he asked, rubbing

his hands together.

Enoch glanced askance at Diana, who shook her head. "This is entirely

out of my experience, Mr. Secretary," she said.

"Gustav," said Enoch, "it's not yet one o'clock. We must leave here at

five minutes before two. Something very simple, Gustav." He checked

several items on the card and gave it to the head waiter with a smile.

Gustav smiled too. "Yes, Mr. Secretary!" he exclaimed, and disappeared.

"And that's settled," said Enoch, "and we can forget it. Miss Allen,

when shall you go back to the Canyon?"

"Why," answered Diana, looking a little startled, "not till I've

finished the work for Mr. Watkins, and that will take six months, at

least."

"I think the President's idea will be that you must get to your own

work, at once. Some one else can carry on Watkins' researches."

"I ought to do some studying in the Congressional library," protested

Diana. "Don't you think Washington can endure me a few months longer,

Mr. Secretary?"

"Endure you!" Enoch's voice broke a little, and he gave Diana a glance

in which he could not quite conceal the anguish.

A sudden silence fell between the two that was broken by the waiter's

appearance with the first course. Then Diana said, casually:

"My father is going to be very happy when I write him about this. Do

you remember him at all clearly, Mr. Secretary?"

"Yes," replied Enoch. Then with a quick, direct look, he asked, "Did

your father, ever give you the details of his experience with me in the

Canyon?"

Diana's voice was low but very steady as she replied, "Yes, Mr.

Secretary. He told me long ago, when you made your famous Boyhood on

the Rack speech in Congress. It was the first word he had heard of you

in all the years and he was deeply moved."

"I'm glad he told you," said Enoch. "I'm glad, because I'd like to ask

you to be my friend, and I would want the sort of friend you would make

to know the worst as well as the best about me."

"If that is the worst of you--" Diana began quickly, then paused. "As

father told me, it was a story of a boy's suffering and the final

triumph of his mind and his body."

Enoch stared at Diana with astonishment in every line of his face.

Then he sighed. "He couldn't have told you all," he muttered.

"Yes, he did, all! And nothing, not even what the President said

to-day, can mean as much to me as your asking me to be your friend."

Enoch continued to stare at the lovely, tender face opposite him.

Diana smiled. "Don't look so incredulous, Mr. Secretary! It's not

polite. You are a very famous person. I am nobody. We are lunching

together in a wonderful hotel. I don't even vaguely surmise the names

of the things we are eating. Don't look at me doubtingly. Look

complacent because you can give a lady so much joy."

Enoch laughed with a quick relief that made his cheeks burn. "And so

you are nobody! Curious, then, that you should have impressed yourself

on me so deeply even when you were a child!"

It was Diana's turn to laugh. "Oh, come, Mr. Secretary! Of course I

don't recall it myself, but Dad has always said that you were bored to

death at having a small girl taking the trail with you."

"Do you remember that your mule slipped on the home trail and that I

saved your life?" demanded Enoch.

Diana shook her head. "I was too small and there were too many canyon

trips and too many tourists. I wish--"

She did not finish her sentence, but Enoch said, with a thread of

earnestness in his deep voice that made Diana look at him keenly, "I

wish you did remember!"

There was a moment's silence, then Enoch went on, "Shall you carry on

your work with the Indians alone as you always have done? I believe I

can quite understand your father's uneasiness."

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Diana, glad of an opportunity to redirect the

conversation. "Just as I always have done. I shall have no trouble

unless I get soft, living at the Johnstown Lunch! Then I may have to

waste time till I get fit again. Have you ever lived on the trail,

excepting on your trip to the Grand Canyon, Mr. Secretary?"

"Yes, in Canada and Maine, while I was in college. I used to tutor

rich boys, and they had glorious summers, lucky kids! But since

getting into national politics, I've had no time for real play."

"Some day," said Diana, "you ought to get up an outfit and go down the

Colorado from the Green River to the Needles. That's a real adventure!

Only a few men have done it since the Powell expeditions."

Enoch's eyes brightened. "I know! Some day, perhaps I shall, if Jonas

will let me! How long do you suppose such a trip would take?"

Diana plunged into a description of a recent expedition down the

canyons of the Colorado, and she managed to keep the remainder of the

luncheon conversation on this topic. But as far as Enoch was

concerned, Diana's effort was merely a conversational detour. The

luncheon finished and the Gulf of California safely reached, he said as

he handed Diana into the carriage:

"I've never had a friendship with a woman before," he said. "What do I

do next?"

Diana sighed, while her lips curled at the corners.

"Well, Mr. Secretary, I think the next move is to think the matter over

for a few days, quietly and alone."

"Do you?" Enoch smiled enigmatically. "I don't know that it's safe for

me to rely on your experience after all!" But he said no more.

Enoch spent the evening in his living-room with Señor Juan Cadiz and a

small, lean, brown man in an ill-fitting black suit. The latter did

not speak English, and Señor Cadiz acted as interpreter. The stranger

was uneasy and suspicious, until the very last of the evening. Then,

after a long half hour spent in silent scowling while he stared at

Enoch and listened to the Secretary's replies to Cadiz's eager

questions, he suddenly burst into a passionate torrent of Spanish. A

look of great relief came to Cadiz's face, as he said to Enoch:

"Now he says he trusts you and will tell you the names of the Americans

who are paying him."

Enoch began to jot down notes. When Cadiz's translation was finished

Enoch said:

"This in brief, then, is the situation. A group of Americans own vast

oil fields in Mexico. They have enormous difficulty policing and

controlling the fields. The Mexican method of concession making is

exceedingly expensive and uncertain. They wish the United States to

take Mexico over, either through actual conquest or by mandate. They

have hired a group of bandits to keep trouble brewing until the United

States is forced by England, Germany, or France, to interfere. This

group of men is partly German though all dwell in the United States.

Your friend here, and several of his associates, if I personally swear

to take care of them, will give me information under oath whenever I

wish."

"Yes! Yes! Yes! That is the story!" cried Señor Cadiz. "Oh, Mr.

Secretary, if you could only undo the harm that your cursed American

method of making the public opinion has done, both here and in Mexico.

Why should neighbors hate each other? Mr. Secretary, tell these

Americans to get out of Mexico and stay out! We are foolish in many

ways, but we want to learn to govern ourselves. There will be much

trouble while we learn but for God's sake, Mr. Secretary, force

American money to leave us alone while we struggle in our birth throes!"

Enoch stood up to his great height, tossing the heavy copper-colored

hair off his forehead. He looked at the two Mexicans earnestly, then

he said, holding out his hand, "Señor Cadiz, I'll help you to the best

of my ability. I believe in you and in the ultimate ability of your

country to govern itself. Now will you let me make an appointment for

you with the Secretary of State? Properly, you know, you should have

gone to him with this."

The Mexican shook his head. "No! No! Please, Mr. Secretary! We do

not know him well. He has shown no willingness to understand us. You!

you are the one we believe in! We have watched you for years. We know

that you are honest and disinterested."

"But I shall have to give both the President and the Secretary of State

this information," insisted Enoch.

"That is in your hands," said Señor Cadiz.

"Then," Enoch nodded as Jonas appeared with the inevitable tinkling

glasses, "remain quietly in Washington until you hear from me again."

Jonas held the door open on the departing callers with disapproval in

every line of his face.

"How come that colored trash to be setting in the parlors of the

government, boss?" asked he.

"They are Mexicans, Jonas," replied Enoch.

"Just a new name for niggers, boss," snapped Jonas, following Enoch up

the stairs. "Don't you trust any colored man that ain't willing to

call hisself black."

Enoch laughed and settled himself to an entry in the journal.

"This was the happiest day of my life, Diana. We are going to be great

friends, are we not! And the philosophers tell us that friendship is

the most soul-satisfying of all human relationships. I have been very

vacillating in my attitude to you, since you came to Washington. But I

cannot lose the feeling that those wise, wistful eyes of yours have

seen my trouble and understood. I wonder how soon I can see you again.

I'm rather proud of my behavior to-day, Diana, dearest."

CHAPTER VI

A NEWSPAPER REPORTER

"I wonder if Christ ever cared for a woman. He may have, for God

wished Him to know and suffer all that men know and suffer, and all

love must have been noble in His eyes."--_Enoch's Diary_.

"Abbott," said Enoch the next day, "do you recall that I have commented

to you several times on the fact that some of the southwestern states

did not back the Geological Survey in its search for oil fields as we

had expected they would?"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary," answered Charley, looking up from his notebook

with keen interest in eye and voice. "I have wondered just why the

matter bothered you so."

"It has bothered me for several different reasons. It has, to begin

with, conflicted with my idea of the fundamental purpose of this

office. What could be a stronger reason for being for the Geological

Survey than to find and show the public the resources of the public

lands? When the Bureau of Mines reports to me that certain oil fields

are diminishing at an alarming rate, and when any fool knows that a

vital part of our future history is to be written in terms of oil, it

behooves the Secretary of the Interior to look for remedial steps.

Certain sections of our Southwest are saturated with oil and yet,

Abbott, the states resent our locating oil fields. As far as I know

now, no open hostility has been shown, unless"--Enoch interrupted

himself suddenly,--"do you recall last year that some Indians drove a

Survey group out of Apache Canyon and that young Rice was killed and

all his data lost?"

"Certainly, I recall it. I knew Rice."

Enoch nodded. "Do you recall that a number of newspapers took occasion

then to sneer at government attempts to usurp State and commercial

functions?"

"Now you speak of it, I do remember. The Brown papers were especially

nasty."

"Yes," agreed Enoch. "Now listen closely, Abbott. When my suspicions

had been sufficiently roused, I went to the Secretary of State, and he

laughed at me. Then, the Mexico trouble began to come to a head and I

told the President what I feared. This was after I'd had that letter

from Juan Cadiz. Last night, as you know, I had a session with Cadiz

and one of his bandit friends. Here is what I drew from them."

Enoch reviewed rapidly his conversation of the night before. Abbott

listened with snapping eyes.

"It looks as if Secretary Fowler would have to stop laughing," he said,

when Enoch had finished.

"Abbott," Enoch's voice was very low, "John Fowler, the Secretary of

State, always will laugh at it."

"Why?" asked Charley.

"I don't know," replied Enoch.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Abbott said,

"I've known for a long time that he was jealous of you, politically.

Also he may own Mexican oil stock or he may merely wish to have the

political backing of the Brown newspapers."

"Can you think of any method of persuading him that I am not a

political rival, that I merely want to go to the Senate, when I have

finished here?" asked Enoch earnestly.

Abbott shook his head, "He might be convinced that you want to be a

Senator. But he's a clever man. And even a fool knows that you are

America's man on horseback." Charley's voice rose a little. "Why,

even in this rotten, cynical city of Washington, they believe in you,

they feel that you are the man of destiny. Mr. Fowler is just clever

enough to be jealous of you."

A look of sadness came into Enoch's keen gaze. "I wonder if the game

is worth it, after all," murmured he. "Abbott, I'd swap it all for--"

he stopped abruptly, looked broodingly out of the window, then said,

"Charley, my boy, why are you going into political life?"

The younger man's eyes deepened and he cleared his throat. "A few

years ago, if I'd answered that question truthfully, I'd have said for

personal aggrandizement! But my intimate association with you, Mr.

Huntingdon, has given me a different ideal. I'm going into politics to

serve this country in the best way I can."

"Thanks, Abbott," said Enoch. "I've been wanting to say to you for

some time that I thought you had served your apprenticeship as a

secretary. How would you like an appointment as a special

investigator?"

Charley shook his head. "As long as you are Secretary of the Interior,

I prefer this job; not only because of my personal feeling for you but

because I can learn more here about the way a clean political game can

be played than I can anywhere else."

"All right, Abbott! I'm more than grateful and more than satisfied at

having you with me. See if I can have a conference with first the

Secretary of State and then the President. Now let me finish this

report before the Attorney General arrives."

Enoch's conference with Secretary Fowler was inconclusive. The

Secretary of State chose to take a humorous attitude toward what he

termed the Secretary of the Interior's midnight conference with

bandits. Enoch laughed with him and then departed for his audience

with the chief executive.

The President listened soberly. When the report was finished, he

scowled.

"What attitude does Mr. Fowler take in this?"

"He thinks I'm making mountains out of mole hills. It seems to me, Mr.

President, that I must be extremely careful not to encroach on the

domain of the Secretary of State. My idea is very deliberately to push

the work of the Geological Survey and to follow very carefully any

activities against its work."

"All very well, of course," agreed the President, "but what of the big

game back of it all--what's the means of fighting that?"

"Publicity," replied Enoch briefly.

"Exactly!" exclaimed the President, "There are other newspapers. Brown

does not own them all. As fast as evidence is produced, let the story

be told. By Jove, if this war talk grows much more menacing,

Huntingdon, I think I'll ask you to go across the country and make a

few speeches,--on the Geological Survey!"

"I'm willing!" replied Enoch, with a little sigh.

The President looked at him keenly. "Huntingdon, we're working you too

hard! You look tired. I try not to overload you, but--"

"But you are so overloaded yourself that you have to shift some of the

load," said Enoch, with a smile. "I'm not seriously tired, Mr.

President."

"I hope not, old man. By the way, what did you think of Miss Allen

yesterday?"

"I thought her a very interesting young woman," replied Enoch.

"My heavens, man!" exclaimed the chief executive. "What do you want!

Why, Diana Allen is as rare as--as a great poem. Look here,

Huntingdon, you make a mistake to cut all women out of your life. It's

not normal."

"Perhaps not," agreed Enoch briefly. "I would be very glad," he added,

as if fearing that he had been too abrupt, "I would be very glad to see

more of Miss Allen."

"You ought to make a great effort to do," said the President. "Keep me

informed on this Mexican matter, please, and take care of yourself, my

boy. Good-by, Mr. Secretary. Think seriously of a speaking tour,

won't you?"

"I will," replied Enoch obediently, as he left the room.

The remainder of the day was crowded to the utmost. It was not until

midnight that Enoch achieved a free moment. This was when in the

privacy of his own room Jonas had bidden him a final good night. Enoch

did not open his journal. Instead he scrawled a letter.

"Dear Miss Allen: After deliberating on the matter a somewhat shorter

time, I'll admit, than you suggested, but still having deliberated on

it, I have decided that friendship is an art that needs attention and

study. Will you not dine with me to-morrow, or rather, this evening,

at the Ashton, at eight o'clock? Jonas, who will bring you this, can

bring your answer. Sincerely yours, Enoch Huntingdon."

He gave the note to Jonas the next morning. Jonas' black eyes, when he

saw the superscription, nearly started from their sockets: for during

all the years of his service with Enoch, he never had carried a note to

a woman. It was mid-morning when he tip-toed to the Secretary's desk

and laid a letter on it. Enoch was in conference at the time with Bill

Timmins, perhaps the foremost newspaper correspondent in America. He

excused himself for a moment and opened the envelope.

"Dear Mr. Secretary: Thank you, yes. Sincerely, Diana Allen."

He slipped the letter into his breast pocket and went on with the

interview, his face as somber as ever. But all that day it seemed to

the watchful Jonas that the Secretary seemed less tired than he had

been for weeks.

There was a little balcony at the Ashton, just big enough for a table

for two, and shielded from the view of the main dining-room by palms.

It was set well out from the second floor, overlooking a quiet park.

Enoch was in the habit of dining here with various men with whom he

wished semi-privacy yet whom he did not care to entertain at his own

home.

Diana was more than charmed by the arrangement. The corners of her

mouth deepened as if she were also amused, but Enoch, engrossed in

seating her where the light exactly suited him, did not note the

curving lips. He did not know much about women's dress, but he liked

Diana's soft white gown, and the curious turquoise necklace she wore

interested him. He asked her about it.

"Na-che gave it to me," she said. "It was her mother's. It has no

special significance beyond the fact that the workmanship is very fine

and that the tracery on the silver means joy."

"Joy? What sort of joy?" asked Enoch.

"Is there more than one sort?" countered Diana, in the bantering voice

that Enoch always fancied was half tender.

"Oh, yes!" replied the Secretary. "There's joy in work, play, friends.

There are as many kinds of joy as there are kinds of sorrow. Only

sorrow is so much more persistent than joy! A sorrow can stay by one

forever. But joys pass. They are always short lived."

"Joy in work does not pass, Mr. Secretary," said Diana.

Enoch laid down his spoon. "Please, Miss Allen, don't Mr. Secretary me

any more."

Diana merely smiled. "Granted that one has a real friend, I believe

joy in friendship is permanent," she went on.

"I hope you're right," said Enoch quietly. "We'll see, you and I."

Diana did not reply. She was, perhaps, a little troubled by Enoch's

calm and persistent declaration of principles. It is not easy for a

woman even of Diana's poise and simple sincerity to keep in order a

gentleman as distinguished and as courteous and as obviously in earnest

as Enoch.

Finally, "Do you mind talking your own shop, Mr. Huntingdon?" she asked.

"Not at all," replied Enoch eagerly. "Is there some aspect of my work

that interests you?"

"I imagine that all of it would," said Diana. "But I was not thinking

of your work as a Cabinet Official. I was thinking of you as Police

Commissioner of New York."

Enoch looked surprised.

"Father wrote to me the other day," Diana went on, "and asked me to

send him the collection of your speeches. I bought it at Brentano's

and I don't mind telling you that it pinched the Johnstown lunches a

good bit to do so, but it was worth it, for I read the book before

mailing it."

"You're not hinting that I ought to reimburse you, are you?" demanded

Enoch, with a delighted chuckle.

"Well, no--we'll consider that the luncheon and this dinner square the

Johnstown pinching, perhaps a trifle more. What I wanted to say was

that it struck me as worth comment that after you ceased being Police

Commissioner, you never again talked of the impoverished boyhood of

America. And yet you were a very successful Commissioner, were you

not?"

Enoch looked from Diana out over the balcony rail to the fountain that

twinkled in the little park.

"One of the most difficult things in public life," he said slowly, "is

to hew straight to the line one laid out at the beginning."

"I should think," Diana suggested, "that the difficulty would depend on

what the line was. A man who goes into politics to make himself rich,

for example, might easily stick to his original purpose."

"Exactly! But money of itself never interested me!" Here Enoch

stopped with a quick breath. There flashed across his inward vision

the picture of a boy in Luigi's second story, throwing dice with

passionate intensity. Enoch took a long sip of water, then went on.

"I wanted to be Police Commissioner of New York because I wanted to

make it impossible for other boys to have a boyhood like mine. I don't

mean that, quite literally, I thought one man or one generation could

accomplish the feat. But I did truly think I could make a beginning.

Miss Allen, in spite of the beautiful fights I had, in spite of the

spectacular clean-ups we made, I did nothing for the boys that my

successor did not wipe out with a single stroke of his pen, his first

week in office."

Diana drew a long breath. "I wonder why," she said.

"I think that lack of imagination, poor memory, personal selfishness,

is the answer. There is nothing people forget quite so quickly as the

griefs of their own childhood. There is nothing more difficult for

people to imagine than how things affect a child's mind. And yet,

nothing is so important in America to-day as the right kind of

education for boys. It has not been found as yet."

"Have you a theory about it?" asked Diana.

"Yes, I have. Have you?"

Diana nodded. "I don't think boys and girls should be educated from

the same angle."

"No? Why not?" Enoch's blue eyes were eager.

"Wandering about the desert among the Indians, one has leisure to think

and to observe the workings of life under frank and simple conditions.

It has seemed to me that the boy approaches life from an entirely

different direction from a girl and that our system of education should

recognize that. Both are primarily guided by sex, their femaleness or

their maleness is always their impelling force. I'm talking now on the

matter of the spiritual and moral training, not book education."

"Why not include the mental training? I think you'd be quite right in

doing so."

"Perhaps so," replied Diana.

They were silent for a moment, then Enoch said, with a quiet vehemence,

"Some day they'll dare to defy the creeds and put God into the public

schools. I don't know about girls, but, Miss Allen, the growing boys

need Him, more than they need a father. Something to cling to,

something high and noble and permanent while sex with all its thousand

varied impulses flagellates them! Something to go to with those

exquisite, generous fancies that even the worst boy has and that even

the best boy will not share even with the best mother. The homes today

don't have God in them. The churches with their hide-bound creeds

frighten away most men. Think, Miss Allen, think of the travesty of

our great educational system which ignores the two great facts of the

universe, God and sex."

"You've never put any of this into your public utterances."

"No," replied Enoch, "I've been saving it for you," and he looked at

her with a quiet smile.

Diana could but smile in return.

"And so," said Enoch, "returning to the answer to your original

question, I have found it hard to keep to any sort of fine idealism,

partly because of my own inward struggles and partly because politics

is a vile game anyhow."

"We Americans," Diana lifted her chin and looked into Enoch's eyes very

directly, "feel that at least one politician has played a clean game.

It is a very great privilege for me to know you, Mr. Huntingdon."

"Miss Allen," half whispered Enoch, "if you really knew me, with all my

inward devils and my half-achieved dreams, you would realize that it's

no privilege at all. Nevertheless, I wish that you did know all about

me. It would make me feel that the friendship which we are forming

could stand even 'the wreckful siege of battering days'!"

"There was a man who understood friendships!" said Diana quickly. "He

said in his sonnets all that could be said about it."

"Now don't disappoint me by agreeing with the idiots who try to prove

that Shakespeare wrote the sonnets to a man!" cried Enoch. "Only a

woman could have brought forth that beauty of song."

Diana rose nobly to do battle. "What nonsense, Mr. Huntingdon! As if

a man like Shakespeare--" She paused as if struck by a sudden thought.

"That's a curious attitude for a notorious woman hater to take, Mr.

Secretary."

Enoch laid down his fork. "Do you think I'm a woman hater, Miss

Allen?" looking steadily into Diana's eyes.

"I didn't mean to be so personal. Just like a woman!" sighed Diana.

"But do you think I'm a woman hater?" insisted Enoch.

Diana looked up earnestly. "Please, Mr. Huntingdon, if our friendship

is to ripen, you must not force it."

Enoch's face grew suddenly white. There swept over him with bitter

realism a conception of the falseness of the position into which he was

permitting himself to drift. He answered his own question with an

attempted lightness of tone.

"I can never marry, but I don't hate women."

Diana's chin lifted and Enoch leaned forward quickly. All the aplomb

won through years of suffering and experience deserted him. For the

moment he was again the boy in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

"Oh, I am stupid, but let me explain. I want you to--"

"Please don't!" said Diana coldly. "I need no warning, Mr. Huntingdon."

"Oh, my dear Miss Allen, you must not be offended! What can I say?"

"You might ask me if it's not time to go home," suggested Diana,

coolly. "You mustn't forget that I'm a wage earner."

Enoch bit his lip and turned to sign the check. Then he followed Diana

to the door. Here they came upon the Indian Commissioner and his wife,

and all opportunity for explanations was gone for the two invited

themselves to walk along to Diana's rooming place. Enoch went up the

steps with Diana, however, and asked her tensely:

"Will you lunch with me to-morrow, Miss Allen, that I may explain

myself?"

"Thank you, no. I shall be very busy to-morrow, Mr. Huntingdon."

"Let me call here in the evening, then."

"I'd rather you wouldn't," answered the girl, coldly. "Good night, Mr.

Secretary," and she was gone.

Enoch stood as if struck dumb, then he made an excuse to Mr. and Mrs.

Watkins, and started homeward. The night was stifling. When Jonas let

him into the house, his collar was limp and his hair lay wet on his

forehead.

"I'm going to New York to-night, Jonas," he said huskily.

"What's happened, boss?" asked Jonas breathlessly, as he followed Enoch

up the stairs.

"Nothing! I'm going to give myself a day's rest. Give me something to

travel in," pulling off his coat.

"I'm going with you, boss," not stirring, his black eyes rolling.

"No, I'm going alone, Jonas. Here, I'll pack my own grip. You go on

out." This in a voice that sent Jonas, however reluctantly, into the

hall, where he walked aimlessly up and down, wringing his hands.

"He ain't been as bad as this in years," he muttered. "I wonder what

she did to him!"

Enoch came out of his room shortly. "Tell every one I'm in New York,

Jonas," he said, and was gone.

But Enoch did not go to New York. There was, he found on reaching the

station, no train for an hour. He checked his suitcase, and the

watching Jonas followed him out into the dark streets. He knew exactly

whither the boss was heading, and when Enoch had been admitted into a

brick house on a quiet street not a stone's throw from the station,

Jonas entered nimbly through the basement.

He had a short conference with a colored man in the kitchen, then he

went up to the second floor and sat down in a dark corner of the hall

where he could keep an eye on all who entered the rear room. Well

dressed men came and went from the room all night. It was nearing six

o'clock in the morning when Jonas stopped a waiter who was carrying in

a tray of coffee.

"How many's there now?" he demanded.

"Only four," replied the waiter. "That red-headed guy's winning the

shirts off their backs. I've seen this kind of a game before. It's

good for another day."

"Are any of 'em drinking?" asked Jonas.

"Nothing but coffee. Lord, I'm near dead!"

"Let me take that tray in for you. I want to get word to my boss."

The waiter nodded and, sinking into Jonas' chair, closed his eyes.

Jonas carried the tray into a handsome, smoke filled room, where four

men with intent faces were gathered around a card table. Enoch, in his

shirt sleeves, was dealing as Jonas set a steaming cup at his elbow.

Perhaps the intensity of the colored man's gaze distracted Enoch's

attention for a moment from the cards. He looked up and when he met

Jonas' eyes he deliberately laid down the deck, rose, took Jonas by the

arm and led him to the door.

"Don't try this again, Jonas," he said, and he closed the door after

his steward.

Once more Jonas took up his vigil. He left his chair at nine o'clock

to telephone Charley Abbott that the Secretary had gone to New York,

then he returned to his place. Noon came, afternoon waned. As dusk

drew on again, Jonas went once more to the telephone.

"That you, Miss Allen? . . . This is Jonas. . . . Yes, ma'am, I'm

well, but the boss is in a dangerous condition. . . . Yes, ma'am, I

thought you'd feel bad because you see, it's your fault. . . . No,

ma'am, I can't explain over the telephone, but if you'll come to the

station and meet me at the news-stand on the corner, I'll tell

you. . . . Miss Allen, for God's sake, just trust me and come along.

Come now, in a cab, and I'll pay for it. . . . Thank you! Thank you,

ma'am! Thank you!"

He banged up the receiver and flew out the basement door. When he

reached the news-stand, he stood with his hands twitching, talking to

himself for a half hour before Diana appeared. She walked up to him as

directly as a man would have done.

"What's happened, Jonas?"

"You and the boss must have quarreled last night. When anything

strikes the boss deep, he wants to gamble. Of late years he's mostly

fought it off, but once in a while it gets him. He's been at it since

last night over yonder, and for the first time in years I can't do

anything with him. And if it gets out, you know, Miss Allen, he's

ruined. I don't dast to leave him long, that's why I got you to come

here."

Diana's chin lifted. "Do you mean to tell me that a man of Mr.

Huntingdon's reputation and ability, still stoops to that sort of

thing?"

"Stoop! What do you mean, stoop? O Lord, I thought, seeing he sets

the world by you, that you was different from the run of women and

would understand." Jonas twisted his brown hands together.

"Understand what?" asked Diana, her great eyes fastened on Jonas with

pity and scorn struggling in them.

"Understand what it means to him. How it's like a conjur that Luigi

wished on him when he was a little boy. How he's pulled himself away

from it and he didn't have anybody on earth to help him till I come

along. What do you women folks know about how a strong man like him

fights Satan? I've seen him walk the floor all night and win, and I've

seen him after he's given in, suffer sorrow and hate of himself like a

man the Almighty's forgot. That's why he's so good, because he sins

and then suffers for it."

As Jonas' husky voice subsided, a sudden gleam of tears shone in

Diana's eyes.

"I'll send him a note, Jonas, and wait here for the answer. If that

doesn't bring him, I'll go after him myself."

"The note'll bring him," said Jonas, "and he'll give me thunder for

telling."

"Let me have a pencil and get me some paper from the news-stand." She

wrote rapidly.

"Dear Mr. Huntingdon:

"I must see you at once on urgent business. I am in the railway

station. Could you come to me here?

"DIANA ALLEN."

Jonas all but snatched the note and dashed away. Enoch was scowling at

the cards before him when Jonas thrust the note into his hand. Enoch

stared at the address, laid the cards down slowly, and read the note.

"All right, gentlemen," he said quietly. "I've had my fun! Good

night!" He took his hat from Jonas and strode out of the room. He did

not speak as the two walked rapidly to the station. Diana was standing

by a cab near the main entrance.

"This is good of you, Mr. Huntingdon," she said gravely, shaking hands.

"Thank you, Jonas!" She entered the cab and Enoch followed her.

"Let me have your suitcase check, boss." Jonas held out a black hand

that still shook a little.

"I'll get Miss Allen to drop me at the house, Jonas," said Enoch.

Jonas nodded and heaved a great sigh as the cab started off.

"How did you come to do it?" asked Enoch, looking strangely at Diana.

"I heard you were in New York, Mr. Secretary. Jonas called me up!"

"Jonas had no business to do so. I am humiliated beyond words!"

Enoch spoke with a dreary sort of hopelessness.

"I thought we were friends," said Diana calmly. "It isn't as if we

hadn't known each other and all about each other since childhood. You

must not say a word against Jonas."

"How could I? He is my guardian angel," said Enoch.

Diana went on still in the commonplace tone of the tea table. "I want

to apologize for my fit of temper, Mr. Secretary. I was very stupid

and I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself. You may tell me anything you

please!"

"I don't deserve it!" Enoch spoke abruptly.

Diana's voice suddenly deepened and softened. "Ah, but you do deserve

it, dear Mr. Secretary. You deserve all that grateful citizens can do

for you, and even then we cannot expect to discharge our full debt to

you. Here's my house. Perhaps when you're not too busy, you'll ask me

to dine again with you."

Enoch did not reply. He stood with bared head while she ran up the

steps. Then he reentered the cab and was driven home. But it was not

till two weeks later that Enoch sent a note to Diana, asking her to

take dinner with him. Even his diary during that period showed no

record of his inward flagellations. He did not receive an answer until

late in the afternoon.

It had been an exceptionally hectic day. Enoch had been summoned

before the Senate Committee on appropriations, and with the director of

the Reclamation Service had endured a grilling that had had some

aspects of the third degree.

After some two hours of it the Director had lost his temper.

"Gentlemen!" he had cried, "treat me as if I were a common thief,

attempting to loot the public funds, if you find satisfaction in it,

but at least do not humiliate the Secretary of the Interior in the same

manner!"

"These people can't humiliate me, Whipple." Enoch had spoken quietly.

The blow had struck home and the Senator who was acting as chairman had

apologized.

Enoch had nodded. "I know! You are in the position of having to

appropriate funds for the carrying on of a highly specialized business

about which you are utterly ignorant. You are uneasy and you mistake

impertinent questioning for keen investigation."

"I move we adjourn until to-morrow," a member had said hastily. The

motion had carried and Enoch, as though it was already past six

o'clock, had started for his office, Whipple accompanying him.

"After all this howl over the proposed Paloma Dam," said Whipple, "we

may not be able to build it. There's a bunch of Mexicans both this and

the other side of the border that have made serious trouble with the

preliminary survey, and I have the feeling that there is some power

behind that wants to start something."

"Is that so?" asked Enoch with interest. "Come in and talk to me a few

moments about it."

Whipple followed to the Secretary's office. A sealed letter was lying

on the desk. Enoch opened it, and read it without ceremony.

"Dear Mr. Huntingdon: I find that some old friends are starting for the

Grand Canyon this afternoon and they have given me an opportunity to

make one of their party. I have been able to arrange my work to Mr.

Watkins' satisfaction and so, I'm off. I want to thank you very deeply

for the wonderful openings you have made for me and for the very great

personal kindness you have shown me. When I return in the winter, I

hope I may see you again.

"Very sincerely yours,

"DIANA ALLEN."

Enoch folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, then he looked at

the waiting Director. "I hope you'll excuse me, Whipple, but this is

something to which I must give my personal attention," and without a

word further, he put on his hat and walked out of the office. He did

not go to his waiting carriage but, leaving the building by another

door, he walked quickly to the drug store on the corner and, entering a

telephone booth, called the railroad station. The train connecting for

the Southwest had left an hour before. Enoch hung up the receiver and

walked out to the curb, scowling and striking his walking stick against

his trouser leg. Finally he got aboard a trolley.

It was a little after three o'clock in the morning when Jonas located

him. Enoch was leaning against the wall watching the roulette table.

"Good evening, boss," said Jonas.

Enoch looked round at him. "That you, Jonas? I haven't touched a card

or a dollar this evening, Jonas."

Jonas, who had already ascertained this from the owner of the gambling

house, nodded.

"Have you had your supper yet, boss?"

Enoch hesitated, thinking heavily. "Why, no, Jonas, I guess not."

Then he added irritably, "A man must rest, Jonas. I can't slave all

the time."

"Sure!" returned the colored man, holding his trembling hands behind

him. "But how come you to think this was rest, boss? You better come

back now and let me fix you a bite to eat."

"Jonas, what's the use? Who on earth but you cares what I do? What's

the use?"

"Miss Diana Allen," said Jonas softly, "she told Mr. Abbott this noon,

at lunch, that you was one of the great men of this country and that he

was a lucky dog to spend all his time with you."

Enoch stood, his arms folded on his chest, his massive head bowed.

Finally he said, "All right, old man, I'll try again. But I'm lonely,

Jonas, lonely beyond words, and all the greatness in the world, Jonas,

can't fill an empty heart."

"I know it, boss! I know it!" said Jonas huskily, as he led the way to

the street. There, Enoch insisted on walking the three or four miles

home.

"All right," agreed Jonas, cheerfully. "I guess ghosteses don't mind

travel, and that's all I am, just a ghost."

Enoch stopped abruptly, put a hand on Jonas' shoulder and hailed a

passing night prowler. Once in the cab, Jonas said:

"The White House done called you twice to-night. Mr. Secretary. I

told 'em you'd call first thing in the morning."

"Thanks!" replied Enoch briefly.

The house was silent when they reached it. Jonas never employed

servants who could not sleep in their own homes. By the time the

Secretary was ready for bed, Jonas appeared with a tray, Enoch silently

and obediently ate and then turned in.

The White House called before the Secretary had finished breakfast.

"You saw last night's papers?" asked the President.

"No! I'm sorry. I--I took a rest last evening."

"I'm glad you did. Well, I think you'd better plan--come up here, will

you, at once? I won't try to talk to you over the telephone."

Enoch, in the carriage, glanced over the paper. The Brown paper of the

evening before contained a nasty little story of innuendo about the

work of the Survey near Paloma. The morning paper declared in glaring

headlines that the President by his pacifist policy toward Mexico was

tainting the nation's honor and that it would shortly bring England,

France and Germany about our ears.

The President was still at breakfast when Enoch was shown in to him.

The chief executive insisted that Enoch have a cup of coffee.

"You don't look to me, my boy, like a man who had enjoyed his rest.

And I'm going to ask you to add to your burdens. Could you leave next

week for a speaking trip?"

The tired lines around Enoch's mouth deepened. "Yes, Mr. President.

Have you a general route planned?"

"Yes, New York, Chicago, Denver, San Francisco and in between as can be

arranged. Take two months to it."

"I shall be glad to be free of office routine for a while," said Enoch.

He sipped his coffee slowly, then rose as he added:

"I shall stick strictly to the work of my department, Mr. President, in

the speech making."

"Oh! Absolutely! And let me be of any help to you I may."

"Thank you," Enoch smiled a little grimly. "You might come along and

supply records for the phonograph."

"By Jove, I would if it were necessary!" said the President.

Jonas and Abbott each was perfect in his own line. In five days' time

Enoch was aboard the private car, with such paraphernalia as was needed

for carrying on office work en route. The itinerary had been arranged

to the last detail. A few carefully chosen newspaper correspondents

were aboard and one hot September evening, a train with the Secretary's

car hitched to it, pulled out of Washington.

Of Enoch's speeches on that trip little need be said here. Never

before had he spoken with such fire and with such simple eloquence.

The group of speeches he made are familiar now to every schoolboy. One

cannot read them to-day without realizing that the Secretary was trying

as never before to interpret for the public his own ideals of service

to the common need. He seemed to Abbott and to the newspaper men who

for six weeks were so intimately associated with him to draw

inspiration and information from the free air. And there was to all of

his speeches an almost wistful persuasiveness, as if, Abbott said, he

picked one listener in each audience, each night, and sought anew to

make him feel the insidious peril to the nation's soul that lay in

personal complacency and indifference to the nation's spiritual

welfare. Only Jonas, struggling to induce the Secretary to take a

decent amount of sleep, nodded wisely to himself. He knew that Enoch

made each speech to a lovely, tender face, that no man who saw ever

forgot.

Little by little, the newspapers of the country began to take Enoch's

point of view. They not only gave his speeches in full, but they

commented on them editorially, at great length, and with the exception

of the Brown papers, favorably. By the time Enoch was on his way home,

with but two weeks more of speech making before him, it looked as

though the thought of war with Mexico had been definitely quashed. And

Enoch was tired to the very marrow of his bones.

But the Brown papers were not finished. One evening, in Arizona,

shortly after the train had pulled out of a station, Enoch asked for

the newspapers that had been brought aboard from the desert city.

Charley Abbott, who had been with the newspaper men on the observation

platform for an hour or so, answered the Secretary's request with a

curiously distraught manner.

"I--that is--Mr. Huntingdon, Jonas says you slept worse than ever last

night. Why not save the papers till morning and try to sleep now?"

Enoch looked at his secretary keenly. "Picked up some Brown papers

here, eh! Nothing that bunch can say can hurt me, old man."

"Don't you ever think it!" exclaimed Charley vehemently. "You might as

well say you were immune to rattler bites, Mr. Huntingdon--" here his

voice broke.

"Look here, Abbott," said Enoch, "if it's bad, I've got to fight it,

haven't I?"

"But this sort of thing, a man--" Charley suddenly steadied himself.

"Mr. Secretary, they've put some nasty personal lies about you in the

paper. The country at large and all of us who know you, scorn the lies

as much as they do Brown. In a day or so, it we ignore them, the stuff

will have been forgotten. I beg of you, don't read any newspapers

until I tell you all's clear."

Enoch smiled. "Why, my dear old chap, I've weathered all sorts of mud

slinging!"

"But never this particular brand," insisted Charley.

"Let's have the papers, Abbott. I'm not afraid of anything Brown can

say."

Charley grimly handed the papers to the Secretary and returned to the

observation platform.

A reporter had seen Enoch in the gambling house on the evening of

Diana's departure for the Canyon. He had learned something from the

gambling house keeper of the Secretary's several trips there. The

reporter had then, with devilish ingenuity, followed Enoch back to

Minetta Lane, where he had found Luigi. Then followed eight or ten

paragraphs in Luigi's own words, giving an account of Enoch and Enoch's

mother. The whole story was given with a deadly simplicity, that it

seemed to the Secretary must carry conviction with it.

As Enoch had told Abbott, he had weathered much political mud slinging,

but even his worst political enemies had spared him this. His

adherents had made much of the fact that Enoch was slum bred and self

made. That was the sort of story which the inherent democracy of

America loved. But the Brown account made of Enoch a creature of the

underworld, who still loved his early haunts and returned to them in

all their vileness. And in all the years of his political life, no

newspaper but this had ever mentioned Enoch's mother. The tale closed

with a comment on the fact that Enoch, who shunned all women, had been

seen several times in Washington giving marked attention to Miss Diana

Allen. Diana and her work were fully identified.

Enoch read the account to the last word, a flush of agonizing

humiliation deepening on his face as he did so. When he had finished,

he doubled the paper carefully, and laid it on the chair next to his.

Then he lighted a cigarette and sat with folded arms, unseeing eyes on

the newspaper. When Jonas came in an hour later, the cigarette,

unsmoked, was cold between the Secretary's lips. With trembling hands,

the colored man picked up the paper and with unbelievable venom

gleaming in his black eyes, he carried it to the rear door, spat upon

it and flung it out into the desert night. Then he returned to Enoch.

"Mr. Secretary," he said huskily, "let me take your keys."

Mechanically Enoch obeyed. Jonas selected a small key from the bunch

and, opening a large leather portfolio, he took out the black diary.

This he placed carefully on the folding table which stood at Enoch's

elbow. Then he started toward the door.

The Secretary did not look up. Nor did he heed the colloquy which took

place at the door between Jonas and Abbott.

"How is he, Jonas?"

"I ain't asked him. He's a sick man."

"God! Let me come in, Jonas."

"No, sir, you ain't! How come you think you kin talk to him when even

I don't dast to?"

"But he mustn't be alone, Jonas."

"He ain't alone. I left him with his Bible. Ain't nobody going to

trouble him this night."

"I didn't know he read the Bible that way." Abbott's voice was

doubtful.

"I don't mean the regular Lord's Bible. It's a book he's been writing

for years and he always turns to it when he's in trouble. I don't know

nothing about it. What he don't want me to know, I don't know," and

Jonas slammed the door behind him.

It was late when Enoch suddenly straightened himself up and, with an

air of resolution, opened the black book. He uncapped his fountain pen

and wrote:

"Diana, how could I know, how could I dream that such a thing could

happen to you, through me! You must never come back to Washington.

Perhaps they will forget. As for myself, I can't seem to think clearly

just what I must do. I am so very tired. One thing is certain, you

never must see me again. For one wild moment the desire to return to

the Canyon, now I am in its neighborhood overwhelmed me. I decided to

go up there and see if I could find the peace that I found in my

boyhood. Then I realized that you were at home, that all the world

would see me go down Bright Angel, and I gave up the idea. But

somehow, I must find rest, before I return to Washington. Oh, Diana,

Diana!"

It was midnight when Enoch finally lay down in his berth. To Jonas'

delight, he fell asleep almost immediately, and the faithful steward,

after reporting to the anxious group on the platform, was soon asleep

himself.

But it was not one o'clock when the Secretary awoke. The train was

rumbling slowly, and he looked from the window. Only the moonlit flats

of the desert were to be seen. Enoch rose with sudden energy and

dressed himself. He chucked his toilet case, with his diary and a

change of underwear, into a satchel, and scrawled a note to Abbott:

"Dear Charley: I'm slipping off into the desert for a little rest.

You'll hear from me when I feel better. Give out that I'm sick--I

am--and cancel the few speaking engagements left. Tell Jonas he is not

to worry. Yours, E. H."

He sealed this note, then he pulled on a soft hat and, as the train

stopped at a water tank, he slipped off the platform and stood in the

shadow of an old shed. It seemed to him a long time before the engine,

with violent puffing and jolting, started the long train on again. But

finally the tail lights disappeared in the distance and Enoch was alone

in the desert. For a few moments he stood beside the track, drawing in

deep breaths of the warm night air. Then he started slowly westward

along the railway tracks. He had noted a cluster of adobe houses a

mile or so back, and toward these he was headed. In spite of the agony

of the blow he had sustained Enoch, gazing from the silver flood of the

desert, to the silver arch of the heavens, was conscious of a thrill of

excitement and not unpleasant anticipation. Somewhere, somehow, in the

desert, he would find peace and sufficient spiritual strength to

sustain him when once more he faced Washington and the world.

BOOK III

THE ENCHANTED CANYON