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The Veiled Lady, and Other Men and Women

by Francis Hopkinson Smith · English · Gutenberg #4713 · 348,605 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Veiled Lady, and Other Men and Women

Author: Francis Hopkinson Smith


        
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4713]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4713

Credits: Produced by Duncan Harrod.  HTML version by Al Haines.


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Produced by Duncan Harrod.  HTML version by Al Haines.










THE VEILED LADY

And Other Men And Women


By

F. Hopkinson Smith




CONTENTS

  THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL
  LORETTA OF THE SHIPYARDS
  A COAT OF RED LEAD
  MISS MURDOCK,--"SPECIAL"
  THE BEGUILING OF PETER GRIGGS
  MISS JENNINGS'S COMPANION
  SAM JOPLIN'S EPIGASTRIC NERVE
  MISS BUFFUM'S NEW BOARDER
  CAPTAIN JOE AND THE SUSIE ANN
  "AGAINST ORDERS"
  MUGGLES'S SUPREME MOMENT




To my Readers:

This collection of stories has been labelled "The Veiled Lady" as being
the easiest way out of a dilemma; and yet the title may be misleading.
While, beyond doubt, there is between these covers a most charming and
lovable Houri, to whom the nightingales sing lullabies, there can also
be found a surpassingly beautiful Venetian whose love affairs upset a
Quarter, a common-sense, motherly nurse whose heart warmed toward her
companion in the adjoining berth, a plucky New England girl with the
courage of her convictions, and a prim spinster whose only consolation
was the boarder who sat opposite.

Nor does the list by any means end here. Rough sea-dogs, with friendly
feelings toward other dogs, crop up, as well as brave Titans who make
derricks of their arms and fender-piles of their bodies. Here, too, are
skinny, sun-dried Excellencies with a taste for revolutions,
well-groomed club swells with a taste for adventure and cocktails, not
to mention half a dozen gay, rollicking Bohemians with a taste for
everything that came their way.

Perhaps it might have been best to enclose each story in a separate
cover, and then to dump the unassorted lot upon the table, where those
who wished could make their choice. And yet, as I turn the leaves, I
must admit that, after all, the present form is best, since each and
every incident, situation, and bit of local color has either passed
before or was poured into the wide-open eyes and willing ears of your
most humble and obedient servant

A Staid Old Painter.

  150 East 34th Street,
    New York, March 13, 1907.




THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL


Joe Hornstog told me this story--the first part of it; the last part of
it came to me in a way which proves how small the world is.

Joe belongs to that conglomerate mass of heterogeneous nationalities
found around the Golden Horn, whose ancestry is as difficult to trace
as a gypsy's. He says he is a "Jew gentleman from Germany," but he
can't prove it, and he knows he can't.

There is no question about his being part Jew, and there is a strong
probability of his being part German, and, strange to say, there is not
the slightest doubt of his being part gentleman--in his own estimation;
and I must say in mine, when I look back over an acquaintance covering
many years and remember how completely my bank account was at his
disposal and how little of its contents he appropriated.

And yet, were I required to hold up my hand in open court, I would have
to affirm that Joe, whatever his other strains might be, was, after
all, ninety-nine per cent. Levantine--which is another way of saying
that he is part of every nationality about him.

As to his honesty and loyalty, is he not the chosen dragoman of kings
and princes when they journey into far distant lands (he speaks seven
languages and many tribal dialects), and is he not today wearing in his
buttonhole the ribbon of the order of the Mejidieh, bestowed upon him
by his Imperial Highness the Sultan, in reward for his ability and
faithfulness?

I must admit that I myself have been his debtor--not once, but many
times. It was this same quick-sighted, quick-witted Levantine who
lifted me from my sketching stool and stood me on my feet in the plaza
of the Hippodrome one morning just in time to prevent my being trodden
under foot by six Turks carrying the body of their friend to the
cemetery--in time, too, to save me from the unforgivable sin among
Orientals, of want of reverence for their dead. I had heard the tramp
of the pall-bearers, and supposing it to be that of the Turkish patrol,
had kept at work. They were prowling everywhere, day and night, and
during those days they passed every ten minutes--nine soldiers in
charge of an officer of police--all owing to the fact that some five
thousand Armenians, anxious to establish a new form of government, had
been wiped out of existence only the week before.

Once on my feet (Joe accomplished his purpose with the help of my
suspenders) and the situation clear, I had sense enough left to uncover
my head and stand in an attitude of profound reverence until the
procession had passed. I can see them now--the coffin wrapped in a
camel's-hair shawl, the dead man's fez and turban resting on top. Then
I replaced my hat and finished the last of the six minarets of the
mosque gleaming like opals in the soft light of the morning.

This act of courtesy, due so little to my own initiative, and so
largely to Joe's, gained for me many friends in and about the
mosque--not only those of the dead man, one of whom rowed a caique, but
among the priests who formed the funeral cortege--a fact unknown to me
until Joe imparted it. "Turk-man say you good man, effendi," was the
way he put it. "You stoop over yourselluf humble for their dead."

On another occasion Joe again stood by my side when, with hat off and
with body in a half kotow, I sat before the Pasha, who was acting chief
of police after that stormy Armenian week--it was over really in five
days.

"Most High Potentate," Joe began, translating my plain Anglo-Saxon
"Please, sir," into Eastern hyperbolics, "I again seek your
Excellency's presence to make my obeisance and to crave your permission
to transfer to cheap paper some of the glories of this City of
Turquoise and Ivory. This, if your Highness will deign to remember, is
not the first time I have trespassed. Twice before have I prostrated
myself, and twice has your Sublimity granted my request."

"These be troublous times," puffed his Swarthiness through his
mustache, his tobacco-stained fingers meanwhile rolling a cigarette; a
dark-skinned, heavily-bearded Oriental, this Pasha, with an eye that
burned holes in you. "You should await a more peaceful season, effendi,
for your art."

"On account of the Armenians, your Excellency?" I ventured to inquire
with a smile.

"Yes." This, in translation by Joe, came with a whistling sound, like
the escaping steam of a radiator.

"But why should I fear these disturbers of the peace, your Supreme
Highness? The Turk is my friend, and has been for years. They know me
and my pure and unblemished life. They also know by this time that I
have been one of the chosen few among nations who have enjoyed your
Highness's confidence, and to whom you have given protection." Here my
spine took the form of a horseshoe curve--Moorish pattern. "As to these
dogs of Armenians" (this last was Joe's, given with a growl to show his
deep detestation of the race--part of his own, if he would but
acknowledge it), "your Excellency will look out for them." He WAS
looking out for them at the rate of one hundred a day and no questions
asked or answered so far as the poor fellows were concerned.

At this the distinguished Oriental finished rolling his cigarette,
looked at me blandly--it is astonishing how sweet a smile can
overspread the face of a Turk when he is granting you a favor or
signing the death warrant of an infidel--clapped his hands, summoning
an attendant who came in on all fours, and whispered an order in the
left ear of the almost prostrate man. This done, the Pasha rose from
his seat, straightened his shoulders (no handsomer men the world over
than these high-class Turks), shook my hand warmly, gave me the Turkish
salute--heart, mouth, and forehead touched with the tips of flying
fingers--and bowed me out.

Once through the flat leather curtain that hid the exit door of the
Pasha's office, and into the bare corridor, I led Joe to a corner out
of the hearing of the ever-present spy, and, nailing him to the wall,
propounded this query:

"What did the High-Pan-Jam say, Joe?"

Hornstog raised his shoulders level with his ears, fanned out his
fingers, crooked his elbows, and in his best conglomerate answered:

"He say, effendi, that a guard of ein men, Yusuf, his name--I know
him--he is in the Secret Service--oh, we will have no trouble with
him--" Here Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger with the movement of a
paying teller counting a roll. "He come every morning to Galata Bridge
for you me. He say, too, if any trouble while you paint I go him--ah,
effendi, it is only Joe Hornstog can do these things. The Pasha, he
know me--all good Turk-men know me. Where we paint now, subito? In the
plaza, or in the patio of the Valedee, like last year?"

"Neither. We go first to the Mosque of Suleiman. I want the view
through the gate of the court-yard, with the mosque in the background.
Best place is below the cafe. Pick up those traps and come along."

Thus it was that on this particular summer afternoon Joe and I found
ourselves on the shadow side of a wall up a crooked, break-neck street
paved with rocks, each as big as a dress-suit case, from which I got a
full view of the wonderful mosque tossing its splendors into the still
air, its cresting of minarets so much frozen spray against the blue.

The little comedy--or shall I say tragedy?--began a few minutes after I
had opened my easel--I sitting crouched in the shadow, my elbow
touching the plastered wall. Only Joe and I were present. Yusuf, the
guard, a skinny, half-fed Turk in fez and European dress, had as usual
betaken himself to the cafe fronting the same sidewalk on which I sat,
but half a block away; far enough to be out of hearing, but near enough
to miss my presence should I decamp suddenly without notifying him.
There he drank some fifty cups of coffee, each one the size of a
thimble, and smoked as many cigarettes, their burned stubs locating his
seat under the cafe awning as clearly as peanut-shells mark a boy's at
the circus. I, of course, paid for both.

So absorbed was I in my work--the mosque never was so beautiful as on
that day--I gave no thought to the fact that in my eagerness to hide my
canvas from the prying sun I had really backed myself into a small
wooden gate, its lintel level with the sidewalk--a dry, dusty,
sun-blistered gate, without lock or hasp on the outside, and evidently
long closed. Even then I would not have noticed it, had not my ears
caught the sound of a voice--two voices, in fact--low, gurgling
voices--as if a fountain had just been turned on, spattering the leaves
about it. Then my eye lighted, not only on the gate, but upon a seam or
split in the wood, half-way up its height, showing where a panel was
sometimes pushed back, perhaps for surer identification, before the
inside wooden beam would be loosened.

So potent was the spell of the mosque's witchery that the next instant
I should have forgotten both door and panel had not Joe touched the toe
of my boot with his own--he was sitting close to me--and in explanation
lifted his eyebrow a hair's breadth, his eyes fixed on the slowly
sliding panel--sliding noiselessly, an inch at a time. Only then did my
mind act.

What I saw was first a glow of yellow green, then a mass of blossoms,
then a throat, chin and face, one after another, all veiled in a
gossamer thin as a spider's web, and last--and these I shall never
forget--a pair of eyes shining clear below and above the veil, and
which gazed into mine with the same steady, full, unfrightened look one
sometimes sees on the face of a summer moon when it bursts through a
rift in the clouds.

"Don't move and don't look," whispered Joe in my ear, a tone in his
voice of one who had just seen a ghost. "Allah! Ekber! Yuleima!"

"Who is she?" I answered, craning my neck to see the closer.

"No speak now--keep still," he mumbled under his breath.

It may have been the gossamer veil shading a rose skin, making pink
pearls of the cheeks and chin and lending its charm to the other
features; or it may have been the wonderful eyes that made me oblivious
of Joe's warning, for I did look--looked with all my eyes, and kept on
looking.

Men have died for just such eyes. Even now, staid old painter as I am,
the very remembrance of their wondrous size--big as a young doe's and
as pleading, their lids fringed by long feathery lashes that opened and
shut with the movement of a tired butterfly--sends little thrills of
delight scampering up and down my spine. Bulbuls, timid gazelles,
perfumed narghilehs, anklets of beaten gold strung with turquoise,
tinkling cymbals, tiny turned-up slippers with silk tassels on their
toes--everything that told of the intoxicating life of the East were
mirrored in their unfathomed depths.

Most of these qualities, I am aware, are found in many another pair of
lambent, dreamy eyes half-hidden by the soft folds of a yashmak--eyes
which these houris often flash on some poor devil of a giaour, knowing
how safe they are and how slim his chance for further acquaintance.
Strange tales are told of their seductive power and strange
disappearances take place because of them. And yet I saw at a glance
that there was nothing of all this in her wondering gaze. Her eyes, in
fact, were fixed neither on Joseph nor on me, nor did they linger for
one instant on the beautiful mosque. It was my canvas that held their
gaze. Men and mosques were old stories; pictures of either as
astounding as a glimpse into heaven.

Again Joe bent his head and whispered to me, his glance this time on
the mosque, on the hill, on the cafe, where Yusuf sat sipping his
coffee, talking to me all the time out of the corner of his mouth.

"Remember, effendi, if Yusuf come we go way chabouk. You look at your
picture all time--paint--no look at her. If Yusuf come and catch us it
make trouble for her--make trouble for you--make more trouble for me.
Police Pasha don't know she come to this garden--I think somebody must
help her. You better stop now and go cafe. I find Yusuf. I no like this
place."

With this Hornstog rose to his feet and began packing the trap, still
whispering, his eyes on the ground. Never once did he look in the
direction of the houri peering through the sliding panel.

The clatter of a horse's hoofs now resounded through the still air. A
mounted officer was approaching. Joe looked up, turned a light
pea-green, backed his body into the gate with the movement of an eel,
put his cheek close to the sliding panel, and whispered some words in
Turkish. The girl leaned a little forward, glanced at the officer as if
in confirmation of Joseph's warning, and smothering a low cry, sprang
back from the opening. The next instant my eye caught the thumb and
forefinger of a black hand noiselessly closing the panel. Joe
straightened up, pulled himself into the position of a sentinel on
guard, saluted the officer, who passed without looking to the right or
left, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and began mopping his head.

"What the devil is it all about, Joe? Why, you look as if you had had
the wind knocked out of you."

"Oh, awful close, awful close! I tell you--but not here. Come, we go
'way--we go now--not stay here any more. If that officer see the lady
with us the Pasha send me to black mosque for five year and you find
yourself board ship on way to Tripoli. Here come Yusuf--damn him! You
tell him you no like view of mosque from here--say you find another
place to-morrow--you do this quick. Hornstog never lie."

On my way across the Galata Bridge to my quarters in Pera that same
afternoon Joe followed until Yusuf had made his kotow and we had made
ours, the three ending in a triple flight of fingers--waited until the
guard was well on his way back to the Pasha's office--it was but a
short way from the Stamboul end of the Galata--and drawing me into one
of the small cafes overlooking the waters of the Golden Horn, seated me
at the far end near a window where we could talk without being
overheard. Here Joe ordered coffee and laid a package of cigarettes on
the table.

"My! but that was like the razor at the throat--not for all the hairs
on my head would I had her look out the small hole in the door when
Serim come along. Somebody must be take care of you, you Joe Hornstog,
that you don't make damn big fool of yourselluf. Ha! but it make me
creep like a spider crawl."

I had pulled up a chair by this time and was facing him.

"Now what is it? Who is the girl? Who was the chap on horseback?"

"That man on the horse is Serim Pasha, chief of the palace police. He
has eyes around twice; one in the forehead, one in each ear, one in the
behind of his head. He did not see her--if he did--well, we would not
be talk now together--sure not after to-morrow night."

"But what has he got to do with it? What did you say her name was?
Yuleima?"

"Yes, Yuleima. What has Serim to do with her? Well, I tell you. If she
get away off go Serim's head. Listen! I speak something you never hear
anywhere 'cept in Turk-man's land. I know it all--everything. I know
her prince--he knows me. I meet him Damascus once--he told me some
things then--the tears run his cheeks down like a baby's when he
talk--and Serim know I know somethings! Ah! that's why he not believe
me if he catch me talk to her. Afterward I find more out from my friend
in Yuleima's house--he is the gardener. Put your head close, effendi."

I drew my chair nearer and listened.

"Yuleima," began Joe, "is one womans like no other womans in all--"

But I shall not attempt the dragoman's halting, broken jargon
interspersed with Italian and German words--it will grate on you as it
grated on me. I will assume for the moment--and Joe would be most
thankful to have me do so--that the learned Hornstog, the friend of
kings and princes, is as fluent in English as he is in Turkish, Arabic,
and Greek.

It all began in a caique--or rather in two caiques. One was on its way
to a little white house that nestles among the firs at the foot of the
bare brown hill overlooking the village of Beicos. The other was bound
for the Fountain Beautiful, where the women and their slaves take the
air in the soft summer mornings.

In the first caique, rowed by two caique-jis gorgeously dressed in
fluffy trousers and blouses embroidered in gold, sat the daughter of
the rich Bagdad merchant.

In the second caique, cigarette in hand, lounged the nephew of the
Khedive, Mahmoud Bey; scarce twenty, slight, oval face with full lips,
hair black as sealskin and as soft, and eyes that smouldered under
heavy lids. Four rowers in blue and silver attended his Highness, the
amber-colored boat skimming the waters as a tropical bird skims a
lagoon.

The two had passed each other the week before on the day of the
Selamlik (the Turkish holiday) while paddling up the Sweet Waters of
Asia--a little brook running into the Bosphorus and deep enough for
caiques to float, and every day since that blissful moment my lady had
spent the morning under the wide-spreading plane-trees shading the
Fountain Beautiful--the Chesmegazell--attended by her faithful slave
Multif, her beautiful body stretched on a Damascus rug of priceless
value, her eager eyes searching the blue waters of the Bosphorus.

On this particular morning--my lady had just stepped into her boat--the
young man was seen to raise himself on his elbow, lift his eyelids, and
a slight flush suffused his swarthy cheeks. Then came an order in a low
voice, and the caique swerved in its course and headed for the dot of
white and gold in which sat Multif and my lady. The Spanish caballero
haunts the sidewalk and watches all day beneath his Dulcinea's balcony;
or he talks to her across the opera-house or bull-ring with cigarette,
fingers, and cane, she replying with studied movements of her fan. In
the empire of Mohammed, with a hundred eyes on watch--eyes of eunuchs,
spies, and parents--love-making is reduced to a passing glance, brief
as a flash of light, and sometimes as blinding.

That was all that took place when the two caiques passed--just a
thinning of the silken veil, with only one fold of the yashmak slipped
over the eyes, softening the fire of their beauty; then a quick,
all-enfolding, all-absorbing look, as if she would drink into her very
soul the man she loved, and the two tiny boats kept each on its way.

The second act of the comedy opens in a small cove, an indent of the
Bosphorus, out of sight of passing boat-patrols--out of sight, too, of
inquisitive wayfarers passing along the highroad from Beicos to
Danikeui. Above the cove, running from the very beach, sweeps a garden,
shaded by great trees and tangles of underbrush; one bunch smothering a
summer-house. This is connected by a sheltered path with the little
white house that nestles among the firs half-way up the steep brown
hill that overlooks the village of Beicos.

The water-patrol may have been friendly, or my lady's favorite slave
resourceful, but almost every night for weeks the first caique and the
second caique had lain side by side in the boat-house in the cove, both
empty, except for one trusty man who loved Mahmoud and who did his
bidding without murmur or question, no matter what the danger. Higher
up, her loose white robes splashed with the molten silver of the moon
filtering through overhanging leaves, where even the nightingale
stopped to listen, could be heard the cooing of two voices. Then would
come a warning cry, and a figure closely veiled would speed up the
path. Next could be heard the splash of oars of the first caique
homeward bound.

Locksmiths are bunglers in the East compared to patrols and eunuchs.
Lovers may smile, but they never laugh at them. There is always a day
of reckoning. A whisper goes around; some disgruntled servant shakes
his head; and an old fellow with baggy trousers and fez, says: "My
daughter, I am surprised" or "pained" or "outraged," or whatever he
does say in polite Turkish, Arabic, or Greek, and my lady is locked up
on bread and water, or fig-paste, or Turkish Delight, and all is over.
Sometimes the young Lothario is ordered back to his regiment, or sent
to Van or Trebizond or Egypt for the good of his morals, or his health
or the community in which he lives. Sometimes everybody accepts the
situation and the banns are called and they live happy ever after.

What complicated this situation was that the girl, although as
beautiful as a dream--any number of dreams, for that matter, and all of
paradise--was a plebeian and the young man of royal blood. Furthermore,
any number of parents, her own two and twice as many uncles and aunts,
might get together and give, not only their blessing, but lands and
palaces--two on the Bosphorus, one in Bagdad and another at Smyrna, and
nothing would avail unless his Imperial Highness the Sultan gave his
consent. Fruthermore, again, should it come to the ears of his August
Presence that any such scandalous alliance was in contemplation,
several yards of additional bow-strings would be purchased and the
whole coterie experience a choking sensation which would last them the
balance of their lives.

Thus it was that, after that most blissful night in the arbor--their
last--in which she had clung to him as if knowing he was about to slip
forever from her arms, both caiques were laid up for the season; the
first tight locked and guarded in the palace of the young man's father,
five miles along the blue Bosphorus as the bird flies, and the second
in the little boat-house in the small indent of a cove under the garden
holding the beloved arbor, the little white house, and My Lady of the
diaphanous veil and the all-absorbing eyes.

With the lifting of the curtain on the third act, the scene shifts. No
more Sweet Waters, no more caiques nor stolen interviews, the music of
hot kisses drowned in the splash of the listening fountain. Instead,
there is seen a sumptuously furnished interior the walls wainscoted in
Moorish mosaics and lined by broad divans covered with silken rugs.
Small tables stand about holding trays of cigarettes and sweets. Over
against a window overlooking a garden lounges a group of women--some
young, some old, one or two of them black as coal. It is the harem of
the Pasha, the father of Mahmoud, Prince of the Rising Sun, Chosen of
the Faithful, Governor of a province, and of forty other things
beside--most of which Joe had forgotten.

Months had passed since that night in the arbor. Yuleima had cried her
eyes out, and Mahmoud had shaken his fists and belabored his head,
swearing by the beard of the Prophet that come what might Yuleima
should be his.

Then came the death of the paternal potentate, and the young lover was
free--free to come and go, to love, to hate; free to follow the
carriage of his imperial master in his race up the hill after the
ceremony of the Selamlik; free to choose any number of Yuleimas for his
solace; free to do whatever pleased him--except to make the beautiful
Yuleima his spouse. This the High-Mightinesses forbade. There were no
personal grounds for their objection. The daughter of the rich Bagdad
merchant was as gentle as a doe, beautiful as a star seen through the
soft mists of the morning, and of stainless virtue. Her father had ever
been a loyal subject, giving of his substance to both church and state,
but there were other things to consider, among them a spouse especially
selected by a council of High Pan-Jams, whose decision, having been
approved by their imperial master, was not only binding, but final--so
final that death awaited any one who would dare oppose it. At the feast
of Ramazan the two should wed. Yuleima might take second, third, or
fortieth place--but not first.

The young prince gritted his row of white teeth and flashed his
slumbering eyes--and they could flash--blaze sometimes--with a fire
that scorched. Yuleima would be his, unsullied in his own eyes and the
world's, or she should remain in the little white house on the brown
hill and continue to blur her beautiful eyes with the tears of her
grief.

Then the favorite slave and the faithful caique-ji--the one who found
the little cove even on the darkest night--put their heads
together--two very cunning and wise heads, one black and wrinkled and
the other sun-tanned and yellow--with the result that one night a new
odalisque, a dark-skinned, black-haired houri, the exact opposite of
the fair-skinned, fair-haired Yuleima, joined the coterie in the harem
of the palace of the prince. She had been bought with a great price and
smuggled into Stamboul, the story ran, a present from a distinguished
friend of his father, little courtesies like this being common in
Oriental countries, as one would send a bottle of old Madeira from his
cellar or a choice cut of venison from his estate, such customs as is
well known being purely a matter of geography.

The chief blackamoor, a shambling, knock-kneed, round-shouldered,
swollen-paunched apology for a man, with blistered, cracked lips,
jaundiced pig eyes, and the skin of a terrapin, looked her all over,
grunted his approval, and with a side-lunge of his fat empty head,
indicated the divan which was to be hers during the years of her
imprisonment.

One night some words passed between the two over the division of
bonbons, perhaps, or whose turn it was to take afternoon tea with the
prince--it had generally been the new houri's, resulting in
considerable jealousy and consequent discord--or some trifle of that
sort (Joe had never been in a harem, and was therefore indefinite),
when the blackamoor, to punctuate his remarks, slashed the odalisque
across her thinly covered shoulders with a knout--a not uncommon mode
of enforcing discipline, so Joe assured me.

Then came the great scene of the third act--always the place for it, so
dramatists say.

The dark-skinned houri sprang up, rose to her full height, her eyes
blazing, and facing her tormentor, cried:

"You blackguard"--a true statement--"do you know who I am?"

"Yes, perfectly; you are Yuleima, the daughter of the Bagdad merchant."

The fourth act takes place on the outskirts of Stamboul, in a small
house surrounded by a high wall which connects with the garden of a
mosque. The exposure by the eunuch had resulted in an investigation by
the palace clique, which extended to the Bagdad merchant and his
family, who, in explanation, not only denounced her as an ungrateful
child, cursing her for her opposition to her sovereign's will, but
denied all knowledge of her whereabouts. They supposed, they pleaded,
that she had thrown herself into the Bosphorus at the loss of her
lover. Then followed the bundling up of Yuleima in the still watches of
the night; her bestowal at the bottom of a caique, her transfer to
Stamboul, and her incarceration in charge of an attendant in a deserted
house belonging to the mosque. The rumor was then set on foot that it
was unlawful to look steadily into the waters of the Bosphorus or to
attempt the salvage of any derelict body floating by.

The prince made another assault on his hair and tightened his fingers,
this time with a movement as if he was twisting them round somebody's
throat, but he made no outcry. It is hard to kick against the pricks in
some lands.

He did not believe the bow-string pillow-case and solid-shot story, but
he knew that he should never look upon her face again. What he did
believe was that she had been taken to some distant city and there sold.

For days he shut himself up in his palace. Then, having overheard a
conversation in his garden between two eunuchs--placed there for that
purpose--he got together a few belongings, took his faithful caique-ji,
and travelled a-field. If what he had heard was true she was in or near
Damascus. Here would he go. If, after searching every nook and cranny,
he failed to find her, he would return and carry out his sovereign's
commands and marry the princess--a woman he had never laid his eyes on
and who might be as ugly as sin and as misshapen as Yuleima was
beautiful. It was while engaged in this fruitless search that he met
Joseph, to whom he had poured out his heart (so Joe assured me, with
his hand on his shirt-front), hoping to enlist his sympathies and thus
gain his assistance.

All this time the heartbroken girl, rudely awakened from her dream of
bliss, was a prisoner in the deserted house next the mosque. As the
dreary months went by her skin regained its pinkness and her beautiful
hair its golden tint,--walnut shells and cosmetics not being found in
the private toilet of the priests and their companions. When the summer
came a greater privilege was given her. She could never speak to any
one and no one could speak to her--even the priests knew this--but a
gate opening into the high-walled garden was left unlocked now and then
by one of the kind-hearted Mohammedans, and often she would wander as
far as the end of the wall overlooking the Mosque of Suleiman, her
attendant always with her--a black woman appointed by Chief-of-Police
Selim, and responsible for her safety, and who would pay forfeit with
her head if Yuleima escaped.

"And you think now, effendi," concluded Joe, as he drained his last cup
of coffee (Hornstog's limit was twenty cups at intervals of three
minutes each), "that Joe be big damn fool to put his foots in
this--what you call--steel trap? No, no, we keep away. To-morrow, don't
it, we take Yusuf and go Scutari? One beautiful fountain at Scutari
like you never see!"

"But can't her father help?" I asked, ignoring his suggestion. His
caution did not interest me. It was the imprisoned girl and her
suffering that occupied my thoughts.

"Yes, perhaps, but not yet. I somethings hear one day from the gardener
who live with her father, but maybe it all lie. He say Serim come and
say--" Again Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger, after the manner of
the paying teller. "Maybe ten thousand piastres--maybe twenty. Her
father would pay, of course, only the Sultan might not like--then worse
trouble--nothing will be done anyhow until the wedding is over. Then,
perhaps, some time."

I did not go to Scutari the next day. I opened my easel in the patio of
the Pigeon Mosque and started in to paint the plaza with Cleopatra's
Needle in the distance. This would occupy the morning. In the afternoon
I would finish my sketch of Suleiman. Should Joe have a fresh attack of
ague he could join Yusuf at the cafe and forget it in the thimbleful
that cheers but does not inebriate.

With the setting up of my tripod and umbrella and the opening of my
color-box a crowd began to gather--market people, fruit-sellers,
peddlers, scribes, and soldiers. Then a shrill voice rang out from one
of the minarets calling the people to prayer. A group of priests now
joined the throng about me watched me for a moment, consulted together,
and then one of them, an old man in a silken robe of corn-yellow bound
about with a broad sash of baby blue, a majestic old man, with a
certain rhythmic movement about him which was enchanting, laid his hand
on Joseph's shoulder and looking into his eyes, begged him to say to
his master that the making of pictures of any living or dead thing,
especially mosques, was contrary to their religion, and that the
effendi must fold his tent.

All this time another priest, an old patriarch with a fez and green
turban and Nile-green robe overlaid with another of rose-pink, was
scrutinizing my face. Then the corn-yellow fellow and the rose-pink
patriarch put their heads together, consulted for a moment, made me a
low bow, performed the flying-fingers act, and floated off toward the
mosque.

"You no go 'way, effendi," explained Joe. "The priest in green turban
say he remember you; he say you holy man who bow yourselluf humble when
dead man go by. No stop paint."

The protests of the priests, followed by their consultation and quiet
withdrawal, packed the crowd the closer. One young man in citizen's
dress and fez stood on the edge of the throng trying to understand the
cause of the excitement.

Joe, who was sitting by me assisting with the water-cup, gazed into the
intruder's face a moment, then closed upon my arm with a grip as if
he'd break it.

"Allah! Mahmoud Bey!" he whispered. "Yuleima's prince. That's him with
the smooth face."

The next instant the young man stood by my side.

"The people are only curious, monsieur," he said in French. "If they
disturb you I will have them sent away. So few painters come--you are
the first I have seen in many years. If it will not annoy you, I'd like
to watch you a while."

"Annoy me, my dear sir!" I was on my feet now, hat in hand. (If he had
been my long-lost brother, stolen by the Indians or left on a desert
island to starve--or any or all of those picturesque and dramatic
things--I could not have been more glad to see him. I fairly hugged
myself--it seemed too good to be true.) "I will be more than delighted
if you will take my dragoman's stool. Get up, Joe, and give--"

The request had already been forestalled. Joe was not only up, but was
bowing with the regularity and precision of the arms of a windmill, his
fingers, with every rise, fluttering between his shirt-stud and his
eyebrows. On his second upsweep the young prince got a view of his
face--then his hand went out.

"Why, it is Hornstog! We know each other. We met in Damascus. You could
not, monsieur, find a better dragoman in all Constantinople."

Only three pairs of eyes now followed the movements of my brush, the
crowd having fallen back out of respect for the young man's rank, Yusuf
having communicated that fact to those who had not recognized him.

When the light changed--and it changed unusually early that morning,
about two hours ahead of time (I helped)--I said to the prince:

"It may interest you to see me finish a sketch in color. Come with me
as far as Suleiman. We can sit quite out of the sun up a little back
street under a wall, and away from everybody. I began the drawing
yesterday. See!" and I uncovered the canvas.

"Ah, Suleimanyeh! The most beautiful of all our mosques. Yes, certainly
I'll go."

Joe dug his knuckles into my thigh, under pretence of steadying
himself--he was squatting beside me like a frog, helping with the
water-cups--and gasped: "No; don't take him--please, effendi! No--no--"

I brushed Joe aside and continued: "We can send for coffee and spend
the afternoon. I'll have some chairs brought from the cafe. Pick up
everything, Joe, and come along."

On the way to the crooked, break-neck street my thoughts went racing
through my head. On one side, perhaps, a tap on the shoulder in the
middle of the night; half a yard of catgut in the hands of a
Bashi-Bazouk; an appeal to our consul, with the consciousness of having
meddled with something that did not concern me. On the other a pair of
tear-stained, pleading eyes. Not my eyes--not the eyes of anybody that
I knew--but the kind that raise the devil even in the heart of a staid
old painter like myself.

Joe followed, with downcast gaze. He, too, was scheming. He could not
protest before the prince, nor before Yusuf. That would imply previous
knowledge of the danger lurking in the vicinity of the old wall. His
was the devil and the deep sea. Not to tell the prince of Yuleima's
whereabouts, after their combined search for her, and the fees the
prince had paid him, would be as cruel as it was disloyal. To assist in
Mahmoud's finding her would bring down upon his own head--if it was
still on his shoulders--the wrath of the chief of police, as well as
the power behind him.

Once under the shadow of the wall, the trap unpacked, easel and
umbrella up, and water-bottle filled, Joe started his windmill, paused
at the third kotow, looked me straight in the eye, and, with a tone in
his voice, as if he had at last come to some conclusion, made this
request:

"I have no eat breakfast, effendi--very hungry--you please permit Joe
go cafe with Yusuf--we stay ONE hour, no more. Then I bring coffee. You
see me when I come--I bring the coffee myselluf."

He could not have pleased me more. How to get rid of them both was what
had been bothering me.

I painted on, both of us backed into the low gate with the sliding
panel, my eyes on the mosque, my ears open for the slightest sound. We
talked of the wonderful architecture of the East, of the taper of the
minarets, of the grace and dignity of the priests, of the social life
of the people, I leading and he following, until I had brought the
conversation down to the question:

"And when you young men decide to marry are you free to choose, as we
Europeans are?" I was feeling about, wondering how much of his
confidence he would give me.

"No; that's why, sometimes, I wish I was like one of the white gulls
that fly over the water."

"I don't understand."

"I would be out at sea with my mate--that's what I mean."

"Have you a mate?"

"I had. She is lost."

"Dead?"

"Worse."

I kept at work. White clouds sailed over the mosque; a flurry of
pigeons swept by; the air blew fresh. With the exception of my
companion and myself the street was deserted. I dared not go any
further in my inquiries. If I betrayed any more interest or previous
knowledge he might think I was in league against him.

"The girl, then, suffers equally with the man?" I said, tightening one
of the legs of my easel.

"More. He can keep his body clean; she must often barter hers in
exchange for her life. A woman doesn't count much in Turkey. This is
one of the things we young men who have seen something of the outside
world--I lived a year in Paris--will improve when we get the power,"
and his eyes flashed.

"And yet it is dangerous to help one of them to escape, is it not?"

"Yes."

The hour was nearly up. Joe, I knew, had fixed it, consulting his watch
and comparing it with mine so that I might know the coast was clear
during that brief period should anything happen.

"I was tempted to help one yesterday," I answered. "I saw a woman's
face that has haunted me ever since. She may not have been in trouble,
but she looked so." Then quietly, and as if it was only one of the many
incidents that cross a painter's path, I described in minute detail the
gate, the sliding panel, the veiled face and wondrous eyes, the
approach of the officer, the smothered cry of terror, the black finger
and thumb that reached out, and the noiseless closing of the panel.
What I omitted was all reference to Joe or his knowledge of the girl.

Mahmoud was staring into my eyes now.

"Where was this?"

"Just behind you. Lift your head--that seam marks the sliding panel.
She may come again when she sees the top of my umbrella over the wall.
Listen! That's her step. She has some one with her--crouch down close.
There's only room for her head. You may see her then without her
attendant knowing you are here. Quick! she is sliding the panel!"

Outside of Paris, overlooking the Seine, high up on a hill, stands the
Bellevue--a restaurant known to half the world. Sweeping down from the
perfectly appointed tables lining the rail of the broad piazza;
skimming the tree-tops, the plain below, the twisting river, rose-gold
in the twilight, the dots of parks and villas, the eye is lost in the
distant city and the haze beyond--the whole a-twinkle with myriads of
electric lights.

There, one night, from my seat against the opposite wall (I was dining
alone), I was amusing myself watching a table being set with more than
usual care; some rich American, perhaps, with the world in a sling, or
some young Russian running the gauntlet of the dressing-rooms. Staid
old painters like myself take an interest in these things. They serve
to fill his note-book, and sometimes help to keep him young.

When I looked again the waiter was drawing out a chair for a woman with
her back to me. In the half-light, her figure, in silhouette against
the cluster of candles lighting the table, I could see that she was
young and, from the way she took her seat, wonderfully graceful.
Opposite her, drawing out his own chair, stood a young man in evening
dress, his head outlined against the low, twilight sky. It was Mahmoud!

I sprang from my seat and walked straight toward them. There came a low
cry of joy, and then four outstretched arms--two of them tight-locked
about my neck.

"Tell me," I asked, when we had seated ourselves, Yuleima's hands still
clinging to mine. "After I left you that last night in the garden, was
the boat where we hid it?"

"Yes."

"Who rowed you to the steamer?"

"My old caique-ji."

"And who got the tickets and passports?"

"Hornstog."




LORETTA OF THE SHIPYARDS


I

For centuries the painters of Venice have seized and made their own the
objects they loved most in this wondrous City by the Sea. Canaletto,
ignoring every other beautiful thing, laid hold of quays backed by
lines of palaces bordering the Grand Canal, dotted with queer gondolas
rowed by gondoliers, in queerer hoods of red or black, depending on the
guild to which they belonged. Turner stamped his ownership on sunset
skies, silver dawns, illuminations, fetes, and once in a while on a
sweep down the canal past the Salute, its dome a huge incandescent
pearl. Ziem tied up to the long wall and water steps of the Public
Garden, aflame with sails of red and gold: he is still there--was the
last I heard of him, octogenarian as he is. Rico tacks his card to
garden walls splashed with the cool shadows of rose-pink oleanders
dropping their blossoms into white and green ripples, melting into
blue. As for me--I have laid hands on a canal--the Rio Giuseppe--all of
it--from the beginning of the red wall where the sailors land, along
its crookednesses to the side entrance of the Public Garden, and so
past the rookeries to the lagoon, where the tower of Castello is ready
to topple into the sea.

Not much of a canal--not much of a painting ground really, to the
masters who have gone before and are still at work, but a truly
lovable, lovely, and most enchanting possession to me their humble
disciple. Once you get into it you never want to get out, and, once
out, you are miserable until you get back again. On one side stretches
a row of rookeries--a maze of hanging clothes, fish-nets, balconies
hooded by awnings and topped by nondescript chimneys of all sizes and
patterns, with here and there a dab of vermilion and light red, the
whole brilliant against a china-blue sky. On the other runs the long
brick wall of the garden,--soggy, begrimed; streaked with moss and
lichen in bands of black-green and yellow ochre, over which mass and
sway the great sycamores that Ziem loves, their lower branches
interwoven with zinnober cedars gleaming in spots where the prying sun
drips gold.

Only wide enough for a barca and two gondolas to pass--this canal of
mine. Only deep enough to let a wine barge through; so narrow you must
go all the way back to the lagoon if you would turn your gondola; so
short you can row through it in five minutes; every inch of its water
surface part of everything about it, so clear are the reflections; full
of moods, whims, and fancies, this wave space--one moment in a broad
laugh coquetting with a bit of blue sky peeping from behind a cloud,
its cheeks dimpled with sly undercurrents, the next swept by flurries
of little winds, soft as the breath of a child on a mirror; then, when
aroused by a passing boat, breaking out into ribbons of color--swirls
of twisted doorways, flags, awnings, flower-laden balconies,
black-shawled Venetian beauties all upside down, interwoven with strips
of turquoise sky and green waters--a bewildering, intoxicating jumble
of tatters and tangles, maddening in detail, brilliant in color,
harmonious in tone: the whole scintillating with a picturesqueness
beyond the ken or brush of any painter living or dead.

On summer days--none other for me in Venice (the other fellow can have
it in winter)--everybody living in the rookeries camps out on the quay,
the women sitting in groups stringing beads, the men flat on the
pavement mending their nets. On its edge, hanging over the water,
reaching down, holding on by a foot or an arm to the iron rail, are
massed the children--millions of children--I never counted them, but
still I say millions of children. This has gone on since I first staked
out my claim--was a part of the inducement, in fact, that decided me to
move in and take possession--boats, children, still water, and
rookeries being the ingredients from which I concoct color combinations
that some misguided people take home and say they feel better for.

If you ask me for how many years I have been sole owner of this stretch
of water I must refer you to Loretta, who had lived just five summers
when my big gondolier, Luigi, pulled her dripping wet from the canal,
and who had lived eleven more--sixteen, in all--when what I have to
tell you happened.

And yet, Loretta's little mishap, now I come to think of it, does not
go back far enough. My claim was really staked out before she was born
(I am still in possession--that is--I was last year, and hope to be
this), and her becoming part of its record is but the sticking of two
pins along a chart,--the first marking her entrance at five and the
second her exit at sixteen. All the other years of my occupation--those
before her coming and since her going--were, of course, full of the
kind of joy that comes to a painter, but these eleven years--well,
these had all of this joy and then, too, they had--Loretta.

I was in the bow of the gondola when the first of these two pins found
its place on the chart, working away like mad, trying to get the exact
shadow tones on a sun-flecked wall. Luigi was aft, fast asleep, his
elbow under his head: I never object, for then he doesn't shake the
boat. Suddenly from out the hum of the children's voices there came a
scream vibrant with terror. Then a splash! Then the gondola swayed as
if a barca had bumped it, and the next thing I knew Luigi's body made a
curve through the air, struck the water, with an enormous souse, and up
came Loretta, her plump, wet little body resting as easily on Luigi's
hand, as a tray rests on a waiter's. Another sweep with his free arm,
and he passed me the dripping child and clambered up beside her. The
whole affair had not occupied two minutes.

That was a great day for me!

Heretofore I had been looked upon as a squatter: possessing certain
rights, of course, and more or less welcome because of sundry lire
expended for the temporary use of fishing boats with sails up,--but
still an interloper. Now I became one of the thousand families and the
million children. These were all in evidence in less than ten seconds;
the peculiar quality of that scream had done it; not only from the top
story of the highest rookery did they swarm, but from every near-by
campo, and way back to the shipyards.

Luigi pushed the gondola to the quay and I lifted out the water-soaked,
blue-lipped little tot, her hair flattened against her cheeks (she was
laughing now,--"It was nothing," she said, "my foot slipped,") and
placed her in the hands of the longest-armed fishwife; and then Luigi
disappeared into a door, level with the quay, from which he reappeared
ten minutes later in a suit of dry clothes, the property of a
fisherman, and of so grotesque a fit, the trousers reaching to his
knees and the cuffs of the coat to his elbows, that he set the
population in a roar. My Luigi, you might as well know, is six feet and
an inch, with the torso of a Greek god and a face that is twin to
Colleone's, and, furthermore, is quite as distinguished looking as that
gentleman on horseback, even if he does wear a straw hat instead of a
copper helmet. After this Loretta became part of my establishment,
especially at luncheon time, Luigi hunting her up and bringing her
aboard in his arms, she clinging to his grizzled, sunburned neck. Often
she would spend the rest of the day watching me paint.

All I knew of her antecedents and life outside of these visits was what
Luigi told me. She was born, he said, in the shipyards, and at the
moment lived in the top of the rookery nearest the bridge. She had an
only sister, who was ten years older; the mother was the wife of a crab
fisherman who had died some years before; the two children and mother
were cared for by a brother crab fisherman. His son Francesco, if
report were true, was to marry the sister when she turned fifteen,
Francesco being four years older. This last reference to Francesco came
with a shake of the head and a certain expression in Luigi's eyes which
told me at once that his opinion of the prospective groom was not for
publication--a way he has when he dislikes somebody and is too polite
to express it.

"Fishes for crabs, like his father?" I asked.

"Yes, crabs and young girls," he answered with a frown. "A poor lot,
these crab catchers, Signore. Was it the charcoal or a brush you
wanted?"

Francesco did not interest me,--nor did the grownup sister; nor the
mother, over whom Luigi also shrugged his shoulders. It was Loretta's
chubbiness that delighted my soul.

Even at five she was a delightful little body, and full of entrancing
possibilities. One can always tell what the blossom will be from the
bud. In her case, all the essentials of beauty were in evidence: dark,
lustrous velvety eyes; dazzling teeth--not one missing; jet-black
hair--and such a wealth of it, almost to her shoulders; a slender
figure, small hands and feet; neat, well-turned ankles and wrists, and
rounded plump arms above the elbows.

"What do you intend to do, little one, when you grow up?" I asked her
one morning. She was sitting beside me, her eyes following every
movement of my brush.

"Oh, what everybody does. I shall string beads and then when I get big
like my sister I shall go to the priest and get married, and have a
ring and new shoes and a beautiful, beautiful veil all over my hair."

"So! And have you picked him out yet?"

"Oh, no, Signore! Why, I am only a little girl. But he will surely
come,--they always come."

These mornings in the gondola continued until she was ten years old.
Sometimes it was a melon held high in the air that tempted her; or a
basket of figs, or some huge bunches of grapes; or a roll and a broiled
fish from a passing cook-boat: but the bait always sufficed. With a
little cry of joy the beads would be dropped, or the neighbor's child
passed to another or whatever else occupied her busy head and small
hands, and away she would run to the water steps and hold out her arms
until Luigi rowed over and lifted her in. She had changed, of course,
in these five years, and was still changing, but only as an expanding
bud changes. The eyes were the same and so were the teeth--if any had
dropped out, newer and better ones had taken their places; the hair
though was richer, fuller, longer, more like coils of liquid jet, with
a blue sheen where the sky lights touched its folds. The tight, trim
little figure, too, had loosened out in certain places--especially
about the chest and hips. Before many years she would flower into the
purest type of the Venetian--the most beautiful woman the world knows.

At sixteen she burst into bloom.

I have never seen a black tulip, not a real velvet-black, but if inside
its shroud of glossy enfoldings--so like Loretta's hair--there lies
enshrined a mouth red as a pomegranate and as enticing, and if above it
there burn two eyes that would make a holy man clutch his rosary; and
if the flower sways on its stalk with the movement of a sapling
caressed by a summer breeze;--then the black tulip is precisely the
kind of flower that Loretta bloomed into.

And here the real trouble began,--just as it begins for every other
pretty Venetian, and here, too, must I place the second pin in my chart.

It all came through Francesco. The older sister had died with the first
child, and this crab catcher had begun to stretch out his claws for
Loretta. She and her mother still lived with Francesco's father, who
was a widower. The mother kept the house for all,--had done so for
Francesco and her daughter during their brief married life.

In her persecution Loretta would pour out her heart to Luigi, telling
how they bothered her,--her mother the most of all. She hated
Francesco,--hated his father,--hated everybody who wanted her to marry
the fisherman. (Luigi, poor fellow, had lost his only daughter when she
was five years of age, which accounted, I always thought, for his
interest in the girl.)

One morning she called to him and waited on the quay until he could
hail a passing barca and step from the gondola to its deck and so
ashore. Then the two disappeared through the gate of the garden.

"She is too pretty to go alone," he explained on his return. "Every day
she must pay a boy two soldi, Signore, to escort her to the lace
factory--the boy is sick today and so I went with her. But their
foolishness will stop after this;--these rats know Luigi."

From this day on Loretta had the Riva to herself.



II

So far there has been introduced into this story the bad man,
Francesco, with crab-like tendencies, who has just lost his wife; the
ravishingly beautiful Loretta; the girl's mother, of whom all sorts of
stories were told--none to her credit; big tender-hearted Luigi
Zanaletto, prince of gondoliers, and last, and this time least, a staid
old painter who works in a gondola up a crooked canal which is
smothered in trees, choked by patched-up boats and flanked by tattered
rookeries so shaky that the slightest earth quiver would tumble them
into kindling wood.

There enters now another and much more important character,--one
infinitely more interesting to my beautiful Lady of the Shipyards than
any grandfather gondolier or staid old painter who ever lived. This
young gentleman is twenty-one; has a head like the Hermes, a body like
the fauns, and winsome, languishing eyes with a light in their depths
which have set the heart of every girl along his native Giudecca
pitapatting morning, noon, and night. He enjoys the distinguished name
of Vittorio Borodini, and is the descendant of a family of
gondoliers--of the guild of the Castellani--who can trace their
ancestral calling back some two hundred years (so can Luigi; but then
Luigi never speaks of it, and the Borodinis always do). Being
aristocrats, the Zanalettos and Borodinis naturally fraternize, and as
they live in the same quarter--away up on the Giudecca--two miles from
my canal--the fathers of Vittorio and Luigi have become intimate
friends. Anything, therefore, touching the welfare of any one of the
descendants of so honorable a guild is more or less vital to the
members of both families.

At the moment something HAD touched a Borodino--and in the most vital
of spots. This was nothing less than the heart of young Vittorio, the
pride and hope of his father. He had seen the "Rose of the Shipyards,"
as she was now called, pass the traghetto of the Molo, off which lay
his gondola awaiting custom,--it was on one of the days when the
two-soldi boy acted as chaperon,--and his end had come.

It had only been a flash from out the lower corner of the left eye of
Loretta as she floated along past the big columns of the Palazzo of the
Doges, but it had gone through the young gondolier and out on the other
side, leaving a wound that nothing would heal. She had not intended to
hurt him, or even to attract him;--he only happened to be in the way
when her search-light illumined his path.

Vittorio knew at a glance that she came from the rookeries and that he,
the scion of a noble family, should look higher for his mate, but that
made no difference. She was built for him and he was built for her, and
that was the end of it: not for an intrigue--he was not constructed
along those lines--but with a ring and a priest and all the rest of it.
The main difficulty was to find some one who knew her. He would
not,--could not, confront her; nor would he follow her home; but
something must be done, and at once: a conclusion, it will be admitted,
than an incalculable number of young Vittorios have reached, sooner or
later, the world over.

When, therefore, a rumor came to his ears that Luigi the Primo was
protecting her--the kind of protection that could never be
misunderstood in Luigi's case--a piece of news which his informer was
convinced would end the projected intrigue of the young gondolier, then
and there and for all time, Vittorio laughed so loud and so long, and
so merrily, that he lost, in consequence, two fares to San Giorgio, and
came near being reprimanded by the Gastaldo for his carelessness.

That was why late one afternoon (I was painting the sunset glow) just
as Loretta reached the edge of the quay on her way home, a young
fellow, in white duck with a sash of dark red silk binding and hanging
from his waist and a rakish straw hat tipped over his handsome face,
shot his gondola alongside mine and leaned over to whisper something in
Luigi's ear. And that was why the girl in her long black shawl stopped,
and why Luigi immediately changed gondolas and made for the quay, and
why they all talked together for a moment, the girl flashing and the
boy beaming, and that was why, too, they all three disappeared a moment
later in the direction of the high rookery where lived the baffled,
love-sick Francesco, his anxious father, the much-talked-about mother,
and the Rose of the Shipyards.

In a garden where the soil is so rich that a seedling of five--a mere
slip--blooms into flower before a foolish old painter can exhaust the
subjects along the canal, it is not surprising that a love affair
reaches its full growth between two suns. Not since the day she had
tumbled into the canal had she gone so headover-heels--both of them.
Nor did Luigi pull them out. He helped in the drowning, really.

He was talking to himself when he came back--a soft light in his eyes,
a smile lingering around the corners of his up-turned, grizzled
mustache.

"It is good to be young, Signore, is it not?" was all he said, and at
once began bundling up my traps.

Before the week was out,--nay, before the setting of two suns--every
gossip along the Riva--and they about covered the population--had
become convinced that Loretta was lost to the Quarter. Unless a wedding
ring was to end it all Vittorio would never be so bold in his
attentions to Loretta, as to walk home with her nights and wait for her
mornings.

Luigi shook his head, but he did not help the gossips solve the
problem. He had had trouble enough already with Vittorio's father.

"A common wench from the yards, I hear, Luigi!" he had blazed out--"and
you, I understand, brought them together--you,--who have been my friend
for--"

"Stop, Borodini! Not another word! You are angry, and when you are
angry you are stupid. I carried that girl in my arms when she was a
baby! I have watched over her ever since. A wench! Not one of your own
daughters has a heart so white. If Vittorio is so great a coward as to
listen to their talk I'll keep her for his betters."

All this snapped out of Luigi's eyes and rolled from under his crisp
mustache as he repeated the outbreak to me. What the end might be
neither the Giudecca nor San Giuseppe could decide. The Borodinis were
proud; Vittorio's father was one of the gondoliers belonging to the
palace and always rowed the good Queen Margherita when she came
incognito to Venice,--a post which greatly enhanced his social station.
Vittorio was the only son, and already a member of the traghetto, young
as he was. But then, were there any girls better than Loretta, or as
good? She helped her mother; she paid her share of the rent to
Francesco's father; she gave to the poor box. That she was the sunshine
of the Quarter every one knew who heard her sweet, cheery voice. As to
her family, it was true that her mother was a Sicilian who boiled over
sometimes in a tempest of rage, like Vesuvius,--but her father had been
one of them. And then again, was she not the chosen friend of Luigi,
the Primo, and of the crazy painter who haunted the canal? The boy and
his father might be glad, etc., etc.

The only persons who were oblivious to the talk were the two lovers.
Their minds were made up. Father Garola had promised, and they knew
exactly what to do, and when and where to do it. In the meantime the
Riva was a pathway of rose-tinted clouds constructed for the especial
use of two angels, one of whom wore a straw hat with a red ribbon
canted over his sunburnt face, and the other a black shawl with silken
fringe, whose every movement suggested a caress.

The one disgruntled person was Francesco.

He had supposed at first that, like the others, Vittorio would find out
his mistake;--certainly when he looked closely into the pure eyes of
the girl, and that then, like the others, he would give up the
chase;--he not being the first gay Lothario who had been taught just
such a lesson.

Loretta's answer to the schemer, given with a toss of her head and a
curl of her lips, closed Francesco's mouth and set his brain in a
whirl. In his astonishment he had long talks with his father, the two
seated in their boat against the Garden wall so no one could overhear.

Once he approached Luigi and began a tale, first about Vittorio and his
escapades and then about Loretta and her coquetry, which Luigi
strangled with a look, and which he did not discuss or repeat to me,
except to remark--"They have started in to bite, Signore," the meaning
of which I could but guess at. At another time he and his associates
concocted a scheme by which Vittorio's foot was to slip as he was
leaving Loretta at the door, and he be fished out of the canal with his
pretty clothes begrimed with mud;--a scheme which was checked when they
began to examine the young gondolier the closer, and which was entirely
abandoned when they learned that his father was often employed about
the palace of the king. In these projected attacks, strange to say, the
girl's mother took part. Her hope in keeping her home was in Loretta's
marrying Francesco.

Then, dog as he was, he tried the other plan--all this I got from
Luigi, he sitting beside me, sharpening charcoal points, handing me a
fresh brush, squeezing out a tube of color on my palette: nothing like
a romance to a staid old painter; and then, were not both of us in the
conspiracy as abettors, and up to our eyes in the plot?

This other plan was to traduce the girl. So the gondoliers on the
traghetto began to talk,--behind their hands, at first: She had lived
in Francesco's house; she had had a dozen young fishermen trapesing
after her; her mother, too, was none too good. Then again, you could
never trust these Neapolitans,--the kitten might be like the cat, etc.,
etc.

Still the lovers floated up and down the Riva, their feet on clouds,
their heads in the heavens. Never a day did he miss, and always with a
wave of her hand to me as they passed: down to Malamocco on Sundays
with another girl as chaperon, or over to Mestre by boat for the festa,
coming home in the moonlight, the tip of his cigarette alone lighting
her face.

One morning--the lovers had only been waiting for their month's
pay--Luigi came sailing down the canal to my lodgings, his gondola in
gala attire,--bunches of flowers tied at each corner of the tenda; a
mass of blossoms in the lamp socket; he himself in his best white suit,
a new red sash around his waist--his own colors--and off we went to San
Rosario up the Giudecca. And the Borodinis turned out in great force,
and so did all the other 'inis, and 'olas, and 'ninos--dozens of
them--and in came Loretta, so beautiful that everybody held his breath;
and we all gathered about the altar, and good Father Garola stepped
down and took their hands; and two candles were lighted and a little
bell rang; and then somebody signed a book--somebody with the bearing
of a prince--Borodini, I think--and then Luigi, his rich, sunburned
face and throat in contrast with his white shirt, moved up and affixed
his name to the register; and then a door opened on the side and they
all went out into the sunlight.

I followed and watched the gay procession on its way to the waiting
boats. As I neared the corner of the church a heavily-built young
fellow ran past me, crouched to the pavement, and hid himself behind
one of the tall columns. Something in his dress and movement made me
stop. Not being sure, I edged nearer and waited until he turned his
head. It was Francesco.



III

The skies were never more beautiful that May, the blossoms of the
oleanders and the almond trees never more lovely. Not only was my own
canal alive with the stir and fragrance of the coming summer, but all
Venice bore the look of a bride who had risen from her bath, drawn
aside the misty curtain of the morning, and stood revealed in all her
loveliness.

The sun shone everywhere, I say, but to me its brightest rays fell on a
garden full of fig trees and flat arbors interwoven with grapevines,
running down to the water where there was a dock and a gondola--two,
sometimes,--our own and Vittorio's--and particularly on a low,
two-story, flat-roofed house,--a kaleidoscope of color--pink, yellow,
and green, with three rooms and a portico, in which lived Vittorio, a
bird in a cage, a kitten-cat and the Rose of the Shipyards.

It is a long way round to my canal through San Trovaso to the Zattere
and across the Giudecca to Ponte Lungo, and then along the edge of the
lagoon to this garden and dovecote, but that is the precise route
Luigi, who lived within a stone's throw of the couple, selected morning
after morning. He always had an excuse:--he had forgotten the big
bucket for my water cups, or the sail, or the extra chair; and would
the Signore mind going back for his other oar? Then again the tide was
bad, and after all we might as well row down the lagoon; it was easier
and really shorter with the wind against us--all nonsense, of course,
but I never objected.

"Ah, the Signore and dear Luigi!" she would cry when she caught sight
of our gondola rounding into the landing. Then down the path she would
skip, the joyous embodiment of beauty and grace, and help me out, Luigi
following; and we would stroll up under the fig trees, and she would
begin showing me this and that new piece of furniture, or pot, or
kettle, or new bread knife, or scissors, or spoon, which Vittorio had
added to their store since my last visit. Or I would find them both
busy over the gondola,--he polishing his brasses and ferro, and she
rehanging the curtains of the tenda which she had washed and ironed
with her own hands.

In truth it was a very happy little nest that was tucked away in one
corner of that old abandoned garden with its outlook on the broad water
and its connecting link with the row of neighbors' houses flanking the
side canal,--and no birds in or out of any nest in all Venice ever sang
so long and so continuously nor were there any others so genuinely
happy the livelong day and night as these two.

Did I not know something of the curious mixture of love, jealousy, and
suspicion which goes into the making-up of an Italian, it would be hard
for me to believe that so lovely a structure as this dovecote, one
built with so much hope and alight with so much real happiness, could
ever come tumbling to the ground. We Anglo-Saxons flame up indignantly
when those we love are attacked, and we demand proofs. "Critica," that
bane of Venetian life--what this, that, or the other neighbor tattles
to this, that, and the other listener, we dismiss with a wave of the
hand, or with fingers tight clenched close to the offender's lips, or
by a blow in the face. Not so the Italian. He also blazes, but he will
stop and wonder when his anger has cooled; think of this and that; put
two and two together, and make ten of what is really only four. This is
what happened to the nest under the grapevines.

I was in my own garden at the Britannia leaning over the marble
balcony, wondering what kept Luigi--it was past ten o'clock--when the
news reached me. I had caught sight of his white shirt and straw hat as
he swung out behind the Salute and headed straight toward me, and saw
from the way he gripped his oar and stretched his long body flat with
the force of each thrust, that he had a message of importance, even
before I saw his face.

"A Dio, Signore!" he cried. "What do you think? Vittorio has cursed
Loretta, torn her wedding ring from her finger, and thrown it in her
face!"

"Vittorio!"

"Yes,--he will listen to nothing! He is a crazy fool and I have done
all I could. He believes every one of the lies that crab-catching brute
of a Francesco is telling. It would be over by to-night, but Loretta
does not take it like the others: she says nothing. You know her
eyes--they are not like our Giudecca girls. They are burning now like
two coals of fire, and her cheeks are like chalk."

I had stepped into the gondola by this time, my first thought being how
best to straighten out the quarrel.

"Now tell me, Luigi--speak slowly, so I do not miss a word. First,
where is Loretta?"

"She was putting on her best clothes when I left--those she bought
herself. She will touch nothing Vittorio gave her. She is going back to
her mother in an hour."

"But what happened? Has Francesco--?"

"Francesco has not stopped one minute since the wedding. He has been
talking to the fish-people,--to everybody on the side street, saying
that Loretta was his old shoes that he left at his door, and the fool
Vittorio found them and put them on--that sort of talk."

"And Vittorio believes it?"

"He did not at first,--but twice Francesco came to see Loretta with
messages from her mother, and went sneaking off when Vittorio came up
in his boat, and then that night some one would tell him--'that fellow
meets Loretta every day;' that he was her old lover. These people on
the Giudecca do not like the San Giuseppe people, and there is always
jealousy. If Vittorio had married any one from his own quarter it would
have been different. You don't know these people, Signore,--how
devilish they can be and how stupid."

"That was why he threw the ring in her face?"

"No and yes. Yesterday was Sunday, and some people came to see her from
San Giuseppe, and they began to talk. I was not there; I did not get
there until it was all over, but my wife heard it. They were all in the
garden, and one word led to another, and he taunted her with seeing
Francesco, and she laughed, and that made him furious; and then he said
he had heard her mother was a nobody; and then some one spoke up and
said that was true--fools all. And then Loretta, she drew herself up
straight and asked who it was had said so, and a woman's voice
came--'Francesco,--he told me--' and then Vittorio cried--'And you meet
him here. Don't deny it! And you love him, too!--' and then the fool
sprang at her and caught her hand and tore the ring from her finger and
spat on it and threw it on the ground. He is now at his father's house."

"And she said nothing, Luigi?" The story seemed like some horrible
dream.

"No, nor shed a tear. All she did was to keep repeating--'Francesco!
Francesco! Francesco!' I got there at daylight this morning and have
been there ever since. I told her I was coming for you. She was sitting
in a chair when I went in,--bolt up; she had not been in her bed. She
seems like one in a trance--looked at me and held out her hand. I tried
to talk to her and tell her it was all a lie, but she only
answered--'Ask Francesco,--it is all Francesco,--ask Francesco.' Hurry,
Signore,--we will miss her if we go to her house. We will go at once to
our canal and wait for her. They have heard nothing down there at San
Giuseppe, and you can talk to her without being interrupted, and then
I'll get hold of Vittorio. This way, Signore."

I had hardly reached the water landing of my canal ten minutes later
when I caught sight of her, coming directly toward me, head up, her
lips tight-set, her black shawl curving and floating with every
movement of her body--(nothing so wonderfully graceful and nothing so
expressive of the wearer's moods as these black shawls of the
Venetians). She wore her gala dress--the one in which she was
married--white muslin with ribbons of scarlet, her wonderful hair in a
heap above her forehead, her long gold earrings glinting in the
sunshine. All the lovelight had died out of her eyes. In its place were
two deep hollows rimmed about by dark lines, from out which flashed two
points of cold steel light.

I sprang from my gondola and held out my hand:

"Sit down, Loretta, and let me talk to you."

She stopped, looked at me in a dazed sort of way, as if she was trying
to focus my face so as to recall me to her memory, and said in a
determined way:

"No, let me pass. It's too late for all that, Signore. I am--"

"But wait until you hear me."

"I will hear nothing until I find Francesco."

"You must not go near him. Get into the gondola and let Luigi and me
take you home."

A dry laugh rose to her lips. "Home! There is no home any more. See! My
ring is gone! Francesco is the one I want--now---NOW! He knows I am
coming,--I sent him word. Don't hold me, Signore,--don't touch me!"

She was gone before I could stop her, her long, striding walk
increasing almost to a run, her black shawl swaying about her limbs as
she hurried toward her old home at the end of the quay. Luigi started
after her, but I called him back. Nothing could be done until her fury,
or her agony, had spent itself. These volcanoes are often short-lived.
We looked after her until she had reached the door and had flung
herself across the threshold. Then I sent Luigi for my easel and began
work.

The events that have made the greatest impression upon me all my life
have been those which have dropped out of the sky,--the unexpected, the
incomprehensible,--the unnecessary--the fool things--the damnably
idiotic things.

First we heard a cry that caused Luigi to drop canvas and easel, and
sent us both flying down the quay toward the rookery. It came from
Loretta's mother;--she was out on the sidewalk tearing her hair;
calling on God; uttering shriek after shriek. The quay and bridge were
a mass of people--some looking with staring eyes, the children hugging
their mothers' skirts. Two brawny fishermen were clearing the way to
the door. Luigi and I sprang in behind them, and entered the house.

On the stone floor of the room lay the body of Francesco, his head
stretched back, one hand clutching the bosom of his shirt. Against the
wall stood Loretta; not a quiver on her lips; ghastly white; calm,--the
least excited person in the room.

"And you killed him!" I cried.

"Yes,--he thought I came to kiss him--I did, WITH THIS!" and she tossed
a knife on the table.

The days that followed were gray days for Luigi and me. All the light
and loveliness were gone from my canal.

They took Loretta to the prison next the Bridge of Sighs and locked her
up in one of the mouldy cells below the water line--dark, dismal
pockets where, in the old days, men died of terror.

Vittorio, Luigi, and I met there the next morning. I knew the chief
officer, and he had promised me an interview. Vittorio was
crying,--rubbing his knuckles in his eyes,--utterly broken up and
exhausted. He and Luigi had spent the night together. An hour before,
the two had stood at Francesco's bedside in the hospital of San Paulo.
Francesco was still alive, and with Father Garola bending over him had
repeated his confession to them both. He was madly in love with her, he
moaned, and had spread the report hoping that Vittorio would cast her
off, and, having no other place to go, Loretta would come back to him.
At this Vittorio broke into a rage and would have strangled the dying
man had not the attendant interfered. All this I learned from Luigi as
we waited for the official.

"This is a frightful ending to a happy life--" I began when the officer
appeared. "Let them talk to each other for just a few moments. It can
do no harm."

The official shook his head. "It is against orders, Signore, I cannot.
He can see her when she is brought up for examination."

"They will both have lost their senses by that time," I pleaded. "Can't
you think of some way? I have known her from a child. Perhaps an order
from headquarters might be of some use." We were standing, at the time,
in a long corridor ending in a door protected by an iron grating. This
led to the underground cells.

The chief fastened his eyes on me for an instant, turned abruptly,
called to an attendant, gave an order in a low voice and, with the
words to Vittorio--"You are not to speak to her, remember," motioned
the sobbing man toward the grating. Luigi and I followed.

She came slowly out of the shadows, first the drawn face peering ahead,
as if wondering why she had been sent for, then the white crumpled
dress, and then the dark eyes searching the gloom of the corridor.
Vittorio had caught sight of her and was clinging to the grating, his
body shaking, his tears blinding him.

The girl gave a half-smothered cry, darted forward and covered
Vittorio's hands with her own. Some whispered word must have followed,
for the old light broke over her face and she would have cried out for
joy had not Luigi cautioned her. For a moment the two stood with
fingers intertwined, their bowed foreheads kept apart by the cold
grating. Then the boy, straining his face between the bars, as if to
reach her lips, loosened one hand, took something from his pocket and
slipped it over her finger.

It was her wedding ring.



IV

Summer has faded, the gold of autumn has turned to brown, and the raw,
cold winds of winter have whirled the dead leaves over rookeries, quay,
and garden. The boats rock at their tethers and now and then a sea gull
darts through the canal and sweeps on to the lagoon. In the narrow
opening fronting the broad waters lawless waves quarrel and clash,
forcing their way among the frightened ripples of San Giuseppe, ashy
gray under the lowering sky.

All these months a girl has clung to an iron grating or has lain on a
pallet in one corner of her cell. Once in a while she presses her lips
to a ring on her left hand, her face lighting up. Sometimes she breaks
out into a song, continuing until the keeper checks her.

Then spring comes.

And with it the painter from over the sea.

All the way from Milan as far as Verona, and beyond, there have been
nothing but blossoms,--masses of blossoms,--oleander, peach, and almond.

When the train reaches Mestre and the cool salt air fans his cheek, he
can no longer keep his seat, so eager is he to catch the first glimpse
of his beloved city,--now a string of pearls on the bosom of the lagoon.

Luigi has the painter's hand before his feet can touch the platform.

"Good news, Signore!" he laughs, patting my shoulder. "She is free!"

"Loretta!"

"Yes,--she and Vittorio are back in their garden. Borodini told the
whole story to the good Queen Mother when she came at Easter, and the
king pardoned her."

"Pardoned her! And Francesco dead!"

"Dead! No such good luck, Signore,--that brute of a crab-fisher got
well!"




A COAT OF RED LEAD


I

My offices are on the top floor of a high building overlooking the East
River and the harbor beyond--not one of those skyscrapers punctured
with windows all of the same size, looking from a distance like huge
waffles set up on end--note the water-line of New York the next time
you cross the ferry and see if you don't find the waffles--but an
old-fashioned sort of a high building of twenty years ago--old as the
Pyramids now, with a friendly janitor who comes to me when I send for
him instead of my going to his "Office" when he sends for me; friendly
elevator boys who poke their heads from out their iron cages and wait
five seconds until I reach them, and an obliging landlord who lets me
use his telephone.

Mawkum, my chief draftsman--when you have only one it is best to label
him "Chief" to your clients; they think the others are off building
bridges for foreign governments, or lunching at Delmonico's with
railroad presidents--my chief draftsman, I say, occupies the room
opening into mine. His outlook is a brick wall decorated with windows,
behind which can be seen various clerks poring over huge ledgers, a
section of the roof topped with a chimney, and in the blue perspective
the square, squat tower of the Produce Exchange in which hangs a clock.
Both of these connecting rooms open on the same corridor, a convenient
arrangement when clients wish to escape without being seen, or for the
concealing of bidders who are getting plans and specifications for the
same tenders, especially when two of them happen to turn up at the same
moment.

Mawkum manages this, and with such adroitness that I have often seen
clients, under the impression that the drafting-room was full, sit
patiently in my office and take their turn while he quietly munches his
sandwich behind closed panels--an illusion sustained by a loud
"Good-morning" from my chief addressed to the circumambient air,
followed by the slamming of the corridor door. When I remonstrate with
Mawkum, insisting that such subterfuges are beneath the dignity of the
office, he contends that they help business, and in proof quotes the
old story of the unknown dentist who compelled a suffering prince to
call the next day at noon, claiming that his list was full, when
neither man, woman nor child had been in his chair for over a
week--fame and fortune being his ever after.

When Mawkum gets tired of inspecting the brick wall and the industrious
clerks and the face of the clock, he strolls leisurely into my room,
plants himself at my window--this occurs during one of those calms that
so often come to an office between contracts--and spends hours in
contemplating the view.

To me the stretch of sky and water, with its dividing band of roof,
tower and wharf, stretching from the loop of steel--that spider-web of
the mighty--to the straight line of the sea, is a never-ending delight.
In the early morning its broken outline is softened by a veil of silver
mist embroidered with puffs of steam; at midday the glare of light
flashing from the river's surface makes silhouettes of the
ferry-shuttles threading back and forth weaving the city's life; at
twilight the background of purple is bathed in the glory of the sunset,
while at night myriads of fireflies swarm and settle, tracing in
pencillings of fire the plan of the distant town.

Mawkum, being commercially disposed, sees none of these things; his
gaze is fixed on the panting tugs towing chains of canal boats; on the
great floats loaded with cars and the stately steamers slowing down
opposite their docks. Today he develops an especial interest.

"That's the Tampico in from Caracas and the Coast," he says, leaning
across my desk, his fat hand resting on my letter file. "She's loaded
pretty deep. Hides and tallow, I guess. 'Bout time we heard from that
Moccador Lighthouse, isn't it? Lawton's last letter said we could look
for his friend in a month--about due now. Wish he'd come." And he
yawned wearily.

Mawkum's yawn indicated the state of his mind. He had spent the
previous three weeks in elaborating the plans and specifications for a
caisson to be used under a bridge pier--our client assuring him that he
had, to use his own words, "a dead sure thing on the award." When the
bids were opened, Mawkum congratulated him on his foresight and offered
to attend the funeral in a body, the client's bid being some thirty per
cent too high. Little episodes like this add a touch of gayety to the
hours spent in the top of the high building.

Mawkum's yawn over--it is generally in three sections, but can
sometimes be curtailed--I interrupted hurriedly with:

"What sort of a structure is it?" I knew, but I wanted some other
employment for his mouth.

"First order, screw pile, about a hundred and twenty feet high, stuck
on a coral reef at the mouth of the harbor. 'Bout like our Fowey Rocks,
off the Florida coast. She's backing in." His eyes were still on the
Tampico, the floes of North River ice hemming her in on all sides.
"Passengers'll be off in an hour. Wonder how they like our
climate--little chilly for pajamas."

Here Mawkum strolled into his room and began overhauling the contents
of a rack of drawings piled one on top of the other like cordwood,
labelled: "Screw Pile Structures."

The next morning there came a timid knock at Mawkum's door--the knock
of a child with matches to sell, or of one of those dear sisters who
collect for the poor. At a second summons, a little louder than the
first, the chief, with an impatient air, slid from the high stool
facing his drawing board, and threw wide the door.

I craned my head and discovered a small, ivory-tinted individual in a
Panama hat, duck trousers and patent-leather shoes. Wrapped about his
shrivelled frame, one red-lined end tossed gallantly over his shoulder,
was an enormous Spanish capa. This hid every part of his body from his
chin to the knees of his cotton ducks. From where I sat he looked like
a conspirator in the play, or the assassin who lies in wait up the dark
alley. Once inside he wrinkled his shoulders with the shivering
movement of a horse dislocating a fly, dropped the red-lined end of the
capa, removed his Panama and began a series of genuflections which
showed me at once that he had been born among a people who imbibed
courtesy with their mother's, or their cocoanut's, milk.

"I am look' for the Grandioso Engineer," said the visitor. "I am Senor
Garlicho--" Then a shade of uncertainty crossed his face: Mawkum was
still staring at him. "It is a mistake then, perhaps? I have a letter
from Senor Law-TON. Is it not to the great designer of lighthouse which
I speak?" This came with more bows--one almost to the floor.

The mention of Lawton's name brought Mawkum to his senses. He placed
his fat hand on his vest, crooked his back, and without the slightest
allusion to the fact that the original and only Grandioso occupied the
adjoining room, motioned the visitor to a seat and opened the letter.

I thought now it was about time I should assert my rights. Pushing back
my chair, I walked rapidly through my own and Mawkum's room and held
out my hand.

"Ah, Senor, I am delighted to meet you," I broke out in Spanish. (Here
I had Mawkum--he did not understand a word.) "We have been expecting
you; our mutual friend, Mr. Lawton, has given me notice of your
coming--and how is the Senor and his family?" And in a few minutes we
three were seated at my desk with Mawkum unrolling plans, making
sketches on a pad, figuring the cost of this and that and the other
thing; I translating for Mawkum such statements as I thought he ought
to know, thus restoring the discipline and dignity of the office--it
never being wise to have more than one head to a concern.

This partial victory was made complete when his ivory-tinted Excellency
loosened his waistcoat, dived into his inside pocket and, producing a
package of letters tied with a string, the envelopes emblazoned with
the arms and seal of the Republic of Moccador, asked if we might be
alone. I immediately answered, both in Spanish and English, that I had
no secrets from Senor Mawkum, but this did not prove satisfactory and
so Mawkum, with a wink to me, withdrew.

Mawkum gone, the little man--it is inconceivable how small and withered
he was; how yellow, how spidery in many of his motions, especially with
his fingers stained with cigarettes, how punctilious, how polite, how
soft and insinuating his voice, and how treacherous his smile--a smile
that smiled all alone by itself, while the cunning, glittering eyes
recorded an entirely different brain suggestion--Mawkum gone, I say,
the little man examined the door to see that it was tight shut, glanced
furtively about the room, resumed his seat, slowly opened the largest
and most flaringly decorated envelope and produced a document signed
with a name and titles that covered half the page. Then he began to
talk at the rate of fifty words to the second; like the rattle of a
ticker in a panic: of Alvarez, the saviour of his country--his
friend!--his partner; of the future of Moccador under his wise and
beneficent influence, the Lighthouse being one of the first
improvements; of its being given to him to erect because of his loyalty
to the cause, and to the part he had taken in overturning that despot,
the Tyrant Paramba, who had ruled the republic with a rod of iron. Now
it was all over--Paramba was living in the swamps, hunted like a dog.
When he was caught--and they expected it every day--he would be brought
to the capital, San Juan, in chains--yes, Senor, in chains--and put to
work on the roads, so that everybody could spit upon him--traitor!
Beast, that he was! And there would be other lighthouses--the whole
coast was to be as light as day. Senor Law-TON had said he could speak
with perfect confidence--he was doing so, trusting to the honor of the
Grandiose--the most distinguished--etc., etc. And now--this in a
summing-up voice with a slower movement, about twenty words to the
second--would the Grandioso go in as a partner in these ventures? The
income he could assure me would be so fixed that the light dues alone
would pay for the structure in two years--think of it, Senor, in two
years--perhaps less!--and forever after we could both sit down and
receive a small fortune, I by the Tampico in drafts signed by his
Excellency, and he in his own hacienda surrounded by the patriots who
honored him and the wife and children he adored.

At mention of the partnership a vague, cloudy expression crossed my
face; my companion caught it, and continued:

Or (again the voice slowed down) I would be paid for the structure on
its erection by me on the reef.

Again my eyes wandered, and again he took the cue:

Or--if that was not satisfactory--he would be willing to pay for the
ironwork alone as soon as it arrived in the harbor of San Juan.

My Spanish is more like an old uniform that is rubbed up for a parade
and then put away in camphor. Much of his talk was therefore lost on
me; but the last sentences were as clear as if they had dropped from
the lips of my old teacher, Senor Morales.

Half-rising from my chair, I placed my hand over my shirt-front and
thanked his Excellency for his confidence--really one of the greatest
compliments that had ever been paid me in all my professional career.
To be at once the partner of two such distinguished caballeros as
General Alvarez, the saviour of his country, and my distinguished
guest, was an honor that few men could resist, but--BUT--here I picked
up a lead pencil and a pad--BUT--the only way I could permit myself to
rob him of his just desserts would be--here I traced a few lines on the
pad--would be--my voice now became impressive--to receive one-third
when it was erected in the yard in Brooklyn, and the balance on
delivery of the bills of lading to his agent; payments to be made by
his distinguished Excellency's bankers in New York.

If the modification of terms in any way disappointed the gentleman from
San Juan, my closest observation of his smile and glance failed to
detect it. He merely quivered his shoulders--a sort of plural
shrug--rolled his cigarette tighter between his thumb and forefinger,
remarked that the memoranda were entirely satisfactory, and folding the
paper slid it carefully into his pocket; then with a series of salaams
that reminded me of a Mohammedan spreading a prayer rug, and an "A
Dios, Senor," the ivory-tinted individual withdrew.

A week later Mawkum, carrying a tin case addressed to his sun-dried
Excellency, passed up the gangplank of the Tampico; this he placed in
that gentleman's hands. Inside its soldered top were the plans and
specifications of a First Order Light, to be made of iron, to be
properly packed, and to have three coats of red lead before
shipment--together with a cross-section of foundation to be placed on
the reef known as "La Garra de Lobo"--The Claw of the Wolf--outside the
harbor of San Juan--all at the risk of his Supreme Excellency, Senor
Tomas Correntes Garlicho, of the Republic of Moccador, South
America--the price of the ironwork to hold good for three months.

On his return to the office Mawkum took up his position once more at my
window, waited until the Tampico, the case and his Excellency were well
on their way to Sandy Hook and started in on other work. The next day
the incident, like so many similar ventures--his racks were full of
just such estimates--was forgotten. If any of the bread thus cast upon
the waters came back, the chief would be glad, and so would the
Grandioso; if not, we were both willing to cut a fresh slice to keep it
company.



II

Four months passed. The ice was out of the river; the steam heat had
been turned off in the high building and the two time-worn awnings had
been fixed to my windows by the obliging janitor. The Tampico had come
and gone, and had come again. Its arrivals, and departures were, as
usual, always commented upon by Mawkum, generally in connection with
"That Bunch of Dried Garlic," that being the irreverent way in which he
spoke of his ivory-tinted Excellency. Otherwise the lighthouse, and all
that pertained to it, had become ancient history.

One lovely spring morning--one of those warm mornings when every window
and door is wide open to get the breeze from Sandy Hook and
beyond--another visitor stepped into Mawkum's room. He brought no
letters of introduction, nor did he confine himself to his mother
tongue, although his nationality was as apparent as that of his
predecessor. Neither did he possess a trace of Garlicho's affability or
polish. On the contrary, he conducted himself like a muleteer, and
spoke with the same sort of brutal authority.

And the differences did not stop here. Garlicho was shrivelled and
sun-dried. This man was round and plump--plump as a stuffed olive
fished from a jar of oil, and as shiny; dark-skinned, with a pair of
heavy eyebrows that met over a stub of a nose ending in a knob; two
keen rat eyes, a mouth hidden by a lump of a mustache black as tar, and
a sagging, flabby chin which slunk into his collar. Next came a
shirt-front soiled and crumpled, and then the rest of him in a suit of
bombazine.

"You designed a lighthouse some months ago for Mr. Garlicho, of San
Juan," he blurted out with hardly an accent. "I arrived this morning by
the Tampico. My name is Carlos Onativia." And he laid a thin, elongated
piece of cardboard on Mawkum's desk.

Only the arrival of a South American fresh from the Republic of
Moccador, with a spade designed to dig up a long-buried treasure could
have robbed Mawkum of his habitual caution of always guarding plans and
estimates from outsiders--a custom which was really one of the
fundamental laws of the office. The indiscretion was no doubt helped by
the discovery that the owner of the spade spoke English, a fact which
freed him at once of all dependence on the superior lingual attainments
possessed by the Grandioso in the adjoining room.

Down came the duplicate blue-prints without a word of protest or any
further inquiry, and before I could reach the inquirer's side and be
properly introduced--I did not want to interfere too abruptly--Mawkum
had not only unrolled the elevation and cross-sections, but had handed
out a memorandum showing the estimate of cost.

Onativia acknowledged my presence with a slight bob of his head,
loosened the upper button of his coat, fished up a pair of glasses,
stuck them on the knob end of his nose, and began devouring the plans
in a way that showed both of us that it was not the first time he had
looked over a set of blue-prints.

"This estimate is for the ironwork alone," the stranger said, "and is,
as you see, good for three months. The time, as you will note, has
expired. Do you now ask for an additional sum, or will the price
stand?" All this in the tone of a Tombs lawyer cross-examining a
witness.

Mawkum murmured that, as there had been no advance in the cost of the
raw material, the price would stand.

"Very well. And now, what, in your judgment, should be added for the
cost of erection?"

"Can't say," answered Mawkum; "don't know the coast or kind of labor,
or the bottom of the reef--may be coral, may be hard-pan, may be sand.
Do YOU know?"

"Yes--the coast is an ugly one, except four months in the year. Site is
twelve miles from San Juan, exposed to the rake of the sea; bottom
coral, I understand; labor cheap and good for nothing, and appliances
none--except what can be shipped from here." This came with the air of
one who knew.

I now took charge of the negotiations:

"We have refused to erect the structure or be responsible for it after
it leaves our dock. We told Senor Garlicho so."

Onativia lowered his chin, arched his eyebrows and looked at me over
his glasses.

"I don't want you to erect it," he said in a purring tone with a
patronizing strain through it. "I'll do that. What I want to know is
what it would cost HERE? That's what I came to New York to find out."

"Has Senor Garlicho been awarded the contract?" I asked. It was useless
to distribute any more bread upon the waters; certainly not on the
ripples washing the shores of Moccador. If there were any business in
sight I could very easily give either one of them an approximate cost;
if there were none the bakery was closed.

"No, Senor Garlicho has NOT been awarded the contract. I am here to
keep the affair alive. If I had thought it necessary I would have
brought a certified check with me drawn to your order, which I would
have handed you with my card. The standing of your firm prevented my
doing so. This is business, and I want to get back home as quick as
possible. Our coast is a dangerous one and the loss of life increases
every year. Do you want this matter hung up for six weeks until we can
communicate with Mr. Garlicho? Every hour's delay in putting the light
on the Lobo means that many more deaths." As he spoke a peculiar smile
struggled from under his black dab of a mustache, got as far as the
base of his nose and there collapsed.

My duty was now clear. Senor Garlicho, for some reason unknown to me,
had waited until his option had expired and had then sent Onativia in
his place. This wiped out the past and made a new deal necessary--one
which included the price of erection on the reef, a point which had not
been raised in the former negotiation.

"All right," I said, "you shall have the estimate. What you want is the
cost of erecting a structure like the one here in the plans. Well, if
it was to be put on our Florida coast, where I think the conditions are
somewhat similar to those you describe, I would advise you to add about
one hundred thousand dollars to the cost of the ironwork."

"Is that safe?" Again the smile worked itself loose.

"Yes," I replied, "if you don't lose your plant too often by bad
weather. We have warnings of our coast storms and can provide against
them. I don't know anything about yours--what are they like?"

"They come suddenly and without warning," he rejoined; "typhoons,
generally, with the tiles rattling off the roofs and the natives
hugging the cocoanut trees." With this he turned to the plans again.
"Better add another twenty thousand--I want to be safe," he said, in a
tone that showed me he had at last made up his mind.

I added it, marking the sum on the memorandum which Mawkum had given
him.

"Now, please put that in writing over your signature. I'll call
to-morrow at ten for the document. Good-day."

When he was well down the corridor--we waited really until we heard the
down-chug of the elevator--Mawkum looked at me and gave a low whistle.

"Add another twenty! What do you think is up? That Bunch of Garlic is
working some funny business, or he wouldn't have sent that brigand up
here."

I ruminated for a moment, walked to the window and took in the brick
wall, the clerks and the clock tower. Frankly, I did not know what
Garlicho was up to. It was the first time that any passenger by the
Tampico, or any other steamer, from any quarter of the globe, had asked
either Mawkum or myself to add one penny to the cost of anything. The
effort heretofore had been to cut down each item to the last cent. Was
the ivory-tinted gentleman going to build the lighthouse at his own
expense out of loyalty to President Alvarez, the saviour of his
country, and then donate it to the Government, using our estimate to
prove the extent of his generosity? Or was there a trick somewhere? I
decided to sound Senor Onativia the next morning, and find out.

I had not long to wait. He arrived on the minute, bobbed to Mawkum,
drew a chair to my desk and squared, or rather rounded, his body in
front of me.

"I will now tell you what I omitted to say yesterday," he began. "When
an order comes for this lighthouse--and it will arrive by the next
steamer--it will not be signed by Senor Garlicho, but by me. I have
reasons for this which I cannot explain, and which are not necessary
for you to know. The ironwork--all you will have to furnish--will also
be shipped in my name. With the order will be sent a letter introducing
my bankers, who will call upon you at your convenience, and who will
pay the amounts in the way you desire--one-third on the signing of the
contract (one of the firm will act as my agent), one-third on erection
and inspection of the ironwork properly put together in the yard, and
the balance on delivery to them of the bills of lading. Is that quite
satisfactory?"

I bowed my head in answer.

"And have you signed your estimate showing what you consider to be a
fair price for both the lighthouse itself and for the cost of its
erection on the Lobo Reef?"

"Yes; there it is," and I pointed to the document lying on my desk.
"And now one word, please. When did you last see Mr. Lawton? He's our
agent, you know, and you must have met him in connection with this
matter. When Senor Garlicho arrived he brought us a letter from him."

Onativia's lips curled slightly as he recognized the hidden meaning of
the inquiry, but his expression never changed.

"I have never seen him. If I had I should not have wasted my time in
getting a letter from him or from anybody else. As to Senor Garlicho,
his time has expired; he has not asked for its renewal, and so far as
this deal is concerned he does not count. I am here, as I told you, to
keep the affair alive. I would have come sooner, but I have been away
from the city of San Juan for months. Most of us who have opinions of
our own have been away from San Juan--some for years. San Juan has not
been a healthy place for men who believe in Paramba."

"And do you?"

"Absolutely. So do thousands of our citizens."

"You don't seem to agree with Senor Garlicho, then. He thought your
former president, Paramba, a tyrant. As for President Alvarez, he
looked upon him as the saviour of his country."

The lips had full play now, the smile of contempt wrinkling up to his
eyelids.

"Saviour of his country! Saviour of his pocket! Pardon me; I am not
here to discuss the polities of our people. Is this your estimate?" And
he reached over and picked it from my desk. "Ah, yes: forty thousand
dollars for the ironwork; one hundred and twenty thousand for the
erection on the Lobo Reef; one hundred and sixty thousand in all. Thank
you." Here he tucked the paper in his pocket and rose from his seat.
"You will hear from me in a month, perhaps earlier. Good-day." And he
waddled out.

The return of the Tampico six weeks later brought another South
American consignment. This was a roll of plans concealed in a tin
case--the identical package which Mawkum had handed the "Bunch of Dried
Garlic" months before, together with a document stamped, restamped and
stamped again, containing an order in due form, signed "Carlos
Onativia," for a lighthouse to be erected on the "Garra de Lobo"--this
last was in red ink--with shipping directions, etc., etc.

With it came the clerk of the bankers (he had the case under his arm),
a reputable concern within a stone's throw of my office, who signed the
contract and paid the first instalment.

Then followed the erection of the ironwork in the Brooklyn yard; its
inspection by the engineer appointed by the bankers; its dismemberment
and final coat of red lead--each tie-rod and beam red as sticks of
sealing-wax--its delivery, properly bundled and packed, aboard a
sailing vessel bound for San Juan, and the payment of the last
instalment.

This closed the transaction, so far as we were concerned.

A year passed--two of them, in fact--during which time no news of any
kind reached us of the lighthouse. Mawkum kept the duplicate blue-print
of the elevation tacked on the wall over his desk to show our clients
the wide range of our business, and I would now and then try to
translate the newspapers which Lawton sent by every mail. These would
generally refer to the dissatisfaction felt by many of the Moccadorians
over the present government, one editorial, as near as I could make
out, going so far as to hint that a secret movement was on foot to oust
the "Usurper" Alvarez and restore the old government under Paramba. No
reference was ever made to the lighthouse. We knew, of course, that it
had arrived, for the freight had been paid: this we learned from the
brokers who shipped it; but whether it was still in storage at San Juan
or was flashing red and white--a credit to Onativia's energy and a
godsend to incoming shipping--was still a mystery.

Mawkum would often laugh whenever Garlicho's or Onativia's name was
mentioned, and once in a while we would discuss the difficulties they
must have encountered in the erection of the structure in the open sea.
One part of the transaction we could never understand, and that was why
Garlicho had allowed the matter to lapse if the lighthouse was needed
so badly, and what were his reasons for sending Onativia to renew the
negotiations instead of coming himself.

All doubts on this and every other point were set at rest one fine
morning by the arrival of a sunburned gentleman with gray
side-whiskers, a man I had not seen for years.

"Why, Lawton!" I cried, grasping his hand. "This is a surprise. Came by
the Tampico, did you? Oh, but I am glad to see you! Here, draw up a
chair. But stop--not a word until I ask you some questions about that
lighthouse."

The genial Scotchman broke out into a loud laugh.

"Don't laugh! Listen!" I said to him. "Tell me, why didn't Garlicho go
on with the work, and what do you know about Onativia?"

Lawton leaned back in his chair and closed one eye in merriment.

"Garlicho did not go on with the work, my dear friend, because he was
breaking stone in the streets of San Juan with a ball and chain around
his ankle. When Paramba came back to power he was tried for high
treason and condemned to be shot. He saved his neck by turning over the
lighthouse papers to Onativia. As to Carlos Onativia, he is a product
of the soil. Started life as a coolie boss in a copper mine, became
manager and owner, built the bridge over the Quitos River and the
railroad up the Andes; is the brightest man in Moccador and the brains
of the Paramba Government. One part of his duty is to keep the people
satisfied, and he does it every single time; another is to divide with
Paramba every dollar he makes."

"But the lighthouse!" I interrupted. "Is it up? You must have passed it
on your way out of the harbor."

"Up? Yes, and lighted every night--up in the public garden in San Juan
among the palms and bananas. The people eat ice-cream on the first
platform and the band plays Sundays in the balcony under the boat
davits. The people are wild about it--especially the women. It was the
last coat of red lead that did it."

And again the office rang with Lawton's laugh.




MISS MURDOCK,--"SPECIAL"


A row of gas jets hooded by green paper shades lighting a long table at
which sit half a dozen men in their shirt sleeves writing like mad;
against the wall other men,--one drawing Easter lilies, another
blocking in the background around a photograph, a third pasting
clippings on sheets of brown paper. Every few minutes a bare-headed boy
in a dirty apron, with smudged face and ink-stained fingers, bounds
into the stifling, smoke-laden room, skirts the long table, dives
through a door labelled "City Editor," remains an instant and bounds
out again, his hands filled with long streamers of proof.

In the opening and shutting of the swinging door a round-bodied,
round-headed man in his shirt sleeves comes into view. Covering his
forehead, shielding his eyes from the glare of the overhead gas jet, is
a half-moon of green leather held in place by strings tied behind his
ears. The line of shadow caused by this shade makes a blank space about
his eyes and brings into relief his pale, flabby cheeks, hard, straight
mouth, and coarse chin. Only when he lifts his head to give some order,
or holds the receiver of the telephone to his ear, can his eyes be
exactly located. Then they shine like a cat's in a cellar,--gray,
white, gray again, with a glint of metallic green,--always the same
distance apart, never wavering, never blinking. Overstrung, overworked,
nervous men, working at high pressure, spurred by the merciless lash of
passing minutes, have these eyes. So do cornered beasts fighting for
air and space. Eleven-thirty had just been tolled by the neighboring
clock; deliverance would come when the last form of the morning edition
was made up. Until then safety could only be found in constant attack.

Outside the city editor's office, sprawled over a pile of mail sacks,
between the long table and the swinging door, lay Joe Quinn,
man-of-all-work,--boy, in fact, for he was but nineteen, big for his
age, with arms and legs like cordwood and a back straight and hard as a
plank. Joe's duty was to keep his eyes peeled, his ears open, and his
legs in working order. If a reporter wanted a fresh pad, a cup of
water, or a file of papers, Joe brought them; sometimes he foraged for
sandwiches and beer,--down four pair of stairs, across the street into
a cellar and up again; sometimes he carried messages; oftener he made
an elevator of himself, running between the presses in the basement and
the desk behind the swinging door. Fifty trips in a single night had
not been an unusual tally.

To the inmates of the room the boy was known as "Joe" or "Quinn" or
"Sonny." To the man with the half-moon shade over his eyes he was "Say"
or "That Damned Kid." High-strung, high-pressure editors omit the
unnecessary, condensation being part of their creed.

Up in the Franconia Notch, in a little hollow under White Face and
below Bog Eddy, Joe had been known as "Jonathan's boy," Jonathan being
the name his father went by, the last half never being used,--there
being but one "Jonathan"--the one whom everybody loved.

The cabin was still standing, where Joe was born,--a slant of logs with
a stone chimney and some out-buildings; and his old father was still
alive, and so was his mother and his little "Sis." Summer mornings the
smoke would curl straight up from the rude stone chimney, catch a
current of air from the valley, and stretch its blue arms toward the
tall hemlocks covering the slope of the mountain. Winter mornings it
lay flat, buffeted by the winds, hiding itself later on among the
trees. Joe knew these hemlocks,--loved them,--had hugged them many a
time, laying his plump, ruddy cheek against the patches of cool moss
velveting their sides. "Nothin' like trees," his old father had told
him,--"real human when ye know 'em."

To-night, as he lay stretched out on the mail sacks, his ears
unlatched, listening for the sound of the night city editor's bell, or
his gruff "Say, you!" his mind kept reverting to their bigness and
wide, all embracing, protecting arms. A letter from Jonathan received
that morning, and still tucked away in his inside pocket, had revived
these memories.

"They've started to cut roads, son," it read. "I was out gummin'
yesterday and got up under White Face. Won't be nothing left if they
keep on. Cy Hawkins sold his timber land to them last winter and
they've histed up a biler on wheels and a succular saw, and hev cleared
off purty nigh every tree clean from the big windslash down to the East
Branch. It ain't going into building stuff; they're sending it down to
Plymouth to a pulp mill and grinding it up to print newspapers on, so
the head man told me. Guess you know all about it, but it was news to
me. I told him it was a gol-darn-shame to serve a tree so, being as how
trees had feelings same as men, but he laughed and said it warn't none
of my bizness, and I guess it ain't. Beats all what some folks will do
for money."

Joe thought so too,--had been thinking so ever since he broke the seal
of the letter that the postmaster at Woodstock had directed for his
father. "Dad's right; trees have feelings," he kept repeating to
himself. And, as to being human, he could recall a dozen that he had
talked to and that had talked back to him ever since he could remember.
His father had taught him their language on the long days when he had
trailed behind carrying the gum bag or had hidden in the bushes while
the old man wormed himself along, his rifle in the hollow of his arm,
or when the two lay stretched out before their camp fire.

"Dogs and trees, my son, will never go back on ye like some folks I've
hearn tell of. Allers find 'em the same. See that yaller birch over
thar?--Well, I've knowed that birch over forty-two year and he ain't
altered a mite, 'cept his clothes ain't as decent as they was, and his
shoes is give out 'round the roots. You kin see whar the bark's busted
'long 'round his toes,--but his heart's all right and he's alive and
peart, too. You'll find him fust tree out in the spring,--sometimes
'fore the sugar sap's done runnin'. Purty soon, if you watch him same's
me, ye'll see him begin to shake all over,--kind o' shivery with some
inside fun; then comes the buds and, fust thing ye know, he gives a
little see-saw or two in the warm air and out busts the leaves, and he
a laughin' fit to kill. Maybe the birds ain't glad, and maybe them
squirrels that's been snowed up all winter with their noses out o' that
crotch, ain't jes' holdin' their sides, and maybe, too, them little
sunbeams don't like to sneak in and go to sleep on the bark all silvery
and shinin' like the ribbons on Sis's hat! They're human, them trees
is, I tell ye, son,--real human!

"And ye want to treat 'em with some perliteness, too they're older'n
anything 'round here 'cept the rocks; and they've been holdin' up the
dignity of this valley, too,--kind o' 'sponsible for things. That's
another thing ye mustn't forgit. The fust folks that come travellin'
through this notch--'bout time the Injins quit,--took notice on 'em, I
tell ye. That's what they come for. Bald Top and White Face was all
right, but it was the trees that knocked 'em silly. That's what you kin
read in the book school-teacher has, and that's true. And see how they
treat their brothers that git toppled over,--by a windslash, maybe, or
lightnin' or a landslide, or some such cussed thing, givin' 'em a
shoulder to lean on same as you would help a cripple. When they're
clean down and done for it ain't more'n a year or two 'fore they got
'em kivered all over with leaves, and then they git tergether and hev a
quiltin' party and purty soon they're all over blankets o' green moss,
and the others jes stand 'round solemn and straight like's if they was
mountin' guard over their graves.

"It's wicked to kill most anything 'less ye got some use--and a good
one, too,--for the meat, but it's a durned sight meaner to cut down a
tree that took so long to grow and that's been so decent all its life,
'less ye can't do without the stuff ye git out'n it."

Joe had listened and had drunk it all in, and his love for the tall
giants away back in the deep wilderness had never left him. It was
these dear old friends more than anything else that had kept him at
home, under plea of helping his father, months after he knew he ought
to be up and doing if he would ever be of any use to the old man in his
later years.

It was Plymouth first, as stable boy, and then down to Nashua and
Boston as teamster and freight handler, and then, by what he considered
at the time a lucky chance--(Katie Murdock, from his own town, and now
a reporter in the same newspaper office with himself, had helped), man
of all work in this whirl where he felt like a fly clinging to a
driving wheel.

Stretching out his stout saw-log legs and settling his big shoulders
into the soft cushions made by the sacks, his mind went back to the old
sawmill,--Baker's Mill,--and the dam backed up alongside the East
Branch. An old kingfisher used to sit on a limb over the still water
and watch for minnows,--a blue and white fellow with a sharp beak. He
had frightened him away many a time. And there was a hole where two big
trout lived. He remembered the willows, too, and the bunch of logs
piled as high as the mill. These would be rolled down and cant-hooked
under its saw when the spring opened, but Baker never ground any one of
them up into wood pulp. It went into clapboards to keep out the cold,
and shingles to keep off the rain, and the "waste" went under the
kettles of the neighbors, the light of the jolly flames dancing round
the room. He had carried many a bundle home himself that the old man
had sent to Jonathan. Most everybody sent Jonathan something,
especially if they thought he needed it.

Then his mind reverted to his own share in the whirl about him. It
wasn't a job he liked, but there wasn't anything else offering, and
then Katie might want somebody to look after her, and so it was just as
well he had the job. He and Katie had been schoolmates together not so
long ago, in the wooden schoolhouse near the crossroads. She had gone
to college, and had come home with a diploma. She was two or three
years older than he was, but that didn't make any difference to a boy
and girl from the same village when they had grown up alongside of each
other. He wondered how long it was to July, when he was promised a
week,--and so was Katie. He knew just what they'd do; he could get two
passes to Plymouth,--his old friend the freight boss had promised him
that,--then about daylight, the time the train arrived, he'd find
Marvin, who drove the stage up the valley and past his old home, and
help him curry his team and hitch up, and Marvin would give them a ride
free. He could feel the fresh air on his cheeks as he rattled out of
the village, across the railroad track and out into the open. Tim
Shekles, the blacksmith, would be at work, and old Mother Crawport
would be digging in her garden, early as it was; and out in the fields
the crows would be hunting corn; and pretty soon down would go the
wheels into the soft, clean gravel of the brook that crossed the
turnpike and out again on the other side dripping puddles in the dirt;
and soon the big trees would begin, and keep on and on and on,--away up
to the tops of the mountains, the morning sun silvering the mists
sweeping up their sides,--and--

"Say! you! Wake up! He's been hollering at you for five minutes. GIT!"

Joe sat up and rubbed his eyes. The fresh air of the morning had
vanished.

"Yes, sir." He was on his feet now, alert as a terrier that had sniffed
a rat.

"YES, SIR, eh! How many times do you want me to call you? Go and find
Miss Murdock, and send her here on the run. Tell her to get her hat and
cloak and show up in two minutes. I've got an assignment for her on the
East Side,--just come over the 'phone. Hurry now! That damned kid ought
to be--"

But Joe was already out of the room and down two pair of stairs. Before
the minutes were up he was back again, Katie Murdock with him. She was
sliding her arm into the sleeve of her jacket as she entered.

"Forty-third and First Avenue, Miss Murdock," said the night city
editor, lifting his head so that the cat eyes had full play. "Girl
overboard from one of the ferry boats,--lives at 117.--Drowned, they
say,--some fellow mixed up in it. Take your snapshot along and get
everything. Find the mother if she's got one and--"

But the girl had gone. She knew the value of time,--especially at that
hour, even if she had been but a week in her new department of
"Special." Her chief knew it, too, or he wouldn't have sent her at that
hour. There was time--plenty of time if everything went right,--thirty
minutes, perhaps an hour,--to spare, but they were not hers to waste.

"Wait for me, Joe," she said, as she hurried past him. "We'll go up
town together, soon as the presses start."

Joe threw himself again on the pile of sacks and kept his ears open for
orders. It was a bad night for Katie to go out. She was plucky and
could hold her own,--had done so a dozen times,--once in a street car
when some fellow tried to be familiar,--but he didn't like her to go,
all the same. Nobody who looked into her face and then down into her
blue eyes would ever make any mistake, but then some men mightn't take
the trouble to look. He'd wait for her, no matter how late it might be.
When she came in she would be out of breath, and perhaps hungry,--then
he'd take her over to Cobb's for a cup of coffee.

During the interim Joe's legs had been kept busy. Not only had he
rushed downstairs and up again half a dozen times, springing to the
night city editor's curse, or pound, or shout, whichever had come
handiest, but he had also been twice to the corner for frankfurters for
reporters who hadn't had a crumb to eat for hours. He was unwrapping
the second one when Katie burst in.

Her hat and coat were dripping wet and her hair hung in disorder about
her pale face. Her notes were nearly completed; she had worked them out
on the elevated on her way downtown. Joe absorbed her with a look, and
slid to her side. Something in her face told him of her errand;
something of the suffering, and perhaps horror,--and he wanted to get
close to her. The girl had reached the editor's desk now, and was
waiting until he had finished the paragraph his pen was inditing.

"Well," he said, laying down his pen,--"What have you got?" He was
running his cat eyes over the girl's notes as he spoke,--taking in at a
glance the "meat" of her report. Then he added,--"Get any snaps?"

"No, sir, I--"

"Didn't I tell you I must have 'em?"

"Yes, but I couldn't do it. The mother was half crazy and the two
little children would have broken your heart. She was the only one who
could earn anything--"

"And you got into the house and had the whole bunch right in your fist
and never snapped a shutter! See here, Miss Murdock I ain't running a
Bible class and you're not working in the slums,--you can keep that
gush for some other place. You had your camera and flash,--I saw you go
out with them. I wanted everything: corpse of girl, the mother,
children; where she was hauled out,--who hauled her out,--her
lover,--she went overboard for some fellow, you remember,--I told you
all that. Well, you're the limit!"

Joe had moved up closer, now. He was formulating in his mind what would
happen to Katie if he caught the night city editor under his chin and
slammed his head against the wall. He knew what would happen to the
editor and to himself, but it was Katie's fate that kept his hands flat
to his sides.

"I would rather throw up my position than have done it, sir," Katie
pleaded. "There are some things never ought to be printed. This drowned
girl--"

The night city editor sprang from his chair, brushed the pile of notes
aside with his hand, and shouted

"Say, you! Find that damned boy, somebody, if he isn't asleep!"

Joe, who was not ten feet away, stepped up and faced him,--stepped so
quickly that the man backed away as if for more room.

"Get a move on and send Miss Parker here. Hunt for her,--if she isn't
downstairs she may be at Cobb's getting something to eat. Quick, now!"
Then he turned to Katie

"You better go home, Miss Murdock. You're tired, maybe: anyhow, you're
way off. Miss Parker'll get what we want,--she isn't so thin-skinned.
Here, take that stuff with you,--it's no use to me."

The girl reached across the desk, gathered up the scattered notes, and
without a word left the room. On the way downstairs she met Miss Parker
coming up, Joe at her heels. She was older than Katie,--and harder; a
woman of thirty-five, whose experience had ranged from nurse in a
reformatory to a night reporter on a "Yellow." The two women passed
each other without even a nod. Joe turned and followed Katie Murdock
downstairs and into the night air. Miss Parker kept on her way. As she
glided through the room to the city editor's office, she had the air of
a sleuth tracking a criminal.

Once outside in the night air, Joe drew Katie from under the glare of
the street lamp. Her eyes were running tears,--at the man's cruelty and
injustice, she who had worked to any hour of the night to please him.

Joe was boiling.

"I'll go back and punch him, if you'll let me. I heard it all."

"No, it'll do no good,--both of us would get into trouble, then."

"Well, then, I'll chuck my job. This ain't no place for any decent girl
nor man. Was it pretty bad where you went, Katie?"

"Bad! Oh, Joe, you don't know. I said, last week, when I forced my way
into the room of that poor mother whose son was arrested, that I'd
never report another case like it. But you ought to have seen what I
saw to-night. The poor girl worked in a box factory, they told me, and
this man hounded her, and in despair she threw herself overboard. The
room was full when I got there,--policemen,--one or two other
reporters,--no woman but me. They had brought her in dripping wet and I
found her on the floor,--just a child, Joe,--hardly sixteen,--her hair
filled with dirt from the water,--the old mother wringing her hands.
Oh, it was pitiful! I could have flashed a picture,--nobody would have
cared nor stopped me,--but I couldn't. Don't you see I couldn't, Joe?
He has no right to ask me to do these things,--nobody has,--it's awful.
It's horrible! What would that poor mother have said when she saw it in
the paper? I'll go home now. No, you needn't come,--they'll want you.
Go back upstairs. Good-night."

Joe watched her until she caught an uptown car, and then turned into
the side door opening on the narrow street. A truck had arrived while
they were talking, and the men were unloading some great rolls of
paper,--enormous spools. "What would dad say if he saw what his trees
had come to?" Joe thought, as he stood for a moment looking them
over,--his mind going back to his father's letter. One roll of wood
pulp had already been jacked up and was now feeding the mighty press.
The world would be devouring it in the morning; the drowned girl would
have her place in its columns,--so would every other item that told of
the roar and crash, the crime, infamy, and cruelty of the preceding
hours. Then the issues would be thrown away to make room for a fresher
record;--some to stop a hole in a broken window; some to be trampled
under foot of horse and man; many to light the fires the city over.

"My poor trees!" sighed Joe, as he slowly mounted the steps to the top
floor. "There ain't no common sense in it, I know. Got to make sumpin'
out o' the timber once they're cut down, but it gits me hot all the
same when I think what they've come to. Gol-darn-shame to serve ye so!
Trees has feelin's, same's men,--that's what dad says, and that's true!"

Miss Parker had done her work. Joe saw that when he opened the paper
the next morning: saw it at a glance, and with a big lump in his throat
and a tightening of his huge fists. Flaring headlines marked the first
page; under them was a picture of the girl in a sailor hat,--she had
found the original on the mantel and had slipped it in her pocket. Then
followed a flash photo of the dead girl lying on the floor,--her poor,
thin, battered and bruised body straight out, the knees and feet
stretching the wet drapery,--nothing had been left out. Most of the
details were untrue,--the story of the lover being a pure invention,
but the effect was all right. Then, again, no other morning journal had
more than a few lines.

Everybody congratulated her. "Square beat," one man said, at which her
gray, cold face lightened up.

"Glad you liked it," she answered with a nod of her head,--"I generally
'get there.'"

When the night city editor arrived--the city editor was ill and he had
taken his place for the day--he reached out and caught her hand. Then
he drew her inside the office. When she passed Joe again on her way
out, her smile had broadened.

"Got her pay shoved up," one of the younger men whispered to another.

When Katie came in an hour later, no one in the room but Joe caught the
dark lines under her eyes and the reddened lids,--as if she had passed
a sleepless night,--one full of terror. She walked straight to where
the boy stood at work.

"I've just seen that poor mother, Joe. I saw the paper and what Miss
Parker had said and I went straight to her. I did not want her to think
I had been so cruel. When I got to her house this morning there was a
patrol wagon at the door and all the neighbors outside. A woman told me
she was all right until somebody showed her the morning paper with the
picture of her drowned daughter; then she began to scream and went
stark mad, and they were getting ready to take her to Ward's Island
when I walked in. You've seen the picture, haven't you?"

Joe nodded. He had seen the picture,--had it in his hand. He dare not
trust himself to speak,--everybody was around and he didn't want to
appear green and countrified. Then again, he didn't want to make it
harder for Katie. She had had nothing to do with it, thank God!

The door of the office swung open. The editor this time caught sight of
Katie, called her by name, and, with a "Like to see you about a little
matter," beckoned her inside and shut the door upon them both.

A moment later she was out again, a blue envelope in her hand.

"He's got me discharged, Joe. Here's a note from the city editor," she
said. Her voice quivered and the tears stood in her eyes.

"Fired you!"

"Yes,--he says I'm too thin-skinned."

Joe stood for a moment with the front page of the paper still in his
hand. Something of Jonathan came into his face,--the same firm lines
about his mouth that his father had when he crawled under the floor
timbers of the mill to save Baker's girl, pinned down and drowning, the
night of the freshet.

Crushing the sheet in his hand Joe walked straight into the city
editor's office, a swing in his movement and a look in his eye that
roused everybody in the room.

"You've got Katie Murdock fired, she says," he hissed between his
teeth. "What fur?" He was standing over the night city editor now, his
eyes blazing, his fists tightly closed.

"What business have you to ask?" growled the editor.

"Every business!" There was something in the boy's face that made the
man move his hand toward a paper weight.

"She's fired because she wouldn't do your dirty work. Look at
this!"--he had straightened out the crumpled sheet now: "Look at it!
That's your work!--ain't a dog would a-done it, let alone a man. Do you
know what's happened? That girl's mother went crazy when she saw that
picture! You sent that catamount, Miss Parker, to do it, and she done
it fine, and filled it full o' lies and dirt! Ye didn't care who ye
hurt, you--"

The man sprang to his feet.

"Here!--put yourself outside that door! Get out or I'll--"

"Git out, will I!--ME!--I'll git out when you eat yer words,--and you
WILL eat 'em. Down they go--"

Joe had him by the throat now, his fingers tight under his chin, his
head flattened against the wooden partition. In his powerful grasp the
man was as helpless as a child.

"Eat it,--swallow it!--MORE--MORE--all of it! damn ye!"

He was cramming the wad between the editor's lips, one hand forcing
open his teeth, the other holding his head firm against the wall.

Then flinging the half strangled man from him he turned, and facing the
crowd of reporters and employes--Miss Parker among them,--shouted:--

"And ye're no better,--none o' ye. Ye all hunt dirt,--live on dirt and
eat dirt. Ye're like a lot o' buzzards stuck up on a fence rail waitin'
fur an old horse to die. Ain't one o' you reporters wouldn't been glad
to do what that catamount over there done last night, and ain't one o'
ye wouldn't take pay fur it. Katie Murdock's fired? Yes,--two of us is
fired,--me and her. We'll go back whar we come from. We mayn't be so
almighty smart as some o' you city folks be, but we're a blamed sight
decenter. Up in my country dead girls is sumpin' to be sorry fur, not
sumpin' to make money out'er, and settin' a poor mother crazy is
worse'n murder. Git out o' my way thar, or I'll hurt some o' ye! Come,
Katie!"




THE BEGUILING OF PETER GRIGGS


Peter was in his room when I knocked--up two flights of stairs off
Washington Square--Eighth Street really--in one of those houses with a
past--of mahogany, open wood fires, old Madeira in silver coasters
pushed across hand-polished tables,--that kind of a past.

None of all this could be seen in its present. The marble steps outside
were worn down like the teeth of an old horse, and as yellow; the iron
railings were bent and cankered by rust; the front door was in
blisters; the halls bare, steps uncarpeted, and the spindling mahogany
balusters showed here and there substitutes of pine.

Nor did the occupants revive any of its old-time charm. The basement
held a grocery--a kindling-wood, ice and potato sort of grocery; the
parlor boasted a merchant tailor--much pressing and repairing, with now
and then a whole suit; the second floor front was given over to a
wig-maker and the second story back to a manicure. Here the tide of the
commercial and the commonplace stopped--stopped just short of the third
floor where old Peter Griggs lived.

You would understand why if you knew the man.

Just as this particular old house possessed two distinct
personalities--one of the past and the other of the present--so did the
occupant of the third floor.

Downtown in the custom house, where he was employed (he had something
to do with invoices), he was just plain Mr. Griggs--a short, crisp,
"Yes and so" little man--exact, precise and absurdly correct: never, in
all his life, had he made a mistake.

Up in these rooms on the third floor he was dear old Peter--or Pete--or
Griggsy--or whatever his many friends loved best to call him. Up here,
too, he was the merriest companion possible; giving out as much as he
absorbed, and always with his heart turned inside out. That he had been
for more than thirty years fastened to a high stool facing his desk
bespoke neither political influence nor the backing of rich friends.
Nobody, really, had ever wanted his place. If they did they never dared
ask for it--not above their breath. They would as soon have thought of
ousting the old clock from its perch in the rotunda, or moving one of
the great columns that faced the street. So he just stayed on ticking
away at his post, quite like the old clock itself, and getting stiffer
and stiffer in the line of his duty--quite like the columns--and
getting more and more covered with the dust of long habit--quite like
both of them.

This dust, being outside dust, and never sinking the thousandth part of
an inch below the surface, left its mark on the man beneath as a live
coal fading and whitening leaves its covering of ashes on the spark.

These two--the ashes and the spark--made up the sum of Peter's
individuality. The ash part was what he offered to the world of
routine--the world he hated. The spark part--cheery, warm,
enthusiastic, full of dreams, of imaginings, with an absorbing love for
little bits of beauty, such as old Satsuma, Cloisonne, quaint
miniatures and the like--all good, and yet within reach of his
purse--this part he gave to his friends.

I am inside his room now, standing behind him taking in the glow of the
fire and the red damask curtains shielding the door that leads to his
bedroom; my eye roving over the bookcases crammed with books, the
tables littered with curios and the mantel covered with miniatures and
ivories. I invariably do this to discover his newest "find" before he
calls my attention to it. As he has not yet moved or given me any other
sign of recognition than a gruff "Draw up a chair," in a voice that
does not sound a bit like him--his eyes all the time on the smouldering
fire, there is yet a chance to look him over before he begins to talk.
(We shall all be busy enough listening when he does begin.)

I say "ALL," for there is a second visitor close behind me, and the
sound of still another footstep can already be heard in the hall below.

It is the back of Peter's head now that interests me, and the droop of
his shoulders. They always remind me of Leech's sketch of Old Scrooge
waiting for Marly's ghost, whenever I come upon him thus unobserved.
To-night he not only wears his calico dressing-gown--unheard-of garment
in these days--but a red velvet cap pulled over his scalp. Most bald
men would have the cap black--but then most bald men have not Peter's
eye for color.

It's a queer head--this head of Peter Griggs. Not at all like any other
head I know. If I should attempt to describe it, I should merely have
to say bluntly that it was more like an enlarged hickory-nut than any
other object I can think of. It is of the same texture, too, and almost
as devoid of hair. Except on his temples, and close down where his
collar binds his thin neck, there is really very little hair left; and
this is so near the color of the shrivelled skin beneath that I never
know where one begins and the other ends.

When I face him--and by this time I am facing him--I must admit that
the hickory-nut simile still holds. There are no particular features,
no decided bumps, no decided hollows; the nose is only an enlarged
ridge, the cheeks and eye-sockets only seams. But the eyes count--yes,
the eyes count--count so that you see at once that they are the live
points of the live coal smouldering beneath.

Here the hickory-nut as a simile goes all to pieces. These eyes are the
flash from some distant lighthouse, burning dull when the commonplace
of life passes before him, and bursting into effulgence when something
touches his heart or stirs his imagination. Downtown in the Dismal Tomb
even the lighthouse goes to smash. Here the eyes set so far back in his
head that they look for all the world like two wary foxes peeping out
of a hole, losing nothing of what is going on outside--never being
fooled, never being wheedled or coaxed out of their retreat. "Can't
fool Mr. Griggs," some broker says, as he tries to get his papers
signed out of his turn. Uptown these same foxes are running around
loose in an abandonment of jollity, frisking here and there, all
restraint cast aside--trusting everybody--and glad to. That's why I
couldn't understand his tone of voice when I opened his door.

"Not sick, old fellow?" I cried. He had not yet lifted his head or
vouchsafed a single word of welcome.

"Yes, sick at heart. My old carcass is all right, but inside--way down
where a man lives--I'm sick unto death. Take a look at the mantelpiece.
You see my best miniature's gone, don't you?"

"Not the Cosway?"

"Yes, the Cosway!"

"Stolen?"

"Worse than stolen! Oh, my boy, such mean people live in the world! I
couldn't believe it possible. I've read in the papers something like
it, but that I should have been--oh, I can't get over it! It haunts me
like a ghost. It isn't the value--it's the way it was done; and I was
so helpless, and I meant only to be kind."

The other men had arrived now and the three of us were ranged around
Peter in a circle, wondering with wide-opened eyes at his tone of
voice, his dismal expression, and especially at the air of dejection
which seemed to ooze through every square inch of his calico
dressing-gown.

"Sit down, all of you," he continued "and listen. And it's all your
fault. If only one of you had come up to see me! I waited and waited; I
knew most of you would be off somewhere eating your Thanksgiving
turkey, but that every mother's son of you should have forgotten
me--that's what I won't forgive you for."

We, with one accord, began to make excuses, but he waved us into
silence.

"After a while I got so lonely I couldn't stand it any longer. So about
six o'clock I started out to dine alone somewhere--some place where I
had no associations with any one of you. I hadn't gone as far as
Broadway when along came two men and a woman. You'd have said 'two
gentlemen and a lady'--I say two men and a woman. I looked at them and
they looked at me. I saw they were from out of town, and right away
came the thought, they must be lonely, too. Everybody is lonesome on
Thanksgiving if he's away from home, or, like me, has no place to go
to. The Large Man stopped and nudged the Small Man, and the Woman
turned and looked at me earnestly, then all three talked together for a
minute, then I heard the Small Man say, 'I'll go you a ten on it,'
which conveyed no meaning to me. Then all three of them walked back to
where I stood and the Large Man asked me where Foscari's restaurant was.

"Well, of course, that was in the next street, so I volunteered to show
them the place. On the way over the Small Man and the Woman lagged
behind and I overheard them say that it would never do--that is, the
Woman said so; at which the Small Man laughed and said they couldn't
find a better. All this time the Large Man held me by the arm in a
friendly sort of way, as if he were afraid I would stub my toe and fall
if he didn't help me over the gutters; telling me all the time that he
didn't know the ropes around New York and how much obliged he was to me
for taking all this trouble to show him. Pretty soon we arrived at
Foscari's. I never dined there--never had been inside the place. Cheap
sort of a restaurant--down two steps from the sidewalk, but they asked
for Foscari's, and that's where I took them.

"'Here's the place,' I said, and I lifted my hat to the Woman and
turned to go back.

"'No, don't go,' said the Large Man, still holding on to my arm.
'You've been white and decent to us; we're all stranded here. This is
Thanksgiving--come in and have dinner with us.'

"Then I began by thanking them and ended by saying I couldn't. Then the
Small Man began to urge me, saying that out in his country, near the
Rockies, everybody was willing to sit down at anybody's table when he
was invited; and the Large Man kept on squeezing my arm in a friendly
sort of way, so I finally said I didn't care if I did, and in we all
went. When we got inside the place was practically empty--only one
guest, really--and he was over by the wall in a corner. There were only
two waiters--one an Irishman who said his name was Mike, with a very
red head and an enormous mouth--a queer kind of a servant for that kind
of a restaurant, I thought--and the other a young Italian, who was
probably the cook.

"'You order,' said the Large Man. 'You know what's good in New York.'

"So I ordered.

"And I want to tell you that the dinner was a particularly good
one--well cooked and well served. We had soup and fish and an Italian
ragout, macaroni, peppers and two bottles of red wine. Before the soup
was over I was glad I'd come; glad, not only because the dinner was all
right, but because the people were human kind of people--no foolishness
about them--no pretension. They were not our kind of people, of
course--couldn't find them in New York if you looked everywhere--not
born and brought up here. The Woman was gentle and kindly, saying very
little, but the Large Man was a hearty, breezy sort of fellow--even if
his language at times was rough and uncouth--at least I thought so. Big
bones and a well-fed body; quick in his movements, yet slow in his
talk, showing force and determination in everything he said. The Small
Man was as tough physically and as alert mentally, but there wasn't so
much of him. He talked, however, twice as fast as the Large Man, and
said less.

"He talked of the city--how smart the people were, how stuck up some of
them, thinking they knew it all, and how, if they but thought about it,
they must see after all that the West was the only thing that kept the
country alive. That kind of talk--not in an offensive way--just as all
of us talk when we believe in our section of the country.

"All this time the solitary guest sat against the wall listening. Near
as I could make out he only had one dish and a small bottle of wine.
Presently he made a remark--not to us--not to the room--more as if to
himself.

"'West is the only thing, is it? And every man Jack of them from New
England stock!'

"This, too, didn't come in any offensive spirit--just as an aside, as
if to keep himself company, being lonely, of course.

"But the Large Man caught it before all the words were out of his mouth.

"'Dead right, pard,' he said--I only quote his words, gentlemen. 'My
father came from Boston, left there in '58. Where're you from?'

"'Boston,' answered the man looking at him over the prongs of his fork.

"'That so? Well, why ain't you eatin' your turkey with your folks? Got
any?'

"'Yes, got a lot of them, but I was short of a ticket.'

"Here the Large Man got up and went over to the Man from Boston.

"'Shake for Boston,' he said, holding out his big hand. 'And now bring
that bottle over here and chip in with us.' Then he opened his
pocketbook and took out a square slip of paper.

"'Here, tuck that in your clothes.' Again I must remark, gentlemen,
that I am only quoting their language so that you can get a better idea
of what sort of people I was with. 'That's a pass to your 'burg. I'm
going South and I won't use it.'

"There were five of us at the table now, the Bostonian bringing over
his plate without a word except 'Thank you,' and taking his share of
the different dishes.

"The talk now became very interesting. The Large Man told stories of
his early life on a farm and the Bostonian recited verses, and recited
them very well, and the Woman laughed in the right place, and when the
cigars were brought and the coffee and the cognac, I was sorry it was
all over. That, when I look back upon it, is the most extraordinary
thing of all. How a man of my experience could have--Well, I won't
stop, I'll just keep on.

"With the coffee, and before the red-headed Irishman had brought the
bill--oh, you should go round to Foscari's and look at that Irishman
just to see how coarse and vulgar a man can be who spends his whole
life feeding animals who--no I WILL go on, for the most interesting
part is to come. When the coffee was served, I say, the Large Man asked
the waiter where he could send a telephone message to his hotel--wanted
the porter to get his trunks down. The Irishman answered: 'Out in the
hall, to the right o' where ye come in.' 'I'll go with you,' said the
Woman; so the two got up and I opened the door for her, and we three
sat down again--that is, the Small Man, the Bostonian and myself.

"We talked on, not noticing the time; then the Small Man looked at his
watch, jumped up and called out to the waiter: 'Where did you say that
telephone place was?'

"'In the hall--on the other side of that dure; ye kin see it from where
ye're sittin'.'

"'Well, he's taking a devil of a time to do his telephoning' said the
Small Man. 'Hold on to my coffee till I go and punch him up.'

"The Bostonian and I kept on talking. He was a draughtsman in an
architect's office, so he told me, and was promised a place the
following week, and I was very much interested in what he told me of
his walking the streets looking for work.

"Mike, the waiter, now laid the bill on the table. I didn't want to
know the amount; my hosts wouldn't want me to see it, of course, and so
I didn't look at it. The Bostonian craned his head, but I forestalled
his glance and turned a plate over it before he could read the total.

"Mike now approached.

"'Ye'd better pay now,' he said, 'before any more o' ye skip. It's nine
dollars and sixty cints.'

"'They'll all be back in a minute,' I said. 'Wait till they come. I'm
only an invited guest.'

"'I'll wait nothin'. The boss is out and I'm in charge. H'ist out yer
money.'

"The Bostonian had risen from the table now and was looking at me as if
I'd just been detected in picking his pocket.

"'But I'm an invited guest,' I protested.

"'Invited guest, are ye?' continued the Irishman. 'And ye ordered the
grub yersilf! You heard him!' This to the Bostonian. 'Didn't he order
the stuff? Let's see yer wad. No more o' ye's goin' to l'ave this room
'till I gits nine dollars and sixty cints. Here, Macaroni'--and he
called the Italian--'ring up the station-house and till thim to sind
somebody 'round. Ye can't play that game on me!"

"'My dear fellow,' I said--I had now to be as courteous as I could--'I
don't want to play anything on you. You may be right in your views that
these people have served me a scurvy trick, but I don't believe it.'

"'Well, thin, pull yer wad out, or I'll call the perlice.'

"'Don't do anything of the kind,' I urged. 'My name is Peter Griggs and
I live quite near here. Lived there for twenty years. You can find out
all about me from any of the neighbors; I haven't enough money with me,
but I'll go to my room and get it.'

"'No ye don't; none o' that guff for me!' You can't think how coarse he
was. Then he walked deliberately over to the door and stood with his
back against it.

"The Bostonian now joined in.

"'It looks as if you had been buncoed, my friend,' he said. 'It's an
old dodge, this, of getting somebody to pay for your dinner, especially
on holidays, and yet I can't see how anybody would pick you out as a
greenhorn. I'd divide the bill with you, but really, as you know, I
haven't the money.' I saw from his tone that he was thinking better of
me.

"'No, I'll pay it myself. You, certainly, were not to blame. Will you
go to my room with me, Mike?' I called him Mike because it seemed the
best way to conciliate the man.

"'How far is it?' he asked, softening a little.

"'Two blocks.'

"'And ye'll pay if I go?'

"'Of course I will pay. Do I look like a man who would cheat you?'

"'All right, come on.'

"I bade the Bostonian good-by, and we started.

"Mike didn't speak a word on the way, nor did I. I felt like a
suspected thief that a policeman was taking to the station-house; I've
passed them many times in the street, and I've often wondered what was
passing in the thief's mind. I knew now. I knew, too, what the
Bostonian thought of me, and the Italian, and Mike.

"Then a shiver went through me, and the next moment I broke out into a
cold sweat. I suddenly remembered that I hadn't any money in my room. I
had given every cent, except two dollars of the amount I had brought
uptown with me, to my washerwoman the night before. The bill was not
due, but Mrs. Jones wanted it for Thanksgiving and so I let her have
it. And yet, gentlemen--would you believe it!--I walked on, trying to
think if there mightn't be some bills in the vest I'd worn the day
before, or in the top drawer of my desk or in a china cup on the
mantel. Really, it was an awful, awful position! I couldn't run! I
couldn't explain. I just had to keep on.

"When I got here I turned up the light and asked him to sit down while
I searched my clothes--you can see what disgrace does for a man--asked
a common, low, vulgar waiter to sit down in my room. He didn't sit
down--he just kept walking round and round, peering into the bookcases,
handling the little things on the mantel, feeling the quality of the
curtain that hangs there at the door--like a pawnbroker making up an
inventory.

"Finally he said: 'Ye got a nice place here'--the first words that had
come from his lips since we left the restaurant. 'The boss likes these
jimcracks; he's got a lot o' thim up where he lives. I seen him pay
twinty dollars to a Jew-dago for one o' THIM.' And he pointed to my row
of miniatures.

"By this time I was face to face with the awful truth. There was
nothing in the vest-pocket, nor in the cup, and there was nothing in
the drawer. The only money I had was the two-dollar bill which had been
left over after paying Mrs. Jones. I spread it out before him and
looked him straight in the eye--fearlessly--that he might know I wasn't
telling him an untruth.

"'My good man,' I said in my kindest voice, 'I was mistaken. I find I
have no money. I have paid away every cent except these two dollars;
take this bill and let me come in to-morrow and pay the balance.'

"'Good man be damned!' he said. 'I don't want yer two dollars. I'll
take this and call it square.' Then he put my precious Cosway in his
pocket and without another word walked out of the room."

"But wouldn't they give it back to you when you went for it?" I blurted
out.

Peter leaned back in his chair and drummed on the arm with his fingers.

"To tell the truth, I have been ashamed to go. I suppose they will give
it back when I ask them. And every day I intended going and paying them
the money, and every day I shun the street as if a plague was there. I
will go some time, but not now. Please don't ask me."

"Have you seen none of them since?" inquired another of his visitors.

"Only the Bostonian. He walked up to me while I was having my lunch in
Nassau Street yesterday.

"'I came out better than you did,' he said. 'The pass was good. I used
it the next day. Just home from the Hub.'"

"Accomplice, maybe," remarked Peter's third visitor, "just fooling you
with that architect yarn."

"Buncoed that pass out of somebody else," suggested the second visitor.

"Perhaps," Peter continued. "I give it up. It's one of the things that
can never be explained. The Bostonian was polite, but he still thinks
me a cheat. He let me down as easy as he could, being a gentleman, but
I can never forget that he saw me come in with them and order the
dinner, and that then I tried to sneak out of paying for it. Oh, it's
dreadful! Dreadful!"

Peter settled in his seat until only the top of his red skull cap
showed above the back of his easy chair. For some minutes he did not
speak, then he said slowly, and as if talking to himself:

"Mean, mean people to serve me so!"

Some days later I again knocked at Peter's door. I had determined, with
or without his consent, to go myself to Foscari's, redeem the miniature
and explain the circumstances, and let them know exactly who Peter was.
My hand had hardly touched the panel when his cheery voice rang out:

"Whoever you are, come in!"

He had sprung from his chair now and had advanced to greet me.

"Oh, is it you! So glad--come over here before you get your coat off.
Look!"

"The Cosway! You paid the bill and redeemed it?"

"Didn't cost me a cent."

"They sent it to you, then, and apologized?"

"Nothing of the kind. Give me your hat and coat and plump yourself down
on that chair by the fire. I've got the most extraordinary story to
tell you you've ever heard in your whole life."

He was himself again--the same bubbling spirit, the same warmth in his
manner, foxes out frolicking, lighthouse flashing, everything let loose.

"Last night I was sitting here at my desk writing, about nine o'clock,
as near as I can remember"--his voice dropped now to a tragic whisper,
as if an encounter with a burglar was to
follow--"WHEN-_I_-HEARD-A-HEAVY-TREAD-ON-THE-STAIRS, getting louder and
louder as it reached my door. Then came a knock strong enough to crack
the panels. I got up at once and turned the knob. In the corridor stood
the Large Man. He was inside before I could stop him--I couldn't have
stopped him. You have no idea, my dear friend, how big and strong that
man is. What he expected to see I don't know, but it evidently was not
what he found.

"'I had a hell of a time finding you,' he began, looking about him in
astonishment. 'Been up and down everywhere inquiring. Only got your
number from that red-headed plate-shover half an hour ago.'"

Peter's voice had now regained its customary volume:

"I had backed to the fireplace by this time and had picked up the
poker, as if to punch the fire, but I really intended to strike him if
he advanced too close or tried to help himself to any of my things. He
never took the slightest notice of my movements, or waited for any
answer to his outburst--just kept right on talking.

"'You were so dead easy there warn't no fun in it. I dropped to that
the first time you opened your head, but Sam had picked you out and it
had to go at that. My wife saw his mistake as soon as she got her eyes
on you, but Sam, like a fool, wouldn't listen. He was to do the
picking, and so I couldn't say a word. When we all got outside, clear,
we took a turn around Washington Square so I could have my laugh out on
Sam, and when we got back you were gone and so was the fellow from
Boston who chipped in, and so was that red-headed Irish waiter. That
knocked us silly--wife gave us rats, and I felt like a yellow dog. Been
a-feeling so ever since. The Dago couldn't or wouldn't understand. Said
we'd better come in when the boss was there. We had to take the eleven
o'clock to Boston that night and had only time to catch the train. When
I got back at six-ten to-night I drove to Foscari's, found the Irishman
and the boss, heard how he'd pulled your leg--paid the bill--$9.60,
wasn't it?--that's what he said it was, anyhow--and here's your
picture!'

"I had dropped the poker now and was motioning him to a chair.

"'No, thank you, I won't sit down; ain't got time. Got to take the
eleven forty-five for Chicago. Well, we had a lot of fun out of it,
anyhow, only I didn't intend it should end up the way it did. Just
wanted to get even with Sam and win my bet.'

"'Bet? I asked. I was still in the dark as to what he meant.

"'Yes--bet Sam I'd bunco any New York man he'd pick out, and you
happened to be the one. You see, wife and I and Sam were here for a few
days and we struck Thanksgiving and wanted some fun, and we HAD it.
You're white, old man all the way through--white as cotton and our
kind--never flunked once, or turned a hair. Sally took an awful shine
to you. Shake! Next time I'm in New York I'll look you up and if you
ever come out our way we'll open a keg o' nails, and make it red-hot
for you, and don't you forget it. Here's my card, so you can remember.'"

Peter picked up the card from the table, threw up his chin, and broke
into one of his infectious laughs. I reached over and took it from his
hand. It bore this inscription:


  J. C. MURPHY
  General Travelling Agent
  C. S. & Q. R. R.

  OGDEN, UTAH




MISS JENNINGS'S COMPANION


The big Liner slowed down and dropped anchor inside the Breakwater.
Sweeping toward her, pushing the white foam in long lines from her bow,
her flag of black smoke trailing behind, came the company's tender--out
from Cherbourg with passengers.

Under the big Liner's upper deck, along its top rail, was strung a row
of heads watching the tender's approach--old heads--young
heads--middle-aged heads--Miss Jennings's among these last--their eyes
taking in the grim Breakwater with its beacon light, the frowning
casemates specked with sentinels, and the line of the distant city
blurred with masts and spent steam. They saw, too, from their height
(they could look down the tender's smokestack) the sturdy figure of her
Captain, his white cap in relief against the green sea, and below him
the flat mass of people, their upturned faces so many pats of color on
a dark canvas.

With the hauling taut and making fast of the fore and aft hawsers, a
group of sailors broke away from the flat mass and began tugging at the
gangplank, lifting it into position, the boatswain's orders ringing
clear. Another group stripped off the tarpaulins from the piles of
luggage, and a third--the gangplank in place--swarmed about the heaps
of trunks, shouldering the separate pieces as ants shoulder grains of
sand, then scurrying toward the tender's rail, where other ants reached
down and relieved them of their loads.

The mass of people below now took on the shape of a funnel, its spout
resting on the edge of the gangplank, from out which poured a steady
stream of people up and over the Liner's side.

Two decks below where Miss Jennings and her fellow-travellers were
leaning over the steamer's rail craning their necks, other sights came
into view. Here not only the funnel-shaped mass could be seen, but the
faces of the individuals composing it, as well as their nationality and
class; whether first, second or steerage. There, too, was the line of
stewards reaching out with open hands, relieving the passengers of
their small belongings; here too stood the First Officer in white
gloves and gold lace bowing to those he knew and smiling at others; and
here too was a smooth-shaven, closely-knit young man in dark clothes
and derby hat, who had taken up his position just behind the First
Officer, and whose steady steel gray eyes followed the movements of
each and every one of the passengers from the moment their feet touched
the gangplank until they had disappeared in charge of the stewards.

These passengers made a motley group: first came a stout American with
two pretty daughters; then a young Frenchman and his valet; then a
Sister of Charity draped in black, her close-fitting, white, starched
cap and broad white collar framing her face, one hand clutching the
rope rail as she stepped feebly toward the steamer, the other grasping
a bandbox, her only luggage; next wriggled some college boys in twos
and threes, and then the rest of the hurrying mass, followed close by a
herd of emigrants crowding and stumbling like sheep, the men with
pillow-case bundles over their backs, the women with babies muffled in
shawls.

When the last passenger was aboard, the closely-knit young man with the
steel gray eyes leaned forward and said in a low voice to the First
Officer:

"He's not in this bunch."

"Sure?"

"Yes--dead sure."

"Where will you look for him now, Hobson?" continued the officer.

"Paris, maybe. I told the Chief we wouldn't get anywhere on this lead.
Well, so long"--and the closely-knit young man swung himself down the
gangplank and disappeared into the cabin of the tender.

The scenes on the gangplank were now repeated on the steamer. The old
travellers, whose hand luggage had been properly numbered, gave
themselves no concern--the stewards would look after their belongings.
The new travellers--the Sister of Charity among them--wandered about
asking questions that for the moment no one had time to answer. She,
poor soul, had spent her life in restful places, and the in-rush of
passengers and their proper bestowal seemed to have completely dazed
her.

"Can I help you?" asked the First Officer--everybody is ready to help a
Sister, no matter what his rank or how pressing his duties.

"Yes, please--I want to know where my room is. It is Number 49, so my
ticket says."

Here the Purser came up--he, too, would help a Sister.

"Sister Teresa, is it not--from the Convent of the Sacred Heart? Yes,
we knew you would get on at Cherbourg. You are on the lower deck in the
same stateroom with Miss Jennings. Steward--take the Sister to--"

"With whom?" she cried, with a look of blank amazement "But I thought I
was alone! They told me so at the office. Oh, I cannot share my room
with anybody. Please let--"

"Yes, but we had to double up. We would willingly give you a room
alone, but there isn't an empty berth on board." He was telling the
truth and showed it in his voice.

"But I have the money to pay for a whole room. I would have paid for it
at the office in Paris, but they told me it was not necessary."

"I know, Sister, and I'm very sorry, but it can't be helped now.
Steward, take Sister Teresa to Number 49." This last came as an order,
and ended the discussion.

When the Steward pushed open the door Miss Jennings was sitting on the
sofa berth reading, a long gray cloak about her shoulders. She had a
quiet, calm face and steady eyes framed in gold spectacles. She looked
to be a woman of fifty who had seen life and understood it.

"The officer says I am to share your room," began Sister Teresa in a
trembling voice. "Don't think me rude, please, but I don't want to
share your room. I want to be alone, and so do you. Can't you help me?"

"But I don't mind it, and you won't after you get used to it." The
voice was poised and well modulated--evidently a woman without
nerves--a direct, masterful sort of woman, who looked you straight in
the eyes, was without guile, hated a lie and believed in human nature.
"And we ought to get on together," she continued simply, as if it were
a matter of course. "You are a Sister, and from one of the French
institutions--I recognize your dress. I'm a nurse from the London
Hospital. The First Officer told me you had the other berth and I was
looking for you aboard the Cherbourg tender, but I couldn't see you for
the smoke, you were so far below me. We'll get on together, never fear.
Which bed will you have--this one or the one curtained off?"

"Oh, do you take the one curtained off," she answered in a hopeless
tone, as if further resistance was useless. "The sofa is easier perhaps
for me, for I always undress in the dark."

"No, turn on the light. It won't wake me--I'm used to sleeping
anywhere--sometimes bolt upright in my chair with my hand on my
patient."

"But it is one of the rules of our order to dress and undress in the
dark," the Sister pleaded; "candles are luxuries only used for the
sick, and so we do without them."

"All right--just as you say," rejoined Miss Jennings cheerily. "My only
desire was to make you comfortable."

That night at dinner Sister Teresa and Nurse Jennings found themselves
seated next to each other, the Chief Steward, who had special orders
from the First Officer to show Miss Jennings and her companion every
courtesy, having conducted them to their seats.

Before the repast was half over, the two had attracted the attention of
all about them. What was particularly noticed was the abstemious
self-denying life of the Sister so plainly shown in the lines of her
grave, almost hard, face, framed close in the tight bands of white
linen concealing every vestige of her hair, the whole in strong
contrast to the kind, sympathetic face of the Nurse, whose soft gray
locks hung loosely about her temples. Their history, gleaned at the
First Officer's table had also become public property. Nurse Jennings
had served two years in South Africa, where she had charge of a ward in
one of the largest field hospitals outside of Pretoria; on her return
to England, she had been placed over an important case in one of the
London hospitals--that of a gallant Canadian officer who had been
shipped home convalescent, and who had now sent for her to come to him
in Montreal. The good Sister was one of those unfortunate women who had
been expelled from France under the new law, and who was now on her way
to Quebec, there to take up her life-work again. This had been the
fifth refugee, the officer added, whom the Line had cared for.

When the hour for retiring came, Sister Teresa, with the remark that
she would wait until Miss Jennings was in bed before she sought her own
berth, followed her companion to the stateroom, bade her good-night,
and then, with her hand on the knob, lingered for a moment as if there
was still some further word on her lips.

"What is it?" asked the Nurse, with one of her direct, searching
glances. "Speak out--I'm a woman like yourself, and can understand."

"Well, it's about the Hour of Silence. I must have one hour every day
when I can be alone. It has been the custom of my life and I cannot
omit it. It will be many days before we reach the land, and there is no
other place for me to pray except in here. Would you object if I--"

"Object! Of course not! I will help you to keep it, and I will see,
too, that the Stewardess does not disturb you. Now, is there anything
else? Tell me--I love people who speak right out what they mean."

"No--except that I always rise at dawn, and will be gone when you wake.
Good-night."

The morning after this first night the two lay in their steamer chairs
on the upper deck. The First Officer, noticing them together, paused
for a moment on his way to the bridge:

"You knew, of course, Miss Jennings, that Hobson went back to Cherbourg
on the tender. He left good-by for you."

"Hunting for somebody, as usual, I suppose?" she rejoined.

"Yes"--and he passed on.

"A wretched life, isn't it," said Nurse Jennings, "this hunting for
criminals? This same man, Mr. Hobson, after a hunt of months, found one
in my ward with a bullet through his chest."

"You know him then?" asked Sister Teresa, with a tremor in her voice.

"Yes--he's a Scotland Yard man."

"And you say he was looking for some one on board and didn't find him?"

"No, not yet, but he will find him, he always does; that's the pity of
it. Some of these poor hunted people would lead a different life if
they had another chance. I tried to save the one Hobson found in my
ward. He was quite frank with me, and told me everything. When people
trust me my heart always goes out to them--so much so that I often do
very foolish things that are apt to get me into trouble. It's when they
lie to me--and so many do--making one excuse after another for their
being in the ward--that I lose all interest in them. I pleaded with
Hobson to give the man another chance, but I could do nothing. Thief as
he was, he had told the truth. He had that quality left, and I liked
him for it. If I had known Hobson was on his track I'd have helped him
in some way to get off. He stole to help his old mother, and wasn't a
criminal in any sense--only weak-hearted. The law is cruel--it never
makes allowances--that's where it is wrong."

"Cruel!--it's brutal. It is more brutal often than the crime," answered
Sister Teresa in a voice full of emotion. "Do you think the man your
friend was looking for here on board will escape?"

"No, I'm afraid not. There is very little chance of any criminal
escaping when they once get on his track, so Mr. Hobson has told me. If
he is on this steamer he must run another gauntlet in New York, even if
he is among the emigrants. You know we have over a thousand on board.
If he is not aboard they will track him down. Dreadful, isn't it?"

"Poor fellow," said Sister Teresa, a sob in her voice, "how sorry I am
for him. If men only knew how much wiser mercy is than justice in the
redemption of the world." Here she rose from her chair, and gathering
her black cloak about her crossed to the rail and looked out to sea. In
a few minutes she returned. "Let us walk out to the bow where we can
talk undisturbed," she said. "The constant movement of the passengers
on deck, passing backward and forward, disturbs my head. I see so few
people, you know."

When they reached the bow, she made a place beside her for the Nurse.

"Don't misunderstand what I said about the brutality of the law," she
began. "There must be laws, and brutal men who commit brutal crimes
must be punished. But there are so many men who are not brutal,
although the crimes may be. I knew of one once. We had educated his
little daughter--such a sweet child! The man himself was a
scene-painter and worked in the theatres in London. Sometimes he would
take part in the play himself, making up for the minor characters,
although most of his time was spent in painting scenery. He had married
a woman who was on the stage, and she had deserted him for one of the
actors, and left her child behind. Her faithlessness nearly broke his
heart. Through one of our own people in London he found us and sent the
child to the convent where we have a school for just such cases. When
the girl got to be seventeen years old he sent for her and she went to
London to see him. He remembered her mother's career, and guarded her
like a little plant. He never allowed her to come to the theatre except
in the middle of the day. Then she would come where he was at work up
on the top of the painting platform high above the stage. There he and
she would be alone. One morning while he was at work one of the
scene-shifters--a man with whom he had had some difficulty--met the
girl as she was crossing the high platform. He had never seen her
before and, thinking she was one of the chorus girls, threw his arm
about her. The girl screamed, the scene-painter dropped his brushes,
ran to her side, hit the man in the face--the scene-shifter lost his
balance and fell to the stage. Before he died in the hospital he told
who had struck him; he told why, too; that the scene-painter hated him;
and that the two had had an altercation the day before--about some
colors; which was not true, there only having been a difference of
opinion. The man fled to Paris with his daughter. The girl today is at
one of our institutions at Rouen. The detectives, suspecting that he
would try to see her, have been watching that place for the last five
months. All that time he has been employed in the garden of a convent
out of Paris. Last week we heard from a Sister in London that some one
had recognized him, although he had shaved off his beard--some visitor
or parent of one of the children, perhaps, who had come upon him
suddenly while at work in the garden beds. He is now a fugitive, hunted
like an animal. He never intended to harm this man--he only tried to
save his daughter--and yet he knew that because of the difficulty that
he had had with the dead man and the fact that his daughter's testimony
would not help him--she being an interested person--he would be made to
suffer for a crime he had not intended to commit. Now, would you hand
this poor father over to the police? In a year his daughter must leave
the convent. She then has no earthly protection."

Miss Jennings gazed out over the sea, her brow knit in deep thought.
Her mind went back to the wounded criminal in the hospital cot and to
the look of fear and agony that came into his eyes when Hobson stood
over him and called him by name. Sister Teresa sat watching her
companion's face. Her whole life had been one of mercy and she never
lost an opportunity to plead its cause.

The Nurse's answer came slowly:

"No, I would not. There is misery enough in the world without my adding
to it."

"Would you help him to escape?"

"Yes, if what you tell me is true and he trusted me."

Sister Teresa rose to her feet, crossed herself, and said in a voice
that seemed to come through pent-up tears:

"Thank God! I go now to pray. It is my Hour of Silence."

When she returned, Nurse Jennings was still in her seat in the bow. The
sun shone bright and warm, and the sea had become calm.

"You look rested, Sister," she said, looking up into her face. "Your
color is fresher and the dark rings have gone from your eyes. Did you
sleep?"

"No, I wait for the night to sleep. It is hard enough then."

"What did you do?"

"I prayed for you and for myself. Come to the stateroom--I have
something to tell you."

"Tell it here," said Nurse Jennings in a more positive tone.

"No, it might hurt you, and others will notice. Come quick, please, or
my courage will fail."

"Can't I hear it to-night--" She was comfortable where she was and
remembered the narrow, steep steps to the lower deck.

"No! come now--and QUICK."

At the tone of agony in the Sister's voice Miss Jennings scrutinized
her companion's face. Her trained ear had caught an indrawn, fluttering
sob which she recognized as belonging to a certain form of hysteria.
Brooding over her troubles, combined with the effects of the sea air,
had unstrung the dear Sister's nerves.

"Yes, certainly," assented Miss Jennings. "Let me take your arm--step
carefully, and lean on me."

On reaching the stateroom, Sister Teresa waited until Miss Jennings had
entered, then she locked the door and pulled the curtains close.

"Listen, Miss Jennings, before you judge me. You remember yesterday how
I pleaded with you to help me find a bedroom where I could be alone.
You would not, and I could do nothing but let matters take their
course. Fate has placed me in your hands. When you said that you were
on the lookout for me and that you knew Hobson, the detective, I knew
that all was lost unless your heart went out to me. I know him, too. I
faced his eyes when I came aboard. I staggered with fright and caught
at the ropes, but he did not suspect--I saw in his face that he did
not. He may still trace me and arrest me when I land. If anybody comes
for me, say you met me in the hospital where you work."

Nurse Jennings stood staring into the woman's eyes. Her first impulse
was to ring the bell for the Steward and send for the ship's doctor.
Sudden insanity, the result of acute hysteria, was not uncommon in
women leading sedentary lives who had gone through a heavy strain, and
the troubles of this poor Sister had, she saw, unseated her reason.

"Don't talk so--calm yourself. No one is seeking you. You ought to lie
down. Come--"

"Yes, I know you think I am crazy--I am crazy--crazy from a horrible
fear that stares me in the face--from a spectre that--"

"Sister, you MUST lie down! I'll ring for the Doctor and he--"

Sister Teresa sprang forward and caught the hand of the Nurse before it
touched the bell.

"Stop! STOP!--or all will be lost! I am not a Sister--I am the
scene-painter--the father of that girl! See!" He threw back his hood,
uncovering his head and exposed his short-cropped hair.

Nurse Jennings turned quickly and looked her companion searchingly in
the face. The surprise had been so great that for an instant her breath
left her. Then slowly the whole situation rushed over and upon her.
This man had made use of her privacy--had imposed upon her--tricked her.

"And you--you have dared to come into this room, making me believe you
were a woman--and lied to me about your Hour of Silence and all the--"

"It was the only way I could be safe. You and everybody else would
detect me if I did not shave and fix up my face. You said a minute ago
the dark rings had gone from my eyes--it is this paint-box that did it.
Think of what it would mean to me to be taken--and my little girl!
Don't--don't judge me wrongly. When I get to New York I promise never
to see you again--no one will ever know. If you had been my own sister
I could not have treated you with more respect since I have been in the
room. I will do anything you wish--to-night I will sleep on the
floor--anything, if--"

"To-night! Not another hour will you stay here. I will go to the Purser
at once and--"

"You mean to turn me out?"

"Yes."

"Oh, merciful God! Don't! Listen--you MUST listen. Let me stay! What
difference should it make to you. You have nursed hundreds of men. You
have saved many lives. Save mine--give me back my little girl! She can
come to me in Quebec and then we can get away somewhere in America and
be safe. I can still pass as a Sister and she as a child in my charge
until I can find some place where I can throw off my disguise. See how
good the real Sisters are to me; they do not condemn me. Here is a
letter from the Mother Superior in Paris to the Mother Superior of a
convent in Quebec. It is not forged--it is genuine. If they believe in
me, why cannot you? Let me stay here, and you stay, too. You would if
you could see my child."

The sound of a heavy step was heard outside in the corridor.

Then came a quick, commanding voice: "Miss Jennings, open the door,
please."

The Nurse turned quickly and made a step toward the door. The fugitive
sank upon the sofa and drew the hood over his face.

Again her name rang out--this time in a way that showed them both that
further delay was out of the question.

Nurse Jennings shot back the bolt.

Outside stood the First Officer.

"There has been a bad accident in the steerage. I hate to ask you, Miss
Jennings, knowing how tired you are--but one of the emigrants has
fallen down the forecastle hatch. The Doctor wants you to come at once."

During the rest of the voyage Nurse Jennings slept in the steerage; she
would send to Number 49 during the day for her several belongings, but
she never passed the night there, nor did she see her companion. The
case was serious, she told the Stewardess, who came in search of her,
and she dared not leave.

The fugitive rarely left the stateroom. Some days he pleaded illness
and had his meals brought to him; often he ate nothing.

As the day approached for the vessel to arrive in New York a shivering
nervousness took possession of him. He would stand behind the door by
the hour listening for her lightest footfall, hoping against hope that,
after all, her heart would soften toward him. One thought absorbed him:
would she betray him, and if so, when and where? Would it be to the
First Officer--the friend of Hobson--or would she wait until they
reached New York and then hand him over to the authorities?

Only one gleam of hope shone out illumining his doubt, and that was
that she never sent to the stateroom during the Hour of Silence, thus
giving him a chance to continue his disguise. Even this ray was dimmed
when he began to realize as they approached their destination that she
had steadily avoided him, even choosing another deck for a breath of
fresh air whenever she left her patient. That she had welcomed the
accident to the emigrant as an excuse for remaining away from her
stateroom was evident. What he could not understand was, if she really
pitied and justified him, as she had done his prototype, why she should
now treat him with such suspicion. At her request he had opened his
heart and had trusted her; why then could she not forgive him for the
deceit of that first night--one for which he was not responsible?

Then a new thought chilled him like an icy wind: her avoidance of him
was only an evidence of her purpose! Thus far she had not exposed him,
because then it would be known aboard that they had shared the
stateroom together. He saw it all now. She was waiting until they
reached the dock. Then no one would be the wiser.

When the steamer entered her New York slip and the gangplank was
hoisted aboard, another thick-set, closely-knit man pushed his way
through the crowd at the rail, walked straight to the Purser and
whispered something in his ear. The next moment he had glided to where
the Nurse and fugitive were standing.

"This is Miss Jennings, isn't it? I'm from the Central Office," and he
opened his coat and displayed the gold shield. "We've just got a cable
from Hobson. He said you were on board and might help. I'm looking for
a man. We've got no clew--don't know that he's on board, but I thought
we'd look the list over. The Purser tells me that you helped the Doctor
in the steerage--says somebody had been smashed up. Got anything to
suggest?--anybody that would fit this description: 'Small man, only
five-feet-six; blue eyes'"--and he read from a paper in his hand.

"No, I don't think so. I was in the steerage, of course, four or five
days, and helped on a bad case, but I didn't notice anybody but the few
people immediately about me."

"Perhaps, then, among the first-class passengers? Anybody peculiar
there? He's a slick one, we hear, and may be working a stunt in
disguise."

"No. To tell you the truth, I was so tired when I came aboard that I
hardly spoke to any one--no one, really, except my dear Sister Teresa
here, who shared my stateroom. They have driven her out of France and
she is on her way to a convent in Quebec. I go with her as far as
Montreal."




SAM JOPLIN'S EPIGASTRIC NERVE


I

"You eat too much, Marny." It was Joplin, of Boston, who was
speaking--Samuel Epigastric Joplin, his brother painters called him.
"You treat your stomach as if it were a scrap-basket and you dump into
it everything you--"

"I do? You caricature of a codfish ball!"

"Yes, you do. You open your mouth, pin back your ears and in go
pickles, red cabbage, Dutch cheese. It's insanity, Marny, and it's
vulgar. No man's epigastric can stand it. It wouldn't make any
difference if you were a kangaroo with your pouch on the outside, but
you're a full-grown man and ought to have some common-sense."

"And you think that if I followed your idiotic theory it would keep me
out of my coffin, do you? What you want, Joppy, is a square meal. You
never had one, so far as I can find out, since you were born. You drank
sterilized milk at blood temperature until you were five; chewed
patent, unhulled wheat bread until you were ten, and since that time
you've filled your stomach with husks--proteids, and carbohydrates, and
a lot of such truck--isn't that what he calls em, Pudfut?"

The Englishman nodded in assent.

"And now just look at you, Joppy, instead of a forty-inch chest--"

"And a sixty-inch waist," interjected Joplin with a laugh, pointing at
Marny's waistcoat.

"I acknowledge it, old man, and I'm proud of it," retorted Marny,
patting his rotundity. "Instead, I say, of a decent chest your
shoulders crowd your breast-bone; your epigastric, as you call it--it's
your solar plexus, Joppy--but that's a trifle to an anatomist like
you--your epigastric scrapes your back-bone, so lonely is it for
something warm and digestible to rub up against, and your-- Why, Joppy,
do you know when I look at you and think over your wasted life, my eyes
fill with tears? Eat something solid, old man, and give your stomach a
surprise. Begin now. Dinner's coming up--I smell it. Open your port
nostril, you shrivelled New England bean, and take in the aroma of
beatific pork and greens. Doesn't that put new life into you? Puddy,
you and Schonholz help Joppy to his feet and one or two of you fellows
walk behind to pick up the pieces in case he falls apart before we can
feed him. There's Tine's dinner-bell!"

White-capped, rosy-checked, bare-armed Tine had rung that bell for this
group of painters for two years past--ever since Mynheer Boudier of the
Bellevue over the way, who once claimed her services, had reproved
Johann, the porter, for blocking up with the hotel trunks that part of
the sidewalk over which the steamboat captain slid his gangplank.
Thereupon Tine slipped her pretty little feet into her white
sabots--she and Johann have been called in church since--and walked
straight over to the Holland Arms. Johann now fights the steamboat
captain, backed not only by the landlord of the Arms, who rubs his
hands in glee over the possession of two of his competitor's best
servants, but by the whole coterie of painters whose boots Johann
blacks, whose kits be packs and unpacks, whose errands he runs; while
Tine, no less loyal and obliging, darns their stockings, mends their
clothes, sews on buttons, washes brushes, stretches canvases, waits on
table, rings the dinner-bell, and with her own hands scrubs every
square inch of visible surface inside and out of this quaint old inn in
this sleepy old town of Dort-on-the-Maas--side-walks, windows,
cobbles--clear to the middle of the street, her ruddy arms bare to the
elbow, her sturdy, blue-yarn-stockinged legs thrust into snow-white
sabots to keep her trim feet from the wet and slop.

Built in 1620, this inn of the Holland Arms--so the mildewed brick in
the keystone over the arch of the doorway says--and once the home of a
Dutchman made rich by the China trade, whose ships cast anchor where
Fop Smit's steamboats now tie up (I have no interest in the Line); a
grimy, green-moulded, lean-over front and moss-covered, sloping-roof
sort of an inn, with big beams supporting the ceilings of the bedrooms;
lumbering furniture blackened with the smoke of a thousand pipes
flanking the walls of the coffee-room; bits of Delft a century old
lining the mantel; tiny panes of glass with here and there a bull's-eye
illumining the squat windows; rows of mugs with pewter tops crowding
the narrow shelves beside the fireplace, and last, and by no means
least, a big, bulky sun-moon-and-stars clock, with one eye always open,
which strikes the hours as if it meant to beat the very life out of
them.

But there is something more in this coffee-room--something that neither
Mynheer Boudier of the Bellevue nor any other landlord in any other
hostelry, great or small, up and down the Maas, can boast. This is the
coffee-room picture gallery--free to whoever comes.

It began with a contribution from the first impecunious painter in
payment of an overdue board-bill, his painting being hung on a nail
beside the clock. Now; all over the walls--above the sideboard with its
pewter plates and queer mugs; over the mantel holding the Delft, and
between the squat windows--are pinned, tacked, pasted and hung--singly
and in groups--sketches in oil, pastel, water color, pencil and
charcoal, many without frames and most of them bearing the signature of
some poor, stranded painter, preceded by the suggestive line, "To my
dear friend, the landlord"--silent reminders all of a small cash
balance which circumstances quite beyond their control had prevented
their liquidating at the precise hour of their departure.

Mynheer had bowed and smiled as each new contribution was handed him
and straightway had found a hammer and a nail and up it went beside its
fellows. He never made objection: the more the merrier. The ice wind
would soon blow across the Maas from Papendrecht, the tall grasses in
the marshes turn pale with fright, and the lace-frost with busy fingers
pattern the tiny panes, and then Johann would pack the kits one after
another, and the last good-byes take place. But the sketches would
remain. Oh! yes, the sketches would remain and tell the story of the
summer and every night new mugs would be filled around the coal-fire,
and new pipes lighted--mugs and pipes of the TOWNSPEOPLE this time, who
came to feast their eyes,--and, although the summer was gone, the long
winter would still be his. No, Mynheer never objected!

And this simple form of settlement--a note of hand (in color), payable
in yearly patronage--has not been confined to modern times. Many an inn
owes its survival to a square of canvas--the head of a child, a copper
pot, or stretch of dune; and more than one collector now boasts of a
masterpiece which had hung for years on some taproom wall, a sure but
silent witness of the poverty of a Franz Hals, Wouverman or Van der
Helst.

Each year had brought new additions to the impecunious group about
Mynheer's table.

Dear old Marny, with his big boiler amidships, his round, sunburned
face shaded by a wide-brimmed, slouch hat--the one he wore when he
lived with the Sioux Indians--loose red tie tossed over one shoulder,
and rusty velveteen coat, was an old habitue. And so was dry, crusty
Malone, "the man from Dublin," rough outside as a potato and white
inside as its meal. And so, too, was Stebbins, the silent man of the
party, and the only listener in the group. All these came with the
earliest birds and stayed until the boys got out their skates.

But there were others this year who were new. Pudfut, the Englishman,
first--in from Norway, where he had been sketching on board some lord's
yacht--he of the grizzly brown beard, brown ulster reaching to his
toes, gray-checked steamer-cap and brierwood pipe--an outfit which he
never changed--"slept in them," Marny insisted.

"Me name's Pudfut," he began, holding out his hand to Marny. "I've got
a letter in my clothes for ye from a chap in Paris."

"Don't pull it out," had come the answer. "Put it there!" and within an
hour the breezy fellow, his arm through the Englishman's, had trotted
him all over Dort from the Groote Kerk to the old Gate of William of
Orange, introducing him to every painter he met on the way, first as
Pudfut, then as Puddy, then as Pretty-foot, then as Tootsie-Wootsie,
and last as Toots--a name by which he is known in the Quartier to this
day. This done, he had taken him up to his own room and had dumped him
into an extra cot--his for the rest of the summer.

Then Schonholz wandered in--five gulden a week board was the magnet--a
cheese-faced, good-natured German lad with forehead so high that when
he raised his hat Marny declared, with a cry of alarm, that his scalp
had slipped, and only regained his peace of mind when he had twisted
his fat fingers in the lad's forelock to make sure that it was still
fast. Schonholz had passed a year at Heidelberg and carried his diploma
on his cheek--two crisscross slashes that had never healed--spoke
battered English, wore a green flat-topped cap, and gray bobtailed coat
with two rows of horn buttons ("Come to shoot chamois, have you?" Marny
had asked when he presented his credentials.)--laughed three-quarters
of the time he was awake, and never opened his kit or set a palette
while he was in Dort. "Too vet and too fodgy all dime," was the way he
accounted for his laziness.

Last came Joplin--a man of thirty-five; bald as an egg and as shiny.
("Dangerous to have a hen around," Marny would say, rubbing the pate
after the manner of a phrenologist.) Gaunt, wiry; jerky in his
movements as a Yankee clock and as regular in his habits: hot water
when he got up--two glasses, sipped slowly; cold water when he went to
bed, head first, feet next, then the rest of him; window open all night
no matter how hard it blew or rained; ate three meals a day and no
more; chewed every mouthful of food thirty times--coffee, soup, even
his drinking-water (Gladstone had taught him that, he boasted)--a
walking laboratory of a man, who knew it all, took no layman's advice,
and was as set in his ways as a chunk of concrete.

And his fads did not stop with his food; they extended to his
clothes--everything he used, in fact. His baggy knickerbockers ended in
leather leggins to protect his pipe-stem shanks; his shirts buttoned
all the way down in front and went on like a coat; he wore health
flannels by day and a health shirt at night ("Just like my old Aunt
Margaret's wrapper," whispered Marny in a stage voice to Pudfut);
sported a ninety-nine-cent silver watch fastened to a leather strap
(sometimes to a piece of twine); stuck a five-hundred-dollar scarab pin
in his necktie--"Nothing finer in the Boston Museum," he maintained,
and told the truth--and ever and always enunciated an English so pure
and so undefiled that Stebbins, after listening to it for a few
minutes, proposed, with an irreverence born of good-fellowship, that a
subscription be started to have Joplin's dialect phonographed so that
it might be handed down to posterity as the only real and correct thing.

"Are you noticing, gentlemen, the way in which Joplin handles his
mother tongue?" Stebbins had shouted across the table: "never drops his
'g's,' never slights his first syllable; says 'HUmor' with an accent on
the 'HU.' But for the fact that he pronounces 'bonnet' 'BUNNIT' and
'admires' a thing when he really ought only to 'like' it, you could
never discover his codfish bringing up. Out with your wallets--how much
do you chip in?"

These peculiarities soon made Joplin the storm-centre of every
discussion. Not only were his views on nutrition ridiculed, but all his
fads were treated with equal disrespect. "Impressionism," "plein air,"
the old "line engraving" in contrast to the modern "half-tone"
methods--any opinion of Joplin's, no matter how sane or logical, was
jostled, sat on, punched in the ribs and otherwise maltreated until
every man was breathless or black in the face with assumed rage--every
man except the man jostled, who never lost his temper no matter what
the provocation, and who always came up smiling with some such remark
as: "Smite away, you Pharisees; harmony is heavenly--but stupid. Keep
it up--here's the other cheek!"

On this particular night Joplin, as I have said, had broken out on
diet. Some movement of Marny's connected with the temporary relief of
the lower button of his waistcoat had excited the great Bostonian's
wrath. The men were seated at dinner inside the coffee-room, Johann and
Tine serving.

"Yes, Marny, I'm sorry to say it, but the fact is you eat too much and
you eat the wrong things. If you knew anything of the kinds of food
necessary to nourish the human body, you would know that it should
combine in proper proportions proteid, fats, carbohydrates and a small
percentage of inorganic salts--these are constantly undergoing
oxidation and at the same time are liberating energy in the form of
heat."

"Hear the bloody bounder!" bawled Pudfut from the other end of the
table.

"Silence!" called Marny, with his ear cupped in his fingers, an
expression of the farthest-away-boy-in-the-class on his face.

Joplin waved his hand in protest and continued, without heeding the
interruption: "Now, if you're stupid enough to stuff your epigastrium
with pork, you, of course, get an excess of non-nitrogenous fats, and
in order to digest anything properly you must necessarily cram in an
additional quantity of carbohydrates--greens, potatoes,
cabbage--whatever Tine shoves under your nose. Consult any scientist
and see if I am not right--especial

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