A LITTLE WHILE WITH ALVIN
I can't say just how I got roped in; whether it was me that discovered
Alvin, or him who took to me. Must have been some my fault; for here was
a whole subway car full of people, and I'm the one he seems to pick. I
might lay it to an odd break, only things of that kind has happened to
me so often.
Anyway, here I am, doin' the strap-swingin' act patient, without makin'
any mad dash for a seat at stations, but hangin' on and watchin' the
crowds shift sort of curious. You might as well, you know; for if you do
get a chance to camp down durin' the rush hours, along comes some fat
lady and stands puffin' in front of you, or a thin, tired lookin' one
who glares at you over the top of your paper. But if you're a standee
yourself you feel free to look any of 'em in the eye.
And, say, ain't we a glum, peevish, sour lookin' lot, here in New York?
You'd most think that showin' any signs of good nature was violatin' a
city ordinance, and that all our dispositions had been treated with
acetic acid. Why, by the suspicious looks we give the stranger who rubs
elbows with us, you might suppose our population was ninety per cent.
escaped criminals.
As the idea struck me I may have loosened my mouth corners a little, or
may not. Anyway, as we pulls into 72d-st., and the wild scramble to
catch a packed express begins, I finds myself gazin' absentminded at
this slim, stoop-shouldered gent in the corner. Next thing I know he's
smilin' friendly and pointin' to a vacant seat alongside.
First off, of course, I thinks he must be someone I've met casual and
forgot; but as I slides in beside him and gets a closer view I know that
he's one of the ninety-odd millions of unfortunates who, up to date,
ain't had the benefit of my acquaintance. In other words, he's one of
the common suspects, an utter stranger.
Course, as far as his looks go, he might be a perfect gent. He's dressed
neat and plain, except for the brown spats; but as you run across a spat
wearer only now and then, you're bound to guess they ain't just right
somewhere. The sallow-complected face with the prominent cheekbones
don't count so much against him. Them points are common. What caught me,
though, was the lively brown eyes with just the hint of a twinkle in
'em. Always does. I know some like the wide-set, stary kind that go with
an open-faced smile and a loud haw-haw; but for me the quiet chuckle and
the twinklin' eye! Still, he hadn't proved yet that he wa'n't a
pickpocket or a wife beater; so I just nods non-committal over my
shoulder and resumes my usual aristocratic reserve.
"How does it happen," says he, "that you aren't on your way to the
funeral too?"
"Eh?" says I, a little jarred at this odd openin'.
"Or is it that they have all been indulgin' in family rows? Look at
them!" he goes on, wavin' his hand at the carful.
"Oh, I get you," says I. "Not so cheerful as they might be, are they?"
"But is it necessary for us all to be so selfishly sad," says he, "so
gloomily stern? True, we have each our troubles, some little, some big;
but why wear them always on our faces? Why inflict them on others? Why
not, when we can, the brave, kindly smile?"
"Just the way it struck me a minute ago," says I.
"Did it?" says he, beamin'. "Then I claim you for our clan."
"Your which?" says I.
"Our brotherhood," says he.
"Can't be very exclusive," says I, "if I've qualified so easy. Any
partic'lar passwords or grip to it?"
"We rehearsed the whole ritual before you sat down," says he. "The
friendly glance, that's all. And now--well, I prefer to be called
Alvin."
"So-o-o?" says I sort of distant. But I'd no more'n got it out than I
felt mean. What if he was a con man, or worse? I ought to be able to
take care of myself. So I goes on, "McCabe's my name; but among friends
I'm gen'rally known as Shorty."
"The best of credentials!" says he. "Then hail, Shorty, and welcome to
the Free Brotherhood of Ego Tamers!"
I shakes my head puzzled. "Now I've lost you," says I. "If it's a comedy
line, shoot it."
"Ah, but it's only tragedy," says Alvin, "the original tragedy of man.
See how its blight rests on these around us! Simply over-stimulation of
the ego; our souls in the strait-jacket of self; no freedom of thought
or word or deed to our fellows. Ego, the tyrant, rules us. Only we of
the Free Brotherhood are seeking to tame ours. Do I put it clumsily?"
"If you was readin' it off a laundry ticket, it couldn't be clearer,"
says I. "Something about tappin' the upper-case I too frequent, ain't
it?"
"An excellent paraphrase," says he. "You have it!"
"Gee!" says I. "Didn't know I was so close behind you. But whisper, I
ain't got my Ego on the mat with his tongue out, not yet."
"And who of us has?" says he. "But at least we give him a tussle now and
then. We've broken a fetter here and there. We have worked loose the
gag."
Say, he had, all right, or else he'd swallowed it; for as an easy and
fluent converser Alvin headed the bill. Course, it's an odd line he
hands out, the kind that keeps you guessin'. In spots it listens like
highbrow book stuff, and then again it don't. But somehow I finds it
sort of entertainin'. Besides, he seems like such a good-natured, well
meanin' gink that I lets him run on, clear to 42d-st.
"Well, so long," says I. "I get out here."
"To leave me among the Ishmaelites!" says he. "And I've two useless
hours to dispose of. Let me go a way with you?"
I hadn't counted on annexin' Alvin for the rest of the day, and I expect
I could have shook him if I'd tried; but by that time he'd got me kind
of curious to know who and what he was, and why. So I tows him over as
far as the Physical Culture Studio.
"Here's where I make some of 'em forget their egos, at so much per,"
says I, pointin' to the sign.
"Ah, the red corpuscle method!" says he. "Primitive; but effective, I've
no doubt. I must see it in operation."
And an hour later he's still there, reposin' comf'table in an office
chair with his feet on the windowsill, smokin' cigarettes, and throwin'
off chunks of classy dialogue that had Swifty Joe gawpin' at him like
he was listenin' to a foreign language.
"My assistant, Mr. Gallagher," says I, by way of apologizin'.
Alvin jumps up and shakes him hearty by the mitt. "Allow me to offer you
a cigarette, Sir," says he.
"Much obliged," says Swifty, eyin' the thin silver case with the gold
linin'. "Gee! what a swell box!"
"Do you fancy it?" says Alvin. "Then it is yours, with my best
compliments."
"Ah-r-r-r chee, no!" protests Swifty.
"Please, as a favor to me," insists Alvin, pushin' the case into his
hand. "One finds so few ways of giving pleasure. In return I shall
remember gratefully the direct sincerity of your manner. Charming!"
And, say, I expect it's the first time in his whole career that anybody
ever discovered any good points about Swifty Joe Gallagher on first
sight. He backs out with his mouth open and his face tinted up like an
old maid's that's been kissed in the dark.
But that little play only makes it all the harder for me to shoo him
out. The fact is, though, it's gettin' almost time for a directors'
meetin' that's to be pulled off in my front office. Sounds imposin',
don't it? Didn't know I was on a board, eh? Well, I am, and up to date
it's been one of the richest luxuries I ever blew myself to. I'd been
roped, that's all.
Young Blair Woodbury, one of my downtown reg'lars, had opened the cellar
door for me. Thinks he's a great promoter, Blair does. And somewhere
he'd dug up this nutty inventor with his milk container scheme. Oh, it
listens good, the way he put it. Just a two-ounce, woodpulp, mailin'
cartridge lined with oiled paper, that could be turned out for a dollar
a thousand, pint and quart sizes, indestructible, absolutely sanitary,
air tight, germ proof, and so on.
Simple little thing; but it was goin' to put the Milk Trust out of
business inside of six months, set back the high cost of livin' a full
notch, give every dairy farmer an automobile, and land the Universal
Container Company's stockholders at No. 1 Easy-st. For, instead of
payin' two prices for an imitation blend doctored up with formaldehyde,
you got the real, creamy stuff straight from the farm at five a quart,
and passed in at the front door with your morning mail. Didn't the
parcel post bring your drygoods? Why not your milk? And when it got to
be common the P.O. Department would put on carts for a six A.M.
delivery. There you are!
So I'd subscribed for a thousand shares, payin' fifty per cent. down for
development expenses, the rest on call. Yes, I know. But you should have
heard Blair Woodbury pull the prospectus stuff, and describe how the
dividends would come rollin' in!
That was six or eight months ago, and we'd stood for two assessments.
Then it turned out there was something wrong with the pulp compressor
dingus that was to have shot out containers at the rate of two hundred a
minute. Some of us went over to Jersey to see it work; but all it
produced while we was there was a groanin' sound and a smell of sour
dough. I could have bought out the holdin's of the entire bunch for my
return ticket. But the ticket looked above par to me.
After that our board meetin's wa'n't such gay affairs. A grouchy lot of
tinhorn investors we was, believe me; for the parties young Mr. Woodbury
had decoyed into this fool scheme wa'n't Standard Oil plutes or any of
the Morgan crowd: mostly salaried men, with a couple of dentists, a
retail grocer, and a real estate agent! None of us was stuck on droppin'
a thousand or so into a smelly machine that wouldn't behave. Maybe it
would next time; but we had our doubts. What we wanted most was to get
from under, and this meetin' to-day was called to chew over a
proposition for dumpin' the stock on the Curb on the chance that there
might be enough suckers to go around. It wouldn't be a cheerful séance,
either, and bystanders might not be exactly welcome. Misery may like
comp'ny; but it don't yearn for a gallery.
So I has to hint to Alvin that as I had a little business meetin'
comin' on maybe he wouldn't find it so entertainin'.
"Nothing bores me," says he. "Humanity, in all its phases, all its
efforts, is interesting."
"Huh!" says I. "Humanity beefin' over a dollar it's dropped through a
crack wouldn't furnish any Easter card scheme. Talk about grouchy
people! You ought to see this bunch, with their egos clutchin' their
checkbooks."
"Ah!" says Alvin. "A financial deal, is it?"
"It was," says I. "These are the obsequies we're about to hold."
And he's so prompt with the sympathy dope that I has to sketch the
disaster out for him, includin' a description of the container scheme.
"Why," says he, "that seems quite practical. Rather a brilliant idea,
and far too good to be abandoned without a thorough trial. It appeals
strongly to me, Friend McCabe. Besides, I've had some experience in such
affairs. Perhaps I could help. Let me try."
"I'll put it up to the board," says I. "If they say---- Ah, here comes
Doc Fosdick and Meyers the grocer now."
They don't appear arm in arm. In fact, at the last session they'd had a
hot run-in; so now they takes chairs on opposite sides of the room and
glares at each other hostile. A thin, nervous little dyspeptic, Doc
Fosdick is; while Meyers is bull necked and red faced. They'd mix about
as well as a cruet of vinegar and a pail of lard. Course I has to
introduce Alvin, and he insists on shakin' hands cordial.
"You professional chaps," says he to the Doc, "are such fine fellows to
know. Ah, a bit crusty on the surface perhaps; but underneath--what big
hearts! Delighted, Mr. Meyers! One can readily see how you translate
good health into good nature. And I congratulate you both on being
associated in such a splendid enterprise as this milk container scheme.
Bound to be a big thing; for it is founded on the public good. Altruism
always wins in the long run, you know, always."
Doc he tries to sniff disagreeable, and Meyers grunts disapprovin'; but
Alvin had 'em goin' for all that. You could tell by the satisfied way
the grocer lights up a cigar, and the soothed actions of Fosdick. As the
others drops in one by one, Alvin kept on spreadin' seeds of sunshine,
and before the meetin' was called to order he was on chummy terms with
nearly everyone in the room. The point of whether he was to stay or not
wa'n't even raised.
It was Manning, the real estate man, who sprung the new proposition.
"That fool inventor Nevins," says he, "insists that if we can give him
two weeks more and raise twenty-five thousand, he can perfect his
machine and start manufacturing. Now if we could only find buyers for
half those unsubscribed shares----"
"Bah!" snorts Fosdick. "Hasn't Woodbury hawked 'em all over town? Why
isn't he here now? Tell me that, will you? Because he's done with us!
We're squeezed lemons, we are, and he can't find any more to squeeze!"
"Pardon me," says Alvin, "but I wish to state that I believe fully in
this enterprise. It's sound, it's scientific, it's progressive. And
while as a rule I don't go in for speculative investments, I shall be
very glad, in this instance, providing you all agree to stand by and see
it through with me, to take--say ten thousand shares at par. In fact, I
stand ready to write a check for the full amount this minute. What do
you say?"
Well, we gasps and gawps at Alvin like so many orphan asylum kids when
Santa Claus bounces in at the Christmas exercises.
Manning gets his breath back first. "Gentlemen," says he, "isn't this
offer worth considering? Let's see, did I get your name right,
Mr.--er----"
"Alvin Pratt Barton," says our Santa Claus.
"Pratt Barton?" repeats Manning. "Any connection with the brokerage firm
of that name?"
Alvin shrugs his shoulders and smiles. "The late Mr. Barton was my
father," says he. "Mr. Pratt is my uncle by marriage. But I am doing
this on my own initiative, you know. I should like an expression of
opinion."
Say, he got it! Inside of three minutes we'd voted unanimous to hold on
for two months longer, made Alvin vice president of the comp'ny, and his
check has been handed over to the treasurer, which is me. Then he'd
shaken hands hearty with each one, patted 'em on the back, and even got
Doc Fosdick smilin' amiable as he leaves.
"Alvin," says I after they'd all gone, "take it from me, you're some
pacifier! Why, if it hadn't been for you jumpin' in, I expect we'd jawed
away here for hours until we broke up in a free-for-all. Honest, you got
the white dove of peace lookin' like a mad fish hawk."
"Tut, tut!" says Alvin. "No spoofing, you know. Really, it takes very
little to bring men together; for, after all, we are brothers. Only at
times we forget."
"You mean most of us never remember," says I. "But you're a true sport,
anyway, and the least I can do is to blow you to the best lunch on
Fifth-ave. Come on."
He consents ready enough, providin' I'll stroll over to the Grand
Central with him first, while he sees about some baggage. We was makin'
a dash through the traffic across Sixth-ave. when I misses Alvin, and
turns around to find him apologizin' to a young female he's managed to
bump into and spill in the slush just as he fetched the curb. He has his
hat off and is beggin' her pardon in his best society way too; although
he must have seen at a glance what she was,--one of these brassy-eyed
parties with a hand-decorated complexion and a hangover breath.
"Ah, chop the soft stuff!" says she, brushin' the mud off her slit skirt
vigorous. "And next time lamp who you're buttin' into, you pie-faced,
turkey-shanked----"
Well, maybe that's enough of the lady's repartee to quote exact; for the
rest wa'n't strictly ladylike. And the more Alvin tries to convince her
how sorry he is, the livelier she cuts loose with her tongue, until a
crowd collects to enjoy the performance.
"Beat it!" says I, tuggin' Alvin by the arm.
"Please wait here a moment, Madam," says he, and then starts off,
leavin' her starin' after him and still statin' her opinion of him
reckless. He only goes as far as the florist's, next to the corner, and
I follows.
"A dozen of those American beauties quickly, please," says Alvin,
fishin' hasty through his pockets. "Oh, I say, McCabe, can you lend me
fifteen for a few moments? Thank you."
And in a jiffy he's back at the curb, presentin' that armful of roses to
Tessie of the tabasco tongue, and doin' it as graceful and dignified as
if he was handin' 'em to a Pittsburgh Duchess. He don't wait for any
thanks, either; but takes me by the arm and hurries off. I had to have
one more look, though, and as I glances back she's still standin' there
starin' at the flowers sort of stupid, with the brine leakin' from both
eyes.
"Alvin," says I, "it's some education to travel with you."
"I'm a clumsy ass!" says he. "Poor wretch! I could think of nothing
sensible to do for her. Let's say no more about it. I must get that
suitcase from the baggage room."
He greets the grumpy checkroom tyrant like a friend and brother, and has
just slipped him a cigar when a husky-built square-jawed gent steps up
behind and taps Alvin familiar on the shoulder.
Alvin's jaw sags disappointed for a second as he turns; but he recovers
quick and gives the cheerful hail. "Oh, it's you, is it, Scully?" says
he. "I thought I'd given you the slip completely this time. Hope I
haven't made you a lot of trouble."
"Not a bit, Mr. Barton," says Scully. "You know it's a change for us,
Sir, getting out this way, with all expenses paid. They sent Talcott
with me, Sir."
"Fine!" says Alvin. "Of course I like them all; but I'm glad it happened
to be you and Talcott this trip."
"Hope you're ready to go back, Sir," says Scully.
"Oh, quite," says Alvin. "I've had a bully good time; but I'm getting a
little tired. And, by the way, please remember to have the doctor send
fifteen dollars to my friend McCabe here. You explain, will you,
Scully?"
Scully does. "From Dr. Slade's Restorium," says he, noddin' at Alvin and
tappin' his forehead. "Quite a harmless gentleman, Sir."
"Eh?" says I, turnin' to Alvin. "You from a nut factory? Good night!"
"It's a whim of Uncle's," says Alvin, chucklin'. "He's gone a little
cracked over making and saving money. Poor old chap! Ego developed most
abnormally. But the Judge he took me before was that kind too; so I am
compelled to live with Dr. Slade. Jolly crowd up there, though. Come
along, Scully; we mustn't be late for dinner."
And off he goes, smilin' contented and friendly at anyone who happens to
look his way. Wouldn't that crimp you?
Course, my first move after gettin' back to the studio was to dig that
check of his out of the safe and query the bank. "No account here," the
clerk 'phones back prompt, and I could see the Universal Liquid
Container Company takin' a final plunge down the coal chute.
For days, though, I put off callin' the bunch together and announcin'
the sad fact. More'n a week went by, and I was still dreadin' to do it.
Then here this mornin' in romps young Blair Woodbury, his eyes sparklin'
and a broad grin on his face. He's flourishin' a bundle about the size
of a two weeks' fam'ly wash, and as he sees me he lets out a joy yelp.
"Well, why the riot?" says I. "What you got there?"
"Containers!" says he. "Old Nevins has got the compressor working. Sixty
seconds to make these, my boy--two hundred in one minute! Count 'em!"
"I'll take your word for it," says I. "That's fine, too. But I'm
carryin' all the comp'ny stock I can stand. Go out and convince some
other come-ons."
"I don't have to," says he. "Why, during the last four days the issue
has been oversubscribed. It was getting that Mr. Barton, of Pratt &
Barton, on our list that turned the trick."
"Alvin!" I gasps. "Why--why, he's only a batty nephew, that they keep
under guard. Bughouse, you know. His check's no good."
"Doesn't matter in the least," says Blair. "He made good bait. We're
established, I tell you! Get the board together, and we'll let the
contracts for the factory. And then--well, McCabe, if our stock doesn't
hit one hundred and fifty inside of six months, I--I'll eat every one of
these!"
And, say, allowin' for all his extra enthusiasm, it looks like we stood
to win. I expect the other directors'll be some jarred, though, when
they hear about Alvin. I started in to break it to Swifty Joe.
"By the way, Swifty," says I, "you remember that Barton party who was in
here one day?"
"_Mister_ Barton," says he reprovin'. "Say, he was a reg'lar guy, he
was!"
"Think so?" says I.
"Think!" explodes Swifty indignant. "Ahr-r-r chee! Why, say, any
bonehead could see he was a real' gent to the last tap of the gong."
And, say, I didn't have the heart to break the spell. For, after all,
admittin' the state of his belfry, I don't know that many of us has so
much on Alvin, at that.
THE END
* * * * * *
JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree
that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine
lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he
finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the
_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and
the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder
chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."
THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It
is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often
springs the flower of civilization.
"Chad," the "little shepherd," did not know who he was nor whence he
came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood,
seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and
mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif,
by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the
mountains.
A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of
moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the
heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two
impetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's"
charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the
love making of the mountaineers.
Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of
Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.
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STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY
GENE STRATTON-PORTER
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LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story
is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it
is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs
of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie, the
older brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess, an English
girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family
there hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the book and a
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THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.
"The Harvester," David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who
draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If the
book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be
notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," and the
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FRECKLES. Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford.
Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he
takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great
Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to
the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The
Angel" are full of real sentiment.
A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.
The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of
the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness
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unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.
AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp.
The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The
story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.
The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and
its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
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MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.
A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romance
finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love to
the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the
prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned love stories, * * * a
rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy,
of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity.
A SPINNER IN THE SUN.
Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story in which
poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a clever and
entertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she always displays
a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of pathos which give a
touch of active realism to all her writings. In "A Spinner in the Sun"
she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in
"solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a
mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of
romance."
THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.
A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso
is the reverent possessor of a genuine "Cremona." He consents to take
for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for
technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth has led the happy,
careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American and he cannot, with
his meagre past, express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life
and all its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all its
fulness. But a girl comes into his life--a beautiful bit of human
driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home, and through
his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to
give--and his soul awakes.
Founded on a fact that all artists realize.
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GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS
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WITHIN THE LAW. By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana.
Illustrated by Wm. Charles Cooke.
This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for
two years in New York and Chicago.
The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed
against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three
years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent.
WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY. By Robert Carlton Brown.
Illustrated with scenes from the play.
This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly
thrown into the very heart of New York, "the land of her dreams," where
she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers.
The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played in
theatres all over the world.
THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM. By David Belasco.
Illustrated by John Rae.
This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, as
Old Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success.
The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful,
both as a book and as a play.
THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.
This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit
barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness.
It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. The play has
been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.
BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace.
The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance on a
height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. The
clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect
reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere
of the arena have kept their deep fascination. A tremendous dramatic
success.
BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. By George Broadhurst and Arthur Hornblow.
Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an
interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. The scenes are laid
in New York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor.
The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which
show the young wife the price she has paid.
Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
* * * * * *
GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS
Original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are
making theatrical history.
MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. Illustrated with
scenes from the play.
A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not
forgive an error of her youth. Her love for her son is the great final
influence in her career. A tremendous dramatic success.
THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.
An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and
love in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged this season with magnificent cast
and gorgeous properties.
THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew. Wallace.
A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinary
power the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the
warm underglow of an Oriental romance. As a play it is a great dramatic
spectacle.
TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White.
Illust. by Howard Chandler Christy.
A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University
student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of
those about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of the
season.
YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph Chester.
Illust. by F. R. Gruger and Henry Raleigh.
A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of
which is just on the safe side of a State's prison offence. As
"Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of
money manipulation ever seen on the stage.
THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse.
Illustrations by Will Grefe.
Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglary
adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of "A Gentleman
of Leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
* * * * * *
B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS
Thrilling Western Romances
Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated
CHIP, OF THE FLYING U
A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della
Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip's jealousy of Dr. Cecil
Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very
amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher.
THE HAPPY FAMILY
A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen
jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find
Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively
and exciting adventures.
HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT
A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners
who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana
ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and
the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities.
THE RANGE DWELLERS
Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited
action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet
courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull
page.
THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS
A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the
cowboys of the West, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "Bud"
Thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim
trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love.
THE LONESOME TRAIL
"Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional city
life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with the
atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown
eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story.
THE LONG SHADOW
A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a
mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of
life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to
finish.
Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK