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The Woman Gives: A Story of Regeneration

by Owen Johnson · English · Gutenberg #47640 · 746,698 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Woman Gives: A Story of Regeneration

Author: Owen Johnson

Illustrator: Howard Chandler Christy


        
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Language: English

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THE WOMAN GIVES


      *      *      *      *      *      *

   By the Same Author

   _Lawrenceville Stories_

   THE PRODIGIOUS HICKEY
   THE VARMINT
   THE TENNESSEE SHAD

   THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE
   THE WOMAN GIVES

      *      *      *      *      *      *


[Illustration: In the subdued torment on his face there was a
sudden flickering passage of absolute terror. FRONTISPIECE. _See
page 175._]


THE WOMAN GIVES

A Story of Regeneration

by

OWEN JOHNSON

With Illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy







[Illustration]

Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1916

Copyright, 1916,
By Owen Johnson.

All rights reserved

Published, September, 1916

The Colonial Press
C.H. Simonds Co., Boston, U. S. A.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  IN THE SUBDUED TORMENT ON HIS FACE THERE
      WAS A SUDDEN FLICKERING PASSAGE OF
      ABSOLUTE TERROR                                _Frontispiece_

  IT NEVER OCCURRED TO KING O’LEARY TO
    ASK WHAT SHE INTENDED TO DO                           _Page_ 69

  “FRIENDSHIP!” SHE SAID SCORNFULLY, WITH
      A QUICK BREATH, “A LOT OF FRIENDSHIP
      THERE WAS IN THAT!”                                   “   109

  “THERE!” HE GAVE THEM A SIGNAL, AND
      STOOD OFF GRINNING, HIS HEAD ON ONE
      SIDE, CONTEMPLATIVELY, AS THEY
      CROWDED ABOUT THE COMPOSITION                         “   149

  THEN SHE DELIBERATELY TORE IT INTO PIECES                 “   276

  “MY HAT AND MY CANE!” EXCLAIMED “THE
      BARON”                                                “   316




THE WOMAN GIVES


Teagan’s Arcade stood, and in the slow upward progress of the city
it may still stand, at that intersection of Broadway and Columbus
Avenue, where the grumbling subway and the roaring elevated meet
at Lincoln Square. It covered a block, bisected by an arcade and
rising six capacious stories in the form of an enormous H. On
Broadway, the glass front was given over to shops and offices of
all descriptions, while in the back stretches of the top stories,
artists, sculptors, students, and illustrators had their studios
alongside of mediums, dentists, curious business offices, and
derelicts of all description.

The square was a churning meeting of contending human tides. The
Italians had installed their fruit shops and their groceries; the
French their florists and their delicatessen shops; the Jews their
clothing bazaars; the Germans their jewelers and their shoe stores;
the Irish their saloons and their restaurants, while from Healy’s,
one of the most remarkable meeting-grounds in the city, they
dominated the neighborhood.

The Arcade, which had stood like a great glass barn, waiting the
inevitable stone advance of reconstruction, looked down on this
rushing stream of all nations, while occasionally from the mixed
races outside, swimming on the current of the avenue, a bit of
human débris was washed up and found its lodging. It was a bit of
the Orient--the flotsam and jetsam of Hong Kong and Singapore in
the heart of New York. It was a place where no questions were asked
and no advice permitted; where if you found a man wandering in the
long, drafty corridors you piloted him to his room and put him to
bed and did not seek to reform him in the morning. This was its
etiquette. There were the young and unafraid, who were coming up
blithely, and the old and tired, who were going down, and it was
understood that those who were bent on their own destruction should
do it in their own chosen way--a place where souls in hunger and
souls in despair met momentarily and passed.

In the whole city there was not such another incongruous gathering
of activities. There was a vast billiard-parlor and a theater;
a barber shop and shoe parlors; a telegraph station and an
ice-cream-and-candy shop, thronged at the luncheon hour with crowds
of schoolboys; there was also a millinery shop and one for fancy
goods; a clock maker, and two corner saloons. Above, in the lower
lofts, every conceivable human oddity was assembled in a sort of
mercantile crazy quilt. One read such signs as these:

                          WILLIE GOLDMARK
                         HIGH-ART CLOTHING

                THE GREAT INTERNATIONAL NOVELTY CO

                      UNCLE PAUL’S PAWN SHOP
           YOU CAN PAWN ANYTHING FROM A SHOE-STRING TO A
                            LOCOMOTIVE

                     THE PATENT HORSESHOE CO.

             THE ROYAL EUROPEAN HAIR-DRESSING PARLORS
                MARCEL-WAVING TAUGHT IN TEN LESSONS

Besides this, there were offices for a dozen patent medicine cures;
a notary public and public stenographers; while banjo lessons,
instruction in illustration, commercial advertising and fancy
dancing were offered on every floor.

Higher up, on the fifth and particularly on the sixth floor,
where the lofts had been transformed into dwelling-rooms and
studios, a queer collection had settled and clung tenaciously. For
years, oppressed by the vastness and gloom of the reverberating
corridors, they had gone on living solitary lives, barely nodding
to each other, as though each had a secret to bury (which indeed
was often true), and they might have continued thus indefinitely,
had it not been for two events--the accident of King O’Leary’s
meeting Tootles, and the mystery of Dangerfield’s coming to the
corner studio--two unifying events that brought the little group
of human stragglers on the sixth floor into a curious fraternity
that persisted for several years, and was fated to affect several
destinies profoundly.




I


It was Christmas Eve in Lincoln Square. A fine snow was sifting
out of the leaden night, coating the passers-by with silver but
dissolving on the warm asphalt stretches in long, gleaming lakes
where a thousand reflections quivered. From the glowing subway
entrances, the holiday crowds surged up, laden with mysterious
packages, scurrying home for the decking out of tinseled trees
and the plotting of Christmas surprises. The shop windows flared
through the crowds so brightly that they seemed to have brought
up electric reinforcements. The restaurants were crowded with
brilliant garlands gay with red berries and festal ribbons,
while amid the turbulent traffic of the avenues, impudent little
taxi-cabs went scooting merrily, with rich glimpses of heaped-up
boxes inside.

At Healy’s, under the strident elevated station, a few guests
were entering the blazing dining-rooms, laughing and expectant.
The tension of the city’s nerves seemed everywhere relaxed.
For one merry hour in the long, grinding year, united in the
unselfish spirit of revelry, with the zest of secrets to be guarded
and secrets to be discovered, the metropolitan crowd bumped
good-humoredly on its way, gay with the democracy of good cheer.

King O’Leary left the throng at the bar at Healy’s, whistling
loudly to himself, flung a half-dollar to the blind news-dealer
under the elevated steps, calling with gruff gusto, “Merry
Christmas!” and, resuming his whistling, crossed the square to
where Teagan’s Arcade rose in shanty splendor, six stories above
Broadway, filling the block with its flashing electric signs which
hung against the night like so much cheap jewelry.

If King O’Leary continued to whistle with exaggerated gaiety,
tricking himself into a set smile, it was because deep in his
heart he felt the irresistible closing-in of his black hour.
As he neared the glass descent into the rumbling underground,
a flurried eruption of parcel-laden crowds whirled momentarily
about him, wrapping him around with youth, laughter, and the aroma
of friendship and affection. Home! He felt it so keenly; he saw
so clearly rising before him a hundred visions of family groups
gathered in the warmth of cozy houses, he felt so out of it, so
socially excommunicated, that his pretense at gaiety flattened out.
He shifted the soft-brimmed hat over his eyes, as though to shut
out memories, turned up the collar of his coat, and, digging his
great hands into capacious pockets, swung doggedly on. The world
for this one night had run away from him. In the whole city he
could think of no door where he could leave a present or imagine
from what direction one might descend upon him. With the exception
of the half-dollar flung to the blind news-dealer, and a few tips
jingling in his pockets, his Christmas giving was over. Twice a
year, in his happy-go-lucky existence, rolling down incredible
avenues of life from Singapore to Nome, Alaska, meeting each day
with unfailing zest, leader and boon companion through whatever
crowds he passed--twice a year, at Christmas and on a certain day
in mid-April, the secret of which lay buried in his memory, King
O’Leary went down into the dark alleys of remembrance.

He entered the Arcade, which was like a warm, friendly furnace
after the wet, shivering snow flurries, transparent shops on either
side, and ahead the gleam of brass railings barring the entrance to
the vaudeville theater, whose evening program shrieked at him from
colored sheets of mystery and guaranteed thrills.

“Lord, but this is awful!” he said solemnly, gazing
absent-mindedly into the glowing tonsorial parlors inscribed “Joey
Shine.” “Wish to the deuce I could think of some one to give a
present to!”

All at once he perceived the manicurist, a tall, Amazonian
young lady, with reddish hair coiled in amazing tangles, who
was examining him with friendly curiosity. He came out of his
abstraction, wondered where he had seen her, half smiled, and went
slowly on his way to the elevator, an old-fashioned vehicle, which
came settling down like an ancient barge.

“Merry Christmas, Mistah O’Leary!”

“Back to you, Sam!” he said, dropping a dollar in the box which was
conspicuously advertised. And he added, “Up six.”

“Thank you, sah; _thank you_!” said Sam, whose eyeballs rolled
whitely at the magnificence of the tip.

The twin elevators in the Arcade were sleepy affairs, unoppressed
by a sense of time, while the voyage upward was never guaranteed.
They were large, open, cage-like affairs, littered with
announcements: rooms to be sublet or to be shared; trousers pressed
and old clothes bought; washing cheaply offered; instruction in
typewriting and stenography; dental parlors; the future foretold
and confidential advice given at reasonable rates by Madame
Probasco on the fifth floor; while only temporarily reversed, a
large sign announced:

                           OUT OF ORDER
                        TAKE OTHER ELEVATOR

Sam lingered a moment, humming sleepily, as though to coax forth
another passenger from the shadows. This failing, he shuffled out
for a languid survey of the Arcade.

“No hurry here,” said O’Leary, yawning indifferently and settling
into the cushioned chair which soothed the attendant in his weary
hours.

Thus encouraged, Sam lounged away for a final reconnoitering,
slouched back, vacillated a moment on one foot, and had his hand
on the sliding gate, when out of the dusk came a hallo in a high,
nasal English accent.

“I say there, Sassafras, my man, hold him in!”

Sam began laughing immediately, in a thin, treble, body-shaking
laugh,

“He-he-he, Mr. Kidder; I sartainly knew you was coming--yassah!”

A young fellow, barely five feet six, with the figure of a jockey,
hopped into the car, and, seizing the regulator, rattled off:

“Cast away there! Smartly now, my man, smartly! Take in your
spinnaker! Ship the maintop-gallant sheets! Douse the poop-deck!
Stand by the battens!”

In response to this rapid salvo, the elevator began to budge,
creaking and protesting, rising at about the rate of six inches a
second.

“Do you think we can make it?” said Kidder, with assumed alarm.
“How’s the old scow to-night, mate?”

“Why, most surprisin’ well--yassah, most surprisin’.”

“It’s a stormy night, and there’s a bad reef above the fourth.
Well, mate, we’re in the hands of Providence. It’s will be done!”

All at once, seeming to perceive King O’Leary for the first time,
he inquired anxiously:

“Excuse me, sir, does my presence at the helm cause you any
anxiety?”

“Not here,” said King O’Leary, who, in his amusement, had been
tricked out of his glumness.

“What floor can I serve you, sir?”

“The sixth will be about right for me.”

“Then we sink or swim, survive or perish, together!”

He was dapperly dressed, and though his yellowish checks were
evidently ready-made, they were squeezed in at the waist and
hoisted over the ankles in the latest style. He had the hatchet
face of the clever Yankee, alert, sharply defined, with a
high-bridged and rather bold English nose.

“Youngster looks like a pocket edition of the Duke of Wellington,”
thought King O’Leary, registering his favorable impressions, and,
before the other’s infectious spirits, he began to recover his
natural zest.

Tootles--to give Mr. St. George Kidder at once his workaday
name--meanwhile had been examining his companion with the
impressionable eye of the artist. He saw the bulky body of a man
approaching middle age, yet full of rough, brawny substance and
weather-tried endurance. The great half-moon of a mouth was now
turning up in its usual indomitable attitude toward life under the
broad-spaced, jovial nose set between full cheeks breaking into
dimples. Underneath wisps of tawny hair, rather Mephistophelian,
were clear-blue eyes, brilliant and sharp as a brigand’s. The
whole had a combination of companionable good humor, and instant
aggression when necessary.

“Rather a rough nun in case of a scrap, I should fancy,” thought
Tootles, who had his own way of expressing things. “However, he has
a sense of humor--of _my_ humor--which is distinctly in his favor.”

Suddenly he exclaimed aloud:

“Whoa there! All hands on deck stand by the lifeboats!”

The elevator, having drifted gradually past one dark floor after
the other, had now come to a jolting stop between the third and
the fourth, and began to churn up and down in a manner distinctly
alarming.

“Sassafras, you’re feeding Tessie too much red meat,” said
Tootles, shifting his metaphors as Sam came to the rescue.

Another moment of joggling and bucking, and the elevator, as though
too weary to continue its exertions, suddenly glided up and to a
rest at the sixth floor.

“Whew! My eyes and whiskers!” exclaimed Tootles, springing out.

He turned with an air of grave solicitude.

“Sassafras, I do believe I forgot to pay the chauffeur. Small
change, you know, is such a nuisance. I’m going to let you be my
banker for a couple of days. Give him a liberal tip. And I say,
when the florist comes in the morning with my _boutonnière_, attend
to that, too, will you? Oh, yes, if Mrs. Van Astorbilt calls again
this evening, tell her I have gone to the country--but discreetly,
Sassafras, discreetly, in your best manner. Remember--she is a
woman, like your mother.”

The sparkling elevator sagged out of sight, burying in the
cavernous shaft the body-shaking peals of laughter, leaving O’Leary
and Tootles moving down the spacious, murky corridor of the sixth
floor back. There was a moment of silence, each rather watching
the other out of the corner of his eye, and then Tootles heaved a
prodigious sigh.

“Say, this is a hell of a place on Christmas eve, isn’t it?”

“Why, boy, I didn’t know it hit you that way,” said King O’Leary,
surprised.

“It sure does. ‘Christmas comes but once a year, when it comes it
brings good cheer!’ Yes, it does! Wish I could sleep it over. Ugh!
Well, anyhow!”

He stopped at the door which bore the inscription:

                         NO MODELS WANTED.

King O’Leary reluctantly continued farther up the bare hallway to
his room.

“I say, over there!”

O’Leary turned, looking back at Tootles, who stood dimly revealed
in the light of the half-open door, his head on one side,
scratching his ear, as though, by some instinct, he had divined the
shadow over the other man’s heart.

“Well, son, what is it?”

“Merry Christmas, and all that sort of thing, you know!”

“Oh, sure--back to you. Merry Christmas?” said the other, as though
trying it on his ear, and a loud guffaw followed. “Yes, it’ll be a
merry Christmas--I think--NOT!”

King O’Leary turned the lock and flung open the door on the dim
solitude of his room. Then he threw on the electric light, and each
bare detail came suddenly out--a cot with the cover still turned
down, a wash-stand, and an upright piano with an armchair before
it, turned sideways, so that he could avail himself of the height
of the arm when he played. In one corner was a low hair trunk,
reenforced with leather of the make sailors were wont to use.

He closed the door, whistling gloomily, went over to the piano and
struck a few aimless chords.

“Anywhere else in civilization, Vladivostok, Valparaiso, or
Honolulu, a white man could speak to another on such a night as
this; but in this God-forsaken wilderness, I suppose they’d think I
was after their watch.”

He turned again to the keyboard, and, playing by ear, with a truly
sensitive touch, ran into the _Feuer Motif_ of “Die Walküre.”

“God, that’s great--that is great!” he said solemnly. “That is
it--earth, fire, and water!”

He tried another start--shut the piano viciously and rose.

“Damn New York!” he said, with his nose to the curtainless window,
peering out at the opposite side of the court, with its chilly,
bare outline. “Damn New York for an unfriendly stuck-up port,
anyhow! Dozens of poor devils sitting around nursing their misery
and afraid to say hello to another human being. Danged if I don’t
try it!” he said, all at once, and, slapping on his hat, he went
out of his room and up to the corner studio, near which a dozen
boxes were piled.

“I’ll try each in turn,” he said grimly, and knocked.

But a moment’s pounding convinced him that the studio was
unoccupied, and he turned to the opposite room, which lay next to
his, and rapped on it as though to summon forth a spirit.

The door was presently opened, and the figure of a young woman
appeared.

“My name’s King O’Leary,” he said desperately, taking off his hat.
“I’m looking for some mortal being, man, woman or child, who’s as
plumb lonely as I am, to go out and help me through this night. I’m
not a thug or a pickpocket, and I’m not fresh. Anywhere else on
this blessed globe except here, people would understand me. Well,
how about it? I suppose you think I’m crazy?”

She stood a little defensively, her hands behind her back in an
attitude which seemed to bar the way into the studio, which lay
behind, warm and inviting with the charm her feminine touch had
laid over its crude outlines, as the spreading ivy softens the
ugliness of a ruin. Her hat and coat were on a near-by chair, as
though she were preparing to go out. Though she stood against the
light, he was struck with the oddity of her appearance--a certain
defiant, youthful erectness in her body, the depth of darkness
that lay over her, in the black of her hair, which was braided and
coiled about her forehead, and the brown oval of the face--brown as
an Indian’s. He could not see the eyes for the moment.

“You’re in the room next to me, aren’t you--the one who was
playing?” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone, and her voice was
gutturally pleasant, so different from the high-pitched excitement
of the New Yorker that he stared at her in surprise.

“Yes; I’m just about twenty miles away,” he said, shrugging his
shoulders. “Well, I suppose I’m letting myself in for a throw-down,
but here goes. Honestly, I mean what I say. I’m stranded
here--don’t know a soul. I’m just craving for some one to talk to.
Fact. If you’re in the same box and can size a man up for what he
is, why--” he added, in an embarrassed rush, aware by the white
gleam of her teeth that the girl was watching him, amused at his
embarrassment--“I say, what do you do to a man who has the nerve to
knock on your door and ask you to go out to dinner?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, yes; that’s what I expected. Well, I meant it all right,” he
said ruefully.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I’m going
out to dinner.”

As she said this she seemed to relax, as though satisfied of the
sincerity of his appeal, and, turning, for the first time the
light fell clear across her face. What the color of her eyes was
in the daytime he did not know, only now, in the darkness and the
artificial light, there was something luminous and deep and full,
and yet they struck him as a sort of barrier held against those who
sought to read deeper. These eyes looked straight into his, quiet,
restrained--not quite the eyes of a young girl nor yet the eyes of
a woman. The whole swift impression on him was of some one quite
unlike the rest, an inflexibility of purpose, something decisive
in look and attitude and, at the same time, something withheld--a
flash of elfin wildness cruelly mastered.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, conscious that he had looked too
intently; and he added, in blunt tribute: “Yes, of course, you
would be going somewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” she said; and this time she smiled, a smile like
the woman, curiously devoid of coquetry and yet at the same time
haunting the imagination.

“Do you mean you would have come?” he said eagerly.

“Of course,” she said, as though this were the most natural thing
in the world.

“Lord, this looks human!” he said, hungrily glancing into the
studio. “Wish you could see the cell I’m in.” He hesitated a moment
and then said abruptly, “I’d like--well, just to get the feeling of
it--can I step in--just a moment?”

She hesitated in turn and studied his face intently.

“Just a minute, then,” she said, but she remained by the open door.

King O’Leary strode into the room over the grateful softness
underneath.

“Rugs!” he said ecstatically, and he put his head back as though to
inhale the welcome odor of a home. “Lord, I can just smell it!” he
said. “It just warms you up--makes you feel real.”

He stood, hat in hand, his face glowing, surveying the blending
shades of gray and green, the subdued glow of the table-lights,
the grateful touches of warm colors here and there, and the easel
covered with a cloak of mellow golden velvet that was in itself
calming to look at.

“You’re an artist?” he said.

“Yes.”

She made no move to question him, watching him with a quiet sense
of dignity that seemed to accord him what he needed and no more. He
turned regretfully from his contemplation.

“You’re sure about dinner?”

“Yes.”

He wanted to shake hands, but her attitude did not seem to permit
it. He made a last attempt.

“Say, if I annoy you with my pounding--just rap on the wall and
shut me up.”

“I like it.”

“Really--anything in particular?”

“No; I like it all.”

“I’m glad of that.” He hesitated again, moved toward the door.
“I’m sorry about that dinner.”

She nodded, and he thought she was still watching him with her
disconcerting amusement.

“Good luck!”

The door closed, leaving King O’Leary, who had met women, good,
bad, and indifferent, in many climes and held his own with Irish
audacity, so thoroughly perplexed that he stood staring at the warm
light playing on the glass of the door a long moment before he
squared his shoulders and advanced to the next test.




II


Tootles shared the studio, which was a curiosity in itself, and
a sort of refuge for indigent artists, transient reporters and
just plain-a-day human beings, with Mr. Flick Wilder, who numbered
among his activities (without tarrying overlong in any) journalism,
all grades of publicity and press-work, advance agent, and odd
theatrical jobs, special stories, and occasionally minor editorial
positions, briefly held. As he aspired to a liberal position in
the literary world--and by liberal, he understood a position in
which he should originate the ideas that others were laboriously to
execute--he had decided to take up as a steady profession (steady
being used in a relative sense) the occupation of joke-smith, or
joke-cracker, as he himself termed it, as one which necessitated
only a trifling expense in the shape of a note-book, developed
the memory, and made the companionship of witty associates a
lucrative necessity. He pounded out the pun ordinary by the dozen
for the comic weeklies at fifty cents an item. He dressed up
anecdotes skimmed from current journalism, and fitted them to
celebrities, a process which he termed “developing the property.”
He seasoned English humor with the pepper of American wit. He
tagged an inscription to a cartoon and supplied ideas for others
_ad libitum_, and occasionally, by astutely padding two lines into
a paragraph or a paragraph into a section, realized the colossal
sum of five dollars. Daily contemplation of all things in their
humorous possibilities had settled upon him a fixed gravity, a sort
of distant look in the eyes, of seeking to determine whether the
last man had uttered anything of value, and where others broke
into laughter, he resorted to his note-book. He had seen many sides
of New York in the periodic lapses which kept him constantly in
search of a new profession. He had even been a dog-catcher during
a week of financial stringency, when he was seeking to earn his
fare from Chattanooga back to the metropolis, but he never referred
to this except in moments of full confession. He had a play and a
novel which he intended to complete. In tribute to this literary
productivity, he liked to refer to himself as “Literature,” while
addressing Tootles as “Art.”

Their association had come about six months previously, in a quite
accidental manner. Tootles, who was of extravagant tastes, was
immersed in a fit of hard work, in an effort to catch up with
the rent, which, though only thirty dollars a month, was beyond
his powers of concentration. He was at his easel, finishing up a
series of commercial sketches depicting certain Olympian young men,
beautiful as men are not, lolling on the seashore in the new spring
styles of Wimpfheimer & Goldfinch’s twenty-five-dollar suits--a
degradation which he endured against the day when the galleries of
the world should contend for his masterpieces, on the practical
theory that it not only kept the landlord in good humor but gave
the artist himself exceptional opportunities in the matter of his
own wardrobe.

The door was open, and he was aware that something unusual was
taking place along the hall--from the intermittent sounds which
rolled down, of loud and angry conversation--when there abruptly
entered the room, and by the same token his own immediate
existence, Mr. Flick Wilder, a sandy-haired, freckled Westerner,
with a watery eye and an impudent tilt to his nose, a heavy,
thirsty underlip, about thirty, of middle height but so abnormally
thin that he appeared back-bone _et præterea nihil_.

“Hello, kid!” said Mr. Wilder, with a friendly though suspiciously
enthusiastic greeting.

“Hello, you human hatpin,” Tootles immediately retorted. “What’s
your line of goods?”

“Did I hear you ask me in?” said Wilder affably.

“No agents need apply,” said Tootles, in warning. “However, can you
lend me five?”

From long contact, he had adopted a defensive formula: In case of
doubt, touch the other man first.

“I can,” said the other, accepting this as an invitation to enter.

Tootles eyed him through the narrowing slits of his eyes and
repeated sternly,

“Come now; what’s your line of goods?”

“I have a camel,” said the other, in an easy, matter-of-fact tone.

“A _what_?”

“A camel.”

“I don’t want any toys.”

“It’s a real camel.”

“Thanks. I’m only interested in getting goats,” said Tootles
sarcastically.

Whereupon, to his amazement, his visitor immediately drew out a
memorandum-book, reflected a moment, nodded, and jotted down a
note. Then he said:

“Want you to ride it.”

“Oh, you do, eh?”

“And if ten dollars means anything to you, kiddo--look this over.”

Whereupon he took two five-dollar bills from a sizeable roll and
flaunted them conspicuously on the table. The aspect of ready money
had always a convincing effect upon Tootles. Still, the thing was
too absurd. He looked at Wilder, and then went to the door and
looked out suddenly, suspecting a hoax. He came back warily,
forgetting his English accent, which he had laboriously imitated in
admiration of a certain vaudeville hero.

“Say, what kind of a game is this?”

“Money talks, doesn’t it?”

“A camel!”

“You don’t believe I’ve got a camel, do you?” said Wilder, with a
hypnotic stare. “Come here.”

They went to the window and craned out. Below, in the street,
surrounded by a swarm of newsboys, was indubitably a camel. Up to
this moment, Tootles had remained incredulous. Now he began to feel
a rising excitement. He scented trouble, and if there was anything
he went to naturally, with enthusiasm, it was trouble. He liked to
be in it, and he particularly liked to lead others therein.

“How about the cops,” he said, at once.

Wilder exhibited a permit.

“It’s a publicity dodge--see!” he explained. “New show at Coney. If
I can make Times Square at five o’clock, a bunch of the boys are
primed up for a big story.”

“Why don’t you ride him yourself,” said Tootles, in a last
objection.

“I can’t. I’m too sober,” said Flick, with a discouraged shake of
his head, as though to convey the idea that the day had been too
short.

They descended to the sidewalk.

“How’ll I get up?” said Tootles, craning his neck.

This was a puzzler. Wilder reflected.

“I had a trained slave who could make him kneel,” he explained,
“but I lost Abu over on Ninth Avenue--the drunken rascal!”

Finally they maneuvered Elsie against the side of a truck, and
Tootles scrambled into place, amid the jeers of the neighborhood.
Wilder placed himself courageously at the head, with the
leading-strap, and they started. Unfortunately it was only four
o’clock, and he did not wish to reach his rendezvous before five,
and, in a luckless moment, decided to cross the park and explore
the East Side. This, too, might have resulted without accident, had
not Flick, whose sense of geography was becoming misty, happened
to remember Abu, and stopped at each saloon to conduct a personal
search, despite the frantic remonstrances of Tootles, who did not
relish these moments of lonely and lofty splendor. Elsie, the
camel, however, was of a sociable, man-loving nature, and no harm
might have come, had not Wilder, whose sobriety was perceptibly
being cured, remembered, as a humane man with an investigating turn
of mind, that Elsie must be getting thirsty, and offered her a can
of foaming beer.

The consequence was that the camel suddenly awoke and assumed
the direction of the party, heading due east (with an instinct,
perhaps, toward the fatherland) at an accelerated pace, despite
Tootles’ objurgations and Flick’s frantic efforts to head her
off. The rest was a painful memory--a weird, reeling flight of
excited tenements, balking horses, swearing policemen, and a
sudden entangling plunge into an Italian wedding, in which camel,
bride, coupés, and guests became fantastically intermingled, while
Tootles, hanging to the top of a providential lamp-post, saw Flick,
Elsie, the policemen and wedding-party rolling away in a whirling
mist.

A week later, Flick Wilder reappeared, having beaten his way back
from Buffalo, where he had landed, he knew not how and asked
shelter, while he made certain cautious inquiries as to the fate of
Elsie and the propriety of a public reappearance.

From this hectic beginning, they became fast chums. Tootles, who
never touched a drop, unconsciously exercised a sobering influence
over Mr. Flick Wilder, gradually leading him into the paths
of ambition while following him through a series of incredible
escapades. Lonely, each in his own struggling beginning, they found
a divine measure of comradeship in their exuberant youth, dreaming
away at night under the stars that came down to them through the
open skylight; Tootles of fame and masterpieces; Flick of more
worldly ambitions, of rolling down the avenue, not on camels but in
glaring limousines, of being saluted obsequiously by precipitate
head waiters conducting him through luxurious restaurants where
beautiful women with diamonds in their hair sent him imploring
glances. But as these dreams, though immensely satisfying to the
inner needs, had the one serious defect of not being discountable,
the rent loomed over them like the sword of Damocles, compelling
them, much as the outer world called to their curiosity and love
of adventure, to the cruel necessity of doing a certain amount
of work--menial, brutalizing periods, which set upon them in the
closing week of the month, with consequent scurrying to editorial
offices.

During the free, happy weeks, Tootles dreamed and dabbled at
painting, executing lurid portraits of Belle Shaler and Pansy
Hartmann, models who roomed together down the hall, and who, under
promise of possessing these treasures of art, agreed to sit for him
at special rates, payable at some radiant future date. Occasionally
Tootles wandered into the studios of artists in the Sixty-seventh
Street district for such crumbs of knowledge as they good-humoredly
threw him. The truth is, he had unusual talent but too much youth.
Occasionally, too, Flick Wilder, impressed with his serious view of
life, would get out his copybooks, sharpen his pencil and prepare
to think.

The studio was a capacious one, arranged in compromise between
Flick’s yearning for splendor and Tootles’ feeling for the
decorative in art. At first glance, it looked like a theatrical
storehouse, from which parentage most of its furnishings had found
their way, so that one versed in dramatic necrology would have
fancied himself on the reef of last season’s plays. The studio was
lit by two windows on the street and a great, slanting skylight
overhead. On one side was a huge back drop depicting a sunset in
the Grand Cañon, while on the other was a bucolic view of southern
plantations, secured from a broken-down troupe of “Uncle Tom’s
Cabin,” for a price between two and three dollars. The introduction
of these novel effects in mural decoration, a relic of Flick
Wilder’s friendship with a convivial property-man, was at first
strenuously opposed by Tootles, who, however, ceded his position
when Flick pertinently pointed out, first, that the bare walls
were in a shocking state and could not be replastered unless one
month’s rent could be guaranteed in advance, and, second, that the
scenery would serve as invaluable backgrounds for the production of
Wimpfheimer & Goldfinch’s pastorales.

In a back corner, four property spears, from a popular failure
of “Julius Cæsar,” upheld a yellowish-green silk curtain which,
when parted, disclosed two bunks, one above the other, for greater
economy of space--Tootles occupying the more exposed position in
deference to Flick’s uncertain habits.

The opposite corner by the windows was consecrated to Art,
paint-boxes, easel, and canvases; while the home of Literature was
a damaged roll-top desk from the first act of a deceased melodrama,
with easy refuge at hand in a second-hand easy chair and a divan
with the front spring still in good order. Another sofa and a
hanging couch burned with pipe-ashes were known as the guest-rooms,
while the studio was artfully divided into zones by three
pseudo-Japanese screens, red, yellow, and violet, which swore at
everything else and at themselves. Behind one was the bathroom,
so-called as a compliment to the presence of a wash-basin and
running water. A second screen, with memories of “Zaza,” concealed
the culinary preparations when, indeed, there was anything in the
larder to conceal; while behind a third was a wardrobe containing
Tootles’ multiple suits, which had come to him in part payment
(dress suits excepted) of his services to the house of Wimpfheimer
& Goldfinch.

All the electric bulbs were concealed in varicolored globes
representing several varieties of the fish and animal kingdom and
capable of flooding the studio with red, blue, or green tints,
while perched in the high, dusky corners of the ceiling were two
cast-iron owls so wired that Flick, from his couch, could cause
four yellowish eyes to spring out of the darkness. Finally, the
pride of the floor, where it dominated gorgeously the collection
of vagrant mats, was a genuine if moldy bear-rug, with which Flick
had unaccountably made his appearance one night, insisting that it
had attacked him without warning. Tootles was considerably worried,
but a closer inspection of the animal convinced him that Flick had
more probably rescued it from an ash-can than carried it off by any
act of grand larceny. Consequently he set to work with enthusiasm
to restore it to some of its original ferocity, and with the aid
of odd scraps of furs succeeded in reconstructing a semblance of a
body, but one of such unusual colors that it might have passed as
a specie of the Go-to-fro--that mythological animal which has the
left leg shorter than the right in order that it may run around a
hill the faster.

In the hallway was a large sign inscribed:

                PEDDLERS, BOOK AGENTS AND CREDITORS
                  CROSS THIS LINE AT THEIR PERIL.
                      SAVAGE DOG ON PREMISES

Around the studio others signs announced:

                   GUESTS STAYING FOR BREAKFAST
                     PROVIDE THEIR OWN COFFEE
                                AND
                        WILL BE CHARGED FOR
                       THE USE OF THE TOWEL.

By the door, a practical inspiration of Tootles, was a
collection-box bearing a large placard:

                  KIDDER & WILDER’S 25c LODGINGS
                   FOR TRANSIENT BACHELORS ONLY
                THIS IS NOT A CARNEGIE FOUNDATION.
                    COME ONCE AND BE OUR GUEST
                     COME AGAIN AND CONTRIBUTE
                   COME OFTEN, THE RENT IS HIGH.




III


Flick Wilder was stretched on his back on the shadowy couch, hands
under his head, legs crossed, and one foot pointed toward the
skylight, against which the reflections of the opposite hotel cast
a blurred glamour.

“Hello; you here?” said Tootles, in surprise.

“Mostly.”

“Sober?”

“Alas!”

“What are you mooning there on your back for?” said Tootles,
turning on the pink and yellow lights.

“I’m laughing over a new joke,” said Wilder, in anything but an
hilarious tone.

“Good Lord, Flick,” said Tootles, stopping short: “don’t tell me
you are in the glums, too?”

“Who’re you talking to?” said Wilder, as though the question
deserved no answer.

“Fellow down the hall.”

“The high-life gink who is moving into the corner studio?”

“No; O’Leary--fellow next to Lady Vere De Vere,” said Tootles, thus
characterizing Miss Inga Sonderson, who had impressed him with her
haughty aloofness.

“Oh!” Wilder slowly drew himself up and looked inquiringly at
Tootles. “What time?”

“Dinner-time, naturally.”

“Art,” said Wilder severely, “there are some sacred words which you
ought to respect.”

“I was just thinking how lovely it would be to sit down before a
large, juicy beefsteak,” said Tootles incorrigibly. “You know the
kind, browned on the outside, rare inside, melting in the mouth.”

Wilder flung a slipper across the room that missed Tootles’ head
and clattered among the paint-brushes.

“Well, Literature, supposing there is an ice-box, is there anything
in it?”

“You’re forgetting your English accent, Tootles,” said Wilder, as
he bustled, whistling, over to the window-box.

“My word--so I am!” said Tootles, following and peering over his
shoulder.

Wilder drew forth half a bottle of milk, an open tin of potted ham
and several portions of bread.

“The sardines,” he said, “are for our Christmas dinner.”

“Don’t let’s overeat,” said Tootles seriously, trying to coax forth
a smile. “Flick, the stomach must be empty when the brain is full.”

They sat down at the table, facing each other.

“What! No finger-bowls?” said Tootles facetiously, drumming a march
on the table.

“Art, it’s no use,” said Wilder, shaking his head. “It’s a bum
night. Damn Christmas anyhow!”

“Ah, but wait until Santa Claus comes,” said Tootles brightly.

At this moment, as though in answer, there came two sharp raps on
the door that set the glass to rattling.

“Who’s that?” said Wilder, startled at the coincidence.

“Santa Claus,” said Tootles. “Well, come in if you’re good
looking.”

The door opened immediately, and King O’Leary’s broad shoulders
loomed out of the dusk. He stood there in his flannel shirt and
loose tie, at ease from a long acquaintance with the freemasonry
of men, peering in at the oddities of the studio, which seemed to
amuse him immensely. Then he saluted, with the curious, fluttering
salute of the English private, and exclaimed:

“Hello, neighbors! Am I butting in?”

“Not at all,” said Tootles cheerily. “What can we do for you?” He
waved a hand toward Wilder, adding: “My collaborator, the Hope of
Literature, Mr. Flick Wilder.”

“Glad to know you,” said the new arrival, shaking hands heartily,
as though he were indeed delighted at the opportunity. “My name’s
O’Leary.” And he added, grinning expectantly, “What do you
collaborate in?”

“In the studio, of course,” said Tootles. “I pay the rent, and he
occupies it.”

Wilder at once transferred this to his memorandum-book with an
appreciative nod.

“Gentlemen, this place has sort of gotten on my nerves to-night,”
said O’Leary, by way of explanation. “Christmas usually does,
whether I’m in Singapore, Manila, or hoofing it up the Roo Royale.
If I’m butting in, kick me out, but if you fellows have got it as
bad as I have, what do you say to pooling our misery and grubbing
together. It strikes me that’s better than chewing the cud in our
corners.”

Wilder looked at Tootles, who said with gravity, in his best
English manner:

“Your idea interests me strangely; but the fact is--well, we’ve
been out so much in society lately that we thought we’d enjoy a
quiet little supper at home--” King O’Leary glanced at the table;
perceiving which, Tootles hastened to add, “No, that isn’t for the
canary; that is just the _hors d’œuvres_.”

“Strapped?”

“That is a vulgar way of expressing the same idea.”

“Stranger treats the crowd,” said O’Leary with an easy authority.
“That’s the rule of the game wherever I have played. I’m asking
you. Happen to have a little swelling in the pocket just at
present. When it’s empty, which will be soon enough, why--your
turn. How about it, neighbors? Suppose we look each other over and
size it up?”

Half an hour later they deployed from the Arcade and set out for
Healy’s, grimly determined on revelry and the conquest of the
glums. Unfortunately, the Christmas crowds were still about them,
homeward bound.

“They might get home at a decent hour,” said Flick, indignantly.

“No turkeys to-night,” said Tootles. “I’m against it. My word!
The thought of all those birds, plucked and skinned, thousands
and thousands”--he reflected a moment--“no, hundreds of
thousands--think of it--hundreds of thousands of turkeys!”

“Confound them, they look happy,” said Flick, blowing the snow from
his nostrils. “Well, anyhow, they’ll all be ill to-morrow!”

King O’Leary squared his shoulders and looked straight ahead,
but he found a moment, as they were crossing the newsboys at the
subway, to slip surreptitiously a shiny quarter into the fist of a
pursuing urchin.

“No public stuff,” he said, as he entered by the bar entrance. “A
quiet corner where men can lounge and spin a yarn as they like.
Here’s a seat. Shove in.” He glanced at the rough-hewn crowd by the
rail, and said grimly: “Mighty grateful to you fellows. Suppose I’d
have had to pick up with one of those guys.”

They slipped into a padded nook with high backs, tucked away from
the whirl of mirrors and the regimented bottles beyond the black,
curved backs, and derbies pushed over the ears.

“What’ll it be?”

“No turkey,” said Tootles.

“And no cranberry sauce,” added Flick.

“No, no--forget all that!”

But at this moment, as though the spirit of the holiday were bent
on pursuing them like a tantalizing imp, a stableman, affably
inclined, saluted the room in his departure.

“Well, and good luck to youse all. A foine Christmas!”

“How about a steak?” said Tootles hastily.

“That hits me, and we’ll have it planked,” said O’Leary.

“Better look at the tax,” said Flick, in a burst of friendliness.

“Rot! We’ll make a night of it!” said King O’Leary, with the
gesture of a millionaire toward Schnapps, the veteran waiter, who
grinned down at them from his gobbler head.

“My word! If I ordered that, they’d make me show the goods,” said
Tootles, in admiration. “Have you found a gold mine?”

“Hardly that.”

“Been away quite a bit, haven’t you?”

“Yep; just back.” He paused, and noting the curiosity written on
the faces of his guests, said: “Suppose it’s up to me to give an
account of myself.” Schnapps was back with a bottle. O’Leary poured
out his glass of whisky, taking it neat, with a look of surprise at
Tootles’ refusal. “Water-wagon? Always have been? Well, don’t know
but what you have the advantage. Will say this, though, cottoned
right up to you, boy, over there in that elevator. You got the
first laugh out of me in a long blue day, and that’s more than I
thought any one could do. Here’s to you! Kind of reckon we’ll hit
it off. You’ll find me a different sort day after to-morrow--right
there with the repartee and the jollying stuff. How!” He emptied
the glass and pushed it away. “I say, we might as well start fair.
I’m apt to get pretty down--not violent--just down. Savvy?”

“I’ve handled them before,” said Tootles cheerily, with a glance of
tribute to Flick. “Go as far as you like. This is free soil.”

“What made you turn around there in the hall and wish me luck?”
said King O’Leary slowly.

“Don’t know. Kind of felt how you felt, I suppose.”

“You hit it, all right. But that’s something we won’t talk about.
Well, lads, I suppose you’re curious about me, same as I am about
you. If I were to tell you all the scrapes I’ve been in and out
of in thirty-seven years, we’d be sitting here at Easter. If any
one should ask me what I did, suppose I’d have to answer--just
circulate.

“That’s what I’ve been doing--for I’ve been doing everything,
and some of it is worth the telling, as you’ll hear if we get
to chumming. If you ask me what I like, I’d rather beat the box
than eat. Don’t know anything about it, but just can’t help
playing--natural ear. When I get short of funds, I wander in
anywhere, café or vaudeville, and whip up the old pianner--All
right, Schnapps, don’t annoy the bottle--Trouble with me, I suppose
is, I got to roaming early. A habit now. Am never long in one spot
before something comes tugging around at my shirt sleeve and I
get to dreaming of fast expresses, or sailing into blue seas, or
Piccadilly on Saturday night, or the little dog-sleds up in Alasky
or something far-off and similar. Times there are when I think
I’ve come to the point of driving a stake. Suppose it’ll strike me
some time. I ain’t quite as restless as I used to be, but just at
present, why, say--if you were to suggest skipping down to Coentes
Slip and shipping for Honolulu or Madagascar, I’d beat you to it.”

“Do you feel that way?” said Flick, opening his eyes with delight.
“Shake! You’re my long-lost brother.”

“However, we’re not shipping before the mast,” said Tootles
anxiously, who saw the dinner arriving with relief. “We’re eating a
nice, ripe, juicy steak with friend Santa Claus.”

“Where have you come from now?” said Flick, waking up.

“Had a try at Alasky, sunk it all in a bum mine and a phony
partner,” said O’Leary. “Got as far as Kansas City and got trimmed
by a pickpocket while I snoozed. Boys, I certainly was up against
it there. Had to take a job as a coachman. Mighty little I had
to go on, but luck was with me. Usually is, wherever I tumble.
The horses were a couple of baa-lambs that an infant could have
harnessed, let alone driven. That was all right, I bluffed through
that. But the old lady was a terror. The old man had struck it
sudden, and she was wallowing in that carriage. She was fierce. She
was a fat woman, and she swore like a mule-driver. I tell you, that
month was something awful. I stood it until she drove down to the
bank and paid me off, jabbing me in the back with her parasol and
swearing directions under her breath. I’ve stood a good deal in my
little canters around this globe, but I can’t stand being sworn at
by a fat woman on a public street.”

“What did you do?” said Tootles, adding a curling strip of brown
potatoes, smothered onions, and splashes of beans, peas, and
carrots to each plate.

“With fifty dollars tucked away, I laid for her until out she came
with a final poke in the ribs. Then I hauled in my horses, took
off my livery, made her a bow, and handed it over to her with the
reins, right there in the main street. By jingo, it was worth it to
see her face!”

“What’s the queerest job you ever landed?” said Flick, savoring the
steak with gratitude.

“Queerest?” said O’Leary, scratching his head and seeming to return
over a long and grotesque line. “I’ve done some funny things in my
time.”

“Tell you what I did over in Chattanooga--in red-hot midsummer,
too,” said Flick, in a burst of confidence. “I was a dog-catcher.”

“That certainly is going down for it,” said O’Leary, grinning. “But
I’ve got you beat. I subbed in a face-parlor.”

“A what?”

“Painted out black eyes and that sort of thing. Fact--out in
Chicago.”

“My word!” said Tootles, overjoyed to see a beam of good humor
breaking through the clouds. “I wonder that I associate with such
persons.”

“Leaving out the dog-catcher,” said O’Leary, falling with gusto
to the attack of his heaped-up plate, “I do believe, with the
exception of preaching and tooth-extracting, I’ve tried them all.
I’ve run a country paper. There’s a story there I’ll give you
some day. Lord! I even taught school in the Philippines to the
pesky heathen. Have mined for gold, silver, copper, diamonds,
and zinc, from Cripple Creek to Kimberley. I’ve traded and sold
everything from a thousand cattle to peddling collar-buttons at the
Queen’s Jubilee. I’ve been a bartender in Paree, and into a peck
of trouble, too. I’ve run a steam laundry in Porto Ricky and had
the whole danged business washed away in a hurricane. I’ve dipped
into a few spring revolutions in South Americky, and I rode out
with Jameson in the raid that kicked out the whole African mess.
Got in and out of Kimberley, and joined the Rough Riders with
Teddy--here’s to him! Never was much of a sailor, but I’ve seen
my time before the mast through the Southern seas (that’s how I
appreciated your nautical terms, boy) when I stowed away for Chiny
and Calcutta. Lord, where haven’t I been?”

“O’Leary, you’re either a hell of a big liar or a regular fellow,”
said Flick, cheerfully, “and either way, I’m for you.”

“Maybe I’m blowing too much,” said O’Leary quietly. “But it’s
sort o’ whistling in the wind to keep your courage up. However,
I’ve laid my cards on the table. That’s me. Well, this is
starting good enough to keep it going. What do you say to taking
in a show? There’s something in the line of vaudeville over at
the Colonial?”

“Is there so much money in the world?” said Tootles doubtfully.

“Boy, a taxi!” said King O’Leary, pounding on the table gorgeously.

“I’m beginning to feel like the Fourth of July,” said Flick, who
gave in completely with this last display of magnificence.

“That’s what we’ll make it,” said King O’Leary. “Schnapps, steal
the change. Come on.”

The visit to the theater was the undoing of all the good work
accomplished, nor could the result have been foreseen. The
orchestra was comfortably filled with an indiscriminate scattering
of transients, plainly marooned, and the three friends, being
resolved to laughter, applauded the opening numbers with such
zest that they woke up the torpid house and had the entertainers
gratefully aiming their shafts in the direction of their box for
the pure joy of rousing King O’Leary’s soul-filling, rumbling
laughter, to hear which was infection itself. The outer world, the
season, and the calendar had been shut away as they roared over
the grotesque tumbles and trippings of a comic acrobat who gyrated
fearfully on a bicycle the size of a house, when the curtain went
down and up again on the Lovibond Sisters. “Sweet Singers from the
South,” who, according to the program, “would introduce sentimental
favorites.”

All their mirth vanished. They waited glumly through “Annie
Laurie,” and fidgeted as the quartet quavered into “Way Down Upon
the Suwanee River,” but when “My Old Kentucky Home” began, with
moonlight effects on the back drop and cowbells tinkling, O’Leary
got up suddenly and said:

“Hell! Let’s beat it.”

They emerged glumly on the sidewalk, while Flick swore copiously
for the crowd and led the way down the avenue to Campeau’s, where
they found a table in a noisy gathering thundered over by a dynamic
orchestra.

“O’Leary, it’s no use,” said Flick; “we can’t get away from it.”

“Guess you’re right.”

They stayed there a long while, passing into the confidential
stage, while Tootles consumed large quantities of ginger ale and
sought desperately to stem the rising tide, which came rolling
in blackly. They had yielded to their depression, reveling in
it. While King O’Leary listened, jerking at his fingers, Flick
reminisced of forgotten days in a little Western town, of white
Christmases when the relations gathered in jingling sleighs and the
table was crowned with a wild turkey at one end and a crackling pig
at the other.

“With a roast apple in his snout, and a ribbon--a blue--no, a pink
ribbon decorating his ornery little tail. King, I can taste that
pig yet--fact--good pig--good old pig! What did we use to call
him? Can’t remember.” He went off into a foggy search, dipping his
finger in a puddle of water on the table and seeking to reconstruct
it in the shape of his remembered idol. “Looked like that--just so.
There’s the tail--see? We used to fight to get that tail, Lem,
Minnie, and me--” He suddenly looked up, as though conscious of
O’Leary’s staring silence. “I say, did you used to have pig--roast
pig? No? Well, what sort of Christmas did you have?”

“There was only one that counted,” said King O’Leary, frowning
stubbornly, “and that, son, we won’t talk about.”

“Why not?” said Flick indignantly. He added, as though in his
clouded brain he had found the answer, “Secret sorrow--that it?”

“Call it that.”

The news seemed further to depress Flick. He contemplated the
shining plate with deep commiseration, shaking his head.

“All right. Sorry--mighty sorry. Felt that right off about you.
Fact! Shake--shake hands.”

Tootles watched Flick, a little maudlin, silently offer his hand
to King O’Leary, who took it glumly and abruptly arose as though
shaking off a leaden weight, saying:

“Well, I’ve had enough of this place. Beat it again.”

They began to wander, east and west, up-town and down-town, seeking
memory’s oblivion, finding it always dogging their heels--a rapid,
confused passage through lighted restaurants and noisy cafés,
with momentary junctions in casual parties. They ended up in an
all-night restaurant, where King O’Leary took possession of the
piano, Tootles conducting the orchestra, while Flick, with pompous
dignity, singled out the fattest and oldest ladies and made them a
bow, saying with terrific dignity:

“Madam, will you accord me the honor of this dance? No? I am
sorry--very sorry, but thank you, thank you perfectly jus’ same.”

Tootles, finally, in the wee hours, coaxed them back to the Arcade
(after many a slip), and woke up Sassafras, whose fee for such
gala performances was half a dollar. But on the threshold of the
elevator King O’Leary suddenly remembered the alarming ascent of
the afternoon and hastily imparted the information to Flick, saying:

“Wouldn’t have it harm a hair of your head, not a hair. Understand?
Like you, boy. No harm!”

“Must be careful, very careful,” said Flick solemnly. “Won’t stand
great strain, see? That’s the idea.”

“I see,” said King O’Leary, “but how?”

“That’s it. How?”

“Six--all six at once--too much. Dangerous,” said King O’Leary
sadly. “And, son, I wouldn’t have ’em harm a hair of your head, not
a hair.”

“I’ve got idea,” said Flick, all at once. “No strain--you’ll
see--coax elevator.”

Tootles, who always remained in the picture, solemnly led King
O’Leary into the elevator, saying in a soothing manner,

“It’s all right, King; we all trust Flick.”

Wilder was so touched by this burst of confidence that he
momentarily forgot his happy thought. But all at once, as they
waited anxiously and expectantly, he woke up and said firmly:

“Up one!”

The elevator groaned and lumbered to the first floor.

“What now?” said Tootles.

“Out!”

The three filed forth.

“Down!”

He led the way down to the ground floor, while they followed him,
mystified, and into the elevator again.

“Up _two_!” said Flick, with the gleam of a field-marshal in his
eyes. “Out! Down!”

A third time they entered the elevator, mounted to the third floor
and solemnly, like the King of France and all his men, descended
three flights and again rose to the fourth. Again at the bottom,
Flick condescended to explain:

“One flight at time--see? No strain. Always be kind to
elevators--see? Coax elevators.”

“Absolutely,” said King O’Leary, with the dignity of an archbishop.

Tootles, inwardly convulsed, maintained a grave face, assuming the
tense gravity of his two friends, mounting to the fifth floor and
carefully descending the long stone flights, his hands on King
O’Leary’s shoulders, whose hands in turn reposed on Flick’s scrawny
back, which stiffened with the sense of responsibility of a chosen
leader. They waited solemnly for Sassafras, standing in dusky line,
for all the world like a vat, a walking-stick, and a peanut, until
the elevator sank, gleaming, to the level. Then they entered, rose
to the sixth floor, and congratulated Flick.

Back in the windy corridor, with two dusky spots of light overhead
and empty milk-bottles before the doors, King O’Leary was seized
with a new emotion, an overflowing love of mankind, and a longing
to cheer blighted existences.

“Poor things,--poor miserable things!” he said, contemplating the
row of shadowy doors. “No Christmas cheer.”

“No peace on earth, no good-will to men,” said Flick, seeing the
idea and almost moved to tears.

“Son, we never thought--did we?--never thought of that.”

“Never,” said Flick.

“We must.”

“Absolutely,” said Flick, who had been struck by the word, and he
frowned and asked, “What should we think?”

“We should think--” began King O’Leary, and stopped, lost in
conjecture. He repeated: “We should think,” and turned, looking to
Flick for relief. “I say, what was the thing--the thing I told you
we should think about?”

Wilder, thus appealed to, shook his head mournfully, and Tootles
had visions of crowning the last two hours’ labors with the
blissful prospect of getting them safely into the studio and to
bed, when, as luck would have it, King O’Leary’s foot came in
contact with a milk bottle. The rolling sound revived his memory.

“We must cheer--bring cheer--bring presents,” said King
O’Leary, getting at length to his thought. “Every one must have
presents--Christmas presents.”

Tootles here interposed hastily, with the irritation of the sober
pilot who sees the harbor of rest escaping.

“To-morrow. Good idea! To-morrow we’ll get presents for them
all--fine--but to-morrow! Now bedtime.”

This ending was unfortunate, as Tootles felt the moment he had
uttered it.

“Never bedtime,” said Flick indignantly.

“Presents--now--Christmas Eve--Santa Claus,” said King O’Leary,
with equal firmness. “Go right down--now.”

“All right, then; go and get them,” said Tootles, in despair, and,
at the end of his patience, he entered the studio and shut the
door. “Well, they’ll come back in about a week, I suppose,” he said
angrily. “Three o’clock! Lord! I’ve got to get some sleep.”

But to his surprise, in about half an hour he heard them returning,
having accomplished the upper trip by the same gradual process. He
peered cautiously out and perceived them laden with paper bags,
solemnly and reverently passing from door to door and placing
before each one orange, one hazel nut, and one raisin. They entered
with the satisfied serenity of good Samaritans, and, perceiving
Tootles in pajamas, were immediately struck by the same idea.

“We must put the child to bed,” said King O’Leary.

“Absolutely. Christmas eve. Children should be asleep--all
children.”

They addressed him affectionately, lifted him up tenderly, and
placed him in bed (Tootles was wise enough to submit), tucked him
in solicitously, and chuckling over some plotted joke, got out
three stockings, which they hung up with difficulty and filled from
the bags.

Tootles, peeping over the coverlet, laughed to himself at their
grotesque efforts and air of concentrated seriousness, waiting
until they had fallen asleep on the couches. He arose, listened to
the heavy breathing a moment, and, being of an economical trend,
passed into the hall to collect the oranges. At O’Leary’s door he
perceived the end of an envelope and drew it forth.

“That’s queer,” he said to himself, examining it. “It’s neither a
bill nor an advertisement.” This in itself, was an event in the
Arcade. “How strange!”

He placed it between his teeth and continued on his mission. But
as he reached the further end of the hall, fronting Broadway, he
perceived, to his amazement, that the oranges which should be
there had disappeared. He stopped, with ear on edge, listening
for a sound, but no sound returned. Then he went along on tiptoe,
vastly intrigued. There was the door of Lorenzo P. Drinkwater,
counsellor-at-law. But there was no sign of any one’s being up.
Neither there, nor at the next, which bore the names of Miss Belle
Shaler and Miss Pansy Hartmann, with the placard:

         Out for lunch. Leave messages with elevator-man.

Miss Angelica Quirley’s room was likewise dark, as was the next
of Miss Millie Brewster. But opposite, through the foggy glass
door inscribed “Aristide Jean-Marie Cornelius” a faint blur was
showing--a telltale streak of yellow under the door.

“By Jove, it’s the baron!” he said to himself, and he remained a
long moment, stock-still, in surprise. “Wonder if the poor devil is
actually hungry. Well, if he is--” He yielded to the good impulse,
softly placed three oranges in line, and withdrew on tiptoe.

Back in the studio, he took the letter from his lips, scanned it
curiously, and then inserted it in the stocking which was King
O’Leary’s by right of a desperate scrawl. He approached the two
sleepers, drew a blanket over each and stood a moment studying the
new friend who had dropped in on their existence as though he had
fallen like the rain-drip through the skylight, drawing his own
conclusions, neither judge nor sinner but wise young philosopher.

King O’Leary lay with his head on an outstretched arm, which showed
the green tracings of a tattoo, the shock of hair well off the
clear and friendly forehead, the face flushed and contracted in
a painful frown, as though still under the fever of tormenting
recollections.

“Not the sort that bats for nothing,” thought Tootles. “The kind
that drinks to forget. Wonder what the deuce is back of it all, old
boy. Well, you wouldn’t make a bad Santa Claus at that!”

He put out the lights slowly, one by one--the great green Chinese
dragon floating in mid-air, where it had swallowed a bulb which
gleamed through its belly; the twin yellow shades on either
side of the door, held up by brass statues of Liberty, sadly
tarnished--until only the four yellow eyes of the owls remained
glowing out of the upper darkness. Then he cautiously withdrew the
electric button from Flick’s relaxed fingers and extinguishing
these in turn, tiptoed over and went gratefully to bed.




IV


The oldest inhabitant of the sixth floor, so ancient that he was
already installed when the present Mr. Teagan had inherited the
Arcade from his uncle, was a Frenchman, Mr. Cornelius, who lived
in the corner room on the court overlooking the square, which had
one economy that, to his mind, compensated for the thunder of the
elevated, the grind of the traffic and the shrill of the newsboys
which rolled through it--a providential arc-light, sputtering and
furnace-white, which lit his room, once the curtains were drawn,
and saved the expense of lighting. There was a tradition that he
had at one time occupied the large studio at the farther end and
had successively progressed down the hall to his present quarters,
which, on account of the clamor of Broadway, were favored with a
special price. Mr. Cornelius was in the sixties, of slight build,
erect, and springy on his little feet, mustache and imperial worn
in the manner of the Emperor Napoleon III, snow-white against the
dusky Spanish tan of his complexion and the still eloquent eyes
of mellow brown. His features were delicate and finely chiseled,
especially the nose, and one eyebrow was noticeably lifted, which
gave him an alert expression. In his youth he must have been
remarkably handsome, in a dashing, wild-animal way that appealed
to women. He lived in seclusion, scrupulously polite whenever in
the elevator he encountered a neighbor, but opening his door only
to one person--Miss Pansy Hartmann, who had won his confidence and
posed for the dilettante sketches it amused him to make, while
she read mechanically to him from yellowed books of which she
understood not a word--Pascal, the letters of Madame de Sévigné,
and the works of Voltaire. He wore a nightcap with a tassel, and
for days never left his room, occasionally appearing in a faded
peacock-blue dressing-gown. Each Sunday, however, he donned a
Prince Albert coat of forgotten lines, scrupulously clean, though
shiny and mended, put on a black stock and brought out from some
treasure-box a top-hat of swirling lines, such as the celebrated
Victor Hugo was wont to wear, inclined it slightly over one
ear, and, taking gloves and silver-studded cane in hand, walked
magnificently to church and back again.

Several things were inexplicable in his habits. No one knew when he
slept, while curious whirring noises were heard over the transom
after the fall of night. On the first days of each month, sometimes
for two nights, never for more than three, he donned his gala
attire, ordered a taxi from the opposite hotel and gave orders to
the chauffeur to drive to Delmonico’s. When he returned, Sassafras
always noticed a gardenia in his button-hole. The rest of the
month he skimped along, no one knew how except little Pansy, who
by a pretense of feeding the parrot, which was his sole companion,
contrived to leave daily a third of a bottle of milk and a good
portion of bread.

In the room next to Mr. Cornelius, who was called “the baron,” was
a tiny old lady, Miss Angelica Quirley, who had nested there for a
decade in the company of a shivering, jerky little black-and-tan
terrier, Rudolph (in memory perhaps of an unhappy romance), who
was known as “the fire-hound” from the uncanny instinct with
which he could rouse the Arcade with his yapping at the slightest
smoldering. Miss Quirley spent her time dressing dolls for toy
shops, mending old favorites, and painting into china cheeks
rosebud smiles to gladden the hearts of unknown children. She
was all in a flutter when she had to pass any one and began to
bob her graying curls when she was still yards away, until the
gold-rimmed spectacles all but fell off--for all the world like a
fairy godmother. Children would have flocked to her knee, only,
unfortunately, there were no children there. And so Miss Quirley
went on bobbing and smiling, longing for some one to listen to but
never quite mustering up her courage to approach a friendship.
In the morning she would peer timidly from her door to make sure
that no one could see her, before hastily emerging in wrapper and
slippers to gather in the milk and rolls.

Next to Miss Quirley was a lawyer, lately arrived, Lorenzo
Pinto Drinkwater, a Portuguese Yankee, who had an office on the
second floor, and who seemed to envelop all his movements with
an instinctive mystery and was believed not only to exercise the
profession accredited him but to be not averse to lending money
as well at profitable returns. He had the Yankee body, lank and
ribbed, and was so tall that his head seemed always looking over
a transom. The face was handsome, in a dark, gipsy way, and the
eyes, despite their shiftiness, had a certain flashy attraction.
He dressed loudly, and spoke in a confidential whisper. Several
times he had sought to open a conversation with “the baron,” who
evidently had aroused his ferreting instincts, but Mr. Cornelius,
despite his usual courtesy, had openly snubbed him.

Across the passage from the elevator to the hall, next to King
O’Leary’s room, was the home of Miss Myrtle Popper, manicurist and
marcel-waver, who had looked kindly on O’Leary as he stood in the
Arcade before Joey Shine’s barber shop, wondering to whom he could
send a present. She had come from New Hartford, Connecticut, with
a yearning for the greater advantages of metropolitan society,
tall, clear-eyed, a Junoesque figure, undeniably stunning, with
her youth, her vibrant health, her smiling green eyes and her
miraculous coils of ruddy hair. She had thoroughly enjoyed her
first winter in New York society, and was slangy, pert, calmly
determined to be amused and as equally determined to hold her
head high, quite capable of taking care of herself, a democrat by
association and a philosopher by a native shrewdness, amusing and
amused.

Across the hall from Mr. Cornelius was another arrival of the
autumn, a migratory type of which the Arcade had seen many a
flight--Miss Minnie Brewster from the Middle West, who had come to
New York with golden dreams of an operatic career and who paid an
unhanged charlatan the sum of five dollars a quarter of an hour for
refusing to tell her the truth about her sweet, toylike voice. She
was a pretty country plant, sadly transplanted, a fragile blonde,
with an angelic face and starry eyes, destined for simpler things,
and quite helpless when confronting the world alone. She was dying
of loneliness.

The two models who roomed together in the adjoining studio (whom
Millie was longing to meet and lay awake nights constructing
conversations which would lead to an acquaintance), Miss Belle
Shaler and Miss Pansy Hartmann, were daughters of New York, utterly
opposite in temperament and inclination, but fast friends by the
bond of a long and united front against the perplexities, the
trials, and the tribulations of their existence.

Belle Shaler was a noted character in the art circles in New York,
through which she roamed slangy, cheeky, outswearing a man, flying
occasionally into the temper of a fishwife, but with the biggest
heart in the world--a female gamin, up out of the slums, always
ready to wage battle against injustice or for misfortune, speaking
her mind brusquely, a terror to pretense and hypocrites; a jewel of
a model, with lithe, slender limbs and delicate curves, despite
her sandy hair bobbed short and the upturned urchin’s nose, defiant
and satirical. She made herself at home wherever she pleased,
carrying the gossip of the profession, welcomed everywhere, in the
studios of celebrated illustrators on the West Side, in the lofts
of sculptors on the top floor of Healy’s, or rambling through the
outer regions of Washington Square and Greenwich Village always
ready for a spree, brimming over with vitality and a cocky summons
to the world to amuse her.

Pansy was of opposite type, soft-eyed, soft-spoken and gentle,
without Belle’s beauty of limb, but like a dark and velvety flower,
with her soft, oval, blushing face and Oriental eyes which seemed
to crowd her eyelids;--all feminine, a virtue by which she had
made a deep and disquieting mark on the impressionable heart of
Tootles. She knew little of her own life. She had been a model as a
child, with blurred memories of older and harsher beings about her
who had long since faded away. She had an archness in her smile,
and one eyebrow noticeably uplifted, in a manner so strikingly
like the baron’s that every one commented on it. Indeed, she might
easily have passed for his daughter, nor could he have treated her
with more deference, punctiliously surrounding her with formality,
always leaving the door open with ostentation when she came to
visit him. She was very fond of the aristocratic, lonely old man
with an impulsive kindliness which was deep in her nature.

Between their room and the abode of Art and Literature was the home
of Ludovic Schneibel, a dentist by necessity, with offices on the
third floor, but with a spiritual yearning toward art, literature,
and music, and, in particular, the company of artists. He was a
squatty, fiery-headed and fiery-worded Swiss-American, in the
forties, lame in one leg, and given to velvet coats and flowing
neckties. He executed fearful compositions of Alpine storms over
leaden lakes with large rainbows in the background, being indeed
without any talent but the love of painting, yet selling his
canvases to the large department-stores to set off their stock
of gilt frames. He worked at night and during holidays, singing
unmusically sentimental ballads, with occasional outbursts of
yodeling whenever the creative fit was strong. He was a lovable,
social tramp, and any rascal in long hair with the requisite jargon
could reach his sympathies and his pocketbook. Everything to him
was an enthusiasm; Tootles vowed he could go into a paroxysm over a
cold potato.

Down the hall, at the extreme back, in the little studio next to
King O’Leary’s, was a Miss Inga Sonderson, of whom the Arcade
knew as little as they did of Mr. Aristide Jean-Marie Cornelius
(if indeed that were his true name, which no one believed). Belle
Shaler had posed for her several times--she did posters, covers,
and decorative sketches--and had a peaceful memory of filmy
coverings and hangings, harmonies in gray and green like the
brooding sea, neat couches and window boxes of pungent and bright
flowers. She seemed twenty-four or twenty-five--possibly a year or
so older--repressed and contemplative--as one who, contrary to the
ordinary prejudice, never used conversation to think out loud.

Her body was like a youth’s, firm and supple, and when she moved,
the eye went to the hip immediately as a center of grace--of that
flowing grace which one sees in the poised female figures on
Grecian friezes. Her hair, which was a profound black with the
depth in it of a forest pool, had certain blue, furtive gleams
which perhaps only an artist would have noticed. She wore it
braided and drawn over her forehead in a Swedish coil, rather
severe in movement. The face was fragile, unusually dark, with
the darkness of the Northlander, and two things were remarkable in
it--the eyes and the upper lip, which was unusually sensitive and
the first to quiver with any strong emotion which was elsewhere
repressed. The eyes were the blue of cold, open waters, with a mist
of gray--like a curtain drawn across her soul, beyond which no one,
not even the man who came to love her, ever penetrated. She dressed
in simple lines and quiet tones, dark blues and black, with only a
broad lace collar and cuffs in neat relief. She appeared haughty;
Tootles, who, as well as Flick, had been romantically attracted,
referred to her as “Lady Vere de Vere.” As a matter of fact, she
was not haughty at all, and utterly unaristocratic, as Belle
Shaler, that ardent social anarchist, admitted herself. She was
simply self-sufficient. Whatever her antecedents, she spoke English
naturally, as though she had been born to it, with a low, rather
guttural, but pleasant note, curiously soothing; and yet she might
have been a waif from a distant Scandinavian region of encroaching
night and wan, midnight days. Despite their curiosity, no one would
have dreamed of questioning her, not even Belle Shaler, who was
unaccountably silent under the sea-blue eyes which looked out at
her as though through a mist.

Opposite this room, at the back corner, was the show studio of the
Arcade. A genius now passed into society had inhabited it, and the
tradition remained. Yet it had had an unlucky history. Those who
had held it had not held it long, and the last occupant, a friend
of Inga Sonderson’s, Champeno, a young sculptor of great promise,
had disappeared under a cloud, leaving his furniture in forfeit.
For a month it had stood empty, until several days before the
opening of this story, when the rumor went around that it had been
let to an artist by the name of Dangerfield, and the curiosity
of the Arcade was further excited by the appearance of numerous
packing boxes of unusual size, suggesting furniture _de luxe_.

This was the situation on the sixth floor back among these social
stragglers enclosed in narrow prisons of their own choosing,
secretly yearning for each other’s company, when on Christmas day,
invitations issued jointly by Mr. St. George Kidder, Mr. Flick
Wilder, and Mr. King O’Leary fell among them like carnival bombs.




V


There was only one thing in life that bothered Tootles greatly, and
that was the getting out of bed in the morning. It was high noon
by a shaft of sunlight that beat persistently on his Wellingtonian
nose, when he finally determined to try the influence of mind over
matter according to a method all his own.

“I see myself skipping gracefully over to the wash-basin,” he said
aloud.

The Mind was attentive, but Matter did not bulge. He decided to
modify the test.

“I see myself standing proudly on my own feet by the side of my
bed.”

Still no result.

“I see one of my legs thrust from the covers,” he persisted, in the
line of the best psychopathic suggestion. Immediately, one lavender
pajama emerged. “I see both of my legs out. I see myself raising
myself to a sitting position,” he continued triumphantly, and,
suiting the action to the word, he sat bolt upright. At the same
moment, King O’Leary rose to a sitting position. They confronted
each other thus drowsily a moment, and then smiled, and the smile
seemed to descend over the accidental meeting with the binding
cement of friendship.

“Well, Santa Claus, how are you?” said Tootles, with the superior
cruelty of the teetotaler.

King O’Leary made a wry face, and ran his hand nervously through
his hair.

“Was I pretty bad last night?”

“My boy, I thought you were charming,” said Tootles,
encouragingly, “particularly when you put me to bed and hung up my
stocking. Mother couldn’t have done it more gently.”

“Good Lord, I don’t get that way once in a dog’s age!” said King
O’Leary, rather ashamed; and he asked, nervously: “Did I get to
shooting off my mouth?”

“You talked,” said Tootles, descending, “but you kept a tight lip.
You said nothing you didn’t want to, old cockywax.”

This seemed to reassure O’Leary. He rose, shaking himself
together, and his glance fell on the three suspended socks bulging
grotesquely.

“Did I do that?” he said, with a wan smile.

“Don’t you remember playing Santa Claus up and down the hall?”

“No; but I remember something about riding miles and miles in an
elevator.”

Flick Wilder now began to return, talking violently and flopping
about in the last stages of a nightmare.

“Whoa there! Catch him! Hold on to him! Don’t let go of him--head
off that camel!”

“Wake up!” said Tootles, shaking him. “Where do you think you are?”

“Where’s Sassafras?” said Flick frantically, betwixt the dream
and the reality. “Good Lord, I thought that elevator had broken
loose--riding him down Broadway, when he turned into Elsie, the
camel!”

He stared at King O’Leary a moment in confusion, and then a light
dawned.

“Oh, hello! Well, King, you’re the real guy. How are you?”

“Fine,” said King O’Leary, as cheerfully as such answers are given
the morning after.

“Art, you may start the coffee,” said Flick, yawning. “What’s
that--oranges?”

“You don’t remember decorating the hall?” said Tootles, lighting
the percolator.

“I do,” said Flick, whose memory was remarkable. He added sternly:
“King, the infant has stolen our Christmas presents--presents we
gave the floor. All our kind intentions are beaten by this son of a
thief.”

“I may have taken away the Christmas presents,” said Tootles
unfeelingly, “but I was thinking of Christmas breakfast, likewise
Christmas lunch and Christmas dinner.”

King O’Leary immediately, with an air of great apprehension, dove
into his clothes, while they awaited the result of the search with
increasing anxiety.

O’Leary straightened up, displaying a last remaining handful of
small coin.

“Shake yourself,” said Flick, alarmed.

“You fed one greenback to a cab-horse down at the Café Boulevard,”
said Tootles, trying to be helpful.

“Seventy-nine cents,” said King O’Leary ruefully.

“You can buy a lot of peanuts for that,” said Flick, “and, believe
me, peanuts are nourishing.”

“Beans are cheap, so is macaroni,” said Tootles, considering. “We
might get three twenty-five-cent lunches at Brannigan’s bar.” By
this, O’Leary understood that he was definitely adopted by virtue
of the axiom of what was his was theirs. “Brannigan’s a friend of
mine. Might stretch it a little if I offered to paint his portrait.
What did you give Sassafras?”

“Fifty cents, of course.”

“Every time you got into the elevator?”

“By Jove, that’s so.”

“Great system of yours, Flick. Sassafras has got six of it. Of
course, we might murder Sassafras,” said Tootles unfeelingly.
“Never mind; there’s the stockings. They’re full of nuts.”

O’Leary went to them and emptied them on the table, perceiving
the letter for the first time. He took it up, looking at it
suspiciously.

“I don’t like these things,” he said, frowning.

“Neither do I,” said Tootles. “They send you a bill nowadays like a
billet-doux.”

Flick began to repeat, doubtfully.

“Bill--billet-doux; billet-doux--bill.”

“What are you doing now?” said Tootles, perceiving Flick resorting
to his note-book.

“I might work up that elevator story,” said Wilder, who had
abandoned the pun. “There’s a meal in that.”

“Yes; but that’s to-morrow,” said Tootles.

“Kick me,” said O’Leary, all at once, staring at the open letter.

“Perfectly willing to, but why?” said Tootles, approaching.

“Kick me--bite me--stick a pin in me,” said O’Leary wildly.

“Wish it was that fellow Drinkwater,” said Tootles, who availed
himself, however, of the first alternative.

“Then I am awake,” said O’Leary solemnly. “Listen.”

Perceiving that something startling had happened, they gathered
around while O’Leary read:

                                        South Washington, Oklahoma.

KING O’LEARY.

  DEAR SIR:

  By the will of your second cousin, Halloran O’Leary, deceased
  October last, I am directed to transmit to each of the
  beneficiaries so as to reach them on Christmas day exactly, the
  sum of one thousand dollars ($1000), which I enclose.

                        Sincerely yours,
                                    MCDAVITT & COURTNEY,
                                                  Attorneys.

“Let me read it,” said Flick, while Tootles gazed anxiously at King
O’Leary, in doubt as to the effect on his heart. Then they all sat
down and looked at each other.

“Say something,” said Flick angrily, at last.

“I feel like praying,” said Tootles weakly. “I believe I’ll believe
in Santa Claus.”

They examined the letter again, passing it from hand to hand,
turning it over and over in a sort of stupefaction, without finding
a flaw. Even the draft was at sight on a New York bank.

“King,” said Flick reverently, “never let me hear you curse
Christmas again.”

“Never again.” He gazed at the check overwhelmed. “My Lord, how can
we ever spend that money!”

“Art and Literature will help you,” said Tootles cheerfully.

The problem was a terrific one. They all sat down to think again.

“Boys, we’ve brought each other luck,” said King O’Leary, with a
sudden glow. “Here’s my proposition: If you like me as I like you,
I’ll move my old tune-box in to-night and pay a year’s rent.”

Flick and Tootles first shook his hand with emotion, giving him, so
to speak, the accolade, and then protested.

“You’re one of us, but nix on that rent idea. I’m firmly against
that,” said Tootles. “Suppose we went up in smoke?”

“But how the deuce, then, are we to get away with it?” said King
O’Leary, frowning. “If I invest it, some one else will get it. By
golly, this time I’m going to have a run for my money! We must do
the thing up in a big way--one grand splash. We might move over to
the St. Regis and take the bridal suite.”

Flick was visibly impressed at this possibility of entering
society, but Tootles turned the idea aside with the suggestion of a
superior craftiness.

“And after it’s gone, what good will it do you? No, no; spend it
where it will leave grateful memories,” he said wisely. “Keep it
right around the block.”

“Them’s is wise words,” said Flick, yielding at once. “Tootles, you
lack a heart, but you’re wise. It’s a wonder, though, you didn’t
gum it all by stealing those oranges.”

“Pooh! I’m not superstitious,” said Tootles, while King O’Leary was
still immersed in the distressing problem of how to get rid of the
perplexing windfall.

“I am,” said Flick, “for let me tell you right now that this is
the reward of virtue, _my_ virtue. You needn’t throw up your
hands. It’s what comes of having a kind heart. Yes, even toward
elevators--always remember the milk of human kindness,” continued
Flick, looking at Tootles reproachfully.

“Right you are,” said King O’Leary, with conviction, for his faith
was of the simplest. And suddenly he exploded: “Flick, you’ve found
it. By golly, son, I’ll tell you now how we’ll start to crack that
check!”

“How?”

“We’ll have a Christmas of our own--a tree with presents for
every one, and a Christmas dinner with a turkey and a pig--yes,
sir, a roast pig!” His eyes began to snap as he enlarged upon his
idea. “Boys, we’ll have them in, every lonely mother’s son of
them--daughters, too! We’ll have an orchestra and decorate the
studio--By jingo, we’ll give the old place the greatest shebang
these regions have ever known!”

“King O’Leary,” said Tootles rapturously, “tell me the truth--_are_
you Santa Claus?”

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later there was deposited at the door of each room along
the hall, to the amazement of each occupant, the following card,
jointly composed and decorated with Christmas designs by Tootles,
in which a tree, a turkey, and a roast pig disported:

                           WHY BE GLUM?
                GET TOGETHER AND SWAT THAT GROUCH!
             MR. ST. GEORGE KIDDER, MR. FLICK WILDER,
                       AND MR. KING O’LEARY
                INVITE YOU TO A LITTLE CHRISTMAS OF
                             THEIR OWN
                  ONE GLITTERING, GUZZLING GORGE,
        including a monster TURKEY and a genuine roast PIG,
            prepared absolutely regardless of expense.
CHRISTMAS DINNER AT 7
                                               CHRISTMAS TREE AT 9.
                      CHRISTMAS DANCE AT 10.

MR. FLICK WILDER will carve the roast pig;
             MR. KING O’LEARY will tickle the ivories;
                                  MR. ST. GEORGE KIDDER will amuse.

                     COME AND ENJOY YOURSELVES
                     STAY AWAY AND BE DAMNED.

  R. S. V. P.




VI


During the afternoon King O’Leary performed wonders. Healy’s,
through the mediation of that friend of struggling artists, Pat
(blessed be his memory along with Abou Ben Adhem and the Good
Samaritan!) had agreed to hold the check and even to advance a
hundred dollars cash in consideration of the magnificent order
for the evening. Tootles, who was left in charge of the studio
as the Committee on Decorations, beheld in successive stages
of amazement the arrival of a Christmas tree, followed by two
urchins staggering under wreaths with trailing red ribbons and
green garlands sufficient to decorate a theater, an immense clump
of mistletoe, which he immediately suspended to the snout of the
Chinese dragon; and while he was yet in the throes of apprehension
that King O’Leary’s thousand dollars had been dissipated, a brigade
of waiters arrived, who built up, as though by magic, a table
capable of seating a score. On top of this followed two florists
(one evidently having proven incapable of filling King O’Leary’s
desires), who further transformed the studio with potted flowers
and palms and left a moist, tissue-filled box redolent with
_boutonnières_.

By five o’clock acceptances had come in from every one except
Drinkwater and Inga Sonderson--and also Dangerfield, who,
however, had probably not yet moved in. At six, Flick and King
O’Leary, returning laden with presents, stopped at the door with
exclamations of wonder at the miracle they themselves had wrought.
The studio had disappeared under the verdant arbor, while a
wonderful spangled tree rose like a fairy dream, in one corner.
In the center the snowy white spread of the table, sparkling with
silver and the glass that snuggled among the green decorations,
seemed prepared for a ducal banquet in some sylvan hunting-lodge.

At seven o’clock the guests arrived: Mr. and Mrs. Teagan, who
had been especially and strategically invited--Mr. Teagan very
dignified and stiff in dinner coat and fat black tie; Mrs.
Teagan, rustling good naturedly and beaming forth from a gorgeous
pink-satin ball gown with black stomacher--Millie Brewster in
blue frock cut properly high and loaded with flounce on flounce
of ancient lace; the baron in the evening suit which he wore to
Delmonico’s, blue-velvet collar and brass-buttoned vest, with a cut
of black-satin ribbon across the frilled shirt; Miss Quirley in a
marvelous black-lace gown over a pink silk foundation, with dainty
wristlets; Schneibel in green-velvet smoking-jacket and red tie
of a totally different hue from his hair; Belle Shaler and Pansy
Hartmann in evening gowns, popular editions of the latest styles,
presented to them by illustrators in search of heroines of high
society; while Tootles, who did the honors, moved among them like
a dancing master, more English than ever in a snug dinner coat,
with his chin reposing on a high white stockade. Flick had dressed
for the evening by the simple expedient of adding a _boutonnière_
to his faithful (the expression is his) ruddy chestnut suit,
eclipsing King O’Leary, who remained the roving democrat that he
was. Finally, Myrtle Popper arrived the last, on a calculated
entrance, towering in mauve, loaded with brooches and sparklers and
distilling perfume.

Once gathered, a certain unease unaccountably fell over the party.
Mr. and Mrs. Teagan stood alone, clinging to each other, as
Schneibel roamed about, admiring the back drops which he believed
the work of Tootles. Miss Quirley looked so frightened when the
baron tried to open a conversation, while Myrtle Popper and Millie
Brewster looked each other over with such visible amazement that
King O’Leary, fearing the party was going on the rocks, cried,

“Every one find his place at the table.”

A moment later each guest was gazing in wonder, first at a large
portion of caviar ingeniously reposing among clusters of chopped
onions, eggs, and lemons, and, second, at the following menu:

                        FIRST ANNUAL DINNER
                               MENU
      Caviar        Celery        Olives        Salted Almonds
                            Turtle Soup
                     Oysters on the Half-Shell
                Vermont Turkey with Cranberry Sauce
                    Roast Pig with Fried Apples
      Baked Sweet Potatoes      Mashed Potatoes      Succotash
                           Lobster Salad
      Plum Pudding        Pistache Ice-cream        Angel Cake
                            Demi-tasse

Schneibel and Millie were visibly alarmed at the spectacle of
the caviar, while the rest of the party, before the magnitude of
the task before them, seemed struck dumb, perceiving which, King
O’Leary rose and spoke as follows:

“Friends: You have noticed, I suppose, at the head of the menu,
that this is the first annual feed. Now, I’m not much on a speech,
and this ain’t a speech. We’re here to get together. That’s my
motto: If you’ve got a gold mine or a tooth-ache--get together! Let
some one else share it. Sort of struck me that we had as much right
to a Christmas of our own as some one else--this is the answer. If
any one doesn’t like anything here, or anything goes wrong--blame
me. As for me, I hope you’ll like me, as I have made up my mind to
like you. And after seeing a lot of this old world, I reckon one of
us is just as good as another, and if I brought you together, why--”

Here he stopped suddenly, fidgeted, and sat down, amid immense
applause.

In ten minutes the party was off at top speed, every one laughing
and rattling on in a high voice, utterly regardless of whether any
one was listening or not, as though each had been released from
solitary confinement and had to talk for the month of repression
endured. The first shyness wore off. They gazed gratefully at King
O’Leary and then at each other, wondering why they had kept apart
so long, so utterly happy that, at times, they stopped and caught
their breaths. To attempt to give an adequate idea of this mixed
conflict is impossible. The room rang with such remarks as these:

“I’m going to eat that lobster salad if I die for it.”

“Tootles, where did you find him--he’s wonderful!”

“Waiter--hist, waiter--a little more of that there pig, and a bit
of the bark!”

“Teagan, you’re all right--here’s to you!”

“Get out of my plate, you dog! Oh, you wanted to help me to some
succotash? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Whache think o’ the swell that’s movin’ in at the corner? Didche
ask him to the party?”

“Say, I’ll tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“He’s got a real fur coat--real fur.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Sorry he’s not moved in yet.”

“Sure he is. Didn’t Pansy get a squint in his studio? He came in
to-day,” said Belle.

“Who else didn’t come?” said Myrtle Popper (who had vowed to eat
lobster), looking at King O’Leary from her smiling green eyes.

“Drinkwater and the girl at the end.”

“Oh, _her_!”

“Lady Vere de Vere.”

“Sonderson’s all right,” said Belle Shaler loudly. “What’s wrong?
Couldn’t she see you?”

Tootles, who had placed himself next to Pansy, who looked unusually
fragrant, indignantly defended himself amid shouts of laughter. And
they had just risen joyously, when the door opened and Drinkwater’s
high face and roving eyes appeared.

“Sorry, most sorry. Didn’t get your invitation until just now,” he
said, sliding in. He spoke just above a whisper, every fifth word
interrupted by a nervous blowing out of the breath through his
nose, which he tweaked constantly. “Am I too late?”

“Not at all; you’re welcome, Drinkwater. This is open house
to-night,” said King O’Leary, with outstretched hand. “My name’s
O’Leary. Come on and meet the bunch.”

The new arrival cast a momentary chill on the group, a new element
difficult to assimilate, while several remarked that he came in as
the thirteenth--a coincidence which many later recalled. There was
something too eager, too effusive in his greeting as he made the
rounds. When he came to the baron, the latter barely acknowledged
his salute with the slightest of nods, a reception which Drinkwater
did not appear to notice in the least. When the introductions were
over, he went directly to the side of Pansy, to the evident and
rising amazement of Tootles.

However, the tree was waiting, and amid the shock of surprise at
the unexpected appearance of presents, neatly done up and addressed
to each, they momentarily forgot the unwelcome element. In default
of the usual bazaars O’Leary had returned with the spoils of half a
dozen pawn-shops. There was an old black-lace fan with carved ivory
sticks for Miss Quirley, which so exactly matched her gown that she
sat down and cried, quietly confessing, in a burst of confidence,
that it replaced one she had been forced to sell a dozen years
before. There were brooches and bracelets for the other ladies, not
imitations but real silver and gold with genuine stones--which left
them enraptured and stupefied. The baron, Drinkwater, and Schneibel
received stick-pins, while Tootles and Flick were themselves amazed
to receive each a real-gold watch. To escape the torrent of thanks,
King O’Leary, blushing and happy, bolted to the piano; the colored
orchestra, which had just arrived, struck up, and in a moment the
whole company was whirling around the studio, from which the tables
had disappeared.

In the midst of the second dance, Madame Probasco, the medium
directly below, rushed up in stormy protest, followed by a Mr.
Dean, a pale young man who was studying to be a veterinary surgeon.
Madame Probasco was a fat, rolly lady, dressed in Gypsy shawls and
glittering ear-rings, whose yellow corkscrew curls, streaked with
gray, came straggling over her washed-out features so that she
looked more like a wild spirit herself than one who was supposed
to tame them and call them forth. At the sight of Mrs. Teagan
revolving in the arms of Flick, and the landlord himself capering
with Belle Shaler in a step absolutely his own, her anger vanished
in open-mouthed amazement, and before she could recover, King
O’Leary had her about the waist and spinning among the others,
while the pale young man who had been craning over her shoulder,
fled bashfully.

Sassafras now came in for an exhibition of double shuffling and
a visit to the punch-bowl. Mr. and Mrs. Teagan, already in
uproarious spirits, followed with an Irish jig, whereupon Schneibel
volunteered to give an exhibition of yodeling.

By this time, several facts were apparent to all: first, that
Myrtle Popper and Minnie Brewster had eyes only for King O’Leary,
of which he seemed quite unconscious, and second, that the
introduction of Drinkwater into the group was destined to have
disagreeable consequences. Tootles, who was good humor itself, was
in a thundering rage at the lawyer’s continued attentions to Pansy,
who, strange to say, seemed rather to relish them.

“Damn him! Why doesn’t he keep his eyes quiet?” he said to Belle
Shaler, who was trying to pacify him. “What’s he trying to discover
around here, anyhow? He’d better be careful what he does. Why--the
cheeky blackguard!”

This exclamation was drawn from him by the sight of Drinkwater,
who had maneuvered Pansy under the mistletoe (which every one
seemed to have neglected up to the present), availing himself of
this undeniable privilege. Tootles started forward angrily, and
there is no telling what might have happened had not King O’Leary,
who had noticed his fury, saved the day by catching Miss Quirley
in the same predicament amid shrieks of laughter. Tootles, in the
general scramble that now took place, was forced to relinquish his
grouch, while King O’Leary, profiting by a favorable moment, caught
Drinkwater’s arm not too gently and swung him around.

“Look out--you hurt!” said the latter, with an exclamation of pain.

“Sorry,” said King O’Leary, squeezing the harder, “but a word to
you. Go easy--you’re trespassing--do you get me?”

To any other, Drinkwater might have returned an impudent
answer--one indeed was on his lips; but he looked a second time
at King O’Leary’s steady eyes, scowled, and turned away, for a
while at least devoting himself elsewhere. Mr. Cornelius, who had
witnessed the episode, came to King O’Leary and offered his hand
with dignity.

“Thanks, Meester O’Leary. If you had not do it, I should have! The
man is _canaille_!”

To the surprise of every one, Flick volunteered to sing a comic
song, at the conclusion of which it was voted, on Tootles’ motion,
that it was the sentiment of the assemblage that he should never
be permitted a second transgression. Millie Brewster, to offset
Flick’s offending, was prevailed upon to sing, and chose to render
“The Lass o’ Bonnie Dundee,” which she sang in such a sweet if
slight voice that a sudden gloom fell about the room, as though
through the fragile illusion of jollity they had so courageously
built up, the hard, lonely facts of their lives had suddenly struck
in. Mr. Cornelius was tugging at his mustache; Tootles, whose cup
was overflowing anyhow, was staring glumly ahead, while through the
heavy silence could be heard the sniffle of Miss Quirley and the
throaty sob of Madame Probasco, who had become more and more human.

“I, too, will sing a sentimental ballad,” said Schneibel, his
red-bobbed head glowing with redder enthusiasm.

“No, you won’t,” said King O’Leary resolutely. “I know the kind of
stuff you love--moonbeams and gravestones! Nothing but yodeling for
you, old friend Schneibel! Here, we’ve got to break this up! Every
one on the floor, and all tune up. Who knows ‘We’ll all go down to
Casey’s’?--Good! Come on now, knock the blues higher than a kite.
One--two--three!”

        “We’ll all go down to Casey’s
        And we’ll have a little gin,
        And we’ll sit upon the sand
        Till the tide comes in,
        Till the tide comes in;
        And we’ll sit upon the sand
        Till the tide comes in.”

“Right over again and faster,” said King O’Leary. “That’s the way,
Miss Quirley; you’re a sport. That’s right--thump the floor; beat
time anyhow!”

They were chanting this memory-haunting snatch for the third time,
clapping hands in rhythm and struggling amid laughter to get their
breaths, when the door was flung violently open and Dangerfield
appeared, top-hat, fur coat and the gleam of a white tie.

The chorus died down immediately. Every one was struck by the
strangeness of his entrance. He looked bigger and rougher than he
was, muffled up in the great coat, with a flurry of snow on the
shoulders, over which could be seen the white of two other faces
peering curiously in. He took off his hat slowly, as he saw the
company, but in a dazed way, and stood there blinking at them,
for all the world like a great bear wandering into the glare of a
camp-fire. There was indeed something restless and shaggy about
him that struck them all as he stood there, staring into the room.
The head was full and round with an abundance of curly black hair,
grizzled at the temples, with one white lock that rose from the
forehead like a white flame. The face was wide-spaced and rather
flat, the yellow-green eyes were deep set with distended pupils,
very animal-like--eyes that glowed and set in sudden fixed stares.

Evidently the party had startled him--perhaps it was the presence
of women, which he had not foreseen, for after a moment he seemed
to recover himself with an effort and said a few words which caused
his companions to scuttle away and took a step into the room,
smiling courteously, without a trace of the former wild, almost
unbalanced stare.

“I am afraid I owe you an apology,” he said quietly. “My friends
mistook this for my studio. I hope you will forgive the rudeness of
my intrusion.”

During the moments which had followed the flying open of the
door, the entire company had remained hushed under the spell of
the brusque incident. Every one had the same feeling--there was
something out of place with the man, dressed as he was, here
in the Arcade alone on Christmas night--something indefinably
wrong, though what it was each would have been hard put to it to
express. In this short moment, where each man felt that he was
in trouble, there was something about him, a certain weakness or
a certain childlike wildness, that went to the heart of every
woman present--a quality the man had of being lovable (for it was
unconscious) despite all his faults. He had bowed and started to
withdraw, before King O’Leary came to.

“Hold up, friend--you must be Dangerfield, aren’t you?”

“Dangerfield?” said the new arrival, stopping. “Yes, that’s my
name.”

“Then you’ve fallen in right. There’s an invitation waiting for you
in your room for this same shebang.”

“An invitation?” said Dangerfield slowly, and he passed his hand
over his brow, which was splendid and open. Many noticed the effort
which he seemed to put into his words. “I was out, probably. If I
had been there, I assure you I would have come with the greatest
of pleasure. It’s my loss,” he added, with a smile that seemed to
appeal for their friendship.

“Never too late, neighbor. This is a get-together party. Drop your
duds and join us.”

“May I? Thank you,” he said, but he continued to stand there
without a move to shed his overcoat, until Flick, who had been
watching him narrowly, approached, saying:

“Let me give you a hand. Wilder’s my name. Glad to know you.”

He seemed to recall himself, and slipped from the heavy coat.

A curious thing among the many curious things of this night was
that immediately all the others came up to be introduced to
Dangerfield, with an instinctive tribute, or the feeling that
the man was in deep trouble. Drinkwater was among the first, his
nervous, prying little eyes fairly fastened on the other in his
excitement. Dangerfield shook each hand cordially, with a smile
that seemed to transform his whole expression into one of democracy
and kindliness, giving to his greeting of each woman present a
touch of exquisite deference.

Then a strange thing happened.

“Mr. Cornelius,” said King O’Leary. “There’s a string of names I
wouldn’t dare tackle. We call him ‘the baron.’”

“Mr. Cornelius, I am very--” said Dangerfield, and then raised
his head and stopped short. The baron, too, was staring at him as
though he had seen a vision of the past, mumbling over and over as
though dissatisfied, “Meester Dangerfeel--Dangerfeel----”

It was only a moment, but every one perceived it, while
Drinkwater’s face was fairly quivering with interest. Each
caught himself up and bowed, but for a moment across the face of
Dangerfield had come again that sudden, startled, bearlike stare
which seemed the frightened uprising of another nature struggling
within him.

What happened after that came so suddenly that few could remember
it clearly. The orchestra had broken into a rattling two-step, and
the studio was shaking with the shuffling of feet; Dangerfield had
not moved from his original position, and remained thus staring for
so long a while that most had forgotten him, when all of a sudden
there was a warning shout from Tootles, a scream from Pansy, and
the next moment Dangerfield had reeled and fallen with a crash to
the floor.

There was a babel of cries--some one calling to the orchestra to
stop, Miss Quirley sobbing, and the baron calling for a glass of
water, while Mr. Teagan rushed to and fro volubly, doing nothing
at all--when in the midst of this turmoil, without any one knowing
how she had gotten there, or indeed, noticing anything strange in
her appearance, Inga Sonderson was seen kneeling at the side of the
fallen man, examining him quietly and in a businesslike manner.

“He must be carried into his own room,” she said, after a quick
examination. “When he comes to, there must be quiet--absolute
quiet. He must be gotten there now.” Her eyes fell on King O’Leary.
“You’re strong; can you carry him?”

For answer he stooped and lifted the senseless body, but not
without an effort, for the man was powerfully built. Every
one seemed at once to turn to Inga, as though recognizing a
providential authority.

“Is he alive?”

“What was it--heart-stroke?”

“Apoplexy?”

“But is his studio ready?”

“His studio is ready,” said Inga quietly. She nodded to O’Leary.
“Carry him in now. The rest stay here.” She glanced around. “I
think the party had better end. There must be quiet. Belle, I shall
want cold cloths; and Mr. Teagan, you had better send for a doctor.
Baker is over on Sixty-seventh Street. Better telephone.”

[Illustration: It never occurred to King O’Leary to ask what she
intended to do. _Page 69._]

Leaving the crowd, flustered and frightened, to disperse
into whispering groups, she went down the hall to the corner
studio, which was piled with packing-cases in an indescribable
confusion. In one corner, very black and white in the glare of
the center-light, was a four-poster bed, and on it the sprawling
figure of Dangerfield. She went to it straight and silent, knelt
again, felt the pulse, lifted the eyelids, while King O’Leary
waited.

“Well,” he said, as she arose. “D.T.’s, isn’t it?”

“Only a part of it--I think,” she said, looking down at the
powerful figure that looked more like a stricken animal than ever.
The curious thing is that it never occurred to King O’Leary to
ask what she intended to do. He seemed to accept her as a fact,
just as naturally as she had assumed control. She stood a moment
silent, her finger on her lips, looking down, and then drew herself
together with a sort of shudder, looked at King O’Leary, who was
watching her, and said:

“Undress him and get him into bed. Then call me.”




VII


It was a weird ending to the night of Christmas romping for King
O’Leary, sitting breathless on an upturned box, his elbows on his
knees, chin in hand, staring through the dim shafts of light at the
two figures in the further corner--Dangerfield, limp and inert,
head and shoulders a confused shadow against the white, propped-up
pillows, with the lithe figure of the girl, straight as a young
spruce, waiting. From the time O’Leary had placed him in the great
four-poster bed, the man had not moved, while the heavy breathing,
slow and regular, was the only sound through the stillness in the
room. Against O’Leary the boxes rose in craggy somberness; a rug,
leaning against the wall in an elongated roll, stretched upward
like a climbing tree. Bits of sculpture, struggling groups of
single busts, peered down at him above heaped-up chairs and tables
in such confusion that, at times, he seemed to be moving through a
fantastic warehouse.

Doctor Baker was away, and in despair they had routed Mr. Dean out
of bed--the pale young man who was studying to be a veterinary. He
had come, perched on the bed like a shadowy crow, taken the pulse,
listened to Inga, and departed, after a wise caressing of his chin,
without committing himself. Half an hour later, after a diligent
consultation of certain books, he slipped back and beckoned O’Leary
into the hall.

“The best thing is to let him sleep,” he said, with a
professionally satisfied air. “Give him all the sleep he can get.
Looks to me like nerves--and a touch--I’m not sure--but there are
certain indications--lips blue, and the way he went over--a touch
of heart-disease. Of course, it might be acute indigestion and
then, too, he has been hitting it up pretty hard----”

“I congratulate you,” said King O’Leary, who had a prejudice
against the profession, and who returned without imparting this
expert opinion.

At about three o’clock, as nearly as he could judge, Dangerfield
suddenly awoke, or at least seemed to awake, and sat bolt upright
in bed, staring directly at the girl. This silent confrontation
lasted a long moment; possibly in the darkness Dangerfield, if
he were truly awake and not in a semisomnambulistic state, was
staring at the girl with that startled animal intensity which had
characterized his first entrance. All at once she put out her hand
and said in a low, softly modulated voice:

“That’s enough; lie down again--go back to sleep.”

He did not respond immediately, and his eyes seemed to wander
apprehensively into the shadows, but at last, perhaps under the
pressure of her hand, he lay back. In a moment he began to stir and
toss, mumbling incoherently to himself. She leaned over, taking his
hand, and said something in gentle command, and presently he became
quiet, and his sleep from then on was untroubled.

Toward the first filtering in of the dawn, King O’Leary, dozing at
his post, woke up at a touch on his shoulder. It was Inga, looming
out of the mist that streaked the room, like a dweller from the
sea, one finger on her lips in warning, looking seriously down at
him from her sea-blue eyes and dark face. They tiptoed across the
room, looked a moment back at the unconscious figure on the bed,
and stole out, closing the door. In the hall, the dusty globe shone
sickly in the watery dawn.

“He’s all right now, I think,” she said, in a whisper. “It’s better
for us not to be there when he awakes.”

“I--I guess I fell asleep,” said King O’Leary awkwardly, a little
ashamed before the alert and young figure which showed no sign of
fatigue.

“You really didn’t need to be there,” she said, and he noticed
there was an awakened ring in her voice, as though a great joy or a
great test had come to her. “Better get a bit of sleep now.”

“And you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I say, wouldn’t it be a good thing to lock him in--until later?”

“No, no,” she said with some emphasis; “never that--that sets
them crazy. Besides, he’d get out of the window and over the
roofs--there’s a way over the tenements. Then there _would_ be
trouble.”

He stared at her with a feeling that this was a situation not
entirely new to her, wondering many things. She felt the weight
of this curiosity, for she turned toward her door, but without
embarrassment, saying:

“Good night; thank you.”

“I say, will you tell me one thing?”

“What?”

She turned, her hand to the door, her back against it, drawing
her eyebrows together, and, for the first time, he noticed the
dark pools of wakefulness under her eyes, shadows that were not
unbecoming, but gave an expression of acute sensitiveness to the
fragile, dark oval of her face, which ordinarily was a little too
placid--like the unmarked stretch of new-fallen snow.

“Did you know him--before?” he said, with a jerk of his head toward
the corner studio.

She shook her head.

“But you know--at least you’ve got a guess--who he is?” he
persisted.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s consideration; “I think I know.”

Then she nodded and went in.

       *       *       *       *       *

Everything remained deeply quiet until about ten o’clock in the
morning, when Dangerfield awoke, dressed himself in the discarded
evening clothes, put on his fur coat and top-hat, and went down
the hall, searching the inscriptions on each door until he arrived
at the room of Mr. Cornelius, where, oblivious to the appearance
of curious heads, he knocked loudly and entered. He was there
fully half an hour before he emerged, and, returning to his room,
closed and locked the door. What was said at this odd interview,
no one ever found out. The baron, instantly questioned, replied
that it was a matter which lay between them. He was in a high state
of excitement, seeming unaccountably younger and making fearful
blunders in English. His answer naturally served to increase the
curiosity of the Arcadians, already exceedingly intrigued--an
effect which was further heightened by the subsequent actions of
Dangerfield himself.

Hardly had the surprise of his visit to the baron in incongruous
attire died down, when he came out of his room shaved and properly
dressed, and went down the hall and out. Sassafras, who took him
down, vowed he looked just as natural as any one. At five o’clock
the same afternoon, as the three friends were discussing the one
topic, Dangerfield entered unexpectedly, and a curious thing
happened. He came in as he had the night before, without a word
of greeting, until he had stood quite a moment, with the same
startled, set look that an animal shows--a look of trying to take
in mentally, to comprehend something unaccustomed. This, however,
passed, and he came forward with outstretched hand and winning
smile.

“I am afraid I gave you quite a shock last night,” he said, and
then, evidently forgetting that introductions had taken place,
he added: “My name’s Dangerfield. Seeing that I am your next-door
neighbor, I hope I did not make too bad an impression.”

“This is free soil up here,” said Tootles cheerfully. “Nobody’s
business what anybody does.”

This answer must have raised a suspicion in the visitor’s mind, for
he was quiet a moment and presently asked:

“I am rather hazy as to last night. What happened?”

“Oh, there was quite a christening up here,” said Flick
sympathetically. “You stood around for a while like a statue of
Liberty and then went to sleep rather violently.”

“Did I do that?” said Dangerfield gloomily.

“Oh, don’t let that worry you,” said Flick, who seemed all at
once to realize that his past record debarred him from sitting in
judgment. “Thought you were damned dignified. Only, you gave the
skirts quite a scare.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Dangerfield gravely. He hesitated, and
added: “The fact is, I get doubled up occasionally. It’s a nervous
contraction that stiffens up my right side. It’s nothing to worry
about--there’s nothing really to be done. The only thing to do is
to stretch me out and let me come to. Did you notice that my right
arm was doubled up?” he asked, suddenly looking at King O’Leary.

“Why, yes; it seems to me it was,” O’Leary answered, looking down
at the floor, so as to avoid the other’s gaze.

“That’s it.”

Flick had it on his tongue to retort: “Old geezer, struck me you
were pickled,” but, for some reason, he restrained this impulse and
said instead:

“Lingering with us long?”

“I suppose so.”

“Going to sling some paint?”

“What?”

“You’re an artist, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What kind--cow, sea bathing or just green grass?”

Dangerfield looked at him a moment, and gradually a smile broke
through.

“I see. Well, I am only a portrait painter.”

“Like Tootles,” said Flick.

Dangerfield glanced at Tootles, who acknowledged this tribute by
bowing and saying with dignity, after making sure that no remnants
of Wimpfheimer & Goldfinch’s cartoons were visible:

“Quite right. I do portraits. My friend is one of the hopes of
literature. Mr. O’Leary draws harmonies from even a rented piano.”

“I hope you will take me in,” said Dangerfield, with his engaging
smile. “Perhaps we can get off to a better start.”

“You’re examining the impressive mural decoration to the left?”
said Tootles, following Dangerfield’s gaze, which had suddenly
fixed itself in fascinated surprise upon the sunset breaking over
the cañon of Colorado.

“Your work?”

“It’s not my work,” said Tootles firmly. “It belongs to the first
Hoboken period. Mr. Flick Wilder, the well-known art connoisseur,
collects such things. You may laugh,” he added, perceiving
Dangerfield’s eyes twinkling.

“That’s all right; but you should see the walls,” said Flick
defensively. “Well, how does it strike you--what do you think of
our little boudoir?”

“It’s great--it’s real,” said Dangerfield, with such genuine joy
that they all burst into laughter.

For half an hour he passed around, eager as a boy, examining
everything, marveling at the owls and the Chinese dragon, which
Flick called the “belly-light,” roaring with laughter over the
reconstruction of the Harlem bear which had so wantonly attacked
Flick, and gazing enraptured at the signs, the lodging box and the
allotted abodes of Literature and Art, giving his advice as to
the place to be assigned to Music, which was the present problem.
During all this time he entered into their moods with enthusiasm
and boyish glee as though nothing existed outside of the room, nor
a worry in the world. But all at once, without warning or apparent
cause, he lapsed back into his former moodiness, seemed to forget
them completely, and presently, with a sign to King O’Leary, rose
and left the room.

“Who took me into my room last night?” he asked, when King O’Leary
had followed him into the hall.

“I did.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes; and you were some load,” said O’Leary cheerfully.

Dangerfield was silent a moment, his glance wandering up and down
the hall. Finally he asked, after a delay so long that O’Leary had
grown tired of waiting:

“I have an impression--was any one else with you?”

“Yes, there was--”

“A woman?” he interrupted.

O’Leary nodded.

“I thought so,” he said, with a sort of sigh of relief. Presently
he added, but with less curiosity, “Who was it?”

“Girl across the way from you--Miss Sonderson. She happened along
just as you keeled over. No one knows much about her, only she
seemed to be able to handle you in first-rate style.”

“How long was she there?”

“_We_ spent the night, thank you,” said O’Leary, who had begun to
be impatient for some signs of gratitude to appear.

“She lives here--you’re sure?” said Dangerfield, looking at him
intently.

“Sure; opposite to you. Look for yourself,” said King O’Leary with
some irritation.

Dangerfield gave him a second glance, and then went slowly to Inga
Sonderson’s door and bent over the card carefully.

“Yes; that’s right,” he said, nodding, and went into his room, as
though that were, the only point to be settled.

“Well, you certainly are a queer rooster,” said King O’Leary to
himself, so perplexed that he remained scratching his head. The
door opened, and Dangerfield reappeared, coming toward him with
extended hand.

“Please forgive me. What I wanted to say--what I came in to say,
was to thank you.”

“Oh, forget it!” said O’Leary, instantly mollified. He felt the
grasp of the other man’s hand, and liked him better for its free,
powerful hug.

“I am not--not quite myself these days,” said Dangerfield, with
boyish frankness. “Don’t mind what I do--and I hope we will be good
friends.”

As he said this, there came a look of pain across the eyes, a look
of inward distress that struck O’Leary, who went back into the
studio, however, without response.

The man had a sense of authority, as he had authority himself,
and there was perhaps in King O’Leary’s heart a shade of jealousy
that the memory of Inga Sonderson and the way she had gone to his
assistance did not serve to lessen. When he entered, his first
question showed in what direction his curiosity had gone.

“What do you know about that Sonderson girl?”

“Lady Vere de Vere?” began Tootles.

“She’s not that,” said King O’Leary gruffly. “She’s the real stuff.
Well, what do you know about her, Flick?”

“About as much as you, old life-guard.”

“I believe,” said Tootles, who assumed his English manner to
show that his feelings were ruffled, “that there was a bit of an
attachment between her and that chap, Champeno--queer beggar, and
shockingly wild. How far it went, I really could not say. We hadn’t
organized the Sixth Floor Social Club in those days, and the most
we chaps did was to remark it was hot when it was hot, and cold
when it was cold, and there you are!”

“Tootles,” said Flick severely, “put the cold soup, the cold turkey
and the cold pig upon the table.” And turning to King O’Leary, he
said. “Well, what do you think of Dangerfield? How do you make him
out?”

“Haven’t made up my mind yet,” said King O’Leary shortly.

“What _is_ wrong with him?” said Tootles, from the provision-box.

“Booze!” said Flick, in virtuous condemnation.

“Not entirely,” said King O’Leary, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a
lot of booze-fighters, and helped tuck some of them underground,
but I never saw any rum hound just like this guy.”

“Maybe he’s murdered some one,” said Tootles cheerfully.

“That would be more like it.”

“Well, I think he’s a nut,” said Flick.

“And I think he’s one corker!” said Tootles enthusiastically.

“‘Corker’ is not English, Art,” said Flick.

“Quite right, old boy. I consider him a jolly good chap,” said
Tootles. “We’d better have the girls in; we never can eat all
this.”

At this moment there came a determined pounding on the wall.

“What’s that?” said Flick, startled.

“Madame Probasco’s spirits,” said Tootles, who always took an
extreme view.

“Why, it’s Schneibel!” said King O’Leary, listening to the
knocking, which was repeated with more insistence.

They rushed around and found the dentist doubled up on the sofa
betwixt rage and pain, gasping,

“Dot lobster--oh, dot lobster salad!”

“That’s true,” said Flick, in a whisper. “He ate half the salad; I
saw him.”

While Tootles ran off in search of Dean, O’Leary and Flick gazed,
fascinated, at the unfortunate man, who, between his fury and his
agony, had turned an orange red.

Young Mr. Dean arrived, and immediately began to explore for
symptoms of appendicitis, showing that whatever his present
incapacity, he had at least mastered the economic theory of
medicine.

“No, no; it ain’t de appendix, it’s de lobster--de damned lobster
an’ de pistache ice-cream--”

“Has he eaten that combination?” said the pale young man, who,
from the last twenty-four hours’ experience, had begun to form a
professional manner.

“And more,” said Flick.

“Then that is probably the cause,” said the sub-doctor regretfully,
at which Schneibel howled out an oath, roaring:

“Don’ tell vat it is! Stop it; for God’s sake, stop it!”

“But how will we stop it?” said King O’Leary.

Thus confronted, Mr. Dean looked very solemn and introspective,
while the others waited.

“Well?” said Flick.

“If he were a horse,” said the sub-doctor pensively, “I think I’d
bleed him.”

“Throw him oudt--throw dot chump oudt!” cried Schneibel, who rose
up in such wrath that Mr. Dean whisked away.

King O’Leary had the happy idea to resort to Miss Quirley, who
came, applied a hot-water bottle and dosed him from three small
blue bottles so efficaciously that in half an hour the storm was
over.

They sat down with the assistance of the others to vanquish the
cold remnants and to plan a party which would complete the one that
had been so rudely interrupted.

In the middle of the meal, King O’Leary, who had been singularly
silent, rose without explanation, searched a moment in his trunk,
which was stowed behind the second Japanese atrocity, and left the
room.

He went rapidly down the hall until he had covered two-thirds of
the way to Miss Sonderson’s room. Then he slowed down abruptly,
hesitated, went on, listened and finally knocked. Instantly the
door was half opened and the girl appeared, lifting her eyes in
wonder.

“Here,” said King O’Leary, shoving forth a little package carefully
wrapped and inscribed “A Merry Christmas.”

“What is it?” she said, noticing the confusion in his eyes.

“From the Christmas party last night,” he said awkwardly. “This was
on the tree for you. Every one got something--please take it. And
say--what I wanted to tell you is--my hat’s off to you! Honest, I
think you’re a wonder!”

Before she could answer, he had actually blushed, wheeled clumsily,
and gone hastily back.




VIII


One evening, the third after the party, Dangerfield came stamping
into the Arcade, shaking from him the snow that lay clinging to
his ulster. Inga Sonderson was already in the elevator, but beyond
one of his characteristic, set looks, he paid no attention to her,
to the active amazement of Sassafras, who stared hopefully from
one to the other. Dangerfield was evidently in one of his worst
moods, with furrowed lower face and brooding, far-distant glance.
At the sixth floor he started to bolt out, and then, aware of her
presence, drew back hastily, saying,

“I--I beg your pardon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, and inclined her head.

He started at the name, whirled about, and peered at her as she
stood waiting for him to open the conversation. Then all at once he
went past her rapidly, and was at his own door, with the key in the
lock, before he became aware that she was back of him. He wheeled
abruptly, stared at her, and in a moment came toward her curiously.

“Are you--I--I forget the name,” he said, after a moment’s attempt
to recall it. “Are you the girl who took care of me--that night?”

She turned under the glare of the hall light, the snow glistening
on her ulster where it had settled, her cheeks tingling, the dainty
upper lip quivering with a faint smile.

“I suppose I am.”

It was characteristic of him that he did not at once thank
her, but continued gazing down into the unfathomable eyes, now
black-blue as the wintry sea.

“Why did you do it?” he said gruffly.

She leaned back, as though withdrawing defensively before his
looming inspection, and the door swung open on the darkness of the
studio, with its wan, gray spread above where the snow was sifting
against the skylight.

“Some one had to--didn’t they?”

The voice, though not a cultured one, had something peculiarly
soothing and pleasant in its low modulation that caught his ear and
left him with the desire to listen further.

“I have seen you before, haven’t I?”

She shook her head.

“That’s strange--seemed to me I had,” he muttered, looking at her
again so intently and so long that at last she repeated to recall
him,

“No; never.”

“You have never posed for me?”

“I don’t pose.”

“What?” He looked startled. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“No offense. I shouldn’t mind,” she said, smiling. “Well, good
night.”

“Wait.” He held out his hand, and she gave hers directly. “I have
to thank you very deeply--though I don’t know at all why you should
have done it,” he said, shaking his head as though seeking from her
the answer.

Her shoulders moved in a little deprecatory gesture.

“It’s just my way--that’s all.”

He continued to hold her hand, looking at her as though he were
straining his eyes to distinguish some object in the fog. She did
not attempt to draw her hand away, as most women would, rather
taken with this brusqueness and assumption that was, at heart,
unconscious.

“Something restful about you--your voice, and the touch of your
hand,” he said, as though to himself. “I remember now--that night.
I thought it was an hallucination. Yes; I remember you now, quite
distinctly--and the sound of your voice.” He added abruptly: “You
haven’t told me your name.”

“Inga Sonderson.”

He repeated it.

“Really? Sounds like the sea rolling in--curious name. You’re not
American?”

“I was born here.”

“Shouldn’t have thought it.”

At this moment a door opened down the hall, and, recalled to
himself, he frowned, looked down, seemed suddenly to perceive that
her firm, slender hand lay in his huge spreading one, and said
hastily:

“Well, thank you, anyhow.”

He went into his room without having shown anything more than a
little wonder, a starting curiosity, and much kindliness.

They did not meet again for several days. He made no attempt to
advance the acquaintance, which was perhaps what led her to take
the next step.

During this time, the Arcadians saw little of Dangerfield, though
they knew of his presence by the unusual coming and going of men
such as were rare visitors in those sequestered halls; men of
that outer world that lies bound between the iron confines of the
elevated and lives from Madison Square to the park. In particular
there was one man who arrived in a resplendent car, accompanied by
a young clerk with a black brief-bag under his arm. At such times
loud voices rose in argument, and they could hear the restless
fall of Dangerfield’s feet tramping the room. After these visits
he would disappear, returning late in the night, unseen. At other
times, at any hour, midnight or dawn, he would start from his
studio and begin pacing up and down the hall in slippered feet that
made a dismal, sifting iteration in the wee hours. Once, after
quite a group had been in the studio, and the conversation had gone
into such a high pitch that Tootles had heard him cry, against some
lower-pitched remonstrance, “He’ll do it--by God, he’ll do it!”
Dangerfield was left in such a state of excitement that he passed
Flick in the hall literally without seeing him, his eyes absolutely
blinded to objects about him, as though filled with the obsession
of distant figures. That night he came in late, and wandered up and
down the hall until almost four o’clock in the morning. Whether he
was drunk or sober they had no way of telling--only twice, directly
outside their door, in startling contrast to his silent moods, they
heard him swearing to himself. It was not the oaths themselves,
but the stark savagery with which he ripped them out that caused
Tootles to whisper to Flick:

“Literature, it’s not nice to swear like that. It makes my blood
run cold.”

“What the deuce is he going through?” said Flick, in wonder.

“Hell of some sort,” said Tootles laconically. “Suppose the
Christian thing is to promenade with the chap.”

“Let him alone,” said King O’Leary, who had waked up also. “Fellows
like that aren’t in the mood for coddling.”

Immediately the sifting slip-slip ceased. Probably Dangerfield
had heard the sound of their voices and retired. At any rate,
he had waked up the whole floor and scared Miss Quirley almost
into hysterics. No one, however, reported the disturbance, though
each had been gruesomely affected. There seemed to be a tacit
understanding that the man was passing through some crisis and
should be left alone.

One person, however, took active interest in all Dangerfield’s
movements--the Portuguese-Yankee, Drinkwater, who was always
prowling down toward that end of the floor. Twice, when conferences
had been going on in the corner studio, Inga Sonderson had found
him outside her door, ostensibly seeking a view of the snow-capped
roofs of the tenements that rolled grimly toward the river. Each
time he had mumbled some excuse and unwillingly shifted away.
Meanwhile, the boxes still encumbered the passage, while within the
studio the same heaped-up disorder must have prevailed.

Matters were thus when, on New Year’s eve, Inga Sonderson returned
to the Arcade after a solitary supper at the Childs restaurant on
the avenue. She had no sooner turned the hall than down the somber
stretch she noticed with surprise a brilliant swath of light. She
went on, wondering what this could portend, for since their chance
meeting, she had not laid eyes on her neighbor. Through the opening
of his studio door she could see boxes, furniture and bric-à-brac
piled toward the ceiling like wreckage washed against the shore.
At the grating of her key in the lock, Dangerfield loomed into the
door-frame, dressed for the street, and saw her, with a swift,
appealing light in the storm-ridden face.

“Come in,” he said, without preliminaries, as though he had been
waiting in desperation for her return.

She rather liked this abruptness, so devoid of male coquetry,
instinctively warned that the man must have called to her in his
need. He had returned into the studio, as though sure of her
coming. She entered, closed the door, and found him by the window
that gave on the misery of the tenements, seated in a chair, his
back bent, his fists doubled up and pressed under his chin.

“Talk to me,” he said, in abrupt demand.

She stood a little away from him, looking down at his suffering,
divining the forces of doubt and despair wrestling within his soul.
In the midst of the surging confusion of the studio, they were in a
shallow clearing. She went over and laid her hand on his shoulder,
holding it there until she forced him to look up.

“Let me help,” she said quietly.

The sound of her voice seemed to arrest his attention. He turned
restlessly, his hand closing over her wrist.

“Bad night?”

He nodded, and his eyes wandered from her. All at once he rose with
a great breath, stretched out his arms, and then, with a brusque
turn, came back, looking at her with even a touch of suspicion in
his eyes.

“Why do you want to?”

What thoughts might have been in his mind were dispelled by the
frankness of her answer.

“Because you need help--don’t you?” she said, her eyes never
swerving under the shock of his stare, that was not easy to
encounter.

“Take off your hat.”

She saw that it was his curiosity that had been aroused, and lifted
her two arms in that wholly feminine gesture which seems to accord
the first note of intimacy to the man who witnesses it. He stared
at her more intently, with the eye of the artist, quick to note
values--the massed blacks of her hair and the odd contrast of the
sea-blue eyes against the brown oval of her face that gave to the
little teeth, when she smiled her serious smile, the lustrous flash
of milky porcelain.

“No; that’s true,” he said abruptly.

“What?” she asked, after a moment’s waiting.

“You’ve never posed for me.”

“Do you want me to?”

“No, no; that’s all over,” he said moodily; and, as though the
allusion had been unfortunate, he turned from her, bumping against
the corner of a chest which protruded.

“Great Heavens! What a horror--what a nightmare of a hole!” he
said, gazing about him.

“Then why not fix it up?”

If he heard the question he did not answer it, staring glumly into
the disorder, his fist doubled against his teeth, biting at his
nails, a convulsive, aggressive gesture characteristic of him.

“Let’s unpack things and fix up the studio,” she repeated.

He shook his head, plainly annoyed, and, after a moment, came back,
as though some gust of emotion had whirled through him and left a
lull of fatigue.

“Talk to me,” he said, sinking down limply. “Tell me about
yourself.” But immediately he broke in upon his own mood, saying
abruptly: “So you think I am down and out, don’t you?”

“No--I don’t think that,” she said gently. “That’s what _you_
think.”

“Well, I am,” he said vehemently. “Do you know what’s wrong?” he
added sharply, and, as she continued to watch him, he laughed and
said: “No, no; I won’t tell you that. Find out.”

She laid her hand on his shoulder again, to still the rising
excitement in his voice.

“Why didn’t you call me before?”

“Curious voice you have,” he said, without attention to her
question, in his haphazard jumping way. “Wish you’d go on talking.
It makes me drowsy--feeling of green fields, little swishing
brooks, and multitudes of silver leaves sweeping the skies. I love
your voice.”

“Let me take care of you to-night.”

“Why, what would you do?” he said, jerking up his head.

“Let’s start right by making a home out of this.”

“A home?”

The allusion was unfortunate, for he broke into a laugh, starting
up and seizing her arm, while the excitement seemed to pile up
within him.

“No, no; I’ll tell you what I’m going to do a night like this. I’m
going to break loose--stop this eternal, maddening fighting to hold
myself in--give way!” His voice had risen into rapid, shrill notes,
and she noticed that his eyes had taken on the unseeing shimmer.
“Give way--give way! Stop living as others want you--let the world
roar about you. What’s it matter--whom does it hurt--who cares the
slightest?”

He seized his hat, and, turning toward her, flung an arm around
her, holding her to him as though to sweep her up and out in his
breathless progress.

“Will you do that? Just to-night? Just for one night? Will you
follow me to-night?”

“No, I will not,” she said firmly, though into her eyes leaped
something untamed at the gusty, wild embrace in which he had caught
her. “And you won’t go, either.”

“I won’t?” he said, laughing boisterously, looking down into her
eyes that were so close to his. “That’s a good one! You think you
can change me, do you? Well, you’ll see!”

He let go of her, and was starting toward the door when she said
quickly,

“You’re right--do as you please.”

“Of course I shall,” he said angrily. Then a new thought seemed to
strike him. He hesitated, came back on tiptoe, and said, with a
curious smile:

“Aren’t you just a little bit afraid of me?”

“No; I am not afraid of you,” she said, and she kept her eyes on
his so intently that, in a moment, his glance went away.

“Well, I’ll tell you something,” he said, in a whisper; “I am
afraid of myself.”

He allowed her, without further resistance, to take his hat and
draw off his coat.

At this moment, the sound of voices and the crashing chords of a
piano broke in incongruously upon their mood.

“What’s that?” he said, startled.

“The studio next door,” she said. “They’ve gathered to see the old
year out, I suppose.”

Down the hall they heard Flick calling:

“Every one this way! Greatest social function of the year!”

Then the sound of knocking, an imperative personal summons. She
passed swiftly to the button and extinguished the light. Through
the window a pale shadow made Dangerfield just discernible. She
felt her way back and sat down near him, with a whispered caution
to silence. Tootles’ and Schneibel’s voices could be heard outside
in consultation.

“Oh, Miss Sonderson!”

“She’s oudt.”

“Thought I heard her coming back.”

The door of the room where they were shivered, and Tootles cried:

“I say there, friend Dangerfield, foregather!”

She put her hand quickly over his wrist to check a response. The
knock was repeated.

“He’s oudt, too,” said Schneibel. “Can’t you see, you chump, dere’s
no light?”

“My, but he’ll be off on a record bat to-night!”

“Well, you just bet he will.”

They moved away, and in the obscurity, Dangerfield began to laugh,
a bitter, gloomy laugh.

“Don’t!” she said sharply.

Across the wall, O’Leary’s powerful hands awoke the piano. Sitting
side by side, they heard laughter and the sounds of dancing. The
man at Inga’s side was silent again. Music and the shuffling
iteration of the dance seemed to act in a soothing way upon his
nerves. He began to talk in a low, matter-of-fact voice, with a
curious gift he had, even in the most soul-racking moments, of
standing off and looking back at himself.

“How extraordinary to be ending the year like this! Last year and
this! Up here, marooned, lost--ended! I certainly have seen queer
turns in my life. Well, the last phase, and then _Bonsoir_--

        “_La vie est brève:
        Un peu d’espoir,
        Un peu de rêve,
        Et puis bonsoir!_”

“Do you understand French?”

“No.”

“What I like about you,” he said irrelevantly, “is you don’t ask
questions.”

“No; I never do.”

“That’s right,” he said, and, as though unconscious of her
presence, he began to talk to himself in a sort of dreamy monotone
that had an odd contrast of melancholy against the background of
gaiety that came thrumming and throbbing from across the wall.

“Well, and, after all, we’re just children--all great cry-babies.
We can’t enjoy what we’ve got, or know how to keep it. We go out
and shoot ourselves or some one else--at least the great fools
do--because some one we don’t love and over whose life, after all,
we have no right, meets some one else who is bored. Work--work,”
he said, his thoughts flowing in some connection comprehensible
only to himself; “that’s the whole thing--the joy of working for
something, for something you hope to get--and when that’s gone----”
he stopped suddenly, continuing the thought in his own mind,
looking out of the window. “Well, even then, why should we cry out?
At least we don’t starve; we have a roof over our heads; we don’t
harness our bodies to grindstones just to keep on living. I wonder
which counts in the end--what _they_ do, or what we do?”

Evidently he was thinking of the hordes which spread away from
them in filthy blocks, for, after a long contemplation of the
snow-coated roofs, and the heavy, reddened pall of clouds which
caught the city’s reflection, he continued,

“Do you know what keeps them going--all of them--thousands on
thousands--just the same as us?”

“What?”

“Hope,” he said, with a laugh. “The hope that something wonderful
_may_ happen. They don’t know what it is. Poor devils, what
can _they_ hope for? But, you see, it may come. That’s where
destiny plays tricks with us--has its laugh at us. Good Lord,
how life plays with us, like a cat plays with a mouse! Hope!
That’s how it can get us to go on, to stand a little more--the
future--to-morrow--the thing you can’t guess.” He turned to her
again. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand--to-morrow.”

“You don’t understand at all,” he said impatiently. “What would
you do if you knew, absolutely knew, that everything was over,
that all you had hoped for was impossible, that everything you had
been striving for--that nothing was to come of it, nothing--no
more illusions, no more dreams.” The last words seemed to stick in
his mind, for presently he began to grow more excited. “It’s the
dreaming that’s the best of all; and when that’s gone--when you
can’t lie back at night and dream to yourself of doing something
so great that the whole world comes crowding in to stare at it--a
‘Mona Lisa’ or a ‘Spring’ of Botticelli or----” He ended abruptly,
with a curious sound that was not quite a laugh but more a bitter
protest. “No, no--no more dreams, no more.”

On the other side of the wall the dancing had ended. With the
approach of the weakening hour when the old year would yield
its last breath, the company began to sing old-fashioned
ballads--“Kathleen Mavourneen” and “The Lass o’ Lowrie.” He seemed
suddenly to realize all that he had been revealing of the rebellion
in his soul, for he turned toward her in a sudden antagonism.

“Here, I don’t like your sitting there making me talk!”

“I’m not making you,” she said. “It’s you who wanted me to be by
you to-night.”

“That’s so,” he assented. He turned toward her with another touch
of that shrewd, half-smiling cunning which he had shown when he had
thought to frighten her before. “If you only knew----”

“That’s just what I don’t want,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to
know.”

“Really?” he said, drawing back to watch her.

“It isn’t necessary.”

This answer seemed to satisfy him, for he forgot her presently,
returning to the contemplation of the city below them.

“I suppose it’s almost time,” he said. “The whistles will be
blowing soon.”

From the adjoining studio came a chorus led by Schneibel’s shrill
tenor impetuously in advance:

        “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
        And never brought to mind?
        Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
        And days o’ lang syne?”

Far out toward the river, a premature tug began a tiny whistle.

“How ridiculous that sounds!” he said irritably. Then, listening
intently to the repeated chorus, he seemed to be visualizing
another scene, for presently he said, with a touch of sadness, the
first he had displayed:

“They’ll be singing that pretty soon down by the marble fireplace
after the speech. Steingall, Quinny, the whole crowd--the
boys--perhaps--no, no; I guess not--‘auld acquaintance’--I
wonder----”

Outside, a great bell rang, and swift upon it another. All at once,
like a storm breaking, the night awoke with whistle, siren, and
clanging steeple--joyful, eager, perennially hopeful.

She bent toward him and laid her hand over his.

“A new chance.”

He stood up suddenly, as though at the limit of his tether, and
said between his teeth:

“By heavens, I _am_ going out! I can’t stand this.”

She rose silently, and turning, took his overcoat and held it up to
him--an action so unexpected that he looked at her in surprise.

“Thought you didn’t want me to----”

“I was wrong. You have a right to do anything you want.”

He nodded appreciatively, and said suddenly, as though in excuse:

“I can’t help it; I can’t--I tell you, I can’t. I’ve got to get
out.”

“Don’t explain,” she said quietly. “Don’t get excited; and when you
come in, call me.”

He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her toward the light.

“You’re a queer one, queer as I am, I guess--but you understand.”

“Yes; I understand.”

“Why do you do it?” he said suddenly, his mind evidently turning
again and again to the problem which perplexed him.

She laid both her hands against his shoulders, looking straight
into his eyes.

“Because I don’t like to see a splendid ship go down.”

“I--a splendid ship?” he said, with an incredulous laugh.

“One in ten thousand.”

He laughed again, moving irritably.

“So you believe in me, do you?”

“Absolutely.”

He caught his breath, stood silent a long moment in a conflict of
emotions, yielding, longing, haunted, and rebellious. At the end he
said scornfully:

“Yes, they all do--at first. Well, you’re wrong!”

With which he stalked away without further notice. He did not come
back that night at all, though the light shone under her door
patiently. Late the next afternoon, Sassafras came into the studio
with a mysterious gesture to King O’Leary, who was taking tea at
the hands of Myrtle Popper and pretending to like it. Together they
carried Dangerfield to his room. He was in a dreadful condition--a
soiled and hopeless mass from the gutter out of which he had been
rescued.




IX


During this time Art, Literature, and Music were industriously
engaged in the laudable enterprise of spending the unearned
increment, in the course of which redistribution of wealth, they
found the necessary encouragement from the more expensive sex.
A round of gaiety set in such as the Arcadians had never known.
Visits to restaurants and theaters became mere details of a
daily routine. They gave a dance in the studio and plunged into
the revelry of costume balls, then at its height; while, under
the guidance of Belle Shaler, they made several excursions into
the bohemia of Washington Square and Greenwich Village. In the
inevitable pairing-off process, it transpired that, however they
started forth, they returned home with Myrtle Popper snuggling
close to O’Leary’s protecting bulk (she seemed particularly
sensitive to the cold), Tootles tagging close to Pansy’s provoking
shoulder, and Flick and Belle Shaler, who had quarreled from the
start, walking six feet apart and stabbing each other with final
deadly glances. Millie Brewster came to the parties in the studio,
but seldom ventured forth on the marauding expeditions--not that
she did not envy these rollicking sallies in wig and fancy dress,
only she could not shake off the timidity and shyness which had
grown about her in her months of isolation.

“Boys,” said King O’Leary, one morning, when from his couch he
had watched Tootles’ mental control of Matter carrying him by
successive jerks to the sink--“boys, I have a bit of news to
break to you. I have been counting up, and there is just one more
jamboree in sight.”

Flick awoke by one of those subconscious mental perceptions that
the Society for Psychical Research is at present investigating.

“Broke?”

“King, tell us the worst.”

“Sixty-two dollars and some miserable change,” said O’Leary
cheerfully, “is all that keeps us among the high rollers.”

A fearful suspicion flashed across Tootles’ ducal countenance as it
dawned upon him that, though it was the first week of the month, no
summons to pay the rent had yet appeared.

“King, you paid the rent!”

O’Leary did not deny it.

“How much?” said Flick faintly.

“A year.”

Tootles took this announcement very hard.

“It’s squandering money, that’s what it is,” he said bitterly.

“Why, damn it, man,” said Flick, equally outraged, “anything can
happen--another uncle might die!”

“Well, it’s done,” said King O’Leary, without sign of penitence.
“I’m getting tired of dissipation, anyhow. At least we have a roof
over our heads.”

“We shall starve to death--like Croton water-bugs caught in a
diamond casket,” said Flick, who had a taste for poetical flights.

“But, even then,” said Tootles, “even with that and the parties
and the gorgeous presents, there ought to be three or four hundred
left.” At this moment he caught sight of a guilty look on King
O’Leary’s face. “Literature, I do believe he’s been and done some
low-down, sneaking good action. What is it--paying rent for the
whole floor?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said King O’Leary, but so gruffly that
Tootles was confirmed in the idea that his guess had some
pertinency.

“He’s been buying diamonds for Myrtle,” said Flick suspiciously.

“Well, here it is,” said King O’Leary, depositing a collection of
bills and change upon the table. “What’ll we do with it?”

To his shame, Tootles, who had bourgeois inclinations, suggested
that they should save it against the daily ache of the stomach.

“Never!” said Flick, with a withering look. “We have lived like
dead-game sports, and we must end with a bang and not with a
trickle.”

“Shake!” said King O’Leary.

“Well, what?” said Tootles glumly. “Oh, you fellows can grin; but
I know what’s going to happen to me. That confounded money-eating
little flirt of a Pansy will give me the royal shake the moment
she gets wise.” When Tootles had a grief or a woe, he confided it
to the world. “By Jove, I’ve made a fool enough of myself, running
after her, when all I had to do was to sit quiet and condescend to
let her feed out of my hand! Damn that Portuguese, Drinkwater! It
was bad enough before--but now, O Lord!”

“I shall break my engagement to Belle,” said Flick facetiously.
“Thank Heaven for one thing, _she_ won’t come around any more.”

“We’ve wasted too much time, anyhow,” said King O’Leary, mistaking
the sincerity of these professions. “As for me, I feel like getting
back to doing something. I tell you what we’ll do: We’ll take the
girls out once more, give them the greatest razzle-dazzle blowout
they have ever seen, and then, when their eyes are bulging out
and they are ready to melt in our arms, we’ll say, ‘Ladies, adoo
forever!’”

“Then we’re to tell them we’re bust?” said Flick, to whom the
bravado appealed.

“No,” said Tootles firmly; “let’s put it on high moral grounds.
We must tell them that we have listened to the stern voice of
ambition, that we are artists, and our professions are reclaiming
us.”

“That means work,” said Flick.

“I have an idea for a masterpiece,” said Tootles, who, by the last
speech, had recovered lost ground. “It’s to be called ‘The Ages
Contemplating the Well-Dressed Man.’ It’s to be a monumental work.
Who knows, it may bring another thousand!”

At noon, while they were perfecting their plans (Flick’s suggestion
of dining at the St. Regis having been dismissed on account of King
O’Leary’s hostility to boiled linen and social dog-collars), there
came a timid tap-tap at the door, and, to the amazement of two
members of the firm at least, Millie Brewster arrived with a broom
and a dust-cloth.

“Can’t I be useful?” she said, dreadfully confused at her own
daring. (She had studied over this opening for an hour.) “It’s only
neighborly, isn’t it?”

King O’Leary sprang up rather quickly, and while Tootles’ eyes
watched him with a dawning suspicion, he went to the girl and said
with rough good nature:

“You certainly can--come right in and set to it. Give your orders,
Millie--we’re here.”

But to the surprise of everybody, the girl pushed him away with
determination, saying:

“Not at all. Sit down--please. You’ll only be in the way.”

“So that’s the way the wind blows,” thought Tootles, noticing the
light that came into the childish face as she looked up at the
rugged globe-trotter.

“Why, bless my soul, is this to be a habit, Millie?” said Flick
encouragingly.

“Please--if you’ll let me,” she said eagerly.

Flick gave the permission with the air of one parting with a
string of pearls. The three men, lounging over their morning
pipes, followed with delicious satisfaction the young girl routing
the dust, and such is the soul-delight that such rare feminine
spectacles engender in the masculine mind, that they found her, all
at once, amazingly young, graceful, and romantically pretty.

“There’s lots and lots of dust,” said Millie, shaking her head. “I
can’t get it all out at once.”

“I should like to make a sketch of her bending down like that,”
said Tootles pensively. “Beautiful line--charming!”

“What a cracking idea for a heroine,” said Flick, who was stirred
to creative rashness.

O’Leary, who understood better than the others, leaned back
dreamily, puffing in contentment.

At this moment the door opened, and Belle Shaler slouched in, in a
manner which would have set the hearts of fashionable débutantes
afire with envy, and stopped short, her shocked hair whirling
around her saucy face in amazement at the sight of Millie on a
chair, caressing the dragon’s tail with a dust-cloth.

“For the love of Mike, woman, what’s struck you?” she exclaimed,
though in somewhat stronger terms. “Degrading yourself for this
bunch of loafers and sofa-warmers!”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” said Flick sweetly. “No one’s going to
ask you.”

“Well, you certainly have got your nerve,” said Belle, mistaking
the initiative. “If you want a slave, why don’t you get a wife?”

“Miss Brewster has offered to do it out of the kindness of
her heart,” said King O’Leary, seeing Millie overcome with
embarrassment.

“Sit down, Belle; we’re keeping the family mending for you.”

Before Belle could get her breath to retort, Millie broke in:

“Oh, please--I expected--I wanted to do that--really I did!”

The tone in which it was said struck each one. Each felt the
loneliness from which the girl was struggling. Belle gave her a
short look of amazement and then went up and put her arm around her
with abrupt good nature, saying:

“Don’t mind my jawing. I’m a rough nut. Bless your heart, don’t
worry; you shall do it!”

“’Pon my word,” said Flick aggressively, “who’s disposing of things
around here?”

“I am,” said Belle, shrugging her shoulders.

“Angel, you’re wrong,” said Flick suavely. “If you want to know
what makes woman an elevating force and a tender, inspiring ideal
in the life of rough men, sit here and watch Millie.”

Belle Shaler slumped to the table, swung up on it, and lit a
cigarette before she condescended to glance down at Flick.

“Say, I’ll bet that’s what you think,” she said, with her battling
glance.

“A woman like Millie,” said Flick, from the cushions, watching
dreamily the bustling progress of the housecleaning, “could make me
a credit to society.”

“Ha, ha!” said Belle, and flicked away the ash of her cigarette
with a scornful wave. “What you need, bo, is a hell-cat, a raring,
tearing hell-cat with a rotten temper, to stand over you with a
poker and whang you one. Then you’d work.”

“No, Belle; no,” said Flick, putting out his hand as though to ward
her off. “I can _not_ marry you.”

“Dog!” said Belle, and flung at him the nearest object at hand,
which happened to be a saucer.

“I really do believe they’re fond of each other,” said Tootles, the
acute observer.

“Oh, you’re no better,” said Belle, turning on him; “you’re worse.
You’ve got brains and won’t use them. Lord, but I loathe a bunch of
work-dodgers! I see your finish--a lot of sandwich-men beating the
pavements.”

“What the devil does she come around here for?” said Flick,
beginning to grow angry, “just as we were comfy?”

“Haven’t we been keeping you in luxury?” said O’Leary, arousing
himself.

“Well, you’re a good bunch,” said Belle, relaxing a little, “but
what I said goes. You’re a fine lithograph of ambition, you
are--wallowing around like a lot of yellow dogs. Why don’t you get
up and work?”

“Where’s Pansy?” said Tootles, to divert the attack.

“Out cooing with Drinkwater, I guess,” said Belle, who flounced off
with this parting stab. “You don’t think she takes _you_ seriously,
do you? Why, you couldn’t support a canary!”

“Damn women, anyhow!” said Tootles, who winced perceptibly. “That’s
what money does for you. They only come into your life to help you
spend it, and then they make you miserable. Curse every one of
them! Curse them one and all!”

“But curse Belle Shaler first,” said Flick.

“All except Millie,” said O’Leary, smiling.

“Well, except Millie.”

But, to their surprise, the girl, having finished what might be
called her dust-survey, approached them and blurted out:

“Don’t be mad at her, Mr. Wilder. It’s because she cares for you
she goes at you so.”

“Why, Millie, how do you know such things?” said Tootles, opening
his eyes.

“Well, I do.”

“I do believe she agrees with Belle,” said O’Leary, who believed no
such thing. “Come, now, the truth!”

Thus cornered, to their astonishment the girl looked very red and
uncomfortable, but finally announced with a determined shake of her
head:

“Well, yes; I do! I think she is absolutely right. And I think--I
think you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, every one of you!”

When she had rushed away, overcome with her own daring, the three
loungers looked helplessly at each other and then up at the
skylight, as though to discover whence the bomb had fallen.

“I do believe we have touched these maidens’ hearts,” said Tootles,
the first to break the silence.

“Never felt so gorgeously, deliciously happy in my life,” said
Flick, in a melancholy tone. “Everything seemed just lovely with
the world; I was just plain plumb glad to be alive--and then some
one has to break in and shout, ‘Get up and work!’”

“Well, son, they’re right,” said O’Leary, jumping up and stretching
his arms. “Guess millions don’t agree with us.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Flick.

“Flick,” said O’Leary solemnly, “Belle hits hard but she hits
square. Son, you ought to be up and doing!”

“Why me any more than Tootles?”

“You’re older than I am,” said Tootles, who joined O’Leary in a
withering contemplation of the joke-smith. “Besides, who cracks the
jokes you sell?”

“So you’re all picking on me?” said Flick wrathfully. “All right;
I’ll show you. And I won’t have to kill an uncle to do it, either,”
he added, with a vindictive glance at O’Leary as he left the room.

“He’s gone out in search of puns,” said Tootles, who, after a
moment’s whistling, added, “The party still on for to-night?”

“It’s our only salvation.”

“Well, I’ll go down and give the invitations,” said Tootles, who
departed in quest of Pansy.




X


Left alone, King O’Leary began to move restlessly about the studio,
his hands behind his back. The sun was sparkling through the
skylight--the same sun that was shining on distant tranquil seas
and over green islands; and some of the old tugging was at his
heart, for he moved over to the trunk which was always ready for
an instant departure. He was on his knees, searching through old
keepsakes that had about them the scent of other days, when the
voice of Myrtle Popper called:

“Hello there! Anybody in?”

He turned from his knees, to find her looking down suspiciously.

“Say you look as though you were running off?”

King O’Leary laughed guiltily.

“Myrtle, you’ve caught me with the goods! Well, yes; I was getting
restless.” He rose and looked down at her with a shake of his head.
“Lord, wouldn’t I like to be lying on my back, sailing into Hong
Kong harbor, watching the mast scraping against the blue, and the
yards creaking lazily----”

She went to the trunk and shut it with a bang, placing a red-heeled
slipper on it, with a neat flash of blue-silk ankle above.

“Say, how old are you?”

“Myrtle, you’re looking as fresh as the first roses,” said King
O’Leary artfully. “And that’s a lovely bit of ankle, blue as the
blue sky over Hong Kong.”

“How old are you?” repeated the girl sternly, who looked
wonderfully enticing, with her coiled hair and young figure set
off by the lace apron against the black working-dress.

“Thirty-six beautiful years--and one more.”

“Thirty-seven!” said the girl severely. “And what are you--nothing
but a hobo!”

“Hold up!” said O’Leary suspiciously. “Is this a conspiracy? Have
you been talking to Belle?”

“I have been talking to no one,” said Myrtle indignantly. “I
say what I mean; and I mean it’s a crying shame to see a fine,
upstanding man like you, King O’Leary, no further along than you
were twenty years ago.”

“What the devil’s got into this place, anyhow?” said O’Leary,
putting his hand to his forehead and sitting down before the storm.

“Why don’t you settle down?” said Myrtle, in a coaxing voice. “You
can do things--you can handle men--Lord, they’d jump for you!”

“What would you have me do?” said O’Leary, not insensible to the
compliment of being frowned at by a pretty face.

“You can’t go on bumming forever. Get hold of something and stick
to it. You’ve got brains, and you’ve got the push, too. Why, there
are thousands of men making their pile right here in little old New
York that aren’t fit to hold your coat!”

By this time, King O’Leary’s early resentment had passed, and the
Irish fondness for teasing had begun to twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, Myrtle dear, what have you been making up your mind I am to
do?”

“Try a chance with a moving-picture house,” said Myrtle eagerly.
“Honest, King, I mean it. I’ve been thinking of what you might do
for days. I want to see you get ahead. There’s an old fellow called
Pomello that has struck it rich and would do anything for me. Put
some money in with him. Sure, I could arrange it in a minute.”

“My money is already invested,” said King O’Leary, telling a
defensive fib.

“There are a dozen chances passing you every day, if you’ll only
keep your eyes open,” said Myrtle, sitting on the sofa next to
O’Leary, with such excitement in her great green eyes that King
O’Leary was conscious of a pleasant conceit.

“Myrtle, I’m afraid you’re a determined woman,” he said, with a
provoking smile.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said. “What would I be to-day
if I couldn’t make up my mind? What you need is some one to push
you on.”

“How would you like to be rolling up the Roo Royale--that’s
in Paris--in a jingling open-front carriage, stretched back
and watching the dukes and duchesses go by?” said King O’Leary
maliciously.

“You’ll never be sensible,” said Myrtle, frowning.

He lay back, propped up against the pillows, watching the fine
figure the girl made sitting there, her eyes sparkling with the
busy schemes she was concocting in the back of her head, of whose
one object he was pleasantly aware.

“What a pity I’m not the marrying kind,” he said slyly. “I believe
you would make an alderman out of me.”

“Quit your kiddin’,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “and don’t
think, because a girl’s a good-enough pal to want to see you get
on, that she’s throwing herself at your head.”

He laughed hugely.

“Got me that time, all right!”

“Be sensible,” she said, relenting. “It ain’t often we get a
chance to sit down alone. Lord, you don’t know what good it does me
to slump in here for a quiet chat! You’re one of my own kind, King!”

O’Leary yielded to the temptation of the moment far enough to play
with the coiled bracelet which lay against the girl’s wrist.

“Say, I’m rather curious about you,” he said, studying her gravely.
“You see a queer side of life.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know that.”

“There’s one thing I have got,” she said, eager to seize the rare
opportunity to lead him into a serious conversation, “and that’s a
good, hard bump of common sense. Don’t make any mistakes about me
and--and the others. I don’t lose my head, King.”

“Well, that’s a wonder, for you’re pretty enough to make the Pope
himself lose his,” said O’Leary, patting her hand.

“Wish you meant it,” she said, looking at him seriously, “but, what
with your blarney and your jollying, no one knows what you think.
Yes, I like sassiety, but I’m not fooled. You bet I know where to
pin the young fellows who take me out--and the old ones, too.”

“Should think you got into tight places sometimes,” said O’Leary,
looking steadily into her eyes.

“Pooh! Men are like strange dogs,” she said contemptuously. “Walk
right up to them, bold as life, and they’re gentle as ducks.
Say--after all, there’s a lot of bunk about this bold, bad-man
stuff. Honest, outside of a couple of freshies, men has been
awfully decent to me. You know what I think? I think a lot of them
are bored stiff with the women about them and just tickled to death
to take out a girl who appreciates having a good time.”

O’Leary nodded.

“Men are rather decent. They go just about as far as a woman wants
them to.”

“That’s right,” she said frankly, bobbing her head. “You get
from them about what you want. Sure, I like the going out to
the restaurants and the the-ayters, and I dote on dancing;
but--say--that’s not all the game.”

“It isn’t, eh?”

“Not on your life; and little Myrtle knows it, and don’t you forget
it. There’s a long ways to go after the mashers drop off. The main
thing is settlin’ down to something that’s your own; findin’ the
fellow who’s worth helping on, and startin’ to save.”

“Why, Myrtle, I thought you were a social butterfly!” said O’Leary,
surprised and a little apprehensive as he thought he perceived the
drift of these remarks.

“Butterfly nothing! Not when the right man comes up the street!
Nix! Home and kiddies for me. I’m not ashamed to say it. That’s the
real life. I’ve seen all I want of sassiety.”

“Well, Myrtle, you’ve got lots of chances,” he said, little
reckoning how the future would play the cards. “I’ll bet some day
I’ll see you rolling down the avenue in a fine limousine just like
Mrs. Van Astorbilt.”

“Don’t tease me,” she said, so quietly that an embarrassing silence
fell between them. She got up nervously. “I must be getting back to
the job,” she said, glancing at her watch.

“You’re dining with me to-night,” he said, rising.

“Am I?” she said, putting her head back defiantly. “I’ve got an
engagement--had it for a week.”

“You’ll break it, Myrtle darlin’?”

“Oh, will I?” she said impertinently. “You seem very sure of
yourself.”

“I am,” he said, smiling and looking into her eyes so intently that
she turned her glance away.

[Illustration: “Friendship!” she said scornfully, with a quick
breath, “a lot of friendship there was in that!” _Page 109._]

“Just you and me?” she said, in a quieter tone.

“No; it’s the bunch. Oh, you needn’t make a face. We’re dining
at the Waldorf. Sure, I’m not jollying you this time. So get out
your swell duds,” he said, coming nearer and playing with the lace
collar which lay close to her throat, “for I want the girl that’s
on my arm to put it all over the rest of them--savvy?”

“Do you think I can?” she said, with a quick breath, for he was
close to her, and her eyes flashed with a sudden leap as they met
his.

“Sure, Myrtle, if you look at me again like that, you do it at your
own peril,” he said, wild Irish mischief dancing in his glance.

“Don’t you dare!” she said, throwing up her head; and there was
something in her look that made him laugh, and after a little
scuffle, kiss her.

“Mind, though, that was just in friendship,” he said, in pretended
seriousness.

She stood away against the wall, breathless, her cheeks on fire and
her eyes snapping, her head a little light from the fervor of his
embrace.

“Friendship!” she said scornfully, with a quick breath, “A lot of
friendship there was in that!”

When she had gone, King O’Leary stood shaking his head slowly,
his hands in his pockets, whistling to himself as he glanced in
perplexity at the sun which was sparkling through the skylight--the
sun that shone over distant seas and green isles.




XI


Tootle’s sentimental difficulties were the more annoying inasmuch
as he had only himself to blame, though he had this excuse: that
the plight in which he found himself floundering, according to the
caprices of the most fascinating game of chance in the world, was
one into which many a satisfied male idol has precipitated himself
unwittingly. In brief, up to the advent of the Christmas party and
Drinkwater’s impertinent intrusion, Tootles had been adored because
he was in the strategical position of permitting the adoration.
During this time, Pansy, enraptured with Tootles’ sartorial
splendor, his aristocratic features (which reminded one of a
footman or a duke), his holiday English intonation, and finding
him only languidly interested, was overjoyed at his condescension
and quite miserable at his displeasure when she forgot and shifted
her pose. Her eyes showed plainly her adoration, and she hurried
gratefully to his call whenever Tootles would come rapping at the
door, saying in his impertinent manner:

“Miss Hartmann, Mr. St. George Kidder will receive you for half an
hour--for only half an hour, mind you. He has a sitter at three--a
lady of the highest society, who wishes her visits to remain
unsuspected.”

The more coolly the young scamp took her adoration, the more she
adored him; and matters might have gone on thus indefinitely, had
not Tootles been so amateurish as to resent the attentions of
Drinkwater. Overnight the whole face of the world was changed, and
from being pursued by a beautiful nymph who trembled under the
favor of his smile, Tootles, to his indignation, found himself the
pursuer, without quite comprehending how the transformation had
been worked. He was as astonished (as he himself expressed it)
as the fleeing rabbit circling around a tree is to find himself
abruptly pursuing the dog. Miss Pansy, from a grateful young lady
with her heart at her finger-tips, became overnight a delighted and
outrageous little flirt, maliciously bent on tormenting him to the
limit of his endurance. Tootles, not having sense enough to stop
and run in the opposite direction, continued with wrath and fury to
pursue the tantalizing eyes which danced at him over her fleeing
shoulder, until he was ready to believe that the love and likewise
the tragedy of his life had descended upon him.

Belle Shaler’s trifling allusion to Drinkwater had aroused the
atavistic yearning for murder in simple or exaggerated degrees in
his usually easy-going nature. He stopped before the door of her
studio a moment, frowning darkly, before deciding, with supreme
cunning, to disguise his misery under a countenance of excessive
joy. Pansy, to his relief, was there, camped in a green-plush
rocking-chair, sewing on something pink and filmy. On the
center-table was a very large vase of chrysanthemums. When Tootles
perceived this, his gaiety descended, so to speak, into the cellar.
He entered the room with a forced dapperness, saying:

“Have the diamonds come yet, or would you prefer pearls?”

The room was divided by a green-baize curtain which concealed
the domestic arrangements and the oil-stove. Popular full-pages
in color from magazines and newspapers littered the walls, while
different articles of furniture were decked out in ribbons and
ruffles, which gave them the effect of displaying their lingerie. A
sewing-machine was disguised under an Eastern blanket, while the
bed-couches were piled with fancy pillows, depicting such romantic
scenes as a mother-bird feeding its young; a tennis-match entitled
“Love All,” the noble red Indians around a camp-fire, and another,
adorned with a red-cheeked damsel with her hand behind her head and
her legs out of proportion, inscribed “An American Beauty.” Tootles
saw none of these details, nor the kimono-covered screen, nor
the knicknacks on the desk representing dogs with pipes in their
mouths, rabbits in the form of match-safes and a young man kissing
a young lady over a stile. He saw only the chrysanthemums.

“Oh, hello!” said Pansy, continuing at her work.

“Who’s that?” said Belle, sticking her head through the curtains.
“Oh, it’s only you!”

Tootles put his hand on his heart and made several rapid bows.

“Thanks--thanks for this ovation!”

“What have ye been doing all this while?” Pansy condescended to
say, and, as though this were a soul-confidence, she raised her
eyes liquidly and allowed her glance to flutter in his in one of
those destructive looks which do not need to be taught at high
school.

“It’s my birthday,” said Tootles, hoping to derive some future
advantage; “and I am arranging for my friends to give me a
surprise-party.”

“Go wan,” said Pansy, who, having treated him to a melting look,
now froze him with one of indifferent disdain. However, the scent
of dinner in the air demanded a certain diplomacy. She smiled.
“What is it--feed or show?”

“It is my birthday,” said Tootles indignantly. “Don’t you think I
was born, the same as you?”

“Come off!” said Belle, who emerged from behind the curtains with
her hat on. “I’ll bet they picked you off a tree.”

“My dear girl,” said Tootles, who resorted to his defensive English
accent, “it would be far better if you attended to your own
troubles. At this very moment, Flick may be a suicide. He started
for the river.”

“He may choke to death,” said Belle scornfully, “but he’ll never
end in water.”

“He is exceedingly distressed,” said Tootles, who was afraid that,
if he annoyed her, she might stay. “Well, girls, the automobile
will be here at seven. Those who love me are invited.” And as he
was still fearful that she might linger, he added artfully, with
an admiring glance at her slender body and saucy face tucked under
a fur toque that set off her rebellious shock of hair, “Belle, I
particularly want you; I like to be surrounded by beautiful women.”

As Belle Shaler was both human and feminine, she was grateful, and
showed it, first by abuse, and then by a bit of advice.

“Try that on some one from the green grass,” she said, with a tilt
of her nose. “Oh, I’ll be there.” And she added, patting his cheek:
“Well, he’s a nice boy, only”--this in a lower tone, with a glance
at Pansy--“don’t be a softy, Tootles--give her hell.”

Tootles answered her with a manly glare, to convince her of his
inflexibility, and the door once closed behind her, flung a leg
over the table, flirted with the work-basket, waited unsuccessfully
for Pansy to take the initiative, and ended by saying:

“Well, how about it?”

“About what?” said Pansy, looking up as though she had just
perceived his presence.

“Those who love me are invited,” said Tootles, folding his arms and
giving her a killing look, as he remembered his favorite romantic
actor, Mr. Wilbur Montague, would have done in such a situation.

“Do you want me to come?”

Saying which, she put down the sewing and looked again into his
eyes with a tender look that seemed to say, “‘Why hide what’s in
your heart, dear?’”

“Oh, no,” said Tootles, falling back on sarcasm as he felt himself
crumbling weakly; “I came here expressly to beg you to refrain.”

“Now you’re cross,” said Pansy, quite delighted. “I suppose it’s
them flowers.”

“What flowers?” said Tootles, looking around in surprise. He
examined them and added: “Wired! Cheap stuff. Now, isn’t that just
like a shyster lawyer!”

“Silly!” said Pansy, bursting into laughter. “How do ye know that
ain’t for Belle?”

“Really?” said Tootles, beaming as though the sun had suddenly
entered the room.

“Goose!”

“You’ve been mean enough to me,” said Tootles, taking her hand.
“You might let up.”

“Do you really want me to come?” said Pansy, smiling all over.

“Want you? Why, you beautiful creature,” said Tootles,
ecstatically, “come, and I’ll go before you with a dust-pan and
dust the way! That’s how much I want you.”

These higher flights from Tootles always moved Pansy, who had a
penchant for refined romance. She relented, and there was quite an
important discussion as to whether Tootles did not, in fact, really
believe that Myrtle Popper’s eyes were more unusual than hers, and
favor the figure of Belle Shaler. All of which would have had an
agreeable ending, had not Belle returned and let the cat out of the
bag by asking Pansy if she might wear some of her chrysanthemums.

When Tootles returned, to find King O’Leary in a perplexed
self-examination, he was in a fearful state. He slammed the door
and dove on the couch, where he gave an exhibition of tearing his
hair which would have inspired Mr. Wilbur Montague himself to envy.

“Say, what is this?” said O’Leary, after a moment of amazement.
“Love or bills?”

Tootles’ remarks, while intelligible, remained outside the limits
of organized speech which the wise fathers who established the
dictionary as an uplift have imposed. In the end, when calm had
returned, he arose and said, with terrific impressiveness:

“That ends it! King, take witness--I’m through--I’m cured!”

“Oh, Pansy’s a good sort, all right,” said O’Leary, understanding.

“Good sort! Yes; certainly. Do tell me why I, St. George Kidder,
with a career, with fame and with riches, a future, should be
running after a little smudgy-eyed slip of a girl who hasn’t a
thought in her head.”

“Oh, now!”

“She hasn’t. King, I swear she is positively stupid! Fact. Now,
honestly, what gets me, why am I pattering at her heels--why?”

“She has beautiful eyes, son.”

“Do you think that’s enough? No; it’s not enough!”

“Well, that depends how close they are,” said King O’Leary
ruefully, thinking of other eyes.

“Do you see me now?” said Tootles fiercely. “I am calm. I am not
saying this because I am excited. I am calm. Now listen: I can
look at myself and see what’s what. King, I am cured! There’s
nothing--nothing there. A pretty face, yes--but that’s all.
Drinkwater can have her. I don’t care now. It’s only vanity--just
low, despicable vanity, with me, I admit. Thank heaven, I am strong
enough to admit it, and because I admit it, I can laugh at it!” He
gave an imitation of great hilarity. “Lord, King, what asses we can
be!”

Belle Shaler rapped at the door.

“Hey there, Tootles!”

“Well, what?” growled Tootles, stopping short.

“Pansy wants to speak to you.”

“Oh, she does? Well, I’m in the bathtub,” said Tootles, and, as the
steps went down the hall, he whistled blithely at King O’Leary, and
said:

“You see?”

“Sure; but why did you give a lie?”

“I dislike undignified discussions,” said Tootles loftily.

“Well, on the whole, I think you’re right about the girls,” said
O’Leary. “We’ll give them a grand-stand finish to-night, and then
we’ll get down to tacks.”

Flick came in with his hat over his eyes, saying gloomily:

“Is the wake still on?”

While King O’Leary was explaining the finality of the ceremony,
there came a rush and tap outside, and the voice of Belle Shaler
cried:

“Tootles, Pansy’s cut her finger.”

“Good Lord!” said Tootles, who sprang from the imaginary bathtub
to the door, to find Belle Shaler confronting him with a scornful
glance.

“Hmm! Bathtub! Well, young man, I know what I’d do to you.”

But behind Belle was Pansy, with soulful eyes, holding out an
imploring hand, saying in the voice of an angel:

“Tootles--please!”

Tootles went, and when he returned, he said triumphantly, deadened
to all sense of shame:

“It was all Belle’s doing. The flowers were hers. I suppose I was a
little hasty.”

They departed in taxi-cabs at seven sharp. Tootles in evening
dress, pleasantly aware of the admiring glance of Pansy, directed
at the irreproachable set of his white cravat; Flick with collar
reversed and a black-silk square drawn over the opening of his
vest; while the problem of passing King O’Leary through the
barriers of evening dress was solved by the simple expedient of
taking the part out of his hair and decorating him with a flowing
tie, which, as Tootles aptly remarked, made the difference between
a genius and a piker. In case of need he was to be addressed as
“Prince Olgoff.” Despite these precautions and Tootles’ finished
air of distilling money, whether due to the irreverent expression
of Flick or some suspicion of the virtuosity of King O’Leary, they
were held up at the door of the brilliant dining-room. While they
were fidgeting under the expert scrutiny of the head waiter, the
ladies all aflutter, who should come up from a near-by table but
Dangerfield.

“Friends of mine, Oscar,” he said. “One of your best tables.”

He glanced at Flick’s clerical make-up with a twinkle in his eye,
but under Tootles’ cautious look he checked himself and took
the introductions gravely, and only Flick, who had noted the
apprehensive glances of the group of men he had left, divined under
the correctness of his attitude the fierce struggle for control
which was going on.

“Did you get the name the head waiter called him?” said O’Leary to
Tootles, as they were ushered to a corner table with honors due to
an ambassador.

“No.”

“Neither did I, but it was not Dangerfield--hello!”

“What is it?”

O’Leary, whose eyes had found some one in the crowd, mumbled an
evasive explanation and proceeded to arrange the table with
special attention to the placing of Tootles and Pansy.

The evening made a terrific impression on the ladies, whose eyes
began to glow more kindly under the spell of the lights and the
music and the awed recognition of what each dish must cost. They
went to a comic opera in a box, in full view of an audience, took
supper among the highest paying social strata, oblivious of the
rising fear in the breasts of Flick and Tootles lest O’Leary might
make an error in subtraction. King, in fact, had calculated so
fine that he was forced to send the others ahead while he picked a
quarrel with the waiter to save the tip for the journey home, where
they ended, so to speak, in a dead heat. At that, disaster had
hovered near while Flick was arguing Belle Shaler out of a second
ice.

“Did you see him?” O’Leary found a moment to whisper to Flick.

“Never thought he’d get out of the door,” said Wilder, who had
watched Dangerfield’s perilous exit.

“No, not Dangerfield--Drinkwater,” said O’Leary. “I was afraid
Tootles would see him.”

“That ferret! Was he there? Chasing Pansy, eh?”

“No--he was there on other business,” said O’Leary. “Mark my words,
he’s on Dangerfield’s trail, boy. There’s some dirty business in
the wind.”

Tootles approached, and they switched the conversation. Each couple
now showed such a desire to linger in the shadows that they arrived
at the sixth floor well together.

“Mr. St. George Kidder has a few words to say,” said Flick gravely.

Tootles, the stage having been thus set, brought one lock of hair
over his forehead in the wild, romantic way of a true genius, and
said:

“Charming and beautiful women--we thank you! We thank you for
being just what you are--charming and beautiful! We thank you the
more because to-night we say farewell. You laugh, you doubt me--but
the laugh is on you. You thought to roll on forever in luxury.
To-night you have assisted at our farewell appearance as gilded
dispensers of ill-gotten wealth.”

“Amen!” said Flick and O’Leary, in sepulchral chorus.

“Despite your sneers, your abuse, your cruel misunderstandings,”
continued Tootles, charmed with the sound of his own voice, “we
have shown you how artists dispense their wealth. While gold flowed
from our pockets, we planned only how to give you pleasure. Now
that we face a cold, hard dawn, without a cent, without a friend,
but proudly, with the inspiration of our art, we do not wait to be
abandoned by you--we say farewell!”

“You’re broke?” said the three girls, in horrified chorus.

“Broke!” said the three men, delighted; and, falling into lockstep,
their hats waving gaily, they marched roaring with laughter down
the hall and into their room.




XII


The next morning the sixth floor was treated to two surprises.
Before the home of the Arts a placard in red ink announced:

                          WE ARE WORKING.
                NO WOMEN ADMITTED BEFORE TEA-TIME.
                       P. S. Bring the Tea.

Down the hall was the sound of wrenching planks, and those who
ventured curiously beheld Dangerfield, assisted by Sassafras, busy
at the task of unpacking, while Inga, from her point of vantage,
surveyed the operations.

Since New Year’s, Dangerfield had made no attempt to mingle
with the others, though several times he had stopped for a word
of greeting, as though in self-excuse; but he never passed the
threshold, and, after a moment’s fidgeting and a few gracious
words, he departed.

“Sometimes I think he’d like to chum in, but is afraid to,” said
Flick, who was puzzled by this lack of sociability--not being
affected in the same way.

“Let him alone; he’ll come around in his way,” said O’Leary, “if
there’s anything left of him.”

At this period, though he would not have admitted it, he felt a
growing antagonism, and the cause was Inga. The girl had a drawing
force of which he was always aware. It was not that he felt
sentimentally moved, for there was an ingrained common sense about
him that warned him of the folly of such a hope. She perplexed him;
she held him; she aroused a certain sense of combat in him, like
a spirited horse. It was not that he would ever be in love with
her, but that, rating her high in his experience, it rankled in his
vanity, not that she was indifferent to him but that she should
have gone so directly to another, who had not even sought her. Yet
he had gone twice in the fortnight at her call to help her through
stormy nights with the derelict.

Inga, alone of the floor, knew the full extent of the turbulent
voyage through which Dangerfield was passing. Since the night on
which she had committed the error of attempting to restrain him,
she had refrained from putting any brake upon his actions, holding
herself in readiness to come to him in the limp hours of succeeding
weakness and despair. This attitude awakened his curiosity, as it
gained his confidence. Once he even asked to see her room. She
refused.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully, “but I had rather you
wouldn’t.”

“It’s not--” Then he stopped. It could not have been on account of
prudery. “No; it’s not that you care what the others say.”

“No; it’s not that,” she said, amused at the thought.

“Well, then?”

“It’s a feeling--I don’t know. It’s something I want to keep to
myself--part of me. You don’t understand.”

He shook his head, and, struck with the peculiar intensity of her
eyes, revery mixed almost with a touch of fear, he said impulsively,

“Inga, I can’t make you out.”

“Don’t.”

This reply dissatisfied him. His eyes began to follow her more
intently when they were alone, and several times unsuccessfully he
returned to the attack.

During this time, the visitors, men of his own world, who flitted
in for a brief duty-visit, began to fall away. He saw them go with
a scorn and bitterness at first, and then with a sort of relief.
Sassafras received orders to announce that he was out, except to
two men, lawyers evidently, who came from time to time. Curiously
enough, even after the wildest nights, he never showed any remorse.
When Inga was there he often fell into profound fits of moroseness,
in which he would sit with his fists clutched to his mouth, gnawing
at his nails, staring at a medallion, a Della Robbia, or a Perseus
of Benvenuto Cellini, which he had brought forth out of the
disorder.

She never relinquished her intention of getting him into an
atmosphere of calm and order, and occasionally tried by devious
ways to suggest the subject of unpacking. But the moment the man
felt a compelling hand, some malicious and refractory devil seemed
to rise up in him, and he would say:

“I know what you’re after. Well, I won’t do it.”

Then, one morning, to her surprise, he called her and said abruptly:

“Well, I’m going to fix up the studio. There now--will you be
satisfied?”

“Thank you,” she said, with a bright nod.

“Oh, you needn’t thank me,” he said grimly. “Wait and see. You may
regret it.”

They set to work with a vim, and once launched on a new idea, he
threw himself into it with the enthusiasm of a child. Sassafras was
pressed into service (having surreptitiously jammed the elevator),
rolling his eyes at the magnificence he uncovered. They spent a
gay morning transforming the boarded bareness of the studio with
the warm, green background of great tapestries, restful in harmony
and dreamy verdure. The man had a love of beauty as intense as all
his desires, and if she did not always understand the value of the
really fine bits of Louis XV furniture, spreading _fauteuils_ and
the great flat-top desk with bulging curves which reminded one of a
pompous burgomaster, or the shadowy massiveness of the carved-oak
sideboard, she had an instinctive eye for proportion and delicacy.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to stop for lunch,” he said at last.

“Send Sam for sandwiches, and let’s go on,” she said eagerly.

“Do you want to?”

“Indeed I do!”

They lunched on a great Florentine table of carved oak, ample
enough to seat a dozen, discussing where the sideboard should stand
and the old Roman chest with beaten brass clasps. Underneath them,
a great rug in the center transformed the floor with the heavy
faded yellows and greens of its rich softness.

“We’ll draw a curtain of China silk, a warm gray, over the
skylight,” he said, studying the harmonies that had come into the
room. “Hello! What are you doing?” he added, smiling.

She had stolen from her slippers, and was moving lightly over the
deep Oriental rug, reveling in its velvety voluptuousness.

“I love the very feel of it,” she said, her face flushing in the
first emotion she had shown him.

“Go back into the tapestry,” he said, with mock sternness, and half
closing his eyes, he nodded approvingly, his glance following the
flowing line of the deep-green silk skirt which turned from the
graceful hip, the firm, dark neck rising above the youthful breast,
and the forestlike wildness of the oval face.

She slipped her green-silk feet back into the slippers and said
impulsively:

“It’s all just as I thought you would have it.”

“Oh, it is?” he said, enjoying her enthusiasm.

“Things you live with tell so much,” she said, moving curiously
toward the chest.

“You’ve got some strange ideas about me,” he said grimly.

“I have the right one,” she said calmly. She laid her hand on the
chest. “What’s hidden here?”

“So you can have curiosity, too?” he said, smiling, caught by the
rare mood of enthusiasm, which seemed to waken sudden delicate
flushes and sensitive emotions across the blue veil of her eyes and
the finely turned upper lip.

He opened the chest and drew forth an armful of old silks and
velvets, rare satins and brocades, spilling a riot of color into
her arms--leaping, flashing swirls of sapphire, gold, and faded
amethyst. She put them aside, and, with a cry of delight, seized
something lying in the chest--a rose velvet with the faintest
silver sheen, which brought back the pageantry of the Middle Ages.

“How wonderful!”

“You have a good instinct,” he said, nodding. “That’s Italian,
thirteenth century, the rarest of all. What color, eh?”

She wrapped her arms in it and drew her cheek across the glorious
velvet, which might have lain against the cheek of a storied
princess, and as her breath drew deep, across the dark face there
spread such a blush of pleasure that she seemed to absorb the
rare tint into her own body. He took it from her and gazed at it
hungrily, as though he were plunging his look into some gorgeous
autumnal pool, drinking in its ecstasy with the mingled pain and
pleasure of a lost love remembered.

“Color--color!” he said, held by it. “It thrills you like the first
sight of your own country.”

All at once, with a smothered cry--the longing of his soul for the
lost days of inspiration, perhaps--he struck the chest with the
full force of his fist and turned away in rebellion.

“God!”

“Don’t.” She laid her hands quickly on his shoulders, straight and
slim, as she stood gazing earnestly into his tormented eyes. “Mr.
Dangerfield, that’ll come again.”

“Never; no, never,” he said gloomily, and his lips twitched as he
glanced away.

Sassafras returned at this moment. Then they set to work again,
but she had lost him for the day. The exuberance had departed. He
gave his assent in monosyllables, and seemed to have so completely
lost interest that she hastened the work, fearing that the whim
would seize him to countermand it. The worst of it was that in
such moods there was no arguing with him, as he seemed to go so
completely from her as to have no sense of what he heard. With the
coming of the night and the blazing-out of the lights, he began to
get restless, wandering about the room as though each thing in it
were raising a haunting memory before him. Once he objected, when
Sassafras had started to unpack the easel and the paint-boxes.

“Not that!” he said angrily.

“Unpack them; you can put them away afterward,” she said casually.

He looked at her so furiously that, for a moment, she half expected
an angry answer. Then he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“I know your idea--little good it will do!” he said, with a
stubborn look, and went to the window, gazing out without further
notice of what she did.

There was yet much to be done, but the essential had been
accomplished. The studio had been rid of boxes and wrappings,
and though frames and bric-à-brac, porcelains, bronzes, terra
cottas, stood against the walls, mingled with the dull gray of
rapiers, green masks and brown boxing gloves, with glowing pools of
burnished copper, the room was humanized.

“That’s enough for to-night,” she said, after she had sent
Sassafras away.

He turned, and the first thing he saw was the easel.

“You seem to know where to place it,” he said abruptly.

“I am glad that’s right,” she said quietly.

“Well, now that you’ve gotten me to do it,” he said, staring dully
about the room, his nails at his mouth, “we’ll see what will come
of it.”

She started to leave.

“Wait! I don’t mean to be rude,” he said nervously, “only----”

“Why, Mr. Dangerfield, don’t say that!” she said quietly. “I
understand.”

He nodded, and rather absent-mindedly patted her shoulder. Then,
apparently irrelevantly, he said:

“Afraid I’m going off on a wild night, aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t thinking of it.”

“See here,” he said abruptly; “I want you to understand one
thing--that isn’t the trouble--I can stop that any time I want”--he
added almost viciously--“but I don’t want to.” Then he said,
seemingly without reason, as though his mind were vacillating from
one extreme to the other: “How long is it to the twentieth?”

“Why, twelve days.”

“Still twelve? The twentieth--that’s a date to remember,” he said,
as though to himself.

She saw him frown and stare past her, as that other self came into
his eyes, bristling, savage, rebelling against some inner torture.

He started at the sound of her voice, looked at her a moment as
though trying to account for her presence, and ended by saying:

“Well, it was curious.”

“What?”

“How you knew where to place that easel.”

“I don’t think so,” she said quietly.

He waited a moment, evidently turning something over in his mind,
before saying with the same abruptness:

“Do I remind you of any one?”

She glanced at him quickly, and then shook her head twice
energetically.

“That’s strange--well, you made me think so,” he said, and without
explaining his meaning, he went off.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having permitted her to influence him so far, out of pure deviltry,
he seemed determined to make her regret it. To the surprise of
every one, he became exceedingly sociable, dropping in at all
hours, with the exception of tea-time, when the girls came back
at the end of the day. He was always polite to them; but it was
plain to see that they did not interest him in the least. This new
phase of Dangerfield’s had unfortunately an upsett

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