Short Stories From "Life"
The 81 Prize Stories in "Life's" Shortest Story Contest
With an Introduction by Thomas L. Masson
Managing Editor of "Life"
Garden City--New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1916
Copyright, 1916, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY
CONTENTS
Introduction
By Thomas L. Masson
Thicker Than Water
By Ralph Henry Barbour and George Randolph Osborne
The Answer
By Harry Stillwell Edwards
Her Memory
By Dwight M. Wiley
Business and Ethics
By Redfield Ingalls
N. B.
By Joseph Hall
The Clearest Call
By Brevard Mays Connor
Greater Love Hath No Man
By Selwyn Grattan
The Gretchen Plan
By William Johnston
The Glory of War
By M. B. Levick
The Aviator
By Hornell Hart
Loyalty
By Clarence Herbert New
Moses Comes to Burning Bush
By W. T. Larned
North of Fifty-three
By Mary Woodbury Caswell
The Old Things
By Jessie Anderson Chase
The Forced March
By Hornell Hart
Approximating the Ultimate with Aunt Sarah
By Charles Earl Gaymon
The Horse Heaver
By Lyman Bryson
The Ego of the Metropolis
By Thomas T. Hoyne
The Gay Deceiver
By Howard P. Stephenson
In Cold Blood
By Joseph Hall
Housework--and the Man
By Freeman Tilden
His Journey's End
By Ruth Sterry
Food for Thought
By Harriet Lummis Smith
Hope
By Edward Thomas Noonan
Collusion
By Lincoln Steffens
Faithful to the End
By Clair W. Perry
Arletta
By Margaret Ade
Which?
By Joseph Hall
What the Vandals Leave
By Herbert Riley Howe
Ben. T. Allen, Atty., vs. Himself
By William H. Hamby
The Joke on Preston
By Lewis Allen
The Idyl
By Joseph F. Whelan
Withheld
By Ella B. Argo
Up and Down
By Bertha Lowry Gwynne
Patches
By Francis E. Norris
The Arm at Gravelotte
By William Almon Wolff
The Bad Man
By Harry C. Goodwin
Nemesis
By Mary Clark
The Black Door
By Gordon Seagrove
The Man Who Told
By John Cutler
The Unanswered Call
By Thomas T. Hayne
The Women in the Case
By Mary Sams Cooke
The Cat That Came Back
By Virginia West
"Solitaire" Bill
By Arthur Felix McEachern
Just a Pal
By Elsie D. Knisely
When "Kultur" Was Beaten
By Lieutenant X
Presumption of Innocence
By Lyman Bryson
A Mexican Vivandière
By H. C. Washburn
Mother's Birthday Present
By Carrie Seever
Red Blood or Blue
By E. Montgomery
Impulsive Mr. Jiggs
By Roger Brown
Tomaso and Me
By Graham Clark
The Old Grove Crossing
By Albert H. Coggins
Lost and Found
By John Kendrick Bangs
You Never Can Tell
By "B. MacArthur"
The Escape
By A. Leslie Goodwin
Two Letters, a Telegram, and a Finale
By H. S. Haskins
The Intruder
By Reginald Barlow
Molten Metal
By Hornell Hart
The Winner's Loss
By Elliott Flower
The Recoil of the Gun
By Marian Parker
"Man May Love"
By Robert Sharp
One Way--and Another
By Noble May
The Black Patch
By Randolph Hartley
A Shipboard Romance
By Lewis Allen
The Coward
By Philip Francis Cook
The Heart of a Burglar
By Jane Dahl
The Reward
By Herbert Heron
The First Girl
By Louise Pond Jewell
A Sophistry of Art
By Eugene Smith
The Message in the Air
By B. R. Stevens
In a Garden
By Catherine Runscomb
A Clever Catch
By Lloyd F. Loux
Strictly Business
By Lincoln Steffens
The Advent of the Majority
By Stella Wynne Herron
The Night Nurse
By Will S. Gidley
Why the Trench Was Lost
By Charles F. Pietsch
The King of the Pledgers
By H. R. R. Hertzberg
A Po-lice-man
By Lincoln Steffens
The Quest of the V. C.
By A. Byers Fletcher
Somewhere in Belgium
By Percy Godfrey Savage
INTRODUCTION
By Thomas L. Masson
Managing Editor of _Life_
It was at a luncheon party that the idea of _Life's_ Short Story
Contest was first suggested by Mr. Lincoln Steffens. He propounded
this interesting query:
"How short can a short story be and still be a short story?"
It was thereupon determined to discover, if possible, a practical
answer to this interesting question. The columns of _Life_ were
thrown open to contributors for many months, prizes aggregating
$1,750 were offered and eighty-one short stories were published.
This book contains these stories, including the four prize winners.
The contest cost in round numbers a little less than $12,000. Over
thirty thousand manuscripts were received. They came from all over
the world--from sufferers on hospital cots, from literary toilers
in the Philippines, from Europe, Asia, and Africa, and from every
State in the Union. One manuscript was sent from a trench at the
French battle front, where the story had been written between hand
grenades. Every kind of story was represented, the war story and the
love story being the leaders. Every kind of writing was represented,
from the short compound of trite banalities to the terse, dramatic,
carefully wrought out climax. Back of many of these efforts the
spectral forms of Guy de Maupassant and O. Henry hovered in sardonic
triumph. Tragedy predominated. The light touch was few and far
between. But it was still there, as the stories published show.
Here let me pay a just tribute to the readers who, with almost
superhuman courage, struggled through these thirty thousand
manuscripts. In the beginning they were a noble band of highly
intelligent and cultivated men and women, with strong constitutions,
ready and willing to face literature in any form. I understand that
many of them survived the contest. This speaks well for the virility
of our American stock. Theirs was a noble and enduring toil, and
theirs will be a noble and enduring fame. Without them this book now
might contain twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and eleven poor
stories instead of eighty-one good ones. To those among them who
still live, a long life and, let us hope, an ultimate recovery!
Naturally, in the method of securing the stories, there had to be
some way of getting the contributors to make them as short as
possible. Mr. Steffens' ingenious suggestion admirably attained this
end. First, a limit of fifteen hundred words was placed upon all
stories submitted, no story longer than this being admitted to the
contest. For each story accepted the contributor was paid, not for
what he wrote, but for what he did not write. That is to say, he was
paid at the rate of ten cents a word for the difference between what
he wrote and fifteen hundred words. If his story, for example,
happened to be 1,500 words in length, he got nothing. If it was
1,490 words he got one dollar. If there had been a story only ten
words long, the author would have received $149. To be accurate,
the longest story actually accepted for the contest was 1,495 words,
for which the author received fifty cents, and the shortest was 76
words, for which the author received $142.40. The interested reader
will be able to discover the identity of these two stories by
examining the stories in the book. At the original luncheon party a
large part of the warm discussion that took place turned on how
short a story could be made and still come within the definition of
a short story. It was really a question as to when is a story not a
story, but only an anecdote. When a story is a story, is it a
combination of plot, character, and setting or is it determined by
only one of these three elements? Must it end when you have ended it
or must it suggest something beyond the reading? I shall not attempt
to answer these questions. The definition of the short story should
be relegated to the realm of "What is Humor?" "Who is the mother of
the chickens?" and "How Old is Ann?" If you really wish to vary the
monotony of your intellectual life and get it away from "Who Wrote
Shakespeare?" or "Who killed Jack Robinson?" start a discussion as
to what a short story is. It has long been my private opinion that
the best short story in the world is the story of Ali Baba and the
Forty Thieves, but I have no doubt that, should I venture this
assertion in the company of others, there would be one to ask: "What
has that to do with the price of oil now?"
But in order that the reader may have some idea of the method
adopted in judging the stories which were finally selected, it may
be well to give what I may term a composite definition of what a
short story is, gathered from the various opinions offered when the
contest was originally under discussion by the judges. This
definition is not intended to be complete or final. It is not the
cohesive opinion of one individual, but only a number of rather
off-hand opinions which are of undoubted psychological interest as
bearing upon the final decisions.
A short story must contain at least two characters, for otherwise
there would be no contrast or struggle. A situation must be depicted
in which there are two opposing forces.
A short story must be a picture out of real life which gives the
reader a definite sensation, such as he gets upon looking at a
masterpiece of painting. While it must be complete in itself, the
art of it lies in what it suggests to the reader beyond its own
limits. That is to say, it must convey an idea much larger than
itself. This is the open sesame to the golden principle. (This is
well illustrated in the story that took the first prize.)
Every short story must of necessity deal with human beings, either
directly or indirectly. It must reveal in the briefest manner
possible--as it were, like a lightning flash--a situation that
carries the reader beyond it. It is, therefore, inevitable that the
supreme test of the short story lies in its climax. The climax must
gather up everything that has gone before, and perhaps by only one
word epitomize the whole situation in such a way as to produce in
the reader a sense of revelation--just as if he were the sole
spectator of a supremely interesting human mystery now suddenly made
plain.
The technique of the short story should be such that no word in its
vocabulary will suggest triteness or the fatal thought that the
author is dependent upon others for his phrasing. When, for example,
we read "With a glad cry she threw her arms about him" "A hoarse
shout went up from the vast throng" "He flicked the ashes," we know
at once that the author is only dealing in echoes.
These were some of the general considerations which governed the
readers and judges, but it would be unfair to say that there were
not other considerations which came up later on. In a number of
instances, manuscripts which were interesting and well written, and
even longer than others that were accepted for the contest, were
rejected because it was felt that they were not really stories, but
more in the nature of descriptive sketches.
So far as the practical method pursued was concerned, it will not be
amiss to state briefly how the work was carried on.
It was deemed best, on general principles, to let the authors of the
stories have a hand in the matter, the editors feeling frankly that
they preferred a disinterested method which would relieve them in a
measure from the fullest responsibility. The conditions were
therefore made to read that:
"The editors of 'Life' will first select out of all the stories
published, the twelve which are, in their judgment, the best. The
authors of these twelve stories will then be asked to become
judges of the whole contest, which will then include all the
stories published. These twelve authors will decide which are the
best three stories, in the order of their merit, to be awarded the
prizes. In case for any reason any one or more of these twelve
authors should be unable to act as a judge, then the contest will
be decided by the rest.
"Each of these twelve judges will, of course, if he so wishes,
vote for his own story first, so that the final result may
probably be determined by the combined second, third, and fourth
choices of all the judges. This, however, will not affect the
result. In case of a division among the judges, the Editors of
'Life' will cast the deciding vote."
This method worked well and was fully justified by the final result.
As the manuscripts were received they were registered according to a
careful clerical system and turned over to the readers, who were
from five to seven in number, including three women. The rule was
that each story should be read independently by at least two
readers, their verdicts separately recorded. If they were unanimous
in rejecting a story, it was returned. If they were agreed upon its
merits, or if they were at all doubtful, it was then passed up to
the five members of _Life's_ editorial staff. It was read and reread
by them, and the individual comments of each editor recorded
independently. By this sifting process, each story was subjected to
a final process of discussion and elimination. The stories, as
accepted, were paid for on the basis of ten cents a word for all the
words under 1,500 which the story did not contain and were published
in _Life_. From the authors of the eighty-one stories published, the
editors selected the following twelve judges, each one of whom
consented to serve:
Herbert Heron, Carmel, Cal.
J. H. Ranxom, Houston, Texas.
Ralph Henry Barbour, Manchester, Mass.
Clarence Herbert New, Brooklyn, N. Y.
William Johnston, New York City.
Graham Clark, New York City.
Mrs. Elsie D. Knisely, Everett, Wash.
Mrs. Jane Dahl, San Francisco, Cal.
Selwyn Grattan, New York City.
E. L. Smith, Ft. Worth, Texas.
Herbert Riley Howe, Sioux Falls, S. Dak.
Miss Ruth Sterry, Los Angeles, Cal.
These judges, independently of each other, sent in their opinions,
several of them not voting for their own stories as the first prize,
although this was allowable under the rules. There was no difficulty
on their part in awarding the first prize of one thousand dollars
and the second prize of five hundred dollars. In the case of the
third prize there was such a division of opinion that the editors,
under the rule of the competition that gave them the final decision,
determined that it would be fair to divide the third prize between
two competitors who had received the same number of the judges'
votes.
The prize winners were as follows:
FIRST PRIZE
Ralph Henry Barbour of Manchester, Mass., and George Randolph
Osborne of Cambridge, Mass., joint authors of "Thicker Than
Water."
SECOND PRIZE
Harry Stillwell Edwards of Macon, Georgia, author of "The
Answer."
THIRD PRIZE
Dwight M. Wiley of Princeton, Ill., author of "Her Memory," and
Redfield Ingalls of New York City, author of "Business and
Ethics." This prize was divided.
This book is now offered to the public in the confident hope and the
firm belief that it will be found a valuable contribution to the
literature of short fiction, in addition to the interest it also
merits because of the stories themselves.
One final point should be emphasized. This book is not, in the very
nature of the case, a book of uniform literary style; it is not the
polished expression of the highest literary art. It is the best of
thirty thousand attempts to write a short story, by all sorts and
conditions of minds--a fair proportion of them amateurs, a fair
proportion writers of considerable experience, and a small
proportion excellently skilled craftsmen. In their final selection
of these stories, the readers and judges were governed, not so much
by the question "Is this superfine literary art?" as they were by
the question "Is this interesting?" By this touchstone the book
certainly justifies its existence.
T. L. M.
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N. B.
By Joseph Hall
Lieutenant Ludwig Kreusler glanced hurriedly through the mail that
had accumulated during the month that the X-8 had been away from
base. At the bottom of the pile he found the letter he had been
seeking and his eyes brightened. It was a fat letter, addressed in
feminine handwriting, and its original postmark was Washington,
D. C., U. S. A.
"His Excellency will see you, sir." The orderly had entered quietly
and stood at attention.
With a slightly impatient shrug the Lieutenant shoved the letters
into his pocket and left the room.
He found Admiral Von Herpitz, the wizard of the sea, at his desk. As
the young man entered the old Admiral rose and came forward. This
unusual mark of favour somewhat embarrassed the young officer until
the old man, placing both huge hands upon his shoulders, looked into
his eyes.
"Excellent."
The one word conveyed a volume of praise, gratification. The old sea
dog was known as a silent man. Censure was more frequent from him
than applause.
The Lieutenant could find no word. The situation was for him
embarrassing in the extreme. He, like Herpitz, was a man of actions,
and words confused him.
"These English," the old Admiral spoke grimly, "we will teach them.
Have you seen the reports? They are having quite a little panic in
America also over the _Seronica_. Two hundred of the passengers lost
were American."
A file of papers lay on the table. Kreusler ran through them
hurriedly. The Berlin journals gave the sinking of the _Seronica_
great headlines followed by columns of sheer joy. The London and
Paris and some of the New York sheets called the exploit a crime and
its perpetrators pirates. But they all gave it utter and undivided
thought. The X-8 had become the horror craft of the world. Berlin
figuratively carried her young commander on her shoulders. He found
himself the hero of the hour.
"You have done well for the Fatherland," Von Herpitz repeated as the
Lieutenant was going out.
In his own cabin Kreusler forgot the _Seronica_ and the X-8. The fat
letter with the Washington postmark absorbed him.
Two years, ending with the outbreak of the great war, Kreusler had
been naval attaché to the German embassy at Washington. He had been
popular in the society of the American capital. He was highly
educated, a profound scientist, an original thinker, and an
adaptable and interesting dinner guest. Dorothy Washburn, the
youngest daughter of the Senator from Oregon, had made her début in
Washington during the second winter of Kreusler's presence there.
The two had met. They were exact opposites; he tall, severe, blond,
thoughtfully serious; she, small, dark, vivacious, bubbling with the
joy of life. Love was inevitable.
The fat letter was engrossing. It breathed in every line and word
and syllable the fine love this wonder woman gave him. One paragraph
was most astounding. It read:
"To be near thee, loved one, I have arranged, through the gracious
kindness of our friends, to come to Berlin as a nurse. Just when is
as yet uncertain, but come I will, fear not, as quickly as may be.
Dost long for me, to see me, dearest heart, as I for thee? Well,
soon perhaps that may not be so far away. Couldst not thou arrange
to be wounded--only slightly, of course, my love--so that I might
attend thee?"
The letter ended with tender love messages and assurances of
devotion. The last sheet bore a single word, "Over," and on the
reverse side a woman's most important news, a postscript. This read:
"P. S. Arrangements have been completed. Everything is settled. Even
my father has consented, knowing of my great love. I sail next
week."
And then:
"N. B. The ship on which I sail is the _Seronica_."
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THE CLEAREST CALL
By Brevard Mays Connor
"Don't worry," said the great surgeon. "She will pull through. She
has a fine constitution."
"She will pull through because _you_ are handling the case," the
nurse murmured, with an admiring glance.
"She will pull through," agreed the Reverend Paul Templeton,
"because I shall pray."
He did not see the ironical glance which passed between nurse and
doctor, materialists both. He had stooped and kissed his wife, who
lay on the wheeled table that was to carry her to the operating
room. She was asleep, for the narcotic had taken immediate effect.
For a moment he hung over her and then he moved aside. When the door
of the operating room had closed on the wheeled table with its
sheeted burden he stepped out on the little upper balcony beneath
the stars, knelt, and earnestly addressed himself to his Maker.
A distant clock struck eight. The operation would take an hour....
Humbly he prayed, but with superb confidence. He had lived a
blameless life, and his efforts were in behalf of a life equally
blameless. It was inconceivable that he who had given all and asked
nothing should be refused this, his first request. It was even more
inconceivable that his wife, who was so worthy of pardon, should be
condemned. Humbly he prayed, but not without assurance of a friendly
Auditor.
It was a sweet May night, satin-soft, blossom-scented. The south
wind was whispering confidences to the elms; the stars were
unutterably benign. Surely God was in His heaven, thought the
Reverend Paul Templeton.
Then up from the darkness beneath the trees came the low, thrilling
laugh of a girl. He lifted his face from his hands and stared,
scarce breathing, into the night, while his ears still held every
note of that low, thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth in love in
the springtime.
The black bulk of the hospital behind him faded into obscurity as
swiftly as a scene struck on a darkened stage. He was no longer on a
little upper porch, but in an old-fashioned summer-house, hidden
from the tactless moon by a mesh of honeysuckle in bloom. He was no
longer on his knees before his Maker, but sitting beside the girl
who had been Ellen McCartney.
She was dressed in white. She was so close he could feel the warmth
of her. Somehow, in that darkness, their hands met and clung,
shoulder touched shoulder--the fragrance of her hair in his
nostrils. The soft, womanly yielding of her body.
Now her palms were resting against his cheeks, drawing his head
down; now, as lightly as a butterfly upon a flower, her lips brushed
his one closed eye and then the other; now she laughed, a low,
thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth in love in the springtime.
Prayer had gone dry at its source, choked by the luxuriant
vegetation of memory. He remembered other kisses and thrilled in
sympathy with the delight of other time....
The distant clock struck nine, but he did not hear it. The shriek of
a woman in pain sliced through the silence but could not penetrate
the walls of his dream. The girl who had been Ellen McCartney lay in
his arms, her lips to his.
Then a hand fell upon his shoulder.
"Come," said the nurse, and slipped back into the room.
The Reverend Paul Templeton came back with a wrench to consciousness
of the time and place, and horror surged through his veins like a
burning poison. It was over--and he had not prayed! And worse! When
his whole being should have been prostrate in humble supplication he
had allowed it to walk brazenly erect among memories that at the
best were frivolous and at the worst--carnal! He seemed to hear a
voice saying:
"I am the Lord of Vengeance. Heavy is mine hand against them that
slight Me!"
Mastered by despair, he clung to the iron railing. What could he
hope of science when he had failed in his duty to faith? Somehow he
managed to struggle to his feet and gain the room.
The sheeted figure on the bed was very still, the face paler than
the pillow on which it lay. He crumpled down beside her and hid his
face, too sick with shame to weep. He _knew_ with a horrid certainty
that she was dead and that he had killed her.
And then:
"Paul!"
It was the merest wisp of sound, almost too impalpable to be human
utterance. He lifted his head and looked into the face of the great
surgeon.... He was smiling.
"Paul!"
He looked now into the pale face of his wife ... and _she_ was
smiling.
"There, there," said the great surgeon. "I told you she would come
back. Her constitution----"
"Constitution!" scoffed the nurse. "It was you."
"Or," smiled the surgeon, magnanimously, "your prayers, sir."
But the sick woman made a gesture of dissent.
"No," she said, "it was none of those things. I came back when I
remembered----"
"Paul," she whispered, "lean down."
He obeyed. Her palms fluttered against his cheeks, and, as lightly
as a butterfly on a flower, her lips brushed his one closed eye and
then the other. And then the girl who had been Ellen McCartney
laughed a low, thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth in love in the
springtime.
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GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN
By Selwyn Grattan
The empty vial--the odour of bitter almonds--and in the chair what
had been a man.
On the desk this note:
"Farewell. From the day of our marriage I have known. I love you.
I love my friend. Better that I should go and leave you two to
find happiness than that I should stay and the three of us wear
out wretched lives. Again farewell--and bless you.
"Robert."
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THE GRETCHEN PLAN
By William Johnston
"And Solomon had seven hundred wives," read Pastor Brandt.
Gretchen Edeler sat up to listen. A new idea had come to her. A
distressing state of affairs existed in the village of Eisen. There
had gone to the war from the village over three hundred men. From
the war there had returned fifty-one--only fifty-one--and there in
Eisen were two hundred and eighty-one girls wanting husbands.
Of the fifty-one returned soldiers twenty had wives and families
already. Two had married during the war, married the nurses they had
had in the hospital. Hilda Sachs, the rich widow, had captured one.
That left just twenty-eight men available for
husbands--twenty-eight to two hundred and eighty-one girls.
Yet no marriages occurred. The men wished to marry as much as the
girls, but how could a man decide with so many to pick from? Thus
stood matters that Sunday morning.
After the service Gretchen waited to speak to Pastor Brandt.
"Everything in the Bible," she asked anxiously, "is it always
right?"
"Ja," the herr pastor affirmed, "the Bible always gives right."
"About everything?"
"Ja, about everything."
"The Bible says that Jacob had two wives and that Solomon had seven
hundred wives. Is it right for men to have many wives?"
"It was right in Bible days," affirmed the pastor guardedly. "In
those times many wives were needed to populate the land."
"Many wives are needed now to populate the land," asserted Gretchen.
"Why should not each man in Eisen take now ten wives?"
"It is against the law," declared the pastor.
"It is not against Bible law."
The pastor pondered ten minutes.
"Nein," he answered, "it is not against Bible law."
"It would be for the good of the Fatherland."
The pastor pondered twenty minutes.
"Ja," he decided, "it would be for the good of the Fatherland."
"We will do it," announced Gretchen. "Ten of us will take one
husband. Better a tenth of a husband than never any husband. Will
you marry us?"
The pastor pondered thirty minutes.
"Ja," he said at length, "for the good of the Fatherland."
Quickly Gretchen spread her news. Quickly the girls accepted the
Gretchen plan. Quickly they formed themselves into groups of ten and
selected a husband. Quickly the twenty-eight men accepted. What man
wouldn't?
Only Selma Kronk, the homeliest of homely old maids, was left
unmated. In indignant dismay she hastened to Frau Werner's
kaffee-klatch and unfolded to the married women assembled there the
schreckliche Gretchen plan.
"Impossible!" asserted Frau Stern.
"Unspeakable!" declared Frau Heitner.
"It must not be!" announced Frau Werner.
In outraged wrath they appealed to their husbands to interfere.
"It is for the good of the Fatherland," the husbands one and all
declared. "What man would not have ten wives if he could?"
They appealed to the Mayor, to the Governor, even to the Kaiser
himself, but in vain. To a man they welcomed the idea.
So the Gretchen plan was carried out. Each war hero took ten wives,
not only in Eisen, but throughout the land.
Nevertheless, Frau Werner and the other aggrieved respectable
advocates of monogamy had their revenge.
As invariably happens after a war, all the babies born were boy
babies.
"Aha!" cried Frau Werner exultantly, as each new birth was
announced. "Twenty years from now there will not be women enough to
go around. Each wife then will have to have ten husbands. I wonder
how the men will like that?"
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THE GLORY OF WAR
By M. B. Levick
He was an orderly in the hospital and had got the job through a
friend in his Grand Army Post. The work was not for a fastidious
man, but John was not fastidious. In his duties he affected the
bluff manner of a veteran, and, peering at the internes with a wise
squint, would say, "Oh, this ain't nothin'; an old soldier is used
to such things. If y' want t' see the real thing, jus' go to war."
And he would laugh at them and they would laugh at him.
He wore his G. A. R. emblem conspicuously on all occasions. At the
slightest chance he became a bore with long tales of fighting, of
how he had chased Johnny Reb and how _those_ were the days. The
students, still near enough to the classroom to hold a lingering
repugnance for the text-books' overemphasis on the Civil War, would
guy him, but John never suspected.
On Decoration Day he marched and attended as many exercises as he
could squeeze into the too short hours. He wore a committee ribbon
like a decoration for valour. Once he carried a flag in a parade,
and for weeks talked about Old Glory, the Stars and Stripes, and
regimental colours that had changed hands in distant frays.
And he had fought only to save his country, he would assert. He
didn't have no eye on Uncle Sam's purse, not he; he could take care
of himself, and if not, why, there was them as would. When the
youths accused him of sinking his pension, he turned hotly to remind
them of their lack of beard.
He was ever so ready to defend himself with an ancient vigour that
the students and the nurses were sorry when he fell ill. Perhaps his
campaigning had taken from his vitality, they surmised. The house
surgeon told them he would never get up. After that--and the
afterward was not long--John told his tales to more sober auditors.
He had been in bed a week and had begun to suspect the state of
affairs when he called to him one evening the youth who of all had
shown him the most deference.
"Sit down," he said, without looking the youngster in the eye; and
for a time there were heard only the noises of the day-weary ward.
Presently John spoke, in an apprehensive tone of confidences.
"I've been a soldier now for forty-five years," he said, "an' for
once I want to be just myself.... I kind o' like you, an' there
ain't nobody else I can talk to, for I ain't got any one....
"In '61 I was on my father's farm in Pennsylvani'. I was on'y a kid
then--fifteen--but when the war come I wanted the worst way to go.
But my mother, she cried an' begged me not to, an' my daddy said
he'd lick me, so I tried t' forget it.
"But I couldn't. Lots o' other boys was goin' away t' enlist an'
they was all treated like heroes. Ye'd 'a' thought they'd won the
war already by themselves the way folks carried on when they
left--the girls cryin' about 'em an' the teacher an' the minister
an' the circuit judge speakin' to 'em an' all the stay-at-homes mad
because they wasn't goin', too.
"It kept gettin' harder an' harder to work on the farm, an' finally
I said, 'Well, I'll go anyway.' I knew pa an' ma wouldn't change
their mind, so I didn't say nothin' to them. But I went to all the
other boys an' told _them_. 'I'm goin' away t' enlist,' I'd say, an'
when they'd laugh an' say, 'Why, y'r ma won't let ye,' I'd look wise
an' tell 'em to watch me, an' I'd strut aroun' an' wink sly-like.
"They got to talkin' about it so much I was scairt my dad would find
out, but he didn't, an' I held back as long as I could, because all
the other boys was lookin' up to me. I was a man, all right, then.
None o' 'em that went away was the mogul I was. The girls got wind
of it, too, an' I could see 'em out o' the tail o' my eye watchin'
me an' whisperin' an' sayin', girl-like, all the things the boys was
tryin' not to say. That on'y made the boys talk more, too.
"So after a few days I ran away. The first night I hung roun' near
the town an' after dark sneaked back to hear 'em talkin'. 'He'll be
back soon,' one feller said. Another, just to show he knew more,
spoke up, 'No, he won' come back 'less in blue or in a coffin.' An'
the others laughed.
"I thought that was fine--in blue or a coffin. 'You bet I won't;
I'm the man f'r that,' says I to myself.
"It took me three days to walk to the city. When I told the
recruitin' sergeant I wanted to be high corporal he laughed an'
pounded me an' put me through my paces. Then he said I couldn't be a
soldier. My eyes wasn't good enough.
"I cried at that; on'y a kid, y' know--the' was lots of 'em younger
than me fightin'. But I remembered the feller what said, 'He won't
come back 'cept in blue or a coffin,' so I went where the soldiers
was an' bummed an' hobnobbed with 'em till they let me help at
peelin' vegetables and pot-wrastlin' an' such things. Then I got to
be a sort o' water boy. My, I was proud!... But that on'y lasted a
month, an' I had to get out.
"I jus' couldn't go home without the blue, an' it seemed too soon to
get a coffin yet, so I went to New York an' stayed all through the
war. Nearly starved, too.
"After it was over I went back home. They didn't suspicion, o'
course, an' the first thing I knew I'd told 'em I'd been in the
army. Hadn't planned to, but some way it just popped out.
"Right away it was hail-fellow-well-met with them that had been at
the front, an' we were goin' roun' givin' oursel's airs an' the
girls seemed to think we was better than all the rest.... Well,
sometimes I....
"I was jus' a young fellow, y' know, an' kep' gettin' in deeper an'
deeper an' never thought it'd mean anything. When a man says, 'John,
you remember that clump o' trees the Fifty-eighth lay under at
Antietam?' why, you say, 'Yes.' An' the next time y'r tellin' about
Antietam you jus' throw in them trees without thinkin'. That's the
way it was with me. An' I read books to get my facks straight an' no
one never caught me nappin'. I used t' correct _them_.... At last I
got to believe it all myself....
"Then the G. A. R. Post was organized in our town.... An' so it
went.
"Well, it's been a long time. If I'd 'a' known in the first place
maybe it'd 'a' been different.... But it was my right, anyway,
wasn't it, now? Say, don't you think it was comin' to me? It wasn't
my fault. By God, I wanted to fight! Jus' one chance an' so help
me----
"They cheated me out o' it an' I got even. That's all it was. I
never took no pension. I've had the glory, like 'em.... I've paid
for it.... I on'y took my own.
"And the Post will bury me."
--------------------------------------------------------------------
THE AVIATOR
By Hornell Hart
"The French Government declines to accept your services." The words
said themselves over and over in his ears in the drone of the motor,
as the monoplane climbed into the velvet night sky. Was that
diplomatic blunder of two years ago so utterly unforgivable? Was
exile not enough? Would the Republic deny him even the right to
fight under her colours? "The French Government declines to accept
your services." The recruiting officer had said it, and General
Joffre had reiterated the unrelenting statement in reply to his
direct appeal for enlistment. And now the drone of the propeller,
the hum of the motor, and the rush of the air through the braces
whispered the words ceaselessly into his ears as the great wings
carried him up into the darkness.
Below, the ghostly searchlight fingers of the fortress reached up,
groping toward him. The central searchlight of the fortress was
playing on a French cruiser which had crept up recklessly close to
the fort and was pouring shells in rapid salvos up into the
battlements on the hill. The sparks of fire from the ship's side
seemed but tiny points of light far down below. Momentarily balls of
flame appeared above and around the dim outlines of the
fortifications, and the smoke of bursting shells drifted wanly
across the white, searching pencils of light. Down there France,
undaunted, grappled the Turk in the darkness. From the farther shore
distant lights of Asia twinkled in the night.
Behind that central searchlight, Henri had said, lay the entrance to
the powder magazine. That passageway was the vital spot of the
fortress. An explosion there would ignite the ammunition and shatter
the entire centre of the fortifications.
A searchlight came wheeling across the sky and shot past just behind
the monoplane. The flash of the guns on the hill were now just
beneath him, and their roar formed a surging background of sound to
the whirr of the machine. He swept in a huge curve toward a position
back of the fortress. The searchlight was circling the sky again.
For a fraction of a second the aeroplane was silhouetted in its full
glare. The beam wavered and returned zigzagging to pick him up
again. This time it caught and followed him. A shell burst below
him. If one fragment of shrapnel should strike the nitroglycerine
which he carried France would profit little from this last ride of
his.
The fortress was not far behind him. He swept about and pointed the
nose of the monoplane downward straight toward the base of the
central searchlight. Its beam had ceased to play on the battleship
and was lifting swiftly toward him. Suddenly its glare caught him
straight in the eyes. He gripped the controls and steered tensely
for that dazzling target.
"The French Government declines to accept your services." He smiled
grimly. They could not well decline them now. The air rushed past
him so swiftly that it seemed stiff like a stream of water under
high pressure. Below him at that point of light death stood smiling.
The crash of a shell bursting behind him was lost in the gale of
wind in his ears. The light grew swiftly larger and the outlines of
the battlements became distinct. "The French Government----" the
world ended in a crash of blistering whiteness.
"He was pointed directly at the magazine," said Abdul, the gunner.
"If the shell from the French cruiser had not struck him we should
all by now have been with Allah."
--------------------------------------------------------------------
LOYALTY
By Clarence Herbert New
They had been playing "cut-in" Bridge until the Charltons went home,
at midnight. Instead of following them Norris returned to the
library with Steuler and his wife. In the old days Barclay Norris
had asked Barbara to marry him; but Steuler's impetuous love-making
appealed to her imagination, and Norris had remained their loyal
friend. In the library, Steuler yawned--without apology. Extracting
a suit-case from the coat-closet, he started for the stairs.
"You and Barbara may sit up all night, my friend; but me--I haf
been travelling, I cannot keep my eyes open! Good-night!"
Norris stopped him with a slight motion of the head, nodded to a
chair by the table, lighted a cigar rather deliberately, and sat
down.
"There's a matter I want to discuss with you, Max--_now_.... Don't
go away, Bab. It concerns you--rather deeply." He inspected his
cigar critically during a few moments of silence. "Max, you may have
heard that my law practice brought me occasionally in touch with the
Government, but you didn't know I was officially connected with the
Secret Service. When we were drawn into this war your probable
sympathies were considered. But you enlisted for the Spanish War,
though you never got farther than Chattanooga. You took the oath of
allegiance. We considered your loyalty had been demonstrated, so we
trusted you. We've had a constant fight against treachery, however,
in the most undreamed-of places. You were again suspected. Is it
necessary for me to say more? Lieutenant Schmidt was arrested ten
minutes after you left him this morning. I saw you receive from him
specifications for the Wright Multiplane, the Maxim Chlorine Shell,
and the perfected 'Lake' Submarine. I also know you have a copy of
the State Department's code-book."
Barbara Steuler had remained standing at the end of the table, her
eyes dilating with an expression of incredulous, outraged amazement.
"Barclay! Are you _insane_? Are you accusing _Max_ of these horrible
things? My _husband_?"
Norris spoke gently but firmly.
"I'm stating facts, Bab--not accusing. Because I've been your
friend, and his, I'm giving him this chance to return the papers and
code before it's too late. At this moment I'm the only one who
really knows. He meant to sail on Grunwald's yacht for Christiania
at sunrise. There's still time for him to get aboard and escape. I'm
personally answerable for the unknown man I've been following
to-day!"
She whirled upon her husband, saw, with horror, that he was making
no denial, that he was looking at their old friend with a gleam of
hatred in his eyes. Presently he pulled open a drawer in the table,
thrusting one hand into the back part of it.
"So! You efen suspect where I put the codebook? Yess? Well, it iss
the fortune of war, I suppose. You think I will not arrested be, if
I reach the yacht before morning? Nein? You are the only one who
knows--yet? Und suppose I nefer come back? My wife I mus' leave
with the man who always haf lofed----" There was a flash, a
stunning report. Norris staggered up from his chair and pitched
headlong upon the floor.
"Max! _Max!_ A traitor! A murderer! My God!"
He took a canvas-bound book from the drawer, thrusting it hastily
into the suit-case, then fetched overcoat and hat from the closet.
In his hurry he overlooked the automatic pistol which lay upon the
table. So intent was he upon escaping with what he had that he
seemed to have forgotten her entirely. But a low, gasping voice made
him whirl about at the door.
"Another step--and I'll--_kill_ you!" The pistol steadily covered
his heart. (He'd seen her shoot.)
"Put that book on the table." He hesitated, meditating a spring
through the doorway. "When I count three! One!..." With a muttered
curse he took the code from the suit-case.
"Empty your pockets!"
There was no mistaking the expression in her eyes. He emptied his
pockets.
"Now--_go_! Without the suit-case!"
"Barbara! You would haf me leave you! Like this!" Her face was
colourless, in her eyes a brooding horror, a dazed consciousness of
that motionless body on the floor behind the table.
"My people fought at Lexington and Concord--for principles dearer
than life to them. You swore allegiance to those principles, to
their flag. And you are--_this_! You've murdered our loyal
friend--when he was giving a traitor a chance, at great personal
risk! Go! _Quickly!_"
As the front door slammed she ran to the window, watched him down
the block. A man who did such things might return later, catch her
unarmed, secure the papers. Her brain worked automatically. There
was no safe place to conceal them. They must be destroyed at once!
Tearing the book to pieces, she piled the leaves upon the andirons
in the fireplace with the other papers, then lighted the heap. When
they were entirely destroyed a patter of footsteps echoed from the
stairs; a little figure in pajamas came peeking around the portière.
(A thrill of passionate thankfulness ran through her that he
resembled _her_ people, with no trace of the alien blood.)
"Mo-ther! What was that big noise?"
"Possibly some one's automobile, dear--a blowout or a back-fire,
you know." She forced herself to speak quietly, standing so that he
couldn't look behind the table.
"Mo-ther, who was down here wiv you?"
"Uncle Barclay, sweetheart. But--oh, God!--he's gone now."
(Norris's love had been the truer, deeper affection; she'd known it
for some time.) "Run along back to beddy, darling. Mother will come
up presently."
She had a feeling of suffocation as the boy hugged her impetuously
and padded softly upstairs. As she listened to his careful progress
another sound, a faint rustling from behind the table made her heart
stop beating for a second. With trembling limbs she leaned across
the table and looked. The dead man lay in a slightly different
position; there was a barely perceptible movement of the chest. She
reached breathlessly for the telephone.
"Give me Bryant 9702, please!... Yes! Doctor Marvin's house!
_Quickly!_"
--------------------------------------------------------------------
MOSES COMES TO BURNING BUSH
By W. T. Larned
Melting snow in the spring and cloud-bursting rains in the fall
poured their floods from the foothills, through the arroyo, and were
licked up and lost in the arid lands below. The Mormons came, dammed
the outlet in the ridge--and, lo! there was a lake. Thus Burning
Bush, Cortez County, New Mexico, was created, on the edge of green
alfalfa fields. And because there was coal the railroad ran a spur
to collect it; and because there was a railroad cowmen came in with
their beeves and sheepmen with their mutton and wool.
In the terms of a now-discarded census classification, the "souls"
composing Cortez County's population were officially designated as
"white men, Mormons, and Mexicans." Also, there were Indians, who
could not vote and did not count. Finally, there was Ah Sin.
Ah Sin was no common coolie. He had been, indeed, the prize pupil at
the Chinese mission on the Coast. He could speak and read English,
do sums with his head in American arithmetic, and recite whole
passages from the Bible. With a cash capital accumulated in ten
years of dogged domestic service, he had come to Burning Bush and
opened a general store. It was the only one in town, and it paid.
Ah Sin--smiling, courteous, honest--worked fifteen hours a day,
and put his profits in the bank. In time he would go back to China a
rich man. Then Moses came.
That Moses should come to Burning Bush was inevitable. Burning Bush
had begun to boom. The odour of its prosperity had been wafted afar,
and the nostrils of the Israelite knew it.
The new store, lavishly painted in greens and yellows, was the most
noticeable thing in town. When Moses had moved in, even the
Montezuma hotel seemed to shrink. It had two show windows of pure
plate glass--their contents tagged with legends proclaiming cut
prices. Across the full width of its imposing false-front elevation
there appeared this sign:
STOP! LOOK! LISTEN!
THE ORIGINAL MOSES
GOLDEN RULE EMPORIUM.
With such simple lures are the simple enticed. Burning Bush stopped,
looked--and listened to maneuvering Moses. It is the new thing that
catches the eye and fills the ear. Ah Sin had forgotten to beat his
gong. Custom fell off, and found its way to the newcomer. In a month
or so the Celestial hardly held his own.
Ah Sin, losing trade, was troubled. Meeting the cut in prices did
not bring back his customers. With Oriental taste he organized a
novel window display--in vain. Something was the matter. But what?
Ah Sin's guileless mind could not grasp it. Thrown on his own mental
resources, he grappled as best he could with the problem. The Bible
teachers had taught him that the Jews were a race dispersed and
paying the penalty of their transgressions. Ah Sin believed this to
be literally the truth. Yet he, a Christian, seemed about to be
overcome by the competition of an Israelite.
"Velly funny," said Ah Sin to himself. "Heblew make good. Chlistian
catchee hell."
He strolled out into the street, his shop being empty for the time,
and contemplated long and earnestly the place of his competitor
across the way. Something about the sign seemed to puzzle him and to
make him think. He shook his head. Then he backed off and looked
critically at his own shop, with its modest device: "Ah
Sin--General Store." Presently his impassive face lighted up;
and that night his sleep was shortened by an hour devoted to a
search of the Scriptures. Had not his teachers told him to turn to
the Bible in time of doubt and trial? They were not here to counsel
him, but he had a clew.
He awoke next morning clothed and girded with strength. And all that
day, when business permitted, he laboured on a canvas sign, which he
lettered himself, with brush and India ink, smiling contentedly the
while.