“Ah, there!” quoth William, archly, to a beautiful being to whom he had

not been introduced. “Ah, there! Tricksey; I choose youse for d' next

waltz.”

“Nit; not on your life!” murmured the beautiful one.

As William Henry Weld was about to make fitting response, a coarse,

vulgar person approached.

“What for be youse jimmin' 'round me pick?” asked this person.

“That's d' stuff, Barney!” said the beautiful one. “Don't do a t'ing to

him!”

The next instant William Henry Weld was cast into outer darkness.

“It's all right, Old Man!” said the friend who rescued William Henry

Weld, “I'm goin' to take youse home. Your wife ain't on to me, an'

I'll fake it I'm a off'cer, see! I'll give her d' razzle dazzle of her

existence, an' square youse wit' her.”

“It's Willie!” said the friend to Arabella Weld, as he supported her

husband into the sitting-room. “It's Willie, an' he's feelin' O. K. but

weedy. Me name, madam, is Jackson--Jackson, of d' secret p'lice. Willie

puts himse'f in me hands as a sacred trust to bring him home.”

“Is he sick?” moaned Arabella Weld, as she began to let her hair down,

preparatory to a yell.

“Never touched him!” assured the friend. “Naw; Willie's off his feed

a bit. You sees, madam, Willie hired out to a hypnotist purely in d'

interest of science, an' he's been in a trance four days, see! That's

why he ain't home. Bein' in a trance, he couldn't send woid. Now all

he needs is a rest for, say, a week. Oughtn't to let him get out of his

crib for a week.”

At 4 o'clock the next morning William Henry Weld began to see

blue-winged goats. Arabella Weld “sprung” a glass of water on him.

“Give it a chase!” shrieked William Henry Weld, wildly waving the false

beverage aside.

In his ratty condition he didn't tumble to the pure element's identity,

but thought it was one of those Things.

At 5 o'clock A. M. William Henry Weld didn't do a thing but perish.

When the glorious sun again poured down its golden mellow beams, the

Undertaker had his hooks on him and Arabella Weld was a widow.

III

BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left

him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while

Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner's

lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries.

“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for

her in wedlock.”

Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for

full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the

delicate duke of Arabella Weld.

The Undertaker's adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up

Departed prior to the obsequies.

Although it was but 9 o'clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on

himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid

to measure for a coffin--it was a riveted cinch the party would die--and

then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were

giving him the crowd.

But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was

organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived.

As they stood together--Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her,

loved her so madly--looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her

admiration.

“On d' dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He's very much

improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit' Willie.”

The Undertaker was silent.

Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the

Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her

had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture.

Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion,

twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his

heart like a torrent.

“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his

arm about her.

Arabella softly put his arm away.

“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until

we've got Willie off our hands--we must wait a year.”

“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow.

“Wait a year, dearest! Now, what's d' fun of that? You must take me for

a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt.

“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully.

“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that's Up-the-state.

A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week,

love!”

“This isn't a game for Willie's life insurance?” and great crystals of

pain and doubt swam in Arabella's glorious eyes.

“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d'

policy wit' Willie! Send it back to d' company if youse doubts me, an'

tell 'em to call d' whole bluff a draw.”

The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from

her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the

Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained.

IV

One week had passed since William Henry Weld was solemnly pigeon-holed

for eternal reference.

The preacher received the couple in his study.

“Shall I marry you with the prayer-book, or would youse prefer the short

cut?” he asked.

“Marry us on a deck of cards, if you choose!” faltered Arabella. Her

eyes sought the floor, while the tell-tale blushes painted her lovely

prospectus. “Only cinch the play, an' do it quick!”

THE WEDDING

(Annals of The Bend)

Naw; I'm on I'm late all right, all right; but I couldn't help it,

see!”

Chucky was thirty minutes behind our hour. I'd been sitting in the

little bar in sickening controversy with one of the vile cigars of the

place waiting for Chucky. For which cause I was moved to mention his

dereliction sharply.

“Sorry to keep an old pal playin' sol'taire, wit' nothin' better to

amuse him than d' len'th of rope youse is puffin',” continued Chucky in

furtive excuse, “but I was to a weddin' an' couldn't breakaway. That's

w'y I've got on me dress soote.

“Say! on d' dead! of course I ain't in on many nuptials; but all d'

same I likes to go. I always comes away feelin' so wise an* flossy an*

cooney. Why, I don't know, unless it's 'cause d' guys gettin' hitched

looks so much like a couple of come-ons--so dead sure life is such a

cinch, such a sight of confidence like one sees at a weddin', be d'

parts of d' two suckers who's bein' starred, never omits to make me feel

too cunnin' to live for d' whole week after.

“Sure! this weddin' was a good t'ing; what youse might call d' real

t'ing; an' it's a spark to a rhinestone it toins out all hunk for d'

folks involved. Who's d' two gezebos who gets nex' to each other? D'

groom is d' boss gunner of one of our war boats, an 'd' skirt is d' cash

goil in d' anti-Chink laundry on Great Jones street.

“An' say! that little skirt's a wonder, an' don't youse forget it! She's

good any day for any old t'ing I've got; an' all she's got to do is just

rap, an' she takes it, see! It was me Rag sees d' goil foist one time

when she's down be d' laundry puttin' in me t'ree-sheets for their

weekly dose of suds.

“Is me Rag an' me married? Say! I likes that, I don't t'ink! Youse is

gettin' fanciful in your cupolo. 4 Be me little Bundle an' me married?'

says you. Well, I should kiss a pig! Youse can take me tip for it, if

we ain't man an' wife be d' longest system d' Cat'lic Choich could

play--for me Rag told d' father who 'fficiates that we're out for d'

limit--then all I got to stutter is there ain't a mug who's married in

d' entire city of Noo York.

“Cert! we're married!” Chucky went on after cheering himself with the

tankard which the barkeeper placed before him. “If youse had let your

lamps repose on this horseshoe scar over d' bridge of me smeller, youse

would have tumbled to d' fac wit'out astin'.

“How do I win it? I'm comin' up d' stairs like a sucker, just followin'

a difference of opinion between me an' me loidy (I soaked her a little

one, an' that's for fair! to show her she's off her trolley about d'

subject in dispoote), when she cuts loose d' coal bucket at me. Say! she

spoiled me map for a mont'.

“But to get back to d' little laundry goil. Me Rag, as I says, was in

this tub-joint where d' goil woikswit' me linen one day; an' just as she

chases in, a fresh stiff who's standin' there t'run some raw bluff at d'

little laundry goil she couldn't stand for, see! an' she puts up a damp

eye an' does d' weep act.

“This little laundry goil is one of them meek, harmless people--rabbits

is bull-terriers to 'em--an' so when me onliest own beholds d' tears

come chasin down her nose at d' remarks of this fly guy, she chucks me

shirts in d' corner an' mounts him in a hully secont.

“An' say! me Rag can scrap, an' that's no dream! I don't want none of

it. When she an' me has carried d' conversation to d' point where she

takes out her hairpins, an' gives her mane to d' breeze, that's me cue

to cork. Youse can't get another rise out of me after that: I knows her.

“Well! me Rag lights into this hobo who's got gay wit 'd' little goil,

an' when she takes her hooks out of his make-up, an' he goes surgin'

into d' street, honest! he looks like he's been fightin' a dog. Some

lovers of true sport who's there an' payin' attention to d' mill, says

this galoot wasn't in it wit' me Rag. She has him on d' blink from d'

jump; she win in a loiter.

“Takin' her part that way makes d' little laundry goil confidenshul

wit' me Rag. It's about two weeks later when she sprints over an' tells

Missus Chuck (she makes her promise to lay dead about it, too, but still

she passes d' woid to me)--she tells me Rag, as I'm sayin', that she's

in trouble. Her steady, she says, is one of d' top notch gunners of one

of our big boats; he's d' main squeeze in histurrent, see! an' way up in

d' paint. His boat's been layin' at d' Navy Yard, an' now he's ordered

to sail for Cuba in a week an' help straighten up d' Dagoes we're havin'

d' recent run in wit'. Meanwhiles, she says, dey won't let her beloved

have shore leave; an' neither dey won't stand for her to come aboard an'

see him. There youse be! a case of dead sep'ration between two lovin'

hearts.

“D' little laundry goil gives it out cold, she'll croak if she don't get

to see her Billy before he skates off for d' wars. She says she knows

he's out to be killed anyhow. D' question wit' her is--what's she goin'

to do? Dey won't let her aboard d' boat, an' dey won't let him aboard d'

land; now, what's d' soon move for her to make?

“Well, me Rag--who's got a nut on her for cert--says for her to skip

down to Washin'ton an' go ag'inst d' Sec'tary himself.

“'Make him a strong talk,' says me Rag; 'give him a reg'lar

razzle-dazzle, an' he'll write youse a poiper to them blokes aboard d'

boat to let youse see your Billy.'

“'Do youse t'ink for sure he will?' says d' little laundry goil.

“'Why, it's a walkover!' says me Rag. 'If he toins out a hard game, give

him d' tearful eye, see! an' cough a sob or two, an' he'll weaken! You

can't miss it,' says me ownliest; 'it's easy money.'

“But d' little goil was awful leary of d' play.

“' Washin'ton is so far away,' she says.

“' It's like goin' to Harlem,' says me Rag. 'All youse has to do to go,

is to take some sandwidges an' apples to sort o' jolly d' trip, an' then

climb onto d' cars an' go. When d' Con. comes t'rough, pass him your

pasteboard, see! an' if any of them smooth marks try to make a mash,

t'run 'em down an' t'run 'em hard. I'll go over an' do your stunt at

d' laundry, so that needn't give youse a scare. An' be d' way! if that

lobster I win from d' other day shows up, I'll make a monkey of him

ag'in. I didn't spend enough time wit' him on d' occasion of our mix-up,

anyway.'

“At last d' little laundry goil makes d' brace of her life. She's so

bashful an' timid she can't live; but she's dead stuck on seein' her

Billy before he sails away, an' it gives her nerve. As I says, she takes

me Rag's steer an' skins out for d' Cap'tal.

“An' what do youse t'ink? D' old mut who's Sec'tary won't chin wit' her.

Toins her down cold, he does; gives her d' grand rinky-dink wit'out so

much as findin' out what's her racket at all.

“At d' finish, however, d' little goil lands one of d' push--he's a

cloik in d' office, I figgers--an' he hears her yarn between weeps, an'

ups an' makes a pass or two, an' she gets d' writin'. It says to toin

Billy loose every afternoon till d' boat pulls out.

“Say! him an 'd' little goil, when she gets back, was as happy as a

couple of kids; dey has more fun than a box of monkeys. On d' level! I

was proud of me Rag for floor managin' d' play. She wasn't solid wit'

Billy an 'd' little goil! Oh, no!

“That's how me an' me loidy was in on this weddin' to-day wit' bot'

trilbys. Me Rag's 'It' wit' d' little goil; youse can gamble on that!

“Of course d' war's over now, an' two weeks ago d' little goil's Billy

comes home. An' what wit' pay, an' what wit' prize money, he hits d'

Bend wit' a bundle of d' long green big enough to make youse t'row a

fit, an' he ain't done a t'ing but boin money ever since.

“Nit; it ain't much of a story, but d' whole racket pleases me out o'

sight, see! Considerin' d' hand me Rag plays, when I'm at that weddin'

to-day I feels like a daddy to Billy an 'd' little goil. On d' level! I

feels that chesty about it, that when d' priest is goin' to bat an says,

'Is there any duck here to give d' bride away?' I cuts in on d' game wit

'd' remark, 'I donates d' bride meself.' I s'pose I was struck dopey, or

nutty, or somethin'.

“But me Rag fetches me to all c'rrect. She clinches her mit an'

whispers:

“Let me catch youse makin' another funny break like that an' I'll cop a

sneak on your neck.' An' then she stands there chewin' d' quiet rag an'

pipin' me off wit' an eye of fire. 'Such an old bum as youse,' she says,

'is a disgrace to d' Bend.'”

POINSETTE'S CAPTIVITY

This is a tale of last August. Poinsette was to be left alone for four

weeks. Mrs. Poinsette had settled on Cape May as a good thing for the

hot spell. She would hie her thither and leave Poinsette to do his worst

without her.

Poinsette did not care. He bravely told Mrs. P. she needed an outing.

The ozone and the salty, ocean breeze would do her good. So he

encouraged Cape May, and bid Mrs. P. go there by all means.

It was decided by the Poinsettes discussing Cape May to have Poinsette

room up town while Mrs. P. was thus Cape Maying. The Poinsette house in

the suburbs might better be locked up during Mrs. P.'s absence from the

city. It would be more economical; indeed, it was not esteemed safe to

leave the Poinsette lares and penates to the unwatched ministrations of

the Congo who performed in the Poinsette kitchen. It would be wiser

to dismiss the servant, bolt and bar the house, obtain Poinsette

apartments, and let him browse for food among the bounteous restaurants

of the city.

Poinsette found a room to suit in a house on West 87th Street. It

was one of a long row of houses. Poinsette reported his victory in

room-hunting to Mrs. P. Poinsette was now all right, and ready for what

might come. Mrs. P. might bend her course to Cape May without further

hesitation.

Mrs. P. was glad to learn of Poinsette's apartment success. She went out

and looked at his find to make sure that Poinsette would be comfortable.

Incidentally, Mrs. P. kept her eye about her, to note whether the

boarding-house books carried any pretty girls. Mrs. P. did not care to

have Poinsette too comfortable.

There were no pretty girls. Mrs. P. approved the selection. The very

next day she kissed Poinsette good-bye and rumbled and ferried to the

station, from which arena of smoke and noise a train leaped forth like a

greyhound and bore her away to Cape May.

Poinsette did not accompany his spouse to the station. Ten years before

he would have done this, but experience had taught him that Mrs. P.

could care for herself. Therefore he remained behind to fasten up the

house. Soberly he went about locking doors, and fastening windows, and

thinking rather sadly,--as all husbands so deserted do,--of the long,

lonely months before him. At last all was secure, and Poinsette turned

the key in the big front door and came away.

Poinsette did not feel like work that afternoon, or the trifling

fragment of it that was left after Mrs. P. had wended and he had locked

up the house. He bought a few good books and several of the more solid

periodicals. They would serve during the weary nights while Mrs. P.

was away at the Cape. These Poinsette sent to his rooms, and, as it was

growing six o'clock now, he turned into Sherry's for his dinner.

Just where Poinsette went that evening following Sherry's, and what he

saw and did, and who assisted at such enterprises as he embarked in,

would be nothing to the present point and may be skipped. They are the

private affairs of Poinsette, and not properly the subjects of a morbid

curiosity. However, lest Mrs. P. see this and argue aught herefrom to

feed distrust, it should be said that Poinsette saw nobody, did nothing,

went no place unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

It was four o'clock in the morning when Poinsette, the sole passenger

aboard a foaming night-liner, toiled through the Park and bore away for

his new abode. Poinsette stopped the faithful night-liner two blocks

from the door and went forward on foot. Poinsette did not care to

clatter ostentatiously to his rooms at four in the morning the first day

he inhabited them.

Poinsette found the house without trouble, and stepped lightly to the

door. He put the pass-key his landlady had bestowed upon him in the

lock, but it would not turn. The bolt would not yield to his wooing.

Do all he might, and work he never so wisely, there had sprung up a

misunderstanding between key and lock which would not be reconciled.

Poinsette could not get “action;” the sullen door still barred him from

his bed.

At last Poinsette gave up in despair. He might ring the bell and arouse

the house; but he hesitated. It was his first day; the hour needed

apology. Poinsette thought it would be better to walk gently to a

hotel and abide for the remainder of the night. He would solve this

incompatibility of key and lock the next afternoon.

Poinsette turned away and started softly for the street. As he did so a

policeman stepped from behind a tree and stopped him. The policeman had

been watching Poinsette for five minutes.

“Wot was you a-doin' at the door?” he asked.

Poinsette, in a low, hurried voice, explained. He didn't care to awaken

his landlady by a tumult of talk, and have that excellent woman discover

him in the hands of the law.

“If your key don't work,” said the policeman, “why don't you ring the

bell?”

Poinsette cleared up that mystery. The officer was not satisfied.

“To be free with you, my man,” he said, seizing Poinsette's collar, “I

think you're a burglar. If that's your boarding-house you're goin' in.

If it isn't, you're goin' to the station.”

Then the policeman, with one hand wound about in Poinsette's neckwear,

made trial of the key with the other hand. The effort was futile. The

lock was obdurate; the key was stranger to it. Then the blue guardian

of the city's slumbers stepped back a pace and took a mighty pull at

the door-bell. It was a yank which brought forth a wealth of jingle and

ring.

Poinsette was glad of it. He had grown desperate and wanted the thing

to end. Bad as it was, it would be better to face his landlady than be

locked up in a burglar's cell. Poinsette was resigned, therefore, when a

second-story window lifted and a night-capped head was made to overhang

the sill and blot its silhouette against the star-lit sky.

“Be you the landlady?” asked the policeman.

“Yes, I am!” quoth the night-cap in a snappy, snarly way. “What do you

want?” This with added sourness.

“This party says his name is Poinsette and that he rooms here,” replied

the officer.

“No such thing!” retorted the night-cap. “No such man rooms here. Don't

even know the name!”

Then the window came down with a grievous bang. It was as if it

descended on Poinsette's heart.

“You're a crook!” said the policeman, “and now you come with me.”

Poinsette essayed to explain that the night-cap was not his landlady;

that he had made a mistake in the house. The policeman laughed in hoarse

scorn at this.

“D'ye think I'm goin' all along the row, yankin' door-bells out by the

roots on such a stiff as you're givin' me?”

That was the reply of the policeman to Poinsette's pleadings to try next

door.

Poinsette was led sadly off, with the grip of the law on his collar. At

the station he was searched and booked and bolted in. On the hard plank,

which made the sole furnishings of his narrow cell, Poinsette threw

himself down; not to sleep, but to give himself to bitter consideration

of his fate.

As Poinsette sat there waiting for the sun to rise and friends to come

to his rescue, the station clock struck five. It rang dismally in the

cell of Poinsette.

At Cape May, clocks of correct habits were also telling the hour of

five. Mrs. P. was not yet asleep. The vigorous aroma of the ocean swept

the room. The half-morning was beautiful; Mrs. P., loosely garbed, sat

in an easy-chair at the window and enjoyed it.

“I wonder what Poinsette's been doing,” said Mrs. P. to herself; and

there was a colour of jealousy in the tone. Then Mrs. P. snorted as in

contempt. “I'll warrant he's been having a good time,” she continued.

“This idea that married men when their wives are away for the summer

have a dull time, never imposed on me.”

TIP FROM THE TOMB

CHAPTER I

T. Jefferson Bender was a doctor; that is, he was not a real, legal

doctor as yet, but he was a hard student, and looked hopefully toward

a day when, in accordance with the statutes in such cases made and

provided, he would be cantered through the examination chute, and

entitled to write “M. D.” following his name, with all that it implied.

Each morning T. Jefferson Bender arose with the lark, and, seizing his

dissecting knife, plunged into whatever subject was spread before him.

In the afternoon he attended lectures, bending a hungry ear and watching

with eager eye, while the lecturer, in illustration of his remarks,

tortured poor people, free of charge. At night, when the day's carvings,

and listenings, and lookings were over, T. Jefferson Bender sat in his

easy chair and peered down the long aisle of coming time.

The world was bright to the glance of T. Jefferson Bender; the future

full of promise. In his musings he saw himself striding towards surgical

fame and riches over a pathway strewn with the amputational harvest of

his skill. He filled the hereafter with himself routing disease; cutting

down deadly maladies as a farmer might the mullein-stalk; driving

before him bacteria and bacilli in herds, droves, schools and shoals. T.

Jefferson Bender was a happy man, and his forehead was already, in his

imaginings, kissed by the rays of a dawning professional prosperity.

CHAPTER II

T. Jefferson Bender allowed himself but one relaxation. He was from

Lexington, and had a true Kentuckian's love for horseflesh. Thus it was

that he patronised the races, and was often seen at Morris Park,

where he prevailed from a seat in the grand-stand. Here, casting off

professional dignity as he might a garment, T. Jefferson Bender whooped

and howled and hurled his hat on high, as race following race swept in.

At intervals T. Jefferson Bender was carried to such heights of madness

as “playing the horses.” And then it was he suffered those vicissitudes

which are chronicled colloquially under the phrase of “getting it in the

neck.”

CHAPTER III

It was the day of the great race. The Morris Park grand-stand was

reeling full. The quarter stretch was crowded with Democrats and

Republicans and Mugwumps, who, laying aside political hatreds for a day,

had come to see the races. The horses were backing and plunging in the

grasp of rubbers and stable minions, while the gay jockeys, with their

mites of saddles on their left arms, were being weighed in.

Suddenly, a cry of terror rent the air. Otero, a headstrong beauty, had

leaped upon the neck of Paddy the Pig, a horse rubber, and borne him

to the earth. Paddy the Pig's neck was severely wrenched, so the crowd

said. As the accident occurred, the victim fainted.

“Is there a doctor present?” shouted one of the race judges, appealing

to the grand-stand.

T. Jefferson Bender arose from where he sat, walked over seventeen men

and women, and leaped upon the stretch.

“I am here,” observed T. Jefferson Bender, while his eye lighted and his

nostrils expanded with the ardour of a great resolve.

T. Jefferson Bender bent above Paddy the Pig and felt his pulse.

“He lives!” muttered T. Jefferson Bender.

Then he called for whiskey.

At the magical words, Paddy the Pig languidly opened his eyes, while a

flush dimly painted his cheek.

“Doc, you have saved my life!” said Paddy the Pig.

“I have,” said T. Jefferson Bender, willing to be impressive. “I have

saved your life.”

“Doc,” said Paddy the Pig in a weak, fluttering voice, “I am only a

horse rubber, but I will make you rich. Play Skylight to win, Doc;

Skylight! It's a tip from the tomb!”

“It's a tip from the tomb!” said T. Jefferson Bender reverently, “what

are the odds?”

“It's a 20-to-1 shot, Doc. Play it. You will thus be paid for what

you've done for me.”

CHAPTER IV

That night T. Jefferson Bender stood in a pawnshop. The flickering

gaslight shone on mandolins, pistols, watches, and clothing, which had

suffered the ordeal of the spout. T. Jefferson Bender was dusty and

footsore. He had walked from Morris Park, and was now about to pawn his

watch for food.

[Illustration: 0217]

CHAPTER V

T. Jefferson Bender had played Skylight.

(Annals of The Bend)

Why, yes,” responded Chucky readily enough, “there's choiches of all

sorts, same as there's folks, see! Some does good an' then ag'in there's

others that ain't so warm.”

It was rude, cold weather. Because of the bluster and the freezing air

without, Chucky had abandoned his customary ale for hot Scotches. These

and the barroom's pleasant heat, in contrast with the chill and gusts

of the street, served to unfold Chucky's conversational powers. He even

waxed philosophical.

“For that matter,” continued Chucky, critically, “there's lots of good

lyin' 'round loose. Sometimes it's dead hard to find, but it's there all

d' same, if youse is fly enough to pipe it off. An' it ain't all in

d' choiches neither. As I states, I'm d' last mug to go knockin' d'

choiches, but dey ain't got no corner on d' good of this woild. There

is others. D' choices ain't d' only apple on d' tree. Nor yet d' onliest

gas jet on 'd chandelier.

“Say!” Chucky went on, after a further taste of the hot Scotch, “on d'

level! I'm onto achoich what's got nex' to a bakery, an' what do youse

t'ink? Each night d' bakery don't do a t'ing but give every poor hobo

who fronts up to d' window a loaf of bread. That's for fair! an 'd'

gezebo who runs d' bakery is a Dutch Sheeny at that. Would youse get

bread if you was to go chasin' nex' door to d' choich? Nit; t'ree times

nit! If you was to go slammin' 'round d! choich makin' a talk for a

hand-out, all youse would get would be d' collar, see!

“Onct a week that sanchewary would fill youse to d' chin on chimes; oh,

yes! but no buns; not on your life! Chimes is d' limit wit' that choich.

An' say! it's got money to boin! Bread at d' bakery! chimes at d'

choich! that's how dey line t'ings up at that corner. An' I'm here

to say as between d' brace of 'em, when it gets down to d' cold

proposition, 'W'ich does d' most good?' d' bakery can lose that temple

of worship in a walk. I strings me money on d' bakery. An' don't youse

forget it!”

Chucky was quite exhausted after this outburst. He revived, however,

with the hot Scotch, which restored him mightily.

“Onct,” resumed Chucky, “about ten years ago, this is, I was where a

w'ite choker was takin' up a c'llection. An' what do youse figure he

wants it for? I'm a black Republican if he didn't break it off on us

that he was out to make up a wad so his congregation could cel'brate d'

fortieth birt'-day of gold in Californy. Don't that knock youse silly?

D' w'ite choker says as how he comes from Californy an' him an' his push

is goin' to toin themselfs loose, see! an whoop it up because dey found

gold forty spaces back. It made me tired, honest!

“'Why!' I says to this pulpit t'umper, just like that, 'Why! don't youse

preach that gold is d' roots of evil? An' now youse is framin' up a

blow-out over findin' it! It looks like a dead gauzy bluff to me.'

“What does d' w'ite choker mark do? Just gives me d' dead face an'

ignores me.

“Youse permits yourself to be amazed at me pickin' this guy up about

gold bein' d' seeds of evil,” observed Chucky, with a touch of severity.

This was in response to some syllable of admiration I'd let fall. “Youse

needn't mind. I'll give youse a tip that in me yout' I was d' star

peeple of d' Sunday school dey opens long ago at d' Five Points. That's

straight goods, see! I was d' soonest kid at me lessons that ever comes

down d' pike, an 'd' swiftest ever. I has all d' other kids on d' blink.

I win a test'ment onct from d' outstretched mits of d' entire push, bar

d' Bible class, for loinin' more verses be heart than anybody. I downs

every kid in d' bunch. I made 'em look like a lot of suckers!” and

Chucky paused in approving meditation over the victories of boyhood

days.

“Still d' choiches does dead lots o' good,” asserted Chucky, coming back

to the subject. “There's d' case of Bridgy McGuire. She makes two or

t'ree trips to d' Cat'lic joint over on Mott Street, an' all she loins,

so it sticks in her frizzes, is: 'Honour dy father an' dy mother,' see!

An' Bridgy says herself it's that what brings her back after she's

been run away from home for six years. Bridgy shows up just in time to

straighten out d' game for d' McGuires at that. D' fam'ly was on d' hog

for fair when Bridgy gets there.

“Nixie, d' yarn ain't so long, nor yet so scarce; for that matter,

there's lots more like 'em. In d' foist place, this mark, McGuire,

Bridgy's dad, ain't so bad. Mac's a bricklayer; but d' loose screw wit'

him was that he ain't woikin' in d' winter; an' as durin' d' summer he

gen'rally lushes more whiskey than he lays bricks, an' is more apt to

hit d' bottle than a job, d' McGuire household's more or less on d' bum,

see!

“I remembers Bridgy when she's so little a yard makes a frock for her.

She was a long, slim, bony kid, wit' legs on her like she's built to

pick hops; an' if Bridgy shows anyt'ing in her breed when young, it's a

strong streak of step-ladder.

“In her kid days I wasn't noticin' Bridgy much; d' fact was, then as

now, I'm havin' troubles, of me own. Her mommer, who was pretty near an

even break wit' Mac himself when it comes to hittin' up d' booze, every

now an' then t'run back to d' religious days of her own yout', an' it's

durin' one of these Bible fits of d' old woman that she saws Bridgy off

on d' choich, where I speaks of her gettin 'd' hunch from d' priest,

or somebody, that it's d' fly caper if youse is out to finish wit' d'

heavenly squeeze, to honour your father an' mother.

“As I relates, I ain't dead clear about Bridgy when she's young an'

little, except it does come chasin' back to me that she's dead gone on

dancin' an' knock-about woik. Onct when me an' d' McGuires is livin' on

d' same floor, I hears a racket in d' hall like some sucker is tryin' to

come downstairs wit' a tool chest. Naturally, I shoves me nut outside me

door to tell him to go chase himself. But it's only Bridgy--mebby she's

twelve at d' time--practyesing. I keeps me lamps onto her awhile, an'

she never tumbles I'm there; for I don't say nothin', but lays dead.

Bridgy is doin' han'-stan's, cartwheels, backbends, fallin' splits an'

all sorts of funny stunts.

“'Is this an accident, or does you mean it?' I asts at last, as Bridgy

winds up a cartwheel wit' a split that looks like it's goin' to leave

her on bot' sides of d' passage way.

“'I'm doin' a spread,' says Bridgy, 'same as d' Boneless Wonder at

Miner's, see!' An' here she lays her little cocoa down on her knee to

show she's comfortable, an' dead easy in her mind.

“Wit'out keepin' exact tabs on Bridgy, I'm able to state that as soon as

she's big enough she goes to woik; an' at one time an' another she sells

poipers, does a toin in a vest factory, or some other sweat shop; an' at

last, when she's about seventeen, she's model in a cloak joint. She gets

along all right, all right for a space or so, when one day d' old grey

guy who owns d' woiks takes it into his nut he'll float into Bridgy's

'fections.

“'Love youse!' says Bridgy, to this aged stiff; 'old gent, you're dopey!

If youse give way to a few more dreams like that, your folks 'll put you

in d' booby house. Yous'll be in Bloomin'dale cuttin' poiper dolls d'

foist news you know.'

“At this d' wicked old geezer makes a strong talk--makes d' speech of

his life. But Bridgy won't stand for him, nor his game.

“'Come off your perch!' she says at last. 'Either you corks up or I

quits. You don't make no hit wit' me at all.'

“But d' old mucker don't let up none, an' keeps on givin' Bridgy a song

an' dance about his love for her; so at last she makes her bluff good

an' walks out of d' joint an' goes home.

“McGuire was hot in d' collar at Bridgy t'runnin' down her job; but d'

old woman, she says Bridgy does dead right; an' for a finish Mac an

'd' old woman goes on a drunk an' has a fight over it; after which d'

subject's dropped, see! an' that's d' end of it. I only sees Bridgy onct

after that, before she screws her cocoa. That's at d' Tugman's Ball;

where she's d' Queen spieler of d' bunch, an' shows on d' floor as light

an' graceful as so much cigar smoke. It's right on d' heels of this that

Bridgy fades from d' Bend for fair, an' no one has d' least line on her

or knows where she's at.

“It runs on for t'ree or four spaces, an 'd' McGuires keeps gettin'

drunker an' harder up. More'n onct d' neighbors has to bring in d' grub,

or dey wouldn't have done a t'ing but starve. Dey's jumpin' sideways for

food to chew, I'll tell youse that right now, as much as half d' time.

Durin' all this no one hears a woid about Bridgy.

“Of course, no one's makin' much of a roar. There's a good deal doin'

about d' Bend, see! An' d' comin' or d' goin' of a skirt more or less

don't cut much ice.

“It's in d' winter, an 'd' McGuires has been carryin' on bad. No

woik, no money, no grub! On d' dead! it's a forty-to-one shot dey bot'

finishes at d' morgue, or d' Island before d' spring comes 'round. For

d' winter is bad in d' Bend, an' while everybody is on, that d' McGuires

is strikin' it hard, d' most of us is havin' all we can do runnin' down

t'ree feeds a day, so d' McGuires ain't what*d' poipers calls 'much in

d' public eye,' after all. One evenin', however, Mac comes sprintin' to

me, an' he's fair sober for him.

“'Nit!' he says, when I asts him, 'nit; none of d' ellegunt for me!'

“Then I tumbles there's a cochin on. McGuire's t'runnin' off on a drink

was a new one on d' Bend.

“'Come wit' me,' he says, 'to Roster & Bial's.'

“'Come wit' youse to Koster's!' I retort. 'That's a dandy idee; youse

ought to sew buttons on it! Come to Koster & Bial's! Who's got d'

price?'

“'Here's d' pasteboards,' says Mac.

“An' I'm a liar' if he ain't got 'em. So we goes, see!

“D' fift' toin on d' programme is a 'Mamselle Fleury from Paris.' She's

down on d' bills as a singer, dancer an' high kicker. I'm leanin' back

in me seat feelin' sore on meself for not makin' Mac hock d' tickets for

beer, when all at onct Mac gives me a jolt in d' slats wit' his elbow,

an' pointin' one of his main hooks at this French tart, where she's

singin' on d' stoige--an' say! she's a boid an' a Kokobola--an' says:

“'Be youse on?'

“I focuses me peeps on this Fleury, all pink tights an' silks an'

feathers, where she's doin' her toin. I'm a lobster if she ain't Bridgy

McGuire!

“'What th' 'ell! what th' bloomin' 'ell!' is all I can say; an' on d'

square! Mac has to drag me out an' lay an oyster on me before I'm meself

ag'in. It comes mighty near stoppin' me in d' foist round.

“You sees d' finish. Bridgy's took to d' stoige. She's been over in

London an' Paris; an' say! she's got d' game down fine as silk. She'd

come back an' was beatin 'd' box for t'ree hundred plunks a week.

“Sure! Bridgy had been up to find her folks. Foist she said she t'ought

she'd pass 'em up. Dey had given her d' woist of it when she's a kid;

why should she bother! But she tells us herself, talkin' it over, how

when she struck d' old town ag'in, an' old sights begins to toin up old

mem'ries, it starts to run in her wig about d' Bend an 'd' old days. An'

what stan's out clearest is d' little old Cat'lic choich, an 'd' guff

dey gives her d' onct or twict she shows up there, about honourin' her

father an' mother. I s'pose what youse would call Bridgy's conscience

gets a run for its money. Anyhow, somet'ing inside of her took to

chewin' d' rag, an' showin' Bridgy's she's wrong, an' at d' last, she

can't stand for it no longer, an' so she sends a tracer out for her

mother an' dad, an' lands 'em.

“D' McGuires live in Harlem now. Dey drinks better whiskey then dey did

in d' Bend, an' less of it. Bridgy is a wonder an' a winner; in it wit'

bot' feet an' has dough to back every needful racket. Yes, d' choich

does it, give it d' credit; an' youse can gamble your last chip d'

McGuires crosses themselfs every time dey sees one. An' dey's dead

flossy so to do.”

TOO CHEAP

(By the Office Boy)

CHAPTER I.

The scene was Washington.

“Get the galoot to urge the Bill, gal; and I'll make over half them

phosphate beds to you. The Senate has already passed it.”

“I'll do my best, Uncle Silver Tip,” said Agnes Huntington. “Slippery

Elm Benton loves me, and he cannot refuse his affianced wife his vote.”

“They'd hang him in Colorado if he did,” observed Uncle Silver Tip; “but

see to it at once, gal; the fourth of March draws on apace. All must

then be over, or all is lost.”

CHAPTER II

Agnes Huntington pressed her expectant nose against the pane. Outside

the snowstorm was profound. The flakes crowded the air as they fell. The

drifts were four feet deep on Connecticut avenue. A man wrapped in furs

pushed his way toward the Chateau d' Huntington. It was Arctic cold, but

love beckoned him. He stamped the snow from his feet in the entry. The

next moment Agnes Huntington had curled about his neck in a festoon of

affection.

It was Representative Slippery Elm Benton.

Agnes Huntington was a beautiful creature--tall, slender, spirituelle,

with eyes as dark and deep as the heavens at-night. Agnes Huntington had

but one fault: she would sell the honour of the man she loved.

Agnes Huntington was out for the stuff bigger than a wolf.

CHAPTER III

Sometimes I doubt the longevity of our bliss,” he said. “Despair rides

on the crupper of my hopes at times. The Witch of Waco told how in a

trance she saw my future spread before me like a faro layout. 'And,'

said the Witch of Waco, I saw the pale hand of Fate put a copper on

the queen. You may be lynched, but you will never wed.' Such was her

bleak bode.”

And Slippery Elm Benton trembled like a child.

“Heed her not, dearest,” murmured Agnes Huntington. “Surrender yourself,

as I do, to the solemn currents of our love. And, darling, promise me

again, you will do what is needful for the Phosphate Bill. It would

brighten the last days of dear old Uncle Silver Tip.”

“Where is your aged relative?” asked Slippery Elm Benton, moodily.

“We'd better not call him, dearest,” she said. “Uncle is lushing

to-night, and he is unpleasant when he has been tanking up. What you do

for the Phosphate Bill, you do for me.”

CHAPTER IV

It was “suspension day,” and the Phosphate Bill went through the House

like the grace of Heaven through a camp-meeting.

CHAPTER V

Half of that phosphate bed is yours, gal,” said Uncle Silver Tip, when

Agnes Huntington told him the Bill was already at the White House for

the President's signature. “It's wuth a million; an' you've 'arned it,

gal! It was to turn sech tricks as this your old uncle sent you from

the wild and woolly West to an Eastern seminary, and had them knock your

horns off. It cost a bunch of cattle, but it's paid.”

CHAPTER VI

There's something I must tell you, love,” said Agnes Huntington; “you

would know all in time, and it is better that you learn it now from the

lips of your Agnes.”

“What is it, beautiful one?” said Slippery Elm Benton, languidly.

The Congressional day, with its labours, had wearied our hero, and,

although with the woman he loved, he still felt fatigued.

“Read this,” said Agnes, as she pushed a paper into her lover's hand,

and shrank back as if frightened.

The paper made over one-half of the phosphate bed to Agnes Huntington.

“And it was for this you sold my vote in the House!” and Slippery Elm

Benton laughed mockingly.

“Oh, say not so, love!” said Agnes Huntington, piteously. “Rather would

I hear you curse than laugh like that!”

“And so the vote and influence of Slippery Elm Benton are basely

bargained by the woman he loved for a one-half interest in a phosphate

bed!”

Slippery Elm Benton strode up and down the apartment, tossing his arms

like a Dutch windmill.

Agnes Huntington cowered before the wrath of her lover.

“What would you have?” she cried.

“What would I have!” repeated Slippery Elm Benton, with a sneer, which

all but withered the weeping girl; “what would I have! I would have

all--all! My vote and influence were worth the entire phosphate bed, and

you basely accepted a paltry moiety! Go from my side, false woman; you

who would put so low an estimate upon me! The Witch of Waco was right. I

leave you. I leave you as one unfit to be the wife of a Congressman!”

And Slippery Elm Benton, while Agnes Huntington swooned on the rug,

rushed into the night and the snow.

HENRY SPENY'S BENEVOLENCE

SUMMER was here and the day was warm. Henry Speny had been walking,

and now stood at-the corner of Tenth Avenue and Twenty-eighth street,

mopping his brow. Henry Speny was a Conservative; and, although Mrs.

Speny had that morning gone almost to the frontiers of a fist fight to

make him change his underwear for the lighter and more gauzy apparel

proper to jocund August, Henry Speny refused. He was now paying the

piper, and thinking how much more Mrs. Speny knew than he did, when the

Tramp came up.

“Podner!” said the Tramp in a low, guttural whine, intended to escape

the ear of the police and touch Henry Speny's heart at one and the same

time; “podner! couldn't you assist a pore man a little?”

“Assist a poor man to what?” asked Henry Speny, returning his

handkerchief to his pocket and looking scornfully at the Tramp.

He was a fat, healthy Tramp, in good condition. Henry Speny hardened his

heart.

“Dime!” replied the Tramp; “dime to get somethin' to eat.”

“No,” said Henry Speny shortly; “I'm a half dozen meals behind the game

myself.”

This last was only Henry Speny's humour. Mrs. Speny fed him twice a day.

But Henry Speny knew that the Tramp wanted the dime for whiskey.

“Well! if you don't think I want it to chew on,” said the Tramp, “jest'

take me to a bakery and buy me a loaf of bread. I'll get away with it

right before you.”

“Say!” remarked Henry Speny, in a spirit of sarcastic irritation,

“what's the use of your talking to me? There's the Charity Woodyard in

this town, where, if you were really hungry, you would go and saw

wood for something to eat. You can get two meals and a bed for sawing

one-sixteenth of a cord of wood.”

“You can't saw wood with no such fin as this, podner!” said the Tramp;

and pulling up his coat sleeve he displayed to Henry Speny an arm

as withered as a dead tree. “The other's all right,” he continued,

restoring his coat sleeve; “but wot's one arm in a catch-as-catch-can

racket with a bucksaw?”

Henry Speny was conscience-stricken, but he would defeat the Tramp in

his efforts to buy whiskey.

“I'll go down to the woodyard and saw your wood myself,” said Henry

Speny.

He told Mrs. Speny afterward that he could not account for the making of

this offer, unless it was his anxiety to keep the Tramp sober. All

the Tramp wanted was ten cents, and for Henry Speny to propose to saw

one-sixteenth of a cord of hard wood on a hot day, when a dime would

have made all things even, was a conundrum too deep for Henry Speny, as

he looked back over the transaction. But he did make the proposal; and

the Tramp accepted with a grin of gratitude.

There were twenty sticks in that one-sixteenth of a cord--hard, knotty

sticks, too. And each one had to be sawed three times; sixty cuts in

all. It was a poor bucksaw. Before he had finished the third stick,

Henry Speny declared that it was the most beastly bucksaw he ever

handled in his life. The buck itself was a wretched buck, and wouldn't

stand still while Henry Speny sawed. It had a habit of tipping over;

and when Henry Speny put his knee on the stick to steady the refractory

buck, the knots tore his trousers and made his legs black and blue. Then

the perspiration got in his eyes and made them smart. When he wiped it

away he saw two of his friends looking at him in a shocked, sober way

from across the street. They passed on, and told everybody that Henry

Speny was down at the Charity Woodyard sawing wood for his food. They

said, too, that they had reason to believe he did this every day; that

business had gone to pieces with him, and an assignment couldn't be

staved off much longer.

Henry Speny would have thrown up the job with the second stick, but

the Tramp was already half through his meal; Henry Speny could see him

bolting his food like a glutton through the window, from where he stood.

It took Henry Speny two hours to saw those twenty sticks sixty times.

His hands were a fretwork of blisters; his back and shoulders ached

like a galley-slave's. Henry Speny hired a carriage to take him home; he

couldn't stand the slam and jolt of a street car. He was laid up three

days with the blisters on his hands, while Mrs. Speny rubbed his back

and shoulders with Pond's Extract.

On the fourth day, as Henry Speny was limping painfully toward his

office, he heard a voice he knew.

“Podner! can't you assist a pore m--Oh! beg pardon; you looked so

different I didn't know you!” It was the fat Tramp with the withered

arm. Without a word Henry Speny gave him ten cents and hobbled on.

JANE DOUGHERTY

(Annals of the Bend)

What's d' flossiest good t'ing I'm ever guilty of?” said Chucky. There

was a pause. Chucky let his eye--somewhat softened for him--rove a bit

abstractedly about the sordid bar. At last it came back to repose on the

beer mug before him, as the most satisfying sight at easy hand.

“Now,” retorted Chucky, as he wet his lip, “that question is a corker.

'What's d' star good deed you does?' is d' way you slings it.

“Will I name it? In a secont--in a hully secont! It's d' story of a

little goil I steals, an' sticks in for ever since. This kid's two years

comin' t'ree, when I pinched it, so to speak; an' youse can bet your

boots! she was reg'larly up ag'inst it. A fly old sport like Chucky

would never have mingled wit' her destinies otherwise; not on your life!

Between youse, an' me, an' d' bar-keep over there, I ain't got no more

natural use for kids than I have for a wet dog. But never mind! we'll

pass up that kink in me make-up an' get down to this abduction I prides

meself on.

“It's nine spaces ago, an 'd' kid in dispoote is now goin' on twelve.

I've been, as I states, stickin' in for her ever since, an' intends to

play me string to a finish. But to go on wit' me romance.

“As I relates, d' play I boasts of is nine spaces in d' rear, see! In

that day I has a dandy graft. I've got me hooks on as big a bundle as a

hundred plunks, many an' many is d' week. I'd be woikin' it now only I

lushes too free.

“Here's how in that day I sep'rated suckers from their stuff. It was

simply fakin', of d' smoot' an' woidy sort, see! I'd make up like a

Zulu, wit' burnt cork, an' feathers, an' queer duds; an' then I'd climb

into an open carriage, drive to a good corner, do a bit of chin music,

pull a crowd an' sell 'em brass jewellery.

“Me patter would run something like this: D' waggon would stop an' I'd

stand up. Raisin' me lamps to d' heavens above, I'd cut loose d' remark

at d' top of me valves:

“'It looks like rain! It don't look like a t'ing but rain!'

“Wit' me foist yell d' pop'lace would flock 'round, an' in two minutes

there would be a hundred people there. In ten, there'd be a t'ousand,

if d' cops didn't get in their woik. I'll give youse a tip d' great

American public is d' star gezebos to come to a dead halt, an' look an'

listen to t'ings. More'n onct I've seen some stiff who's sprintin' for

a doctor, make a runnin' switch at d' sound of me voice an' side-track

himself for t'irty minutes to hear me. Dey's a dead curious lot, d'

public is; buy a French pool on that!

“W'en d' crowd is jammed all about me carriage w'eels, I'd cut loose

some more. I'd quit d' rain question cold, an' holdin' up an armful of

jimcrow jewellery, I'd t'row meself like this:

“'Loidies an' gents,' I'd say, 'I'm d' only orig'nal Coal Oil Johnny.

An' I'm a soon mug at that, see! I don't get d' woist of it; not on your

neckties. I gives away two hundred an' I takes in four hundred toadskins

(dollars) an' I don't let no mob of hayseeds do me, so youse farmers

needn't try.

“'Look at me! Cast your lamps over me! I'm one of Cetewayo's Zulu

body-guard, an' I'm here from Africa on a furlough to saw off on suckers

a lot of bum jewellery, an' down youse for your dough, see! I'm goin'

to offer for sale four t'ings: I'm goin' to sell youse foist ten rings,

then ten brooches, then ten chains, and then ten watches. An' when I

gets down to d' watches, watch me dost; because, when I gets nex' to d'

tickers I've reached d' point where I'm goin' to t'run youse down. I'm

here to skin youse out of your money, an' leave youse lookin' like d'

last run of shad.

“'But there's this pecoolarity about me sellin 'd' rings. Each ring is a

dollar apiece, an' when I've shoved ten of 'em onto youse, every galoot

who's paid me a dollar for one, gets his dollar back an' a dollar wit'

it for luck.

“'Now here's d' rings, good folks an' all!'--here I*d flash d' rings;

gilt, an' wort' t'ree dollars a ton!--'here's d' little crinklets! Who's

goin' to take one at a dollar, an' at d' finish, when d' ten is sold,

get two dollars back? Who'll be d' foist? Now don't rush me! don't crush

me! but come one at a time. D' rings ain't wort' a dollar a ton: I only

makes d' play for fun, an' because d' doctors who looks after me healt'

says I'll croak if I don't travel. Who'll be d' early boid to nip a

ring?

“'There you be!' I goes on, as some rustic gets to d' front an' hands up

d' bill. 'Sold ag'in an' got d' tin, another farmer just sucked in!'

“So I goes, on,” continued Chucky, after reviving his voice--which his

exertions had made a trifle raucous--with a swig at the tankard; “so

I'd go on until d' ten rings would be sold. Then I'd go over d' outfit

ag'in, take back d' rings, an' give 'em each a two-dollar willyum.”

Now push back into d' mob, you lucky guys,' I'd say, 'an' give your

maddened competitors to d' rear of youse a chanct to woik d' racket. I'm

goin' to sell ten brooches now for two dollars each, an' give back

four dollars wit' every brooch. Then I'm goin' to dazzle youse wit' ten

chains, at five cases per chain. An' then I'll get down to d' watches,

at which crisis, me guileless come-ons, youse must be sure to watch me,

for it's then I'll make a monkey of youse.'

“An' so I chins on, offerin' d' brooches at two dollars a t'row, an' at

d' wind-up, when d' ten is gone, I gives back to each mucker who's got

in, d' sum of four plunks, see!

“Be that time it's a knock-down an' drag-out around me cabrioley, to see

who's goin' to transact business wit' me, an', wit'out as much cacklin'

as a hen makes over an egg, I goes to d' chains an' floats ten of 'em at

five a chain. As I sells d' last, I toins sharp on some duck who's dost

be me w'eel an' says:

“'What's that? I'm a crook, am I! an' this ain't on d' level! Loidies

an' gents, just for d' disparagin' remark of this hobo, who is no doubt

funny in his topknot from drink, I'll go on an' sell ten more chains.

After which I'll come down to d' watches, which is d' great commercial

point where youse had better watch me, for it's there I'm goin' to lose

you in a lope! An' that's for fair, see!'

“Ten more chains, at five a trip, goes off like circus lem'nade, an' I

stows d' long an' beauteous green away in me keck. As d' last one of d'

secont ten fades into d' hooks of d' last sucker, I stows d' five he's

coughed up for it in me raiment, an' says:

“'An' now, loidies an' gents, we gets down to d' watches!'

“Wit' which bluff I lugs me ticker out an' takes a squint at it.

“'What th' 'ell!' I shouts. 'Here it's half-past t'ree, an' I was to be

married at t'ree-fifteen! Hully gee! Excuse me, people, but I must fly

to d' side of me beloved, or I'll get d' dead face; also d' frozen mit.

I'll see youse dubs next year, if woikin' overtime wit' youse to-day

ain't ruined me career.'

“As I'm singin' out d' last, I'm givin' me driver d' office to beat his

dogs an' chase, see! An', bein' as he's on, an' is paid extra as his

part of d' graft, he soaks d' horses wit' d' whip an' in twenty seconts

d' crowd is left behint, an' is busy givin' each other d' laugh. No,

there never was no row; no mug was ever mobbed for guyin'. Nit! I always

comes away all right, an' youse can figure it, I'm sixty good bones in

on d' racket.

“Naturally, youse would like to hear where d' kid breaks into d' play

an' how I wins it. I'd ought to have told youse sooner, but, on d'

level! when me old patter begins to flow off me tongue, I can't shut

down until I've spieled it all.

“But about d' kid. One afternoon I'm goin' on--it's in Joisey City--wit'

me Zulu war-paint an' me open carriage, givin 'd' usual mob d' usual

jolly. T'ings is runnin' off d' reel like a fish new hooked, an' I'm

down to me fift' chain. Just then I hears a woman say:

“'Fly's d' woid, Sallie! Here's your old man, an' he's got his load! He

won't do a t'ing to youse! Screw out, Sal! screw out!”

“But Sallie, who's a tattered lookin' soubrette, wit' a kid in her arms,

an' who's been standin' dost be one of me hind w'eels, don't get no

chanct to skin out, see! There's a drunken hobo--as big an' as strong as

a horse--who's right up to her when d' foist skirt puts her on. As she

toins, he cops her one in d' neck wit'-out a woid. Down she goes like

ninepins! As she lands, d' back of her cocoa don't do a t'ing but t'ump

a stone horse-block wit' a whack! As d' blood flies, I'm lookin' down

at her. I sees her map fade to a grey w'ite under d' dirt; she bats her

lamps onct or twict; an' d' nex' moment I'm on wit'out tellin' that her

light is out for good.

“As Sallie does d' fall, d' kid which she's holdin' rolls in d' gutter

under d' carriage.

“'T'run d' kid in here!' I says to d' mark who picks it up.

“Me only idee at d' time is to keep d' youngone from gettin 'd' boots

from d mob that's surgin' round, an' tryin' to mix it up wit' d' drunken

bum who's soaked Sal. D' guy who gets d' kid fires it up to me like it's

a football. I'm handy wit' me hooks, so I cops it off in midair, an'

stows it away on d' seat.

“Be that time d' p'lice has collared d' fightin' bum all right, an' some

folks is draggin' Sal, who's limp an' dead enough, into a drug shop.

“It's all up wit' me graft for that day, so after lookin' at d' youngone

a secont, I goes curvin' off to d' hotel where I hangs out. While I'm

takin' me Zulu make-up off, d' chambermaid stands good for d' kid.

When I sees it ag'in, it's all washed up an' got some decent duds on.

Say! on d' dead! it was a wonder!

“Well, to cut it short,” said Chucky, giving the order for another

mug of ale, “I loins that night that d' mother is dead, an' d' drunken

hobo's in d' holdover. As it s a cinch he'll do time for life, even if

he misses bein' stretched, I looks d' game all over, an' for a wind-up

I freezes to d' kid. Naw; I couldn't tell why, at that, see! only d'

youngone acts like it's stuck on me.

“Nixie; I never keeps it wit' me. I've got it up to d' Sisters' school.

Say! them nuns is gone on it. I makes a front to 'em as d' kid's uncle;

an' while I've been shy meself on grub more'n onct since I asted d'

Sisters to keep it, I makes good d' money for d' kid right along, an'

I always will. What name does I give it? Jane--Jane Dougherty; it's me

mudder's name. Nit; I don t know what I'll do wit' Jane for a finish. I

was talkin' to me Rag only d' other day about it, an' she told me, in

a week or so, she'd go an' take a fall out of a fortune-teller, who, me

Rag says, is d' swiftest of d' whole fortune-tellin' push. Mebby we'll

get a steer from her.”

MISTRESS KILLIFER

(Wolfville)

This is of a day prior to Dave Tutt's taking a wife, and a year

before the nuptials of Benson Annie, as planned and executed by Old Man

Enright, with one, French.

Wolfville is dissatisfied; what one might call peevish. A man has been

picked up shot to death, no one can tell by whom; no one has hung for

it. Any one familiar with the Western spirit and the Western way would

note the discontent by merely walking through the single, sun-burned

street. When two citizens of the place make casual meeting in store or

causeway, they confine their salutations to gruff “how'd!” and pass on.

Men are even seen to drink alone in a sullen, morbid way.

Clearly something is wrong with Wolfville. The popular discontent is

so sufficiently pronounced as to merit the notice of leading citizens.

Therefore it is no marvel that when Old Man Enright, who, by right of

years--and with a brain as clear and as bright as a day in June--is the

head man of the hamlet, meets Doc Peets at the bar of the Red Light, the

discussion falls on affairs of public concern.

“Whatever do you reckon is the matter with this camp, Enright?” asks

Doc Peets, as they tip their liquor into their throats without missing a

drop.

Doc Peets is the medical practitioner of Wolfville, but his grammar,

like that of many another man, has lost ground before his environment.

“Can't tell!” replied Enright, with a mien dubious yet thoughtful.

“Looks like the whole outfit is somehow on a dead kyard. Mebby it's that

Denver party gettin' downed last week an' no one lynched. Some folks

says the Stranglers oughter have swung that Greaser.”

“Well!” retorts Doc Peets, “you as chief of the Stranglers, an' I as

a member in full standin', knows thar's no more evidence ag'in that

Mexican than ag'in my _pinto_ hoss.”

“Of course, I knows that too!” replies Enright, “but still I sorter

thinks general sentiment lotted on a hangin'. You know, Doc, it ain't so

important from a public stand that you stretches the right gent, as that

you stretches somebody when it's looked for. Nacherally it would have

been mighty mortifyin' to the Mexican who's swung off at the loop-end of

the lariat for a killin' he ain't in on; but still I holds the belief it

would have calmed the sperit of the camp. However, I may be 'way off

to one side on that; it's jest my view. Set up the nosepaint ag'in,

barkeep!”

While Doc Peets is slowly freighting his glass with a fair allowance, he

is deep in meditation.

“I've an idee, Enright,” says Doc Peets at last. “The thing for us to

do is to give the public some new direction of thought that'll hold

'em quiet. The games is all dead at this hour, an' the boys ain't doin'

nothin'; s'pose we makes a round-up to consider my scheme. The mere

exercise will soothe 'em.”

“Shall we have Jack Moore post a notice?” asks

Enright. “He's Kettle Tender to the Stranglers, an' I reckons what he

does that a-way makes it legal.”

“No,” says Peets, “let's rustle 'em in an' hold the meetin' right now

an' yere in the Red Light. Some of the boys is feelin' that petulant

they're likely to get to chewin' each other's manes any minute. I'm

tellin' you, Enright, onless somethin' is done mighty _poce tiempo_ to

cheer 'em, an' convince 'em that Wolfville is lookin' up an' gettin'

ahead on the correct trail, this outfit's liable to have a killin'

any time at all. The recent decease of that Denver person won't be a

marker!”

“All right!” says Enright, “if thar ain't no time for Moore an' a

notice, a good, handy, quick way to focus public interest would be to

step to the back door, an' shake the loads outen my six-shooter. That'll

excite cur'osity, an' over they'll come all spraddled out.”

Thus it comes to pass that the afternoon peace of Wolfville is suddenly

disparaged and broken down by six pistol shots. They follow each other

like the rapid striking of a Yankee clock.

“Any one creased?” asks Jack Moore, by general consent a fashion of

marshal and executive officer for the place, and who, followed by the

population of Wolfville, rushes up the moment following the shooting.

“None whatever!” replies Doc Peets, cheerfully. “The shootin' you-alls

hears is purely bloodless; an' Enright an' me indulges tharin onder what

they calls the 'public welfare clause of the constitootion.' The intent

which urges us to shake up the sereenity of the hour is to convene the

camp, which said rite bein' now accomplished, the barkeep asks your

beverages, an' the business proceeds in reg'lar order.”

Enright, who has finished replenishing the pistol from which he evicted

the loads, draws a chair to a monte table and drums gently with his

fingers.

“The meetin' will please bed itse'f down!” says Enright, with a sage

dignity which has generous reflection in the faces around him. “Doc

Peets, gents, who is a sport whom we all knows an' respects, will now

state the object of this round-up. The barkeep meanwhile will please

continue his rounds, the same not bein' deemed disturbin'; none

whatever.”

“Gents, an' fellow townsmen!” says Doc Peets, rising at the call of

Enright and stepping forward, “I avoids all harassin' mention of a

yeretofore sort. Comin' down to the turn at once, I ventures the remark

that thar's somethin' wrong with Wolfville. I would see no virtue in

pursooin' this subject, which might well excite the resentment of all

true citizens of the town, was it not that I feels a crowdin' necessity

for a change of a radical sort. Somethin' must be proposed, an'

somethin' must be did. I am well aware thar's gents yere to-day as holds

a conviction that a bet is overlooked in not stringin' the Mexican last

week on account of the party from Denver. That may or may not be true;

but in any event, that hand's been played, an' that pot's been lost

an' won. Whether on that occasion we diskyards an' draws for the best

interests of the public, may well pass by onasked. At any rate we

don't fill, an' the Greaser wins out with his neck. Lettin' the past,

tharfore, drift for a moment, I would like to hear from any gent present

somethin' in the line of a proposal for future action; one calc'lated

to do Wolfville proud. As affairs stand our pride is goin' our brotherly

love is goin', our public sperit is goin', an' the way we're p'intin'

out, onless we comes squar' about on the trail, we won't be no

improvement on an outfit of Digger Injuns in a month. Gents, I pauses at

this p'int for su'gestions.”

As Doc Peets sits down a whispered buzz runs through the room. It is

plain that what he has said finds sympathy in his audience.

“You've heard Peets,” observes Enright, beating softly. “Any party with

views should not withhold 'em. I takes it we-all is anxious for the good

of Wolfville. We should proceed with wisdom. Red Dog, our tinhorn rival,

is a-watchin' of this camp, ready to detect an' take advantages of

any weakenin' of sperit on the Wolfville part. So far Red Dog has been

out-lucked, out-played, an' out-held. Wolfville has downed her on the

deal, an' on the draw. But, to continue in the future as in the past,

requires to-day that we acts promptly, an' in yoonison, an' give the

sitooation, mentally speakin', the best turn in the box.”

“What for a play would it be?” asks Dan Boggs, doubtfully, as he rises

and bows stiffly to Enright, who bows stiffly in return; “whatever for a

play would it be to rope up one of these yere lecture sharps, which the

same I goes ag'inst the other night in Tucson? He could stampede over

an' put us up a talk in the warehouse of the New York Store; an' I'm

right yere to say a lecture would look mighty meetropolitan, that a-way,

an' lay over Red Dog like four kings an' an ace.”

“Whatever was this yere ghost dancer you adverts to lecturin' about?”

asks Jack Moore.

“I never do hear the first of it,” replies Boggs. “Me an' Old Monte,

the stage driver, is projectin' about Tucson at the time we strikes this

lecture game, an* it's about half dealt out when he gets in on it. But

as far as we keeps tabs, he's talkin' about Roosia an' Siberia, an' how

they were pesterin' an' playin' it low on the Jews. He has a lay-out

of maps an' sech, an' packs the whole racket with him from deal box to

check-rack. Folks as _sabes_ lectures allows he turns as strong a game,

with as high a limit, as any sport that ever charged four bits for a

back seat. The lecture sharp's all right; the question is do you-alls

deem highly of the scheme? If it's the sense of this yere town, it don't

take two days to cut this short-horn out of the Tucson herd an' drive

him over yere.

“Onder other, an' what one might call a more concrete condition of

public feelin',” says Doc Peets, cutting rapidly and diplomatically into

the talk, “the hint of our esteemed townsman would be accepted on the

instant. But to my mind this yere camp ain't in no proper frame of

mind for lectures on Roosia. It'll be full of trouble,--sech a talk. I

_sabes_ Roosia as well as I does an ace. Thar's an old silver tip they

calls the Czar, which is their language for a sort o' national chief of

scouts, an' he's always trackin' 'round for trouble. Thar's bound to be

no end of what you might call turmoil in a lecture on Roosia, and the

sensibilities of Wolfville, already harrowed, ain't in no shape to bear

it. Now, while friend Boggs has been talkin', my idees has followed off

a different waggon track. What we-all needs, is not so much a lecture,

which is for a day, but somethin' lastin', sech as the example of a

refined an' elevated home life abidin' in our very midst. What Wolfville

pines for is the mollifyin' inflooence of woman. Shorely we has Faro

Nell! who is pleasantly present with us, a-settin' back thar alongside

Cherokee Hall; an' that gent never makes a moccasin track in Wolfville

who don't prize an' value Nell. Thar ain't a six-shooter in camp but

what would bark itse'f hoarse in her behalf. But Nell's young; merely a

yearlin' as it were. What we wants is the picture of a happy household

where the feminine part tharof, in the triple capacity of woman, wife

an' mother, while cherishin' an' carin' for her husband, sheds likewise

a radiant inflooence for us.”

“Whoopee! for Doc Peets!” shouts Faro Nell, flourishing her broad

sombrero over her young curls.

“Pausin' only to thank our fair young townswoman,” says Doc Peets,

bowing gallantly to Faro Nell, who waves her hand in return, “for her

endorsements, which the same is as flatterin' as it is priceless, I

stampedes on to say that I learns from first sources, indeed from the

gent himse'f, that one of the worthiest citizens of Wolfville, Mr.

Killifer, who is on the map as blacksmith at the stage station, has a

wife in the states. I would recommend that Mr. Killifer be requested to

bring on this esteemable lady to keep camp for him. The O. K. Restaurant

will lose a customer, the same bein' the joint where Kif gets his daily

_con-carne_; but Rucker, the landlord, will not repine for that. What

will be Rucker's loss will be general gain, an' for the welfare of

Wolfville, Rucker makes a sacrifice. Mr. Chairman, my su'gestion takes

the form of a motion.”

“Which said motion,” responds Enright, with such vigorous application of

his fist to the purpose of a gavel that nervous spirits might well fear

for the results, “which said motion, onless I hears a protest, goes

as it lays. Thar bein' no objection the chair declares it to be the

commands of Wolfville that Syd Killifer bring on his wife. What heaven

has j'ined together, let no gent----”

“See yere, Mr. Chairman!” interposes Killifer, with a mixture of

decision and diffidence, “I merely interferes to ask whether, as the

he'pless victim of this on-looked for uprisin', do my feelin's count?

Which if I ain't in this--if it's regarded as the correct caper to lay

waste the future of a gent, who in his lowly way is doin' his best to

make good his hand, why! I ain't got nothin' to say. I'm impugnin' no

gent's motives, but I'm free to remark, these yere proceeding strikes me

as the froote of reckless caprice.”

“I will say to our fellow gent,” says Enright with much dignity, “that

thar's no disp'sition to force a play to which he seems averse. If from

any knowledge we s'posed we entertained of the possession of a sperit on

his part, which might rise to the aid of a general need--I shorely hopes

I makes my meanin' plain--we over-deals the kyards, all we can do is to

throw our hands in the diskyard an' shuffle an' deal ag'in.”

“Not at all, an' no offence given, took or meant!” hastily retorts

Killifer, as he balances himself uneasily upon his feet, and surveys

first, Enright and then Peets. “I has the highest regard for the chair,

personal, an' takes frequent occasion to remark that I looks on Doc

Peets as the best eddicated scientist I ever sees in my life. But

this yere surge into my domestic arrangements needs to be considered.

You-alls don't know the lady in question, which, bein' as it's my wife,

I ain't assoomin' no airs when I says I does.”

“Does she look like me, Kif?” asks Faro Nell from her perch near

Cherokee Hall.

“None whatever, Nell!” responds Killifer. “To be shore! I ain't basked

none in her society for several years, an' my mem'ry is no doubt blurred

by stampedes, an' prairie fires, an' cyclones, an' lynchin's, an' other

features of a frontier career; but she puts me in mind, as I recalls the

lady, of an Injun uprisin' more'n anythin' else. Still, she's as good a

woman as ever founds a flap-jack. But she's haughty; that's what she is,

she's haughty.

“I might add,” goes on Killifer, in a deprecatory way, “that inasmuch

as I ain't jest lookin' for the camp yere to turn to me in its hour

of need, this proposal to transplant the person onder discussion to

Wolfville, is an honour as onexpected as a rattlesnake in a roll of

blankets. But you-alls knows me!”--And here Killifer braces himself

desperately.--“What the camp says, goes! I'm a _vox populi_ sort

of sport, an' the last citizen to lay down on a duty. Still!”--here

Killifer's courage begins to ebb a little--“I advises we go about this

yere enterprise mighty conserv'tive. My wife has her notions, an' now

I thinks of it she ain't likely to esteem none high neither of our

Wolfville ways. All I can say, gents, is that if she takes a notion

ag'in us, she's as liable to break even as any lady I knows.”

“Thar ain't a gent here but what honours Kif,” says the sanguine Peets,

as he looks encouragingly at Killifer, who has resumed his seat and is

gloomily shaking his head, “for bein' frank an' free in this.”

“Which I don't want you-alls to spread your blankets on no ant-hill, an'

then blame me!” interrupts Killifer dejectedly.

“I believe, Mr. Chairman,” continues Doc Peets, “we fully onderstands

the feelin's of our townsman in this matter. But I'm convinced of the

correctness of my first view. Thar can shorely be nothin' in the daily

life of Wolfville at which the lady could aim a criticism, an' we needs

the beneficent example of a home. I would tharfore insist on my plan

with perhaps a modification.”

“I rises to ask the Preesidin' Officer a question!” interrupts Dave

Tutt.

“Let her roll!” retorts Enright.

“How would it be to invite Kif's wife to come yere on a visit?” queries

Tutt. “Sorter take her on probation! That's the way an oncle of mine

back in Missouri j'ines the Meth'dist Church. An' it's lucky the

congregation takes them precautions; which they saves the trouble of

cuttin' the old felon out of the herd later, when he falls from grace.

Which last he shorely does!”

“Not waitin' for the chair to answer,” replies Doc Peets, “I holds

the limitation of Tutt to be good. I tharfore pinches down my original

resolootion to the effect that Kif bring his wife yere for a month. Let

her stack up ag'inst our daily game, an' triumph through a deal or so,

an' she'll never quit Wolfville nor Wolfville her. I shorely holds the

present occasion the openin' of a new era.”

It is a month later, perhaps, when everybody assembles at the

post-office to receive the lady on whom the local public has built so

many hopes. Killifer has gone over to Tucson to act as her escort into

Wolfville, and, as he said, “to sorter break the effect.”

She is an iron-visaged heroine. As Killifer hands her from the stage--a

ceremony upon which he bestows that delicate care wherewith he would

have aided the unloading of so much dynamite--Doc Peets steps gallantly

forward, raising his hat. Doc Peets is the proprietor of the only stiff

hat in town, and presumes on it.

[Illustration: 0253]

“Who is that insultin' drunkard, Mr. Killifer?” demands the lady, as she

bends her eyes on the suave Peets, with such point-blank wrath that it

silences the salutation on Peets' lips; “no friend of your'n I hope?”

“Which I says it in confidence,” remarks Old Monte, as an hour later

he refreshes himself at the bar of the Red Light, “for I holds it

onprofessional to go blowin' the private affairs of my passengers, but

I shorely thinks the old grizzly gives Kif a clawin' on the way over.

I hears him yell like a wolf back in Long's canyon. To be shore! he's

inside an' I can't see, but I'm offerin' two to one up to $100 she was

lickin' him; if I don't I'm a Siwash!”

It turns out as Killifer predicted. He read the lady aright. There

is nothing in Wolfville to which she yields approval. It would be as

impossible as it would be terrific, to repeat in print the conduct

of this remarkable woman. She utterly abashes Enright; while such

hare-hearts as Jack Moore, Cherokee Hall, Dave Tutt, Texas Thompson,

Short Creek Dave and Dan Boggs, fly from her like quicksilver. Even Doc

Peets acknowledges himself defeated and put to naught. The least of

her feats is the invasion of a peaceful poker game to which Killifer

is party, and the sweeping confiscation of every dollar in the bank on

claim that it is money ravished from Killifer by venal practices. The

mildest of her plans is one to assail the Red Light with an axe, should

she ever detect the odour of whiskey about Killifer again.

“An' do you know, Doc!” observes Enright, a fortnight later, as they

meet for their midday drink, “the boys sorter lays it on you. You know

me, Doc! I'll stand up ag'in the iron for you; but as a squar' man,

with a fairly balanced mind, I'm bound to admit the boys is right. Now

I don't say they feels resentful; it's more like they was mournful over

what used to be, an' a day of peace gone by. But you knows what people

be whose burdens is more'n they can bear; an' if I was you, this yere

lady or I would leave the camp. I'm the last gent to go dictatin' about

the details of another gent's game; but you an' me, Doc, has been old

friends, an' as a warnin' from a source which means you well, I gives it

to you cold the camp is gettin' hostile.”

It is always a spectacle to inspire, to witness a great soul rise to an

occasion. Doc Peets never so proves the power of his nature as now, when

the tremendous shadow of “Kif's wife” has fallen across Wolfville like a

blight. Peets, following Enright's forebodings, holds a long and secret

conference with the unhappy Killifer. That night Peets rides to Tucson.

The next day Old Monte, with his six horses a-foam, comes crashing into

Wolfville two hours ahead of schedule. Before even a mail bag is thrown

off, Old Monte unpouches a telegram received at the Tucson office for

Mistress Killifer. Its earmark is Illinois; its contents moving. No

matter what it tells, its news is cogent enough to decide the lady's

mind.

The next morning this dread woman departs, leaving, as she came, with a

withering look at all around. That night Killifer gets drunk. Wolfville

not only pardons Killifer in his weakness; it joins him.

“But you suppresses the facts, Kif, when you says she's haughty,”

observes Dan Boggs. “Haughty, as a deescription, ain't a six-spot!”

“It's with no purpose, Kif,” says Doc Peets, as he fills his glass, “to

discourage you--whom I sympathises with as an onfortunate, an' respects

as a dead game gent--that I yereby invites the pop'lation to join me in

a drink of congratulation on Wolfville's escape from your wife. An' all

informal though this assemblage be, I offers a resolootion that this,

the 23d of August, the date when the lady in question pulls her freight,

be an' remain forevermore a day of yearly thanksgivin' to Wolfville.”

“Which I libates to that myse'f!” says Killifer as he drains his cup

to the last lingering drop. “Also I trusts this camp will proceed with

caution the next time it turns in to play my domestic hand.”

BEARS

Bears are peaceful folk. They are a mild and lowly citizenry of the

woods--I'm talking of the black sort--and shuffle modestly away the

moment they hear you coming. We get many of our impressions of the

ferocity of animals and the deadly poisons of reptiles from an unworthy

sort of hearsay evidence. Much of it comes from Mexicans and Indians

rather than from real experience. Now I wouldn't traduce either the

Mexicans or the Indians, for their lot is one of hard, sodden ignorance;

but it must be conceded that they're by no means careful historians, and

run readily to tales of the marvellous and the tragic. I am going back

to a bear story I have in mind before I get through; but I want to

interject here, while I think of it, that though the centipede, the

rattlesnake, the tarantula and the Gila monster, have bitter repute as

able to deal death with their poisonous feet or fangs, I was never, in

my years on the plains and in the mountains, able to secure proof of

even the shallowest sort that a death, whether of man or animal, had

ever resulted from the sting of any one of these. On the other hand,

I have been with men who were bitten by rattlesnakes, or stung by

tarantulas; or who while asleep had suffered as the inadvertent

promenade of a centipede, with its hundred hooked, poison-exuding feet;

but none of them died. They were sick in an out-of-sort, headache fashion

for a day or two; the bitten place inflamed and was sore for a week or

a month; that was all. I suppose I've known of fully one hundred horses,

cows and sheep which were bitten by rattlesnakes; none died. They were

invariably fanged in the nose, too, as they grazed towards my lord of

the rattlers. On more than one occasion I kept the animal so bitten in

sight to note results. Its head would swell and puff; it would lounge

about with a sick listlessness for several days; then the poison would

wear away in force, and back to its grass it would go with the wire-edge

appetite of a sailor home from sea.

But about bears. I was remarking that my black, shaggy cousins of the

woods were a peaceful folk. So much is this true, and so little do their

neighbours apprehend violence at their clumsy hands, that they who live

in regions which abound in bears evince not the least alarm about the

safety of their children. The babies, some as young as five or six

years, roam the same mountains with the bears; and, while the latter

will swoop upon a pig and run dangers with wide-open eyes in doing it,

never did I hear of one who disturbed a ringlet on a child's head. They

had daily opportunities enough, for many are the households to live in

the wide, pine-sown Rockies.

Our bears, too, are creatures of vast physical power. Often, as I rode

the mountain for cattle, have I come across a dead and fallen pine

tree, which would have defeated the best efforts of a horse to move,

completely torn from its bed in the earth and leaves, and either

overturned or thrown one side by the mighty arms of a bear. He was in

search of a dinner cf grubs--those white, helpless worms which make

their dull homes under rotten logs--and Sir Bear made no more ado of

lifting and laying aside a pine tree in his grub-hunt than would you or

I of a billet of firewood.

While in the mountains I marvelled over the fact that the bears and the

mountain lions never assailed the young calves. The hills were rife

with cattle, and every spring found the canyons and oak-bushed slopes

a perfect nursery of calves. And yet neither the panthers nor the bears

disturbed them. It was due, I think, more to the bellicose character of

the old cow and her relatives, than any uprightness of character on the

part of the bears, and the panthers. Let a calf raise but one yell of

distress in those mountains--and I assure you he can make their walls

and valleys ring with his youthful music when so disposed--and, out of

canyons and off mesas, over logs and crashing through the oak bushes,

will come plunging all the cattle within hearing. Not thirty seconds

will elapse before as many cattle will be by the side of the threatened

calf, lusting for battle. They make such a phalanx of sharp, threatening

horns, coupled with their rolling, wrath-red eyes and ferocious

breathings, that, I warrant you, they have so shocked the nerves of past

bears and panthers, it has become instinct with these latter to give the

whole horned, truculent brood a wide berth.

The Indians are very fond of the bear for his wisdom, and he divides

their respect with the beaver as a personage of sagacity. The curiosity

of my shaggy friend would shame any boy or girl of ten. You may be sure,

were a bear to visit you for a week at your home, he would open every

door, ransack every bureau, take every garment off every hook in every

closet--and I had almost said “try it on”--before he had been with you

an hour. Not a box nor a barrel, not a nook nor cranny, from cellar to

ridge pole, would escape his investigation. His black nose would sniff

at every crack, his black hand explore every crevice. Nor, beyond what

he bestowed in his remorseless stomach, would he destroy anything.

I have the black coat of a bear at my house, who might be wearing it

himself to-day, were it not for his curiosity.

There was a salt spring near my camp on the upper Red River; perhaps

two miles away, which is “near” in the mountains. This salt spring was

popular with the deer. They repaired thither to lick the salt earth

about the waters. I had, among the lumber at my camp, a big, two-spring

trap of steel; I suppose it must have weighed sixty pounds. It occurred

to me that a lazy way to kill a deer would be to set this wide-jawed

engine near the spring and let one walk into it. I'm not proud of

this plan as a method in deer-killing, and wouldn't do it now. On this

occasion, however I was not particular. I “set” the trap at my camp--for

I had to use a hand-spike to crush down the springs, and it all gave me

a deal of work and trouble--and then, with its jaws wide open, but held

so that it wouldn't nip me in case it did snap, I crept carefully aboard

my pony and rode over to the spring. The next morning early I had to go

again to remove the trap, as during the day the cattle would take the

places of the deer at this delectable salt spring, and I didn't care to

break the legs of a thirty-dollar steer with my trapping. I went over

while it was yet dark, and found no deer in the trap. I took it and

hid it, face downward--the jaws still spread and “set”--by the of a big

yellow pine log, which stretched its decayed length along the slope of

the canyon. There I left it, intending to return and rearrange it for

deer at dusk.

It snowed that day, and as I grew lazy towards night, I left my trap

where I'd hidden it by the yellow pine log. The deer would have one

night of safety. What was safety for the deer proved otherwise for the

bear.

The following day I rode over just as the canyons were getting dark and

the cattle climbing out of them to pass the night on the hills. Behold!

my trap was gone!

There was a great flourish of tracks in the snow; long plantigrade

impressions like the bare footprints of some giant! I knew that a bear

had somehow acquired my trap, or the trap, him; at that time I couldn't

tell which. To make it short, however, it came to this: The bear,

scouting in a loaferish way down the hill, and pausing no doubt to make

an estimate of the probable grubs he would find beneath this particular

yellow pine next summer, had chanced upon the trap. Here was a great

find. Thoughts of grubs and common edible things at once deserted him.

The mysterious novelty he had found took possession of his addle-pate

like a new toy. A wolf or a fox would have smelled the odour of my

handling, even off the cold steel of the trap, and been over the hills

and far away in a twinkling. Your wolf is the canniest of timber folk;

a grey Scotchman of the mountains. But my bear was reared on a different

bottle. He sat down at once and actually took the new plaything in his

lap. Then it would seem as if he deliberately thrust his paw into it and

sprung its savage jaws on his forearm.

In his first wrathful surprise, my bear tore up the snow and bushes for

twenty feet about; but at last he set off with the trap on his foot.

It was late. For half an hour I followed the broad track where his

bearship had dragged the trap in the snow at a gallop. It was dark when

at last I turned off for camp. Bright and betimes, I took the trail next

day. It carried me over some ten miles of rough, close country. About

midday I stood on the bluff edge of the Canyon Caliente, picking a

pathway with my eyes along its steep, perilous side for my pony to get

down. The bear had crossed here; but he was in the roughest of

moods, and seemingly made no more of hurling himself over twenty-foot

precipices--himself and my trap--or sublimely sliding down dangerous

descents of hundreds of feet where foothold was impossible, than you

would of eating buttered buns. So I had to pick out paths for myself; I

couldn't trust to so reckless and uncivil an engineer as my bear.

As I sat in the saddle running a quick eye over the slope for a trail,

I, of an instant, heard a most surprising noise. It was indeed a noble

racket, and might have passed for a blacksmith shop. But I knew the

hills too well. It was of a verity my bear; and from the riot he was

making, it was plain I would have to get there soon if I wanted to save

the trap.

This formidable uproar came from across the Caliente, perhaps half a

mile. I slid from the saddle and went forward afoot. It didn't take long

to cover the distance. I fell and tumbled down the first third, much as

the bear had done a bit earlier.

Once on the other side, I came upon my rough gentleman cautiously, and

found him sitting by the side of a round, boulder-like rock, something

the size and contour of a load of hay. And he was smiting the enduring

granite with my trap in a way which told more of his feelings than would

have been possible with mere words. He would raise his arm clumsily,

60-pound trap and all, and then bring it against the rock with all the

fervour of rage and giant strength.

He was so wrapt in the enterprise, he never heard me until a shot from

my Winchester met him just under the ear. One shot did it; and I had

trap and bear. He had ruined the trap; one spring was broken and the

whole disparaged beyond my power to repair. Wherefore I stripped him of

his black overcoat to pay for the damage he had done; and that and the

grease I took from him covered all costs and damages.

THE BIG TOUCH

(Annals of The Bend)

Me fren', Mollie Matches,” observed Chucky.

That was our introduction. A moment later Chucky whispered in a hoarse

aside:

“Matches is d' dip I chins youse about, who gets d' Hummin' Boid t'run

into him.”

“Matches,” as Chucky called him, was a sad, grey, broken man. Years

and a life of flight and anxious furtivity had told on him. His eye was

dancing and birdlike; resting on nothing, roving always; the sure mark

of one sort of criminal. Matches drank for an hour before he felt at

ease. That time arrived, however, and I took advantage of it to feed

my curiosity. It was no easy matter, but at last I won him by a deft

blending of flattery and drink to talk of his crimes. And indeed I

fear--for I suppose the expert thief does plume himself a bit on his

art--that Matches took some sort of wretched pride in his illicit pocket

searchings.

“D' biggest touch I ever makes,” said Matches, in response to a query,

“was $36,000; quite a bunch of dough. Gettin' it was easy; gettin' away

wit' it was d' squeak.

“We toins d' trick on d' train from Albany. D' tip comes straight to me

in New York that a bloke is goin' to draw $36,000 from d' Albany bank on

such a day. I makes up a mob; t'ree stalls an' meself;--all pretty fly

we was--an' lands in Albany.

“We gets onto d' party who's to be woiked early in d' mornin', an'

shadows him so dost he's never out of reach. Our play is to follow him

to d' bank an' do him wit 'd' drop game. If that misses, we're to stay

wit' him till d' bundle's ours be one racket or another.

“This sucker is pretty soon himself, see! He ain't such a mut as we

figgers. His train starts at 1 o'clock, an' he takes in d' bank on his

way to d' station.

“Of course we was wit' him; but he's dead leary an' never t'rows himself

open to be woiked. D' stuff is in t'ousand-dollar willyums, an' as he

just sinks it in his keck d' minute his hooks is onto it, an' never

stops to count or run his lamps over it, we don't get no chanct to do d'

drop. D' instant d' money's in his mits he plants it--all stretched out

long in a big leather, it is--in his inside pocket, an' screws his nut

for d' door. D' hack slams an' he's on his way to d' train.

“Yes; we starts for d' station be another street. D' bloke ain't onto us

yet, an' we tries not to plant a scare into him. He's leary enough as it

is; just havin' such a roll wit' him rattles him.

“So I makes up me mind to do d' job on d' train runnin' into New York.

As he sinks d' stuff away, I notes how d' ends of d' bills sticks out

over d' pocket-book. Me idee is to weed it--get d' dough an' leave d'

leather in his pocket--if I can make d' play. Weedin' was d' way to do;

you gets d' long green an 'd' sucker still has d' leather to feel of,

an' it's some time before he tumbles he's been touched, see!

“D' guy wit 'd' stuff plants himself in a seat. Two of me stalls sits

ahead of him, me an' me other pal is behint him. We only waits now for

him to get up an' come along d' aisle of d' car to get in our hooks.

“Foist I goes d' len'th of d' train to see who's onto it. I always does

that; I wants to see if any guy aboard knows Mollie Matches. You see, if

there is, when d' holler comes, an' some duck declares himself shy his

spark, or roll, or ticker, it's 40 to 1 Mr. Know-all, who's onto me for

a crook, sends a tip to d' p'lice: 'Matches was on d' train!' an' I gets

d' collar. No, I never woiks when one of me acquaintances is along be

accident. D' cops, in such case, as I says, is put onto me an' spots me

wit 'd' foist yell.

“I covers d' train an' comes back. There's no guy on me visiting list

who's along. So I sits down wit' me pal to d' rear of d' sucker an'

waits.

“It's not for long. D' leather's still in his inside keck, 'cause I can

see him pressin' on it wit' his mit to make sure it's there. At last

he gets up to go to d' watercooler. I sees d' move comin', an' is in d'

aisle before him. So's me stalls. From start to finish no one bungles

d' stunt. There's a tangle--all be accident, of course--every mug

'pologises, we break away, an' I've got d' blunt. But d' woist part

is, I can't weed it. D' stuff won't come no other way, an' so I lifts

leather an' all.

“There's due to be a roar in no time;--this mark's bound to be on he's

frisked!--so I splits out each stall's bit in a hurry an' says: 'Every

gent for himself! an' if youse is nipped, don't knock!' an' then I

sherries me nibs for d' rear coach. It was great graft. Me bit was

$9,000, an' I has me plan all set up to save it an' meself wit' it. This

is d' racket I has in me cocoa.

“In d' last coach is an old w'ite choker--a pulpit t'umper, you

understand. Wit' him is his daughter, an' wit' her is her kid. Mebby d'

kid, say, is six years. I heads for 'em an' begins to give d' old skate

a jolly. I was dead strong on patter in them days, an' puts it up I'm

a gospel sharp from Hamilton. I saws it off on his nibs how me choich

boins down, an' how I'm linin' out to New York to see if d' good folks

down there won't spring their rolls--cough up be way of donations, you

understand, an' help us slam up a new box--choich, I means--so we can go

back to our graft.

“It's all right. Me razzle dazzle takes like spring water. In two

minutes me an 'd' old party an 'd' loidy, an' for that matter d' kid, is

t'ick as t'ieves. We was bunched together, singin' 'Jesus, Lover of me

Soul,' to beat four of a kind, when d' galoot I skins for his bundle

lifts d' shout he's been done, see!

“This dub who lose is t'ree coaches ahead. D' foist we knows of his

troubles--all but me--d' Con' comes an' locks d' door. No one can get

off d' train. Then he stops an' taps d' wires wit' a machine from d'

baggage car an' sends d' story chasin' into New York.

“'Party t'run down for $36,000, says d' message; 'swag an' crooks still

on me train. Send orders.'

“D' order comes to keep d' doors locked an' run to New York wit' no more

stops. An' after puttin' a Brakey in each coach to see what goes on,

that's what dey does. We go spinnin' into New York at forty-five miles

an hour.

“Naturally, I'm in a steam. I goes all right wit 'd' Con', an' d' train

crew, as a sky pilot, but how was I to make d' riffle wit' de fly cop of

New York, who'd be waitin' for d' train--me mug in d' gallery, an' four

out o' five of 'em twiggin' me be me foist name? But I t'ought it out.

“When d' train rumbles into d' Gran' Central, d' door is slammed open

an' we all gets up to go. A fly-cop is comin' in just as we starts. I

grabs up d' kid to carry him, see! bein' d' old preacher party nor d'

skirt ain't so able as me.

“Say! it was a winner. I buries me map in d' kid's make-up, gets between

d' goil an' d' old stumblin' mucker of a gran'dad, an' walks slap

t'rough d' entire day-push of d' Central office. An' hard, sharp marks

dey is to beat, see!

“Fly dey is, but not swift enough for Matches wit a scare on, see! Not a

dub of 'em tumbles to me.

“In two moves an' ten seconts I'm in d' street. As I goes along I pulls

a ring off one of me north hooks wit' me teet,' an' t'oins it over to

d' kid as his bit for makin' d' good front for me. No; d' others don't

catch on, but d' way he cinches it in his small mit shows me he's goin'

to save it out for fair.

“When I hits d' street I drops d' youngone, who's still froze to his

solitaire, an' grabs off a cab, an' in twenty minutes I'm buried where

all d' p'lice in New York couldn't toin me up in a t'ousand years.

“No; me pals got d' collar, an' each does a stretch. But dey lays dead

about me; never peached nor squealed. I win out.

“Who?--d' w'ite choker an' his party? Nit; never hears of 'em ag'in. For

four days I gets one of d' fam'ly--he's a crook who's under cover for

a bank trick, an' who's eddicted--to read me all d' poipers. I wants to

see if d' preacher an' his goil gives up anyt'ing about d' ring I swaps

to d' kid.

“Never hears a peep! Nixie; dey was on all right, you bet your life!

when their lamps lights on that jewelry; but most likely dey needs d'

ring in their graft. It was a spark wort' five hundred cases from any

fence in d' land, an' so d' old guy an' his goil sort o' stan's for d'

play, see!”

THE FATAL KEY

Young Jenkins prided himself on sharp eyes. He said he could “give a

hawk cards and spades.” He could find four-leaf clovers where no one

else could see them. He took in the smallest detail of the scenery all

about him.

As a result, young Jenkins was a great finder of small trifles, and that

he might miss nothing, lost, strayed or stolen, he went about during the

little journeys of the day, with his eyes searching the ground. And

he picked up many trinkets of a personal sort that other men had lost.

Nothing of much value, perhaps, but it served to please young Jenkins,

and it gave him a chance to boast of the sharp, devouring character of

his eyes.

Even as a child, young Jenkins was prone to find things. He told

how once his talents as a retriever made him the subject of parental

suspicion. He was ten years old when he picked up a four-blade Barlow

knife.

“Where did you get it?” queried old Jenkins, as young Jenkins displayed

his treasure trove.

“Found it,” was the reply.

“Oh, you found it!” snorted old Jenkins. “Well, take it straight back,

and put it where you found it, and don't 'find' any more. If you do,

I'll lick you out of your knickerbockers!”

In spite of such discouragement, young Jenkins kept on finding all sorts

of bric-à-brac. He does even to this day.

One evening young Jenkins had a disagreeable adventure, as the fruit of

his talent, which for an hour or so made him wish he had weaker vision.

It was on Great Jones Street, and young Jenkins, hurrying along, noticed

in the half moonlight a big store key, where the owner had dropped it

just after locking up for the night. The hour was full midnight.

Young Jenkins possessed himself of the key. He looked at it as he held

it in his hand, and wondered how the careless shopman would open up in

the morning without it.

From where it lay it wasn't hard to infer the store to which the key

belonged. Yet to make sure on that point it occurred to young Jenkins

that he might better try the lock with it.

Young Jenkins had just fitted the big key to the lock when some one

seized him by the wrist. It startled him so that he dropped the key and

allowed it to go rattling along the sidewalk. As young Jenkins looked up

he saw that the party who had got him was a member of the police.

“I was trying to unlock the door!” stammered young Jenkins.

“I saw what you were about,” said the officer with suspicious severity.

“What were you monkeying with the door for? You aren't the owner of this

store?”

“No, sir,” said young Jenkins, much impressed. “No, sir; I----”

“Nor one of the clerks?”

“No, sir,” replied young Jenkins again, “I have nothing to do with the

store. I found the key, and thought I'd see if it opened this door.”

“What did you want to see if it would open the door for? Don't you think

it is a little late for a joke of that sort?”

“It wasn't a joke,” said young Jenkins, beginning to perspire rather

copiously; “it was an experiment. I found the key on the sidewalk, and

wanted to see----”

“Yes!” interrupted the blue coat with a fine scorn; “you wanted to see

if you could get into the store and rob it bare. That is what you wanted

to see. You're a box-worker, if ever I met one, and if I hadn't come

along you would have had this bin cracked and cleaned out in another ten

minutes.”

“I told you I found the key,” protested young Jenkins.

“That's all right about your finding the key!” said the policeman in

supreme contempt. “You found the key and I found you, and we'll both

keep what we've found. That's square, ain't it?”

And in spite of all young Jenkins could say at that late hour of the

twenty-four, the faithful officer dragged him to the station, where

a faithful sergeant faithfully registered him, and a faithful turnkey

locked him faithfully up.

As young Jenkins sat unhappy in his cell, while vermin sparred with

him for an opening, he registered a vow that never again would he find

anything.

Young Jenkins wouldn't pick up a twenty-dollar gold piece were he to

meet one to-day in the street.

AN OCEAN ERROR

No; neither my name nor the name of my vessel can I give. Our navy has

a way of courtmartialing its officers who wax garrulous.”

It was just as the Lieutenant called for the _creme de menthe_, that may

properly succeed a dinner well ordered and well stowed.

“But you are welcome to the raw facts,” continued the Lieutenant. “It

was during those anxious days that went before the penning in of Cervera

at Santiago. We had been ordered on a ticklish service. Schley was over

south of the island on a prowl for the Spanish fleet. Sampson was, or

should have been, off the Windward Passage similarly employed. Cervera

was last heard of two weeks before at Barbadoes. Then he disappeared

like a ghost; no one knew where his smoke would be sighted next. The

one sure thing, of which all were aware, was that with Sampson anywhere

between the Mole and Cape Mazie, and Schley searching the wide seas

south of Cuba, Cervera might easily with little luck and less seamanship

dodge either and appear off Havana. There the cardboard fleet left on

blockade wouldn't, with such heavy odds, last as long as a drink of

whiskey.

“It stood thus when our orders came to my Captain to proceed to Bayou

Hondu, some seventy miles west of Havana, and there stand off and on,

like a policeman walking his beat, in what would be the path of Cervera

should he work to the rear of Schley and to the north of Cuba by the way

of St. Antonio.

“Our vessel was detailed on this duty because of her perfect order and

speed of seventeen knots. Our heavy armament was eight 4-inch broadside

guns, with a 6-inch rifle forward and another mounted aft. Our orders

were: If Cervera came upon us to fight!--steam as slowly as might be

for Havana and fight!--and to keep fighting until sunk or sure that

the block-aders off Havana were warned, whether by our signals or our

racket, of Cervera's coming.

“It was a grinding task, this lonely patrol off Bayou Hondu. The rains

had just begun, the weather was a dripping hash of fog and squall and

rain. If Cervera didn't come, it meant discomfort; and if he did, it

meant death. Take it full and by, the outlook was depressing.

“At night no light burned and the ship was dark as a coffin. This, with

the service, contributed to keep us all in a mood of alert nervousness.

Cervera's ships would also be dark. We didn't care to be crept upon, and

get our first notice of his advent from the broadside that sent us to

the bottom like an anvil.

“We had been on this dreary duty some ten days. It was a dark, heavy

night. I myself had the bridge, and the captain, whose anxiety kept him

up, was seated in the starboard corner, dozing. His sea cloak was thrown

over his head to keep out the weather. We were working to the eastward,

with engines at quarter speed, and with a head sea running, were making

perhaps three knots.

“The ship's bells were not being struck for the hours, and I had just

looked at my watch by the light of the binnacle. It was half-past two in

the morning.

“'How's your head?' I asked of the man at the wheel, as I put up my

timepiece.

“'East by south, half south,' he replied.

“This was taking us too much inshore. 'Starboard for a point!' I said.

“As I turned from the wheel I saw that which sent a thrill over me and

brought me up all standing. It was the murky loom of a great ship, black

and dim and dark and silent as ourselves. She was off our port quarter

and not five hundred yards away. It gave me a start, I confess. None of

our ships should be that far to the west of Havana. It was a sword to a

sheath knife she was one of Cervera's advance.

“Instantly I reached for the electric button; and instantly the red and

white lights, which stood for the letter of that night, burned in our

semaphore. The stranger replied with a red over two white lights. It was

the wrong letter.

“With my first motion, the captain was on his feet; his hand gripped the

lever that worked the engine bells.

“'Try her again!' he said.

“Again I flashed the proper letter, and again came a queer reply.

“The next moment the captain jammed the lever 'Full steam, ahead!' and a

general call to quarters went singing through the ship.

“'Starboard!' shouted the captain to the man at the wheel; 'starboard!

pull her over!'

“There was a vast churning from the propellers; the vessel leaped

forward like a horse; the sailor climbed the wheel like a squirrel. We

surged forward with a broad sheer to port. The next instant we opened on

our dark visitor with every gun in the larboard battery. It wasn't ten

seconds after she gave us the wrong signal when she got our broadside.

“The result was amazing. With the first crash of our guns the stranger

went from utter darkness to the extreme of light. She flashed out all

over like a Fall River steamer. Knowing who we were--for they bore

orders for us--and realizing that there had been some mixing of signals,

the officer on her bridge had the wit to turn on every light in his

ship. It was an inspiration and saved them from a second broadside.

“Who was she? One of our own vessels. Cervera was locked in Santiago and

she had come up to tell us the news. Her officer blundered in giving

out the wrong letter for the night, and thereby sowed the seed of our

misunderstanding.

“No, beyond peppering her a bit, our fire did no harm. We were so close

that most of our shot went over her. Still, I don't believe that vessel

will ever get her signals fouled again. And it's just as well that way.

If she had made the wrong talk to some one of our heavy-weights, the

Oregon, for instance, she would have gone down like so much pig-iron.”

SKINNY MIKE'S UNWISDOM

(Annals of The Bend)

CHUCKY was posed in his usual corner. As I came in he nodded sullenly

as one whom the Fates ill-use. I craved of Chucky to name his drink; it

was the surest way to thaw him.

“Make it beer,” said Chucky.

Now beer stood as a symbol of gloom with Chucky, as he himself had told

me.

“It's always d' way wit' me,” said Chucky on that far occasion when he

explained “Beer”, “when I'm dead sore an' been gettin' it in d' neck, to

order beer. It's d' sorrowfulest kind of booze, beer is; there's a sob

in every bottle of it, see!”

Realising Chucky's low spirits by virtue of present beer, I suavely made

query of his unknown grief and tendered sympathy.

“I've been done for me dough,” replied Chucky, softening sulkily. “You

minds d' races at d' Springs? That's it; I gets t'run down be d' horses.

I get d' gaff for fifty plunks. Now, fifty plunks ain't all d' money in

d' woild; but it was wit' me. It was me fortune.”

Chucky ruminated bitterly.

“Oh, I'm a good t'ing!” he ejaculated, as he tilted his chair against

the wall with an air of decision. “I'll play d' jumpers agin, nit!

“W'at's d' use? I can't beat nothin'. Say! I couldn't beat a drum! I'm

a mut to ever t'ink of it! I ought to give meself up to d' p'lice right

now an' ast 'em to put me in Bloomin'dale or some other bug house. I'm

nutty, that's what I am; an' that's for fair! Now, I'd as lief tell you.

It's d' boss hard luck story, an' that ain't no vision!

“In d' foist place, I was a rank sucker to d' point of deemin' meself a

wise guy about d' horses. An' it so follows, bein' stuck on meself about

horses, as I says, that when Skinny Mike blows in wit 'd' idee that he

can pick d' winner of d' big event, I falls to d' play, an easy mark.

“Mike is an oldtime tout; an' wit' me feelin', as I says, dead fly,

it ain't a minute before I'm addin' me ignorance to Mike's, an' we're

runnin' over d' dopes in d' papers seein' what d' horses has done. To

make a long story short, we settles it for a finish that War Song's out

to win. Which, after all, ain't such a sucker t'eory.

“'It's a cinch!' says Skinny Mike; 'War Song's got a pushover. Dey can't

beat him; never in a t'ousand years!'

“It looks a sure tip to me, too; so I digs for me last dollar an' hocks

me ticker besides, an' makes up d' fifty plunks I mentions. Mike sticks

in fifty an' then takes d' whole roll an' screws his nut for d' Springs

to get it up on War Song. Naw; I don't go. Mike's plenty to make d'

play; an' besides I had me lamps on a sure t'ing for a tenner over on d'

Bowery.

“Of course, while Mike's gone, I ain't doin' a t'ing but read d' poipers

all to pieces. War Song's a 20-to-1 shot; I stan's to make a

killin'--stan's to win a t'ousand plunks, see!

“An', say! War Song win! Mebby I don't give d' yell of d' year when I

sees it in d' print.

“'W'at's eatin' youse, Chucky?' says me Rag, as I cuts loose me

warwhoop.

“'O, I ain't got no nut!' I says, givin' meself d' gran' jolly. 'No! not

at all! I has to ast some mark to tell me me name, I don't t'ink! I'm

cooney enough to get onto War Song, all d' same! Say! I'm d' soonest

galoot that ever comes down d' pike!'

“That's d' way I feels an' that's d' way I chins.

“At last I cools off me dampers an' sets in to wait for Mike. Meanwhile

I begins to figger how I'll blow d' stuff, see! an' settle what I'll

buy. It's a case of money to boin an' I was gettin' me matches ready

before even Mike shows up.

“But Mike don't come. 'W'at th' 'ell!' I t'inks; 'Mike ain't crookt it;

he ain't skipped wit' d' bundle?' An' say! you should a-seen me chew d'

rag at d' idee.

“But I'm wrong on me lead. Mike hadn't welched, an' he hadn't been

sandbagged. He comes creepin' along a day behint d' play, an' d' secont

I gets me lamps on his mug I'm dead on we lose. I don't have to have me

fortune told to tumble to that. Mike looks like five cents wort' of lard

in a paper bag. An* here's d' song he sings.

“Mike says he goes to d' Springs all right, all right, an' is organised

to get War Song for d' limit d' nex' day. It's that night, out be d'

stables, when he chases up on a horsescraper--a sawed-off coon, he

is--an 'd' horse-scraper breaks off a great yarn on Mike.

“'I ain't no tout, an' dis ain't no tip,' Mike says d' coon says; 'it's

a rev'lation. On d' dead! it's a prophecy! It's las' night. I'm sleepin'

in d' stall nex' to a little horse named Dancer. All at onct I wakes up

an' listens. It's that Dancer horse in d' nex' stall talkin' to himself.

Over an' over agin he says: “I'm goin' to win it! I'm goin' to win it!”

just like that.'

“Well,” continued Chucky, “you know Skinny Mike. There's a ghost goes

wit' Mike, an' he's that sooperstitious, d' nigger's story has him on

a string in a hully secont. He can't shake it off. Away he wanders an'

dumps d' entire wad on Dancer, an' never puts a splinter on War Song at

all.