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THE 

AMERICAN MAGAZINE 



lo Cents; — $i.oo a Year 




VOLUME LXIV 



May, 1 907 — October, 1 907 



NEW YORK: 

THE PHILUPS PUBLISHING COMPANY 

341-347 Fifth Avenue 



COPTRIOHT, 1907, BT 
ThB PHXLUP8 PUBLISRXICO COMPAITT 

AU Rights Reserved 



INDEX 

TO 

THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 

VOLUME LXIV— MAY, 1907— OCTOBER, 1907 

ComiOBT 1907, BT THB PHILLirS PUBLIVRINO CO. 

Ax.1. Rights Rbsebvxd 



PAGE 

Advsntures in Contentment. Illustrated David Grayson. . .53, 214, 289 

439i 468, 646 

An Aerial Bivouac. Illustrated E, B, Branson 624 

Antonio Corsi. Illustrated Elizabeth Irwin 200 

Mr. Dooley on the Presidential Candidates. 

niustiated F, P, Dunne 238 

Following the Color Line. Illustrated R, S, Baker 3, 135, 297, 381 

Harrdcan. Illustrated Edwin Lefevre 115 

John Johnson op Minnesota. Illustrated W. Hard 563 

The Habits of Wolves. Illustrated E, T. Seion 636 

In the Interpreter's House 108, 220, 331, 446, 557, 669 

A Letter From Mr. Upton Sinclair 329 

Manhattan — An Island Outgrown. Illustrated. .,W. P. Eaton 245 

Oscar Hammerstein. Illustrated W. P. Eaton 29 

The Making of a Fighter. Illustrated Lincoln Steffens 339 

The New Baby. Illustrated Eugene Wood 479 

The Patrick Case, Complete. Illustrated Arthur Train 97 

The Pilgrim's Scrip 554, 666 

The Rev. Billy Sunday and His War on the Devil 

Illustrated Lindsay Denison 45 1 

A Revolution in Travel. Illustrated G. Nevins 325 

Sleep and its Counterfeits Woods Hutchinson 545 

The Tariff in our Times. Illustrated Ida M, TarbeU 57, 169 

Talks with Walt Whitman. Illustrated ff. Traubel 281 

The Taming of the West. Illustrated Lincoln Steffens 489, 585 

Wetter New York. Illustrated E. P. Butler 160 



■I7i>573 



IV INDEX TO VOLUME LXIV 

Fiction: — page 

AsETHusA — A Princess in Slavery 

Illustrated F,M, Crawford,. ^j^^ 187, 312 

4271 524 
The Awakening. Illustrated /. H. Ransan 403 

The Badge of Servitude. Illustrated O. Roberts 19 

The Bubble of Dreams. Illustrated W. Irwin 227 

The Bonds of Freedom. Illustrated £. Barnard 271 

Big Frank, Illustrated B. F. Young 361 

"Beauty" EIerrigan. Illustrated C. B, Davis 510 

The Case of Katie Reed Af . /. Reynolds 131 

Chaperoning the Chaperon /. D, Wood 357 

The Passing of the Pay Car C F. Carter 267 

Cupid Goes Slumming. Illustrated A. H. Rice 372 

The Conversion of Constantia. Illustrated../. D. Bacon 396 

Crazy Jane C. Hamilton 661 

The Eureka Alphabet. Illustrated F. W. Adams 536 

A Few Minxttes with the Grocer. Illustrated.Af . S. Cutting 47 

It Happened to Hedderley. Illustrated . .H. Clark 35 

The Interrupted Reign of Queenie Lucy Pratt 474 

John or Joshua. Illustrated F, B. Dillingham 209 

The Legacy. Illustrated N. Boyce 615 

A Legitimate Transaction. Illustrated . . ./. C Lincoln 651 

The Mol-Gobbin. Illustrated Marion Hill 257 

The Nemesis. Illustrated John G. Neihardt 89 

How Olaf, the Son of Olaf, Administered 

Justice. Illustrated W, A. Frost 183 

The Pirate Engineer. Illustrated /.if. Rogers 577 

Seth Carter's Wife. Illustrated Mrs. L, H, Harris 73 

Letitia, Nursery Corps, U. S. A. Illustrated. G. M. Martin 149 

The Surrender. Illustrated N, S. Williams 420 

The Slaves Who Stayed L, Finch 551 

The World and the Door. Illustrated O. Henry 412 

The Word of the Oracle. Illustrated L. A. Long 603 

Verse: — 

An Antique Elegy Witter Bynner 311 

Miss Debby S. D, Smith 88 

The Glory of War A. D. Runyon 508 



INDEX TO VOLUME LXIV 



PAGE 

Habit M, S, Anderson 560 

My Country, H. H. Kemp 603 

" Now, O My Mother " Witter Bynner 132 

" Practice Marching" A. D. Runyon 74 

SxTNDERED Geroldmc Meyrich Z07 

The Threshing Machine B. Jff, Kemp 488 

Washington Square, North W. P. Eaton : . . 224 

The Wanderers E, Pottle 535 

When Father Takes Me for a Walk. 

Illustrated L. A, Gamett. 634 

The Young to the Old Cak Young Rice 213 



AUTHORS 



Adams, F. W 53^ 

Anderson, M. S 5 60 

Bronson, £. B 624 

Baker, R. S 3, 135, 297 

Butler, E. P 160 

Barnard, £ 271 

Bacon, J. D 396 

Boyce, N 615 

Bynner, W i34i 3" 

Carter, C. F 267 

Crawford, F. M... 78, 187, 312, 427, 524 

Cutting, M. S 47 

Clark,H 35 

Dunne, F. P 238 

Denison, L 451 

Davis, C. B 510 

Dillingham, F. B 209 

Eaton, W. P 29, 224, 245 

Frost, W. A 183 

Finch, L 551 

Grayson, David, 54, 214, 289, 439,468,646 

Gamett, L. A 634 

Hard, W 563 

Hutchinson, W 545 

Hamilton, C 661 

HiU,M 257 

Harris, L. H 73 

Henry, 412 

Irwin, W ; 227 



Irwin, E 200 

Kemp, H. H 4S8, 503 

Leftvre, E 115 

Lincoln, J. C 651 

Long, L. A 603 

Martin, G. M 149 

Meyrick, G 107 

Neihardt, J.G 89 

Nevins, T 325 

Pratt, L 474 

Pottle, E S3S 

Ranson, J. H 403 

Reynolds, M. J 131 

Rice, A. H 372 

Rice, C- Y 213 

Roberts, 19 

Rogers, J. M 577 

Rimyon, A. D 72, 508 

Seton, E. T 636 

Sinclair, Upton 329 

Smith, S. D 88 

Steffens, Lincoln 339, 489, 585 

Train, A 97 

Tarbell, Ida M S7> '^ 

Traubel, H 281 

Woods, J. D 3S7 

Wood, E 479 

Williams, N. S 420 

Young, B. F 361 



THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 



VOL. LXIV 



MAY, 1907 



No. I 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



BY RAY STANNARD BAKER 



ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS SPECIALLY TAKEN BY A. B. PHELAN 

THE CLASH OF THE RACES IN A SOUTHERN CITY 



m^>^^ 



.^S^S'^^ 



ARRIVED in Atlanta, 
Georgia, on the first day 
of last November. The 
riot, which I described a 
month ago, had taken 
place about six weeks 
before, and the city was 
still in the throes of self-examination and 
reconstruction. Public attention had been 
peculiarly riveted upon the facts of race 
relationships not only in Atlanta but 
throughout the South, and all manner of 
remedies and solutions were under sharp 
discussion. If I had traveled the country 
over, I could not have found a more favor- 
able time or place to begin following the 
color line. 

I had naturally expected to find people 
talking about the Negro, but I was not at 
all prepared to find the subject occupying 
such an overshadowing place in Southern 
affairs. In the North we have nothing at 
aU like it; no question which so touches 
every act of life, in which everyone, white 
or black, is so profoundly interested. In 
the North we are mildly concerned in many 
things; the South is overwhelmingly con- 
cerned in this one thing. 

And this is not surprising, for the Negro 
in the South is both the labor problem and 
the servant question; he is pre-eminently 
the political issue, and his place, socially, 
is of daily and hourly discussion. A 



Negro minister I met told me a story of a 
boy who went as a sort of butler's assistant 
in the home of a prominent family in At- 
lanta. His people were naturally curious 
about what went on in the white man's 
house. One day they asked him: 

"What do they talk about when they's 
eating?" 

The boy thought a moment; then he 
said: 

" Mostly they discusses us culled folks." 

IVhat Negroes Talk About 

The same consuming interest exists 
among the Negroes. A very large part of 
their conversation deals with the race 
question. I had been at the Piedmont 
Hotel only a day or two when my Negro 
waiter began to take especially good care 
of me. He flecked off imaginary crumbs 
and gave me unnecessary spoons. Finally, 
when no one was at hand, he leaned over 
and said: 

" I understand you're down here to study 
the Negro problem." 

"Yes," I said, a good deial surprised. 
"How did you know it?" 

"Well, sir," he replied, "we've got ways 
of knowing things." 

He told me that the Negroes had been 
much disturbed ever since the riot and that 
he knew many of them who wanted to go 



COnrMQHT, 1907, BY THE PHILLIPS PUBU8HIM0 Ca ALL RIOHTS RCtERVED 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



This colored girl is secretary to B. F. Davis, Editor of the 
Atlanta Independent 



North. " The South," he said, " is getting 
to be too dangerous for colored people." 
His language and pronunciation were sur- 
prisingly good. I found that he was a col- 
lege student, and that he expected to study 
for the ministry, 

"Do you talk much about these things 
among yourselves?" I asked: 

"We don't talk about much else," he 
said. " It's sort of life and death with us." 

Another curious thing happened not 
long afterwards. I was lunching with 
several fine Southern men, and they talked, 
as usual, with the greatest freedom in the 
full hearing of the Negro waiters. Some- 
how, I could not help watching to see if 
the Negroes took any notice of what was 
said. I wondered if they were sensitive. 



Finally, I put the ques- 
tion to one of my 
friends: 

"Oh," he said, "we 
never mind them; they 
don't care." 

One of the wait^s 
instantly spoke up: 

" No, don't mind me; 
I'm only a block of 
wood." 

First Views of the 
Negroes 

I set out from the 
hotel on the morning 
of my arrival to trace 
the color line as it ap- 
peared, outwardly, in 
the life of such a town. 
Atlanta is a singu- 
larly attractive place, 
as bright and new as 
any Western city. Sher- 
man left it in ashes at 
the close of the war; 
the old buildings and 
narrow streets were 
swept away and a new 
city was built, which is 
now growing in a man- 
ner not short of aston- 
ishing. It has. 115,000 
to 125,000 inhabitants, 
about a third of whom 
are Negroes, living in 
more or less detached 
quarters in various 
parts of the city, and giving an individuality 
to the life interesting enough to the unfamil- 
iar Northerner. A great many of them are 
alwa>-s on the streets, far better dressed and 
better-appearing thani had expected to see- 
having in mind, perhaps, the tattered coun- 
try specimens of the penny postal cards. 
Crowds of Negroes were at work mending 
the pavement, for the Italian and Slav have 
not yet appeared in Atlanta, nor indeed to 
any extent anywhere in the South, I 
stopped to watch a group of them. A 
good deal of conversation was going on, 
here and there a Negro would laugh with 
great good humor, and several times I 
heard a snatch of a song: much jollier 
workers than our grim foreigners, but evi- 
dently not working so hard. A fire had 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



l<een built to heat 
?-.nne of the tools, and 
a bUck circle of Ne- 
groes were gathered 
around it like flies 
around a drop of mo- 
biles and they were 
all talking while they 
warmed their shins — 
evidently having plenty 
itt leisure. 

As I continued down 
the street, I found that 
all the drivers of wag- 
ons and cabs were Ne- 
groes; I saw Negro 
newsboys, Negro por- 
ters, Negro barbers, 
and it being a bright 
day, many of thenr 
were in the street — on 
the sunny side. 

I commented that 
evening to some South- 
em people I met, on 
ihe impression, almost 
of jollity, given by the 
Negro workers I had 
seen. Oneof theoider 
ladies made what 
seemed to me a very 
significant remark: 

" They don't sing as 
they used to," she said. 
"You should have 
known the old darkeys 
of the plantation. Ev- 
ery year, it seems to 
me, they have been 
losing more and more of their care -free 
good humor. I sometimes feel that I don't 
know them any more. Since the riot they 
have grown so glum and serious that I'm 
free to say I'm scared of them!" 

One of my early errands that morning 
led me into several of the great new office 
buildings, which bear testimony to the 
extraordinary progress of the city. And 
here I found one of the first evidences of 
the color line tor which I was looking. In 
both buildings, I found a separate elevator 
for colored people. In one building, signs 
were placed reading: 

For Whlt«a Only. 

In another I copied this sign : 



A TYPE 

A colored girl in Hemdon's printing q 



This Csr for 

Colar«d Ptksoengara, 

Frvlght, Express, 

and Pftck«ges. 

Curiously enough, as giving an inter- 
esting point of view, an intelligent Negro 
with whom I was talking a few days later 
asked me: 

" Have you seen the elevator sign in the 
Century Building?" 

I said I had. 

" How would you like to be classed with 
'freight, express and packages'?" 

I found that no Negro ever went into an 
elevator devoted to white people, but that 
white people often rode in cars set apart 
for colored people. In some cases the car 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



for Negroes is operated by a white man, 
and in other cases, all the elevators in a 
building are operated by colored men. 
This is one of the curious points of indus- 
trial contact in the South which somewhat 
surprise the Northern visitor. In the 
North a white workman, though having no 
especial prejudice against the Negro, will 
often refuse to work with him; in the South, 
while the social prejudice is strong, Negroes 
and whites work together side by side in 
many kinds of employment. 

I had an illustration in point not long 
afterward. Passing the post office, I saw 
several mail-carriers coming out, some 
white, some black, talking and laughing, 
with no evidence, at first, of the existence 
of any color line. Interested to see what 
the real condition was, I went in and made 
inquiries. A most interesting and signifi- 
cant condition developed. I found that the 
postmaster, who is a wise man, sent Negro 
carriers up P^^chtree and other fashionable 
streets, occupied by wealthy white people, 
while white carriers were assigned to beats 
in the mill districts and other parts of town 
inhabited by the poorer classes of white 
people. 

"You see," said my informant, "the 
Peachtree people know how to treat 
Negroes. They really prefer a Negro car- 
rier to a white one; it's natural for them to 
have a Negro doing such service. But if 
we sent Negro carriers down into the mill 
district they might get their heads knocked 
off." 

Then he made a philosophical observa- 
tion: 

"If we had only the best class of white 
folks down here and the industrious 
Negroes, there wouldn't be any trouble." 

The Jim Crow Car 

One of the points in which I was es- 
pecially interested was the "Jim Crow" 
regulations, that is, the system of separa- 
tion of the races in street cars and railroad 
trains. Next to the question of Negro 
suffrage, I think the people of the North 
have heard more of the Jim Crow legislation 
than of anything else connected with the 
Negro problem. I have seen, so far, no 
better place than the street car for ob- 
serving the points of human contact be- 
tween the races, betraying as it does every 
shade of feeling upon the part of both. In 



almost no other relationship do the races 
come together, physically, on anything like 
a common footing. In their homes and in 
ordinary employment, they meet as master 
and servant; but in the street cars they 
touch as free citizens each paying for the 
right to ride, the white not in a place of 
command, the Negro without an obliga- 
tion of servitude. Street-car relationships 
are, therefore, symbolic of the new con- 
ditions. A few years ago, the Negro came 
and went in the street cars in most cities 
and sat where he pleased, but gradually 
Jim Crow laws or local regulations were 
passed forcing him into certain seats at the 
back of the car. 

Since I have been here in Atlanta, the 
newspapers report two significant new 
developments in the policy of separation. 
In Savannah, Jim Crow ordinances have 
gone into effect for the first time, causing 
violent protestations on the part of the 
Negroes and a refusal by many of them 
to use the cars at all. Montgomery, Ala., 
about the same time, went one step further 
and demanded, not separate seats in the 
same car, but entirely separate cars for 
whites and blacks. There could be no 
better visible evidence of the increasing 
separation of the races, and of the deter- 
mination of the white man to make the 
Negro "keep his place," than the evolution 
of the Jim Crow regulations. 

I was curious to see how the system 
worked out in Atlanta. Over the door of 
each car, I found this sign: 



White People Will Seat from 

Front of Car toward the Back, 

and Colored People from Rear 

Toward Front. 



Sure enough, I found the white people 
in front and the Negroes behind. As the 
sign indicates, there is no definite line of 
division between the white seats and the 
black seats, as in many other Southern 
cities. This very absence of a clear de- 
marcation is significant of many relation- 
ships in the South. The color line is drawHy 
but neither race knows just where it is. In- 
deed, it can hardly be definitely drawn in 
many relationships, because it is constantly 
changing. This uncertainty is a fertile 
source of friction and bitterness. The very 
first time I was on a car in Atlanta, I saw 
the conductor — all conductors are white — 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



ask a Negro woman to get up and take a 
seat further back in order to make a place 
for a white man. I traveled a good deal, 
but I never saw a white person asked to 
vacate a back seat to make place for a 
Negro. I saw cars filled with white peo- 
ple, both front seals and back, and many 
Negroes standing. 

At one time, when I was on a car the 
conductor shouted: "Here, you nigger, 
get back there," which the Negro, who had 
taken a seat too far forward, proceeded 
hastily to do. Of course, I am talking 
here of conditions as they are in Atlanta. I 
may find different circumstances in other 
cities, which I hope to develop when the 
time comes. 

No other one point of race contact is so 



much and so bitterly disciLssed among the 
Negroes as the Jim Crow car. I don't 
know how many Negroes replied to my 
question: "What is the chief cause of 
friction down here?" with a complaint 
of their treatment on street cars and in rail- 
road trains. 

Why the Negro Objects to the Jim 
Crow Car 

Fundamentally, of course, they object 
to any separation which gives them in- 
ferior accommodations. This point of 
view — and I am trying to set down every 
point of view, both colored and white, ex- 
actly as I find it, is expressed in many ways. 

"We pay first-class fare," said one of the 



Interior of a Negro workingman's home 



A Profesior and some students of Gammon Theological Seminary 



leading Negroes in Atlanta, " exactly as the 
white man does, but we don't get first- 
class service. We don't know when we 
may be dislodged from our seats to make 
place for a white man who has paid no more 
than we have. I say it isn't fair." 

In answer to this complaint, the white 
man says: "The Negro is inferior, he 
must be made to keep his place. Give him 
a chance and he assumes social equality, 
and that will lead to an effort at inter- 
marriage and amalgamation of the races. 
The Anglo-Saxon will never stand for 
that." 

One of the first complaints made by the 
Negroes after the riot, as I showed last 



month, was of rough and unfair treatment 
on the street cars. 

The committee admitted Ihat the Negroes 
were not always well treated on the cars, 
and promised to improve conditions. 
Charles T. Hopkins, a leader in the Civic 
League and one of the prominent lawyers 
of the city, told me that he believed the 
Negroes should be given their definite seats 
in every car; he said that he personally 
made it a practice to stand up rather than 
to take any one of the four back seats, 
which he considered as belonging to the 
Negroes. Two other leading men, on a 
different occasion, told me the same thing. 
It is, however, a rare practice. 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



One result of the friction over the Jim 
Crow regulations is that many Negroes 
ride on the cars as little as possible. One 
prominent Negro I met said he never 
entered a car, and that he had many 
friends who pursued the same policy; 
he said that Negro street car excursions, 
familiar a few years ago, had entirely 
ceased. It is significant of the feeling that 
one of the features of the Atlanta riot was 
an attack on the street cars in which all 
Negroes were driven out of iheir seats. 
One Negro woman was pushed through 
an open window, and, after falling to the 
pavement, she was dragged by the leg 
across the sidewalk and thrown through a 
shop window. In another case when the mob 
stopped a car the motorman, instead of pro- 
tecting his passengers, went inside and beat 
down a Negro with his brass control-lever. 

Story of an Encounter on a Street Car 

I heard innumerable stories from both 
white people and Negroes of encounters 



in the street cars. Dr. W. F. Penn, one of 
the foremost Negro physicians of the city, 
himself partly white, a graduate of Yale 
College, told me of one occasion in which 
he entered a car and found there Mrs. 
Crogman, wife of the colored president of 
Clark University. Mrs. Crogman is a 
mulatto so light of complexion as to be 
practically un distinguishable from white 
people. Dr. Penn, who knew her well, 
sat down beside her and began talking. 
A white man who occupied a seat in front 
with his wife turned and said: 

"Here, you nigger, get out of that seat. 
What do you mean by silting down with a 
while woman?" 

Dr. Penn replied somewhat angrily: 

" It's come to a pretty pass when a col- 
ored man cannot sit with a woman of his 
own race in his own part of the car." 

The white man turned to his wife and 

"Here, take these bundles. I'm going 
to thrash that nigger," 

In half a minute the car was in an uproar, 



Types of ike respectable working-class Negri 



WHERE THB MILL HANDS (WHITE) LIVE 

Showing that there is no great difference 



the two men struggling. Fortunately the 
conductor and motorman were quickly at 
hand, and Dr. Penn slipped off the car. 

Conditions on the railroad trains, while 
not resulting so often in personal encoun- 
ters, are also the cause of constant irrita- 
tion. When I came South, I took particu- 
lar pains to observe the arrangement on 
the trains. In some cases Negroes are 
given entire cars at the front of the train, 
at other times they occupy the rear end of a 
combination coach and baggage car, which 
is used in the North as a smoking com- 
partmerM The complaint here is that, 
while the Negro is required to pay first- 
class fare, he is provided with second-class 
accommodations. Well-to-do Negroes who 
can afford to travel, also complain that they 
are not permitted to engage sleeping-car 
berths. Booker T. Washington usually 
takes a compartment where he is entirely 
cut off from the white passengers. Some 
other Negroes do the same thing, although 
they are often refused even this expensive 
privilege. Railroad officials with whom I 
talked, and it is important to hear what 
they say, said that it was not only a ques- 
tion of public opinion — which was abso- 
lutely opposed to any intermingling of the 
races in the cars — but that Negro travel m 
most places was small compared with white 



travel, that the ordinary Negro was unclean 
and careless, and that it was impractical 
to furnish them the same accommodations, 
even though it did come hard on a few 
educated Negroes. They said that when 
there was a delegation of Negroes, enough 
to fill an entire sleeping car, they could al- 
ways get accommodations. All of which 
gives a glimpse of the enormous difficulties 
accompanying the separation of the races 
in the South. 

Another interesting point significant of 
tendencies came early to my attention. 
They have just finished at Atlanta one of 
the finest railroad stations in this country. 
The ordinary depot in the South has two 
waiting rooms of about the same size, one 
for whites and one for Negroes. But when 
this new station was built the whole front 
was given up to white people, and the 
Negroes were assigned a side entrance, and 
a small waiting room. Prominent colored 
men regarded it as a new evidence of the 
crowding out of the Negro, the further at- 
tempt to give him unequal accommoda- 
tions, to handicap him in his struggle for 
survival. A delegation was sent to the 
railroad people to protest, but to no pur- 
pose. Result, further bitterness. There 
are in the station two lunch rooms, one for 
whites, one for Negroes, 



WHERE SOME OF THE POORER NEGROES LIVE 

between the homes of the two (lasses 



A leading colored man said to me: 
"No Negro goes to the lunch room in 
the station who can help it. We don't like 
the way we have been treated." 

A Negro Boycott 

Of course this was an unusually intelli- 
gent colored man, and he spoke for his own 
sort; how far the same feeling of a race con- 
sciousness strong enough to carry out such 
a boycott as this — and it is exactly like the 
boycott of a labor union — actuates the 
masses of ignorant Negroes, is a question 
upon which I hope to get more light as I 
proceed. I have already heard more than 
one colored leader complain that Ne- 
groes do not stand together. And a white 
planter, whom I met in the hotel, said 
a significant thing along this very line: 

"If once the Negroes got ti^ether and 
saved their money, they'd soon own the 
country, but they can't do it, and they never 
will." 

After I had begun to trace the color line 
I found evidences of it everywhere — liter- 
ally in every department of life. In the 
theaters, Negroes never sit downstairs, but 
the galleries are black with them. Of 
course, white hotels and restaurants are 
entirety barred to Negroes, with the result 



that colored people have their own eating 
and sleeping places, most of them inex- 
pressibly dilapidated and unclean. " Sleep- 
ers wanted" is a familiar sign in Atlanta, 
giving notice of places where for a few 
cents a Negro can find a bed or a mattress 
on the floor, often in a room where there 
are many other sleepers, sometimes both 
men and women in the same room crowded 
t(%ether in a manner both unsanitary and 
immoral. No good public accommoda- 
tions exist for the educated or well-to-do ' 
Negro. Indeed, one cannot long remain 
in the South without being impressed with 
the extreme difficulties which beset the 
exceptional colored man. 

In slavery time, many Negroes attended 
white churches and heard good preaching, 
and Negro children were often taught by 
white women. Now, a Negro is never (or 
very rarely) seen in a white man's church. 
Once since I have been in the South, I saw 
a very old Negro woman — some much- 
loved mammy, perhaps — silting down in 
front near the pulpit, but that is the only 
exception to the rule that has come to my 
attention. Negroes are not wanted in 
white churches. Consequently, the col- 
ored people, who are nothing if not re- 
ligious, have some sixty churches of their 
own in Atlanta. Of course, the schools 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



are separate, and have been ever since the 
Civil War. 
In one of the parks of Atlanta I saw this 



Color Line in the Public Library 

A story significant of the growing separa- 
tion of the races is told about the public 
library at Atlanta, which no Negro is per- 
mitted to enter. Carnegie gave the money 
for building it, and when the question came 
up as to the support of it by the city, the inev- 
itable color question arose. Leading Ne- 
groes asserted that their people should be al- 
lowed admittance, that they needed such an 
educational advantage even more than white 
people, and that they were to be taxed their 
share — even though it was small — for buy- 
ing the books and maintaining the build- 
ing. They did not win their point, of 
course, but Mr. Carnegie proposed a solu- 
tion of the difficulty by offering more money 
to build a Negro branch library, provided 
the city would give the land and provide 
for its support. The city said to the 
Negroes: 



"You contribute the land and we wilt 
support the library." 

Influential Negroes at once arranged for 
buying and contributing a site for the 
library. Then the question of control 
arose. The Negroes thought that inas- 
much as they gave the land and the building 
was to be used entirely for colored people, 
they should have one or two members 
on the board of control. This the city 
officials, who had charge of the matter, 
would not hear of; result, the Negroes 
would not give the land, and the branch 
library has never been built. 

Right in this connection: while I was in 
Atlanta, the Art School, which In the past 
has often used Negro models, decided to 
draw the color Uile there, too, and no longer 
employ them. 

Formerly Negroes and white men went 
to the same saloons, and drank at the same 
bars, as they do now, I am told, in some 
parts of the South. In a few instances, in 
Atlanta, there were Negro saloon-keepers, 
and many Negro bartenders. The first 
step toward separation was to divide the 
bar, the upper end for white men, the 
lower for Negroes. Finally, after the riot, 
all Negro saloon-keepers were thrown out 
of business, and by the new requirement 
no saloon can serve both white and colored 
men. 

Consequently, going along Decatur 
Street, one sees the saloons designated by 
conspicuous signs: 



"WhItM Only." 



" Colored Only." 



And when the Negro suffers the ordinary 
consequences of a prolonged visit to De- 
catur Street, and finds himself in the city 
prison, he is separated there, too, from the 
whites. And afterwards in court, if he 
comes to trial, two Bibles are provided; he 
may take his oath on one; the other Is for 
the white man. When he dies he is burled 
in a separate cemetery. 

One curious and enlightening example 
of the infinite ramifications of the color 
line was given me by Mr. Lt^an, secretary 
of the Atlanta Associated Charities, which 
is supported by voluntary contribution. 
One day, after the not, a subscriber called 
Mr. Logan on the telephone and said: 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



" Do you help Negroes in your society ? " 

"Why, yes, occasionally," said Mr. 
Logan. 

"What do you do that for?" 

■" A Negro gets hungry and cold like any- 
body else," answered Mr. Logan. 

"Weil, you can strike my name from 



The color Hne cat 
of signs i 



be followed 6y i 
t some flaees 



your subscription list. I won't give any of 
my money to a society that helps Negroes." 

Psychology of the South 

Now, this sounds rather brutal, but be- 
hind it lies the peculiar psychology of the 
South. This very man who refused to 
contribute to the associated charities, may 
have fed several Negroes from his kitchen 
and had a number of Negro pensioners 
who came to him regularly for help. It 
was umply amazing to me, considering 
the bitterness of racial feeling, to see how 
lavish many white families are in giving 
fo3d, clothing and money to individual 
Negroes whom they know. If is said that 
the Southern housewife never serves hash; 
certainly I haven't seen so far a sign of it 
since I came down here. The admit 
"made-over dishes" of economical New 
England are here absent, because nothing 
is ever left to make over. The Negro eats 
it up! Even bread here is not usually 
baked days ahead as in the North, but 
made fresh for every meal — the famous, 
delicious (and indigestible) "hot bread" 
of the South. A Negro cook often sup- 
ports her whole family, including a lazy 



husband, on what she gets daily from the 
white man's kitchen. In some old fami- 
lies the "basket habit" of the Negroes is 
taken for granted; in the newer ones, it is, 
significantly, beginning to be called steal- 
ing, showing that the old order is passing 
and that the Negro is being held more and 
more strictly to account, not as a depen- 
dent vassal, but as a moral being, who 
must rest upon his own responsibility. 

And often a Negro of the old sort will 
literally bulldoze bis hereditary white pro- 
tector into the loan of quarters and half 
dollars, which both know will never be paid 
back. 

Mr. Brittain, superintendent of schools 
in Fulton County, gave me an incident in 
point. A big Negro with whom he was 
wholly unacquainted came to his office one 
day, and demanded — he did not ask, but 
demanded — a job. 

"What's your name?" asked the super- 
intendent. 

" Marion Luther Brittain," was the reply. 

"That sounds familiar," said Mr, Brit- 
tain — it being, indeed, his own name. 

" Yas, sah. Ah'm the son of yo' ol' 
mammy." 

In short, Marion Luther had grown up 
on the old plantation; it was the spirit of 
the hereditary vassal demanding the pro- 
tection and support of the hereditary baron, 
and he got it, of course. 

The Negro who makes his appeal on the 
basis of this old relationship finds no more 
indulgent or generous friend than the 
Southern white man, indulgent to the point 
of excusing thievery and other petty 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



The Hotel Vendome for colored people 
only 

offenses, but ihe moment he assumes or 
demands any other relationship or stands 
up a3 an independent citizen, the white 
men — at least some white men — turn upon 
him with the fiercest hostility. The inci- 
dent of the associated charities may now 
be understood. It was not necessarily 
cruelty to a cold or hungry Negro that in- 
spired the demand of the irate subscriber, 
but the feeling that the associated charities 
helped Negroes and whites on the same 
basis, as men; that, therefore, it encouraged 
"social equality," and that therefore it 
was to be slopped. 

I shall have to ask the indulgence of the 
reader here — and all through this series — 
for getting away from the main-traveled 
road of my narrative. Sooner or later I 
promise solemnly to get Ijuck again, and 
not without the hope that I have illuminated 
some obscure by-way or found a new path 
through a thorny hedge. 

Most of the examples so far given are 
along the line of social contact, where, of 
course, the repulsion Is intense. They 
are the outward evidences of separation, 
but while highly provocative, they are not 
really of vital importance. Negroes and 
whites can go to different schools, churches 
and saloons, and sit in different street cars, 
and still Uve pretty comfortably. But Ihc 



Barber shop managed by A. F. Herndon, 
the richest Negro in Atlanta 



longer I remain in the South, the more 
clearly I come to understand how wide 
and deep, in other, less easily discernible 
ways, the chasm between the races is be- 
coming. It takes forms that I had never 
dreamed of. 

The New Racial Consciousness 
among Negroes 

One of the natural and inevitable reults 
of the effort of the white man to set the 
Negro off, as a race, by himself, is to 
awaken in him a new consciousness — a 
sort of racial consciousness. It drives the 
Negroes together for defense and offense. 
Many able Negroes, some lai^ely of white 
blood, cut off from all opportunity of suc- 
cess in the greater life of the white man, 
become of necessity leaders of their own 
people. And one of their chief efforts 
consists in urging Negroes to work together 
and to stand together. In this they are 
only developing the instinct of defense 
against the white man which has always 
been latent in the race. This instinct ex- 
hibits itself, as in the recent Brownsville 
case, in the way in which the mass of 
Negroes often refuse to turn over a criminal 
of their color to white justice; it is like the 
instinctive clannishness of the Highland 
Scotch or the peasant Irish. I don't know 
how many Southern people have told me 
in different ways of how extremely difficult 
it is to get at the real feeling of a Negro, 
to make him tell what goes on in his clubs 
and churches or in his innumerable so- 
cieties. 

A Southern woman told me of a cook 
who had been in her service for nineteen 
years. The whole family really loved the 
old darkey: her mistress made her a con- 
fidante, in the way of the old South, in the 
most intimate private and family matters, 
the daughters told her their love affairs; 
they all petted her and even submitted to 
many small tyrannies upon her part, i 

"But do you know," said my hostess, 
"Susie never tells us a thing about her 
life or her friends, and we couldn't, if we 
tried, make her tell what goes on in the 
society .she belongs to." 

The Negro has long been defensively 
secretive. Slavery made him that. In 
the past, the Instinct was passive and de- 
fensive; but with growing education and 
intelligent leadership it is rapidly becoming 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



conscious, self-directive and offensive. And 
right there, it seems to me, though I speak 
yet from limited observation, lies the great 
cause of the increased strain in the South. 
Let me illustrate. In the People's Tab- 
ernacle in Atlanta, where thousands of 
Negroes meet evety Sunday, I saw this sign 
in huge letters: 



For Photograph*, Go to 

Auburn Photo Gallery, 

Operated by Colored Men. 



The old-fashioned darkey preferred to 
go to the white man for everything; he 
didn't trust his own people; the new Negro, 
with growing race consciousness, and feel- 
ing that the white man is against him, urges 
his friends to patronize Negrt doctors and 
dentists, and to trade with Negro store- 
keepers. The extent to which this move- 
ment has gone was one of the most sur- 
prising things that I, as an unfamiliar 
Northerner, found in Atlanta. In other 
words, the struggle of the races is becom- 
ing more and more rapidly economic. 

Story of a Negro Shoe-Store 

Qat day, walking in Broad Street, I 
passed a N^ro shoe-store. I did not know 
that there was such a thing in the coun- 
try. I went in to make inquiries. It was 
neat, well kept and evidently prosperous. 
I found that it was owned by a stock com- 
pany, organized and controlled wholly by 
N^roes; the manager was a brisk yout^ 
mulatto named Harper, a graduate of 
Atlanta University. I found him dic- 
tating to a Negro girl stenographer. There 
were two reasons, he said, why the store 
had been opened; one was because the 
promoters thought it a good business op- 
portunity, and the other was because many 
N^roes of the better class felt that they 
did not get fair treatment at white stores. 
At some places — not all, he said — when a 
Negro woman went to buy a pair of shoes, 
the clerk would hand them to her without 
offering to help her try them on; and a 
Negro was always kept waiting until all 
the while people in the store had been 
served. Since the new business was 
opened, he said, it had attracted much of 
the N^;ro trade; all the leaders advising 
their people to patronize him. I was much 
interested to find out how this young man 



proprietor 

looked upon the race question. His first 
answer struck me forcibly, for it was the 
universal and typical answer of the busi- 
ness man the world over, whether white, 
yellow or black: 

"All I want," he said, "is to be pro- 
tected and let alone, so that I can build up 
this business." 

"What do you mean bv protection?" 
I asked. 

"Well, justice between the races. That 
doesn't mean social equality. We have a 
society of our own, and that is all we want. 
If we can have justice in the courts, and 
fair protection, we can leam to compete 
with the white stores and get along all 
right." 

Such an enterprise as this indicates the 
new, economic separation between the races. 

"Here is buaness," says the Negro, 
"which I am going to do." 

Considering the fact that only a few 
years ago, the Negro did no business at all, 
and had no professional men, it is really 
surprising to a Northerner to see what 
progress he has made. One of the first 
lines he took Up was — not unnaturally — 
the undertaking business. Some of the 
most prosperous Negroes in every Southern 
city are undertakers, doing work exciu- 



A Negro tailor shop 



Homes of some eoloreii phyiieians 

Dr. BlUlir'i komt Dr. Ptrttr't . 

sively, of course, for colored people. Other 
early enterpriser, growing naturally out of 
a history of personal servife, were barber- 
ing and tailoring. Atlanta has many small 
Negro tailor and clothes-cleaning shops. 

iVea/tkiesi Negro in Atlanta 

The wealthiest Negro in Atlanta, A. F. 
Herndon, operates the largest barber shop 
in the city; he is the president of a Negro 
insurance company (of which there are 
four in the city) and he owns and rents 
some fifty dwelling houses. He is said to 
be worth $80,000, all made, of course, 
since slavery. 

Another occupation developing naturally 
from the industrial training of davery was 



I 



ployed by white men, and they hire 
,„, for their jobs both white and Negro 

woricmen. 
Small groceries and other stores are of 
later appearance; I saw at least a score of 
them in various parts of Atlanta. For the 
most part they are very small, many are 
exceedingly dirty and ill-kept; usually much 
poorer than corresponding places kept by 
foreigners, indiscriminately called " Da- 
goes " down here, who are in reality mostly 
Russian Jews and Greeks. But there are 
a few Negro grocery stores in Atlanta 
which are highly creditable. Other busi- 
ness enterprises include restaurants (for 
Negroes), printing establishments, two 
newspapers and several drug-stores. In 
other words, the Negro is rapidly building 
up his own business enterprises, tending 
to make himself independent as a race. 
The appearance of N^o drug-stores 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



17 



was the natural result of the increasing 
practice of N^o doctors and dentists. 
Time was when all Negroes preferred to 
go to white practitioners, but since edu- 
cated colored doctors became common, they 
have taken a very large part — ^practically 
all, I am told — of the practice in Adanta. 
Several of them have had degrees from 
Northern universities, two from Yale; and 
one of them, at least, has some little prac- 
tice among white people. The doctors 
are leaders among their people. Naturally 
they give prescriptions to be filled by drug- 
gists of their own race; hence the growth 
of the drug business among Negroes every- 
where in the South. The first store to be 
established in Atlanta occupies an old 
wooden building in Auburn Avenue. It 
is operated by Moses Amos, a mulatto, and 
enjoys, I understand, a high degree of pros- 
perity. I vi^ted it. A post-office occupies 
one comer of the room; and it is a familiar 
gathering place for colored men. Moses 
Amos told me his story, and I found it so 
interesting, and so significant of the way in 
which Negro business men have come up, 
that I am setting it down briefly here: 

Rise of a Negro Druggist 

"I never shall forget," he said, "my first 
day in the drug business. It was in 1876. 
I remember I was with a crowd of boys in 
Peachtree Street, where Dr. Huss, a South- 
em white man, kept a drug-store. The 
old doctor was sitting out in front smoking 
his pipe. He called one little Negro after 
another, and finally chose me. He said: 

" * I want you to live with me, work in the 
store, and look after my horse.' 

"He sent me to his house and told me 
to tell his wife to give me some breakfast, 
and I certainly delivered the first message 
correctly. His wife, who was a noble lady, 
not only fed me, but made me take a bath 
in a sure enough porcelain tub, the first I 
had ever seen. When I went back to the 
store, I was so regenerated that the doctor 
had to adjust his spectacles before he knew 
me. He said to me: 

" * You can wash bottles, put up castor 
oil, salts and turpentine, sell anything you 
kfMw and put the money in the drawer." 

"He showed me how to work the keys 
of the cash drawer. *I am going to trust 
you,' he said. 'Don't steal from me; if you 
want anything ask for it, and you can have 



it. And don't lie; I hate a liar. A boy 
who will lie will steal, too.' 

"I remained with Dr. Huss thirteen 
years. He sent me to school and paid my 
tuition out of his own pocket; he tmsted 
me fully, often leaving me in charge of his 
business for weeks at a time. When he 
died, I formed a partnership with Dr. 
Butler^ Dr. Slater and others, and bought 
the store. Our business grew and pros- 
pered, so that within a few years we had a 
stock worth $3,000, and cash of $800. 
That made us ambitious. We bought 
land, built a new store, and went into debt 
to do it. We didn't know much about 
business — that's the Negro's chief trouble — 
and we lost trade by changing our location, 
so that in spite of all we could do, we failed 
and lost everything, though we finally paid 
our creditors every cent. After many 
trials we started again in 1896 in our present 
store; to-day we are doing a good business; 
we can get all the credit we want from 
wholesale houses, we employ six clerks, 
and pay good interest on the capital in- 
vested." 

. Greatest Difficulties Met by Negro 

Business Men 

I asked him what was the greatest diffi- 
culty he had to meet. He said it was the 
credit system; the fact that many Negroes 
have not learned financial responsibility. 
Once, he said, he nearly stopped business 
on this account. 

"I remember," he said, "the last time 
we got into trouble. We needed $400 to 
pay our bills. I picked out some of our 
best customers and gave them a heart-to- 
heart talk and told them what trouble we 
were in. They all promised to pay; but 
on the day set for payment, out of $1,680 
which they owed us we collected just $8.25. 
After that experience we came down to a 
cash basis. We trust no one, and since 
then we have been doing well." 

He said he thought the best opportunity 
for Negro development was in the South 
where he had his whole race behind him. 
He said he had once been tempted to go 
North looking for an opening. 

"How did you make out?" I asked. 

" Well, I'll tell you," he said, " when I 
got there I wanted a shave; I walked the 
streets two hours visiting barber shops, 
and they all turned me away with some 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



excuse. I finally had to buy a razor and 
shave myself! That was just a sample. 
I came home disgusted and decided to 
fight it out down here where I understood 
conditions." 

Of course only a comparatively few 
Negroes are able to get ahead in business. 
They must depend almost exclusively on 
the trade of their own race, and they must 
meet the highly organized competition of 
white men. But it is certainly significant 
that even a few — all I have met so far are 
mulattoes, some very white — are able to 
make progress along these unfamiliar lines. 
Most Southern men I met had little or no 
idea of the remarkable extent of this ad- 
vancement among the better class of 
N^roes, Here is a strange thing. I don't 
know how many Southern men have pref- 
aced their talks with me with words some- 
thing like this: 

"You can't expect to know the Negro 
after a short visit. You must live down 
here like we do. Now, I know the Negroes 
like a book. I was brought up with Ihem. 
I know whal they'll do and what they 
won't do. I have had Negroes in my 
house all my life." 

But curiously enough I found that these 
men rarely knew anything about the better 
class of Negroes— those who were in busi- 
ness, or in independent occupations, those 
who owned their own homes. They did 
come into contact with the servant Negro, 
the field hand, the common laborer, who 
make up, of course, the great mass of the 
race. On the other hand, the best class 



of Negroes did not know the higher class 
of white people, and based their suspicion 
and hatred upon the acts of the poorer sort 
of whites with whom they naturally came 
into contact. The best elements of the 
two races are as far apart as though they 
lived in different continents; and that is one 
of the chief causes of the growing danger 
of the Southern situation. Last month I 
showed the striking fact that one of the 
first— almost instinctive — efforts at recon- 
struction after the Atlanta riot was to bring 
the best elements of both races tc^ether, 
so that they might, by becoming acquainted 
and gaining confidence in each other, allay 
suspicion and bring influence to bear upon 
the lawless elements of both white people 
and colored. 

Many Southerners look back wistfully 
to the faithful, simple, ignorant, obedient, 
cheerful, old plantation darkey and de- 
plore his disappearance. They want the 
New South, but the old darkey. That 
darkey is disappearing forever along with 
the old feudalism and the old-time ex- 
clusively agricultural life. 

A New Negro is not less inevitable than 
a new white man and a New South. And 
the New Negro, as mv cle\er friend says, 
doesn't laugh as much as the old one. It 
is grim business he i*; in, this being free, 
this new, fierce struggle in the open com- 
petitive field for the daily loaf Many go 
down to vagrancy and cnrae m that strug- 
gle; a few will rise. The more rapid the prog- 
ress (with the trained white man setting the 
pace), the more frightful the mortality. 



(ifr. Baker's narrative o} observation o) Southern life will continue next month) 



THE BADGE OF SERVITUDE 

BY OCTAVIA ROBERTS 




3HE ladies cf the Every 
n Monday Euchre Club, lin- 
gering over their salad and 
coffee at the close of an 
afternoon, h&bitually la- 
mented the scarcity of ser- 
vants in Gardner, ascrib- 
ing as the cause that Gardner was a mill 
town. Mrs. Bascome, lately come from 
the South, and secure in her colored Becky, 
lightly imputed the whole trouble lo the fact 
that the North was so insistent upon educa- 
tion. The final word seemed to have been 
said when she drawled conclusively: 

" Ma fathah always said if the working 
people were educated, it would be the end 
of the servant class." 

As she spoke, she flung her stole over one 
shoulder in the fashion of the year, joined 
several of the other club members, and 



departed in a flutter of gay talk down the 
street'ssteepdescenttoward the car. The trol- 
ley at this hour was crowded to the very steps 
with the mill hands, and the club women 
were obliged to swing unsteadily from 
straps, holding their finerj' from the floor in 
indignant protest. Their indignation was 
only partially appeased when several men 
sheepishly abandoned their seats to them, 
and made their way to the platform and the 
solace of tobacco. Most of the mill girls 
were brave in their early winter finery, pat- 
terned in close imitation of the custom- 
made garments of the Euchre Club. Some 
of them stared rudely at Mrs. Bascome's 
smart little hat that flared at an unexpected 
angle, then adjusted their stiff fells, gay with 
ribbons and scanty plumes, in a rain at- 
tempt at her style. Here and there women 
drooped with fatigue. Their hands, in 



20 



THE BADGE OF SERVITUDE 



harsh mittens, lay inertly in their laps, while 
their lunch boxes, often pathetically mask- 
ing as music rolls or cameras, slipped time 
and again from their weary grasp. The 
younger girls, however, were shouting and 
talking together, bridling at the men, mak- 
ing engagements with them for balls or the 
vaudeville. 

"Then. Mame, 'I'm on to you,' I sez, 
and you ought to have heard him laugh!'' 
one girl was confiding. 

The ladies lifted their eyebrows expres- 
sively at each other to show their annoy- 
ance. More weary from their pleasure 
than the mill girls from their toil, their tired 
nerves rebelled against the unnecessary 
clamor. 

Mrs. Bascome had difficulty in hearing 
what Mrs. Cooley, the president of the club, 
was saying above the whir of the car and the 
loud chatter, but at her question, a second 
time repeated, she shouted sweetly in re- 
turn : — 

" No, Mrs. Cooley, I don^ty but if I hear of 
anyone I'll let you know. My Becky may 
possibly have a friend who would like the 
place. .WTiat work do you requiah, \Irs. 
Cooley, of your second girl?" 

An intelligent-looking young American 
girl who sat behind them leaned forward to 
catch the answer. 

"Oh, I expect the usual combination of 
waitress and chambermaid. With onlv 
three in the family, there is almost nothing 
to do. She could have every evening off 
and two afternoons, counting Sunday. I 
pay six a week, yet none but Finns have 
applied. The worst of it is, my cook will 
leave if I don't get some one soon." 

Mrs. Bascome motioned the conductor to 
stop, and as she tottered uncertainly down 
the moving car, she called merrily over her 
shoulder : 

"I may apply for that [X)sition myself! 
It's a very good place." 

The young American girl slipped into the 
seat Mrs. Bascome's going had left empty. 
She glanced hesitatingly at Mrs. Cooley 
from time to time as if alx)ut to address her, 
but before she had done so Mrs. Cooley 
left the car, and by pressing her face to the 
window the girl had a fleeting picture of her 
decorous progress up a shaded walk leading 
to a large brick house set well back from 
the street. 

As the car sped on to the district where 
most of the mill people lived, the girl still 



sat with her face pressed to the ccol win- 
dow pane, staring blankly into the gather- 
ing darkness. 

The trolley had almost reached the end 
of the line before she too alighted and 
walked toward the cottage where she 
boarded with the Farley family, her flag- 
ging step growing lighter as she swung the 
gate behind her. Although there was a 
very neat front entrance with a door bell, 
she made her way directly to the kitchen, 
entering without the formality of knocking. 
An elderly woman, of Irish- American lin- 
eage, looked up pleasantly from the stove 
where she was frying cakes. 

"Well, Mamie," she said kindly, "I 
thought ye were lost." Then, divining the 
girl's des{X)ndency, she asked, "There ain't 
anything wrong, is there?" 

" Yes, there's a good deal wrong. I am 
all wore out. My head aches, and my side 
hurts most of the time. I don't see how I'm 
going to stand it through the winter." Her 
eyes filled with tears of self-pity, and, rising 
hastily to hide her agitation, she began 
mechanically to set the table. 

"You'd ought to see a doctor," the older 
woman called above the frj^ing. 

"I have. I seen Dr. Otis this noon." 

" What did he sav ? " 

There was an appreciable pause. 

"He said I had to git out of the mill and 
git out quick. I had to have better air and 
more exercise and not sit so much. I'm all 
broke up." She bowed her face, a face that 
in spite of its pallor was pretty, on an arm 
bent to shield it, and said no more. 

The older woman sighed in an acceptance 
of the situation that was as pathetic as the 
girl's rebellion, though she only said: 

" Well, Katie'll soon be home; we'll talk it 
over with her. She just took home Miss 
Cooley 's gown." 

"Did she finish it?" 

" Yes, we sewed on it all day long. Katie 
didn't even stop for lunch. She said she 
wanted to wear it to-night, and Katie ain't 
one to disappoint a customer. She likes 
Miss Cooley awful well anyway." 

The two women seated themselves at the 
table, where on the bright-red cloth were the 
cakes hot from the fire, the boiled potatoes 
and the coffee that made the evening meal; 
on one end of the table there was preserved 
fruit in a glass dish with a gold border 
which they all thought ver\' pretty. 

"I sat bv Mrs. Coolev on the car to- 



OCTAVIA ROBERTS 



night," Mamie said suddenly, "She ain't 
got the style of her daughter." She hesi- 
tated, then continued, with a high color : 
" She was telling a lady how bad she needs 
help." She looked narrowly at Mrs. 
Earley, who answered absently: 

"I hope Miss Cooley liked her dress. 
Katie ought to be back by now." 

She listened for a moment, and then, as 
the gate slammed sharply, she went to the 
door and looked eagerly out into the night. 

" Well, Katie," she called affectionately, 
" we're waiting on you." 

Katie was a pleasant- faced young woman 



Then, turning to Mamie, her freckled, 
merry little face quivering with sympathy: 

" Did you go to the doctor, Mamie ? " she 
asked. Mamie nodded silently, two large 
tears rolling down her cheeks. She gazed 
steadily in front of her. 

"He said she ought to give up her job 
right away," Mrs. Earley said in straight- 
forward explanation. "She has to do 
somethin' where she moves around more. 
She don't get enough exercise." 

" Mamie," her friend put her hand o\cr 
hers in a quick pressure, "Mrs. Ctwiey 
wants a second girl and she pays well. 



4. 



"/ had to have better <, 



with a quantity of curly, sandy hair. She 
was plainly very tired, but to her admiring 
mother and her friend she seemed at all 
times to radiate cheer. 

"Miss Cooley wasn't home," she said, 
drawing her chair to the table. " What do 
you think of that?" 

"Wasn't home! Wasn't she waiting for 
the dress?" 

" No; she didn't even come home for din- 
ner, her mother said. She didn't seem to 
know anythin' about it. Think of me, and 
ma too, sewing so hard all day to finish it! I 
didn't think it of her!" Helping herself 
to the food, she rubbed her hand over her 
tired eyes, "I wish she'd told me if she 
found she didn't need it," she said simply. 



Why can't you take a place like that for a 
little while? She was asking me to-night if 
I knew of anybody." She saw the wave <>f 
color that swept Mamie's face and added, 
"By spring you'd be all right again; 
'twouldn't be for long. They're awful nice 
folks. They'd take you to the seashore in 
the summer and by fall you could go back 
to the mill. Ain't Mr. Cooley got some- 
thing to do with il? He'd save you vour 
pl.ce." 

As Mrs. Earley gathered up the dishes 
the two girls, still talking together, went into 
the front room and began hastily picking up 
the threads and bits of lace and silk wjih 
which the day's sewing had strewn the floor. 
Talking in low tones, thej* worked v^ith 



n'l the work 



but 1 feel like I don't belong nowhere" 



great rapidity, pushing the sewing machine 
into the corner, bringing into prominence an 
easel that held a large crayon portrait of the 
deceased Mr. Earley, whose long upper lip 
was clean-shaven, while his chin beard, 
sweeping his collar, almost succeeded in 
hiding the absence of cravat. Katie had 
bought and paid for this portrait, as she had 
almost everything in the room. The girb 
took great pride in the parlor. Very few 
of the mill girls had as good. 

They had just time to run into the bed- 
room, which they shared, and make some 
hasty changes in their dress, when a loud 
ring of the door bell held them breathless. 
They had pretended all alor^ that they ex- 
pected no one. 

When they re-entered the room, two 
young men awaited them. Dressed neatly 
in dark suits, with glimpses of highly 
polished shirt bosoms, they sat stiffly in the 
chairs Mrs. Earley had offered them. It 
had not been two hours since Mamie had 
parted from them at the mill, but she 
greeted them formally: 

"Good evenin', Tim." Then, shyly, 
"Good evenin', Mr, Murphy." 

The color deepened in her ihin face, and 
in Mr. Murphy's too, as Katie left them to 
share the sofa. They sat erectly side by 
side, listening smilingly to the banter be- 
tween Katie and Tim. Now and then their 
eyes met ; Mr. Murphy gazing at Mamie 



with an intensity so ill concealed that 
Katie and Tim were thrown into peals of 
laughter they refused to explain. 

When Tim Bryan produced a box of gaily 
colored candies from the depths of his over- 
coat pocket, the evening seemed to overflow 
with delight. As Katie untied the gilt 
string, she and Mamie exchanged luminous 
glances of pride and pleasure. Mrs. Earley 
could hear them all laughing blithely long 
after she was in bed. Mr. Murphy's deep 
voice in occasional monosyllables mingled 
with her dreams. 

After the young men had gone, the girls 
revived the pleasures of the evening by a 
long whispered conversation as they stealth- 
ily undressed. Impatient groans from Mrs. 
Earley, disturbed in her sleep by their 
monotonous hum, obliged them to bury 
their laughing faces in the pillows from time 
to time. Suddenly Mamie's tone became 
serious. 

"Katie," she questioned, tremulously, 
"you don't think Mr. Murphy'd stop 
comin' if I was to work out, do you? You 
know his sister is a school-teacher and he's 
awful proud." 

"Sure he'll come," Katie said reassur- 
ingly, but they looked at ench other in a 
mutual alarm. 

With two afternoons and the evenings to 
herself, to say nothing of staying out for tea 



OCTAVIA ROBERTS 



every othw Sunday, Mamie, or Mar>' as 
Mrs. Cooley called her, felt sure the winter 
would pass rapidly, and Mr. Cooley had 
promised absently that he would do what 
he could to keep her place in the mill. The 
new work, for a girl of natural neatness and 
intelligence, was easy to learn, and if she 
could have lived elsewhere Mamie would 
have been quite contented; but this Mrs. 
Cooley thought impossible. Mamie shared 
a room on the third story with Bertha, the 
new Swedish cook, sleeping beside her in 
a narrow, lumpy bed. Bertha's ways were 
almost unbearable. She refused to have 
the window opened at night, and thought it 
unnecessary to make the bed in the morning. 
Her loud breathing kept Mamie awake as 
she lay beside her in the close room. It was 
hard, too, to sit with Bertha at the kitchen 
table and eat the cold fragments that re- 
mained from the Cooleys' table. Confronted 
by piles of unwashed dishes; the cook was 
chary of using more for herself, and ate from 
her hand in a way that sickened the finer 
senses of the American girl. It was useless, 
she divined, to complain to Mre. Cooley. 
Bertha was her fifth cook within the month 
and it would have been almost impossible 



found with relief, was still up. The cheer- 
ful trundling of the machine came to Mamie 
as she hurried up the walk. A tall, hand- 
some girl, with heavy black brows, helped 
her sew. Mamie had only the slightest ac- 
quaintance with this girl. Her name was 
Ellen Mullane, and she too was a mill girl. 
She had gladly taken Mamie's place, pay- 
ing three dollars a week to the Earleys and 
occasionally helping Katie with the sewing. 
Mamie sat idly in a chair watching them 
sew, with a feeling of constraint in Ellen 
Mullane 's presence. Their conversation 
about the sewing had little meaning for her, 
and she felt with a sinking heart that she 
no longer belonged in the little home. 
The strange girl made some attempt at 
conversation. 

'■ Do you like your new place ? " she asked 
airily, and Mamie knew she secretly scorned 
the girl who " worked out." 

" Oh, I'll only stay until I'm strong 
enough to go back to the mill," she hastened 
to tell her. 

" I hear they make the girls wear caps at 
Cooley's," the girl continued. She looked 
curiously at Mamie for denial or confirma- 
tion. Mamie's flush was quick. 



"/ ain't agoin' to do it" 



to replace her. The first few days dragged 
slowly by. Unaccustomed to standing, 
Mamie felt, after waiting on the table and 
answering the door bell, that night would 
never come. Several days passed before 
she attempted to see the Earleys. By the 
time she reached their gate, she saw with 
alarm that it was almost nine o'clock. Mrs. 
Earley had gone to bed, but Katie, she 



"I wouldn't do it it I didn't want to," she 
said spiritedly. 

"Come into my room a minute, Mamie." 
Katie interposed. " You left some of your 
pictures." 

Taking advantage of the excuse, the two 
girls went into the bedroom they had 
shared so long, and Mamie put her head 
down on the sweet, clean pillow and soblwd. 



24 



THE BADGE OF SERVITUDE 



"It ain't the work," she gasped. "I 
don't mind that, though it's never over, and 
Mrs. Cooley is right pleasant, but I feel like 
I don't belong nowhere no more. Oh, 
Katie, I ain't got no home! That old 
kitchen to sit in, or that top room with 
Bertha! I ain't never going to be able to 
stand it. I'm so lonesome." 

''I told Mr. Murphy you was there," 
Katie soothed her, " and he said he thought 
you was real plucky. Won't you see him at 
church Sunday?" 

"She said I had to go to early mass," 
Mamie wailed. *' He won't never be there 
then. None of the mill folks goes early. I 
won't see nobody I know." 

**Well, you come here Sunday; likely as 
not he'll be around and we can have a great 
time. Tim is learnin' to play on the accor- 
dion. Can vou be here bv two? We'll 
take the trolley, if it ain't too cold, and go 
to the park or somewheres. You'll be back 
by six." 

"I don't know as I can get off by two. 
You know I help Bertha wash the dishes." 

"I thought she said you had Sunday 
afternoon!" Katie exclaimed in genuine 
surprise. 

" Well, she ain't no idea how long it takes 
to do anything. She means we can go when 
we get through." 

" Don't she ever do anything herself?" 

"Well, she don't as far as I can. see, 
though it seems like she's awful busy all the 
time and she ain't well." 

"Ain't Miss Lillian awful sweet and 
nice!" 

" Yes, she is, but she takes a lot of waitin' 
on. It seems like she can't ever find any- 
thin'. She keeps me runnin' up and down 
stairs a good deal. I wouldn't mind if it 
wasn't for my side." 

" Well, try and get through early Sunday, 
Mamie." 

They kissed each other in farewell, and 
with a ** good-night" to the new girl, Mamie 
started out in the darkness for the car. 

A hard lump rose in her throat and she 
cried softly as she walked swifdy along in 
the darkness. She missed, more than she 
could express, the regularity of the mill life, 
where she knew so definitely what her work 
was and when it ended. She missed the gay 
sociability of the noon hour, and, most of 
all, the long Sunday's rest. Mrs. Earley had 
always encouraged them to sleep late, and 
Mamie would awake with the delicious sen- 



sation that a long day of freedom and re- 
laxation stretched before her. 

"Mary!" ^Irs. Cooley called pleasantly 
as she entered the house. Mamie knew by 
her tone that visitors must be present, and 
was confirmed in this when she heard the 
regular flipping of cards that meant they 
were playing whist. 

" Mary, don't you think you can get us up 
a little luncheon?" 

Lillian Cooley, who had just returned 
from a dinner, rustled out to where Mamie 
irresolutely stood on the stairs. The web 
of silk and lace she trailed delicatelv after 
her Mamie recognized as Katie's handi- 
work. Miss Cooley gave the new maid 
some directions about the late luncheon and, 
holding her finery about her, even helped 
her hunt for the corkscrew. She held her 
skirts out of the way and helplessly watched 
Mamie pull the cork. She was a kind 
young girl, with quick sympathies, and she 
would gladly have helped in the preparations 
if it had not been for the fear of spoiling her 
gown and her total ignorance of where to 
find anything, or what to do with it when 
she found it. Mamie felt her goodwill, 
however, and it served to counteract her 
resentment at being called upon "after 
hours," as, from her mill life, she still 
phrased it. 

" A very good girl," she heard Mrs. Cooley 
say to the others, as she was finally allowed 
to gather up the dishes, " but, like most of 
them, she loves to run." 

The lady who sat opposite . shook her 
head in disapproval of girls who were not 
homekeeping. Then, having expressed her 
pleasure in the game and in Airs. Cooley's 
hospitality, she and her husband made their 
adieus. 

As Mamie stretched herself wearily beside 
the sleeping Bertha, the town clock struck 
one. 

As Mamie had foreseen, Mr. Murphy was 
not at early mass, but the chance of meeting 
him in the afternoon still remained. By 
careful planning and rapid working, she 
hoped to reach the Earleys' soon after two. 
She flew from task to task, therefore, with 
fine energy, dusting, straightening the 
furniture, and making beds, while Mrs. 
Cooley was at church. Before going she 
had warned Mamie not to awaken Miss 
Lillian, who was '* resting"; so, in spite of 
Mamie's impatient glances at her closed 
door. Miss Lillian sweetly slumbered on. 



A 



IVeary and disheartened 



For the task of putting her room in order 
dangled discouragingly before the house- 
maid, the delay upsetting all her carefully 
laid plans. As it was her Sunday to get 
.supper, she made as many preparations 
beforehand as possible, thinking in this 
way to avoid returning from the Barleys' 
before six o'clock. As she hurriedly rolled 
out butter-balL-i, Miss Lillian came down- 
stairs. It was just noon, and Mamie was 
relieved to hear her say she did not care for 
any breakfast; but Mr. Cooley, safely 
screened by the Sunday paper, called 
{jeremptorily : 

"Nonsense! Jenny! Mary (what's her 
name?), bring Miss Lillian her coffee!" 

Half an hour slipped by in getting this 
belated repast. There was scant time for 
setting the table for the noon' dinner and 
arranging Miss Lillian's bedroom. Mamie 
ran up the steps two at a time and entered 
the room. The light pink-and-white cur- 
tains fluttered innocently in the soft wind. 
The day was unseasonably warm — a per- 
fect day for an outing. A billowy ball- 
gown hung from the screen, satin slippers 
peeped from under the lounge, the wash 
bowl was heaped with heavy-headed roses, 
while the dressing-table was strewn with 
hairpins, powder, and German favors. It 



was no light undertaking to restore the per- 
fect order Mrs. Cooley required. 

When Mamie, at last, climbed the stairs 
to her own room for a hasty toilette, she was 
beset by a lemplation. If she donned the 
black gown Mrs. Cooley required her 
waitress to wear, it meant that she must 
dress again after dinner for the street. The 
whole chance of seeing Mr. Murphy hung 
on the decision. 

"I ain't agoin' to do it," she rebelled, 
and without hesitation she dressed herself 
in a heavily braided skirt, a thin embroid- 
ered while waist with elbow sleeves, and a 
string of blue beads. Her soft black hair 
curled prettily about her temples; her eyes 
were almost as blue as the beads; with inno- 
cent pleasure she smiled at her own reflec- 
tion in the mirror. For, thanks to the great 
flood of ready-made garments that inun- 
dated the country, swiftly following the 
course of the exclusive tailor and modiste, 
she knew she conformed to the fashion of 
the hour. She might, at a distance, have 
passed for Miss Lillian. Seizing her hat 
and jacket she hurried below. 

Mrs. Cooley had returned from church. 
Mamie could hear her talking lo Bertha in 
the kitchen, while a hum of other voices 
came from the library. Suddenly the 



. 26 



THE BADGE OF SERVITUDE 



kitchen door banged sharply and Mrs. 
Cooley, flushed with anger, emerged, the 
jet on her Sunday bonnet shaking with her 
agitation. Mamie in her finery shrank 
before her advance; the apology she had 
framed for not wearing her uniform died on 
her lips. Apparently, Mrs. Cooley did not 
notice; she rustled by her, breathing angrily. 
Mamie hastily slipped into the kitchen, 
where Bertha greeted her with a lowering 
brow, 

"What you tank! She brought home 
tVee people for dinner, and we got to have 
salad. She vants coffee served in the 
drawing-room. I tank you got to set over 
the table." 

Mamie's color rose high; she choked with 
rage and disappointment. 

"I ain't agoin' to do it!" she said 
fiercely. "I won't never get out." 

Bertha, sullen and silent, was washing 
lettuce and dressing salad. She jerked 
down some dishes Mrs. Cooley reserved for 
guests, and Mamie saw with dismay that a 
beautiful plate was broken in the hurried 
washing, but the Swede, with little idea of 



Her head nodding against the lattice 

its value, was unconcerned. She carelessly 
pushed the plate l>ehind some others. 

" I tell her the last cook broke that." she 
said wHth a wink of her small, dull ev'e. 

Mamie shared her anger and resentment. 
She re-set the table with trembling hands, 
and her " Dinner is served " was said with 
scant courtesy. 



Mrs. Cooley, at the head of her pretty 
table, smiled benignly on her guests, for- 
getting her anger at Bertha's impudence, 
and feeling that it had been a happy thought 
that prompted her to bring them home from 
church. Her husband was as fond of com- 
pany as she was herself. 

The Sherwins and their son were old 
friends who were in town a short time, and 
they too were glad to be there. Ned Sher- 
win and Lillian had danced together several 
times the night before, and they had much 
to say of the party. The older men talked 
business, while the two mothers spoke in 
low tones of their household cai^ and re- 
counted their children's virtues. They 
looked at the two young people from time to 
lime in smiling contentment. 

" Do you still wear that funny little hat 
you bought in England?" they heard the 
young man ask with admiring eyes for the 
delicate, sensitive face, the cloud of sunny 
hair, and the innocent eyes that turned to 
meet his. " I always think of you in that 
shiny little hat. You had it on the day I 
left Gardner." 

"Wear it! Never again!" Lillian cried, 
and her mother and father laughed in anti- 
cipation of the familiar story. "I thought 
that hat very smart until one day I went 
into Scott, Gibbons & Company's and asked 
at the ribbon counter for Miss Hibbard, 
who alwa)-s waited on me. 'She's left*, a 
laconic individual assured me. 'Did you 
use to work here when she did?' And," 
continued Lillian, " I always thought it was 
the hat!" 

The Sherwins found this very funny. 
They all laughed heartily, and no one 
noticed Mamie's heightened color. Know- 
ing many of the girls at this shop for well- 
dressed, refined young women, she could 
not see the absurdity of Lillian's being mis- 
taken for one of them. 

"Never mind," she heard Ned Sherwin 
say, "I can go you one better; a man asked 
me at the Gordons' the other night to see 
that his coffee was hot. He thought / was 
a waiter. " 

Mamie served the coffee in the parlor and 
went back to the pantry to wipe the dishes. 
Piles of them awaited her. She and Bertha 
wiped them in great haste; some of them 
were sticky with soap, but Mamie, cross and 
indignant over the dinner's delay, let them 
pass. Neither she nor Bertha ate any din- 
ner themsebes; they were loo tired from the 



OCTAVIA ROBERTS 



long serving of the others. Mamie drank 
some coffee standing and ate a piece of 
bread from her hand, as she had scorned 
Bertha for doing at the beginning of the 
week. Then, hastily pinning on her hat, 
she started for the car, drawing on her 
gloves and jacket as she ran. As she 
reached the curb a car whirred past and il 
was some lime before another came. As 
she entered the Earleys' gate, the town 
clock tolled four. 

All was ominously silent. The vine ihal 
ran over the front door rattled lonesomely in 
the light autumn breeze. Dahlias Hamed 
handsomely against the house. The parlor 
blinds were tightly closed; the kitchen door 
was locked. Mamie, in her disappoint- 
ment, weary and disheartened, sat on the 
kitchen steps and wept. There was nobody 
in the immediate neighborhood she cared to 
see; indeed, there was nobody anywhere 
but Katie, Tim Brjan — and ^i^. Murphy. 
The mild afternoon slowly passed. Mamie 
sat listlessly on the back step, gazing dully 
over the little yard, where chickens clucked 
and scratched constantly among the falling 
leaves. Once she rose and wandered 
towards an apple tree. She began to feel 
hungry, and ate with good relish an apple 
and some grapes that still clung to the vine. 
When Mrs. Earley came home from a neigh- 
bor's she found her fast asleep, silting 
patiently on the steps, her head nodding 
against the lattice. 

" I thought Katie had come home," she 
explained sleepily. 

"They gave you up, pet. They all 
waited on you until almost three, then they 
took the trolley and went to the park." 

"WTio's 'they'?" Mamie asked breath- 
lessly. 

" Why, Katie and Tim and Mr. Murphy. 
When they made up iheir minds you wasn't 
a-comin', they asked Ellen Mullane to go 
with 'em. She was awful tickled to !« 
asked. Ellen ain't had many beau.t. 
Can't you wait for 'em ?" 

" No, I got to get supper. It's my Sun- 
day in. Tell 'em I come as soon as I could. 
won't you?" She hesitated pathetically. 
"Ellen is about Mr. Murphy's size, ain't 
she. Miss Earley?" 

"I shouldn't wonder if she was. She's 
awful tall." 

"Did Mr. Murphy have on his blue 
suit ?" 

"Well, now, I never noticed. He Iot>ked 



real nice, and Ellen give him a dahlia for 
his buttonhole. He's just had a raise at the 
mill and is feelin' awful good over it." 

Mamie looked so white and tired that 
evening as she waited on the table that even 
Mrs. Cooley noticed it. 



Mr. Mnrphy 

"She's a nice little girl," she said to the 
inattentive Lillian; "neat and clean and 
intelligent, but not strong. I fear she won't 
be able to do the work. What do you sup- 
[xtse pos,sessed her to array herself in that 
way for dinner? Those mill girls have no 
idea of their place." 

Promptly at eight o'clock Mr. Murphy, 
broad of shoulder, clear of eye, and strong 
of chin, hesitated in front of the Cooleys' 
imposing structure. The front door, pro- 
tected by a vestibule, was rather awe- 
inspiring; the kitchen far in the rear he did 
not even consider. He ftnally decided on a 
small side entrance seldom used. The un- 
accustomed ring of the bell startled Lillian 
Cooley from her book, and, thinking it was 
some neighlxjr calling informally, she hos- 
pitably opened the door herself. 

"Is Miss Ryan home?" 

She started nervously at the hea\'y bass 
voice from the dim outline of bntad Mr. 
Murphy, and half closed the door. 

"No," she said timidly, "this is Mrs. 
Cooley's residence; you must have the 
wrong house." 

Mr. Murphy glowered in the darkness, 
then explained huskily: 

" Miss Mamie Ryan— they told me she — 
works here." 



THE BADGE OF SERVITUDE 



"Oh!" Lillian ejaculated. "You mean 
Mary! Of course! I didn't know her last 
name. Go to the kitchen door, please; I 
think she's still here." And, closing the 
door gently, she went back to her book. 

Mr. Murphy walked out of the yard in 
high dudgeon, feeling he had been insulted. 
He walked around the block, his smooth 
face flushing hotly. He hesitated for a long 
moment between the cars, that whirred 
down to the center of the town with a 
crackling accompaniment of electric sparks, 
and the dim yard of the Cooleys, At last 
he turned back and walked resolutely to the 
kitchen door, Mamie, still in her finery, 
opened it. 

"Why.Mr. Murphy," shesaid faintly, 
and Mr. Murphy, beautiful to see In his new 
blue suit, but a little pale about the lips, 
entered the kitchen. Mamie gazed help- 
lessly at him as he found himself a hard, 
straight-backed chair by the table. One 
gas-jet burned feebly from the high bare 
ceiling. The room was not over cleanly. 
Bertha took no pride in its appearance. 
She met her own young man on the corner. 

Mr, Murphy gazed steadily at Mamie as 
she talked to him breathlessly. She hardly 
knew what she said, and her cold hands 
trembled in her lap. She made no apology 
for the change in her situation; she could 
only ignore it. She asked for their various 
friends at the mill as if they had been long 
parted, and Mr. Murphy answered, as was 
his custom, in monosyllables. They sat 
stiffly on either side of the kitchen table, and 
Mamie felt that if she stopped talking for 
an instant she would surely cry. 

A piercing shriek from the speaking-tube 
interrupted the monologue. Kir. Murphy 



could hear Mrs. Cooley's voice from the 
floor above : 

" Mary, did you forget to turn down the 
beds and to bring up some ice-water ?" 

With a shamefaced glance of apology, 
Mamie left the kitchen, leaving Mr. Murphy 
gazing steadily in front of him. He looked 
larger and more massive than usual sitting 
in the stiff wooden chair under the one dim 
light. 

Mamie was gone some time. She duti- 
fully turned down the beds in the rooms 
above. ' 

" Don't forget the ice-water, Mary," Mrs. 
Cooley caUed after her retreating figure. 
Mamie thought of the dark cellar which she 
would have to face in getting the ice from 
the ice-box. Once she had seen a rat 
scuttle down the stairs. 

"Mr. Murphy," she said bravely, "will 
you hold the candle while I get some ice?" 

Mr, Murphy rose heavily from his seat 
and together they descended the stairs. He 
took the ice-pick from her trembling hand 
and struck a great blow, so that the ice 
splintered about them and made them 
laugh. 

"My, but you're strong!" she said ad- 
miringly, then irrelevantly, gazing up into 
his good, honest blue eyes : 

" I wish, Mr. Murphy, that I had a home 
where you could come to see me. I hope 
this ain't for long." She shaded the candle 
with her hand to see him better, as he stood, 
large and powerful, holding the ice-pick like 
a weapon. 

"It won't be for long, darlin'," Mr. 
Murphy said huskily. He passed one pow- 
erful arm around her yielding waist, 
"Why, Mamie, that's what I come to say," 



OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN 



A BOY WHO NEVER GREW UP 



BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON 



ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAIT 









SHORT, thick-set, florid 
man with a sparse, iron- 
gray, pointed chin beard, 
a thick neck visible above a 
very low collar, two shrewd 
twinkling eyes on either 
side of his short, sharp 
nose, and a brand-new, shining beaver hat 
of the vintage of 1847, was stumping along 
West Thirty-fourth Street in New York City. 
A noted music critic met him. 

"Hello, Oscar!" said the critic. "What 
are you doing here? Going to build 
another theater ? " 

"No," said Oscar Hammerstein, in his 
curious foreign accent, "at least, I don't 
think so. But you never can tell what I'm 
going to do. There are only two things I 
haven't done — got arrested for embezzle- 
ment, and eloped with my best friend's wife. 
But you never can tell what I'm going to do." 
Then he stumped on westward, his 
shrewd eyes twinkling as they surveyed 
houses, p^estrians, passing cars and drays, 
everj'thing about him, with the inscrutable 
curiosity of a boy. And to-day, in West 
Thirty-fourth Street, two long blocks from 
Broadway, where a theater never was 
dreamed of, stands the Manhattan Opera 
House, built and managed by Oscar Ham- 
merstein alone, unbacked by fashion or 
wealth, the first rival to the established 
o|>era in New York that has ever remained 
successful. Melba, Bonci, Renaud, Sam- 
marco, Ancona, Arimondi, Campanini the 
great conductor — these are the names 
which have drawn opera lovers westward 
into the unknown regions of Eighth Avenue 
during the past winter, sweeping the car- 
riages of the rich by the homes of the poor. 
But behind this company is Oscar Ham- 
merstein, at once its genius, its jest and its 
riddle. Except for the ultimate myster\^ of 
why she moves at all. Nature does not move 



in a very mysterious way her wonders to 
perform. She turns us out pretty much in 
typ)es; we all fit into classes with more or less 
exactitude. This is proved by our perplex- 
ity, our mental embarrassment, when we 
meet a man who doesn't fall into a class — 
when we meet Oscar Hammerstein. 

Keeps his Books in his Head 

Oscar Hammerstein is a cigar-machine 
inventor, a real estate speculator, a vaude- 
villfe manager, a composer, a theater builder, 
an impresario, a shrewd man of business, a 
reckless plunger, a Jew, a humorist, the 
father of six children. He talks in whimsi- 
cal epigrams and thinks in cigar machines 
and opera houses. Dealing with receipts 
and expenditures that run up to $60,000 a 
week, so far as anybody has ever been able 
to discover he keeps no books. His ledger 
is in his head, and he tells nobody how the 
balance stands. Ask him for his opinions, 
his dreams, his ideals, and yoG get as little 
information. You get an answer, but if you 
are wise or have a sense of humor you will 
not believe it. For a generation he has 
been the most picturesque and one of the 
best-known figures in the theatrical life of 
New York, yet a year ago when he an- 
nounced that he was going to launch grand 
opera on West Thirty-fourth Street, nobody 
knew whether to take him seriously or not. 
Some of those who didn't take him seriously 
are wishing now that they had. The mana- 
ger of the Victoria " Theater of Varieties," a 
vaudeville house, has become a leading im- 
presario of the country. The piystery of 
such a man is worth getting at, or trying to 
get at. Possibly he has something more to 
give than grand opera. 

On his own admission Mr. Hammerstein 
is fifty-seven years old. He was born in 
Berlin and ran away from home when he 

29 



30 



OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN 



was fifteen, he says, because his father 
whipped him with a skate strap. He 
pawned the family violin for thirty-five dol- 
lars to raise the money to get to Liverpool, 
and from there he shipped to America on a 
sailing vessel. WTien he reached New York 
he went to work in a Pearl Street cigar fac- 
tory for two dollars a week. But Nature 
never intended him for the two-doUar-a- 
week class. He soon attracted attention by 
inventing a machine for binding cigar fill- 
ers, a work hitherto done by hand. He 
says he got $6,000 for this invention " from a 
Yankee over in Newark, named Williams," 
the same Williams having since, according 
to Mr. Hammerstein, made millions out of 
it, which seems probable, if Williams was a 
Yankee. At any rate, Mr. Hammerstein 
found the capital somewhere to take up the 
American Tobacco Journal, and this he 
edited for some time, inventing an extra 
waste pipe device when his office sink ran 
over, which he declares he sold to the 
plumber for $2,500, and improving his time 
and fortunes generally. Incidentally, he 
married and began to rear a family, was an 
habitual gallery god at all operatic per- 
formances, and wrote two farces for the old 
Thalia Dramatic Club. In his spare mo- 
ments he composed music, continued to 
invent cigar machines and dabbled in real 
estate. 

Bobs Up, when Knocked Down 

But in this multifarious activity, one thing 
emerges as significant, his very real interest 
in opera and the theater. Probably in his 
own memory the sharpest picture is of the 
great Academy of Music glittering below 
with jeweled women, heavy with the inde- 
scribable odor of the opera house, and in the 
distance, on the gas-lit stage, Patti pouring 
out that glorious voice of hers. Perhaps the 
dream came to him then — certainly he will 
admit it if he thinks it will please you so 
to fancy. At any rate, in the late seven- 
ties he took the lease of the old Windsor 
Theater on the Bowery and ran it for a while 
as a German play house. Then he became 
a silent partner of Adolph Neuendorff, and 
they leased the Germania Theater on Four- 
teenth Street, now Tony Pastor's. It was 
here they brought Heinrich Conried, a 
young actor from Germany. Such is the 
whirligig of Time! Mr. Conried is now 
director of the rival Metropolitan Opera 



House, and tries to take away his tenors, 
while he retaliates by grabbing oflF a so- 
prano or two. And they do not kiss when 
they meet. 

After the Germania Theater, Mr. Ham- 
mei-stein jumped into fame and began to be 
considered crazy. In those days, " Marry 
in haste and repent in Harlem" had not 
become a proverb. The Harlem goat still 
leaped in innocence up and down the craggy 
vacant lots and the blue weed blossomed as 
the rose. But Oscar looked into the future 
before he, too, leaped, and then took the 
plunge. He built a row of fiat houses far 
up Seventh Avenue at 136th Street, which 
became famous as "The Dutch Flats," be- 
cause he christened them " The Kaiser Wil- 
helm." Then he built the Harlem Opera 
House at 125th Street. Tradition, already 
busy about him, has it that he laid some of 
the bricks himself. And before the plaster 
was dry the music critics were invited up 
from Park Row, seven miles away, to review 
grand op>era in Harlem. His opera was 
sung in English and German, German 
opera being then the fad. Some of the 
critics came, and they sat in Oscar's office 
to write their notices, and smoked his home- 
made cigars and told him how unspeakably 
bad his performances were. " But why, why 
are they bad?" he would inquire. And 
after this venture failed, as it did in a month, 
he built the Columbus Theater close by and 
tried again, and failed again, and sold out, 
and came back downtown no doubt a wiser 
man, but whether a poorer or a richer, no 
mortal can say, except himself. At any 
rate, he bobbed up again with another opera 
house, this time in civilization, just off 
Herald Square. Again he gave grand opera 
in English, and again he failed, and changed 
the style of his entertainment and then 
turned over the house to Koster and Bial. 
But again he bobbed up, and it was decided 
that at last he was completely crazy. He 
bobbed up in Long Acre Square, then ten 
blocks north of the theater district, and built 
a huge pile sheltering two theaters and a 
roof garden. This he called The Olympia, 
and in it he planned to give everything, 
from grand opera to vaudeville. 

Writes an Opera in Twenty-four Hours 

One day before the opening he witnessed 
a musical comedy in another theater and de> 
dared that he could write a better one him. 



A BOY WHO NEVER GREW UP 



31 



self, words and music, in twenty-four hours. 
Gustave Kerker, composer of " The Belle of 
New York," and two or three other men 
bet him $500 that he couldn't. They 
locked him up in a hotel room and hired a 
hurdy-gurdy to play steadily under the 
window. At the end of twenty-four hours 
Oscar emerged with the operetta. It was 
in one act and was called "The Koh-i- 
noor." He placed it as the opening bill at 
the smaller of the two theaters in the Olym- 
pia (now the Criterion). The paint was 
not dry on the decorations wHfen the audi- 
ence assembled. Before the operetta began 
Mr. Hammerstein appeared in front of the 
curtain and made a speech. Usually, he 
said, authors waited till after their play was 
over, but he was going to make his sp)eech 
before the play began, ** because," said he, 
** it's safer." 

It must be admitted that this speech was 
the best feature of "The Koh-i-noor," 
which proved to be paste. The attractions, 
operatic and otherwise, in the other parts of 
the Olympja were equally failures, and 
Oscar departed from his elephantine build- 
ii^Sy by ^s ^^^ admission, penniless. He 
said his loss was over $1,000,000, but this is 
very doubtful, though to-day the property is 
worth far more. 

Reveals Plan, and New York Gasps 

But he bobbed up again. Somebody 
loaned him the money and he bought a 
dilapidated property across the square — he 
did not lose his faith in " the march uptown " 
— ^and erected the Victoria Theater. Ap- 
parently he had dropped his dream of grand 
opera; he gave vaudeville shows on the roof in 
summer, and had Duse and other dramatic 
stars in the theater below. And he pros- 
pered, and his hat of the vintage of 1847 was 
renewed annually; and he made epigrams in 
the lobby and built himself a bedroom up in 
the second gallery where he lived all by him- 
self, though his family, numbering now four 
grown sons and two daughters, were well 
housed; and in the loft he installed a cigar 
plant and went to inventing tobacco ma- 
chinery again. Presently he built next door 
the theater now called the Belasco, and 
later the Hackett down Forty-second Street, 
and leased them for handsome rents. But 
already Long Acre Square had become the 
center of theatrical life — the Olympia was 
now surrounded by new theaters on all 



sides. So Oscar, his sanity at last vindi- 
cated, went mad again, being able once 
more to afford that luxury. 

His insanity this time took the form of a 
giant play house far over on West Thirty- 
fourth Street where the average New 
Yorker never journeys twice in his life. He 
said he was going to call it the Drury Lane 
and give melodrama and hippodrome spec- 
tacles there. When the madness of the 
location was suggested to him, he replied by 
jx)inting at the beginnings of the excavation 
for the Pennsylvania Railroad terminal 
close by. "This region has a future," he 
said. Whether he ever intended to give 
melodrama is another of his secrets. At 
any rate, before the house was erected he 
suddenly sprang on the astonished town the 
announcement that the next autumn (1906) 
he would open "The Manhattan Opera 
House" for a season of twentv weeks of 
grand opeja in Italian and French, with the 
best singers in Europe, and with the same 
scale of prices as the established opera 
house of wealth and fashion. And he in- 
vited subscriptions. The town gasped. 
Mr. Conried smiled. "Two real opera 
houses in New York?" said everybody. 
"Impossible! It can't be done. Besides, 
people won't go 'way over there to Eighth 
Avenue. It is madness." But Oscar sailed 
for Europe to pick his company and cabled 
back to his sons to raise $160,000 to seal 
the contracts he had made and cover pre- 
liminary expenses; and went ahead on his 
mad plunge. 

Happiest Day in his Life 

On the third of last December, after weeks 
of frantic haste to complete the house, dur- 
ing which he fell through a stair frame and 
nearly broke his back, Oscar opened his 
theater with a performance of " I Puritani," 
with Bonci, one of the greatest male singers 
now on the stage, in the tenor rdle, and Cam- 
panini, the greatest of Italian conductors, 
presiding over the orchestra. In a curtain 
sp)eech after the second act, Oscar siiid — and 
said truthfully — that he had staked every- 
thing on the venture. And he added with 
every show of sincerity that he didn't care 
whether he made or lost another fortune, he 
had accomplished what he had striven for, 
the creation of a first -class opera house. He 
would give the best opera in his power, he de- 
clared, and leave it with the public whether 



32 



OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN 



art, unsupported by fashion and unbacked 
by limitless wealth, should succeed or fail. 
He had donned unaccustomed white 
gloves for this occasion; it was a high- water 
moment in his life. But when he got back 
of the curtain he pulled them off, lit one of 
his home-made cigars, sat calmly down in a 
chair amid the tumult of shifting scenes and 
ballet dancers and painted chorus men and 
women and watched the panorama with 
twinkling eyes, with the inscrutable curios- 
ity of a bov. 

Sleeps in his Opera House 

In the weeks that followed his opera 
house forged rapidly to success. He had 
learned much wisdom from his other ven- 
tures, and for this one he had secured high- 
class artists and a magic conductor to whom 
he gave full swing. He recovered from his 
injury; he ate up the myriad toiU of an im- 
presario, which broke down Maurice Grau 
and have broken down Mr. Conned, with 
far more composure and less weariness than 
either of the two sons who are his assistants. 
He began to construct for himself a bed- 
room in the opera house, so that he would 
not have to "go dumming" every night, as 
he expressed the trip to his Victoria Vaude- 
ville Theater, which another son now man- 
ages. And his whimsical humor was re- 
stored to him threefold. He bought no 
automobiles, he gave no dinners, he changed 
his mode of life not one whit. But he had 
his hat of the vintage of 1847 freshly ironed 
and nightly took his seat in a kitchen chair 
behind the scenes, puffed at a home-made 
cigar, and watched, through twinkling eyes, 
the machinery of illusion working. Once in 
a while he would go "out front" and sit in 
an empty box, but he complained that the 
ticket window had a trick of selling the box 
after he had got settled comfortably, so 
finally he resorted entirely to the kitchen 
chair in the wings. 

And it became the fashion last winter for 
those who could get the " open sesame " to 
the stage door to seek him there — reporters 
with a love of the picturesque, men and 
women of fashion who enjoywl the flavor of 
his talk, the riddle of his eyes. The news 
spread one evening that he had engaged a 
certain local conductor, more noted for good 
intention than achievement, and we asked 

him if it were true. "Engaged X ?" 

he said. "Where for, here or the Vic- 



toria ? " He would have none of " Salome, " 
he declared, because he didn't approve of 
dead heads in the theater! And one even- 
img I found him in a whirl of shifting scen- 
ery, falling back -drops, peasants, ballet 
dancers, Mephistopheles, Valentin, Siebel; 
and while the stage hands were setting up 
Marguerite's garden, I asked him the ulti- 
mate question. "Why," said 1, "when you 
can make the money you say you have out 
of cigar machines, anyhow when you have 
the Victoria Theater paying you a hand- 
some income and ought to be old enough to 
settle down and play with your grand- 
children and enjoy -life peacefully, do you 
take all the risk and trouble and worry of 
launching this new opera house ? " 

Enjoys Managing '* Stars** 

He smiled, and his eyes squinted as they 
do when he doesn't wish you to know 
whether he's ironic or not, and he said, " Ah, 
but the tobacco business is prose, this is 
poetry — you know ? It's more fun to make 
Melba sing than it is to make a cigar. To- 
night, now, first she tells me it's too hot in 
her dressing-room; then it's too cold; then 
she wants me to ring up at eight, when there 
are only two people in the house, and I have 
to set my watch back and show her it's only 
seven-thirty — ^you know ? You must handle 
these singers just so — it's an art — or else 
they'll go out on the stage and phrase like 
the devil. If you let 'em do that you'd have 
to admit people to your house on transfers — 
you know?" 

The scene was set by now, there was a 
sudden awareness of the people out front as 
the curtain hissed up its wires, a muscular 
chord from the orchestra, a "Sssh" for 
silence from the stage manager. Oscar 
spread out his palms. " You see, in my own 
house, too, they won't let me speak!" 
Presently Melba, prayer-book in hand, stole 
along behind the canvas frame that to the 
audience was a garden wall, paused for her 
music cue, and entered the gate. Then we 
heard her voice, luscious, perfectly phrased, 
and once more he spread out his palms, this 
time with another inflection. He tiptoed 
up to the window of Marguerite's house — a 
hole cut in a frame of canvas with a lace 
curtain over it, to us behind — ^and peeped 
out upon the stage. He patted the scenery 
affectionately as he did so. He was smiling 
to himself when he came back to his chair, 



OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN 



34 



OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN 



his hands behind him, his head down, like 
Napoleon. He had forgotten my presence. 
So the boy who ran away from the paren- 
tal skate-strapping at fifteen to work in a. 
cigar factory at two dollars a week, to in- 
vent, to speculate, to hang out of the balcony 
when PatCi sang, has at last an opera house 
of his own to play with, and is happy! He 
has no artistic mission, he has no school of 
music, like Wagner, to fight for from the 
stage; no architectural ideals to work out in 
the auditorium: all the houses he has built, 
in fact, have been architecturally tawdry. 
He has no philanthropic purpose to educate 
the masses musically, though he always puts 
plenty of gallery seats in his houses. He 
has no aspirations to be a leader of taste, for 
he has a sense of humor. He minds no- 
body's business but his own, leads nobody's 
life but his own, spends no money on lux- 
uries (except opera houses!), asks nothing of 
■ society but to come if they like to see his 
show. His interest in the opera house is 
the boy's interest in a toy, a long-coveted, 
long-dreamed -of, deeply-to-be-desired toy, 
something wonderful and all his very own. 
To see the machinery of illusion working, 
and the most complicate'd and high-stning 
machinery, operatic illusion, to wind it up 
himself andplay with it, that is his happi- 
ness, his summum boniim. 

/t Boy of Fifly-seven 

And to gain possession of this toy he has 
displayed unwonted persistence, courage, 



even a sort of genius — certainly a genius for 

rising with a smile after every knock-down 
and going at it again. He has thrown off 
by-products of cigar machines and flat 
houses and vaudeville theaters, but to be an 
impresario and play with a real opera 
house has been his steady goal. To stake a 
fortune on a more than dubious prospect of 
success is not a characteristic of his race. 
To keep no books is not a characteristic of 
the typical business man. To live in a little 
bedroom in the theater one has built when 
one owns a comfortable house, is not a char- 
acteristic of the ordinary operatic manager 
nor the lover of esthetics. But they are 
characteristic of the boy. And that is what 
Oscar Hammerstein is, a boy of fifty-seven. 
He lias the shrewdness, the persistence, the 
humorous wisdom of the man, but he has 
the curiosity, the inscrutableness of the boy; 
and who shall say that is not a greater wis- 
dom? The sound of the tenor's voice, the 
smell of the fly lofts and the perfumed audi- 
ence, the bite of the strings in the orchestra 
— they have for him the same unreasoned 
fascination they had when he was twenty. 
And now he can play with them to his heart's 
content. But it took thirty-seven years to 
get to the goal. All of us could be happy if 
we could get what we want, and all of us 
could get it if we wanted it long enough. 
The trouble is most of us cannot want the 
same thing thirty-seven years. Oscar was 
wiser; he never grew up. Peter Pan and 
Oscar Hammerstein! There's a strange 
pair of bedfellows at the end! 



IT HAPPENED TO HEDDERLEY 

HOW A MODERN INVENTION WAS EMPLOYED TO RELIEVE THE 

DISTRESSING SITUATION BROUGHT ABOUT BY TOO 

MUCH YIELDING TO SEASICKNESS 

BY HARRISON CLARK 



E sound of many feet 
lurrying through cabins 
ind across decks came 
vith ponderous dizziness 
o Mr. Jiggs Hedderley as 
le ky in his berth, and 
groaned, and thought of 
home, and begged forgiveness for ever going 
to sea, and wished for death. 

Hedderley was seasick. Some twenly 
hours before, the steamship Isinglass, bound 
from Galveston to New York, had run 
plump into a West Indies hurricane, had 
tossed about like a crazy thing until she had 
lost several of her vitals, and had then taken 
to tumbling and wallowing about sportively 
with the busy waves — one result among 
many being that Hedderley had been 
reduced to — this. 



"I wish the fool tub would sink!" he 
declared fervently. 

And just then there came a terrific pound- 
ing at his door. 

"Get out in a hurry," an excited voice 
shouted. " The ship is on fire! " 

"That's just as good," whimpered Hed- 
derley — "if it wasn't so slow!" 

"Hurry — hurry!" cried the voice; and 
the racket at the door grew quite furi- 
ous. 

" Get away from that door, you! " shouted 
Hedderley. 

" For the last time — " pleaded the voice 
at the door. 

"For the last time, get away from that 
door and lei me die in peace," H«iderley 
shou ted, wea kly . 

" You go to—" 

3S 



36 



IT HAPPENED TO HEDDERLEY 



*^If I do," interrupted Hedderiey, "111 
goby land!" 

Hedderiey gave little heed to the man's 
retreating footsteps. What did it matter ? — 
what did anything matter? — so long as his 
entire interior works were determined to 
get away from him? He was not even 
appalled by the silence that came as the 
tramping ceased, and the shouts died away, 
and the rattle of oarlocks dimmed into 
nothingness. There wasn't anything this 
side of the peace of eternity that he cared 
for. There was something, too; he recalled 
that it was something which he had thought 
of considerably, and had been greatly inter- 
ested in. But — now — he couldn't just 

think Oh, what was the difference! It 

would all be over in a little while. 

And just as he reached this decision, his 
stateroom stood on its side and he scraped 
knuckles and shins trying to catch hold of 
something. 

**For the love of mercy," he pleaded, 
with tears coming into his eyes, "sink if you 
want to, blow up, or burn up, or just vanish; 
but don't — Oh, please don't — do any more 
tumbling!" 

" Boom! " came a thunderous report, and 
the vessel shook, and leaped slightly, and 
then took her nose out of the air with an 
impetuosity that recalled to him all his 
troubles. 

" Was I born for this ? " he groaned. He 
sat up suddenly. ** Why don't you sink! " 
he shouted viciously. " How many convul- 
sions are you going to have, you — you 

Oh, I wish you were a horse so I would 
know how to cuss you ! " And weeping and 
whimpering in his weakness and misery, he 
dropped back, turned his face to the wall 
and went to sleep. 

When Hedderiey awoke, he did not know 
whether it was the next day or the next 
week or the same afternoon. He was cer- 
tain only that his head ached as though a 
thousand devils were using it as a com- 
munity anvil, and that his room was stuffy 
and hot. He staggered to the door and 
threw it open, and went groping into the 
cabin. Presently he became conscious that 

the air had a tang that was WTiat was 

it? Ah! He remembered — charred wood! 
. . . . Of course I He had been warned. 
The vessel was on fire! .... He felt 
very weak, and stretched out his hand to- 
ward a pillar. But he straightened himself 



and laughed. For there had to be smoke 
if there was a fire, and there wasn't any 
smoke! So the fire must be out. And the 
Isinglass was still afloat and he was safe! 

Safe? Awhile ago he had no reason for 
wanting to be safe — except one; and he 
couldn't think what that was. But . . . 
It makes a lot of difference, the way one's 
stomach is behaving. And just now he 
was glad of his safety. He turned — and 
with a cry ran for his stateroom. For he 
had seen his reflection in a mirror, and it 
showed that he was clad only in pajamas 
— silk things of red and white stripes that 
fairly shouted for recognition! Once safe 
behind a door he began to get into a full suit 
of clothes. The ship was floating quietly; 
she had altogether quit her crazy acrobatics, 
and he was very glad of it. He liked quiet. 
. . . . Quiet? .... Quiet? .... 
Why — he paused with a thumb under one 
suspender strap — there wasn't anything but 
quiet! There wasn't a sound to be heard — 
not even the tramp of a sailor's feet on the 
deck above his head! . . . Slowly the 
realization grew: He was a single soul on 
a disabled ship! 

He felt very lonesome. The silence 
awed him; it made him hear strange things, 
and he found himself starting and shrinking 
at — what must have been nothing, though 
it was actual enough for the instant of its 
seeming reality. He hesitated to move, and 
feared to go again into the salon. Dumbly 
he continued to sit on the edge of his berth, 
one suspender strap up, the other down, 
and waited, and shivered at the strange 
noises of the empty ship. But after awhile 
inaction became unbearable; so with a 
feeling that he was invading a tomb which 
was soon to be also his own, he went forth. 

It was all as he had expected — nobody 
except himself, no land in sight, no friendly 
smoke on the horizon — no hope! So far as 
he could discover, the Isinglass was entirely 
seaworthy. She certainly did not appear to 
be sinking; for at bow and stern she floated 
high. There was no fire, though there had 
been a disastrous one. The rear half of the 
deck was burned — the planks gone from an 
interior that yawned black, the wheel a 
charred heap of useless spokes and wire, the 
compass a melted mass, and all about a 
forest of masts, spars, funnels and a lot of 
other things which Hedderiey knew nothing 
of, rearing stark naked black lengths 
against the air. Evidently the fire had been 



HARRISON CLARK 



37 



suddenly extinguished when its complete 
rictory seemed certain; but to Hedderley 
the manner of the extinguishment did not 
appear. Vaguely he decided that the rear- 
ing up nf the ship and the explosion that 
followed might have had something to do 

with it; but 

'■ The interesting fact is ihat the fire's out, 
and that we are floating and will probably 
continue to float unless something jams us," 
was his philosophic conclusion. 



least idea where he might find it; his im- 
pression was that it was in the neighborhood 
of what somebody had called the poop deck, 
but where in blazes was the poop deck? 
He resolved that there must t* a path to it 
from the dining salon, and he knew where 
that was. So from the dining salon he 
began his search. It led him a long and 
labyrinthian course through pantries and 
passageways — and brought him to a huge 
room of blackened woodwork and broken 



' Gee, but it is good to meet somebody ! 



The passenger cabins had not been 
damaged. They were much as Hedderley 
remembered them before— well, before the 
storm! Thebuftet seemed to be intact; and 
as Hedderley found the bourbon boitle and 
M;parated four fingers for immediate use he 
gave his first sigh of relief and whispered : 

" Starvation, drowning — death in many 
forms — may threaten me; but from the 
looks of things I shan't die of thirst." 

The clamorings of a .sorely tried and 
thoroughly emptied stomach drove him to a 
search for the "kitchen." He hadn't the 



glass and pols, pans and kettles, but no 
food. 

However, there was bound to be food 
somewhere. And he made a desperate 
dash for a big charred door at the farther 
end. 

'"Saved!" he cried. For before him, and 
to each side of him, in boxes and crates and 
buckets and cans, was food! And not a 
thing was damaged! 

He ripped o[)en a tin of sardines and, 
standing, ate ravenously. A second tin — 
and he decided to sit down. There was no 



38 



IT HAPPENED TO HEDDERLEY 



place to sit except the floor, so he sat there; 
and, with fresh cans and cartons of crack- 
ers at his hand and in a solemn silence 
broken only by the mild rasp of the sardine 
box against the floor and the crisp munch- 
ing of crackers, feasted. 

Suddenly his jaws ceased to work, and 
the sardine box became still, while his 
overstrained heart thumped desperately. 
A strange noise had entered — footfalls, 
mufl^ed but with a slight scratchiness 

Hedderley turned sharply. . . . And 
a bull terrier, with a great black spot encir- 
cling his right eye, stopped short in the floor 
a dozen feet away, wagged his stub of a 
tail, and whined beggingly. 

"You bet your life you may!" laughed, 
Hedderley. And a moment later the dog, in 
his arms, was licking his face while being 
frantically squeezed and patted. 

" Gee, but it is good to meet somebody!" 
fervently declared Hedderley, holding the 
dog off for a good look. 

He divided with his guest, and the inter- 
rupted feast was resumed. The pile of 
emptied tins grew and grew. The dog, 
eventually, was satisfied, but Hedderley 
didn*t know that he ever would quit eat- 
ing Until a rumble of thunder brought 

him to a stand. He looked at the dog. The 
dog looked at him. 

" What are we going to do about it. Bo ? " 
he asked weakly. 

The dog growled as a second rumble 
sounded and the vessel began to roll. 

Hedderley sighed, and his complexion 
became a pale green. 

"Now, I guess this fool wreck will go 
tumbling and jumping all over creation 
again," he said. "And what will all this 
stuff do to me? Bo, what is your recipe 
against seasickness?" 

A terrific crash sent the dog, bridling and 
growling angrily, to a defiant position at the 
man's side; and it made the man tremble. 

" Do you know any prayers. Bo ? " asked 
the man. " We'll probably need them. I'll 
do the best I can; but I've gone rusty, I'm 
afraid, on that line of talk. And maybe, 
besides, I don't stand very high with the 
administration. I haven't always worked 
and voted with it. Do you know. Bo, it 
seems rather funny to me. Here we are — a 
man and a dog, I am the man. I am sup- 
posed to have an imperishable soul, and 
some stock in an everlasting life, and to 
have intelligence enough to understand 



about it all. It looks like I ought to be ready 
for whatever happens. You are the dog. 
You haven't any soul — ^at least, there aren't 
any books written about it. You haven't a 
chance on earth to get any farther than the 
bone-yard when you die. You have no 
solace of thinking about golden streets, and 
silver harps with angels playing on them at 
every comer, all for your benefit. Accord- 
ing to all the dope, I've got a soft snap 
waiting for me when this blamed tub goes 
down, while the best you get is the worst of 
it. I ought to be delighted, and you ought 
to be quivering and quailing and doing all 
the prayers you can muster. But it works 
out just the other way. I'm scared to a 
frazzle — afraid to meet the angel musicians, 
and wishing I knew how to p)ersuade the 
Lord not to insist on immediate acceptance 
of his invitation. While you — with your 
stub of a tail and brown eyes and absolutely 
no religious sense and never a sign of a soul 
— you growl back at the storm and threaten 
to eat it alive if it dare lay a finger on me! 
And still it is a fact that I am a Man, whose 
tribe is the greatest of the earth, and has a 
monopoly on the future life, and you are 
just a dog!" 

The vessel pitched recklessly, and Hed- 
derley and the dog began to skate and tum- 
ble from side to side and end to end of the 
storeroom. 

" Let's try to get somewhere that will stay 
still," advised Hedderley; and as he started 
a laborious retracing of the course to the 
salon the dog followed — though how he 
managed it was a puzzle to Hedderley. His 
claws scraped unholding over the floors, and 
his round body, once he was off his feet, 
rolled cylinder-like across whatever space 
lay before it. It seemed a very long while 
before they reached the salon. 

"But it is worth the trouble!" muttered 
Hedderley, thankfully, as he followed the 
dog's example and sprawled on the thick 
carpet. 

The darkness was complete. Not even a 
flash of lightning reached in now and then 
to pierce it. Dog and man lay close to each 
other; and at intervals the dog's rough 
tongue touched the man's outstretched hand 
with a caress that seemed to promise all 
possible protection. 

Hedderley had no means of estimating 
how many hours he and the dog clung to 
the carpet. To his wearied mind, it seemed 
at least a full night, and he strained his 



eyes for a sign that the dawn had come. 
The thunder ceased, and it did not seem 
that the wind was so high; but the waves 
continued to drive the Isinglass in her game 
of leap-trc^ with the sea — and the man and 
the dog dared not rise. 

" I don't suppose that you, being a dog, 
know much about music," Hedderley com- 
mented, "but. Bo, this reminds me of a 
song I heard just before I left that dear 
Amarillo. It goes this way: 



Hold tight! We're off again!" 

Upward and forward shot the ship — 
hurled by a power that might have torn a 
mountain from its base — moving evenly as 
an arrow and with more than an arrow's 
speed — And then, with force spent, the 
huge missile was pulled down by its ponder- 
ous weight^to crash thunderously, and 
tremble in every plate and timber — and then 
to lie still in a sudden quiet that was stu- 
pendous! 

"Under the waves dwells silence," Hed- 



derley murmured. For he had no 
of doubt that the harried derelict was drop- 
ping to a wTeck's bed amid coral reefs, 
"Are you ready. Bo? For we've got some- 
where, and the next thing will be the open- 
ing of the grand concert for yours truly. 
Give me your paw, old man. We'll go 

together as far as your ticket reads 

By the way. Bo, isn't it queer I can't re- 
member what it was I thought so much 
about before I got seasickl" 
The d<^ sprang up and began to sniff 

"Needn't go to meet trouble," advised 
the man. " It's hot-footing for us — you can 
bet on that!" 

An excited whine from the dt^ caused the 
man to sit up and listen. There certainly 
was no sound of water rushing in. 

"I wonder if I'm fooled again on this 
sinking proposition?" he asked. And he 
arose and started forward. The dog led the 
way to the upper deck. . , . 

The air that met them was sweet and 

soft; and all that broke the stillness was the 

laughing gurgle of water lapping the sides ol 

30 



' IVAjr — why — wAy . . . It's Amelia," he > 



HARRISON CLARK 



41 



the unmoving ship and, farther away, the 
solemn boom of beating waves! 

When daylight came it revealed the ac- 
complishment of the impossible. Hedder- 
ley looked — and turned to hide a blush at the 
thought that he was in any way party to 
such a stupendous fake. To expect it to be 
true that an ocean liner had been bodily 
lifted and thrown over a reef through a 100- 
foot passage between cliffs and to a bed 
upon the soft sand of a safely harbored 
beach 

" Oh, what a dream sardines can pro- 
duce! " he murmured. 

But it was hard to get away from appear- 
ances. There were the ship and the beach 
and the bay, and outside was the ocean, and 
he could not lose the recollection that a few 
hours before the ship had been out there on 
the ocean. Now— there wasn't any ques- 
tion of it — she was in the harbor, and the 
only way she could have got there was to 
jump or be thrown through that narrow 
cliff-guarded passage. 

" Nevertheless, it can't be true," he main- 
tained to the bull terrier. "No matter how 

much it may seem so Why, whoever 

heard of such a thing? Nobody would 
believe it — not even in AmariUo. Of course, 
Bo, as you have no reasoning powers and no 
imagination, you take things as they come, 
r^ardless of their improbability. You 
figure it out that we are here, safe though 
lonesome; and that is the end of your con- 
cern over the affair. You, a soulless dog, 
have no conscience that can be shocked by 
the terrible lie that we axe living; and in 
sweet content you poke your nose between 
your paws and go to sleep! There are cer- 
tain aid vantages about being a dog!" 

Hedderley's bay was a small, horseshoe- 
shaped affair — plenty of smooth water for a 
ship that was just resting, ample expanses 
of white beach, and as a background frown- 
ing cliffs that loomed ugly in the early 
morning light. Between the heels of the 
horseshoe was a noisy neck of water that 
made a great to-do about running to and 
from the sea over a reef of large rocks, set 
30 to 40 feet apart and showing sharp 
edges imder the white surf. The ship was 
surrounded by water to a depth of ten or 
fifteen feet, and was firmly held — listing a 
little to starboard and down a little by the 
stem, but altogether on a fairly even keel. 

The scene was not cheerful. There was 



no evidence that anyone lived in the neigh- 
borhood, or that anyone ever had lived 
there, or that anyone could live there. It 
was reasonable to suspect the place of being 
an island, but Hedderley could not deter- 
mine this point — there being no small boats, 
and the water being too deep for wading, 
and Hedderley being unable to swim. And 
what was back of or close by the island was 
another secret, contemplation of which led 
Hedderley to cry out : 

" Oh, why did I leave home!" 

As answer there came to him again that 
mysterious recollection of something for- 
gotten — something that he once thought of 
a lot. But he couldn't grasp it; the answer 
stood at the threshold of his mind, but 
would not enter. 

"Ain't it the limit " he b^an; and 

left it at that as, calling the dog, he went 
below for breakfast. 

And while he ate, it occurred to him that 
he was quite safe from every danger save 
ennui. He had a safe house, and food and 
' water and liquors and wines that would last 
500 people 20 days and which, therefore, 
should last him and Bo something like 15 
years. There was an immense supply of 
ice, and in the hold was so much coal that 
the thought of carrying it up produced a 
feeling akin to nervous prostration. The 
sleeping arrangements were all that could 
be desired. There were 100 staterooms, in 
most of which the beds were made up; 
hence Hedderley, by merely changing his 
room every night, could long avoid the task 
of bed-making. And in the buffet — ^in 
addition to the liquors — ^were boxes upon 
boxes of cigars and cigarettes. And there 
was a piano and music, and books of all 
titles and subjects 

It wasn't so bad to be marooned! 

Hedderley was busy enough the first day, 
finding and classifying things; the second ' 
day, also, he had enough to do. But the 
third day began to be monotonous. There 
was a ghostUness about the silence of the 
ship, and the silence of the day, and the 
silence of the night. It got on his nerves, 
and took his mind from his book and 
forced him to walk — on the deck, where he 
could kick up something of a racket; and 
then in the salon, where he couldn't kick up 
a racket because of the carpet; and where 
in desperation he sat down at the piano and 
played rag-time, with much attention to th^ 
loud pedal and the bass keys. 



42 



IT HAPPENED TO HEDDERLEY 



Then he sat, with fingers clasped, on 
the piano stool, and was sympathizing 
with himself as thoroughly as though he 
were a widow, when a gende ticking noise 
caught his ear. Queer tricks this silence 
played! For the ticking brought to him, 
strangely enough, that period before he 
went in for cattle on a large scale, when he 
was a T. & O. operator up in the Pan- 
handle — ^reporting one train and the weather 
morning and night by way of earning his 
salary, and by way of enjoying life flirting 
brazenly over the idle wire with a red- 
headed girl down the road! "I-g" used to 
be his call — ^and absently he dnunmed the 
two dots, two dashes and a dot on the edge 
of the piano. And the girl's station was 
"s-t" — ^and she always insisted that he 
made " b " of it when he got in a hurry. He 
drummed away, the long-unused muscles 
seeming to laugh as they loosened them- 
selves to the task, and a reminiscent smile 
spreading over his face. 

What His fingers stopped, stiff and 

still; and his eyes grew wide; and he grasped 
the edge of the piano stool and lifted him- 
self; and his lower jaw dropped — and he 
stood staring toward the end of the salon, 
speechless, with dry mouth and aching 
throat and burning eyes. For as certain as 
he had hearing, there was the old call 
echoing through the ship! 

He staggered, and passed a hand across 
his eyes, and laughed. 

"Nothing to it. Bo," he said weakly. 
"I'm crazy. I'm hearing funny noises. 
First thing you know I'll be busy tying 
knots in the tails of pink kangaroos ! I'm — 
I'm baUy I " 

He laughed again, and started across the 
salon toward a large easy chair. But he 
stopped half way; for the "call" had been 
answered and two people were " talking." 

His head swam, and he reeled to the 
chair and dropped, gasping, into it. And 
then, as though he had been shot out by a 
strong spring, he leaped up, laughing hys- 
terically and thrusting his shaking hands 
before him gropingly. 

"Come on. Bo," he cried. "Come on! 
It's all right. We're saved! It's the wire- 
less I " 

He plunged into the little room where the 
receiving instrument was. His shaking 
fingers touched the rubber knob, and des- 
perately he began to " call." 

"Who's the goat?" asked one of the 



" talkers " presently; and Hedderley laughed 
with all his voice, and straightened in his 
chair, and felt strong — and rattled away 
crazily at the key. 

" I'm Hedderley," he wrote. 

" Bill or Nan ? " came the query. 

"Don't joke! I'm a wreck " 

"Thought so from your sending. Try 
bromo " 

" Marooned " 

" How interesting ! " 

" Dam it, iisten- 

" Such a language- 



J9 



If 



And Hedderley broke in with an apology; 
for he recognized the " writing" as that of a 
woman. 

" Don't mind that; but what's yoiu: joke ? " 

'*WonH you understand? I'm ship- 
wrecked — ^I and the wreck and Bo " 

" Will Bo be next to butt in ? " 

"Bo is a dog. But what I want to get 
at " 

"How long do you expect to remain 
where you are?" 

" The rest of my life if I can't get you to 
take this thing seriously." 

" Oh, by the way — ^where are you ? " 

" In a dinky rockbound cozy comer in the 
middle of the ocean somewhere." 

" But what part of the ocean ? " 

"How the How do you expect me 

to know, when there isn't a sign on the 
station and no time card " 

" Ask someone " 

"Nobody to ask." 

" On shore " 

"Nobody on shore — ^no anything on 
shore!" 

" What's your latitude and longitude ? " 

"Haven't a sign of either! Seriously, I 
don't know!" 

" Can't you take a reckoning ? " 

"Certainly not! Why, I'm from Ama- 
riilo!" 

" Is that off the earth ? " 

" Well, it's so remote that it is visited only 
by schooners. It's up in the Texas Pan- 
handle." 

"Didn't anyone advise you against 
leaving?" 

"No; and no one will have a chance t^ 
advise me to hurry back if I ever find a 
way." 

" Why did you leave ? " 

" I can't remember ! Isn't that funny ? " 

" Seriously, who are you and where are 
you ? My curiosity is aroused." 



HARRISON CLARK 



43 



•*I am serious! I'm in dead earnest! 
And I want help!" 

" But how can we get to you ? " 

For a moment Hedderley's key rattled 
without making a letter. Then he ticked 
off : " I wish I knew ! But— I don't 1 " 

" How did it happen ? " 

**I was seasick — didn't want to live — 
crew and passengers left me when they 
thought the ship was gone. Then when the 
ship didn't either bum or sink, the ocean 
got mad, picked up ship, dog and all, and 
pitched us into this place." 

" Beat that, will you?" ticked the man. 

"When did this happen?" asked the 
woman. 

"About — By the way, when is now?" 

" Thursday." 

" This week, last week or next week ? " 

"YouaresiUy!" 

"But it isn't as silly as you may think! 

You see, I was plumb batty for If it's 

this week it must have been three days. 
Then we floated a day, and we've been here 
three days. Say, please come and get me! 
And Bo!" 

"But — ^why don't you tell us how to 
come ? " 
. " Can't you tell where this line runs?" 

"What?" 

"O That was silly, wasn't it? 

You see, out at Amarillo we have wires — " 

" And you can follow them for miles and 
miles " 

" And I forgot about this being a line of 
just thin air. By the way, won't you tell 
me who you are ? " 

"Certainly," said the woman. "I am 
'S-t' on the yacht Sylva, off Eleuthera 
Island." 

" And the man " 

" Oh, he's — You may call him Jimmy, 
and he's on a dinky cat boat " 

"I am Mr. James K. Adderton, owner 
and skipper of the yacht LinnetUy* inter- 
jected the man. "And I'm out here off 
Crooked Island; and " 

"That's enough, Jimmy; be good!" 
ticked " S-t." 

" Delighted ! " sparked Hedderley. " And 
where are those islands?" 

No reply came. 

"My map shows the Bahamas, the 
Canaries and the Aleutians," he con- 
tinued; "are they in any of those bunches ? " 

"Get a scarch-Kght," wrote "S-t," "and 
look for them in the Bahamas." 



"Well, where does that put me?" Hed- 
derley asked. 

" Up in the air," said Jimmy. 

"Not after that jolt," retorted Hed- 
derley. "Say, don't you think it's rather 
unfair to string a- man who is shipwrecked 
and alone?" 

"Stringing? Stringing, did you say?" 
demanded Jimmy. " Why, if I sent a tale 
like yours tick-tacking through the atmos- 
phere, I'd be proud of myself as the cham- 
pion string artist of the world." 

" Oh, don't be so hard on a fellow! I give 
you my word I'm telling you the truth! It 
sounds wild, I know; but I can't help that. 
I didn't make any of the facts. I'm lost, 
people, I tell you — lost on board the steam- 
ship Isinglass in the harbor of a tenantless 
island!" 

"He's real pathetic, isn't he?" said the 
man. 

"That's cruel" began Hedderley 

"But you sound so much like a fake!" 
broke in " S-t." 

" I'm not a fake! Here, you folks — ^who- 
ever you are, and whatever kind of liquid 
circulates through you! Wire to the cattle 
firm of Hedderley, Hedderley & Hedderley 
at Amarillo, and ask if they don't know 
Hedderley ! And if he's all right ! " 

"Of course! But — ^isn't there someone 
else?" 

" Scores ! Whom do you want ? Society ? 
Wire Miss Amelia Grinley of Albany, N. Y., 

and ask her Say ! " his key fairly 

shouted. " Say, you — both of you! That's 
it! That's what I've been trying to remem- 
ber! Say! You've got to help. me out of 
this! That's why I left home! Say! 

Please Why, I'm to marry that girl 

the 27th!" 

"B-r-r-r-r-r!" sputtered Jimmy; but 
"S-t" interrupted reprovingly: 

" And you had forgotten . . . that ? " 

"No," said Hedderley, "I hadn't for- 
gotten it. I remembered it all the time — 
don't you know? But, confound it, I 
couldn't think what it was I was remem- 
bering! I was on my way to the wed 

Oh, please help me out of this scrape!" 

"It's easy " 

" Thank " 



» 



" If you will only tell us where — 

" She's in Albany " 

" But, man, where are you ?" 

** Don't you know I don't know ? " 

" How could vou " 



44 



IT HAPPENED TO HEDDERLEY 



" How could I do any of the fool things 
I've been doing?" demanded Hedderley. 
" How coidd I ever acquire the fool notion 
of travelling by sea when there was plenty 
of land?" 

" S-t " drummed thoughtfully. 

"Do you think she would have him 
now? "she wrote. 

"She certainly ought not to " re- 
plied Jimmy before Hedderley broke in 
with: 

"You leave that to the girl! And if you 
can't or won't get me out of this fix, please 
let the girl know about it!" 

"That's fair enough," said " S-t," after a 
silence. " Jimmy, you sail in and wire that 

young woman. And meantime " Her 

key drummed meaninglessly until the sound 
became tiresome. 

" Meantime what ? " demanded Jimmy. 

"Meantime," she continued, "I'll see 
what I can do with a correspondence school. 
Latitude and longitude taught by wireless, 
you know! For we ve got to be human once 
in our lives and help this young man locate 
himself!" 

"Ain't she a brick!" said Hedderley 
admiringly. 

"You needn't be insulting about it," 
said " S-t." 

"Why — why " said the astounded 

Hedderley. 

"Don't mind," interrupted Jimmy. "A 
view of her beautiful hair might explain ! " 

Presently it was all arranged. Jimmy 
agreed to do his part; and the next morning 
"S-t" was to begin the task of teaching 
Hedderley the art of locating himself by the 
aid of the sun, moon and stars. Ancl 
Hedderley was very much excited. His 
recollection at last of the forgotten thing 
that had tantalized him was appalling. It 
gave him a headache; and he spent consid- 
erable time before mirrors, examining the 
pupils of his eyes for signs of insanity. 

" Though I don't see why I should seek 
additional signs," he told himself. "I'm 
sure they are thick enough! " 

By way of penance, he began a letter to 
Amelia, explaining the whole thing and 
begging her forgiveness. He explained 
very carefully that he had not really for- 
gotten; he just could not remember for the 
time what it was he was thinking about. 
He was not himself. He would never 
forget her; and certainly it was impossible 
to suppose that he had really forgotten that 



he was on his way to marry her — even 
though there had been the seasickness, and 
the wreck, and all the rest. He would be 
true to her forever — even though he never 
got away from that deserted island! And 
with much more of the same sort he begged 
her to write to him often, and closed with 
many protestations of undying love. 

It was not until he had read it over care- 
fully, and folded it and put it in an envelope, 
that there occurred to him the question: 
"HowshaUImailit?" .... 

He held the letter before him for several 
minutes. Then he dropped it on the table 
and went to a room. He fell upon a 
berth, and pressed his fingers against his 
temples; and, firm in the knowledge that he 
could not sleep, went to sleep. 

"S-t" was earnest in her teaching, and 
Hedderley was stupendously earnest in his 
efforts to understand. He worked hard 
with the compass, and came in time to have 
a reasonable faith in the needle — though it 
was hard for him to believe at all times that 
north was where it was declared to be. He 
watched and measured shadows, and gave 
minute reports of what he foimd. He 
squinted at stars until he acquired a chronig 
crick in his neck. And " S-t " recorded and 
corrected and reckoned from the queer 
mass that Hedderley gave, and put creases 
into her brow with her study of the chart. 
Every day Hedderley would ask: "Have 
you heard from Jinuny?" And just as 
regularly she would reply: " Don't be impa- 
tient. Study your lesson!" A week tot- 
tered by feverishly, and Hedderley felt that 
he was learning. "S-t" confided that his 
reports had enabled her to locate him defi- 
nitely between Newfoundland and the 
Caribbean Sea, but each succeeding report 
moved him a thousand miles or so. Until 
the seventh day. She was surprised on that 
day to find him very near the spot he was 
reported from the day before. 

"But I don't see how you can be there," 
she said; "there isn't so much as a rock 
charted within 300 miles of that place." 

"The question," he said feelingly, "is 
whether you believe me or that chart." 

The eighth and ninth days Hedderley's 
reports showed him stationary; and in the 
course of the ninth day "S-t" announced 
very firmly: 

" I'm going to steer for that place, chart 
or no chart. And if I don't find you there 



HARRISON CLARK 



45 



I'll know it's all a fake and you have been 
joshing us to a finish." 

*' I'm starting out to find you/' announced 
" S-t " next morning, not without a trace of 
excitement. **So please say your lesson. 
And do be careful and try to stay in the 
same place until I get there." 

The excited Hedderley made his obser- 
vations with painful care, and reported 
them anxiously. And every half hour after- 
ward he sought confirmation of them. He 
heard nothing further from " S-t," however, 
until noon, when she reported: 

" I am wdthin 50 miles of where you ought 
to be. Please see if you are stationary." 

And Hedderley made another observation 
and another report — and from the same 
place! 

" I guess there is no doubt, now, that you 
have aUghted," said " S-t." " What sort of 
signal have you flying?" 

*' Why, none! " said Hedderley. 

" Run up a flag " 

"Nothing to run it up with." 

*' Climb a mast and nail a shirt on it!" 

"If I don't get out of here until I climb 
one of those masts, my tombstone will be 
built right here," flashed back Hedderley. 

" Well, what are you going to do ? " 

"It's all new to me — ^I haven't an idea — 
Say, how would smoke do ? " 

"Fine!" 

He dashed for the furnace room, and 
presently a black colunm was rising straight 
and ominous from one of the ship's funnels 
— lifting its sp)reading head high above the 
surrounding cliffs. 

"Well, I guess that reaches some!" he 
declared admiringly, as he stood on deck 
and watched it. 

At 2 o'clock " S-t " called. 

" The lookout sees smoke," she reported. 

Hedderley gave an AmariUo salute, and 
threw a chair against the side of the room as 
an expression of exuberance. 

"But it isn't your smoke," resumed 
" S-t" a few moments later; " it is a steamer 
outward bound." 

"I'll make more smoke," declared Hed- 
derley, and he hurried into the furnace 
room. " If there's any old steamer floating 
around in this ocean that can outsmoke me. 
It will have to go some," he declared as he 
shovelled soft coal. 

When he returned the telegraph key was 
rattling crazily. 



"It must be you," "S-t" was writing. 
" Wiggle your smoke! " 
" How " 



" Water- 



>) 



And Hedderley hurried back to the fur- 
nace and began dashing buckets of water, 
at intervals, into the fire. 

" It is — it is! " the key was crying when he 
got back. 

"Where am I?" he asked. 

"About 20 knots south-southeast, and 
I'm coming 18 an hour! Keep your smoke 
going; I don't want to slip by that dinky 
cyclone cellar of yours." 

"Where's Jimmy?" demanded Hedder- 
ley. 

"He's safe enough, I suppose — ^he 
doesn't lose himself." 

" But what does he report from my girl ? " 

" Bother your girl ! She is with the ninety- 
and-nine — the lost sheep is the one we are 
after!" 

" Send up some smoke yourself," begged 
Hedderley. " It is as though I were at the 
bottom of a well with a circus parade 
coming along." 

" We are stretching our smoke in a streak 
across the ocean." 

"Well, please shoot a gun, or make a 
noise like something." 

After awhile "S-t" asked: "Did you 
hear that ? " 

"What?" 

"Why, we're shooting everything we've 
got " 

"I don't hear a thing but the boom — 
boom of the blamed old waves. But wait — 

hold on Bo hears something! He's 

got his ears cocked — he's snifl&ng — whim- 
pering Say, you ought to hear that 

dog howl! And see him scuffle up on deck! 
I guess we hear you! " 

" It must be your island," came the report 
a few minutes later. 

"No one else has claimed it," retorted 
Hedderley. And then excitedly: "Do you 
mean vouseeit?" 

"I think I do! Smoke up!" 

When he got back from the furnace, the 
instrument was crying merrily: "Get on 
deck ! Get on deck ! ' ' 

And Hedderley, urging legs that were 
tr>'ing to buckle under him, hurried up. 
His head was swimming, and his eyes 
blurred in the strong sunlight. He looked 
off toward the open sea, through the heel of 
the horseshoe — and his legs began to do a 



46* 



IT HAPPENED TO HEDDERLEY 



hornpipe, and his head ceased to swim, and 
his eyes cleared; and his unused voice 
roared out a tremendous shout. 

For off through the opening he could see 
the white sails of a yacht, and the white 
paint of her hull, and the white dress of the 
people on deck — and the white handker- 
chiefs they were waving! 

When Hedderley's delirium passed, he 
foiind himself hugging Bo to his breast, 
whirling about the deck in a dance that was 
partly Dervish waltz and the other part 
royal high-kicking ballet, and trying to per- 
suade his wearied voice to yield another 
yell. His heart was beating wildly — so 
wildly that it hiirt him; and his throat was 
dry, and his mouth was dry; and his face 
was fixed in a hard, painful grin that he 
could not alter. And when he saw a white 
streak draw away from the yacht, and 
recognized it as a gasoline launch headed 
for his port, he began to talk to himself! 

The little boat drew carefully to the 
reef, and with painful slowness crawled 
along a channel which its pilot discovered 
for himself — past the ugly pointed rocks, 

past the churning water And then with 

many toots of its air horn it shot forward for 
a joyous dash across the bay! 

There came to Hedderley the sound of 
human voices — no particular voice, no dis- 
tinguishable words: just voices. And he 
tried to shout back with his own voice, 
and couldn't; for his own voice was nothing 
but a sob in his throat, and he was crying! 

The little launch came alongside; and 
when Hedderley could not solve the prob- 
lem of lowering the ship's ladder a nimble 
sailor scrambled up the Isinglasses side to 
do it for him. 

And up the ladder came a girl— in white, 
and with a white veil; and Hedderley, 
choking with gratitude to the clever "S-t," 
started down the steps to meet her. But the 
sailor drew him back, and the best he could 
do was to stand at the top and hold out both 
hands. 

The young woman advanced eagerly — 
and with utter disregard for the outstretched 
hands threw both arms about Hedderley's 
neck, and cried: "Oh, JiggsyT^ 

"Why — why — why — why," stammered 
Hedderley. " It's Amelia I " he roared. 



He lifted the veil- 



Later on he asked: "How did you get 
here?" 

" When Mr. Adderton wired me, I made 
him wait at Miami until my train could 
reach there," she laughed; "and then I 
joined the searching party." 

"You careless young man!" said a 
laughing voice which Hedderley recognized 
as belonging to an athletic-looking young 
woman who had come aboard. " Please do 
be more careful next time you lose yourself, 
and choose an island more easily accessible 
to heroic rescuers!" 

"'S-t,'" cried Hedderley; and this time 
his two outstretched hands were grasped. 

"But you mustn't forget Jimmy!" de- 
clared "S-t" 

" Mr. Adderton, at your service," said a 
little man who stepped forward. "And, 
Mr. Hedderley, permit me formally to intro- 
duce my wife — whose ' call ' is * S-t ' ! " 

" And this," said the laughing " S-t " as a 
jolly-looking man, holding a book under his 
arm, came on board — " this is the Reverend 
James Thornton Ebberly." And as 
Amelia, blushing, fled from Jiggsy and took 
shelter beside "S-t," she continued: "I had 
Jimmy pick him up at Miami; for I thought 
maybe you would not want to postpone 
the wedding, and this is the 27th, I be- 
lieve." 

It was after the ceremony, and the wed- 
ding party was very merry in the salon. 
There had been the jolliest sort of luncheon; 
and there had followed an enthusiastic 
pounding of the piano and a joyous shout- 
ing of ragtime; and Mrs. Jimmy had re- 
marked that it was time to be getting aboard 
the yacht — when Amelia did a most sur- 
prising thing. She stepped behind Jiggsy's 
chair, and put her arms around his neck 
and her chin in his hair. 

"I — I — would you mind if we didn't join 
you until you start back from Havana?" 
she asked Mr. and Mrs. Jimmy. "You 
see," she continued as her gaze dropped 
before the startled stare of her friends and 
she began to twist Jiggsy's curls — "I — ^I 
think it would be rather nice to have a 
honeymoon on a stranded ship — ^all alone — 
just us — and Bo!" 



Help Jacob run those 
tubs of butler 



A FEW MINUTES WITH THE GROCER 

BY MARY STEWART CUTTING 



[> to see you, Mr. Saun- 

rs! Yes, indeed, your 

lir is always ready for 

u behind the stove when 

u feel you can walk so 

■ from the boarding- 

Douse. It don't quite 

seem like you got your strength as you'd 

ought to, in this air. What say P Boardin* 

bouse wears on you ? No, / ain't never set 

down to the table with thirteen women at a 

time; I guess five or six has been my limit. 

Just stand over here for a moment, if you 

please. Mr. Steers, now that young lady's 

gone you were waitin' on, if you can take 

time from settlin' your necktie, I'd like you 



to help Jacob run those tubs of butter to 
the back of the store. ttTiat ? Where they 
always go, by the lamp chimneys and the 
moth balls. Now, Mr. Saunders, you can 
set. 

Didn't expect to see you down here this 
cold day, your wife looks after you so 
thorough. Joined the Woman's Club, has 
she? You don't ioy/ Well, I guess it will 
be a mighty good thing for her. Yes, in- 
deed, she'll get just what she feels to want 
for her mind. Yes, gives her something to 
talk about. Brings real tnterestin' subjects 
into the home, too; Venus, and Paul 
Jones, and what they dig up out of those 
old educational countries — keeps you from 
47 



48 



A FEW MINUTES WITH THE GROCER 



getting narrow. Yes, that's so, a great 
many ladies find a difficulty in using their 
minds like they'd like to use 'em; lots of 'em 
would be right intellectual if they only saw 
their way to it. Housekeepin' balls 'em all 
up at times; it's the strain that does it. 
Well, yes, we do have an opportunity of 
seein' that; there's days when they have 
to be helped out 
quite some. 

What say, sir? 
The iady with red 
cheeks and brown 
hair? Oh, there! 
That's Mrs. Fair- 
lie, one of the salt 
of the earth she is, 
but— all right, Mr. 
Steers, I'm com- 
in'. If you'll ex- 
cuse me, Mr, 
Saunders 

Good-aftemoon, 
Mrs. Fairiie, we 
don't sec you very 
often these days. 
My wife asks me 
every little while, 
Seen Mrs. Fairiie 
lately? She ain't 
forgot your kind- 
ness to her when 
our little boy was 
sick. Well, she 
thought a sight of 
it, anyway! Mr, 
Fairiie keeps well, 
I hope. Yes, in- 
deed, this weather 
does take a lot of 
strength out of 
some people, keep- 
ing up their vital- 
ity the way they have to. Affects Mr. Fair-, 
lie likethat! Well, I suppose even a sneeze 
can show which way the wind blows. 
Well, yes, it does seem too bad he has to go 
down-town every day; if he could only stay 
home every time you felt to want him to I 
presume it migkl he beneficial, stili — Well, 
a man dMs feel he has to work! Worries 
you, though, doesn't it ? I shouldn't wonder 
if the cold did press onto your brains, as 
you say. My sister-in-law suffers from the 
cold more'n most any one I ever knew. 
She doesn't circulate properly. No, it's net 
her head. She's troubled with cold feet. 






Worries ycu, 
though, doesn't 



Can't do a thing but sit by the stove with a 

shawl around her, her extremities are so 

sensitive — no feelin' in 'em. That was her 

husband was in here with the baby just 

now. Was there anything you wanted, Mrs, 

Fairiie? Oh! There's quite a number 

forgets just that way, as soon as they get 

inside the door — seems to go right from 'em. 

You'U remember 

in a minute or two. 

Tryin' ever since 

you came in — you 

don't say! I'm 

sure I wish I could 

help you recollect 

it. Wanted it in 

a hurry, did you ? 

Something to eat. 

That's what we 

mostly keep, 

things to eat. Yes, 

indeed, with a 

dressmaker in the 

house time is ex- 

■ pensive. Jacob, 

.... ,.^. — don't you know 

i ' -' better than to 

1 sweep up the floor 

f^^ y 'r onto the lady ? If 

you'd just step 

;i, ^^ . --' one side, ma'am — 

'i}iJi ' not that way, this 

' ■«■ ' way. Thank you. 

. ; It hasn't come to 

- , you yet, Mrs. Fair- 

,.*. V lie? WeU, that's 

.■;.,A, too bad. Yes, ca- 

' "^ ■. ' terin' for a large 

'; I - family is a strain. 

Oh, no, ma'am, 

"' ■ you're not feeing 

me, don't iet that 

trouble you, Mr. 

Steers can wait on those two ladies in a 

moment, I guess. 

Let me see — ^what you wanted wasn't 
butter?— nor eggs? — nor tea? — nor sugar? 
Hm — nothing of that kind. Nothin' in 
packages — nothing canned. Ohl some- 
thing that begins with a W. Mr. 
Steers, can you think of anything that 
begins with a W? Not wabiuts. Nor 
washing powder. Something that begins 
with a W.— W— No, ma'am, that b^ins 
with an IT, but if— Oh, of course not. 
With— a W «■ an H. Well, yes ma'am, it 
is real confusin'— Mr. Steers, this little 



MARY STEWART CUTTING 



49 



boy's been waitin' a long time, be wants 
one of those ten cent packages of molasses 
candy — in that case by the hair brushes. 
Well, it u singular bow you can't remember 
it. Perhaps you had better let it go for the 
present. Oh, yes, we have q'uite a number 
of new thii^ that's novelties, that Mr. 
Fairhe might like. Hm — well, I presume 
the Stock Ex- 
change does wear 
OD Uie stomach 
more'n he real- 
izes. Worries you, 
doesn't it? Here's 
a health product 
that's highly rec- 
ommended for 
those that's weak 
in their digestions; 
prunes stuffed 
with nut meats 
and olive pits. 
They claim that in 
three days you T , 

won't know 
there's been any- 
thing the matter -, 
with you at all. 

It doesn't appeal f^'^ ^ ' 

to you? Hm- IS- 

Mr. Steers, will -''5-V- - 

you hand me , . 

down that purple / . 

and gilt package '-. / 

— ^Now here's a ' ■' 

fine thing. Royal \ i 

Acorns — ^just put ', 

on the market. 
They claim there's 
the elements of 
most everything 
you want in a 
Royal Acorn — 

3U[^lie3 the brain. Yes, ma'am, that's 
right — our oaks, strongest trees we have, 
grow from acorns. It says right here on the 
package that if you take for your dinner 
every night & litde clear soup, a slice of 
rare roast beef or mutton, a couple of 
well - cooked v^etables, some simple 
pudding with cream and a toasted Royal 
Acorn, you build up tissue right along. 
Sounds real appetizing, don't it? Makes 
you eat what you had oughter, anyway. 
Think you don't care for it? Oh, yes, 
ma'am, we have baked beans in cans. 
Yes, he might like 'em to-night, as it's so 



long since he's had them, still — Yes, ma'am, 
that's just the way it happens, he'll most 
probable have et 'em for lunch to-day in ■ 
the city. Last week I got my mind so set 
on oyster stew that I stopped into Salter's 
on my way home and filled up on two 
steamin' plates. When I got into the 
house my wife comes smilin' up to say, 
"I've got some- 
thing you'll like 
for supper this 
cold night, some- 
thing we ain't had 
for most a year." 
Yes, ma'am, of 
course, it was oys- 
ter stew. Oh, no, 
I didn't let on — 
no, ma'am — I 
didn't dare. She 
had her eyes on 
me. But I never 
realized there was 
so much liquid to 
a stew before. 
Well, ma'am, my 
brother-in-law 
came in after- 
flj^"l > wards, and he 

\ »"'l^i (< -. "■ says out loud: 
' S ' -' "Enjoyed that 

stew you had at 
Salter's before 
i \ supper?" Idon't 

\ -, know's my wife's 

; got over it yet. 

Well, ma'am, 
", maybe so, but it 

Fine (hild seems that if you 
you've got ''vere transfemn' 
there your thoughts to 

each other, as you 
say, it might be 
done more satisfactory. Hasn't come to 
you yet, Mrs. Fairlie, what you wanted? 
A-all right, if you stop here on your way 
back I'll have the beans ready for you. 
What say, Mr. Saunders? Well, it does, 
some — makes you feel like you do when 
you've been up all night in your clothes. 

Wait a moment there, ma'am, 

till I help you over the door-sill with that 
baby carriage. Fine child you 've got there. 
As young as that! You surprise me. My 
sister-in-law's little boy's the same age, but 
he's puny; she tries a new food on him two 
or three times a week, yet he don't gain. 



so 



A FEW MINUTES WITH THE GROCER 



What did you want, ma'am? All right, 
I'll have 'em done up so's you can take 'em 
■ with you. Where shall I send the flour? 
Oh, I know the neighborhood very well, 

Mrs. Bowers? Thank you. Yes, 

Mr. Bowers, no healthier place in the 
country for babies. Oh, if you're once here, 
you'll stay. Yes, ma'am, once people 
come here they 
don't leave it. I 
know a lady who 
came twenty years 
ago to stay over 
night, and she's a 
grandmother now; 
been here ever 
since! Well, of 
course, it takes 
time to do that, 
but you'll like it. 
Vou wouldn't 
want any mouse 
traps, or insect 
powder? Well, a 
house that's been 
empty so long is 
apt to have them 
in to some degree. 
Now don't let it 
weigh on you, a 
mite. Why, cer- 
tainly, if the agent 
saiditwasallnght, 
that settles it. Yes, 
I know him, I 
know Mr. Blow, 
well. Shall I put 
these packages in 
the baby carriage ^-f, " i 

for you, ma'am? ts hard 

Oh, there's a ''' keep 

chicken in front '^*''* 

of the baby — been 

to market, I see. Yes, there's plenty of 
room; I'll just tuck the mustard and 
pickles under his little legs, and lay the 
bacon at his back, where it won't fall 
out. Perhaps you'd better carry the cream 
cheese. Yes, ma'am. You said cream 
cheese. Well, that's what I understood 
you to say. Shoe polish, you meant? 
Yes, ma'am, here it is. I should have 
known what you meant, shouldn't I? I 
guess we was both of us to Dreamland. 
WTiat is it? No. I didn't see your pocket- 
book in your hand when you came in. Mr, 
Steers, will you look over there ? This lady 




! 



can't find her pocket-book. Well, now, 
that is too bad. Can't think what you did 
with it. Well, now, maybe if you'll let your 
mind alone it'll clear up of itself — a great 
many ladies tries that. — Oh, don't worry 
about what you've bought now — ^you can 
pay for 'em with the flour in the morning. 
Mr. Steers, will you help this lady over the 
door-sill with the 
baby carriage ? 

Back again, 
Mrs.Fairlie? Re- 
membered what 
you come for; well, 
that's encourag- 
in", isn't it? It 
wasn't something 
to eal after all! 
Well, we was bath 
wrong, wasn't we ? 
Oh, it was the bill 
V you wanted to 

,' speak about. 

Larger than you 
expected. Well, 
' now, I shouldn't 

wonder; it docs 
often happen that 
way, don't it? Cer- 
tainly, if there's 
any mistake we'll 
' . fix it all right. 

,''*>jj^ T-^ Why yes, when the 

^ '^ -X ..' family's smaller it 

^ shotM make a dif- 

ference! Yes, I 
don't wonder you 
were astonished, 
so particular as 
you are, to see a 
bill of this size. 
Hm. Mr. Steers 
says you did only 
order a yeast cake that morning, but after 
lunch the cook telephoned for a barrel of 
flour, ten pounds of butter, a pound of tea, a 
case of tomatoes and fourteen pounds of 
sugar — and the next day there was an order 
for lemons and fancy biscuits in the after- 
noon. Yes, ma'am, thai was the day it rained. 
You had all the ciiildren in from next door, 
did you, for a party? Well, I guess their 
mother must have been pretty thankful to 
you, she's been sick so long. Yes, it is 
hard to keep track of everj'thing — worries 
you, though, doesn't it? If you'll send in 
your pass-book, Mrs. Fairlie, we'll straighten 



MARY STEWART CUTTING 



51 



out things for you. Oh, I don't think 
it's heie. No, ma'am. Mr, Steers, will you 
look up Mrs. FairUe's pass-book and see if 
it's here? Not been here for three weeks, 
he says. The cook couldn't ftnd it? Well, 
ma'am, that's what she told him. She says 
the one you had before she came must have 
k>st it. Hm. Well, I don't wonder you 
feel that way about it. Hm. Wears you 
all out, don't it? Yes, ma'am, harder to get 
every day, that's what everyone says. its. 
WaUcer was speaking about it to me this 
morning, she's bad a Slav and she's had a 
Fin and she expects an Esquimaus on 
Monday for the winter. She says she 
doesn't care as long as she can get some- 
body that'll take an interest. Yes, that's 
what people mostly want, somebody that'll 
lake an interest. No, ma'am, I'm afraid I 
don't know of one. There was Mrs. Rich's 



girl, but there's been twenty-one ladles after 
her already and you have to get a letter of 
introduction. Yes, Mrs. Rich did come 
home last month, but she's gone away 
again, she has to have changes of scene, or 
else she goes right down; it's what they call 
nervous prosperity, her mind gives way 
under her, A-a-11 right, Mrs. FairUe, we'll 
straighten out that little bill for you. You 
don't think you'll take the beans after all. 
A-a-11 right, Mrs. Fairlie. Takes up all the 
time you have; I should think so. House- 
keepin' does strain you, there's no mistake 
about it. Thank you, I'll give my wife 
your message. Why yes, the little fellow's 
grown con^derable. She'll be glad to 
think I've seen youi remembering all 
you did for him. Well, she thought a 
sight of it anywayl Good-afternoon, Mrs. 
Fairlie. 



X- 



TAi Httle /fUow't 
gr&ivn C0nsid<rahle 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 

BY DAVID GRAYSON 



A BOY AND A PREACHER 




3 HIS morning I went to 
T church with Harriet. I 
usually have some excuse 
for not going, but this 
morning I had them out 
e by one and they were 
altogether so shabby that 
I decided not -o use them. So I put on my 
sti£E shirt and Harriet came out in her best 
black cape with the silk fringes. She 
looked so immaculate, so ruddy, so cheer- 
fully sober (for Sunday) that I was recon- 
ciled lo the idea of driving her up to the 
church. And I am glad I went, for the ex- 
perience I had. 

It was an ideal summer Sunday: sun- 
shiny, clear and still. I believe if I had 
been some Rip Van Winkle waking after 
twenty years' sleep I should have known it 
for Sunday. Away off over the hill some- 
where we could hear a lazy farm boy singing 
at the top of his voice: the higher cadences 
of his song reached us pleasantly through 



the still air. The hens sitting near the lane 
fence, fluffing the dust over their backs, 
were holding a small and talkative service 
of their own. As we turned into the main 
road we saw the Patterson children, on 
their way to church, all the little girls in 
Sunday ribbons, and all the little boys very 
uncomfortable in knit stockings. 

"It seems a pity to go to church on a 
day like this," I said to Harriet. 

"A pity!" she exclaimed. "Could any- 
thing be more appropriate?" 

Harriet Is good because she can't help it. 
Poor woman! — but I haven't any pity for 
her. 

It sometimes seems to me the more 
worshipful I feel the less I want to go to 
church. I^on't know why it is, but these 
forms, simple though they are, trouble me. 
The moment an emotion, especially a relig- 
ious emotion, becomes an institution, it 
somehow loses life. True emotion is rare 
and costly and that which is awakened 



A BOY AND A PREACHER 



53 



from without never rises to the height of 
that which springs spontaneously from 
within. 

Back of the chiuxh stands a long low 
shed where we tied our horse. A number 
of other buggies were already there, several 
women were standing in groups, preening 
their feathers, a neighbor of ours who has a 
tremendous bass voice was talking to a 
friend: 

" Yas, oats b showing up well, but wheat 
is backwards." 

His voice, which he was evidently trying 
to subdue for Sunday, boomed through the 
still air. So we walked among the trees to 
the door of the church. A smiling elder, in 
an imaccustomed long coat, bowed and 
greeted us. As we went in there was an 
odor of cushions and our footsteps on the 
wooden floor echoed in the warm emptiness 
of the church. The Scotch preacher was 
finding his place in the big Bible; he stood 
solid and shaggy behind the yellow oak 
pulpit, a peculiar professional look on his 
face. In the pulpit the Scotch preacher is 
too much minister, too little man. He is 
best down among us with his hand in ours. 
He is a sort of human solvent. Is there a 
twjsted and hardened heart in the commu- 
nity he beams upon it from his cheerful eye, 
he speaks out of his great charity, he gives 
the friendly pressure of his large hand, and 
that hardened heart dissolves and its 
frozen hopelessness loses itself in tears. 
So he goes through life, seeming always to 
understand. He is not surprised by wicked- 
ness nor discouraged by weakness: he is 
so sure of a greater Strength! 

But I must come to my experience, which 
I am almost tempted to call a resurrection — 
the resurrection of a boy, long since gone 
away, and of a tall lank preacher who, in 
his humility, looked upon himself as a 
failure. I hardly know how it all came 
back to me; possibly it was the scent-laden 
breeze that came in from the woods through 
the half-open church window, perhaps it 
was a line in one of the old songs, perhaps 
it was the droning voice of the Scotch 
preacher — somehow, and suddenly, I was a 
boy again. 

— ^To this day I think of death somehow 
as a valley: a dark shadowy valley: the 
Valley of the Shadow of Death. So per- 
sistent are the impressions of boyhood! 
As I sat in the church I could see, as dis- 
tinctly as though I were there, the church 



of my boyhood and the tall dyspeptic 
preacher looming above the pulpit, the 
peculiar way the light came through the 
coarse color of the windows, the barren- 
ness and stiffness of the great empty 
room, the raw girders overhead, the prim 
choir. There was something in that 
preacher, gaunt, worn, sodden though he 
appeared: a spark somewhere, a little flame, 
mostly smothered by the gray dreariness of 
his surroundings, and yet blazing up at 
times to some warmth. 

As I remember it, our church was a 
church of failures. They sent us the old 
gray preachers worn out in other fields. 
Such a succession of them I remember, 
each with some peculiarity, some pathos. 
They were of the old sort, indoctrinated 
Presbyterians, and they harrowed well our 
barren field with the tooth of their hard 
creed. Some thundered the Law, some 
pleaded Love; but of all of them I remem- 
ber best the one who thought himself the 
greatest failure. I think he had tried a 
hundred churches — a. hard life, poorly paid, 
unappreciated — ^in a new country. He had 
once had a family, but one by one they had 
died. No two were buried in the same 
cemetery; and finally, before he came to 
our village, his wife, too, had gone. And 
he was old, and out of health, and discour- 
aged: seeking some final warmth from his 
own cold doctrine. How I see him, a trifle 
bent, in his long worn coat, walking in 
the country roads: not knowing of a boy 
who loved him ! 

He told my father once: I recall his exact 
words: 

"My days have been long, and I have 
failed. It was not given me to reach men's 
hearts." 

Oh gray preacher, may I now make 
amends? Will you forgive me? I was 
a boy and did not know; a boy whose 
emotions were hidden under mountains of 
reserve: who could have stood up to be shot 
more easily than he could have said: "I 
love you ! " 

Of that preacher's sermons I remember 
not one word, though I must have heard 
scores of them^K)nly that they were inter- 
minably long and dull and that my legs 
grew weary of sitting and that I was often 
hungry. It was no doubt the dreadful old 
doctrine that he preached, thundering the 
horrors of disobedience, urging an impos- 
sible love through fear and a vain belief 



54 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



without reason. All that touched me not 
at all, save with a sort of wonder at the 
working of his great Adam's apple and the 
strange rollings of his cavernous eyes. 
This he looked upon as the work of (xod; 
thus for years he had sought, with self- 
confessed failure, to touch the souls of his 
people. How we travel in darkness and 
the work we do in all seriousness counts 
for naught, and the thing we toss off in 
play-time, unconsciously, God uses! 

One tow-headed boy sitting there in a 
front row dreaming dreams, if the sermons 
touched him not, was yet thrilled to the 
depths of his being by that tall preacher. 
Somewhere, I said, he had a spark within 
him. I think he never knew it: or if he 
knew it, he regarded it as a wayward im- 
pulse that might lead him from his God. 
It was a spark of poetry: strange flower in 
such a husk. In times of emotion it 
bloomed, but in daily life it emitted no 
fragrance. I have wondered what might 
have been if some one — some understanding 
woman — had recognized his gift, or if he 
himself as a bov had once dared to cut free! 
We do not know: we do not know the 
tragedy of oiu" nearest friend! 

By some instinct the preacher chose his 
readings mostly from the Old Testament — 
those splendid, marching passages, full of 
oriental imagery. As he read there would 
creep into his voice a certain resonance that 
lifted him and his calling suddenly above 
his gray surroundings. 

How vividly I recall his reading of the 
twenty-third Psalm — ^a particular reading. 
I suppose I had heard the passage many 
times before, but upon this certain morn- 
ing 

Shall I ever forget ? The windows were 
open, for it was May, and a boy could look 
out on the hillside and see with longing 
eyes the inviting grass and trees. A soft 
wind blew in across the church; it was full 
of the very essence of spring. I smell it yet. 
On the pulpit stood a bunch of crocuses 
crowded into a vase: some Mary's offer- 
ing. An old man named Johnson who sat 
near us was already beginning to breathe 
heavily, preparatory to sinking into his 
regular Sunday snore. Then those words 
from the preacher, bringing me suddenly — 
how shall I express it ? — out of some form- 
less void, to intense consciousness — a mira- 
cle of creation : 

"Yea, though I walk through the valley 



of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: 
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff 
they comfort me." 

Well, I saw the way to the place of death 
that morning; far more vividly I saw it than 
any natural scene I know: and myself 
walking therein. I shall know it again 
when I come to pass that way: the tall, (krk, 
rocky cliffs, the shadowy path within, the 
overhanging dark branches, even the 
whitened dead bones by the way — and as 
one of the vivid phantasms of boyhood — 
cloaked figures I saw, lurking mysteriously 
in deep recesses, fearsome for their very 
silence. And yet I with magic rod and staff 
walking within — boldly, fearing no evil, full 
of faith, hope, courage, love, invoking 
images of terror but for the joy of braving 
them. Ah, tow-headed boy, shall I tread 
as lightly that dread pathway when I come 
to it ? Shall I, like you, fear no evil! 

So that great morning went away. I 
heard nothing of singing or sermon and 
came not to myself until my mother, touch- 
ing my arm, asked me if I had been asleep! 
And I smiled and thought how little grown 
people knew — ^and I looked up at the sad 
sick face of the old preacher with a new 
interest and friendliness. I felt, somehow, 
that he too was a familiar of my secret 
valley. I should have liked to ask him: 
but I did not dare. So I followed my 
mother when she went to speak to him, and 
when he did not see, I touched his coat. 

After that how I watched when he came 
to the reading. And one great Sunday, he 
chose a chapter from Ecclesiastes, the one 
that begins sonorously: 

" Remember now thy creator in the days 
of thy youth." 

Surely that gaunt preacher had the true 
fire in his gray soul. How his voice dwelt 
and quivered and softened upon the words! 

" While the sun, or the light, or the moon, 
or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds 
return after the rain " 

Thus he brought in the universe to that 
small church and filled the heart of a boy. 

"In the da)rs when the keepers of the 
house shall tremble, and the strong men 
shall bow themselves, and the grinders 
cease because they are few, and those 
that look out of the windows be dark- 
ened. 

"And the doors shall be shut in the 
streets, when the sound of the grinding is 
low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the 



Far more vividly I saw it than any natural scent 1 know : and myself walking therein 



56 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



bird and all the daughters of music shall be 
brought tow." 

Do not think that I understood the mean- 
ing of those passages : I am not vain enough 
to think I know even now, — but the sound 
of them, the roll of them, the beautiful 
words, and above all, the pictures! 

Those Daughters of Music, how I lived 
for days imagining themi They were of 
the trees and the hills, and they were very 
beautiful but elusive; one saw them as he 
heard singing afar oS, sweet strains, fading 
often into silences. Daughters of Music! 
Daughters of Music! And why should 
they be brought low ? 

Doors shut in the streets — how I saw 
them — a long, long street, silent, full of sun- 
shine, and the doors shut, and no sound 
anywhere but the low sound of the grinding: 
and the mill with the wheels drowsily turn- 
ing and no one there at all save one boy 
with fluttering heart, tiptoeing in the sunlit 
doorway. 

And the voice of the bird. Not the 
song but the voke. Yes, a bird had a voice. 
I had known it always, and yet somehow I 
had not dared to say it. I felt that they 
would look at me with that questioning, 
incredulous look which I dreaded beyond 
belief. They might laugh! But here it 
was in the Book — the voice of a bird. How 
my appreciation of that Book increased, 
and what a new confidence it gave me in 
my own images! I went about for days, 
listening, listening, listening— and inter- 
preting. 

So the words of the preacher and the fire 
in them : 

"And when they shall be afraid of that 
which is high and fears shall be in the 



I knew the fear of that which is high: I 
had dreamed of it commonly. And I knew 
also the Fear that stood in the way: him I 
had seen in a myriad of forms, looming 
black by darkness in every lane I trod; and 
yet with what defiance I met and slew 
him! 

And then, more thrilling than all else, 
the words of the preacher: 

"Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or 
the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher 
be broken at the fountain, or the wheel 
broken at the cistern." 

Such pictures: that silver cord, that 
golden bowl ! And why and wherefore ? 

A thousand ways I turned them in my 
mind — and always with the sound of tie 
preacher's voice in my ears — the resonance 
of the words conveying an indescribable fire 
of inspiration. Vaguely and yet with cer- 
tainty I knew the preacher spoke out of 
some unfathomable emotion which I did 
not understand — which I did not care to 
understand. Since then I have thought 
what those words must have meant to 

Ah, that tall lank preacher, who thought 
himself a failure : how long I shall remember 
him and the words he read and the mourn- 
ful yet resonant cadences of his voice — and 
the barren church, and the stony religion! 
Heaven he gave me, unknowing, while he 
preached an ineffectual hell. 

As we rode home Harriet looked into my 
face. 

" You have enjoyed the service," she said 
softly. 

"Yes," I said. 

" It was a good sermon," she said. 

" Was it ? " I replied. 



CHBSTBR A. ARTHUR 

TV ehitf contribution of Praident Arthur to the 
tariff qu^tion was the emphasis he put on a reorganiza- 
tion of the administration of customs and on a simpHfi- 
eaiion of duties. He had learned the need of both during 
seven years' service as Collector of the Port of New York 



THE TARIFF'IN OUR TIMES 

BY I'fJA M. TARBELL 



THE GREAT FIGHT OF '81 



N the early months of 1883 
there took place in the 
Congress of the United 
States one of the most ex- 
citing and significant par- 
liamentary struggles in our 
times. It was a tarifT 
straggle led in the Senate by John Shennan, 
fresh from a victorious term as Secretary of 
the Treasury, and fired with a hope of being 
the next President of the United States; and 
in the House by " Pig Iron " Kelley, worn by 
twenty-five years of as hard and earnest 
fitting for a theory as any man has done in 
our history. Around these men as support- 



ers or opfjonents were grouped many old- 
time tariS contestants: Morrill, Allison, 
Bayard, Cox, Kasson, Randall. To their 
help or discomfiture in the course of the con- 
test came a group of important new men: 
men whose names are now big with political 
meaning: Nelson W. Aldrich, John G, Car- 
lisle, William McKinley, Thomas B. Reed. 
Most significant of all the many features of 
the struggle was that it was not waged by the 
two houses of Congress alone. It was a 
struggle of three houses; two of them elected 
by the people to represent and harmonize 
the interests of the whole country; a third 
self-elected to represent themselves. 
57 



58 THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 

Arthur as a Tariff Reformer 



Two things precipitated the struggle: first 
the report of a Tariff Commission, a pro- 
tectionist body, which after six months' in- 
vestigation had decided that a general re- 
duction of duties of from twenty to twenty- 
five per cent, was needed; second, what 



coUon, iron, and stetl, and a substantial re- 
duction of the duties upon those articles and 
upon sugar, molasses, silk, wool, and woolen 

The words had unusual weight, for Arthur 
was the only President we have had who 
could speak from a practical experience in 
administering the customs. For seven years 



JOHN SHERMAN OF OHIO 



Preadent Arthur said to Congress on the 
tariS in the message he sent in about the 
time the report was presentedr 

" The present Uirij} system is in many-ways 
unjust," Arthur declared. "/( makes un- 
equal distributions both of its burdens and 
benefits. . . . I recommend an enlarge- 
ment of the free list so as to include "within 
it the numerous articles which yield incon- 
siderable revenue, a simplification of the com- 
plex and inconsistent schedule of duties upon 
certain manufacturers, particularly those of 



(1871 to 1878) he had been Collector of the 
Port of New York. It was at a time when 
the Custom House was undergoing a series 
of rude shocks, the combined results of the 
ambiguities of the tariff laws, the greed of 
importers, the dishonesty of some of its offi- 
cials and the "pernicious activity" in poli- 
tics of others. Arthur had been obliged to 
fight for the honor of his own administra- 
tion, and he had finally been suspended by 
President Hayes — a tariff story which does 
not belong here but in a future article where 



IDA M. TARBELL 



59 



the writer hopes to take up the "Adminis- 
tration of the Customs." 

The point here is that President Arthur 
knew much from close contact of the am- 
biguities, the frauds, the injustice of the 
duties then in force, a& that any expression 
of his had the merit of being "practical." 
It had additional force, because nobody 



The Senate Tries an Experiment 

Thus spurred to action. Congress lost no 
time in getting to work. The report of the 
Tariff Commission was sent at once to the 
Committee of Ways and Means in the House 
and to the Finance Committee in the Sen- 
ate, and both bodies began to frame bills. 



THOMAS B. REBD OF MAINE IN 1883 



could doubt Arthur's devotion to protec- 
tion. He had been from boyhood a " Henry 
Clay Whig." Everybody recognized that 
nothing but a profound conviction that the 
country demanded lower duties would have 
driven him to ask for them. The country 
indeed had not long before this given 
the Republicans a stem rebuke on its tariff 
policy by electing a good-sized Democratic 
majority to the House in the next Con- 
gress — the forty-eighth, meeting in Decem- 
ber, 1883. 



Under ordinary circumstances, the Senate 
would have been obliged to wait for a bill 
from the House before expressing itself — 
the House alone having the right to originate 
revenue bills— but the circumstances were 
not "ordinary." The Senate at this mo- 
ment had before it a bill for reducing the 
internal revenue. This bill had come from 
the House in the preceding session and had 
only been kept from becoming a law by the 
filibustering of certain Democratic Senators. 
It was somebody's bright idea now to tack 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



WILLIAM D. KBLLBY IN tSSj 

to this internal revenue bill, as an amend- 
ment, a tariff bill of the Senate's own mak- 
ing. It was, of course, an adventure of un- 
certain result. The House was notoriously 
jealous of its constitutional rights. Would 
it recognize a measure proposed by the 
Senate? The Senate thought it worth the 
trial at least, and fell to work. 

The two Committees which at opposite 
ends of the Capitol now began to sit daily 
over the tariff were remarkable bodies. At 
the head of the Senate committee was Mr. 
Morrill, who twenty-three years before had 
introduced into theHouse of Representatives 
the bill with which this narrative opened. 
Since 1867 he had l>een a member of the 
Senate giving the bulk of his time to revenue 
questions. He was seventy-two years old 
now and in spite of over twenty years' labor 
on tariff schedules was still dignified and 
courteous! 

Sherman's Jealousy of Morrill's 
Position 

John Sherman was next to Morrill on the 
Committee — a place he held with bad 
grace, Sherman had lost his rank on the 
Committee of Finance, of which he had 



formerly been chairman, by his appoint- 
ment to Mr. Hayes's Cabinet in 1876, it 
being an invariable rule that a member 
returning to the Senate after an interreg- 
num should go to the foot of his party col- 
leagues on committee. When Sherman 
returned in 1881 he thought he should be 
an exception to the rule. He had up to this 
time outranked Mr. Morrill in both House 
and Senate. His services as Secretary of 
the Treasury had given him special skill in 
dealing with revenue questions. But Mr. 
Morrill declined to yield. It looked as if 
Mr. Sherman would sit at the foot of the 
table when Mr. Allison, who was a member 
of the Committee, appreciating the strain, 
quietly suggested to his Republican col- 
leagues that Mr. Sherman be moved up 
nexl to Morrill. This was done, but from 



JAMBS B. BBCK 

Beck was first sent to Congress from Ken- 
tucky in 1867. From the start the tariff was, 
with the currency, his chief interest. He 
took part in all the efforts of the House up 
to i^s to remove the war duties, and when 
elected to the Senate in i8yy resumed the 
task there. He died in Washington in May, 
iSgO, Just before the Senate took up the 
McKinley bill 



IDA M. TARBELL 



the be^nning of the work on the bill the 
effect of his defeat was most noticeable on 
Sherman's temper and attitude. He was 
arrogant in committee and out. He says in 
his "Recollections" that he was "piqued" 
by Morrill's failure to yield to him. The 
word is mild. 

It began to be noticed soon after the Com- 
mittee went to work that Mr. Sherman was 
getting much help from the member at the 
foot — a new Senator, the Senator from 
Rhode Island— Nelson W. Aidrich. People 
who watched the hearings said he seemed 
to have at his tongue's end all the facts 
which bore on the high tariff side. It was 
said on the inside, too, that he was the man 
who had written the cotton schedule for the 



JOSEPH WARREN KBIPER 

General Ketfer was first sent to Congress 
from Ohio in 1877. He was a straight 
Republican of honorable military record and 
was rewarded in 1881 with the speakership. 
His discharge 0/ his duties was most unsat- 
isfactory to the parly and he narrowly es- 
caped the loss of the complimentary re- 
nomination in December, 1883. General 
Keifer was dropped from Congress in 1885 
and returned twenty years later, in 1903, 
at the age of sixty-nine years 



DUDLEY C. HASKELL 

Haskell's work on the tariff before i883 
was confined to orthodox expressions made in 
campaigning in Kansas. The r6le he played 
in securing the passage of the bill in 1883 
marked him as Kelley's natural successor. 
But the fight was too much for him. He 
never recovered from the over-exertion of 
the winter, and died soon after the opening 
of the next Congress, December 16, 188 J 

report of the Tariff Commission. He had 
certainly done well for his constituents. He 
had secured an increase on that class of 
cotton goods which was chiefly imported, 
and a decrease on those of which little or 
nothing was imported. 

The only Democrat on the Committee 
whom we have time to notice here was 
James B. Beck of Lexington, Kentucky. 
Beck was a Scotchman by birth and a 
Democrat of eighteen years' Congressional 
experience. Powerful in hoAy and mind, 
brave, honest and combative, he ied his 
party in the Senate with great effectiveness. 
It was on the tariff that Beck was at his 
best. Let him get after a rate he regarded 
as iniquitous and he was like an avalanche. 
"His mighty arms swing like itammers," 
wrote an English correspondent who heard 
him once on that theme. "His Scotch 



62 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



tongue which some call harsh and rasping, 
thunders out the shortest and simplest 
Anglo-Saxon words that can be foimd to 
compose his terse sentences. Now and 
then the clinched fist comes down on his 
desk with telling force. The whole speech 
is made up of facts and statistics. If a 
flower of rhetoric should spring up in his 
path he would crush it with his ponderous 
foot. If a trope should get into his throat 
he would swallow it. Adjectives, meta- 
phors and similes And no place in his ora- 
tory. Like Joseph Hume, he is a man of 
figures, and like him he speaks like a prob- 
lem in mathematics." 

''Pig Iron ''Kelley and His Understudy 

The House Committee was strong on 
both sides. The chairman was " Pig Iron " 
Kelley, who, in spite of twenty-five years' 
exf)erience with protection, still found it an 
"exquisite harmony." He had as support- 
ers the experienced Mr. Kasson of Iowa 
and the devoted young Mr. McKinley of 
Ohio, but it was on neither of them he was 
depending chiefly. There had been put on 
the Committee in the previous session a man 
from Kansas, Dudley C. Haskell, who was 
now to take about the same relation to Kelley 
as Kelley had taken to Thaddeus Stevens 
in the tariff debate of 1866 and 1867. The 
Democrats of the Committee were four of 
the strongest that Congress has seen since 
the war—Carlisle of Kentucky, Randall of 
Pennsylvania, Morrison of Illinois and 
Tucker of Virginia. 

The *' Third House " 

Here, then, were two able Committees 
giving their entire time to tariff bills. They 
were under instructions from a Republican 
country and a Republican president to lower 
the duties, and they had as a guide a report 
of a Republican commission of their own 
creation advising its reduction. They had 
Republican majorities to back them. Their 
duty seemed plain. It seemed clear, too, 
that they should be free from outside pres- 
sure. All of those individuals whose inter- 
ests were affected had had ample opportuni- 
ties to lay their cases before a Commission 
constituted for the purpose. To keep away 
from Washington would seem to be their 
obvious business. But they saw it differ- 
ently. Indeed, the two Committees had 



scarcely gone to work before a '' third house" 
was in session — a house of lobbyists come 
to Washington for the express purpose of 
preventing the recommendations of the 
Tariff Commission frombecoming law. The 
wool-growers, disgusted that Mr. Garland, 
representing them on the Commission, had 
consented to neajly 20 per cent, reduction, 
held public meetings in Ohio denouncing 
him, and sent down what scoffers called the 
"wool trinity" — Columbus Delano, one- 
time Secretary of the Interior under Grant, 
William Lawrence, afterward a Comptroller 
of the Treasury, and David Harpster — ^all 
wool-growers and all from Ohio. 

Mr. John L. Hayes, chairman of the 
Tariff Commission, whose duties naturally 
would be supposed to be over, took rooms in 
Washington and as agent of the woolen 
manufacturers began a campaign to get 
more for them than as commissioner he had 
consented to. The makers of chemicals 
and drugs — and quinine particularly — insti- 
tuted a siege. Agents of iron and steel, 
sugar, mineral water, wood pulp, of every- 
thing which had suffered a reduction, ap- 
peared in the corridors of the Capitol at 
Washington. "No such lobby has been 
seen here for years," the corres|X)ndents 
began to write to their newspapers. These 
agents, attorneys, manufacturers, did not 
hesitate to say loudly that no bill should 
pass unsatisfactory to them. They were 
far from standing together, however, in 
their demands. Indeed, they were in in- 
cessant conflict, for they all wanted what they 
purchased — that is, their raw material — 
free; while what they sold— 'their product — 
they wanted protected! In every industry 
came this clash, though it was always more 
acute between the wool and woolen men 
than elsewhere. 

The Fight against Reduction 

The first bill to come out of com- 
mittee was that of the Senate. It was at 
once seen that the duties proposed were in 
many cases lower than those proposed by 
the Tariff Commission. For instance: the 
Tariff Commission had laid $6.72 duty on 
pig-iron, a reduction of only 4 per cent. 
The Senate Committee, after going over the 
whole ground, had cut the rate to $6.00. 
Mr. Sherman had fought the decrease in the 
committee; he continued to fight it on the 
floor. He tried for $6.72 and was voted 



PHILETUS SAWYBR 

The richest and most infiuential of the Western " lumber 
harons" was Mr. S>aifyer of Wiseomin. He was interested 
also in railroad development in the northwest and naturally 
went into polities. From iS6^ to iSjS ^' '""^^ * member of 
the House of Representatives and in iSSi was sent to the 
Senate. He never spoke on a measure, but was aetive in eom- 
mittee, and his common sense and shre^vd judgment were greatly 
valued iy his party colleagues 



down overwhelmingiy. He tried for $6.50 
and again was beaten. He argued, threat- 
ened, cajoled. He read telegrams from the 
iron men of his state, brought in letters and 
testimony, worked day and night, but it 
tar^ him over a month to'succeed, and then 
it was only, as Beck said, after "he had 
threatened the Senate with the defeat of the 
whole bill if they did not give him at least 
$6.50 on pig iron, and after he had drawn 
the party whip over the heads of his follower); 



with an audacity I have never seen equaled 
in any public assembly, by threats and every 

olher means that a great bold parliamentary 
leader can assert over the men who look up 
to him," Beck was none too hard on Sher- 
man. He beat his party into submission, 
but it should not be forgotten that the lash 
was on his own shoulder — the lash of Henry 
B. Payne of Cleveland, of the ironmasters 
of the Mahoning Valley, of all the highly 
1 interests of his state. He 
«3 




NELSON W. ALDRICH IN 1883 

Aldrich was forty years old in 1881 when he first 
entered the Senate from Rhode Island. He had served 
one term in the House. His training and his interests 
were all commercial and from the beginning of his 
Congressional career he aimed at making the tariff 
his specially 



knew only too well what failure to accede 
to their demand meant for the party in 
Ohio, for they did not hesitate to tell him 
privately and publicly. 

Sherman fought for an increased rate on 
wool as he did for one on pig-iron. He was 
as hard pressed in one case as the other. 
The fight caused more than one hard and 
open tilt between him and his Republican 
colleagues, particularly with Allison, who 
disapproved a higher tarifi on wool. Sher- 
64 



man was determined, however, and again 
and again returned to the attack with 
threats of defeating the entire bill if he 
could not have his way. 

An liirqiiiious Duty 

But Mr. Sherman was not theonly Senator 
who openly held up the party for duties 
higher than the majority of his colleagues 
approved of. The Senators of Maine, 



IDA M. TARBELL 



65 



Michigan and Wisconsin fought for duty on 
lumber in the same way. The TarifiF Com- 
mission had not changed the duties on lum- 
ber. It left them as they were without a 
word of explanation. Better so; for a more 
indefensible tax than that on lumber could 
not be conceived. It had already helped 
work a destruction which a hundred years 
could not repair and its continuance seemed 
little less than crime. The duty on sawed 
boards was $1.00 and $2.00 per one thou- 
sand feet, according to variety. Under this 
protection, combined with the enormous de- 
mand which the growth of the country had 
created, the cutting of timber had been 
carried on recklessly and lawlessly, partic- 
ularly in Wisconsin and Michigan. Ten 
years before, in 1873, the danger of exhaust- 
ing the forests beyond repair had been 
shown and Congress had passed the Timber 
Culture Act to encourage planting — ^but 
while it gave a bonus for planting on one 
hand, it continued the bonus for cutting on 
the other. Pine in particular was being 
stripped off. A Federal Commission had 
just issued a report showing that there was 
only about 81,000,000 feet of white pine 
standing in the three principal states — 
enough for eight years only. The duty 
combined with the knowledge that the sup- 
ply was limited, kept prices so high that in 
the "treeless states" Uke Nebraska and 
Kansas, new settlers were in great distress. 
From all over the West, indeed, came the 
cry for relief. People were living in dug- 
outs, the Western Senators and Represent- 
atives told Congress, because of this tax. 
Their cattle had no shelter, their fodder 
was covered only with a thatch. What 
made the tax more vicious was the well- 
known fact that the forests were largely in 
the hands of the "lumber barons," men 
who had in one way or another secured 
vast tracts of land at from $1.25 to $2.50 
an acre and who now were gathering in 
$8.00 or more an acre by unrestricted cut- 
ting of their timber. The Senate of the 
United States contained one of the greatest 
of these barons at this moment — Philetus 
Sawyer, Esq., of Wisconsin. 

Naturally it was not the interests of Mr. 
Sawyer which the timber Senators pleaded I 
It was the cause of the lumber-men and of 
the mill-men. The tariff must be kept up 
in order to give them their higher wage. 
They must not be put into competition with 
the pauper wages of Canada! As a large 



percentage of the laborers who received this 
higher wage were Canadians who came over 
for the season only, the argument had little 
effect. It was not argument indeed that 
saved the lumber duty. It was saved be- 
cause the Southern Representatives who 
threatened to defeat it were told they could 
not have a duty on sugar imless they con- 
sented to one on lumber, and they made the 
trade. 

Such barter went on openly in many 
other items. One of the most determined 
efforts to force a duty was made by Senator 
Mahone of Virginia, who wanted $2.00 a 
ton on iron ore. The Tariff Conmiission 
had allowed 50 cents — the Senate Com- 
mittee had allowed 50 cents, but Mahone 
made a fierce fight for more. He tried for 
$2.00, for $1.00, for 85 cents, for 75 cents, 
for 60 cents. He brought up the point at 
every opportunity, but again and again was 
voted down overwhelmingly. "FU defeat 
the bill, if this duty is not raised," he is re- 
ported as saying, and Sherman backed him 
in his threat. 

Senator Beck*s Opposition 

His attitude was the attitude of the rep- 
resentatives of various other interests big 
and little: that is, it developed almost as 
soon as the debate began that leading Re- 
pubhcan Senators were determined to 
keep up duties in which certain of their 
constituents were interested and that to do 
this they were ready to trade and dicker 
with fellow Senators. That this determi- 
nation of Sherman, Mahone and others was 
clearly demonstrated was due largely to the 
quick wit and the daring of Mr. Beck. He 
filibustered so adroitly from the beginning 
of the contest over the schedules that again 
and again he forced Republicans com- 
mitted to tariff reform to go on record 
against a proposed reduction or for a pro- 
posed increase. In Sherman's struggle for 
the increased duty on pig-iron Senators like 
Morrill, Allison, Dawes, Frye, Hoar, Hale, 
Hawley, all voted against an increase, at 
first, but finally were whipped into line, 
Allison being the last to yield. Mr. Beck 
gloated over them, loudly pointing out how 
different ones had solemnly declared on the 
floor they would not support the increase, 
yet had yielded at last. Nothing could stop 
him. An effort was made to limit the debate 
to ten days. " Never I " shouted Beck, " not 



^ 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



to ten weeks." Not even the effort of some 
of his party to put an end to his obstruction 
availed. He gloried in his insubordination. 
It was the 20th of February before the 
Senate Bill was passed. Two weeks before 
this the bill had taken on an importance 
quite unexpected. This change was due to 
the growing certainty that the House was 
not going to be able to finish its bill and 
that if a tariff bill was passed this session it 
would be the measure on which the Senate 
was working. No sooner did this rumor go 
out than the whole body of lobbyists, whose 
work up to this time had been concentrated 
on the House, rushed pell-mell to the corri- 
dors of the Senate to see what they could do 
to make the measure " satisfactory " before 
it was reported. Some of the things they 
helped to do have already been alluded to. 

Carlisle Refuses to Allow Kelley's 
Bill to Pass 

The House Bill was having a hard time. 
The Committee instead of following the 
Tariff Commission report and reducing 
duties 20 per cent, had reduced them less 
than ID per cent. Now there was no doubt 
but that a majority of the Republicans in 
the House were in favor of real reform. 
Most of them declared they dared not go 
home without a reduction of taxes. But 
there was a powerful Republican minority 
who believed with Senator Sherman that it 
was more essential to satisfy the combined 
industrial organizations besieging the Capi- 
tol than it was to satisfy public opinion. 
This minority was determined no bill which 
gave anything like a 20 per cent, reduction 
should pass. It is not unfair to say that it 
wanted a bill but a bill which gave the ap- 
pearance of reduction, not actual reduction. 

The Democrats, too, were divided. John 
G. Carlisle, who led the majority, was what 
may be called an approximate free trader; 
that is, he believed in scaling down duties as 
rapidly as industries enjoying them could 
support it, imtil a "tariff-for-revenue-only" 
basis was reached. He declared now that 
if the Republicans had presented a bill 
which sincerely attempted to embody the 
reduction of 20 per cent, suggested by their 
commission and demanded by public opin- 
ion, he would favor its passage, but Kelley's 
bill he would not support. Randall, who led 
the Democratic minority, was a high pro- 
tectionist, but Randall was willing really to 



support any bill which promised to get the 
tariff out of the way. He expected to be a 
candidate for speaker at the opening of the 
next Congress and did not want to divide his 
party by supporting protection in opposition 
to the Democratic majority. 

From the very beginning of the debate 
on the bill it became evident that each fac- 
tion was ready to fight strenuously to carry 
out its program. The Carlisle Democrats 
began by bringing almost every item to 
issue as it was read. They made amend- 
ments, debated them, forced them to vote 
by voice, by rising divisions, and by tellers, 
and they openly declared that they would 
keep this up until the Fourth of March 
rather than allow Mr. Kelley's bill to come 
to vote. Their tactics indeed were very like 
those Mr. Beck was using in the Senate and 
their effect was identical, that is, they con- 
stantly forced the Republicans to put 
themselves on record against lowering 
duties. Not infrequently they were aided 
in their work of obstruction by revenue re- 
form Republicans, particularly from the 
West, where the tariff on lumber and an 
increased duty on barbed wire were causing 
indignation. 

Haskell of Kansas 

So strong a program of opposition was 
develop>ed that in ten days after the discus- 
sion opened it became evident that if any 
bill was passed it would be because the 
high protection faction yielded to the de- 
mands of the majority of the party for a 
reduction or that they carried their pro- 
gram by superior parliamentary tactics. 
That they were in strong position for the 
latter everybody saw. As a fact they held 
all the strategic positions: the speaker- 
ship, the chairmanship and a majority of 
the Ways and Means Committee, and the 
Committee on Rules. For the moment, 
however, the work was all in the hands of 
Chairman Kelley and his lieutenants. Mr. 
Kelley had been ill from the beginning of 
the session and he had asked Mr. Haskell to 
take charge of the bill on the floor. A more 
sympathetic and vigorous understudy than 
Haskell, Kelley could not have had. He 
was a man only forty years old, a powerful 
individual, over six feet high, with a voice as 
big as his body, and with the face and eyes of 
an evangelist. His earnestness, for a cause 
he had espoused, was almost tragic in its 



IDA M. TARBELL 



67 



intensity and forced him to work and fight 
for it passionately and untiringly. Two 
subjects had occupied him so far in the six 
years he had been in Congress, polygamy 
and protection. He hated the first as he 
revered the second. Indeed, for Haskell 
protection was as complete a solution of all 
economic difficulties as it was for Kelley, 
and he had the same fanatical devotion to 
the doctrine. The only question he asked 
himself in making a tariff bill was whether 
an article could or could not be raised in 
this country. If it could not, he would put 
it on the free list. If it could, he would pro- 
tect it beyond the possibility of foreign 
competition. Of course, this reduced his 
labor to finding out how much each article 
needed to be put beyond competition. 
This was a matter of fact. As soon as he 
was put on the Committee of Ways and 
Means, which was at the opening of the 
47 th Congress, he went to work with un- 
paralleled industry to master the condi- 
tions of each article. He became a veritable 
encyclopedia of information on the " needs " 
of industries. When the work on the bill 
of 1883 began, he redoubled his efforts. 
His days he spent in committee and in the 
House, his nights receiving representatives 
of all sorts of industries. The facts and 
figures they gave him he attached in long 
festoons to copies of the bills which he was 
making ready for the debate. 

Convinced as Kelley and Haskell were of 
the perfection of their doctrine, it was not 
to be wondered at that they looked on the 
Democratic opposition to the duties they 
were trying to carry through as outright 
filibustering or that they were willing to 
lend themselves to almost any manoeuvers 
which would thwart it. Their first move was 
to try to stop debate. The attempt threw the 
Democrats into violent excitement, for so 
far only two out of sixteen schedules had 
been considered. It was an effort to gag 
the House, they declared. " Such a propo- 
sition," said Mr. Carlisle, "has never been 
heard of in the parliamentary history of this 
country, a proposition to destroy the free- 
dom of debate on a bill to raise revenue." 
"Stop your filibustering then," was the gist 
of Mr. Haskell's retort. " Never under gag 
rule," replied Mr. Carlisle, and the attempt 
failed. 

The failure of this attempt to get his bill 
to vote discouraged Kelley, and it began to 
be rumored that he and his colleagues were 



going to drop it and go to the country with 
the charge that the Democrats had killed it 
by obstruction. The rumor reached the 
White House and Arthur let it be known 
that if Congress failed to pass a bill he 
should call them in extra session. 

The Dilemma of the Republicans 

The dilemma was a serious one for Mr. 
Kelley. It was evident that the Democrats 
would never allow his bill to come to vote 
unless its duties were materially reduced. 
He would never consent to that. But the 
President demanded a bill of some kind, 
would call an extra session to get it if nec- 
essary. The only hope seemed in the Senate 
bill, which was already fairly advanced and 
which Kelley knew would soon be reported. 
But this Senate bill did not suit him at all. 
Its duties he saw were bound to be consid- 
erably lower than those recommended by 
the Tariff Commission, Supposing that he 
waived the constitutional objection to a 
revenue bill originating in the Senate and 
let it come before the House, was there any 
method by which he could make it to suit 
his notion before it came to vote? The 
question was a difficult one, and for the 
moment there seemed no answer. 

As day by day passed and nothing was 
done, irritation and uncertainty grew on 
both sides.. Only the lobby rejoiced. 
There would be no reduction after all ! But 
they did not reduce their pressure. Indeed 
it increased rather. The iron and steel men 
called down Commissioner Oliver. The 
mineral water men stirred up their attorney, 
the Hon. Roscoe Conkling. Every interest 
engaged the highest-sounding names it could 
secure for a final day and night attack. 

The House in Disorder 

The effect of all this on the two chambers 
was deplorable. Particularly in the House 
did the debate lose all semblance of sin- 
cerity and order. Again and again it was 
broken up by charges and counter-charges 
— by contradictions, appeals to the Speaker, 
cries of "Hear, hear!" "Order, order I" 
"Rule, rule!" The Democrats, gloating 
over the apparent predicament of the Re- 
publicans, taunted them repeatedly with not 
intending to pass a bill — charges which 
maddened Mr. Haskell especially. One 
day when these taunts were unusually 



68 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



sharp, Haskell lost control of himself. 
Towering like a giant, his face white as 
a sheet, he shouted, " We will see who 
wants reduction! We will see who are the 
obstructionists. I move that the committee 
rise " — a motion intended to close debate on 
the bill. The Democrats almost as a body 
were on their feet at once, rushing down the 
aisles, dragging in members from committee 
rooms, haranguing on gag rule. A long and 
acrimonious debate followed, but as before, 
the attempt to close debate failed. 

Another day when both sides were heated 
and bitter, Townshend of Illinois declared 
that the bill of the Ways and Means Com- 
mittee did not originate in Congress at all, 
but was " sired by a lobby of hired agents 
of monopoly and was brought forth in a 
secret conclave unknoT^Ti to the rules of the 
House." Mr. Haskell's wrath was terrible. 
"Every word of his declaration is a scan- 
dalous falsehood," he thundered. There 
was confusion on both sides for a moment 
but the friends of the two calmed them 
down. The next morning, however, Mr. 
Morrison waited on Mr. Haskell at his 
boarding house in Eighth Street with a 
peremptory demand that Mr. Haskell 
make public retraction of his offensive 
utterance or he, Mr. Morrison, would feel 
obliged to request Mr. Haskell to name 
some gentleman to confer concerning fur- 
ther remedies for his friend's wounded 
honor. Mr. Haskell laughed at the idea of 
a duel, but he assured Mr. Morrison that so 
long as Mr. Townshend's statement stood 
on record, his assertion of its falsehood 
would stand against it. And there the 
matter remained. 

Such was the temper of the House when 
the Senate bill reached it on February 20th 
— a, poor temper indeed for candid legisla- 
tion. Nevertheless the bill could probably 
have been passed promptly if Mr. Kelley 
had been willing. The Carlisle Democrats 
criticised it but they declared it too good to 
obstruct. As for the majority of Republi- 
cans, they were in favor of it. But Mr. 
Kelley was not willing. His first business 
then was to block any attempt to get the 
bill off the Speaker's table and pass it by 
a regular procedure, a thing not difficult to 
do, for Speaker Keifer was playing perfectly 
into his hands and could be depended upon 
not to recognize anybody whom Kelley and 
Haskell were unwilling should get a hear- 
ing. Indeed, the Democrats had been say- 



ing for days that nobody could catch the 
Speaker's eye unless Kelley first gave the 
wink. In this matter of keeping back the 
bill so small a matter as a misplaced semi- 
colon aided Kelley materially. Mr. Haskell 
had discovered one in looking over the en- 
grossed copy sent to the House from the 
Senate, which considerably changed duties 
on iron. He would not consider a bill so 
" ragged, ill-considered and half made," he 
declared. The poor little semicolon held 
up the House and gave half the papers in 
the country a subject for editorials. The 
Senate clerk hastened over to correct the 
error. It was only a slip. He could easily 
remedy it, he urged. "No," said Speaker 
Keifer sternly. He was not going to allow 
a Senate clerk to make a tariff bill for them. 
The bill had to be taken back to the Senate 
and corrected by proper procedure. 

While the semicolon and other small 
matters were taking up time the Republican 
leaders were closeted with the Committee 
on Rules, which they controlled, in an effort 
to find a way out of their dilemma. If they 
could get the bill into a conference of their 
own kind and revise it and then pass it, 
they would be satisfied. It all amounted, 
as a matter of fact, to finding a way to de- 
feat a bill which the majority would accept 
and to make and pass one which the mi- 
nority wanted. 

A Reed Rule 

Now in anticipation of the difficulty in 
which they expected to be when the Senate 
bill reached them, Mr. Kasson had some 
days before this proposed a revision of the 
House rules which would allow a majority 
to take the Senate bill from the table to 
concur in, or to non-concur in and send to 
a conference. If Mr. Kelley could have 
been sure of a majority for non-concur- 
rence he would have risked this procedure, 
but he found he could not. In caucus and 
out he canvassed the Republicans and al- 
ways with the result that he feared a vote 
would result in concurrence. He was 
afraid of the Kasson rule. 

It was certainly not an easy problem, but 
it was solved and the man to solve it was a 
member of the Committee on Rules, 
Thomas B. Reed of Maine. Reed had 
been six years in the House and in this time 
had shown himself an excellent debater and 
parliamentarian. On the tariff he was 



IDA M. TARBELL 



69 



sound enough to suit Mr. Kelley and 
"practical" enough to suit Mr. Sherman. 
From his point of view it was idle to discuss 
the matter. Protection, he said, was the 
accepted doctrine of the country — a closed 
question. His business was to get what his 
constituents wanted. His remarks on the 
lumber tariff and its relation to forest pres- 
ervation show his general attitude. '*I 
want to know why this country should 
preserve my forest for the benefit of some 
other gentleman? I should like to know 
why the principal industry of the State of 
Maine should be destroyed because the 
gentleman from Illinois thinks that his 
State needs a more humid atmosphere? 
Why, sir, the very purpose of forests in the 
course of nature is to be cut down and have 
houses built of them. ... I tell you each 
generation can take care of itself, each gen- 
eration is sufficient unto itself." 

The rule Mr. Reed now proposed for 
extracting the high-protectionists was an 
admirable introduction to his later career 
as a parliamentarian. It ran as follows: 

*' That during the remainder of this session it 
shall be in order at any time to move to suspend 
the rules, which motion shall be decided by a 
majority vote, to take from the Speaker's table 
House Bill No. 5538, with the Senate amendment 
thereto, entitled a bill to Reduce Internal Revenue 
Taxation, and to declare a disagreement with the 
Senate amendment to the same, and to ask for a 
committee of conference thereon, to be composed 
of five members on the part of the House. If 
such motion shall fail, the bill shall remain on the 
Speaker's table unaffected by the decision of the 
House on said motion." 

It was a rule which allowed the House to 
declare a disagreement but not an agree- 
ment. It allowed a majority to non-concur, 
but forbade it to concur! A New York 
Herald correspondent characterized Mr. 
Reed's rule perfectly when he declared that 
it realized the Irishman's dream of a gun 
which should fire so as to hit the object if 
it was a deer and miss it if it was a cow! 

It was on Saturday, the 24th of Febru- 
ary, that Mr. Reed reported his rule and 
on Monday it was taken up. Only seven 
days then remained of the session. 

The storm which burst over the rule 
when it was read on Monday was quite 
worthy of its audacity. It was a "mon- 
strous proposition," said Mr. Carlisle. "It 
is a fraud on parliamentary law; a fraud 
on all that is just and fair, in our politics, it 
b revolutionary," said Mr. Cox. Mr. Reed 



listened placidly to it all and finally closed 
the discussion by declaring coolly that he 
himself considered the procedure he was 
introducing as "forcible," that he should 
never be in favor of such a rule save in a 
"great emergency," but that such an emer- 
gency he considered to be at hand. The 
country demanded a revision. The Demo- 
crats had defeated the House bill by a sys- 
tematic course of obstruction. The Senate 
bill was not satisfactory to business men; 
it was unconstitutional to adopt it, but 
something must be done to relieve distress. 
There was nothing to do but revise the 
Senate bill "in the quiet of a conference 
committee." The rule was adopted after 
nearly a day's debate by a vote of 129 to 22. 

The Constitution or a High Tariff? 

But the Democrats were not through yet. 
They raised the constitutional question — 
was the House of Representatives to waive 
its right to originate revenue measures? 
Never. The discussion precipitated lacked 
sincerity — for leading Democrats had 
already testified to their willingness to let 
the Senate bill go through as it stood. Mr. 
Haskell finally stopped debates by a resolu- 
tion which was carried. It turned the con- 
stitutional question over to the TariflF Con- 
ference for decision. The manoeuver was 
adroit. It pimply meant that if the Tariff 
Conference did not result satisfactorily to 
the high protectionist members, they had 
the plea of unconstitutionality to fall back 
on, or as somebody put it, " If pig-iron goes 
up the amendment of the Senate will be con- 
stitutional; if pig-iron goes down it will be 
unconstitutional . ' ' 

It was late on Tuesday the 28th day of 
February before finally things were ad- 
justed, and the conferees appointed by 
both House and Senate. The appoint- 
ments precipitated another tangle. As was 
to have been expected. Speaker Keifer 
appointed a high protectionist committee — 
packed it, moderate Republicans, who were 
not represented at all, said. Mr. Randall, 
who was one of the two Democratic ap- 
pointments, felt so badly about the make-up 
that he refused to serve. This tangle was 
straightened out and finally on the evening 
of the 28th the conferees had their first 
meeting. Among those from the Senate 
were Beck and Bayard. They were dis- 
turbed by the idea that the conference 



^o 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



might not be "full and free" — that is, that 
the constitutional question might be raised 
— and when they found they could get no as- 
surance to the contrary they withdrew. Ten 
different Senators were appointed before 
two could be found to accept I These were 
Mahone and McDill, both Republicans! 

When the Committee was finally under 
way it made quick work of revision — as in- 
deed it could do, having a powerful high- 
protection majority. There were sharp 
contests — ^more than once rumors ran up 
and down the Capitol, where for the last 
few days all Washington had congregated, 
watching developments, that the conference 
would fail because Sherman was not getting 
his desired raise on wool or because MorriU 
was failing in his efforts to keep down the 
rate on pig-iron. The tension the uncer- 
tainty caused was broken at noon on March 
ad, when Mr. Morrill entered the Senate 
and said: " I desire to ask unanimous con- 
sent for the printing of the report of the 
Conference Committee." It was granted 
and at nine o'clock that evening the printed 
report was before the Senate. 

The End of the Struggle 

Of course everybody turned at once to 
the item over which the great struggle had 
come. Had Sherman secured his rate on 
pig-iron and wool, Mahone on iron ore, 
Kelley on steel and quinine and nickel, the 
Louisiana planters on sugar, etc., etc. ? 

The most cursory examination showed 
that the high protectionists had got much 
that they asked. Iron ore had been raised 
to 75 cents a ton after having been given 50 
by tariff commission, by House, and by 
Senate. Pig-iron was restored to $6.72; 
steel rails, after having been given $15.68 in 
the Senate and $15.00 in House, were raised 
to $17.00. Mr. Beck attacked the bill vio- 
lently, making a most imposing array of 
duties raised, but of course saying nothing 
of those lowered! At the same time he at- 
tacked Sherman for his part in raising duties. 
Sherman was not jubilant, however, over 
what he had done. Indeed, he was almost 
in despair. For if he had succeeded in the 
metal schedule he had failed in the wool. 
His failure had led him to refuse to sign the 
conference report. It was a question if he 
would vote for the bill now. But when the 
matter came to a test, as it did about mid- 
night of Saturday, March 3d, he voted yea. 



" I have always regretted," Mr. Sherman 
wrote twelve years later, "that I did not 
defeat the bill, which I could have readily 
done by voting with the Democrats against 
the adoption of the conference report, which 
passed the Senate by the vote of yeas 32, 
nays 30. However, the propriety and ne- 
cessity of a reduction of internal taxes pro- 
posed by the bill were so urgent that I did 
not feel justified in denying relief from 
burdensome and unnecessary taxes on 
account of provisions in the bill that I did 
not approve. With great reluctance I 
voted for it." 

It was not until about noon of Saturday 
that Mr. Kelley, pale from fatigue and suf- 
fering, presented the report. The House 
was in a state of the greatest confusion at 
the time, the galleries crowded with visi- 
tors, many of whom were women; the cor- 
ridors alive with excited lobbyists, the floor 
in disorder from the running to and fro of 
Democrats, still bent on obstruction, and 
of moderate Republicans anxious but hardly 
daring to defeat the report. Such was the 
din that Mr. Kelley could not be heard 
when he tried to read a statement showing 
the changes the conference had made. 
The Democrats would have none of his 
statements — they wanted the whole report, 
schedules and all, and so the worn-out 
clerk was called to read the entire document. 

Two hours were then allowed for debate. 
Mr. Carlisle criticised the bill in sober and 
dignified language, his chief point being 
that the bill did not, could not produce the 
decrease Mr. Kelley claimed for it — that it 
was for that reason a deception. Others of 
his side were violent over the increases; 
many sarcastic over the acceptance of a 
Senate measure. " They have swapped the 
Constitution for a high tariff," declared Mr. 
Tucker. But the criticism of Mr. Carlisle 
and his friends was not so severe as that of 
those high protectionists who had failed to 
get the increase they asked, particularly of 
the supporters of higher duties on wool. 
"I have voted with the protectionists of 
Pennsylvania and with the protectionists of 
New England," complained Mr. Robison 
of Ohio, "with the assurance — the most 
positive assurance — that this great interest 
I represent should be taken care of , . . . 
and you have stricken us down." 

There is no doubt but that on the morn- 
ing of the 3d there was very real doubt 
about the report being adopted. The 



IDA M. TARBELL 



71 



moderate protectionists on the Republican 
side were against it and all conservative 
Republicans were disgusted with the jug- 
glery which had brought it through. A 
strong high protectionist element, too, in- 
cluding Speaker Keifer, were against it — 
but before four in the afternoon when the 
debate was to close, the tide turned. It was 
the pressure of the country which did it. 
From one ocean to the other business men 
commanded and implored over the wires 
that the bill pass — good or bad. So many 
telegrams, it was said, had never before been 
received in Washington. And so the bill 
passed. And a few minutes before Congress 
adjourned it was signed by President Arthur. 

General Dissatisfaction 

At the time of its passage nobody knew 
what was in the bill of 1883, such had been 
the jugghng with it. But this was certain, 
everybody but the persons who had saved 
their duties was disgusted with it. Mr. 
Sherman went home to meet a political 
storm such as he had never met before — a 
storm which forced him to explain and de- 
fend himself. It was raised by the dissatis- 
fied wool growers. The Democrats went 
out with the story of the barter and trickery 
which had attended the measure. The 
Republicans everywhere were obliged to 
defend themselves for doing or not doing. 
Dissatisfaction was increased with the 
testing of the bill. It did not produce the 
reduction promised either in internal rev- 
enue or in customs. The bill went into 
operation July i, 1883. In the first year of 
its operation it reduced duties only about 
$20,000,000 (from $210,637,293 to $190,- 
282,836). The average reduction on iron 
and steel proved to be only 4.54 per cent.; 
on clothing wool 10.73 per cent. ; on woolen 
goods 1 .01 per cent. On many articles there 
was an increase: 13. 11 per cent, on earthen 



ware; 1.48 per cent, on glass ware; 2.54 per 
cent, on cotton goods. The average reduc- 
tion on dutiable goods was less than i per 
cent. 

But there were more serious features still. 
Mr. Sherman says in his "Recollections" 
that the " Tariff law of 1883 laid the founda- 
tion of all the Tariff complications since 
that time." The lack of "harmony" in 
duties, the failure to protect all interests 
equally — wool and woolens, iron ore and 
pig iron, and articles made from it — was 
what disturbed Mr. Sherman. If we are to 
have protection, his view was, all must be 
protected. "The dogma of free raw ma- 
terial is more dangerous to the protective 
policy than the opposition of free-traders." 

There was something more serious than 
the failure to admit the claims of all to pro- 
tection. It was the semi-official recognition 
of the lobbyists in the making of tariff 
schedules. True, they had been more or less 
active in every bill since the war, but never 
before had their effort to stand day and 
night at the doors of Senate and House, to 
sit in committee, to be closeted in every 
leisure hour with their representatives in 
Congress, been tolerated. It was a recog- 
nition they were not likely to forget. More- 
over it was demonstrated clearly in 1883 that 
the size of the duty is according to the size 
of the lobby. The quinine - makers even 
with Mr. KeUey's help were unable to get 
their product off the free list where it had 
been put in 1879, ^^^ ^^^7 ^^^^ ^ feeble folk 
— only four of them in the country I The 
pottery people on the contrary received an 
advance of some 13 per cent, on their wares, 
for they were strong in Ohio and New Jer- 
sey. Mr. Joseph Wharton, standing alone, 
had to submit to a reduction of 50 per cent, 
on his nickel; standing with iron men he suf- 
fered a reduction of only 4 per cent, on his 
pig-iron. It was a great lesson in the value 
of organization and numbers. 



"PRACTICE MARCHING" 

BY ALFRED DAMON RUNYON 



Big Bill Taft one momin* rose a-feelin' somewhat bad, 

He thinks about them soldier bojrs a-restin'. 
He sez: "Their muscles will git stiff, O, ain't it very sad 

To see them soldier fellers all siestinM 
Ho! Issue them an order to take a practice march; 
Their legs'll soon be gittin* stiff like they wuz caked with starch; 
Hoi Issue them an order an* tell 'em for'ard march — 

It's fierce th' way them soldier boys are restin'!" 

So it's fourteen miles to Some Place 

An' fourteen to th' Fort; 
So shoulder arms and knapsacks 

An' order arms an' port. 
It's fourteen miles to No Where, 

An' grub a-runnin' short, 
But think o' what we're leamin' practice marchin*! 

'Twus Teddy got th' idea when things were gittin' slow; 

He wonders 'bout them soldier boys a-restin'. 
He sez: " I think we oughter have an exhibition, O 

Them soldiers' blood'U likely be congestin'. 
Hoi Issue them an order to mobilize at once; 
Ho! Issue them an order, we will have maneuver stunts; 
Ho! Issue them an order, an' all th' army grunts; 

For it's fierce th' way them soldier boys are restin'! " 

So it's ninety miles to That Place, 

Maneuvers goin' on; 
It's ninety miles to This Place, 

An' summer days are gone; 
It's phoney fights an' hikin' 

An' rollin' out at dawn — 
But think o' what we're leamin' practice marchin'! 

From New Year's down to Christmas there isn't much to do 

Exceptin' in th' barracks sorter restin'. 
Unless someone gits thinkin' — 'bout every day or two — 

About them soldier fellers all siestin'. 
Then issues forth an order to do a practice drill, 
A practice camp, a practice hike, a practice how to kill; 
Or issues forth an order to practice to be still — 

It's fierce th' way them soldier boys are restin' ! 

Then up a hill an' down a hill 

Th' same as Bonypart; 
Five hundred miles a year to do — 
/ So make a healthy start; 
Th' officers must do it, too — 

Oh, cheer up, heavy heart! 
An' think o' what we're learnin' marchin'! 

72 



.1 

r 



" It takes a smart n 



, mister, to outdo his 



! sAe's started" 



SETH CARTER'S WIFE 



BY MRS. L. H. HARRIS 



E Stranger sat upon the 

}ench outside the door 

>f Pappy Corn's house. 

rhere was a sound of 

ihuffling feet within, and 

Pappy himself appeared 

caxTjring a split - bottom 

chair in one hand and a lighted pipe in the 

Other. He tilted the chair against Uie oppo- 

si'e side of the door, settled himself in it, 

caught the pipe firmly in the comer of his 

mouth and coined his face into one of those 

rare smiles which served as the preface to so 

many of his stories. 

" Did I ever tell about how Seth Carter 
got the best of his wife?" The question 
was a mere fwmality to which the Stranger 
knew he was not expected to reply. 

"It takes a smart man, mister, to outdo 
his own wife, once she's started. He may 



get drunk, break the furniture and fling all 
the dishes out of the winder, but, if she has 
the long-sufferin' underhanded spirit which 
is natural in all women, she can set right 
down where she is and have him in a cold 
sweat of mortification and repentance with- 
out turning a ha'r or shedding a tear. 
There's something terrible about a woman's 
resignation under them circumstances, and 
the average man knows it. He knows that 
he'll be obliged to buy her a new dress, or 
nail up a gol-dem shelf somewhere in the 
house, or maybe scald bed-stids all day 
before he can persuade that look of accusing 
godliness off of her face when he has been 
on a spree, I reckon that's the reason some 
of the poor devils kick up such a racket 
when they do git loose once in a while. The 
price they have to pay afterwards makes 'em 
desperate. 



74 



SETH CARTER'S WIFE 



" But them's gUtterin' generalities. What 
1 am fixing to tell you is how one man got 
the best of a row he had with his wife, and 
she the all-tiredest termagant that ever set 
foot in this Valley. 

" Seth Carter was an honest, hard-work- 
ing man, but he wa'n't much to look at. 
He was tall, knock-kneed, and so thin that 
his own inwards could see him every time he 
smiled. He had a little gal nose, and 
looked over his own whiskers at you like a 
roan hiding in a brush-heap. And he was 
so meek that if you could have picked the 
soul out of him, it would have been a worm, 
just a poor worm of the dust. His first wife 
was a fine woman, but spiteful on him, 
becase he couldn't so much as look at hard 
cider without getting drunk. Folks said 
she used to sew him up in the bed sheet 
when he came home that way and whip him 
sober. I don't know whether she did or 
not; still we all thought when she died that 
he'd stay widdered or be more careful about 
selecting his next partner. But man's a 
curious animal, son. If you could set him 
on a hot gridiron and keep him squirming 
there long enough, he'd git used to it, and 
prefer that to a sedan rocking chair. And 
that was Seth's case. He'd been nagged 
and henpecked till he 
couldn't be satisfied un- 
less he had a cackling, 
scolding female to tor- 
ment him. So the first 
Misses Carter wa'n't 
more'n settled in her 
grave before he up and 
married the oldest Pen- 
dergrass gal, Eva May. 
Some say she done the 
proposing, but I doubt 
that. Fellows like Seth 
Carter ain't so darn 
timid as you might 
think when it comes to 
asking a woman to have 
'em. One of that kind 
will roll up agin her 
skirts as soft and harm- 
less-looking as a ball of 
yam, then first thing she 
knows he's got her same as if he'd courted 
like a house afire. And they always take 
to ill-tempered women, becase marrying is 
the one brave adventure of their lives. So 
they git a case of buck-courage and shine 
up to women that other men fight shy of 



becase the blame fools don't know that 
an ill-tempered female is about the easiest 
thing courted in this world. 

" Seth 'lowed to me the reason he was in 
such a swivel to git married i^in was be- 
case he couldn't bear to be so free that 
nobody cared whether he done right or 
wrong, whether he stayed drunk or sober. 
He said it mighty nigh broke him up to 
think he could eat his victuals with his hat 
on, and without even washing his hands, 
and no woman there to make a fuss about it. 
But that wa'n't all. He 'lowed that a can- 
tankerous woman acted on him like a sprit- 
ual tonic, sorter took the place of gittin' 
drunk, because she kept him excited all the 
time wondering where she'd hit next. 

"Well, sir, accordin' to my way of think- 
ing there was as much sense in his marry- 
ing a virago for them reasons as if he'd 
hired a yaUer-jacket to sting him for com- 
pany. So I kept my eyes skinned to see 
what would happen. And Eva May wa'n't 
slow about doing her part towards the 
sequel. She was a fair, fat woman with a 
face that took on a pound of sternness every 
time she gained a pound of flesh. Her nose 
was the only raw-boned thing about her. 
It riz like a fang between her narrow blue 
eyes — mister, have you 
ever made a study of 
that peculiar human 
document, the nose? 
It's the tell-tale Script- 
ure in every man's face. 
If you know how to 
read noses, you know 
how to read life. I've 
been living a long time, 
and I ain't never 
knowed a man or wom- 
an to contradict his 
nose yet. And Eva 
May's pale, thin, high 
one give her dead away, 
tUt^MiJf- ^^ '^ ^**^ thorn of her 

nagging spirit stuck out 
through the front of her 
face. But, Lord bless 
names" you, she didn't care. 

She had a prickly vir- 
tue, that rabid kind of righteousness which 
makes some saints more dangerous than 
mad dogs, and she was give up to be 
the best and most aggravating woman 
in the settlement. She couldn't let noth- 
ing nor nobody rest, couldn't sec a cat 



Knielin^ in the middle of the floor, 
with her eyes walled up, praying 
and calling him names" 



MRS. L, H. HARRIS 



75 



" Ut in to shave eoery gol-dern whisker 
of his face" 

oa the doorsteps without taking a broom 
to it, nor a fly set down on the winder 
pane without r'aring around the room 
flapping hn apron at it. She stayed in 
the kitchen most of the time, bilin', ba)(~ 
ing and preserving things. Then she'd git 
hopfnng mad and cry if Seth didn't eat 
whatever she cooked. This was his worst 
trial; 'lowed to me in confidence once that 
he wa'n't hearty and it went agin his stom- 
ach to be obhged to eat the lialf of a pig's 
head, a slice of pickled souse, a kershaw pie 
and a mould of jelly when he wa'n't hun- 
gry, just to keep his wife in a good humor. 

" And it was this disposition to fatten him 
whether he would or no that finally brung 
on the crisis between 'em. One day in the 
spring, he wa'n't feelin' so well, and she 
spread an extra fine dinner to tempt hiiji. 
Well, sir, Seth 'lowed he couldn't eat a bite, 
and Eva May complained that he wouldn't 
eat out of pure spite. She jumped up from 
the table crying, beat the dog, scared the 
cat up a tree, pulled down the stove pipe, 
and then went into hysterics becase Seth 
told her he didn't feel well enough to put it 
up again. 

" Now Carter wa'n't a professing Chris- 
tian, he was a sort of black-sheep Job, and 
about the worst thing his wife done to him 



when she had these tantrums was to wind up 
by taking the Bible and reading one of [hem 
blaspheming Psalms David wrote before he 
was converted. Then sometimes at class- 
meeting in church she'd git up and ask the 
prayers of all Christian people for the one 
nighest and dearest to her. She named no 
names, but everybody knowed who she 
meant and Seth knowed too, for apt as not 
he'd be setting over on the men's side like a 
forked worm, listenin' to her. 

" On this particular day I'm telling of, he 
come in from the bam when he seen the cat 
come down and the dog sneak back toward 
the door-step, becase them was always the 
signs he went by. But I'll be darned, sir, 
if he didn't find that woman kneeling in the 
middle of the floor, with her eyes walled up, 
praying and calling him names and telling 
things on him to her heavenly Father that 
wa'n't so! Him and the dog seen her at the 
same time, and the dog tucked his tail be- 
tween his legs and went back to the wagon- 
shed, but for once Seth didn't turn tail him- 
self. He was riled, and quick as a flash, he 
made up his mind to give Eva May a sure 
'nough job of praying to do for him. 

"Mister," said Pappy, looking at him 
drolly, " when a worm turns, it's one of the 
funniest, meanest, most a^ravating things 
that ever squirmed. There ain't no dig- 
nity, nor any real harm in the poor thing, 
but it's mean and little and mischievous, 
and ihe worm had turned in Seth. That 



" Put on his Sunday dothts and 
light out" 



76 



SETH CARTER'S WIFE 



meek and lowly spirit in hltn was gittin' 
ready to deal with Eva May's heel. And 
we ain't never had nothing like it in this 
VaUey. 

"No sooner did he catch sight of her 
kneeling there in the floor back-biting him 
to the Lord, than he tramped in, laid out his 
Sunday clothes and lit in to shave every gol- 
dem whisker off of his face. At first she 
just stayed where she 
was, mounting and 
whispering; but 
when Seth begun to 
whet his razor and 
lather his jaws, he 
could see her through 
the glass staring at 
him. He said noth- 
ing, but kept right 
on till his face was 
as clean as a gal's. 
Then he roached up 
his hair, put on his 
Sunday clothes, 
picked up the cane 
that he hadn't car- 
ried since he went 
courting and made 
for the door. By this 
time Misses Carter 
was setting up in her 
chair loolung sorter 
dumb and puzzled. 

" ' Where you going ? ' says she. 

'"To the frolic at Jim Bledsoe's, 'says he. 

"'Why ain't I going too?' says she. 

" ' Becase you ain't asked.' Then, just to 
rile her more, he 'lowed, 'Jim didn't invite 
the married women.' And with that he 
brushed his coattails, twirled his cane and 
switched off down the road, leaving Eva 
^lay too dumbfounded to speak. 

"There wa'n't the sign of a woman at 
Jim Bledsoe's that night, married or single. 
He asked a passel of his cronies over to a 
'possum supper, and that was all the frolic 
we had. And naturally we were surprised 
when Seth stepped in dressed like it was a 
ball or a wedding and all the whiskers off of 
his face. 

"'Lorddle Mighty, Seth!' says I, rub- 
bing my eyes, 'is Misses Carter's health 
failing?' 

"'No,' says he, 'but my patience is. 
I'm tired of having my wife pray for me 
every time she gits mad. I've took the bit 
between my teeth,' 



'•Se/A i 



"'Keep it there,' says Jim, laughing and 
slapping him on the back, 'but can't you 
do it without wearing your fancy martingales 
and crupper for every day?' he pointed at 
Seth's pearlK:olored legs and the Jim- 
swinger coat. 

"'That's part of it,' he answered. 'She 
ain't let me wear these things except to 
weddings and funerab since we were mar- 
ried, and I'll be 
darned if I don't be- 
gin by being the 
boss!' 

"We all knowed 
how Eva May carried 
on, so it wa'n't no 
breach of confidence 
when he told us 
about this last spell. 
And we passed the 
evening giving him 
devilish advice, and 
laughing behind our 
hands at that worm 
of a man who could 
talk about pitting 
hisself agin a woman, 
same as if she'd been 
"""""■"^■^^^ a man. Nary one of 

"'""■"'"' us thought he'd have 

the spunk to hold 
out or we'd have 
been more careful. 
" That night as we come on home together 
Seth pulled a rose off of the vine and stuck 
it in his button-hole. Afterwards he told 
me the first thing ' i seen the next morning 
was Eva May standing by the winder hold- 
ing up his coat and looking at that innocent 
flower as if her heart would break. And 
that was just the beginning. From being 
the humblest, most accommodating of hus- 
bands, Seth turned into the most arrogant 
and unreliable. He'd go off without cut- 
ting the wood or splitting the kindling. 
Then if Eva May so much as opened her 
mouth to complain up he'd git, shave, put 
on his Sunday clothes and light out with the 
air of a man bound straight for hell. She 
held in as long as she could, but when he 
took to stayingall night at Jim Bledsoe's, who 
was a bachelor, and not nigh all he ought to 
be; and when he went to every picnic for 
miles around as if he'd been a young man on 
the carpet, Eva May was plum distracted. 
One day she flung her apron over her head 
and went to see the preacher about it. 



/ treating me right'" 



MRS. L. H. HARRIS 



77 



weeping, 



"'Brother MiluDi,* says she, 
'Seth ain't treating me right.' 

"'You say he ain't, Sister Carter,' says 
he, putting on his glasses. 'Well! that 
astonishes me. He ain't a professing 
Christian, I know, but we all thought him 
a model husband.' 

"'But he ain't!' snapped Eva May. 
Then she busted out and told what had 
been going on between 'em. 

" For a preacher, Milum had a right smart 
natural human sense. So when she finished, 
he sort o' cut his eyes around at his own 
man-devil, so to speak, and he 'lowed: 

"'I can't meddle, Sister Carter. Not 
being a church-member your husband 
don't come under my jurisprudence. But 
you go 'long back home and keep pleasant. 
A man prefers it to just righteousness in 
his wife. Encourage the dog and the cat 
to come in and lay down on the hearth-rug. 
It's a good recommendation to a woman's 
temper when them animals trust her. Seth 
ain't naturally rampageous, and I reckon 
he'll tame down when you do.' 

" But Seth had another card up his sleeve 
and he played it the 
next Sunday night at 
the experience-meeting. 
Eva May was setting 
where she always did, 
right up front, and Seth 
was a good way back on 
the men's side, looking 
as frisky in them pearl- 
colored breeches as any 
young goat in the bouse. 
First one and then an- 
other stood up and give 
in theu'experience. But 
Mrs. Carter, who was 
usually first an' fore- 
most to testify, bad noth- 
ing to say. At last when 
everybody was done 
talking as the preacher 
thought, he riz to give 
out the closing hymn. 
Then all seen Seth stand 
up, hoop hisself forward and crook his fin- 
ger at the preacher. 

" ' Wait a minute, mister ! ' says he, no loud- 
er thana hoarse whisper. Then drawed out 
his handkerchief and begun to sniff. The 
women followed suit all over the house, but 
Jim Bledsoe nudged me, and be says: 'The 
bkimefoolisdrunk!' All this time there stood 



rT:gr_r 



Seth, wagging in his tracks, the tears stream- 
ing down his face,and him hooking his fin- 
ger at the preacher. Then he fetcb^ a back- 
ward surge, wailed up his eyes — it was one of 
the funniest imitations I ever expect to see 
a lean person give of a fat one — and begun: 
" ' Bretheren and sisters, I ain't nobody 
nor nothing that you should waste your 
prayers on me. But,' says he, pintin' his 
finger at his wife, 'there's one nighest 
and dearest to me who stands in need of 
'em. She is full of redeeming grace, but 
she don't know how to practice it towards 
a f>oor benighted sinner like me. And I want 
to ask the prayers of all Christian people 
that her religion may be softened a little 
and made more fa^xirable to such as me!' 
"With that he set down, sobbing like a 
baby. I don't reckon he'd ever done what 
he did if he'd been sober. But he wa'n't, 
and somebody had told him about Eva 
May's trip to see •Milum. And we ain't 
never had anything as nigh a matinee in this 
Valley as that experience - meeting. Jim 
Bledsoe was laughing so he slipped ofi of 
his seat. But E^'a May's face looked like a 
white sail in a storm. 

'"Let us pray!' saj-s 
the preacher, but the 
minute folks was on 
their knees, it sounded 
like mice squeaking all 
over the church, they 
was squeezing so to 
keep from laughing. 
And I always shall be- 
lieve I heard a snort 
from the pulpit before 
Milum begun in a terri- 
ble shaky voice. He 
prayed all over crea- 
tion, then at the very 
last he 'lowed, in a 
mighiy curious tone of 
voice, ' And, Oh Lord, 
far be it from us to up- 
hold Brother Carter in 
being the kind of 
worm of the dust he is, 
but thou hast heard his request and, so far 
as we know, it won't be no harm to grant it!' 
"When we raised our heads Seth and 
Eva May were both gone. But from that 
day to this them two air about as even 
matched as any married folk in this Valley; 
and I don't know which takes the most 
care not to provoke the other to wrath." 



_^ ^ his tracks, the tears 
streaming down his /ace" 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 

A LOVE STORY OF OLD CONSTANTINOPLE 

BY F. MARION CRAWFORD 



CHAPTER IX 

NO rose with an effort, 
and with somethiiif like a 
sigh. 

" I must be going," he 

said, standing beside the 

divan. " Good-night." 

" Good - night, Messer 

Carlo," answered Zo'6 softly and a little 

sadly. 

She had never before addressed him in 
that way, as an equal and a Venetian would 
have done, and the expression, in the tone 
in which it was uttered, arrested his atten- 
tion and stopp>ed him when he was in the 
act of turning away. He said nothing, but 
there was a question in his look. 

"I am sorry that I made you angry," she 
said, and she turned her face up to him 
with one of those half-pathetic, hesitating 
little smiles that ask forgiveness of a man 
and invariably get it, unless he is a brute. 

"I am sorry that I let you see I was an- 
noyed," he answered simply. 

"If I had not been so foolish, you would 
not go away so early!" 

Her tone was contrite and regretfully 
thoughtful, as if the explanation were irref- 
utable but humiliating. Eve was, on the 
whole, a good woman, and is believed to be 
in Paradise; yet with the slight previous 
training of a few minutes' conversation with 
the serpent she was an accomplished tempt- 
ress, and her rustic taste for apples has sent 
untold millions down into unquenchable 
fire. 

"I would stay if I could," Zeno said. 
" But I have an appointment, and I must 
go." 
"Is it very important, very — very?" 



Zeno smiled at her now, but did not an- 
swer at once. Instead, he walked to the 
window, opened the shutters again and 
looked out. The night was very dark. 
Here and there little hghts twinkled in the 
houses of Pera, and those that were near the 
water's edge made tiny paths over the black 
stream. After his eyes had grown used to 
the gloom Zeno could make out that there 
was a boat near the marble steps, and a very 
soft sound of oars moving in Uie water told 
him that the boatman was paddling gently 
to keep his position against the slow cur- 
rent. Zeno shut the window again and 
turned back to ZoB. 

" Yes," he said, answering her last 
speech after the interval, " it is very impor- 
tant. If it were not, I would not go out to- 

Hewasgoingoutof the house, then. She 
knew that he rarely did so after dark, and 
she could not help connecting his going 
with the invitation he had given to Polo and 
his daughter for the next day. He was to be 
betrothed lo Giustina to-morrow, he was 
going now to settle some urgent matter of 
business connected with the marriage-con- 
tract; or he was betrothed already; yes, and 
he was to be married in the morning and 
would bring his bride home; Zo6, in her 
lonely room upstairs, would hear the noisy 
feasting of the wedding-guests below 

When the thread broke, leaving her in the 
unreality, her lip quivered, and she was a 
little pale. Zeno was standing beside her, 
holding her hand. 

"Good-night, Arethusa," he said in a 
tone that frightened her. 

The words sounded like "good-bye," for 
that was what they might mean; he knew it, 
and she guessed it. 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



79 



" You are going away!" she cried, spring- 
ing to her feet and slipping her hand from 
his to catch his wrist. 

"Not if I can help it," he answered. 
"But you may not see me to-morrow." 

" Not in the evening ?" she asked in great 
anxiety. "Not even after they are gone?" 

"I cannot tell," he repUed gravely. 
" Perhaps not." 

She dropped his wrist and turned from 
him. 

" You are going to be married," she said 
in a low voice. " I was sure of it." 

"No!" he answered with emphasis. 
"Not that!" 

She turned to him again; it did not occur 
to her to doubt his word, and her eyes asked 
him the next question with eager anxiety, 
but he would not answer. He only repeated 
the three words, very tenderly and softly — 

" Good-night— Arethusa ! ' ' 

She knew it was good-bye, though he 
would not say it; she was not guessing his 
meaning now. But she was proud. He 
should not see how hurt she was. 

"Good-night," she answered. "If you 
are going away — then, good-bye." 

Her voice almost broke, but she pressed 
her lips tight together when the last word 
had passed them, and though the tears 
seemed to be burning her brain she would 
not shed them while his eyes were on her. 

"God keep you," he said, as one says 
who goes on a long journey. 

Again he was turning from her, not mean- 
ing to look back; but it was more than she 
could bear. In an inward tempest of fear 
and pain she had been taught suddenly that 
she truly loved him more than her soul, and 
in the same instant he was leaving her for a 
long time, perhaps forever. She could not 
bear it, and her pride broke down. She 
caught his hand as he tiuned to go and held 
it fast. 

"Take me with you!" she cried. "Oh, 
do not go away and leave me behind!" 

A silence of three seconds. 

"I will come back," he said. "If I am 
alive, I will come back." 

" You are going into danger ! ' ' Her hand 
tightened on his, and she grew paler still. 

He would not answer, but he patted her 
wrist kindly, trying to soothe her anxiety. 
He seemed quiet enough at that moment, 
but he felt the slow, full beat of his own 
heart and the rush of the swelling pulse in 
his throat. He had not guessed before to- 



night that she loved him; he was too simple, 
and far too sure that he himself could not 
love a slave. Even now he did not like to 
own it, but he knew that the hand she held 
was not passive; it pressed hers tighter in 
return, and drew it to him instead of push- 
ing it away, till at last it was close to his 
breast. 

" Oh, let me go with you, take me with 
you!" she repeated, beseeching with all her 
heart. 

He was not thinking of danger now, he 
had forgotten it so far that he scarcely paid 
attention to her words or to her passionate 
entreaty. Words had lost sense and value, 
as they do in battle, and the fire ran along 
his arm to her hand. It had been cold; it 
was hot now, and throbbed strangely. 

Then he dropped it and took her sud- 
denly by her small throat, almost violently, 
and turned her face up to his; but she was 
not frightened, and she smiled in his grasp. 

"I did not mean to love you!" 

He still held her as he spoke; she put up 
her hands together and took his wrists, but 
not to free herself; instead, she pressed his 
hold closer upon her throat, as if to make 
him choke her. 

"I wish you would kill me now!" she 
cried in a trembling, happy little voice. 

He laughed low, and shook her the least 
bit, as a strong man shakes a child in play, 
but her eyes drew him to her more and more. 

"It would be so easy now," she almost 
whispered, "and I should be so happy!" 

Then they kissed; and as their lips 
touched, they closed their eyes, for they were 
too near to see each other any longer. Her 
head sank back from his upon his arm, 
for she was almost fainting, and he laid 
his palm gently on her forehead and pushed 
away her hair, and looked at her long. 

"I had not meant to love you," he said 
again. 

Her lips were still parted, tender as rose- 
leaves at dewfall, and her eyes glistened as 
she opened them at the sound of his voice. 

" Are you sorry ?" she asked faintly. 

He kissed the question from her lips, and 
her right hand went up to his brown throat 
and round it, and drew him, to press the 
kiss closer; and then it held him down w^hile 
she moved her head till she could whisper in 
his ear: 

"It was only because you Were angry," 
she said. " You are not really going out to- 
night ! Tell me you are not ! ' ' 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



He would not answer at first, and he tried 
to kiss her again, but she would not let him, 
and she pushed him away till she could see 
his face. He met her eyes frankly, but he 
shook his head. 

" It must be to-night, and no other night," 
he said gravely. " I have made an appoint- 
ment, and I have given my word. I cannot 
break it, but I shall come back." 

She slipped from bis hokl, and sat down 
on the broad divan, against the cushions. 



hand and buried her (ace in the soft leathern 
pillow. 

" You had made me forget that I am only 
a slave!" she cried. 

The cushion muffled her voice, and the 
sentence was broken by a sob, though no 
tears came with it. 

"I would go to-night, though my own 
mother begged me to stay," Zeno answered. 

Zog turned her head wiUiout Ufting it, and 
looked up at him sideways. 



/ meant to love you," he said again 



"You are going into danger," she said. 
"You may not come back. You told me 
so." 

He tried to laugh, and answered in a 
careless tone: 

" I have come back from far more dan- 
gerous expeditions. Besides, I have guests 
to-morrow — that is a good reason for not 
being killed!" 

He stood beside her, one hand half-thrust 
into his loose belt. She took the other, 
which hung down, and looked up to him, 
still pleading. 

"Please, please do not go to-nightl" 

Still he shook his head; nothing could 
move him, and he would go. A piteous 
look came into her eyes while they apf)ealed 
to his in vain, and suddenly she dropped his 



"Then much depends on your going," 
she said, with a question in her tone. "If 
it were only for yourself, for your pleasure, 
or your fortune, you would not refuse j'our 
own mother!" 

Zeno turned and began to walk up and 
down the room, but he said nothing in 
reply. A thought began to dawn in her 
mind. 

"But if it were for your country — for 
Venice " 

He glanced sharply at her as he turned 
back toward her in his walk, and he slack- 
ened his pace. Zoe waited a moment before 
she spoke again, looked down, thoughtfully 
pinched the folds of silk on her knee, and 
looked up suddenly again as if an idea had 
struck her. 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



8i 



"And though I am only your bought 
slave," she said, "I would not hinder you 
then. I mean, I would not even try to keep 
you from running into danger — ^for Venice ! ' ' 

She held her head up proudly now, and 
the last words rang out in a tone that went 
to the man's heart. He was not far from her 
when she spoke them. The last syllable had 
not died away on the quiet air and he 
already held her up in his arms, lifted clear 
from the floor, and his kisses were raining 
on her lips, and on her eyes, and her hair. 
She laughed low at the storm she had 
raised. 

"I love you!" he whispered again and 
again softly, roughly, and triumphantly by 
turns. 

She loved him too, and quite as passion- 
ately just then; every kiss woke a deep and 
delicious thrill that made her whole body 
quiver with delight, and each oft-repeated 
syllable of the three whispered words rang 
like a silver trumpet-note in her heart. 
But for all that her thoughts raced on, 
already following him in the coming hours. 

With every woman, to love a man is to 
fed that she must positively know just 
where he is going as soon as he is out of her 
sight. If it were possible, he should never 
leave the house without a ticket-of-leave 
and a policeman, followed by a detective to 
watch both; but that a man should assert 
any corresponding right to watch the dear 
object of his affections throws her into a 
paroxysm of fury; and it is hard to decide 
which woman most resents being spied upon, 
the angel of light, the siren that walketh in 
darkness, or the semi-virginal flirt. 

Zoe really loved Zeno more truly at that 
moment, because the glorious tempest of 
kisses her speech had called down upon her 
willing little head brought with it the cer- 
tainty that he was not going to spend the 
rest of the evening at the house of Sebastian 
Polo. This, at least, is how it strikes the 
story-teller in the bazaar; but the truth is 
that no man ever really understood any 
woman. It is uncertain whether any one 
woman understands any other woman; it is 
doubtful whether any woman understands 
her own nature; but one thing is sure, be- 
yond question — every woman who loves a 
man believes, or tells him, that he helps her 
to understand herself. This shows us that 
men are not altogether useless. 

Yet, to do 2^ justice, there was one 
other element in her joy.* She had waited 



long to learn that Zeno meant to free 
Johannes if it could be done, and he had 
met all her questions with answers that told 
her nothing; she was convinced that he did 
not even know the passwords of those who 
called themselves conspirators, but who had 
done nothing in two years beyond inventing 
a few signs and syllables by which to recog- 
nize each other. Whether he knew them or 
not, he was ready to act at last, and the deed 
on which hung the destinies of Constanti- 
nople was to be attempted that very night. 
Before dawn Michael Rhangab^'s death 
might be avenged, and Kyria Agatha's 
wrongs with Zoe's own. 

"I want to help you," she said when he 
let her speak. " Tell me how you are going 
to do it." 

" With a boat and a rope," he answered. 

"Take me! I will sit quite still in the 
bottom. I will watch; no one has better 
eyes or ears than I." 

"This is man's work," he answered. 
"Besides, it is the work of one man only, 
and no more." 

" Someone must watch below," Zo6 sug- 
gested. 

"There is the man in the boat. But 
watching is useless. If any one surprises us 
in the tower, I can get away; but if I am 
caught by an enemy from the water the 
game is up. That is the only danger." 

"That is the only danger," Zoe repeated, 
more to herself than for him. 

He saw that she had understood now, and 
that she would not try to keep him longer, 
nor again beg to be taken. She went with 
him to the door of the vestibule without 
calling the maids, and she parted from him 
there, very quietly. 

" God speed you ! " she said, for good-bye. 

When he reached the outer entrance and 
looked back once more, she was already 
gone within, and the quiet lamplight fell 
across the folds of the heavy curtain. 

CHAPTER X 

2^no left his house noiselessly half an 
hour later, after changing his clothes. It 
was intensely dark as he came out, and after 
being in the light he could hardly see the 
white marble steps of the landing. He 
almost lost his balance at the last one, and 
when he stepped quickly toward the boat, 
to save himse^, he could not see it at all, and 



82 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



was considerably relieved to find himself in 
the stem sheets instead of in the water. 

"Gorlias!" he whispered, leaning for- 
ward. 

"Yes!" answered the astrologer -iSsher- 
man. 

The light skiff shot out into the dark- 
ness, away from the shore, instead of head- 
ing directly for Blachemae. After a few 
minutes Gorlias rested on his oars. Zeno 
had grown used to the gloom and could now 
see him quite distinctly. Both men peered 
about them and listened for the sound of 
other oars, but there was nothing; they 
were alone on the water. 

"Is everything ready?" Zeno asked in a 
low tone. 

"Everything. At the signal over eight 
hundred men will be before Blachernae in a 
few minutes. There are fifty ladders in the 
ruined houses by the wall of the city. The 
money has had an excellent effect on the 
guard, for most of them were drunk this 
evening, and are asleep now. In the tower, 
the captain is asleep too, for his wife showed 
the red light an hour ago. She took up the 
package of opium last night by the thread." 

" And Johannes himself ? Is he ready ? " 

" He is timid, but he will risk his life to get 
out of the tower. You may be sure of that ! " 

"Have you everything we need? The 
fishing-line, the tail-block, and the two 
ropes? And the basket? Is everything 
ready in the bows, there ? " 

" Everything, just as you ordered it, and 
the rope clear to pay out." 

" Give way, then." 

"In the name of God," said Gorlias, as 
he dipped his oars again. 

"Amen," answered Zeno quietly. 

The oars were muffled with rags at the 
thole-pins, and Gorlias was an accomplished 
oarsman. He dipped the blades into the 
stream so gently that there was hardly a 
ripple, and he pulled them through with 
long, steady strokes, keeping the boat on its 
course by the scattered lights of the city. 

Zeno watched the lights, too, leaning back 
in the stem, and turning over the last de- 
tails of his plan. Everything depended on 
getting the imprisoned man out of the 
Amena tower at once, and he believed he 
could do that without much difficulty. At 
first sight it might seem madness to attempt 
a revolution with only eight hundred men to 
bear arms in the cause, against ten or fifteen 
thousand, but the Venetian knew what sort 



of men they were, and how profoundly 
Andronicus was hated by all the army 
except his body-guard. 

For nearly twenty minutes Gorlias pulled 
steadily up stream. Then he slackened 
speed, and brought the boat slowly to the 
foot of the tower. 

The windows were all dark now, and the 
great mass towered up into the night till the 
top was lost in the black sky. Diuring the 
hours Gorlias had spent in fishing from the 
pier he had succeeded in wedging a stout 
oak peg between the stones; he found it at 
once in the dark, got out and made the boat 
fast to it by the painter. His bare feet clung 
to the sloping surface like a fly's to a smooth 
wall; he pulled the boat alongside the pier, 
holding it by the gunwale, and held up his 
other hand to help Zeno. But the Venetian 
was in no need of that, and was standing 
beside his companion in an instant. It was 
only then, a whole second after the fact, 
that he knew he hajd stepped upon some- 
thing oddly soft and at the same time elastic 
and resisting, that lay amidships in the 
bottom of the boat, covered with canvas. 
The quick recollection was that of having 
unconsciously placed one foot on a human 
body when getting out. He had taken off 
his shoes, but the cloth soles of his hose were 
thick, and he could not feel sure of what he 
had touched. Besides, he had no time to 
lose in speculating as to what Gorlias might 
have in the skiff besides his lines and his coil 
of rope. 

Gorlias now got the end of the fishing- 
line ashore, and took it in his teeth in order 
to climb up the inclined plane of the pier on 
his hands and feet, ape-fashion. In a few 
seconds he hsyi found the end of a string 
that hung down from the blackness above, 
with a small stone tied to it to keep it from 
being blown adrift. To this string he bent 
the fishing-line. Until this was done neither 
of the men had made the least sound that 
could possibly be heard above, but now 
Gorlias gave a signal. It was the cry of the 
beautiful little owl that haunts ruined 
houses in Italy and the East, one soft and 
musical note, repeated at short and regular 
intervals. The bird always gives it thus, 
but for the signal Gorlias whistled it twice 
each time, instead of once. No living owl 
ever did that, and yet it was a thousand to 
one that nobody would notice the difference, 
if anyone heard him at all, except the person 
for whom the call was meant. 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



83 



He had not been whistling more than a 
quarter of a minute when he felt the twine 
passing upward through his fingers, and 
then the Ime after it. He let the latter run 
through his hand to be sure that it did not 
foul and kink, though he had purposely 
chosen one that had been long in use, and 
he had kept it in a dry place for a week. 

Zeno had dropped his cloak in the stem 
of the boat before getting out, and he now 
sat at the water's edge widi his hands on the 
moving line ready to check the end when it 
came, in case it were not already fast to the 
rope that was to follow it. But Gorlias had 
done that beforehand, lest any time should 
be lost, and presently Zeno felt the line 
growing taut as it began to pull on the rope 
itself. 

This had single overhand knots in it, 
about two feet apart, for climbing, and 
instead of coiling it down, Gorlias had 
ranged it fore and aft on the forward 
thwarts so that it came ashore clear. What- 
ever the astrologer's original profession had 
been, it was evident that he understood how 
to handle rope as well as if he had been to 
sea. Moreover Zeno, who was as much a 
sailor as a soldier, understood from the 
speed at which the rope was now taken up, 
that there was a tolerably strong person at 
the other end of it, high up in the topmost 
story of the tower. The end came sooner 
than he expected, and a slight noise of 
something catching and knocking against 
the inner side of the boat brought Gorlias 
instantly to the water's edge. 

"The tail-block is fast to the end," he 
whispered; "and the other line is already 
rove, with the basket at one end of it. 
When you are aloft, you must haul up the 
climbing rope and make the block fast — you 
understand." 

"Of course," Zeno answered; "I have 
been to sea." 

"WTiistle when you are ready and I will 
answer. As he comes down I can check the 
rope with a turn round a smooth stone I 
have found at the comer of the tower. You 
must come down the climbing rope at the 
same time, and steer the basket as well as 
you can with your foot." 

"Yes. Is all fast above?" 

Gorlias listened. 

" Not yet," he whispered. " Wait for the 
signal." 

It came presently, the cry of the owlet 
repeated, as Gorlias had repeated it. Zeno 



heard it and began to climb, while Gorlias 
steadied the rope, though there was hardly 
any need for that. The young Venetian 
walked up with his feet to the wall, taking 
the rope hand over hand,, as if he were going 
up a bare pole by a gant-line. 

When he was twenty feet above the pier 
and was fast disappearing in the darkness, 
something moved in the boat, and a white 
face looked up cautiously over the gimwale. 
It was a woman's face. Zeno had stepped 
upon her with his whole weight when he 
was getting ashore, but she had made no 
sound. Her eyes tried to pierce the gloom, 
to follow him upward in his dizzy ascent. 
Soon she could not see him any longer, nor 
hear the soft sound of his cloth-shod feet as 
he planted them against the stones. 

Up he went, higher and higher. Gorlias 
steadied the end below, keeping one foot on 
the block lest it should thrash about on the 
stones and make a noise. He could feel each 
of Zeno's movements along the rope, and 
though he had seen many feats in his life he 
wondered at the wind and endurance of a 
man who could make such an ascent without 
once crooking his leg round the rope to rest 
and take breath. But Carlo Zeno never 
stopped till his feet were on the slight pro- 
jecting molding of the highest story, and 
his hands on the stone sill. 

As he drew himself up with a spring his 
face almost struck the chest of a large 
woman who was standing at the window to 
receive him. He saw her outline faintly, for 
there was a little light from one small lamp, 
placed on the floor in the farthest comer of 
the oblong room. The tower was square, 
but the north side of the chamber was 
walled off to make a space for the head of 
the staircase and a narrow entry. The sin- 
gle door was in this partition. Zeno looked 
round while he took breath, and he was 
aware of a tall man with a long beard who 
stood on one side of the window, and 
seemed inclined to flatten himself against 
the wall, as if he feared being seen from 
without, even at that height and in the dark. 

The woman moved a step backward, 
and Carlo put one leg over the window-sill 
and got in. He took his skull-cap from his 
head and bowed low to the imprisoned 
Emperor before he spoke to the woman in a 
whisper. 

"I will haul up the basket," he said, and 
he laid his hands on the knotted rope to do 
so. 



" Wiil you come with me t There is siili Hm 



But tbe tall man with the beard touched 
him on the shoulder and spoke in a low 
voice. 

"We must talk together," he said. 

Zeno hardly turned his head, and did not 
stop hauling in the rope. Below, Gorlias 
was steering the tail-block clear of the wall, 
lest it should strike the stones and make a 
noise. 

"This is no time for talking," Zeno said. 
" When your Majesty is free and in safety 
we can talk at leisure," 

The knotted rope was coming in fast; 
Zeno threw it upon the floor behind him in a 
wide coil to keep it clear. 

" Stopl " commanded the Emperor, laying 
one hand on the Venetian's arm. 

Zeno set bis foot on the rope to keep it 
from running out, and turned to the prisoner 
in surprise. 

"Ever>" moment is precious," he said. 



"If we are discovered from outside the 
tower the game is up, and we shall be caught 
like rats in a trap. I have a basket at the 
end of this rope in which you will be quite 
safe from falhng, if that is what makes you 
hesitate. Fear nothing. We are two good 
men, I and my companion below." 

"You are a good man indeed, to have 
risked your life in climbing here," answered 
Johannes. 

He made a few steps, bending his still 
handsome head in thought. He limped 
slightly in his walk, and he was said to have 
only four toes on his left foot. 

Zeno at once continued hauling up the 
rope, but a moment later the Emperor 
stopped close beside him. 

"It is of no use," he said; "I cannot go 
with you." 

Zeno was thunderstruck, and stood still 
with the rope in his two hands. 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



85 



"You will not go?" he repeated, almost 
stupidly. " You will not be free, now that 
everything is ready ? " 

"I cannot. Go down your rope before 
there is an alarm. Take God's blessing for 
your generous courage, and my heSirtfelt 
thanks. I am ashamed that I should have 
nothing else to offer you. I cannot go." 

"But why? Why?" 

Carlo Zeno could not remember that he 
had ever been so much siuprised in his life, 
and so are they who gather round the story- 
teller and listen to his tale. But it is a true 
one; and many years afterward one of 
Carlo Zeno's grandsons, the good old 
Bishop of Belluno, wrote it down as he had 
heard it from his grandsire's lips. More- 
over it is history. The imprisoned Em- 
peror Johannes refused to leave his prison, 
after Zeno had risked life and limb to pre- 
pare a revolution, and had scaled the tower 
alone. 

"Andronicus has my little son in the 
palace," said the prisoner; "if I escape he 
will put out the child's eyes with boiling 
vin^ar, and perhaps mutilate him or kill 
him by inches. Save him first, then I will 
go with you." 

There was something very noble in the 
prisoner's tone, and in the turn of his hand- 
some head as he spoke. Zeno could not 
help respecting him, yet he was profoundly 
disappointed. He tried one argument. 

"If you will come at once," he said, "I 
promise you that we shall hold the palace 
before daybreak, and the little prince will be 
as free as you." 

Johannes shook his head sadly. 

" The guards will kill him instantly," he 
said; "the more certainly if they see that 
they must fight for their lives." 

"In short, your Majesty is resolved? 
You will not come with me ? " 

" I cannot." The Emperor turned away, 
and covered his face with his hands, more 
as if dying to concentrate his thoughts than 
as if in despair. "No, I cannot," he re- 
peated presently. "Save the boy first," he 
repeated, dropping his hands and turning to 
Zeno again, " then I will go with you." 

Zeno was silent for a moment, and then 
spoke in a determined tone. 

"Hear me, sire," he said. " A man does 
not run such risks twice except for his own 
blood. You must either come with me at 
once, or give up the idea that I shall ever 
help you to escape. The boy may be in 



danger, but so are you yourself, and your 
life is worth more to this unhappy empire 
than his.* To-night, to-morrow, at any 
moment, your son Andronicus may send the 
executioner here, and there will be an end 
of you and of many hopes. You must risk 
your younger boy's life for your cause. I 
see no other way." 

"The other way is this; I will stay here 
and risk my own. I would rather die ten 
deaths than let my child be tortured, blinded 
and murdered." 

"Very well," answered Zeno; "then I 
must go." 

He let the knotted rope go over the sill 
again till it was all out, and he sat astride 
the window muUion ready to begin the 
descent. 

"Cast off the rope when I whistle," he 
said, " and let it down by the line, and the 
line after it by the twine." 

He spoke to the big woman, who was the 
wife of the keeper, himself a trusted captain 
of veterans. She nodded by way of answer. 

"For the last time," Zeno said, looking 
toward Johannes, "will you come with 
me? There is still time." 

The Emperor looked prematurely old in 
the faint light, and his figure was bent as he 
rested with one hand on the heavy table. 
His voice was weak too, as if he were very 
tired after some great effort. 

"For the last time, no," he answered. 
"I am sorry. I thank you with all my 
heart " 

2^no did not wait for more, and his head 
disappeared below the window almost 
before the prisoner had spoken the last 
words. Five minutes had not elapsed since 
he had reached the chamber. 

Below, Gorlias had been surprised when 
he felt the second rope slack in his hand, 
and when the basket and block, which had 
been half-way up the wall, began to come 
down again. The astrologer could only 
suppose that there was an alarm within the 
tower, and that Zeno was getting away as 
fast as he could. The last written message, 
lowered by the yam at dusk that evening, 
had been to say that the Emperor was 
ready, and that a red light would be shown 
when the captain was asleep, under the 
influence of the drug his wife had given him. 
It could not possibly occur to the astrologer 
that Johannes would change his mind at the 
very last moment. 

"Take care!" Gorlias whispered quickly 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



Zeno had (ut the rope below him 

to the woman at his elbow, as sooo as he 
was sure of what was happening. " He is 
coining down again," 

"Alone?" The anxious inquiry an- 
swered his words in the same breath. 

" Alone— yes! He is on the rope now, he 
is coming down, hand under hand," 

The woman sUpped down the inclined 
surface, almost fell, recovered her foothold 
and nearly fell again as she sprang into the 
boat, and threw herself at full length upon 
the bottom boards. Zeno was half-way 
down, and before she covered herself with 
the canvas she glanced up and distinctly 



saw his dark figure de- 
scending through the 

She had scarcely stretched 
herself out when she was 
startled by a loud cry, close 
at hand. 

"PhylaW! Aho— ho— o! 
Watch, ho! Watch, ho!" 
A boat had shot out of 
the darkness to the edge of 
the pier. In an instant 
three men had sprung 
ashore, and were cbmber- 
- ing up the sloping masonry 
toward Gorlias. The 
woman stood up in Zeno's 
'"skiff, ahnost upsetting it, 
and her eyes pierced the 
gloom to see wlmt was hap- 
pening. 

Gorlias threw himself 
desperately against the 
three men, with out- 
stretched arms, hoping to 
sweep them altogether into, 
the water from a place 
where they had so little 
foothold. The woman 
held her breath. One of 
the three men, active as a 
monkey, dodged past the 
astrologer, caught the knot- 
ted rope, and began climb- 
ing it. The other two fell, 
their feet entangled in the 
line rove through the tail- 
block, and with the strong 
man's weight behind them 
they tumbled headlong 
down the incline. With a 
heavy splash, and scarcely 
more than one for all three, 
Gorlias and his opponents fell into the 
water. 

There was silence then, while the other 
man climbed, higher and higher. 

The woman watched in horror. In 
falling, the men had struck against the 
stem of the skiff, dragging the painter from 
the peg. The other boat was not moored at 
all, and both were now adrift on the sluggish 
stream. The woman steadied herself, and 
tried to see. 

The man climbed fast, and above him 
the dark figure moved quickly upward. 
But Zeno's pursuer was fresher than he. 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



»r 



that spoke, aad the woman did not obey the 
instructions it gave. On the contrary she 
tried to paddle away, test the man should 
jump aboard. Strangely enough the skiS 
seemed to answer at once to her will, as if 
some unseen power were helping her. It 
could not be her unskilled, almost helpless 
movements of the oar that guided it away. 

But the man rose to his feet, on the lowest 
course of the stones, where there was a 
ledge, and he sprang forward, struck the 
water without putting his head under and 
was at the stern of the boat in a few sec- 
onds. 

The woman seemed fearless, for she 
stepped quickly over the after thwart, 
taking her oar with her, and a moment later 
she struck a desperate blow with it at the 
swimmer, and raised it again. She could 
not see him any more, and she knew that if 
she had struck his head he must have sunk 
instantly; but she waited a little longer in the 
stern, the oar still uplifted in both her hands. 



and as quick as a cat, and gained on him. 
If be caught him, he might crook his leg 
round the knotted rope to drag Zeno down 
and hurl him to the ground. 

Still he gained, while the boats began to 
drift, but still the woman could make out 
both figures, nearer and nearer to each 
other. Now there were not ten feet be- 
tween them. 

A faint cry was heard, a heavy thud on 
the stones, and silence again. Zeno had cut 
the rope below him. The woman drew a 
sharp breath between her closed teeth. 
There was no noise, now, for the man that 
had been as active as a cat was dead. 

But an instant later one of the other 
three was out of the water, and on the edge 
of the pier, panting for breath. 

The woman took up one of the oars, and 
tried to paddle with it. She thought that 
the man who had come up must be Gorlias, 
and that the other two were drowned; and 
she tried to get the boat to the pier a^in; 
she had never held an oar in her 
life, and she was trembhng now. 
High in mid-air Zeno was hanging 
on what was left of the rope, slowly 
working his way upward, fully 
fifty feet above the base of the 
tower. 

The skiff bumped against the 
other boat alongside, and the 
woman began to despair of get- 
ting nearer to the land, and tried 
to shove the empty boat away 
with her hands. The effect was 
to push her own skiff toward the 
pier, for the other was much the 
heavier of the two. Then, pad- 
dlmg a little, she made a little 
way. The man ashore seemed 
to be examining the body of the 
one who had been killed; it lay 
sprawling on the stones, the head 
smashed. The living one was 
not Gorlias; the woman could see 
his outline now. She was strong, 
and with the one oar shoved her 
skiff still farther from the other 
boat, and nearer to the pier. The 
man heard her, got upon his feet, 
and slipped down to the water's 
edge agam. 

" Hold out the end of the oar 
to me," he said, "and I will pull 
the boat in." 

It was not the voice of Gorlias SAe struck a desperate blow with it at the swimme* 



88 



MISS DEBBY 



At that moment, the repeated call of the 
owlet came down from far above. It could 
only mean that Zeno had reached the upper 
window in safety. Then the boat rocked 
violently two or three times, and the woman 
was thrown down, sitting, in the stem 
sheets; she saw that a man was getting 
in over the bows and was already on 
board. 



"That was well done, Kok6na," said the 
voice of Gorlias softly. 

Zoe sank back in the stem, half-fainting 
with exhaustion, pain and past anxiety. 

" Is he safe ?" she managed to ask. 

"That was his call. He has reached the 
window again, but it was a narrow escape." 

She could hardly breathe. Gorlias had 
taken the oars, and the skifiF was moving. 



(To be continued) 



MISS DEBBY 

BY S. DECATUR SMITH, JR. 

Miss Debby's progress down the street 

Is interrupted here and there; 
She has a neighbor's child to greet, 

A friend to speak to everywhere; 
A babe to kiss, a horse to pat, 

A friendless dog to interview, 
A sick man's door to linger at, 

And call a cheery " how d'ye do ? " 



Miss Debby's plain, old-fashioned gown 

Hangs straight and silken to her feet. 
A brooch, with hair of youthful brown. 

Lies where her bonnet ribbons meet. 
Her mitts half hide a well-worn ring, 

And children coming home from school 
Know that she seldom fails to bring 

Them comfits in her reticule. 



The parted bands of snowy hair 

Frame fittingly her placid face. 
Only a smile can harbor where 

Is written God's own gift of grace. 
To cheer, to cherish, to caress. 

In gentle ways, as gentles should — 
These are the loving deeds that bless 

Miss Debby's sweet old-maidenhood. 




THE NEMESIS 

BY JOHN G. NEIHARDT 



, SCHOONOVHR 



Y called for two 

nd reached for a 
id the botlle. His 
vara dizzily. The 
; of glasses at the 
ole upon his ears 
iiKc gongs. He was about 
to risk upon one "show-down" the realiza- 
tion of a five years' dream. He fell certain 
of losing; that was the strange thing about 
it. Yet somewhere in the buzzing back 
of his head a compelling little devil whis- 
pered and he obeyed. 

He drank three big ones straight, and 
for a moment things stood still and the 
buzzing ceased: but in the sudden silence 
the hissing of the little devil increased to a 
roaring like the river's in the June rise. 
" AU on th« deutesl All on the deticesl 
Every last cent!" That is what the little 
devil in the back of his head was howling 
now. 

" But if I lose it all — and wanting to go 
back home i n the spring ? " That was 
the question his pounding heart hurled 
at the iasistent little devil. 

"You won onee — didn't you? — didn't 



yo«?— DIDN'T YOU?" howled back the 

little devil jeeringly. 

"Five hundred," said Frenchy quietly. 
His bronze face had grown livid; his black 
eyes narrowed and glittered with a steady 
stare. With a hand that betrayed the 
least perceptible tremor, he pushed the 
chips to the center. 

The next man tossed his hand into the 
discards. The next hesitated, carefully 
studying the face of Frenchy with a furtive 
lifting of the eyes under his hat brim; he 
too laid down his hand. 

" Raise you two hundred," said the next 
with quiet cheerfulness. 

"Two hundred more," said the next 
nonchalantly, drumming a devil's tattoo 
with his fingers on the table. 

The fifth drew a long breath, grinned 
nervously, showing his teeth like a hungry 
wolf — and lossed his hand into the discards. 

It was now up to Frenchy. 

" Pardon me," said he, " but did you call 
me?" 

His face had turned a dull, ghastly green, 
but his voice was quiet and clear. 

"Raised it." 



90 



THE NEMESIS 



" Oh,certainly,"said he, smiling. "Think- 
ing of something else — ^trip home, I guess." 
His voice lowered until it was almost 
inaudible. This absent-mindedness was 
unusual for Frenchy. 

An oppressive silence had fallen in the 
barroom of the "Big 6." There was no 
longer any clinking of glasses or hum of 
maudlin voices. The loungers drew up in 
a hushed circle about the table and stared 
with fascinated eyes. A " big game " was 
on — ^and it was up to Frenchy. Frenchy 
was no quitter; he was a gambler to his 
finger-tips. "Frenchy? He'd bet on 
which'd be the last breath of his dying 
mother!" That was the way the pop- 
ular legend ran, and the man lived up 
to it. 

" Stake it all — stake it all on the deuces 
—the deuces — THE DEUCES!" The 
little devil in the back of his head was 
shrieking now and stamping red-hot heels 
into Frenchy 's brain. 

"But the trip home — IVe planned five 
years " urged his pounding heart. 

"You won on them once — didn't you? — 
didn't you?— DIDN'T YOU?" reiterated 
the little devil. 

Frenchy quietly poured out another glass 
and downed it. Then he pulled off his 
boots, produced a bunch of bills from the 
bottom of each, put on his boots again 
and looked at his hand. 

"Come two thousand more!" he whis- 
pered. 

A sound of deeper breathing grew up 
about the fascinated circle of onlookers. 
Frenchy had gone into his boots — ^they 
knew what that meant. Would the others 
stay? Would they? 

The place became uncanny with still- 
ness. Nothing moved in the room. The 
circle of eyes stared steadily upon the three 
who sat with expressionless faces blanched 
with the pitiless struggle that was going on. 
For a minute that seemed endless the 
soundless battle continued. Psychic forces 
exchanged invisible sword-thrusts across 
the table. Nerve wrestled with nerve that 
cowered but still fought on. 

The whole scene vanished for Frenchy. 
It seemed to him that he was the center of 
a silent hoUowness; only a voice, that was 
rather an ache felt than a sound heard, 
kept up a pitiless jeering. 

"They'll stay— they'll stay," shrieked 
the little devil; "your bluff won't work 



— ^you're a dead horse and they're crows 
— crows — crows! " 

"They're weakening!" beat the heart 
of Frenchy. 

" Deuces — ha ha ! Deuces ! And they've 
both got face cards — deuces — ho ho! — 
going home, eh? — win on deuces? — ho ho 
ho-^euces!" The insistent devil laughed 
spitefully. 

"Raise you five hundred more!" 

The words echoed and re-echoed in the 
lonesome hoUowness. Frenchy stared at 
his cards. 

"Five hundred more!" 

Frenchy winced and shivered. It seemed 
to him that a long thin-bladed knife had 
reached out of the silent hollow that sur- 
rounded him and stabbed him twice in the 
breast. 

"Ho ho ho!" went the little devil at the 
back of his head. "Stay with 'em! 
Put up the horses — everything on the 
deuces — ^ho ho ho!" 

"But I can lay down now and save the 
horses," urged the sick heart of Frenchy. 

"You won on the deuces once!'' shrieked 
the little devil; "didn't you— DIDN'T 
YOU?" 

Frenchy now heard his own voice grow- 
ing up out of the hollow. "Taken: my 
five horses and outfit are good for it." 

Then he emerged from the soundless 
hollow and was aware of the circle of 
glittering eyes staring down on the field 
whereon he had just staked five years of 
his life and his last cherished dream. 

" Full house — Aces on Queens." 

Frenchy heard the words and grinned 
exultantly. The little spiteful devil was 
silent. 

"Four Kings!" 

Frenchy drop|)ed his cards face up and 
reached for the bottle. " Ho ho ho! " went 
the little devil, dancing all over his brain; 
" ever)'thing lost on the deuces — dead horse 
for the crows to pick!^he he he!" 

A ripple of exclamations ran about the 
circle of loungers as they leaned forward 
to see the hand upon which Frenchy had 
staked all that he owned. 

"Deuces! By the jumping — four dirty 
deuces!" 

''Deuces?" 

"Four of 'em." 

"How's that for a bluff?" 

"Fool play!" 

A buzzing undertone of comment filled 



"Everything lost on the deiiees " 



92 



THE NEMESIS 



the room and steadily grew into a chattering 
as of crows about a spot where something 
has just died. Frenchy seemed not to hear; 
he was busy filling and refilling glasses. 
The man with the four Kings quietly 
raked in his winnings. "And the horses 
?" he suggested. 

Frenchy set the drained glass down 
with a bang, and with a snake-fike forward 
thrusting of the head leered hideously at 
the winner. "Can't you shut up about 
the horses?" He forced the words menac- 
ingly through his shut teeth. 

A hush fell upon the loungers as they 
looked upon the pinched, malignant face 
with the upper lip lifted quiveringly and 
the close set teeth showing beneath. This 
was no longer the Frenchy of legend; that 
Frenchy had always been known as one 
who lost or won large sums with the utter 
nervelessness of a machine. This was no 
longer the face of Frenchy — the gay, 
careless, haughty face of him who flirted 
with Fortune. This was a new Frenchy — 
a terrible Frenchy, with a coiled snake 
lurking just behind each glittering eyeball. 
This face sent a shiver through the crowd 
— like the sight of an ugly knife unsheathed 
in anger. 

The loungers with afifected carelessness 
began to move away. With a lightning 
sweep of the hands Frenchy drew his 
guns and banged them down violently on 
the table before him. "Stay where you 
are, gentlemen!" he said; "I'm going to 
talk and I want an audience. When I'm 
done talking, I'm off on the long trail 
and the first man that moves goes with 
me!" 

There had always been a winsome some- 
thing in the voice of the man. It was now 
commanding, irresistible. The loungers 
stood still and stared dumfounded upon 
this terrible new version of an old legend. 

Frenchy picked up four cards from his 
hand and held them up fan wise before his 
enforced listeners. "Look at 'em!" he 
shouted hoarsely. "Look at 'em! Let 
'em bum through your hides into your 
souls! Oh, you don't see anything, eh? 
Don't one of you dare to grin!" 

One hand fumbled nervously with the 
guns. 

"What do you see? I say what do you 
see? Four deuces? That all? I'll tell 
you what / see. I see the red warm hearts 
of two friends! I see diamonds that are 



cheap beside such hearts! I see a club — 
a black, brutal, treacherous club — that 
struck down a friend! And I see the 
devil's spades that dug his grave! That's 
what I see! Look hard!" 

Frenchy seemed to exercise an uncanny 
influence over his hearers. Not one moved 
— all stared upon the four upheld deuces. 

"It's the devil's story, gentlemen," he 
continued in a low husky voice. " It's 
hung by me for three bloody years — it 
haunts me! I've got to tell it." 

He passed his free hand over his fore- 
head beaded with sweat. Then he whis- 
pered a question to the spellbound audi- 
ence: 

"Did any of you know the Kid — Kid 
Smith?" 

A momentary expression of infinite 
kindness softened the face of Frenchy, 
only to give way immediately to deep 
quivering lines of anguish. He continued 
tremulously. 

"I knew him— the Kid. Had the 
biggest, bravest heart that ever beat in 
the god-forsaken white spaces of a map. 
One of that breed of fellows that the world 
nails to its crosses — the Kid was. And 
we were friends; that is, he was a friend. 
He gave and I took, and he was happier 
in the giving than I in the taking. That's 
the way it always goes: one gives and one 
takes — ^and God pity the man that only 
takes! 

" WTiy did I bet on the deuces ? Oh, the 
dirty deuces! Don't I know the game? 
I know every card like a kid knows his 
mother's face! Didn't I know it was the 
last ditch for me and no hope ? I tell you, 
gentlemen, I didn't play 'em! The Devil 
played 'em for me — the black Devil of the 
dirty deuces with the fiery feet that have 
been kicking me hellward for three aching 
years! 

"Look at the cards! Look at 'em! 
There's blood on every one of 'em, and 
they stink with the writhing flesh of a 
friend in the flames!" 

Frenchy took another drink and his 
manner changed. The violence of his 
delirious outburst gave way to quietness. 
He spoke in a low, penetrating voice, and 
the black flame of his eyes held his hearers. 

"The Kid and I had been riding across 
a big stretch of brown grass for two days, 
and our tongues were thick with thirst. 
I remember how he gave me the last drops 



of water we had with us, cussing a man 
who got thirsty. ' I can go without water 
with the biggest camel that ever stuck a 
hoof into the sand,' said he. And I took 
the water: I always look and the Kid was 
always giving. 

"And along in the evening we struck 
a little water hole and camped. How the 



Kid did drink when he thought I wasn't 
looking! Oh, he wasn't such a camel for 
carr\-ing water with him! It was his big 
heart that carried the water — the sweet, 
pure, sparkling waters of friendship. 

" Along about sundown a dull gray cloud 
grew up in the west — smoke! But the 
wind was against it, blowing soft and dry 



94 



THE NEMESIS 



from the east where the river lay thirty 
miles away. * Think we'd better ride on ? ' 
says the Kid. But I was tired and wanted 
sleep, and the Kid gave in. Says he, 
'Horses need a rest, I guess;' didn't lay 
it onto me, you know. Giving again and 
I taking. 

" So we lariated the horses and rolled in. 
Do you know how a man sleeps after he's 
been burning dry for days and fills up at 
last ? I plimged into ten thousand fathoms 
of soft, soft sleep — deep, deep down, where 
the cool sweet dreams l3loom in worlds of 
crystal. And everywhere in my sleep there 
were bubbling springs and I drank and 
drank and drank, and every gulp was 
sweeter than the last. 

"Then the dreams changed and the 
many bubbling water-holes of sleep went 
dry, and fine hot dust sprayed up out of 
the chinks where the water had flowed. 
Then the wind of sleep grew hot and hotter. 
It scorched my face and sent thin needles 
of fire into my brain. And then I was 
standing up coughing and rubbing my 
eyes and the Kid was beside me. What 
did we see ? 

"The wind had veered about while we 
slept. All hell was climbing up the west 
and a booming wind swept howling devils 
through the smoky twilight. Above the un- 
natural dawn long black ragged arms 
reached out into the zenith and cloaked 
the stars. I heard a horse snorting and 
tugging at his lariat. 

"*Good God, Kid!' I wheezed; 'let's 
be off!' 

"The Kid turned his face upon me and 
smiled — that slow, brave smile haunts 
me night and day. 

"'Your horse is gone — ' He waved 
his hand toward the miles of dark that 
stretched toward the river. 'Pulled his 
stake jxist before you woke up; heard him 
go.' The Kid's voice didn't even tremble. 

" ' Quick ! ' I yelled ; ' the matches ! Start 
a back-fire!' 

" Then a big cold hand gripped my heart; 
the Kid had given me the last match that 
day; I had wanted to smoke. 

" All hell behind us and a horse for two! 
A thirty-mile heat with the mustangs of 
the Devil, and double weight to carry! 
It made me sick — dizzy sick. I forgot 
everything. Oh, gentlemen, when you face 
hell-fire you'll know if your mother bore 
a coward. 



"For a minute we stared into the west 
minute years long. Big pink waves of 
smoke rolled into gulfs of purple and dis- 
appeared in holes of murk. Above, the 
blood -red surf frothed and sparkled and 
fell in yellow showers! Great blankets 
of dense gloom dropped from the sky and 
smothered out the hellish morning, hurling 
momentary night down the howling wind! 
Then keen, zigzag blades of fire ripped 
through the belly of the night! 

" I felt the Kid's hand grasp mine. Oh, 
God! the feel of his hand! 'One horse 
for two, Frenchy,' he said, quiet as a man 
who proposes another drink at the bar. 
'One of us makes a run for his life; and 
the other — ' He motioned carelessly 
toward Hell. ' One more deal of the cards, 
Frenchy, and the last for one of us. High 
hand takes the horse: low hand — produce 
the deck.' 

"I produced the deck — ^greasy and dog- 
eared; for many's the social game the Kid 
and I had played with 'em together. We 
squatted on the prairie in the red twilight, 
and the Kid dealt. Not a tremor of his 
perfect gambler's hands! Cool as though 
it was a game of penny-ante. 

" I drew three deuces ! Deuces I Oh, the 
damned dirty deuces! 

'"How many?' says the Kid pleasantly. 
For the first time in my life I forgot to 
guard my hand. A deep rolling thunder 
had grown up out of the burning west. 
It seemed I could feel the prairie dell trem- 
ble like a bridge under a drove of sheep. 
'Listen!' I gasped. 'It's the critters 
coming,' said the Kid; 'cattle and buffalo 
and elk and deer and wolves — the whole 
posse. How many cards did you call for? 
— two wasn't it?' 

"He thrust two cards into my hand. 
One of 'em was the deuce of hearts! It 
wasn't only the printed heart he gave me; 
it was the warm, red, beating heart of a 
friend." 

Frenchy dropped his head into his arms 
on the table and groaned. When he lifted 
his face again his eyes were wet. 

"Four deuces — and they bum holes in 
the dark whenever I shut my eyes! And 
all day I see four pairs of devils dancing 
in the sunlight till my head smms!" 

Frenchy dropped his head upon his 
chest and breathed deep, uneven breaths 
for a space. 

" The Kid had only a pair of face-cards," 



JOHN G. NEIHARDT 



he continued; "a dinky little pair of face 
cards. And for a second the man in me 
came to the surface, and I threw the four 
hand down and stamped on it and said I 
wouldn't leave him. And what did the 
Kid do? Began with all the blackguard 
adjectives of the language and ended with 
'coward' and threw the bunch in my teeth. 



95 

gotten everything. I was a Fear without 
a body flying through a darkness that 
coughed smoke and spit light. And then 
at last things quit whirling, and I felt the 
steady /»/(, lift, lijt of the good brute racing 
with all the devils down a heart-breaking 
stretch for the river. 
"I turned about in the saddle. Half 



"For the first time in nty life I forgot to guard my hand" 



'You're the first man that ever called me 
a quitter, Frenchy,' he said. 'I played 
my hand, didn't I? What would you do 
to a man who'd ask you lo take your money 
back when you'd lost? If I'd won, do 
you think I wouldn't leave your carcass 
here to stew, you cu.ssed fool?' 

" And then something in ihc back of my 
head woke up and howled: 'You won — 
it's yours — a chance for life — fair play — 
he'd go if you lost — he'd go!' And there 
was a roaring in my head and the flaming 
night whirled 'round, and the hitler words 
stung me, and my heart hardened — and — 
I— went. 

"I found the Kid's horse saddled and 
bridled. I cut the lariat and leaped astride. 
I jabbed the spike spurs into the frightened 
brute till he roared with pain. I had for- 



the sky had turned into an open furnace! 
Above me a great stormy ocean of blood 
rolled on into the twilight of the east! 
Blood! — a seething, billowy sea of red 
blood, with great red, purring cat-tongues 
lapping it greedily! Gaudy giant flowers 
— purple, yellow, red, green — bloomed for 
a moment in a strange garden of dreams, 
and nodded in the wind and tell and 
bloomed again and fell! The infernal 
beauty of the thing fascinated me for a 
moment. Then I heard the rumbling — 
the unceasing thunder. It was louder 
than before. I thought of the ten thousand 
sharp hoofs gaining, gaining, with whips 
of fire lashing ihem in the rear. And then 
I thought of the Kid back there. 

'■ My heart sickened. The hot wind that 
scorched my face accused me; the choking 



96 



THE NEMESIS 



air accused me. I could see him lying on 
his face even then with the mad hoofs 
beating him into a pulp; I could see the 
writhing of his body as the heat increased; 
I could smell the stench of his sizzling 
flesh! 

*'I reeled in the saddle, yet the mad 
wish to live lashed my hands to the pommel. 
But this was only for a moment. The 
meanest worm that ever wriggled in a dung- 
hill holds fast to his life. I forgot the 
Kid again; I remembered only myself and 
that I must ride to win. I pulled the horse 
down and held him steady. Never did 
I throw a leg across a better horse than 
the Kid's — ^honest, rangy, clean-limbed 
and deep in the chest! My heart leaped 
with joy when I heard his long, even breath- 
ing. I had a great delirious love for the 
big-hearted brute as I felt his long, even 
reach, the tireless rhythmic stride that throws 
the miles behind. The drifting red sea 
of smoke above cast the wild glare down 
upon the prairie and made the footing sure. 
I threw my guns away; I stripped off my 
coat and gave it to the wind. I knew what 
an extra pound might mean. 

"An elk forged slowly past, his wide 
antlers tipped with light. An antelope 
sprang up and bounded away into the 
twilight ahead. A coyote leaped from a 
shoe-string clump; he cowered and whined 
like a whipped dog with his tail between 
his legs, then raced away down the wind. 
Snorting shadows began to move to right 
and left in the further gloom and disappear 
in the smoke-drift. I was now a part of 
the ragged edge of the flotsam tossed up by 
the approaching lip of the flood. I gave 
my horse another inch of rein and held him 
steady. The thunder in the rear grew 
louder; I could hear dimly the wild con- 
fusion of animal cries. I was the fox 
hearing the yelp of the hounds and racing 
for cover. 

"Years and years of flight with the 
breath of an oven to breathe! Years and 
years of raising and falling, raising and 
falling, and my throat was tight with the 
driving smoke. The good brute began to 
wheeze and cough. I felt the tremor of 
his wearying muscles, the slight unsteadi- 
ness of the knees. I prayed for the river 
— prayed like a kid at his mother's knee. 
I begged the brute to keep his legs; I 
cursed him when he tottered; I called him 
baby names and cursed him in a breath. 



"And after years the day began — ^a 
sneaking shadow of a day, shamed out by 
the howling western dawn that met it 
on the run. A storm of sound was all 
about me. Neck and neck I raced with 
a buffalo bull that led the herd; his swollen 
tongue hung from his foaming mouth; his 
breath rumbled in his throat. Wheezing 
steers toiled up about me. Deer and elk 
raced side by side, slowly forging into the 
van. Gray wolves bounded past, whining 
and yelping. And my good brute beat 
away bravely at the few remaining miles. 
I felt the dry rasp of his lungs and the 
breaking of his big strong heart. He 
stumbled — I gave him the spur to the heel; 
he gave no sign of pain. He was dying 
on his feet. 

"And the cheap, dirty day crept in 
through the smoke — ^and I thought of the 
Kid, and lost heart and cared no more 
about the race. But by and by I saw the 
river ahead, and we plunged in — a howling, 
panting flood of beasts, struggling for the 
farther shore. 

"The sky and the river whirled about 
me. I felt my horse totter up a sandbank 
and fall. Then the day went out, and I 
forgot. 

" Oh, God ! I wish I'd never wakened up ! 
Why didn't the buffalo and the steers beat 
me into the sand? Why did I wake up?" 

Frenchy covered his face with his hands 
and the tears trickled through his fingers. 

"But the dead horse parted the herd, 
and I woke up and the fire was dead and 
the sun looked like a moon through the 
smoke. Three aching years ago, it was; 
and I've dragged my carcass about and 
tried to look like a man. But night and 
day the deuces have followed me and 
tortured me. They burn holes in the dark 
whenever I shut my eyes; four pairs of 
devils dance before me all day in the sun- 
light till my head whirls." 

Frenchy picked up the four deuces and 
held them tremblingly before the staring 
crowd. 

"Look at 'em! Let 'em bum through 
your hides into your souls! There's the 
blood of the Kid on 'em. The damned 
dirty deuces! They've got me in the last 
ditch! I'm done!" 

Frenchy crushed the cards and dashed 
them to the floor. He arose unsteadily 
to his feet, took his guns and staggered out 
of the barroom of the "Big 6." 



THE PATRICK CASE, COMPLETE* 

IN WHICH AN INGENIOUS CONSPIRACY CRUMBLED, 
AND A FAMOUS MURDER WAS EXPOSED 

BY ARTHUR TRAIN 



ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY IN NEW YORK COUNTY 



ILLUSTRATED WITH FACSIMILES 



*' The Devil himself, which is the author of confusion and lies." 

— Robert Burton in *' Anatomy of Melancholy." 



I 




LLIAM M. RICE, 84 
years of age, died at the 
Berkshire Apartments at 
500 Madison Avenue, New 
York Citv, at about half 
after seven o'clock on the 
evening of Sunday, Sep- 
tember 23, 1900. He had been ill for 
some time, but it was expected that he 
would recover. On or about the moment 
of his death two elderly ladies, friends of the 
old gentleman, had called at the house with 
cakes and wine, to see him. The elevator 
man rang the bell of Mr. Rice's apartment 
again and again, but could elicit no response, 
and the ladies, much disappointed, went 
away. While the bell was ringing Charles 
F. Jones, the confidential valet of the aged 
man, was waiting, he says, in an adjoining 
room until a cone saturated with fchloro- 
form, which he had placed over the face of 
his sleeping master, should effect his death. 
Did Jones murder Rice? If so, was it, 
as he claims, at the instigation of Albert T. 
Patrick ? 

These two questions, now settled in the 
affirmative forever, so far as criminal and 
civil litigation are concerned, have been the 
subject of private study and public argu- 
ment for nearly six years. 

An Aged and Lonely Millionaire 

Mr. Rice was a childless widower, living 

♦ In 1906 the Governor of New York coniniuted the 
death sentence of Albert T. Patrick to life imprisonment, 
and the most extraordinary struij^frle in the legal history 
of the State on the part of a convicted murderer for his 
own life came to an end. The defendant in the *' Death 
House " at Slnfi^ Sinfp had invoked every expedient to 
escape punishment, and by the use of his knowledge 
even saved a fellow prisoner, '* Mike " Brush, from the 
electric chair. 



the life of a recluse, attended only by Jones, 
who was at once his secretary, valet and 
general servant. No other person lived in 
the apartment, and few visitors ever called 
there. Patrick was a New York lawyer 
with little practice who had never met Mr. 
Rice, was employed as coimsel in litigation 
hostile to him, yet in whose favor a will pur- 
porting to be signed by Rice, June 30, 1900, 
turned up after the latter's death, by the 
terms of which Patrick came into the prop- 
erty, amounting to over seven million dol- 
lars, in place of a charitable institution 
named in an earlier will of 1896. It is now 
universally admitted that the alleged will of 
1900 was a forgery, as well as four checks 
drawn to Patrick's order (two for $25,000 
each, one for $65,000, and one for $135,000, 
which represented practically all of Rice's 
bank accounts), an order giving him con- 
trol of the contents of Rice's safe deposit 
vaults (in which were more than $2,500,000 
in securities), and also a general assignment 
by which he became the owner of Rice's 
entire estate. Thus upon Rice's death 
Patrick had every possible variety of docu- 
ment necessary to possess himself of the 
property. Jones took nothing under any 
of these fraudulent instruments. Hence 
Patrick's motive in desiring the death of 
Rice is the foundation stone of the case 
against him. But that Patrick desired and 
would profit by Rice's death in no way tends 
to establish that Rice did not die a natural 
death. Patrick would profit equally 
whether Rice died by foul means or nat- 
ural, and the question as to whether murder 
was done must be determined from other 
e\idence. This is only to be found in the 
confession of the valet Jones and in the testi- 

97 



98 



THE PATRICK CASE, COMPLETE 



mony of the medical experts who performed 
the autopsy. Jones, a self-confessed mur- 
derer, swears that upon the advice and 
under the direction of Patrick (though in 
the latter's absence) he killed his master by 
administering chloroform. There is no 
direct corroborative evidence save that of 
the experts. Upon Jones's testimony de- 
pended the question of Patrick's guilt or in- 
nocence, and of itself this was not sufficient, 
for being that of an accomplice it must, 
under the New York law, be corroborated. 

In the confession of Jones the State had 
sufficient direct evidence of the crime and of 
Patrick's connection with it, providing there 
was other evidence tending to connect Patrick 
with Us commission. This corroborative 
evidence is largely supplied by the facts 
which show that for a long time Patrick 
conspired with Jones to steal the bulk of 
Mr. Rice's estate at his death. This evi- 
dence not only shows Patrick's possible 
motive for planning Mr. Rice's murder, but 
also tends to corroborate Jones's whole 
story of the conspiracy. 

Rice did not know Patrick even by sight. 
He had heard of him only as a person re- 
tained by another lawyer (Holt) to do " the 
dirty work" in an action brought by Rice 
against Holt, as executor, to set aside Mrs. 
Rice's will, in which she assumed, under 
the "Community L-aw" of Texas where 
Rice had formerly resided, to dispose of 
some $2,500,000 of Rice's property. If 
Rice was a resident of Texas she had the 
legal right to do this, — otherwise not. Holt 
employed Patrick to get evidence that Rice 
still was such a resident. Rice knew of this 
and hated Patrick. 

Choosing a Conspirator 

Patrick's connection with the Rice litiga- 
tion had begun four years before the mur- 
der, which was not planned until August, 
1900. His first visit to Rice's apartment 
was made under the assumed name of 
Smith for the purpose of discovering whether 
the valet could be corrupted into furnishing 
fictitious proof of Rice's intent to reside in 
Texas. He flattered Jones; told him he 
was underpaid and not appreciated, and, 
after a second visit, at which he disclosed 
his right name, persuaded him to typewrite 
a letter on Rice's stationery addressed to 
Baker, Botts, Baker & Lovett (Rice's at- 
torneys), in which he should be made to siiy 



that he had lost hope of winning the suit 
against Holt, was really a citizen of Texas, 
and that he wanted to settle the litigation. 
Patrick said that he could arrange for the 
signing of such a letter and was willing to 
pay Jones $250 for his help. Jones agreed. 

Patrick now learned that Mr. Rice was 
living with no companion except Jones; 
that he held little communication with the 
outside world; that the valet was in his con- 
fidence and thoroughly familiar with his 
papers, and that the will made in 1896 dis- 
inherited natural heirs in favor of an educa- 
tional institution which he had founded in 
Texas. He also learned that while Mr. 
Rice was 84 years of age he was in posses- 
sion of all his faculties, conducted his own 
business, and might live for years. Pos- 
sessed of these facts Patrick's evil mind soon 
developed a conspiracy with Jones to secure 
the whole estate. 

Mr. Rice's pet charity was the William 
M. Rice Institute "for the advance of 
science, art and literature," of Texas, which 
he had founded in 1891. He had donated 
to it more than a million and a half dollars. 
By the will of 1896 only small legacies were 
bequeathed to relatives, while the bulk of 
his fortune was left to the Institute. 

Preparing a Bogus Will 

About a month after Patrick's first visit 
to the Berkshire Apartments, that is, in 
December, 1899, while he and Jones were 
examining Rice's private papers, they 
stumbted upon the will. Patrick saw his 
opportunity. By the forgery of a new will 
which would increase the legacies of those 
mentioned in the will of 1896 and leave 
legacies to every person who might have any 
claim upon the estate, it would be for the 
interest of those persons to sustain and 
carry into effect the forgery. The whole 
scheme was based upon the belief that 
" every man has his price." He told Jones 
that he thought the will unjust; that he did 
not think it right to leave so little to rela- 
tives, and later he brought to Jones a rough 
draft of a will which could be substituted 
for the genuine one. Patrick was to get 
half the estate, the relatives were to receive 
double or three times the amount provided 
in the 1896 will, and what was left was to be 
given to the Rice Institute. He proposed 
that Jones should typewrite this will, and 
guaranteed to arrange for the witnessing 



AN INGENIOUS CONSPIRACY AND A FAMOUS MURDER 99 



of •Mh othtr %Mi Mi dar of 
(ItOO). 



and signing of it, and promised that Jones 
should get whatever he wanted. Jones at 
first objected, but was finally won over. 
Rewritten many times to include new ideas 
of the conspirators, the doctmient finally 
reached the form of the will of June 30, 
1900, in which Patrick substituted himself 
for the Rice In- 
stitute and 
made himself 
one of the ex- 
ecutors. 

An ingenious 
part of tile con- 
spiracy was the 
decision to 
leave the i80 
will in exist- 
ence. If Pat- 
rick had de- 
stroved if and 
the relatives 
had succeeded 
in overthrow- 
ing the will of 
1900, the estate 
would have 
been left with- 
out testament- 
ary disposition 
and the rela- 
tives would 
have got more 
than was pro- 
vided by either 
will. With the 
wiU of i80 in 
existence, how- 
ever, the rela- 
tives would get 
less if they over- 
t h r ew the 
forgery. By 
retaining it, therefore, Patrick figured that 
the relatives would have selfish reasons for 
accepting the forgery as genuine. 

The preparation of this bogus will occu- 
pied about a month, and the next question 
was the prociu'ement of witnesses. It was 
desirable to get the same persons who wit- 
nessed the former will. These were Walter 
H. Wetherbee and W. F. Harmon, clerks 
for many years at Swenson's banking house. 
On the assumption that Wetherbee had 
been injured by Rice and was therefore 
hostile to him, Jones practically unfolded 
the scheme. He told Wetherbee that one 



(4) 
to \tm Mt< Alb«i«f . r 



taio. and ouoii portion alMU 
%?iek. 

KloTonth ; X glva, dovloo Md bo«aMtii %o Alb«v« T. Pa- 
trlek, fonwriy of *oi«t, nov of Ik* Topk, all »)w raav 
Ml roaSduo of ajr oatata. raai» patoonal MM alaad, horo«a- 
fo«w or haraaftar aeouivod md anaraaoavar ott«at«d. 

II TMmov WDVOP. z. tia aoid VlUiai M- WXvt^ 
to tliio V Laat mi mA Taa%aiwi%, iwva aifcacrl t ad ^ 
naaa and acnaad ^ aaal la % no praaanaa ap .>^U..i/w^ 

oa autoverlblnf wltnaaaaa. ado al0i tin oona oa aiftaarlblnc 




lOa Md in tin 



km D. nlnataaa 



•^K^L^ 




n^Md, aaaiad. piftiumd «d dialorM »r tho aaid 
milan M, Moa, aa, far and to ba hio laat nil and Vaata- 
Menc, In aw praaMAa* and «•« at Ma ratoaat «d in kia 
praaanoa ana tn tha praaanoa ar aaah atitart hor 
alenad aur nanoa aa alvnaaaaa thia ^ dtp af 
A. D. ninataan lant«rad (IMO). 



oaeiagtion. 



FACSIMILE OF THE LAST PAGE OF THE FORGED WILL 

Showing (/-) the clause leaving ^^ the bulk *' of the 
property to Patrick^ {2) the forged signature of Rice 
and (j) the signatures of the false witnesses 



of Mr. Rice's bonds had disapp>eared 
and that Rice had accused Wetherbee 
of stealing it. He wound up with the 
suggestion, "I will get one witness and 
you can get another, and the thing is 
done." But Wetherbee indignantly de- 
clined to join in the conspiracy. 

Morris Mey- 
ers, who had 
been employed 
in Patrick's 
ofl5ce, and Da- 
vid L. Short, a 
friend of both, 
were the false 
witnesses final- 
ly selected. 

They were 
clothed with 
the appearance 
of honesty and 
were brought 
into contact 
with Rice by 
Jones at vari- 
ous times : 
Meyers as a no- 
tary public, and 
Short as com- 
missioner of 
deeds for the 
State of Texas, 
an appoint- 
ment procured 
for him by Pat- 
rick probably 
for this sp)ecific 
piupose. 

The date of 
the forged will, 
June 30, 1900, 
was selected to 
correspond 
with the date of three genuine papers 
which Rice acknowledged before Short on 
that date. 

Series of Ingenious Forgeries 

The next step was to obviate the absurd- 
ity of Patrick's being selected as the residu- 
ary legatee at a time when he was engaged 
in bitter litigation against Rice. The best 
way out was for Patrick to pose as a lawyer 
who had brought about a settlement of this 
expensive litigation and thus won Rice's 
regard. Patrick first tried to accomj>lish 




Adftraia. 



lOO 



THE PATRICK CASE, COMPLETE 



this by getting friends to visit Rice and urge 
a settlement. But Rice rebuffed them all. 
Accordingly, Patrick again resorted to for- 
gery, and in August, 1900, manufactured an 
instrument of settlement, dated March 6, 
1900. 

But such an agreement would not explain 
the paradox of a man whom Rice hated and 
despised and did not know by sight turning 
up as the principal beneficiary under his 
will. It was necessary to manufacture evi- 
dence to be used after Rice's death in sup- 
port of his claim of close relations. The 
idea of a personal meeting with Rice had 
been abandoned on Jones's advice, and Pat- 
rick therefore caused the valet to prepare 
twenty-five or thirty forged letters addressed 
to him and purporting to come from Rice. 
These referred to current business matters 
and conveyed the impression that it was 
Rice's custom to seek the lawver's advice. 
One instructed Patrick as to the terms of 
the will of 1900. Carbon copies were made 
for filing in Rice's letter book after his 
death. 

To make assurance doubly sure and to 
secure immediate possession of Rice's 
securities a general assignment to Patrick 
of all Rice's estate was forged, and an order 
giving him access to and possession of the 
securities on deposit in Rice's safety vault. 

But Patrick did not stop here. He pro- 
cured from Jones three checks signed by 
]Mr. Rice in the regular course of business, 
one payable to Jones for his July salary and 
the other two for the July and August salary 
of an employee of Rice's in Texas named 
Cohn. The.se three checks Patrick kept 
as models, forwarding to Cohn two forged 
checks filled out by Jones upon which 
Rice's signature had been traced, and re- 
tiu"ning to Jones a substitute check with 
Rice's signature traced upon it. All three 
checks passed through the banks unsus- 
pected. Traced signatures were als(^ sub- 
stituted for genuine ones upon letters dic- 
tated by Rice to his Texas correspondents. 
Thus Patrick secured the circulation of five 
copies of Rice's signature which, if occasion 
demanded, he could produce as standards 
of comparison to correspond with his other 
forgeries. The principal preparations were 
complete. But title under the will might 
long be delayed and perhaps even eventu- 
ally fail. Patrick was poor and in no con- 
dition to conduct adequately a serious litiga- 
tion. The moment Mr. Rice died a large 



amount of cash would be necessary. For 
the procurement of this Patrick and Jones 
looked to the current balance of Rice's bank 
account, which amounted to some two hun- 
dred and fifty thousand dollars on deposit 
at Swenson's private bank and at the Fifth 
Avenue Trust Company. With this they 
felt reasonably secure of success. For even 
if the will should be set aside as fraudulent 
they had a second line of defense in the gen- 
eral assignment of the estate and the orders 
to Rice's two million five hundred thousand 
dollars of securities. 

Notorious ''Cremation Letter '^ 

While the evidence affords a motive for 
Patrick to desire the death of Mr. Rice, it 
does not of itself, up to this point, indicate 
the slightest intention on the part of Patrick 
to do away with the old gentleman. It was 
therefore conceded by the prosecution that, 
upon Jones's own testimony, the conspiracy 
to murder was not formed until about seven 
weeks before the event. The first evidence 
which points to an intent to murder is the 
famous "cremation letter," dated August 

3d. 

The cremation letter from Mr. Rice 

authorizing Patrick to cremate his body 
shows that Patrick intended to do away 
with Rice in such a way that an autopsy 
must, if possible, be prevented and the evi- 
dence of murder destroyed. That Patrick 
forged such a letter was evidence that his 
connection with the murder was premedi- 
.tated and deliberate. To cremate the body 
before an autopsy it was necessary to pro- 
cure a physician's certificate that Rice had 
died from natural causes. He therefore 
made preparation to secure such a certifi- 
cate, and then upon the strength of the cre- 
mation letter to give directions for the im- 
mediate destruction of the body. 

Patrick, with the view of having at hand 
a physician who would be unsuspicious, 
and who would issue a certificate of death 
from natural causes, induced Jones to send 
for Dr. Curry, his own friend and physician, 
on an occasion when the valet was ill. 
This was in March, 1 900. Dr. Curry came, 
and Jones, acting under Patrick's advice, 
cautioned him not to mention the lawyer's 
name to Rice. In course of time he saw 
Rice, gained his good opinion and became 
his attending physician. But Rice did not 
die, and curiously enough it was he himself 



AN INGENIOUS CONSPIRACY AND A FAMOUS MURDER loi 



who suggested to Jones the instrumentality 
of death which was finally employed, for he 
read an article dealing with the dangers of 
chloroform as an anaesthetic, and discussed 
it with the valet. This suggestion was con- 
veyed to Patrick, Who asked Dr. Curry 
whether chloroform left any traces discov- 
erable upon an 
autopsy. Dr. 
Curry gave er- 
roneous infor- 
mation that it' 
left but slight 
traces if admin- 
istered only in 
the quantities 
which would be 
fatal to a man 
with a weak 
heart. Patrick 
told Jones, so 
Jones alleges, 
to procure 
some chloro- 
form and this 
he did, sending 
to Texas for 
two bottles of 
two ounces 
each. From 
Dr. Curry's re- 
marks it was 
manifest that a 
weakened con- 
dition of the 
patient was an 
important ele- 
ment, and as 
Jones was tak- 
ing some mercury pills (prescribed for him 
by Dr. Curry), the valet induced his master 
to take some of them. The old gentleman 
was benefited, however, rather than weak- 
ened. This was before the forgery of the 
cremation letter. It was clear that larger 
doses of mercury would be necessary, and 
accordingly Patrick furnished Jones with 
pellets containing the drug in such quanti- 
ties that Jones, experimenting with one of 
them, became ill. 

Waiting for an Old Man to Die 

They had now the means to effect gradual 
death, but as mercury leaves traces discerni- 
ble at an autopsy, it was decided that the 
body must be cremated promptly. Hence 



■•V York Aiic a, uoo. 
jabvt T. P««riok, tm^. 

/3TT Brottdny city, 
Deiir tlr-- 

eoiM«mli« ths MitUr of Bfntlan. I Mn% don to t)»t 
umtod stotoa orsMtory ofriao for Infonatloa and cot t«e olroolwa 
vhioli tfo v«ry latvootioc, X will diow tiMS to you ^bma. you oobo 19. 
Bvary oliieo ool.iiob«rt Ziwuoll, and oel. vwlag «vo oraMtod. x kdv* 
UMia^t that X alMuld lUbo to bo araaatod alao. 

Ool. XBcaaoll waa a vary aMrt aan and a aaa of poat J wi ffa n V 
about all tianso tfaoh la pooaiblo tar a aaa to kaov, tet about rollflflA 
a MB oamot know. XinaiaoM'ti -bo rl^t a» M "ay bo wenc tbat tv 
all fluooo work. 

eol.varinc waa a groat aaaitary iMA, and It aoana to aa tbat tho 

lav Mould not aUoo doad bodloo to bo borlod all ovar tho ooiutry* 

aftor dying of all Uafta of doooaooo. X would waA ratliov havo ay body 

biffnod Vban aat by oohm or atolon by warn aadloal atudont and oarvod 

to ploooa. Xf I iHould dio Z want you to aao that Z m not M b a ln o d 

aa thoy fill you 1AU1 dhwloala whan thoy aaibalB you, but I want you t« 

havo ay body aranatad at onoo and agr uhoa put la an urn and IntarMd 

with V lata n^ nisaboth a. Uoo.- Aa to AoMvala X do not think v 

rolatlvoa would oaro to oaao to alao and X aao no uao having ona until 

ay aahoa aro intaiiad with agr Vlfo. 

I wrlto thobo thlnga booauao z happon to thUft of tbaa although 
told BO to glvo Voa vrUtoB dlrootlona oeaw tUao age. ^Mt Z o^oet to 
Uvo twonty yoora. aa Z aaaa of a long llvod fMlly and ai in protty 
cood hoalth for a aan of agr ago. 



FACSIMILE OF THE FAMOUS "CREMATION LETTER" 



the cremation letter. It was now hoped 
that Rice might drop off at any moment, 
owing to his weakened condition, and in 
anticipation of death Patrick discontinued 
his visits to the apartment in order to estab- 
lish a satisfactory alibi. Jones also fre- 
quently absented himself from the apart- 

ment in the 
evenings after 
the old man 
had fallen 
asleep. 

On Septem- 
ber i6th Rice 
had an attack 
of acute indi- 
gestion, which 
might have re- 
sulted seriously 
had it not been 
for the mercu- 
rial pills which 
promptly re- 
lieved him. 
The reader 
should observe 
that practically 
all of this testi- 
mony comes 
from Jones. 
There is no ex- 
traneous e-v i - 
dence that Pat- 
rick induced 
'the giving of 
the mercury. 
Patrick, how- 
ever, spread 
false rumors as 
to Rice's general health and also as to his 
financial condition and intentions, namely, 
that Rice was only worth seven hundred 
and fifty thousand dollars, and that those 
who expected he was going to leave his 
money to the Institute were doomed to dis- 
appointment. But neither his statements 
about Rice's condition nor his remarks as to 
the disposition and extent of his property 
are inconsistent with a mere hope that he 
would die and thus leave Patrick free to 
enjoy the fruits of his forgeries. 

There now occurred, however, an event 
which may well have played a part in induc- 
ing Patrick to supplement forgery by mur- 
der. On Sunday, September i6th, the 
Merchants' and Planters' Oil Company of 
Houston, Texas, of which Rice owned 



ro truly 



//qtf^^ 



I02 



THE PATRICK CASE, COMPLETE 



seventy-five per cent, of the capital stock, 
was destroyed by fire. The company 
being without funds to rebuild, its directors 
telegraphed to Rice requesting him to ad- 
vance the money. The amount needed 
was two hundred and fifty thousand dol- 
lars, — and if Rice consented, all the avail- 
able funds on deposit in the New York 
banks, upon which the conspirators relied 
to accomplish their object, would be ex- 
hausted. Jones endeavored to dissuade 
the old man from advancing the money, but 
without effect, and Rice sent a letter to 
Houston agreeing to supply one hundred 
and fifty thousand dollars and more in in- 
stallments of twenty-five thousand dollars 
each. . This was on September i8th, after 
he had wired to the same effect on Septem- 
ber 17th. Patrick and Jones suppressed a 
telegram that Rice would advance two hun- 
dred and fifty thousand dollars, and on 
September 19th the old man received word 
that the first draft in conformity with his 
telegram of September 17th had been drawn 
and would arrive in New York on the 2 2d. 
Jones says that on showing this to Patrick 
the latter announced that Rice must be put 
out of the way as soon as possible. Accord- 
ingly, on September 20th and 21st, Jones 
administered larger doses of mercury than 
usual, which, while weakening and depress- 
ing him, failed to cause his end. Saturday, 
September 2 2d, the draft was presented at 
Rice's apartment. The old man was not 
confined to his bed, but Jones told the bank 
messenger, after pretending to consult him, 
that Rice was too ill to attend to business 
that day and to return on Monday. That 
night Jones and Patrick met, and it w^as 
agreed (according to Jones) that Rice must 
not be allowed to survive until Monday. 
They still hoped that he might die without 
any further act upon their part, but Jones 
was informed by Dr. Curry that although 
the old man seemed weak and imdef a great 
mental strain, he nevertheless thought that 
he would recover. This Curry also told to 
Patrick, the latter calling at the doctor's 
house about five o'clock in the afternoon. 

"You think ^^Ir. Rice will be able to go 
down Monday morning?" Patrick asked. 

"You had better wait until Monday 
morning comes," replied Dr. Curry. 

" Do you think he will be able to go down 
town next week?" persisted the lawyer. 

The doctor answered in the affirma- 
tive. 



The Murder 

That night Mr. Rice slept quietly until 
eight o'clock Sunday morning. Dr. Curry 
called and found him in excellent condi- 
tion, having eaten a hearty breakfast. His 
heart was a trifle weak, but it was sound. 
His organs were all working normally; he 
felt no pain. The doctor left without pre- 
scribing any medicine, stating that he 
would not return unless called, and express- 
ing his opinion that the patient would re- 
cover. This was about eleven o'clock, and 
Jones immediately hastened to Patrick's 
house and reported the conversation. 

It was clear that Rice's death would not 
occur before Monday morning. He might 
live to pay over the two hundred and fifty 
thousand dollars; long enough to give further 
testimony in the Holt litigation, and thus 
expose the whole fraudulent scheme of pre- 
tended settlement and of friendly relations 
with the lawyer, and finally, perhaps, even to 
make a new will. The success of the con- 
spiracy demanded that Rice should die that 
night. Did he die naturally? Was his 
death caused by any further act of the con- 
spirators ? Did Jones kill him by means of 
chloroform ? 

Jones's story is that Patrick supplied him 
with some oxalic acid which was to be mixed 
with powdered ammonia and diluted in 
water, on the theory that it was preferable 
to chloroform since* it would not require 
Jones's presence in the room at the moment 
of death. Jones said that he endeavored to 
administer the mixture to the old man, but 
that he refused to take it. Jones had 
already procured the chloroform from 
Texas, as has been stated, and had turned 
it over to Patrick. He says that that after- 
noon he procured this from Patrick, who 
told him how to administer it. This was a 
few moments after six o'clock. Rice was 
sleeping soundly. The colored woman who 
did the housework was absent for the day 
and the rooms were deserted. He satu- 
rated a sp)onge with chloroform, constructed 
a cone out of a towel, placed the sponge in 
the cone, put the cone over the sleeping 
man's face and ran out of the room and 
w^aited thirty minutes for the chloroform to 
complete the work. Waiting in the next 
room he heard the door bdl ring, and ring 
again, but he paid no attention to the siun- 
mons. In point of fact he was never quite 
sure himself whether the bell was not the 



AN INGENIOUS CONSPIRACY AND A FAMOUS MURDER 103 

covered all but ten thousanddollarsof Rice's 
deposits. These consisted of one for 
twenty-five thousand dollars and one for 
sixty-five thousand dollars on Swenson, one 
for twenty-five thousand dollars and another 
for one hundred and thirty-five thousand 
dollars on the Trust Company. They 
were all made payable to the order of Pat- 
rick and dated September aid, the day be- 
fore Rice's death. One of the drafts on the 
Fifth Avenue Trust Company was cashed 
for him by a friend named Potts early Mon- 
day morning, and was paid without diffi- 
culty. 



creatbn of his own overwrought brain. At 
the end of half an hour he returned to the 
bedroom, removed the cone from Rice's face 
and saw that he was dead, then after burn- 
ing the sponge and the towel in the kitchen 
range he opened the windows, straightened 
the rooms out, called the elevator man, 
asked him to send for Dr. Curry, and tele- 
phoned to Patrick that Rice was dead. 

First Hitch in the Conspiracy 

Jones had no sooner telephoned Patrick 
that Rice was dead than the lawyer hastened 
to Dr. Curry's,' and within forty minutes ap- 
peared with him in Rice's apartments, as- 
suming complete chaise. Summoning an 
undertaker and having the cremation tetter 
at hand, he gave orders for speedy crema- 
tion. But he now discovered the principal 
mistake in his calculations. He had omitted 
to investigate the length of time required to 
heat the crematory. This he now discov- 
CTcd to his horror to be twenty-four hours. 
But the body must be destroyed. The 
undertaker suggested that the body might 
be embalmed while the crematory was being 
heated, and Patrick at once seized upon the 
suggestion and gave orders to that effect, 
although the cremation letter sets forth 
specifically that one of the reasons why Rice 
desired cremation was his horror of being 
embalmed. The body was embalmed at 
the apartments that night, Dr. Ciury sup- 
plying the certificate of death from " old age 
and weak heart," and " as immediate cause, 
indigestion followed by collocratal diarrhtea 
with mental worry." 

Having arranged for the cremation at the 
earliest possible moment, Jones and Patrick 
rifled the trunk in which Rice kept his 
papers, and stuffed them in a satchel which 
Patrick bore away with him. 

The funeral was to be held early Tuesday 
morning and the ashes conveyed by Jones to 
Milwaukee, to be interred near the body of 
Rice's wife, while the relatives should not 
be notified until it should be too late for 
them to reach New York. 

The next step was to secure the two hun- 
dred and fifty thousand dollars which Rice 
had on deposit. Patrick had already forged 
Rice's name to blank checks on Swenson 
and the Fifth Avenue Trust Company. 
Early Monday morning Jones, with Patrick 
looking over his shoulder and directing him, 
filled out the body of the checks, which 



Fatal Omission of the Letter "/" 

But now came the second error, which 
resulted in the exposure of the conspiracy 
and conviction for murder. Jones in filling 
out the twenty-five thousand dollar check 
on Swenson had in his nervousness omitted 
the "1" from Patrick's Christian name, so 
that the check read "Abert T. Patrick," 
and Patrick in his excitement had failed to 
notice the omission or attempt to obviate it 




FACSIMILR OF THE $^5,000 CHECK AND THR 
BACK OF THB SAMS WITH PATRICK'S 
INDORSEMENT 

Showing how in his nervousness Jones le/l 
the " / " out of the name Albert 

by extra indorsement. This twenty-five 
thousand dollar Swenson check was in- 
trusted to Da\id L. Short for presentation 
to Swenson & Sons for certification. WTien 
he presented it, Wallace, the clerk, recog- 
nized Jones's handwriting in the body of it, 
and thought the signature looked unnatural. 
He took it to a rearoffice, where he showed 
it to Wetherbee, who was the person whom 



I04 



THE PATRICK CASE, COMPLETE 



Jones approached nine months before with 
a request that he join the conspiracy to 
manufacture a bogus will. Wetherbee 
compared the signature on the check with 
genuine signatures in the bank, and returned 
it to Short without any intimation that he 
regarded it as irregular, but assigning as the 
reason the defect in the indorsement. 
Short thereupon returned the check to 
Patrick, who supplied the necessary supple- 
mentary indorsement and telephoned to 
Jones what had occtured, instructing him to 
say that the check was all right in case the 
Swensons should inquire. 

Half an hour later Short returned to 
Swenson*s, w^here the check was examined 
by one of the firm. Rice's apartments were 
then called up, where Jones said that the 
checks were all right. But this did not 
satisfy Mr. Swenson, so he instructed Wal- 
lace to call up the apartment again and 
insist on talking to Mr. Rice. Jones de- 
layed replying to Wallace and in the after- 
noon called up Patrick on the telephone, 
inquiring what he should say. Patrick 
replied that he would have to say that Rice 
was dead. And in accordance with this 
Jones informed Swenson that Rice had 
died at eight o'clock the previous evening. 
It was thus clear to Swenson that although 
the maker of the check was dead, Patrick, 
a lawyer, cognizant of that fact, was seeking 
to secure payment upon it. For Jones had 
told Swenson that he had reported Rice's 
death to the doctor and to Rice's lawyer, 
Patrick. 

Patrick, accompanied by Potts, went im- 
mediately to the bank, where Swenson in- 
formed him that the check could be paid 
only to the administrator. Patrick replied 
that there would be no administrator; that 
Rice left no property in this State, and in- 
formed Swenson that he had an assignment 
bv Rice to himself of all Rice's securities 
with Swenson. He also invited Swenson to 
the funeral. 

I^ater in the day Patrick attempted to 
obtain p>ossession of Rice's securities in the 
Safety Deposit Company and in the Fifth 
Avenue Trust Company, by presenting 
forged instruments of transfer to the orders 
heretofore referred to; but after some delav 
the trust companies declined him access. 
The conspiracy had begun to go to pieces. 
The two mistakes and the failure to secure 
funds placed Patrick in a dangerous posi- 
tion. 



Two o'clock on Monday afternoon, eigh- 
teen hours after the death, Jones, at Pat- 
rick's direction, began to notify the relatives 
that Rice had died the evening before, and 
that the funeral would take place the follow- 
ing morning. The telegrams to Baker and 
to Rice, Jr., in Texas, were in the following 
extraordinary form : 

•'Mr. Rice died eight o'clock last night under 
care of physicians. Death certificate, 'old age, 
weak heart, delirium.' Left instructions to be in- 
terred in Milwaukee with wife. Funeral lo a.m. 
to-morrow at 500 "Madison Avenue." 

It is significant that care was used to con- 
vey the information that the death was a natu- 
ral one with a physician in attendance; that 
the body was to be interred in Milwaukee, 
without reference to the cremation. This 
may well have been so that if any suspicions 
of foul play should arise, the recipients, 
realizing that they could not reach New 
York in time to arrest matters there, might 
hasten to Milwaukee to intercept the body, 
where they could be met by Jones with the 
cremation letter in his pocket and his urn of 
ashes under his arm. 

But the telegram did arouse suspicion, 
and Baker and Rice immediately wired 
Jones as follows: 

*• Please make no disposition of Rice's remains 
until we arrive. We leave to-night, arrive New 
York Thursday morning." 

Baker also instructed N. A. Meldrum, a 
Te.xan then in New York, to co-operate 
with Jones in preserving everything intact. 

In the meantime, however, Swenson had 
notified his attorneys, who in turn had in- 
formed the police and the district attorney's 
office, and that evening at about eleven 
o'clock James W. Gerard, accompanied by 
a detective, who posed as the lawyer's clerk, 
interviewed Patrick at his home. Patrick 
informed Gerard that he had an assignment 
of all Rice's property and also a will of 
Rice's of which he was executor. This was 
the first reference to the will of 1900. He 
also informed Gerard that he would not 
receive a cent under its provision. To have 
explained the real terms of the will would 
under the circumstances have excited too 
much suspicion. Yet he was eager to let 
the Swensons know that as executor he was 
in a position to control the profitable bank- 
ing business that would arise from the set- 
tlement of the estate. In the meantime four 
headquarters' detectives, representing them- 
selves as lawyers, visited the apartments. 



4% 



AN INGENIOUS CONSPIRACY AND A FAMOUS MURDER 105 



Patrick in a State of Panic 

Patrick hurried to 500 Madison Avenue, 
where he learned of Meldrum's presence in 
town. Things were turning out far^ftom 
the way in which he had expected. He 
then hastened to his office down-town, which 
he reached about half -past one in the morn- 
ing, and, alone, destroyed great quantities 
of paper, attempting to dispose of them 
through the toilet bowl, which was so 
clogged that the water flowed out upon the 
floor, necessitating an apology to the janitor. 
In the silence of the night misgivings came 
upon him. He lost his nerve, and at tw'o 
o'clock in the morning called up the under- 
taker and revoked the signed order for 
cremation which he had given. Leaving 
the office at about five in the morning he 
first visited Meyers, thence proceeded to his 
own boarding house, and from there went 
to the apartments, which he reached at 
eight o'clock. Here he found the detectives 
who had been on guard since early morn- 
ing to forestall any attempt to remove the 
body. 

At the fimeral itself he attempted to con- 
ciliate adverse interests and to win witnesses 
for his purpose. * He had begun to do this 
the very night that Rice had died, when he 
told the elevator man that he was remem- 
bered in Rice's will. He had also informed 
Wetherbee that he had a five thousand dol- 
kirs' legacy. At the funeral were Blynn, 
one of Rice's nephews, who had come on 
from Massachusetts, a Mrs. Adams, and a 
Mrs. Carpenter, to each of whom he stated 
that they had legacies which would soon be 
available provided there was no contest of 
the will. 

The detectives now informed Patrick that 
he was wanted at Headquarters, and Pat- 
rick invited Potts to accompany him, in- 
forming the latter that the police suspected 
that there was something unnatural in the 
cause of death, but that he could explain 
satisfactorily. As a matter of fact no such 
intimation had been made to him by the 
police or anyone else. At Police Head- 
quarters after an interview with Inspector 
McClusky he was permitted to go his way. 

Patrick returned to Rice's apartments, 
sent for Short and Meyers, and conferred 
with them there. He took this occasion to 
tell Maria Scott, the colored woman who 
worked in the apartment, that she was sus- 
pected of having poisoned Rice, and that 



she had better say nothing about his death. 
Jones told her that she was remembered in 
the will and that it would be worth her 
while to stand by himself and Patrick, who 
would see that she was taken care of. 
Mea.nwhile the coroner had sent the body 
to the morgue for autopsy. 

Revelations at the Autopsy 

The autopsy was performed on Tuesday, 
forty-three hours after death occurred, by 
Dr. Donlin, a coroner's physician, in the 
presence of Dr. Williams, also a coroner's 
physician, and of Professor R. A. Witthaus, 
an expert chemist. The two physicians 
testified at the trial that the organs of the 
body, except the lungs, were normal in con- 
dition, except as affected by the embalming 
fluid . They and Professor Witthaus agreed 
in their testimony that the lungs were con- 
gested. Dr. Donlin spoke of their being 
"congested all over"; while Dr. Williams 
characterized it as "an intense congestion 
of the lungs — coextensive with them." 
Outside of the lungs they found np evidence 
of disease to account for death, and beyond 
the congestion of these they showed nothing 
except a small patch of consolidated tissue 
about the size of a twenty-five cent piece. 
They testified, in effect, that nothing save 
the inhalation of some gaseous irritant could 
have produced such a general congestion, 
and that the patch of tissue referred to was 
insufficient to account for the amount of 
congestion present. Dr. Donlin could not 
testify what the proximate cause of death 
was, but was firm in his opinion that no 
cause for it was observable in the other vital 
organs. In this Dr. Williams concurred. 
He was of the opinion that chloroform 
would act as an irritant upon the lungs and 
cause precisely that general congestion ob- 
servable in the case of the deceased. Pro- 
fessor Witthaus testified that his analysis 
revealed the presence of mercur\', obtained 
as calomel, and while the amount was not 
sufficient to have caused death, its presence 
indicated that a larger quantity had existed 
in life. The embalming fluid had contained 
no mercury, and he and Dr. Donlin agreed 
that the embalming fluid would have no 
effect upon the lungs beyond a tendency to 
bleach them. In other words, the people's 
evidence was to the effect that no cause of 
death was observable from a medical ex- 
amination of the body save the congestion 



io6 



THE PATRICK CASE, COMPLETE 



stated to exist in the lungs, and that this 
might have been caused by chloroform. 

Thursday morning Mr. Baker and F. A. 
Rice, the brother of the deceased, arrived in 
New York. He showed them the crema- 
tion letter, and, inasmuch as they took a 
neutral position in the matter, ordered the 
cremation to proceed, and accordingly it 
took place that very day. Patrick en- 
deavored to win the confidence of Baker, 
but succeeded in accomplishing little. He 
finally gave the latter a copy of the 1900 will 
and the original will of 1896. He also in- 
formed Baker that he had taken a large 
number of papers from Rice's apartments, 
and turned over to him a considerable num- 
ber of them. He also surrendered on Fri- 
day the two Swenson checks. 

After considerable discussion Baker told 
Patrick flatly that he would never consent 
to the probate of the 1900 will; that he was 
satisfied that the '96 will was the last will of 
Rice, and that he would insist upon its being 
probated, to which Patrick replied, that so 
far as he was concerned he did not know but 
that the probate of the '96 will would suit 
him just as well as the probate of the 1900 
will; that it was a matter of indifference to 
him, and that so far as the Rice Institute 
was concerned he was prepared to give 
Baker from three to five million dollars for 
it, or any other sum Baker might name. 
These negotiations and conferences con- 
tinued until the fourth of October, Patrick 
yielding step by step, until he had divested 
himself of all control of the documents and 
securities. 

The Conspirators' Arrest 

Meantime sufficient evidence having been 
secured, Patrick and Jones were arrested 
on a charge of forgery and held for the 
Grand Jury. Bail was fixed at ten thou- 
sand dollaFs each, but was not forthcom- 
ing. 

On October 21st, Mr. House, Patrick's 
lawyer, visited Patrick and Jones in the 
Tombs. Jones says that after Patrick had 
talked to Mr. House the former called Jones 
to one comer of the room and told him that 
House insisted on knowing definitely 
whether a crime had been committed and 
directed Jones to tell House that a murder 
had been committed, but that he (Patrick) 
was not concerned in it. This Jones de- 
clined to do without implicating Patrick. 



The two prisoners then returned to House 
and Jones informed House that he had 
killed Rice by chloroform, and gave him 
the " same story which he told on the wit- 
ness stand." After this. Jones apparently 
lost his nerve and told Patrick that he in- 
tended to commit suicide. This idea Pat- 
rick encouraged, agreeing that they should 
both do it at about the same time. 

On the 26th of October Jones made a 
statement to Assistant District Attorney 
Osborne which was in large part fabe, and 
in which he endeavored to exonerate him- 
self entirely from complicity in any of the 
crimes, and in which he charged the actual 
administration of the chloroform to Patrick. 
Four days later Osborne sent for him and 
told him he had lied, upon which Jones 
became confused, and continued to persist 
in some of his statements, qualified others 
and withdrew still others. He was com- 
pletely unnerved and that night attempted, 
by means of a knife which Patrick had sup- 
plied him, to cut his throat. The attempt 
was a failure, and he was removed to Belle- 
vue Hospital, where he remained until 
November 12th. He then finally gave the 
statement which corresponded with his 
testimony upon the trial and which jibed 
with all the circumstances and evidence 
known to the District Attorney. 

Did Patrick conspire with Jones to 
murder Rice ? What corroboration is there 
of Jones's story that he killed Rice under 
Patrick's direction? First: What proof is 
there that murder was committed ? 

Roughly, that Jones so swore; that Rice 
died at the time alleged ; that he did not die 
from disease, but that he died from a con- 
gestion of the lungs which could have oc- 
curred only in the case of a living organism 
by the administration of some such irritant 
as chloroform; that some one therefore must 
have killed him, and that Jones alone had 
the opportunity. 

Second: What proof is there that Patrick 
directed the murder? 

Evidence of an elaborate conspiracy, as 
briefly heretofore set forth, which contem- 
plated the death of Rice. Of course Pat- 
rick wanted Rice to die. If Patrick was 
not implicated in the killing, what motive 
had Jones to commit the deed ? ^\^ly did 
Rice die at the precise psychological mo- 
ment which would enable Patrick to pre- 
vent two hundred and fifty thousiind dollars 
on deposit being diverted to Texas? And 



SUNDERED 



107 



finally, why did Patrick prepare a forged 
cremation letter for the destruction of the 
body? If the conspiracy contemplated a 
natural death, nothing could be of greater 
\'alue to the two parties concerned than the 
means of proving that the death was not 
unnatural. 

The Convicted Murderer's Claim 

This, in the most abbreviated form, is the 
case against Patrick. Space forbids at this 
time any reference to his elaborate and 
ingenious defense, which was based entirely 
on an alleged complete failure of corrobora- 
tion of Jones's testimony. Starting with 
the premise that the word of a self-con- 
fessed murderer and thrice-perjured scoun- 
drel was valueless as proof, he contended 
that there was no adequate evidence that 
Rice's death was felonious, and that the 
congestion of the lungs could have been and 



was caused by the embalming fluid and was 
only attributed to the chloroform after Jones 
had given his final version of how the mur- 
der was accomplished. Technically the 
case against Patrick was not a strong one. 
Dramatically it was overwhelming. His 
own failure to testify and his refusal to allow 
his lawyer, Mr. House, to relate what passed 
between them in the Tombs, remain signifi- 
cant, although not evidence proper for a jury 
to consider. Wherever lawyers shall get 
together, there the Patrick case will be dis- 
cussed, with its strong points and its weak 
ones, its technicalities and its tactics, and 
the ethics of the liberation of Jones, the 
actual murderer, now long since vanished 
into the obscurity from which he came. 
On the one hand stands a public convinced 
of Patrick's guilt, and on the other the con- 
victed "lifer" pointing a lean finger at the 
valet Jones and stubbornly repeating, "lam 
innocent." 



SUNDERED 

BY GERALDINE MEYRICK 

They go from us, our well-beloved dead; 
But, ev'n as sailors by the northern star, 
We steer our course by lights that shine afar, 
And trust to come at last, unhindered, 
(When that our days of diligence be sped), 
Unto the blessed regions where they are. 
Into their gracious presence, with no bar 
Between our souls and theirs, nor any dread. 



But ah, for those who, living, heap up scorn 
Against us; make a barrier of wrong 
Or dull indifference; who have uptom 
Affection by the root! Though we be strong. 
Though we be faithful, we may not come nigh. 
TJiese are our lost ones, and not those who die/ 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 

"So they drew on towards the house {the house of the Interpreter) and when they 
came to the door they heard a great talk in the house." — Banyan's filgrim's Progress. 



IF an arrangement could be made with 
the ahnanac -makers — said the Poet 
— I would be in favor of having the 
year begin with the first of May. 

On the first of January I 
The Year have no real sensation of the 
beginning of a new period, the 
Should starting of a " new deal." Be- 
tween the last day of Decem- 
Begin ber and the first day of Janu- 
ary there exists no substantial 
Hay I difference. My heart does not 
signify by a single throb that it 
is aware of the change. Nature does not 
turn over in its sleep when the whistles blow 
and the bells ring to announce the artificial 
dawn of the artificial year, or disturb the 
snow blanket under which it has lain inani- 
mate for a month or more. On the other 
hand we spontaneously signalize the arrival 
of the Spring by a revolution in our thoughts, 
our manners, our physical relations to the 
world, our clothes, our houses and our 
habits. Nature, contemptuous of the as- 
tronomers, shakes off its cold lethargy and 
gives us a Happy New Year at the flowery 
threshold of the month of May. I have no 
notion of how the change I suggest could be 
brought about or whether Pof)e Pius who 
saw the real New Year sail splendidly 
across the lagoon in his beloved Venice for 
many years, could upset the decree of his 
learned predecessor; I can only say my own 
blood tells me that although by the almanac 
we are to-day well into the second quarter 
of the New Year, the Old Year is still with 
us and the New Year is about to dawn. I 
feel it in my heart, which as an organ of 
reflection .has been unjustly overlooked, and 
io8 



not till this moment have I thought of dis- 
carding the mental cerements in which the 
winter has wrapped me and going out in 
my singing robes, 

I WOULD wear my flannels too — said 
the Philosopher. — A poet with a cold 
in his head siiigs in vain. 

YOU have Doctor Johnson against you 
in your craven submission to the 
whims of the seasons — said the Ob- 
server. — He said: "Surely nothing is more 
reproachful to a being en- 
Doctor dowed with reason than to 
resign its powers to the air and 
Johnson live in dependence on the 
weather and the wind for the 
Contra- only blessings which Nature 
has put into our power, tran- 
dicts quillity and benevolence. This 
distinction of seasons is pro- 
duced only by imagination operating on 
luxury. He that shall resolutely excite his 
faculties or exert his virtues will soon make 
himself superior to the seasons; and may 
set at defiance the morning mist and the 
evening damp, the blasts of the east and 
the clouds of the west." 

I FIND it no great hardship — said the 
Poet — to have Doctor Johnson against 
me. It is now the common lot of man- 
kind to be at variance with the "great 
Cham of Literature." The post-mortem 
penalty which the good doctor has paid 
for the years of uninterrupted bullying to 
which he subjected all his acquaintances, 
is the general disagreement of the world 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 



109 



with pretty nearly everything he said or 
wrote. It is a just penalty ac- 
The Re- cording to all poetical concep- 
tions of what hell should be 
wards of a like. Johnson having contra- 
dicted everybody and brooked 
Literary no contradiction while in the 
flesh, endures in his shade the 
BiiUy perpetual torment of incessant 
contradiction. If his ghost is 
permitted to revisit the earth, as he believed 
it might be, what pangs it must suffer, how 
it must mumble, gasp and puff in a furious 
attempt to burst its bounds and begin: 

" Why, sir " 

The torture, in one way, is gradually 
softening for the reason that people no 
longer talk or write about Doctor Johnson. 
At least not those who love to steer their 
frail barks of learning in the dimpled 
waters of fashionable cultivation, who have 
been introduced to Anatole France by my 
illuminated friend, James Huneker, and 
who have read Nietszche, translated into 
Scotch, by a professor at Edinbiu-gh. But 
always reading him and not caring very 
much what critical company I keep, being 
more at home indeed with the audience at a 
Western "lyceum course" than with Pro- 
fessor Santayana or Georg Brandes, I am 
not afraid to share the general, common- 
place appreciation of Johnson, that as a 
talker he was a genius and as a writer was 
not. He talked like an angel and wrote 
like — like Grover Cleveland. 
And, I will tell you the reason if you will 
let me wander so far afield. It 
The is that great wTiting, as well as 
great talking, must be improv- 
Blessed isation, and he was blessed 
with the gift in only one de- 
Gift of partment of utterance. Gold- 
smith had it only on the writing 
Utterance side. The habit, I admit, is 
a dangerous one feven when 
supported by the fullest mind in the 
world. No matter how well stored the 
brain may be, there is always a lot of 
useless truck in it. We throw into it 
scraps of worthless stuff, odds and ends of 
no-account judgments, observations, ex- 
periences, till it is like a school boy's pocket. 
And when we thrust in our hands in a hurry 
we are quite as liable to pull out the futile 
as the valuable thing. But the power of 
improvisation is after all one of the most 
clearly defined marks of unusual capacity 



and the degree to which it is successful, the 
degree to which the act of improvising 
brings out of the storeroom of the brain 
the best that has been hidden there, the 
degree of lightness and certainty with which 
it can penetrate the most remote and secret 
caverns of the mind and produce the long- 
buried and half -forgotten treasure, is the 
final measure of genius. " Patient drudg- 
er}'" there may have been, and " the infinite 
capacity of taking pains," but unless the 
quality of the improvisatore is added, the 
artist is no more illuminated than the 
plowman. 

Johnson was blessed with the gift in 
speech. To the sound of his voice all the 
store of his reading and thinking answered 
and formed itself into phrases and argu- 
ments and learned jests. Johnson writing 
was Johnson shackled to self -consciousness 
with no deliverer at hand. Mechanicallv 
he piled together those vast and formidable 
books that the world, necessarily accurate 
in its final selection of literature, has con- 
sented never to read. 

Daudet must have been thinking of his 

own methods of writing when 
The he described Numa Roumestan 

as "only beginning to think 
Mystery of when he began to talk." I do 

not mean to say that to be a 
Writing great writer, talker, musician, 

painter, a man has but to dip 
his pen in the ink, open his mouth, seize the 
brush or ask the leader of the orchestra for 
C sharp, if he possesses the noble gift I am 
talking about, of improvising, of uttering 
the great thing without special and imme- 
diate preparation for this particular thing. 
Even the good fairy could not deliver the 
money wished for by the student in the 
story without robbing his landlady. A 
void is a void in which the inspiration can- 
not live any more than a candle flame can 
live in a vacuum. The "mute Miltons" 
continue mute because they have not 
learned the art of singing. 

And it is the common testimony of the 
best writers that writing is not easy. 
"Easy writing is — hard reading." The 
fact, I guess from the reluctant admissions 
of a most conceited and irritable class, is 
that the actual writing is not hard but the 
beginning is painful to the point of tragedy 
— the attempt to produce the state in which 
work of an imaginative nature can be done, 
that terrible dislocation of the writer's facul- 



no 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 



ties that brings about an exalted condition 
of mind in which he is capable of receiving 
what is called "inspiration." If the doc- 
tors take the trouble to investigate it they 
will find that it is like the agonized raptures 
of trance mediums and dervishes. There 
is as good a basis for this theory as for the 
scientific explanation of the stigmata on the 
hands and feet of Saint Catherine of Sienna 
as a " hysterical manifestation." 

{SUPPOSE great writers are irritable 
and conceited because of their inner 
knowledge of the small part they, 
themselves, have had in the creation of 
their wonders. The appear- 
The ance of conceit does not flow 
from assurance but from a lack 
Reason for of it. Our greatest American, 
Mr. Jeffreys, is notoriously 
Conceit in good - natured, modest, even 
shy in his appearance because 
Genius he is confident of himself. Little 
men always are conceited and 
hunchbacks irritable. The nerves of a 
genius are apt to be sore because he is 
constantly shadowed by the terrible thought 
that not he, but the mysterious and erratic 
power, has produced all these gallant flowers 
that the world admires, a mysterious power 
that comes when he summons it by exquisite 
self-torture and assembles from his brain, 
facts, ideas and phrases that he never knew 
were there, that his friends would swear were 
never there. When he has prepared him- 
self for the entertainment of this high- 
handed ally, it has come and swept him out 
of his commonplace self in a rush of golden 
images. 

But will it always help him? That is 
the terrifying reflection. He knows how 
small is the part that really 
A Case represents him. His learning, 
his ordinary imagination, the 
of Double disciplined forces that he can 
pleasurably summon to his aid. 
Per- may construct a clumsy cargo 
boat useful in navigating the 
sonality slow canals of contemporary 
literature, but it is not until 
the wind blows off the mountain of the 
gods that he is carried far into the un- 
known seas. He must envy the simple 
builders like myself, who can say: "This 
is a poor work but all my own. There is no 
inspiration about this. It is, no doubt, 
ugly and mean and never will challenge the 



stars with its roof, but I did it all my- 
self." 

I knew a great writer who told me once 
that he always " wrote better than he knew." 
(I did not say what I felt, " and worse than 
you think.") He said he " produced work 
which he never had in him." It was by 
him but it was not from him. He felt that 
if it were not for the expenses of moving in 
fashionable New York society, which upon 
the appearance of his famous novel, "The 
Recrudescence of Rufus Higgins," had 
kindly welcomed him to its charmed circle 
of bank presidents, intoxicated stock brok- 
ers, ofl&cers of insurance companies and 
scions of an old nobility dating from the 
first Cleveland administration, he would 
put by a certain sum each year for the 
Other Man. At present he was an embez- 
zler from an erratic, unknown, mysterious, 
miraculous visitor who seized his vague 
theories, half-knowledge, indistinct recol- 
lections and all the lumber of his brain and 
out of it constructed a palace. How many 
writers, if they told the truth about them- 
selves, would strike their own names from 
their title pages and substitute: "Dic- 
tated by the Other Man to an Amanu- 



ensis. 



19 



1 THINK Thackeray was one of those 
who acknowledged the debt, although 
I can't put my finger on the quotation. 
After planning a book, putting down hun- 
dreds of dates and facts and 
Confes- making notes on innumerable 
subjects (he was a great note- 
sions of book man, in spite of the ap- 
parently careless character of 
Two Great his mind), he would wait long 
and fearfully; then a "hand 
Writers seized his pen" and wrote his 
book for hiin. But Sterne most 
frankly expressed it when he wrote in the 
wittiest of books : " I begin by writing the 
first sentence — ^and trusting to God for the 
second. I wish you saw me, half starting out 
of my chair, with what confidence I grasp 
the elbows of it, I look up — catching the 
idea even sometimes before it reaches me. I 
believe, in my conscience, I intercept many 
a thought which heaven intended for 
another man." 

That -is another way of saying improvisa- 
tion. My doctor, a learned man, says it is 
only concentration, and that if I watched 
for them I would find parallels to literary 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 



III 



achievements in the brilliancies of com- 
merce. Genius, says he, is largely the abil- 
ity to concentrate powerfully and for long 
periods on one's occupation. Perhaps so, 
but I doubt it. The business brilliancies 
that have most recently been noticed in the 
newspapers have, it is true, shown the 
power of concentration, but it is the concen- 
tration of other p)eople's money in one man's 
pocket. In other words high finance — 4. e. 
theft. 

But I began to talk to you about 
Spring. 

IF it was Spring when you began to talk — 
said the Philosopher with asperity — 
it must be well along in the Sum- 
mer now. 

{FOLLOW the Johnsonian method — 
said the Poet — when I am permitted 
to. I was saying when I interrupted 
myself that Spring is the open door of the 
real New Year. The New 
The Poet Year, to have really the signifi- 
cance that we now pretend for 
Returns it, ought to suggest a promise 
of better things. If the grace 
to the Old were within, there would be 
outward and visible signs. Our 
Theme jaded spirits are supposed to 
revive with hope of the future, 
but how can they revive with the larger and 
colder and worse pyart of the Winter rising 
before them? We ought to feel a spon- 
taneous sense of enlargement. The New 
Year should mean a striking off shackles, a 
general moral and physical jail delivery. 
Your artificial New Year but leads us from 
the cold cell of December to the colder cell 
of January. 

Winter, no matter what we pretend, is 
thralldom for all the northern 
Winter world, or at least for the great 
part of the inhabitants of the 
the Jailer northern world who are no 
longer young and whose 
hearts are no longer resolute enough to 
send useful quantities of blood to the re- 
mote capillaries. I cannot recall that even 
in the hot days of my youth I enjoyed 
it much. The most fragrant recollection 
of it hangs on the domestic contrasts to the 
utter cold afforded by chim*ney corners and 
the warmth of winter dinner tables. As 
age reduces me my body testifies its repug- 
nance to the cold by turning blue and my 



mind reflects the perils of my body by fret- 
ting on pneumonia, grip and the other at- 
tendants of the season. Winter is imprison- 
ment at hard labor. We were not con- 
structed for it. The struggle is too severe 
for our frail frames. It is a constant fight 
with a cruel and jealous jailer who is never 
more dangerous than at moments when he 
appears to relax his vigilance. We strug- 
gle merely to live through his tyrannical 
reign. Many perish, but those who sur- 
vive at last hear the hoof beats of the de- 
liverer. Word is passed around among 
the prisoners that the Spring is at hand. In 
a little while he will be beating at the iron 
doors. The jailer still reigns but he is 
visibly weakening. He feels his power slip- 
ping from his fingers. He is alternately 
severe and mild.. In April he becomes 
maudlin and weeps a good deal. 

The Spring comes nearer and nearer. A 
few poor wretches prepare to greet him by 
throwing off the cumbersome garments of 

their imprisonment and attir- 
Spring ing themselves ' in light and 

appropriate costume for the 
the happy day of freedom. With 

the last remaining power of 
Deliverer his evil arm, our wicked jailer 

strikes these down, while the 
rest of us huddle in corners and wonder 
whose turn it will be next. If we can only 
hold out ! 

The heralds of Spring can be heard pro- 
claiming his approach. His couriers slip 
quietly through the crevices of the walls and 
flower with messages of encouragement 
from their master. One day the Spring 
strikes at the gates, is repulsed; again he 
hurls his bright lance and is driven back 
by snow and frost. But we, inside, know 
winter is beaten. He has fired the last 
snow-ball in his locker. Pull down your 
flag. Hoary Monster, and prepare for death. 
The Deliverer is here. The gallant South 
Wind makes in^ to give the fatal blow to the 
old tyrant.- And attended by a countless 
company voicing his praise in language pied 
of sound and color, the a 11 -conquering 
Spring breaks down the walls of the strong- 
hold and in his shining presence all that is 
left of winter melts away. 

IT is like "Ivanhoc" — said the Philoso- 
pher. 
Or Laura Jean Libbey — said the 
Observer. 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 



ANYHOW— said the Poet— it is a de- 
scription that has the weight of 
' authority. It has been used so 
often that it must be good. There is noth- 
ing new and garish about it. 
A Defence Old songs, old books, old 
wines, old friends and old tig- 
of the ures of speech for me. If I 
must talk to you on a subject 

Above so ancient as Spring 

You wrote your o«-n invita- 
tion — said the Reporter. 

If I must talk to you on Spring — said 
the Poet — I can only do it in figures of 
speech of a suitable age. Such a topic de- 
mands seemly dressing and is not to be 
decked out in the frivolities of youth. But 
why argue with you about it? Your own 
faces, your views of life, your hopes, your 
manners toward each other, combine to 
testify your realization of the glad impor- 
tance to you as human animals of this mere 
seasonal change. It is a far bigger thing to 
all of us than all the artificial achievements 
of the year. We are a part of the Spring. 

It awakens in us a new life. We put be- 
hind us the horrors of the winter in the 
city — the dirty streets, the russet - colored 
mounds of snow, the disease - breeding 
slush of the side streets, the Thaw trial 
and Mr. Mallock lecturing at Columbia 
University — all these incongruous and un- 
suitable features of the old year of 1906 
we put behind us. Fifth Avenue has be- 



come brilliant in the bravery of the return- 
ing rich. Naples and the Riviera return 
our American beauties to us and Sa-»dusky 
and Ottumwa supply our show with their 
fairest flowers. Even themean 

We Let side streets cheer up for their 
only radiant period — the month 

the Poet or two of interval between too 

much ice and too little. The 

Sing air is filled with life. The 

restaurants have put out the 

little trees on their porches. Madison 

Square is attiring itself in a cloak of yellowy 

green. The fire-escapes in Avenue A are 

making a fine show of geraniums in pots — 

and children in arms. I begin to like 

the winter because the Spring has come. 

The suddenness of our Northern spring 
is one of its great glories. I do not envy 
the people who live in those blander climes, 
where the Spring languidly advances, so 
languidly that we cannot mark the transi- 
tion from winter. With us it fairly leaps 
into being. We go to bed at night lament- 
ing. We wake up in the morning and are 
conscious of a great change— and lookit^ 
out we see the world in flower. And with 
the transformation new hopes and ideals 
come to us, a kinder and broader view of 
life, a new energy of purpose. It is not 
only that the snow has disappeared from 
the earth and the icicles from the trees, but 
in agreement with the changes in the phys- 
ical aspects of nature we have dislodged 
winter from our hearts. 



i\!', 






I 



• • 



f 



EDWARD H. HARRIMAN 



Wfore publisheii, is a remaikablf likeness of My. Harrimati, 
aeeording to those ivho knoic him 



THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 



VOL. LXIV 



JUNE, 1907 



No. 2 



HARRIMAN 

BY EDWIN LEFEVRE 



.E in (heir monej"- 
less have envied 
us, Rothschild, Astor, 
egie, even John D. 
efeller. But I have 
heard, even in Wall 
Street, any man wish that 
he were in Harriman's place. Yet he is 
less a horrible example than a sad case. 
The public thinks of Harriman as a symbol, 
a creature racing madly toward the first 
rank among the financial powers, a thing 
cold as ice, hard as steel, morally insentient 
as a granite boulder, a brain of machinery' 
precise and tireless and, in lieu of two hands 
and ten fingers, an inrinitude of restless 
tentacles reaching into mjTiad pockel- 
hooks, spreading resistlessly over public 
lands, absorbing public grants and public 
franchises and public proj>erty wherever it 
is not strongly fastened. And where it is 
fastened, prodding complaisant legislators 
with golden spurs until they untie the knots. 
For years, while this reputation was build- 
ing, he shunned the center of the stage and 
ihe limelight, disregarding the elemental 
psychology- ,■ of a nation of newspaper 
readers. He must suffer now, and suffer 
in this wise: Harriman the railroad presi- 
dent? Wonderful!-; Harriman the finan- 
cier? Horrible! Harriman the Wall Street 
operator? Conscienceless! Harriman the 
human being? ... A blank stare. 

This article will concern ilself with the 
man. 



Thereare no school-day intimates to volun- 
teer characteristic anecdotes; no boy-chums 
to tell you that the world misunderstands 
the great heart of that staunch friend; no 
present-day associates to speak of the great 
money-maker's epigrams, of business apho- 
risms to prove that he is really scrupulously 
honest; no blind partisans to attest to his 
persona! magnetism in the days when he 
was obscure. All you hear are stories that 
he was a fighter, a chronic " scrapper," — 
which sounds apocryphal — or that he was a 
normal, colorlessly amiable youth; which is 
not characteristic. To what extent his early 
environment influenced the formation of 
his character cannot be told with assurance. 
I have talked to scores of men who knew 
Harriman l>efore Harriman was rich and 
jKJwerful and not one of them asserts that 
he delected in those days the signs of great- 
ness — and great he undoubtedly Is. His 
kinsfolk are silent. His closest business as- 
sociates will wax eloquent on his ability as a 
railroadmanagerand a railroad financier, his 
remarkable energ>', his indomitable will, his 
Napoleonic bigness of vision, but on Harri- 
man the man not a word, except that he is 
charitable and even then their air is apolo- 
getic, as though they expected incrtdulity. 

Morals of a Clergyman's Son . 

Edward Henry Harriman was bom on 
February 25th, 1848, In the rectory of St. 
George's Episcopal Church at Hempstead, 



HARRIMAN 



Long Island, then in chai^ of his father, 
the Reverend Orlando Harriman. Edward 
Henry was one of six children — four boys 
and two girls — and we are merely told that 
his father was a man of " aristocratic " birth 
and breeding who married a "gentle- 
woman" of distinguished New Jersey 
lineage, which means that Harrinian's an- 
cestry on both sides were people who had 
known how to read and write for several 
generations, had early last century attained 
to good table manners and were able to 
enjoy the pleasures of the best society for 
some scores of years. The branch of the 
family to which the Reverend Orlando 
Harriman belonged, enjoyed the blessed 
gift of poverty at the time Edward Henry 
was bom. A year afterward his father 
was in charge of a church in Staten 
Island. There followed several precarious 
years when the Rev. Mr. Harriman assisted 
the rectors of divers parishes, manag- 
ing to live somehow, possibly receiving 
needed "help" from his family — the 
Harrimans have always had the loyalty 
as well as the pride of family. From 1859 
to 1866 Harriman's father acted as rector of 



John's Church in West Hoboken at a 
salary of $200 a year. At the end of the 
seventh year we learn that the church owed 
the rector — a man whose portraits show much 
force of character — $374 for arrears of 
salary and that he settled with the church 
for $250 " payable in six months." But not 
long after this his wife inherited some money 
from a relative, and the Harrimans were 
able to buy a comfortable house in Jersey 
City. They lived, after that, quietly but 
without the privations of those earlier dark 
days. It may be interesting to speculate 
whether four years at one of the big Univer- 
sities and association with men of non- 
commercial inclinations might not have 
made E. H. Harriman any different, but 
it is far more interesting to consider that 
this son of a clergyman, whose only school 
outside of the district school was a church 
school, where he spent two years, is accused 
of being deficient in financial morality. Wall 
Street was his real alma mater; he breathed 
its atmosphere while in his formative period. 
It is also peculiarly interesting to know that 
Harriman was bom poor and to-day his weak- 
est spot is what no man who has felt the spur 



THE BEST OF HARRIMAN 

Interinr 0/ his Boys' Club which he built at a cost of $250,000 



THE WORST OF HARRIMAN 



The fame of May gth, igoi, whUh he caused. " From that day to this he has hfiii 
to Wall Street the incarnation of cold-blooded pitiless ambition '' 



of poverty should ever forget, to wit, the 
need of conciliating public opinion. A 
little tnore of the demagogue in him — as 
there is in James J. Hill — would have made 
him less vulnerable. Probably Harximan's 
aloofness from the mob is hereditary as much 
as it is temperamental. From all accounts 
the Harriman family were always cold and 
reserved toward outsiders, but among 
themselves loyal to each other and affec- 
tionate, A man who is perhaps Mr. 
Harriman's closest associate said once, 
when his partner suggested that some friend 
of Mr. Harriman ought to speak to him 
frankly on the unvHsdom of his lack of tact : 
" Friend ? I don't believe that Harriman has 
a triend in the world!" The man who said 
this is a ver)- great financier who has been 
in, and has had an active interest in, every 
deal of Mr. Harriman's since 1899. 

Learning the Game in Wall Street 

Hamroan entered a Wall Street office as 
clerk while still a boy in his teens. He 



must have made some luckj' speculations, 
for in iSjoheboughtaseaton the New York 
Stock Exchange and became a "trader," 
that is, a professional speculator, a gambler 
in stocks. Old-timers take great pleas- 
ure in assuring us that Edward Henry 
Harriman was nothing but a "piker" in 
those days, that is, a wery small gambler. 
But it was inevitable that he should have 
made money. That is the way an all-wise 
Providence made him, just as it made 
Napoleon a winner of biiltles, A " trader" 
in the Stock Exchange is a man who bets 
on stock fluctuations. Harriman to-day is 
a man who makes them. 

He went into the Stock Exchange at a 
time when dark financial history was 
making, when the exploits of Daniel Drew, 
Jim Fisk, Jay Gould, Commodore Vander- 
bill and others left blots on the annals of 
the Street. He had their example and 
their methods before him. He leamcil 
the routine of a broker's life; the ups 
and downs of stocks, panics and booms, 
gaining a knowledge of technical market 



Ii8 



HARRIMAN 



conditions surpassed by few other operators 
big or little. The game of the Street he 
knew, and knows it still, from the sub-cellar 
to the gilt ball at the end of the flag-pole, 
for he began at the bottom and has since 
climbed as high as any human being can 
climb in Wall Street. 

''A Cold-Blooded Little Cuss'' 

Even in those early days he was not 
popular. Not one man in a thousand 
found him genial, not one in ten thousand 
congenial. He was, an old friend says, " a 
cold-blooded little cuss, Ned Harriman, not 
exactly offensive nor self-opinionated, but 
with a vein of cynicism that kept friend- 
ships away." Some call him worse. But 
there was this difference between the cold- 
blooded little cuss and the other " traders," 
that even while he was betting on fractional 
fluctuations, he was studying. His hunger 
for information was — and still is — insati- 
able. Impatient at the theory that chance 
rules the world of the ticker, he was an- 
alyzing conditions and men, determining 
causes and effects. As he grew in years he 
grew in dollars — that was what knowledge 
was made for, to be coined. And as his 
fortune grew his reserve toward his fellow- 
gamblers also deepened, for he was out- 
growing his own class. The more he knew 
the less he talked. A man has said of 
him that Harriman carried the railroad 
map of the United States pasted on the 
back of his head in those davs. To-dav 
he would like to carry the same map 
in his inside pocket, labeled ** Harriman 
System." But his knowledge — that was 
what built the rungs of his golden ladder. 
He knew the quotations of stocks and the 
vagaries of the market, l)ut he knew also 
what the stocks themselves meant, what 
they were worth, and why certain conditions 
must produce certain stock market effects, 
so that when the time came and securities 
sold away below value, he plunged; he 
bought confidently, imperturbably, betting 
his entire fortune not on fluctuations, but 
on the soundness of his knowledge and the 
clearness of his vision. It was not courage, 
it was logic — the logic that makes coward- 
ice an impossibility to his temperament. 

He formed the Stock Exchange firm of 
Harriman & Co. — ^still in existence, though 
he is not a meml)er of it. He secured the 
aid of the richer branch of the Harriman 



family and the clientage of the Fish family 
and their wealthy and aristocratic connec- 
tions. Many of his acquaintances say it 
was as a commission broker and not as a 
trader or speculator that he made his first 
fortune. He cultivated rich customers, 
but his individuality was too strong for him 
to have been content to do merely a com- 
mission business. 

Climbing 

He did not take an active interest in the 
actual management of railroads until 1883, 
when, through the influence of his friend 
and associate on the Stock Exchange, 
Stuyvesant Fish, he was elected a director 
of the Illinois Central, of which he was a 
stockholder. He had, in the meantime, 
married Miss Mar\' Averell, the daughter 
of a well-known capitalist who had some 
reputation as a railroad man. It is a safe 
bet that Harriman learned in a week all 
that his father-in-law had spent years in 
learning. At all events the marriage 
doubtless increased Harriman's interest 
in railroads, for he saw in deals a means of 
more expeditious ladder-building than in 
piking on the floor of the Exchange, or 
executing orders for a commission. Also, 
it strengthened his financial condition. 
His married life, it may be remarked here, 
has been singularly happy, though even at 
home he is absolute dictator. His devotion 
to his family is deep and tender. On that 
point friend and foe are agreed. 

His friend, Stuyvesant Fish; was vice- 
president of the Illinois Central, and Harri- 
man began seriously to study the practical 
side of railroading. He was already 
familiar with both the financial and the 
stock-gambling end of it. In 1887 Fish 
was made president of the road, and 
Harriman l>ecame the vice-president. No 
figure-head, he. He learned quickly. With 
his craving for knowledge, his amazing 
memory, his genius for detail and a down- 
right blindness for non-essentials, he was 
not long in acquiring a reputation for solid 
ability and solid knowledge. An intimate 
friend says that Harriman literally burned 
the midnight oil mastering details. Day 
after day and night after night he studied 
until he knew everything down to the price 
of spikes, and no contractor that ever put 
in a bid could catch him asleep or igno- 
rant. The charges of graft in the awarding 



EDWIN LEFEVRE 



119 



of the Illinois Central contracts under his 
vice-presidency may be dismissed. It isn't 
the way he works. It is, moreover, true 
that he, more than Stuyvesant Fish, made 
the Illinois Cenlral an efficient road, and 
many influential people knew it. 

This man whose tactless impatience has 
more than anything else made him cordially 
disliked, was patient enough in those days, 
for patience was wise and logical. It did 
not occur to him to be unwise and illogical. 
That was a luxury he was not to permit 



— always among individuals rather than 
among banks or corporations. He had 
ideas, clear, clean-cut, money-making, con- 
vincing ideas. On matters of finance or 
railway management nobody who listens 
to Harriman can possibly disagree with 
him, unless the listener is deaf or an ass. 
On matters of psychology he is not always 
right. On the ethics of business — but that 
is another storv. 

Harriman had by now served his ap- 
prenticeship. His consuming thirst for 



Mr, Hnrriman' s Home at Arifen 



himself until he had reached the summit. 
So he added to his fortune, sometimes onlv 
■A little, occasionally a great deal, dozens 
of rungs at a clip, for he invested dis- 
criminatingly — he would proliably say ac- 
curately — in times of storm and stress. Also 
he went into several minor railroad deals. 
More and more he kept his mouth shut and 
opened it only when to do so meant more 
money for himself, or more prestige, a 
greater reputation for ability among certain 
rich men whom he needed as allies — rung- 
finders and ladder-builders for Harriman. 
In that trying period between 1890 and 
1896, he extended his sphere of influence 



knowledge at first hand, his ceaseless studv 
of the science of railroading, both the 
"practical" and the financial sides of it, 
his training in stock -gambling and stock- 
market methods and procedure, all made 
him a valuable man, a daring man, but 
one whom the most conservative financier 
would not call a dangerous s)ieculator — 
he knew too much and thought too logi- 
cally, too dispassionately. 

Harriman vs. Morgan 

He came into some public prominence 
at the time when the Erie Railroad was in 



E. H. HARRIMAN 

" A little chap, fifty-nine years old, whc up to three months ago looked ten years younger " 



EDWIN LEFfeVRE 



121 



process of reor^^Liuzation by J. P. Morgan. 
In those days Mr. Morgan was the head- 
keeper of the raikoad morgue of the United 
States and his financial surgery was so 
ruthless that it was called Morganizing. 
The Erie operation was serious and severe. 
Harriman opposed it. He knew he could 
do it better than "Jupiter Morgan." But 
nobody thought of anybody but Mr. Morgan, 
for it was a sick road, the victim of all 
kinds of financial crimes dating back to the 
dear buccaneer days of Daniel Drew and 
Jay Gould. It took Morgan's si^)erb 
insensibility to the patient's pains and his 
equally superb credit to insure success in 
the reorganization. But that "cold- 
blooded Uttle cuss," to whom no man 
loomed very big, saw in the reorganization 
of the Erie a Ufe-work, a titanic exploit, 
the fulfillment of his dreams and desires. 
He talked to friends who were holders of 
the bankrupt road's securities and con- 
vinced them that opposition to Mr. Morgan 
was not only well-founded, but ought to be 
highly profitable. He tried to interest 
acquaintances an9 strangers and the public, 
but he lacked sufficient capital to do it alone, 
and had not enough prestige to secure 
strong enough allies. The legend is that 
ftc went into J. P. Morgan's office and laid 
his objections before the firm. Mr. Mor- 
gan's partners asked him whom he repre- 
sented and he answered curtly, "Myself!" 
This may not be true, but it has been called 
characteristic of Harriman. It is well to add, 
however, that at that time Harriman was not 
at all arrogant. He was more than amiable 
toward the newspaper reporters whom he 
vainly besought to take up his fight — he called 
it the public's — against Morgan. The news- 
paper men used to cross the Street whenever 
they saw little Harriman coming; they knew 
he would talk Erie till the cows came home, 
and ask them to make up all sorts of im- 
possible attacks on Morgan and Morgan's 
plan. Yet, even loquacious devotion to the 
public's financial welfare was characteristic, 
for he saw plainly that he could not fight 
Morgan with financial weapons, and he knew 
that Public Opinion is a very strong ally — ^he 
saw that clearly in those days when he wasn't 
rich enough to make his will virtually law, 
before he established the truth of my conten- 
tion, that it takes but five years of prosperity 
to make a man lose his sense of relaive values 
and two weeks to restore it and three sun- 
shiny days to make him forget it again. 



He lost his fight with Morgan, but never- 
theless he made money. He made money, 
I am informed, even during the Baring 
panic and the Venezuela scare and the sum- 
mer of '96, when hard-headed capitalists 
actually thought of converting their sadly 
depreciated securities into gold and going 
to England to live — ^a time when, the public 
may now learn, Mr. John D. Rockefeller 
suffered from nervous dyspepsia until 
his health was shattered, all because the 
election of Bryan would have made him 
cease to be the richest man in America. 
Harriman had no illusions, but likewise no 
fears. He lost neither appetite nor money. 

His Great Opportunity 

The career of what we may call the 
present E. H. Harriman dates from the first 
election of William McKinley. It is diffi- 
cult to resist the temptation to dwell at 
length on the condition of the country at 
that time, to show how the United States 
had taken the rest-cure in business for 
several years, how^ our national buoyancy 
had been repressed, how the hard times 
had checked the growth of the productive 
capacity of our factories even while our 
population was growing at an enormous 
rate, how a stupendous river of gold had 
been dammed, how intelligent observers de- 
tected cracks in the dam built by panic, 
and knew that it was only a question of a 
short time when the dam would be swept 
away and God's country flooded with 
gold. 

Governor Flower was the leader of the re- 
covery of courage, but under Flower were 
millions of dollars, and back of him stood the 
greatest aggregation of American capital and 
American business brains ever gathered 
together for the purpose of making golden 
history. Harriman saw what was coming 
as clearly as Roswell P. Flower or J. P. 
Morgan, or any of the other great optimists 
of Wall Street. 

The opportunity came with the reorgani- 
zation of the Union Pacific. The road 
was then in the hands of the Federal 
Government receivers. Mr. Morgan looked 
it over and, ruthless surgeon though he was, 
threw up his hands in despair. The task 
seemed beyond the possibility of a fair 
banker's profit. But Mr. Harriman had 
his eye on it. He spoke to Kuhn, Loeb & 
Co., at that time a rich banking house, 



122 



HARRIMAN 



but by no means in the first rank. They 
recognized the possibilities and, what was 
far more important, they saw what manner 
of man Edward Henry Harriman was. 
He appealed to them as he appeals to any 
intelligent money-maker who will listen to 
Harriman two minutes. They formed a 
S3mdicate which included the Vanderbilts, 
the Goulds, the Ameses of Boston, Kuhn, 
Loeb & Co. and their foreign clients, the 
Standard Oil branch, represented by its 
banker, Stillman, and Harriman. The 
least important member of the syndicate 
was Harriman, and at first the Street, that 
always likes its goods prestigiously labeled, 
called it a " Vanderbilt road." The Union 
Pacific was taken over by the S3mdicate in 
January, 1898. The syndicate had to pay 
$75,000,000 in all for 1,800 miles of poor 
railroad and a few smaller lines that were 
deemed desurable to control, as well as 
settle with bondholders for cash. Within 
three years the original syndicate managed 
by Kuhn, Loeb & Co. and £. H. Harriman 
got back its seventy-five millions in profits 
on various "deals." Harriman's ladder 
needed but few more rungs. Moneyed 
men saw a great money-maker in him. 

A Juggler of Dollars 

Before the work of Harriman as a rail- 
road man is considered it is well to bear in 
mind his achievements as a juggler of 
dollars, a strategist of the ticker. In the 
upbuilding of Union Pacific Harriman saw 
a man's work and good profits. But as its 
possibilities unfolded, as the national 
prosperity grew and as, with the bursting 
of the dam that let loose the golden flood, 
the American people took to stock gambling 
on an unprecedented scale, there came to 
Harriman the vision of the greatest achieve- 
ment in our financial history. He saw 
himself not alone very rich, but Czar of the 
railroad empire of the United States. He 
had waited many years, he had watched for 
his opportunity, and it had come. It had 
taken him fifteen years to make a fortune 
— ^fifteen years he now says he wasted — 
and fifteen to become a railroad man. His 
education was finished. He had been 
patient; now he moved — ^in straight lines 
as his thoughts always move — and irre- 
sistibly. If his capitalistic friends had 
only backed him as blindly in 1898 as they 
did a few years later, he would now control 



100,000 miles of railroads and several 
biUions of credit. But he saw himself even 
in 1899 potentially the head of the greatest 
system in the country. He worked to trans- 
form the potentiality into an actuality. 
The report went out that the Union Pacific, 
the Chicago and Northwestern and the 
New York Central lines would be merged 
— ^and the public wisely enough bought 
Union Pacific, of which stock the Harriman 
crowd had some to sell. So insistent was 
the report and so fast did the stock advance 
in price, that Mr. W. K. Vanderbilt himself 
actually wrote to the newspapers, deny- 
ing that any such merger was planned. 
It has been said that Harriman himself 
started the rumor — and the rise — in order 
to make a market turn in his Union Pacific 
stock. But I doubt if that was the original 
or the principal intention. Mr. Harriman 
saw what such a merger would mean. He 
and Kuhn, Loeb & Co. went ahead on the 
plans, feeling certain that the obvious ad- 
vantage and profits could readily be per- 
ceived by Mr. Vanderbilt. But Mr. Van- 
derbilt, even then intent on not attending to 
business, put an end to it — ^though not 
before Mr. Harriman had utilized the work 
done as was proper — by taking profits on 
the advance in Union Pacific stock, the 
advance caused by the rumor. Wall 
Street began to think the Union Pacific 
was a valuable property. But Harriman 
was not yet filling the center of the stage. 

The fact that the Vanderbilt alliance had 
not been cemented stimulated Harriman's 
mind. He must go it alone, backed by 
Kuhn, Loeb & Co. and the rest of the 
original syndicate. They bought the 
Oregon Short Line and the Oregon Rail- 
way and Navigation, giving the holders 
of these stocks in payment, not cash, but 
stock of the Union Pacific. Even at that 
time it was said that Mr. Harriman and the 
other insiders had made money on that 
deal, buying cheap as individuals and pay- 
ing dear as directors for the same stock — 
an accusation often heard since, and prob- 
ably not altogether baseless. But it was 
a good time to build up the Union Pacific 
physically, for that would mean a money- 
making road with credit, which was the 
same as cash; and that meant the power 
to do anything. Incidentally Mr. Harri- 
man, as an individual, associating himself 
with other individuals, found time to acquire 
the control of the Kansas City Southern 



EDWIN LEFfeVRE 



123 



and to make a little money, and to " absorb " 
the Chicago & Alton, whose capital was 
readjusted with highly pleasing results — 
at least they were highly pleasing up to the 
time this year that Mr. Harriman was 
questioned on the witness stand about it. 
It was a flagrant bit of stock watering, the 
Street thou^t then and now knows. But 
Harriman's optimism saw in it a Intimate 
operation. For one thing it made the 
Street realize that E. H. Harriman was a 
great financier, one of the tiptoppers. He 
had created something out of nothing 
but hope and nerve. The most powerful 
capitalists of the Street recognized an equal 
in £. H. Harriman. 

Napoleonic Plans 

The limitations of space preclude dwell- 
ing at length on Mr. Harriman's remarkable 
work as an upbuUder of railroads. We 
had entered into the longest '^boom'' we 
have ever had. Harriman made a long trip 
over the Union Pacific and the territory 
it served, saw not the seemingly hopeless 
task of improving the wretched railroad 
but what was coming and without consult- 
ing his associates decided on plans that in 
those days were nothing short of Napo- 
leonic. Kuhn, Loeb & Co. backed him, 
but from other associates came remon- 
strances. Harriman had his way, and his 
plans involving vast expenditiires were 
approved. When Harriman talked to his 
associates opposition ended. He saw what 
the future held in store for the Harrimanized 
Union Pacific. He convinced his fellow 
directors that he was a clear-headed, far- 
sighted railroad man, the one man for the 
place, and the financial support was 
forthcoming. He did not forget to keep 
in sight the psychology of the great gam- 
blers, and also showed them not that he was 
a great market '^operator,'' but that betting 
on a 5\ire thing was wisdom. So they 
agreed with his views, as soon as he had 
demonstrated how sure a thing it was. 
The unexampled prosperity of course helped 
him more than can be easily overestimated, 
but he would have won out even in normal 
times. 

His vision broadened as he mastered more 
fully the details of his work and its possi- 
bUities. So that when in February, 1901, 
he bought the Southern Pacific — partly 
in the open market and partly by negotia- 



tion with the C. P. Huntington estate — 
he was at last recognized as a man without 
a superior in his peculiar line. It is to be 
regretted that one cannot here go into detail 
about this deal. It seemed like a case of the 
tail wagging the dog when the Union Pacific 
bought the control of the Southern Pacific, 
bringing a tremendous mileage under the 
control of the Kuhn-Loeb-Harriman com- 
bination. The stock market end of it 
showed a master-mind at work, the financ- 
ing of it showed that practically unlimited 
capital was ready to follow blindly where 
Harriman led. So thoroughly had he done 
his work as a railroad manager and up- 
builder and as a railroad financier, that the 
Union Pacific's credit was already very 
high — ^the road that only three years before 
had found so much trouble in securing 
capitalists to undertake its reorganization! 
But Harriman said he needed the big 
Huntington system, and his fellow di- 
rectors said: "Very well!" — ^after he had 
practically captured it. 

At War with lames J. Hill 

Not long after Harriman had shown 
to the world how large railroads could be 
"absorbed" by purchases in the stock 
market, Jiames J. Hill decided that the 
Great Northern and the Northern Pacific 
"needed" the St. Paul road. It was the 
time when, owing to the raging public 
speculation in stocks, financing huge deals 
was as easy as falling off a log. Hill and 
Morgan found to their unspeakable sur- 
prise that some big holders of St. Paul 
would not sell their stock, and Hill began 
to buy Burlington stock instead. He had 
not proceeded very far when Harriman was 
alarmed. He felt as France might have 
felt when the Triple Alliance was formed. 
There was a delicate balance of power in 
the railway world; the acquisition of the 
Burlington by Hill would smash it and give 
him the dominant influence. That was 
repugnant to Harriman temperamentaUy, 
and alarming to his associates financially. 
They went to Hill. They expressed their 
views and amiably added that while they 
thought he had " paid a damned fool price 
for the Burlington" — ^as one of them put 
it to me — ^they were willing to participate, 
so that everybody should be satisfied and 
the status quo maintained. They desired 
peace, even at $200 a share for Burlington 



124 



HARRIMAN 



stock. War would mean millions of waste. 
But Hill did not see it in the same light. 
His idea of peace is very much like Harri- 
man's; the pax Romana, To the giant 
of the Northwest the world consisted of his 
friends, who held stock in the Great 
Northern, and of the foes, who were all fools, 
having no "Hill stocks." When Hill met 
Harriman, an immovable body was met by an 
irresistible force. Harriman said nothing 
more to Hill, but to his associates he showed 
how Hill could be defeated by the purchase of 
the controlling interest in the Northern 
Pacific. That was cheaper and easier than 
to buy an equal interest in Burlington, 
and Harriman's associates assented, and 
his bankers worked accordingly, and they 
bought $80,000,000 worth of Northern 
Pacific shares, and the common stock was 
cornered and the great panic of May 9th, 
1901, foUowed. 

Sckiff Begs Harriman to Let Up 

That also is another story, a tragedy, a 
great drawn battle, which ruined thousands. 
To the mob it was a battle of great million- 
aires, Kuhn, Loeb & Co., Harriman, the 
Goulds, the Standard Oil set and their 
allies, against Morgan and Hill and their 
following. It is too recent to have been 
forgotten. Harriman had arrived! Bathed 
in the blood of those whose wounds run 
gold, he stood before the world, imper- 
turbable, at last with practically unlim- 
ited power. It was what he had striven 
for; it was what he had gained. Also 
from that day to this he has been to 
Wall Street the incarnation of cold-blooded 
pitiless ambition. When half the houses 
of the Street were practically ruined, and 
the din of the battle filled the civilized world, 
his associates, frightened at the prospect of 
a crash that would make them all sufiFer, 
implored Mr. Harriman to let up, and he 
said, "No!" He had no fight in mind; he 
desired no world-wide panic. But if such 
things came they were merely incidental. 
They had no beairing on the point at issue, 
which was to keep Mr. Hill from relegating 
the Union Pacific to the second rank. Mr. 
Harriman's chief backer, Mr. Jacob H. 
Schiff, it is said, literally went down on 
his knees and with tears in his eyes asked 
Mr. Harriman to be magnanimous and 
forego a decisive triumph achieved at such 
a cost, and Mr. Harriman, to whom such 



considerations as cost — whether in dollars, 
tears or death — ^were irrelevant, consented. 
I do not know about Mr. Schiff's tears, but 
I do know that it was Mr. Schiff's pleading 
that won the day for humanity. Mr. 
Harriman is not ungrateful, and he owed 
much to Mr. Schiff, just as it is true that 
Mr. Harriman has made possible huge 
profits for Mr. Schiff's firm. The Union Pa- 
cific did not gain the control of the Northern 
Pacific, but Mr. Hill's victory eventually 
put millions in the Union Pacific treasury 
at Harriman's disposal. That is genius. 

C[ar of the Street 

There was peace after the battle. Harri- 
man devoted his energies to his railroad. 
It prospered, because it was practically 
rebuilt. There were deals, differing each 
from the other chiefly in the amount 
of the profits. Harriman had become 
recognized as a great power. The Street 
did not know that he had become Czar. 
In a board of directors composed of the 
greatest capitalists in the world, Harriman 
was — and at this writing is — an autocrat. 
He had a free hand. He was also busy in 
forming connections which meant money 
support, because that helped his autocracy. 
He cidtivated James Hazen Hyde, as that 
young man can testify. The life insurance 
scandals later merely showed Harriman 
in his usual and most characteristic rdle, to 
wit, that of getting or storing golden am- 
munition wherever there was enough of 
it to strengthen his tactical position. The 
biography of a man who in nine years has 
done what would be a remarkable life- 
work for a very remarkable man, cannot 
be told in a few words. Neither is it 
possible to enter into his political activities 
in New York State, his influence in Cali- 
fornia and elsewhere. He is above aU things 
logical. Not having time to capture the pri- 
maries or the conventions, he "absorbs" 
governors and legislators. His personal 
magnetism is not great. But he is very rich. 

Summing up we find this: Here is a 
man who is acknowledged even by his 
enemies to be a remarkable railroad 
economist, with a marvelous genius for 
detail, and yet with a bigness of vision 
vouchsafed to few men since the dawn of 
civilization. A railroad financier infinitely 
superior to James J. Hill, or any other man 
in the world. A stock market operator 



EDWIN LEF£VRE 



125 



of consummate skill and, his enemies assert, 
absolutely free from scruples as from fear. 
A fighter, a doer of great things, who has for 
close associates such men as William Rocke- 
feller, H. H. Rogers and H. C. Frick. We 
know what his enemies say of him. Now, 
what manner of man is this man Harriman ? 

How Harriman Looks, Talks and Acts 

A little chap, fifty-nine years old, who 
up to three months ago looked ten years 
younger, with eyes that are not particularly 
expressive behind the lenses of his spec- 
tacles; a heavy drooping mustache, now 
tinged .with gray, a manner of speaking 
neither vivacious nor languid. His chin 
is pugnacious; his head is so well-shaped 
that it has no conspicuous '^ bumps." His 
forehead is his best feature. A quiet- 
spoken little man, not at all impressive- 
looking, who walks with a curious sort of 
bow-legged "horsey" jauntiness as of a 
jockey. His complexion inclines one to 
fear that the Harriman liver is not as 
efficient as the Union Pacific. You can tell 
that real bonhomie is foreign to him these 
days, but you are not surprised to learn 
that he is a model husband and a tender 
father. You can talk to Harriman and 
think him ruthless. You can't listen to him 
without thinking him a man of great brain- 
power. He talks rather easily and seldom 
uses figures of speech, but is often at a loss 
for the precise word wanted, and when you 
offer it to him he uses it witiiout correcting 
himself, in a matter-of-fact way that conveys 
no sense of help received or gratitude. I 
should say he is the kind of man who would 
not dream of saying "Thank you" to a 
fellow who helps the deal to come Harri- 
man's way, because it would have come 
anyway, with or without help or opposition 
from others, and why be grateful? 

His mind works in straight lines. Often, 
when he talks, you imagine you can see the 
thoughts coming from his mind and going 
in this and that direction, but always in a 
straight line, mathematicaUy straight, pain- 
fully straight. Whatever his mind may 
have been once, it is to-day as I have de- 
scribed. It is curious to note that the 
criticism experts make about Harriman's 
railroad policy and work of development 
is that he does not build enough "feeders" 
—little civilizing branches to new sections. 
He runs to straight lines always. He 



thinks so clearly and logically that he would 
have been a great man in almost any walk 
of life; with more red corpuscles in his blood 
and a larger heart, he would have been a 
great statesman. He has so trained him- 
self to think that to him the non-essentials 
are simply non-existent. He doesn't have 
to reflect and ponder and weigh and study 
in order to eliminate the inessential. The 
inessential never gets close enough to him 
to have to be eliminated. He sees big 
vividly, but his imagination lacks a certain 
warmth just as his speech lacks picturesque- 
ness, possibly because he does not think in 
epigrams. He probably has had very little 
to unlearn, except in matters of psychology, 
because when it comes to knowing men 
and grasping the possibilities of human 
nature a certain degree of emotionalism is 
needed and he hasn't it. What he knows 
he knows thoroughly and absolutely, and 
that is the reason he knows exactly what 
he can do, in good health and with enough 
money. That habit of his of reducing 
everything to terms of efficiency, whether 
it be expressed in dollars saved and dollars 
earned, or time and effort saved, is what 
keeps his imagination from being gorgeous, 
just as his logical machine-like mind pre- 
vents him from having the personal magnet- 
ism without which there has never been a 
great leader of men. He seems to lack 
absolutely the faculty of projecting himself 
into the personality of others; probably he 
does not like to cease to be Harriman, even 
for a Traction of a second. He is intensely 
individualistic. That he can be generous, 
charitable, even unselfish at times, there 
is no doubt. That he could be a philan- 
thropist, a man with profound compassion 
for the weaknesses of fellow mortals, 
decidedly no. He is tactless at times to a 
degree perfectly incomprehensible in a man 
who was brought up a "gentleman," and 
yet he thinks firmly that his subordinates 
love him. He can be needlessly rude, 
unintelligently brusque and offensive, and 
yet he is a very intelligent man. I believe 
that his "moods" are due to periods of 
ill-health. He is too able a man not to be 
patient. But the liver can make sixteen 
Solomons impatient. 

Getting Rid of a Subordinate 

This tactlessness of Harriman's probably 
is the most conspicuous of his shortcom- 



126 



HARRIMAN 



ings — ^leaving aside all ethical considera- 
tions. For instance, the story of Horace 
Burt's resignation as president of the Union 
Pacific. As chairman of the Executive 
Committee, Harriman saw no essential 
diflFerence between the president and one 
of the clerks. Burt was summoned to 
New York to be told plainly that his 
business in the future should be merely 
to carry out Harriman's orders. Biut 
came, called at Harriman's office and was 
told to wait. He waited all day. He 
waited all the next day. On the third day 
he still waited to see Harriman. Clerks, 
visitors, friends, all went in and spoke to 
Harriman, who still sent out word for Burt 
to wait until the Chairman of the Executive 
Committee was ready to see the insignificant 
president of the road. Then Burt resigned. 
Harriman avoided further friction by taking 
the job himself. Similarly he assumed the 
presidency of the Southern Pacific. It 
seemed arrogance for that "little big man" 
to assume charge of the practical end of 
the great system. But he knew what he 
could do. He knew no fear and brooked 
no opposition. What he desired he got 
— his associates had learned that Harriman 
could improve the physical condition and 
efficiency of railroads; also that he made 
money for his associates. The combina- 
tion made him irresistible. There is this 
also to be said: The little man sees so clearly 
and talks so imemotionally yet convincingly, 
that it is small wonder that the directors 
simply give him carte blanche. If his 
actions gain for him cordial dislike, that 
is his own funeral; the same actions increase 
their bank accounts. 

As Inquisitive as Li Hung Chang 

Whatever he wants to know he learns by 
going to the spot. His Alaskan expedition 
is a case in point. He is always asking 
questions. A friend of his says that Harri- 
man, when he was in Japan, reminded him 
of Li Hung Chung in this country. He 
asked more questions than the small boy 
of the comic weeklies, questions about 
everything. And he never forgets. I asked 
him once: " When you jump from one thing 
to another, do you have to stop and think 
and adjust yoiurself to the new mental con- 
dition created by the consideration of a 
totally different subject?" 

" No," he answered. 



'' You are not conscious of any change in 
the speed of the mental machinery, as it 
were? No break of any kind when you 
decide what to do in this case and imme- 
diately what to do in the next — ^jumping 
from a matter in New York City to some 
engineering problem in Utah or California ?" 

" No." 

" How do you do it ? " I asked. 

"I don't know. I think," he went on 
meditatively, "that the mind is like these 
— what d'ye call 'em on this desk ? — these 
pigeon-holes. A man comes to me. I 
listen and decide on what to do; and then 
— it goes into a pigeon-hole." 

"And it's always there? No trouble in 
finding it again at any time?" 

"It's always there." He was thinking, 
obviously looking for an explanation. 
"It's always there. Whenever I need it 
again I find it there." 

"And you don't know how you do it?" 

"I don't know how I do it," he repeated 
after me, almost hypnotically. Evidently 
he was trying to find out. But after a 
moment he shook his head and said: 
"But there are fewer pigeon-holes, I 
think." 

Not Awed by Morgan, Hill or Anybody 

The man is efficiency-mad. He wants 
results and he gets results. Inefficient 
work he considers immoral. I remember 
years ago speaking to a member of the 
banking firm that financed Union Pacific 
about Harriman's rudeness and indifiference 
to public opinion, which were remarkable 
in so intelligent a man. He explained: 
"Harriman has been able to do what he 
has by fighting. He could not have done 
it if he had waited to consult people's 
feelings and whether they would be hurt." 
Nevertheless it was and is unintelligent. 
I asked Harriman |>oint-blank if his manner 
of speaking as he does at times did not 
gain for him that unpopularity which I 
said I supposed he knew he had, and he 
answered earnestly: 

"I suppose people think so because I 
don't truckle or toady to any of the big 
men. I don't have to. Why should I?" 

It sounded funny to hear E. H. Harri- 
man talk about truckling to big men. He 
must have had in mind his lack of awe for 
J. P. Morgan, James J. Hill and their 
multimillionaire associates. Or the story 



EDWIN LEFfeVRE 



127 



may be true that once in his excitement he 
spoke to H. H. Rogers in such a manner 
that Rogers said: "Do you know whom you 
are talking to?" and Harriman subsided. 
He had missed the point of my question be- 
cause it did not occur to him to think of the 
opinion of lesser men. He went on : " I never 
fight unless somebody fights me. As long as 
they pound I pound. But I'd rather be let 
alone. Let the other side go to work and 
succeed and prosper; so long as they leave 
me alone I'm satisfied. I drop all revenge. 
Often my associates have expressed their 
astonishment that I don't follow up a fight 
after it's stopped. I am not vindictive." 
He evidently shared the astonishment of 
his associates. Then he bethought himself 
of his apparently gratuitous attack on 
Stuyvesant Fish while on the witness stand 
testif3ring about the Alton deal. He said, 
with much earnestness: "About my testi- 
mony concerning the deposition of the 
President of the Illinois Central. Why, 
my fellow directors who deposed that per- 
son pledged me to tell all about it. We 
knew how wrongly the public judged our 
action and my fellow directors pledged me 
to tell the facts if I went on the witness 
stand. I told the facts as I was pledged to, 
and I told them while I was under oath, 
and they have never been controverted!" 

Harriman Tells Who His Friends Are 

I pursued the subject and told him that 
doubtless people thought of him as the worst 
type of the Wall Street magnate, a cold, 
impersonal sort of human money-making 
machine. The human side of Harriman 
was what the public did not know. He 
answered: "I have friends. You mustn't 
go to Wall Street for the human" — he 
called it humane persistently — "side of 
Harriman; WaU Street is always imagining 
a lot of things that aren't so, about people. 
Go out West if you want to know about the 
himian side of Harriman. Ask the Union 
Pacific employees about the human side of 
Harriman. They know that the humblest 
worker will get as fair and as quick a hearing 
from me as the highest. When I take 
charge of a property I don't discharge the 
old men to make room for my pets. I 
haven't any pets. The way to reward 
faithfulness is not by discharging the old 
hands." Evidently a slap at Mr. Hill's 
way. "I sometimes shift their positions. 



putting a man where I think he will do 
best. Ask them about the human side of 
Harriman. A man's neighbors ought to 
know what sort of man they have for a 
neighbor. Go to Arden. Don't tell me 
when you go; go by yourself and ask ques- 
tions of the people there. There isn't a 
man or woman in Arden that wouldn't go 
to hell and back to do something for me, 
if I asked them." 

Everybody is Afraid of Him 

It is impossible to interview all the Union 
Pacific employees. Those that I did see 
say they have nothing against Harriman. 
He has no pets, but he is liberal. I know 
that he speaks to some of the highest 
officials of the road at times as the average 
business man would not talk to his office 
boy. They don't dislike Harriman like 
the Great Northern men dislike Hill. The 
trouble seems to be that everybody is afraid 
of Harriman. His employees, high and 
low, act as if they expected their discharge 
if they say a word too much or leave one 
necessary monosyllabic word unsaid. They 
do not exactly cringe nor kowtow before 
him. They act rather as though they 
recognized the existence of a vast gulf be- 
tween his brain and theirs. As for Arden, 
the worst stories about Harriman I have 
ever heard came from Orange County, 
mostly concerning the methods he used to 
buy up the land — "he collects mountains 
as other men collect china," one of his 
neighbors said — all manner of stories about 
the way he compelled certain people to sell 
him their land so that he might have a 
30,000 acre estate. As for his associates, I 
have yet to hear one of them speak affec- 
tionately of Harriman and I have spoken 
to many of them, not only those who were 
friendly once but not now, but to some of 
those to whom he doubtless refers when he 
says he has friends. He has the usual en- 
tourage of all great men. Some of his satel- 
lites are not ungrateful, some of his jackals 
probably lick his hand. Of all the things 
that are written about Harriman, that 
which irritates him is the allegation of 
his utter friendlessness. He may find 
real affection at home, from his family, 
from some direct benefician'. But for a 

m 

man whose nod means bread and butter 
or starvation to thousands of men, a man 
who has had scores of business associates, 



128 



HARRIMAN 



who has met more people than the average 
man, Harriman is to all intents and pur- 
poses friendless. He himself has never 
gone out of his way to make friends, except 
when he needed friends to help him. He 
has not hesitated to sever the relations of 
years at a moment's notice — the moment 
business differences came between them. 
Wall Street's chief grievance against 
Harriman has really been his taciturnity. 
Now, Wall Street knows that all the "big 
men" have tickers in their offices, that there 
is no "inside crowd" that does not habit- 
ually use and abuse what is called inside 
information. But these insiders talk; they 
give tips to friends and the Street some- 
times makes money by their loquacity. 
Not so Harriman. In speculation every 
man shoidd be for himself. He argues that 
whoever bought Union Pacific stock after 
he took charge of its affairs cannot com- 
plain. No investor has been disappointed. 
As for the gamblers, they can grumble and 
be hanged. In sooth, why should anybody, 
who wants to get something for nothing, talk 
ethics or descant on the quality of mercy? 

Justifies His Alton Deals 

In his money-making, I verily believe, 
£. H. Harriman has had no more wicked 
thought than the desire to obtain the 
power that money gives; the desire of a 
general to strengthen his army. Camot, 
the organizer of victory, helped Napoleon. 
Harriman helps himself. He discussed the 
Chicago and Alton deal. It will be re- 
membered that Harriman and a few others 
formed a syndicate, bought the stock of the 
road because they saw what the Street calls 
a "hidden equity" in the shape of the 
ineptitude of its management. They 
changed $8,000,000 of old bonds and $22,- 
000,000 of old stock, of a market value of 
about $45,000,000, into $54,000,000 of new 
bonds and $40,000,000 of new stock of a 
" manipulated " market value of $70,000,- 
000. It was a great piece of watering. 
Also a 30 per cent, dividend was de- 
clared by the simple device of finding 
fault with the bookkeeping of the old 
management which had cheated the stock- 
holders by charging to operating expenses 
what shoiild have been charged to capi- 
tal account. Harriman has tried to show 
how the profits of that deal were no 
greater than they ought to have been con- 



sidering the risks taken, etc. He has a 
stack of figures to prove his contention. In 
a talk with me he said, referring to the 
so-called flagrant watering: "The amount 
of stock, what the hell does that matter? 
Go to the people along the line of the Alton 
and ask them if they are not doing more 
business and making piore money and if 
they are not enjoying greater prosperity 
because of the work we did on that road, 
the money we spent making it a better road^ 
able to handle more business more cheaply. 
Ask them about it." 

That was his justification. He made 
money, but he gave something for it, he was 
merely paid for his work. That he fixed his 
own wages, what has that to do with the 
essential tldng, which is that he improved 
a road and enabled more people to do more 
business at freight rates which were not 
put up ? He sees no flaw in his argument. 
It is the autohypnotism of the average 
captain of industry. The end justifies the 
means — ^any means whereby the individual 
fortune is swollen. 

His Boys' Club 

In his other work for the benefit of his 
fellows, that is, in his charities, I think he 
always considers mass. His best-known 
benefaction is the Boys' Club in New York's 
East Side. It is no eleemosynary institu- 
tion, no place for boys to be made into 
Christians, but a club for boys, where they 
can find healthy recreation without regard 
to religious beliefs or social standing. He 
started it some thirty years ago, and not 
long since gave it a $250,000 building. 
He goes to all its theatrical entertain- 
ments, helps the club financially, and 
does not do it ostentatiously. It is to his 
credit, and yet the thought intrudes that 
Harriman would rather help boys than a 
boy — ^boyhood in bulk — bigness. 

yiews on Governmental Interference 

He is full of the subject of Government 
interference with the railroads. He said 
they were suffering from legislation. 

I interrupted him and asked: "Can you 
tell me one single specific piece of legislation 
enacted to date which is disastrous to the 
railroads?" 

" It's what the present agitation may lead 
to," he answered. The railroads, he went 



EDWIN LEFkVRE 



129 



on, should have the same rights as indi- 
viduals. The managers should be allowed 
to meet and discuss their business, and 
come to understandings and be allowed to 
make agreements and binding contracts, 
instead 3f meeting surreptitioudy and talk- 
ing and each man saying what he thinks 
he will do. 

"But power to do what you say would 
inevitably lead to great abuses," I inter- 
jected. 

"Under proper Government regulation, 
of course," he said impatiently; "under 
reasonable regulation. The railroads would 
be able to do business cheaper. They are 
prevented by law from doing things that 
woidd lower the cost of transportation. 
And that increased cost comes out of the 
pockets of the public. They pay for it." 
There was an air of finality about him as 
he said it. It was doubtless incompre- 
hensible to him that the public stupidly 
wished to keep on paying more than it 
should. Then he added: "And even if 
there were abuses they would not be as great 
as the advantages the public would derive 
if the railroads were permitted to do busi- 
ness scientifically. You have no idea how 
uneconomically the railroads of this coun- 
try do business!" There was a note of 
wistfulness, of sincere regret, almost of 
despair in his voice, as he said this. It 
came from knowledge and from the vain 
desire to be the organizer of the country's 
entire railroad business. If he had the 
power to systematize it, to be the Secretary 
of Railroads, with a "life- job" like a Su- 
preme Court Justice and absolute power — 
above all things the absolute power — there 
is no question that we woidd have better 
railroads and cheaper transportation, for 
Harriman is the type of man who, knowing 
his capacity, necessarily believes that the 
best form of Government is an absolute 
autocracy under a benevolent despot. 

His Own Explanation of Himself 

He took from his desk a long typewritten 
statement — an article he said he was pre- 
paring. As he read from it I realized that 
it was the apologia pro vila sua. Char- 
acteristically enough it was mostly in 
figures — dollars and tons and miles. It 
was the .record of his work on the Union 
Pacific. He read me what the Union 
Pacific did in 1899 and what it did in 1906. 



He showed what the tonnage was when he 
took hold and what it was last year, and 
what the cost was then and what the cost 
is now, and the train load then and the train 
load to-day. He showed how the Union 
Pacific was able to do so much business 
at such a low cost only because $125,000,000 
had been spent on the property in seven 
years. He looked up from the paper and 
asked: "Don't you think we are entitled 
to some return on the money we have so 
spent?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't you think," he repeated fiercely, 
"that we are entitled to some return on the 
money we spent to reduce the cost of opera- 
tion without which we could not do the 
enormous business we are doing? Answer 
me that." 

" Yes, you are." 

"Aren't we entitled to some return on 
that money?" he persisted. It was his 
answer — ^that question — to the thousand 
accusations of over-capitalization, of sen- 
sational disbiu'sements of profits for stock- 
jobbing purposes, in short, to all the anti- 
Harriman talk. 

He placed the typewritten sheets — that 
statistical record of his work which was to 
him his vindication — ^and talked about the 
Union Pacific upbuilding. He told what 
the road used to be and how it had changed. 
He gave full details and very interesting 
he made them. He spoke even of the time 
it took to water the engines in 1899 — 
between two and three minutes. But 
instead of the old feed pipes, only eight 
inches in diameter, they were now twelve 
inches in diameter, and they used bigger 
tanks and it only took fifty-three seconds 
to fill them. And even as he spoke I was 
conscious that the earnest little big man 
was not thinking of the pipes, he did not 
hear the water rushing into the tanks, 
but he rejoiced that each train saved one 
minute and thirty-nine seconds — one minute 
and thirty-nine seconds saved several times 
a day by each engine; one minute and thirty- 
nine seconds that the train-crews were not 
idle, drawing their wages without giving 
the Union Pacific something in return. It 
rose to hours, to days, to weeks and months 
and years — so much time saved, time which 
means money, money which is the reward 
of efficiency. But above aU things effi- 
ciency — ^the breath of life to a man whose 
mind thinks in straight lines, to whom the 



I30 



HARRIMAN 



non-essentiai is non-existent, to whom the 
individual is nothing. To such a man 
cowardice is worse than shameful, it is 
illogical. He has never hesitated to spend 
money — ^lots of it — ^for improvements. The 
best is obviously the cheapest. That it 
costs nullions or pennies is all one to him. 
The degree matters nothing. The prin- 
ciple is everything. He considers results 
and only results. It takes coiirage to do 
these tlungs, a species of inhumanity, to 
discard what does not give the full theo- 
retical measure of efficiency. But Harri- 
man has it. A man who does that with 
machinery may or may not do the same 
thing with human beings. But the indi- 
vidual who stands in the way — what can 
he matter? The personal equation in great 
engineering feats — what is that unless it 
" ^ows " in the net earnings ? Morality, 
ethics, what have they to do with running 
railroads or making money? 

His Own l^indication 

"Do you realize," I asked him, "the 
responsibilities of such a man as yourself 
toward the public?" 

" Certainly I realize them." His fingers 
tapped instinctively on the typewritten sheet 
before him, the record of what he had done. 

"But the J public assails and attacks 
you and impugns your motives and accuses 
you of all sorts of things. Doesn't the 
thanklessness of the job ever embitter 
you?" 

" That remains. " The typewritten pages, 
the mass of golden statistics, the unimpeach- 
able record of work done — great work well 
done. He had made scores of millions out 
of it; the "public" had made hundreds of 
millions. 

"And is that all the satisfaction you get 
out of it?" He faced me and said very 
earnestly: "Don't you think it's some satis- 



faction that we stopped the overflow of the 
Colorado River when the Government 
couldn't, and saved the lives and property 
of hundreds of families? Don't you think 
that is some satisfaction?" 

"Yes," I said. 

"Don't you think it's some satisfaction 
when after the San Francisco disaster we 
were able to move 200,000 people out of the 
stricken city without one accident ? Isn't 
it some satisfaction to have done that? 
Isn't it?" 

" It would be to me," I said, for he was 
looking me straight in the eyes. But even 
then it was hot any kindly gleam in his own 
eyes that fixed mine, but his remarkable 
forehead. And I was conscious that even 
if this man felt the sublime sense of having 
saved human life, that upon which his mind 
dwelt with the keenest satisfaction and 
pride was the having built and improved 
a transportation machine so efficient that 
when a stupendous disaster came, the 
machine did the work — without a single 
accident — the machine on which he spent 
a hundred and twenty-five millions in seven 
years — ^the work of Harriman. 

Fights to Win 

And that is what he is, a Worker, super- 
latively efficient, the chosen Representative 
of those free-bom Americans who conduct 
great business enterprises efficiently in this 
republic. They do their work in tiie same 
spirit in which a general who does not 
count his dead fights battles — to win. They 
do not pause at the sacrifice of men or of 
principles. They would be judged not by 
the cost of the victory but by results. The 
material comfort of thousands seems 
greater to them than the individual soul. 
And in this opim'on the world conau^ 
nineteen hundred years after the Sermon 
on the Mount. 



THE CASE OF KATIE REED 

BY M. J. REYNOLDS 




was Miss Leighton who 
went to court with Katie 
Reed that last day, to hear 
the decision. Miss Anne 
Leighton, of the Plum Hill 
Settlement, had been in- 
strumental in bringing the 
damage suit for the Reed girl against the 
Cramer Company in the first place. Then 
she had been called to the Pacific Coast to 
spend the winter with an invalid sister, and 
had only just returned. But she had kept 
track of the case in all its bearings, and was 
more excited than Katie herself when she 
accompanied her to court that morning. 
Katie Reed knew only that she had had a 
hand cut ofF, and that the judge would say 
that day whether she was to have money to 
live on, or were to be given nothing and 
become an object of charity. Miss Leighton 
saw this, and in addition she saw a long pro- 
cession of men, women, and children, de- 
pendent on their two hands to make a 
Kving; minus an arm, a hand or a finger left 
under the knife blade of some machine, and 
all a£fected by this decision. 

Anne was astonished to see Robert at the 
table around which the lawyers clustered as 
thick as bees, inside the railed space in the 
centre of the court room. He had met her at 
the train late the night before, and they had 
had an hour together. But there had been 
too much to talk of for either to inquire the 
other's plans for the next day, and they had 
separated merely with an appointment for 
this evening. 

Robert Halstyne was also surprised to see 
his fianc^, as she came in with the little 
Reed girl; and told her as much in the one 
glance which he permitted himself across 
the court room. Neither knew what the 
other was there for; but Anne dwelt admir- 
ingly for a moment on his clean, handsome, 
highbred face, which already, though he 
was so young, contained that look of power 
which presaged a coming ruler of men. No 
wastrel was Robert Halstyne, although 
reared in a free Uving free spending atmos- 



phere. Throughout a college course^ in 
which he had been a leader of his fellows, 
the common vices of men had had no power 
to touch him. An accomplished athlete, 
with all the clean living which that de- 
mands, he had never forgotten that it was 
by his brains and not his body he was to 
make his way. The magnificent balance 
and self-control which he had shown in 
every relation of life attended him there 
also; and now, such a little time after his 
graduation, no man of his class had gone so 
^r or gave such promises of future power. 
Although she would have married him 
within a few months after she became 
engaged to him, still Anne was proud of the 
fact that he had held steadfastly to the deter- 
mination not to marry imtil his income was 
what he considered reasonably commen- 
surate with hers. 

All these things ran through her mind in 
the moment or two before she fixed her 
attention on the court proceedings. She 
was proud of Robert. She regarded himas 
a splendid example of the highest American 
type, and she was glad that it was so. Anne 
looked about with a little curiosity. She had 
never been in this home of the higher 
tribunal before, although her self-imposed 
duties had taken her into various lower 
courts. She noted the frescoed forms that 
covered the walls, stately Greek goddesses 
s3anbolizing justice and the reign of law. 
She noted the softened light that fell 
through the richly stained windows, the 
hush^ atmosphere of respect that seemed 
to pervade the place; the names of great 
jurists inscribed on the windows of the 
dome, Marshall, Legar^ and others; the 
ornately carved screen of rare wood that 
rose behind the judges' bench; and, seated 
before it, those five men in black robes; 
silverhaired, some of them; grave, almost 
solemn, all of them, as befitted the judges of 
a high tribunal of a great state. Anne had 
seen some of the most beautiful rooms in the 
world, but it seemed to her she had never 
felt in one of them such an atmosphere of 

131 



132 



THE CASE OF KATIE REED 



dignity and of power. It was impressive, 
almost too impressive. Anne felt like a very 
small atom, brought in contact with a vast 
machine, a mighty, organized system set in 
operation by a sovereign people for its own 
protection and defence. She got a new 
sense of the power and immensity of civili- 
zation. 

She forgot these things as the judge began 
to read his decision. The lower court had 
awarded Katie Reed five thousand dollars 
damages for the loss of her right hand. The 
accident had been directly due to her 
employer's violation of a statute which 
required a guard upon the particular ma- 
chine which the girl tended, and her liveli- 
hood was dependent upon her earnings. 
The statute had been secured, after great 
exertions, by a combination of Settlement 
workers and trades-unionists, and this was 
the first case which had come to trial under 
it. The company had appealed the case, 
and now the highest court of the state was 
reviewing the history of the matter in tech- 
nical language. Anne bent every faculty to 
catch the full significance of the learned 
judge's remarks. 

He admitted the direct violation of the 
statute by the employer. But, he claimed, 
the girPs constitutional freedom of contract 
was affected by the law. He quoted the 
constitutions of the state and the United 
States to show that the property rights of 
citizens were protected by the fundamental 
law of the land. The right to labor was a 
property right, he said; and any statute 
depriving the laborer of that God-given 
right was in direct violation of the quoted 
articles of the state and federal constitu- 
tions. The freedom of contract was a right 
gained by labor through long and painful 
processes, in the days since all labor was 
slave or serf; a sacred right, not to be lightly 
meddled with by statute. The constitu- 
tional freedom of contract of the girl, Katie 
Reed, gave her the right to assume all risk 
of operating an unguarded machine, and no 
statute could deprive her of that freedom, 
for which men had fought and died in ages 
past. Her very act in keeping at work at the 
unguarded machine really constituted a 
contract with her employer to waive all 
claims for resulting damages. The decision 
of the lower coiut was reversed. 

Anne listened almost stimned, as she 
heard the long efforts of herself and so 
many others thus set at naught in five 



minutes; and by what seemed to her so 
strange, so bizarre an interpretation of the 
law; so confusing a defense of the rights of 
labor. She gazed aroimd, half dazedly, and 
an enlightening flash assaulted her inner 
vision. For one hideous instant the veil 
was torn from civilization, and she saw all 
this stately pomp and paraphernalia, not as 
the defence of justice, but of injustice; the 
barrier behind whidi insolent privilege 
entrenched itself to prey upon those whom 
it sought to exploit. She saw the quiet 
splendor of this room, the opulent dignity of 
those men in robes, resting on and supported 
by the meagre ^rms of Katie Reed and her 
like. 

The iron entered her soul. The churches 
call such things conversion, when the whole 
course of a man's life is changed by one 
sudden biurst of enlightenment. But it 
happens outside the church as weU as in. 
Anne knew that in that instant her life and 
her viewpoint of life were changed. 

Sixteen -year-old Katie Reed, with the 
stub wrist hanging at her side, knew nothing 
at aU about the matter when the decision was 
finished. She raised her big blue eyes 
questioningly to Miss Leighton. Anne 
clasped the girl's cape about her shoulders. 

" Come home, Katie," she said chokingly; 

I'll tell you about it when we get out." 

But in the confusion of the court's 
adjournment Robert came hurrying towards 
them, his face radiant with pleasure and 
enthusiasm. 

" Wasn't that great, Anne ?" he exclaimed 
as he grasped her hand exultantly. " I tell 
you I've worked to knock out that law. 
This victory means a lot for me — for us. 
Wasn't that a great decision?" 

Anne withdrew her hand and looked at 
her lover. 

"Do you mean to say," said she, "that 
you were counsel for the Cramer Com- 
pany?" 

"Indirectly," said he; "they insure with 
us, the United Employers' Insurance Com- 
pany, you know. We handle aU their 
damage suits. This is the biggest case our 
company has ever turned over to me yet, the 
biggest because it meant so much to all our 
clients to have that law declared uncon- 
stitutional. It's a step up for me, I can tell 
you. Anne, what's the matter with you ? 
Aren't you glad I won ?" 

Anne passed her hand across her eyes. 

"I don't know," she said coldly. "I 



<«TM 



M. J. REYNOLDS 



133 



can't talk about it now. I must go home 
with Katie Reed. No, I don't wish you to 
come with me. I will talk with you about 
it this evening." 

And all the congratulations of his con- 
freres could not prevent young Halstyne 
from leaving the building with the light of 
enthusiasm quenched in his face. 

" But I cannot imderstand you," he said 
that evening, as he stood before her in the 
beautiful library of her own home, the soft 
firelight glinting on the richly tinted books 
and draperies. It was the room in which he 
had proposed to her and had been accepted, 
and was especially dear to them both. 
Anne, in a long, clinging white gown, sat 
in a great chair of dark leather, and Hal- 
styne stood before her, his face set and hard. 

"What am I to infer?'' said he. "You 
have claimed to love me for two years. 
And yet you side with this unknown girl 
against me. Who is the girl ? What is she 
to you ? Why should you place her interests 
against mine? And in the most important 
case I have yet had, a case affecting great . 
manufactxuing interests, a case after which 
many older lawyers congratulated me to-day 
upon my victory — you seem to blame me. 
What does it mean ? Are you tired of me, 
and seeking to break our engagement?" 

Anne did not answer for a while, but sat 
steadfastly studying him. 

"Robert," she said finally, "is this the 
means to which you look for advancement 
in your profession? Defending employers 
against suits of persons injured in their 
establishments, and getting laws passed for 
the protection of workers in dangerous 
trades declared unconstitutional?" 

"Why, certainly," said Halstyne; "that's 
the business of the company by which I am 
employed. We insure employers against 
the damage suits of employees. You knew 
it. I have talked to you of my cases a 
number of tinjes." 

" I didn't imderstand," said Anne. 

"We offered the girl fifty dollars," con- 
tinued Halstyne; " that would have paid all 
her expenses. She refused it, and now she 
will get nothing. I don't think the people 
who prompted her to that course were her 
friends. I supposed it was some shyster 
lawyer after half the damages. I'm sur- 
prised to know it was your Settlement 
crowd. You'll grow more practical, Anne, 
after you've seen more of the world. The 
girl had no ground at all. The guard was 



right there. All she had to do was to 
adjust it." 

" But if she had adjusted it," said Anne, 
"it would have limited the output of her 
machine, and she would have been dis- 
charged. Other girls had tried it, and were 
discharged, so she knew." 

"Very well, then," said Halstyne coolly, 
"when she chose tp operate imguarded ma- 
chinery she deliberately assumed all risk. 
By that act she contracted with her em- 
ployer to waive damages in case of injury." 

"But, Robert," said Anne, leaning for- 
ward with hands clasped nervously, "is 
there really freedom of contract when one 
party must enter into the contract or lose 
his means of livelihood? To preserve real 
and actual freedom of contract, shouldn't 
the state protect the weaker party, so as to 
place him on a basis of equality with the 
other?" 

Halstyne strode up and down the room. 
"Anne," said he, in a voice of imcon- 
trollable irritation, "you are the most 
utterly impractical person I ever saw." 

"Perhaps I am," said Anne; "I don't 
know yet. I'm trying to find out. There's 
another side of it. It seems to me it isn't a 
case of Katie Reed alone, but a case of the 
public welfare. The girl's right hand has 
been cut off. For all practical purposes she 
might about as well have been stricken with 
paralysis. She can never earn her living 
again. No store, no factory, no housewife 
will ever employ her. She isn't of the class 
that can rise above such a handicap in the 
business world. Few people could. No 
man of her class will ever marry her, A 
workingman's wife with only one hand 
would be too impossible. Her parents will 
support her for a time, but she must eventu- 
ally become a public charge. She is only 
sixteen years old. The state may have to 
support her thirty, forty, fifty years, and 
into the bargain lose all the productive 
industry of which she would otherwise have 
been capable in that time. The state must 
incur all this loss and all this expense, in 
order that your company might make a few 
extra dollars per week by the output of that 
machine. I am a taxpayer. It seems to me 
I have an interest in the matter. Why 
should I be obliged to help support Katie 
Reed for the benefit of this company ? " 

Halstyne continued his restless stride. 
Finally he stopped squarely in front of her 
chair: 



134 



"NOW, O MY MOTHER!" 



"Is this the way you are going to check 
and frustrate me right along?" he de- 
manded. "Is this the sympathy you are 
going to give me ? Is this the way you are 
planning to help my career through life ? " 

" Oh, no," said Anne quietly, with a note 
of finality in her voice. He understood her — 
understood that she meant she would not 
interfere with him, because she would not 
marry him. The thought sobered his 
intense anger. 

A gloriously beautiful peasant girl might 
have made Halstyne's senses thriU, but she 
could not have held him two minutes. It 
was the exquisitely patrician quality of 
Anne — of her beauty, her personality, 
everything about her — ^which had domi- 
nated his critical and fastidious taste. He 
was proud to be her accepted lover, and no 
woman who could not inspire in him this 
pride could ever have held him. 

"Anne, Anne," said he, "do you under- 
stand what you are doing?" 

She rose, her white hand resting on the 
great oak table. 

"It's no use, Robert," she said steadily. 
" Our point of view of life is too diflFerent. 
It is as far apart as the poles. The fact that 
we have not realized it in two years shows 
how little our natures have really touched." 

She drew off her engagement ring and 
laid it on the table. 

"Anne," said Halstyne, "do you realize 
that you are changing the course of oiu* two 
lives on account of a difference of opinion 
over a lawsuit ? " 

"It isn't that, Robert," she replied; "it's 



a difference in the whole plan and scope of 
our lives. There could be no sympathy 
between us on anything. It would color 
every act and thought. It's radical." 

The scene of the afternoon surged up in 
her mind and sent one brutal sentence from 
her lips, avenging on Halstyne all the 
hatred and disgust she had conceived for 
the five men in black robes and the whole 
system they represented. 

"Go," said she, "and live on the blood 
and bones of Katie Reed if you like. I 
don't care for such £are." 

In one instant love changed to hate in 
Halstyne's face. White and icy he turned 
to go, but paused at the head of the table to 
say with a deadly sneer, "It is my misfor- 
tune that I am at present obliged to earn 
my living in the way you so delicately indi- 
cate. If my father had done it for me, as 
your's did, I should be spared the necessity. 
How do you suppose the money you live on 
was made?" 

" Out of profits on Katie Reed and her 
• kind," replied Anne promptly. "I beg 
your pardon, Bobbie, for what I said. It 
was outrageous. We are all in the same 
boat together — the same dirty boat. I 
don't know as I shall ever get out of it 
myself. But I want to — if I can find out 
how — and you don't. That's the difference 
between us." 

Halstyne left the room. The big library 
was silent, and the firelight played over the 
beautiful head of Miss Leighton, bowed on 
her hand as she sat motionless before the 
fireplace. 



i i 



NOW, O MY MOTHER!" 



BY WITTER BYNNER 



Unheeding I had often heard 

How, when you were but three, 
You had a doll whose face was blurred, 

A broken doll was she; 
And yet the seams and cracking glue 
Meaning a deeper need of you, 
You took her to your mother breast 
And held her cldse and loved her best. 



Now, O my mother, when I've come 

From what I thought disgrace, 
With all the slow unhappy sum 

Of failure in my face, 
When there was nothing left to do 
But just to tell it all to you. . . . 
O how I'll show the world of men! — 
You took me to your heart again! 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 

BY RAY STAl^MARD BAKER 

ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS BY A. B. PHELAN AND OTHERS 

THE NEGRO IN SOUTHERN CITY LIFE 






^^>:^^r 






[OON after my arrival in 
Atlanta, and when I had 
begun to understand some 
of the more apparent rami- 
fications of the color line 
(as I related last month), I 
asked several Southern 
men whose acquaintance I had made where 
I could best see the poorer or criminal class 
of Negroes. So much has been said of the 
danger arising from this element of Southern 
population and it plays such a part in every 
discussion of the race question that I was 
anxious to learn all I could about it. 

" Go down any morning to Judge Broyles' 
court," they said to me, "and you'll see the 
lowest of the low." 

So I went down — the first of many visits I 
have made to police and justice courts since 
I came down hera I chose a Monday 
morning that I might see to the best advan- 
tage the accmnulation of the arrests of Sat- 
uiday and Sunday. 

The police station stands in Decatur 
street, in the midst of the very worst section 
of the dty, surrounded by low saloons, dives 
and pawn shops. The court occupies a 
great room upstairs, and it was crowded that 
morning to its capacity. Besides the police, 
lawyers, court officers and white witnesses, 
at least one hundred and fifty spectators 
filled the seats behind the rail, nearly all of 
them Negroes. The ordinary Negro loves 
nothing better than to sit and watch the pro- 
ceedings of a court. Judge Broyles — 
"Briles," the Negroes call him — ^kindly in- 
vited me to a seat on the platform at his 
side where I could look into the faces of the 
prisoners and hear aU that was said. 

In a Southern Police Court 

It was a profoundly interesting and sig- 
nificant spectacle. In the first place the 



very number of cases was staggering. The 
docket that morning carried over one hun- 
dred names — ^men, women and children, 
white and black; the court worked hard, but 
it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon 
before the room was cleared. Atlanta, as 
I showed in a former article, has the largest 
number of arrests, considering the popula- 
tion, of any important city in the United 
States. I found that 13,511 of the total of 
21,702 persons arrested in 1906 were Ne- 
groes, or sixty-two per cent, whereas the col- 
ored population of the city is only forty per 
cent of the total. 

A very large proportion of the arrests that 
Monday morning were Negroes, with a sur- 
prising proportion of women and of mere 
children. Last year 3,194 Negro women 
were arrested in Atlanta. It was altogether 
a pitiful and disheartening exhibition, a 
spectacle of sodden ignorance, reckless vice, 
dissipation. Most of the cases, raveled out, 
led back to the saloon. 

"Where's your home?" the judge would 
ask, and in a number of cases the answer 
was: 

"Ah come here fum de country." 

Over and over again it was the story of the 
country Negro, or the Negro who had been 
working on the railroad, in the cotton fields 
or in the saw mills, who had entered upon the 
more complex life of the city. Most of the 
country districts of the South prohibit the 
sale of liquor; and Negroes, especially, have 
comparatively little temptation of this 
nature, nor are they subjected to the many 
other glittering pitfaUs of city life. But of 
late years the opportunities of the city have 
attracted the black people, just as they have 
the whites, in large numbers. Atlanta 
has many saloons and other places of 
vice; and the results are to be seen in Judge 
Broyles' court any morning. And not only 
Negroes, but the "poor whites" who have 

135 



136 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



come in from the mountains and the small 
farms to work in the mills: they, too, suflFer 
fully as much as the Negroes. 

Negro Cocaine l^ictims 

Not a few of the cases both black and 
white showed evidences of cocaine or mor- 
phine poisoning — the blear eyes, the un- 
steady nerves. 

"Whatfe the trouble here?" asked the 
judge. 

" Coke," said the officer. 

" Ten-seventy-five," said the judge, nam- 
ing the amount of the fine. 

They buy the "coke" in the form of a 
powder and snuff it up the nose; a certain 
patent catarrh medicine which is nearly all 
cocaine is sometimes used; ten cents will 
purchase enough to make a man wholly 
irresponsible for his acts, and capable of 
any crime. The cocaine habit, which 
seems to be spreading, for there are always 
druggists who will break the law, has been a 
curse to the Negro and has resulted, directly, 
as the police, told me, in much crime. I 
was told of two • cases in particular, of 
offenses against women, in which the Negro 
was a victim of the drug habit. 

So society, in pursuit of wealth, South and 
North, preys upon the ignorant and weak — 
and then wonders why crime is prevalent! 

One has only to visit police courts in 
the South to see in how many curious ways 
the contact of the races generates fire. 

" What's the trouble here ? " inquires the 
judge. 

The white complainant — ^a boy — says: 

"This nigger insulted me!" and he tells 
the epithet the Negro applied. 

" Did you caU him that ? " 

"No sah, I never called him no such 
name." 

"Three-seventy-five — you mustn't insult 
white people." 

And here is the report of the case of a 
six-year-old Negro boy from The Georgian : 

** Because Robert Lee Buster, a six-year-old 
Negro boy, insulted Maggie McDermott, a little 
girl, who lives at 507 Simpson Street, Wednesday 
afternoon, he was given a whipping in the police 
station Thursday morning that will make him re- 
member to be good. 

** The case was heard in the juvenile court be- 
fore Judge Broyles. It was shown that the little 
negro had made an insulting remark to the little 
girl." 

So it goes back and forth. 



Story of a Negro Arrest 

The very suspicion and fear that exist 
give rise to many difficulties. One illumin- 
ating case came up that morning. A strap- 
ping Negro man was brought before the 
judge. He showed no marks of dissipation 
and was respectably dressed. Confronting 
him were two plain-clothes policemen, one 
with his neck wrapped up, one with a 
bandage around his arm. Both said they 
had been stabbed by the Negro with a jack- 
knife. The Negro said he was a hotel porter 
and he had the white manager of the hotel 
in court to testify to his good character, 
sobriety and industry. It seems that he was 
going home from work at nine o'clock in the 
evening, and it was dark. He said he was 
afraid and had been afraid since the riot. 
At the same time the two policemen were 
looking for a burglar. They saw the Negro 
porter and ordered him to stop. Not being 
in uniform the Negro said he thought the 
officers were "jes' plain white men" who 
were going to attack him. When he started 
to run the officers tried to arrest him, and he 
drew his jack-knife and began to fight. And 
here he was in court! The judge said: 

"You mustn't attack officers " and 

bound him over to trial in the higher court. 

A IVhite Man and a Negro Woman 

Another case shows one of the strange 
relationships which grow out of Southern 
conditions. An old white man, much agi- 
tated and very pale, was brought before the 
judge. With him came a much younger, 
comely-appearing woman. Both were well 
dressed and looked respectable — so much 
so, indeed, that there was a stir of interest 
and curiosity among the spectators. Why 
had they been arrested? As they stood in 
front of the judge's desk, the old man hung 
his head, but the woman looked up with 
such an expression, tearless and tragic, as I 
hope I shaU not have to see again. 

" What's the charge ? " asked the judge. 

"Adultery," said the officer. 

The woman winced, the old man did not 
look up. 

The judge glanced from one to the other 
in surprise. 

" Wiiy don't you get married ? " he asked. 

"The woman," said the officer, "is a 
nigger." 

She was as white as I am, probably an 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



137 



octoroon; I could not have distinguished her 
from a white person, and she deceived even 
the experienced eye of the judge. 

" Is that so ? " asked the judge. 

The man continued to hang his head, the 
woman looked up; neither said a word. It 
then came out that they had lived together 
as man and wife for many years and that 



rooms. A few minutes later the bailiff came 
out quickly and said to the judge: 
" The old man has fallen in a faint." 
Not long afterward they half led, half 
carried him out across the court room. 

One thing impressed me especially, not 
only in this court but in all the others I have 
visited: a Negro brought in for drunkenness, 



PHaoern^ll fr y-llan D. 



The Coming Generation 



they had children nearly grown. One of the 

girls — and a very bright, ambitious girl — as 
1 leamed later, was a student in Atlanta 
University, a Negro college, where she was 
supported by her father, who made good 
wages as a telegraph operator. Some 
neighbor had complained and the man and 
woman were arrested. 

"Is this all true?" asked the judge. 

Neither said a word. 

"You can't many under the Georgia 
law," said the judge; "I'll have to bind you 
over for trial in the county court." 

They were led back to the prisoners' 



for example, was punished much more 
severely than a white man arrested for the 
same offense. The injustice which the 
weak everywhere suffer — North and South 
— is in the South visited upon the Negro, 
The white man sometimes escaped with 
a reprimand, he was sometimes fined 
three dollars and costs, but the Negro, 
especially if he had no white man to inter- 
cede for him, was usually punished with 
a ten or fifteen dollar fine, which often 
meant that he must go to the chain-gang. 
One of the chief causes of complaint by the 
Negroes of Atlanta has been of the rough 



138 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



treatment of the police and of unjust 
arrests. After the riot, when the Civic 
League, composed of the foremost white 
citizens of Atlanta, was organized, one of 
the first subjects that came up was that of 
justice to tlie Negro. Mr. Hopkins, the 
leader of the League, said to me; " We com- 
plain that the Negroes will not help to bring 
the criminals of their race to justice. One 
reason for that is that the Negro has too 
Uttle confidence in our courts. We must 
give hiro that, above all things." 

In accordance with this plan, the Civic 
League, heartily supported by Judge 
Broyles, has already employed and Is paying 
a young lawyer, Mr. Underwood, to appear 
regularly in court and look after the interests 
of Negroes. Other plans, including the pos- 
sible employment of Negro policemen, to ar- 
rest Negroes only, are under consideration. 

Convicts Making a Profit for Georgia 

One reason for the very large number of 

arrests — in Georgia particularly — lies in the 
fact that the stale and the counties make a 
profit out of their prison system. No 
attempt is ever made to reform a criminal. 



either white or colored: convicts are hired 
out to private contractors or worked on the 
public roads. Last year the net profit to 
Georgia from its chain-gangs, to which the 
prison commission refers with pride, 
reached the great sum of $3S4.8S3-SS- 

Of course a very large proportion of the 
prisoners are Negroes. The demand for 
convicts by rich saw-mill operators, owners 
of brick-yards, large fanners and others is 
far in advance of the supply. The natural 
tendency is to convict as many men as pos- 
sible — it furnishes steady, cheap labor to 
the contractors and a profit to the state. 
Undoubtedly this explains in some degree 
the very large number of criminals, espe- 
cially Negroes, in Georgia. One of the 
leading political forces in Atlanta is a very 
prominent banker who is a dominant mem- 
ber of the city police board. He is also the 
owner of extensive brick-yards near Atlanta, 
where many convicts are employed. Some 
of the large fortunes in Atlanta have come 
chiefly from the labor of chain-gangs of 
convicts leased from the state. I have 
looked into other phases of the chain- 
gang system, of which I shall have more 
to say. 



INSIDB A NEGRO CABIN 



, indeed, that I entered a Negro cabin . 
. . . bottles of some abominable cur 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



139 



Fate of the Black Boy 

As I have already suggested, one of the 
things that impressed me strongly in visiting 
Judge Broyles' court — and others like it — 
was the astonishing number of children, 
esf)ecially Negroes, arrested. Some of them 



" Welt, if they're bad we put 'em in the 
stockade or the chain-gang, otherwise 
they're turned loose." 

I found, however, that a new state juvenile 
reformatory was just being opened at Mil- 
ledgeville — which may accommodate a few 
Negro boys. An attempt is also being made 



PUMtr^m U J-li 



" Every ehild, white 
is not in schools, c 



A GROUP OP CHILDREN AT HOME 

' eokred, is getting an education seme^vhtre. Jf that education 
' n it is on the streets or in chain-gangs " 



at home . 



were very young and often exceedingly 
bright-looking. From the records I find 
that last year one boy six years old, seven 
of seven years, thirty-three of eight yeare, 
sixty-nine of nine years, 107 of ten years, 
143 of eleven years, and aig of twelve 
years were arrested and brought into court 
— in other words, 578 boys and girls, mostly 
Negroes, under twelve years of age! 

" I should think," I said to a police officer, 
"you would have trouble in taking care of 
all these children in your reformatories." 

"Reformatories!" he said, "there aren" 
any." 

" What do you do with them ? " 



in Atlanta to get hold of some of the chil- 
dren through a new probation system. I 
talked with the excellent officer, Mr. (JIimt, 
who works in conj unci ion with Judge 
Broyles. He reaches a good many while 
boys, but very few Negroes. Of i,on boys 
and girls under sixteen, arrested in i ()0$, 8ig 
were black, but of those given the advantage 
of the probatitm system, 50 were white and 
only 7 colored. In other words, out "f 819 
arrests of negro children only 7 enjoyed the 
benefit of the prol>ation system. 

Mr. Gloer has endeavored lo secure a 
colored assistant who would help look after 
ihe swarming Negro children who arc l>e- 



ChiidTtn i 



I Negro Orphan Asylurt 



coming criminals. The city refused to 
appropriate money for that purpose, but 
some of the leading colored citizens agreed 
last year to contribute one dollar a month 
each, and a Negro woman was employed to 
help with the colored children brought into 
court. Excellent work was done, but owing 
to the feeling since the riot the Negro 
assistant has discontinued her work. 

Care of Negro Orphans 

With many hundreds of Negro orphans, 
waifs and foundlings, the state or city does 
very little to help them. If it were not for 
the fact that the Negroes, something like the 
Jews.arewonderfully helpful to one another, 
adopting orphan children with the greatest 
willingness, there would be much suffering. 
Several orphanages in the state are con- 
ducted by the colored people themselves, 
either through their churches or by private 
subscription. In Atlanta the Carrie Steele 
orphanage, which is managed by Negroes, 
\\3& received an appropriation yearly from 
the city, and has taken children sent by the 
city charities department. Since the riot 
the appropriation was suddenly cut off with- 
. out explanation, but through the activities 
of the new Civic League, it has, I under- 
stand, been restored. 

Without proper reformatories or asylums, 
with small advantage of the probation sys- 
tem, hundreds of Negro children are on the 
streets of Atlanta everj-day — shooting craps, 
stealing, learning to drink. A few, shut up 
in the stockade, or in chain-gangs, without 
any attempt to reform them or teach them, 
take lessons in crime from older offenders 



and come out worse than they went in. They 
spread abroad the lawlessness they learn 
and finally commit some frightful crime and 
get back into the chain-gang for life — where 
they make a profit for the state! 

Every child, while or colored, is geUing an 
education somewhere. If that education is 
not in schools, or at home, or, In cases of 
incorrigibility, in proper reformatories, then 
it is on the streets or in chain-gangs. 

IVhy Negro Children are not in School 

My curiosity, aroused by the very large 
number of young prisoners, led me next to 
inquire why these children were not in 
school. I visited a number of schools 
and I talked with L. M. Landrum, the 
able assistant superintendent. Compul- 
sory education is not practiced anywhere 
in the South, so that children may run 
the streets unless their parents insist upon 
sending them to school. I found more 
than this, however, that Atlanta did not 
begin to have enough school facilities for the 
children who wanted to go. Like many 
rapidly growing cities, both South and 
North, it has been difficult to keep up with 
the demand. Just as in the North the tene- 
ment classes are often neglected, so in the 
South thelowest class — which is the Negro — 
is neglected. Several new schools have been 
built for white children, but there has been 
no new school for colored children in fifteen 
or twenty years (though one Negro private 
school has been taken over within the last 
few years by the city). So crowded are the 
colored schools that they have two sessions 
a day, one squad of children coming in the 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



141 



forenoon, another in the afternoon. The 
colored teachers, therefore, do double work, 
for which they receive about two-thirds as 
much as the white teachers. 

Though many Southern cities have insti- 
tuted industrial training in the public 
schools, Atlanta so far has done nothing. 
The president -of the board of education in 
his report (1963) calls attention to this 
fact, and says also: 

" While on the subject of Negro schools, 
permit me to call your attention to their 
overcrowded condition. In every Negro 
school many teachers teach two sets of 
pupils, each set for one-half of a school 
day. 

"The last bond election was carried by a 
majority of only thirty-three votes. To my 
personal knowledge more than thirty-three 
Negroes voted for the bonds on the solemn 
assurance that by the passage of the bonds 
the Negro children would receive more 
school accommodations." 

The eagerness of the colored people for a 
chance (o send their children to school is 
something astonishing and pathetic. They 
will submit to all sorts of inconveniences in 
order that their children may get an educa- 
tion. One day I visited the miU ne^hbor- 
hood of Atlanta to see how the poorer 
classes of white people lived. I found one 
very comfortable home occupied by a 
family of mill employees. They hired a 
Negro woman to cook for them, and while 
they sent their children to the mill to work, 
the cook sent her children to school! 

How Negroes Educate Themselves 

Here is a curious and significant thing I 
found in Atlanta. Because there is not 
enough room for Negro children in public 
schools, the colored people maintain many 
private schools. The largest of these, 
called Morris Brown College, has nearly 
1,000 pupils. Some of them are boarders 
from the country, but the greater proportion 
are day pupil.'; from seven years old up 
who come in from the neighborhood. This 
"college," in reality a grammar school, is 
managed and largely supported by tuition 
and contributions from Negroes, though 
some subscriptions are obtained in the 
North. Besides this "college" there are 
many small private schools conducted by 
Negro women and supported wholly by the 
tuition p«d — the Negroes thus voluntarily 



taxing themselves heavily for their educa- 
tional opportunities. One afternoon in 
Atlanta I passed a small, rather dilapidated 
home. Just as I reached the gate I heard a 
great cackhng of voices and much laughter. 
Colored children began to pour out of the 
house. "What's this?" I said, and I 
turned in to see. I found a Negro woman, 
the teacher, standing in the doorway. She 
had just dismissed her pupils for recess. 
She was holding school in two little rooms 
where some fifty children must have been 
crowded to suffocation. Everything was 
very primitive and inconvenient — but it was 
a school! She collected, she told me, a 
dollar a month tuition for each child. 
MoUie McCue's school, perhaps the best 
known private school for Negroes in the 
city, has 350 pupils. 

Many chiltfren also find educational op- 
portunities in the Negro colleges of the 
city — Clark University, Atlanta University 
and Spellman Seminary, which are sup- 
ported p>artly by the Negroes themselves 
and partly by Northern philanthropy. 

Mr. Landrum gave me a copy of the last 
statistical report of the school board {1903), 
from which these facts appear: 

White.. .14,465 ao 300 10,053 4.413 
Colored . S.iiB 5 49 z.445 5,673 

Even with a double daily session for 



Three Boys in a Negro Orphan Asylui. 



Negro Boys Going to School 



colored pupils nearly half of the Negro chil- 
dreQ in Atlanta, even in 1903, were barred 
from the public schools from lack of facili- 
ties, and the number has increased largely 
in the last four years. Some of these are 
accommodated in the private schools and 
colleges which I have mentioned, but there 
still remain hundreds, even thousands, who 
are getting no schooling of any kind, but 
who are nevertheless being educated — on 
the streets, and for criminal lives. 

White Instruction for Black Children 

I made a good many inquiries to find out 
what was being done outside of the public 
schools by the white people toward training 
the Negro either morally, industrially or 
intellectually — and I was astonished to find 
that it was next to nothing. The Negro is, of 
course, not welcome at the white churches 
or Sunday schools, and the sentiment is so 
strong against teaching the Negro that it is a 
brave Southern man or woman, indeed, 
who dares attempt anything of the sort. I 
did find, however, that the Central Presby- 
terian Church of Atlanta conducted a Negro 
Sunday school. Of this Dr. Theron H. 
Rice, the pastor, said: 

"The Sunday School conducted in Atlanta by 
my church is Ihe outcome of the effort of some ot 
the most earnest and thoughtful of our people to 



give careful religious training to the Negroes of 

this generation and thus to conserve the influence 
t»gun with the fathers and molhers and the grand- 
fathers and grandmothers of these colored children 
when they were taught personally by Iheir devoted 
Christian masters and mistresses. The work is 
small in point of the numt>er reached, but it hag 
been productive of sturdy character and law- 
abiding citizenship." 

A white man or woman, and especially a 
Northern while man or woman, in Atlanta 
who teaches Negroes is rigorously ostracised 
by white society. I visited one ot the Negro 
colleges where there are a number ot white 
teachers from the North. We had quite a 
talk. When I came to leave one of the 
teachers said to me: 

"You don't know how good it seems to talk 
with some one from the outside world. VVe work 
here year in and year out without a white visitor, 
except those who have some necessary business 
with Ihe institution." 

Explaining the attitude toward these 
Northern teachers {and we must under- 
stand just how the Southern people feel in 
this matter), a prominent clergyman said 
that a lady who made a special call upon 
a teacher in that institution would not feel 
seciu'e against having social equslity thrust 
upon her, and that when the call was re- 
turned a simitar embarrassing situation 
might be created. 



Pifiv^rafA ty Ft 



A Model Negro School, Inspired by Tuskegee 



Apologising for Helping Negroes 

Just in this connection: I found a very 
remarkable and significant letter published 
in the Orangeburg, S. C, News, signed by a 
well-to-do white citizen who thus apologizes 
for a kind act to a Negro school: 

" I had left my place of business here on a 
business trip a few miles below; on returning I 
came by the above-mentioned School (Ihe Prince 
Institute, colored), and was held up by the teacher 
and liegged to make a few remarks to the children. 
Very reluctantly I did so, not thinking that pub- 
licity would be given to it or that I was doing any- 
thing that would offend anyone. I wish to say 
here and now that I am heartily sorry for what I 
did. and I hope after this humble confession and 
expression of regret that all whom I have offended 
will forgive me." 

The sentiment indicated by this letter, 
while widely prevalent, is by no means uni- 
versal. I have seen Southern white men 
address Negro schools and Negro gatherings 
several times since I have been down here. 
Some of the foremost men in the South have 
accepted Booker T. Washington's invita- 
tions to speak at Tuskegee. And concern- 
ing the very letter that I reproduce above, the 
Charlotte Observer, a strong Southern news- 
paper, which copied it, said: 

" A man would better t)e dead than to thus 
at>ase himself. This man did right to address the 
pupils of a colored school, but has spoiled all by 
apologizing for it. Few people have conceived 



that race pjjejudice went so far, even in South 
Carolina, as is here Indicated. Logically it is to 
be assumed that this jelly-fish was about to be put 
under the ban, and to secure exemption from this, 
published Ibis abject card. To it was appended 
a certificate from certain citizens, saying they 'are 
as anxious to see the colored race elevated as any 
people, but by all means let it be done inside the 
color line.' . . . The narrowness and malig- 
nity betrayed in this Orangeburg incident is ex- 
ceedingly unworthy, and those guilty of it should 
t>e ashamed of themselves." 

The Rev. H. S. Bradley, for a long time 

one of the leading clergymen of Atlanta, 
now of St. Louis, said in a sermon pub- 
lished in the Atlanta ConstUtUion : 

"... We have not been wholly lacking 
in our effort to help. There arc a few schools 
and churches supported by ^oulhem whites for 
the Negroes. Here and there a man like Ueorge 
WilUams Walker, of the aristocracy of South Car- 
olina, and a woman like Miss Belle H. Bennett, 
of the blue blood of Kentucky, goes as teacher to 
Ihe Negio youth, and seeks in a Christly Spirit of 
fraternity to bring them to a higher plane of civil 
and moral manhood, but the numtwr like them 
can almost be counted on fingers of both hands. 

' Our Southern churches have spent probably a 



hundred li 






money si 



re the Civil Wai 



an cHort to evangelize the people of China, Ja- 
pan, India. South America. Africa. Mexico and 
Cuba, as they have spent to give the gospel to the 
Negroes at our doors. It is often true that op- 
portunity is overlooked l>ecause it lies at our feet." 

The Southern Baptist Church and other 
white church organ iita lions I have found 
carry on missionary work to some extent 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



among the Negroes, which I shall refer to 



Concerning the flagrant Negro 

Before I get away from observations of the 
low-class Negro, I must speak of the sub- 
ject of vagrancy. Many white men have 
told me with impatience of the great num- 
ber of idle or partly idle Negroes, — idle 



In some of these saloons — conducted by 
white men and permitted to exist by the city 
authorities — pictures of nude white women 
were displayed as an added attraction. 
Has this anything to do with Negro crimes 
against white women ? Since the riot these 
conditions in Atlanta have much improved. 
Increased Negro idleness is the result, 
in large measure, of the marvelous and 
rapid changes in Southern conditions. The 



" TTifre's 



AN OLD MAMMY NURSE 

' Negro problem there: that's just plain human love" 



while every industry and most of the 
farming districts of Georgia are crying for 
more laljor. And from my observation in 
Atlanta, I should say that there were a good 
many idle or partly idle Negroes — even 
since the riot, which served, I understand, 
to drive many of them away. Five days be- 
fore the riot of last September, a committee 
of the city council visited some forty saloons 
one afternoon, and by actual count found 
2,4SS Negroes (and 152 while men) drinking 
at the bars or lounging around the doorways. 



South has been and is to-day dependent 
on a single labor supply — the Negro. Now 
Negroes, though recruited liy a high Ijirth 
rate, have not been increasing in any de- 
gree as rapidly as the demand for labor 
incident to the development of every sort of 
industry, railroads, lumbering, mines, to say 
nothing of the increased farm area and the 
added requirements of growing cities. With 
this enormous increased demand for labor 
the Negro supply has, relatively, been de- 
creasing. Many have gone North and 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



145 



West, many have bou^t farms of their own, 
thousands, by education, have become pro- 
fessional men, teachers, preachers, and even 
merchants and bankers — ^always draining 
away the best and most industrious men 
of the race and reducing by so much the 
available supply of common labor. In 
short, those Negroes who were capable 
have been going the same way as the 
unskilled Irishman and German in the 
North — ^upward through the door of educa- 
tion — buif unlike the Norths there have been 
no other laborers coming into take their places. 
What has been the result ? Naturally, a 
fierce contest between agriculture and in- 
dustry for the limited and dwindling supply 
of the only labor they had. 

Negro Monopoly on Labor 

So they bid against one another — it was 
as thou^ the Negro had a monopoly on 
labor — and within the last few years day 
wages for Negro workers have jumped from 
fifty or sixty cents to $1.25 and $1.50, often 
more — ^a pure matter of competition. A 
similar advance has affected all sorts of ser- 
vant labor— <ooks, waiters, maids, porters. 

High wages, scarcity of labor, and the 
consequent loss of opportunity for taking 
advantage <5f the prevailing prosperity 
would, in any community, South or North, 
whether the labor was white or black, pro- 
duce a spirit of impatience and annoyance 
on the part of the employing class. I found 
it evident enough last summer in Kansas 
where the farmers were unable to get work- 
ers to save their crops; and the servant prob- 
lem is not more provoking, certainly, in the 
South than in tfie North and West. In- 
deed, it is the labor problem more than any 
other one cause, that has held the South 
back and is holding it back to-day. 

But the South has an added cause of 
annoyance. Higher wages, instead of pro- 
ducing more and better labor, as they would 
naturally be expected to do, have actually 
served to reduce the supply. This may, at 
first, seem paradoxical: but it is easily ex- 
plainable and it lies deep down beneath 
many of the perplexities which surround the 
race problem. 

Most Negroes, as I have said, were (and 
still are, of course) farm-dwellers, and farm- 
dwellers in the hitherto wasteful Southern 
way. Their living is easy to get and very 
simple: in that warm climate they need few 



clothes: a shack for a home. Their living 
standards are low; they have not learned to 
save; there has not been time since slavery 
for them to attain the sense of responsibility 
which would encourage them to get ahead. 
And moreover they have been and are to- 
day largely under the discipline of white 
land owners. 

What was the effect, then, of a rapid ad- 
vance in wages? The poorer class of Ne- 
groes, naturally indolent and happy-go- 
lucky, found that they could make as much 
money in two or three days as they had 
formerly earned in a whole week. It was 
enough to live on as well as they had ever 
lived: why, then, work more than two days a 
week? It was the logic of a child, but it 
was the logic used. Everywhere I went in 
the South I heard the same story: high 
wages coupled with the difficulty of getting 
anything like continuous work from this 
class of colored men. 

On the other hand the better and more 
industrious Negroes, who would work con- 
tinuously — and there are imnumbered thou- 
sands of them, as faithful as any workers — 
occasionally saved their surplus, bought 
little farms or businesses of their own and 
began to live on a better scale. One of the 
first things they did after getting their foot- 
ing was to take their wives and daughters 
out of the white man's kitchen, and to send 
their children from the cotton fields (where 
the white man needed them) to the school- 
house where the tendency (exactly as with 
white children) was to educate them away 
from farm employment. With the develop- 
ment of ambition and a higher standard of 
living, the Negro follows the steps of the ris- 
ing Irishman or Italian : he has a better home, 
he wants his wife to take care of it, and he 
insists upon the education of his children. 

In this way higher wages have tended to 
cut down the already limited supply of labor, 
producing annoyance, placing greater obsta- 
cles in the way of that material development 
of which the Southerner is so justly proud. 
And this, not at all unnaturally, has given 
rise on the one hand to complaints against 
the lazy Negro who will work only two 
days in the week that he may loaf the other 
five; and on the other hand it has found 
expression in blind and bitter hostility 
to the education which enables the better 
sort of Negro to rise above the unskilled em- 
ployment and the domestic service of which 
the South is so keenly in need. It is human 



146 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



nature to blame men, not conditions. Here 
is unlimited work to do: here is the Negro 
who has been for centuries and is to-day 
depended upon to do it; it is not done: the 
natural result is to throw the blame wholly 
upon the Negro, and not upon the deep 
economic conditions and tendencies which 
have actually caused the scarcity of labor. 

Immigrants to Take the Negroes* Places 

But within the last year, thinking men in 
the South have begun to see this particular 
root of the difficulty and a great new move- 
ment looking to the encouragement of immi- 
gration from foreign countries has been 
started. Last November the first ship-load 
of immigrants ever brought from Europe 
directly to a South Carolina port were 
landed at Charleston with great ceremony 
and rejoicing. If a steady stream of im- 
migrants can be secured and if they can 
be employed on satisfactory terms wUh the 
Negro it will go far toward relieving race 
tension in the South. 

Of course idleness leads to crime, and one 
of the present efforts in the South is toward 
a more rigid enforcement of laws against 
vagrancy. In this the white people have the 
sympathy of the leading Negroes. I was 
struck with one passage in the discussion at 
the last Workers' Conference at Tuskegee. 
William £. Holmes, president of a colored 
college at Macon, Georgia, was speaking. 
Some one interrupted him: 

^^ I would like to ask if you think the Negro 
is any more disposed to become a loafer or 
vagrant than any other people under the 
same conditions ? " 

" Well," said Mr. Holmes, taking a deep 
breath, "we cannot afford to do what 
other races do. We haven't a single, soli- 
tary man or woman among us we can af- 
ford to support as an idler. It may be that 
other races have made so much progress 
that they can afford to support loafers. 
But we are not yet in that condition. Some 
of us have the impression that the world 
owes us a living. That is a misfortune. 
I must confess that I have become con- 
vinced that at the present time we furnish a 
larger number of loafers than any other race 
of people on this continent." 

These frank remarks did not meet with 
the entire approval of the members of the 
conference, but the discussion seemed to 
indicate that there was a great deal more of 



truth in them than the leaders and teachers 
of the Negro are disposed to admit. 

The Worthless Negro 

I tried to see as much as I could of this 
" worthless Negro," who is about the lowest 
stratum of humanity, it seems to me, of any 
in our American life. He is usually densely 
ignorant, bften a wanderer, working to-day 
with a railroad gang, to-morrow on some 
city works, the next day picking cotton. He 
has lost his white friendis — his " white folks," 
as he calls them — and he has not attained 
the training or self-direction to stand alone. 
He works only when he is hungry, and he is 
as much a criminal as he dares to be. Many 
such Negroes are supported by their wives 
or by women with whom they live — for 
morality and the home virtues among this 
class are unknown. A woman who works as 
a cook in a white family will often take 
enough from the kitchen to feed a worthless 
vagabond of a man and keep him in idle- 
ness — or worse. A Negro song exactly ex- 
presses this state of beatitude: 

*' I doan has to work so ha'd. 
I'se got a gal in a white man's ya'd ; 
Ebery night 'bout half pas' eight 
I goes 'round to the white man's gate : 
She brings me butter and she brings me la'd — 
I doan has to work so ha'd ! " 

This worthless Negro, without training or 
education, grown up from the neglected 
children I have already spoken of, evident 
in his idleness around saloons and depots — 
this Negro provokes the just wrath of the 
people, and gives a bad name to the entire 
Negro race. In numbers he is, of course, 
small, compared with the 8,000,000 Ne- 
groes in the South, who perform the enor- 
mous bulk of hard manual labor upon 
which rests Southern prosperity. 

How the Working Negro Lives 

Above this low stratum of criminal or 
semi-criminal Negroes is a middle class, com- 
prising the great body of the race — the 
workers. They are crowded into straggling 
settlements like Darktown and Jackson 
Row, a few owning their homes, but the 
majority renting precariously, earning 
good wages, harmless for the most part, 
but often falling into petty crime. Pov- 
erty here, however, lacks the tragic note 
that it strikes in the crowded sections of 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



147 



Northern cities. The temperament of the 
Negro is irrepressibly cheerful, he overflows 
from his small home and sings and laughs in 
his streets; no matter how ragged or forlorn 
he may be good humor sits upon his counte- 
nance, and his squalor is not unpicturesque. 
A banjo, a mullet supper from time to time, 
an exciting revival, give him real joys. Most 
of the families of this middle class, some of 
whom are deserted wives with children, 
have their "white folks" for whom they do 
washing, cooking, gardening, or other ser- 
vice, and all have church connections, so 
that they have a real place in the social 
fabric and a certain code of self-respect. 

I tried to see all I could of this phase of 
life. I visited many of the poorer Negro 
homes and I was often received in squalid 
rooms with a dignity of politeness which 
would have done credit to a society woman. 
For the Negro, naturally, is a sort of French- 
man. And if I can sum up the many visits 
I made in a single conclusion, I should say, 
I think, that I was chiefly impressed by the 
tragic punishment meted out to ignorance 
and weakness by our complex society. I 
would And a home of one or two rooms 
meanly furnished, but having in one corner 
a glittering cottage organ, or on the mantel 
shelf a glorified gilt clock; crayon portraits, 
inexpressibly crude and ugly, but framed 
gorgeously, are not uncommon — ^the first 
uncertain, primitive (not unpitiful) reach- 
ings out after some of the graces of a broader 
life. Many of these things are bought from 
agents and the prices paid are extortionate. 
Often a Negro family will pay monthly for a 
year or so on some showy clock or chromo 
or. music-box or decorated mirror — ^paying 
the value of it a dozen times over, only to 
have it seized when through sickness, or lack 
of foresight, they fail to meet a single note. 
Instalment houses prey upon them, pawn- 
brokers suck their blood, and they are infi- 
nitely the victims of patent medicines. It is 
rare, indeed, that I entered a Negro cabin, 
even the poorest, without seeing one or more 
bottles of some abominable cure-all. The 
amount yearly expended by Negroes for 
patent medicines, which are glaringly adver- 
tised in all Southern newspapers, must be 
enormous — millions of dollars. I had an 
interesting side light on conditions one day 
while waUdng in one of the most fashiona- 
ble residence districts of Atlanta. I saw a 
magnificent gray stone residence standing 
somewhat back from the street. I said to my 



companion, who was a resident of the city: 

"That's a fine home." 

" Yes; stop a minute," he said, " I want to 
tell you about that. The anti-kink man 
lives there." 

"Anti-kink?" I asked in surprise. 

"Yes; the man who occupies that house 
is one of the wealthiest men here. He made 
his money by selling to Negroes a prepara- 
tion to smooth the kinks out of their wool. 
They're simply crazy on that subject." 

" Does it work ? " 

"You haven't seen any straight-haired 
Negroes, have you?" he asked. 

Ignorance carries a big burden and climbs 
a rocky road! 

Old Mammies and Nurses 

The mass of colored people still maintain, 
as I have said, a more or less intimate con- 
nection with white families — ^frequently a 
very beautiful and sympathetic relationship 
like that of the old mammies or nurses. To 
one who has heard so much of racial hatred 
as I have since I have been down here, a 
little incident that I observed the other day 
comes with a charm hardly describable. I 
saw a carriage stop in front of a home. The 
expected daughter had arrived — a very pret- 
ty girl indeed. She stepped out eagerly. Her 
father was halfway down to the gate; but 
ahead of him was a very old Negro woman 
in the cleanest of clean starched dresses. 

"Honey," she said eagerly. 

"Mammy!" exclaimed the girl, and the 
two rushed into each other's arms, clasping 
and kissing — the white girl and the old 
black woman'. 

I thought to myself: " There's no Negro 
problem there : that's just plain human love !" 

''Master'' Superseded by *'Boss'' 

Often I have heard Negroes refer to " my 
white folks" and similarly the white man 
still speaks of " my Negroes." The old term 
of slavery, the use of the word " master," has 
wholly disappeared, and in its place has 
arisen, not without significance, the round 
term "Boss," or sometimes "Cap" or 
" Cap'n." To this the white man responds 
with the first name of the Negro, "Jim" or 
" Susie " — or if the Negro is old or especially 
respected: "Uncle Jim" or "Aunt Susan." 

To an unfamiliar Northerner one of the 
very interesting and somewhat amusing 



148 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



phases of conditions down here is the panic 
fear displayed over the use of the word 
" Mr." or " Mrs." No Negro is ever called 
Mr. or Mrs. by a white man: that would 
indicate social equality. A Southern white 
man told me with hmnor of his difficulties: 

"Now I admire Booker Washington. 
I regard him as a great man, and yet I 
couldn't call him * Mr.' Washington. We 
were all in a quandary until a doctor's de- 
gree was given him. That saved our lives! 
we all call him 'Dr.' Washington now." 

Sure enough ! I don't think I have heard 
him called Mr. Washington since I came 
down here. It is always "Dr." or just 
" Booker." They are ready to call a Negro 
"Professor" or "Bishop" or "The Rev- 
erend"— but not "Mr." 

In the same way a Negro may call Miss 
Mary Smith by the familiar "Miss Mary," 
but if he called her Miss Smith she would be 
deeply incensed. The formal " Miss Smith " 
would imply social equality. 

I digress! But I have wanted to impress 
these relationships. There are aU grada- 
tions of Negroes between the wholly depen- 
dent old family servant and the new, edu- 
cated Negro professional or business man, 
and, correspondingly, every degree of treat- 
ment from indulgence to intense hostility. 

I must tell, in spite of lack of room, one 
beautiful story I heard at Atlanta, which so 
well illustrates the old relationship. There 
is in the family of Dr. J. S. Todd, a well- 
known citizen of Atlanta, an old, old servant 
called, affectionately. Uncle Billy. He has 
been so long in the family that in reality he 
is served as much as he serves. During the 
riot last September he was terrified: he did 
not dare to go home at night. So Miss 
Louise, the doctor's daughter, took Uncle 
Billy home through the dark streets. When 
she was returning one of her friends met her 
and was much alarmed that she should ven- 
ture out in a time of so much danger. 

" What are you doing out here this time of 
night?" headed. 

" Why," she replied, as if it were the most 
natural answer in the world, " I had to take 
Uncle Billy safely home." 

Over against this story I have an account 
of a Tennessee farmer who, entering an 
Illinois Central Pullman car in Kentucky, 
and discovering therein a Negro Bishop 
and his wife, compelled enforcement of 
the " Jim Crow " law. The train was held 

[Mr, Baker's next arUde will follow the color line into the country districts of the South] 



nine minutes at Hopkinsville while a po- 
liceman made them dress and move into 
the compartment for colored passengers. 
I have now described two of the three 
great classes of Negroes: First, the worth- 
less and idle Negro, often a criminal, com- 
paratively small in niunbers but perniciously 
evident. Second, the great middle class of 
Negroes who do the manual work of the 
South. Above these, a third class, few in 
numbers, but most influential in their race, 
are the progressive, property-owning Ne- 
groes, who have wholly severed their old 
intimate ties with the white people — and 
who have been getting farther and farther 
away from them. Of some of these leading 
Negroes in Atlanta I told last month, 
and I shall have much more to say of the 
class in coming articles. 

j4 White Man's Problem 

Do you know, after being down here for 
some months it keeps coming to me that 
this is more a white man's problem than 
it is a Negro problem. The white man 
as well as the black is being tried by fire. 
The white man is in full control of the 
South, politically, socially, industrially: the 
Negro, as ex -Governor Northen points 
out, is his helpless ward. What will he do 
with him? Speaking of the education of 
the Negro, and in direct reference to the con- 
ditions in Atlanta which I have already de- 
scribed, many men have said to me: 

" Think of the large sums that the South 
has spent and is spending on the education 
of the Negro. The Negro does not begin 
to pay for his education in taxes." 

Neither do the swarming Slavs, Italians 
and Poles in our Northern cities. They pay 
little in taxes and yet enormous sums are 
expended in their improvement. For their 
benefit? Of course, but chiefly for o\irs. 
It is better to educate men in school than 
to let them so educate themselves as to be- 
come a menace to society. The present 
kind of education in the South may possibly 
be wrong; but for the protection of society 
it is as necessary to train every Negro as it 
is every white man. 

When I see the crowds of young Negroes 
being made criminal — through lack of prop- 
er training — I can't help thinking how piti- 
lessly ignorance finally revenges itself upon 
that society which neglects or exploits it. 



LETITIA, NURSERY CORPS, U. S. A. 

BY GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 



I PRIDERIC DOKB STKELZ 



'HIMSELF HE COULD NOT SAVE" 



[S is the slory of how 
ivate Garr saved the 
at to the battery, and 
:identally, of how one 
aith wanted speech 
th his captain. It bap- 
tied on the field artil- 
y and cavalry post 
lere papa and mamma 
d Letitia nent were 
itioned, a friendly, 
irry garrison where the 
l> lieutenants danced 
attendance on pretty visiting girls, and 
where there were ri(hng parties and teas 
and hops for every day. 

It was a post full of color and bustle, too, 
and the clatter of troop drill and of horse 
training on the bull-ring, and maneuvering 
bikes afield with the guns; and, where, 
company days, the riding-hall doois fly 
open to the burst of, say, Garry Owen, and 
the blue-shirted troopei^ dash in and 
around the hall, a part of them, as the gates 
clang to, throwing their mounts and sitting 
on them — Koontz feeding sugar to vicious 
fialdy unbeknownst to keep him down — 
while the rest, emptying their Colts as they 
ride, maneuver around and between their 



prostrate comrades, until, throu^ the blue 
powder wreaths and above the music and 
the snorting of the horses — that of the yel- 
low guidon's bearer rampant, pawing the air 
— the cheers of the civilian spectators arise. 

Of course, there are things to be de- 
plored on every post. For instance iiere 
was Sergeant O 'Grady. Hitherto Letty 
herself had had reason always to think 
highly of sei^eants, but she had not been 
here over-long before she gathered that the 
men didn't like O'Grady. It's when they 
won't talk, rather than when they will, that 
you gather these things. Papa didn't alto- 
gether fancy O'Grady either. He said he 
was too smooth, but he said, too, he did his 
work, and kept his men well under. 

Things generally went with a snap and 
a precision here, though, for it's with 
K. O.'s like it is with mammas. Letty's 
m flmnm never nagged, she never had 
whipped Letitia in all her little life. She 
said do it, or don't, and easy and off-hand 
as the way of saying it might be, Letitia did 
it, or desisted. It has a simplifying result 
on life to have colonels and mammas this 
way, and saves many misunderstandings. 
Moreover, Letitia's whole passion in life 
was for mamma. To come near her was to 
149 



ISO 



LETITIA, NURSERY CORPS, U. S. A. 



touch cheek to her arm, while listening to 
the message, or was to possess herself of her 
parent's hand, and caress it while she ex- 
plained. After which Letty went and did 
the errand. 

And it's so with K. O.'s. As mamma 
had announced on arrival, there was brace 
up in the air of this garrison, which means 
things as they should be, so far as a K. O. 
can have them, and also means a popular 
colonel. 

To ,be sure there was O 'Grady. But 
then there were those between who ought 
to have known about O'Grady long before 
it reached the colonel. Papa said he had 
just made up his mind about him when it 
all happened. O 'Grady, you see, being 
smooth, stood well with his officers. 

Matters with papa and mamma had 
cheered up, too, since the post where Aunt 
Emma came and straightened things out. 

If you don't owe, mamma said, you can 
take heart of grace to be an ensample of 
godly life, but when you do, how can you 
make the rest of the world believe in your 
views on the higher life? 

She said all this to Mrs. Billy, the new 
lieutenant's wife, who was nineteen and a 
bride and just come into the army. 

Lieutenant Bill, who in consequence of 
being married, was now a husband, was 
also a shavetail and just out of the academy 
in June last. There are a good many shave- 
tails just arrived, and their young civilian 
wives have to learn, though as a class they 
are not given to thinking so. 

Since there are always ladies on posts 
pleased to show an interest in cub lieuten- 
ants, mamma said it was up to her to be a 
sister to Mrs. Billy, because. she claimed 
Mrs. Billy was pretty, and not thoughtful 
where the older women who weren't so 
pretty, or who had daughters who weren't 
so pretty, were concerned, and because, 
too, Mrs. Billy was unreservedly fond of a 
good time, all of which, mamma claimed, 
gave her a fellow-feeling for her. 

Therefore she and mamma and Letitia met 
often in off-hours on their respective porches, 
or, idle mornings, walked down to drill or 
to band-practice or guard-mount together, 

"I was nineteen and a bride too, when 
I came to my first post," mamma told Mrs. 
Bill, "and I was also the product of a so- 
called finishing school not a hundred miles 
from West Point, where the munificence 
of an uncle had placed me. And it was 



just as improvident for Buckner and for 
me, with our tastes, to marry on his second 
lieutenant's pay as it probably was for you 
and your Bill, from what you anxiously tell 
me. It looks big and easy imtil you've 
tried it. The wading hardly over, how- 
ever, with a shavetail classmate for best 
man, and the ices in the shapes of im- 
mounted guns, the wedding over, and your 
little visit to his people done with, when 
you found what it was going to cost Billy 
to get you and all your and his crated 
plunder (unless your people paid yours 
for you) to your first post, and when you 
also learned from your Bill's unwilling lips 
— ^he almost straight to you and the wedding 
from West Point — something of what it had 
cost him to set up his lieutenant's wardrobe, 
why, getting his point of view, perhaps the 
honeymoon became slightly eclipsed with 
dollar marks preceded by minus signs, 
young Mrs. Army Bride ? 

"/^d then, with Buckner and me, 
Letitia here came before we had caught 
anywhere near even on the first involv- 
ing. And like as not, too, a second lieu- 
tenant's people have been a little frank 
as to his haste in marrying on his pay. And 
if so, little sister Billy, and you ever come to 
find yourself involved, and pride or circum- 
stances won't let you ask help from your 
own people or from his, don't, donH let your 
Bill be led to seeking ^ financial accommo- 
dation,' whatever else in your young inno- 
cence you do. You make me diink of my- 
self; you're pretty, you haven't had your 
fling out, nor your dancing days either. 
And so I'm telling you. Debt burrows into 
your moral flesh, and eats at your peace of 
mind, and after a bit, Mrs. Billy, you grow 
hard and frivolous, even reckless, to forget 
it; and also your Bill, first terse, then irri- 
table, then morose, seeks forgctfuhiess ac- 
cording to his disposition. In other words, 
you are overcome, you and your Bill, by 
wretchedness and recklessness in propor- 
tion to your original good intentions and 
conscience, though there are those who 
would not credit me with either. And now 
I've opened my lips as I've never to any 
woman before because you sought me out 
with your eyes away across a crowded room 
that first night as if you liked me. Women 
have not been generous to me as a rule, on 
posts or off, they never are to what they call 
a man's woman, and the effect on the type 
of woman is hardening. Oh, I don't doubt 



Hobnobbing 



somebody will tell you that I represent the 
pernicious, the r^rettable type of the mod- 
em army woman, the one that does the 
service harm, the type which, if we are 
segr^ated in severals, gives a post a black 
eye. Maybe I am all that, or wo;, let us 
say, but it hasn't helped me to have other 
women say it. As a general thing, how- 
ever, there's a community of interests on a 
post; you're free to draw on your neighbor 
iix 'most anything at the moment you are 
short in, from the bridge score-pad to the 
moth-balls ' ' 

"It was a coffee pot," admitted Mrs. 
Billy, " that first morning " 

And so mamma and Mrs. Billy were 
friends, which, of course, is to say Letitia 
and she were friends also. There was so 
much this lady did not luiow that it made 
Letty feel most concerned and anxious for 
her. For instance, there was a trooper on 
post, a boy from Mre. Billy's own town, and 
she, recognizing him down near headquar- 
ters one day, rushed up to him and held out 
her hand and called him Tommy and told 
him to come to see her and hear the home 
news, to the consternation and overcoming 
of the embarrassed Tommy. And even 
after her Bill had raved to her, she couldn't 
seem to reaUze what she had done. 



" He's a nice boy, and from my own town, 
even if his people are plain," Mrs. Bill de- 
clared defensively; "and for that we both 
stand for the same thing, don't we, being 
Americans ? " 

"But he's an enlisted man," explained 
the earnest Letitia, "and you're a shave- 
tail." 

A friendship with a Letty, thus you see, 
means a liberal education not only along 
social and official lines, but along others 
which the ladies of posts might reasonably 
be expected to be deficient in. Indeed it 
came to be that whenever Mrs. Billy felt in 
need of coaching, she went and hobnobbed 
with her youngest friend. 

They were hobnobbing thus, one early 
morning in May, which meant they were 
sitting on Letty's back-door steps feeding 
the battery goat with lettuce leaves grum- 
bhngly and grudgingly aUowed them by the 
cook. The goat did not belong to Mrs. 
Bill's troop, but was the property of the bat- 
tery, Letitia belonging to the one service 
and Mrs. Billy to the other. Nor was it 
that the animal had any business where it 
was, either, but only that no means as yet 
have been devised to keep a goat where he 
should be on a post or otherwise. 

Perhaps In this case the men could have 



152 



LETITIA, NURSERY CORPS, U. S. A. 



explained why. There is something pro- 
vocative of glee in the aspect of an ancient 
and Silenus-eyed billygoat at any time, but 
there is still further jocularity in the situa- 
tion in conceding broken ropes, smashed 
locks, and the general d6bns of escape to 
your goat creature's satyr cunning. Old 
stable Sergeant McClosky, back in Cuba, 
had suppUed the animal with a name 
smacking of learning, McClosky, besides 
being versed in hippology, having been 
destined in his youth in County Kerry, ac- 
cording to his own story, for a priest, 
though unexpectedly turning out a jockey 
instead. And it was he who with a wink at 
the goat, they said, supplied him with the 
name of Sylvanus. 

Men in the army, you see, have to 
baby something. Riley, the oldest battery 
horse, and Sylvanus the goat, were as val- 
ued parts of battery property as the colors, 
or even Cook Tom, that jewel of a master- 
hand for keeping his mess good-humored. 
And it is understood that Letitia, as far as 
conditions permitted, in her time had occu- 
pied a place with the men fully up to that 
accorded the horse or the goat, but this, of 
course, was long ago when she had been a 
little and a baby thing. As far as the pres- 
ent went, she highly valued and adored 
Sylvanus herself. Nor are the olfactories 
easily offended in youth. Letitia, right now 
sitting on her back-door step, Mrs. Billy on 
a step above, had her arms rapturously 
about the neck of Sylvanus, and her cheek 
against his wicked old person just behind his 
homed head. As for the animal himself, 
with a leaf of lettuce depending sidewise out 
of his mouth, and a soothed, even a reflec- 
tive cast in his evil, slant, small eyes, his 
pendulous old beard moving sedulously in 
time to his measured munch, the goat had 
the meditative air of liking it. 

Mrs. Billy, however, with a visible wari- 
ness as to the animal's movements, kept to 
her higher step. Big, iron-gray, with sides 
like barrels, Sylvanus had a fetching way of 
appearing from behind things and, lifting 
upon his hind feet, offering combat with his 
forehead frontage to the oncomer. That 
the men, who had taught him the gentle 
challenge, boxed hilariously back with their 
fists, was small comfort to Mrs. Bill, belated 
and hunying home one day, when he 
emerged from the internal duskiness of a 
shed-way, and confronted, nay, chased her 
down the line of buildings, the men still at 



afternoon stables; nor, since she had no 
business making use of that short-cut, could 
she reasonably complain; nor but deplore it, 
either, that her own husband chanced to be 
officer taking stables that day, though it was 
he who rescued her. 

Even now the goat, mimching while Leti- 
tia embraced him, seemed to turn his gaze 
with wandering meditation Mrs. Bill's way. 

It kept her anxious and almost prevented 
her hearing what Private Garr had to say, 
when that soldier-man appeared, rope in 
hand, come up from the stables to secure the 
errant animal. 

Private Garr was a mountain boy accord- ' 
ing to Letitia, who had come in during 
Cuban times, and he was tall and red- 
haired, with high cheek-bones, and the 
color laid on the same in generous patches. 
He had a mountain-people's friendliness 
and directness of manner, boyish and in- 
offensive, because you realized it was 
native. He was given to a certain friendly 
pursing up of his lips too between re- 
marks, in effect half comical, half inter- 
rogatory, and wholly confiding, and from 
his nice blue eyes, as they met yours, 
you received a gaze of good faith with 
perhaps a hint of the droll therein. Up 
to the time Private Garr got his cough he 
had been striker at Letty's house, and in- 
deed, now that he was out of hospital, they 
were only waiting for him to come back. 
Mrs. Billy, beginning to be more certain of 
her ground, acknowledged the soldier-man's 
presence. Indeed Letitia had coached her 
in this. 

" / can talk to 'em, you see, and let 'em 
teU me," Letty had explained to her, "be- 
cause I'm only twelve, but you can't. You 
can speak to them, because that's polite, and 
if you remember their names to call them 
by, it'll make 'em hold their heads up, and 
feel better inside." 

So Mrs. Billy spoke to Garr, after which 
he proceeded to explain the necessity for 
removing Sylvanus, though it was plain 
he was not nearly so grieved over the ambu- 
latory sins of his battery's property as he 
should have been. 

" Something got in the ol' man's gyarden 
patch last night," explained Private Garr, 
" an' even with a rope and a bar and a pad- 
lock this side, and a gate and a hasp that, 
he's a-layin' of it onto Sylvaney and threat- 
enin' dire. Se we're thinkin' it's better he 
should be tied up before it gets around." 



GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 



153 



Mrs. Billy being new, in order to include 
her in post affairs, very often you have to 
explain. Letitia turned back to her now. 

" You know the ol' man," she reminded her. 

Yes, in a way, Mrs. Billy knew the ol' 
man, by hearsay, at any rate, his reputation 
guaranteeing that much. He owned the 
rickety frame house and an acre of ground 
just outside of post. Indeed the nearer to 
post the better from his standpoint, as Mrs. 
Bill understood it, for immediately subse- 
quent to anti-canteen, which is to say for 
some two years now, the ol' man had utilized 
his house for the soldierman's benefit, and 
had battened and fattened on what had 
been the profits of canteen together with 
considerable additional profit on that. 

But there was more which Mrs. Billy did 
not know, and this was that even previous 
to this period of fat prosperity the oP man 
was said to have done fairly well at lending 
money to the enlisted man at "one per 
cent.," which is to say, you lend one dollar 
to-day and get back two at pay-day. Not 
that these things are officially known, there 
being no proof, but only go the rounds on 
hearsay. So while Letitia did not know 
at all what one per cent, meant, she did 
know papa said he believed the old fellow 
stood for it. Afterward it came to light 
that papa did the old man injustice. It was 
Sergeant O'Grady who did the lending, the 
or man merely supplying the money, there 
being room for a double rake-off, which is 
what you call it, on things lent at one per 
cent. But O'Grady's part of it only came 
to knowledge afterward. 

Yet we all have our amiable weaknesses. 
Letitia, hazy, for instance, about one per 
cents., knew all about the ol' man's vege- 
table patch wherein he delved and pottered 
like any virtuous old gran'pap'. 

On the other hand, the weakness of Syl- 
vanus was for the succulent crispness of 
young sprouting things, and the provender 
for your goat in a garrison being looked on 
in the nature of loot to be cribbed from 
stables b^his friends, why, when looted oats 
ran low, there was the ol' man's patch, with 
only a few mild obstacles between, which 
Sylly's friends had been known absently to 
remove were the evening dark, obstacles 
such as a gate hasp, for example. For, 
oddly enough, the ol' man and his class are 
not loved of the enlisted man whether he 
be a patronizer of the same or not. 

Still, as Private Garr intimated, it was 



better that Sylvanus should be found tied 
this morning, should inquiry be on. Curi- 
ously, the ol' man had been known to com- 
plain to O'Grady to some purpose before 
this. 

" An' he's mad this time, sure," stated Pri- 
vate Garr; "I've heard he's offering money 
this morning for Sylly's hide. And when 
the ol' man offers money, he's mad, bad." 

So, appreciating the wisdom of a speedy 
retiral of her creature friend, Letitia desisted 
from making a necklace of herself about his 
neck, and Mvate Garr proceeded to attach 
the rope to his collar. 

He was a little long about it, after all, 
defr-fingered as Private Garr was, and 
handy at things, because a bit of coughing 
seized him. That was why he hadn't come 
back as striker. He said hacking seemed 
to weaken a man's grip on doing and made 
him lazy. 

He was still hacking furtively as he de- 
parted stableward with Sylvanus at his 
heels, soldier-men being incUned to be more 
or less secretive about it when they get hacks 
and such things, concealing the fact as long 
as possible, which is the natural thing to do. 
Letitia, herself, had a cat once that crawled 
under the house and hid when it was sick, 
and she remembered a cook who in her 
misery spells used to enwrap herself, coun- 
tenance and all, in the bedclothes, and 
demand to be let alone. Indeed, Letty, 
being a normal small person herself, didn't 
like to confess to sickness and be dosed and 
put to bed either. Moreover, the general 
attitude of the world to sick persons is that 
they are reprehensible in the matter some- 
how, and are to be regarded accordingly. 

But as Garr departed, hacking, the eyes 
of Mrs. Billy followed him. It was a pity 
about it. She would judge Garr to be a 
good man, for even Mrs. Bill, by now, 
knew the self-respecting soldier-man when 
she saw him. 

"It would be a pity to lose a man like 
Garr," she said, looking after him. 

Did she mean because of his hack? 
Letty had known other men, in her time, 
lost from ranks for that reason. There 
was a song in one barracks where the thing 
got bad (they tore 'em down on that account 
afterward), bearing on the matter. It went 
this way: 

** Twelve khaki soldier-men making up a squad, 
One coughed his tubes up And—you think that 
left odd ? 



154 



LETITIA, NURSERY CORPS, U. S. A. 



'Acking, *acking Johnny is gone on the shelf. 
The woods are full of rookies to make the 
twelfth." 

But then the average soldier-man won't 
admit until he has to that he's ill. 

Letitia felt she had to apologize for Garr. 
" He's been to hospital once, and he's better 
now." 

"Barker didn't get better," said Mrs. 
Bill. Barker had been the soldier who 
drove the 'bus when she first got here. 

"No," agreed Letty. "He went to Bayard; 
he and Garr were in the same squad." 

But so cheerful was she about it, it was 
obvious Letitia failed to grasp what hacks or 
Bayard meant either, while Mrs. Billy with 
all her limitations did, Bayard being that 
place set apart for soldier-men with hacks. 

That afternoon Mrs. Bill asked her Bill a 
question. Diffidently, for already she was 
learning that if there is one thing above all 
others objectionable in a garrison, it's the 
new-come woman who wants to know about 
what she can't help in the end, because it 
does not concern her. 

"Billy," she asked her husband, "after a 
man's been removed from barracks for 
tuberculosis, what would be done to the 
quarters?" 

"The medico, or a hospital man detailed 
by him, would disinfect," said Bill; "and 
beyond that, it is provided that the surgeon 
on a post shall examine into the sanitary 
condition of all buildings at least once a 
month." 

" Oh, well then," said Mrs. Billy, relieved. 

Letitia, however, over on her side of 
things, had soldier-men's worries other than 
this, and anyhow, Garr wasn't worrying. 
You can't make the Garrs, nor the Bark- 
ers, nor ones like rollicking, popular Batts 
who went to Bayard ahead of Barker, un- 
derstand the gravity of these things. They 
laugh at you for a funny one when you try. 
There was a chaplain once, and the right 
sort this chaplain was and a favorite with 
the men, had a lecture with slides about a 
thing he called The White Plague. You 
thought you had 'em, when those slides 
showed up, the men said afterward, and 
going home, the chorus led by the company 
quartette chanted softly, so it went the 
rounds next day: 

**Now would you have thought hidbt dippy?" 

Letty's concern just now was not with 
Garr, but with Smith, that soldier-man de- 



tailed in the quartermaster's department to 
bring round the ice, who was kicking. He 
said the service was something no Ameri- 
can-bom Jefferson Democrat was going to 
stand for. He said he wanted speech with 
his captain and he couldn't get it. 

According to the way Letty explained it, 
when a man wants speech, to take a 
grievance say, to his captain, he speaks 
to his sergeant through his squad-leader, 
or else direct to his top sergeant him- 
self. But your sergeant may turn you down. 
And Smith didn't stand in with Sergeant 
O'Grady. To be sure Smith went around 
saying the Philippine thirst, and bino if 
once indulged in, will eat the wital good- 
ness, whatever that may be, out of any 
man, much less an O'Grady. He said, too, 
O'Grady was a crummy old bird, and that 
when a sergeant's wital goodness has been 
eaten out, if he doesn't like you, he's more 
than apt, don't you see, to turn you down. 

There was more, which Letitia did not 
know, concerning her friend Smith. Though 
he had been a little of everything before he 
came into the army, a medical student 
among other things, he claimed. Smith, 
though tough, was tough only in his own 
way, and when Sergeant O'Grady made a 
remark in the barrack-room which the other 
didn't fancy. Smith promptly batted the 
head of that worthy top-sergeant against the 
barrack-room wall. He claimed he couldn't 
stand for O'Grady's language concerning 
ladies. He said he hoped he would go to 
mill in consequence. He said he'd like that 
chance to complain because, for all that 
Article of War, Number 30, claims to do for 
the soldier-man and his wrongs, he had been 
in the army long enough to know a man is 
handling a buzz-saw when he tries to profit 
by it. But O'Grady, you see, didn't report 
him. Still it wasn't to be expected that he 
would be apt to favor Private Smith when 
he wanted speech with his captain. 

It was when Mrs. Billy heard about this 
latter part of it, which was all Letitia her- 
self knew, that she showed her civilian igno- 
rance. Mrs. Bill was very droll. She 
couldn't understand why a Private Smith 
couldn't address himself to his captain 
direct ! 

Letitia looked shocked. She looked her 
big amaze. Why, there was a man who did 
it, who mailed a letter through the post to 
his young captain, and his punishment for 
the same was a small matter to the horror 



GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 



155 



that spread over post that an enlisted man 
should do so temble.a thing! 

Letty did her young best to set Mrs. fiill 
right. What Smith, under ordinary con- 
ditions, according to Letttia, would have 
done, was ask his squad-leader, or, better 
still, ask his sergeant direct, for leave to 
speak to his captain. She even went into 
grave and minute particulars. 

"What in " well, it wasn't a pretty 

word, mamma wouldn't like her to say 
it, even for Mrs. Billy, "do you want to 
report to him now?" would have been 
Private Smith's likeliest reception from 
Sergeant O' Grady. 

To which Letitia thought Smith most 
likely would have said, "What is it to you 
what I want to report?" 

And here Mrs, Bill broke in, pardonably 
curious to know what it was Ptivatc Smith 
wished to report. But Letty didn't know 
that. She only knew he had been turned 
down and was kicking. 

Later everybody knew about it, for when 
Smith ended in trouble, he told his chaplain, 
who told it in his turn. Up to then Smith 
had had an unreasoning and crooked preju- 
dice against chaplains, and also a notion his 
officers were all against him. There's 
many a Smith gets a distorted idea so. 

" You can't make easy fools like Gair and 
Barker and Batts understand," he ex- 
plained. "Things have been glossed over 



in our part of barracks too long. Batts 
went to Bayard seven months ago, and 
Barker followed Batts. I've been here long 
enough to know what ought to've been done, 
and if that rowing big medico sent to Manila 
last year had a been here, would of been 
done. I don't care who detailed who, or 
what, to be done about it; I know it wasn't 
done. And now Garr's hacking. And you 
couldn't expect an O'Grady who don't want 
enemies above, to report a thing like that, 
now, could you?" 

But Smith told all of this to his chaplain 
lata: Right now O'Grady had turned him 
down for the third time, and he was kicking. 

It was the afternoon when Letitia was 
telling Mrs. Billy all this, as they sat together 
on the steps of that lady's front porch, that 
mamma came over cross yards, and reach- 
ing the porch steps, stopped, portentous 
news in her eyes. Letitia left Mrs. Bill's 
side, and hurried down to slip her fingers in 
her mother's while that lady told it. 

"Now, Mrs. Bill," said mamma, smiling 
half-heartedly, for when you are just getting 
on your feet financially, you see it's discour- 
aging to have to move in just eleven months 
from the time it cost to move here — " now, 
Mrs. Army Bride, you'll begin to better 
understand why we older women haven't 
your array of pretty breakables. Such 
things won't stand too many cratings. 
We've our orders, Letty." 



156 



LETITIA, NURSERY CORPS, U. S. A. 



"Mamma!" 

And Letty dropped mamma's hand, and 
flew back to Mrs. Bill. In the army, you 
have to cling with ardor to the temporary 
objects of your adoration while you have 
'em, before fate removes them, or you. And 
now they must leave Mrs. Billy! 

" The battery is to march overland with 
the guns," explained mamma. "Your 
father wants you and me to stop o£F on the 
way north to see Aunt Emma, Letty. She 
isn't enthusiastic over me, but she'll over- 
look that to get you, though I'm sure I'm 
more grateful to her than I ever dreamed I 
could be to any one." 

The eyes of Mrs. Bill were filling, for she 
was new to this thing of losing your friends 
just about the time you have really made 
them. 

But here were orders, and besides, to the 
ones ordered, there is the allurement of the 
unknown ahead, and Letty dropped Mrs. 
Bill's pretty hand, and with her own in 
mamma's went home. 

But with orders, calamity fell upon the 
battery barracks. 

Private Garr took it hardest, gnawing his 
finger-nails in perplexity, they said, as he 
hunted a way out of the situation, for Garr, 
having brought the goat at a rope's end into 
camp back there in Cuba, stood in the place 
of a parent to Sylvanus, and on a march 
overland the dogs may ride on the caissons, 
but you can't, so to speak, take your goat 
on the guns! 

Of coiu^e the post carpenter may be 
relied on to loot enough lumber to crate him 
for shipping, but crating isn't all; it costs to 
ship a crated goat with sides like barrels, 
and there is not always a large showing of 
velvet on hand by the middle of the stretch 
between pay-days, even when all available 
cash be produced and lumped together and 
the results added up. Yet to become sepa- 
rated from your goat is a thing no soldier- 
man is willing to contemplate. At the mere 
threatening of such a possibility, man after 
man went out and boxed a round or two 
with Sylly that he might be reassured. That 
is, all went but Garr; they left him chewing 
his nails and hunting a way out of it. 

In course of time he joined the ring of 
boxers, too. With a sanguine coloring 
often goes an inventive spirit, and on seeing 
the lips of Private Garr amiably pursed, and 
the eyes of him innocently bland, the hearts 
of his messmates cheered. Reading the 



signs in the countenance of Private Garr, 
the inference they deduced was, that since 
they were going, Sylvanus, the goat, was 
evidently going too. 

If you impress around the necessity of 
keeping news of orders to march from 
spreading outside of post, you can confi- 
dently rely upon the ol' man hearing about 
it before night, just as you want him to. 
And when there is scarce money by the time 
you've squared with washerwoman, tailor, 
post exchange, and your friends, to send 
your mascot goat ahead, why, it is the grace- 
ful act to bequeath him to your cavalry 
brother-soldiers in Troop B left behind. 
And by sufficiently impressing the secrecy of 
this around barracks too, you can depend 
upon it getting to the ol' man by sundown 
also. Nor would it increase the ol' man's 
affection for the goat to hear it. 

Letitia did not learn of these things until 
afterward, by which time the story was 
about the garrison and the occasion of wide, 
if unofficial rejoicing, but she did supply the 
details to Mrs. Billv at the last. 

According to Letty, the night following 
that on which the news leaked out to the ol' 
man, something got into that person's 
yard by starlight, and, according to his 
telling, ate up his seedling tomato plants 
even to the tin cans in which they had been 
sprouted. 

Moreover, this same demolishing some- 
thing had danced with a satyr-like capering 
and ecstasy on window-sash hot-beds to the 
demolishment of cabbage and sweet potato 
plants within. And the next morning it 
spread over post, at least in the batter}-'s 
quarters, that the ol' man had cunningly 
risen to the extent of four dollars to a mur- 
derous proposition made him by a hitherto 
model soldier-man, named Garr, not at all 
given to frequenting Aiw, that Sylvanus be 
secretly delivered to him just before the 
planned bequeathal of him to Troop B, 
thereupon mysteriously and forever to dis- 
appear. 

The same day this news of the ol' man's 
generosity spread abroad. Private Garr 
went over to town. His report to his mates 
on return was that the express clerk esti- 
mated that it would cost eight dollars for 
Sylly to disappear. 

Whereupon it spread about barracks 
again, how important it was that news of 
the moving of the battery being even nearer 
at hand than had been understood, should 



' m've c 



Dot get abroad, nor the f&tX that Troop B 
was openly rejoicing over its l^acy. 

I^titia says, that this evening when 
Private GaiT went down again to see the ol' 
man, he went humming a tune, which, as he 
neared, he put into words. Cook Tom, she 
says, had supplied the song. 

"Who uw him die?" 
" I," said the fly, 
"With m^ little eye, 

This is what Letitia says Garr sung. 

But the ol' man wouldn't rise but to five. 

And that night Letitia says something 
ate up four rows of promising pea-vines, 
something, she claims, attached to the end of 
a rope, which in turn led to a figure sitting 
on the ol' man's fence in the evening's rain 
aixl gloom. 

The next day the ol' man raised to six. 
But to this Private Garr, who had strolled 
over there about noon, shook his sanguine 
bead and departed post-ward, singing: 



■■With my little eye, 
I saw him ■■ 

But by the time Private Garr was well 
within post, the ol' man's little grandson 
came hurrying after him to say he'd give 

■■Whocaoght his blood?" 
* "I," said the fish. 

■■With my little dish, 



sang Private Garr, regarding the little boy 
darkly. 

That small soul, not having the clue, 
and perhaps taking it personally, fled, nw, 
since it occiured well within post boun- 
daries, could the little boy or his relatives 
rightfully complain when Sylvanus, pant- 
ing a little, true, as if just hurried along 
from somewhere to get there, emerge from 
behind a shed onto the path of flight, and 
arose a yard or two above the infant's head 
into that rampant attitude invitatory to 
a bout at boxing. 

An hour later it went around post that 
the ol' man had agreed to eight. 
IS7 



158 



LETITIA, NURSERY CORPS, U. S. A. 



And that night, they tell, at early dusk, 
there was a delivery at the ol' man's back 
gate of a rope at the extremity of which 
was something whose small eyes seemed 
to gleam an evil red even in the thick 
darkness. And with the rope in hand, 
the ol' man counted into an outstretched 
waiting palm eight good 
hard dollars. Where- 
upon, since those evilly 
gleaming eyes looked 
threatening, the recipient 
of the eight good dollars 
generously offered to con- 
duct the object just trans- 
ferred into the coal shed 
and tie it securely, for 
there being danger from 
soldier visitors to the 
house this early in the 
evening, it had been 
deemed safer that the 
eternal disappearance 
should be later. 

And then the recipient 
of the dollars strolled so- 
ciably into the house with 
the ol' man for a sort of 
ratification, proffered on 
the recipient's part, of 
the good- will and feeling 
between them. 

And in this same space 
of time, while the ol' 
man was occupied within, Sylvanus, ac- 
cording to bargain, disappeared. It would 
seem, as had often been threatened, the ol' 
man's premises at last had been raided, and 
a goat was missing in consequence.. Ac- 
cording to report, so Letitia told Mrs. Bill, 
Cook Tom led the raiding party. 

During the celebration which ensued that 
same evening down barracks way, wherein 
Sylvanus with a myrtle vine hung wreath- 
i^y about his venerable horns, was led in 
by Cook Tom, amid an ascension of car- 
rots, and other emblems of congratulation 
curving the air and falling shower-like, in 
greeting, to a chorus softly chanted, " When 
the roll is called up yonder, he'll be there," — 
a ghastly thing befell the sanguine-hued, 
amiable Garr, just in from some errand out- 
ade. WTiat with hilarity, rejoicing, and a 
sudden return of hacking, Private Garr 
coughed once too often. 

And when the ghastly thing occurred. 
Smith, who was bitter, and a sore-head, and 



77tai night something ate up four 
rows o) promising pea-vines 



a knocker all times, and who said nobody 
cared if the men did die off like flies, rose up 
in his place and smashed in one O'Grady's 
head with a kitchen poker which he seized 
from Cook Tom who'd been leading with it 
in the singing. 
Asked afterward why he did it, Smith 
said O'Grady and his bet- 
ters had done that cruel 
wrong to Garr, and to 
Barker who had gone be- 
fore him. 

And so Garr and 
O'Grady went to hos- 
pital. And Smith? Why, 
Smith went to the guard- 
house pending trial- 
It was the morning for 
the battery's departure, 
and the garrison was out 
to see them go. Theroad- 
way from battery stables 
through post led by the 
colonel's corner, and 
everj'body of a feminine 
persuasion, mammas, 
Letitias and all, had 
gathered, by invitation, 
on Mrs. K. O.'s side 
porch to see them go by. 
She was a jolly, even if 
elderly Mrs. K.. O., with a 
decided manner and 
Olympian cast of countenance, who, how- 
ever, fed people sociably the minute she 
could get them together. And they said too 
that in the Philippines, where a regiment 
is divided into so many detachments, and 
sent to so many posts, a chaplain can't get 
around to all his men — they said this Mrs. 
K. O. claimed it was in these out-of-the- 
way places the men needed chaplains worse, 
and so she up and did royal chaplain work 
herself. 

She could speak her mind too, even as 
now, and at such times she told shavetails' 
wives they didn't know what hardships 
in the army meant nowadays, 

"When my second baby came unex- 
pectedly on a ha If -garrisoned post in Da- 
kota of twenty years ago " she was telling 
one of them now, while she poured coffee 
for Letitia to carry around — "the only 
woman nearer to me than three hundred 
miles, was a corporal's wife." 
But the battery was coming, and coffee 



GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 



159 



was forgotten. Papa had gone some time 
before. His orderly had brought the paw- 
ing Harry to the door, and he and the 
soldier-man had gone ahead, canteen and 
saddle-bags in pkce, papa being quarter- 
master, which also meant selector of the 
camping sites for nights, you know. 

And now the battery is following, and 
your heart leaps at the rumble of the guns, 
and at sight of your battery's captain, on 
Black Ben, with McAdams, the best bugler 
in any ten companies, on hard-mouthed 
Judge. Indeed, what mth the martial 
rumble of it, and the leap and the glow in- 
side herself, Letty was moved to slip her 
hand in that of the nearest lady at hand for 
sheer need of understanding and sympathy. 
It chanced to be the plump member of 
Olympian Mrs. K. O., who bent and kissed 
her litde neighbor's cheek. She and a 
Letitia are one, when it cornea to the army! 

And old Tun, Timothy Harty, in other 
words, has the colors, the scarlet guidon 
with its crossed guns and the battery's 
nimierals above, and Serjeant Kelly, stoUd, 
mustached, grizzled and keen of eye, on 
iron-gray Hawthorne, follows him. 

And gun after gun, with men and horses 
reflecting glory of being and battery pride, 
rumble by, with the newest shavetail, 
Binny Benton, borne past, flank front, or 
head rear, and face scarlet, because his 
horse is fresh. 

And your interest in the first caisson as it 
comes up, is not altogether because of the 
men thereon, whom you know at least by 
name, but because of Tapioca, the Gordon 
setter, called Taps for short, sitting with 
seemly dignity on the "cracker-box," and 
Terry and Mac, the Irish rats, yapping with 
excitement, between the men. 



And here Mrs, Billy, behind you on 
the porch, draws breath as it comes to 
mere quartermaster- wagons and mules, am- 
bulance and such, and you drop Mrs. 
K. O.'s hand and slip your fingers in Mrs. 
Bill's, for, oddly enough, she is breathing 
uncertainly. It's new to Mrs. Billy, the 
pride and glory of the army, and you adore 
her because it makes her cry, and you hate 
to go and leave her behind, but then you 
hate to tell Mrs. K. O. good-bye too, for 
your cotonel's wife can do and be so much 
on a post if she will. 

But when the battery and the men and 
the glory of it were gone, and emptiness was 
settling like a gray dulness down, there 
across the open space Letitia and Mrs. Billy 
saw, at one and the same moment, on the 
hospital porch, a piece of battery property 
which they recognized, evidently left he- 
hind. Its face was wax-like beneath its 
sanguine hair, and it was known as Private 
Garr. From its stand on the porch it too 
had evidently been watching the men go by, 
and even now the eyes of it were following 
the long line and the dust curving around 
the garrison road ahead. 

"The crate is ready for Sylvanus," said 
Letty, suddenly remembering, "the car- 
penter has it nmde." 

" And Letty and I," said mamma, coming 
up, "are going to lunch with you, Mrs. 
Billy, according to invitation, and leave this 
afternoon," 

"And Garr?" inquired Mrs. Bill, nod- 
ding toward the hospital porch. 

Letitia had not yet grasped the signifl- 
cance of one certain post over others. " Oh, 
Garr?" she told Mrs. Billy; "after he sees 
Sylvanus off, why, Garr leaves for Bay- 
ard," 



WETTER NEW YORK 

A TALE OP NEW YORK IN 191J 

BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER 




ILLUSTRATED WITH ' 

I3N June 20, 1913, 1 had just 
"^ opened the door of my 
I little office in the Flat- 
iroD Building when the 
\ telephone bell rang. Only 
the week before, I had fin- 
ished my college course 
and tny father, the contractor, had asked 
me to hang around the office and answer 
the telephone for a few weeks while he 
made a hurried trip to California. He as- 
sured me that there was little likelihood of 
anything coming up that would require 
much attention during his absence, and 
that my principal duties would be to tell 
inquirers when he was expected back in 
New York, and to assure anyone that 
dropped in with a bill that he would settle 
it on his return. 

" Hello," called a voice, when I had pul 
the telephone receiver to my ear, "is this 
Phineas Briggs, the contractor?" 

"No," I answered, and I was going on 
to tell the inquirer that father was out of 
town, but the voice cut in. 

" Very well," it said. " I just wanted to 
know whether you were in town or not. 
Just stay in your office until I get there, 
will you? It is very important. This is 
John D. Markright speaking." 

It was evident that the man had mis- 
understood me, but he had cut me off, and 
there was nothing for me to do now but 
160 



await his arrival. I knew John D. Mark- 
right well by reputation. He was one of 
those who. In the enormous changes follow- 
ing the year 1907, had attained such tre- 
mendous wealth. In fact, he was not only 
the richest man in America, but it was com- 
puted that his wealth was greater than all 
the remaining wealth of the world, and 
that it was increasing at something like the 
rate of one hundred million dollars each 
day. It was not surprising that such a man 
should desire the services of a contractor 
like my father, but it was unusual that he 
should offer to come to our office, rather 
than issue an order to my father to go to 
him. 

I had not long to wait. In less than half 
an hour the door opened and John D. 
Markright stepped inside. Often as I had 
seen his portrait in the newspapers, I should 
never have recognized the man before me 
as the great financier, had I not been ex- 
pecting him. His long face was worn and 
sallow, as with the sadness of a thousand 
years. Ill health spoke from the wTinkles 
of his crafty face, and his immaculate 
grooming only served to emphasize his 
frailty of body. I could see that John D. 
Markright was a verj- sick man. But if I 
was astonished to see the embodiment of 
so much wealth a prey to the ills that 
attack common men, John D. Markright 
seemed still more astonished to see me. 



ELLIS PARKER BUTLER 



i6i 



He had expected no doubt to see my father, 
and what he beheld was a youth with the 
effervescent spirits of a college iad still 
speaking from his eyes. 

As soon as John D. Markright entered 
the room I began to explain the error he 
had made, but he cut me short again, in 
that tone, half imperious and half queru- 
lous, that I soon came to know so well, and 
as he went on I saw that he was still under 
the impression that I was the contractor. 
He expressed some surprise at my youth- 
fulness, saying he had expected to lind an 
older man, and then launched at once into 
the business he had in mind. As he whined 
along — now telling a bit of his plan, and 
now complaining of his health like a sick 
child — I began to see that he was offering 
me an opportunity to engage in one of the 
greatest contracting jobs the world had 
ever seen, and with all the rashness of 
youth I decided that I was the man to 



undertake it. My father, most conserva- 
tive of men, would, I knew, not consider 
the idea for one moment, and here was the 
richest man in the world laying the oppor- 
tunity at my feet, nay, begging me to take 
it. I was, it seemed, his last hope. Every 
other contractor to whom he had applied 
had refused to consider the idea as at all 
feasible and had looked upon it as the 
vagary of a senile dyspeptic. Senile dys- 
peptic or not, John D. Markright was still 
the richest man in the world, and the 
proposition was one that appealed to my 
boyish imagination. 

"These doctors," he whined, "these 
doctors say I must get out of this climate, 
or die. They won't have it any other way 
— die or get out! Go to the Mediterranean, 
or die, they say. They all say it. And how 
can I leave New York? I can't! I can't!" 

He broke down and wept, and for shame 
and pity I hid my face. There was some- 



THE FLATIRON BUILDING IN It)l3 

"As you sail gently up Broadway or fish for tommy-tods off the Flatiron Building^' 



l62 



WETTER NEW YORK 



thing so mean — so unmanly — in this old 
man clinging to the place where he had 
made his money and where he was still 
making it, and crying at the thought of 
leaving it, as a child cries when it must 
leave its silly toys at bedtime. 

"I can't leave it!" he whimpered. *'I 
mustn't leave New York! I would lose 
money if I did. And if I stay I will die, 
and the money will be gone — ^all gone!" 

"Well, sir," I said, "I don't see what 
you are going to do about it." 

"If you will help me," he said, wiping 
his eyes, "it can be arranged. The old 
man will fool them yet. I will stay in New 
York, and I will go to the Mediterranean. 
I will stay in New York and you will take 
New York to the Mediterranean." 

As the immensity of the idea dawned on 
me I gasped, and well I might, for never 
had John D. Markright conceived such a 
plan before. Nothing but the threats of 
death and of pause in gain could have 
forced that abnormal shopkeeping mind to 
such heights of imagination. 

I sat with my chin in my hand thinking 
for several minutes after he had ceased 
speaking, and he sat watching me with 
painful intensity. He seemed to be trying 
to read my thoughts as I thought them, 
and he waited with quivering lips my answer. 

"It could be done," I said slowly. 
" Yes, it could be done, but the expense — 
have you considered the expense ? " 

"It will be awful," he answered with a 
groan. "Millions!" 

"Billions!" I said calmly, and he an- 
swered with another groan. 

" But your life — " I suggested. 

" That's it ! " he said sadly. " It must be 
done. And as soon as possible." 

"There are preliminaries, too," I said. 
" Things not in my line of business. You 
can't run away with New York as you pro- 
pose unless you own it. I will not be a 
party to any plan for stealing New York. 
I am an honest man, Mr. Markright, and I 
would not steal a pin. To you the theft of 
a bit of land like the Island of Manhattan 
may be but a little thing, but while my 
parents are but poor, they are honest, and 
it shall never be said that I brought their 
gray hairs to the grave by helping to run 
away with even a part of the State of New 
York." 

"I'll attend to all that," he said ner- 
vously. " My agents will buy the whole 



business from the Battery to Spuyten 
Duyvil, and from the Hudson to the 
Harlem. I own a great deal of it now, and 
I will get the rest. I'll lose on it. It will 
tie up some ready money. But I have faith 
in New York real estate. I'll buy it all." 

"Very well," I said severely. "See that 
you do. And another thing — ^I will riot 
move the island an inch until you get per- 
mission from Congress and the State As- 
sembly. I have an idea that this nation 
does not favor secession. I don't know 
how it would like the idea of having its 
leading city floated off to the Mediterra- 
nean, and tagged onto France or Morocco, 
or wherever you want it. I want to do 
the fair thing by the nation in which I was 
bom." 

" I'll attend to all that, too," he said with 
a peculiar smile, which made me think that 
after all there might be something in a 
faint rumor that had reached my ears to 
the effect that John D. Markright had 
some influence with our governing bodies. 
"Don't worry about that, my boy! The 
gentlemen you mention will be glad if I do 
not make them pay the expenses of our 
little moving day." 

We then settled roughly on the terms of 
the contract, and John D. Markright paid 
down a check for a few millions to bind the 
bargain. It was all I needed. With his 
name back of me I should be able to com- 
mand untold credit. He left me a different 
man from the one that had come sniveling 
to mv office a few minutes before. Already 
his step was firmer, and he bore himself 
more nobly. He had faith in Ethelbert Q. 
Briggs, and the faith was well placed. 

You must not suppose that I had 'under- 
taken this tremendous job without thought. 
My football training at college had taught 
me to concentrate a great deal of thought 
into a very short time, and in the few mo- 
ments I had spent thinking while Mr. 
Markright waited I had not only roughed 
out the plan, but had arranged most of the 
important details. The plan thus con- 
ceived was the one I used when the work 
was under way, and that was less than a 
week later. With the enormous funds at 
my disposal I was able to work rapidly and 
employ immense bodies of proletariats at 
different points simultaneously. 

As New York was an island my task was 
greatly simplified, for I did not have to cut 
it loose from the mainland. The fact that 



LOOKING UP BROADWAY TO TIMES SQUARE 

" If New York could not go to Venice I would make a Venice of New York, 
! nigh/.' " 



and I dill it in 



it was merely a point of solid gneiss rock, 
part of the firmest portion of the earth's 
surface, would have daunted some less 
daring contractors, but to me it was a fa- 
vorable condition. Chicago, which is built 
on loose soil and swamp land, I would never 
have attempted to float oR, To build a 
raft under a dozen square miles of swampy, 
crumbly land such as Chicago is built on 
would be too big a job for even me. I may 
say that I would be the last man In the 
world to try to flo;it Chicago to Iwlmy 
southern climes. But all that was neces- 
sary in regard to New York was to separate 
a thin slice of the upper part of the rock, 
and I then had the whole city, as I may say, 
on a platter. 

Slicing off this thin layer was not such a 
difficult matter. Never in my life did I so 
appreciate the vast system of subways (or 
underground railways) as when I took this 
contract for removing New York. In the 
few years just following 1907 the city had 



been crisscrossed by new subways, running 
under nearly all the streets and avenues. 
These were, as you are aware, cylindrical 
tubes bored through the solid rock of the 
town, some ten or more feet below the 
street surfaces, and into these, as soon as 
John D. Markright had completed the 
purchase of the city, I had my laborers 
pack tightly sawdust, cotton, rags, sponges 
and any other materials that were of 
that nature. I had these rammed in and 
tamped home as tightly as possible, and 
then, at an appointed moment, I had 
great streams of water run into the sub- 
ways. The various stations made handy 
orifices into which lo run the water, and 
as soon as the sawdust, cotton, dried- 
apples, rags, etc., felt the vivifying floods 
they l>egan to swell gently and simulta- 
neously, Just as the wooden plugs that the 
marble-cutter drives into the holes he has 
drilled into the piece of marble he wishes 
to split, swell under similar circumstances. 

163 



164 



WETTER NEW YORK 



So gentle was the swelling process, and so 
evenly did the cleavage occur, that pedes- 
trians on the streets did not notice'the slight 
jar that told that New York had been sepa- 
rated from her rocky base. I had suc- 
ceeded, as I had hoped, in slicing off the top 
of the rock, and I had New York on an 
immense plate of rock, to do with as I 
chose. 
The rest was very easy. With hy- 



UPPRR BROADWAY 

"iVkere there ivas danger there is how 
safety, and where there was noiie there is 
now peace " 

draulic jacks I raised the whole city suffi- 
ciently to insert an innumerable number of 
steel rollers under the rocky plate, while 
off the Battery, which was then the lower 
end of the city, I gathered an immense 
fleet of canal boitts, tied side by side and 
decked over with a great wo<Klen platform, 
like a floor. At a word from me the hy- 
draulic jacks were removed and the city 
rolled slowly and gently onto the awaiting 
canal boat fleet. 

When John D. Markright awoke the 
next morning I was awaiting him in his 
reception room in his mansion on Fifth 
Avenue. The transfer of the city to the 
floats had been done during the night, so as 
not to alarm the inhabitants needlessly, 
and even John D. Markright — poor sleeper 
as he was — had not been awakened. Of 
course there had been some little damage. 
The Elast and Hudson River tunnels had 
been pulled out by the roots, and the 
Brooklyn and other bridges had been 
broken like strands of rotten thread, and 
alreadv — early as it was — we could hear the 



howls and imprecations of the commuters 
on the Long Island and Jersey shores,* who 
had bought homes in those sections on the 
guarantee that they were but thirt/ min- 
utes from Broadway, and who now found 
the distance doubled. I smiled ^s I 
thought what their rage would be when 
they found, a little later, their dear old 
Broadway located south by south-east of 
Italy— a distance so great that the hardiest 
commuter would feel appalled at the idea 
of making the journey twice daily. When 
the city reached its ultimate destination, 
however, I found the commuters less ill- 
disposed than I had imagined they would 
be. The commuter is so accustomed to 
putting up with all sorts of things that he 
is pretty well hardened. 

"Well, Mr. Markright," I said cheer- 
fully, as soon as I had shaken hands with 
the old gentleman, " how do you feel about 
taking a sea voyage to-day?" and then I 
had to explain that the city was afloat, for 
he could not believe it, so well had I man- 
aged matters. Luckily he, nor any other 
man, has ever had any cause to doubt the 
truth of my words when once I have 
spoken, and a smile of pleasure lighted up 
his wrinkled face. 

"Good!" he exclaimed. "Let us get 

under way at once. I have " he 

added, with something like a blush, — " I 
have bought a yachting cap. I thought it 
would be appropriate. Don't you think it 
would be appropriate?" 

I could hardly repress a smile. -A yacht- 
ing cap on such a voyage as this could 
hardly be called appropriate. From the 
window where we sat we could look across 
Fifth Avenue into the vast expanse of Cen- 
tral Park, and beyond that, on the other 
side of the city, we could see the tall build- 
ings. New York, although afloat, was still 
New York. Automobiles were whirring 
up and down the Avenue, and I knew that 
in the down-town districts the heavy trucks, 
and the street cars, and the elevated trains 
were moving the same as usual. In Wall 
Street the brokers and bankers were even 
then gathering as usual for their day of 
bu^ness, and, in fact, the whole lite of the 
city was going on the same as usual. Un- 
less Mr. Markright chose to sit on the edge 
of the city and let his feet hang over, I 
could not see how he could obtain the sen- 
sations of a yachtsman from the voyage the 
city was to make. Mr. Markright saw that 



ELLIS PARKER BUTLER 



I6S 



I did not just approve of the yachting cap 
and he fell silent. Biit I had a bit of news 
that I thought would cheer him up. 

"Mr. Markright," I said, "you may re- 
member that when we discussed the pur- 
chase of the city you said you were willing 
to buy it, 'for you thought that il might be 
a good investment, even at the inflated 
prices you would have to pay. I am glad 
to be able to be the first man to call your 
attention to a money -making feature of 
which neither of us thought at the- time. 
You have already made a splendid profit 
on the purchase, and you can take that 
profit whenever you choose." 

I had heard that Mr. Markright had such 
prehensile ears that he could prick them up 
at the mention of any chance to make 
money, hut I had never seen him do this, 
as all my connection so far had been In the 
way of making him spend, which had a 
tendency to make the whole man limp and 
flaccid. Now, however, I really saw that 
aural phenomenon. At the word "profit" 
his ears seemed to quiver and then bent 
forward. The one farther from me really 
almost strained itself, so eager did it seem 
to get its full share of what 1 was about to 
say. 

"Mr. Markright," I said, "you thought 
you were buying one New York, but you 
have bought two! In peeling off this city 
in which we are now sitting I left the old 
site of the city bare, and it lies to the north 
of us, just where it has always been, be- 
tween the Hudson on one side, and the 
East River and the Harlem on the other. 
True, it is bare, and bleak, and rocky, but 
it is New York real estate none the less, 
and while we go sailing to the Mediterra- 
nean with one New York, the other re- 
mains at home and can be sold as you 
please." 

If anything was needed to complete the 
happiness of (he old man, this was the 
thing, and we parted in the best of humors, 
I to attend to the last preliminaries of this 
vast moving-day, and he to see that one of 
his agents was left on the site of New York 
with authority to sell building sites, or 
ground leases. 

I had computed that the progress of the 
city toward the Mediterranean would nec- 
essarily be very slow. To move such an 
immense float would be no easy matter, 
and I had no desire to have my rock plate 
crack. It was now the middle of August, 



but I hoped to have the city far enough 
south before cold weather to avoid any of 
the l^d effects that the old climate of the 
city had been having on John D. Mark- 
right. To this effect I had engaged the 
entire fleet of river and harbor tug-boats 
that had added so much to the life of the 
waters about New York, and they were 
prepared to attach themselves to the enor- 
mous float whenever I should command 



AN UPPER WEST SIDE STREET 

"Business and pleasure occupy the people 
as usual" 

them to do so, and I now gave the com- 
mand. Never, I am sure, did such a team 
of tugs take in tow such a vessel. Great as 
was the weight of the float and its contents, 
the strength of I he little tugs was more than 
sufficient to move it easily through the 
water, for the little tugs are boats of enor- 
mous power. As I stood on the point of 
the Battery with my arms folded, and 
gazed out over that teeming water where 
my thousand little tug-boats drew their 
towing-lines taut, a sense of exhilaration 
overcame me. When had a man ever un- 
dertaken such a contract? What other 
man would have dared to take it ? I looked 
down at the prow — if I may so call it — of 
the island, to see what progress we were 
making through the water, and suddenly 
my exhilaration left me. Tugging and 
straining as my boats were, puffing and 
snorting as they were, the island was 
not moving an Inch! A wave oi shame 
swept through my veins — and then I 
laughed ! I had forgotten to order the 
cables that moored us to the State of New 
York thrown off! In a moment I was at a 
telephone and the order was given. The 



i66 



WETTER NEW YORK 



next moment I saw the little wavelets rip- 
pling about the point of the city, and I 
breathed a sigh of relief as I knew the good 
old town was on its way to sunnier climes. 
I turned away, and went up-town to my 
office. The voyage was begun, and the 
navigation of the city was in the hands of 
more experienced seamen than myself. I 
had a few business matters to attend to, 
and did not care to see the scenery. I had 
seen it before. 

When I reached my office I stood for a 
few minutes looking out at the crowded 
junction of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, 
where they cross Twenty-third Street. 
Here were the same hurrying crowds that 
I had seen there of old. Below me I saw 
the same policeman guarding the pedes- 
trians across the crowded streets, and the 
same sleepy cab horses drowsing in the sun 
along the edge of Madison Square. On the 
comer across the way a newsboy was crying 
the afternoon papers, and his voice came 
up to me, clear and shrill, above the rumble 
of the streets, and the clanging of the street 
cars. Thus, too, would the life of the city 
go on during all its long voyage, and even 
when it was safely moored at some coast 
where, perhaps, thousands of years ago, 
Ulysses touched in his little boat. And 
then, for the first time, I thought of my 
father, and turned to ring in a call for a 
telegraph boy. I turned from the box with 
a laugh. That was one of the things I had 
forgotten. There were no more telegraphic 
connections with the mainland. I saw 
that I should have arranged for wireless 
communication, but that, too, was one of 
the things I had forgotten. 

Still, I could detach one of the tugs, and 
send it back with a message, and I turned 
to the telephone to do so, when a shock 
shook the whole building and threw me to 
the floor. I heard cries from the street, too, 
and the voices of drivers shouting at their 
fallen horses, and fear of a thousand differ- 
ent accidents passed rapidly through my 
mind. I turned to dash for the elevator, 
but before I had stepped into the hall my 
telephone bell rang furiously. I took down 
the receiver and held it to my ear. 

It was one of the things I had forgotten. 
A man cannot be expected to remember 
everything, I hope. At any rate, John D. 
Markright had no cause to blame me, as he 
did. I did not put Staten Island where it 
happens to lie — some one else put it there. 



It was there long before I was bom, for that 
matter, and the captains and pilots I had 
hired to attend to the navigation of the city 
should have thought of it. But they did 
not. They steamed their tugs straight for 
the Narrows, and steamed into them, and 
of course, when the city tried to follow 
through, it was too wide. It jammed in, 
and wedged in, and stuck fast there. I 
could have told those captains what would 
have happened, if they had asked me. But 
they didn't ask me. I blame them for that. 

There was nothing to do about it. The 
town was stuck in the Narrows, and there, 
as you know, it has stuck ever since. 
There was much complaint the first few 
days, because the town was now in the 
mosquito belt, being attached to Long 
Island on one side and to Staten Island on 
the other, and John D. Markright was 
most rude to me, until I had seen his 
physicians and talked the matter over with 
them. They had been in almost constant 
attendance upon John D. Markright since 
the island of Manhattan had jammed in 
the Narrows, and they had suffered tor- 
tures from his nerves. He was rapidly be- 
coming a nervous dyspeptic wreck, and this 
was aggravated by the noises of the city. 
The mmbling of cabs, the jangling of car 
bells, and the clinking of horse-shoes on the 
pavements were driving the old man frantic. 

"We advised the Mediterranean," they 
said, "because there he would have quiet. 
This whole idea of moving New York was 
folly. It is not the climate he needs, it is 
the greater quiet. My own advice was that 
he should go to Venice; it was his idea that 
the Mediterranean was what he needed. 
There are no noisy streets in Venice " 

I did not wait to hear more. The next 
moming when John D. Markright awoke 
— if his feverish tossings on his bed could 
be called sleep — it was a new city that met 
his gaze. In such a cause I do not spare 
myself. I did not begmdge John D. 
Markright the labor of that night. If he 
slept but poorly, I did not sleep at all. 
From the Battery to Spuyten Duyvil my 
men were at work with chisel and pick-axe, 
with crow-bar and auger, removing the 
streets of New York ! Have you ever, in the 
old days, seen the force of men removing 
the snow from the streets of the metropolis ? 
It was thus I worked removing the streets 
themselves. First the main thoroughfares 
— Broadway, Fifth Avenue and the shop- 



MADISON SgUARB 

: Acme on Fifth Avenue 
in his yacht " 



ping streets — then the less important streets 
and avenues. Miles of asphalt my work- 
men rolled up as a man rolls a strip of car- 
pet and dumped into the bay. Miles of 
cobblestones they punched ihrough into 
the waters underneath the city. If New 
York could not go to Venice I would make 
a Venice of New York, and 1 did it in one 
night! One evening the whole population 
of New York was complaining of the 
crowded condition of the street cars — and 
the next morning there were no crowds on 
the cars; there were no cars; there were 
no streets; nothing but clean, noiseless 
canals where the streets and avenues had 
been. 

1 hope I did this all with no hope of po- 
litical reward. I hope I only expected a few 
hundred millions of profit from it. I know 
this was so. But who can refuse the tokens 
of thankfulness forced upon him by a grate- 
ful populace? I did not wish to be made 
mayor of the city, but the city insisted. Its 
gratitude was ovenvhelming. 

You who first see the city as it is now can 



hardly, I fear, understand the reason for 
this gratitude as you sail gently up Broad- 
way or fish for tommy-cods off the Flatiron 
Building. The man who now rides to his 
home on Fifth Avenue from his office in 
Wall Street, in his yacht, and watches the 
ripples play across the surface of Fifty- 
ninth Street, knows, however, how much 
the (own is improved. So does the woman 
who, in her little gasoline launch, visits the 
great stores on Si.xth Avenue or Twenty- 
third Street, or who drives in the park in 
her white-winged catboat. Even the wash- 
woman, carrying home some one's week's 
laundry in her little canoe, has a word of 
thanks for me, while the visitors to the city 
who see its beauties from the decks of the 
excursion steamers are informed by the 
man with the megaphone that all this peace 
and beauty are due to my efforts. 

For those who, in the old days, used the 
surface cars, there are the fleet passenger 
boats, and the users of the subway are pro- 
vided with the nice warm submarine boats. 
Instead of the Fifth Avenue stages the con- 
167 



i68 



WETTER NEW YORK 



servatives are provided with a fleet of prop- 
erly slow and worn-out lumber schooners. 
The honk of the automobile no longer 
frightens the wits out of the pedestrian. 
Where there was danger there is now safety, 
and where there was noise there is now 
peace. Our streets are always clean, and 
are not torn up day after day to permit the 
laying of pipes. 

In summer the streets of the East Side are 
merry with the voices of the numerous 
children splashing about in life-preservers, 
while their mothers sit sewing in their 
skiffs, or bargain with the peddlers who 
steer Iheir well-laden push-rafts from place 
to place, avoiding the vigilant eyes of the 
police tugs. In winter the skating is good. 

The life of the town goes on as before. 
Business and pleasure occupy the people 
as usual. Occasionally a man who has 
partaken of too much wine falls into Broad- 



way and is drowned, and now and then a 
sloop is wrecked while rounding the windy 
comer from Broadway into Twenty-third 
Street, but no one is killed or maimed by 
the street cars, or rudely hustled into eter- 
nity by a fool in an automobile. Wetter 
New York is a nice place in which to live. 

John D. Markright is now a well man, 
and he is profuse in his thanks to me. His 
renewed health is all due to the change I 
made in the city he bought, and of late 
years he has largely withdrawn from his 
financial exertions, as he now owns every- 
thing worth owning, and has a mortgage on 
the rest. But he still goes down-town every 
day, where he takes a moist, aquatic pleas- 
ure. Any nice day you may see him in the 
financial district, garbed in a diver's suit 
and guarded by one of the police tugs, 
playfully gathering up the money that other 
men have dropped in Wall Street. 



WALL STREET 



"Any nice day you may see him in the financial disliiet, garheii in a diver's suit and 
guarded by one of the police tugs, playfully gathering up the money that other men have 
dropped in Wall Street" 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



BY IDA M. TARBELL 

AOTHOK or "LIF> Or LINCOLN," "HISTORY OF THB STANDARD OIL COMPANY," STC. 



ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS 



IN THE HANDS OF THE DEMOCRATS 




most conspicuous politi- 
cal figures in the United 
States in the fall of 1883 
were two Democrats — 
John G. Carlisle of Ken- 
tucky and Samuel J. Ran- 
dall of Pennsylvania, rival 
candidates for the speakership of the House 
of Representatives. Their contest was 
something more than a struggle for leader- 
ship. A grave question was at stake. 
Should or should not the Democrats open 
the tariff question? The Republicans had 
just passed a tariff bill violating their own 
ixt)mises. It was the second time in 
twenty-two years that they had broken faith 
on the question. Mr. Carlisle claimed that 
the Democrats should now make it their 
duty to effect the reforms so long promised 
and every day more needed. Mr. Randall 
claimed that the tariff should be left to the 
Republicans. 

Randall of Pennsylvania 

Two men could scarcely have offered a 
greater contrast in training, in methods and 
in ideals than the two thus thrown into 
prominence. Sam Randall was the older 
and by far the more experienced in national 
affairs, but he was an ignorant man whose 
only real school had been the questionable 
one of Philadelphia ward politics and in 
this his own father had been his master. 
Randall had first been sent to Congress in 
1863 as a Democrat, and slowly but surely 
he had become the leader of his party. 
He had accomplished this mainly by the 
coolness and the skill with which he led a 
weak minority so that it frequently was able 
to frustrate the plans of a big majority. To 
play the parliamentarian game successfully 



against such odds as Randall faced had 
aroused enthusiasm and devotion and given 
him supreme power. It was not alone his 
parliamentary skill which won him follow- 
ers. His presence counted for much. 
Randall was one of the handsomest men of 
his day — ^with a face chiseled like an old 
Roman's and lit by a pair of large dark 
eyes of amazing fire and softness. Speak 
of Sam Randall to-day to one of his old 
colleagues and it will not be long before 
he will tell you with softened voice of 
"those wonderful eyes," "that classic 
face." Randall's force and charm were 
such that they overcame his lack of studi- 
ous habits, of reflection and of broad views. 

The first serious shock to Randall's 
leadership came in the early 8o's. Then 
the issue of tariff-for-revenue-only became 
acute with his party and he could not follow, 
for Randall was a protectionist of the 
Kelley brand. In youth he had been a 
Whig, but in 1856 he and his family went 
over to Buchanan, largely on the ground of 
personal liking, it seems. In Congress he 
had always supported the high tariff argu- 
ments and bills, without ever bringing much 
light to the question, for he was not at all 
well equipped for tariff discussion. Indeed, 
as late as the bill of 1883 he went about the 
House studying a little handbook on the 
tariff — for the first time posting himself on 
the vocabulary and the schedules. 

As it became more evident that the Demo- 
cratic issue was to be tariff revision, Ran- 
dall's place became more difficult, for it was 
a Republican district which was sending 
him to Congress and it was no secret that 
they sent him on condition that he support 
protection. To an outsider it seems now as 
if the natural thing would have been for 
Randall to have gone over to the Republi- 

169 



SAMUEL J. RANDALL IN 18S3 

"Randall ivat one of the handsomest men of his day — ivi/h a face chiseled like 
an old Roman's and lit by a pair of large dark eyes of amazing fire and softness. 
Speak of Sam Randall to-day to one of his old eolleagues and it will not be long 
before he will tell you with softened voice of 'those ■wonderful eyes,' 'that classic 
face.' Randall's forte and charm were such that they orercame his lack of 
studious habits, of reflection and of broad views " 



lOHN G. CARLISLE IN 1863 

"John G. Carlisle . . . was probably Ae nearest approach to a statesman 
then in the UniUd States Congress, He had come to his place through means 
which it is doubtful Randall coulil appreciate. . . . Ne had become a school 
teacher and in his leisure had read law, . . . He first entered the House 
in 1S7?, fourteen years after Randall, and he immediately made a deep im- 
pression " 



172 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



cans at this juncture, but he believed, hon- 
estly enough no doubt, that he could force 
the Democrats back from the position they 
had taken, that he could in fact protection' 
ize the Democratic Party, 

Carlisle of Kentucky 

But Randall was dealing with a bigger 
force and a bigger man in 1883 than he 
realized. John G. Carlisle, his opponent, 
was probably the nearest approach to a 
statesman then in the United States Con- 
gress. He had come to his place through 
means which it is doubtful if Randall could 
appreciate. Bom on a Kentucky farm, he 
had spent the days of his early youth at farm 
work, the nights over books. He had be- 
come a school teacher and in his leisure had 
read law. Admitted to the bar, he had con- 
tinued to study until he was called the ablest 
lawyer in the state. Admitted to the state 
legislature, he had become a leader of his 
party through force of his knowledge and 
his intellectual vigor. Carlisle had first 
entered the House in 1877, fourteen years 
after Randall, and he immediately made a 
deep impression on the country by his 
thorough mastery of subjects, his clearness 
of statement, his gravity and candor in argu- 
ment, and his freedom from the trickery and 
deceits of partisan politics. In the spring 
of 1882 he made a speech against a Tariff 
Commission which, as an argument for 
thorough tariff reform, was one of the 
ablest of the period. It really framed a 
strong logical position for the Democrats. 
His speech in 1883 when the Kelley bill 
was under consideration gave his position: 

**In the broad and sweeping sense which the 
term usually implies I am not a free trader/' he 
said. ** I will add that in my judgment it will be 
years yet before anything in the nature of free 
trade would be wise or practicable in the United 
States. When we speak of this subject we refer 
to approximate free trade which has no idea of 
cutting the growth of home industries but simply 
of scaling down the inequalities of the tarift 
schedules where they are utterly out of proportion 
to the demands of that growth. After we have 
calmly stood up and allowed monop)olists to grow 
fat we should not be asked to make them bloated. 
Our enormous surplus .revenues are illogical and 
oppressive. It is entirely undemocratic to con- 
tinue these burdens on the people for years and 
years after the requirements of protection have 
been met and the representatives of these indus- 
tries have become incrusted with wealth." . 

That is, Carlisle saw clearly that certain 
evils inherent in high protection, evils 



against which Garfield and all the Repub- 
lican tariff reformers had so often warned, 
were becoming realities. The word monop- 
oly was already in everybody's mouth, for at 
this time the impossibility of preventing the 
over-production and low prices which are 
the logical result of an artificial stimulus like 
a high tariff, except by some artificial check 
like a combination to limit output and hold 
up prices, had been completely demon- 
strated. 

Mr. Randall, however, saw no danger in 
the building up of monopolies and com- 
binations to limit production which counter- 
balanced the advantage there was in shut- 
ting out foreign competition and keeping 
the home market inviolate. The danger 
he claimed to see at the moment was one 
.that our magnates claim to see now in con- 
tinuing the discussion on the regulation of 
railroads: that is, unsettling capital. " There 
is nothing in life so sensitive to adverse 
criticism and which takes alarm so quickly," 
he said, " as capital invested in large indus- 
trial enterprises. . . . Shall we unsettle 
business interests by constant tinkering with 
the tariff? Shall no law last longer than 
the meeting of the next Congress?" 

The contest between the two had begun 
in the summer and had been followed with 
keen interest in political circles. Early in 
November the candidates op)ened head- 
quarters in Washington and soon the town 
was full of "Randall men" and "Carlisle 
men," each ready to prove his candidate a 
sure winner! All of the big newspapers 
had correspondents on hand, foretelling con- 
fidently the success of the candidate favored 
by their readers. But there was little to 
indicate the result. It all depended, it was 
seen, upon how deep and how general a 
belief there was in the Democratic party 
that high tariffs were dangerous. 



(( 



Buying Mules" in 'Sj 



The only really significant feature of the 
fall contest in Washington was the activity 
of the protected interests in Randall's be- 
half. The iron men and steel men, the 
wool men, the New Jersey potters, the 
Standard Oil Company, the Pennsylvania 
Railroad, were all said to be on hand. 
There were many hints at the use of 
money. Mr. Bamum of Connecticut, 
former United States Senator and now 
chairman of the National Democratic 




WILLIAM R. MORRISON 

"Mr, Morrison was too agpessivtly hontst and outspoken ever to 
keep siUnee on a question which interested him. He had fought for 
reform, in Congress, in caucus, in national conventions, everywhere 
he could get a hearing, and now that he had a chance to make a bill 
he went at it with great zest, and in March he had it ready — ' a bill 
to reduce import duties and war-tariff taxes' " 



Committee, was said to be in town " buying 
mules" fw Randall, as the slang of the day 
went. It was said that the Standard Oil 
Company was particularly generous. How 
much tnith there was in these charges of 
bribery the writer does not know; but this is 
certain, an alliance of business interests in 
support of Mr. Randall was plainly evident 
in the fall of 1883. The protectionists were 
most active, but they had with them the 
nulroads and the Standard Oil crowd, who 
at that moment were fighting hard to pre- 



vent threatened regulation of interstate 
commerce: that is, all of the interests which 
were thriving on special privileges were 
combined into a league for the continua- 
tion of those privileges. 

Up to this time these allied interests had 
supported the Republican party. It was in 
power and it had granted the privileges they 
enjoyed, but they were quite willing to sup- 
port a man of any political faith who agreed 
with them. Naturally their great desire 
was that both parties should agree to pro- 
173 



174 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



tection as the American system, that the 
question should practically be taken out of 
politics. This would result if Mr. Ran- 
dall's effort to protectionize the Democrats 
succeeded. Naturally then, they were eager 
to do their utmost to support him in his 
contest with Mr. Carlisle. But to their sur- 
prise and unquestionably to the surprise 
of Mr. Randall, Mr. Carlisle was elected 
speaker by a large majority. The tariff 
question was to be opened again. The 
man whom Mr. Carlisle selected to open it 
was William R. Morrison of Illinois, who 
had worked shoulder to shoulder with him 
the winter before in obstructing the Kelley 
bill. 

Mr, Randall Defeats His Party 

Mr. Morrison was an experienced man at 
tariff reform; indeed, the first Democratic 
tariff bill presented after the War originated 
with him. That was in 1875 and 1876, 
when the Democrats first obtained posses- 
sion of the House. The Speaker, Michael C. 
Kerr, had asked Col. Morrison to take the 
chairmanship of the Ways and Means Com- 
mittee. Mr. Morrison had brought in a 
good and reasonable measure, but even then 
the Randall faction of Protectionist-Demo- 
crats were too strong for him, and his bill 
had been speedily dropped. A little later 
Mr. Randall had succeeded Kerr as speaker 
and he had dropped Morrison from the 
Committee. He was not restored until 
1879. But Mr. Morrison was too aggres- 
sively honest and outspoken ever to keep 
silence on a question which interested him. 
He had fought for reform, in Congress, in 
caucus, in national conventions, everywhere 
he could get a hearing, and now that he 
had a chance to make a bill he went at it 
with great zest, and in March he had it 
ready — " a bill to reduce import duties and 
war-tariff taxes" — ^he called it. The bill 
was clever, for it really asked nothing more 
than what the Republicans themselves were 
already committeid to. Thus he proposed 
a general 20 per cent, reduction. The Re- 
publican Tariff Commission had advised 
from 20 to 25 per cent, in 1882 — Congress 
in 1883 had granted only a little over 4 per 
cent. So, declared Mr. Morrison, I. am only 
asking what yoiu* own experts have advised. 
This 20 per cent, reduction was to be ap- 
plied horizontally to all duties on manu- 
factured articles. Here again Mr. Morrison 



was following Republican precedent: their 
reduction in 1872 being a 10 per cent, hori- 
zontal, and their increase in 1875 a restora- 
tion of the same. In order to forestall the 
objection that this reduction might bring 
certain duties back to the detested rates of 
1857, Mr. Morrison put in the proviso that 
no duty should be lower than that provided 
by the Morrill tariff of 1861. That is, he 
was willing to give the Republicans the pro- 
tection they themselves had devised before 
the war and which they had increased with 
a distinct understanding that as soon as the 
war was over the old rates should be re- 
stored. Even in putting salt, coal and 
lumber on the free list, Mr. Morrison fol- 
lowed a not very old Republican precedent, 
Eugene Hale backed by Mr. Blaine having 
passed a bill to that effect through the 
House in 187 1.* 

From the day of the introduction of Mr. 
Morrison's bill into the House, it was cer- 
tain that Mr. Randall would oppose it. 
Randall indeed was working day and night 
to rally a strong Democratic opposition. 
His success was apparent when, after three 
weeks of general debate, Mr. Converse, an 
Ohio Democrat, suddenly moved that the en- 
acting clause of the bill be struck out and the 
motion was carried by a vote of 159 to 155. 
That is, in a House having a majority of 80 
Democrats a bill which was a moderate ex- 
pression of a policy to which the party had 
always been committed could not be passed. 
Forty-one Democrats voted against the bill; 
twelve of them from Pennsylvania, ten from 
Ohio, six from New York, four from Cali- 
fornia, three from New Jersey and four 
from the South. It was a powerful vote, 
for when boiled down it represented iron 
and steel, wool and sugar, and the hold they 
had on the Democrats. 

A Struggle for a Platform 

The defeat of the Morrison bill only 
aggravated the feeling between the two fac- 
tions and made it certain that there would 
be a great fight over the tariff plank of the 
platform in Chicago in July, when the Na- 
tional Convention met to nominate a presi- 
dential candidate, and there was — one of 
the most stubborn and prolonged in the his- 
tory of conventions. Henry Watterson was 
first on the ground with the plank " tariff- 
for-re venue-only," which he had placed in 

* See The Ambrican Magazine for March, 1907. 



IDA M. TARBELL 



I7S 



the platforms of 1876 and of 1880, and which 
he was determined should go in again. Ben 
Butler, a candidate for the Presidency, fol- 
lowed him with a compromise plank, and 
after him came Abram S. Hewitt and Man- 
ton Marble, also with compromise expres- 
sions. Mr. Randall's friends talked free 
whisky and free tobacco for the plank. 

When the Com- 

mittee on Reso- 
lutions finally 
was formed it 
included all 
these gentle- 
men. The ses- 
sion began with 
a deadlock over 
the chairman— 
18 being for 
Morrison, iS for 
Converse of 
Ohio, Ran- 
dall's man-, and 
from that time 
until the end 
nothing but 
nunors of dead- 
locks came 
from behind 
the closed door. 
The sub-com- 
mittee to which 
the framing of 
the tariff pUtnk 
was finally con- 
fided sat for 
/i/Iy - one con- 
secutive hours, 
and the session 
ended in what 
the disgusted 
Mr. Watteison 
called a "strad- 
dle" — a plank 
calling for re- 
vision in "a spirit of fairness to all in- 
terests" — one which would "injure no 
domestic industry and would not deprive 
American labor of the ability to compete suc- 
cessfully with foreign labor." It was an ex- 
pression carefully arranged to back all 
shades of opinion between Mr. Carlisle and 
Mr. Randall — a platform which gave 
standing room to both factions, and it really 
compared very well with the Republican 
plet^ to "correct the irregularities of the 
tariff and to reduce the surplus — so as to re- 




ARTHUR LATHAM PERRV 

Professor Perry hgan his free-trade teachings in 
Wiliiams College about 1853 and continued them until 
his death in igo;. His " Principles of Political Econ- 
omy" published in 1866 was one of the most influential 
text-books in economies ever published in this country 



lieve the tax-payers without injuring the 
laborers or the great productive interests of 
the country." If anybody was ahead in the 
platform contest it was &&. Carlisle, and 
this from the fact that Mr. Morrison was se- 
lected to present the report to the Conven- 
tion. 
At the time of the National Convention it 
looked as if the 
tariff would be 
the chief issue 
of the cam- 
paign, but as 
it turned out 
the Republican 
candidate, Mr. 
Blaine, was the 
issue, and he 
had not the vi- 
tality for the 
strain. His op- 
ponent, Grover 
Cleveland — a 
man unheard 
of in public 
affairs until 
three years be- 
fore, but whose 
short record as 
mayor of the 
city of Buffalo 
and governor 
of the state of 
New York had 
been of such 
courage and 
patriotism that 
it had made 
him available 
for the nomina- 
tion to the pres- 
idency, was 
elected in No- 
vember by an 
electoral vote 
was in 



Cleveland's First iVord on the Tariff 

It has been frequently said that when 
Grover Cleveland became president of the 
United States he knew nothing of the tariff. 
At least one tariff expert of that day has 
recorded a very different opinion. In an 
interesting unpublished manuscript of rem- 
I by the late Professor Perry of Will- 



176 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



iams College there is an account of a talk 
the professor had with Mr. Cleveland in the 
fall of 1883 in Albany. Professor Perry had 
gone to Albany at the request of Thomas G. 
Shearman, of Brooklyn, to speak in behalf 
of free trade at a public meeting the Demo- 
cratic leaders had organized, and the after- 
noon before the lecture he had been taken 
to the capitol to meet the governor. " He 
and I stood in the corridor for half an hour 
talking on the subject which had brought me 
to Albany," Professor Perry writes. " The 
Governor, as was proper, did most of the 
talking; and his interlocutor was surprised 
and gratified at -the clearness and strength 
of his views on the whole tariff question and 
began to think he had this time brought 
coals to New Castle, since the first official in 
the state apparently knew as much about 
tariffs as he did and could express himself 
even better. The Governor said he was 
glad I came to Albany, thought he had better 
not attend the meeting himself, but hoped 
everybody else would go, and on parting 
gave me his best wishes for the efforts made 
and making in behalf of the good cause, with 
which efforts he seemed to be familiar. He 
impressed me as few other men ever did on 
first acquaintance, as a strong many a frank 
man and a man every way to he trusted.^* * 

But in any case Mr. Cleveland was too 
wise a man to take radical action on any 
subject at the outset of a first presidential 
term, particularly when that subject was 
sharply dividing his followers. The elec- 
tion had by no means healed the breach be- 
tween the Carlisle and Randall factions. If 
anything, indeed, it was widened, for Ran- 
dall had by a clever maneuver apparently 
strengthened his side from the South. He 
had done this by campaigning in aid of 
Southern Democratic candidates for Con- 
gress who favored protection. Together 
with his first lieutenant, William McAdoo 
of New Jersey, Randall went in the fall of 
'84 to Louisville, Kentucky, and spoke under 
the very nose of his enemy, Watterson. 
From Kentucky he continued his work into 
Tennessee and Alabama. He did not 
meet with a cold reception. Everywhere 
he had large audiences and proofs of 
sympathy, everywhere he found newspa- 
pers to support him. To those on the 
inside it was apparent that Pennsylvania 

* The writer owes this bit of history to the courtesy 
of the son of Prof. Perry, Mr. Bliss Perry, editor of the 
AiUmtic Monthly. 



had been busy in the Southern manufac- 
turing centers and that its money and in- 
fluence accounted largely for the candidates 
and the interest. But it was not a sign to 
be lightly regarded, and Mr. Randall took 
care that its full strength be known to 
Mr. Cleveland. 

But however cautious Mr. Cleveland 
meant to be, his first message showed that 
he stood with Mr. Carlisle and not with Mr. 
Randall. He was for revision at once. 
" The fact that our revenues are in excess of 
the actual needs of an economical adminis- 
tration of the government justifies a teduc- 
tion in the amount exacted from the people 
for its support," he wrote. " The proposi- 
tion with which we have to deal is the reduc- 
tion of the revenue received by the govern- 
ment and indirectly paid by the people 
from the customs duties. The amount of 
such reduction having been determined, the 
inquiry follows, where can it best be re- 
mitted and what articles can best be re- 
leased from duty in the interests of our citi- 
zens? I think the reduction should be 
made in the revenue derived from a tax 
upon the imported necessaries of life." 
"The question of free trade," Mr. Cleve- 
land said, " is not involved, nor is there any 
occasion for the general discussion of the 
wisdom or experience of a protective sys- 
tem." He also interpolated a paragraph 
assuring the protected industries and their 
workingmen that there was no intention in 
his mind of any ruthless changes which 
would hurt their interests. 

Mr, Randall Again Defeats His Party 

As was to be expected, Mr. Carlisle and 
Mr. Morrison returned to the charge as soon 
as Congress opened. Four months were 
spent in prejmring a new bill and on it the 
very best brains of the party were engaged. 
Abram Hewitt, who had in the previous ses- 
sion presented a bill embodying his ideas, 
now went to work with Morrison. David 
Wells and J. S. Moore, the "Parsee Mer- 
chant," came to Washington to give their 
help. The greatest care was taken to meet 
the just objections to the previous measure, 
and when the bill was reported in April, 
1886, it was found to be more moderate than 
its predecessor. The objectionable horizon- 
tal leveling had been given up. Duties had 
been studied in relation to labor cost. The 
free list was larger, including coal, salt, and 



IDA M. TARBELL 



177 



iron, copper and lead ores. It was a bill 
for which both Republicans and Democrats 
might have voted without violatii^ party 
{^tforms, but there was no hope for it. 
The Randall faction again joined the Re- 
publicans when Mr. Morrison asked the 
House to go into a Committee of the Whole 
to con^der his bill, and voted him down by a 
vote of 157 to 



Oliver, the representative on the Commis- 
sion of the iron and steel industries. The 
piling up of the surplus, too, was causing 
more and more uneasiness. In the year 
ending just after Mr. Morrison's second 
bill was denied consideration, the surplus 
was found to be nearly ninetyfour million 
dollars, with no pro^table provision for 
spending. 




sioner of labor, 
investigated 
the condition 
and reported a 
little later, 
found that in 
the year end- 
ing July, 1885, _... ._ ^ _... ._ .._ ^._.,. 

there had been Bombay where he had been a merchant He enUred 
fully 1,000,000 the New York Custom House Service and was finally . . . 

persons out of removed by Secretary Sherman because of his activity particularly in 
employment, for tariff reform. Moore was a man 0/ learning and the New Yotk 
He estimated of eharaciet, greatly beloved by his associates Times, where 



the "Parsee 
Merchant " dissected it mercilessly. 

Cleveland Again Urges Revision 

, , This, in substance, was the condition of 

chief advocates of the system had gone things when it came time for Mr. Cleveland 

down in the general distress, among them to send in his second message. His first 

John Roach, whose panegyric on pro- year in office had certainly given him large 

tecdon as the source of prosperity was opportunity to study the tariff question. It 

one of the choice pieces collected by the had not been wasted. His notions had 

Tariff Commission of iS8a, and Henry evidently been enlarged and intensified and 



that year of 
idleness meant a loss of $300,000,000 to 
the country. Strikes were incessant and in 
1884 and 1885 over 30,000 failures had 
occurred, many of them being in highly 
protected industries. Indeed, some of the 



178 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



in his message he urged at length upon Con- 
gress the *' pressing importance" of revision. 
He made a strong argument against the sys- 
tem which had produced the surplus he was 
laboring with and at the same time caused 
'^abnormal and exceptional business prof- 
its," " without corresponding benefit to the 
people at large," and it ended with a plain 
warning to Congress that nothing could be 
accomplished " unless the subject was ap- 
proached in a patriotic spirit of devotion Lo 
the interests of the entire country and with 
a willingness to yield something to the pub- 
lic good," This message is particularly 
interesting in comparison with the famous 
one of a year later. Indeed, it contains 
nearly all the points elaborated there. But 
it fell on deaf ears. Mr. Morrison proved 
this when, a few days later, he tried again to 
get his second bill reported; and was de- 
feated. Not only did Congress refuse to 
consider Mr. Morrison's bill, it adjourned 
in March, 1887, without any action of any 
kind in regard to revenue. 

And while the members of Congress 
sullenly refused to consider the needs of 
the country lest in so doing they might 
sacrifice party advantage, Mr. Cleveland 
and his Cabinet were spending anxious 
days trying to find means to unclog the 
treasury and avert panic. In the first six 
months after the message of December, 
1886, nearly $80,000,000 were applied to 
taking up 3 per cent, bonds. Financial un- 
easiness continuing, some eighteen to nine- 
teen millions more were spent on the same 
bonds, and twenty-seven and one-half mil- 
lions in taking up bonds not yet due and in 
anticipating interest. Even after this Mr. 
Cleveland and Mr. Fairchild, his secretary of 
the treasury, did not feel at all certain that 
trouble would not return, and as the hot 
weather came on and the Cabinet members 
prepared to leave for their summer homes, 
the President arranged that they keep him 
informed of all their movements. He 
wanted to be able to reach them, he told 
them, for he had made up his mind that if 
there was a reciurence of trouble he would 
call an extra session of Congress and lay 
matters before the members in such a way 
that they would be forced to act. 

A Bold Decision 

But the summer passed and business 
grew better rather than worse. In Septem- 



ber Mr. Cleveland went to Philadelphia to 
the centenary of the Constitution and there 
he met Mr. Fairchild. The two talked 
matters over and agreed that no extra ses- 
sion would be needed. "I was almost 
sorry," Mr. Cleveland told the writer 
" — not sorry that the trouble was over, but 
that my opportunity was lost." But the 
cause of the trouble remained and continued 
to worry the President. It continued, too, 
to worry the country. Ugly evidences of 
this were continually coming from press and 
people. Mr. Cleveland was accused of not 
realizing the situation, of fearing the Ran- 
dall faction of his party — of doing nothing 
because he was playing for a second term, 
etc., etc. — ^the old-time charges against the 
man who in a difficult situation with a 
divided party behind him studies his case 
and waits for a favorable moment to act. 
Later in September, something happened 
which set everybody agog. Secretary 
Fairchild and Speaker Carlisle were re- 
ported to be at Oak View in consultation 
with the President and Mr. Randall was not 
present. It was taken as a sign that the 
President had concluded to ignore the Ran- 
dall faction. But Mr. Cleveland did noth- 
ing more at the September council than to 
get the opinion of his colleagues on the situa- 
tion; he did not reveal his plan of campaign, 
though at that moment he had it in mind, 
indeed had practically decided upon it, and 
a bold, original plan it was. 

Mr. Cleveland had come to the conclu- 
sion that the country must be forced to 
think about the tariff and its relation to 
the recent business disorders, and that 
the only way open to him to force this 
attention was to devote his entire forth- 
coming message to Congress to that subject. 
No such thing had ever been done by a 
president of the United States. But there 
was no constitutional objection to the idea. 
Nothing but precedent was against it and 
Mr. Cleveland concluded that here was a 
case where the breaking of a precedent was 
more useful than the observance. For 
weeks he turned the matter over in his mind, 
taking nobody into his confidence until 
finally early in November he told his^Cab- 
inet what he had determined upon. He 
regretted, he said, not to use their several re- 
ports as was the custom, particularly when 
everybody had made so good a showing, 
but in his judgment the situation justified 
the action. There was not an objector to 



GROVER CLEVELAND IN 1SS7 

" The effect (of Cleveland's tariff message) was instantaneous. AH over the country 
thinking people cried out that not since the Emancipation Proclamation had a president of 
the United States shown eg ual courage and wisdom. The patience with which Mr. Clej<e- 
land had waited for Congress to take the action needed, the deliberaHon and caution with 
which he had worked out His duty when Congress failed to do ITS duty ; the courage with 
which he acted when he felt the time had come for his interference, the high patriotism 
with which he had swept away all thought of the result to himself and the party for what 
he believed to be the general good — all these features appealed to the thoughtful and led many 
to draw a parallel between Abraham Lincoln in 1862 and Groi'er Cleveland in i88j" 



i8o 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



the suggestion; on the contrary, there was 
hearty and unanimous approval. Every 
member of the Cabinet seems to have real- 
ized that the President had hit on a move 
of imdoubted wisdom. 

The Making of a Famous Document 

The writing of the message was a serious 
task for Mr. Cleveland. He realized that 
its effect depended upon the completeness 
of his argument and his making himself 
clear and convincing to plain people. It 
was really a literary task and Mr. Cleveland 
was not a literary man. He was a lawyer, 
accustomed to presenting what he had to 
say in the forcible and exact but more or 
less technical and ponderous terms of the 
law. He had a taste, too, for sonorous and 
unusual words and phrases, but now he 
wanted to be simple, as simple as he could 
be, and still be dignified. For weeks he 
kept his message within reach in the drawer 
of his White House work-table, whenever 
he had a moment, taking it out to add to 
and to correct. Finally he had the struc- 
ture worked out to his satisfaction. He would 
begin at the end of the story with what the 
high tariff had done, the dangers and hard- 
ships it had brought on the country, and he 
would tell Congress plainly, this is your 
work and you alone can remedy it. With 
what dignity and clearness he worked out 
the situation every one remembers: — 

" You are confronted at the threshold of 
yoiu- legislative duties," he wrote Congress, 
"with a condition of the national finances 
which imperatively demands immediate 
and careful consideration. The amount of 
money annually exacted through the opera- 
tion of present laws, from the industries and 
necessities of the people, largely exceeds the 
sum necessary to meet the expenses of the 
Government. . . . This condition of 
our Treasury is not altogether new; and it 
has more than once of late been submitted 
to the people's representatives in the Con- 
gress, who alone can apply a remedy. And 
yet the situation still continues with aggra- 
vated incidents, more than ever presaging 
financial convulsion and widespread dis- 
aster. ... If disaster results from the 
continued inaction of Congress, the re- 
sponsibility must rest where it belongs." 

He set down the income, the expenses, 
the unusual efforts made to dispose of the 
surplus, and after all was done he told them 



another June would probably see $140,000,- 
000 more in the Treasury than was needed, 
"with no clear and undoubted executive 
power of relief." All of the suggestions be- 
fore him for getting rid of the surplus: that 
is, purchasing at a premium bonds not yet 
due; refunding the public debt; depositing 
the money in banks throughout the coimtry 
for use, he believed to be unwise and ex- 
travagant. What was needed was some- 
thing deeper than expedients for spending 
money, it was stopping the inflow by remov- 
ing the cause. What was the cause ? Why, 
unnecessary taxation, of course. "Our 
scheme of taxation by means of which this 
needless surplus is taken from the people 
and put into the public treasury," Mr. 
Cleveland wrote, "consists of a tariff or 
duty levied upon importations from abroad, 
and internal-revenue taxes levied •upon 
the consumption of tobacco and spirit- 
uous and malt liquors. It must be conceded 
that none of the things subjected to internal- 
revenue taxation are, strictly speaking, nec- 
essaries. There appears to be no just 
complaint of this taxation by the consumers 
of these articles, and there seems to be noth- 
ing so well able to bear the biu'den without 
h^dship to any portion of the people. But 
our present tariff laws, the vicious, inequi- 
table and illogical source of unnecessary 
taxation, ought to be at once revised and 
amended." 

And Mr. Cleveland set out to explain 
clearly to the people why, in his opinion, the 
adjectives he applied to the tariff were not 
too strong. The argument is important. 
It was the reason of an honest and candid 
man for the faith within him and it was 
destined to convince masses of people and to 
be the accepted argument of a majority of 
his party in years of futiu'e struggling on the 
question. The gist of it was that the tariff 
is really a tax, — that is, the price of the im- 
ported article one buys is higher by the 
amount of the duty, and this duty makes it 
possible for people who are manufacturers 
of the same kind of articles as those im- 
ported to sell them for a price approxi- 
mately equal to that demanded for the 
imported goods. In the first case the 
tax or duty goes to the government, in 
the other case to the domestic manu- 
facturer. "It is said that the increase 
in the price of domestic manufactures re- 
sulting from the present tariff is necessary in 
order that higher wages may be paid to our 



IDA M. TARBELL 



i8i 



working men employed in manufactories, 
than are paid for what is called the pauper 
labor of Europe." Now out of a population 
of 50,155,783, 2,623,089 persons are em- 
ployed in such manufacturing industries as 
are claimed to be benefited by a high tariff. 
" To these the appeal is made to save their 
employment and maintain their wages by 
resisting a change. . . . Yet with slight 
reflection they will not overlook the fact that 
they are consumers with the rest. . . . 
Nor can the worker in manufactures fail to 
understand that while a high tariff is claimed 
to be necessary to allow the payment of re- 
munerative wages it certainly results in a 
very large increase in the price of nearly all 
sorts of manufactures, which in almost 
countless forms he needs for the use of him- 
self and his family. He receives at the desk 
of his employer his wages, and perhaps be- 
fore he reaches his home is obliged, in a pur- 
chase for family use of an article which em- 
braces his own labor, to return in the pay- 
ment of the increase in price which the 
tariff permits, the hard-earned compensa- 
tion of many days of toil." 

The Farmer and the ]Vool Tariff 

Mr. Cleveland felt strongly that it was to 
the 7,670,493 farmers in the country that the 
tariff worked particular injustice. Seek- 
ing an illustration of his idea he went 
back to his boyhood in New York State, 
when every farmer he knew had a few 
sheep; when he himself wore a suit of 
homespun wool — the very odor of which he 
will tell you he remembers to-day! What 
good were these farmers getting from the 
wool-tariff? 

" I think it may be fairly assumed/* he wrote, 
" that a large proportion of the sheep owned by 
the fanners throughout the country are found in 
small flocks numbering from twenty-five to fifty. 
The duty on the grade of imported wool which 
these sheep yield, is ten cents each pound if of the 
value of thirty cents or less, and twelve cents if of 
the value of more than thirty cents. If the liberal 
estimate of six pounds be allowed for each fleece, 
the duty thereon would be sixty or seventy-two 
cents, and this may be taken as the utmost en- 
hancement of its price to the farmer by reason of 
this duty. Eighteen dollars would thus represent 
the increased price of the wool from twenty-five 
sheep, and thirty-six dollars that from the wool of 
fifty sheep; and at present values this addition 
would amount to about one third of its price. If 
upon its sale the farmer receives this or a less 
tarifT profit, the wool leaves his hands charged 
with precisely that sum, which in all its changes 
will suihere to it, until it reaches the consumer. 



When manufactured into cloth and other goods 
and material for use, its cost is not only increased 
to the extent of the farmer's tarifif profit, but a 
further sum has been added for the benefit of the 
manufacturer under the operation of other tariff 
laws. In the meantime the day arrives when the 
farmer finds it necessary to purchase woollen 
goods and material to clothe himself and family 
for the winter. When he faces the tradesman for 
that purpose he discovers that he is obliged not 
only to return, in the way of increased prices, his 
tariff profit on the wool he sold, and which then 
perhaps lies before him in manufactured form, but 
that he must add a considerable sum thereto to 
meet a further increase in cost caused by a tariff 
duty on the manufacture. Thus in the end he is 
roused to the fact that he has paid upon a moder- 
ate purchase, as a result of the tariff scheme, which 
when he sold his wool seemed so profitable, an in- 
crease in price more than sufficient to sweep away 
all the tariff profit he received upon the wool he 
produced and sold. 

*'When the number of farmers engaged in 
wool-raising is compared with all the farmers in 
the country, and the small proportion they bear to 
our population is considered; when it is made ap- 
parent that, in the case of a large part of those 
who own sheep, the benefit of the present tariff on 
wool is illusory; and, above all, when it must be 
conceded that the increase of the cost of living 
caused by such tariff becomes a burden upon those 
with moderate means and the poor, the employed 
and unemployed, the sick and well, and the young 
and old. and that it constitutes a tax which, with 
relentless grasp, is fastened upon the clothing of 
every man, woman, and child in the land, reasons 
are suggested why the removal or reduction of this 
duty should be included in a revision of our tariff 
laws." 

The Tariff and the Trusts 

Perhaps the most significant parts of Mr. 
Cleveland's message from the point of view 
of present-day developments are those in 
which he pointed out the relation of 
the tariff to the trusts. By this time 
(1887) the movement to prevent any low- 
ering of domestic prices of the protected 
articles by natural competition was already 
strong and alarming. The sugar trust, 
the National Lead Trust Company, the 
National Linseed Oil Trust, the Copper 
Syndicate, the association of steel men, 
the combinations in wax, rubber goods, 
oil cloth and dozens of other highly pro- 
tected articles were worrying the whole 
country. " It is notorious," Mr. Cleveland 
wrote, "that competition is too often 
strangled by combinations quite prevalent 
at this time, and frequently called trusts, 
which have for their object the regulation of 
the supply and price of commodities made 
and sold by members of the combination. 
The people can hardly hope for any consid- 



1 82 



THE TARIFF IN OUR TIMES 



eration in the operation of these selfish 
schemes. . . . The necessity of com- 
binoHon to maintain the price of any com- 
modity to the tariff point, furnishes proof 
that some one is willing to accept lower 
prices for such commodity, and that such 
prices are remunerative.*^ 

Mr. Cleveland did not neglect either to 
touch upon another feature of the protective 
trust which was causing uneasiness and of 
which he was soon to learn much more than 
he knew then — ^that was the measures they 
were taking to prevent any revision at all. 
"So stubbornly have all efforts to reform 
the present condition been resisted by those 
of our fellow-citizens thus engaged (in pro- 
tected industries) that they can hardly com- 
plain of the suspicion entertained to a cer- 
tain extent that there exists an organized 
combination all along the line to maintain 
their advantage." 

Little by little with care and pains the 
message was beaten out. The greatest 
caution was taken to have it exact. For 
example, after the illustration on the farmer 
and his wool was written, Mr. Cleveland 
became concerned for his figures. He knew 
twenty-five to fifty was the right average 
for a farmer's sheep in New York State, 
but how about Ohio? He called in a 
member of the bureau of statistics, and 
was told the average Ohio flock was be- 
tween twenty and forty. And as he veri- 
fied figures he qualified statements, re- 
iterating his assurance that no revision 
which would destroy any business was con- 
templated — none which would throw labor 
out of work or lower its wages, that no 
doctrinal discussion was sought. "// is a 
condition which confronts us — not a theory,** 
was his famous phrase. And most solemnly 
did he beg Congress to approach the ques- 
tion " in a spirit higher than partisanship, 
to consider it in the light of that regard for 
patriotic duty which should characterize 
the action of those intrusted with the weal 
of a confiding people." 

Throughout the whole period of composi- 
tion of the message Mr. Cleveland took 
no one into his confidence. Finally, one 
day after it was complete, Mr. Carlisle 
called on some business. When he had 
finished Mr. Cleveland said: "Carlisle, I 
want to read you something." It was his 
message. He had decided to present it 
practically as it was, he said, but he was 
afraid he had made it too simple. He 



wanted it perfectly dignified. Would Mr. 
Carlisle listen to it and make any sugges- 
tions he might have? Walking up and 
down, Mr. Carlisle listened attentively. 
Once or twice he broke in, correcting what 
he believed to be a too general statement. 
Thus Mr, Cleveland had written, "The 
majority of our citizens who buy domestic 
articles of the same class (as imported arti- 
cles) pay a sum equal to the duty to the home 
manufacturer." Mr. Carlisle did not think 
they paid the full amount of the duty. He 
believed usually it was a little less. Mr. 
Cleveland had better say " substantially 
equal." Mr. Cleveland wrote finally, "at 
least approximately equal." Beyond a few 
suggestions of this kind Mr. Carlisle had 
only hearty approval for the message. 

Congress Takes Notice 

On the sixth of December it went to Con- 
gress. The effect was instantaneous. All 
over the country thinking people cried out 
that not since the Emancipation Proclama- 
tion had a president of the United States 
shown equal courage and wisdom. The 
patience with which Mr. Cleveland had 
waited for Congress to take the action 
needed and to which he had in both his 
previous messages urged it, the delib-. 
eration and caution \vith which he had 
worked out his duty when Congress failed 
to do its duty; the courage with which he 
acted when he felt the time had come for his 
interference, the high patriotism with which 
he had swept away all thought of the result 
to himself and the party for what he believed 
to be the general good — all these featiires 
appealed to the thoughtful and led many to 
draw a parallel between Abraham Lincoln 
in 1862 and Grover Cleveland in 1887. 

The immediate important political result 
of the message was that it crystallized tariff 
sentiment in both parties. The Democrats 
who had been trj^ing to mix enough protec- 
tion with their "ultimate free-trade" or 
" tariff-for-revenue-only " principles to ease 
the fears of protected industries, and win 
over Mr. Randall, turned exclusive atten- 
tion to revision without compromise. As 
for !Mr. Randall, it was plain his day was 
over — if his fight was not. 

At first the message caused something 
like a panic among Republicans. The 
Tribune appealed to Mr. Blaine for help 
and he sent from Paris a famous interview 



OLAF, THE SON OF OLAF 



183 



which belongs rather to a future article than 
this. If anything was needed to emphasize 
the worth of Mr. Cleveland's message it was 
supplied by Mr. Blaine's interview. The 
combination of the two documents caused 
something like a split in Republican ranks. 
The Chicago Tribune and a number of 
other Western papers came out with as 
strong a commendation of Mr. Cleveland 
as the New York Nation, and in Minnesota, 
Nebraska and Iowa particularly, many 
leading Republicans publicly approved it. 
Nevertheless, the final effect on the party 



was to crystallize its protective senti 
ment. 

But the great thing about the message of 
1887 was that it reached the people. It 
made them think and they agreed with the 
President that this was not a question of 
free-trade or of protection. It was a ques- 
tion of reducing taxes. Both parties had 
repeatedly agreed they were too high. To 
refuse to lower them for party's sake was 
disloyal. This once firmly in the popular 
mind, further delay was impossible. Con- 
gress knew this and prepared for action. 



{The next article in this series will appear in The American Magazine for September) 



HOW OLAF, THE SON OF OLAF, 
ADMINISTERED JUSTICE 

BY WALTER ARCHER FROST 



WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY H. J. MOWAT 




[HEN the Savemia, of the 
Evans Line, ran down the 
Swedish bark Helga in the 
fog off Minot's Light, her 
small boat picked up but 
one man, and him they did 
not see until his big hand 
caught the bow oar close to the gun'al and 
stopped them like a rock; and it took three 
men to land the big hand's owner. After 
they had hauled him inboard, he shook 
the water from his yellow head and beard, 
and smashed the bow seat, when he 
settled himself upon it, for he was a heavy 
man. 

Deeply chagrined at this, he mutely in- 
sisted in pulling an oar back to the big liner, 
and he snapped the oar the first time he 
threw back his shoulders. He then ceased 
offering aid, rumbled a pipe organ apology 
in his native jargon, and sat motionless, a 
huge column of a man, until he swung him- 
self up the swaying ladder, and stood upon 
the Savemia^ s deck. 

To the captain's inquiries he had re- 
sponded in the jai^on named, but only a few 
words were intelligible, "Helga. Sweden. 
Olaf Olafson, Kelsingfors." 



The ship's surgeon looked him over, and 
the captain gave him dry clothing, and 
Olaf, the son of Olaf, bent his yellow head 
twice, once in acknowledgment of the new 
raiment, and once in order to pass beneath 
the lintel of the door; in the latter instance, 
he turned half-round, but this was on ac- 
count of his shoulders. "No wonder they 
took Britain," said the captain, who had 
read the "Conmientaries." 

In the morning the Savemia came in 
with the tide, and two hours later, Olaf 
Olafson passed down the plank and 
emerged upon Commercial Street, looking 
down in amaze upon the cobblestones, and 
then up at the Elevated, simultaneously 
dodging the car which tore along above his 
head. 

Kate Smith's lodging-house ("Beds 10 
Cents a Night") next caught his eyes; he 
could not read the words, but his glimpse of 
the rows of cots made their meaning clear, 
and he made a mental note of it as he 
crossed the street, and walked on through 
New Italy. 

He spent the morning in examining the 
city of Boston, and marvelled much at what 
he saw. In the afternoon, when he cooled 



THERE, m HIS SOLITUDE ... HE PUNDERED THE SITUATION 



OLAF, THE SON OF OLAF 



185 



his head in the pond in the Common, he 
marveled again at the policeman, who told 
him to "move on." Olaf did not under- 
stand English, but he knew that the water 
was cool and that his head was hot, 
and, lastly, that submersion was good; he 
did not " move on," but he hurled into the 
pond the officer who had clutched his 
wrist. Three other policemen came to the 
rescue, and Olaf spent the night in the 
station-house on Hancock Street. 

An interpreter explained the situation to 
him in the morning, and Olaf paid his fine. 
Of many of the conventionalities he was 
still ignorant, but he had learned not to cool 
his head in that way again, and the officer, 
whom he had "cooled," had learned to 
ignore men of Olaf 's build. 

After leaving the Municipal Court, Olaf 
walked down to the wharves, and looked 
longingly seaward. " Ban sailor man," he 
said to the men around him; but no one 
understood this or his other "signals" for 
work, and at night he climbed the narrow 
stairs at Kate Smith's, weary and alone. 

A brisk little man was saying to the pro- 
prietress, "I'm looking for men to work on 
Water Street. Who's this chap?" as Olaf 
towered before him. 

"Newcomer. Swede, I guess. Better 
try him." 

The little man addressed Olaf in a Swed- 
ish patois, presenting a paper which Olaf 
covered with his " mark," and Olaf Olafson 
had contracted to work for the city of 
Boston at $1.50 a day. 

Olaf had made but one observation, 
" Ban sailor man," and the little man had 
done the rest. 

At seven o'clock the next morning, Olaf 
followed his guide down the already swel- 
tering street, turning unconsciously toward 
the water-front, his eyes already seeking the 
ship; but his companion laughed, "Not 
there, tow-head; it's a wheelbarrow and not 
a rope that you'll work with now," and he 
bughed again at Olaf's siuprised disap- 
pointment when he was presented with a 
wheelbarrow, and pushed into a line of men 
who were wheeling cracked stone up a 
narrow plank. 

He watched the men whose example he 
was to follow. It seemed not very difficult : 
the man ahead of him advanced until he 
came to a trough, into which he dumped 
his load; simultaneously, a man, on the 
other side of the trough, threw in wet 



cement; then the first man wheeled his 
barrow away, past the wheezing engine, 
which, with its iron hands, mixed the stone 
with the cement. That was the process, 
and to Olaf it seemed child's play; he had 
seen the first man give a heave of his back 
as he shot his load into the trough, and 
Olaf carefully imitated him. His intentions 
were most praiseworthy, but he had not 
taken into consideration the strength of his 
back. The contents of his barrow envel- 
oped the man opposite him, and the barrow 
leaped like a mountain goat into the trough 
itself — a series of snaps, the rending of wood 
and iron, a wild shout of unintelligible com- 
mands and the machinery stopped with an 
angry snort. Olaf sprang over the trough, 
picked up the fallen man, and smoothed 
him tenderly with an enormous hand. The 
Irish "boss" then kicked Olaf, swearing 
violently the while, and Olaf touched the 
"boss" once only with his other hand, and 
they picked up the "boss" and carried him 
into an apothecary shop, the "boss" 
offering neither assistance nor resistance of 
any sort whatsoever. 

Had the city of Boston been less in need 
of men to lay the asphalt on Water Street, 
Olaf, the son of Olaf, would have spent 
another night in the station on Hancock 
Street. As it was, he slept serenely at Kate 
Smith's and appeared punctually at his 
place in the morning. 

And now nothing came to break the 
monotony of the life which Olaf led. By 
day, he worked with his barrow; each 
evening, he smoked his short pipe upon the 
wharves. 

There, in his solitude, his ears welcoming 
the ripple and lift of the tide, he pondered 
the situation. It was ten days since the 
Hdga had settled into the deep water be- 
yond the Light, and of the crew and the 
captain he had heard nothing; he, the mate, 
alone had survived the tragedy. 

Gregarious, domestic, fond of quiet com- 
panionship and of rumbling softly to those 
around him in his big, simple, friendly way, 
this forced silence and continued isolation 
wore upon him. His present occupation, 
too, he hated bitterly. His thirty years he 
had spent upon the sea, where the big ships 
passed smoothly along their buoyant course; 
his mind and heart were sick with the mem- 
ory of simny, cool-breessed days upon the 
Baltic, where the wind tore the surf at the 
foot of roaring cliffs, of idle weeks to the 



1 86 



OLAF, THE SON OF OLAF 



northward, where the porpoise played in 
the cool, deep fjords, of drowsy watches as 
the ship swam lazily on the Gulf Stream, or 
leaned comfortably before the steady push 
of the Trades. 

And, in the reality of his dream, he would 
start to his feet, striving to feel the planking 
of the deck, and, far above, to see the tower- 
ing spars of the ffe/^a. No! She was gone, 
and with her the old life that he loved so 
well. 

A month had passed, and he had reduced 
to a few cents the little money left him from 
the wreck; it was imperative that he should 
have more; he "signaled" to the "boss" 
when the whistles blew at noon the next day, 
but the man, though well comprehending 
the pathetic gestures of the mute giant, dis- 
regarded them. There was, however, 
among the men, a German who volimteered 
some knowledge of Olaf's tongue, and, 
through his interpretation, Olaf coidd ask 
directly for the money that was due him. 

Thus confronted, the "boss** listened 
calmly, and then said that Olaf had been 
paid at the end of each week, and he sup- 
ported his statement by showing receipts 
which bore Olafs "mark," Olaf then re- 
called that, from time to time, a slip of 
paper had been given him to " sign," but he 
said again that he had not received his pay. 
At this the "boss" smiled slightly, and then 
the other knew ; he had struck this man, and, 
in revenge, he was being cheated of his pay. 

For a moment he looked quietly at the 
scoimdrd before him, quietly but with so 
ominous a glint in his blue eyes that the man 
stepped wdU beyond his reach. 

Yes, he knew, but his brain suggested no 
remedy, and he resimied his work. His 
head was reeling, his great form cried for 
food, which, for a long day, had not passed 
his lips, but he toiled blindly on, tottering 
as he moved but moving still, the great 
muscles faithfully, but sadly, obeying his 
wiU. 

That night, supperless, weak and des- 
perate, Olaf passed again down the hot 
street to the deserted dock. Half uncon- 
sciously, he saw the "stem lights" break 
out, and his ready eye caught their swing as 
the rising breeze brought the bows into the 
wind; a "five-master," obedient to her tug, 
slipped smoothly down to her moorings 
just inside the breakwater, and he knew 
that, by noon of the next day, she would be 
"hull down" to the eastward. And then 



he dreamed again of the old life, the memory 
of which brought new longing to his lonely 
heart. 

Suddenly, he sprang to his feet. A small 
boat had come in, was already making fast 
to the dock, and the words of her men fell 
clearly and (oh, the music of it!) intelli- 
gibly upon his ear. "Yes, in one hour, we 
go out with the tide," — a tall form sprang 
from the boat, and Olaf looked joyously 
into eyes as blue as his own. " I am Olaf 
Olafson," he said simply, "and I need 
food." 

For a second the stranger gazed at him, 
and then strong hands met, die two yellow 
heads held close. 

Ten minutes later, the two men sat at a 
well-filled table; they ate much, and as Olaf 
told his story, his friend's hand clinched, 
and his fist set the plates rattling; and then 
they rose and passed quietly from the room. 
Together they strode along, a grim smile 
on each bronzed face, and then left the 
sidewalk to step into the street, where an 
engine, picks and wheelbarrows were stand- 
ing imder their canvas covering. A glance 
aroimd them showed that they were unob- 
served, and then two picks were raised, and 
fell, and fell again 

Five minutes later, a policeman, in the 
distance, heard the sound of crashing blows 
and hurried to what he looked to find a 
scene of strife; but, when he reached the 
spot, the street was void of passers-by. It is 
true that he saw two blond giants, dressed 
as seamen are, but they seemed orderly, 
and, smiling in their quiet, northern way, 
passed onward toward the water-front. 

When the whistles blew, at seven the next 
morning, the engine which mixed broken 
stone with wet cement on Water Street, in 
the city of Boston, did not resiune its work, 
and this was, after all, not wondered at by 
those who saw the thing — it had been 
attacked with fearful power, for not a 
wheel or chain or bar was left intact, and 
into each side a pick was driven deep. 
Such ruin seemed the fury of no human 
hands, and that was all they knew. 

The newspapers called it " The Work of 
Vandals," but, well out to sea, after the bold 
outline of the Monument had faded in the 
blue, the staunch schooner Lief, bound for 
Christiansand, carried two towering sailors, 
who bellowed softly in their loved jargon 
that it was the work of Justice. 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 

A LOVE STORY OF OLD CONSTANTINOPLE 



BY F. MARION CRAWFORD 



>i i« 



AUTHOR OP **VIA CRUCIS," "A ROMAN SINGBR, BTC. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES SARKA 



PART VI 




CHAPTER XI 

lENO found the two occu- 
pants of the room terror- 
struck, and standing on 
one side of the window, 
from which they had not 
dared to look after the 
cry of alarm had been 
given from below. Indeed they were in a 
dangerous pass, unless all three of the men 
who had attempted to stop Zeno were dead, 
or if the first cry had roused the sleeping 
captain and guards of the tower from their 
drugged sleep. 

But Zeno's own situation was quite as 
bad. It was out of the question to shout to 
Gorlias, on the mere chance of his being still 
alive and on the pier. No communication 
was possible, and the rope was cut below. 
There was no time to be lost either. He 
did not know the number of his assailants, 
and though he gave his signal when he 
reached the window, on the mere chance of 
being heard, he would not have trusted the 
answer to it if it had come. Any one could 
imitate such a sound after hearing it once. 
If he let down the remaining length of the 
rope by the fishing-line, and if his enemies 
were on the pier instead of Gorlias, they 
would have wit enough to knot the rope 
when it had been cut, and to send it up 
again, for him to ccme down by, and he 
would drop into their very midst. 

He understood all this in an instant, and 
without hesitation he cast off everything 
above, and dropped the rope and the fishing- 
line out of the window. He knew Gorlias 
well enough to be sure that he would come 
back before daylight and land if there were 

187 



no one on the pier, and remove all traces of 
the attempt. 

"We are all lost!" moaned the big 
woman. 

" My hour has come," said the Emperor 
Johannes in solemn terror. 

Thereupon he began to say his prayers, 
and paid no more attention to the others. 
Zeno took the woman by the wrist. 

" We are not lost unless your husband is 
awake," he said. "Take me to him." 

The captain's wife stared at him. 

" There is no other way. If he is awake 
you will tell him that I got into the tower, 
and that you have betrayed me into his 
hands. You will be safe at least, and I will 
take my chance. If he is asleep I have 
nothing to fear." 

He drew her to the door and began to 
unbar it himself. She had understood that 
he was right, so far as her own safety was 
concerned, and she helped him. A horn 
lantern stood on the stone floor in the entry 
at the head of the stair, where she had left it 
when she had last come up. Before going 
dow^n she barred the door outside as usual, 
and then led the way. 

At the first landing she opened a door as 
softly as she could and went in, leaving 
Zeno on the threshold. It was the sleeping 
room, and Zeno heard the captain's stertor- 
ous breathing with relief. He went in and 
looked at the sleeping man's face, which 
was congested to a dark red by the powerful 
drug, and Zeno thought it doubtful whether 
he would ever wake again. The woman, 
ignorant of the effects of much opium, was 
afraid her husband might open his eyes, 
and she plucked at Zeno's sleeve, anxious to 
get him away; but the Venetian smiled. 



1 88 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



"He is good for twelve hours' sleep," he 
said. " Give me his cloak and helmet. If 
I find no one awake I will leave them at the 
outer gate. Otherwise I will send them to 
the tower in a clothes-basket to-morrow 
morning." 

The captain's wife obeyed, less frightened 
than she had been at first; Zeno muffled half 
his face in the big cloak, and threw the end 
over his shoulder whence it himg down, dis- 
playing the three broad stripes of gold lace 
that formed the border distinctive of a cap- 
tain's rank in the guards. 

"Now show me the way," Zeno said. 
Under the folds of the cbak he had the 
short broad sheath-knife ready in his grasp, 
and it was no bad weapon in the hand of 
such a fighter as Carlo Zeno. The cap- 
tain's wife led the way with the lantern. 

At the foot of the next flight of stairs she 
almost stumbled over the sentinel, half 
seated on the lowest step in a dnmken sleep. 
The story they had now reached con- 
tained the living room of the captain and 
his wife, and no sentinel was needed higher 
up in the tower. An iron door, fastened on 
the inside, cut off the descent, and had to be 
opened for Zeno to pass. But being con- 
stantly in use the lock was well oiled, and 
the bolts slipped back almost without noise. 
Nevertheless, as he followed his companion 
down the next flight, Zeno drew up the folds 
of the cloak on his right arm till the edge 
barely covered the drawn knife in his hand. 
They reached the next story below, 
where the upper guard-room was. The 
door was half open, and a lamp was burning 
within, but as the window was over the great 
court of Blachemae no light had been visible 
from the water. Zeno heard voices, and 
caught sight of two guards carousing at the 
end of an oak table. At the sound of foot- 
steps one of the men rose quickly, but stag- 
gered when he tried to walk to the door. 

" Who goes there?" he called out, steady- 
ing himself by the door-post, and looking 
out. 

The captain's wife had the presence of 
mind to hold up the lantern, so that the 
light fell full upon the helmet Zeno wore. 
Instantly the soldier tried to straighten him- 
self to an attitude of attention, with his 
hands by his sides. But this was too much 
for his imstable balance, and he reeled back-, 
wards half across the room within, till he 
struck the table behind him, and timibled 
down with a clatter of accoutrements and a 



rattling of the horn drinking-cups that were 
thrown to the ground. His companion, 
who was altogether too drunk even to leave 
his seat, broke into a loud idiotic laugh at 
his accident. 

" You have done your share well, Kyria," 
said Zeno as he followed her again. "The 
Emperor's friends could have brought him 
down by the stairs in triumph without being 
stopped." 

" You are not out of the palace precincts 
yet," answered the captain's wife in a warn- 
ing tone. 

She went on, treading more softly as she 
descended, and carrying the lantern low 
lest she or her companion should stumble 
over another sleeping sentinel; but the 
staircase and the door that led into the 
court were deserted, for the captain was a 
very exact man, and had his supper at the 
same hour every evening, and went to bed 
soon afterwards like an honest citizen, after 
setting the watch and locking the iron door 
of his own lower landing. In two years he 
had never once come down the tower after 
simset. The consequence was that the 
guards did as they pleased, or as their lieu- 
tenant pleased; for he found it pleasant to 
spend his nights in another part of the 
palace, and was extremely popular with his 
men, because they were thus enabled to go 
to bed like good Christians and sleep all 
night. 

All this the captain's wi^e knew well 
enough. Her apprehension was for what 
might happen to Zeno between leaving the 
tower and passing the great gate, which was 
the only way to get out of the fortified pre- 
cincts. The wide courtyard was very dark, 
but there were lights here and there in the 
windows of the buildings that surrounded it 
on three sides, the great mass of the palace 
on the right, the barracks of the guards 
along the wall to the left, and the main post 
at the great gate in front with the buildings 
on each side of it, some occupied by slaves 
and some used as stables. 

Zeno wished that he had stripped one of 
the sleeping soldiers and had put on his 
dress, for he had been informed of the cap- 
tain's habits, and knew that the disguise 
was no longer a safe one after leaving the 
tower. Indeed it was a chief part of the 
captain's duty never to go out after dark, 
on any excuse, and he apparently made 
stire of obeying this permanent order by 
going to bed early and getting up late. For 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



189 



the rest, he had always left the personal care 
of his prisoner to his wife, judging that her 
stout middle-age and fiery cheeks suffici- 
ently protected his domestic honor. She 
had been young and very pretty once, it was 
true, but the captain did not know that 
Johannes had even seen her then, much 
less did he guess that many years ago, when 
the Emperor was a handsome young prince 
and she was a lovely girl in the old Em- 
press's train, she had worshipped him and 
he had condescended to accept her admira- 
tion for a few weeks. But this was the 
truth, as Zeno's grandson the bishop very 
clearly explains. 

She left her lantern just inside the door 
and came out with Carlo into the open air. 
After walking a few steps she laid her hand 
on his arm, stopped, looked round and 
listened. As yet they had not exchanged 
two words about the situation, and were far 
from sure that the watch which had de- 
tected Carlo from the water and had failed 
to catch him, had not come round by land 
to the palace gate to give the alarm. 

Zeno slipped the ck>ak from his shoulders 
and wrapped it round the helmet, so that 
the captain's wife could carry both con- 
veniently. 

"It is hopeless," she whispered, as she 
took them. "This morning he promised 
that he would leave the prison if you could 
bring him out. He has often spoken to me 
as he spoke to you this evening — ^he loves 
the boy dearly; but I was sure that he 
had made up his mind to risk every- 
thing, else I would not have shown the red 
light." 

" After all," Zeno observed, " it is just as 
weU that he would not come, since we were 
seen, though I really believe Gorlias was 
too much for the men who almost caught us. 
He and I together could certainly have set- 
tled them all — ^there were only three. I saw 
them distinctly when they first jumped 
ashore, and one was killed by the fall when 
I cut the rope. Gorlias silenced the other 
two, for if they were alive there would have 
be^i an alarm here by this time." 

"Yes," the woman answered. "But 
some one must have betrayed us. We can- 
not try that way again." 

"I shall not try that, or any other way 
agiftin!" Zeno said with emphasis. "In 
the name of the Evangelist, why should I 
risk my neck to free a man who prefers to 
beafMrisoner?" 



"The wonder is that you are alive this 
time!" 

"It will not even be safe to conununicate 
by the thread ag^in. Will you take him a 
message?" 

"As well as I can remember it." 

"Tell him that the next time he asks my 
help he must send me, by the same messen- 
ger, a deed giving Tenedos to Venice, signed 
and sealed. Otherwise I will not stir I" 

"ShaU I tell him that?" 

" Yes. Tell him so from me. And now, 
go back, Kyria, and thank you for your 
guidance and yotir lantern in those dark 
stairs." 

"How shall you pass the gate?" asked 
the captain's wife. 

She spoke anxiously, for Zeno was a 
handsome man, and she had seen how 
brave he was. 

" I do not know," he answered, " but one 
of two things must happen." 

"What things?" 

" Either I shall get out or I shall never see 
daylight again! I shall not let myself be 
taken alive to be impaled in the Hippo- 
drome, I assure you. Thank you again, 
and good-night." 

Zeno did not walk straight towards the 
gate, though it was easily distinguished from 
the adjacent buildings by the greater num- 
ber of its lights. He crossed the wide court 
diagonally to the right, in the direction of 
the stables, till he was near enough to see 
distinctly any one who chanced to come 
imder the rays of one of the scattered lamps 
that burned here and thore in doorways and 
open windows. Before long he saw a 
trooper of the guards emerging rather un- 
steadily out of the darkness into one of 
these small circles of light. 

He overtook the man in half a dozen 
strides, and spoke to him in a tow voice. 

"Hi! comrade! You who are still per- 
fectly sober, help a friend who is very 
drunk!" 

The man stopped, steadied himself, and 
answered with ponderous gravity : 

" Perfectly — hie — ^hic — sober ! ' ' 

"I wish I were!" replied Zeno. "The 
truth is, I am exceedingly drunk, though I 
do not show it. Wine only affects my 
brains, never my legs or my tongue. It is a 
very strange " 

"Excuse me — ^hic," interrupted the sol- 
dier. "Are you one man — ^hic — or two 
men?" 



IQO 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



"One man," Zeno answered. "Only 
one, and so drunk that I have quite forgot- 
ten the password." 

"Sec— ^hic — ret," hiccoughed the man. 
"Password secret," he repeated, with a 
tremendous effort. 

"Here is a gold piece, my dear friend. 
You will help a comrade in trouble." 

The man took the money eagerly, and 
tried to put it into his wallet. To do so he 
had to bend his head down so as to see the 
thongs that fastened it. It took a long time 
to find them. 

"Just give me the password before you do 
that," Zeno said in a coaxing tone. 

"Password?" The man looked up 
stupidly. 

The effort of undoing the thongs had been 
too much for him, and had sent the blood 
to his head. He staggered against the 
Venetian, and tried to speak. After many 
efforts he got the words out suddenly. 

"Drunk, by Moses!" he cried, quite dis- 
tinctly, as he fell in a heap at Zeno's feet. 

In his vexation Zeno could have kicked 
the stupid mass of humanity across the 
great yard, but he was far too wise to waste 
his time so unprofitably. Instead of kick- 
ing him he stepped across him, thrust his 
hands under the unconscious man's arm- 
pits, hove him up like a sack of flotu", got 
him over his shoulder and carried him to the 
open door of the nearest stable, whence the 
light came. Five horses stood or lay in their 
stalls, but the sixth stall was vacant, and 
there was fresh straw in it. Zeno threw the 
man down there, and looked round, to see 
that no one else was in the place. 

The trooper was now sound asleep, and 
it was the work of a few moments to puU off 
his boots of soft leather and slip them on, for 
Zeno had left his own in the boat, and had 
walked in his cloth hose; he took off the 
soldier's sword-belt and timic next, the lat- 
ter of rich scarlet cloth trinuned with heavy 
silver lace, the belt being entirely covered 
with silver scales. The drunken sleeper 
grunted with satisfaction when he felt him- 
self relieved of his useless clothes, and set- 
tled himself comfortably in the straw while 
Zeno put on the timic over his own buff 
jerkin and drew the belt tight roimd his 
waist, settled the man's tall Greek cap on 
his own head at the proper angle, as the 
troopers wore it, and threw the military 
cloak over his arm. 

He could now easily pass himself for a 



trooper at the gate, and a man who has been 
a soldier is rarely at a loss amongst soldiers, 
especially if he wears a imiform. In con- 
sideration of what he had taken, Zeno left 
the man his wallet with the piece of gold 
and anything else it might contain, and after 
carefully removing a few wisps of straw that 
clung to his clothes, he went towards the 
door of the stable. 

His plan was to saunter to the gate and 
loiter there till a chance offered of opening 
the small night-postern in the great door, 
which he had noticed in passing the palace 
when the gates were open. The fact of his 
being sober when almost every one else was 
more or less intoxicated, would give him a 
great advantage. 

But as he turned from the sleeper and 
walked along the line from the empty stall, 
which was the last, his eye fell on the sad- 
dles and bridles, neatly arranged on stout 
pegs that projected from the walls, each set 
opposite the stall of the horse to which it be- 
longed. He peered out into the wide 
court, and listened for the sound of voices. 

All was very quiet outside. Zeno changed 
his plan, turned back into the stable, and 
began to saddle the horse farthest from the 
door. He did not mean to ride far, else he 
would have picked out his mount with all 
the judgment he possessed. There was but 
a dash to make, and it was far more impor- 
tant that no passing trooper should see him 
in the act of putting on saddle and bridle 
than that he should have the best horse 
under him afterwards. 

When he had finished, he led the charger 
past the other stalls, stopping just before he 
reached the door to put out the oil lamp 
that hung by the entrance. This done, he 
slipped his arm through the bridle and left 
the stable. He struck across the deserted 
court towards the Palace, until he was 
almost in the middle of the yard, and oppo- 
site the great gate, towards which he looked 
steadily for some seconds, trying to make 
out, by the uncertain light that dimly illu- 
minated it from within, whether the doors 
under the arch were open or shut. There 
was just a possibility that they might be 
open. It was worth trying for ; and after all, 
if they were barred, he was siure that he 
could impose upon the sentinels to open 
them. A man accustomed to command 
does not doubt that he must be obeyed 
when he asserts himself. 

Zeno mounted the big horse, put him 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



191 



from a walk to a canter, and from a canter 
to a thundering gallop that roused echoes 
all round the court. 

As he came near he saw that the doors 
were shut, but he did not slacken speed till 
he was almost upon the startled sentinels. 
Then he drew rein suddenly, as was the 
practice of horsemanship in those days, and 
the great Tunisian threw himself back on 
his haunches with outstretched fore feet, 
while Zeno called out to the watch. 

" On the Emperor's service I" he shouted. 
" The gates, and quickly! " 

The sentinels were tolerably sober, for 
they were not to get their full share of the 
flood of wine that was flowing till their 
guard was relieved. But they could hardly 
be blamed for obeying Zeno's imperative 
conmiand. It was not likely that a guards- 
man of their troop who wished to slip out of 
barracks for a night's amusement would 
dress himself in full uniform and come gal- 
loping and shouting to the gate, nor that any 
trooper would dare to pretend that he rode 
on the Emperor's business if it were not 
true. 

The two sentinels therefore did not hesi- 
tate, but set their long cavalry lances up- 
right against the waUs on either side, took 
down the bar and laid hold of the ponderous 
gates, each man taking one and throwing 
himself backwards with all his weight to 
move it. When once started, the doors 
swung slowly but easily backwards. Zeno 
sat motionless in the saddle, ready to dash 
forward as soon as there was room for him 
to pass. He had halted just far enough 
away to allow the doors to swing clear of his 
horse's head as they were pulled inward. It 
was an anxious moment. 

A second more and there would be space 
between the )rawning gates. But that sec- 
ond had not yet passed when a tall oflicer in 
scarlet rushed shouting from the open door 
of the guard-house, and seized Zeno's 
bridle. 

"Stop him!" yelled the lieutenant. 
"Shut the gates!" 

The two soldiers did their best to obey 
instantly, but leaves of the gate were of 
cypress wood four inches thick, and covered 
with bronze, and were swinging back faster 
now under the impulse they had received. 
It was impossible to check them suddenly, 
and the order was hardly spoken when 
Zeno saw that there was room to ride 
through. 



He would have given his fortune for a pair 
of Arab spurs at that moment, but he struck 
the comers of his heels at the horse's sides 
with all his might, and almost lifted him by 
the bridle at the same time. The big Tuni- 
sian answered the call upon his strength 
better than the rider had dared to hope; he 
gathered himself and lifted his forequarters, 
shaking his head savagely to get rid of the 
hands that grasped the off rein close to the 
bit, and then he dashed forwards, straight 
between the doors, throwing the officer to 
the ground and dragging him violently 
away in the powerful stride of his heavy 
gallop. 

Seeing what had happened the sentinels 
started in pursuit at full speed, following 
the sound of the charger's shoes on the 
cobble-stones rather than anything they 
could see, for it was as dark as pitch out- 
side. 

The officer, who was very active and 
seemed indifferent to the frightful risk he 
ran, still clung to the bridle, regained his 
feet, ran nimbly by the side of the galloping 
horse and seemed about to spring up and 
close with Zeno to drag him from the saddle. 
Zeno had no weapon within reach now, for 
his knife was in his own belt, under the 
belted tunic he wore over bis clothes, and 
he could not possibly get at it. But the 
officer was unarmed, too, as he had sprung 
from his couch, and was at a great dis- 
advantage on foot. 

They dashed on into the darkness of the 
broad street. Zeno bent down, and tried to 
get at his adversary's collar with his right 
hand, but the officer dodged him and jerked 
the bridle with desperate energy, bringing 
the Tunisian to a stand after one more 
furious plunge. At the same instant Zeno 
heard the footsteps of the two guardsmen 
running up behind, and he realized that 
the odds were three to one against him, 
and that he had no weapon in his hand. 
The troopers, of course, had their Greek 
sabers. If he could jiot escape, he must 
either be 'taken alive, or cut to pieces on 
the spot, with no defence but his bare 
hands. 

He did not hesitate. The officer, drag- 
ging down the charger's head by his weight 
to stop him, was almost on his knees for a 
moment, on the off side, of course, and the 
soldiers had not yet come up. Zeno 
dropped the reins, sprang from the saddle, 
and ran for his life. 




T^e big Tunisian answered the call . . . better than the rider had dared to hope 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



193 



CHAPTER XII 

Zoe sat in the dark just within the open 
doorway of Zeno's house, before the marble 
steps. She was shivering with cold, now 
that the danger to herself was over, and she 
was bent with pain, though she scarcely 
knew she was hurt; for she was conscious 
only of her anxiety for Zeno. 

Zeno had unconsciously stepped upon her 
body with his whole weight in getting out, 
when she lay hidden in the bottom of the 
boat, but she would rather have died than 
have made a sound or winced under the 
pressure. And now her side hurt her, and 
the pain ran down to her knee and her foot, 
so that she had hardly been able to walk 
after Gorlias had helped her ashore. 

It had been impossible to hinder her from, 
getting in, when she had run down to the 
landing while Zeno was changing his 
clothes; there had not been time, and she 
had not waited to argue the question, but 
had simply whispered to Gorlias that she 
was going, and that he must hide her as well 
as he coidd, and say nothing. He was not 
a man to be easily surprised, and he re- 
flected that as she was in the secret, and as 
it was her influence that had decided Zeno 
to act at last, she might possibly be useful; 
as indeed she afterwards proved herself to 
be. Besides, Gorlias thought it likely that 
Zeno had told her all his plans, although he 
did not wish to take her with him; for the 
astrologer was not at all clear as to the rela- 
tions existing between the master and the 
slave. 

She sat alone and shivering in the dark. 
Gorlias had left her and had hastened back 
to the foot of the tower to remove all traces 
of the unsuccessful attempt before day- 
break, by throwing the dead body into the 
water with a weight, and carrying off the 
gear that had been left l3dng on the sloping 
pier. Zoe thought he must be of iron. He 
had been some time in the water in his 
ck>thes, and had probably been more or less 
bruised in the struggle, and in rolling down 
the stones, if not by the fall at the end. 
But he seemed as calm and collected as ever, 
and apparently had no idea of drying him- 
self before morning. 

Zoe thought of him only very vaguely as 
of a person connected with Zeno, round 
whom alone the whole world had moved 
since she had known that he loved her; and 
in her imagination she followed him on after 



he had reached the tower window the second 
time and had whistled the call that told her 
he was safe so far. 

She waited, but not a sound disturbed the 
silence of the chilly night. Within the 
house every one was sleeping; the two little 
slave-girls, curled up on their carpet in the 
comer, where Z06 had left them, would not 
wake till dawn; Omobono slept the sleep of 
the just in his small bedroom behind the 
counting-house, dreaming of the mysteries 
of foiu: toes and Ave toes, and quenching his 
insatiable cxiriosity at last in the overflowing 
foimtain of fancy. As for the servants and 
slaves, all slumbered profoundly, after the 
way of their kind. 

But Zeno did not come. Zoe crouched 
in the doorway, and drew the skirts of her 
long Greek coat round her little white feet 
more than half instinctively, for she did not 
care if she died of the cold, since he did not 
come. 

As she thought of it a sharp pain bit at 
her heart, and in the gloom she could no 
longer make out the white marble steps, the 
chequered black-and-white pavement, nor 
the last unextinguished lights of Pera re- 
flected in the water; she saw nothing, and 
she sank back against the step behind her, 
fainting and unconscious. 

She lay there alone, quite still; but he did 
not come. When she opened her eyes again 
she thought she had fallen asleep, and was 
angry with herself at the thought of having 
rested while he was in danger of his life. 
She would go out to And him, come what 
might. Then she tried to get upon her feet, 
and was startled to And that she could not. 
Chilled to the bone and bruised as she was, 
she could not move her limbs, and she 
wondered in terror whether she were para- 
lyzed. But she was brave still, and after a 
time she managed to turn on one side, and 
with her hands on the cold step she labori- 
ously got upon her knees. Sensation came 
back and pain with it, and presently she 
was able to raise herself by holding the edge 
of the door, first on one knee, then on her 
feet. But that was all, and she knew that 
she could do no more. Perhaps she might 
crawl upstairs by and by, after resting a 
little. 

She stood still a long time, holding the 
door and hesitating, for in her intense 
anxiety it seemed impossible to think of 
giving up and going to bed. He must 
come. It would be late, it might be day- 



I 



194 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



light, but he must come; for if he came not, 
that could only mean that he was taken, and 
if he was taken he must die. 

Again the pain bit savagely at her heart, 
but she set her lips and grasped the door 
with both hands, and refused to let herself 
faint. 

She could at least rouse Omobono and the 
household to go out and search for the 
master. She had almost let go of the door 
to make the first step forward, when the 
counter-thought checked her. The at- 
tempt to free the Emperor had been made 
very secretly; if she called the secretary, the 
servants, the slaves, she would be revealing 
that secret, and if, by some miracle, Zeno 
were still free and safe, some one might be- 
tray him. Some one must have betrayed 
him already, else the watch wi^uld not have 
come upon him exactly at the most critical 
moment. The three men had been lurking 
near, waiting till he was on the rope the 
second time, and expecting to catch him in 
the very act of bringing out the prisoner. 
Who was the traitor ? Most probably some 
one in the house. It would not be wise to 
call the servants, after all. 

The hopelessness of it all came over the 
lonely girl now, and she almost let herself 
sink down again upon the steps to wait till 
daylight, if need be, for the awful news that 
was sure to reach her only too soon. Gor- 
lias would bring it, and no one else. 

But she was too proud to give way alto- 
gether, unless she fainted outright. It was 
tortiu"e, but she would bear it, as he would 
if he were taken. Perhaps at that very 
moment they were questioning him before 
Andronicus, twisting his handsome limbs 
till the joints cracked, or holding red-hot 
irons close to his blistering feet. He 
would set his teeth and turn white, but he 
would not speak; he would be torn piece- 
meal and die, but his tormentors would not 
get a word from him, not a syllable. Again 
and again, she felt the pain in imagination; 
but she wished that she could indeed feel it 
for him, and be in his place at that moment, 
if he were sufiFering. The pain would be 
less, even the pain of the rack and the glow- 
ing irons, than the agony of being powerless 
to help him. 

Now the time seemed endless; now, again, 
an hour passed quickly in a waking dream, 
wherein Zeno was vividly before her, and 
she lived again the moments that had 
taught her the truth in the touch of his lips. 



Then the world was dark once more and 
she was alone and shivering, and mad with 
anxiety for the one living tlung she loved. 

He did not come. The northern stars 
sank to the west and he did not come; they 
touched the horizon, yet he did not come; 
an icy breath foreran the coming dawn, and 
still he came not, but still Zoe waited. 

Then the stars faded, and the sky was 
less black, and she thought day was coming; 
but it was the faint light of the waning moon 
rising above the Bosphorus. It was not 
light now, but the thick darkness had be- 
come transparent; it was possible to see 
through it, and Zoe saw a skiff come silently 
alongside the landing. It was Gorlias; he 
moored the craft quickly and came up the 
steps. Zoe had recognized his outline, be- 
cause she expected him, and she made a 
step to meet him, though it hurt her very 
much to move. He came quickly and se- 
curely as men do who can see at night like 
cats and wild animals; when he was near, 
Zoe even fancied that his eyes emitted a 
faint light of their own in the dark, but her 
imagination was no doubt disturbed by her 
bodily pain and terrible mental anxiety. 

" Has he not come yet ?" Gorlias asked in 
a low tone. 

The question could only mean that Zeno 
was taken, and 2k)e grasped the astrologer's 
arm in sudden fear. 

"He is lost!" she exclaimed. "They 
will kill him to-morrow I" 

"It is not easy to kill Carlo Zeno," an- 
swered Gorlias, rubbing his stiffened hands, 
and then slowly pulling each finger in suc- 
cession till the joints cracked. " He is net 
dead yet," he added. 

"Not yet!'' echoed Zoe despairingly. 

" No," said Gorlias, " for he got out of the 
Palace." 

"Got out? You are sure?" 2^e could 
have screamed for joy; the revulsion was 
almost too sudden. 

"Yes, I am sure of that. There is a 
search for him in all the quarters about the 
Palace. When I had cleared everything 
away below the tower, I dropped down 
stream to a quiet place I know, and went 
ashore to learn what I could. The great 
gate of Blachemae was open, the court was 
fuU of lights, and the guards had been called 
out. Half of them were reeling about, still 
very drunk, but I met many that were more 
sober, searching the streets and lanes with 
lanterns. I lingered till the same party 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



■95 



found me twice and looked at me suspi- 
ciously, and then I slipped away again and 
came here. I do not believe any of them 
know whom they are looking for; they have 
only been told that some one has broken out 
of the Palace, I suppose. That made me 
think that Zeno had come quietly home, 
quite sure that be had not been recog- 
nized." 

Gorlias told his story in the low, monoto- 
nous tone pecuhar to him, which seemed to 



express the most perfect indifference to any- 
thing that might happen. But Zo£ cared 
nothing for his way of telling what was just 
then the best possible news. Zeno was not 
safe yet, but she knew him well enough to 
feel sure that if he had not been taken 
within the Palace, he had little to fear. 
Sooner or later he would come home, as if 
nothing had happened. Gorlias under- 
stood her sigh of reUef . 
"You must go in and rest, Kokfina," he 



He camt quUkly and securely as men do who can see 
at night like cats 



196 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



said, and he quietly piished her toward the 
door. "I will watch till daylight in the 
boat, in case he should come and need any- 
thing." 

She could hardly walk, and he now 
noticed her lameness for the first time, and 
asked the cause of it. 

"He stepped on me when I was lying 
under the canvas," she answered. " But it 
is nothing," she added quietly. "I hardly 
felt anything at first." 

" I will carry you," said Gorlias. 

Before she could prevent him, he had 
lifted her in his arms and was carrying her 
into the house. He knew the way up to her 
apartment, having been to see her there, 
and he stepped easily and surely with his 
burden, his bare feet hardly making any 
soimd on the marble steps. 

He never paused for breath, he never 
stopped to try and see the steps imder his 
feet; he only went on and up, up, up, till she 
fancied she was not in Zeno's house, but in 
some high and mysterious tower to which 
she had been suddenly transported by an 
awful being from another world who was 
taking her to the top and would hurl her 
from the highest turret into space. 

But now Gorlias stood still and set her on 
her feet at her own door, steadying her by 
her shoulders, and guiding her in, for he 
could see the ray of light that crept out be- 
tween the curtain and the doorpost of the 
inner entrance. 

He lifted the heavy stufiF and still sup- 
ported her with his other hand. After 
being so long in the dark the light of the 
little lamps was dazzling, though they were 
burning low. Three or four of them had 
already gone out, and the acrid smell of the 
burnt-out olive oil and the singed wicks 
hung in the air. 

Gorlias watched Zoe while she limped 
over the thick carpet of the divan, and he 
saw her sink down there exhausted, and 
draw a heavy silk shawl across her body. 

"Thank you," she sighed, as her weary 
head pressed the pillow at last. 

But he had already dropped the curtain 
again and was gone, and almost at the 
same instant she shut her eyes and fell asleep. 

Gorlias reached the bottom of the stairs 
without waking any one, closed the door, 
which he could not fasten, and got into his 
boat to wait for Zeno until daybreak and 
also to watch lest any one shoidd try to 
enter the house. 



But no one came, neither Zeno, nor any 
messenger from him, nor any stealthy thief; 
and at last the dawn rose behind Constanti- 
nople and dissolved the night, and the poor 
waning moon had not much light left and 
almost went out altogether as the day 
broke. Then Gorlias drew his oars in- 
board and laid them across the boat before 
him, leaning his elbows on them and resting 
his chin upon his folded hands, like a man 
in deep thought; and he let the craft drift 
slowly away toward the Bosphorus, into 
the morning mist. 

Also, the dawn crept into the house be- 
tween the half -closed shutters of 2k)e's room 
and made the lingering fiame of the last 
lamp seem but a smoky little yellow point 
in the cold clearness; and the girl's pale face, 
that had takeii a golden tinge from the 
lamplight, now turned as white as silver. 

Also, the coming sun waked Omobono, 
and he sat up in bed and gravely rubbed his 
eyes, quite imaware that anything had hap- 
pened during the night; and it roused the 
slaves and the servants, and presently all 
the house was astir; and Yulia and Lucilla 
got up too and came softly and stood beside 
Zoe, who did not stir, and they wondered at 
her deep sleep and at the weariness of her 
face, and at the look of pain all about her 
mouth. 

But where Zeno was the light did not 
enter; for dawn and sunset, and moon and 
midnight, were all alike there. 

CHAPTER XIII 

When Zeno slipped from his borrowed 
charger and ran for his life toward that 
part of the square that looked darkest, he 
had no time to choose the direction he 
would afterwards take, nor to think of any- 
thing but covering the ground at the greatest 
possible speed without stumbling over an 
imseen obstacle. On those singular oc- 
casions when a perfectly brave man has no 
choice but to run, there is not much time to 
spare. 

The young Venetian strained his strength 
and his wind to get as far as he could from 
his pursuers in the shortest possible time, 
and he was so successful that he was out of 
their reach almost before they were aware 
that he had fled. 

At first he had run straight across the 
wide open space before Blachemae; he had 
then found the entrance to a streetwhich he 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



197 



had followed for about fifty yards, and he 
had turned a comer to his left without meet- 
ing any one; he had rushed on without paus- 
ing tiU he judged it time to double again 
and had then turned to the right. A few 
steps farther on, he stopped short and 
listened, believing himself alone and not at 
all sure where he was. 

Suddenly a light flashed in his face, very 
near him. 

" Is it time?" asked a low voice in Greek, 
and the lantern was closed again, leaving 
him dazzled. 

Accident, or his fate, had taken him into 
the very midst of the men he had enlisted in 
the cause of the revolution, to storm the 
Palace before daybreak. They had waited 
two hours and were impatient, and even 
before Zeno answered the question they 
saw that matters had gone ill with him. 

"There is an alarm," he said hurriedly. 
"I barely got away. Disperse quickly and 
get to your quarters, all of you! I will let 
you know when we can do it." 

A murmur of discontent came from the 
invisible crowd of soldiers. Zeno knew 
them to be a desperate crew, who would 
hold him responsible for failure, and would 
not thank him for success. 

"We must separate at once," he said 
calmly. "I thank you for having been 
ready. If possible, we will meet a week 
from to-night." 

He did not choose to let them know that 
Johannes himself had refused to c^uit the 
tower, and he was about to leave them, 
meaning to find his way home alone, when 
the sound of feet moving behind him and of 
men whispering together told him that he 
was siuToimded on all sides by the soldiers. 
Then some one spoke in a tone of authority. 

"You must stay with us," the voice said. 
" You have our lives in your hand, and we 
cannot let you go. It might suit your in- 
terests to give us up to the Emperor any 
day." 

Seeing his liberty threatened, Zeno laid 
his hand to the knife at the back of his belt 
and was about to try and break his way 
through. In the dark, a man with a drawn 
weapon in his hand easily inspires terror in 
a crowd. But it was clear that the soldiers 
had determined beforehand what to do, for 
they closed in upon him instantly, and his 
arm was caught by a dozen hands when he 
was in the very act of drawing his knife. 
He was held by twenty men, as it seemed to 



him, who all took hold of him and lifted him 
from the ground, not very roughly, but irre- 
sistibly. 

Zeno knew that it would be worse than 
useless to shout for help; at his first cry he 
would most likely be strangled by men 
whose own lives were more or less at stake. 
They carried him quickly along the street 
and through imfamiliar and narrow ways 
which he could hardly have recognized even 
in broad daylight, much less at night. 
They turned sharp comers to the right, to 
the left, to the right again, and he thought he 
could distingmsh the broken outlines of a 
ruined wall against the faint grayness of the 
ink-and-water sky. 

Then all was dark for an instant, and he 
felt that his bearers were pausing at some 
obstacle or difficulty. The lantern flashed 
again, and he saw a rough vault above him. 
He felt himself carried down an inclined 
plane at a swinging rate; the air smelt of 
dry earth, and presently it grew much 
warmer, though it was not at all close. It 
seemed a long time until the men stopped, 
set him on his feet, and left their hold on 
him. The man who had acted as the 
leader now pushed the others aside, and 
stood before him, a broad-shouldered Tar- 
tar with a huge tawny beard, dressed in 
leather and wearing a breastplate embossed 
with the Roman eagle. Zeno knew him 
well; he was a Mohammedan, like many 
soldiers of fortune in the Greek army at 
that time; his name was Tocktamish and 
he had been with Zeno in Patras. 

"Messcr Zeno," he said, "we are not 
going to hurt you, but we think it better for 
your own safety to keep you here for a 
while, till everjrthing is quiet again. Do 
you understand?" 

"Perfectly," Zeno answered, with a 
laugh. "Nothing could be clearer! You 
naturally suppose that if I found myself in 
danger I would turn evidence against you to 
save myself, and you propose to make that 
impossible." 

Tocktamish pretended to be hurt. 

" How can you think that I could take my 
old leader for a traitor, sir ? " he asked. 

"The idea would occur naturally to a 
man of your intelligence," Zeno answered, 
laughing again. "Listen to me, man. I 
am a soldier, and I do not take you for a 
flight of angels or heavenly doves settling 
round me for my consolation. You are an 
infernal deal more like a pack of wolves! 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



So let us be plain, as wolves generally are 
when tbey are hungry. You joined me 
because you hoped to be plundering the 
Palace by this time. As that has failed, you 
want something instead. You know very 
well that I am not the man to betray a 
comrade, and that if I am free I shall prob- 
ably get Johannes out of his prison in the 
end. But you expect something now. 
How much do you want?" 

The Tartar looked down sheepishly and 
passed his thumb round the lower edge of 



"I am afraid not, my friend," He 
turned to the Tartar leader again. "You 
are a fool, Tocktamish," he said calmly. 
" As long as you keep me here I cannot get 
money at aU. Do you suppose that we 
merchants put away thousan(& of ducats in 
strong boxes under our beds? If we did 
that, you would have broken into our houses 
long ago, to help yourselves!" 

"What promise will you make, sir?" in- 
quired the Tartar, beginning to waver. 

But half a dozen voices protested. 



' You hear fhemf" said Tocktamish 



his corselet, backward and forward, as if 
he were slowly polishing the steel. 

"Well, sir, you see— there are eight hun- 
dred of us — and " 

" And if any one gets less than the rest he 
will sell aU your skins to Andronicus for the 
balance," laughed Zeno. "Quite right, 
too! I love justice above all things." 

"Then give us ten ducats each," cried 
the clear voice of a Greek from the back- 
ground. 

"Ten ducats apiece will make eight 
thousand," said Zeno. "I am sorry, but I 
have not so much money at my disposal." 

"You can borrow," answered the Greek, 



"No promises!" they cried, "Let him 
send you for the money!" 

"You hear them?" said Tocktamish, 

"Yes," answered Zeno, "I hear them. 
Their nonsense will not change facts. If 
you had the souls of mice in your miserable 
bodies," he continued, turning to the men 
with a contemptuous little laugh, "you 
would come with me now and seize the 
Palace. The gates are open, and the 
guards are all beastly dnmk. There will 
be more than eight thousand ducats to 
divide there!" 

The men were silent; many shook their _ 
heads. 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



199 



"The moment is passed," answered the 
Tartar, speaking for them. "The whole 
city is roused by this time." 

" We shall have so many more good men 
to help us, then," 2^no said. "Not that 
we need any one. A handful could do the 
work." 

" Send for the money!" cried the voice of 
the Greek again. 

"I have told you that I have not got it," 
2^no answered. "If you have nothing 
more sensible to say, go to your quarters 
and let me sleep." 

- "Pleasant dreams!" jeered the Greek; 
and several men laughed. 

" I hope my dreams will be pleasant, for I 
am extremely sleepy," Zeno answered care- 
lessly. "If you cut my throat before I 
wake you will get nothing at all, not even 
my funeral expenses! Now good-night, 
and be off!". 

"We had better leave him," Tocktamish 
said, pushing the nearest men away. " You 
will get nothing at present, and it is impos- 
sible to frighten him. But he cannot get 
out, as you know. It is for our own safety, 
sir," he added, changing his tone as he ad- 
dressed Zeno. "We cannot let you out till 
the city is quiet again, but you shall lack 
nothing. There are two cloaks for you to 
sleep on and for covering yourself, and I 
will bring you food and drink, and anything 
you want, in the morning." 

Zeno had found time to look about him 
during the conversation, as far as the light 
of the lanterns and the men who crowded 
upon him allowed him to see. He had 
understood very soon that he was not in the 
cellar of a ruined house, as he had at first 
supposed, but in one of those great disused 
cisterns, of which there were several in Con- 
stantinople, and of which two may still be 
seen. Centuries had passed since there 
had been water in this one, and the dust lay 
thick on the paved floor. Two or three 
score columns of gray marble supported the 
high vaulted roof, in which Zeno guessed 
that there was no longer any visible opening 
to the outer air. Yet air there was, in 
abundance, for it entered by the narrow 
entrance through which Zeno had been car- 
ried in, and probably found its way out 
through the disused aqueduct which had 
once supplied the water, and which still 
communicated with some distant exit. 
Zeno could only guess at this from his ex- 
perience of fortresses, which always con- 



tained some similar cistern; every one he 
had seen was provided with openings, 
almost always both at the top; a few had 
staircases in order that men might more 
conveniently go down to clean them when 
they were empty. 

His captors left him reluctantly at the 
bidding of their chief. They set one lan- 
tern against a pillar and filed out, carrying 
away the other. 2^no listened to their de- 
parting footsteps for a moment, when the 
last man had gone out, and then he went 
quickly to the entrance and listened again. 
In two or three minutes he heard what he 
expected; a heavy door creaked and was 
shut with a loud noise that boomed down 
the inclined passage. Then came another 
sound, which was not that of bolt or bar, 
and was worse to hear. The men were 
rolling big loose stones against the door to 
keep it shut — two, three, more, a dozen at 
least, a weight no one man could push out- 
ward. Then there was no more noise, and 
Zeno was alone. 

His situation was serious, and his face 
was very thoughtful as he went back to the 
lantern and picked up one of the two cloaks 
Tocktamish had left him. He put it on and 
drew it closely round him, for he was begin- 
ning to feel cold in spite of the heavy guards- 
man's tunic he wore over his own clothes. 

He thought of Arethusa, as he called 
Zoe; she had been in his mind constantly, 
and most of all in each of the moments of 
danger through which he had passed since 
he had left her. He thought of her lying 
awake on her divan in the soft light of the 
small lamps, waiting to hear his footsteps 
on the landing below her window, then 
falling gently asleep out of sheer weariness, 
to dream of him; starting in her rest, per- 
haps, as she dreamt that he was in peril, but 
smiling again, without opening her eyes, 
when the vision changed, and he held her in 
his arms once more. He little guessed 
what that yielding something beneath the 
canvas had been, on which he had pressed 
his foot so heavily when he had stepped 
ashore. She was happily ignorant, he 
fancied, of the succession of hairbreadth 
escapes through which he had passed un- 
hurt so far. What weighed most on his 
mind, after all, was the thought that when 
he met her he should have to tell her that he 
had failed. 

But he was not thinking of her only as he 
sat there, for his own situation stared him 



200 



ANTONIO CORSI 



in the face, and he could not think of 
Arethusa without wondering whether he 
was ever to see her again. He had heard 
those big stones rolled to the door, and 
something told him that neither Tockta- 
mish nor his men would bring the promised 
bread and water in the morning. They 
did not believe that he was unable to pay 
the ransom they demanded, and they 
meant to starve him into yielding. But he 
had spoken the truth; he had not such a 
sum of money at his command. The 
question was, what the end would be. For 
the present they had not left him so much 
as a jug of water, and he suddenly realized 
that he was thirsty after his many exertions. 
He could not help laughing to himself at the 
idea that he might die of thirst in a cistern. 

But it was not in him to waste time in 
idly reflecting on the detestable irony of 
fate, when there was any possibility that his 
own action might help him. He rose again 
and took up the lantern to make a system- 
atic examination of his prison. 

The walls were covered with smooth ce- 
ment, to which the dust hardly adhered, and 
which extended upward to the spring of 
the vault, at the same level as the capitals 



of the columns. There was no opening to 
be foimd except the one entrance. Zeno 
followed the steep inclined passage upward 
till he reached the closed door, which, as he 
well understood, must be at a considerable 
distance from the cistern. It was made of 
oak, and though it might have been in its 
place a couple of hundred years it was still 
perfectly sound. The lock had been 
wrenched off long ago, probably to be 
used for some neighboring house, but Zeno 
had heard the stones rolled up outside the 
door, and even before he tried it he knew 
that he could not make it move. 

He wondered whether Tocktamish had 
set a watch, and he called out and listened 
for an answer, but none came; he shouted 
with the same result. Then he took up his 
lantern and went down again, for it was 
dear that the soldiers thought him so safely 
confined that it would not be necessary to 
guard the entrance. Since that was their 
opinion, there was nothing to be done but 
to agree with them. Zeno lay down in the 
dust, rolled himself in the spare cloak, plac- 
ing a doubled fold of it between his head 
and the base of a column, and he was soon 
fast asleep. 



(To be conUnmd) 



ANTONIO CORSI 



THE MOST FAMOUS MODEL IN THE WORLD 



BY ELISABETH IRWIN 



ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS 



[O the art student and ar- 
tist alone is Antonio Corsi 
in flesh and blood a 
familiar figure. To the 
whole range of the cos- 
mopolitan public, how- 
ever, from the admirers of 
Sargent's prophets to the consumers of 
deviled ham, he appears incognito. 

Professionally Corsi has the distinction 
of being the finest model in the world as 
well as the most famous. In private life. 




however, he lives an unmolested existence 
in a quiet comer of Washington Square, 
New York. Here within four walls hung 
thick with his noted collection of costumes 
and with pictures of himself in multitu- 
dinous guises, he sleeps and eats, and from 
hence goes forth to pose for the greatest 
masterpieces of the day. 

No public building of this decade is com- 
plete without at least a dozen figures of 
Corsi painted upon its walls. The New 
Amsterdam Theater, New York, boasts 



ELISABETH IRWIN 



fifteen such repetitions, the Boston Library 
presents him seventy times to the public 
gaze, and it would be monotonous to count 
the reduplications of his stalnart form that 
adorn New York's new Hall of Records 
within and without. Dodge has used him 
for the interior mural decorations and 
Martigny for his massive statues outside. 
The ^IcKinlev memorial windows for the 



20I 

Sir Frederick Leighton, Holman Hunt, 
G^r6me, Alma - Tadema, Bougereau, 
Charles Dana Gibson, Howard Pyle, Luis 
Mora, Louis Loeb, Howard Chandler 
Christy, Childe Hassam, Edwin Blashfield. 
Kenyon Cox, Sir Edwin Abbey, have used 
him time after time. Once familiar with 
his range of activities, it is possible to pick 
him out in the most unexpected places. 



Antonio Carsi, in his r 



t Wnshingten Square, shmviitg his hundreds of eoslumes 



Canton church show the sun shining 
through him four times. The Metropoli- 
tan Museum revels in his multiplicity, nor 
is it neces.sar}- to look into the halls of the 
great or the galleries of the famous, for the 
studios of the art students of three coun- 
tries give added proof of his ubiquitousncss. 
Here in charcoal sketches and oil studies 
Corsi figures as large as life. Corsi as an 
Indian, Corsi as a Florentine troubadour, 
Corsi as the dying Christ, Corsi as Mephis- 
topheles, Corsi as a Greek god, Corsi as a 
praying monk, and yet his versatility is not 
half stated. 



Advertisements and illustrations are not 
beneath him, nor stained-glass windows 
beyond his range. 

Personally Mr. Corsi is a verj- agreeable 
chap. He has a way, as he himself ex- 
pressed it, of "getting connected with peo- 
ple" that has been the making of him pro- 
fessionally. It renders him not only a good 
model, but really a genuine inspiration to 
the artist who is working from him. 

Twenty-seven years it is, since he first 
posc<l in London for Mr. Moscheles, who 
discovered him playing with a land of 
wandering minstrels in the streets of Dover, 



202 



ANTONIO CORSI 



England. The other four 
of die band were his father 
and three brothers and sis- 
tere. His father had been 
the personal servant of 
Garibaldi, and after the 
civil war was left penni- 
less. He was, therefore, 
willing to let Antonio go 
with the kind gentleman, 
who ofi\-ed to pay him 
for haviiig his picture 
painted. ^P^ traveled with 
this patron, "who took ; 
great liking to the boy, 
through France, Germany, 
Spain and Egypt. After 
he had been several yea 
in Paris in the capacity of 
artist's mode!, he went 
one having experience to 
London, Dublin, Glasgow 
and Edinburgh, as model ^ ■ . - ■ 
for the schcJu. He ob- ^ors, panng ,„ > 
tained permanent engagements in all these 
art centers for a certain number of weeks 
every year. 

At about this time he secured a letter to 
the Princess Luise, whose statue of the 
Christ, now in St. Paul's, was done from 
him. Once in touch with royalty, he be- 
came a fad with the artistic among them. 
He posed for Empress Fredericka of Ger- 
many in Berlin, and Baron Rosenkranz, 



Prince of Denmark, in 
Copenhagen. 

At this juncture of his 
career, he was discovered 
by Sargent, who was at 
that time in London paint- 
ing the now famous proph- 
ets for the Boston Public 
Library. Sai^ent seized 
upon him with such avid- 
ity that he did not let him 
go until he had painted 
from him eleven of these. 
For the wonderful Hosea, 
which was the first to be 
done, Corsi boasts that he 
stood three hours and 
twenty -five minutes with- 
out moving. "Were you 
not exhausted?" is the nat- 
ural inquiry to cap this 
exploit. "Ah, yes, I was 
tired, but, my friend, you 
should have seen Sargent," 
is Corsi's characteristic retort. It took 
twenty-five minutes to arrange the Hosea 
draperies, and three hours to paint in the en- 
tire figure. This remarkable and absolutely 
unequaled feat of endiuunce so ingratiated 
Corsi with Sargent, that upon the heels of 
Hosea immediately followed Jeremiah, Isa- 
iah and Haggai, Malachi, Ezekiet and the 
whole train. Before the last few were fin- 
ished, however, Corsi's appointment with 



n Indian costume 



Painting by Dodge in the Court House at S\i'a- 
allof the'figu 



'-u\ A\ y. Corsi was the model /or 



The Departure of Sir Galahad by E>hoin A. Abbey. In the Boston Public Library. 
Corsi was the model for all of the fibres 

Abbey, towhom Sargent had recommended long talk with Corsi, in which she told him 

him, fell due, and it was necessary for him that he must ask her for whatever he wanted 

to leave London for Fairfield in Gloucester- and she would arrange his time off and pay 

shire, where Abbey was planning to use him, that Mr. Abbey was not to do a thing 

him for his Holy Grail series. This left but paint. 

Mr. Sargent in a bad hole, since the Mr. Abbey is known as a very difla- 

prophets were not quite finished, and he cult man for models to please, and it was 

had become accustomed to having Corsi with much trepidation that Corsi entered 



buy his paints and cl 
his brushes as well as to 
having htm pose exactly to 
his liking. Corsi found him 
another man, however, and 
started for Gloucester- 
shire. 

This fellow and himself, 
according to Corsi, are the 
only tivo models Mr. Sar- 
gent has ever used since his 
student days. For fourteen 
weeks from this time, Corsi 
posed every day for Abbey, 
and fifty-eight figures in the 
Holy Grail Series are the 
resuh of this sojourn. 
These weeks, Corsi says, 
are the pleasanlest he has 
ever spent, Mrs. Abbey, 
who was an American girl, 
he declares is a wonderful 
woman. He likes to relate 
her exploits as financier 
and business manager. She 
takes entire charge of all of 
Mr. Abbey's material de- 
mands. On the morning 
of his arrival she had a 



upon his first three months' 
engagement with him. The 
gossip of the models who 
had failed to fit into the 
Abbey regime was far from 
cheering to a man who 
must have things always 
pleasant to do his best 
work, as is the case with 
Corsi. According to the 
tales of his unsuccessful ri- 
vals, Mrs. Abbey was the 
stumbling - block, Corsi, 
however, was honor-bound 
to keep his engagement, 
but upon his arriral he 
made the stipulation of a 
week's triiil on both sides. 
At the end of the first week, 
however, he decided that 
three months was far too 
short a sojourn with such 
a delightful family, and felt 
Corsi in the armor presented to that he would gladly sign 
him by Abbey. In /his armor a contract to remain the 
Corsi posed for many of the rest of his life, and instead 
figures in Abbey's famous of finding Mrs. Abbey as she 
frieze in the Boston Public had been painted by the 
Library jealous models, she proved 

Z03 





ANTONIO CORSI 



Corsi in a costume similar to that in whkh 
he posed /or Sargent's Hosea 

in every way generous-hearted and hospi- 
table. 

After posing for the Holy Grail, he left 
to keep an enpigement with one of the Art 
Schools, but returned to pose for the Shake- 
speare illustrations. He was also model 
for all the male figures in the Penance of 
Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester, the ^reat 
picture on which Abbey was made a mem- 
ber of the Royal Academy, 

A little later, in the year 1901, Corsi came 
to America. Here he found a warm wel- 
come in artistic circles, and has become as 
much the stand-by of American art students 
as he once was of their English and Parisian 
brothers. Boslon, with its usual fund of 
enthusiasm, fell upon Corsi as he was 
passing through to spend several weeks 
near Gloucester with Eric Pape, and thrust 
upon him the honors of ihe painted proph- 
ets, which Ihey proverbially lacked in their 
own land. Among other forms of recog- 
nition, the makers of »he Copley prints 
presented him with copies of both the 
Sargent and Abbey pictures for which he 
had posed. The students and aspiring 
artists of Boston all dreamed of rivaling 
■ Abbey on his own ground, with this his 
very model as an inspiration. Corsi re- 
turned to New York from his Boston- 
Gloucester trip, many costumes richer and 
with an established prestige which makes 



him always a welcome guest at the Hub, 
Since his residence in America he has 
also spent several months in the West 
studying the American Indian in his native 
haunts, and this has become one of his 
most remarkable impersonations. "The 
Barter of Manhattan Island" and "The 
Dutch Traders at the Bridge," by George 
and Ernest Peixotto, show him many times 
in this guise. 

Corsi's devotion to his work is akin to 
the artist's passion for his vision, and his 
ambition for perfection is nothing short of 
genius. The figures he poses for he im- 
personates, the atmosphere he must lend 
he creates, and nothing short of his cosmo- 
politan resourcefulness could compass such 
a gamut of r6ies as he boasts. For the 
moment, he is en rapport with the artist to 
such an extent that the figure on the canvas 
grows ail unconsciously into a more vital 
being than the artist had himself conceived. 
So contagious is his inspiration that the 



'Ihe famous Hosea of Hargenl tii the Boslon 
Public Library. For this Corsi posed at 
one time three hours and twenty-five min- 
utes without rest 

great Bume-Jones used to let him take his 
own poses in many cases. 

Ambition and enterprise also serve him 
well. Any possible road to new fields of 
conquest he immediately enters upon and 
boldly follows to the end. His dramatic 



II mini's loslume. This portrait f^vts so 
his head ami /ace to the artist 



idea 11/ the value of 



Italian temperament, tutored by a short 
experience on the stage, is an important 
key to hia genius as a poseur. Ordinarily, 
a model is but transient in the profession. 
It is too difficult and wearing an occupa- 
tion to long hold the casual bread-earner. 
Usually, as is the case with a weli-known 



Boston model with nineteen years' ex- 
perience behind him, piising is looked upon 
as merely an exhibition of physical en- 
durance and perfect health, somewhat of 
the same order as prize-fighting. This 
Boston model is a German, who has never 
traveled farther than New York, and takes 
205 



Hercules Struggling with Death for the body of Alcestes. Painted by Sir Frederick 
Leighton. Corsi was mode/ for a// of the male figures 



a stolid salisfaction in his exploits as model, 
such as the length of time he can remain 
motionless, or the number of minutes he 
can hold his arm above his head. It is 
his boast never to ask a recess, and, as is a 
common experience with models, he suffers 
tortures at the hands of inconsiderate ar- 
tists rather than stir a limb. 

Not so with Corsi, although he is unique 
among models for the length of time he 
can stand perfectly 
motionless without be- 
coming listless; but this 
is but a part of his art 
to him. 

He has become very 
experienced in arrang- 
ing his own draperies. 
This, he says, is a sim- 
ple matter, but that 
unmastered it is a great 
obstacle in the progress 
of the average model. 
Draperies will not fall 
of themselves into 
graceful lines nor I 
low an artist's will, but 
must be manipulated 
by the figure wearing 
them. His material 
assets as a model are of 
themselves no small fac- 
tor in his success. The The Student Begg.ir- 
collection of costumes emy picture. Con 
with which he chooses the beggar 



to adorn his walls, when not his own person, 
is the most valuable in the world. Many 
artists have presented him with rare gar- 
ments in recognition of [>articularly good 
pieces of posing. The armor of Sir Gal- 
ahad reflects the light from his fireplace, 
the rosar)' of Richelieu hangs above his 
mantel, while the guiur of a wander- 
ing minstrel lies dusty in a comer. Eg>p- 
tian, Indian and Eastern costumes of great 
~ cost mingle with car- 

dinal's robes and the 
sackcloth of monks. 
Accessories beyond 
enumeration abound in 
his accumulated hoard. 
He has in addition to 
the treasures which he 
can hang upon the wall, 
a book of letters and 
photographs not to be 
efjualed in the world. 
A note of congratula- 
tion from Queen Vic- 
toria is side by side 
with a telegram from 
John Sargent, a mem- 
orandum of his first 
engagement l^^th Hol- 
mun Hunt tops a let- 
ter of recommen- 

dation from Watts 

s Acad- staling that he is an 

odel for inspiration and a 

pcrfec-t model. Photo- 



Readings from Homer, by Alma-Tadema. Cersi was model for the three front figures 



graphs of himself, clippings mentioning 
prizes taken by pictures he has posed for, 
tc^ether with copies of these pictures ad 
infinitum, are but a snnall part of his unique 
memorabilia. 

Corsi is now doing the most difficult 
■ po^ng he has ever attempted. This is for 
Frank W. Stokes, who is painting the 
Esquimaux pictures for the New York 
Museum of Natural History, Mr. Stokes 
tried nearly all other modeU in New York 
and found them wanting. 
His demands are exceed- 
ingly hard to fill, since he 
insists that the whole figure 
shall keep the pose for the 
entire time. He will not 
suffer the model to relax 
the arms while he is work- 
ing on the legs, but de- 
mands even an unaltered 
facial expression while he 
points in the boots. This 
is extremely wearing, and 
Corsi is the first one who 
has been able to endure the 
taxing ordeal. 

Mr. Stokes was with Lieu- 
tenant Peary on the expe- 
dition when the ship was 
lost and he returned en- 
riched not only with one of 
the most thrilling adven- 
tures of modem limes, but 

by many valuable sketches Watts' famous Sir Galahad fo 
which he is now casting whieh Corsi posed 



into shape to present to the public on a 
sixty-three foot canvas. 

Mr. Corsi has done much toward raising 
the status of the model's profession. The 
Art Workers* Club for Women in New 
York has marked a definite step in this 
direction for women, but so far it has been 
left ID occasional men distinguished for 
their fine work in posing to speak for recog- 
nition of the work of men as models. Corsi 
takes the stand [hat work so difficult, so 
trying and withal so indis- 
pensable to the progress of 
art should receive more rec- 
ognition from the public at 
lai^e. 

"People look at a pic- 
ture," he sa)-s, " they speak 
of the color, of the wonder- 
ful work, the genius of the 
artist, and thej- would even 
praise the man who made 
the canvas on which it is 
painted before they mention 
the poor model who had 
suffered so much for its 
creation." 

Other models also are 
beginning to feel the dig- 
nity of their work, and 
doubtless the lime is com- 
ing when this side of crea- 
tive art will stand for a 
much more definite and 
much finer thing than it 
does at present, 
a 07 



Then the men broke put into chf^rs, unsubiiiifii and hearty 



JOHN OR JOSHUA 

BY FRANCES BENT DILLINGHAM 



WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY O. TOASPERN 




ERGEANT JOHN 
BROWN stood in the 
middle of his little room 
at the Soldiers' Home 
looking forlornly about 
him. 

" There'll be another 
grave to decorate this year. To think of 
Josh's being gone after we'd roomed to- 
gether all this time. Same initials, same 
last name, same looks, just like brothers, 
everybody said so; same room, same dis- 
position, everything the same, till now and 
everything's different. He's lying out in 
the graveyard without a stone to his head 
or a name to his grave, not even a general 
monument to the place — Josh always set 
store by sech things; and I'm here alone 
and wishin' I wasn't." The Sergeant 
sighed and sat down in the cane-seated 
chair between the two little iron beds. 

** If I could only go a-visitin' now for a 
spell, seems as if it would kinder take the 
edge ofif the lonesomeness. I'm sure 
Sophrony'd be glad to have me come to see 
her, even if she is moved 'way out West. 
But I can't go, of course — it's too expen- 
sive." The Sergeant shook his head help- 
lessly. 

There came a knock on the doorpost 
and a man thrust his head around the side 
of the open door. 

"Say, Sergeant, there's a w^oman here 
inquiring for Josh Brown. She says she's 
his sister, and she seemed so pleased to 
think she was going to see him that some- 
how I couldn't tell her he is dead. You'll 
have to. I'm going to bring her up here 
to see you." 

The Sergeant rose from his seat in agita- 
tion. " Oh, don't ! " he cried. " I don't want 
to see her. I couldn^t — please don't!" 
But the man had gone and the Sergeant 
sat weakly down again. 

In a moment there was another step and 
there was ushered into the room a woman, 



an old woman, with her gray hair parted 
neatly beneath her black bonnet and a 
tired, anxious face. The Sergeant rose 
and she smiled, looking up at him. 

"Oh!" she cried, holding out both her 
hands. "It's been almost twenty years 
since I've seen you, Joshua." 

The Sergeant fidgeted nervously. " Won't 
you sit down ? " 

She sat down on the edge of Josh's little 
bed. The dim, brown eyes were shining 
placidly on him and the thin lips were 
quivering with emotion. 

The Sergeant cleared his throat. "I 
want to tell you — " he began, and then 
he paused. Did he want to tell her? 

She took the long black pin out of her 
plaid shawl and let it slip back from her 
narrow shoulders. "I can't stay but a 
minute," she said. "But it's so warm in 
here." 

"Oh!" apologized the Sergeant, "I'd 
oughter have asked you to take off your 
things." 

"That's all right. Why haven't you 
written to me oftener, Joshua? I'm your 
sister, ain't I? If it wasn't that the chil- 
dren had such queer notions, maybe we'd 
see and hear about each other oftener. I 
tell 'em they'd oughter be proud to have an 
uncle that was a soldier. But I don't 
know — " She sighed a little. "They 
don't seem to want me to WTite nor nothin'. 

"It's some your fault, too," she went on. 
"I guess it's been as much as three months 
since I've heard from you; but mebbe I 
didn't get your last letter 'cause we've been 
movin'. Sometimes it kinder seems as if 
we're forgettin' each other, but we ain't, 
are we? You don't feel hurt, do you, 
Joshua?" She beamed up into the Ser- 
geant's face, and he shook his head vio- 
lently; he could not trust himself to reply. 

"You see they're makin' a little visit to 
the city and they brought me with 'em; it 
was real good of 'em. I haven't been any- 

209 



2IO 



JOHN OR JOSHUA 



where for years. But to-day I just ran 
away from them and came out here." She 
chuckled softly. "I expect they'd be 
pretty provoked if they knew where I'd 
gone, but I don't think I've got to tell 'em, 
do you?" 

The gentle stream of her talk trickled 
away and the Sergeant realized that she 
awaited an answer. 

"Got to tell?" he repeated vaguely. 
"No, ma'am!" he shouted, with unex- 
pected emphasis, "you haven't got to tell a 
thing." 

She laughed at his vehemence. "Well, 
I mustn't stay any longer or they'll be 
worryin' about me. But I don't care. I 
felt as if I couldn't go home until I saw you 
and how you was situated. Ain't it 
pleasant here?" 

She choked a moment, and there were 
tears in her eyes. "I'm so glad to see 
you've got such a pleasant room, and every- 
thing so nice. I guess I can go home now 
and die in peace. I don't feel as if I was 
long for this world. Sometimes I've wor- 
ried about you, knowin' you didn't have 
much; there's plenty where I am" — she 
was fastening her shawl now — *^ but I don't 
know but what it's as pleasant to be in 
a Home where you can be kinder indepen- 
dent as to be in a house where you can't. 

"But there," she added hastily, "I ain't 
complaining; we're two old folks and our 
day is over, and I s'pose we'd oughter make 
the best of it. There, I mustn't stop 
another minute. You are happy, ain't 
you, Joshua?" 

" Oh, yes, of course!" cried the Sergeant, 
arousing himself; he had been thinking 
how pleased Josh would have been with 
this visit. "It w^as so good of you to come 
and see me." 

"Do you know it seems to me you've 
changed a good deal, Joshua; but maybe 
it's my old eyes." She rose from the bed 
now and came over to the chair on which 
the Sergeant still sat, too bewildered to 
move. 

He looked up at her now as she stood 
over him and opened his lips as if to speak; 
then noted the happy light in her eyes and 
closed them. 

She put out her hand and patted his 
shoulder softly. " Good-by, Joshua, dear," 
she whispered brokenly. Suddenly she 
bent over and kissed him on the forehead. 
"Good-by, be a good boy;" then with a 



gurgling, choking laugh and eyes hidden, 
the small plaid-shawled figure went hastily 
through the doorway and down the hall. 

The Sergeant sat still where she had 
left him, his face in his hands, and before 
his inner vision went the panorama of life's 
pitiable puzzles. He thought of himself, 
young, strong and brave, going forth with 
high purpose to fight the battles of his coun- 
try, and coming home physically weakened 
and unfitted for the practical business of 
Ufe. 

Nevertheless, he had afterwards gained 
some things — ^wife and child and small 
success; he lifted his face from his hands 
and almost smiled at pleasing memories. 
Then one by one his grasp had slipped from 
these — from wife and child, from success, 
and he had drifted at last to this quiet 
haven with no outlook save an unnamed 
mound in the hillside graveyard. Then 
there was Josh; he had died before he had 
seen his sister — ^how he would have liked 
to see her, and she — The Sergeant saw the 
anxious face and heard the patient words: 
"We'd Qughter make the best of it." 

He looked over at the creased counter- 
pane on the bed where the tired little figure 
had been sitting. "Yes, we'd oughter," 
he said aloud, gently. Then the color came 
into his face as he remembered — what he 
had forgotten for the moment — that he had 
taken Josh's place, had let her kiss him 
and go off with tears in her eyes and glad- 
ness in her heart, because she had seen 
Josh, and Josh's room was so pleasant. 
Would that silent, turf -bound chamber 
where Josh now slept have pleased her as 
well ? 

The Sergeant rose and went to the win- 
dow. "She said she wasn't long for this 
world. I guess when she meets Josh in 
heaven, he'll make it all right." The Ser- 
geant looked a long time on the prospect 
that soon became a blur of green and white. 

As the days passed the Sergeant, brood- 
ing over the loss of his room-mate, grew 
more and more dissatisfied with the Home. 
He forgot the comforts that were making 
the soul of many an old soldier glad; he 
fussed over the undoubtedly monotonous 
bill of fare, and fumed over the somewhat 
irksome but necessary regulations, until 
he seemed changing from a popular in- 
mate of the house to one of those terrors 
of all institutions, a chronic grumbler. 

"There's nothing left to look forward 



FRANCES BENT DILLINGHAM 



211 



to but the graveyard with no monument, 
nor headstone nor nothing," he'd mutter 
in the solitude of his own room, for he had 
not yet been assigned a room-mate. "If 
I could only git to Sophrony's now — " 
Then he remembered what Josh's sister 
had said about her children. "But So- 
phrony's real good-hearted if she is poor, 
and if she couldn't keep me all the time 
she'd make me have a real pleasant visit. 
It just seems as if I couldn't stay here any 
longer. I'm tired of seein' old soldiers 
and nothin* but old soldiers. To think I 
should have come to this — " And the 
Sergeant groaned aloud in bitterness of 
spirit. 

The days went on to warmth and bright- 
ness, but the Sergeant's world seemed cold 
and dull; he pitied not only himself, but 
every more hopeful inmate of the Home. 

At last one day in early May a letter 
was brought to his room, addressed to Mr. 
J. Brown. The Sergeant, sitting on the 
edge of Josh's bed, turned it over and over 
in pleasurable excitement, and examined 
the post-mark. The name of the town he 
could not make out, but the State, the 
Sergeant was sorry to note, was far distant 
from Sophronia's, and the handwriting, 
feeble and cramped, was unknown. 

The Sergeant opened the letter and there 
fell out some neatly folded bills. He picked 
them up and counted them; there were 
three one hundred dollar bills. 

"My gracious, that's risky!" cried the 
Sergeant with a mingled thrill of fear and 
delight. 

He held them in his hand for a moment, 
simply for the pleasure of feeling so large 
a sum. Then he read the letter, holding 
it close to his old eyes with a shaking hand. 
The penmanship was irregular, but the 
meaning was clear. 

Dear Joshua: I send you this money to do 
anything you want to with. It's some I've saved 
up all these years by myself and I've had it 
changed into these bills. It's a good deal to send 
in a letter, but I guess«the Lord will see that you 
get it. The children don't Imow anything about 
it and they don't need to. They've got enough, 
anyway. You don't know how glad I was to see 
you so pleasantly situated that day; it has made 
me happy ever since. I can't write }ong because 
it hurts me; I am sick and I shouldn't be surprised 
if when you get this letter I had passed beyond. 
I know how proud you are, but don't send this 
money back, because the children would scold me 
and I don't want them to have it, anyway. Good- 
by, Joshua, from your loving sister, Mary. 



The Sergeant sat perfectly still on the 
edge of the bed, the letter in one hand, the 
bills in the other and the envelope between 
his feet. After a long silence he stooped 
down, picked up the envelope, put the 
letter and money in it, and going to the 
bureau, carefully locked it in his upper 
drawer. 

" One thing leads to another," he said, 
smiling grimly at himself in the glass. He 
stood a long time with the key in his hand 
in front of the bureau. 

There was no address in the letter; all 
Josh's papers had been destroyed before 
his death, and the Sergeant could not re- 
member the place where Josh had said his 
sister lived. "She's moved, anyway," he 
told himself in the glass. 

Clearly he could not send the money back 
and Mary did not want him to: she wanted 
him — no, she wanted Josh — to keep it. But 
since Josh could not have it, surely he would 
be glad that his old chum should enjoy it. 
The money could not help the dead, why 
should it not be used for the living? If 
Mary had known he was only Josh's room- 
mate and not Josh's self, she would scarcely 
have sent the money. But here it was, and 
addressed to Mr. J. Brown. Why did the 
money not belong to the Sergeant? Had 
not Providence sent it to him? 

He passed a sleepless night with these 
bills staring at him through the wonderfully 
grained wood of the yellow bureau drawer. 
And they talked to him. "Now you can 
go to Sophrony's, and perhaps stay there 
always, anyway for a long time and have a 
grand, good time." 

He could feel in his stuffy little bed- 
room the air blowing free across the wide 
fields; he could see the wax flowers that his 
sister had made and which he knew al- 
ways stood on the parlor mantel; he could 
hear the melodeon that Sophronia wrote 
she had lately purchased. In the morning 
he rose little refreshed, with a red spot 
burning on either cheek and an expectant 
gleam in his eyes. The first thing he did 
was to hide the money under the edge of 
the carpet beneath his bureau. 

That day's mail brought him another 
letter. He turned white when he saw it, 
for there was the same indistinct post-mark; 
he opened it, sitting in the same place as 
yesterday. But there was only a tiny 
printed slip inside, the announcement of 
the death of Mary Spring at the age of 



212 



JOHN OR JOSHUA 



seventy years, from heart disease, on May 5 ; 
there was no place mentioned. The little 
sister had passed beyond already and met 
Josh. The Sergeant^s literal religious imagi- 
nation could almost see the two consulting 
together. 

" Of course they'd want me to have it," 
he murmured. " Providence is in it." 

That day he went to his closet and took 
down his one well-worn suit of citizen's 
clothes. He examined his boots to see if 
they were strong enough to last him on his 
prospective journey; he looked over his 
collars, his few and cherished neckties. He 
sat down by the window, brushing his coat 
and smiling hopefully at the great bouquet 
of a blossoming apple-tree just without. 

Presently he paused with his brush up- 
lifted in his hand. '^ I must go and see the 
Superintendent to-day about starting; I 
don't believe I'll wait till Decoration Day; 
the other men'U have to decorate Josh's 
grave. But I'll go out there to-morrow. 

"Poor Josh," he went on, brushing 
softly. " No stone to his head or name to 
his — " Suddenly he paused; the brush fell 
from his hand, the coat slipped to the floor 
and the Sergeant gazed helplessly before 
him. "It isn't mine," he whispered after 
a pause. " I'd be a thief; it's his, it's Josh's! 
It's Josh's! It's all I can do and I'd 
oughter do it." 

The melodeon strains were hushed, the 
wax flowers grew dim, the Sergeant was 
suffocating in the warm air. " Why didn't 
I think of it before? Why didn't I?" 
The tears came into his eyes, and two of 
them went slowly down his cheeks. He 
drew out his bandana with a jerk and 
rubbed his face fiercely and laughed at 
himself. "What a fool I am!" he cried, 
then picking up his coat he fell to work on 
it vigorously, with no smile on his lips, but 
with a fixed purpose set about his mouth. 

That afternoon he visited the Superin- 
tendent, as he had intended; but instead 
of asking for a leave of absence for some 
time to visit his sister in the West, he asked 
for a pass to town where a business matter 
needed his attention. When the Sergeant 
came home that night his face was jubilant. 
He declared the hash was the best ever 
tasted; that he noticed coming from town 
to-day what a fine location the Home en- 
joyed, and he cracked several poor and un- 
expected jokes that delighted and reassured 
his old comrades. 



In the privacy of his own room, the Ser- 
geant kept up his cheerful play. "To 
think I should have found that handsome 
one all ready, and that Josh's grave should 
be on the top of the hill; and that inscrip- 
tion! 'Twas an inspiration, an inspira- 
tion — " Then the Sergeant paused with 
an awe-struck, upward look. "Mebbe it 
was," he said gravely, "mebbe it was." 
And he fell asleep that night like a child 
with a smile on his lips. 

The Sergeant's joviality seemed to in- 
crease as time passed and Decoration Day 
drew near. He doubtless felt as grand 
and glad as a statesman planning in secret 
some coup d'etat which shall astonish and 
delight his nation. 

On the twenty-ninth of May, when sev- 
eral men were arranging the bouquets which 
had been sent in for the morrow, one of 
them remarked discontentedly, "Just as 
though these old weeds and those cotton 
flags were any good; why can't they give 
us a monument for our lot, or headistones 
or something?" Then the Sergeant re- 
tired precipitately and was heard chuckling 
down the corridor. 

On Decoration Day the old soldiers, 
some riding, some walking, went in a body 
to that part of the cemetery which had been 
assigned to the Home, and here they deco- 
rated the graves of their fallen comrades with 
flowers. They marched along the narrow 
paths in proud file with flowery banners and 
a strange forgetfulness of that triumphant 
enemy who had met and overcome many a 
comrade, and was waiting but too short a 
day to conquer them all. To-day Sergeant 
John Brown, near the head of the first col- 
umn, moved along in an excited irregular 
way, that aroused the ire of the next sol- 
dier. 

" Can't you keep in step?" he demanded 
wrathfuUy; then he looked up and was 
silent. 

They had just come around a cluster of 
trees to the central knoll of the cemetery, 
where, near the top, rested the body of 
Joshua Brown. But there, where had 
once been only a smooth green mound, 
was seen, rising from the swell, a noble 
shaft of granite, throwing its graceful 
height up into the soft air. The men in 
front stopped, stared and moved on, pressed 
by those behind. Then, suddenly, de- 
spite the memories of the day, a cheer arose 
that died away in murmurs of admiration 



THE YOUNG TO THE OLD 



213 



and satisfaction. They broke ranks and 
moved forward to examine this gift more 
closely, and many an old soldier's weak eyes 
were wet with tears. The monument cast 
a glamour over this inevitable resting-place. 

But the Sergeant did not move any 
nearer; he remained in his place and heard 
the exclamations of delight and admiration 
on all sides. He stood with clinched hands 
and set face struggling to forget that vision 
of Sophronia that came this moment before 
his eyes. He turned his gaze to the top- 
most point of the shaft and smiled waver- 
ingly at the white against the blue and 
thought of Mary; he looked at the hand- 
some base and remembered Josh. Then 
he noted that somebody was speaking; it 
was the Superintendent, and he stood be- 
side the monument. The men had fallen 
back and were listening. 

" Fellow-comrades " — the Sergeant heard 
each word — "this monument has upon 
its base, 'Erected to the memory of the 
Soldiers of the Blankville Soldiers' Home 
by their true friend and comrade, Joshua 
Brown, who lies beneath this stone.' I 
think I should mention that this monument 
was selected and arranged for by Sergeant 



John Brown, who I wish would please step 
forward." 

They pushed the Sergeant to the front, 
and he came up the knoll walking slowly 
and in a dazed way. The Superintendent 
reached out and shook his hand. 

"We owe it to him that this is here to- 
day to honor all you men. It is what we 
have long needed and we cannot be grateful 
enough." 

Then the men broke out into cheers, un- 
subdued and hearty, and somebody from 
the ranks behind handed the Sergeant a 
big bouquet. He slipped away from the 
Superintendent's detaining clasp, and came 
trembling back to his place. But in those 
cheers the sound of the melodeon was 
drowned, the real bouquet in his hand put 
to shame Sophronia 's wax flowers and the 
breath of near admiration was sweeter than 
the far-off Western air. 

As the Sergeant stood there, listening to 
his and Josh's praises on all sides, he lifted 
his eyes once more to that white column, 
and felt that down the long line of gray 
days which perhaps stretched before him 
that shaft would ever shine like a ray of 
God's own light. 



THE YOUNG TO THE OLD 



BY CALE YOUNG RICE 



You who are old. 

And have fought the fight, 

And have won or lost or left the field, 

Weigh us not down 

With fears of the world, as we run ! 

With the wisdom that is too right, 

The warning to which we cannot yield — 

The shadow that follows the sun 

Follows forever — 

And with all that desire must leave undone, 

Though as a god it endeavor. 

Weigh, weigh us not down! 



But gird our hope to believe 

That all that is done 

Is done by dream and daring — 

Bid us dream on! 

That Earth was not born 

Or Heaven built of bewaring — 

Yield us the dawn 1 

You dreamt your hour — and dared, but we 

Would dream till all you despaired of be. 

Would dare, till the world, 

Won to a new wayfaring, 

Be thence forever easier upward drawn! 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 

BY DAVID GRAYSON 



THE TRAMP 




HAVE had a new and 
I strange experience — droll 
' in one way, grotesque in 
[ another and when every- 
I thing is said, tragic: at 
least an adventure. Har- 
riet looks at me accusingly, 
and I have had to preserve the air of one 
deeply contrite now for two d;i\'s (no easv 
accomplishment for me!), even though in 
secret I have smiled and pondered. 

How our life has been warped by books! 
We are not contented with realities: we 
crave conclusions. With what ardor our 
minds respond to real events with literary 
deductions. Upon a train of incidents, as 
unconnected as \iic itself, we are wont to 
clap a booky ending. An instinctive desire 
for completeness animates the human mind 
(a struggle to circumsi.Til>e the iniinile). 
We would like to have life "turn out" — ^but 
it doesn't — it doesn't. Each event is the 
beginning of a whole new genealogy of 
events. In boyhood I remember asking 
after every story I heard: "What hap- 
pened ne.tt?" for no conclusion ever quite 
satisfied me — even when the hero died in his 
own gore. I always knew there was some- 
thing yet remaining to be told. The only 
sure concluMon we can reach is this: Life 
changes. And what is more enthralling to 



the human mind than this splendid, bound- 
less, colored mutability ! — life in the making ? 
Hc)w strange it is, then, that we should l>e 
contented to take such small parts of it as 
we can grasp, and to say, " This is the true 
explanation." By such devices we seek to 
bring infinite existence within our finite 
egoistic grasp. We solidify and define 
where si>lidification means loss of interest; 
and loss of interest, not years, is old age. 

So I have mused since my tramp came 
in for a moment out of the Myster)' (as we 
all do) and went away again into the Mys- 
tery (in our way, too). 

There are strange things in this world! 

As I came around the corner I saw sitting 
there on my steps the very personification 
of Ruin, a tumble-down, dilapidated wreck 
of manhood. He gave one the impression 
of having been dropped where he sat, all 
in a heap. My first instinctive feeling was 
not one of recoil or even of hostility, but 
rather a sudden desire to pick him up and 
put him where he belonged, the instinct, I 
should say, of the normal man who hangs 
his ax alwa\'s on the same nail. When he 
saw me he gathered himself together with 
reluctance and stood fully revealed. It was 
a curious attitude of mingled effrontery and 
apology. "Hit me if you dare," blustered 



THE TRAMP 



215 



his outward personality. " For God's sake, 
don't hit me," cried the innate fear in his 
eyes. I stopped and looked at him sharply. 
His eyes dropped, his look slid away, so that 
I experienced a sense of shame, as though I 
had trampled upon him. A damp rag of 
humanity! 1 confess that my first im- 
pulse, and a strong one, was to kick him for 
the good of the human race. No man has a 
right to be like that. 

And then, quite suddenly, I had a great 
revulsion of feeling. What was I that I 
should judge without knowledge? Per- 
haps, after all, here was one bearing treas- 
ure. So I said: 

"You are the man I have been expect- 
ing." 

He did not reply, only flashed his eyes up 
al me, wherein fear deepened. 

" I have been saving up a coat for you," I 
said, "and a pair of shoes. They are not 
much worn," I said, "but a little too small 
for me. I think they will fit you." 

He looked at me again, not sharply, but 
with a sort of weak cunning. So far he had 
not said a word. 

" I think our supper is nearly ready," I 
said: "let us go in." 

"No, mister," he mumbled, "a bile out 
here — no, mister" — and then, as though the 
sound of his own voice inspired him, he 
grew declamatory. 

" I'm a respectable man, mister, plumber 
by trade, but " 

"But," I interrupted, "you can't get any 
work, you're cold and you haven't had any- 
thing to eat for two days, so you are walking 
out here in the country where we farmers 
have no plumbing to do. At home you have 
a starving wife and three small children — " 

"Six, mister " 

"Well, six— And now we will go in to 
supper." 

I led him into the entry way and poured 
for him a big basin of hot water. As 1 
stepped out again with a comb he was slink- 
ing toward the doorway. 

"Here," I Said, "is a comb; we are hav- 
ing supper now in a few minutes." 

I wish I could picture Harriet's face when 
I brought him into her immaculate kitchen, 
but I gave her a look, one uf the command- 
ing sort that I can put on in times of great 
emergency, and she silently laid another 
place at the table. 

\Vhen I came to look at our Ruin by the 
full lamp light I was surprised to sec what a 



change a little warm water and a comb had 
wrought in him. He came to the table un- 
certain, blinking, apologetic. His fore- 
head, I saw, was really impressive — high, 
narrow and thin-skinned. His face gave 
one somehow the impression of a carving 
once full of significant lines, now blurred 
and worn, as though Time, having first 
marked it with the lines of character, had 
grown discouraged and brushed the hand of 
forgetfulnessover her work. He had pecul- 
iar thin, silky hair of no particular color, 
with a certain almost childish pathetic wavi- 
ness around the ears and at the back of the 
neck. There was something, after all, 
about the man that aroused one's compas- 
sion. 

I don't know that he looked dissipated, 
and surely he was not as dirty as I had at 
first supposed. Something remained that 
suggested a care for himself in the past. It 
was not dissipation, I decided; it was rather 
an indefinable looseness and weakness, that 
gave one alternately the feeling I had first 
experienced, that of anger, succeeded by the 
compassion that one feels for a child. To 
Harriet, when she had once seen him, he was 
all child, and she all compiassion. 

We disturbed him with no questions. 
Harriet's fundamental quality is homeli- 



ness, comfortableness. Her lea-kettle seems 
always singing; an indefinable tabbiness, as 
of feather cu^ions, lurks in her dining- 
room, a right warmth of table and chairs, in- 
describably comfortable at the end of ;t 
chilly day. A busy good-smeUing steam 
arises from all her dishes at once, and the 
light in the middle of the table is of a red- 
ness that enthralls the human soul. As for 
Harriet herself, she is the personification of 
comfort, airy, clean, warm, inexpressibly 
wholesome. And never in the world is ^hc 



2t6 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



so engaging as when she ministers to a man's 
hunger. Truthfully, sometimes, when she 
comes to me out of the dimmer light of the 
kitchen to the radiance of the table with a 
plale of muffins, it is as though she and the 
muffins were a part of each other, and that 
she is really offering some of herself. And 
down in my heart I know she is doing just 
that! 

Well, it was wonderful to see our Ruin 
expand in the warmth of Harriet's presence. 
He had been doubtful of me: of Harriet, I 
could see, he was absolutely sure. And 
how he did eat, saying nothing at all, while 
Harriet plied him with food and talked to 
me of the most disarming commonplaces. I 
think it did her heart good to see the way he 
ale: as though he had had nothing before in 
days. As he buttered his muffin, not with- 
out some refinement, I could see that his 
hand was long, a curious, lean, ineffectual 
hand, with a curving little finger. With the 
drinking of the hot coffee color began to 
steal up into his face, and when Harriet 



brought out a quarter of pie saved over from 
our dinner and placed it before him — a fine 
bron-n pie with small hieroglyphics in the 
top from whence rose sugary bubbles — he 
seemed almost to escape himself. And 
Harriet fairly purred with hospitality. 

The more he ate the more of a man he 
seemed to become. His manners improved, 
his back straightened up, he acquired a not 
unimpressive poise of the head. Such is the 
miraculous power of hot muffins and pie! 

"As you came down," I asked finally, 
"did you happen to see old man Master- 
son's threshing machine?" 



" f said. 
i just turning into a field, 



"A big red one, with a yellow blow- 
oB?" 

"That's th. 

"Well, it 1 . 
about two miles above here," he replied. 

" Big gray, banked bam ? " I asked. 

" Yes, and a little unpainted house," said 
our friend. 

" Tliat's Parsons'," put in Harriet, with a 
mellow laugh. "1 wonder if he ever will 
paint that house. He builds bigger bams 
every year and doesn't touch the house. 
Poor Mis. Parsons " 

And so we talked of bams and threshing 
machines in the way we farmers love to do, 
and I lured our friend slowly into talking 
about himself. At first he was non-com- 
mittal enough and what he said seemed 
curiously made to order; he used certain set 
phrases with which to explain simply what 
was not easy to explain— a device not un- 
common to all of us. I was fearful of not 
getting within this outward armoring, but 
gradually as we talked and Harriet poured 
him a third cup of hot coffee he dropped into 
a more familiar tone. He told with some 
sprightliness of having seen threshings in 
Mexico, how the grain was beaten out with 
flails in the patios, and afterwards thrown 
up in the wind to winnow out. 

" You must have seen a good deal of life," 
remarked Harriet sympathetically. 

At this remark I saw one of our Ruin's 
long hands draw up and clinch. He turned 
his head toward Harriet. His face was 
partly in the shadow, but there was some- 
thing striking and strange in the way he 
looked at her, and a deepness in his voice 
when bespoke: 

" Too much ! I've seen too much of life." 

He threw out one arm and brought it back 
with a shudder. 

" You see what it has left me," he said. 
" I am an example of too much life." 

In response to Harriet's melting com- 
passion he had spoken with unfathomable 
bitterness. Suddenly he leaned forward 
toward me with a piercing gaze as though 
he would look into my soul. His (ace had 
changed completely: from the loose and 
vacant mask of the early evening it had 
taken on the utmost tensity of emotion. 

"You do not know," he said, "what it is 
to live too much — and to be afraid." 

" Live too much ? " I asked. 

" Yes, live too much, that is what I d»^ 
and I am afraid." 



THE TRAMP 



He paused a moment and then bix^e out 
in a higher key: 

"You think I am a tramp. Yes — you 
do. I know — a worthless fellow, lying, 
begging, stealing when he can't beg. You 
have taken me in and fed me. You have 
said the first kind words I have heard, it 
seems to mc, in years, I don't know who 
you are. I shall never see you again." 

I cannot well describe the intensity of the 
passion with which he spoke, his face shak- 
ing with emotion, his hands trembling. 

"Oh, yes," I said easily, "we are com- 
fortable people here — and it is a good place 
to live." 

"No, no," he returned. "I know, I've 
got my call — " Then leaning forward he 
said in a lower, even more intense voice — 
" I live everything beforehand." 

I was startled by the look of his eyes: the 
abject terror of it: and I thought to myself, 
"The man is not right in his mind." And 
yet 1 longed to know of the life within this 
strange husk of manhood. 

"I know," he said, as if reading my 
thought, " you think " — and he tapped his 
forehead with one finger — "but I'm not. 
I'm as sane as you are." 

It was a strange story he told. It seems 
almost unbelievable to me as I set it down 
here, until I reflect how little any one of us 
knows of the deep life within his nearest 
neighbor — what stories there are, what 
tragedies enacted under a calm exterior! 
What a drama there may be in this common- 
place man buving ten pounds of sugar at the 
grocery store, or this other one driving his 
two old horses in the town road! We do 
not know. And how rarely are the men of 
inner adventure articulate! Therefore I 
treasure the curious story the tramp told 
me. I do not question Its truth. It came as 
all truth does, through a clouded and un- 
clean medium: and any judgment of the 
stor>' itself must be based upon a knowledge 
of the personal equation of the Ruin who 
told it. 

" I am no tramp," he said, " in reality, I 
am no tramp. I began as well as anyone — 
It doesn't matter now, only I won't have any 
of the sympathy that people give to the man 
who has seen better days. I hate senti- 
ment. / hate it " 

I cannot attempt to set down the story in 
his own words. It was broken with ex- 
clamations and involved with wandering 
sophistries and diatribes of self-blame. His 



mind had trampled upon itself In throes of 
introspection until it was often difficult to 
say which way the paths of the narrative 
really led. He had thought so much and 
acted so little that he traveled in a veritable 
bog of indecision. And yet, withal, some 
ideas, by constant attrition, had acquired a 
really striking form. " I am afraid before 
life," he said. "It makes me dizzy with 
thought." 

At another time he said, " If I am a tramp 
at all, I am a mental tramp, I have an 
unanchored mind." 

It seems that he came to a realization that 
there was something peculiar about him at 
a very early age. He said they would look 
at him and whisper to one another and that 
his sayings were much repeated, often in his 
hearing. He knew he was considered an 
extraordinary child: they baited him with 
questions that they might laugh at his 
quaint replies. He said that as early as he 
could remember he used to plan situations 
so that he might say things that were strange 
and even shocking in a child. His father 
was a small professor in a small college — a 
"worm" he called him bitterly — "one of 
those norms that bores In books and finally 
dries up and blows off," But his mother — 
he said she was an angel. I recall his exact 
expression about her eyes that "when she 
looked at one it made him better." He 
spoke of her with a softening of the voice, 
looking often at Harriet. He talked a good 
deal about his mother, trying to account for 
himself through her. She was not strong, 
he said, and very sensitive to the contact of 
either friends or enemies — evldentlj^ a ner- 
vous, high-strum; woman. 

" You have known such people," he said; 
"everything hurt her," 



2l8 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



He said she "starved to death.'* She 
starved for aflFection and understanding. 

One of the first things he recalled of his 
boyhood was his passionate love for his 
mother. 

" I can remember," he said, " lying awake 
in my bed and thinking how I would love 
her and serve her — ^and I could see myself 
in all sorts of impossible places saving her 
from danger. When she came to my room 
to bid me good night, I imagined how I 
should look — for I have always been able to 
see myself doing things — when I threw my 
arms around her neck to kiss her." 

Here he reached a strange part of his 
story. I had been watching Harriet out of 
the corner of my eye. At first her face was 
tearful with compassion, but as the Ruin 
proceeded it became a study in wonder and 
finally in outright alarm. He said that 
when his mother came in to bid him good 
night he saw himself so plainly beforehand 
(" more vividly than I see you at this mo- 
ment ") and felt his emotion so keenly that 
when his mother actually stooped to kiss 
him, somehow he could not respond. He 
could not throw his arms around her neck. 
He said he often lay quiet, in waiting, trem- 
bling all over until she had gone, not only 
suffering himself but pitying her, because 
he understood how she must feel. Then he 
would follow her, he said, in imagination 
through the long hall, seeing himself steal- 
ing behind her, just touching her hand, 
wistfully hoping that she might turn to him 
again — and yet fearing. He said no one 
knew the agonies he suffered at seeing his 
mother's disappointment over his apparent 
coldness and unresponsiveness. 

"I think," he said,"it hastened her death." 

He would not go to the funeral; he did not 
dare, he said. He cried and fought when 
they came to take him away, and when the 
house was silent he ran up to her room and 
buried his head in her pillows and ran in 
swift imagination to her funeral. He said 
he could see himself in the country road, 
hurrying in the cold rain — for it seemed 
raining — he said he could actually feel the 
stones and ruts, although he could not tell 
how it was possible that he should have seen 
himself at a distance and jelt in his own feet 
the stones of the road. He said he saw the 
box taken from the wagon — saw it — and 
that he heard the sound of the clods thrown 
in, and it made him shriek until they came 
running and held him. 



As he grew older he said he came to live 
everything beforehand, and that the event 
as imagined was so far more vivid and 
affecting that he had no heart for the reality 
itself. 

" It seems strange to you," he said, " but 
I am telling you exactly what my experience 
was." 

It was curious, he said, when his father 
told him he must not do a thing, how he went 
on and imagined in how many different 
ways he could do it — and how, afterwards, 
he imagined he was punished by that 
"worm," his father, whom he seemed to 
hate bitterly. Of those early days, in 
which he suffered acutely — in idleness, ap- 
parently — and perhaps that was one of the 
causes of his disorder — he told us at length, 
but the incidents were so evidently worn by 
the constant handling of his mind that they 
gave no clear impression. 

Finally, he ran away from home, he said. 
At first he found that a wholly new place 
and new people took him out of himself 
("surprised me," he said, "so that I could 
not live everything beforehand "). Thus he 
fled. The slang he used, "chased himself 
all over the country, " seemed peculiarly ex- 
pressive. He had been in foreign countries; 
he had herded sheep in Australia (so he 
said), and certainly from his knowledge of 
the country he had wandered with the gam- 
boleros of South America; he had gone for 
gold to Alaska, and worked in the lumber 
camps of the Pacific Northwest. But he 
could not escape, he said. In a short time 
he wals no longer " surprised." His account 
of his travels, while fragmentary, had a 
peculiar vividness. He saw what he de- 
scribed, and he saw it so plainly that his 
mind ran off into curious details that made 
his words strike sometimes like flashes of 
lightning. A strange and wonderful mind 
— uncontrolled. How that man needed the 
discipline of common work! 

I have rarely listened to a story with such 
rapt interest. It was not only what he said, 
nor how he said it, but how he let me see the 
strange workings of his mind. It was con- 
tinuously a story of a story. When his 
voice finally died down I drew a long breath 
and was astonished to perceive that it was 
nearly midnight — and Harriet speechless 
with her emotions. For a moment he sat 
quiet and then burst out: 

"I cannot get away: I cannot escape," 
and the veritable look of some trapped crea- 



THE TRAMP 



219 



ture came into his eyes, feax so abject that I 
reached over and Uid my hand on his arm: 

"Friend," I said, "stop here. We have 
a good country. You have traveled far 
enough. I know from experience what a 
com field will do for a man." 

" 1 have lived all sorts of life," he contin- 
ued as if he had not heard a word [ said, 
"and I have lived it ail twice, and I am 
afraid." 

"Face it," I said, gripping his arm, long- 
ing for some power to blow grit into him. 

" Face it ! " he exclaimed, " don't you sup- 
pose I have tried^- If I could do a thing — 
anything — a few times without thinking — 
oture would be enough — 1 might be all right. 
I should be all right." 

He brought his fist down on the table, and 
there was a note of resolution in his voice. 
I moved my chair nearer to him, feeling as 
though I were saving an immortal soul from 
destruction. I told him of our life, how the 
quiet and the work of it would solve his 
problems. I sketched with enthusiasm my 
own experience and I planned swiftly how 
he could live, absorbed in simple work — 
and in books. 

"Try it," I said eagerly. 

" I will," he said, rising from the table, 
and grasping my hand. " I'll stay here." 



I had a peculiar thrill of exultation and 
triumph. I know how the priest must feel, 
having won a soul from torment! 

He was trembling with excitement and 
pale with emotion and weariness. One 
must begin the quiet life with rest. So 1 
got him off to bed, first pouring him a bath- 
tub of warm water. I laid out clean clothes 
by his bedside and took away his old ones, 
talking to him cheerfully all the lime about 
common things. When I finally left him 
and came downstairs I found Harriet stand- 
ing with frightened eyes in the middle of 
the kitchen. 

"I'm afraid to have him sleep in this 
house," she said. 

But I reassured her. "You do not 
understand," I said. 

Owing to the excitement (rf the evening I 
spent a restless night. Before daylight, 
while I was dreaming a strai^e dream of 
two men running, the one who pursued 
being the exact counterpart of the one who 
fled, I heard my name called aloud: 

"David, David! " 

I sprang out of bed. 

"The tramp has gone," called Harriet. 

He had not even slept in bis bed. He 
had raised the window, dropped out or. the 
ground and vanished. 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 

" So they drew en towards the house [the house of the Interpreter) and when they 
eame to the door they heard a great talk in the home. " — Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. 



I AM wondering — said the Observer — 
if the burning out of Mr. Upton Sin- 
clair's Utopia will not soften a bit the 
hard feeling tluit pugnacious Socialist has 
about the rest of us. If I 
A Lesson in am correctly informed the 
fire at Helicon Hall was 
Socialism caused by defective gas 
pipes; that is, Mr. Sinclair 
and his fifty-five picked Socialist friends had 
not given proper attention to a fundamental 
matter in householding. Not only that, they 
were crowded into a structure as exposed to 
fires as the shoddiest summer hotel— and 
there were no fire escapes! Because of their 
failure to attend to these necessities one man 
was killed, several were injured, fifty -five 
were made homeless, the entire property of 
some was destroyed, and all lost more than 
they could well aSord. I can't help believ- 
ing that if Mi. Sinclair in his researches on 
the beef trust had found that it had ever 
crowded fifty-five of its employees together 
in a house at the Chic^o stock yards and 
had been as negligent of their lives and 
property as Mr. Sinclair was of the lives and 
property of those whom he had drawn about 
him, he would have made another thrilling 
chapter for T/u Jungle. 

He would have done well to do so. When 
80,000,000 people, working together on a 
formula as good as that of the American 
Democracy, allow anything like the beef 
trust to grow up and prosper, they deserve 
even TheJungU. It'sa justpunishmentfor 
their sins. For there is no doubt (he beef 
trust is our product as truly as embalmed 
beef was its product. There is no doubt it 
is an offspring to be ashamed of. I myself 
think Mr. Sinclair overdraws its horrors. 



He went out to look for material to estab- 
lish a thesis. He found plenty. He stacked 
it up artistically and then illumined his 
work with a vigorous young imagination 
and a righteous indignation born of inex- 
perience. He permitted no shadow of re- 
lief. The result was sUrtling. But as I 
say, we deserved it. We cannot shirk the 
responsibility of the beef trust. 

Now Mr. Sinclair says that since such 
horrors can occur under our present indi- 
vidualistic system it is therefore a failure 
and we should try Socialism and he gives 
us the formula. Well, he and fifty-five 
picked Socialists went together a few months 
ago to prove the efficacy of the formula — 
with the result described above. 

As nearly as I can make out the causes of 
the disaster at Helicon Hall 
Helicon Hall were identical with the 
causes of the beef trust. 
and the Beef We 80,000,000 are suffer- 
ing from a beef trust be- 
Trust cause we have not attended 
to our business as a people 
with sufficient intelligence and unselfish- 
ness. Helicon Hall burned, destroying life 
and property, because Mr. Sinclair and his 
friends did not attend to their business with 
proper intelligence and unselfishness. It 
all goes to show that you cannot set a social 
formula to work and go off and leave it. 
No matter how good a thing Socialism is, it 
cannot repair gas pipes or put up fire es- 
capes. The Socialists themselves have to 
see to that. If Ihey don't do it they burn 
up people and property — in the same way 
ordinary people do when they neglect their 
business. 

I wish Mr, Sinclair and his friends would 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 



221 



think about this and try to be a little less 
contemptuous of those of us who want to 
bhinder along in the present way. Surely 
it can be no more difficult to provide against 
destruction of Ufe and property by fire than 
it is to provide against the greed and law- 
lessness of imregenerate pork packers. 
Besides, Mr. Sinclair had a great advan- 
tage. He had only fifty-five chosen people 
to work with. We have to work with 80,- 
000,000 and they arc no better than they 
were when Mr. Carlyle declared them 
"mostly fools." 

Really it does seem to me that on the 
whole Mr. Sinclair has done no better than 
the rest of us. As a matter of fact neither of 
us has done any too well. We should soften 
our hearts toward each other — Socialists and 
individualists. Let Mr. Sinclair think 
kindly of us as we try to regulate the beef 
trust. Let us think kindly of him if he 
undertakes Helicon Hall again and hope 
with all our hearts that he will succeed this 
time. But really he and his friends should 
show that they have the efficiency, the 
knowledge and the unselfishness to take 
care of life and property before they think 
they can manage the beef business. 

THAT may be so — said the Philosopher 
— ^but I believe that I am on my way 
toward Socialism. I don't "march 
gladly, joyful in the Faith." I am not at- 
tracted by the golden streets 
Backing and jeweled harps of the 
Socialistic heaven, and yet 
Toward I'm going that way. I'm 
backing toward Socialism! 
Socialism I see that many of our pres- 
ent conditions are unjust 
and inhuman, I see many men having more 
to eat and drink and wear than is good for 
them while others have too little. I see a 
whole class living in luxury without the 
sweat of production while other men and 
women and children — the children espe- 
cially — ^arc being brutalized by too much 
work. To me the great service of the So- 
cialists has been in making the world see 
the savage injustice of such conditions, and 
I'm grateful to them for it. It makes me 
back away from such conditions: it makes 
me willing to try almost an)rthing to bring 
about more common brotherhood in this 
world of ours. An interested Socialist, who 
really has ideals and who wants the evil 
conditions bettered, is, to me, so much more 



useful to our society than the citizen who 
follows without thinking the machine-made 
platform of the old political parties. It 
seems to me that most of the men I know 
who call themselves Socialistic are thus 
backing toward Socialism. They don't be- 
lieve that the old ills of humanity are going 
to be cured overnight by a patent remedy. 
They believe that the process of men up- 
ward is geologic in its slowness, but they 
are willing to follow the Socialists as the 
only genuine idealistic revolt from pwesent 
evils. 

To me the Socialists place too much em- 
phasis on environment, too little on the de- 
velopment of character. It is good to 
chaise the environment, and I wish every 
success to the Socialists in their efforts in 
that direction, but a change of environ- 
ment, after all, will not reach the deepest 
evils which beset our society. There must 
also be that "revolt of the human soul" 
which Ibsen tells about. Until you and I 
attain that self-control, that breadth or 
catholicity of view, that social sympathy 
which is the foundation-stone of democracy, 
we shall not deserve nor shall we reach the 
Socialistic heaven — in whatever form it may 
ultimately come. So I am on my way 
toward Socialism — but I'm backing! 

WHAT Socialism needs in America — 
said the Reporter — ^more than 
anything else, is an alias. The 
term "Socialist" is the fighting word of 

American politics. A man 
Afraid of the willing to rest undisturbed 

under the opprobrium im- 
Word plied by the term "Social- 
ist" proves himself such an 
abandoned creature, one so lost to the ordi- 
nary sense of political shame, that his judg- 
ments are not considered worth much. 

Last month a Philadelphia newspaper 
proclaimed a creed which was merely a 
practical application of the Golden Rule in 
neighborly relations, but in subscribing to 
it the paper called it Socialism. And there 
were fireworks in the evening. Respectable 
and orthodox persons wrote angry letters to 
the editor, denouncing him for teaching 
Socialism: he was branded as an infidel, a 
destroyer of the public peace, denounced as 
an anarchist and a disturber of traffic— and 
all because he had called his creed Social- 
ism. And it was not Socialism at all, as 
Socialists recognize their creed; it was in- 



222 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 



dividualism applied simply to the Golden 
Rule. The term damned it. If a man 
would state a proposition in geometry and 
declare is to be Socialism the world would 
set to work to prove the proposition false 
before it thought to disprove that it was 
'Socialism. 

It is difficult to say just why when a man 
begins to acquire a bank account and a 
buggy that cuts under in front, he becomes 
a violent paranoiac maniac on the subject 
of Socialism. He is open to Christian Sci- 
ence; he will discuss telepathy, the dynamic 
origin of the living matter, new thought, 
clairvoyance, esoteric Buddhism, the over- 
soul, the rotation of the crops, the cycle of 
prices, the eflFect of the moon on warts, and 
the sun myths — but Socialism, no! Then 
tolerance grabs the ax and drives reason 
to the neighbors. 

There must be some good reason in hu- 
man nature for this violent antipathy to the 
ideas conveyed to ordinary minds by the 
word Socialism. And he who would ap- 
proach the subject rationally and fairly 
must find out the pin-pricks. Let us there- 
fore strip from Socialism all its various 
issues, all its planks, platform demands and 
grievances,, and get at the soul of it. Per- 
haps we may not get at the real soul of it, 
but at the fictitious soul; the thing it is 
thought to be rather than the thing it would 
like to be thought to be. 

Socialism, Socialism as unbelievers un- 
derstand it, is a doctrine of enforced equal- 
ity. It requires of men subservience to the 
state in some vital matter. Men are willing 
to swap liberty for comfort with any state, 
and it is being done all the time. The state 
bargain-counter of surrendered liberties is 
growing daily; after every session of every 
state legislature the counter is heaped with 
loot, but the surrendered liberties are not 
essential. Socialism goes deep. Socialism 
demands the surrender of thrift. And here 
man balks. 

Man since he left the trees has regarded 

thrift as a virtue. As soon 

Thrift vs. as man began to see ghosts 
he began to hoard things 

Socialism to propitiate them. Thrift 
is one of the big primal in- 
stincts in men, and it is the instinct of thrift 
that rages in a man^s under-self at the word 
** Socialism." And because thrift is a part 
of the scheme of things; because a man will 
work hard to-day that he may play hard 



to-morrow, and live on his yesterday, or 
discount his to-morrow, the scheme of life 
as men see it in Socialism never will work 
out. There will never be an industrial de- 
mocracy, in which all men will do equal 
work, until there is a human creature 
evolved who could fight in an army without 
a captain and with an elective committee 
on order of business to proclaim the names 
of the gentlemen who should be killed after 
the day, and to arrange for an initiative 
and referendum on the tactics. 

But because thrift is a virtue, it does not 
justify men in exalting greed. The great 
trouble with the man who has annihilated 
Socialism is that he believes he has justified 
piracy. And because we have proved the 
divine uses of thrift in the scheme of life 
furnishes no reason why society may not 
so regulate the trough of trade that the hog 
cannot get all four feet in it. 

WE shall hear more rather than less 
of Socialism in the next twenty-five 
years — said the Poet. Whether 
the remedy it oflFers is right or not, whether 

the world-old disease it pro- 
A World-old poses to destroy is not too 

fixed to be disturbed by 
Disease this or any other anti- 
toxin, there will be increas- 
ing numbers of people who will listen when 
the Socialist comes around with his bag of 
scientific (or Socialistic) remedies. He will 
be heard because he actually proposes a 
remedy. The old practitioner has shaken 
his head and said: "No, it is incurable; 
poverty, like cancer, defies human remedies; 
the best we can do is to make the sufferer 
as comfortable as possible." 

No wonder the patient turns with joyful 
expectancy to the new and irregular physi- 
cian. He may be a quack, he certainly is 
practising without a license from the school 
of political economy, but he says he has a 
remedy and it is a remedy, not a lecture on 
the impossibilities, that people are always 
demanding in politics. Besides, this empiric 
found out what the cause of poverty is. He 
first put his finger on it. It is natural to 
believe that, having correctly diagnosed the 
disease, he is the man to treat it successfully. 
It would do no good to point out, in this 
connection, that the scientist who discov- 
ered the tubercle bacillus prepared a lymph 
which failed to cure tuberculosis and be- 
came historical as a medical failure. 



i 



IN THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 



223 



At this time the people of America are 
particularly open to the beguilements of 
the Socialist. They have seen attributed to 
wealth so much that is corrupt, tyrannical 
and generally odious of late, that they are 
tending to demand a more and more radical 
revision of our present system. They want 
a change, and a good many of them are 
talking as if they wanted a big change. It 
dawns upon them that political freedom 
and industrial servitude are not, apparently, 
incom{>atible. The education that this 
country so freely bestows on its sons, is 
making them wonder, if it is not making 
them think. At present they are blowing 
off steam in various directions, an explosion 
here with Roosevelt and another there with 
Hearst. 

But these outbursts really signify only 

the impatience that comes 
Not Yet Real from the American's dawn- 
ing appreciation of the fact 

Democracy that his precious heritage 

of liberty does not add one 
more ounce to his loaf, one more coal to his 
&'e, one more hour to his night's sleep or 
relieve him of a single vital responsibility 
or ensure the protection of his wife and his 
children when after all his labors he is 
gathered into the Real Democracy above 
the stars. He is learning that a republic is 
only another and pleasanter form of de- 
scribing a state in which one man hews 
wood and draws water and another man 
lives on the sweat of his neighbor's brow, 
and that his vote will not improve his con- 
dition unless it diminishes the position of 
some other man. 

Conditions around him seem to grow a 
little worse all the time. The rich are a 
little more arrogant, a little more defiant of 
the rules of the road, a little more stupid. 
In fact, they are not. They are as God 
made them. But they seem more so because 
we, the disinherited, are nearer to them. 
They have let us creep up close; perhaps 
we have fought our way up, and as we look 
them over, as we see Ludovicus without the 
Rex or with the Rex plainly ill-fitting like a 
garment borrowed or bought at a sale, we 
demand to know why there should be such 
a difference between two American citizens. 

The Socialist tip-toes up and familiarly 
striking us on the back says: " Why are you 
looking at that feast with hungry eyes? 
It's your own. Go in and take it." At this 
particular moment this is an argument or 



bit of advice that appeals, as Cardinal New- 
man would say, to a burly intelligence. 
And a man who begins to weigh political 
liberty in the scale of practical selfishness is 
very apt to suspect that he has been cheated. 

We are making an extraordinary experi- 
ment in this country. Cynical pretenses to 
republics are old. They interrupt, empha- 
size, punctuate the long sentence — ^fhe life 
sentence — of control of the strong, the able, 
the more efficient, the more unscrupulous. 
Spasmodic republics set up by yeomanries 
and depending on them, have lived the 
short lives of their founders. But we are 
seriously and in good faith attempting to 
demonstrate that government must be ad 
ministered for the greatest good of the great- 
est number, that this greatest good means 
material well-being, that the greatest number 
themselves must announce their conception 
of what is the greatest good. But when in 
various articulate and inarticulate ways the 
greatest number declare for an equal share 
in the comforts and luxuries of life, the 
minority shake their heads sadly and say: 
"Alas, Ruler, that is impossible. Master 
of the world, you must continue to have no 
more of the good things of life than we your 
humble servants choose to spare to you. 
Go out and work all day. Come home and 
eat at the second table." 

Let this be seen and the Socialist finds 

an audience at once. He 

The Ideal preaches an ideal state that 

is the next step to the ideal 

State state preached by the 

founders of this republic. 

We are now realizing an ideal. It is hard 

to believe, but we are. The best thing about 

an ideal is that we leave it for somebody 

else to realize. The fathers of the country 

died happy. Probably the Socialists will 

die happy, too, and for the same reason. 

They, like the preachers, are talking about 

a future state. Let them talk; let us listen 

to them and if we care to, believe them. 

They counsel political perfection. 

I have often come up the street and seen 
a Salvation Army preacher talking on one 
corner and a Socialist talker preaching on 
another. And, perhaps, between them a 
policeman cuffing a beggar. Side by side 
in this life walk the practical and the ideal, 
the swaggering, senseless practical, the in- 
effective ideal, like a little girl trying to take 
her father home from the tavern. He 
doesn't often go; if he goes home he returns 



224 



WASHINGTON SQUARE, NORTH 



to the tavern. I, for one, will not tell 
him he is better than the gentle counselor 
at his side. We will stay his hand when he 
raises it against her pure unselfishness; we 
will denounce him with his crimes. It is 
wonderful that there should be an ideal in 
this city where I live — ^the only city in* the 
world, I think, where the hotels are higher 
than the church steeples. 

WELL, Socialism is a great and im- 
portant subject — said the Cynic. 
— You have had a long and profit- 
able discussion. You have enjoyed your- 
selves, too. 
The Cynic Yesterday I was reading 

about four transatlantic 
Breaks in steamers now nearly fin- 
ished. These new boats — 
wonderful to behold — are 790 feet long, 
have a displacement of 43,000 tons, are of 
75,000 horse power, and have a speed of 25 
knots an hour. If stood on end each would 
rise higher than the St. Paul and Flatiron 
buildings piled on top of the Waldorf. I 
shall want to see them! 

But listen! I saw in my newspaper 



something more wonderful. The reporter, 
unsatisfied by dull realities, sought out a 
prophet — a seer gifted like a debater of So- 
cialism — one blessed with the imagination 
necessary in a superintendent of the future. 
This man says that the rate of increase in 
steamship dimensions from 1807 ^^ ^Q^T 
will probably be maintained from 1907 to 
2007. I^ t^^^ case, one hundred years 
from now — I am using the prophet's own 
figures — di vessel will be launched having a 
speed of 6,527 miles a day, which means 
crossing from Liverpool to New York in 13 
hours. It will be a ship three-quarters of a 
mile long, and will accommodate 33,000 
passengers and a cargo of 11,610,000 tons. 
With a battery of 625 boilers it will develop 
31,375,000 horse power. Although the lo- 
cation of its dock is not specified, it is as- 
sumed that it will be somewhere in Ellis 
Parker Butler's "Wetter New York." 

Don't let me detain you, however. Al- 
ready you are bursting with words. Go 
ahead! Don't mind me! If I find that I 
can't stand the pressure I will slip out for a 
walk and a look at those new 790-foot 
boats. I know that they will interest me. 



WASHINGTON SQUARE, NORTH 

BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON 

Red-brick and sunny in a cheerful row, 

Unboastful of the beauty they possess, 

These ancient houses face the square; the stress 

Of commerce from the nervous town below 

Swept round and far beyond them long ago; 

Upon their view the high warehouses press; 

But they abide in their old-worldliness, 

And time with them moves gratefully and slow. 



Not otherwise when time and age advance 
May I look forth on some green spot in life, 
And keep the world aloof to see the sun. 
And hold the children in a kindly glance. 
Thus peacefully to pass out from the strife, 
Unsoiled, unwearied, when my day is done. 



r 






WOODFORD 

His ivas an apfda! tonelinfn that night 



THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 



VOL. LXIV 



JULY, 1907 



No. 3 



THE BUBBLE OF DREAMS 



BY WILL IRWm 



WITH ILLUSTRAl IONS BY THOMAS KOGARTY 




IRE ISLAND telegraph 
tower was rocking and 
dancing in a December 
wind off the Atlantic, which 
had turned, as night came 
on, into a gale. In the 
daytime that twenty-mile 
sand spit, called by courtesy an island, 
showed ridged and wrinkled with white 
lines of snow which had caught in crannies 
of the sand hills. The seaward shore was 
swept clean of ice by twelve-foot breakers 
from the Atlantic; but about that lee shore 
which looked off on Great South Bay and 
the "mainland" of Long Island, the floes 
were gathering and packing. Except for 
the chance respite of a January thaw. Fire 
Island, last outpost of the United States for 
outgoing vessels, first sight of home for the 
incoming, would be until March a lost and 
isolated comer of the world. There would 
be no newspapers, no letters; only the one 
telegraph key to keep a score of wnnter- 
bound people in touch with New York, that 
antithesis of their solitude whose lights, on 
cloudy winter evenings, made a blaze along 
the northwestern horizon. 

In the darkness, the tower appeared only 
as a splotch of light away up in the air. In 
the regular, sweeping flashes of the revolv- 
ing light, it appeared as a closed structure of 
painted steel, rising ninety feet from the 
sand hill at its base to the little room, all 
blazing windows, of its summit. Summer 
and winter the lights behind those w^indows 
bum all night; and all night a man with a 



telescope sits within, that New York may 
know over its breakfast coffee how this liner 
has been sighted bringing home the girls; 
how that schooner is off Fire Island with 
carg(x?s for the firm. 

His feet on the desk beside his telegraph 
key, a cushion behind him for comfort, 
Wocxiford the operator sat studying law. 
Presently an alarm clock at his elbow, over- 
laid with curious contrivances of electric 
wires, gave a sharp ring. He dropp)ed his 
feet from the desk, closed "Pollock on 
Torts," kicked shut the door of his fierce 
little stove, and crossed to one of the wooden 
chutes which kept the wind from his long 
telescope. As he opened the lid, a race of 
wind plunged in, stinging his face with sand 
and spume blown from the beach high as a 
swallow flies. Defending his cheeks with a 
handkerchief, he trained his glass on that 
comer of the black horizon from which in- 
coming vessels first show their lights, took 
a long look, closed the chute. Then he 
peered through an unfrosted corner of the 
seaward window and watched the Atlantic 
as it became visible in the flashes of the 
revolving light. 

The breakers boomed in under a fifty- 
mile wind, climbing higher and higher as the 
tide rose. It seemed such an unstable little 
thing, this sand spit upon which his tower 
was built! What was to prevent a w^ave 
greater than the rest from breaking over it 
and rolling on into the inner bay, carrjnng 
along such pitiful devices of man as light- 
houses, life-saving stations and telegraph 



COPYMOHT, 1907, BV THE PHILLIPS PUBLI6HIN0 COMPANY. ALL RIOMT* RUCMVEO 



228 THE BUBBLE OF DREAMS 

towers ? And because ft was December and craft which is half ice-boat and half water- 
he had another closed season on Fire Island boat, and master of both ice and water, 
to face, there came over him again that ter- Until Burke's return, Woodford, sleeping by 
ror of the ocean and of loneliness which he snatches of an hour and depending on his 
had felt all last winter— his first on Fire alarm clock to wake him for observations. 
Island. His was an especial loneliness that must keep watch all night and all day. 
night; for Burke, his assistant, He turned back to the desk, 
a graduate surfman who han- opened his " Pollock," and tried 
died a telegraph key like a to put his mind on torts. The 
b { At- 
a! ever; 
tl nem- 
B Ul to 
el arced 
a' 3 and 



to be 

■rator 



itude 
drive 



been 
: first 



A young woman it ivas ; and, so far as hf eonlil sre, in a dead faint 

t 



WILL IRWIN 



229 



summer, when the old operator was training 
him how to catch the topmasts of incoming 
vessels, to make out their rigs before the un- 
skilled landsman could see even a speck on 
the horizon. There was a summer hotel down 
on the beach; picnic parties made their way 
across from the mainland of Sundays; and 
although Woodford did not care much for 
the kind of people they brought, and espe- 
cially for the kind of girl, they gave the air of 
company and life to the beach. 

September came and went. The hotel 
closed, leaving furniture, silver, crockery on 
the place — for who was there to steal from 
Fire Island in winter? The excursions 
came no more. Burke sent his family over 
to Babylon across the bay, and winter locked 
the island. There came storms, like the 
one that was rocking the tower to-night; 
times when it swayed as in an earthquake, 
when it took all his manhood to keep him 
up there on his perch. And the sea was 
full of strange whisp)ering people and the 
night-air alive with devils. 

In the winter colony there were the surf- 
men at the life-saving station a mile away, 
the lighthouse people, he, and Burke. 
Among them all were just three women. 
One was the wife of the captain at the sta- 
tion; a hard and heroic woman she, capable 
of swimming through the breakers to rescue 
an exhausted surf man and of slapping him 
for a fool when she had pumped the water 
out of him. Captain Baxter, the head 
lighthouse keeper, was a widower with two 
grown, unmarried daughters. Once, when 
the first longings of soh'tude came over him, 
Woodford had plowed through sand and 
snow to call on the Baxter girls of an even- 
ing. They were a little surprised. Their 
father — it was his watch off — sat in the 
room all through the visit and did most of 
the talking. He learned in time that solitude 
begets the habit of solitude; that by a kind 
of perverse etiquette these exiles never 
troubled one another except in time of 
necessity. Burke told him that one of the 
Misses Baxter had never been in New York. 

"And she's no chicken, either," said 
Burke. " People kind of get that way." 

It was, perhaps, January and the season 
had settled down over Fire Island, when 
the harde3t pain of solitude came upon 
Woodford. It began as a longing which 
made him quiet and moody, drove the law 
out of his head as fast as he learned it, sent 
him on long walks in which he bucked the 



Atlantic winds until the breath was out of 
his lungs. Hatred of the solitude became 
an insanity. Burke used to watch him 
sometimes of nights. 

"You're a-thinking too much," said 
Burke. One night he added: 

"It's the girl idea you've got in your 
head. I've had it! Just to stand on 
Broadway or maybe even in Jamaica or 
Babylon, and see women passing, and 
think about somebody to take care of you 
and tidies on the backs of the chairs and 
the helping hand when you're sick. You 
ain't twenty-four yet; you're young for this 
kind of thing." 

When he had chewed upon this and con- 
vinced himself that Burke was right, Wood- 
ford had done a sweetly foolish thing. Al- 
though he was a pleasing youth, with a fine 
clean face, a code of honor square and true, 
if undeveloped, and gentle manners, there 
had never been any girl really in his life. 
He resolved to make a girl, to create her 
out of thin air — his girl. Step by step, he 
built her up. She was tall and dark. She 
had all a man's virtues with all a woman's 
comeliness and sweetness. She liked all 
the things he liked — books and sailing 
and out-of-doors. He decided to call her 
Helen, because he liked that name. So 
every night, and especially on the nights 
when the longing was strong upon him, 
he wrote to Helen. His fancies, bom of 
the bright winter air: how the aspect of the 
Atlantic changed day by day; the ways 
and doings of Burke; his own longings and 
aspirations and hopes — ^all these he set 
down for her. He was hard put to hide 
these letters from Burke, but with the aid 
of a secret compartment in the closet he 
managed it. 

So the winter dragged along, the snows 
vanished, the birds began to flop foolishly 
against his windows of nights; and present- 
ly it was spring. The hotel opened, the 
excursion parties came of Sundays, there 
was life on the beach. 

Now, winter and solitude were before 
him again. It would be his last winter on 
Fire Island — he consoled himself with 
that. By another, he would have saved 
enough money and learned enough law 
to go into an office for a year. After that 
would come the bar examinations and a 
career. 

Would Helen tide him through, he won- 
dered. He looked up at the compartment 



where he kept the letters. She was growing 
a little dim. He could not seem to imnghie 
her so plaitily as in the early dap of their 
fairy intimacy. He dropped the law b(M)k, 
however, drew a packet of paper tyward 
him, and began: 

"Dear Helen:' 

Presently he looked up from his writing 
and sat, pen in mouth, sensible that there 
was something wrong in the regular, rock- 
ing vibration of the tower. The winds 
roared as before, the room swayed, the 
sands rattled in volleys, but there seemed 
to be a new movement. 

"A bolt loose," he thought, and fell to 
chewing his pen and meditating on an 
opening sentence. Yet he looked up 
again. Certainly, something was the mat- 
ter; instinct said it rather than sense. 

"It is as though someone were shaking 
the door downstairs," he said aloud — 
and his own voice came out of the solitude 
with a ghostly queerness — "Am I getting 
the bug again?" 

It was a foolish idea, but it stuck; so 
230 



that, shaking a shoulder impatiently at his 
own folly, he took his lantern, slipped 
through the man-hole, and plodded down 
the spiral staircase thai wound perilously 
through the closed tower. 

As he unbolted its single door, he was 
vaguely ashamed to think that his night 
terrors were coming back. So, quite 
angry with himself, he threw it violently 
open. 

The lantern went out with the rush of a 
mighty wind. As though blown before the 
gale, in tumbled a dark body that struck 
him full in the chest, staggered him, and 
itself slipped and fell at his feet. With the 
astonishment, he was still a moment, there 
in the darkness. He waited for the sound 
of a movement; there was none. So 
gathering his ner^■e he forced the door 
shut against the wind and lighted a match. 

The figure lay where it had fallen, just a 
bundle of wet rags. Before the match had 
burned to his fingers, he made it out to be — 
a woman. He lit the lantern, held it above 



WILL IRWIN 



231 



A young woman it was; and, so far as he 
could see, in a dead faint. Her black hair 
was all atumble about her face, her dress 
clung to her stiffly with the frozen foam, the 
furs about her shoulders were bimdles of 
icicles. This was neither one of the Bax- 
ter girls nor yet the captain's wife. She 
was a stranger to the island. 

Wonder held him only a moment. He 
tore at the stiff furs. Her heart was 
beating. His first thought was to get her 
to light and warmth. The fire in his cabin 
was out, but he had a fire in the room above. 
He gathered her, a dead weight, and up 
the shaking stair he toiled. Twice the 
failure of his breath made him stop and 
rest. He had left his lantern, but at the sec- 
ond stop he felt her flutter. She hung closer 
to him, seemed to lighten in his arms with 
returning life. Collecting the last strength 
in his body, he pushed open the trap door 
of the manhole with his head, reeled into 
his tower room and dropped her on the sofa. 

As he stood off regaining his breath and 
getting the feeling back in his arms, he saw 
her eyelids open. She half-turned, put one 
hand to her face with a pretty, feminine ges- 
ture. Wonder flowed in on him again. She 
was no daughter of the beach, whom he had 
found here on ice-locked Fire Island. The 
ankle beneath her skirts, where one foot 
had fallen from the sofa, was delicate and 
slender. So were the wrists above her 
little brown gloves. Her furs and her 
turban were expensive — even a man-soli- 
tary could see that. 

She was moving again. He remem- 
bered the bottle of whiskey which Burke 
kept in the cupboard, sacred to emergen- 
cies. Woodford poured out a glassful 
and diluted it, with some idea that a woman 
could not stand its full strength. Tenderly 
but awkwardly, he lifted her and put the 
glass to her lips. 

"Drink!** he commanded. Her eyes 
peeped open at the word. She gulped it 
like a child, and coughed. He took off 
her furs, rubbed her wrists. And presently 
she spoke: 

" How good you are I " she said. " Your 
hands are as gentle as a woman's I" 

"Are you hurt anywhere?" he asked. 

She moved her limbs tentatively. 

" I think not. But how do I come to be 
so wet and cold?" 

" Let me see your fingers — do they tingle 
or are they dead when I pinch them ? " 



"Oh no," she answered quickly, "I am 
not frost-bitten, I am sure. I know frost- 
bite." 

" Then you must get out of those clothes 
as soon as you can. Mrs. Burke — a woman 
who lives below — ^has left some things. 
I'm going to get them now, and after that, 
I'll go away. 

" Don't get too close to the fire," he called 
back from the trap door. 

When he returned, his arms full of clothes 
stolen from the Burke wardrobe, she was 
still on the sofa. She had taken off her tur- 
ban, however, and made shift to put up her 
hair, which glistened with drops of water. 
The returning blood had brought a flush to 
her brown skin, and her eyes were bright. 
He stopped only a moment to admire be- 
fore he rushed ahead with business. 

" I did the best I could. You'll have to 
put up with my golf stockings, and I've 
brought my raincoat to go over everything. 
Here's a knife to cut things away which 
won't come quickly, because you must hurry 
and not think of saving clothes. You're 
quite sure that you're strong enough?" 

" Oh, I think so." 

"One thing more. This is a telegraph 
office and that's a key. I have a receiver in 
my house below. When you're ready for 
me, rattle the key." He was gone through 
the trap door again. 

When he had threaded the stair, fought 
the wind for the passage to his cabin, found 
a light, and sat down beside the key, wonder 
flowed in on him again. Confused as his 
mind was with a thousand little thrills of 
romance, yet he wondered. The passage 
to the mainland was closed; he knew that. 
Who was she, and most of all how did she 
get there? Unless she was indeed a fairy, 
a vision of the night — what with the be- 
wilderment of that ghost land of his he was 
almost ready to believe that she was — the 
only possible passage was to Point o' Woods 
by scooter. Given that some scooter cap- 
tain had been fool enough to try it, no 
woman alive could have beaten down the six 
miles of intervening beach against such a 
gale. What unimaginable circumstance 
had sent him through the snows that flower 
of womanhood so like — he flushed at the 
thought which was running in and out of his 
mind against his will — so like Helen ? 

Now, although young Woodford the op- 
erator was not sup)erstitious, nor, in spite of 
his letters to the play Helen, especially 



WILL IRWIN 



233 



imaginative, his solitude had bred in him 
strange humors of which his night terrors 
were only one part. So it happened that, 
waiting by his key for the signal, he became 
fascinated by another fancy. If this was a 
vision, he would not break the spell. He 
would wait for her to tell him who she was 
and how she happened to be on Fire Island. 

The key beside him rattled with the touch 
of an unpracdced hand. As he climbed the 
stairs, he was really afraid lest she should 
burst out at once and tell him everything. 

When he poked his head through the trap 
door, she was buttoning the throat-latch of 
his great rain-coat. It fell to her feet, giv- 
ing only a frontal glimpse of Mrs. Burke's 
black silk skirt. She had rolled up the 
sleeves, which were inches too long. These 
details he saw later, for he was stopped and 
held by the expression of her eyes. They 
were looking straight at him with a frank, 
baby stare; but there was terror in the look, 
too, and something else — something inde- 
finable, chilling. Not until afterward did 
he understand that expression. It melted, 
presently, into the lights and dimples of a 
smile. 

"I must look ridiculous," she said. 

"Well, hardly that!" he answered. She 
became a little confused, he thought; and 
she covered it by turning toward his book 
shelves. As a new gust rattled sand and 
spume against the windows, she looked back 
over her shoulder and asked: 

"Tell me, what makes your building 
shake so? I was almost frightened when 
you were away." 

" Oh, I forgot. You didn't notice when I 
— ^when you came up. We are ninety feet 
in the air." 

"In the air?" 

" We're at the top of a tower." 

She laughed like a child, and ttumed to 
peer through the seaward windows. A 
broad white streamer from the lighthouse 
edged its way along the sands and illumined 
the ocean before them, showing the break- 
ers reaching up toward the sea-fringe of the 
land. 

" Oh, it's the sea — and that's the sea wind 
that is rattling your windows so! How 
cruel it looks! It almost makes me cold 
again." She shuddered and turned back 
to the book shelves. 

"Somehow, I'm not afraid, though," she 
added. 

For half a minute, she stood fingering the 



books. Her hair, now that the ice-drops 
were dried from it, grew in waving masses 
from the back of her neck and ended in a 
wonderful coil above her little, round head. 
It was like the hair that he used to write 
pretty things about last winter. 

She was talking again, now, with de- 
lighted exclamations of wonder. 

" Oh, Spenser! And I've a course in him 
this term. And Herrick ! " She went from 
book to book, patting them, cooing over 
them. 

" You're in college, then? " he asked; and 
was sorry a moment afterward to think that 
he was taking the risk of shattering the 
dream. 

" Yes," she answered, " in Smith. I am — 
let me see — " she patted her forehead a 
moment — "a junior. Yes, I'm a junior. 
How queer I couldn't remember." The 
last words died into a musing tone, for she 
was running over "The Fairy Queen" as 
though looking for something. "I wonder 
if you know that line in the second canto? 

•• * Lay covcr'd with enchanted cloud all day.* 

"I remember how I astonished Miss 
Prescott with that line. She'd asked for 
the most poetic line in the canto, and when 
I came out with that, she had to acknowledge 
that it was, though she couldn't tell why. 
That is always the way with real poetry — 
you never can tell why, can you?" 

Her chatter of books and of college fiDed 
the room. She was looking over his law 
books now. 

" Are you a lawyer or just studying ? And 
what a queer place for an office! Who are 
your clients? The birds? What a de- 
lightful kind of lawyer to be! I suppose 
that you take the case of the sparrows 
against the Park Commission, and prose- 
cute the hawks when they kill the poor, 
little birds. And do you extend any 
mercy to the little boys who rob nests?" 

"I shall certainly take only bird cases 
after I become a lawyer," he said, laughing 
with her. " For I'm just studying as I get 
time from my work." 

"And what is your work?" 

So they sat on the sofa, he hugging his 
knee and she leaning back comfortably on 
the cushions, while he told her how he swept 
the sea for incoming ships; how he knew 
each day by telegraph from New York what 
vessels were expected; how with this and 
the first sight of their hulls and rigging he 



234 



THE BUBBLE OF DREAMS 



could almost always tell what they were, 
long before they raised their code flags or 
burned their lights. 

" I'll show you the code book," he said. 

"Oh, never mind; I sail, you know." 

Then they talked a little of sailing and of 
old adventures on Sound and Bay; and he, 
quite at his ease now, quite content with the 
moment, displayed his electric clock. 

" And that reminds me — ^it's within five 
minutes of the hour and I must take a look. 
Get close to the stove, for I'm going to make 
it cold!" The open chute let in a stab of 
winter air. 

"There's a light away down by the 
horizon. The Lucania is due to-night. 
And now I'm going to teach you something 
about my trade. On a night like this and 
with the wind in that quarter, sailing ships 
and tramp steamers wouldn't be trying to 
make it home at all. There's no other 
transatlantic due except the Lucania, So 
I take the risk and wire, ^Lucania sighted.' 
I've made one or two bad mistakes that 
way. I hope," he added, "that I'll be a 
better lawyer than I am a marine ob- 
server." 

For a minute nothing was heard above 
the winds except the metallic clicking of the 
key. When he had finished and closed 
the wire, he foimd her looking at him again. 
Every time he caught one of those looks, it 
brought a new delicious siuprise. Her 
eyes, he saw now, were deep brown. Her 
face was all velvet shadows and quick lights 
of emotion. She was pretty — she was 
more. 

Her expression, which had been vague, 
became definitely puzzled. 

"Tell me," she said, "I don't know you, 
now do I? And yet I don't seem to be 
afraid of being up in the air — I didn't mean 
that for slang, either!" At this, both being 
at the age where anything is a joke between 
the sexes, they laughed together. 

" Why, you're a kind of Lord of the En- 
chanted Land," she went on. "You're a 
Merlin with your castle in the air and your 
magic wires that talk far away. Or — ^who 
was that magician who used to live on the 
sea cliffs and lure ships? No matter, I'll 
call you Merlin." Her expression changed 
again. That was the queer thing about 
her — the quick shifts of expression. Al- 
most as strange as her presence there on 
Fire Island. This time it was sheer weari- 
ness. 



iiJU 



I'm tired," she said, "or something. 
My mind is traveling on and on, but my 
body is heavy. I wonder if I'm himgry? 
I hope your wizardship won't charm me 
away for mentioning anything so conunon- 
place." 

"When have you had anything to eat?" 
he said, and then reproached himself for 
pelting again at his bubble of dreams. 

"When did I — ^no matter — ^yes, I'm 
sure I'm hungry." 

"And so am I!" he said quickly, glad to 
have turned her away from the mystery. 
" I usually eat up here at night. I'll tell 
you what I'll do. I'll bring up the food 
and cook it here and we'll have a fairy 
banquet in the air palace." 

"I wish you would" — ^and then, lower — 
"How good you are!" 

When he returned, the room had a new 
aspect. Her wet clothes were in a bimdle in 
the comer. The chairs were moved about; 
the papers on the desk were in neat piles, 
the room had an aspect of feminine occu- 
pancy. 

"Your familiar spirit, O magician, has 
been tidying up," she said. 

"You shouldn't have done that — ^you're 
tired — but here are ham and eggs and bread 
— I made it myself — and coflFee to keep me 
awake. I'm sorry I haven't a lamb chop 
to offer the fairy princess, and only con- 
densed milk for the coffee, but even my 
magic wand can't conjure up fresh meat 
and milk on Fire Island in December. We 
had a cow once, but she inconsiderately 
died!" 

"Ham and eggs and condensed milk! 
That's like canoe trips. Now you fiD the 
kettle first, that's an obedient magician, 
and I'm going to lie here and watch you 
cook, and order you about." She smiled up 
at him from under her straight dark brows. 

And as he measured coffee, cut ham, set 
the eggs popping in the pan, spread an old 
towel for a table cloth, she talked, making 
music in the tower room. Now and then 
the winds would blow up a heavier rattle of 
sand, drowning speech. When they died 
down again, and the tower was momentarily 
still, she would weave fancies out of the 
night. The winds were demons and those 
spurts of sand were goblin arrows. They 
were safe, though, because Merlin's magic 
guarded the fairy tower. Presently she 
came down to earth and asked him about 
himself. Before they sat down to their 



WILL IRWIN 



235 



supper they had got quite through the first 
stratum of acquaintance, which is tastes and 
adventures and views on people, and were 
down to the second, which is hopes and 
aspirations and views on life. 

He told her how his father had died while 
he was stiU in High School, leaving him with 
a living to make, and how he had turned to 
the key because he used to play with teleg- 
raphy when he was a little boy; how he 
gave up a chance to work his way through 
college because of the sister left him to sup- 
port; how he had been reading all the time 
to make up for the imiversity education he 
could not have. ^ Now his sister was grown 
and teaching, but it was too late for college 
and he was reading law all by himself. She 
listened with the wide-eyed wonder of a 
child. 

"And just think!" she said, "I who am 
listening to this never had to think of money 
at aU. Why, when I wanted to go to col- 
lege, Aimt Penelope — she seems to settle 
everything in our ^mily, does Aunt Penel- 
ope — she wouldn't have it for months and 
months. She said that none of oiu* people 
ever sent their girls to college, and she didn't 
like the idea. But how I've loved it, and 
how hard I've worked with my books — ^too 
hard, I suppose." 

She was rich, and hers were '* oiu* people." 
He felt a barrier colder than the icy night — 
for he was at an age when such things count. 
Yet her next words flicked it away. 

"Do you know, I never told them at 
home — ^but I'm going to make my own liv- 
ing for at least three years after I graduate. 
That's one reason why I've worked so hard, 
I suppose." 

"And after that?" 

"It's supposed to be Bar Harbor and 
Europe in the sunmier and dances and teas 
in the winter — but it won't. That's looking 
rather far ahead, though, isn't it ? " 

When they had finished and Woodford 
had stacked up the dishes, she looked about 
for his pipe; asked him to smoke. 

" For it makes you think that there is a 
man about," she said. 

He smoked and she talked. In another 
spurt of the storm, the tower bent and 
creaked; the breakers still threatened the 
sandspit and piled against its edge a rim of 
white and frozen spume; but there was sum- 
mer in the magician's palace up in the 
higher airs. 

Suddenly Woodford became aware of a 



light at the seaward window, a blue ghost- 
flicker in the blackness. 

" The Lucania I " he cried. " I had for- 
gotten her. She's off the Island now, burn- 
ing her signals." The blue died away, 
leaving on the horizon the faint, illumined 
honeycomb that was the Lucania, and flared 
up again. 

"Two blue lights, two Roman candles," 
he said. "That's the Cunard signal. Wait 
a moment and see the candles bum." A 
dainty ball of blue fire streaked the sky. 
"You see, I won when I took the risk of 
wiring that the Lucania was sighted. On 
nights like this, I like to look at the steam- 
ers through the telescope and know that 
there is company out there. Not to-night, 
though," he added, smiling back at her. 
" But would you care to look ? Sometimes 
I can make out the passengers behind the 
cabin windows." 

"I'd like it very much." 

"Then watch out for the wind when I 
open the chute." 

The room grew cold again. The papers 
on the desk went scurrying. 

"Something in the chute," he said. "I 
wonder — " and into the room tumbled a 
confused, flopping, brown bird. He rammed 
the chute tight shut, and turned to find the 
girl crouched on the floor, cooing and croon- 
ing over the bird, which lay kicking feebly, 
all of a huddle. 

"Oh, bird, bird I" she was sa3dng over 
and over again. She picked it up and held 
it to her breast. Tears were dropping on 
the brown plumage. She was crying! 

"It is only stunned a little," he said, re- 
assuringly. " They often come in so." 

" Oh, do you think that ? And you don't 
kill them or put them out, do you?" 

" Oh no! I keep them here until they are 
quite over it." 

" Do you know, I thought you'd do that ! " 
She looked up smiling, although a tear had 
perched itself in the corner of her mouth. 
She seemed to have forgotten all about the 
bird until it came to life with a desperate 
fluttering, flew out of her grasp, began to 
tilt frantically against a window. He 
caught it deftly from behind, and clasped its 
wings with his fingers. 

" Now watch," he said, " how I treat such 
cases." From under the table, he brought 
a wicker cage. " I made it for this. When 
I've shut them in, they can't get enough 
wing room really to fly and hurt themselves 



236 



THE BUBBLE OF DREAMS 



as they would if 1 left them loose in the 
room, and in the morning I always take 
them out and let them go. I've wondered 
sometimes if it was really fair to them after 
all; because to-morrow our bird will find 
that he has lost his flock." He closed 
the cage. 

"You're a hermit bird now, my boy," 
he said. 

She spoke suddenly from a sea of musings. 

" Was that how I came here ? " she asked. 
"How did I get here, anyway? Have / 
lost my flock? You're kind, aren't you, to 
birds and girls who blow in with the storm 
— O bird, bird!" She was crying again. 

Her whole form relaxed, so that she sank 
heavily on the sofa. StiU weeping softly, 
she drew up her feet, cuddled down among 
the pillows. 

"I've been crying, and they told me so 
often that I mustn't. Oh, I seem to have 
cried so long!" Each word came more 
softly than the last. She was going to sleep 
like a child; yet after a time she roused her- 
self. 

"There doesn't seem to be any bed- 
chamber in your palace. Merlin. May I 
sleep here for a little while? That's the 
best thing to do when you've been cry- 
ing. Thank you. GoOd-night — somehow it 
doesn't seem right to call you Merlin when 
I say good-night. What- 

" My name is Jack." 

"Good-night, Jack!" 

"Good-night— Helen! 

" Betty," she corrected, drowsily, and her 
eyes closed. 

Long he watched her, his shoulders bent, 
his hands clasped between his knees. 

" No, no! " he said under his breath, " it's 
Helen. Do you hear, dear heart? It's 
Helen!" 

The instrument at his elbow clicked and 
began "talking." 

" FI— FI— FI " it said— his caU. He 

answered, and it dotted off this message: 

"This is Babylon. Elizabeth Coulter, 
from Clark's sanitarium here, got loose to- 
night and skipped. Captain Bell's sloop is 
gone. She can handle a boat, so they 
think she took it and sailed through his ice- 
cut into South Bay. Watch bay at dawn. 
White sloop, green line. Tell surfmen to 
patrol inner shore. She's 5 feet 7, weight 
130, brown eyes, black hair, brown tailor 
dress, brown coat, mink furs. Wears 



)9 



» 



Smith College pin. Hustle yourself. Her 
people are big bugs." 

The clicking stopped. Woodford sat 
staring at the message which his hand had 
written automatically. He walked over to 
the sofa. From the folds of his great rain 
coat there peeped one relaxed little hand. So 
gently that she did not even stir, he kissed it. 

" Good-by, Helen," he said. " Oh, Helen, 
good-by!" And the key broke in: 

" FI— FI— FI— I lost you. How about 
it?" 

The message which traveled back to 
Babylon was full of stops and hesitations 
and errors in the Morse code, as though 
the operator were a beginner or nervous: 

" She is here in the tower. Don't know 
how she got here. Tell Clark people if they 
start now they may make scooter passage 
at dawn from Sayville to Point o' Woods." 

The answer came from Babylon: 

" Good boy. Clark and party start right 
away. Clark says this will be money in 
your pocket. How " 

But Fire Island had thrown the wire 
open, cutting off commimication. Baby- 
lon called for ten minutes and got no an- 
swer. 

The morning was bright and almost calm 
after the storm, when Dr. Clark and two as- 
sistants toiled through the sands to the tele- 
graph tower. At its base, they met a hag- 
gard young man. 

"She's up there," he said, beating their 
inquiries. " She's asleep and all right. I've 
switched the wire onto the keyboard in my 
cabin, so that you will be all alone." 

He was turning away when the doctor 
stopped him. 

"You're the operator, aren't you? Well, 
how did she ever get here ? Lord, she gave 
me a scare! Her people are friends of 
mine, too, and I wouldn't " 

"There!" said the operator, cutting him 
short and pointing to the inner shore. A 
wide, green rift showed through the ice 
pack, a clear passage into the open water of 
Great South Bay. Where this rift met the 
shore, a white sloop lay wrecked on the 
sand, its jib, still set, whipped to ribbons. 

"The wind ripped the ice open," he 
said. "Happens that way sometimes, be- 
fore the pack sets. She must have been 
steering straight for the light." 

"Well, I'm confounded!" said the doc- 
tor. "I knew she was something of a 



WILL IRWIN 



237 



sailor, but to think of her handling a boat 
like that! Lord, Fm relieved " 

Woodford looked the doctor in the eye, 
started to say something, and stopped. 

**Well?" said the older man, sharply, 
"you've got something to tell me." 

"No," said the operator, "I've got some- 
thing to ask you. Is she — ^is she — sane?" 

The physician threw a glance of his keen 
eyes into the face before him. 

"I'll tell you," he said, "because you've 
helped me out of an awful hole, though it's 
really none of your business. She's as sane 
as you or I. Her memory's gone — ^that's 
all. Too much study, and something 
snapped. You wouldn't understand if I 
told you more." 

"I dcm't want to," said Woodford, as he 
turned and walked into the cabin. 

The night had been a whirl of emotions, 
so that he had not slept nor felt the neces- 
sity for sleep. In the early dawn, he had 
fought out his disillusionment. There 
was no more emotion in him. Alone now, 
he dropped his face into his hands, put 
his elbows on the kitchen table — ^and fell 
fast asleep. 

The doctor, entering in a whirl of excite- 
ment, woke him half an hour later. 

"Here!" he cried, "wake up! How did 
she talk to you last night ? Did she seem to 
remember anything ? ' ' 

"Yes — ^why?" For a man just roused 
from sleep, the operator was astonishingly 
alert and eager. 

"Because — queerest thing I ever saw — 
she seems to remember — symptoms aU 
good — shock or something — ^never saw any- 
thing like it " 

"Is she cured, doctor?" 

The eagerness of the question brought 
back Dr. Clark's professional caution. 

"We can't be sure about that." He 
looked the yoimger man squarely in the 
face; and a half smile, as though caused by 
an amusing revelation, curled the comers 
of his mouth. 

The rift in the ice had widened under a 
ghostly December sun. A sloop had put out 
from the "mainland" to make the passage 
before night should close it. As Babylon 
had abeady informed Fire Island by wire, 
Burke was aboard; and it would carry back 
Dr. Ckrk and his patient. 

The girl stood on the shore watching the 



little white vessel dance over the winter 
waves. Woodford watched too. For the 
first time in many months, there was no 
operator in the Fire Island tower. 

In a quarter of an hour Burke would be 
back to relieve his loneliness. The operator 
smiled grimly at the thought Neither 
Burke nor any other man alive could bring 
comfort or company into his life on Fire 
Island thereafter. For the girl was going 
away. His bubble of dreams had burst. 

She turned and came to him. There was 
a puzzled look in her brown eyes, yet she 
spoke as an old friend. 

"It's coming back to me," she said, "the 
old life. I began last night to remember. 
But I can't seem to remember you in it, and 
that's strange." 

He drew a long breath. 

" I must go back to the tower now. Good- 
bye—Helen." 

" Why do you say good-bye — and why do 
you call me Helen? It isn't my name — is 
it?" 

"No," he said, " but I shall always think 
of you that way. Do you mind ?" 

She repeated the name softly once, twice. 

"No, I love to have you think of me so." 

"It was only a dream," he said imsteadi- 
ly, "and it's over." 

"I've been in a dream too," she said, "a 
pretty dream after a long, dead sleep. And 
I don't want it to be over — must it be over ?" 
She moved closer to him. " Was that what 
your good-bye meant?" 

He nodded. The girl looked up into his 
face. 

" Aren't you coming back with me to help 
me remember?" 

Dr. Clark had come up behind them. His 
sharp tone broke in: 

"Certainly he's coming back," he said, 
and he pushed Woodford aside. 

"It's unethical to drop a patient in the 
middle of a case," he whispered; and then, 
more seriously, "Hang it, man, I'll see that 
the company sends a substitute through." 

Woodford turned and looked at the steel 
tower where " Pollock on Torts'^ waited for 
his clients, the birds. He turned again to 
the beach and saw Burke's sloop rounding 
into the channel between the ice floes. The 
girl drew close again. 

"Won't }^u come, too?" she repeated. 

"Yes, Helen," said the operator, "I'U 
come too." 



MR. DOOLEY 



THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES 



DUNNE 




^ WONDHER who'll beth' 
I next prisidint iv th' United 
States," said Mr. Dooley. 
"Not that it makes anny 
I diff'rence to me but I'd 
! like to know f'r th' sake 
iv curiosity." 
" There's candydates enough, annyhow," 
said Mr, Hennessy. 

"There are that," said Mr. Dooley, 

"an' they've started arly enough. I 

wonder what they think this is, an endur- 

238 



ance thrile? Why, glory be, if they go or 
as they're goin' an' at this pace, they'll all 
be dhroppin' befure they get to th' three- 
quarthers, an' some fresh fellow'lt jump in 
an' take th' money fr'm all iv thim. 

Fairbanks the Genial 

" There's me frind Fairbanks. Be th' way 
he's gone about it ye'd think de was goin' 
on a search f'r th' North Pole. He begun 
five years ago an' iver since he's been con- 



MR. DOOLEY ON THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES 239 



sultin' charts, buyin' dogs an' ptckin' out 
men hardy enough to stand th' long journey 
with him. An' he ain't started yet. I'd 
like to see him prisidint. He'd make a 
grand wan. I'll niver hear a wurrud 
spoken against me frind Fairbanks. What 
has he done, says ye? Hinnissy, have ye 
niver r-read th' histhry iv our beloved 
counthiy-in-law ? Let me tell ye that 
Jasper Fairbanks has been, an' still is, wan 
iv th' gr-reatest vice prisidints this nation 
has iver had. I cannot at this minyit think 
iv forty men in that exalted station that've 
been his supeeryors. As I grow .older I 
find it harder an' harder to raymimber th' 
names iv anny vice prisidints, but I am 
sure that in this gr-reat roll iv honor, 
written in letters iv chalk on th' walls iv 
Fame, none will be more aisily read five 
years fr'm now thin that iv Lemuel Fair- 
banks. None has combined so manny iv 
th' qualities that us Americans love in our 
vice prisidints an' our custard pies. Not 
handsome in th' vulgar sense, but a manly 
figure, bold an' uncompromising like those 
ye see in front iv 3 ready-made clothin' 
Store, there's on'y wan criticism I cud pass 
on Fairbanks. He's too divvle-may-care. 
There's a Puritan sthreak in our blood, 



hide it though we will. Undher th' polite 
veneer, as Hogan says, iv dhrunkenness we 
ar-re still a consarvitive people an' it's a 
question whether we can thrust a man that 
can be so carried away be th' tumult iv th' 
time as to exclaim in a gust iv passion: 'I 
considher it most fortunate, if ye will 
f'rgive th' vilence iv th' expression, an' I 
concede that ivry man has a right to differ 
with me on this or anny other question, 
an' I will gladly shake th' hand iv anny man 
in this vast aujeence who honestly disagrees 
with me, that in this counthiy iv ours, 
blessed, as some say an' some say not, be 
univaisal sufEerage, it shud happen that th' 
sacred festival iv our freedom, th' Foorth iv 
July, though those that believe in St. 
Pathrick's day are entitled to their opinyon, 
an' a betther lot iv men niver lived, an' I 
have a gr-reat manny English frinds, an' 
Germans too, f'r that matlher, an' Swedes, 
that th' Foorth iv July which we cillybrate 
so joyously, though it is deplorable that so 
manny little boys shud blow off their 
thumbs thryin' to frighten their sisters with 
cannon crackers, an' I read in a Chicago 
pa-aper that this is so, an' an excellent 
fam'ly journal it is, too, that I have brought 
to me bedside ivry mornln' with all th' other 



"ALBERT ALMOST DESPISES HIMSILF" 



240 MR. DOOLEY ON THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES 



pa-apers, f'r where wud we be without th' 
freedom iv th' press, though they probably 
go too far in criticism iv our public men, but 
what cud be expected P it is most fonunate, 
I think, that th' Foorth iv July shud in- 
varyabty, as far as I have had th' oppoi- 
chunity to obsarve, happen ivry year in th' 
month iv July, if I am right.' 

" A wild fellow. But I hope an' believe, 
Hinnissy, that if ilicted prisidint th' re- 
sponsibilities iv his high office, like th' 
responsibilities iv his high hat, will rest 
as heavily on his head as they have on 
Rosenfelt's. Th' janial hail-fellow, th' 
free-an-aisy hayro iv th' dairy rathskellar, 
thumpin' th' table with a stein iv butther- 
milk an' singin', ' F'r it's always fair weather 
whin good fellows get together,' will soon 
be sobered be his mighty job. I'm bound 
to have me doubts about a man that comes 
into this saloon just as I'm goin' to close 
up, hangs his hat on a gas jet an' asks th' 
stove f'r th' pleasure iv a two-step; but I 
feel that if Oscar Fairbanks is ilicted prisi- 
dint he'll settle down an' save his money. 



Beveridge the Shy 

" I have a gr-reat fondness f'r Indyanny, 
a splendid state famed f'r its orators, potes, 
scholars, school-houses, side-gaited horses 
an' good-lookin' countherfeit money. But 
it niver done annything that it ought to be 
prouder iv thin to projooce Albert J. Bever- 
idge. He ain't a candy date. He wud 
not stoop so low. Anny office that decor- 
ates itself with Albert J. Beveridge will 
have to pursue him to his secluded study 
where he'll be found rea(hn' with curled 
lip McGuffey's ' Famous American Orators.' 
He'll niver be prisidint. He's too shy. 
Endowed be nature with qualities that 
few men dare boast, he hides his light 
undher a high refractin' glass like they have 
on th' lighthouse. No man who has a 
mean opinyon iv himsilf will iver rise in 
th' wurruld, an' Albert almost despises 
him^If, He knows best, p'raps, but I think 
th' time has come whin he must step forward 
an' permit his pitchers to be printed in th' 
pa-ap>ers. 



"WHIN THERE WAS NO WAN BLSB TO DKFIND TH' POOR NAYGUR FR'M FBRSBCUTION, 
JOB FORAKER COME TO TH' FRONT" 




MR. HARRIHAN'S BNDORSBMBNT C 



Foraker the Idealist 

"Across th* howlin' Ohio in th' state 
so-called I have heerd whispered th' name 
iv Joe Foraker, a man I revere. But he 
can't win. This is a time whin we need 
hard, practical men, an' Joe Foraker is an 
ideehst in poUyticks. He's a crather iv 
impulse. He's a soul apart, as Hc^an says. 
He oughtn't to be in pollyticks. He ought 
to be a monk. Whin there was no wan 
else to defind th' poor naygur fr'm persecu- 
tion, Joe Foraker come to th' front. He 
niver thought iv a reward. F'r th' mute, 
disfranchised black, who has no vote except 
in Southern Ohio, he hurled himsilf against 
dishpotic power. What can ye do with 
such a man? Ye can't help Ukin' him; but 
is it safe to put a dhreamer like him in th' 
highest ofBce in th' gift iv th' nation? 
We all know that corruption exists in 
pollyticks, f'r pollyticks is human. Other 
men, practical men, face it. Joe Foraker, 
ideelist, gives it a back. He's th' kind iv 
a man that, if some iv th' good fellows were 
upholsterin' a ballot-box to suit th' taste, 
wud say: ' Gintlemen, I will not stand idly 



by an' permit this infamy. Onless ye 
desist I will lave th' room, an' whin ye have 
completed this profanation, if I hear th' 
slightest whistle fr'm wan iv ye, I'll return 
with a polisman. Haveacare!' We want 
no vague philoapher f'r this high office. 
Lave Joe Foraker to his dhreams, says I. 

Root, the Wise 

" We want men iv sound practical com- 
mon sense. Such a man is EUhu Root. 
No name has aroused more enthusyasm 
thin EUhu Root's since l*vi P. Morton. 
He has rayceived th' sthrongest endorse- 
ments. Mishter Ryan writes: 'He will 
uphold th' thraditions iv th' raypublic as 
he has mine.' Misther Hanyman writes: 
'Although differin' in specyal policies, our 
idees iv gin'ral goverraint are Ih' same. 
I prefer him to Rosenfelt.' Misther Rocky- 
fellar writes: 'I have niver used EUhu, but 
I have heerd him spoken highly iv be 
frinds.' I wondher if he wudden't like to 
tear up his ricommindations an' start fresh. 
I wisht I knew all he knows. If I did I'd 
want to know more an' know it arly in life, 
241 




"WHERB AR-RB YB GOIN'. PRIND 



Tafi the "Jollier" 

"An' thin there's me frind Taft. Sthrongly 
ricomminded be th' captain iv th' Cin- 
cinnaty Reds, he is said to be good prisi- 
dintyal timber. He don't look like timber 
at all to me. On th' conthiy. If ye want 
a man to fill th' prisidintyal chair to over- 
flowin', it's Taft. I can't think iv him 
runnin' f'r th' office. But if th' prisidincy 
iver dhrops into anny man's lap, 'twill be 
Taft's. It cudden't miss. I ain't against 
Taft because he's chubby. On'y very 
young men an' very old men should be lean. 
Whin a man's in th' prime iv life he shud 
be provisioned. It shows he's not makin' 
overdhrafts. Me frind Taft has a large 
balance. That's why he's always so cheer- 
ful an' that's why he holds his prisint job. 
What's that? Oh, he's called Sicrety iv 
War, but he don't pay anny attintion to that. 
Not he. If War had a sicrety like Taft, it 



wudden't dictate annything to him but 
mash letters. But he hasn't been to his 
office f'r I don't know how long. His rale 
position in the cabinet is Official JoUyer. 
He's th' Happy Hand. Whin there's a 
ruction anny where Taft starts out an' 
cleans it up. A man goes into th' White 
House with a letter fr'm James J. Hill. 
There's a sound iv break! n' glass an' 
furniture, an' th' visitor is fired out iv a 
window. UTiere does he fall? Into Taft's 
waitin' arms. 'WTiere ar-re ye goin', 
frind?' says Taft. 'To a hardware store 
to buy a gun,' says th' man. ' I have another 
letter in me pocket fr'm Haitch Haitch 
Rogers,' he says. ' Ah, set here awhile,' 
says Taft, pullin' him into a chair. ' Have 
a good see-gar. Put wan into ye'er pocket 
to smoke afther supper. Isn't it a fine 
day, ain't it? I've got a conundhrum I 
want to tell ye some time. Ye're not mad, 
are ye? Don't mind th' little fellow inside. 



MR. DOOLEY ON THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES 243 

It's on'y his fun. Why, yesterday, he tion. Wan day he's down in th' Flippeens 

threw a lighted lamp at me an' I'm his best tellin' our little brothers that in th' coorse 

frind.' All' th' man goes back to Herkimer iv cinchries, if they'll on'y have patience to 

county an' shows th' place where Rosenfelt wait, they'll get a chance to cheer th' movin' 

hit him. pitchers in front iv th' newspaper offices 

"It must be a kind iv a hard job, though, ivry foorth Novimber. Another day I hear 

He niver knows whin th' bell'll ring an' iv him in Cubia embracin' thim kindly 

he'll have to rush f'r his clothes an' dash people an' absthractin' their dangerous 

off somewheres on an errand iv concilya- liberties like a good-natured frind takin' 



"1 WONDHBR IF HE LIKBS BBIN' ROSBNFBLTS CHUFFUR" 



244 MR. DOOLEY ON THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES 



a loaded revolver away fr'm a dhrunken 
man. Fr'm there he skips to Porther 
Ricky, gathers around him all th' bould 
citizens that Gin'ral Miles set free with 
wan sthroke iv his mustache, an' says: 
'Fellow Americans, what ar-re ye kiclun' 
about? Ye want a vote, but haven't ye 
got all that a vote wud give ye? Aren't 
th' taxes collicted fr'm ye, doesn't th' 
polisman arrest ye, on' th' justice fine ye, 
th' same as if ye lived in Ohio? An' to 
secure all these blessings ye don't have to 
turn over in ye'er sleep on th' first Choosdah 
afther th' sicond Mondah in Novimber. 
Oh, that I were a Porther Rickyan an' 
didn't need votes. But 'tis me evil fate 
that I do an' as ye have none, an' won't, 
I must be off to Ohio where they have 
nawthin' but,* an' away he goes. 

" Little Sunshine, I wondher if he's happy 
in his job. I wondher if he likes bein' 
Rosenfelt's chuffur. Whin he goes home 
at night, does he slam th' dure, hang his 
smile on th' hat rack an' kick th' dog? I 
wondher. I on'y know that in public he 
always wears th' unyform iv his office. He 
wud no sooner appear without it thin with- 
out his pantaloons. 

Roosevelt the Boss Motorman 

" An' these ar-re th' candydates we've got 
to beat with our own impeeryal leader, 
whether 'tis Willum Jennings Bryan or 
somewan who shall be nameless or will 
be afther he runs. That is they think they're 
candydates, but it looks to me as though 
Teddy was thryin' in a bunch iv green 
motormen to see whether they cud run th' 
car th' way he wants it run. He skipped 
Fairbanks who niver dhrove annytWng 
befure but a mule team. He cudden't 
stand f'r Foraker because he on'y wanted 
to stop to let passengers on at th' alleys. 
He thried Root but Root hauled up at i\Ty 
crossing. An' now he's thryin' out Taft. 
Look at thim comin' up th' sthreet. Taft 
knows th' brakes well but he ain't very 
familyar with th' power. 'Go ahead,' 
says Rosenfelt. 'Don't stop here. Pass 
that there banker by. He's on'y wan fare. 
There's a crowd iv people at th' next comer. 
Stop f'r thim an' give thim time to get 
aboord. Now start th' car with a jump so 
they'll know something is goin' on. Go 
fast by Wall Sthreet an' ring th' gong, but 
stop an' let thim get aboord whin they're 



out iv breath. Gowan now. Who's 
that ol' lady standin' in th' middle iv' th' 
sthreet wavin' an umbrelly? Oh, be 
hivens, 'tis th' Constitution. Give her a good 
bump. No, she got out iv th' way. Ye'd 
have nailed her if ye hadn't twisted th' 
brake. What ailed ye ? Well, niver mind; 
we may get her comin' back.' An' so it 
goes an' I can't tell an' Teddy can't tell 
yet whether Taft will make a good motor- 
man or not. Sometimes it looks as if they 
didn't have th' same idee. In his heart 
Taft still sticks to th' old fashioned Yale 
theery that a throlley car is propelled be a 
brake, while Teddy's idee iv a brake is that 
th' best thing about it is th' handle that ye 
can remove to subjoo riochous passengers. 
"An' there ye ar-re. A fine lot iv men 
f'r anny raypublican to choose fr'm an' 
an akeUy fine list f'r him to reject fr'm. 
He can take his pick an' be sure that he 
can make no mistake, f'r no matther who 
th' candydate iv th' raypublican party that 
you an' I, Hinnissy, will be bound be our 
love iv counthry an' throuble to throw 
bricks at next year, his right name will be 
Teddy Rosenfelt. 

Who is a Democrat? 

" An' who ar-re we goin' to nommynate ? 
says ye. Have th' dimmocracy no candy- 
date? I will tell ye a secret. Wan iv th' 
most prominent dimmycrats in South 
Chicago was in here to-day, an' he tells me 
that it's all framed up to place our proud 
standard wanst more into th' hands iv that 
man who has borne it in th' past unsuccess- 
fully but gloryously " 

Mr. Hennessy — " Hooray! " 

Mr. Dooley — " A man that ivry dimmy- 
crat is as proud to follow in defeat as in 
victhry " 

Mr. Hennessy — " Ye bet ye! " 

Mr. Dooley— "That grand, bold, fightin', 
thrue-blue, uncompromisin' dimmycratic 
statesman Alton B , hoi' on, Hin- 
nissy. Don't be mad. 'Twas on'y a joke. 
I know who ye were hoUerin' f'r an' I guess 
I can fix it f'r him all right." 

"Do ye think a candydate ought to lay 
quiet or keep in th' public eye?" asked Mr. 
Hennessy when he had cooled down. 

'* I don't know," said Mr. Dooley. " I'U 
on'y say this, if I wanted to be prisident 
I wud thry not to be a cinder in th' public 
eye." 



MANHATTAN : AN ISLAND OUTGROWN 

HOW "OLD" NEW YORK. CONFINED BY WIDE RIVERS, IS 

BURSTING INTO NEW JERSEY AND LONG ISLAND THROUGH 

TUNNELS COSTING MORE THAN THE PANAMA CANAL 

BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON 

ILLUSTRATED WITH PICTORIAL MAPS AND PHOTOGRAPHS 




lATURE is never econom- 
ical, and she was never less 
so than when she allowed 
the future commercial cap- 
ital of the New World to be 
founded on the lower end 
of Manhattan Island, a 
long, narrow strip of rock between a mighty 
river and an arm of the sea. As a result of 
that first haphazard selection the transit 
problem in New York City to-day has 
become the most difficult, complicated and 
vexatious which faces any American city; 
and twice as much money is being spent to 
solve it as is being expended on the construc- 
tion of the Panama Canal. That trans- 
oceanic ditch will cost $200,000,000. The 
Pennsylvania Railroad alone is spending 
$100,000,000 to tunnel the two rivers and 
build a terminal in Manhattan. The 
McAdoo tubes under the North (or Hudson) 
River will cost $75,000,000 more. The 
New York Central Railroad is going to 
erect an enormous new terminal station and 
bring all its trains into the city by electric 
power. The Belmont tubes imder the 
East River to Long Island City and the city 
subway tubes from the Battery to Brooklyn 
represent the expenditure of millions more. 
And new subways under the East River and 
north through the city itself are being 
planned, while a new bridge is under way 
across Blackwell's Island. The creative 
artists of the twentieth century are un- 
doubtedly the engineers (the creative 
instinct is not dead; it is merely working in 
another medium); and New York City will 
soon contain one of their greatest achieve- 
ments, an achievement even more radical 
than at first glance it appears, for it is made 
possible by electricity and represents for the 



first time on a thoroughgoing scale the 
change in motive power on railroads from 
the steam locomotives of the past seventy 
years to the electrically driven train. In a 
short time — probably three years at most — 
four railroad systems will bring their enor- 
mous traffic into the very heart of Man- 
hattan Island under rivers and streets and 
avenues, without a puff of smoke or a sound 
of steam. Underground, in silence and 
clean air, they will come and so depart 
again, while the Hudson River steamers 
pass over the Washington Express and the 
carriages on Park Avenue roll above the 
Bay State Limited. The achievement is 
stupendous and unique. 

An Island Intolerably Crowded 

But in a way it was inevitable, for the 
battle of New York with its geography was 
fast becoming intolerable, and something 
had to be done to conquer Nature. Geog- 
raphy made us engineers. Fifty years ago 
there was room enough and to spare on 
Manhattan Island for all who wished to 
dwell and do business there — there were 
even farms and woods. But that has long 
since ceased to be true. The hungry host 
of sky-scrapers which began to germinate 
down by Wall Street on the southern nose of 
the island marched north with rapid strides, 
gobbling up whole streets of dwellings as 
they went. The East Side tenement dis- 
trict has for some time been the most thickly 
populated section of the globe. For several 
years private houses on Manhattan Island 
have commanded fabulous rents, and for the 
past four or five years not enough new 
private houses have been erected anything 
like to compensate for those torn down. 

245 



Pictorial map showing the route of the new Pennsylvania Railroad tunnel under two 

the fity traffic, and 



Instead, vast apartment houses have gone 
skyward, each with its community of dark 
pockets known as flats, and in these, Uke 
cliff men of old, or like two-legged sardines. 
New York Uves — lives in layers, without 
room to sning the traditional cat, paying 
extravagant rents for a steam radiator and a 
closet to put the piano and the folding bed 
in. But still the commercial interests of the 
city grow, and ever more people have to live 
in it. The poor Brooklyn Bridge has long 
been nightly taxed beyond its capacity by 
the crowds that pour over to Brooklyn after 
the day's work. The new Williamsburg 
Bridge also is crowded. The subway, built 
the length of the island to get workers home 
at night up the long strip of the town to 
Harlem and the Bronx, is at rush hours 
filled with human cattle trains. The tene- 
ment laws are so rigid now that the former 
herding of the poor in the slums is no longer 
possible in the new tenements. Moreover, 
the commercial i nterests of the town demand 
ever more building space, which is inevi- 
tably taken away from resident districts. 

But all this time across the EUist River 

Long Island has spread its flat area of 

farms and villages; the Palisades have 

346 



looked across the Hudson at the crocodile 
jaw of Manhattan, their woods within gun- 
shot of swarming apartment houses; and 
farther back into New Jersey were pretty 
towns where one might live and have a 
home. Manhattan Island was crowded to 
the bursting point, but its bounding rivers 
kept it in, for the ferries were quite insuffi- 
cient as an outlet, aside from their incon- 
venience and the time they consumed in 
transit. But the fourteen new tubes under 
the rivers will change all this. The too-full 
town can burst at last — burst into New 
Jersey and Long Island and up the Hudson. 
That every expectation of its bursting exists 
is testified by the enormous boom in real 
estate values everywhere in the suburbs to 
be reached by the new traction systems, 
especially on Long Island. And when it 
has burst, when it has spilled much of its 
over-crowded population out into the sur- 
rounding country, when the city has spread 
its area in spite of the Hudson and East 
Rivers, what the future of Manhattan Island 
will be is a pretty problem. No doubt other 
subaqueous tubes will be built, and a brieve 
is already projected to the Palisades, and 
another to Brooklyn. Will there be, how- 



riven and the island of Manhattan — mier five miles under water, beneath hotels and 
through solid ro4k 



ever, a limit to the commercial growth 
of the town? Or will it in time reach 
a pdnt where residences in Manhattan 
are practically non-erislent, the twenty- 
mile strip between the two rivers be- 
coming a vast hive of office buildings and 
warehouses and hotels and theaters, whither 
the hundreds of thousands of workers are 
shot daily through tubes from their homes, 
and nightly shot back again? Certainly it is 
not beyond the range of possibility; to those 
of us who live in ttus Titanic town nothing 
seems beyond the range of possibility. And 
the march of the commercial sky-scrapers 
northward, eating up homes as they go, has 
made it seem in fact quite probable. Even 
now lower Fifth Avenue from Washington 
Square to Fourteenth Street is a residential 
oasis in a commercial desert that stretches to 
Forty-second Street and is at this moment 
eating up the avenue to Central Park; shops 
are appearing next door to the mansions of 
" Millionabes' Row." If this result should 
come about, it would make New York 
unique among the great cities of the world. 
And our modem engineers, aided by the 
motive powers of electricity, would have 
been the agents in bringing it about. 



Pennsylvania Railroad's $100,000,000 
Improvements 

How these engineers have worked, and 
just what in material terms they are accom- 
plishing, cannot be told in detail short of a 
volume. It must only be sketched here, in 
its broad outlines. 

To begin with the improvements of the 
most magnitude, those of the Pennsylvania 
Railroad claim first attention; for they will 
not only bring the trains from the west and 
south into New York City under the Hud- 
son, but send them entirely under the city 
as well and beneath the East River to Long 
Island, developing that whole territory. In 
time, too, they will enable trains from 
Boston to go through to the South without 
carry by ferry-boat, and they include the 
erection of a huge new terminal station, 
capable of handling 100,000,000 passengers 
a year. 

The present terminal of the Pennsylvania 
system faces the lower end of Manhattan 
Island, across the mouth of the Hudson, in 
Jersey City. The new terminal will occupy 
the blocks between Thirty-first and Thirty- 
third streets and Seventh and Ninth avenues 



248 



MANHATTAN: AN ISLAND OUTGROWN 



in New York. This will bring passengers 
almost into Herald Square. But it will 
bring them in sixty feet below the surface, 
for of course the station is reached by tun- 
nels. The change in the old system begins 
at a point just east of Newark on the main 
line. From there two tracks will go north- 
east on a concrete supported elevated 
structure across the meadows to the west 
side of Bergen Hill, a small rock mountain. 
This they enter by twin tunnek through the 
rock (at the center of the hill 220 feet below 
the surface), the tunnels sloping gently 
toward the Hudson River. They go under 
the river in the form of circular steel tubes 
and pass imder Thirty-second Street to 
Tenth Avenue, where they branch out like a 
fan, enter the terminal by twenty-one tracks, 
narrow again at the eastern end of the sta- 
tion to four tracks, go under the heart of the 
city in solid rock to the East River, under 
that to Long Island City, and finally 
emerge to the surface half a mile inland, at 
the new Sunnyside Yard, the eastern end of 
the $100,000,000 improvements, and the 
key, as will be shown, to the operating sys- 
tem. From the Bergen Hill portals to the 
western end of the terminal yard the tunnels 
are 12,690 feet long, or two miles and a half. 
There is about an equal distance on the 
other side before they emerge on Long 
Island, and a half-mile of terminal track, 
making in all over five miles of underground 
road, either below water or through solid 
rock beneath hotels and dwellings. Side of 
an engineering feat like this, it was child's 
play to cut the Hoosac tunnel. 

Trains to Run Under Two Rivers 

But the work has already progressed so 
far that every doubt of its successful com- 
pletion has vanished. The Hudson tubes, 
bored from either side, have met and joined. 
The citv is tunneled. And the East River 

m 

tubes are nearing completion. The engi- 
neer of the North River tubes and the ter- 
minal was Charles M. Jacobs, an English- 
man who has probably built more sub- 
aqueous tubes than any other man. He 
is the engineer, also, of the McAdoo tunnels 
under the Hudson south of the Pennsyl- 
vania system. His assistant has been 
James Forgie, a Scotchman. Alfred Noble 
is the engineer of the four tunnels under the 
city and the East River. He is an Amer- 
ican, and was from 1899 to 1903 a member 



of the Isthmian Canal Commission. The 
method of procedure in building these 
tubes is by now well known, and it differs in 
individual cases only as novel obstructions 
have to be met. Work began on the Penn- 
sylvania tubes on April 18, 1904, when a 
shaft was sunk on the Manhattan side of the 
river, later on the Jersey bank, and the tun- 
nels began to thrust out toward each other 
through rock. But as the river edge was 
reached in each bore a shield had to be con- 
structed, and these shields were gradually 
thrust under the river till over two years 
later they met, were taken apart, and the 
tunnels were completed. A shield is a 
round steel frame like a giant cookie cut- 
ter weighing 194 tons, the diameter of the 
tube — 23 feet — with iron doors through 
which the excavated material is passed 
back. The " sand hogs," as the excavators 
are called, work just in front of these doors 
under compressed air. The air pressure 
keeps the water out and the river bottom 
from caving in upon them. As they exca- 
vate the shield is pushed forward, its line of 
advance mathematically determined, and 
behind it cast-iron rings, the diameter of the 
tunnel and two and a half feet wide, are 
welded, making the shell of the tube. This 
shell is lined with concrete and forms the 
tunnel. Of course, the more unstable the 
river bottom through which the tunnel 
shields were pushed, the higher had to be 
the air pressure. Through silt or quicksand 
a 32-pound pressure was necessary, and 
often clay had to be dumped on the river 
bottom from above to form a blanket be- 
tween the men and the water. 

A Workman's Extraordinary 
Experience 

In the summer of 1906, the city subway 
tube then being driven from Brooklyn 
toward the Battery got into silt so unstable 
that the air pressure actually blew one of 
the sand hogs up through the river bottom 
and eighteen feet of water. He astounded 
the loafers on a pier by suddenly shooting 
up from still water on a geyser of mud and 
falling back into the river, whence he was 
fished but little the worse for his strange 
experience. But his case was unique. The 
chief danger to workmen under the rivers is 
from " bends," or caisson disease. This is 
merely the formation of air bubbles in the 
blood-vessels, due to unequalized internal 



WALTER PRICHARD EATON 



249 



air pressure, but it was a very dangerous 
disease till the remedy was discovered in 
recompression. The sufferer is put again 
under compressed air and then taken from 
it by slow degrees. No workmen were or 
are used in the tubes going into New York 
whose heart and lungs are not sound. They 
work for short periods under air, and they 
are compelled to come back into normal 
pressure by a fifteen-minute gradation. As 
a result of these precautions the list of 
fatalities has been almost nil. 

Tunneling Below the Waldorf: No 
Guest Awakened 

The building of the tubes under the 
rivers, of course, meant no interruption of 
normal traffic, but the connecting tunnels 
under the city and the erection of the ter- 
minal were different matters. Yet so deep 
down in the rock were Ihe connecting tunnels 
that they passed under Thirty-second and 
Thirty-third streets, across Fifth Avenue 
and below ihe Waldorf-Astoria Hotel with- 
out cracking the asphalt or waking a guest. 
The only visible sign was a dumping ma- 
chine at a shaft near Fourth Avenue, run 
silently by compressed air, and the vanish- 
ing of a truck one day into a sudden hole 



in Thirty-third Street, due to a quicksand 
cave-in. But even the horse was rescued 
unharmed. The signs at the terminal, how- 
ever, are numerous enough, for at present 
the station is a yavming hole half a mile long 
and two blocks wide like a gigantic earth- 
quake freak, with three avenues, an elevated 
structure, sewers, water mains, gas pipes 
and the like straddling across it on steel 
stilts, performing their normal functions. 
Millions of dollars' worth of houses were 
condemned and torn dpwn to make way for 
this terminal in the TTeart of the city, and 
when it is done it will bring the passenger 
traffic of the entire Pennsylvania system and 
the entire Long Island sj-stem into Herald 
Square. 

The station building will cover 2$ acres 
(five more than the new J^^ran^ Central 
Station and almost twice as m^^ as the 
South Station in Boston). It will accom- 
modate a traffic of 400,000 a day, so in one 
year the entire population of the United 
States, Canada and Mexico could pass 
through it without jostling. McKim, Mead 
& While are the architects of the building, 
which will be but 60 feet high save for the 
150-fool dome of the central waiting room. 
As the tracks are far below the ground, the 
u<iual glass train shed will be absent. It 



The new Pennsylvania Station. It 7vifi cover aj" aeres ami aeeommodate 400,000 
people in a day. Designed by McKim, Mead &' White 



r 



Excavating for the Pen 

will not luok in the least like the lru(liti»n:i1 w 
railroad terminal. A Diiric c(il(innade will tl 
face Seventh Avenue, modeled <in the 
ruins of the Balhs of Caracalla in Rome, 
and buill of ^filford granite like the liiiston 
Public Librarj-. Entering tfirough an 
arcade of shops, the central waiting rix)m is 
to be reached, one level below the street. It 
will be 310 feet long, 110 fed wide and 150 
feet high— a mammoth room. Below this, 
to the west, will be the main concourse from 
2,so 






I Station 



which ]Kisscngers descend by stairs or 
elevators to the trains. It will \>e 210 feet 
bniad and the width of (he station. On the 
third level. 60 feet below the street, are the 
tracks. They are twenty-one in number, 
and will handle the traffic by the following 
system. All the Pennsylvania trains coming 
under the Huds<in will enter on the southern 
tracks, discharge passengers, and pass on in 
the southern tube under Thirty - second 
Street to the Sunnyside yards in Long 



WALTER PRICHARD EATON 



251 



Island, where they will be overhauled and 
brought back by the other Thirty-second 
Street tube into the station, fill up and go on 
their ways under the Hudson again. All 
Long Island Railroad through trains will 
also come under Thirty-second Street into 
the southern section of the station. The 
northern tracks and the Thirty-third Street 
East River tubes will be used entirely by 
Long Island local trains, of)erated on the 
shuttle system. Suburban and through 
traffic will thus be separated. All Long 
Island through trains and the Pennsylvania 
trains will be brought under the rivers by 
electric locomotives, which on the Long 
Island road will be used as far out as 
Mineola, on the Pennsylvania for the 
present as far as Newark. All the Long 
Island suburban lines will be operated by 
the multiple unit system, now in use on the 
elevated roads of Boston and New York. 
By this system one car or ten can be made 
into a train at a moment's notice, since each 
car carries its own motor. The Borough of 
Queens, lying back of Long Island City, out- 
lying parts of Brooklyn, and towns on both 
shores and in the center of Long Island will 



be reached by this suburban service, bring- 
ing them within striking distance of Man- 
hattan. Already real estate values have risen 
there from 100 per cent, to 400 per cent. 
As the new terminal can handle 145 trains 
per hour, of which two-thirds will be Long 
Island trains, it can easily be seen that the 
development of Long Island for residence 
purposes is certain. 

May Shorten Trip Across the Ocean 

Looking a little further ahead, the New 
York, New Haven and Hartford and 
Pennsylvania Railroad systems are plan- 
ning a connecting road to cross on a bridge 
from Port Morris, on the mainland, to 
Long Island, sending Boston trains into the 
tunnels and so on south without the present 
long ferry round New York harbor, and 
sending freight (which will be rigidly 
barred from the tunneb) round through 
Brooklyn to Bay Ridge and thence by short 
ferry to the monster new freight yards 
at Greenville. Moreover, the tubes will 
enable the Pennsylvania road to push its 
expresses from Chicago right out to Mon- 



■'•>'": 



^V-- 













^^ -CAB Tl<^ ^ 



GREENVILLE PIER 



ShoTvittjs; hcnv through passerif^er trains from Boston will pass under New York City 
on their way to Washim^ton and the South, and how the freight (to he rigidly barred 
from the tunnels) tuill be sent by ferry 



2S2 



MANHATTAN: AN ISLAND OUTGROWN 



tauk Point, and build there in the future, if 
it sees fit, an ocean terminal. This would 
cut off two hundred miles of water on the 
way to Europe and save half a day for pas- 
sengers and mail. It is a possibility of the 
future that must interest the entire country. 
The Hudson and Manhattan Railroad 
Company, presided over by William G. 
McAdoo, is building four tubes under the 
North River which must next claim atten- 
tion. Two of them will be in operation in 
September. They will serve a double pur- 
pose — to act in place of ferries to the Lacka- 
wanna and Erie Railroad systems and to 
feed local traffic into Jersey on their own 



account. One of these tubes was begun 
two decades ago, the pioneer of them all. 
But two later attempts to push it across 
failed. It remained for Mr. McAdoo, with 
Mr. Jacobs as his ei^neer, to complete it 
and three more besides. These four tubes, 
similar in construction to the Pennsylvania 
tunnels, are arranged in groups of two. 
The first group crosses the Hudson from 
Montgomery Street, Jersey City, close to the 
present Pennsylvania station, to Cortlandt 
and Fulton Streets, Manhattan. On the 
Jersey end they emerge from the ground and 
their trains, run on a multiple unit system, 
will continue on the old Pennsylvania 



THE LARGRST HUILDINC. I>J THE WORLD 

This is the new McAdoo Terminal. Thfif will he 4,IX>0 offices and 10,000 tenants. 
TTtis station will be able to accomiiicd.ile in one day iiioie than the entire population 
of Baltimore 



"■ McAdoo tunnels and how they will eonneet with various tystemt of 
transportation in the city 



tracks to Newaric. Between Fulton and 
Cortlandt Streets, on Church Street, in 
Manhattan, in the heart of the Wall Street 
district, a giant terminal building (or 
rather, above ground, two buildings) will be 
erected, said to be the largest office structure 
in the world, though only twenty-two 
stones high. There are to be 4,000 offices, 
with 10,000 tenants. It will go down seventy 
feet below the surface, and the station, of 
course, will be below ground. Incoming 
trains through the southern lube will pass 
around a five-track loop and out by the 
other tube. The station will be able to 
handle 600,000 people a day, or more than 
the entire population of Baltimore. There 
will be a connecting foot passage under 
Dey Street to the present city subway under 
Broadway. Thus Jersey City will be but 
five minutes from Wall Street and but 
twenty minutes from the shopping and 
theater district; and Newark will be as 
close to Wall Street as Harlem is. 

But this is only a part of the McAdoo 
system. From these tubes in Jersey City 
will run northward a subway one and a 
half miles long, with stations under the old 



Pennsylvania, the Erie and the Lacka- 
wanna terminals, and from the subway at 
Fifteenth Street, Jersey City, two more 
tubes, to be opened in September, will bore 
under the Hudson to Morton Street, New 
York, thence up Christopher Street to Sixth 
Avenue and up Sixth Avenue, with a con- 
necting branch to the city subway at Astor 
Place and stations at Ninth, Fourteenth, 
Eighteenth, Twenty-third and Twenty- 
eighth Streets, to Thirty-third Street, where 
another terminal will be erected on Herald 
Square, close to the Pennsylvania terminal 
and doubtless connected with it by foot 
passage. Thus the suburban traffic of the 
Erie and Lackawanna systems, the com- 
muters from the Oranges, Bloom field, 
Monte lair. Summit, half a hundred towns in 
Jersey, can be whisked either to Wall Street 
or Herald Square or the intermediate points. 
Trains will run on a one and a half minute 
headway in rush hours; baggage will be 
handled; a whole section of Jersey will be 
made vastly more accessible. In addition, 
from the northern end of the Jersey City 
subway an electric road is to be constructed 
north along the Palisades, opening up that 



254 



MANHATTAN: AN ISLAND OUTGROWN 



regitin. Of course, all the cars operating in 
the tunnels will be of steel, and they will 
open both at the ends and in the middle, 
like the cars on the Boston elevated, to 
facilitate the handling of trafSc. When this 
McAdoo system and the Pennsylvania tun- 
nels are conipleted it will be possible to go 
from the Church Street terminal on lower 
Manhattan to the Pennsylvania, Erie, 
Lackawanna, Long Island, or New York 
Central and New York, New Haven and 
Hartford stations without emerging above 
ground, as well as to Brooklyn, Harlem or 
the Bronx. It will put a damper on the 
umbrella industry in New York! And 
when they are done, too, the junction of 
Thirty-third Street and Sixth Avenue will 



Comer of TTiirty-ihird Slreet and Sixth 
Avenue iviih five distinct traffic levels 
and a sixth projected : {/■) foot-bridge 
over the elevated tracks, (2) the ele- 
vated road, (_?) the surface line, {4) 
the McAdoo tunnels, (j) a proposed 
new city subway, ((5) far below, the 
crosstown Pennsylvania tubes to Long 
Island 

be one of the most remarkable spots on the 
globe, for there will be five distinct traffic 
levels there, with a sixth projected: first, a 
foot bridge over the elevated tracks, then the 
elevated road, then the surface line, then 
ihe McAdoo tunnels, then a proposed new 
city subway, and finally, far below, the 
crosstown Pennsylvania tubes to Long 



Island. An air ship overhead alone is 

needed to complete the wonder. 

Not the least expensive and important of 
the enlargements of traffic facilities to get in 
and out of New York are those now being 
made by the New York Central system; but 
this road already had its terminal in the 
heart of town, the Grand Central Station, 
so its work has been on an old foundation, 
and consequently less spectacular. In a , 
word, what the Central is doing is com- 
pletely to change its motive power coming 
into the city from steam to electricity. This 
will mean that the famous Park Avenue 
tunnel, the scene of more than one horror, 
will not only be free from gas and smoke 
and heat and danger, but will be converted 
in part into a double tunnel, one below the 
other, thus increasing transit facilities. Un- 
der the tremendous drawback of having to 
work while the present heavy normal traffic 
is handled, the Central is yet making rapid 
progress in completing the electric zone, 
which will extend on the main line to South 
Croton (thirty-four miles), on the Harlem to 
North White Plains (twenty-four miles) 
and on the New York, New Haven and 
Hartford to Stamford, Conn. It will mean, 
also, the enlargement of the tunnel and yard 
south of Fifty-seventh Street and the erec- 
tion of a new Grand Central Station of 
vaster proportions, with two train levels, on 
and about the site of the present station. 
The main, or Hudson River line, will have 
six tracks without grade crossings to the 
new South Croton yards, where through 
trains will for the present change to steam 
propulsion. Two tracks are for local traffic, 
two for expresses and two for freight. The 
other lines will have four tracks to the end 
of (he electric zone. There will be a com- 
plicated new station at Mott Haven, where 
the Central and Harlem lines join, which 
vnW eliminate any crossing of tracks to come 
into the tunnel. Through trains and ex- 
presses will be hauled by double-ended, 3,200 
horse-power electric locomotives, of very 
high speed, with gcarless bipolar motors 
taking oft power from a protected third rail. 
All local trains will be operated on the mul- 
tiple unit sptem, either by third rail or over- 
head trolley. Beginning at Fifty-seventh 
Slreet, the present tunnel widens out and 
also splits to a double level, passing into 
a latter yard, which, however, owing to 
the total absence of steam locomotives, will 
be reclaimed, bridged with streets and par- 



The New Grand Central StaHan 



tially covered with buildings; and the two 
levels of the tunnel enter the new terminal 
by many tracks, the express trains on the 
street level, the locals below it. The locab 
will swing around a giant loop at the south- 
em end of the station and pass rapidly out 
so that trains can be run at great frequency, 
and the beautiful section of Westchester 
County lying up the Hudson and along the 
Sound will be joined to New York by a 
quick, clean, adequate service. The gas- 
eous terrors of the Park Avenue tunnel will 
soon be a thing of the past. The electric 
service will make the railroad a great 
suburban feeder. 



The new Grand Central terminal, de- 
signed by Warren and Welmore and Reed 
and Stem, will, like the Pennsylvania ter- 
minal, suggest but little the traditional rail- 
road station. It will be bounded by Forty- 
second Street, Depew Place, Forty-fifth 
Street and Vanderbilt Avenue. On the 
express floor there will be a huge concourse, 
160x470 feet. The suburban lot)p below 
will take the form of a great circular 
plateau, unbroken save for stairs and ele- 
vators. The building itself will be but one 
story in height, with three almost semi- 
circular arches on the front 60 feet high and a 
150-foot dome over the central waiting room. 



From the Grand Cenlrnl Station (le<trir endues toil! draw all trains as 
/■ir as Stamford, Conn., North While Plains and South Croton, N. Y. 
Trains will enter the new Grand Central Station on Iwa levels 



Showing the SUitiway tunnel under the East River which connects 
Long Island with the Grand Central Station 



This station will be connected not only 
with the present city subway but with the 
Steinway (or Belmont) tunnel to Long 
Island City, which is ah^ady completed. 
The Steinway tunnel runs from the Grand 
Central Station cast under Forty-second 
Street, beneath the East River by twin 
tubes, and emerges in Long Island City, 
where it connects with various surface lines 
of trolley cars. It will thus feed, tho\igh to a 
less extended degree, the same section of 
Long Island as the Long Island Railroad 
suburban system. It has |»layed its ]>art in 
the rise of real estate values in Queen:;. 
Similar to this tunnel is the extension of the 
cily subway from the Battery to Atlantic 
Avenue, Brooklyn, forming a continuous 
underground s\-stem from King's Bridge, 
the length of Manhattan Island, under the 
East River, to Brooklyn. This tunnel, also, 
is a twin lul>e under the river, similar to the 
others in construction. It will greatly facili- 
tate carriage to Brooklyn, and it is hoped 
relieve the present disgusting crueih on the 
old bridge. It should be in operation before 
this article sees the light. 

If we count the existing subway tunnel 
under the Harlem River to the Bronx, Man- 
hattan Island will soon be connected with 
the main land and Long Island, then, by 
eight subaqueous tunnels, or sixteen tubes. 
The through e.xpresscs, as well as the liKals, 
of two of the greatest railroads in the coun- 
356 



try and all the trains of two other systenns 
will come into the heart of the city drawn by 
electricity, underground. Almost $400,- 
000,000 will have been spent not so much to 
bring these trains in as to enable them and 
other suburban carriers to get out — to 
dump the overcrowded population of the 
Island into the surrounding open spaces, 
Long Island, Jersey, the plains above the 
Hudson. And the old city of New York, 
the island bought of the Indians for a legen- 
dary $20 and .sacred to the shade of Father 
Knickerbocker, is threatened with a return, 
not to nature, but none the less to a vrilder- 
ness, a new wilderness of sky-scrapers and 
warehouses, where a home is an anomaly. 
(To be sure, it is almost that now, for can a 
flat ever be called a home?) Some day, 
perhaps, one of us may see a little cloud of 
smoke in a canon slit called a street, and in 
the midst Peter Stuyvcsant himself, stump- 
ing along pulling hard on his pipe. Shall 
we address him or respect the dignity of his 
wonder and ])ass on about our business? 
See, he is rubbing his neck, stiff with the 
exertion of gazing skyward at the fortieth 
story, and he shakes his head uncompre- 
hendingly. Has a degenerate generation 
(hat wears only one pair of breeches at a 
time done all this? Even so, good, gruff 
old Peter — and like you they do not com- 
prehend why! It was their destiny. More 
they cannot answer! 



THE MOL-GOBBIN 

BY MARION HILL 



' ask me what Mol- 
ain means, or how it 
•Jltd, for I don't know; 
'. can tell you what, in 
heim's estimation, it 
latically was. It was 
orenda Swenson. Perhaps 
the times when he found her most Mol- 
Gobbinish were at rehearsal, after he had 
tried for half an hour or more to make her 
repeat a miserable three words or so in any 
tone a shade more tender than the bleat of a 
hungry calf, and had to give it up, despair- 
ing of waking the faintest thrill 
of soul in her beautiful body, 
despairing of invoking a shred 
of brain to help out the love- 
liness of her face, despairing 
of being able to coerce her, 
even from managerial heights, 
into mimicking any experience 
of which her raw youth was as 
yet guiltless. After wearing 
out his trace of Hebrew blood 
which had made his previous 
patience possible, Studheim 
would fly into a good Ameri- 
can passion and roar: 

" Get out of the way, you 
Mol-Gobbinl Borrow a cod- 
fish and study it in its emo- 
tional moments and then come 
back here and act! Get off 
the earthi You make me 
weary!" 

"My Godt, and I dry so 
hardt!" would burst blubber- 
ingly from the lovely Swede, 
down whose perfect face would 
be pouring a wet torrent of 
real tears. 

"You'll 'dry' harder than 
ever now," would be Stud- 
heim's heartless comment, the 
fire in his handsome black 



eyes quite unquenched by the river of her 
contrition. 

"Yess, I will, I will. Dank you, Mr, 
Studheim. Shall I begin it over again for 
you yet?" 

" Somebody take the Mol-Gobbin away," 
he would implore; and one of us would coax 
the tall young girl into the wings, and there 
would pat and pet her back into her usual 
condition of healthy vacuity. During the 
process, she would sob very loudly, cry 
heartily, blow her nose childishly, and then 
emerge from the ordeal as fresh as a rain- 



AAL-y^^ 



258 



THE MOL-GOBBIN 



washed tulip. No amount of grief could 
ever redden the snow-white purity of her 
extraordinary skin, or dim the beauty of her 
sky-blue eyes. 

Nina Leavitt usually came to the final 
rescue. Nina w^as our "juvenile." She 
was forty-seven years old, a grandmother, 
and as dainty and capable a little lady as 
ever danced and sang through a sixteen- 
year old part. 

"Come to my room this afternoon, 
Brenda, and 1*11 put you at it again," she 
would promise. 

" Oh, I dank you. Miss Nina," responded 
the northern goddess, with a grievous sniff 
and sob of reminiscent woe, just like a di- 
verted baby. "And then when night 
comes, I'U do it right ; isn't it ? " With this 
piteous question she would look yearningly 
at us all. When truth is below par, honesty 
is the worst sort of policy. So we would all 
exclaim, in heart chorus: 

"Sure, Brenda!" 

It was worth more fibs than one to see the 
slow sun break over her face. 

When on the stage, though she was mag- 
nificently beautiful as a woman, she was 
more wooden than ever as an actress. Yet 
not one of us wasted a thought to wonder 
why Studheim kept her in his company. 
Brenda, in herself, answered that query. 
There was nothing one-half as lovely on the 
whole English-speaking stage. Even had 
she been deaf, dumb and imbecile, she 
would have been worth twice her salary for 
the mere picture she made. 

Yet, after all, Morris Studheim slaved 
with her, suffered through her, raved over 
her, less for the sake of her present worth 
than from his fervent belief in her potential 
greatness. By inheritance, perhaps, he was 
a dealer in futures, and could not help it. 
The rest of us were not as sanguine; not to 
the limit, that is; though we one and all 
acknowledged that if the awakening fire of 
genius ever touched her, by even so much as 
a stray spark, she'd make her own fortune 
and her manager's in less than no time. 
But we doubted the contingency. Brenda 
was the willing \'ictim of a dope-like con- 
tentment. Bovine does not begin to ex- 
press it, for the reason that bovines rumi- 
nate; and Brenda did not. She was abso- 
lutely unruminant; and therefore enjoyed 
a placidity greater than a cow's. She had 
never "gone" on the stage — ^there was no 
go to her — she had been put there; and there 



she doubtless would stay till some one re- 
moved her, husband or undertaker. She 
had no wants, consequently no incentives; 
she had no ambition, and could not be 
spurred; no vanity, and could not be coaxed. 
She had good nature, good health, good 
appetite and a perfectly flawless beauty of 
face and figure. Why, indeed, should she 
crave more? Perhaps, we were the fools, 
not she. If she lacked intellect, she pos- 
sessed memory — ^the best substitute for in- 
tellect. Without memory, her accent and 
idiomatic vulgarisms would have broken 
through into some of her brief speeches, on 
the stage, and then even her beauty could 
not have saved her from ridicule; but, as it 
was, her unvexed memory enabled her to 
repeat every word, just as it had been drilled 
into her, with the undeviating correctness, 
and monotony, of a phonograph. 

In this connection, it is a queer fact, but a 
fact indeed, that had she been quicker- 
witted she would have been in more danger. 
Quick-witted people are always of the nerv- 
ous temperament, and that temperament 
sometimes takes toll for its usual bounty, by 
ushering an actor on the stage robbed, at the 
instant of his entrance, of every glimmer of 
remembrance of lines as familiar to him as 
his own name — ^the more familiar and the 
oftener repeated, the more apt to go, — ^and 
in that nightmare predicament, there is 
nothing for him to do except to improvise 
wildly until some vestige of a cue bobs up 
like a cork among the wreckage and gives 
the others on the stage something to pi(^ up 
and go on from. 

Yet once Studheim leaned too heavily 
upon the prop of Brenda's stolid memory; 
and his fall was bad. All this time, we 
were playing sunmier stock in Schenectady, 
where Studheim had leased a theater and 
engaged his owti company for the express 
purpose of being able when he liked to intro- 
duce himself to the public in Shakesperean 
rdles. Morris was a good actor of splendid 
gifts, but Shakespeare always went him one 
better than he had.. TJ^e easy-tempered 
public kindly put up with his fortnightly 
tragedies for the sake of the good old melo- 
drama he always gave them the week after. 
Not but that Morris was losing money, 
hand over fist. But he never let us lose; 
our salary never failed to get into the weekly 
envelope, even though Morris's bank account 
grew slim to fill it. That is why we liked 
him immensely and tried to do the best we 



I 



MARION HILL 



could for him. The day after payday, we 
often told him what a fine Hamlet he was. 
That was the only day we could do it, 
though. 

But about Brenda Swenson's slip. We 
were doing Macbeth that week, "doing him 
good and plenty," Nina said; and at the last 
moment Studheim recalled the fact that he 
was short on "apparitions" for the caldron 
scene. Previously, on the road, little Jane 
Duke had done them all, one after the other, 
shooting up through the trap and letting off 
her small speeches as nonchalantly as a 
child. You couldn't scare Jane Duke. 
That is one reason, though, why Morris let 
her go. He liked a reasonable bit of awe 
from his troupe; and the rest of us, we fed it 
to him, but Jane didn't. As a consequence, 
we now lacked Jane and had " apparitions." 
So firenda, with a splash of gore on her 
brow, was given the task of appearing in the 
witch-fire. Studheim hated to trust her 
with a luckless combination like " the Thane 
of Fife," but had to — therefore drilled her 
and gave her intonations, even on the word 
"beware." 

" Like this," he hissed to the stolid Venus, 
trying to magnetize her with his magnificent 
eyes, "'Macbeth, beware! beware! be- 
ware!'" 

"All right," whispered Brenda stoically. 
The performance was under way, and they 
dared not be too vocal. She glanced out to 
the stage in order to fix locations. " I say 
■be where?' and where iss it you will be, 
Mr. Studheim?" 

" Right in front of you, (You cold-storage 
swab — ) And it's beware. It means look 
out, look out, look out — (and God help us 
all if we don't!)" 

" Oh, I dank you, Mr. Studheim, for your 
explaining kindness," murmured Brentk. 

He shot her an alert look, to detect pos- 
sible sarcasm, but of course saw none, be- 
cause there was none. With a tragic suppli- 
cation to the helpful powers above, Morris 
went to his doom. 

For the wabbly passage up the trap, the 
glare of fire, the bloodshot agony in the 
eyes of the tortured Thane, all proved un- 
settling to the "second apparition," who 
gutturally wailed : 

" Ach, look oudt, Macbeth; look oudt two 
dimes, and look oudt some more yet." 

Strange to say, not a word jarred on the 
audience. They really did not get much of 
it, for Macbeth raved with a most quick and 



Forty-seven years old, a grandmother, and 
as dainty and capable a little lady as 
ever danced and sang 

saving sanity, the witches incanted unduly 
but with commendable discretion, and we 
rattled a thing or two in the wings. Then 
we sunk upon props and laughed in whis- 
pers till we ached. 

Brenda took her scoring from Studheim 
with lovely, blonde equability in spite of the 
fact that two torrents of easy tears poured 
down her face. But they dried as soon as 
his back was turned. 

" If look oudt iss beware, it makes small 
matter which," she explained, with one of 
her soft, wide, radiant smiles. She had the 
smile of a boy baby — a sudden, cheerful 
widening of the mouth, with no more co- 
quetry in it than there is in a canned clam. 

We none of us ever got far in our love- 
making with Brenda. We all of us tried it, 



26o 



THE MOL-GOBBIN 



one after another, several times over, 
esi>ecially while traveling — one gets very 
tired on a train — ^and Brenda would help us 
along to the best of her ability, even taking 
pins ostentatiously out of her belts if our 
arms wandered around that way, but she 
did it with such a hearty motherliness that 
we became comfortably discouraged. We 
were all her big brothers, and she plainly 
thought the world of us, singly or bunched. 
So we mostly bunched, and gave it up. 

Not even Morris Studheim's facile credu- 
lity was strong enough to tempt him into 
making siege of her heart, even though one 
of his axioms was that no woman could pos- 
sibly become an acceptable actress until she 
had had an emotional past. When he was 
engaging a leading woman, it was no pasts, 
no contract. He did not go so far as to in- 
sist that these pasts should be regrettable, 
but they generally were, so there you are. 
He also contended that no actor could thrill 
his public unless he were at the moment a 
martvT to an unrequited episode of the soul. 

Just now, he was poetically in thrall to 
Miss Nance Delancey, who played his 
leads; this kept him up to his acting stand- 
ard; but it also kept him away from braving 
a few sentimental skirmishes with Brenda — 
which appealed to the rest of us as a loss. 
The performance would have been great. 

Brenda's beauty extended to her voice, 
which was sweet and penetrating — the 
strain which comes from a full-throated but 
simple reed instrument. It was pure 
melody, yet was without those harmonic 
undercurrents of human passions and mem- 
ories and regrets which give some voices 
terrible power to grip the heart of another 
who hears. Some day, doubtless, Brenda's 
voice would take hold — then — ! well, the 
rest of us, like Studheim, put up with the 
blankly sweet present for the sake of a mag- 
nificent possibility — and hoped we might be. 
there to see, and hear. 

In furtherance of this ultimate belief of 
his^ Studheim expended not only pains, but 
money. He engaged special teachers for 
Brenda and had her taught fencing, singing, 
elocution and, incidentally, English ; and in 
return she obediently fenced, sang, elocuted, 
and improved in English, all with the joy- 
less precision of an admirable bit of mechan- 
ism. To pay for this, Studheim weekly 
parted with a roll of bills big enough to 
choke a horse. 

"She'll make good yet," he would per- 



sist, "and the education will have to come 
first; it's always too late afterwards. When 
they make a hit, they leave off studying." 

That poor bank account of hisi Our 
summer season must have thinned it ter- 
ribly. Business was fair, but did not pay 
expenses, owing for one thing to Studheim's 
penchant for good scenery and costumes. 
Then, too, over in Troy there was a rival 
theater whose manager kept Studheim 
awfully hot. This man, Simeon Kelly by 
name, flattened many a one of Studheim's 
productions, by bringing it out at his own 
theater a week or so ahead of us. Just for 
the jaunt, a lot of our townsfolk who other- 
wise would have been our patrons used to 
go over to Troy on the trolley, to Kelly's 
theater, for a change. Come summer and a 
fine night, p^ple think nothing of going for 
an ice cream soda by way of the moon and 
back. 

Then, in a fit of boredom, Kelly closed his 
theater and dismissed his company. Next, 
he began to pine for excitements, and wished 
he had not. Finally, he became enamored 
of Brenda — at a distance, of course — and 
made overtures to have us finish the season 
in Troy, with him. This would have suited 
Studheim excellently. He invited Kelly to 
a midnight supper on the stage, to talk 
things over. 

"ril come," said Sim Kelly; then, casu- 
ally, " you may seat me next to the girl with 
the hair." 

With some men, it is eyes; with some, 
voice; and with others, hair. Well, Brenda 
had a cataract of it. Had she had tact to 
match — but she had not, and no wonder 
Studheim tried to press a point or two upon 
her. 

He kept away from it till the curtain had 
rung down on the last act and the supper 
was imminent. In evening gown and her 
hair bagged out until the whole comf>any 
could have gone on a straw ride in it, Brenda 
was certainly a dream of a beauty. And 
she was quite ready for the supper, too, for 
she was always hungry. She had the 
ghastly good appetite, not of a glutton, but 
of a healthy, growing girl of unimpeded 
heart action. 

Morris Studheim took her tenderly and 
imploringly by her two hands. 

" Brenda, my darling," he said — the en- 
dearment was his usual style when he was 
made up for a complimentary supper and 
meant nothing more specific — "Brenda, 



MARION HILL 



261 



you can help me a great deal to-night, if you 
will!*' 

"So?" asked Brenda, solemnly im- 
pressed. Let any one who considers her 
monosyllable a vulgar one, hear Brenda and 
change his mind. The word slipped from 
her in really flute-like sweetness. 

"Yes, angel; this whole supper revolves 
around you. Sim is coming for the sole 
purpose of being seated beside you." 

"My Godt, what next?" she said, with 
phlegmatic resignation. 

"Heaps next, star of my life," he said 
patiently, " and if you were anything but a 
Scandinavian mooncalf with a frost on, you 
would not oblige me to go into detail. 
Briefly, I want you to be nice to him." 

"Sure!" was her hearty assent; then, 
docilely, " but how, what ? " 

"Oh, he'll drink your health," rather 
roared Studheim, " and you must like it." 

"All right; I like it," stoically agreed 
Brenda. 

" And when he says sweet things to you, 
say sweet things back; if you can't, why, cut 
off a smile and hand it out to him." 

" m cut off a smile," she chose, immov- 
ably. 

" Perhaps, he'll want to hold your hand, a 
little," said Studheim, becoming interested 
in his lines. 

Brenda here pondered. 

"Then do I sock him one?" she asked 
thoughtfully. 

"Not on your life," begged Studheim. 
"That's just the point." 

Brenda broke into an irresistibly delicious 
smile as light glimmered on her cloudy 
horizon. 

" I see," she said. " It is business that he 
holds my hands, just as you do now." 

"Yes," said Studheim, dropping them. 
" Make Sim think he's the ham in the sand- 
wich." 

The mention of sandwich brought so 
famished a look into her face that Studheim 
considerately led the way to the supper 
table. A closed scene shut out the draughts 
and conserved the lights, so that we were 
both brilliant and comfortable, while a 
score of willing stage hands sped around on 
rubber-tired roller skates, metaphorically, 
to keep us in supply. Morris was at one 
end, Sim at the other, with Nance Delancey 
and Brenda at place of honor on either 
hand. Anybody but a Mol-Gobbin would 
have been flightily conscious of distinction. 



but with Brenda, the nearer the loaf, the 
worthier the seat, and she merely ate with 
methodical placidity. Heroically obedient 
to instruction, however, she from time to 
time let loose a smile upon her admirer, 
immediately returning to her plate, though, 
the while he swam in his rapture. The rest 
of us, lesser beings, with Nina in our midst 
to keep us from dying of neglect, were 
spread at the board between the star per- 
formers in the comedy and got more out of 
the meal than food. 

The conversation, general at first, was 
wittily funny, but esoterically so, confining 
itself mostly to professional experiences, to 
p,pt distortions of lines from plays and good- 
natured raillery of players. Later, Nance 
and Morris withdrew their voices from the 
babel, and took a kind of a love route of 
their own, conversing in a hushed, Sunset 
Limited style — up upon a mesa-land of 
clouds and moonshine, coming to deep 
places and taking their trestles with com- 
mendable celerity, swooping down, into 
canons of Intimate Comprehension, then up 
again on the rim of things — very entertain- 
ing, what we got of it, but strictly private, or 
should have been. Sim Kelly tried very 
hard to follow their lead with his own divin- 
ity, and was growing pallid with non-suc- 
cess. 

Not that he was discouraged. He, as did 
her audiences, conceived Brenda capable of 
just as much emotion as he desired of her. 
To the thoughtful, she was full of thought; 
to the lover, she was full of love; to the re- 
served, she epitomized reserve; to the spirit- 
ual, she radiated spirit; while, for a fact, she 
was merely healthily empty. 

"And are you trying to be cruel to me ? " 
mourned Kelly, finally. 

"No, no!" cried Brenda, thrilled into 
responsiveness. Cruel? Certainly not — 
with her salary depending otherwise. 

Under the encouragement, he drew closer 
and gazed with good, honest adoration at 
the changeless marvel of her face. 

" I wonder if you know how beautiful ypu 
are," he ventured. 

"My Godt, I hope so," said Brenda 
faintly, not wishing to be lacking at any re- 
quired point. 

This doubled him up. He took it for 
wit; and Morris flashed to Brenda a beam of 
approval and incitement. So Brenda felt 
that she had earned another sandwich, and 
took it. 



' Vai 



f the hai 



Sim Kelly began to whisper very beauti- 
ful things into her ear, and, because his 
nearness was distasteful to her, she cast a 
glance of annoyed inquiry at her manager. 
Under gesture of gaiety, Morris invited her 
to stand it a while longer. She remem- 
bered his gastronomic simile, and put it into 
action. Taking her sandwich from her 
mouth, she said to Sim briefly: 

"You are the ham." 

This finished him and he kissed her. 
Understand, there was not one of us who 
blamed him, or who would have acted a 
shade differently under the provocation of 
that soft young cheek of velvet and cream. 
Nor did we blame her reception of it. Had 
she done less than she did, she would have 
been less of a whole-souled, affectionate 
creature than she was. Unhastily putting 
down her remains of sandwich, and straight- 
ening out her big beautiful palm, she slapped 
Mr. Kelly with a magnificent resonance. 

"And if you do that once more yet, 
I'll sock you another already," she said 
evenly, in her voice of music. 

In the middle of broken speech, the rest 
of us sat stiff with apprehension. But 
Kelly, who was a big man, fat and fair in 
more ways than one, solved the situation by 
going off into a howl of comprehending 
laughter. He made apology to Brenda, and 
soon glasses were up and we were drinking 
healths to each other. 

"And, now, Morris, talk business," said 

Kelly. The supper was over, and we left 

them there to their dates and figures; and 

262 



the result of the talk was that we crossed 
over to Troy in two weeks' time and opened 
to the best houses of the season. 

Now, with one manager in love with her 
future, and the other in love with her beauty, 
and both striving valiantly to lift her to suc- 
cess, any other but Brenda Swenson could 
have had the time of her life. True, she 
expressed approbation of the new move, 
but solely because the theater happened to 
be on the same block with a delicatessen 
store, the keeper of which, a sallow and sor- 
rowful youth named Otto, who had groveled 
at her feet in Schenectady and brought 
tribute of Wienerwurst, but only once a week 
when he could get away, was now able to 
feed her nightly and yet not neglect his busi- 
ness. He gave her stuff enough for all of 
us, and we got it. 

"Keep him for a Steady, Brenda," we 
encouraged with full mouths. "He's the 
best ever." 

" You think that ? " she derided. " Why, 
the face of him is like " 

" Like the pale sweet moon," threw in 
one. 

"Like an apple of gold in meshes of sil- 
ver," threw in another. 

" Like a star-lit pool," cooed a third. 

"So?" murmured Brenda, weakened by 
our praise. "I was near to saying it dif- 
ferent; I was near to say 'like a squash pie 
with a poor cook on.' " 

" That'll do, too," we acceded thought- 
fully. 

"Are the chumps worr>ing you, Miss 



MARION HILL 



263 



Swenson ? " asked Kelly, coming up. " Say 
the word and they'll get the hook." And 
he drew her away to talk over a great part 
he was going to give her. 

He was a queer chap, and lovable, though 
inclined to be a dictatorial manager, to men; 
the women, if they were nice and had hair 
enough, could twist him around their fin- 
gers. He would make love, too, by the 
double handful, though happily and con- 
tentedly married. He used to carry around 
with him beautiful pictures of his wife and 
children, and was fond of displaying them, 
particularly when about to begin a new 
courtship. He hung them out like red- 
lights, to show that the track was not clear; 
then would put on full steam and make all 
the time he dared. He was a bully, and a 
bluffer and a four-flusher, but he was so 
honestly straightforward about it that you 
found yourself as interested in the game as 
he was, and quite as pleased when he made 
good. He had a condensed moral code, 
too, which he displayed as often as the pic- 
tures, and as inoperatively. 

With his eyes as clear as day, and his head 
held proudly, he would say emotionally and 
sincerely: 

" You'll never find Sim putting on frills or 
getting gay with himself or his friends. 
That's my text: * Don't put on frills or get 
gay with yourself or your friends. ' " 

It had a noble sound, but it had also a 
commendable width of boundary. One 
could fly that motto from a pirate masthead 
and still conscientiously scuttle everything 
on the seas. Yet it had a certain force, 
after all, for whenever Sim frilled and got 
gay, and, by so doing, interested a township, 
you remembered his honest-eyed assurance 
and had forgiving doubts. And his inter- 
ested belief in Brenda's possibilities was as 
loyal as Studheim's. 

Together they took a tremendous risk in 
the new play and cast her for an important 
part. Not that it was long, for it was very 
short, but the greatest interest of the story 
centered around it, and it held out an oppor- 
tunity to make a real hit, which minor roles 
seldom do. 

The part was Vesta, in the good old West- 
em melodrama of "Eldorado Pete," and 
portrayed the character of an unsophisti- 
cated girl unconsciously in love with the 
gentlemanly villain who has no scruples 
about playing upon that sentiment to secure 
his own freedom when in a tight place. Eldo- 



rado Pete fans the fancy to a flame, escapes 
by her aid, and leaves her — forever, as the 
audience knows — at the moment when she 
awakens to comprehension of the fact that 
she loves. 

During rehearsals, all went well up to the 
point where Vesta makes her psychological 
discovery. Brenda's icicled unemotion was 
no bar to the progress of the situation, easily 
passing for maidenly aloofness, and, in- 
deed, adding a charm to the characteriza- 
tion; but, for the one brief moment when she 
held the stage alone, and was to show by 
action rather than speech that she realized 
her love for the unprincipled Pete, it was 
fatally unfit. Despairingly, Studheim and 
Kelly worked over her by turns, the one 
lithe and passionate as a black puma, his 
eyes flashing, his face intense; the other, 
patient and buU-like, relying on weight 
rather than agility; and between them, the 
unmoved, tractably inclined snow-goddess 
who rather pitied them for their wasteful 
persistence. 

"Brenda, try to follow me," implored 
Studheim for the thousandth time. " Here's 
the scene. You are in your own room 
alone." 

" I am." 

" You have had Pete concealed there, to 
save him, and, though you know he is 
worthless, you have just aided him to 
escape." 

"I have." 

" You are a good girl " 

" Am I ? " Brenda cheered under the rare 
tribute of praise. 

"In the play! in the play! — you are a 
good girl " 

" I am." 

"And you are greatly worried to know 
why you should have cheated the law out of 
its just victim." 

" I am greatly worried." 

" You can't understand it." 

" I can't." That was true, anyhow. 

" You turn to the glass — it is night, per- 
haps you are going to let down your hair, or 
something like that — and you see your face." 

" I see my face." 

" In it, you read the terrible secret." 

"I read the terrible secret." 

"You see that you love him, hopelessly. 
You can't stand it." 

" I can't stand it. Why can't I ? " 

" Hold your tongue and listen. You say, 
*What is this that has come to me?' then 



264 



THE MOL-GOBBIN 



you hide your face in your hands — it is a 
passionate gesture of betrayal, of protection 
and of anguish. Then the curtain." 

"Then the curtain." Her relief at the 
curtain was patent. 

"Now try it." 

After a methodical, unabashed stare at an 
imaginary mirror, a few impersonal glances 
toward the fly-heaven, Brenda hissingly 
took in air for her great speech and in the 
melodious tones of "Bread, please" said: 

"What is this that has come to me?" 
Then she acted as if it were soap that had 
come, lathered her hands in it once or 
twice, and plastered them to her face, pre- 
paratory to a wash. 

" Gum ! " mourned Kelly. It was awful. 

As for the high-strung Morris, he really 
was in pain. His olive face went white. 

"Dare we risk it?" he asked dazedly of 
Kelly. 

This latter had an inspiration. 

"Cut out the hand-act," he said. "Let 
her take the things out of her hair and hide 
her face in that, when it comes down." 

We all saw the picture and approved. If 
Brenda was short on soul, she was long on 
hair; and why lead from a short suit? 
Moreover, an audience is always wakeful 
over the heroine's toilette. Morris was too 
refined an artist to countenance anything in 
the way of hosiery or lace skirts, but this hair 
business could not possibly outrage his sen- 
sibilities, so he consented. 

" Try it," he briefly ordered her. 

Round-eyed but obedient, she began to 
take out hairpins. There seemed to be 
seventy million of them and they com- 
menced to bulge out in her hand like a 
sausage. Then Nina Leavitt interfered and 
skewered Brenda's tresses temporarily with 
four small daggers, showing her how to pull 
them swiftly from her head all at once. 
Brenda copied faithfully, except in the 
swiftness — ^being slower than the second ad- 
vent — ^but at any rate the hair came down. 
It was great. That much hair in a store 
window on a hook instead of a head would 
have drawn a crowd anywhere. As she 
pulled the skewers, it fell, a slowly writh- 
ing live thing, flrst in a tight bundle to 
her shoulders, next, in an immense knot- 
ted coil to her waist, and finally dropped 
sheer to the hem of her dress, shivered out 
into a veil and spread around her in a 
moon-mist. 

"Ah!" we all breathed devotionally. 



"That'll do," said Morris, with sadness. 
He hated to take hair for soul. 

It saved his scene, however; for he was 
Pete. Sim Kelly had plainly hankered for 
the part, but his business thrift caused him 
to relinquish it. Sim acted — a little — be- 
longing to the good-to-his-mother class, 
that filial trait being always mentioned as a 
counterbalancing virtue for slack ability in 
histrionics. His loud voice and large frame 
fitted him only for Romans, uncles, clergy- 
men and brigands. He considerately left 
himself out of this play. 

Well, we rehearsed it to a finish and put 
it on. It went with shouts, being made i^) 
of splendid scenery, lots of incidents, a few 
shots, a little blood, heaps of thrills and 
bushel baskets full of high<lass gallery- 
morality. About the best that can be said 
of Brenda is that she did not ruin the per- 
formance; and when the curtain rang down 
on her scene, she got a limp hand. That 
is, her hair got it. The hair certainly was 
glorious when the spot-light moon lit it up. 
As for the part, Brenda simply killed it and 
put it on ice for the winter. 

" Oh, if I could have had it! " cried Nina 
once, in her first and only betrayal of envy. 
In spite of her good years and her three- 
months-old grandson, she, and we, knew 
that she could have made the part stick out 
till it reached the audience. 

The play ran three weeks— quite a feat 
for summer stock. Then, on the last night 
of the last week, the miracle happened and 
Brenda rose to her own. 

The first intimation of it came to us, even 
to those under the stage and in our dressing 
rooms, through the medium of her voice. 
It had a new, compelling quality, and grap- 
pled. It flew out suddenly like a lash and 
touched everywhere. It mastered the audi- 
ence, too, as we could well tell from the 
responsive purr-r that came from them 
when a line told. The voice had a trium- 
phant message which said: "As long as I 
choose to speak, so long will you have to 
listen." It was mercilessly sweet. "Who 
k it?" we asked startled, even though we 
knew it to be Brenda. And, " What is it ? " 
was our next question, though we excitedly 
knew that, too. No girl of eighteen could 
so grip older hearts, with mere voice, unless 
Genius had unlocked for her the past as 
well as the future and given her the impos- 
sible wealth which her own years were too 
few to have furnished. 



MARION HILL 



265 



Soon, bits of applause rippled out where 
they had never before sounded. That 
irregularity completely uDsetlled us and 
made us nervously ignorant as to the points 
of the play's progression. As a rule, you 
can stay down under the stage and tell ex- 
actly how near to or far from your cue you 
may happen to be, from the mere murmur 
of those in front. Every audience averages 
pretty much the same, laughing at the same 
thing, whistling at the same thing, or roar- 
ing, or howling, or clapping, or being 
deathly silent — all at the same thing; and, 
as I said before, they keep you posted as to 
your own cue. For you are always down 



below, and never at the wings watching the 
scene. You don't really care a hang about 
the part of the play that you are not in. Of 
course you never say that the light leaves 
the stage when you do, but you know it is 
so, and you seek your dressing room rather 
than loll around. Half the time, you hardly 
know what the play is about except for your 
own share in its action. 

To-night, however, the innovated sounds 
made us restless and drew us upstairs. The 
sight of Brenda on the stage rendered us 
spell-bound. We saw at once that she had 
come into complete realization of her really 
terrible beauty and was using every separate 



Brenda got a curtain call whUh brought her out three timet 



266 



THE MOL-GOBBIN 



charm as a weapon of attack. Whether she 
spoke or was silent, moved or stood, she 
glowed with an alluringly arrogant magne- 
tism. Every fiber of her flung this gage: 
" I am young, I am a woman, I am beauti- 
ful, and because I am these three things the 
world is mine and I shall take what I want 
from it." She dominated. She was the 
play. We were in thrall to her, wholly in 
love, wholly fearful. What might not she 
choose to do? And what secret was hers? 

Sim Kelly had 
his theory. 

"Gum! She's 
got us buffalo-d 
and knows it," 
he murmured 
hoarsely, watch- 
ing her as help- 
lessly as we. 

As for Morris, 
he was plainly 
niad with excite- 
ment. On the 
stage with her all 
the time, he rose 
unerringly to ev- 
ery demand her 
art made of him 
and together they 
transmuted their 
cheaply melo- 
dramatic scene to 
wonderful trag- 
edy. 

When he came 
off, he positively 
had to cling to a 
drop to keep him- 
self on his feet 
while he watched his prot^gde finish the act. 
And Vesta in her moment of self-revealment 
was divine. The whole exquisite scale of a 
girl's first love sang in her beautifully plain- 
tive voice, and its raptured and changing 
phases shone over her wonderful face. Then 
when her furtive and afraid glimpse into the 
mirror confirmed the story of her heart, 
Brenda's plunge into shy shame was pathet- 
ically effective. As the glory of her amber 
veil shivered aroimd her, she hid her face 
with a clear little cry that made an awful 
inroad upon the heart and told everything 
of love's pain. 

When the curtain fell, the house rose at 
her. If the American public enthuses over 
one combination more than another, it is 



Sallow anil sorrowful delUaUssen Otto 



the combination of youth and pluck and 
beauty. Here was genius, too. So Brenda 
got a curtain call which brought her out 
three times. 

While it all happened, Studheim bowed 
his head upon the scene and broke into 
nervous, noisy tears, like an old woman. 
We knew just how he felt and honored 
him for it. 

As she came finally back, and the orches- 
tra broke blithely into coon son^, Studheim 
—__. .. literally hung 

himself around 
her neck and 
flung his glad 
arms about her. 

"I knew you 
could do it," he 
gasped. Every- 
thing he said, he 
repeated eight 
limes or more. 
" I knew it. You 
are wonderful. 
You are the 
greatest actress in 
the world, just as 
you are the most 
beautiful. I shall 
take you to New 
York. YoushaU 
have your own 
theater — your 
own plays. You 
shall be the talk 
of Broadway. 
You shall storm 
England. And 
Australia. We 
shall coin gold. 
It means work, Brenda, but, what is work 
to the reward? This night is the happiest 
of my life, Brenda, you dearest of angels." 
With gentle simplicity, she detached his 
embraces and hung him back against the 
wall. It was quite as if she were detaching 
a pet octopus whose tentacles were unwel- 
come merely because wet. While he had 
been telling of her future glories, particu- 
larly at his mention of work, her lovely face 
had clouded with a hint of fear, but her new 
foun-^ confidence suddenly restored her to 
equa.i^mity, and she smiled aside all his 
prophecies. She spoke resolutely, but in 
mysteries. 
" Mr. Studheim, my man is in front." 
"Your man? Your men, you mean," 



THE PASSING OF THE PAY CAR 



267 



corrected Studheim. "They are all yours. 
The town is yours." 

"No; my ma»," persisted Brenda, be- 
coming bashful. "He says the stage is a 
worse place for me. He says, 'Come off.' 
So I am coming off as soon as maybe yet, 
which is to-night." 

"Whatman?" 

" The man I married me over to." 



"No, Brenda!" 

" Yass. IVe married me over to Otto — of 
the delicatessen shop. He tells me, 'Come 
off.'" 

She looked down upon us with radiant 
superiority, concluding: 

"And / don't have to act, nefer no more." 

"Mol-GobbinI" hurled Studheim, and 
the epithet was a sob. 



THE PASSING OF THE PAY CAR 

BY C. F. CARTER 



'J^^l^^C^ 



h^^^l 






[AILROADING isn't any 
fun any more. Sordid 
commercial folk in Wall 
Street, with never an idea 
in their noggins but to in- 
vest money and make it 
pay dividends, have im- 
proved all the romance out of life on the 
rails. 

They have reduced grades and straight- 
ened kinks and eliminated low joints and 
high centers and wooden culverts and crazy 
bridges until a ride over the division is about 
as thrilling as walking to church. 

Air brakes have so thoroughly crowded 
out the good old Armstrong kind that a 
brakeman has no use for skill or judgment 
or muscle or even a vocabulary in stopping 
a train. The engineer does all that is neces- 
sary with a slight twist of the wrist. 

As for making a coupling, a brakeman no 
longer mines in the cinders on the back of 
the tank until he digs up a rusty old link and 
a couple of pins and, taking these in one 
hand and his life in the other, sprints down 
the center of an unballasted track and over 
unprotected frogs and guard rails six inches 
ahead of a string of cars rolling back at the 
rate of fifteen miles an hour. No; in these 
days of slavish adherence to M. C. B. 
standards he just stands around smoking 
cigarettes with an air of ennui and lets the 
cars couple themselves. 

No more does he fracture the handle of 
the fireman's coal hammer and his own 
peace of mind in vain endeavors to pound a 
stub switch open after a grilling summer 
sun has expanded the rails until they are 



stuck as tight as if they were welded. A 
fellow in a dog house on a pole away off 
yonder, by manipulating a few dainty 
levers, throws the switches for him. 

They have replaced the litde old eight- 
wheel engines, with their ear-splitting, stac- 
cato bark, with compound steel mountains, 
with cylinders like hogsheads and nozzles 
so big that the exhaust is gentle as a lover's 
whispered nothings, for no better reason 
than a desire to keep coal consumption 
down. No more can the engineer and fire- 
man have a nice sociable quarrel in the cab 
whenever either's hair pulls a litde, for now 
they are so widely separated they only see 
each other on Sundays. 

Trains, instead of being made up of a 
dozen or so of pill boxes, now consist of a 
string of warehouses on wheels so long that 
when the front end is arriving at its destina- 
tion the hind end is just pulling out at the 
other end of the division. 

No more do engineer and conductor, 
watches in hand, make nice calculations on 
the time they can steal to make a meeting 
point that has a siding long enough to avert 
the necessity of sawing past. Roads are 
double-tracked and four-tracked and block- 
signaled till all a man has to do is to trundle 
along from block to block until his run is 
ended and repeat the process until he is 
retired on a pension. 

Ah, no! Railroading isn't what it used to 
be. But if those Wall Street money grubbers 
had only left us the Pay Car all else could 
have been forgiven. 

Do you remember how, in the good old 
days, the decrepit jokes about what was to 



268 



THE PASSING OF THE PAY CAR 



be done when the Pay Car came were taken 
out of the moth balls along about the tenth 
of the month and dusted off and put through 
their paces ? 

How, toward the fifteenth, a feeling of 
sprightliness gradually stole over every one 
from the wipers in the round house to the 
lucky dogs who had passenger runs ? 

How this exuberance swelled in volume 
as the forte pedal was put on in anticipation, 
until toward the eighteenth everybody went 
about with a broad grin and nerves all 
a-tingle like you feel when the orchestra is 
playing the creepy music to accompany the 
villain's midnight assault with intent to 
kill? 

How, still later, everybody drifted down 
to the depot about four times a day to ask 
the station agent if he had heard anything 
about the Pay Car, until he grew as crabbed 
as a setting hen ? 

How, about the twenty-second, the waiter 
girls at the Depot Hotel would give you a 
saucy wink and bring you a great, juicy, 
melting, extra special wedge of pie you 
didn't order, for dessert, along with the ice 
cream and nuts and raisins and fruit and 
pudding and shortcake you did order? 
Those girls knew how to work a fellow for 
tips about pay day, didn't they ? 

At last, one day as you were letting 'em 
down the hill into the junction, the operator 
pulled his train order signal on you. Your 
heart leaped into your throat because you 
knew 

Well, you just felt it in your bones. 

You went down the side of the car without 
knowing how you did it and sprinted for the 
switch to head 'em in on the passing track, 
and then flew to the station on winged feet, 
leaving the engineer to hold 'em with the 
driver brakes or let 'em run out at the lower 
end as he chose. And the grumpy old cur- 
mudgeon stopped 'em beautifully, without 
so much as saying "boo," when on any 
other occasion he would have unloosed a 
torrent of vituperation that would have set 
the ties on fire, and would have followed it 
up by heaving a monkey-wrench at you if 
you had been in range. 

There behind the counter was the Old 
Man looking over the shoulder of the 
operator, who was spelling out the order 
without breaking oftener than every second 
word: 

"Train No. 7, Conductor Flatwheel, 
Engineer Poundem, will meet Pay Car spe- 



cial. Conductor Linkenpin, Engineer Mo- 
riarty, at Emerson." 

Such an air of nonchalance as Old Man 
Flatwheel did assume as he turned away to 
discuss with the hind man the advisability 
of making a switch of that through car of 
com next the engine to get it behind the 
way cars so we wouldn't be bothered with it 
at Lyons in doing our work on those heavy 
grades, and affected to forget that he was 
getting orders until the operator called him 
over to sign them. He was so slow about 
his signature that before the dispatcher's 
O.K. was received you looked out of the big 
bay window and saw the section gang 
which was working just beyond the Y 
throw down their shovels and run down the 
track like a herd of stampeded steers. 

There, just coming around the curve, 
was a glittering vision of brass and varnish 
half hidden in a nimbus of smoke and dust. 
Two short blasts on a whistle greeted the 
gang, the vision hesitated for a minute, 
while the section men disappeared in the 
nimbus and reappeared as suddenly as if 
they had been shot out of a gun, and here 
came the vision gliding up to the platform 
with bell ringing and pop valve sputtering 
soUo voce, like a young lady trying to sup- 
press a ticklish cough. 

It was the Pay Car. 

At this point you lost consciousness. 

Some time later, while still as* one in a 
dream, you realized that your numbed 
senses, beginning at the pilot, had taken in 
every detail of this romantic visitation of 
opulence. 

Never was there such an engine as the one 
which pulled the Pay Car. At each joint in 
her jacket was a band of brass four inches 
wide. Dome, sand box, steam chests and 
cylinders were encased in brass, polished 
until you could have seen to shave in it. 
Her front end and her dainty straight stack 
were rubbed with plumbago until they shone 
like a small boy's heel. All her bright 
work was smooth and spotless and glitter- 
ing, while all the rest of her surface was 
striped and curlicued with all the colors the 
general shops could mix. 

Moriarty, the lucky runner of this paragon, 
in a clean checked jumper left open at the 
neck to show a gorgeous red tie in which a 
diamond glittered, a hard boiled cady cocked 
jauntily over his left ear, was lolling out of 
the cab window in such a way that all the 
world might see that he wore kid gloves 



C. F. CARTER 



269 



while on his engine. Moriarty was some- 
thing of a swell and he didn't care who 
knew it. 

His only rival in sartorial ^ulgence was 
Pete Swanson, his Swede fireman, who was 
leaning out of his cab window with a stony 
glare fixed on vacancy, affecting to watch for 
signals. Of coiirse he knew that all the 
signals which concerned him would be 
given with the bell cord; but his zealous 
attention to duty relieved him of the neces- 
sity of recognizing his humbler fellow 
mortals. 

No plebeian overclothes eclipsed Pete's 
glory. There was the square-cut black coat 
that no one but a railroad man ever wore — 
you know the kind — a. vest of fancy red 
cloth, trousers with stripes that you could 
hear ten car-lengths away, square-toed 
shoes with soles half an inch thick, and a 
stiff-bosomed shirt with red and white 
stripes. On this foundation reposed a black 
satin puff tie held together by a locomotive 
done in gold. On his head at a rakish angle 
was one of those soft hats of the peculiar 
block affected exclusively by railroad men a 
score of years ago. No, you didn't need to 
read the tag to discover that Pete was a 
railroad man. 

Coupled to the engine was a wheeled 
palace built on graceful lines in freshly 
varnished yellow paint which rivaled the 
brass work on the engine in brilliance. The 
plate-glass windows were curtained with 
bright-hued brocade. Not a speck nor a 
flaw was to be seen. Even the yellow wheels 
bore only so much dust as had been gath- 
ered on the day's run. Through an open 
window came fragrant odors, while in the 
background a white jacket surmounted by 
a black face vibrated at intervals. 

All this time Old Man Flatwheel was 
heading a little procession bound toward the 
rear platform of the Pay Car at a gait 
which he assumed but once a month. Flat- 
wheel had conscientious scruples against 
imdue exertion, so he always had the 
caboose stopped at the station platform so 
that without dissipating his energies he 
could saunter in to gas with the agent 
until the hind man announced that the work 
was all done and that we were ready to go. 
Then he would get his orders or a clearance 
and tell the hind man to give 'em the sign 
and saunter back to the caboose before they 
got to rolling. But to have seen the anima- 
tion with which he swung himself aboard 



the Pay Car would have created the im- 
pression that he was the only working rail- 
road man on the division. 

At his side stalked Panhandle Dan, the 
engineer, his face actually wreathed in 
smiles. Panhandle Dan had a chronic 
grouch from 12:01 a.m. January x to 11:59 
p.m. December 31, except for tluree minutes 
once a month. On the way to the Pay Car 
he always perked up a bit and was even 
known to crack a joke with Old Man 
Flatwheel. 

After these two came the hind man talk- 
ing incessantly with the fireman. Charley 
always was talking that way. He had an 
automatic tongue which never ran down. 
Half the time he didn't know he was talk- 
ing. His was what the doctors would diag- 
nose as a refiex conversation. 

Frank, the fireman, was the only sober 
one. He, poor fellow, was doing sums in 
mental arithmetic, trying to figure out how 
on earth $58.60 could be made to pay all 
necessary bills for a helpless father and 
mother, a wife and four kids, besides board 
bills for a man who was obliged to be away 
from home half the time. 

Then there was the operator, in shirt 
sleeves and careworn air, hoping he could 
get back to his key before the dispatcher 
lost his temper; the agent, placidly smiling; 
and the two coal heavers from the coal sh^ 
with an expression of almost human intelli- 
gence struggling up through numberless 
strata of grime and whiskers. After thirty 
days of humping over a scoop shovel in a 
choking smother of dust they were now 
about to be recompensed with thirty seconds 
of bliss in which they could fondle real 
money with their own hands. After that 
the storekeeper would do the fondling and 
fed bad because there wasn't more. 

You had presence of mind enough to float 
into the Pay Car in the wake of the others. 
There were nine in the little party and you 
knew by experience that the average time 
required to pay nine men was sixty seconds; 
also that Moriarty would have 'em rolling 
before the last man had scooped his allotted 
coin into his trembling palm. 

But in the presence of death or the pay- 
master one may live an eternity in sixty 
seconds. How glad you were that you had 
not been rude and rushed in ahead of any- 
body, even the coal heavers I Now your 
hungry soul could have the uttermost 
second in which to revel in 



270 



THE PASSING OF THE PAY CAR 



Great Mackerel ! Just look at it ! 

A metal coin rack crammed to the muzzle 
with three denominations of yellow boys, 
flanked with silver, and on the desk behind 
it a very large wooden tray on which were 
long columns of yellow coins. D'ye ever 
see anything so pretty in all your life ? No 
wonder your eyes stuck out until you could 
have used 'em for hat pegs: 

And all the time an exquisitely musical 
" tinkle, tinkle, clink-clink " welled up from 
coin rack and coimter in response to the 
calls of the assistant paymaster. Talk about 
Beethoven's symphonies! 

If it were not for that strong wire screen 
you could have touched that fascinating 
tray. For the infinitesimal fraction of a 
second a wicked thought flitted through 
your brain. Then you almost fainted as 
your roving eye stared down the barrel of a 
monstrous revolver. It was only in a rack, 
but it was within easy reach of the pay- 
master's hand and most eloquent for all that. 
Half a dozen of its fellows lay in the 
handiest places, with as many Winchesters 
lying on tables and settees, came in strong 
on the chorus. 

Hurriedly your vagrant wits busied them- 
selves with all the Sunday-school lessons you 
had ever learned. As your subconscious- 
ness perceived that the head of the road's 
secret service department stood on the plat- 
form with his eyes intent on every man in 
the car at once, while Conductor Linkenpin 
stood on the ground outside very much 
alert, with his coat tail bulging suggestively, 
your bosom swelled with pride over the 
watchful care the company had exercised to 
bring its honest toilers their hard-earned 
money. 

From the lithograph of Caroline Miskel 
Hoyt on the wall to the little hollows in the 



hard mahogany counter worn out by the 
attrition of the hundred and twenty-eight 
million dollars in wages the paymaster fakd 
plunked down on that spot since this first 
Pay Car ever built had been commissioned, 
you kept on absorbing details imtil your 
name was called. 

A still greater rush of blood to your head 
caused you to gulp violently. Mechanically 
you lifted your hand to touch the pen as the 
others had done, and turned to go. 

" Here ! Come back and get your 
money." 

When you came out of your trance you 
were standing in the middle of the track, 
your eyes wandering from some yellow 
objects in your hand to a nimbus of smoke 
and dust which was just tipping over the hill 
to the accompaniment of the diminuendo 
flutter of Moriarty's exhaust. 

But now ! 

Oh, well! After you have washed up on a 
certain day in each month you trudge 
drearily down to the station all alone, walk 
in, and lolling on the counter, affect to look 
indifferent and say: 

"Hello, John!" 

And the agent, after going over a column 
of figures three times, replies, " Hello, Bill," 
and gets up and goes to the safe and fumbles 
over some papers and hands you 

A check ! 

No jokes, no infectious sprightliness, no 
uncertainty to put a wire edge on anticipa- 
tion, no fleeting vision of brass and varnish 
and opulence wreathed in a halo of romance 
to leave a golden taste in your mouth for a 
day, nothing but a measly old check handed 
over a commonplace coimter by a man who 
lives next door to you. 

Why couldn't they have left us the Pay 
Car? 



THE BONDS OF FREEDOM 



BY EDITH BARNARD 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELLA S. TIEL 




IN the child died, Mar- 
garet West felt that there 
was nothing more to hold 
her. Many a time had she 
told herself that, as all of 
life centered in her child, 
so must she live for his 
sake; but now that he was gone she was 
free — ^free as she had never been before, free 
as not even in her o^re-free girlhood she had 
been free. Alwa)rs until this hour there had 
been the future to bind her, that future for 
which she must dream, plan, work, wait. 
Now there was no future, she denied any 
claims of the past, and she was free. 

She bound herself by her debt to her 
child, but to the child's father she acknowl- 
edged none. The child was hers, her flesh 
and blood; its helpless life was a part of her 
own; she was responsible for it. Was she 
responsible for Philip ? Ah, how immensely 
Philip was responsible for her! Did his debt 
to her create one from her to him? She 
denied it with bitterness of soul. 

Arising from beside the narrow crib 
where the child had died, she drew the sheet 
over his little twisted limbs and narrow 
chest, and went to the window. Day was 
coming; the light in the eastern sky was 
reflected in the puddles of water left on the 
sodden fields and muddy road by the rain of 
the preceding days. There was promise of 
sunshine, promise of spring; and she was 
free! 

She must awaken Philip and tell him. 
He was the child's father. And as she told 
herself that, her thoughts went back, back 
into the years before their marriage, when 
he had been her lover. Ah, how she had 
loved him and believed in him! What pride 
had been hers, what faith! All had seemed 
justified, for in the little college town Philip, 
even as an undergraduate, had been a domi- 
nant figure. Brilliant in his work, himself 
strong and beautiful, a leader and favorite 
among his fellows, there was no hesitation 



in the girl's heart, nor in the minds of her 
parents, when Philip chose her. She be- 
came his as readily as all the other good 
things of his young life had fallen to him, 
and they did not delay their marriage 
because of his father's bankruptcy and 
death. They felt, in their young faith and 
love, that they could bear each other's bur- 
dens if together, and the assistant instructor- 
ship which was offered to Philip on his 
graduation would keep them alive. The 
world was full of promise; together they 
would realize its fulfillment. 

For a while, indeed, it seemed as if their 
youthful. hopes were to be justified. Philip 
gained a step or two in his profession, wrote 
a few clever articles which were copied in 
other college papers, and felt that he was 
becoming known. To Margaret came one 
of those changes of great development that 
marriage sometimes brings to women. She 
possessed that wonderful quality which has 
been the supreme gift of all the famous 
women of the world — the power of attrac- 
tion, of drawing around her people more 
brilliant than herself, and making the house 
which held her a home for the intellectual 
life of the place; and with it all she had the 
grace and wit to be its inspiration. Philip 
was the foremost of her admirers, although 
he recognized the incongruity of tiie wife of 
a poor assistant professor holding the place 
of preeminence in the social life of the 
college. 

Margaret's ambition for Philip and her 
ambition for herself were inseparable; she 
urged him to the effort which was the 
beginning of his failure. He applied for a 
professorship in a larger college, a not too 
friendly rival of his own. Its refusal of his 
application became known, and Philip was 
soon conscious of the changed attitude of the 
faculty toward him, and of a lessening of 
trust and enthusiasm on the part of the 
boys. He was overtired at the time, and the 
occurrence jangled on his nerves. Mar- 

271 



272 



THE BONDS OF FREEDOM 



garet's disappointment was keen, and to 
Philip's half -sick imagination this seemed 
resentment. He never brought up the sub- 
ject, and as it was always morbidly upper- 
most in his thoughts he became habitually 
silent. Life had taught Margaret no better 
way of bearing disappointment than by a 
silent self-assertiveness which she called a 
decent pride. She watched the gradual 
lessening of Philip's power of control over 
his classes with a scorn whose bitterness he 
was quick to feel. He tried again to win a 
higher position, and when he told her of 
his failure Margaret laughed. 

Thereafter, while they lived the old life 
outwardly, there existed between them a 
silence of the soul as subtle and deadly as 
any slow vital disease. Its effect on Mar- 
garet was to turn her thoughts upon her- 
self; under the spur of suffering she studied, 
read, and made a god of her intellect, her 
first idol having failed her. Upon Philip 
the effect was more painful. The time came 
when he foimd it impossible to hold his own 
any longer in his old college, and without 
consulting Margaret he accepted a position 
in another, at a much smaller salary. The 
wife heard of it first from the president of 
the college, a kindly old man she had 
known all her life. She said nothing of it to 
Philip, and waited with an anger which 
was first hot, then cold, for him to tell her. 
She could not but see his suffering, and 
when finally it became clear to her that he 
was afraid to speak, she divined his pain. 
After several days of his silence, she said 
to him one evening, across the supper 
table: 

" You have accepted the place in , 

PhiUp?" 

The unaccustomed sympathy in her 
voice stirred him deeply. 

" Yes," he said, and bowed his head upon 
his arms. She went around the table and 
laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. 

" When do we go ?" she asked. 

Neither knew that it was the supreme 
moment of their lives. Had Philip claimed 
her wifely pity, her support, he would have 
found a wealth of both; had Margaret but 
called to him for love, or frankly shown her 
own, she would have found a summit high 
enough for her ambition. Philip, full of 
self-reproach for his failures and of shame 
for carrying her with him out of her sphere, 
made the first mistake. 

" Margaret, Margaret," he cried, "I have 



no right to drag you down with me! I can 
go alone!" 

So her patience and her love were noth- 
ing! He did not need her! He could go 
alone! Her reasoning, once gone astray,, 
went farther: he did not love her! She was 
dragged down, tied to a man who failed and 
failed, and did not love her! 

She left him to his misery, and her own 
loomed larger. She bade good-by to her 
lifelong associates with a smiling courage 
which deceived them but not Philip. He 
divined her disappointment, felt the fever 
beneath her coldness, and knew that his 
helpless humility and acceptance of the 
changed conditions was the gall in her cup 
of bitterness. 

The rawness and lack of culture in the 
new place she called vulgarity. She met the 
first friendly advances of the women with an 
aloofness and an air of amused superiority 
which made them undesirous of pursuing 
the acquaintance; and because of the dis- 
like of the women she had scant oppor- 
tunity of meeting the men, whom she 
would not have failed to charm. Philip 
half-hesitatingly suggested their reading 
together, and they had some friendly even- 
ings — even a few when, at her best, she 
charmed Philip into an intensity of adora- 
tion which his self-reproach turned into the 
intensity of pain. Then, after six or eight 
months of life in the new place, their child 
was born. 

Margaret never knew what Philip felt or 
said when he first saw the little twisted body 
of their son, but the change in him was 
manifest when she was able to move aroimd 
the house again, the sight of the pitifully 
crippled baby having long delayed her 
recovery. Philip's hair was gray at the 
temples, and his shoulders had a new 
droop; he seldom allowed his eyes to meet 
hers, and he was even more silent than 
before. The misshapen child had been the 
last blow for him; in his self-abnegation he 
felt its deformity to be the supreme wrong 
which, through him, had been brought 
upon Margaret. He had failed her little by 
little, taken her from the surroundings 
where her brilliancy had made its own place, 
dragged her with him into poverty; and now 
their child had come, a pitiful, hideous 
cripple. 

By this time Philip had come to be one of 
the inarticulates; even in the days of his 



Thtre was promhf of sunshine, pre 



of spring ; ainf she i 



,/r,. 



I 



wooinp he had found it difficult to express 
his love in words, and now to do so was an 
absolute impossibility. It was scarcely 
strange that Margaret misunderstot)d his 
silence. His humble, thoughtful tenderness 
toward herself she read as pity; her fierce 
new maternity interpreted as an expression 
of repugnance his a^'oidance i)f the child, 
while in reality it was that of an unen- 
durable self-repr<Kich. She kept the boy 
out of his father's sight when she could, 
not dreaming how its pitiful wails wrung his 
heart. All the strength of her starved 
nature went to enrich her motherhood; her 
love for the child lecame an olisession. In 
time she came to resent any show of interest 
on Philip's part; she morbidly accredited 
to him such feelings as shame, dislike and 
loathing toward the baby, and a dearth of 
love toward herself; whereas, could she 
have read his heart, or could Philip have 
learned to voice his feelings, she would have 
discovered in him a depth of love as huskind 



and father which would have remade the 
world for her. 

The decencies of life were maintained 
between them, but with more and more of 
forced politeness on her part and of gentle, 
unquestioning acceptance on his, Mar- 
garet steadfastly refused to give an hour of 
the diiy or night to anything but the child, 
except, indeed, when she and Philip made 
a few unspoken attempts to reach their old 
ground of common interests, attempts which 
in the end always failed, Ica^'ing Philip 
more miserable than before and Margaret 
more wholly to the child. 

The little lK>y needed more of her care 
with e-ach month, each year. She fimnd a 
half-outlet for her capabilities in so manag- 
ing their little household that money enough 
for the di>ctors' bilLs could be s;ived. Philip 
helped her in this, denying himself e^en 
necessary Ixxiks and papers, and wearing 
clothes so shal>hy that the most absi>rbed of 
his friends could not hut notice them and 
273 



X. 



274 



THE BONDS OF FREEDOM 



wonder how he might be helped without 
offense. Margaret accepted Philip's help 
for the child, and even sought his advice. 
When the doctors declared that they could 
do nothing more for the little cripple, 
having exhausted all their means which 
seem so cruel and are so mercifully kind, 
it was Philip who told his wife. That 
moment, too, was a heaven-sent oppor- 
tunity; but Philip felt the weight of her 
despair so keenly that openly, boldly, even 
protectingly to show his love was beyond his 
strength, beyond his imagination. He was 
dumb before the immense cumulation of the 
tragedy into which her marriage had 
brought her. 

There was one more failure for Philip to 
face, and it came before they had learned 
patience with which to bear the cruelty of 
the doctors* final decision. The faculty of 
the little college asked him to resign, and 
Philip found a new situation before he 
dared tell Margaret. His gratitude was 
beyond expression — ^as, indeed, most things 
were with him — ^when Margaret seemed 
glad, and said that she had wanted a change 
into the country for the child, but had not 
thought it possible. Philip's being in the 
little village high school would mean fresh 
air and the open sky for the boy; the differ- 
ence in salary would not matter, since there 
would be no more doctors' bills. 

The last move h^d been made five years 
before. Five years! Margaret turned from 
the window toward the little bed. Had it 
been only seven years since she first held in 
her arms the poor little frame that lay there ? 
The first two years of prayer, struggle, fierce 
resistance, had been easier than the last five, 
with their great task of patience, filled as they 
were with the child's spells of wild anger, his 
animal furies, endless silence, days of pain 
and weeks of sullen moodiness. The eyes 
that were now closed so peacefully had held 
no gleam of intelligence; the lips that even in 
death were unbeautiful had framed no word. 
All the more strongly had the child held his 
mother. She had ministered to his father, 
stirred to disgust by what she believed to be 
his dull acceptance of the child's destiny; she 
had ordered the house, that it might be a 
tender shelter for the child; she had denied 
herself to every one in the village, made no 
friends among the kindly people, lest they 
take away one moment of her watchful care. 
She did not know what part Philip had come 
to play in the life of the place; they found only 



one common interest, and of that she was 
always half resentful. During this time 
there was an insatiable craving in her mind 
for the intellectual companionship which 
had been hers before Philip's failures had 
dragged her down; as keen as this was her 
longing for the old love and admiration; but 
she was always blinded to Philip's real feel- 
ing for her by her resentment of his silences, 
his quietness, his passive acceptance of their 
lot. 

When at length patience with the child was 
only a waiting, she told herself that when his 
life went out she would be free. For eleven 
years she had been Philip's wife; he could 
claim no more from her — or, if he did, she 
would deny his claim. She must live, must 
live I 

Now, at last, her bondage was over. There, 
in the pale light of the spring dawn, lay the 
dead child. She had known for days that he 
was dying, but she had not told Philip, and 
had gone about the house as usual. She 
wanted the last of her poor boy; she would 
not share him. Again, with unreasoning 
resentment, she told herself that his father 
had never loved the boy, had shunned him, 
was ashamed of him; neither did he love her- 
self. Ah, how he had dragged her down! 
No, she would not share the child's last hours. 

She left the chamber of death and crossed 
the hall to Philip's room. It was empty; the 
bed had not been slept in. She called his 
name, then went down to the study, the room 
below her own. Her husband sat beside his 
table. The old-fashioned student-lamp was 
still burning, throwing a sickly yellow light 
down upon his head, where it lay on his 
crossed arms. He turned as she came in, and 
rose. Before she could speak he opened his 
arms to her. 

"Margaret!" he cried. *'My poor Mar- 
garet!" 

She drew back, looking at him with a 
dawning amazement. 

" How did you know ? " she asked. 

Even now, however, Philip had no words; 
what his actions could not tell he could not 
put into speech. 

He put his arms around her stiff form, 
pressing his face against her cold cheek. 
*' My poor wife! " he said. 

She waited for a moment, dazed; then 
moved away. So! he had shared her night 
watch, after all; he would not leave her even 
that; and now he flung pity at her — pity! 



Tlu world %fas full ,]f /TO 



: logft/irr they would lealize iti Jiilfillm, 



276 



THE BONDS OF FREEDOM 



She left the room and called the servant, 
giving the necessary directions for those paid 
servants of the Great Silencer to whom death 
is life; then she went into the kitchen to do the 
work which the servant must leave in order 
to do the errand. She heard Philip^s step 
on the stairs, first ascending, and, after an 
interval, coming heavily down. She made 
coffee and some toast, and carried a tray into 
his study. He was not there, and she turned 
toward the hat-rack in the hall. He had 
gone out! Ah, well, she thought, there were 
not to be many more days here for her; she 
would have to see the people who would 
certainly come, but she could go through with 
it. She went back to the kitchen, finishing 
the work there with a scrupulous care and 
neatness. She moved through the rooms on 
the lower floor, dusting and arranging the 
simple, homely furniture, and when the 
servant returned with a man in black she 
went upstairs with him. She kept before 
herself always the thought that before long 
she would be free. 

The child's death was soon known through- 
out the village, and by noon people began to 
come. It was the simple, friendly custom of 
the place that, when death came to a house- 
hold, the neighbors, far and near, brought 
flowers to be laid upon the coffin. In winter, 
even, when flowers were not to be bought, 
every woman culled a bloom from some 
cherished window-plant and carried it her- 
self to the silent room; in summer they gave 
of the wealth of their gardens. 

Margaret, standitig beside the little body 
of her child in the darkened room opposite 
the study, was filled with an impatient longing 
for the next two days to pass. The poc:)mess 
and meagemess of the room was repulsive to 
her; it was the one least used in the house, 
and had a look of impoverished formality 
symbolical of her conception of the social life 
surrounding her. She was not aware of the 
opening of the front door, nor of a living 
presence in the room, until she heard her 
name spoken. It was the minister's wife, a 
young and pretty woman with a tender 
mother-face. Her eyes were filled with 
tears, and Margaret looked at her speech- 
lessly. Her voice and careful enunciation 
recalled to Margaret the speech and voices 
of gentle refinement she had been accustomed 
to before they left her native college town. 

" Mrs. West! Oh, Mrs. West, I have lost a 
boy, too!" 

Margaret wonderingly watched her lay a 



handful of white hyacinths on the white 
sheet. Then the minister's wife placed her 
hand upon the other woman's cold one. 

"I know I cannot do anything for you, 
but I can at least tell you that I feel with 
you. My boy had meningitis, and they said 
that if he had lived — But I wanted him, 
oh, I wanted to keep him! He would have 
been dear to me just the same! It was 
just as hard to give him up!" 

She would have drawn away her hand, 
but Margaret grasped it. 

" Yes," she whispered, " yes." 

The minister's wife came closer to her. 
"No one understood me at that dreadful 
time, Mrs. West, but your husband. He 
knew, you see! I was so bitter; and Tom — 
my husband — thought I was rebellious 
against the will of God. I was not; I didn't 
think about God's will at all. I just wanted 
my poor baby, and Mr. West made Tom 
understand. They are such friends! Tom 
sa)'s that he is a great and simple-hearted 



man." 

She paused and looked into ^largaret's 
face, seeing evidences of many emotions 
which she could not read. With a tender- 
ness which it was impossible to resent, 
she leaned toward Margaret and kissed 
her cheek. 

"You are blessed," she said, "for your 
husband will understand all you are suffer- 
mg." 

The minister's wife had scarcely left 
when a young girl, one of her husband's 
pupils, brought an armful of delicate wild 
spring flowers and boughs of white, starry 
dogwood. She hesitated in the doorway, 
her girlish face sobered by the presence of 
death. 

" Mrs. West, I — the girls and I have been 
out on the hills for these." Her lips trem- 
bled from their pretty curves. " They — the 
girls — wanted me to bring them to you. 
We are all so sorry. And — oh, Mrs. West, 
Professor West is so — so grand! Please tell 
him all the girls gathered these for — for the 
little boy!" 

The young girl laid the blossoms on the 
sheet, piled the l)oughs of dogwood on the 
floor around it, and ran out of the room 
with a little sob. 

Margaret touched the flowers lingeringly, 
and then stood off, with clasped hands, 
looking at them. She had lived in the village 
live years, but she had not dreamed that 
there was so much kindliness aroimd her. 



EDITH BARNARD 



277 



Flowers for the child, the poor little crippled 
body of the child! These people were 
strangers to her, but Philip they seemed to 
know well. What was it they had said of 
Philip? 

In the early afternoon her last visitor 
came — a deep-bosomed Irishwoman, of 
soft tongue and kindly heart, endowed with 
that ripe wisdom which the naturally philo- 
sophical or deeply religious sometimes 
achieve, Margaret had never seen her 
before. She brought a calla-lily. 

" Och, Missis West, darlint, I been tryin' 
to git to ye all the day, I have, but 1 couldn't 
git t'roo wit' me washin' a mite sooner." 
She wiped her eyes, which were overflowing. 
"Sure, an' I says to Hinry the marnin', 
whin I heard o' yer trouble, I says, ' 'Deed, 
an' I feel loike I mus' stop an' go right to 
Missis West, no' her so kin' to us whin pore 
little Patrick was took.* I hope ye won't be 
thinkin' I'm unmindful o' all ye done, 
ma'am, an' ef they's annything Hinry or me 



can do for ye an' the perfessor, we'd go 
down on our knees to do ut." 

Margaret felt bewildered. "Patrick?" 
she questioned blindly. 

The other nodded vigorously, "Yis, 
ma'am; I know ut hurts ye to be reminded, 
an' him all twisted loike your little b'y. 
Manny's the tnime the perfessor has come 
wid somet'in' for little Patrick, an' sayin', 
' Missis West sint ye this. Missis O'Brien. 
Our little b'y is twisted worse nor Patsie, 
an' we have the symp'thy fer all sich.' An' 
thin, whin my man had his knee broke, an' 
litlle Patrick was dyin' wid the convulshins, 
ut was the perfessor 'at hild him all the 
night t'roo, ut was — God save uml" 

Margaret's memory reached back to a 
night when he had timidly asked to hold 
their own boy, when she had jealously de- 
clared that the child could be comfortable 
only in her arms, 

" I been lookin' fer the lily to bloom this 
wake past," continued Mrs. O'Brien "I 



■■ /f// Aim all the giris gathered tkae 
for— for the little boy!" 



2;8 



THE BONDS OF FREEDOM 



was goin' to take ut to little Patrick's grave. 
But whin it come out this noon I says to 
Hinry, 'Sure, 'tis a sign from hivin,' I says. 
'I'll take ut to Missis West fer the pore 
little b'y.' " 

Margaret held the half-blown calla-lily, 
looked at it musingly, and always there- 
after a sight of one of its kindred brought 
back a vision of that day. She recalled the 



home and its associations, to take up again 
there her old place of preeminence! Had 
Philip been making for her, unconsciously 
to herself, a new place here, a place whose 
horizons were as spiritually wide as they 
were materially narrow? Had he not 
rather, during all their married life, carried 
her down, step by step, from all her ambi- 
tions, hindered her in all her high ideals? 
Was Philip the man of large heart and 



1 freeiiom wilhout s 



things her visitors had said; she dimly saw 
the new life Philip had been making for 
himself in the I'illage during the five years 
she had given up unreservedly lo the boy, 
and how, without her knowledge, he had 
tried to make people think she shared it 
with him. She was unwilling to face her 
reversion of feeling, and told herself that Ihc 
people with their humble offerings had 
stirred her emotionally, that a calmer state 
would be hers on the morrow. How long 
had she not looked forward lo being free^ 
free to leave this life which she believed 
sordidlv narrow, free to return to her old 



brain and soul that these village people 
thought him ? Or was he the timid, silent 
figure of failure which she for years had 
more or less secretly scorned? Was he the 
gentle, shielding, loving husband and father 
that their words bespoke him, or the hus- 
band who never told her of his love, never 
talked (o her of admiration or affection, and 
the father whose consciousness of the child's 
deformity she had always called repulsion? 
What was this life that, unknown to herself, 
Philip had been making ? How had he won 
these kindly people to friendliness toward 
herself, making them believe she shared his 



EDITH BARNARD 



279 



intercourse with them although bound at 
home by the child ? Why had he shielded 
her from any possible criticism on their 
part, and even tried to create in their minds 
a sense of her p)ersonality ? Was it an evi- 
dence of love for her, an interpretation of his 
faith in her ? Could it be true that faith and 
love were not lost between them? What, 
then, of these last anguished months, while 
she was longing, so fiercely and impa- 
tiently, for freedom, and while Philip 
awaited their impending tragedy in unde- 
monstrative silence? Ah, was it, was it 
possible that the failures had been hers ? 

The puzzle of it tormented her. She 
could no longer remain inactive; she must 
work. In two days she would leave, and 
before that time there were many things 
that she must do. She went upstairs to 
Philip's room; she would go over his clothes, 
for she must leave them in order. For 
months she had not had the time to care for 
them. 

As she drew out the first drawer she 
heard Philip come into the house. He 
paused at the door of the darkened room, 
and she heard him cross to his study with 
heavy steps. 

The top drawer of his bureau was scan- 
tily littered with cuffs, collars, handker- 
chiefs; there was nothing for her hands to do 
there, beyond arranging them more neatly. 
In the lower drawer she found pathetic 
evidences of a man's attempts at mending. 
She sat on the floor and began taking out 
the different articles, sorting them. Their 
holes and rents and general disorder made a 
strong appeal to her mother instinct; she 
was conscious of a sort of shame at having 
neglected this part of her wifely duty. 

Then, at the back of the drawer, she 
found a small parcel wrapped in a silk hand- 
kerchief. The handkerchief was white, the 
pin that fastened it was large and black; it 
was so evidently a man's contrivance! She 
had no hesitancy in opening it; she could not, 
for an instant, imagine Philip's wishing to 
keep a secret from herself. The parcel held 



a few old letters of her own, a lock of the 
child's light-brown hair, a lace valentine 
that Philip had sent him a year or two 
before, which had awakened no intelligence 
in the boy's eyes; a bit of embroidered 
edging — she remembered it as having been 
part of one of the baby's dresses she had 
sewn on, years ago, while Philip read 
aloud to her; the last thing was a scrap of 
lilac lawn — a, dress of her own, new last 
summer, the first she had bought for 
years. 

Her eyes and lips were painfully dry as 
she put all the things back into the drawer. 
She stood up, and how long she waited she 
did not know. She was thinking, thinking. 
A clearer, broader vision was revealing 
itself to her. 

She went slowly down the stairs, passing 
the room where the child lay without look- 
ing in, and went into Philip's study. He 
was lying on the couch, with his head in his 
arms; his shoes and clothes gave evidence of 
his having walked far, and every line of his 
figure showed fatigue. He did not move as 
Margaret came in, and, thinking him 
asleep, she covered him gently with his 
faded slumber-rug; but he turned and held 
his hand to her. 

She knelt beside the couch, and when he 
spoke her eyes filled with tears for the first 
time that day: but Philip could read be- 
neath them. 

** Dear," he said, ** you must not wait on 
me. You have had so long a charge; I 
want you to be free now, and to rest." 

She touched his forehead with her lips. 
"I want to wait on you, Philip," she said. 
"There is no freedom without service, 
dear." 

Philip had learned a lesson from the 
years. He drew her close to him. " Well, 
I need you, Margie, I need you! " 

Ah, that other freedom she had dreamed 
of! W^hat a shadow, what a mockery, it 
would have been! 

" Close your eyes and try to sleep, dear," 
she said. " I shall sit beside you." 



" ]Vhitman was net a small god. He 7oas a bii^ man. He Rved like 
a big man. Had bis if ""' fonveiitional manners. Had a big if not a 

traditional philosophy. Had big even if unusual ways of singing about 
lo7<e and of living a life of liwe. He died big as lie lived big. I had 
erery sort of opportunity to watfh him in this room where lie talked and 
where he spent hisjimil days " 



TALKS WITH WALT WHITMAN 

BY HORACE TRAUBEL 



ILLUSTRATED WITH A PORTRAIT 



INTRODUCTION 




one of my talks with Walt 
I said: '* Sometimes, after 
we are both dead, we will 
revisit this room together." 
He answered fervently: 
" Yes — ^this room and many 
other rooms and many 
other worlds : visit and revisit them together. " 
That room in the little house on Mickle 
Street, Camden, N. J., was holy room to me. 
The multitude of our meetings there in 
those multitudinous days made it sacred 
to our enduring comradeship. All through 
the period covered by the record from 
which The American Magazine has se- 
cured these selections Whitman was house- 
fast. He in fact lived in his bed-chamber. 
Our interviews mostly occurred in the 
twiUght Sometimes I found him on the 
bed. Sometimes he sat up against the 
north window. He was always equable — 
always clear. Sick or well — ^always com- 
posed. Here came the > literary swells 
and the literary masters. Here came the 
so-called uncommon people and the so- 
called common people. And as between 
the elect and the crowd if a choice was im- 
posed Whitman preferred the crowd. 
There 'Was a saying attributed to Lincoln 
which he liked to swing into his estimate of 
men: ^'The Lord must have loved the 
common people, he made so many of them." 
We could modify this striking apoth^m 
and apply it to Walt Wliitman: '^He must 
have loved the common visitors, he had so 
many of them." 

No matter how badly Wliitman's body 
fared his spirit always fared well. Though 
the body went down the spirit kept up. 
He sat in the midst of his papers keep- 
ing in touch with the varied life of the 
world to the last. My story shows how 
firm was his grasp on the seen as well 
as how unshakable was his vision of the 
unseen. He took the very latest earth news 



over to the next life. He did not pass be- 
yond wrecked. He went on whole. A few 
lost atoms of flesh could not matter. The 
rest of him was intact. Whitman was not a 
small god. He was a big man. He lived 
like a big man. Had big if not conven- 
tional manners. Had a big if not a tradi- 
tional philosophy. Had big even if unusual 
ways of singing about love and of living a 
life of love. He died big as he lived big. I 
had every sort of opportunity to watch him 
in this room where we talked and where he 
spent his final days. He made everything 
around him big. He inspired me to feel big 
about myself. People who went there with 
me, even people who thought they were his 
enemies, acknowledged the contagion of his 
size. One visitor said after our call: "He 
makes me forget my troubles." From 1888 
to 1892 he sustained life against great physi- 
cal odds. He never lowered his flag. His 
room was the last rallying center of his pil- 
grimage. He received and he dispensed 
cheer. He wrote some — ^not much — ^and, 
with me co-operating, brought out later, 
the latest editions of his book. He did not 
meet death half-way. Yet when death 
came he said: "I am ready." 

All this time I was husbanding my 
notes. He knew nothing of it. He talked 
with me freely. No subject was tabooed. 
His corporeal life was from the bed to 
the chair, then from the chair to the 
bed again. But his mental life (>assed 
imconfined across the earth. I took many 
people to see him. Many went alone. 
Many were refused admittance. He con- 
served his deeds. He made the best of 
the strength that remained. He saw to 
it that every item told. He grudged the ex- 
penditure of life like a miser. Yet he paid 
all honest bills. Can you get the picture of 
the okl man in that place? The archaic 
setting. The papers and books confusingly 
about him. A few simple pictiures on the 

281 



282 



TALKS WITH WALT WHITMAN 



wall — some unframed. The tasks set. 
The struggle to proceed. The bad days 
alternating with the good days. The work 
never abandoned. The nurse brought on 
the stage in spite of the objections of the 
patient. The physical status of the invalid 
conjoined with the spiritual status of the 
athlete. The body immured and the soul 
free and away. How he sat there with his 
hat and coat on now and then to get the 
feel of outdoors though he knew he could 
not leave his prison. The countless trials 
of his patience and his eminent victories 
over all irritations. The lengthening oi 
the shadow. The increase of weakness. 



Through 1888. Then 1889. Then 1890, 
then 1 89 1. Then the last sickness. The 
pneumonia of December that year, 1891. 
The three months, from December 17th to 
March 26th, diuing which he dragged 
along often in great physical agony, always 
in great physical distress, yet uttering no 
quarrel with his fate. Then the last few 
days, then the last day, then the last hour: 
the imperturbability maintained to the &i- 
ish. I was there through it all. I do not ex- 
pect any one else to feel it as I felt it. But 
the fugitive hints of my pen may light up the 
incident with some dramatic flash. Out of 
this and more than this came my narrative. 



EXTRACTS FROM TALKS WITH WHITMAN 



Saturday, July 21, 1888. 

Talked some about the tariff. " The poli- 
ticians do not deal fairly with the people. 
They keep the question of the tariff remote, 
distant, like a priesthood: they won't let 
the subject reach the people in the right 
way. Republican newspapers are now all 
flings, libels, slanders, smart paragraphs, 
light assertions: not one of them ever stops 
its humbug to make a respectable state- 
ment." Then referred to newspapers gen- 
erally: " They are all getting into the hands 
of millionaires. God help our liberties 
when money has Anally got our institutions 
in its clutch." . . . 

Faith in the Average of Men 

August 2, 1888. 

" I had some brief experience in the South 
— an intimate experience while it lasted — 
was convinced that the 'poor white' there, 
so-called, had never had justice done him. 
Everybody everywhere seems to be inter- 
ested in crushing him down. If I could I 
would even yet pay some tribute to a class 
so thoroughly, so universally, misunder- 
stood. In fact, all my experiences South — 
all my experiences in the hospitals, among 
the soldiers, in the crowds of the cities, 
with the masses, in the great centers of pop- 
ulation — allowing for all idiosyncrasies, 
idiocrasies, passions, what-not, the very 
worst — have only served to confirm my 
faith in man — ^in the average of men. Take 
the hospital drill I went through — ^take the 
mixtures of men there, men often supposed 
to be of contrary types — how impressive was 



the fact of their likeness, their uniformity 
of essential nature — the same basic traits in 
them all — ^in the Northern man, in the 
Southern man, in the Western man — all of 
one instinct, one color — ^addicted to the 
same vices, ennobled by the same virtues: 
the dignity, courtesy, open-handedness, 
radical in all, beautiful in all. When I first 
went to Washington I had a great dislike 
for the typical Yankee — ^had always had it, 
years back, from the start — but in my very 
first contact with the human Yankee all my 
prejudices were put to flight." 



Charles A, Dana and " The Sun 



tt 



W. said: " In talking with you the other 
day about great editors I forgot to speak of 
one man who is maybe the greatest of all — 
and who is besides my dear friend. I mean 
Dana — Charles Dana. Dana's Sun has 
always stuck to it that Walt Whitman is 
some punkins no matter what the scomers 
say. Bryant once said to me that he sup- 
posed that Dana, on the whole, was the im- 
perial master of the craft. I don't like to 
take sides \^'ith any greatest man of all — I 
don't say Dana is greatest of all — but I put 
in my vote for him as a tremendous force. 
Dana has a hissing, hating side, that I don't 
like at all — ^it goes against my grain — but it 
is not the chief thing in the man, and when 
his total is made up cuts only a small figure." 

August 3, 1888. 

"The great country, the greatest country, 
the richest country, is not that which has 
the most capitalists, monopolists, immense 



/ 



HORACE TRAUBEL 



283 



grabbings, vast fortunes, with its sad, sad 
foil of extreme, degrading, damning pov- 
erty, but the land in which there are the 
most homesteads, freeholds — ^where wealth 
does not show such contrasts high and low, 
where all men have enou^ — a modest liv- 
ing — and no man is made possessor be- 
yond the sane and beautiful necessities of 
the simple body and the simple soul." 
Hamed asked: "What place do you find 
for corruption in politics?" W. answered: 
" I do not need to find a place for it: it has 
found a place for itself. Science tells us 
about human excretions — the throwings ofif 
of the body. That strange, inarticulate 
force is not less operative in the institutions 
of society — ^in politics, literature, music, 
science, art — ^than in the physical realm. 
We must not forget such forces — not one of 
them. Society throws oflF some of its ephem- 
era, its corruption, through politics — the 
process is offensive — we shudder over it — 
but it may be true, it is still true, that the 
interior system throwing off its excreta this 
way is sound, wholly sound, prepared for 
the proper work of its own purification." 

Phil Sheridan a Genius 

Tuesday, August 7, 1888. 

Something led him to speak about Phil 
Sheridan: "He was in essentials a genius: 
he had almost phenomenal directness, and 
genius is almost £1 hundred per cent, direct- 
ness — ^nothing more. He was characterized 
by a rough candor which always meant 
what it appeared to mean. Of all the 
major men developed by the War he was 
closest to the top. The War brought out a 
lot of ability. There was Hancock: Han- 
cock was not as distinctly individual as 
Sheridan, but was nevertheless a splendid 
soldier — a soldier bom. Grant, I suppose, 
take him for all and all, was our most 
comprehensive man — took in most, was 
composed and potent. Grant was just 
spared being too considerate: McClellan 
was not — ^was therefore a failure." 

August 9, 1888. 

"There are critics and critics. You 
don't know the tribe as I do — the mean 
stuff they are often made of — ^the very 
poison (not the salt) of the earth. Some of 
my opponents are fairly on the other side 
— ^belong there, are honest, I respect them: 
others are malignants — ^are of the snake 



order. If you have not experienced a direct 
encounter with the monitors, critics, cen- 
sors, you can have no idea of the ven- 
oms, jealousies, meannesses, spites, which 
chiefly characterize their opposition. It 
has been a rallying cry with a little group of 
men in this country: down Walt Wiitman 
— down him in any way, by any method, 
with any weapon you can — but down him 
— drive him into obscurity, hurry him into 
oblivion! But suppose Walt WTiitman 
stays, is stubborn, stays again, stays again, 
will not be downed ? " 

August 10, 1888. 

"Horace," said W., "you must never for- 
get this of the Gilders. About that time 
some woman in New York invited me to a 
dinner, but just as I was about to start off 
for the trip, sent me a second letter with- 
drawing the invitation on the ground that 
some guests who were indispensable to the 
success of the dinner refused to sit at the 
table with me." The story seemed incred- 
ible. While I was wondering what to say, 
W. added: "It was God's truth, Horace. 
I had dozens of such or similar rubs. Now 
the Gilders were without pride and without 
shame — ^they just asked me along in the 
natural way. It was beautiful, beautiful. 
You know how at one time the church was 
an asylum for fugitives — ^the church, God's 
right arm, fending the innocent. I was such 
an innocent, and the Gilders took me in." 

James G. Blaine 

Saturday, August 11, 1888. 

W. said: "What about Blaine, Tom? 
Tell me the news about Blaine." He didn't 
wait for the news, but went on: "Blaine 
has a wonderful intuition concerning cur- 
rent affairs and people — concerning the 
average thought, the every-day passions and 
prejudices of the street — ^yet the longer I 
live the more contemptible seems the fla- 
grant insincerity of his ambitions." Hamed 
asked: "But hasn't he brains?" "Yes, 
brains — ^but of the superficial, sharp, eva- 
nescent kind. Take that matter of protec- 
tion. After awhile it will strike the masses 
that protection does bring money to some- 
body but not to them — ^that the benefit is all 
one way and not their way. I give protec- 
tion ten or twenty more robbing years. 
There is always the wave and the counter- 
wave — the tide goes up, the tide goes down 



284 



TALKS WITH WALT WHITMAN 



— ^the storm arrives, the storm departs. 
Protection had to come and has to go. 
Protection talk comes with bad grace from 
a man like Blaine, having his clean or dirty 
twenty thousand a year — ^from the easy 
comfortable elite of our money world who 
clap their hands over their hearts and say: 
'Don't disturb any of these things: we're 
having a good time of it — ^plenty to eat, 
drink, wear: palaces to live in, servants to 
flatter and fawn upon us — luxury, yachts, 
money in the bank: don't disturb things as 
they are — don't ask questions — don't riot 
within the sacred precincts of our success.' " 
"They don't see the end," I said. "What 
is the end?" "Revolution." "Or evolution 
— ^which means the same thing in its results." 

August 12, 1888. 

"Horace," said W. suddenly, "I think 
the time has come for the American maga- 
zine—for a magazine designed to reflect 
America, its mechanics, its great labor 
masses — ^to give the smack of the heath, the 
native heath: to get its color from a life 
particularly American. It's about time we 
had outgrown the Lord Adolphus Fitz- 
noodle business — the Dobson, Lang, bal- 
lade, villanelle business: the looking 
abroad for suggestions, for models, for 
ideals. Oh! I can see that such a venture 
would even pay for itself in money in time, 
not to speak of the other pay. We are so 
commercialized in this country that we will 
do nothing without the pay is in sight — 
nothing, nothing: the profits must be near 
enough to grab: we seem to lack that great 
faculty of wait, wait, wait, which distin 
guishes and accounts for the world-power 
of the English merchant. Yet there are 
signs of an awakening. Some day we may 
rise to the standards of moral, spiritual 
profit, letting all the baser standards fall 
into disuse. By and by the American maga- 
zine will come as the gift of some far-sighted, 
far-hearted individual, who is willing to 
throw away all the vulgar prizes of the 
market for the sake of a cause, a future." 

j4 Story of Stonewall Jackson 

August 14, 1888. 

He spelled out a name from a book, Lige 
Fox: " Yes, I remember Lige — he was from 
the Northwest — very free-going, very hon- 
est-like. There's the story of Lige: it plays 
the dickens with Stonewall Jackson — taking 



him down (whipping him off) the pedestal 
he has decorated by general consent. Every- 
body in Washington wanted to think well 
of Jackson — ^I with the rest — and we were 
inclined to the very last to distrust the many 
stories which seemed to reflect upon his 
glory. But Lige's tale was so modestly told 
I could not doubt it — was told so entirely 
without brag, bad temper — without any de- 
sire for revenge — in fact, without any con- 
sciousness that Jackson had done anything 
but what was usual and right. Lige had 
been captured. Jackson subjected him to 
ai* inquisition — ^wanted information — would 
have it — ^would, would, would, whether or 
no. Lige only said and kept on saying: 
* I'm a Union soldier and can't do it.' Find- 
ing he could get nothing from Lige, Jackson 
punished him by making him walk the ten 
miles to Richmond while the others were 
conveyed. I could never think the same of 
Jackson after hearing that — after seeing 
how he resented in Lige what was a credit 
to him — what Lige could not have given and 
what Jackson could not have taken and 
either remain honest. There are a num- 
ber of reputations I could prick in that 
same fashion." W. contrasted the punc- 
tiliousness of Lee and the freedom of Grant. 
"Grant was the typical Western man: the 
plainest, the most efficient: was the least 
imposed upon by appearances, was most 
impressive in the severe simplicity of his 
flannel shirt and his utter disregard for for- 
mal military etiquette. Lee had great 
qualities, his own, but these were the great- 
est. I could appreciate such contrasts: I 
lived in the time, on the spot: I lived in the 
midst of the life and death vigils of those 
fearful years — ^in the camps, in the hospi- 
tals, in the fiercest ferment of events." 

August 14, 1888. 

" I have been more than lucky in the wom- 
en I have met: a woman is always heaven 
or hell to a man — mostly heaven : she don't 
spend much of her time on the border-lines." 

Carlyle and Willi am D, O'Connor 

August 20, 1888. 

W. said I should take an old Burroughs 
letter that lay on the table before me. "It 
gives a little look into the Carlyle country 
— ^yes, and a big look into John's soul. 
John and William (William D. O'Connor) 
are very different men. John is a placid land- 



/ 



HORACE TRAUBEL 



28s 



scape — ^William is a landscape in a storm. 
Does that seem to express a difference? The 
only doubt I ever have about John is that 
sometimes I feel as if I would like to poke 
him up with a stick or something to get him 
mad: his writing sometimes seems to go to 
sleep. It is always attractive to me, but 
always leaves me in a slow mood. William 
is quite different: he whips me with cords 
— he makes all my flesh tingle — he is like 
a soldier who stirs me for war." 

August 21, 1888. 

W. gave me a William D. O'Connor let- 
ter with the remark: '^It is as much your 
letter as mine. Make it all yours — take it 
home. William mentions you. This is one 
of William's least consequential letters, yet 
has the same inevitable stir of his blood. 
WiUiam wiU die with a hurrah on his Ups." 
I said: "He'll never know he's dead he'll 
be so busy with Resurrection Day." This 
made W. laugh. "Horace, you ought to 
write that down: it's a trumpet-note." 

"William always has the effect of the 
open air upon me," said W. " Next to get- 
ting out of my room here is to get a letter 
from William. I don't know which con- 
tains the most open air — ^William or out- 
doors. I like salient men — the men of ele- 
ments — oxygenated men — the fellers who 
come and go like storms come and go: who 
grow up out of honest roots: not the titil- 
lated gentleman of boudoir amours and 
parlor fripperies: no, not that man: but if 
need be the rough of the streets who may 
underneath his coarse skin possess the sav- 
ing graces of sympathy, service — the first 
of all, the last of all, the heart of all, per- 
sonal excellence." 

Our Cra^e for Money 

August 23, 1888. 

Thurman made a big speech on the tariff 
yesterday at Port Huron. W. read it. 
"But I fear Thurman is not the man. 
There is a great dearth in America of men 
who will exploit, elucidate, this subject on 
the highest grounds — of men not intellec- 
tual alone, but emotional, sympathetic, 
bound in by no narrow horizon of a special 
party, sect, school. We have had cute men — 
men too cute — Sumner was one of them — 
free traders — ^but no one clear of alliances, 
conventional hesitations, limitations of one 
kind or another: no one without some sort 



of a bond to qualify the purity of his 
faith." 

He stopped here to ejaculate: "Why, 
I'm making a speech." I clapped my 
hands. He threw his arms out as if in 
acknowledgment of applause. Then he 
proceeded: "Anyhow, I am conduced 
that the best samples of the critter off 
there in England, Ireland, Scotland, beat 
us by a good margin — are of more solid 
substance — ^are built for a longer stay. 
The actors, for example (there have been 
lots of them coming here from time to time 
to see me) : tall, broad, plainly dressed, not 
grammatical in speech (a suit of tweed per- 
haps, or even something plainer), not formal 
like our men — generous, lithe, averse to 
show in all ways — no gammon (oh! no 
gammon at all — it's unknown to them) — 
yet men to be depended upon for severe 
trials, stretches of tremendous labor, splen- 
did unostentatious achievements. And 
these are features of the general life over 
there — inertia, stability. 

"The trouble here with us is our devil 
of a craze for money — money in ever}'- 
thing for every occasion — ^by hook or 
by crook, money: and, on top of that, 
show, show: crowning all that, brilliancy, 
smartness unsurpassed, repartee, social 
wish-wash, very misleading, very super- 
ficial: the whole situation one to dis- 
courage the more efl&cient factors of char- 
acter. Of course this is an exaggerated 
statement — such statements generally are — 
but it contains the material of a just com- 
plaint. We will get out of it — must get out 
of it: we will escape our defects: I do 
not croak. There is one thing more to be 
said — ^an important thing. Before I was 
sick, particularly in the year or two previ- 
ous, I was visited a lot by the better class 
mechanics — I mean the more serious of the 
mechanics (the more informed, ambitious, 
instructed). Frequently they would come 
in and talk and tafk, sometimes like a house 
afire, of their enthusiasms — socialistic, 
many of them, perhaps most of them, were 
— ^very bright, quick, dead in earnest, able 
to take care of themselves and more, too, in 
an argument. They, their like, the crowd 
of the grave workingmen of our world — 
they are the hope, the sole hope, the suffi- 
cient hope, of our democracy. Before we 
despair we have to count them in — ^after we 
count them in we won't despair. All will 
adjust itself. But that image of the typical 



286 



TALKS WITH WALT WHITMAN 



extra fine Britisher — his brown face, his 
broad deep chest, his ample limbs, his clear 
eye, his strong independent mien, his reso- 
nant voice — still clings to me. One thing 
we must remember: we were bom in the 
political sense free — they were not: that 
creates an altogether different atmosphere 
— is a fact never to be forgotten. We seem 
in many ways to have grown careless of our 
freedom. Some day we will have to stir 
our croppers and fight to be free again!" 
I said: " We shook off England. We shook 
off the slave. What will we shake off next ? " 
"Money I the dominion of money." I pro- 
tested: "You kick when I say that: you 
say I am too radical: you tell me to hold in 
my horses." He laughed at my dig. 
"Maybe I do that just after some theorist 
has been here with an axe to convert me. 
That always makes me hot — ^hot: I resent 
it. But do you suppose you see any better 
than I do the menace hanging over our de- 
mocracy? Yet, Horace, we are safe, safe. 
The mass, the crowd, the vast multitude 
that works, is competent to, will, preserve 
our liberties: they are our prop, mainstay, 
sure, sure!" 

Friday, August 24, 1888. 

I found a poem by Swinburne. W. said: 
"Oh, yes, I did see that. And if Swin- 
burne had a few grains of thought with 
all his music, wouldn't he be the greatest 
charmer of all? I know of nothing I think 
of so little account as pretty words, pretty 
thoughts, pretty china, pretty arrangements. " 

Sunday Observance 

September 2, 1888. 

Evening at 8 W. sat reading. "Where 
have you been this afternoon?" "To the 
2^." "You don't say!" "I do say." 
He smiled. "Well, it's good news — I 
thought everything in Philadelphia worth 
while was shut up and barred for Sunday. 
Sunday — Sunday: we make it the dullest 
day in the week when it might be made the 
cheeriest. Will the people ever come to 
baseball, plays, concerts, yacht races, on 
Sunday? That would seem like a clear 
day after a storm. Why do you suppose 
people are so narrow-minded in their inter- 
pretation of the Sunday? If we read about 
Luther we find that he was not gloomy, not 
sad — devout, not sickly religious: but a 
man full of blood who didn't hesitate to 



outrage ascetic customs or play games if he 
felt like it on Sunday. The Catholic re- 
gards Sunday with a more nearly sane eye. 
It does seem as though the Puritan was 
responsible for our Sunday: the Puritan 
had his virtues but I for one owe him a 
grudge or two which I don't hesitate to talk 
about loud enough to be heard." 

September 8, 1888. 

I talked to W. of my Japanese friend, 
Tatui Baba. Baba says his first strong im- 
pression received in America is of the fear- 
ful gap between its rich and poor. "Ah!" 
exckimed W., "did he say that? Then I 
am convinced that he put his finger on the 
sore spot at once. I always come back to 
the same idea myself: there is the itch — ^the 
trouble: there is no mistake: the fact of the 
matter is the situation is growing worse and 
worse. And yet," he continued, " we must 
not forget that the disease is one which may 
be cured: the cure of it is in our own hands. 
It is seen at its worst in the big cities — 
New York, Philadelphia, Chicago: but it 
is bad no matter where. America has got 
to clean house some day!" I asked him: 
"Will she do it with a broom or a gun?" 
He reflected for a moment. " That depends: 
I am not prepared to say the gun is impos- 
sible. I don't like to think about the gun — 
it is not a pleasant prospect to dream about 
— but history sometimes has a way of jump- 
ing difficulties in a somewhat violent style. 
I say if, if, if, it is not ther one thing, then it 
must be, must be, the other. I like the 
broom best myself." 

Cleveland and Harrison 

September 12, 1888. 

W. quoted the letters of acceptance of the 
Presidential candidates. He had read both 
— Cleveland's first, then Harrison's. " I am 
not impressed by either letter. Harrison's 
is a shrewd bid for votes: I shouldn't say 
there was anything at all in Cleveland's. 
I would not be at all surprised if Harrison 
pulled through — things at first doubtful 
have now shown signs of going his way. 
And yet, if after all the noise, doubt, ex- 
pectation, Cleveland should be elected I 
for my part would be gratified: for, you 
know, I am for Cleveland; he goes in my 
direction." Hamed queried: "I thought 
you were for Harrison?" "No, Tom — I 
am not : I got over all that if I ever had it. 



HORACE TRAUBEL 



287 



If I found the masses in this country mak- 
ing a decision for Cleveland, I would be 
happy — it would compensate for many de- 
feats — it would make my optimism feel 
proud of itself. Harrison stands for broad- 
cloth, three millions, finger bowls, Presby- 
terianism, and all that. More than all else 
I enjoy the sight of rebellion — of men who 
stand aside from parties (yes, — I may say, 
from churches, too — sects) — ^refuse to be 
labeled, rejecting any name that may be 
offered them: the vast floating vote, ready 
to nip things in season, to cast their weight 
where most needed, at critical moments, 
with no formal pledge or party alliance. I 
remember one of my last talks with Emer- 
son. That subject came up: we stuck to 
it — stuck to it — ^like paste. I found Emer- 
son as happy as myself in discovering the 
inherent health of the masses of the people 
— in reading the signs of a new political 
dispensation: some new readings of de- 
mocracy in the common life of the world." 

Septetnber 16, 1888. 

W. said to me: " I like your interest in 
sports — ^ball, chiefest of all — baseball par- 
ticularly: baseball is our game: the Ameri- 
can game: I connect it with our national 
character. Sports take people out of doors, 
get them filled with oxygen — generate some 
of the brutal customs (so-called brutal cus- 
toms) which, after all, tend to habituate 
people to a necessary physical stoicism. We 
are some ways a dyspeptic, nervous set: 
anything which will repair such losses may 
be regarded as a blessing to the race. We 
want to go out and howl, run, jump, wrestle, 
even fight, if only by so doing we may im- 
prove the people." 

Septetnber 28, 1888. 

"I doubt if talk is ever quite so clear, 
direct, as the reporters make it. If there is 
vitality in talk — not too much study — there 
must be ease — therefore offences against 
the rules of speech. Yet Emerson was a 
clear instance of the careful talker. His 
characteristic feature was being toned down: 
his invariable manner, wanness — consum- 
mate, perfect prudence — ^yet not deceit (no 
— ^that word don't even come in sight) — an 
abiding caution as to what he was saying, 
as if in warning: Be in no haste to commit 
yourself — to say things not justified by your 
deeper consciousness. I know I am differ- 
ent: there is no smell of preparation about 



my conversation: I would disdain that. 
Emerson was not Socratic. Socrates was 
perhaps the most wonderful individual who 
ever Uved in the great masterful quality 
which distinguished four or five — I guess 
there are not more — of the foremost Eng- 
lish judges." What was that? "Ah, this!" 
working his forefinger with a spiral move- 
ment downward to the floor: "The clear 
eye which winds safely about and through 
all snarls and sophisms to the roots of the 
case — ^no distraction whatever being allowed 
to confuse the vision or obscure the issue." 

Roosevelt 

Monday, Octo^tr i, 1888. 

Asked me: "Have you seen Roosevelt's 
paper — tranche paper? It is interesting: I 
like it: he gets pretty near the truth. He 
don't write it exactly as I would, of course: 
that's because he don't enter into it — ^puts 
on his glasses before he looks at it — ^writes 
it with a little the touch of a dude. Still, 
there is something alluring in the subject 
and the way it is handled: Roosevelt seems 
to have realized its character — its shape and 
size — ^to have honestly imbibed some of the 
spirit of that wild Western life." 

October 8, 1888. 

He here went into a monologue on Ger- 
man affairs — "the cavorting about of the 
young Emperor." " There is a vast area of 
unrest back of settled things we see: a vast, 
unseen, unsuspected force — ^a host of strong 
men and women, determined to see that 
things do not perpetually go wrong. This^ 
is the simple crowd of the people — ^the la- 
tent, finally self-sufficient democracy from 
.whom all rulers by force in all countries are 
soon to hear the inevitable outcry for jus- 
tice. The patricians, the rulers, the kings, 
think they save the state, the nation: no, 
no — they are but the parasites — ^the people, 
the crowd, save all — or all is lost. It was 
much the same way with Abe Lincoln here: 
a vast area, soaked with an atmosphere of 
vigilance, determination, to see the right 
thing through. I was in Washington at the 
time — ^heard all the dark threats, saw the 
head-shakings, — ^heard all the half-told 
stories, whispers, disturbing suspicions. 
It all meant. If you betray us — ^if you prove 
unfaithful — ^there'll be hell to pay — and in 
fact we had hell to pay, but that in unex- 
pected places." "Now," he continued. 



288 



TALKS WITH WALT WHITMAN 



'* over in Germany there is just such a mass 
of the populace back of all, responsible at 
last for all — at least, feeling itself so — and 
not Bismarck himself would dare defy it. " 

Story of Charles A. Dana 

October ii, 1888. 

Then went on: "Now I've got it! Oh! 
you have turned my memory back to an old 
story. Did I ever tell you ? Years ago, one 
day, I met Dana, Charles A. Dana, the Sun 
man, on the street: it was in New York: it 
was at a period when Dana's public utter- 
ances were particularly irascible: he was 
finding fault with all things, all people, no- 
body satisfying him, nobody hitting his 
mark: Grant, particularly, a great national 
figure, subjected to constant castigation 
from Dana — word-lashing: the latest, 
though not the last, of Dana's hates. You 
know, I always liked Grant, he was so reti- 
cent, modest — so philosophical: so imper- 
turbably accepted events, people. Well, 
that day, with Dana, the instant I saw him, 
I made for him, talked my loudest, saying: 
* What in hell is the matter with you, Dana, 
that nothing satisfies you — that you keep 
up an everlasting growl » about everybody, 
everything?': something in that strain. 
Dana waited till I was through and then 
took me by the lapel of the coat: * See here, 
Walt,' he said — I think he said it almost in 
that way — ^*see here, Walt: have you spent 
all these years in the world and not known, 
not learned (as I have) what a sorry, mean 
lot mankind is, anyhow ? ' " 

October 16, 1888. 

I told Walt that William Lloyd Garrison 
was to speak in Philadelphia on the 31st. 
"What is he to talk about?" "The Tar- 
iff." "^^az«5/ the tariff, of course?" "Of 
course!" "Good, good! just like his father." 
"I never met the father — never spoke to him 
— yet saw him often in meetings : heard 
him. He was, yes, a good speaker: inter- 
esting: I might use that word 'effective': 
an effective speaker: and earnest, too, nat- 
urally—dead in earnest: earnestness is the 
quality necessary first and last if you want 
to attract and move the people. Garrison 
always si>oke like a man who had a story to 
tell and was determined to tell it: he never 
seemed to have any doubts about the splen- 
dor and efficacy of his doctrine. He was of 
the noblest race of revolutionaries — a man 



who could accept without desiring mar- 
tyrdom: he always seemed to me to belong 
where he was — never seemed gratuitous: 
the splendid band of his companions never 
found their confidence in him misplaced. 
Like all men of the real sort he was mod- 
est, simple — never had to look beyond his 
natural self and employ the artificial weap- 
ons of rebellion. I rank Garrison way up: 
I don't know how high, but very high." 

Saturday, October 27, 1888. 

" What do you suppose Blaine cares about 
the big question, anyhow? Blaine wants 
votes — votes — ^no matter how they're got. 
The prime question is: What can I say — 
what word — ^which will gain the most votes 
in Maine, Texas, Pennsylvania ? Blaine is 
a typical politician — sees everything for its 
end in prestige, power, prosperity." 

Free Speech 

October 30, 1888. 

Hamed made some reference to the say- 
ing that Von Moltke "is silent in six lan- 
guages." W. said: " I don't know whether 
I believe in reticence — the common idea of 
it — ^as a principle: that it necessarily indi- 
cates extra fine points and all that. A man 
in public life, living in the public eye, may 
need to be careful what he says, and how he 
says what he says: Bismarck, for instance. 
Von Moltke, Lincoln, Grant. There may be 
public reasons for reserve, for silence: but 
after that is said a good deal more may be 
said and better said. I for my part can see 
no reason why any man should not have his 
say: any man, diplomat or other. What is 
the notion of sense or justice which dares to 
stand in the way of the freest utterance of 
faith ? I believe in the freest expression of 
opinion all around, all times, here, in Eu- 
rope, yes in Asia, wherever men choose to 
think or choose to talk. 

"Dignity may become a bugbear. Ar- 
nold complained of Lincoln that he lacked 
distinction. Is this the co-eval word — this, 
with dignity? What did Arnold mean? 
That must be an English quality: what is 
it ? how do you tell it when you see it ? I 
for my part am distrustful of any personal 
rules or public customs which interpose 
barriers betw^een the leaders and the peo- 
ple. I like all fraternization between lead- 
ers, people, the masses: no travesty of 



reserve. 



iy 



ADVENTURES iN CONTENTMENT 

BY DAVID GRAYSON 



THE INFIDEL 



I FIND that we have an 

I infidel in this community. 

I I don't know that I should 

set down the fact here on 

I good white paper; the 

j walls, they say, have eyes, 

the stones have ears. But 

consider these words written in bated 

breath! The worst of it is — I gather from 

common report— this infidel is a Cheerful 

Infidel, whereas a true infidel should bear 

upon his face the living mark of his infamy. 

We are all tolerant enough of those who 

do not agree with us, provided only they 

are sufficiently miserable! I confess when 



I first heard of him — through Mrs. Horace 
(with shudders) — I was possessed of a 
consuming secret desire to see him. I even 
thought of climbing a tree somewhere along 
the public road — like Zaccheus, wasn't it? 
— and watching him go by. If by any 
chance he should look my way I could 
easily avoid discovery by crouching among 
the leaves. It shows, doesn't it, how pleas- 
ant must be the paths of unrighteousness 
that we are tempted to climb trees to see 
those who walk therein. My imagination 
busied itself with the infidel. I pictured 
him as a sort of Moloch treading our pleas- 
ant countryside, flames and smoke pro- 
289 



Z90 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



ceeding from his nostrils, his feet striking 
fire, his voice like the sound of a great 
wind. At least that was the picture I 
formed of him from common report. 

And yesterday afternoon I met the in- 
fidel and I must here set down a true 
account of the adventure. It is, surely, a 
little new door 
opened in the 
bouse of my un- 
derstanding. I 
might travel a 
whole year in a 
city, brushing 
men's elbows, and 
not once have 
such an experi- 
ence. In country 
spaces men develop sensitive surfaces, not 
calloused by too frequent contact, accept- 
ing the new impression vividly and keep- 
ing it bright to think upon. In the country 
men grow: in the city they are grown. 

I mel the infidel as the result of a rather 
unexpected series of incidents. I don't 
think I have said before that we ha\'e for 
some time been expecting a great event on 
this farm. We have raised com and buck- 
wheat, we have a fertile asparagus bed and 
onions and pie-plant (enough to supply the 
entire population of this community) and 
I can't tell how many other vegetables. 
We have had plenty of chickens hatched 
out (I don't like chickens, especially hens, 
especially a certain gaunt and predatory 
hen named [so Harriet says] Evangeline, 
who belongs to a neighbor of ours) and we 
have had two litters of pigs, but until this 
bright moment of expectancy we never have 
bad a calf. 

Upon the advice of Horace, which I often 
lean upon as upon a staff, I have been 
keeping my young heifer shut up in the 
cow-yard now for a week or two. But 
yesterday, toward the middle of the after- 
noon, I found the fence broken down and 
the cow-yard empty. From what Harriet 
said, the brown cow must have been gone 
since early morning. I knew, of course, 
what that meant, and straightway I took 
a stout stick and set off over the hill, tracing 
the brown cow as far as I could by her 
tracks. She had made way toward a 
clump of trees near Horace's wood lot, 
where I confidently expected to find her. 
But as fate would have it, the pasture gate, 
which is rarely used, stood open and the 



tracks led outward into an old road. I 
followed rapidly, half pleased that 1 had 
not found her within the wood. It was a 
promise of new adventure which I came to 
with downright enjoyment (confidentially 
— I should have been cultivating com!). 
I peered into everj- thicket as I passed: 
once I climbed an old fence and, standing 
on the top rail, intently surveyed my neigh- 
bor's pasture. No brown cow was to be 
seen. At the crossing of the brook I shoul- 
dered my way from the road down a path 
among the alders, thinking the brown cow 
might have gone that way to obscurity. 

It is curious how, in spite of domesti- 
cation and training. Nature in her great 
moments returns to the primitive and 
instinctive! My brown cow, never having 
had anything but the kindest treatment, is 
as gentle an animal as could be imagined, 
but she had followed the nameless, ages- 
old law of her breed: she had escaped in 
her great moment to the most secret place 
she knew. It did not matter that she would 
have been safer in my yard — both she and 
her calf — that she would have been surer 
of her food; she could only obey the old 
wild law. So turkeys will hide their nests. 
So the tame duck, tame for unnumbered 
generations, hearing from afar the shrill 
cry of the wild drake, will desert her quiet 
surroundings, spread her Uttle-used wings 
and become for a time the wildest of the 
wild. 

So we think — you and I — that we are 
civilized! But how often, how often, have 
we felt that old wildness which is our com- 
mon heritage, scarce shackled, clamoring 
in our blood ! 

I stood listening among the alders, in the 
deep cool shade. Here and there a ray of 
sunshine came through the thick foliage: 
1 could see it where it silvered the cobweb 
ladders of those moist spaces. Somewhere 
in the thicket I heard an unalarmed cat- 
bird trilling her exquisite song, a startled 
frog leaped with a splash into the water; 
faint odors of some blossoming growth, not 
distinguishable, filled the still air. It was 
one of those rare moments when one seems 
to have caught nature unaware. I lingered 
a full minute, listening, looking: but my 
brown cow had not gone that way. So I 
tumed and went up rapidly to the road, 
and there I found myself almost face to 
face with a ruddy little man whose counte- 
nance bore a look of round astonishment. 



THE INFIDEL 



291 



We were both surprised. I recovered first; 
one must use his moments of unexpected- 
ness if he would really enjoy them. 

"Have you seen a brown cow?" I asked. 

He was still so astonished that he began 
to look around him, as for a lost handker- 
chief; he thrust his hands nervously into 
his coat pockets and pulled them out again. 

"I think you won't find her in there," 1 
said, seeking to relieve hJs embarrassment. 

But I didn't know, then, how very serious 
a person I had encountered. 

"No — no," he stammered, "I assure 
you I haven't seen your cow," 

So I explained to him with sobriety, and 
at some length, the problem I had to solve. 
He was greatly interested and offered at 
once — such is the helpful country fashion 
— to assist me in my search. So we set off 
together. He was rather stocky of build, 
and decidedly short of breath, so that I 
regulated my customary stride to suit his 
dehberation. At first, being filled with the 
spirit of my adventure, I was not altogether 
pleased with this arrangement. Our con- 
versation ran something like this: 

Stranger: Has she any spots or marks 
on her? 

Myself: No, she is plain brown. 

Stranger: How old a cow is she? 

Myself: This is her first calf. 

Stranger: Valuable animal? 

Myself (Jencing): I have never put a 
price on her: she is a promising young 
heifer. 

Stranger: Pure blood? 

Myself: No, grade. 

After a pause: 

Stranger: Live around here ? 

Myself: Yes, half a mile below here. 
Do you ? 

Stranger: Yes, three miles above here. 
My name's Purdy. 

Myself: Mine is Grayson. 

He turned to me solemnly and held out 
his hand. "I'm glad to meet you, Mr. 
Grayson," he said. "And I'm glad," I 
said, "to meet you, Mr. Purdy." 

I will not attempt to put down all we 
said: I couldn't. But by such devices is 
the truth in the country made manifest. 

So we continued to walk and look. 
Occasionally I would unconsciously in- 
crease my pace until I was warned to desist 
by the puffing of Mr. Purdy. He gave an 
essential impression of genial timidity: 
and how he did love to talk! 



So ve came at last to a certain rough bit 
of land grown up to scrubby oaks and 
hazel brush. 

"This," said Mr. Purdy, "looks hope- 
ful." 

We followed the old road, examining 
every bare spot of earth for some evidence 
of the cow's tracks, but without finding so 
much as a sign. I was for pushing onward 
but Mr. Purdy insisted that this clump of 
woods was exactly such a place as a cow 
would like. He developed such a capacity 
for argumentation and seemed so sure of 
what he was talking about that I yielded, 
and we entered the wood. 

"We'll part here," he said: "you keep 
over there about fifty yards and I'll go 
straight ahead. In that way we'll cover the 
ground. Keep a-shoutin'. " 

So we started and I kept a-shoutin'. He 
would answer from time to lime: "HuUoo, 
huUooI" 

It was a wild and beautiful bit of forest: 
the ground under the trees was thickly 
covered with enormous ferns or bracken, 
with here and there patches of light where 
the sun came through the foliage. The 
low spots were fiUed with the coarse green 
verdure of skunk cabbage. I was so skep- 
tical about finding the cow in a wood where 
concealment was so easy that I confess I 
rather idled and enjoyed the surroundings. 



Suddenly, however, I heard Mr. Purdy's 
voice, with a new note in it: 

"HuUoo, hulloo " 

"What luck?" 

"HuUoo, huUoo " 

"I'm coming — " and I turned and ran 
as rapidly as I could through the trees, 
jumpingover logsand dodginglow branches, 
wondering what new thing my friend had 
discovered. So I came Co his side. 



293 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



"Have you got trace of her?" I ques- 
tioned eagerly. 

"Sh!" he said, "over there. Don't you 
see her?" 

"Where, where?" - 

He pointed, but for a moment I could 
see nothing but the trees and the bracken. 
Then all at once, like the puzzle in a pic- 
ture, I saw her plainly. She was standing 
perfectly motionless, her head lowered, 
and in such a peculiar clump of bushes and 
fems that she was all but indistinguishable. 
It was wonderful, the perfection with 



which her instinct had led her to conceal 
herself. 

All excitement, I started toward her at 
once. But Mr. Purdy put his hand on my 
arm. 

"Wait," he said, "don't frighten her. 
She has her calf there." 

"No!" I exclaimed, for I could see noth- 
ing of it. 

We went, cautiously, a tew steps nearer. 
She threw up her head and looked at us so 
wildly for a moment that I should hardly 
have known her for my cow. She was, 
indeed, for the time being, a wild creature 
of the wood. She made a low sound and 
advanced a step threateningly. 

"Steady," said Mr. Purdy, "this is her 
first calf. Stop a minute and keep quiet. 
She'll soon get used to us." 

Moving to one side cautiously, we sat 
down on an old log. The brown heifer 
paused, everj- muscle tense, her eyes liter- 
ally blazing. We sat perfectly still. After 
a minute or two she lowered her head, and 
with curious guttural sounds she began to 
lick her calf, which lay quite hidden in the 
bracken. 

"She has chosen a perfect spot," I 
thought to myself, for it was the wildest bit 
of forest I've seen anywhere in this neigh- 



borhood. At one side, not far oS, was a 
huge gray rock, partly covered on one side 
with moss, and round about were oaks and 
a few ash trees of a poor scrubby sort (else 
they would long ago have been cut out). 
The earth underneath was soft and springy 
with leaf mold. 

Mr. Purdy was one to whom silence 
was painful: he fidgeted about, evidently 
bursting with talk, and yet feeling com- 
pelled to follow his ov.11 injunction of si- 
lence. Presently he reached into his capa- 
cious i>ocket and iianded me a tittle paper- 
covered booklet. I took it, curious, and 
read the title: 

"IsthereaHeU?" 

It struck me humorously. In the coun- 
try we are always — at least some of us are 
— more or less in a religious ferment. The 
city may distract itself to the point where 
faith is unnecessary: but in the country we 
must, perforce, have something to believe 
in. And we talk about it, too! I read the 
title aloud, but in a low voice: 

"IsthereaHeU?" Then I a^ed: "Do 
you really want to know?" 

"The argument is all there," he replied. 

"Well," I said, "I can tell you oflf-hand, 
out of my own experience, that there cer- 
tainly is a hell " 

He turned toward me with evident aston- 
ishment, but I proceeded with tranquillity: 

"Yes, sir, there's no doubt about it, 
I've been near enough myself several times 
to smell the smoke. It isn't around here," 
I said. 

As he looked at me his china-blue eyes 
grew larger, if that were possible, and his 
serious, gentle face took on a look of pained 
surprise. 

"Before you say such things," he said, 
" I beg you to read my book." 

He took the tract from my hands and 
opened it on his knee. 

"The Bible tells us," he said, "that in 
the beginning God created the heavens and 
the earth. He made the firmament and 
divided the waters. But does the Bible say 
that he created a hell or a devil ? Does it ? " 

I shook my head. 

" Well, then! " he said triumphantly, " and 
that isn't all, either. The historian Moses 
gives in detail a full account of what was 
made in six days. He tells how day and 
night were created, how the sun and the 
moon and the stars were made; he tells 
how God created the flowers of the field, 



THE INFIDEL 



293 



and the insects, and the birds, and the 
great whales, and said, ' Be fruitful and 
multiply.' He accounts for every minute 
of the time in the entire six days — and of 
course God rested on the seventh — and 
there is not one word about hell. Is 
there?" 

I shook my head. 

"Well then — " exultantly, "where is it? 
I'd like to have any man, no matter how 
wise he is, answer that. Where is it?" 

"That," I said, "has troubled me, too. 
We don't always know just where our hells 
are. If we did we might avoid them. We 
are not so sensitive to them as we should be 
— do you think?" 

He looked at me intently: I went on 
before he could answer: 



selves on account of their disobedience, 
did God say to them: Unless you repent of 
your sins and get forgiveness I will shut 
you up in yon dark and dismal hell and 
torment you (or have the devil do it) for 
ever and ever ? Was there such a word ? " 

I shook my head. 

"No, sir," he said vehemently, "there 
was not." 

"But does it say," I asked, "that Adam 
and Eve had not themselves been using 
their best wits in creating a hell? That 
point has occurred to me. In my experi- 
ence I've known both Adams and Eves 
who were most adroit in their capacity for 
making places of torment — and of get- 
ting into them. There's an old Eastern 
proverb which says: ' The hand that 



"Why, I've seen men in my time living 
from day to day in the very atmosphere of 
perpetual torment, and actually arguing 
that there was no hell. It is a strange sight, 
I assure you, and one that will trouble you 
afterwards. From what I know of hell, 
it's a place of very loose boundaries. Some- 
times I've thought we couldn't be quite 
sure when we were In it and when we were 
not." 

I did not tell my friend, but I was think- 
ing of the remark of old Swedenborg: 
"The trouble with hell is we shall not know 
it when we arrive." 

At this point Mr. Purdy burst out again, 
having opened his little book at another 
page. 

"When Adam and Eve had sinned," he 
said, "and the God of heaven walked in 
the garden in the cool of the evening and 
called for them and they had hidden them- 



smites us is our own.' It's human, isn't 
it, that we should have come to cherish 
the superstition that hell is some locality 
afar oS — which we reach after having had 
our fling. Just watch yourself some day 
after you've sown a crop of desires and 
you'll see promising little hells starting up 
within you like pigweeds and pusley after 
a warm rain in your garden. And our 
heavens, too, for that matter — they grow 
to our own planting: and how sensitive 
they are tool How soon the hot wind of a 
passion withers them away! How surely 
the fires of selfishness blacken their per- 
fection!" 

I'd almost forgotten Mr. Purdy — and 
when I looked around, his face wore a pe- 
culiar puzzled e.xpression not unmixed 
with alarm. He held up his little book 
eagerly, almost in my face. ■; 

" If God had intended to cr^te a hell," 



^94 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



he said, "I assert without fear of success- 
ful contradiction that when God was there 
in the Garden of Eden it was the time for 
him to have put Adam and Eve and all 
their posterity on notice that there was a 
place of everlasting torment. It would 
have been only a square deal for Him to 
do so. But did He?" 

I shook my head. 

"He did not. If He had mentioned hell 
on that occasion I should not now dispute 
its existence. But He did not. This is 
what He said to Adam — the ver>' words: 
'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat 
bread, till thou return unto the ground: 
for out of it thou wast taken: for dust thou 
art, and unto dust shalt thou return.' You 
see He did not say ' Unto hell shalt thou 
return.' He said, ' Unto dust.' That isn't 
hell, is it?" 

"Well," I said, "there are in my experi- 



ence a great many different kinds of hells. 
There are almost as many kinds of hells as 
there are men and women upon this earth. 
Now, your hell wouldn't terrify me in the 
least. My own makes me no end of trouble. 
Talk about burning pitch and brimstone: 
how futile were the imaginations of the 
old fellows who conjured up such puerile 
torments. Why, I can tell you of no end 
of hells that are worse — and not half 
try. Once, I remember, when I was 
younger " 

I luippened to glance around at my com- 
panion. He sat there looking at me with 
horror — fascinated horror. 

"Well, I won't disturb your peace of 
mind by telling thai story," I said, 

"Do you believe that we shall go to 
hell ? " he asked in a low voice. 



"That depends," I said. "Let's leave 
out the question of 'we'; let's be more 
comfortably general in our discussion. I 
think we can safely say that some go and 
some do not. It's a curious and noteworthy 
thing," I said, "but I've known of cases — 

"There are some people who aren't 
really worth good honest tormenting — let 
alone the rewards of heavenly bliss. They 
just haven't anything to torment! What is 
going to become of such folks? I confess 
I don't know. You remember when Dante 
began his joume}- into the infernal re- 
gions " 

" I don't believe a word of that Dante," 
he interrupted excitedly; "it's all a made- 
up story. There isn't a word of truth in it; 
it is a blasphemous book. Let tpe read 
you what I say about it in here." 

"I will agree with you without argu- 
ment," I said, "that it is not all true. I 
merely wanted to speak of one of Dante's 
experiences as an illustration of the point 
I'm making. You remember that almost 
the first spirits he met on his journey were 
those who had never done anything in this 
life to merit either heaven or hell. That 
always struck me as being about the worst 
plight imaginable for a human being. 
Think of a creature not even worth good 
honest brimstone!" 

Since I came home, I've looked up the 
passage; and it is a wonderful one. Dante 
heard wailings and groans and terrible 
things said in many tongues. Yet these 
were not the souls of the wicked. They 
were only those "who had lived without 
praise or blame, thinking of nothing but 
themselves." "Heaven would not dull its 
brightness with those, nor would lowet hell 

"And what is it," asked Dante, "that 
makes them so grievously suffer?" 

"Hopelessness of death," said Virgil. 
"Their blind existence here, and immem- 
orable former life, make them so wretched 
that they envy every other lot. Mercy and 
Justice alike disdain them. Let us speak 
of them no more. Look, and pass!" 

But Mr. Purdy, in spite of his timidity, 
was a man of much persistence. 

"They tell me," he said, "when they try 
to prove the reasonableness of hell, that 
unless you show sinners how they're goin' 
to be tormented, they'd never repent. Now, 
I say that if a man has to be scared into 
religion, his religion ain't much good." 



" There," I said, " I agree with you com- 
pletely." 

His face lighted up, and he continued 
eagerly: 

" And I tell 'em: You just go ahead and 
try for heaven; don't pay any attention to 
all this talk about everlasting punishment." 

"Good advice!" I said. 

It had begun to grow dark. The brown 
cow was quiet at last. We could hear 
small faint sounds from the calf. I started 
slowly through the bracken. Mr. Purdy 
hung at my elbow, stumbling sideways as 
he walked, but continuing to talk eagerly. 
So we came to the place where the caU lay. 
I spoke in a low voice: 

"So boss, so boss." 

I would have laid my hand on her neck 
but she started back with a wild toss of her 
horns. It was a beautiful calf! I looked at 
it with a peculiar feeling of exultation, 
pride, ownership. It was red-brown, with 
a round curly pate and one white leg. As 
it lay curled there among the ferns, it was 
really beautiful to look at. When we ap- 
proached, it did not so much as stir. I 
lifted it to its legs, upon which the cow 
uttered a strange half-wild cry and ran a 
few steps off, her head thrown in the air. 
The cait fell back as though it had no legs. 

"She is telling it not to stand up," Siiid 
Mr. Purdy. 

1 had been afraid at first that something 
was the matter! 

" Some are like that," he said. " Some 
call their calves to run. Others won't let 
you come near 'em at all; and I've even 
known of a case where a cow gored its calf 
to death rather than let any one touch it." 

I looked at Mr. Purdy not without a feel- 



ing of admiration. This was a thing he 
knew: a language not taught in the uni- 
versities. How well it became him to know 
it; how simply he e.'cpressed it! I thought 
to myself; There are not many men in this 
world, after all, that it will not pay us to go 
to school to — for something or other. 

I should never have been able, indeed, to 
get the cow and calf home, last night at least, 
if it had not been for my chance friend. 
He knew exactly what to do and how to do 
it. He wore a stout coat of denim, rather 
long in the skirts. This he slipped oS, 
while I looked on in some astonishment, 
and spread it out on the ground. He 
placed my staff under one side of it 
and found another stick nearly the same 
size for the other side. These he wound 
into the coat until he had made a sort of 
stretcher. Upon this we placed the unre- 
sisting calf. What a fine one it was! Then, 
he in front and I behind, we carried the 
stretcher and its burden out of the wood. 
The cow followed, sometimes threatening, 
sometimes bellowing, sometimes starting 
off wildly, head and tail in the air, only to 
rush back and, venturing up with trembling 
muscles, touch her tongue to the calf, utter- 
ing low maternal sounds. 

"Keep steady," said XIr. Purdy, "and 
everything'll be all right." 

When we came to the brook we stopped 
to rest. I think my companion would have 
liked to start his argument again, but he 
was too short of breath. 

It was a prime spring evening! The 
frogs were tuning up. I heard a drowsy 
cow-bell somewhere over the hills in the 
pasture. The brown cow, with eager, out- 
stretched neck, was licking her calf as it la; 
29S 



2g6 



ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT 



there on the improvised stretcher, I looked 
up at the sky, a blue avenue of heaven be- 
tween the tree tops, and suddenly the dis- 
cussion we had just been having came back 
to me in a wholly new aspect; I felt the 
peculiar sense of mystery which nature so 
commonly conveys, and I thought: 

"I have been too sure! What do we 
know after all! My friend is talking of his 
future heavens and hells; why may there 
not be future heavens and hells — 'other 
heavens for other earths'? We do not 
know — we do not know " 

So, carrying the calf, in the cool of the 
evening, we came at last to my yard. We 
had no sooner put the calf down than it 
jumped nimbly to its feet and ran, wob- 
bling absurdly, to meet its mother. 

" The rascal," I said, " after all our work." 

" It's the nature of die animal," said Mr. 
Purdy, as he put on his coat. 

I could not thank him enough. I inWted 
him to stay with us to supper, but he said 
he must hurry home. 

"Then come down soon to see me," I 
said, "and we will settle this question as 
to the existence of a hell." 

He stepped up close to me and said, with 
an appealing note in his voice; 

"You do not really believe in a hell, do 
you?" 

How human nature loves conclusiveness; 
nothing short of the categorical will satisfy 
us! What I said to Mr. Purdy evidently 



appeased him, for he seized my hand and 
shook and shook. 

"We haven't understood each other," 
he said eagerly. "You don't believe in 
eternal damnation any more than I do." 
Then he added, as though some new un- 
certainty puzzled him, " Do you ? " 

Finally, however, he went down the lane. 
I suppose he will continue to go his way 
combating, gently, with his little biblical 
book, the fire and brimstone of an historic 
heUl 

At supper — what a good supper it was, 
too! hot biscuits and honey! — I was telling 
Harriet with gusto of my great experiences. 
Suddenly she broke out: 

"What was his name?" 

" Purdy." 

" Why, he's the infidel that Mrs. Horace 
tells about!" 

"Is that possible?" I said, and I dropped 
my knife and fork. The strangest sensa- 
tion came over me. 

"Why," I said, "then I'm an infidel 
too!" 

So I laughed and I've been laughing 
gloriously ever since — at myself, at the in- 
fidel, at the entire neighborhood. I recalled 
that delightful character in "The Vicar 
of Wakefield" (my friend the Scotch 
Preacher loves, to tell about him), who 
seasons error by crying out "Fudge!" 

"Fudge!" I said. 

We're all poor sinners! 



Off fnr the roiton fields 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



I 



BY RAY STANNARD BAKER 



IN THE BLACK BELT 



HE cotton picking season 

was drawing to its close 

when I left for the bbck 

belt of Georgia. So many 

friends in Atlanta had 

said: 

"The city Negro isn't 

the real Negro. You must go out on the 

cotton plantations in the country; there 

you'll see the genuine black African in all 

his primitive glorj-." 

It is quite true that the typical Negro is 
a farmer. The great mass of the rare in 
the South dwells in the country. Accord- 
ing to the last census, out of 8,000,000 



Negroes in the Soutiiem states 6,558,17,^, 
or 83 per cent., lived on the farms or in ru- 
ral villages. The crowded city life which I 
have already descril>cd represents not the 
common condition of the mass of the Negro 
race but the newer development which 
accompanies the growlh of industrial and 
urban life. In the city the races ;ire forced 
more violently together, socially and 
economical!}-, than in the countn-, produc- 
ing acute cri^s, but it is in the old agri- 
cultural regions where the Negro is in such 
masses, where ideas change slowly, and old 
institutions persist, that the problem really 
presents the greatest difficulties. 
297 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



There is no better time of year to see the 
South than November: for then if wears the 
smile of abundance. The country I went 
through — ^rolling red hills, or black bottoms, 
pine -clad in places, with plea^^anl farm 
openings dotted with cabins, often dilapi- 
dated but picturesque, and the busy little 
towns — wore somehow an air of brisk com- 
fort. The fields were lively with Negro 
cotton pickers; I saw bursting loads of the 
new lint drawn by mules or oxen, trailing 
along the country roads^ all the gins were 
puffing busily; at each station platform 
cotton bales by scores or hundreds stood 
ready for shipment and the towns were 
cheerful with farmers white and black, who 
now had money to spend. The heat of the 
summer had gone, the air bore the tang of 
a brisk autumn coolness. It was a good 
time of year — and everybody seemed to feel 
it. Many Negroes got on or off at every 
station, and with laughter and shouted 
good-byes. 

IVha/ is the Black Bell? 

And so, just at evening, after a really 
interesting journey, I reached Hawkinsville, 
a thriving town of some 3,000 people just 
south of the center of Georgia. Pulaski 
County, of which Hawkinsville is the seat, 
rfith an ambitious new courl house, is a 
ij'pical county of the black lielt. A census 
map which is here reproduced well shows 
the region of largest proportionate Negro 



population, extending from South Carolina 
through central Georgia and Alabama to 
Missts^'ppi. More than half the inhabitants 
of all this broad belt, including also the At- 
lantic coastal counties and the lower Missis- 
sippi valley (as shaded on the map), are Ne- 




THE BLACK BELT 

/« /he re^on shaded more than half the in- 
habitants are Negroes 

groes — chiefly farm Negroes. There the race 
question, though perhaps not so immedi- 
ately difficult as in cities like Atlanta, is 
with both white and colored people the 
imminent problem of daily existence. 
Several times while in the black belt I 
was amused at the ardent response of people 
to whom I mentioned the fact that I l^d 
already seen something of conditions in 
Kentucky, Maryland, and Virginia; 

" Why, thev haven't any Negro problem. 
They're North." 

In Maryland, Kentucky, and Texas the 
problem is a sharp irritant — as it is, fOT that 
matter, in Ohio, in Indianapolis and on the 
West side of New York City — but it is not 
the life and death question that it is in the 
black Ijelt or in the Yazoo delta. 

All the country of Central Georgia has 
been long settled. Pulaski County was 
laid out in 1808 and yet the population 
to-day may ]x considered sparse. The 
entire county has only 8,000 while peo- 
ple, a large proportion of whom live in 
the towns of Hawkinsville and Cochran, 
and rz.ooo Negroes, leaving not incon- 
siderable areas of forest and uncultivated 
land which will some day become im- 
mensely valuable. 

y4 Soulhern Counlry Gentleman 

At Hawkinsville I met J. Pope Brown, 
the leading citizen of the county. In 
many ways be is an example of the 
best type of the new Southerner. In 
every way open to him, and with energy, 
he is devoting himself to the improvement 
of his community. For five years he was 
president of the State Agricultural Soci- 
ety; he has been a member of the legis- 



Drinking fountain, HawkinsvilU ; 
one side for whit 
other for Negroes 



"-'■I at Hawkinnnlle, 



Supply store, Bro , 



J. POPK BROWN 




300 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



lature and chairman of the Georgia Rail- 
road Commission, and he represents all 
that is best in the new progressive move- 
ment in the South. 

One of the unpleasant features of the 
villages in the South — I heard It everywhere 
from travelers, and I have already had an 
experience or two of my own — are the poor 
hotels. In accounting for this condition 
I heard a story illustrating the attitude 
of the old South toward public accommo- 
dations. A number of years ago, before 
the death of Robert Toombs, who, as a 
member of Jefferson Davis's cabinet was 
called the "backbone of the confederacy," 
the spirit of progress reached the town 
where Toombs lived. The thing most 
needed was a new hotel. The business 
men got together and subscril)ed money 
with enthusiasm, counting upon Toombs, 
who was their richest man, for the largest 
subscription. But when they finally went 
to him, he said: 

" What do we want of a hotel ? When a 
gentleman comes to town 1 will entertain 
him myself; those who are not gentlemen 
we don't wantl" 

That was the old spirit of aristocratic 
individualism: the town did not get its 
hotel. 

One of the public enterprises of Mr. 
Brown at Hawkinsville is a good hotel; 



and what is rarer still. North or South, he 
has made his hotel building really worthy 
architecturally, 

Mr. Brown took me out to his planta- 
tion — a drive of some eight miles. In com- 
mon with most of the larger plantation 
owners, as I found not only in Georgia, 
but in other Southern states which I have 
since visited, Mr. Brown makes his home 
in the city. After a while I came to feel 
a reasonable confidence in assuming that 
almost any prominent merchant, banker, 
lawyer or politician whom I met in the 
towns oivned a plantation in the country. 
From a great many stories of the fortunes of 
families that I heard I concluded that the 
movement of white owners from the land 
to nearby towns was increasing every year. 
High prices for cotton and consequent 
prosperity seem to have accelerated rather 
than retarded Ihe movement. White plant- 
ers can now afford to live in town where 
they can have the a>m forts and con- 
veniences, where the servant question is 
not impossibly difficult, and where there 
are good schools for the children. Another 
potent reason for the movement is the 
growing fear of the whites, and especially 
the women and children, at living alone on 
great farms where white neighbors are dis- 
tant. Although Pulaski County has never 
had a crime of a Negro against a white 



"At the time of my visit the Negroes were in the cane-fieliis— 



"The great simmering syrup kettle, with an expert Negro at work stirring and skimming' 



woman, or a lynching — indeed, statistics 
show that less crime is committed in the 
black belt than in other parts of the South 
— I found that the fear was not absent even 
among these people. 

Since my article on the Atlanta riot was 
published I have received a letter from a 
white man, P. S. George, of Greenwood, 
Mississippi, which expresses the white point 
of view with singular earnestness; 

" I live in a county of large plantations: if 
there are 40,000 people in that county, at 
least 30,000 are Xegroes, and we never have 
any friction between the races. I have been 
here as a man for twenty years and I never 
heard of but one case of attempted assault 
by a Negro on a white woman. That 
Negro was taken out and hanged. I said 
that we never had any trouble with Negroes, 
but it's because we never take our eyes off 
the gun. You may wager that I never 
f leave my wife and daughter at home without 
a man in the house after ten o'clock at night 
— because I am afraid." 

As a result of these various influences a 
traveler in the black belt sees many plan- 
tation houses, even those built in recent 



years, standing vacant and forlorn or else 
occupied by white overseers, who are in 
many parts of the South almost as difficult 
to keep as the Negro tenants. 

Thousands of small white farmers, both 
owners and renters, of course, remain, but 
when the leading planters leave (he country, 
these men, (00, grow discontented and get 
away at the first opportunity. Going to 
town, they find ready employment for the 
whole family in the cotton mill or in other 
industries where they make more money 
and live with a degree of comfort that th^ 
never before imagined possible. 

Story of the Mill People 

Many cotton mills, indeed, employ agents 
whose business it is to go out through the 
country urging the white farmers to come 
to town and painting glowing pictures of 
the possibilities of life there. I have visited 
a number of mill neighborhoods and talked 
vrith the operatives. I found the older 
men sometimes homea'ck for the free life of 
the farm. One lanky old fellow said rather 
pathetically: 

301 



" The fields were Svefy with Negro cotton pickers " 



" When it comes to cotloti picking lime 
and I know that they are grinding cane and 
hunting possums, I jest naturally get lone- 
some for the country," 

But nothing would persuade the women 
and children to go bac'k to the old hard life. 
Hawkinsville has a small cotton mill and 
just such a community of white workers 
around it. Owing to scarcity of lalwr, 
wages in the mills have Iveen going up rap- 
idly all over the South in the last two or 
three j-ears, furnishing a still more potent 
attraction for country- people. 

All these various tendencies are uniting 
li) jiroduce some very remarkahle conditions 
in the South. They are ap|)arently bring- 
ing about a natural segregation of the nues. 
1 saw it evervwhere I went in the black l)elt. 
The white pe<iple were gravitating toward 
the towns or into white neighborhoods and 
leaving the land, even though still owned 
by white men, more and more lo the ex- 
clusive occupation of Negroes. Many black 
counties are growing blacker while not a 
few white counties are growing whiter. 

Take, for e.xample, Pulaski County, 
through which I drove that November 
morning with Mr. Brown. In 1870 the 
colored and white population were almost 
e.xacllv equal — alwut 6,000 for each. In 
1880 the Negroes had increased to 8,JI5 
while the whites showed an actual loss. 
By 1890 the towns had l>egun to improve 
302 



and the white population grew by about 
700, but the N'egroes increased nearly 2,000. 
And, finally, here are the figures for 1900; 

Negroes 11,029. ^Vhiles 7,460. 

I have not wished to darken our observa- 
tions with too many statistics, but this 
tendency is so remarkable that I wi.<;h to 
set down for rom(»arison the figures of a 
"while county" in northern (Jetirgia — Polk 
County — which is growing whiter every year. 

NfKroes Whil« 

i8Sq 4.147 7.805 



Driving out Negroes 

One of the most active causes of this 
remarkable movement is downright fear 
— or race repulsion expressing, itself in 
fear. WTiite people dislike and fear to live 
in dense colored neighborhoods, while 
Negroes are often terrorized in while 
neighborhoods — and not in the South only 
but in parts of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, as I 
shall show when I come to treat of Northern 
race conditions. I have accumulated many 
instances showing how Negroes are expelled 
from while neigh Iwrhoods. There is a sig- 
nificant report from Little Rock, Arkansas: 

Special lo the Georgian. 

"Little Rock. Ark., Jan. i. Pr.ictically 
everv Negro in E\'ening Shade, Sharp 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



303 



County, in this State, has left town as the 
result of threats which have been made 
against the Negroes. For several years 
a small colony of Negroes has lived just 
on the outskirts of the town. A short time 
ago notices were posted warning the Ne- 
groes to leave the country at once. About 
the same time Joe Brooks, a Negro who 
lived with his family two miles north of 
town, was called to his door and &red upon 
by unknown persons. A load of shot struck 
the house close by his side and some of the 



of Waurika, demand the Negroes to leave 
here at once. We mean Go! Leave in 
twenty-four hours, or after that time your 
life is uncertain.' These were the words 
on placards which the eighty Negroes of the 
town of Waurika, forty miles south of 
Lawton, saw posted conspicuously in a 
number of public places this morning. 

"Dispatches from there to-night staled 
that the whites are in earnest, and that the 
Negroes will be killed if they do not leave 
town." 



Evidencfs of abundance 



shot entered his arm. Brooks and his 
family have left the country, and practically 
ever\- member nf the Negro colony has gone. 
They have abandoned their property or 
disposed of it for whatever they could get," 

From the New Orleans Times Democrat 
of March ao, 1907, I cut the following dis- 
patch showing one method pursued by the 
whites of Oklahoma: 

"Blacks Ordered Out 

"Lawton, Okla., March 20, 'Negroes, 

beware the cappers. We, the Sixty Sons 



Not a few students of Southern conditions 
like John Temple Graves among the whiles 
and Bishop Turner among the colored 
people have argued that actual physical 
separation of the races (either by deporta- 
tion of the Negroes to Africa or elsewhere 
or by giving them certain reservation- like 
parts of the South to live in) is the only 
solution. And here is, in actuality, a 
natural segregation going forward in cer- 
tain parts of the South, though in a very 
difierent way from that recommended by 
Mr. Graves and Bishop Turner; for even 
In the blackest counties the white people 



"Among Ihfm is a spirit of pride and itnifpendence w'kick, rightly directed, would uplift 
and make them prosperous, hut which, misguided and blind, as it sometimes is, 
keeps them in poverty " 



own most of the land, occupy the towns, 
and dominate everywhere politically, so- 
cially, and industrially. 

Mr, Brown's plantation contains about 
5,000 acres, of which some 3,500 acres are 
in culti\-ation, a beautiful rolling countri-, 
well watered, with here and there clumps 
of pines, and doited with the small homes 
of the tenantry. 

As we drove along the country road we 
met or passed many Negroes who bowed 
with the greatest deference. Some were 
walking, but mam- drove horses or mules 
and rode not infrequently in top buggies, 
looking mi>st pros])erous, as indeed Mr. 
Brown informed ^e that they were. He 
knew them all, and s<imelimes slopped 
to ask them how they were getting along. 
The outward relationships between the 
races in the country seem to me to be 
smoother than in the city. 

Cotton, as in all this country, is almost 
the exclusive crop. In spite of the constant 
preaching of agricultural reformers, like 
Mr. Brown himself, hardly enough corn 
is raised to supply the people with food, and 
I was surprised here and elsewhere at seeing 
so few cattle and hogs. Sheep are non- 
existent. In Hawkinsvtlle, though the 
country round about raises excellent grass, 
304 



I saw in front -of a supply store bales of hay 
which had been shipped in 400 miles — 
from Tennessee. Enough sugar cane is 
raised, mostly in small patches, to supply 
syrup for domestic uses. At the time of 
my visit the Negroes were in the cane-fields 
with their long knives, getting in the crop. 
We saw several little one-horse grinding 
mills presang the juice from the cane, while 
near at hand, sheltered by a shanty-like 
roof, was the great simmering syrup kettle, 
with an expert Negro at work stirring 
and skimming. And always there were 
Negroes round alnrnt, all the boys and girls 
with jolly smeared faces — and the older 
ones peeling and sucking the fresh cane. 

It is a great time of year! 

How dies the landlord — and a lord he is 
in a ver}' true sense— manage his great 
estate ? The same system is in use with slight 
variations everj-where in the cotton countrj- 
and a description of Mr. Brown's meth- 
ods, with references here and there to what 
I have seen or heard elsewhere, will give an 
e.Kcellent idea of the common procedure. 

A Coiinfry of Great Planlatioiis 

The black l>elt is a countrj' of great plan- 
tations, some haling as high as 30,000 acres, 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



305 



interspersed with smaller farms owned by 
the poorer white farmers or Negroes. In 
one way the conditions are remarkably like 
those prevailing in Ireland: great landlords 
and a poor tenantry or peasantry, the 
tenants here being very largely black. 

It requires about 100 families, or 600 
people, to operate Mr. Brown's planta- 
tion. Of these, ninety per cent, are colored 
and ten per cent, white. I was much 
interested in what Mr. Brown said about 
his Negro tenants, which varies somewhat 
from the impression I had in the city of the 
younger Negro generation. 

"I would much rather have young 
Negroes for tenants," he said, "because 
they work better and seem more disposed to 
take care of their farms. The old Negroes ' 
ordinarily will shirk — a habit of slavery." 

Besides the residence of the overseer and 
the homes of the tenants there is on the 
plantation a supply store owned by Mr. 
Brown, a blacksmith shop and a Negro 
church, which is also used as a school house. 
This is, I found all through the black belt, 
a common equipment. 

Three different methods are pursued by 
the landlord in getting his land cultivated. 
First, the better class of tenants rent the 
land for cash, a "standing rent" of some 
$3 an acre, though in many places in 
Mississippi it ranges as high as $6 and 
$8 an acre. Second, a share-crop rental, 
in which the landlord and the tenant divide 
the cotton and com produced. Third, the 
ordinary wage system: that is, the landlord 
hires workers at so much a month and puts 
in his own crop. All three of these methods 
are usually employed on the larger planta- 
tions. Mr. Brown rents 2,500 acres for 
cash, 400 on shares, and farms 600 himself 
with wage workers. 

All the methods of land measurement are 
very different here from what they are in the 
North. The plantation is irregularly di- 
vided up into what are called one-mule or 
one-plow farms — ^just that amount of land 
which a family can cultivate with one mule 
— ^usually about thirty acres. Some am- 
bitious tenants will take a two-mule or even 
a four-mule farm. 

The Negro Tenant 

Most of the tenants, especially the " 
Negroes, are very poor, and wholly de- 1 
pendent upon the landlord. Many Negro^ 



families possess practically nothing of their 
own, save their ragged clothing, and a few 
dollars' worth of household furniture, cook- 
ing utensils and a gun. The landlord must 
therefore supply them not only with enough 
to live on while they are making their crop, 
but with the entire farming outfit. Let us 
say that a Negro comes in November to 
rent a one-mule farm from the landlord for 
the coming year. 

" What have you got ? " asks the landlord. 

"Nothin', boss," he is quite likely to say. 

The "boss" furnishes him with a cabin 
to live in — ^which goes with the land rented 
— a mule, a plow, possibly a one-horse 
wagon and a few tools. He is often given 
a few dollars in cash near Christmas time 
which (ordinarily) he immediately spends 
— wastes. He is then allowed to draw upon 
the plantation supply store a regular amount 
of com to feed his mule, and meat, bread 
and tobacco, and some clothing for his 
family. The cost of the entire outfit and 
supplies for a year is in the neighborhood 
of $300, upon which the tenant pays interest 
at from 10 to 30 per cent, from the time of 
signing the contract in November, although 
most of the supplies are not taken out until 
the next summer. Besides this interest the 
planter also makes a large profit on all the 
groceries and other necessities furnished by 
his supply store. Having made his contract 
the Negro goes to work with his whole family 
and keeps at it until the next fall when the 
cotton is aU picked and ginned. Then he 
comes in for his " settlement" — ^a great time 
of year. The settlements were going for- 
ward while I was in the black belt. The 
Negro is credited with the amount of cotton 
he brings in and he is charged with all the 
supplies he has had, and interest, together 
with the rent of his thirty acres of land. If 
the season has been good and he has been 
industrious, he will often have a nice profit 
in cash, but sometimes he not only does not 
come out even, but closes his year of work 
actually in deeper debt to the landlord. 

Some Negroes, nowadays usually of the 
poorer sort, work for wages. They get 
from $12 to $15 a month (against $5 to 
$8 a few years ago) with a cabin to live 
in. They are allowed a garden patch, 
where they can, if they are industrious and 
their families help, raise enough vegetables 
to feed them comfortably, or part of a bale 
of cotton, which is their own. But it is 
sadly to be commented upon that few 



3o6 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



Negro tenants, or whites either, as far as 
I could see, do anvthing with their gardens 
save perhaps to raise a few coUards, peanuts 
and peppers — and possibly a few sweet 
]x>tatoes. This is due in part to indolence 
and lack of ambition, and in part to the 
steady work required by the planter. The 
wife and children of an industrious wage- 
working Negro nearly always help in the 
fields, earning an additional income from 
chopping cotton in spring and picking the 
lint in the fall. 

This is the system as it is in theory: but 
the interest for us lies not in the plan, but 
in the actual practice. How does it aU 
work out for good or for evil, for landlord 
and for tenant? 

Tenantry in the South is a very different 
thing from what it is in the North. In the 
North, a man who rents a farm is nearly 
as free to do as he pleases as if he were 
the owner. But in the South, the present 
tenant system is much nearer the condition 
that prevailed in slavery times than it is 
to the present Northern tenant system. 
This grows naturally out of slavery: the 
white man had learned to operate big plan- 
tations with ignorant help; and the Negro 
on his {)art had no training for any other 
system. The white man was the natural 
master and the Negro the natural dependent 
and a mere Emancipation Proclamation 
did not at once change the spirit of the 
relationship. 

To-day a white overseer resides on every 
large plantation and he or the owner him- 
self looks after and disciplines the ten- 
ants. The tenant is in debt to him (in 
some cases reaching a veritable condition 
of debt slavery or peonage) and he must see 
that the crop is made. Hence he watches 
the work of every Negro (and indeed that 
of the white tenants as well), sees that the 
land is properly fertilized, that the dikes 
(to prevent washing) are kept up, that the 
cotton is properly chopped (thinned) and 
regularly cultivated. Some of the greater 
land owners employ assistant overseers 
or "riders" who are constantly traveling 
from farm to farm. On one plantation I 
saw four such riders start out one day, each 
vnth a rifle on his saddle. And on a South 
Carolina plantation I had a gHmp>se of one 
method of discipline. A planter was telling 
me of his difficulties — how a spirit of un- 
ruliness sometimes swept abroad through a 
plantation, inspired by some * * bigoty nigger." 



''Do you know what I do with such 
cases?" he said. "Come with me, I'll 
show you." 

He took me back through his house to 
the broad porch and reaching up to a shelf 
over the door he took down a hickory wagon 
spoke, as long as my arm. 

" When there's trouble," he said, " I just 
go down with that and lay one or two of 
'em out. That ends the trouble. We've 
got to do it; they're like children and once 
in a while they simply have to be punished. 
It's far better for them to take it this way, 
from a white man who is their friend, than 
to be arrested and taken to court and sent 
to the chain gang." 

Troubles of the Landlord 

Planters told me of all sorts of difficulties 
thev had to meet with their tenants. One 
of them, after he had spent a whole evening 
telling me of the troubles which confronted 
any man who tried to work Negroes, summed 
it all up with the remark: 

" You've just got to make up your mind 
that you are dealing with children, and 
handle them as firmly and kindly as you 
know how." 

He told me how hard it was to get a Negro 
tenant even in the busy season to work a 
full week — and it was often only by with- 
holding the weekly food allowance that it 
could be done. Saturday afternoon (or 
"evening" as they say in the South) the 
Negro goes to town or \asits his friends. 
Often he spends all day Sunday driving 
about the countr}' and his mule comes back 
so worn out that it cannot be used on Mon- 
day. There are often furious religious 
revivals which break into the work, to say 
nothing of "frolics" and fish suppers at 
which the Negroes often remain all night 
long. Many of them are careless with their 
tools, wasteful of supplies, irresponsible in 
their promises. One planter told me how 
he had built neat fences around the homes 
of his Negroes, and fixed up their houses to 
encourage them in thrift and give them 
more comfort, only to have the fences and 
even parts of the houses used for firewood. 

Toward fall, if the season has been bad, 
and the crop of cotton is short, so short that 
a Negro knows that he will not be able to 
" f)ay out " and have anything left for him- 
self, he will sometimes desert the plantation 
entirely, leaving the cotton unpicked and 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



307 



a large debt to the landlord. If he attempts 
that, however, he must get entirely away, 
else the planter will chase him down and 
bring him back to his work. Illiterate, 
without discipline or training, with little 
ambition and much indolence, a large pro- 
portion of Negro tenants are looked after 
and driven like children or slaves. I say 
" a large proportion " — but there are thou- 
sands of industrious Negro land owners and 
tenants who are rapidly getting ahead — 
as I shall show next month. 

In this connection it is a noteworthy fact 
that a considerable niunber of the white 
tenants require almost as much attention 
as the Negroes, though they are, of course, 
treated in an entirely different way. One 
planter in Alabama said to me: 

"Give me Negroes every time. I wouldn't 
have a low-down white tenant on my place. 
You can get work out of any Negro if you 
know how to handle him : but there are some 
white men who won't work and can't be 
driven, because they are white." 

Race Troubles in the Country 

In short, when slavery was abolished it 
gave place to a sort of feudal tenantry sys- 
tem which continues widely to-day. And 
it has worked with comparative satisfaction, 
at least to the landlords, until within the 
last few years, when the next step in the 
usual evolution of human society — ^indus- 
trial and urban development — began seri- 
ously to disturb the feudal equilibrium of 
the cotton country. It was a cimous idea 
— human enough — that men should attempt 
to legislate slaves immediately into freedom. 
But Nature takes her own methods of free- 
ing slaves; they are slower than men's ways, 
but more certain. 

The change now going on in the South 
from the feudal agricultural life to shar- 
pened modern conditions has brought diffi- 
culties for the planter compared with which 
all others pale into insignificance. I mean 
the scarcity of labor. Industry is competing 
with agriculture for the limited supply of 
Negro workers. Negroes, responding to ex- 
actly the same natural laws that control the 
white farmers, have been moving cityward, 
entering other occupations, migrating west 
or north — ^where more money is to be made. 
Agricultural wages have therefore gone up 
and rents, relatively, have gone down; and 
had the South not been blessed for several 



years with wonderful returns from its 
monopoly crop, there might have been a 
more serious crisis. 

Cry of the South: "More Labor'* 

If the South to-day could articidate its 
chief need, we shoidd hear a single great 
shout: 

"More labor!" 

Out of this struggle for tenants, servants 
and workers, has grown the chief complica- 
tions of the Negro problem — ^and I am not 
forgetting race prejudice, or the crimes 
against women. Indeed, it has seemed to 
me that the chief difficulty in understanding 
the Negro problem lies in showing how 
much of the complication in the South is 
due to eco.'^omic readjustments and how 
much to instinctive race repulsion or race 
prejudice. 

A Tenant Stealer 

In one town I visited — not Hawkinsville 
— I was standing talking with some gentle- 
men in the street when I saw a man drive 
by in a buggy. 

" Do you see that man ? " they asked me. 

I nodded. 

"Well, he is the greatest tenant-stealer 
in this country." 

I heard a good deal about these " tenant 
stealers." A whole neighborhood will 
execrate one planter who, to keep his land 
cultivated, wUl lure away his neighbor's 
Negroes. Sometimes he will offer more 
wages, sometimes he will give the tenants 
better houses to live in, and sometimes he 
succeeds by that sheer force of a masterful 
personality which easily controls an igno- 
rant tenantry. 

I found, moreover, that there was not only 
a struggle between individual planters for 
Negro tenants, but between states and 
sections. Many of the old farms in South 
Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama have been 
used so long that they reqmre a steady and 
heavy annual treatment of fertilizer, with 
the result that cotton growing costs more 
than it does in the rich alluvial lands of 
Mississippi, or the newer regions of Arkan- 
sas and Texas. The result is that the 
planters of the West, being able to pay more 
wages and give the tenants better terms, 
lure away the Negroes of the East. Georgia 
and other states have met this competitive 



308 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



disadvantage in the usual way in which 
such disadvantage, when first felt but not 
fully understood, are met, by counteracting 
legislation. Georgia has made the most 
stringent laws to keep her Negroes on the 
land. The Georgia code (Section 6oi) 
says: 

" Any person who shall solicit or procure 
emigrants, or shall attempt to do so, without 
first procuring a license as required by law, 
shall be guilty of a misdemeanor." 

£x- Congressman William H. Fleming, 
one of the ablest statesmen of Georgia, said: 

" Land and other forms of capital cannot 
spare the Negro and will not give him up 
tmtil a substitute is foimd. His labor is 
worth millions upon millions. In Georgia 
we now make it a crime for any one to 
solicit emigrants without taking out a 
license and then we make the license as 
nearly prohibitive as possible. One of the 
most dangerous occupations for any one to 
follow in this state would be that of an 
emigrant agent — as some have found by 
experience." 

In this connection I have an account 
published in April in an Augusta news- 
paper of just such a case: 

" The heaviest fine g^iven in the city court of 
Richmond County within the last two years was 
imposed upon E. F. Amett yesterday momingf. 
He was sentenced to pay a fine of one thousand 
dollars or serve six months in the county jail. 

" Arnett was convicted of violating^ the state 
emigration laws regarding the carrying of labor 
out of the state. He was alleged to have em- 
ployed thirteen negjoes to work on the Georgia 
and Atlantic Railroad, which operates in this state 
and Alabama. The jury on the case returned a 
verdict of guilty when court convened yesterday, 
although it had been reported that a mistrial was 
probable." 

''Peg Leg'' Williams 

A famous railroad emigration agent called 
" Peg Leg" Williams, who promoted Negro 
emigration from Georgia to Mississippi 
and Texas a few years ago, was repeatedly 
prosecuted and finally driven out of busi- 
ness. In a letter which he wrote some time 
ago to the Atlanta Constitution he said: 

" I know of several counties not a hundred 
miles from Atlanta where it's more than a 
man's life is worth to go into to get Negroes 
to move to some other state. There are 
farmers that would not hesitate to shoot 
their brother were he to come from Missis- 
sippi to get 'hb niggers,' as he calls them, 



even though he had no contract with thenu 
I know personally numbers of Negro men 
who have moved West and after accumulat- 
ing a little, returned to get a brother, sister, 
or an old father or mother, and they were 
compelled to return without them, their 
lives being imperilled; they had to leave 
and leave quick." 

In view of such a feeling it may be im- 
agined how futile is the talk of the de- 
portation of the Negro race. WTiat the 
Southern planter wants to-day is not fewer 
Negroes but more Negroes — Negroes who 
will "keep their place." 

Laws to Make the Negro Work 

Many other laws have been passed in the 
Southern states which are designed to keep 
the Negro on the land, and having him 
there, to make him work. The contract 
law, the abuses of which lead to peonagie 
and debt slavery, is an excellent example 
— ^which I shall discuss more fully in the 
next article. The criminal laws, the chain- 
gang system, and the hiring of Negro con- 
victs to private individuals are all, in one 
way or another, devices to keep the Negro at 
woric on farms, in brick-yards and in mines. 
The vagrancy laws, not unlike those of the 
North and excellent in their purpose, are 
here sometimes executed with great severity. 
In Alabama the last legislature passed a law 
under which a Negro arrested for vagrancy 
must prove that he is not a vagrant. In 
short, the old rule of law that a man is 
innocent until proved guilty is here reversed 
for the Negro so that the burden of proving 
that he is not guilty of vagrancy rests u(X)n 
him, not upon the state. The last Ala- 
bama legislature also passed a stringent 
game law, one argument in its favor being 
that by preventing the Negro from pot- 
hunting it would force him to work more 
steadily in the cotton fields. 

Race Haired Versus Econothic Ne- 
cessity 

One of the most significant things I saw 
in the South — ^and I saw it everywhere — 
was the way in which the white people were 
torn between their feeling of race preju- 
dice and their do\*Tiright economic needs. 
Hating and fearing the Negro as a race 
(though often loving individual Negroes), 
they yet want him to work for them; they 



RAY STANNARD BAKER 



309 



can't get along without him. In one impulse 
a community will rise to mob Negroes or 
to drive them out of the country because of 
Negro crime or Negro vagrancy, or because 
the Negro is becoming educated, acquiring 
property and "getting out of his place"; 
and in the next impulse laws are passed or 
other remarkable measures taken to keep 
him at work — because the South can't get 
along without him. From the Atlanta 
Georgian I cut recently a letter which well 
illustrates the way in which racial hatred 
clashes with economic necessity. 

Troubles of Country Folk 

"Bat aren't there two sides to every ques- 
tion ? Here we are out here in the country, right 
in the midst of hundreds of negroes, and do you 
know, sir, that all this talk alx>ut lynching and 
ku-kluxing is frightening the farm hands to such 
an extent we begin to fear that soon the farmers 
will sustain a great loss of labor, by their running 
away ? Already it is beginning to have its effect. 
After night the negroes are afraid to leave their 
farm to go anywhere on errands of business. 
Why, sir, two miles from this town, the negroes 
are afraid to come here to trade at night. The 
country merchants are feeling the force of it venr 
sorely, and if this foolishness isn't stopped their 
losses in fall trade will be very heavy. 

** Even some of the ladies of our community are 
complaining of this rashness. That it is demoral- 
izing the labor in the home department. So in 
conclusion, in behalf of my community and other 
country communities, I feel it my duty to raise a 
warning voice against all such new foolish ku- 
kluxism. 

** Mableton, Ga. T. J. Lowe." 

While I was in Georgia a case came up 
which threw a flood of light upon the 
inner complexities of this problem. In 
the county of Habersham in North Georgia 
the population is largely of the type known 
as "poor white" — the famous mountain 
folk who were never slave-owners and many 
of whom fought in the Union army during 
the Civil War. Habersham is one of the 
"white counties" which is growing whiter. 
It has about 2,000 Negroes and 12,000 
whites — many of the latter having come 
in from the North to grow peaches and raise 
sheep. One of the Negroes of Habersham 
County was Frank Grant, described by a 
white neighbor as " a Negro of good char- 
acter, a property owner, setting an example 
of thrift and honesty that ought to have 
made his example a benefit to any com- 
munity." 

Grant had saved money from his labor 
and bought a home. He was such a good 



worker that people were willing sometimes 
to pay him twice the wages of the aver- 
age laborer, white or black. On the 
night of December 16, 1906, the Negro's 
house was fired into by a party of white 
men who then went to the house of his 
tenant, Henry Seism, also a Negro, and 
shot promiscuously around Seism's house, 
and warned him to leave the county in 
one week, threatening him with severe 
penalties if he did not go. As a result 
Grant had to sell out his little home, won 
after such hard work, and he and his 
tenant Seism with their families both fled 
the country. 

"In Grant," said his white neighbor, 
"the county lost a capable laborer — in its 
present situation, a most valuable asset — 
and a good citizen." 

Here, then, we have race hatred versus 
economic necessity. The important citizens 
and employers of Habersham County came 
to Atlanta and issued a petition to Governor 
Terrell, January 18, 1907, as follows: 

**To His Excellency, J. M. Tbeebll, 
'* Governor of Georgia; Atlanta: 
"Whereas, on the night of December 16, igo6, 
parties unknown came to the quiet home of one 
Frank Grant, colored, a citizen of this county, and 
shot into his residence, and then went to the home 
of Henry Seism, colored, a tenant of said Frank 
Grant, and shot promiscuously around his (the said 
Seism's) house, and demanded of him to leave the 
county under severe penalty. 

**This has caused the tenant, Henry Seism, to 
leave, and Frank Grant to sell his little house at a 
sacrifice and leave. It comes to us that Frank 
Grant is a quiet, innocent, hard-working citizen. 
Therefore, we, the undersigned officers and citi- 
zens of Habersham County, Georgia, pray you to 
offer a liberal reward for the arrest and conviction 
of these unknown parties — say $100 for the first 
and $50 for each succeeding one. 
"(Signed) C. W. Grant, 

** County School Commissioner, 
*' J. A. Erwin Clerk, S. C, 
*' M. Franklin, Ordinary, 
••J. D. Hill, T. C. H. C 



r-* M 



But, of course, nothing could be done that 
would keep the Negroes on the land under 
such conditions. 

Why Negroes are Driven Out 

What does it all mean? Listen to the 
explanation given by a prominent white 
man of Habersham County — ^not to me — 
but to the Atlanta Georgian, where it was 
published: 

"It is not a problem of Negro labor. 



3IO 



FOLLOWING THE COLOR LINE 



because there is very little '/ chat kind there. 
The white labor wiU not work for the fruit 
growers at prices they can afford, even when 
it is a good fruit year. Often they decline to 
work at any price. They have many admira- 
ble qualities; among them is a spirit of pride 
and independence, which, rightly directed, 
would uplift and make them prosperous, 
but which, misguided and blind, as it some- 
times is, keeps them in poverty and puts 
the region in which they live at great dis- 
advantage. 

" Land owners and employers, native, and 
new, are indignant but helpless. They are 
in the power of the shiftless element of the 
whites, who say, * I will work or not, as I 
please, and when I please, and at my own 
price; and I will not have Negroes taking my 
work away from me.' This is not a race 
question, pure and simple; it is an industrial 
question, a labor issue, not confined to one 
part of the country." 

Here, it will be observed, the same com- 
plaint is made against the "poor white" 
as against the Negro — that he is shiftless 
and that he won't work even for high wages. 

Generally speaking, the race hatred in 
the South comes chiefly from the poorer 
class of whites who either own land which 
they work themselves or are tenant farmers 
in competition with Negroes and from poli- 
ticians who seek to win the votes of this 
class of white men. The larger land own- 
ers and employers of labor, while they do 
not love the Negro, want him to work and 
work steadily, and will do almost anything 
to keep him on the land — so long as he is 
a faithful, obedient, unambitious worker. 
When he becomes prosperous, or educated, 
or owns land, many white people no longer 
"have any use for him" and turn upon 
him with hostility, but the best type of the 
Southern white man is not only glad to 
see the Negro become a prosperous and 
independent farmer but will do much 
to help him, as I shall show in my next 
article. 

Fivid Illustration of Race Feeluig 

I have had innumerable illustrations of 
the extremes to which race feeling reaches 
among a certain class of Southerners. In 
a letter to the Atlanta ConstUutiotiy Novem- 
ber 5, 1906, a writer who signs himself 
Mark Johnson, says: 

" The only use we have for the Negro is as 



a laborer. It is only as such that we need 
him: it is only as such that we can use him. 
If the North wants to take him and educate 
him we will bid him god-speed and contrib- 
ute to his education if schools are located 
on the other side of the line." 

And here are extracts from a remarkable 
letter from a Southern white working man 
signing himself Forrest Pope and pub- 
lished in the Atlanta Georgian, October 
22, 1906: 

"When the skilled negro appears and 
begins to elbow the white man in the strug- 
gle for existence, don't you know the white 
man rebels and won't have it so? If you 
don't it won't take you long to find it out; 
just go out and ask a few of them, those who 
will tell you the whole truth, and see what 
you will find out about it. 

What is the Negro's Place? 

"All genuine Southern people like the 
negro as a servant, and so long as he remains 
the hewer of wood and carrier of water, and 
remains strictly in what we choose to caU 
his place, everything is all right, but when 
ambition, prompted by real education, 
causes the negro to grow restless and he 
bestirs himself to get out of that servile 
condition, then there is, or at least there 
will be, trouble, sure enough trouble, that 
all the great editors, parsons, and philos- 
ophers can no more check than they can 
now state the whole truth and nothing but 
the truth, about this all-absorbing, far- 
reaching miserable race question. There 
are those among Southern editors and other 
public men who have been shouting into 
the ears of the North for twenty-five years 
that education would solve the negro ques- 
tion; there is not an honest, fearless, think- 
ing man in the South but who knows that 
to be a bare-faced lie. Take a young negro 
of little more than ordinary intelligence, 
even, get hold of him in time, train him 
thoroughly as to books, and finish him up 
with a good industrial education, send him 
out into the South with ever so good inten- 
tions, both on the part of his benefactor and 
himself, send him to taTce my work away 
from me and I will kill him." 

The writer says in another part of this 
remarkable letter, giving as it does a 
glimpse of the bare bones of the economic 
struggle for existence: 

" I am, I believe, a typical Southern white 



AN ANTIQUE ELEGY 



3" 



workingman of the skilled variety, and I'll 
tell the whole world, including Drs. Abbott 
and Eliot, that I don't want any educated 
property-owning negro around me. The 
negro would be desirable to me for what 
I could get out of him in the way of labor 
that I don't want to have to perform myself, 
and I have no other uses for him." 

It^ho Will Do the Dirty Work i 

One illustration more and I am through. 
I met at Montgomery, Alabama, a talented 
lawyer named Gustave Frederick Mertins. 
We were discussing "the problem"; and 
Mr. Mertins finally made a striking remark, 
not at all expressing the view that I heard 
from some of the strongest citizens of 
Montgomery, but excellently voicing the 
position of many Southerners. 

"It's a question," he said, "who will do 
the dirty, work. In this country the white 
man won't: the Negro must. There's got 
to be a mudsill somewhere. If you educate 
the Negroes they won't stay where they 
belong; and you must consider them as a 
race, because if you let a few rise it makes 
the others discontented." 

Mr. Mertins presented me with a copy 
of his novel called "The Storm Signal," 



in which he further develops the idea 

(p. 342). 

" The Negro is the mudsill of the social 
and industrial South to-day. Upon his 
labor in the field, in the forest, and in the 
mine, the whole structiu^ rests.. Slip the 
mudsill out and the system must be reor- 
ganized. . . . Educate him and he quits 
the field. Instruct him in the trades and 
sciences and he enters into active competi- 
tion with the white man in what are called 
the higher planes of life. That competi- 
tion brings on friction, and that friction in 
the end means the Negro's undoing." 

Is not this mudsill stirring to-day, and 
is not that the deep reason for many of the 
troubles in the South — ^and in the North as 
well, where the negro has appeared in large 
numbers ? The friction of competition has 
arrived, and despite the demand for justice 
by many of the best class of the Southern 
whites, the struggle is certainly of growing 
intensity. 

And out of this economic struggle of 
whites and blacks grows an ethical struggle 
far more significant. It is the struggle of 
the white man with himself. How shall 
he, who is supreme in the South as in the 
North, treat the Negro? That is the real 
struggle! 



{In his next article Mr. Baker will continue with Southern country conditions, treat- 
ing of the "good'* and "bad** landlordy of Negro farm ownership, of the workings of 
the contract law for good and evil, and of other related subjects,) 



AN ANT1Q_UE ELEGY 

BY WITTER BYNNER 



O Mother, guard my little maid 
Whom now I trust to you, 

Comfort her if she seem afraid 
Of arms and faces new! 



Teach her to pity! — to divine 
Dimly among the shades 

How here on earth not one is mine 
Of all the little maids! 



A single year on yesterday 
Had ended since she came, 

Yet listen to the baby way 
She knows me by my name! 



O Earth, with flowers on her eyes. 

Be thou as sweet as she! 
Be thou as light where now she lies, 

As she was light on thee! 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 

A LOVE STORY OF OLD CONSTANTINOPLE 



BY F. MARION CRAWFORD 



i> it 



AUTHOR OF *• VIA CBUCIS," " A ROMAN SINCBR," ETC. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES SARKA 



PART VII 




CHAPTER XIV 

IHERE was consternation in 
little Omobono's face the 
next morning when he 
learnt that his master had 
gone out during the night, 
and had not come home. 
The secretary would not 
believe it at first, and he went himself to 
Zeno*s bedroom and saw that the couch had 
not been slept on; he could tell that easily, 
though it was not a bed but a narrow divan 
covered with a carpet; for the two leathern 
pillows were not disturbed, and the old 
dark-red cloak which Zeno always used as 
a covering was neatly folded in its place. 
It had been with him through the long 
campaign in Greece, and he had the almost 
affectionate associations with it which men 
of action often connect with objects that 
have served them well in dangerous times. 
Zeno had not slept -at home, and he had 
changed his clothes before going out. 
Questioned by Omobono, Vito could not 
say with any certainty what the master had 
put on; in fact, he could not tell at all. All 
the cloth hose and doublets and tunics were 
in their places in the cedar wardrobes and 
chests of drawers, except those he had 
taken off, which lay on a chair. It looked, 
said the servant, as if the master had gone 
out without any clothes at all! 

Omobono felt that if he had been a 



NoTs.— I find that in usin^i^ the name *' Gullabi Gulben- 
kjan " I have quite unintentionallv ((iven offence to an Ar- 
menian gentleman to whom it beiong^s ; I shall therefore 
substitute another name in its place, and even another 
nationality, when this story appears as a volume. I take 
this opportunity of expressing; my ref^ret for what can 
only be regarded as an unfortunate coincidence. 

F. Marion Crawford. 

312 



bigger man he would have boxed the fellow's 
ears for the impertinent suggestion. But it 
was not quite safe, for the man was a big 
Venetian gondolier and sailor. Besides, as 
he went on to explain, the master had often 
gone down to the marble steps at dawn for 
a plunge and a swim, with nothing but a 
sheet round him, coming back to dress in 
his room. Perhaps he had done so now, 
and perhaps 

The man stopped short. Perhaps Zeno 
was drowned. He looked at Omobono, but 
the secretary shook his head, and pointed 
to the undisturbed couch. Zeno would cer- 
tainly not have gone out bathing before 
going to bed. Neither of them thought of 
looking into the small militar)'' trunk which 
stood in a dark corner, and from which 
Zeno had taken the leathern jerkin and 
stout hose which he had put on for the ex- 
pedition. 

Omobono had, of course, already ques- 
tioned the slave-girls. They told what they 
knew, that the master had supped upstairs, 
and had dismissed them. When they came 
back to the room he was gone, they said; 
and this was true, since they had slept all 
night. The Kok6na was now asleep, they 
added; but they did not say that she was 
sleeping dressed as she had been on the 
previous evening, and looked very tired, for 
that was none of the secretary's business. 

Omobono went up and down the stairs 
almost as often that morning as on the day 
of Zoe's first coming, and again and again 
he instructed Yulia to call him when her 
mistress awoke. The answer was always 
the same: the Kokdna was still asleep, and 
the secretarv should be called as soon as she 
rose. At last he began to think that she, 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



313 



too, had left the house, and that the girls 
were in the secret, and he threatened to go 
in and see for himself. To his surprise 
Yulia stood aside to let him pass, laying one 
finger on her lips as a warning to make no 
noise; for the little slave saw well enough 
that he suspected her of lying, and she was 
afraid of him in Zeno's absence. Seeing 
that she did not oppose him, he was con- 
vinced, and did not go in. 

He would not send out messengers to ask 
for his master at the houses of the Venetian 
merchants, or at their places of business, for 
he had a true Italian's instinct to conceal 
from the outer world everything that hap- 
pens in the house. Yet he found himself in 
a dilemma; for Zeno had invited Sebastian 
Polo, his wife, and his daughter, and other 
friends to dinner, and they would come, 
and be amazed to find that he was not there 
to receive them. Yet if word were sent to 
them not to come, Zeno might return in 
time and be justly angry; and then he 
would call the poor secretary something 
worse than a cackling hen. It was a terrible 
difficulty, and all the servants and slaves 
downstairs were chattering about it like 
magpies, except when the secretary was 
just pKtssing. The cdok sent to ask whether 
he was to prepare the dinner. 

" Certainly, " answered Omobono. " The 
master is no doubt gone out on pressing 
business, and will be back in plenty of time 
to receive his friends." 

He tried to speak calmly, poor man, but 
he was in a terrible stew. Anxiety had 
brought out two round red spots on his gray 
cheeks; for once his trim beard was almost 
ruffled, and his small round eyes were 
haggard and bloodshot. 

As the time for the arrival of the guests 
drew near, he felt his brain reeling, and the 
rooms whirled round him, till he felt that 
the universe was going raving mad, and that 
he was in the very center of it. Still Zoe 
slept, and still the master did not come. 

At last there was but half an hour left. 
Omobono strained every nerve he possessed, 
and determined to meet the tremendous 
difficulty in a way that should elicit Zeno's 
admiration. He would receive the ladies 
and gentlemen as major-domo, he would 
make an excuse for his master, he would 
install them in their places at table, and 
would direct the service. Of the cook and 
the cellar the little man felt quite sure, and 
that was a great consolation in his extremity. 



If he gave Zeno's friends of the best, and 
made a polite apology, and saw that noth- 
ing went wrong, it would be impossible to 
ask more of him or to suggest that he had 
failed in his duty. When the guests were 
gone he would go to bed and have an 
attack of fever; of that he felt quite sure, 
but then the terrible ordeal would be over, 
and it would be a relief to lie on his back and 
feel very ill. 

Now in all this trouble it never occurred 
to him that his master was in any great 
danger or trouble, much less that he might 
have been killed in some mad adventure. 
Carlo Zeno had lived through such des- 
perate perils again and again, so that Omo- 
bono liad formed the habit of believing 
him to be indestructible, if not invulnerable, 
and sure to fall on his feet whatever hap- 
pened. The secretary only wished he would 
not choose to disappear on the very day 
when he had asked five friends to dine with 
him. 

Omobono stood in his fine clean shirt and 
his wine-colored hose, combing and smooth- 
ing his beard carefully with the help of a 
little mirror. While he was thus engaged 
some one tapped iX his door, and a small voice 
informed him that Kokdna Arethusa was 
now awake, and wished to see him instantly. 
Though the door was not opened by the 
speaker, Omobono hastily laid down his glass 
and his comb, and struggled into his tunic 
as if his life depended on his getting it on 
before he answered. 

"Tell the Kokdna that I am at her ser- 
vice," he said; "and that I shall be with 
her immediately." 

"Yes, sir," said the small voice, and he 
heard the girl's retreating footsteps imme- 
diately after she had spoken. 

A few moments later he was going up the 
stairs as fast as the tremendous tension of 
his hose would allow, and as he went he 
reflected with satisfaction that as major- 
domo he could not by any possibility be 
called upon to sit down in the presence of 
his master's guests. 

One of the slave-girls ushered him into 
Zoe's presence. The latter was seated on 
the edge of the divan, looking anxiously 
toward the d(X)r when he entered, and for 
the first time since she had been in the 
house he saw her face uncovered. It was 
very pale, and there were deep shadows 
under her eves. Her beautiful brown hair 
was in wild disorder, too, and fell in a loos- 



314 



ARETHUSA, A PRINCESS IN SLAVERY 



ened tress upon one shoulder. The hand 
that rested on the edge of the divan strained 
upon a fold of the delicate silk carpet that 
covered the couch. She spoke as soon as 
Omobono appeared. 

" Have you heard from him ? " she asked 
anxiously. " Is he coming ? " 

It did not seem strange to the secretary 
that she should already know of Zeno's 
absence, since no one in the house could 
think or talk of anything else. On his part 
he was resolved to maintain the calm dig- 
nity becoming to the major-domo of a 
noble house. 

"The master will doubtless come home 
when he has finished the urgent business 
that called him away," he answered. " In 
his absence, it will be my duty to make 
excuses to his guests " 

"Are they coming? Have you not sent 
them word to stay away ? " 

Omobono smiled in a sort of superiorly 
humble way. 

"And what if the master should return 
just at the hour of dinner?" he asked. 
"What would he say if I had ventured to 
take upon myself such a responsibility? 
The Kokdna does not know the master! 
Happily I have been in his service too long 
not to understand my duty. If it pleases 
him to come home, he will find that his 
friends have been entertained as he desired. 
If he does not come, he will be glad to learn 
afterward that the proper excuses were 
offered to them for his unavoidable absence, 
and that they were treated with the honor 
due to their station." • 

Zoe stared at the secretary, really amazed 
by his calmness, and almost reassured by 
his evident belief in Zeno's safety. It was 
true that he knew nothing of the facts, and 
had not seen his master hanging by the end 
of a rope, fifty feet above the ground, 
within twelve hours. It would have been 
hard to imagine Omobono's state of mind 
if he had spent the night as Zoe had. But 
nevertheless his assurance rested her, and 
restored a little of her confidence in Zeno's 
good fortune. Of his courage and his 
strength she needed not to be reminded; 
but she knew well enough that unless 
chance were in his favor, he could never 
leave Blachernae except to die. 

"Do you really think he is safe?" Zoe 
asked, glad to hear the reassuring words, 
even in her own voice. 

"Of course, Kokdna " 



But at this moment the sound of oars in 
the water, and of several voices talking to- 
gether, came up through the open window 
from the landing below. 

All Omobono's excitement returned at 
the thought that he might not get down the 
stairs in time to receive the guests at the 
marble steps just as the boats came along- 
side. Without another word he turned and 
fled precipitately. 

Zo^ had heard the voices too, and had 
understood; and, in spite of her anxiety, a 
gentle smile at the secretary's nervousness 
flitted across her tired face. The two slave- 
girls had run to the window to see who was 
coming, and as they had always been told 
not to show themselves at windows, they 
crouched down in the balcony and looked 
through the open-work of marble which 
formed the parapet. 

Zoe rose to cross the room. In the first 
rush of memory that came with waking, 
she had almost forgotten that she had been 
hurt, and now she bit her lip as the pain 
shot down her right side. But she smiled 
almost instantly. She would rather have 
been hurt unawares by the man she loved, 
than that he should not have touched her 
at the very moment of going into danger. 
The memory of his crushing weight upon 
her for that instant was something she 
would not part with. Women know what 
that is. She thought how tenderly he would 
have stooped to kiss her^ if he had known 
that she was lying there under the canvas. 
Instead, he had stepped upon her body; 
and it was almost better than a kiss, for 
that would have left nothing of itself; but 
now each movement that hurt her brought 
him close to her again. 

She had received no real injury, but she 
limped as she walked to the window. Then 
she stood still just within it, where she could 
not see down to the steps below, but could 
talk with the slave-girls in a whisper. 
Doubtless, since Zeno had not wished her 
to be seen, she would not have shown her- 
self; but she was quite conscious that she 
looked ill and tired, and by no means fit to 
face a rival who had been described to her 
as fresher than spring roses; so that the 
sacrifice was, after all, not so great as it 
might have been. 

" Tell me what you see," she said to the 
maids. 

Lucilla turned up her sallow little face. 

"There are three," she answered. 



F. MARION CRAWFORD 



315 



"There is a Venetian lord, and his lady, 
and a young lady. At least, I suppose she 
is young." 

"I should think you could see that," 2k)e 
said. 

"Her face is veiled," Lucilla replied, 
after peering down; " but I can see her hair. 
It is red, and she has a great deal of it." 

"Red Uke Gullabi's wife's hair?" asked 
Zoe. 

"Oh no! It is red like a lady's; for it is 
well dyed with the good khenna that comes 
from Alexandria. Now they are getting 
out — the old lady first — she is fat — the 
secretary and her husband help her on each 
side. She is all wrapped in a long green 
silk mantle embroidered with red roses. 
She is like a dish of spinach in flames. 
How fat she is!" 

Lucilla shook a little, as if she were 
laughing internally. 

"What does her daughter wear?" asked 
Zoe. 

" A dark purple cloak, with a broad silver 
trimming." 

"How hideous!" exclaimed Zoe, for no 
particular reason. 

"The secretary bows to the ground," 
Lucilla said. "He is saying something." 

She stopped speaking, and all three 
listened. Zoe could hear Omobono's voice 
quite distinctly. 

"By a most unfortunate circumstance," 
he was saying, "Messer Carlo Zeno was 
obliged to go out on very urgent business, 
and has not yet returned. I am his secretary 
and major-domo, as your lordship may 
deign to remember. In my master's ab- 
sence I have the honor to welcome his 
guests, and to wait upon them." 

Sebastian Polo said something in answer 
to this fine speech; but in a low ton