The under dog

THE UNDER
DOG

F • H O PKIll S Q N * SMITH

BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE

SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND

THE GIFT OF

HENRY W. SAGE

1891

Cornell University Library
PS 2864.U5 1903

The under dog /

3 1924 022 180 123

Cornell University
Library

The original of tliis book is in
tlie Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022180123

THE UNDER DOG

"iri^.^JUl H.. ..•.^,«.^^'-.-;. ' ' ..

During the trip lie sat in tlie far corner of tlie car.

THE
UNDER DOG

BY

F. HOPKINSON SMITH

ILLUSTRATED

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK::::::::::::::::::1903

COPTMOHT, 1903, BT

CHARLES SCEIBNER'S SONS

Publishea, May, 1903

TROW OlftECTORY

PRINTINQ AND BOOKBINOINQ COMCANY

NEW YORK

To my Readers:

In the strife of life some men lose place through
physical weakness or lost opportunities or impaired
abilities ; struggle on as they may, they must al-
ways be the Under Dog in the fight.

Others are misjudged — often by their fellows ;
sometimes by the law. If you are one of the
fellows, you pass the man with a nod. If you are
the law, you crush out his life with a sentence.

StiU others lose place from being misunder-
stood; from being out of touch with their sur-
roundings; out of reach of those who, if they
knew, would help; men with hearts chilled by
neglect, whose smouldering coals — coals deep hid-
den in their nature — need only the warm breath of
some other man's sympathy to be fanned back
into life.

Once in a while there can be met another kind,
one whose poverty or uncouthness makes us shun
him at sight ; and yet one, if we did but know it,
with a joyous melody in his heart, ofttimes in tune

TO MY KEADEKS

with our own harmonies. This kind is rare, and
when found adds another ripple to our scanty
stock of laughter.

These Under Dogs — graye and gay — have al-
ways appealed to me. Their stories are printed
here in the hope that they may also appeal to you.

F. H. 8.

New York.

TI

CONTENTS

PASS

No Respecter of Persons 1

/. The Crime of Sammnihy North . . 3

II. Bud TUden, MaU-Thief 29

///. " Eleven Months and Ten Days " . . 67

Cap'n Boh of the Screamer 77

A Procession of Umbrellas 99

" Boc"" Shipman's Fee ....... 129

Plain Fin — Paper-Hanger 151

Long Jim 179

Compartment Number Four — Cologne
to Paris 215

Sammy 239

Marny's Shadow 265

Muffles — The Bar- Keep 293

His Last Cent 315

ILLUSTRATIONS

During the trip he sat in the far comer of the car

Frontispiece

FACINS
FASE

/ put my hand through the bars and laid it on her

wrist 24

" I threw him in the bushes and got the letter " . . 54

" / gj/ so tired, so tired ; please let me go" . . . 70

Captain Bob 92

A place, at night, all hanging lanterns and shaded

candles 110

I saw the point of a tiny shoe 112

"/ ain't got nobody but you. Ruby — don't go 'way

from me, child" . 210

The director of the greatest show on earth, smiling

haughtily, passed in 222

Everybody was excited and everybody was angry . . 226

/ hardly knew him, he was so changed . . . . .258

These greeted me with a yell of welcome .... 27f

NO RESPECTER OF PERSONS

THE CRIME OF
SAMANTHY NORTH

I have been requested to tell this story, and ex-
actly as it happened. The moral any man may
draw for himself. I only want to ask my readers
the question I have been asking myself ever since
I saw the girl : Why should such things be among
us?

Mamy's studio is over the Art Club.

He was at work on a picture of a canon with
some Sioux Indians in the foreground, while I
sat beside him, watching the play of his masterly
brush.

Dear old Aunt Chloe, in white apron and red
bandanna, her round black face dimpled with
smiles, was busying herself about the room,
straightening the rugs, puffing up the cushions
of the divan, pushing back the easels to get at
the burnt ends of abandoned cigarettes, doing her
best, indeed, to bring some kind of domestic order
out of Marny's Bohemian chaos.

Now and then she interpolated her efforts with
such remarks as;

3

THE UNDER DOG

"'No, doan' move. De Colonel" — ^her sobriquet
for Mamy — "doan' keer whar he drap his see-
gars. But doan' you move, honey" — sobriquet
for me. "I kin git 'em." Or "Clar to goodness,
you pillows look like a passel o' hogs done tromple
ye, yo're dat mussed." Critical remarks like
these last v^ere given in a low tone, and, although
addressed to the offending articles themselves,
accompanied by sundry cuffs of her big hand,
were really intended to convey Aunt Chloe's pri-
vate opinion of the habits of her master and his
friends.

The talk had drifted from men of the old
frontier to border scouts, and then to the Ken-
tucky mountaineers, whom Marny knows as thor-
oughly as he does the red men.

"They are a great race, these mountaineers,"
he said to me, as he tossed the end of another
cigarette on Aunt Chloe's now clean-swept floor.
Mamy spoke in crisp, detached sentences between
the pats of his brush. "Big, strong, whalebone-
and-steel kind of fellows; rather fight than eat.
Quick as lightning with a gun ; dead shots. Built
just like our border men. See that scout astride
of his horse?" — and he pointed with his mahl-
stick to a sketch on the wall behind him — "looks
like the real thing, don't he ? Well, I painted him
from an up-country moonshiner. Found him one
morning across the river, leaning up against a
telegraph pole, dead broke. Been arrested on a

4

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHY NOETH

false charge of making whiskey without a license,
and had just been discharged from the jail.
Hadn't money enough to cross the bridge, and
was half-starved. So I braced him up a little,
and brought him here and painted him."

We all know with what heartiness Mamy can
"brace." It doubtless took three cups of coffee,
half a ham, and a loaf of bread to get him on his
feet, Mamy watching him with the utmost sat-
isfaction until the process was complete.

"You ought to look these fellows over; they're
worth it. Savage lot, some of 'em. Eemind me
of the people who live about the foothills of the
Balkans. Mountaineers are the same the world
over, anyway. But you don't want to hunt for
these Kentuckians in their own homes unless you
send word you are coming, or you may run up
against the end of a rifle before you know it. I
don't blame them." Marny leaned back in his
chair and turned toward me. "The Government
is always hunting them as if they were wild beasts,
instead of treating them as human beings. They
can't understand why they shouldn't get the best
prices they can for their com. They work hard
enough to get it to grow. Their theory is that
the Illinois farmer feeds the com to his hogs
and sells the product as pork, while the moun-
taineer feeds it to his still and sells the product
to his neighbors as whiskey. That a lot of Con-
gressmen who never hoed a row of com in their

5

THE UNDEE DOG

lives, nor ran a furrow, or knew what it was to
starve on the proceeds, should make laws send-
ing a man to jail because he wants to supply his
friends with liquor, is what riles them, and I don't
blame them for that, either."

I arose from my chair and examined the sketch
of the starving mountaineer. It was a careful
study of a man with clear-cut features, slim and
of wiry build, and was painted with that mastery
of detail which distinguishes Marny's work over
that of every other figure-painter of his time.

The painter squeezed a tube of white on his
palette, relit his cigarette, fumbled over his sheaf
of brushes and continued:

"The first of every month — ^just about now, by
the way — they bring twenty or thirty of these
poor devils down from the mountains and lock
them up in Covington jail. They pass Aunt
Chloe's house. Oh, Aunt Chloe !" — and he turned
to the old woman — "did you see any of those
'wild people' the last two or three days? — ^that's
what she calls 'em," and he laughed.

"Dat I did, Colonel — ^huU drove on 'em.
'Nough to make a body sick to see 'em. Two on
'em was chained together. Dat ain't no way to
treat people, if dey is ornery. I wouldn't treat
a dog dat way."

Aunt Chloe, sole dependence of the Art Club
below-stairs : day or night nurse — every student
in the place knows the touch of her hand when

6

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHY NORTH

his head splits with fever or his bones ache with
cold; provider of buttons, suspender loops and
buckles; go-between in most secret and confi-
dential affairs; mail-carrier — ^the dainty note
wrapped up in her handkerchief so as not to
"spile it!" — no, she wouldn't treat a dog that
way, nor anything else that lives and breathes or
has feeling, human or brute.

"If there's a new 'drove' of them, as Aunt
Chloe says," remarked Marny, tossing aside his
brushes, "let's take a look at them. They are
worth your study. You may never have another
chance."

This was why it happened that within the hour
Mamy and I crossed the bridge and left his
studio and the city behind us.

The river below was alive with boats, the clouds
of steam from their funnels wreathed about the
spans. Street-cars blocked the roadway; tugging-
horses, sweating under the lash of their drivers'
whips, strained under heavy loads. The air was
heavy with coal-smoke. Through the gloom of
the haze, close to the opposite bank, rose a grim,
square building of granite and brick, its grimy
windows blinking through iron bars. Behind
these, shut out from summer clouds and winter
snows, bereft of air and sunshine, deaf to the
song of happy birds and the low hum of wander-
ing bees, languished the outcast and the innocent,
the vicious and the cruel. Hells like these are

7

THE UNDER DOG

the infernos civilization builds in which to hide
its mistakes.

Mamy turned toward me as we reached the
prison. "Keep close," he whispered. "I know
the Warden and can get in without a permit,"
and he mounted the steps and entered a big door
opening into a cold, bare hall with a sanded floor.
To the right of the hall swung another door la-
belled "Chief of Police." Behind this door was
a high railing closed with a wooden gate. Over
this scowled an officer in uniform.

"My friend Sergeant Cram," said Mamy, as
he introduced us. The officer and I shook hands.
The hand was thick and hard, the knotted knuckles
leaving an unpleasant impression behind them as
they fell from my fingers.

A second door immediately behind this one was
now reached, the Sergeant acting as guide. This
door was of solid wood, with a square panel cut
from its centre, the opening barred like a bird-
cage. Peering through these bars was the face
of another attendant. This third door, at a mum-
bled word from the Sergeant, was opened wide
enough to admit us into a room in which half a
dozen deputies were seated at cards. In the op-
posite wall hung a fourth door, of steel and heavily
barred, through which, level with the eyes, was
cut a peep-hole concealed by a swinging steel
disk.

The Sergeant moved rapidly across the room,
8

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHY NOETH

pushed aside the disk and brought to view the
nose and eyes of a prison guard.

As our guide shot back a bolt, a click like the
cocking of a gun sounded through the room, fol-
lowed by the jangle of a huge iron ring strung
with keys. Selecting one from the number, he
pushed it into the key-hole and threw his weight
against the door. At its touch the mass of steel
swung inward noiselessly as the door of a bank-
vault. With the swinging of the door there
reached us the hot, stuffy smell of unwashed
bodies under steam-heat — ^the unmistakable odor
that one sometimes meets in a court-room.

Marny and I stepped inside. The Sergeant
closed the slab of steel, locking us inside, and then,
nodding to us through the peep-hole, returned to
his post in the office.

We stood now on the rim of the crater, looking
straight into the inferno. By means of the dull
light that struggled through the grimy, grated
windows, I discovered that we were in a corridor
having an iron floor that sprang up and down
under our feet. This was flanked by a line of
steel cages — ^huge beast-dens really — reaching to
the ceiling. In each of these cages was a small,
double-barred gate.

These dens were filled with men and boys;
some with faces thrust through the bars, some with
hands and arms stretched out as if for air; one
hung half-way up the bars, clinging with hands

9

THE UNDEE DOG

and feet apart, as if to get a better hold and better
view. I had seen dens like these before : the man-
eating Bengal tiger at the London Zoo lives in
one of them.

The Warden, who was standing immediately
behind the attendant, stepped forward and shook
Marny's hand. I discharged my obligations with
a nod. I had never been in a place like this
before, and the horror of its surroundings over-
came me. I misjudged the Warden, no doubt.
That this man might have a wife who loved him
and little children who clung to his neck, and
that underneath his hard, forbidding exterior a
heart could beat with any tenderness, never oc-
curred to me. As I looked him over with a half-
shrinking glance, I became aware of a slash in-
denting his pock-marked cheek that might have
been made by a sabre cut — ^was, probably, for it
takes a brave man to be a warden ; a massive head
set on big shoulders ; a square chin, the jaw hinged
like a burglar's jimmy; and two keen, restless,
elephant eyes.

But it was his right ear that absorbed my at-
tention — or rather, what was left of his right ear.
Only the point of it stuck up ; the rest was clipped
as clean as a rat-terrier's. Some fight to a finish,
I thought; some quick upper-cut of the razor of
a frenzied negro writhing under the viselike grasp
of this man-gorilla with arms and hands of steel ;
or some sudden whirl of a stiletto, perhaps, which
10

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHY NOETH

had missed his heart and taken his ear. I did
not ask then, and I do not know now. It was a
badge of courage, whatever it was — a badge which
thrilled and horrified me. As I looked at the
terrible mutilation, I could but recall the hideous
fascination that overcame Josiane, the heroine of
Hugo's great novel, "The Man Who Laughs,"
when she first caught sight of Gwynplaine's mouth
— slit from ear to ear by the Comprachicos. The
outrage on the Warden was not so grotesque, but
the effect was the same.

I moved along the corridor and stood before
the beasts. One, an old man in a long white
beard, leathery, sun-tanned face and hooked nose,
clasped the bars with both hands, gazing at us
intently. I recognized his kind the moment I
looked at him. He was like my Jonathan Gor-
don, my old fisherman who lived up in the Fran-
conia Notch. His coarse, homespun clothes, dyed
brown with walnut-shells, slouch hat crowning
his shock of gray hair, and hickory shirt open at
the throat, only heightened the resemblance; es-
pecially the hat canted over one eye. Why he
wore the hat in such a place I could not under-
stand, unless to be ready for departure when his
summons came.

There were eight other beasts besides this old

man in the same cage, one a boy of twenty, who

leaned against the iron wall with his hands in

his pockets, his eyes following my every move-

11

THE UNDEE DOG

ment. I noticed a new blue patch on one of his
knees, which his mother, doubtless, had sewn with
her own hands, her big-rimmed spectacles on her
nose, the tallow dip lighting the log cabin. I
recognized the touch. And the boy. I used to
go swimming with one just like him, forty years
ago, in an old swimming-hole in the back pasture,
and hunt for honey that the bumblebees had stored
under the bank.

The old man with the beard and the canting
hat looked into my eyes keenly, but he did not
speak. He had nothing to say, perhaps. Some-
thing human had moved before him, that was all ;
something that could come and go at its pleasure
and break the monotony of endless hours.

"How long have you been here ?" I asked, low-
ering my voice and stepping closer to the bars.

Somehow I did not want the others to hear.
It was almost as though I were talking to Jona-
than — my dear Jonathan — and he behind bars !

"Eleven months and three days. Reckon I be
the oldest" — and he looked about him as if for
confirmation. "Yes, reckon I be."

"What for?"

"Sellin'."

The answer came without the slightest hesita-
tion and without the slightest trace in his voice
of anything that betokened either sorrow for his
act or shame for the crime.

"Eleven months and three days of this !" I re-
13

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHY NOKTH

peated to myself. Instinctively my mind went
back to all I had done, seen, and enjoyed in these
eleven months and three days. Certain individual
incidents more delightful than others stood out
clear and distinct: that day imder the trees at
Cookham, the Thames slipping past, the white-
sailed clouds above my tent of leaves ; a morning
at Dort, when Peter and I watched the Dutch lug-
gers anchor off the quay, and the big storm came
up; a night beyond San Giorgio, when Luigi
steered the gondola in mid-air over a sea of mir-
rored stars and beneath a million incandescent
lamps.

I passed on to the next cage, Marny watching
me but saying nothing. The scout was in this
one, the "type" in Mamy's sketch. There were
three of them — tall, hickory-sapling sort of young
feUows, with straight legs, flat stomachs, and thin
necks, like that of a race-horse. One had the look
of an eagle, with his beak-nose and deep-set, un-
cowed eyes. Another wore his yellow hair long
on his neck. Ouster-fashion. The third sat on
the iron floor, his knees level with his chin, his
head in his hand. He had a sweetheart, perhaps,
who loved him, or an old mother who was wring-
ing her hands at home. This one, I learned after-
ward, had come with the last batch and was not
yet accustomed to his surroundings; the others
had been awaiting trial for months. All of them
wore homespun clothes — not the ready-made
13

THE UNDEK DOG

clothes sold at the stores, but those that some
woman at home had cut, basted, and sewn.

Mamy asked them what they were up for.
Their answers differed slightly from that of the
old man, but the crime and its penalty were the
same.

"Makin'j" they severally replied.

There was no lowering of the eyelids when they
confessed; no hangdog look about the mouth.
They would do it again when they got out, and
they intended to, only they would shoot the quicker
next time. The earth was theirs and the fulness
thereof, that part of it which they owned. Their
grandfathers before them had turned their corn
into whiskey and no man had said nay, and so
would they. Not the com that they had stolen,
but the corn that they had ploughed and shucked.
It was their com, not the Grovemment's. Men
who live in the wilderness, and feed and clothe
themselves on the things they raise with their own
hands, have no fine-spun theories about the laws
that provide revenue for a Government they never
saw, don't want to see, and couldn't understand
if they did.

Marny and I stood before the grating, looking
each man over separately. Strange to say, the
artistic possibilities of my visit faded out of my
mind. The picturesqueness of their attire, the
browns and grays accentuated here and there by
a dash of red around a hat-band or shirt-Qollar — all
14

THE CRIME OF SAMANTHY NORTH

material for my own or my friend's brush — made
not the slightest impression upon me. It was the
close smell, the dim, horrible light, the quick
gleam of a pair of eyes looking out from under
shocks of matted hair — the eyes of a panther
watching his prey; the dull stare of some boyish
face with aU hope crushed out of it; these were
the things that possessed me.

As I stood there absorbed in the terrors before
me, I was startled by the click of the catch and
the clink of keys, followed by the noiseless swing
of the steel door as it closed again.

I turned and looked down the corridor.

Into the gloom of this inferno, this foul-smell-
ing cavern, this assemblage of beasts, stepped a
girl of twenty. A baby wrapped about with a
coarse shawl lay in her arms.

She passed me with eyes averted, and stood
before the gate of the last steel cage — ^the woman's
end of the prison — the turnkey following slowly.
Cries of "Howdy, gal ! What did ye git ?" were
hurled after her, but she made no answer. The
ominous sound of drawn bolts and the click of
a key, and the girl and baby were inside the bars
of the cage. These bars, foreshortened from where
I stood, looked like a row of gun-barrels in an
armory rack.

"That girl a prisoner?" I asked the Warden.

I didn't believe it. I knew, of course, that it
couldn't be. I instantly divined that she had

15

THE UNDEK DOG

come to comfort some brother or father, or lover,
perhaps, and had brought the baby with her be-
cause there was no place to leave it at home. I
only asked the question of the Warden so he could
deny it, and deny it, too, with some show of feel-
ing — ^this man with the sliced ear and the gorilla
hands.

"Yes, she's been here some time. Judge sus-
pended sentence a while ago. She's gone after
her things."

There was no joy over her release in his tones,
nor pity for her condition.

He spoke exactly, it seemed to me, as he would
have done had he been in charge of the iron-
barred gate of the Coliseum two thousand years
ago. All that had saved the girl then from the
jaws of his hungriest lion was the twist of Nero's
thumb. All that saved her now was the nod of
the Judge's head — ^both had the giving of life and
death.

A thin mist swam before my eyes, and a great
lump started from my heart and stuck fast in
my throat, but I did not answer him; it would
have done no good — might have enraged him, in
fact. I walked straight to the gate through which
she had entered and peered in. I could see be-
tween the gun-barrels now.

It was like the other cages, with barred walls
and sheet-iron floors. Built in one comer of the
far end was a strong box of steel, six feet by four
16

THE CEIME or SAMANTHY NOKTH

by the height of the ceiling, fitted with a low
door. This hox was lined with a row of bunks,
one above the other. From one was thrust a small
foot covered with a stocking and part of a skirt;
some woman prisoner was ill, perhaps. Against
the wall of this main cage sat two negro women ;
one, I learned afterward, had stabbed a man the
week before; the other was charged with theft.
The older — ^the murderess — came forward when
she caught sight of me, thrust out her hands be-
tween the bars, and begged for tobacco.

In the corner of the same cage was another steel
box. I saw the stooping figure of the young girl
come out of it as a dog comes out of a kennel.
She walked toward the centre of the cage — she
still had the baby in her arms — ^laid the child
on the sheet-iron floor, where the light from the
grimy windows fell the clearer, and returned to
the steel box. The child wore but one garment
— a short red-flannel shirt that held the stomach
tight and left the shrivelled legs and arms bare.
It lay flat on its back, its eyes gazing up at the
ceiling, its pinched face in high light against the
dull background. "Now and then it would fight
the air with its little fists or kick its toes above
its head.

The girl took from the kennel a broken paper
box and, returning with it, knelt beside the child
and began arranging its wardrobe, the two ne-
gresses watching her listlessly. Not much of a

17

THE TJNDEE DOG

wardrobe — only a ragged shawl, some socks, a
worsted cap, a pair of tiny shoes, and a Canton-
flannel wrapper, once white. This last had little
arms and a short waist. The skirt was long
enough to tuck around her baby's feet when she
carried it.

I steadied myself by one of the musket-barrels,
watched her while she folded the few pitiful gar-
ments, waited imtil she had guided the shrunken
arms into the sleeves of the soiled wrapper and
had buttoned it over the baby's chest. Then, when
the lump in my throat was about to stop my
breathing, I said:

"Will you come here, please, to the grating?
I want to speak to you."

She raised her head slowly, looked at me in a
tired, hopeless way, laid her baby back on the
sheet-iron floor, and walked toward me. As she
came into the glow of the overhead light, I saw
that she was even younger than I had first sup-
posed — ^nearer seventeen than twenty — a girl with
something of the curious look of a young heifer
in a face drawn and lined but with anxiety.
Parted over a low forehead, and tucked behind
her ears, streamed two braids of straight yellow
hair in two unkempt strands over her shoulders.
Across her bosom and about her slender figure
was hooked a yellow-brown dress made in one
piece. The hooks and eyes showed wherever the
strain came, disclosing the coarse chemise and the
18

THE CKIME OF SAMANTHY NOKTH

brown of the neck beneath. This strain, the strain
of an ill-fitting garment, accentuated all the
clearer, in the wrinkles about the shoulders and
around the hips, the fulness of her delicately
modelled lines; quite as would a jacket buttoned
over the Milo. On the third finger of one hand
was a flat silver ring, such as is sold by the country
pedlers.

She stood quite close to the bars, patiently await-
ing my next question. She had obeyed my sum-
mons like a dog who remembered a former dis-
cipline, ^o curiosity, not the slightest interest;
nothing but blind obedience. The tightened grasp
of these four walls had taught her this.

"Where do you come from ?" I asked.

I had to begin in some way.

"From Pineyville." The voice was that of a
child, vidth a hard, dry note in it.

"How old is the baby?"

"Three months and ten days." She had counted
the child's age. She had thought enough for
that.

"How far is Pineyville?"

"I doan' know. It took mos' all night to git
here." There was no change in the listless
monotone.

"Are you going out now?"

"Yes, soon's I kin git ready."

"How are you going to get home?"

"Walk, I reckon." There was no complaint in
19

THE UKDEK DOG

her tone, no sudden exhibition of any suffering.
She was only stating facts,

"Have you no money V

"No." Same bald statement, and in the same
hopeless tone. She had not moved — ^not even to
look at the child.

"What's the fare?"

"Six dollars and sixty-five cents." This was
stated with great exactness. It was the amount
of this appalling sum that had, no doubt, crushed
out her last ray of hope.

"Did you sell any whiskey ?"

"Yes, I tol' the Judge so." Still no break in
her voice. It was only another statement.

"Oh! you kept a saloon?"

"No."

"How did you sell it, then ?"

"Jest out of a kag — in a cup."

"Had you ever sold any before ?"
■ "No."

"Why did you sell it, then ?"

She had been looking into my face all this time,
one thin, begrimed hand — ^the one with the ring
on it — ^tight around the steel bar of the gate that
divided us. With the question, her eyes dropped
until they seemed to rest on this hand. The an-
swer came slowly:

"The baby come, and the store wouldn't chalk
nothin' for us no more." Then she added, quickly,
as if in defence of the humiliating position, "Our
20

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHT NOETH

corn-crib was sot afire last fall and we got be-
hind."

For a brief instant she leaned heavily against
the bars as if for support, then her eyes sought
her child. I waited until she had reassured her-
self of its safety, and continued my questions,
my finger-nails sinking deeper all the time into
the palms of my hands.

"Did you make the whiskey ?"

"No, it was Martin Young's whiskey. My hus-
band works for him. Martin sent the kag down
one day, and I sold it to the men. I give the
money all to Martin 'cept the dollar he was to
gimme for sellin' it."

"How came you to be arrested?"

"One o' the men tol' on me 'cause I wouldn't
trust him. Martin tol' me not to let 'em have it
'thout they paid."

"How long have you been here?"

"Three months next Tuesday."

"That baby only two weeks old when they ar-
rested you?" My blood ran hot and cold, and
my collar seemed five sizes too small, but I still
held on to myself.

"Yes." The answer was given in the same
monotonous, listless voice — ^not a trace of indig-
nation over the outrage. Women with suckling
babies had no rights that anybody was bound to
respect — not up in Pineyville; certainly not the
gentlemen with brass shields under the lapels of

21

THE UNDER DOG

their coats and Uncle Sam's commissions in their
pockets. It was the law of the land — ^why find
fault with it?

I leaned closer so that I could touch her hand
if need be.

"What's your name?"

"Samanthy North."

"What's your husband's name?"

"His name's North." There was a trace of sur-
prise now in the general monotone. Then she
added, as if to leave no doubt in my mind, "Les-
lie North."

"Where is he?" I determined now to round
up every fact.

"He's home. We've got another child, and he's
takin' care of it till I git back. He'd be to the
railroad for me if he knowed I was coming; but
I couldn't tell him when to start 'cause I didn't
know how long they'd keep me."

"Is your home near the railroad?"

"No, it's thirty-six miles furder."

"How will you get from the railroad?"

"Ain't no way 'cept walkin'."

I had it now, the whole damnable, pitiful story,
every fact clear-cut to the bone. I could see it
all: the look of terror when the deputy woke her
from her sleep and laid his hand upon her; the
parting with the other child; the fright of the
helpless husband; the midnight ride, she hardly
able to stand, the pitiful scrap of her own flesh
22

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHY NOETH

and blood tight in her arms; the procession to
the jail, the men in front chained together, she
bringing up the rear, walking beside the last
guard; the first horrible night in jail, the walls
falling upon her, the darkness overwhelming her,
the puny infant resting on her breast ; the staring,
brutal faces when the dawn came, followed by the
coarse jest. No wonder that she hung limp and
hopeless to the bars of her cage, all the spring
and buoyancy, all the youth and lightness, crushed
out of her.

I put my hand through the bars and laid it on
her wrist.

"No, you won't walk; not if I can help it."
This outburst got past the lump slowly, one word
at a time, each syllable exploding hot like balls
from a Koman candle. "You get your things to-
gether quick as you can, and wait here until I
come back," and I turned abruptly and motioned
to the turnkey to open the gate.

In the office of the Chief of Police outside I
found Mamy talking to Sergeant Cram. He was
waiting until I finished. It was all an old story
with Marny — every month a new batch came to
Covington jail.

"What about that girl. Sergeant— the one with
the baby V I demanded, in a tone that made them
both turn quickly.

"Oh, she's all right. She told the Judge a
straight story this morning, and he let her go on
33

THE UNDEK DOG

'spended sentence. They tried to make her plead
'Not guilty,' but she wouldn't lie about it, she said.
She can go when she gets ready. What are you
drivin' at? Are you goin' to put up for her?"
— and a curious look overspread his face.

"I'm going to get her a ticket and give her some
money to get home. Locking up a seventeen-year-
old girl, two hundred miles from home, in a den
like that, with a baby two weeks old, may be jus-
tuce, but I call it brutality ! Our Government can
pay its expenses without that kind of revenue."
The whole bundle of Roman candles was popping
now. Inconsequent, wholly illogical, utterly in-
defensible explosions. But only my heart was
working.

The Sergeant looked at Marny, relaxed the
scowl about his eyebrows, and smiled; such
"softies" seemed rare to him.

"Well, if you're stuck on her — and I'm damned
if I don't believe you are — ^let me give you a
piece of advice. Don't give her no money till
she gets on the train, and whatever you do, don't
leave her here over night. There's a gang around
here" — and he jerked his thumb in the direction
of the door — "that might — " and he winked know-
ingly.

"You don't mean — " A cold chill suddenly
developed near the roots of my hair and trickled
to my spine.

"Well, she's too good-lookin' to be wanderin'
round huntin' for & boardin'-house. You see her
»4

I put ray hand through the bars and laid it on her wrist.

THE CKIME OE SAMANTHY NOETH

on tlie train, that's all. Starts at eight to-night.
That's the one they all go by — those who git out
and can raise the money. She ought to leave now,
'cordin' to the regulations, but as long as you're
a friend of Mr. Marny's I'll keep her here in the
office till I go home at seven o'clock. Then you'd
better have someone to look after her. No, you
needn't go back and see her" — ^this in answer to
a movement I made toward the prison door. "I'll
fix everything. Mr. Marny knows me."

I thanked the Sergeant, and we started for the
air outside — something we could breathe, some-
thing with a sky overhead and the dear earth un-
derfoot, something the sun warmed and the free
wind cooled.

Only one thing troubled me now. I could not
take the girl to the train myself, neither could
Marny, for I had promised to lecture that same
night for the Art Club at eight o'clock, and Marny
was to introduce me. The railroad station was
three miles away.

"I've got it!" cried Marny, when we touched
the sidewalk, elbowing our way among the crowd
of loafers who always swarm about a place of this
kind. (He was as much absorbed in the girl's
future, when he heard her story, as I was. ) "Aunt
Chloe lives within two blocks of us— let's hunt
her up. She ought to be at home by this time."

The old woman was just entering her street door
when she heard Marny's voice, her basket on her
arm, a rabbit-skin tippet about her neck.
»5

THE UNDER DOG

"Dat I will, honey," slie answered, positively,
when the case was laid before her. "Dat I will;
'deed an' double I will."

She stepped into the house, left her basket,
joined us again on the sidewalk, and walked with
us back to the Sheriff's office.

"All right," said the Sergeant, when we brought
her in. "Yes, I know the old woman ; the gal will
be ready for her when she comes, but I guess I'd
better send one of my men along with 'em both
far as the depot. Ain't no use takin' no chances."

The dear old woman followed us again until
we found a clerk in a branch ticket-office, who
picked out a long green slip from a library of
tickets, punched it with the greatest care with a
pair of steel nippers, and slipped it into an
official envelope labelled: "K. C. Pineyville, Ky.

8 P.M."

With this tightly grasped in her wrinkled brown
hand, together with another package of Mamy's
many times in excess of the stage fare of thirty-six
miles and which she slipped into her capacious
bosom. Aunt Chloe "made her manners" with the
slightest dip of a courtesy and left us with the re-
mark:

"Sha'n't nothin' tech her, honey; gwinter stick
right close to her till de steam-cars git to movin'.
I'll be over early in de mawnin' an' let ye know.
Doan' worry, honey ; ain't nothin' gwinter happen,
to her arter I gits my ban's on her."
36

THE CEIME OF SAMANTHY NOKTH

When I came down to breakfast, Aunt Chloe
was waiting for me in the hall. She looked like
the old woman in the fairy-tale in her short black
dress that came to her shoe-tops, snow-white apron
and headkerchief, covered by a close-fitting nun-
like hood — only the edge of the handkerchief
showed — making her seem the old black saint that
she was. It not being one of her cleaning-days,
she had "kind o' spruced herself up a li'l mite,"
she said. She carried her basket, covered now with
a white starched napkin instead of the red-and-
yellow bandanna of work-days. No one ever knew
what this basket contained, "Her luncheon," some
of the art-students said ; but if it did, no one had
ever seen her eat it. "Someone else's luncheon,"
Marny added; "some sick body whom she looks
after. There are dozens of them."

"Larrovers fur meddlins," Aunt Ohloe invari-
ably answered those whose curiosity got the better
of their discretion — an explanation which only
deepened the mystery, no one being able to trans-
late it.

"She's safe, honey!" Aunt Chloe cried, when
she caught sight of me. "I toted de baby, an' she
toted de box. Po' li'l chinkapin! Mos' break a
body's heart to see it! 'Clar to goodness, dat
chile's leg wam't bigger'n a drumstick picked to
de bone. De man de Sheriff sent wid us didn't
go no furder dan de gate, an' when he lef us dey
all sneaked in an' did dere bes' ter git her from me.
37

THE UlTOEE DOa

Wuss-lookin' harum-scarums you ever see. Kep'
a-tellin' her de ticket was good for ten days an'
dey'd go wid her back to town; an' dat if she'd
stay dey'd take her 'cross de ribber to see de city.
I seed she wanted ter git home to her husban', an'
she tol' 'em so. Den dey tried to make her believe
he was comin' for her, an' dey pestered her so an'
got her so mixed up wid deir lies dat I was feared
she was gwine to give in, arter all. She warn't
nothin' but a po' weak thing noways. Den I riz
up an' tol' 'em dat I'd call a pleeceman an' take dat
ticket from her an' de money I gin her beside, if
she didn't stay on dat car. I didn't give her de
'velope ; I had dat in my han' to show de conductor
when he come, so he could see whar she was ter git
off. Here it is" — and she handed me the ticket-
seller's envelope. "Warn't nothin' else saved me
but dat. When dey see'd it, dey knowed den some-
body was a-lookin' arter her an' dey give in. Po'
critter! I reckon she's purty nigh home by dis
time !"

The story is told. It is all true, every sickening
detail. Other stories just like it, some of them
infinitely more pitiful, can be written daily by
anyone who will peer into the cages of Covington
jail. There is nothing to be done ; nothing can be
done.

It is the law of the land — the just, holy, benefi-
cent law, which is no respecter of persons.
38

II

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

"That's Bud Tilden, the worst of the bunch,"
said the jail Warden — the warden with the sliced
ear and the gorilla hands. "Reminds me of a cat'-
mount I tried to tame once, only he's twice as
ugly."

As he spoke, he pointed to a prisoner in a slouch
hat clinging half-way up the steel bars of his cage,
his head thrust through as far as his cheeks would
permit, his legs spread apart like the letter A.

"What's he here for ?" I asked.

"Eobbin' the U-nited States mail."

"Where?"

"Up in the Kentucky mountains, back o' Bug
Holler. Laid for the carrier one night, held him
up with a gun, pulled him off his horse, slashed the
bottom out o' the mail-bag with his knife, took
what letters he wanted, and lit off in the woods,
cool as a chunk o' ice. Oh ! I tell ye, he's no sar-
dine; you kin see that without my tellin' ye.
They'll railroad him, sure."

"When was he arrested ?"

"Last month — come down in the November
29

THE UNDEK DOG

batch. The dep'ties had a circus 'fore they got the
irons on him. Caught him in a clearin' 'bout two
miles back o' the Holler. He was up in a corn-crib
with a Winchester when they opened on him. No-
body was hurted, but they would a-been if they'd
showed the top o' their heads, for he's strong as a
bull and kin scalp a squirrel at fifty yards. They
never would a-got him if they hadn't waited till
dark and smoked him out, so one on 'em told me."
He spoke as if the prisoner had been a rattlesnake
or a sheep-stealing wolf.

The mail-thief evidently overheard, for he
dropped, with a cat-like movement, to the steel
floor and stood looking at us through the bars from
under his knit eyebrows, his eyes watching our
every movement.

There was no question about his strength. As
he stood in the glare of the overhead light I could
trace the muscles through his rough homespun —
for he was a mountaineer, pure and simple, and not
a city-bred thief in ready-made clothes. I saw that
the bulging muscles of his calves had driven the
wrinkles of his butternut trousers close up under
the knee-joint and that those of his thighs had
roimded out the coarse cloth from the knee to the
hip. The spread of his shoulders had performed
a like service for his shirt, which was stretched out
of shape over the chest and back. This was crossed
by but one suspender, and was open at the throat —
a tree-trunk of a throat, with all the cords support-
30

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

ing the head firmly planted in the shoulders. The
arms were long and had the curved movement of
the tentacles of a devil-fish. The hands were
big and bony, the fingers knotted together with
knuckles of iron. He wore no collar nor any
coat ; nor did he bring one with him, so the War-
den said.

I had begun my inventory at his feet as he stood
gazing sullenly at us, his great red hands tightly
clasped around the bars. When in my inspection
I passed from his open collar up his tree-trunk of
a throat to his chin, and then to his face, half-
shaded by a big slouch hat, which rested on his
flaring ears, and at last looked into his eyes, a
slight shock of surprise went through me. I had
been examining this wild beast with my judgment
already warped by the War den; that's why I began
at his feet and worked up. If I had started in on
an unknown subject, prepared to rely entirely
upon my own judgment, I would have begun at
his eyes and worked down. My shock of surprise
was the result of this upward process of inspection.
An awakening of this kind, the awakening to an
injustice done a man we have half-understood,
often comes after years of such prejudice and mis-
understanding. With me this awakening came
with my first glimpse of his eyes.

There was nothing of the Warden's estimate in
these eyes ; nothing of cruelty nor deceit nor greed.
Those I looked into were a light blue — a washed-
31

THE UNDER DOG

out china blue ; eyes that shone out of a good heart
rather than out of a bad brain ; not very deep eyes ;
not very expressive eyes ; dull, perhaps, but kindly.
The features were none the less attractive; the
mouth was large, well-shaped, and filled with big
white teeth, not one missing ; the nose straight, with
wide, well-turned nostrils; the brow low, but
not cunning nor revengeful; the chin strong and
well-modelled, the cheeks full and of good color.
A boy of twenty I should have said — perhaps
twenty-five ; abnormally strong, a big animal with
small brain-power, perfect digestion, and with
every function of his body working like a clock.
Photograph his head and come upon it suddenly
in a collection of others, and you would have said :
"A big country bumpkin who ploughs all day and
milks the cows at night." He might be the blood-
thirsty ruffian, the human wild beast, the Warden
had described, but he certainly did not look it. I
would like to have had just such a man on any
one of my gangs with old Captain Joe over him.
He would have fought the sea with the best of them
and made the work of the surf-men twice as easy
if he had taken a hand at the watch-tackles.

I turned to the Warden again. My own sum-
ming up differed materially from his estimate, but
I did not thrust mine upon him. He had had, of
course, a much wider experience among criminals
— I, in fact, had had none at all — and could not
be deceived by outward appearances.
33

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

"You say they are going to try him to-day ?" I
asked.

"Yes, at two o'clock. Nearly that now," and he
glanced at his watch. "All the witnesses are down,
I hear. They claim there's something else mixed
up in it besides robbing the mail, but I don't re-
member what. So many of these cases comin' and
goin' all the time! His old father was in to
see him yesterday, and a girl. Some o' the men
said she was his sweetheart, but he don't look like
that kind. You oughter seen his father, though.
Greatest jay you ever see. Looked like a fly-up-
the-creek. Girl wam't much better lookin'. They
make 'em out o' brick-clay and ham fat up in them
mountains. Ain't human, half on 'em. Better go
over and see the trial."

I waited in the Warden's office until the deputies
came for the prisoner. When they had formed in
line on the sidewalk I followed behind the posse,
crossing the street with them to the Court-house.
The prisoner walked ahead, handcuffed to a deputy
who was a head shorter than he and half his size.
A second officer walked behind; I kept close to
this rear deputy and could see every movement he
made. I noticed that his fingers never left his hip-
pocket and that his eye never wavered from the
slouch hat on the prisoner's head. He evidently
intended to take no chances with a man who could
have made mince-meat of both of them had his
hands been free.

33

THE UNDEK DOG

We parted at the main entrance, the prisoner,
with head erect and a certain fearless, uncowed
look on his boyish face, preceding the deputies
down a short flight of stone steps, closely followed
by the oflScer.

The trial, I could see, had evidently excited un-
usual interest. When I mounted the main flight
to the corridor opening into the trial chamber and
entered the great hallway, it was crowded with
mountaineers — ^wild, shaggy, unkempt-looking fel-
lows, most of them. All were dressed in the garb
of their locality: coarse, rawhide shoes, deerskin
waistcoats, rough, butternut-dyed trousers and
coats, and a coon-skin or army slouch hat worn
over one eye. Many of them had their saddle-bags
with them. There being no benches, those who
were not standing were squatting on their
haunches, their shoulders against the bare wall.
Others were huddled close to the radiators. The
smell of escaping steam from these radiators,
mingling with the fumes of tobacco and the effluvia
from so many closely packed human bodies, made
the air stifling.

I edged my way through the crowd and pushed
through the court-room door. The Judge was just
taking his seat — a dull, heavy-looking man with a
bald head, a pair of flabby, clean-shaven cheeks,
and two small eyes that looked from under white
eyebrows. Half-way up his forehead rested a pair
of gold spectacles. The jury had evidently been
34

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

out for luncheon, for they were picking their teeth
and settling themselves comfortably in their chairs.

The court-room — a new one — outraged, as
usual, in its construction every known law of pro-
portion, the ceiling being twice too high for the
walls, and the big, imcurtained windows (they
were all on one side) letting in a glare of light that
made silhouettes of every object seen against it.
Only by the closest attention could one hear or
see in a room like this.

The seating of the Judge was the signal for the
admission of the crowd in the corridor, who filed
in through the door, some forgetting to remove
their hats, others passing the doorkeeper in a defi-
ant way. Each man, as soon as his eyes became
accustomed to the glare from the windows, looked
furtively toward the prisoners' box. Bud Tilden
was already in his seat between the two deputies,
his hands unshackled, his blue eyes searching the
Judge's face, his big slouch hat on the floor at his
feet. What was yet in store for him would drop
from the lips of this face.

The crier of the court, a young negro, made his
announcements.

I found a seat between the prisoner and the
bench, so that I could hear and see the better. The
Government prosecutor occupied a seat at a table
to my right, between me and the three staring
Gothic windows. When he rose from his chair his
body came in silhouette against their light. With
35

THE UOTDEE DOG

his goat-beard, beak-nose, heavy eyebrows, long,
black hair resting on the back of his coat-collar,
bent body, loose-jointed arms, his coat-tails sway-
ing about his thin legs, he looked (I did not see
him in any other light) like a hungry buzzard
flapping his wings before taking flight.

He opened the case with a statement of facts.
He would prove, he said, that this mountain-ruf-
fian was the terror of the neighborhood, in which
life was none too safe; that although this was the
first time he had been arrested, there were many
other crimes which could be laid at his door, had
his neighbors not been afraid to inform upon
him.

Warming up to the subject, flapping his arms
aloft like a pair of wings, he recounted, with some
dramatic fervor, what he called the "lonely ride of
the tried servant of the Government over the rude
passes of the mountains," recounting the risks
which these faithful men ran ; then he referred to
the sanctity of the United States mails, reminding
the jury and the audience — particularly the audi-
ence — of the chaos which would ensue if these sa-
cred mail-bags were tampered with ; "the stricken,
tear-stained face of the mother," for instance, who
had been Waiting for days and weeks for news of
her dying son, or "the anxious merchant brought to
ruin for want of a remittance which was to tide
him over some financial distress," neither of them
knowing that at that very moment some highway-
36

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

man like the prisoner "was fattening ofE the result
of his theft." This last was uttered with a slap-
ping of both hands on his thighs, his coat-tails
swaying in unison. He then went on in a graver
tone to recount the heavy penalties the Govern-
ment imposed for violations of the laws made to
protect this service and its agents, and wound up
by assuring the jury of his entire confidence in
their intelligence and integrity, knowing, as he did,
how just would be their verdict, irrespective of
the sympathy they might feel for one who had pre-
ferred "the hidden walks of crime to the broad
open highway of an honest life." Altering his tone
again and speaking in measured accents, he ad-
mitted that, although the Government's witnesses
had not been able to identify the prisoner by his
face, he having concealed himself in the bushes
while the riEing of the pouch was in progress, yet
so full a view was gotten of his enormous back
and shoulders as to leave no doubt in his mind
that the prisoner before them had committed the
assault, since it would not be possible to find two
such men, even in the mountains of Kentucky. As
his first witness he would call the mail-carrier.

Bud had sat perfectly stolid during the
harangue. Once he reached down with one long
arm and scratched his bare ankle with his fore-
finger, his eyes, with the gentle light in them that
had first attracted me, glancing aimlessly about
the room; then he settled back again in his chair,

37

THE UNDER DOG

its back creaking to the strain of his shoulders.
Whenever he looked at the speaker, which was sel-
dom, a slight curl, expressing more contempt than
anxiety, crept along his lips. He was, no doubt,
comparing his own muscles to those of the buzzard
and wondering what he would do to him if he ever
caught him out alone. Men of enormous strength
generally measure the abilities of others by their
own standards.

"Mr. Bowditch will take the chair!" cried the
prosecutor.

At the summons, a thin, wizen-faced, stubbly-
bearded man of fifty, his shirt-front stained with
tobacco-juice, rose from his seat and took the
stand. The struggle for possession of the bag must
have been a brief one, for he was but a dwarf com-
pared to the prisoner. In a low, constrained voice
— ^the awful hush of the court-room had evidently
impressed him — and in plain, simple words, in
strong contrast to the flowery opening of the prose-
cutor, he recounted the facts as he knew them. He
told of the sudden command to halt ; of the attack
in the rear and the quick jerking of the mail-bags
from beneath his saddle, upsetting him into the
road; of the disappearance of the robber in the
bushes, his head and shoulders only outlined
against the dim light of the stars ; of the flight of
the robber, and of his finding the bag a few yards
away from the place of assault with the bottom
cut. None of the letters was f oimd opened ; which
38

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

ones were missing he couldn't say. Of one thing
he was sure — none were left behind by him on the
ground, when he refilled the bag.

The bag, with a slash in the bottom as big as
its mouth, was then passed around the jury-box,
each juror in his inspection of the cut seeming to
be more interested in the way in which the bag
was manufactured (some of them, I should judge,
had never examined one before) than in the way
in which it was mutilated. The bag was then put
in evidence and hung over the back of a chair,
mouth down, the gash in its bottom in full view
of the jury. This gash, from where I sat, looked
like one inflicted on an old-fashioned rubber foot-
ball by a high kicker.

Hank Halliday, in a deerskin waistcoat and
dust-stained slouch hat, which he crumpled up in
his hand and held under his chin, was the next
witness.

In a jerky, strained voice he told of his mailing
a letter, from a village within a short distance of
Bug Hollow, to a girl friend of his on the after-
noon of the night of the robbery. He swore posi-
tively that this letter was in this same mail-bag,
because he had handed it to the carrier himself
before he got on his horse, and added, with equal
positiveness, that it had never reached its destina-
tion. The value or purpose of this last testimony,
the non-receipt of the letter, was not clear to me,
except upon the theory that the charge of robbery
39

THE UNDEE DOG

might fail if it could be proved by the defence that
no letter was missing.

Bud fastened his eyes on Halliday and smiled
as he made this last statement about the undeliv-
ered letter, the first smile I had seen across his
face, but gave no other sign indicating that Halli-
day's testimony affected his chances in any way.

Then followed the usual bad-character witnesses
— ^both friends of Halliday, I could see ; two this
time — one charging Bud with all the crimes in the
decalogue, and the other, under the lead of the
prosecutor, launching forth into an accoimt of a
turkey-shoot in which Bud had wrongfully claimed
the turkey — an account which was at last cut short
by the Judge in the midst of its most interesting
part, as having no particular bearing on the case.

Up to this time no one had appeared for the
accused, nor had any objection been made to any
part of the testimony except by the Judge. ITeither
had any one of the prosecutor's witnesses been
asked a single question in rebuttal.

With the resting of the Government's case a
dead silence fell upon the room.

The Judge waited a few moments, the tap of his
lead-pencil sounding through the stillness, and
then asked if the attorney for the defence was
ready.

No one answered. Again the Judge put the
question, this time with some impatience.

Then he addressed the prisoner.
40

BUD TILDEN, MAII^THIEF

"Is your lawyer present ?"

Bud bent forward in his chair, put his hands
on his knees, and answered slowly, without a tre-
mor in his voice :

"I ain't got none. One come yisterday to the
jail, but he didn't like what I tol' him and he ain't
showed up since."

A spectator sitting by the door, between an old
man and a young girl, both evidently from the
mountains, rose to his feet and walked briskly to
the open space before the Judge. He had sharp,
restless eyes, wore gloves, and carried a silk hat
in one hand.

"In the absence of the prisoner's counsel, your
Honor," he said, "I am willing to go on with this
case. I was here when it opened and have heard
all the testimony. I have also conferred with some
of the witnesses for the defence."

"Did I not appoint counsel in this case yester-
day ?" said the Judge, turning to the clerk.

There was a hurried conference between the two,
the Judge listening wearily, cupping his ear with
his hand and the clerk rising on his toes so that he
could reach his Honor's hearing the easier.

"It seems," said the Judge, resuming his posi-
tion, and addressing the room at large, "that the
counsel already appointed has been called out of
town on urgent business. If the prisoner has no
objection, and if you, sir — " looking straight at
the would-be attorney — "have heard all the testi-
41

THE UNDEE DOG

mony so far offered, the Court sees no objection to
your acting in his place."

The deputy on the right side of the prisoner
leaned over, whispered something to Tilden, who
stared at the Judge and shook his head. It was evi-
dent that Bud had no objection to this nor to any-
thing else, for that matter. Of all the men in the
room he seemed the least interested.

I turned in my seat and touched the arm of my
neighbor.

"Who is that man who wants to go on with the
case ?"

"Oh, that's Bill Cartwright, one of the cheap,
shyster lawyers always hanging around here look-
ing for a job. His boast is he never lost a suit.
Guess the other fellow skipped because he thought
he had a better scoop somewhere else. These poor
devils from the mountains never have any money
to pay a lawyer. Court appoints 'em."

With the appointment of the prisoner's attorney
the crowd in the court-room craned their necks in
closer attention, one man standing on his chair for
a better view until a deputy ordered him down.
They knew what the charge was. It was the de-
fence they all wanted to hear. That had been the
topic of conversation around the tavern stoves of
Bug Hollow for months past.

Cartwright began by asking that the mail-car-
rier be recalled. The little man again took the
stand.

43

BUD TILDEIi]', MAIL-THIEF

The methods of these police-court lawyers al-
ways interest me. They are gamblers in evidence,
most of them. They take their chances as the
cases go on ; some of them know the jury — one or
two is enough ; some are learned in the law — ^more
learned, often, than the prosecutor, who is a Gov-
ernment appointee with political backers, and now
and then one of them knows the Judge, who is also
a political appointee and occasionally has his party
to care for. All are valuable in an election, and a
few of them are honest. This one, my neighbor
told me, had held office as a police justice and was
a leader in his district.

Cartwright drew his gloves carefully from his
hands, laid his silk hat on a chair, dropped into
it a package of legal papers tied with a red string,
and, adjusting his glasses, fixed his eyes on the
mail-carrier. The expression on his face was
bland and seductive.

"At what hour do you say the attempted rob-
bery took place, Mr. Bowditch ?"

"About eleven o'clock."

"Did you have a watch ?"

"No."

"How do you know, then ?" The question was
asked in a mild way as if he intended to help the
carrier's memory.

"I don't know exactly; it may have been half-
past ten or eleven."

"You, of course, saw the man's face ?"
43

THE UNDEK DOG

"No."

"Then you heard him speak ?" Same tone as if
trying his best to encourage the witness in his state-
ments.

"1^0." This was said with some positiveness.
The mail-carrier evidently intended to tell the
truth.

Cartwright turned quickly with a snarl like that
of a dog suddenly goaded into a fight.

"How can you swear, then, that the prisoner
made the assault V

The little man changed color and stammered out
in excuse :

"He was as big as him, anyway, and there ain't
no other like him nowhere in them parts."

"Oh, he was as hig as him, was he ?" This retort
came with undisguised contempt. "And there are
no others like him, eh? Do you know everybody
in Bell County, Mr. Bowditch ?"

The mail-carrier did not answer.

Cartwright waited until the discomfiture of the
witness could be felt by the jury, dismissed him
with a wave of his hand, and, looking over the
room, beckoned to an old man seated by a girl —
the same couple he had been talking to before his
appointment by the Court — and said in a loud
voice :

"Will Mr. Perkins Tilden take the stand?"

At the mention of his father's name. Bud, who
had maintained throughout his indifferent atti-
44

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

tude, straightened himself erect in his chair with
so quick a movement that the deputy edged a foot
nearer and instinctively slid his hand to his hip-
pocket.

A lean, cadaverous, painfully thin old man in
answer to his name rose to his feet and edged his
way through the crowd to the witness-chair. He
was an inch taller than his son, though only half
his weight, and was dressed in a suit of cheap cloth
of the fashion of long ago, the coat too small for
him, even for his shrunken shoulders, and the
sleeves reaching only to his wrists. As he took
his seat, drawing in his long legs toward his chair,
his knee-bones, under the strain, seemed to be on
the point of coming through his trousers. His
shoulders were bowed, the incurve of his thin
stomach following the line of his back. As he
settled back in his chair he passed his hand ner-
vously over his mouth, as if his lips were dry.

Cartwright's manner to this witness was the
manner of a lackey who hangs on every syllable
that falls from his master's lips.

"At what time, Mr. Tilden, did your son Bud
reach your house on the night of the robbery ?"

The old man cleared his throat and said, as if
weighing each word :

"At ten minutes past ten o'clock."

"How do you fix the time ?"

"I had just wound the clock when Bud come

45

THE UNDER DOG

"Now, Mr. Tilden, how far is it to the cross-
roads where the mail-carrier says he was
robbed?"

"About a mile and a half from my place."

"And how long would it take an able-bodied
man to walk it ?"

" 'Bout fifteen minutes."

"Not more?"

"No, sir."

The Government's attorney had no questions to
ask, and said so with a certain assumed non-
chalance.

Cartwright bowed smilingly, dismissed Bud's
father with a satisfied gesture of the hand, looked
over the court-room with the air of a man who was
unable at the moment to find what he wanted,
and in a low voice called : "Jennetta Moore !"

The girl, who sat within three feet of Cart-
wright, having followed the old man almost to the
witness-stand, rose timidly, drew her shawl closer
about her shoulders, and took the seat vacated by
Bud's father. She had that half-fed look in her
face which one sometimes finds in the women of
the mountain-districts. She was frightened and
very pale. As she pushed her poke-bonnet back
from her ears her unkempt brown hair fell about
her neck.

But Tilden, at mention of her name, half-
started from his chair and would have risen to his
feet had not the offieer laid his hand upon hinu
46

BUD TILDEN", MAIL-THIEF

He seemed on the point of making some protest
which the action of the oflBcer alone restrained.

Cartwright, after the oath had been adminis-
tered, began in a voice so low that the jury
stretched their necks to listen :

"Miss Moore, do you know the prisoner ?"

"Yes, sir, I know Bud." She had one end of the
shawl between her fingers and was twisting it aim-
lessly. Every eye in the room was fastened upon
her.

"How long have you known him ?"

There was. a pause, and then she said in a faint
voice:

"Ever since he and me growed up."

"Ever since you and he grew up, eh?" This
repetition was in a loud voice, so that any juryman
dull of hearing might catch it. "Was he at your
house on the night of the robbery ?"

"Yes, sir."

"At what time ?"

" 'Bout ten o'clock." This was again repeated.

"How long did he stay?"

"Not more'n ten minutes."

"Where did he go then ?"

"He said he was goin' home."

"How far is it to his home from your house ?"

" 'Bout ten minutes' walk."

"That will do, Miss Moore," said Cartwright,
and took his seat.

The Government prosecutor, who had sat with
47

THE UNDEE DOG

shoulders hunched up, his wings pulled in, rose
to his feet with the aid of a chair-back, stretched
his long arms above his head, and then, lowering
one hand level with the girl's face, said, as he.
thrust one sharp, skinny finger toward her :

"Did anybody else come to see you the next
night after the robbery ?"

There was a pause, during which Cartwright
busied himself with his papers. One of his meth-
ods was never to seem interested in the cross-exam-
ination of any one of his witnesses.

The girl's face flushed, and she began to fumble
the shawl nervously with her fingers.

"Yes, Hank Halliday," she murmured, in a low
voice.

"Mr. Halliday, who has testified here ?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted to know if I'd got a letter he'd writ
me day before. And I tol' him I hadn't. Then he
'lowed he'd a-brought it to me himself if he'd
knowed Bud was goin' to turn thief and hold up
the mail-man. I hadn't heard nothin' 'bout it and
nobody else had till he began to talk. I opened the
door then and tol' him to walk out ; that I wouldn't
hear nobody speak that way 'bout Bud Tilden.
That was 'fore they'd 'rested Bud."

"Have you got that letter now ?"

"No, sir."

"Did you ever get it?"
48

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEE

"No, sir."

"Did you ever see it ?"

"No, and I don't think it was ever writ."

"But he has written you letters before ?"

"He used to ; he don't now."

"That will do."

The girl took her place again behind the old
man.

Cartwright rose to his feet with great dignity,
walked to the chair on which rested his hat, took
from it the package of papers to serve as an ora-
tor's roll — he did not open it, and they evidently
had no bearing on the case — and addressed the
Judge, the package held aloft in his hand :

"Your Honor, there's not been a particle of evi-
dence so far produced in this court to convict this
man of this crime. I have not conferred with him,
and therefore do not know what answers he has
to make to this infamous charge. I am convinced,
however, that his own statement under oath will
dear up at once any doubt remaining in the minds
of this honorable jury of his innocence."

This was said with a certain iU-concealed tri-
umph in his voice. I saw now why he had taken
the case, and saw, too, the drift of his defence —
everything thus far pointed to the old hackneyed
plea of an alibi. He had evidently determined on
this course of action when he sat listening to the
stories Bud's father and the girl had told him as
he sat beside them on the bench near the door.
49

THE UNDEK DOG

Their testimony, taken in connection with the un-
certain testimony of the Government's principal
witness, the mail-carrier, as to the exact time of
the assault, together with the prisoner's testimony
stoutly denying the crime, would insure either an
acquittal or a disagreement. The first would
result in his fees being paid by the court, the
second would add to this amount whatever Bud's
friends could scrape together to induce him to
go on with the second trial. In either case his
masterly defence was good for an additional num-
ber of clients and perhaps — of votes. It is humil-
iating to think that any successor of Choate, Web-
ster, or Evarts should earn his bread in this way,
but it is true all the same.

"The prisoner will take the stand !" cried Cart-
wright, in a firm voice.

As the words left his mouth, the noise of shuf-
fling feet and the shifting of positions for a better
view of the prisoner became so loud that the Judge
rapped for order, the clerk repeating it with the
end of his ruler.

Bud lifted himself to his feet slowly (his being
called was evidently as much of a surprise to him
as it was to the crowded room), looked about him
carelessly, his glance resting first on the girl's face
and then on the deputy beside him. He stepped
clumsily down from the raised platform and shoul-
dered his way to the witness-chair. The prosecut-
ing attorney had evidently been amazed at the
60

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

flank movement of his opponent, for lie moved his
position so he could look squarely in Bud's face.
As the prisoner sank into his seat, the room be-
came hushed in silence.

Bud kissed the book mechanically, hooked his
feet together and, clasping his big hands across
his waist-line, settled his great body between the
arms of the chair, with his chin resting on his
shirt-front. Cartwright, in his most impressive
manner, stepped a foot closer to Bud's chair.

"Mr. Tilden, you have heard the testimony of
the mail-carrier; now be good enough to tell the
jury where you were on the night of the robbery —
how many miles from this mail-sach?" and he
waved his hand contemptuously toward the bag.
It was probably the first time in all his life that
Bud had heard any man dignify his personality
with any such title.

In recognition of the compliment, Bud raised
his chin slightly and fixed his eyes more intently
on his questioner. Up to this time he had not
taken the slightest notice of him.

" 'Bout as close's I could git to it — 'bout three
feet, I should say — maybe less."

Cartwright gave a slight start and bit his lip.
Evidently the prisoner had misunderstood him.
The silence continued.

"I don't mean here, Mr. Tilden ;" and he pointed
to the bag. "I mean the night of the so-called rob-
bery."

51

THE UNDER DOG

"That's what I said; 'bout as close's I could

git"

"Well, did you rob the mail?" This was
asked uneasily, but with a half-concealed laugh
in his voice as if the joke would appear iu a
minute.

"1^0."

"No, of course not." The tone of relief was
apparent.

"Well, do you know anything about the cutting
of the bag?"

"Yes."

"Who did it?"

"Me."

"You?" The surprise was now an angry one.

"Yes, me."

At this unexpected reply the Judge pushed his
glasses high up on his forehead with a quick mo-
tion and leaned over his bench, his eyes on the
prisoner. The jury looked at each other with
amazement ; such scenes were rare in their experi-
ence. The prosecuting attorney smiled grimly.
Cartwright looked as if someone had struck him
a sudden blow in the face.

"What for ?" he stammered. It was evidently
the only question left for him to ask. All his
self-control was gone now, his face livid, an angry
look in his eyes. That any man with State's prison
yawning before him could make such a fool of him-
self seemed to astound him.
53

BUD TILDEN, MAIL-THIEF

Bud turned slowly and, pointing his finger at
Halliday, said between his closed teeth :

"Ask Hank Halliday; he knows."

The buzzard sprang to his feet. There was the
scent of carrion in the air now; I saw it in his
eyes.

"We don't want to ask Mr. Halliday ; we want
to ask you. Mr. Halliday is not on trial, and we
want the truth if you can tell it."

The irregularity of the proceeding was unno-
ticed in the tense excitement.

Bud looked at him as a big mastiff looks at a
snarling cur with a look more of pity than con-
tempt. Then he said slowly, accentuating each
word:

"Keep yer shirt on. You'll git the truth — git
the whole of it. Git what you ain't lookin' for.
There ain't no liars up in our mountains 'cept them
skunks in Gov'ment pay you fellers send up to us,
and things like Hank Halliday. He's wuss nor
any skunk. A skunk's a varmint that don't stink
tell ye meddle with him, but Hank Halliday stinks
all the time. He's one o' them fellers that goes
'rotmd with books in their pockets with picters in
'em that no girl oughter see and no white man
oughter read. He gits 'em down to Louisville.
There ain't a man in Pondville won't tell ye it's
true. He shoved one in my outside pocket over to
Pondville when I wam't lookin', the day 'fore I
held up this man Bowditch, and went and told the,
53

THE UNDEE DOG

fellers 'round the tavern that I had it. They come
and pulled it out and had the laugh on me, and
then he began to talk and said he'd write to Jen-
netta and send her one o' the picters by mail and
tell her he'd got it out o' my coat, and he did.
Sam Kellers seen Halliday with the letter and told
me after Bowditch had got it in his bag. I laid
for Bowditch at Pondville Corners, but he got past
somehow, and I struck in behind Bill Somers's
mill, and crossed the mountain and caught up with
him as he was ridin' through the piece o' woods
near the clearin'. I didn't know but he'd try to
shoot, and I didn't want to hurt him, so I crep' up
behind and threw him in the bushes, cut a hole in
the bag, and got the letter. That's the only one I
wanted and that's the only one I took. I didn't
rob no mail, but I warn't goin' to hev an honest,
decent girl like Jehnetta git that letter, and there
warn't no other way."

The stillness that followed was broken Only by
the Judge's voice.

"What became of that letter ?"

"I got it. Want to see it ?"

"Yes."

Bud felt in his pockets as if looking for some-
thing, and then, with an expression as if he had
suddenly remembered, remarked :

"No, I ain't got none. They stole my knife
when they 'rested me." Then facing the court-
room, he added : "Somebody lend me a knife, and
54

' I threw him in the bushes and got the letter.'

BUD TILDEN", MAIL-THIEF

pass me my hat over there 'longside them
sheriffs."

The court-crier took the hat from one of the
deputies, and the clerk, in answer to a nod of as-
sent from the Judge, passed Bud an ink-eraser
with a steel blade in one end.

The audience now had the appearance of one
watching a juggler perform a trick. Bud grasped
the hat in one hand, turned back the brim, inserted
the point of the knife between the hat lining and
the hat itself and drew out a yellow envelope
stained with dirt and perspiration.

"Here it is. I ain't opened it, and what's more,
they didn't find it when they searched me;" and
he looked again toward the deputies.

The Judge leaned forward in his seat and said :

"Hand me the letter."

The letter was passed up by the court-crier,
every eye following it. His Honor examined the
envelope, and, beckoning to Halliday, said:

"Is this your letter ?"

Halliday stepped to the side of the Judge, fin-
gered the letter closely, and said : "Looks like my
writin'."

"Open it and see."

Halliday broke the seal with his thumb-nail, and
took out half a sheet of note-paper closely written
on one side, wrapped about a small picture-
card.

"Yes, it's my letter;" and he glanced sheepishly
55

THE UNDEE DOG

around the room and hung his head, his face
scarlet.

The Judge leaned back in his chair, raised hia
hand impressively, and said gravely:

"This case is adjourned until ten o'clock to-

Two days later I again met the Warden as he
was entering the main door of the jail. He had
been over to the Court-house, he said, helping the
deputy along with a new "batch of moonshiners."

"What became of Bud Tilden?" I asked.

"Oh, he got it in the neck for robbin' the mails,
just's I told you he would. Peached on himself

like a d fool and give everything dead away.

He left for Kansas this morning. Judge give him
twenty years."

He is still in the lock-step at Leavenworth
prison. He has kept it up now for two years. His
hair is short, his figure bent, his step sluggish.
The law is slowly making an animal of him — ^that
wise, righteous law which is no respecter of
persons.

56

Ill

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN
DAYS"

It was a feeble old man of seventy-two this time
who sat facing the jury, an old man with bent
back, scant gray hair, and wistful, pleading eyes.

He had been arrested in the mountains of Ken-
tucky and had been brought to Covington for trial,
chained to another outlaw, one of those "moon-
shiners" who rob the great distilleries of part of
their profits and the richest and most humane Gov-
ernment on earth of part of its revenue.

For eleven months and ten days he had been
penned up in one of the steel cages of Covington
jail.

I recognized him the moment I saw him.

He was the old fellow who spoke to me from be-
tween the bars of his den on my visit the week
before to the inferno — ^the day I found Samanthy
Worth and her baby — and who told me then he
was charged with "sellin' " and that he "reckoned"
he was the oldest of all the prisoners about him.
He had on the same suit of coarse, homespun
clothes — the trousers hiked up toward one shoulder
from the strain of a single suspender ; the waistcoat
held by one button; the shirt open at the neck,
57

THE UNDER DOG

showing the wrinkled throat, wrinkled as an old
saddle-bag, and brown, hairy chest.

He still carried his big slouch hat, dust-be-
grimed and frayed at the edges. It hung over one
knee now, a red cotton handkerchief tucked under
its brim. He was superstitious about it, no doubt ;
he would wear it when he walked out a free man,
and wanted it always within reach. Hooked in its
band was a trout-fly, a red ibis, some souvenir, per-
haps, of the cool woods that he loved, and which
brought back to him the clearer the happy, careless
days which might never be his again.

The trout-fly settled all doubts in my mind as to
his origin and his identity. He was not a "moon-
shiner" ; he was my old trout fisherman, Jonathan
Gordon, come back to life, even to his streaming,
unkempt beard, leathery skin, thin, peaked nose,
and deep, searching eyes. That the daisies which
Jonathan loved were at that very moment bloom-
ing over his grave up in his New Hampshire hills,
and had been for years back, made no difference to
me. I could not be mistaken. The feeble old man
sitting within ten feet of me, fidgeting about
in his chair, the glare of the big windows
flooding his face with light, his long legs tucked
under him, his bony hands clasped together, the
scanty gray hair adrift over his forehead, his
slouch hat hooked over his knee, was my own.
Jonathan come back to life. His dog, G«orge, too,
was somewhere within reach, and so were his
58

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

fishing-pole and creel, with its leather shoulder-
band polished like a razor-strop. You who read
this never saw Jonathan, perhaps, but you can
easily carry his picture in your mind by remember-
ing some one of the other old fellows you used to
see on Sunday mornings hitching their horses to
the fence outside of the country church, or, saunter-
ing through the woods with a fish-pole over their
shoulders and a creel by their sides, or with their
heads together on the porch of some cross-roads
store, bartering eggs and butter for cotton cloth
and brown sugar. All these simple-minded, open-
aired, out-of-doors old fellows, with the bark on
them, are very much alike.

The only difference between the two men lay
in the expression of the two faces. Jonathan al-
ways looked straight at you when he talked, so that
you could fathom his eyes as you would fathom a
deep pool that mirrored the stars. This old man's
eyes wavered from one to another, lighting first on
the jury, then on the buzzard of a District Attor-
ney, and then on the Judge, with whom rested the
freedom which meant life or which meant im-
prisonment: at his age — death. This wavering
look was the look of a dog who had been an outcast
for weeks, or who had been shut up with a chain
about his throat ; one who had received only kicks
and cuffs for pats of tenderness — a cringing,
pleading look ready to crouch beneath some fresh
cruelty.

59

THE TJNDEK DOG

This look, as the trial went on and the buzzard
of an attorney flapped out his denunciations, deep-
ened to an expression of abject fear. In trying to
answer the questions hurled at him, he would
stroke his parched throat mechanically with his
long fingers as if to help the syllables free them-
selves. In listening to the witnesses he would
curve his body forward, one skinny hand cupped
behind his ear, his jaw dropping slowly, revealing
the white line of the lips above the straggling
beard. !N^ow and then as he searched the eyes of
the jury there would flash out from his ovtu the
same baffled, anxious look that comes into dear old
Joe Jefferson's face when he stops half-way up the
mountain and peers anxiously into the eyes of the
gnomes who have stolen out of the darkness and
are grouping themselves silently about him — a
look expressing one moment his desire to please
and the next his anxiety to escape.

There was no doubt about the old man's crime,
not the slightest. It had been only the tweedledum
and tweedledee of the law that had saved him the
first time. They would not serve him now. The
evidence was too conclusive, the facts too plain.
The "deadwood," as such evidence is called by the
initiated, lay in heaps — ^more than enough to send
him to State prison for the balance of his natural
life. The buzzard of a District Attorney who had
first scented out his body with an indictment, and
60

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

wlio all these eleven months and ten days had sat
with folded wings and hunched-up shoulders, wait-
ing for his final meal — I had begun to dislike him
in the Bud Tilden trial, but I hated him now (a
foolish, illogical prejudice, for he was only doing
his duty as he saw it) — ^had full control of all the
"deadwood"; had it with him, in fact. There
were not only some teaspoonfuls of the identical
whiskey which this law-breaker had sold, all in an
eight-ounce vial properly corked and labelled, but
there was also the identical silver dime which had
been paid for it. One of the jury was smelling
this whiskey when I entered the court-room; an-
other was fingering the dime. It was a good dime,
and bore the stamp of the best and greatest nation
on the earth. On one side was the head of the
Goddess of Liberty and on the other was the
wreath of plenty: some stalks of corn and the
bursting heads of wheat, with one or two ivy
leaves twisted together, suggesting honor and glory
and achievement. The "deadwood" — ^the evidence
— ^was all right. All that remained was for the
buzzard to flap his wings once or twice In a speech ;
then the jury would hold a short consultation, a
few words would follow from the presiding Judge,
and the carcass would be ready for the official un-
dertaker, the prison Warden.

How wonderful the system, how mighty the
results !

61

THE UNDEK DOG

One is often filled with admiration and astonish-
ment at the perfect working of this mighty engine,
the law. Properly adjusted, it rests on the bed-
plate of equal rights to all men ; is set in motion
by the hot breath of the people — superheated often
by popular clamor ; is kept safe by the valve of a
grand jury; is governed in its speed by the wise
and prudent Judge, and regulated in its output
by a jury of twelve men.

Sometimes in the application of its force this
machine, being man-made, like all machines, and
thus without a soul, gets out of order, loosens a
cog or bolt perhaps, throwing the mechanism "out
of gear," as it is called. When this happens, the
engine resting on its bed-plate still keeps its foun-
dation, but some lesser part, the loom or lathe or
driving-wheel, which is another way of saying the
arrest, the trial or the conviction, goes awry.
Sometimes the power-belt is purposely thrown off,
the machinery stopped, and a consultation takes
place, resulting in a disagreement or a new trial.
When the machine is started again, it is started
more carefully, with the first experience remem-
bered. Sometimes the rightful material— the
criminal, or the material from which the criminal
is made — ^to feed this loom or lathe or driving-
wheel, is replaced by some unsuitable material like
the girl whose hair became entangled in a flying-
belt and whose body was snatched up and whirled
mercilessly about. Only then is the engine work-
63

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

ing on its bed-plate brought to a standstill. The
steam of the boiler, the breath of the people, keeps
up, but it is withheld from the engine until the
mistake can be rectified and the girl rescued. The
law of mercy, the divine law, now asserts itself.
This law, being the law of God, is higher than
the law of man. Some of those who believe in the
man-law and who stand over the mangled body of
the victim, or who sit beside her bed, bringing her
slowly back to life, affirm that the girl was careless
and deserved her fate. Others, who believe in the
God-law, maintain that the engine is run not to kill
but to protect, not to maim but to educate, and
that the fault lies in the wrong application of the
force, not in the force itself.

So it was with this old man. Eleven months and
ten days before this day of his second trial (eleven
months and three days when I first saw him), a
flying-belt set in motion up in his own mountain-
home had caught and crushed him. To-day he was
still in the maw of the machinery, his courage
gone, his spirit broken, his heart torn. The group
about his body, not being a sympathetic group,
were insisting that the engine could do no wrong;
that the victim was not a victim at all, but lawful
material to be ground up. This theory was sus-
tained by the District Attorney. Every day he
must have fresh materials. The engine must run.
The machinery must be fed.

And his record ?

63

THE UNDER DOG

Ah, how often is this so in the law ! — ^his record
must be kept good.

After the whiskey had been held up to the light
and the dime fingered, the old man's attorney —
a young lawyer from the old man's own town, a
smooth-faced young fellow who had the gentle
look of a hospital nurse and who was doing his
best to bring the broken body back to life and free-
dom — put the victim on the stand.

"Tell the jury exactly how it all happened," he
said, "and in your own way, just as you told it
to me."

"I'll try, sir; I'll do my best." It was Eip's
voice, only fainter. He tugged at his collar as
if to breathe the easier, cleared his throat and be-
gan again. "I ain't never been in a place like this
but once before, and I hope you'll forgive me if
I make any mistakes," and he looked about the
room, a flickering, half-bumt-out smile trembling
on his lips.

"Well, I got a piece of land 'bout two miles
back of my place that belongs to my wife, and I
ain't never fenced it in, for I ain't never had no
time somehow to cut the timber to do it, she's been
so sickly lately. 'Bout a year ago I was goin' 'long
toward Hi Stephens's mill a-lookin' for muskrats
when I heard some feller's axe a-workin' away,
and I says to Hi, 'Hi, ain't that choppin' goin' on
on the wife's land ?' and he said it was, and that
64

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

Luke Shanders and his boys had been drawin' out
cross-ties for the new railroad ; thought I knowed
it.

"Well, I kep' 'long up and come on Luke jes's
he was throwin' the las' stick onto his wagon. He
kinder started when he see me, jumped on and
begin to drive off. I says to him, 'Luke,' I says,
*I ain't got no objection to you bavin' a load of
wood ; there's plenty of it ; but it don't seem right
for you to take it 'thout askin', 'specially since the
wife's kind o' peaked and it's her land and not
yourn.' He hauled the team back on their hind
legs, and he says :

" 'When I see fit to ask you or your old woman's
leave to cut timber on my own land, I will. Me
and Lawyer Fillmore has been a-lookin' into
them deeds, and this timber is mine;' and he
driv off.

"I come along home and studied 'bout it a bit,
and me and the wife talked it over. We didn't
want to make no fuss, but we knowed he was a-
lyin', but that ain't no imusual thing for Luke
Shanders.

"Well, the nex' mornin' I got into Pondville
'bout eight o'clock and set a-waitin' till Lawyer
Fillmore come in. He looked kind o' shamefaced
when he see me, and I says, 'What's this Luke
Shanders's been a-tellin' me 'bout your sayin' my
wife's timberland is hisn ?'

"Then he began 'splainin' that the 'riginal lines
65

THE UNDEK DOG

was drawed wrong and that old man Shandera's
land, Luke's father, run to the brook and took in
all the white oak on the wife's lot and "

The buzzard sprang to his feet and shrieked
out:

"Your Honor, I object to this rigmarole. Tell
the jury right away" — and he faced the prisoner
— "what you know about this glass of whiskey.
Get right down to the facts; we're not cutting
cross-ties in this court."

The old man caught his breath, placed his fin-
gers suddenly to his lips as if to choke back the
forbidden words, and, in an apologetic voice, mur-
mured :

"I'm gettin' there's fast's I kin, sir, 'deed I
am ; I ain't hidin' nothin'."

He wasn't. Anyone could see it in his face.

"Better let him go on in his own way," remarked
the Judge, indifferently. His Honor was looking
over some papers, and the monotonous tones of the
witness diverted attention. Most of the jury, too,
had already lost interest in the story. One of the
yoimger members had settled himself in his chair,
thrust his hands into his pockets, stretched out his
legs, and had shut his eyes as if to take a nap.
Nothing so far had implicated either the whiskey
or the dime ; when it did he would wake up.

The old man turned a grateful glance toward the
Judge, leaned forward in his chair, and with bent
head looked about him on the floor as if trying to
66

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

pick up the lost end of his story. The young attor-
ney, in an encouraging tone, helped him find it
with a question:

"When did you next see Mr. Fillmore and Luke
Shanders ?"

"When the trial come oflF," answered the old
man, raising his head again. "Course we couldn't
lose the land. 'Twarn't worth much till the new
railroad come through; then the oak come handy
for cross-ties. That's what set Fillmore and Luke
Shanders onto it.

"When the case was tried, the Judge seed they
couldn't bring no 'riginal deed 'cept one showin'
that Luke Shanders and Fillmore was partners in
the steal, and the Judge 'lowed they'd have to pay
for the timber they cut and hauled away.

"They went round then a^sayin' they'd get even,
though wife and I 'lowed we'd take anything rea-
sonable for what hurt they done us. And that
went on till one day 'bout a year ago Luke come
into my place and said he and Lawyer Fillmore
would be over the next day ; that they was tired o'
fightin', and that if I was willin' to settle they
was.

"One o' the new Grov'ment dep'tles was sittin'
in my room at the time. He was goin' 'long up
to town-court, he said, and had jest drapped in to
pass the time o' day. There he is sittin' over
there," and he pointed to his captor.

"I hadn't never seen him before, though I know
67

THE UNDEE DOG

a good many of 'em, but lie showed me his badge,
and I knowed who he was.

"The nex' mornin' Lawyer Eillmore and Luke
stopped outside and hollered for me to come out.
I wanted 'em to come in. Wife had baked some
biscuit and we was determined to be sociable-like,
now that they was willin' to do what was fair,
and I 'lowed they must drive up and git out. They
said that that's what they come for, only that they
had to go a piece down the road, and they'd be back
agin in a half -hour with the money.

"Then Luke Shanders 'lowed he was cold, and
asked if I had a drap o' whiskey."

At mention of the all-important word a visible
stir took place in the court-room. The young man
with the closed eyes opened them and sat up in
his chair. The jury ceased whispering to one an-
other ; the Judge pushed his spectacles back on his
forehead and moved his papers aside ; the buzzard
stretched his long neck an inch farther out of his
shirt-collar and lowered his head in attention. The
spigot, which up to this time had run only "empty-
ings," was now giving out the clear juice of the
wine-vat. Each man bent his tin cup of an ear to
catch it. The old man noticed the movement and
looked about him anxiously, as if dreading another
rebuff. He started to speak, cleared his throat,
pulled nervously at his beard for a moment, glanc-
ing furtively about the room, and in a lower tone
repeated the words :

68

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

"Asked if I had a drap o' whiskey. Well, I
always take a dram when I want it, and I had some
prime stuff my son Ned had sent me over from
Frankfort, so I went hack and poured out 'bout
four fingers in a glass, and took it out to him.

"After he drunk it he handed me back the glass
and driv off, sayin' he'd be round later. I took the
glass into the house agin and sot it 'longside the
bottle on the mantel, and when I turned round
there sot the Gov'ment dep'ty. He'd come in, wife
said, while I was talkin' with Luke in the road.
When he see the glass he asked if I had a license,
and I told him I didn't sell no liquor, and he asked
me what that was, and I told him it was whiskey,
and then he got the bottle and took a smell of it,
and then he held up the glass and turned it upside
down and out drapped a ten-cent piece. Then he
'rested me !"

The jury was all attention now; the several ex-
hibits were coming into view. One fat, red-faced
juror, who had a dyed mustache and looked like
a sporting man, would have laughed outright had
not the Judge checked him with a stem look.

"You didn't put the dime there, did you ?" the
young attorney asked, in a tone that implied a
negative answer.

"No, sir ; I don't take no money for what I give
a man." This came with a slight touch of indigna-
tion.

"Do you know who put it there ?"
69

THE UNDER DOG

"Well, there warn't nobody but Luke Shanders
could 'a' done it, 'cause nobody had the glass but
him. I heard since that it was all a put-up job,
that they had swore I kep' a roadside, and they
had sot the dep'ty onto me; but I don't like to
think men kin be so mean, and I ain't a-sayin' it
now. If they knew what I've suffered for what
they done to me, they couldn't help but feel sorry
for me if they're human."

He stopped and passed his hands wearily over
his forehead. The jury sat still, their eyes riveted
on the speaker. Even the red-faced man was lis-
tening now.

For an instant there was a pause. Then the old
man reached forward in his seat, his elbows on his
knees, his hands held out as if in appeal, and in a
low, pleading tone addressed the jury. Strange
to say, neither the buzzard nor the Judge inter-
rupted the unusual proceeding :

"Men, I hope you will let me go home now;
won't you, please ? I ain't never been 'customed
all my life to bein' shut up, and it comes purty
hard, not bein' so young as I was. I ain't findin'
no fault, but it don't seem to me I ever done any-
thin' to deserve all that's come to me lately. I got
'long best way I could over there" — and he pointed
in the direction of the steel cages — "tiU las' week,
when Sam Jelliff come down to see his boy and
told me the wife was took sick bad, worse than she's
been yet. She ain't used to bein' alone; you'd
•TO

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

know that if you could see her. The neighbors
is purty good to her, I hear, but nobody don't under-
stand her like me, she and me bein' so long together
— mos' fifty years now. You'll let me go home,
won't you, men ? I git so tired, so tired ; please
let me go."

The buzzard was on his feet now, his arms
sawing the air, his strident voice filling the court-
room.

He pleaded for the machine — ^for the safety of
the community, for the majesty of the law. He
demanded instant conviction for this trickster, this
Eagin among men, this hoary-headed old scoundrel
who had insulted the intelligence of twelve of the
most upright men he had ever seen in a jury-box,
insulted them with a tale that even a child would
laugh at. When at last he folded his wings,
hunched up his shoulders and sat down, and the
echoes of his harsh voice had died away, it seemed
to me that I could hear vibrating through the room,
as one hears the murmur of a brook after a storm,
the tender tones of the old man pleading as if for
his life.

The jury had listened to the buzzard's harangue,
with their eyes, not with their ears. Down in
their hearts there still rang the piteous words.
The man-made machine was breaking down; ite
mechanism out of "gear" ; the law that governed
it defective. The God-law, the law of mercy, was
being set in motion.

71

THE UNDEK DOG

The voice of the Judge trembled a little as he
delivered his charge, as if somehow a stray tear
had clogged the passage from his heart to his lips.
In low, earnest tones that every man strained his
ear to catch, he reviewed the testimony of the wit-
nesses, those I had not heard ; took up the uncon-
tradicted statement of the Deputy Marshal as evi-
denced by the exhibits before them ; passed to the
motive behind the alleged conspiracy ; dwelt for a
moment on the age and long confinement of the
accused, and ended with the remark that if they
believed his story to be an explanation of the facts,
they must acquit him.

They never left their seats. Even the red-faced
man voted out of turn in his eagerness. The
God-law had triumphed! The old man was
free.

The throng in the court-room rose and made
their way to the doors, the old man going first,
escorted by an officer to see him safely outside.
The Judge disappeared through a door; the clerk
lifted the lid of his desk and stowed beneath it the
greasy, ragged Bible, stained with the lies of a
thousand lips. The buzzard crammed his hat
over his eyes, turned, and without a word to any-
one, stalked out of the room.

I mingled with the motley throng, my ears alert
for any spoken opinions. I had seen the flying-
belt thrown from the machine and the stoppage of

n

"ELEVEN" MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

the eBgine. I wanted now to learn something of
the hot breath of the p;6ople who had set it in mo-
tion eleven months and ten days before.

"Eeckon he'll cu^a blue streak for home now,"
muttered a court-Jounger, buttoning up his coat;
"that is, if he's got one. You'll never catch him
sellin' any more moonshine."

"Been me, I'd soaked him," blurted out a corner-
loafer. "If you can't convict one of these clay-
eaters when you've got him dead to rights, ain't
no use havin' no justice."

"I thought Tom [the buzzard] would land him,"
said a stout, gray-whiskered lawyer who was
gathering up his papers. "First case Tom's lost
this week. Goes pretty hard with him, you know,
when he loses a case."

"It would have been an outrage, sir, if he had
won it," broke in a stranger. "The arrest of
an old man like that on such a charge, and his con-
finement for nearly a year in a hole like that one
across the street, is a disgrace. Something is rot-
ten in the way the laws are administered in the
mountains of Kentucky, or outrages like this
couldn't occur."

"He wouldn't thank you, sir, for interfering,"
remarked a bystander. "Being shut up isn't to
him what it is to you and me. He's been taken
care of for a year, hasn't he ? Warmed and fed,
and got his three meals a day. That's a blamed
sight more than he gets at home. They're only
73

THE UNDEE DOG

half-human, these mountaineers, anyway. Don't
worry; he's all right."

"You've struck it first time," retorted the Dep-
uty Marshal who had smelled the whiskey, found
the dime, and slipped the handcuffs on the old
man's withered wrists. "Go slow, will you ?" and
he faced the stranger. "We got to do our duty,
ain't we ? That's the law, and there ain't no way
gittin' round it. And if we make mistakes, what
of it ? We've got to make mistakes sometimes, or
we wouldn't catch half of 'em. The old skeesiks
ought to he glad to git free. See ?"

Suddenly there came to my mind the realization
of the days that were to follow and all that they
would bring to him of shame. I thought of the
cold glance of his neighbors, the frightened stare
of the children ready to run at the approach of
the old jail-bird, the coarse familiarity of the
tavern lounger. Then the cruelty of it all rose
before me. Who would recompense him for the
indignities he had suffered — ^the deadly chill of the
steel clamps ; the long days of suspense ; the bitter-
ness of the first disagreement ; the foul air of the
inferno, made doubly foul by close crowding of
filthy bodies, inexpressibly horrible to one who had
breathed all his life the cool, pure air of the open
with only the big clean trees for his comrades ?

And if at last his neighbors should take pity
upon him and drive out the men who had wrecked
74

"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"

his old age, and he should wander once more up
the brook with his rod over his shoulder, the faith-
ful dog at his heels, and a line of the old song still
alive in his heart, what about those eleven months
and ten days of which the man-law had robbed
him?

O mighty machine ! benign, munificent law !
Law of a people who boast of mercy and truth and
equal rights and justice to all. Law of a land with
rivers of gold and mountains of silver, the sum of
its wealth astounding the world.

What's to be done about it ?

Nothing.

Better drag a dozen helpless Samanthy Norths
from their homes, their suckling babes in their
arms, and any number of gray-haired old men
from their cabins, than waive one jot or tittle of
so just a code ; and lose — the tax on whiskey.

75

CAP'N BOB OF THE SCREAMER

CAP'N BOB OF THE SCREAMER

Captain Bob Brandt dropped in to-day, looking
brown and ruddy, and filling my office with a
breeze and freshness that seemed to have followed
him all the way in from the sea.

"Just in, Captain?" I cried, springing to my
feet, my fingers closing round his — ^no more wel-
come visitor than Captain Bob ever pushes open
my office-door.

"Yes— Teutonic."

"Where did you pick her up — ^Fire Island ?"

"]^o ; 'bout hundred miles off Montauk."

Captain Bob has been a Sandy Hook pilot for
some years back.

"How was the weather ?" I had a chair ready
for him now and was lifting the lid of my desk
in search of a box of cigars.

"Pretty dirty. Nasty swell on, and so thick
you could hack holes in it. Come pretty nigh
missin' her" — and the Captain opened his big
storm-coat, hooked his cloth cap with its ear-tabs
on one prong of the back of one office-chair,
stretched his length in another, and, bending for-
ward, reached out his long, brawny arm for the
cigar I was extending toward him.
79

THE UNDER DOG

I have described this sea-dog before — as a
younger sea-dog — twenty years younger, in fact.
He was in my employ then — he and his sloop
Screamer. Every big foundation stone that Caleb
set in Shark Ledge Light — ^the one off Keyport
harbor — can tell you about them both.

In those light-house days this Captain Bob was
"a tall, straight, blue-eyed young fellow of twenty-
two, with a face like an open book — one of those
perfectly simple, absolutely fearless, alert men
found so often on the E'ew England coast, with
legs and arms of steel, body of hickory, and hands
of whalebone ; cabin boy at twelve, common sailor
at sixteen, first mate at twenty, and full captain
the year he voted."

He is precisely the same kind of man to-day,
plus twenty years of experience. The figure is
still the figure of his youth, the hickory a little
better seasoned, perhaps, and the steel and whale-
bone a little harder, but they have lost none of
their spring and vitality. The ratio of promotion
has also been kept up. That he should now rank
as the most expert pilot on the station was quite
to be expected. He could have filled as well a
commander's place on the bridge, had he chosen to
work along those lines.

And the modesty of the man !

Nothing that he has done, or can still do, has
ever stretched his hat measure or swelled any part
of his thinking apparatus. The old pilot-cap is
80

CAP'N BOB

still number seven, and the sensible head beneath
it number seven, too. It could be number eight,
or nine, or even ten, if it had expanded in pro-
portion to the heroic quality of many of his deeds.
During the light-house days, for instance, when
some sudden shift of wind would chum the long
rollers into bobbles and then into frenzied seas that
smothered the Ledge in white suds, if a life-boat
was to be launched in the boiling surf, the last
man to jump aboard, after a mighty push with his
long hindmost leg, was sure to be this same bundle
of whalebone and hickory. And should this boat,
a few minutes later, go whirling along in the
"Kace," bottom side up, with every worker safe,
astride her keel, principally because of Captain
Bob's coolness and skill in hauling them out of
the water, again the last man to crawl beside the
rescued crew would be this same long-legged, long-
armed skipper.

Or should a guy-rope snap with a sound like a
pistol-shot, and a great stone swung to a boom and
weighing tons should begin running amuck through
piles of cement, machinery, and men, and some one
of the working gang, seeing the danger, should,
with the quickness and sureness of a mountain-
goat, spring straight for the stone, clutching the
end of the guy and bounding off again, twisting
the bight round some improvised snubbing-post,
thus checking its mad career, you would not have
had to ask his name twice.
81

THE UKDEE DOG

"Cap'n Bob stopped it, sir," was sure to have
been the proffered reply.

So, too, in his present occupation of pilot.
It was only a few years ago that I stood on the
deck of an incoming steamer, straining my eyes
across a heaving sea, the horizon lost in the dull
haze of countless froth-caps; we had slowed for a
pilot, so the word came down the deck. Suddenly,
against the murky sky-line, with mainsail double-
reefed and jib close-hauled, loomed a light craft
plunging bows under at every lurch. Then a chip
the size of your hand broke away from the frail
vessel, and a big wave lying around for such prey,
sprang upon it with wide-open mouth. The tiny
bit dodged and slipped out of sight into a mighty
ravine, then mounted high in air, upborne in the
teeth of another great monster, and again was lost
to view. Soon the chip became a bit of driftwood
manned by two toy men working two toy oars like
mad and bearing at one end a yellow dot.

Then the first officer walked down the deck to
where I stood, followed by a huddle of seamen who
began unrolling a rope ladder.

"You're right," I heard an officer answer a pas-
senger. "It's no fit weather to take a pilot. Cap-
tain wouldn't have stopped for any other boat but
JSTo. 11. But those fellows out there don't know
what weather is."

The bit of driftwood now developed into a yawl.
The yellow dot broadened and lengthened to the
83

CAP'N BOB

semblance of a man standing erect and unbutton-
ing his oil-skins as he looked straight at the steamer
rolling port-holes under, the rope ladder flopping
against her side. Then came a quick twist of the
oars, a sudden lull as the yawl shot within a boat's
length of the rope ladder, and with the spring of
a cat the man in oil-skins landed with both feet on
its lower rung, and the next instant he was over
the steamer's rail and on her deck beside me.

I thought I knew that spring, even before I
saw his face or got hold of his hand.

It was Captain Bob.

As I look at him now, sitting in my office-chair,
the smoke of the cigar curling about his bronzed,
weather-tanned face, my eye taking in his slim
waist, slender thighs, and long, sinewy arms and
hands that have served him so well all his life, I
can hardly believe that twenty years have passed
over his head since we worked together on Shark
Ledge. But for the marks chalked on his temples
by the Old Man with the Hour-glass and the few
tally-scores of hard work crossing the comers of
his mouth and eyes, he has the same external ap-
pearance as in the old days. Even these indexes
of advancing years are lost when he throws his
head up and laughs one of his spontaneous, ring-
ing laughs that fills my office full of sunshine,
illumining it for hours after he has gone.

"This pilotin' 's pretty rough sometimes," Cap-
tain Bob continued between the puffs of smoke,
83

THE UNDER DOG

"but it ain't nothin' to the old days. When I look
back on it all, seems to me as if we was out o' our
heads most o' the time. I didn't know it then,
but 'twas true all the same. Think now o' layin'
the Screamer broadside on that stone pile at Shark
Ledge, unloadin' them stone with nothin' but a
couple o' spar buoys to keep 'er off. Wonder I
didn't leave 'er bones there. Would if I hadn't
knowed every stick o' timber in 'er and jest what
she could stagger tmder."

"But she was a good sea-boat," I interpolated.
"The Screamer was always the pride of the work."

"None better. You'd a-thought so if you'd been
with us that night off Hatteras; we layin' to,
hatches battened down. I never see it blow wuss.
It came out o' the nor'west 'bout dark, and 'fore
mornin' I tell ye it was a-humpin' things. We
started with a pretty decent set o' sails, new eye-
lets rove in and new clew lines, but, Lord love ye,
we hadn't taken old Hatteras into consideration.
Bill Nevins, my engineer, and a landsman who was
to work the h'istin' engine, looked kind 'er peaked
when what was left of the jib come rattlin' down
on his fo'c's'le hatch, but I says to him, 'the
Screamer's all right, Billy, so she don't strike
nothin' and so long's we can keep the water out 'er.
Can't sink 'er any more'n an empty five-gallon
ker'sene can with the cork in. We'll lay 'round
here till mornin' and then set a signal. Some-
thing'U come along pretty soon.' Sure 'nough,
84

CAP'N BOB

'long come a coaler bound for Charleston. She
see us a-wallowin' in the trough and our mast
thrashin' for all it was worth.

" 'What d'ye want V the skipper says, when he
got within hail.

" 'Some sail-needles and a ball o' twine,' I hol-
lered back ; 'we got everything else.' You should
just a-heard him cuss — " and one of Captain Bob's
laughs rang through the room. "Them's two
things I'd forgot — didn't think o' them in fact till
the mainsheet give 'way.

"Well, he chucked 'em aboard with another cuss.
I hadn't no money to pay no salvage. All we
wanted was them needles and a little elbow-grease
and gumption. So we started in, and 'fore night,
she still a-thrashin', I'd fixed up the sails, patched
the eyelets with a pair o' boot-legs, and was off
again."

"What were you doing off Hatteras, Captain
Bob ?" I asked. I was leading him on, professing
ignorance of minor details, so that I could again
enjoy the delight of hearing him tell it.

"Oh, that was another one o' them crazy jobs I
used to take when I didn't know no better. Why,
I guess you remember 'bout that wreckin' job off
Hamilton, Bermuda?"

He was settled in his chair now, his legs crossed,
his head down between his shoulders.

"You see, after I quit work on the 'ledge,' I was
put to 't for a job, and there come along a feller
85

THE UNDEE DOG

by the name of Lamson — ^the agent of an insurance
company, who wanted me to go to Bermuda and
git up some forty-two pieces o' white I-talian
marble that had been wrecked three years before
off the harbor of Hamilton. They ran from three
to twenty-one tons each, he said. So off I started
with the Screamer. He didn't say, though, that
the wreck lay on a coral reef eight miles from land,
or I'd stayed to home in New Bedford.

"When I got to where the wreck lay you couldn't
see a thing 'bove water. So I got into an old divin'
dress we had aboard — one we used on the Ledge —
oiled up the pump and went down to look her over,
and by Jiminy Criminy, not a scrap o' that wreck
was left 'cept the rusty iron work and that part
o' the bottom plankin' of the vessel that lay under
the stones ! Everything else was eaten up with the
worms ! Funniest-lookin' place you ever see. The
water was just as clear as air, and I could see
every one o' them stone plain as daylight — ^looked
like so many big lumps o' white sugar scattered
'round — and they were big ! One of 'em weighed
twenty-one tons, and none on 'em weighed less'n
five. Of course I knew how big they were 'fore
I started, and I'd fitted up the Screamer special
to h'ist 'em, but I didn't know I'd have to handle
'em twice ; once from where they laid on that coral
reef in twenty-eight feet o' water and then unload
'em on the Navy Yard dock, above Hamilton, and
then pick 'em up agin, load 'em 'board the Scream-
8G

CAP'N BOB

er, and unload 'em once more 'board a Boston brig
they'd sent down for 'em — one o' tbem high-waist-
ed things 'bout sixteen feet from the water-line to
the rail. That was the wust part of it"

Captain Bob stopped, felt in his pocket for a
match, found it empty, rose from his chair, picked
one from a match-safe on my desk, lighted his
cigar, and resumed his seat again. I have found
it wisest to let him have his own way in times like
these. If I interrupt the flow of his talk it may
stop for the day, and I lose the best part of the
enjoyment of having him with me.

"Pretty decent chaps, them Englishmen" — ^puff-
puff — ^the volume of smoke was all right once more.
"One Monday morning I ran out of the Navy Yard
dock within sight of the wreck. I had been layin'
up over Sunday to get out of the way of a norther,
when I luffed a little too soon, and bang went my
bowsprit and scraped off about three feet of red
paint from the end of the dock. One of the watch-
men was on the string-piece, and saw the whole
thing. 'Come ashore,' he says, 'and go and see the
Admiral; you can't scrape no paint off this dock
with my permission.'

"Well, I waited four hours for his nibs. When
he come to his office quarters he was 'bout up to
my arms, red as a can-buoy, and white hair stickin'
up straight as a shoe-brush on his head. He looked
cross enough to bite a tenpenny nail in two.

" 'Ran into the dock, did ye — ran into Her
87

THE UNDER DOG

Majesty's dock, and ye had room enough to turn a
fleet in ! Do you think we paint these docks for
the fun of havin' you lubbers scrape it off ? You'll
pay for gaintin' it over, sir — ^that's what you'll do,
or I'll libel your boat, and send a file of marines
down and tie her up,' and away he went up the
dock to his office again.

" 'Gosh !' I said to myself. 'Guess I'm in a fix.'
The boys stood around and heard every word, and
I tell ye it warn't no joke. As to money, there
wam't a ten-dollar bill in the crew. I'd spent
every cent I could rake and scrape to fit the
Screamer out, and the boys were workin' on shares,
and nobody was to get any money until the last
stone — ^that big twenty-one-ton feller — ^was 'board
the brig. Then I could go to the agents in Hamil-
ton and draw two-thirds of my contract. That
twenty-one-ton chunk, I forgot to tell ye, I had
picked up the day before, and it was then aboard
the Screamer, and we was on our way down to
Hamilton, where the brig lay, when her nose
scraped off the Admiral's paint.

"It did look kind o' nasty for us, and no mis-
take. One day more, and we'd 'a' been through
and had our money.

" 'Go up and see him,' said the watchman. 'He
gits cool sometimes as sudden as he gits hot.' So
Bill JN'evins, my engineer, who was workin' the
h'ister, and I went up. The old feller was sittin'
on the piazza in a big rattan chair.
88

CAP'N BOB

" 'Come aboard,' he hollered, soon's he see Bill
and me a-standin' in the garden-path with our hats
off, lookin' like two jailbirds about to be sentenced.
Well, we got up on the porch, and he looked us all
over, and said:

" 'Have you got that money with you ?' 'No,'
I said, 'I haven't,' and I ups and tells him just how
we was fixed, and how we had worked, and how
short we was of grub and clothes and money, and
then I said, 'an' now I come to tell ye that I hit the
dock fair and square, and it was all my fault, and
that I'll pay whatever you say is right when I put
this stone 'board and get my pay.'

"He looked me all over — I tell you I was pretty
ragged ; nothin' but a shirt and pants on, and they
was almighty tore up, especially where most every-
body wants to be covered — and Bill was no better.
We'd 'bout used up our clo'es so that sail-needles
nor nothin' else wouldn't a-done us no good, and we
had no time nor no spare cash to go ashore and
get others.

"While I was a-talkin', the old feller's eyes was
a-borin' into mine — ^then he roared out, 'No, sir;
you won't! — ^you won't pay one d — d shillin', sir.
You'll go back to your work, and if there's any-
thing you want in the way of grub or supplies send
here for it and you shall have it. Good-day.' I
tell ye he was a rum one."

"Was that the last time you saw him?" I
asked.

89

THE UNDER DOG

"Not much. When we got 'longside the brig the
next day, her Oap'n see that twenty-one-ton stone
settin' up on the deck of the Screamer, lookin' like
a big white church, and he got so scared he went
ashore and started a yarn that we couldn't lift that
stone sixteen feet in the air, and over her rail and
down into the hold, and that we'd smash his brig,
and it got to the Admiral's ears, and down come
two English engineers, in cork helmets and white
jackets and gold buttons, spic' an' span as if they'd
stepped out of the chart-room of a yacht. One was
a colonel and the other was a major. They were
both just back from India, and natty-lookin' chaps
as you ever saw. And clear stuff all the way
through — ^you could tell that before they opened
their mouths.

"I was on the deck of the Screamer, overhaulin'
the fall, surrounded by most of the crew, gettin'
ready to h'ist the stone, when I first saw 'em. They
and the Oap'n were away up above me, leanin' over
the rail, lookin' at the stone church that some o' the
boys was puttin' the chains 'round. Bill Nevins
was down in the fo'c's'le, firin' up, with the safety-
valve set at 125 pounds. He had half a keg o'
rosin and a can o' kerosene to help out with in case
we wanted a few pounds extry in the middle of the
tea-party. Pretty soon I heard one of 'em holler :

" 'Ahoy ! Is the Captain aboard ?'

" 'He is,' I said, steppin' out. 'Who wants
him?'

90

CAP'N BOB

" 'Colonel Throckmorton,' lie says, 'and Major
Severn.'

" 'Come aboard, gentlemen,' I says.

"So down they come, the Colonel first, one foot
at a time touchin' the ladder, the Major following.
When he reached the deck and wheeled around to
look at me you just ought to have seen his face.

" 'Are you the Captain ?' he says, and he looked
me over 'bout as the admiral had done.

" 'I be,' I said, 'Captain Eobert Brandt, of Pig-
eon Cove, Cape Ann, master and owner of the
sloop Screamer, at your service' — I kep' front side
to him. 'What can I do for you ?'

" 'Well, Captain,' he began, 'perhaps it is none
of our business, but the Captain of the brig here,'
and he pointed up above him, 'has asked us to look
over your tackle and see whether it is safe enough
to lift this stone. He's afraid you'll drop it and
smash his deck in. Since I've seen it, and what
you propose to lift it with, I've told him there's no
danger, for you'll never get it off the deck. We
are both officers of the Engineering Corps, and it
is our business to know about such things.'

" 'What makes you think the Screamer won't
lift it?' I asked.

" 'Well,' says the Colonel, looking aloft, 'her
boom ain't big enough, and that Manila rope is too
light. I should think it wasn't over three and
three-quarter-inch rope. We all know fifteen tons
is enough weight for that size rope, even with a
91

THE UNDEE DOG

fourfold purchase, and we understand you say this
stone weighs twenty-one.'

" 'I'm sorry, gentlemen,' I said, 'and if you are
worried about it you'd better go 'board the brig,
for I'm about ready to pick the stone up and land
her.'

"Well, the Major said he guessed he would, if
I was determined to pull the mast out of my
sloop, but the Colonel said he'd stay by and see
it out.

"Just then Bill Nevins stuck his head out of the
fo'c's'le. He was blacker than I was ; all smeared
with grease and stripped to his waist. It was hot
enough anywhere, but it was sizzlin' down where
he was.

" 'AH ready, Cap'n,' he says. 'She's got every
pound she can carry.'

"I looked everything over — saw the butt of the
boom was playin' free in the wooden socket,
chucked in a lot of tallow so it could move easy,
give an extra twist to the end of the guy, and hol-
lered to Bill to go ahead. She went chuckety-
chuck, chuckety-chuck for half a dozen turns;
then she slowed down soon as she struck the full
weight, and began to pant like an old horse climb-
in' a hill. All this time the Colonel was callin'
out from where he stood near the tiller: 'She'll
never lift it. Captain — she'll never lift it.'

"Next come a scrapin' 'long the deck, and
the big stone swung clear with a foot o' daylight
92

Captain Bob.

CAP'N BOB

'tween it and the deck. Then up she went, crawl-
in' slowly inch by inch, till she reached the height
of the brig's rail.

"Now come the wust part. I knew that when
I gave orders to slack away the guy-rope so as to
swing the stone aboard the brig, the Screamer
would list over and dip her rail in the water. So
I made a jump for the rope ladder and shinned
up the brig's side so as to take a hand in landin'
the stone properly on the brig's deck so as to save
her beams and break the jar when I lowered the
stone down. I had one eye now on the stone and
the other on the water, which was curling over the
Screamer's rail and makin' for the fo'c's'le hatch.
Should the water pour down this hatch, out would
go my fires and maybe up would come her b'iler.

" 'Ease away on that guy and lower away easy,'
I hollered to Bill. The stone dropped to within
two feet of the brig's deck and swung back and
for'ards. Then I heard Bill yell. I was expcQtin'
it.

" 'Water's comin' in !'

"I leaned over the brig's rail and could see the
slop of the sea combin' over the Screamer's fo'c's'le
hatch. Bill's fires would be out the next minute.
There was just two feet now 'tween the stone and
the deck where I stood — ^too much to drop; but
there was nothing else to do, and I hollered :

" 'AU gone.'

"Down she come with a run, struck the big tim-
93

THE UNDEE DOG

bers on the deck, and by Jiminy ! ye could a-heard
that old brig groan from stem to stern.

"1 jumped on top of the stone and threw off the
shackles, and the Screamer came up on an even
keel as easy as a duck ridin' the water,

"You just oughter seen the Colonel when the old.
boat righted herself, and he had climbed up and
stood 'longside the Major a-talkin' it over.

"Pretty soon he came up to where I was a-gettin'
the tackle ready to lower the stone in the hold, and
he says :

" 'Well, you made your word good, Cap'n, but
I want to tell you that nobody but an American
could a-done it. It would cost me my commission
if I should try to do what you have done.'

" 'Well, gentlemen,' I says, 'what was wrong
about it ? What's the matter with the Screamer's
rig ?'

" 'Well, the size of the rope for one thing,' says
the Colonel, 'and the boom.'

" 'Well, p'haps you ain't looked it over,' I says,
and I began unravelling an end that stuck out near
the shackle. 'If you'll look dose here' — and I
held the end of the rope up — 'you'll see that every
stran' of that rope is made of the best Manila yarn,
and laid as smooth as silk. I stood over that rope
myself when it was put together. Old Sam Han-
son of New Bedford laid up that rope, and there
ain't no better nowhere. I knew what it had to
do, and I wam't goin' to take no chances of its not
94

CAP'N BOB

doin' it right. As to that boom, I want to tell ye
that I picked that boom out o' about two hundred
sticks in Tom Carlin's shipyard, in Stonington,
and had it scraped and ironed just to please me.
There ain't a rotten knot in it from butt to finish,
and mighty few of any other kind. That stick's
growed right — ^that's what's the matter with it;
and it bellies out in the middle, just where it ought
to be thickest.'

"Well, they didn't say nothin' for a while, 'cept
to walk round the stone once or twice and slap it
with their hands, as if they wanted to make sure
it was all there. My men were all over it now, and
we was gettin' things in shape to finish up. I tell
ye the boys were mighty glad, and so was I. It
had been a long pull of six months' work, and we
were out of most everything, and as soon as the
big stone was down in the brig's hold, and warped
back and stowed with the others — and that
wouldn't take but a day or two more — ^we would
clean up, get our money, and light out for
home.

"All this time the Colonel and the Major were
buzzin' each other off by the other rail. Pretty
soon they both come over to where I stood, and
the Colonel reached out his hand.

" 'Cap'n Brandt,' he says — and he had a look
in his face as if he meant it — and he did, every
word of it — 'it would give Major Severn and my-
self great pleasure if you would dine with us to-
95

THE UNDEE DOG

night at the Canteen. The Admiral is coming,
and some brother officers who would be pleased to
know you.'

"Well, I was struck all of a heap for a minute,
knowing what kind of clo'es I had to go in, and
so I says :

" 'Well, gentlemen, that's very nice of you, and
I see you mean it, and if I had anything fittin'
to wear there's nothin' I would like better ; but ye
see how I'm fixed,' and I lifted my arms so he
could see a few holes that he might a-missed before,
and I motioned to some other parts of my get-up
that needed repairs.

" 'That don't make no difference, Cap'n, what
kind of clo'es you come in. We dine at eight
o'clock.'

"Of course I knew I couldn't go, and I didn't
want 'em to think I intended to go when I didn't,
so I says, rather positive-like :

" 'Very much obliged, gentlemen, but I guess
I'll have to get you to count me out this time.' I
knowed I wam't fittin' to sit at anybody's table,
especially if that old Admiral was comin'.

"The Colonel see I was in earnest, and he stepped
up, quick-like, and laid his hand on my shoulder.

" 'Captain Brandt,' he says, 'we ain't worryin'
'bout your clo'es, and don't you worry. You can
come in your shirt, you can come in your socks,
or you can come without one damned rag — only
come !' "

96

CAP'N BOB

The Captain stopped, shook the ashes from his
cigar, slowly raised himself to his feet, and
reached for his hat.

"Did you go. Captain?" I asked.

The Captain looked at me for a moment with
one of those quizzical glances which so often light
up his face when something amuses him, and said,
as he hlew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling :

"Well, I didn't forget my manners. When it
got dark — dark, mind ye — I went up and sat on
the piazza and had a smoke with 'em — Admiral
and all. But I didn't go to dinner — ^not in them
pants."

97

A PROCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

A PROCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

This all happened on the banks of the Seine,
above St. Cloud — above Suresne, in fact, or rather
its bridge — ^the new one that has pieced out the
old one with the quaint stone arches that we love.

A silver-gray haze, a pure French gray, hung
over the river, softening the sky-line of the near-by
hills, and making ghosts of a row of gendarme pop-
lars guarding the opposite bank.

On my side of the stream wandered a path close
to the water's edge — so close that I could fill my
water-cups without leaving my sketching-stool.
Over this path, striped with shadows, big trees tow-
ered, their gnarled branches interlaced above my
head. On my right, rising out of a green sward
cleared of all underbrush, towered other trees,
their black trunks sharp-cut against the haze. In
the distance, side by side with the path, wound the
river, stiU asleep, save where it flashed into waves
of silver laughter at the touch of some frolicsome
puff of wind. Elsewhere, although the sun was
now hours high, it dozed away, nestling under the
101

THE UNDER DOG

overhanging branches making their morning
toilet in its depths. But for these long, straight
flashes of silver light glinting between the tree-
trunks, one could not tell where the haze ended and
the river began.

As I worked on, my white umbrella tilted at the
exact angle so that my palette, hand, and canvas
would be hidden from the inquisitive sun, a group
of figures emerged from a clump of low trees, and
made their way across the green sward — ^the man
in an ivory-black coat, evidently a priest, even at
that distance; the woman in a burnt-umber dress
with a dot of Chinese white for a head — probably
a cap; and the third, a girl of six or eight in a
brown madder dress and yellow-ochre hat.

An out-door painter, while at work, tumbles
everything that crosses his path or comes within
range of his vision into the crucible of his palette.
The most majestic of mountains and the softest
of summer clouds are to him but flat washes of
cobalt, and the loveliest of dimples on the fairest of
cheeks but a shadow-tone, and a high light made
real by pats of indigo and vermilion.

So in the three figures went among my trees, the
priest in the background against a mass of yellow
light — ^black against yellow is always a safe con-
trast; the burnt-umber woman breaking the
straight line of a trunk, and the child — red on
green — intensifying a slash of zinober that illu-
mined my own grassy sward.
103

A PKOCESSION OF UMBKELLAS

Then my interest in the group ceased. The
priest, no doubt, was taking his sister, or his aunt,
or his mother, with their own or somebody else's
little girl, out for an airing, and they had come
at the precise moment when I had begun to long
for just such a collection of people ; and now they
could take themselves off and out of my perspec-
tive, particularly the reddish-brown girl who kept
on dancing in the sunniest places, running ahead of
the priest and the woman, lighting up and accentu-
ating half a dozen other corners of the wood in-
terior before me in as many minutes, and making
me regret before the paint was half dry on her
own little figure that I had not waited for a better
composition.

Then she caught sight of my umbrella.

She came straight toward me with that slowing
of pace as she approached the nearer, her curiosity
getting the better of her timidity — quite as a fawn
or a little calf would have done, attracted by some
bit of color or movement which was new to it. The
brown madder dress I now saw was dotted with
little spots of red, like sprays of berries ; the yel-
low-ochre hat was wound with a blue ribbon, and
tied with a bow on one side. I could see, too, that
she wore slippers, and that her hair was platted
in two pig-tails, and hung down her back, the ends
fastened with a ribbon that matched the one on
her hat.

She stood quite still, her face perfectly impas-
103

THE UNDER DOG

sive, her little hands clasped together, the brim of
her hat shading her eyes, which looked straight at
my canvas.

I gave no sign of her presence. It is dangerous
to break down the reserve of silence, which is often
the only barrier between an out-door painter and
the crowds that surround him. Persisted in, it
not only compels their respect, even to the lowering
of their voices and the tip-toeing in and out of the
circle about you, but shortens the time of their
visits, a consummation devoutly to be wished. So
I worked on in silence, never turning toward this
embodiment of one of Boutet de Monvel's draw-
ings, whose absorbed face I could see out of one
corner of my eye.

Then a ripple of laughter broke the stillness,
and a little finger was thrust out, stopping within
a hair's-breadth of the dot of Chinese white, still
wet, which topped my burnt-umber figure.

"Tres drole. Monsieur!"

The voice was sweeter than the laugh. One of
those flute-like, bird-throated voices that children
often have who live in the open all their lives,
chasing butterflies or gathering wild flowers.

Then came a halloo from the greensward. The
priest was coming toward us, calling out, as he
walked :

"Susette! Susette!"

He, too, underwent a change. The long, ivory-
black cassock, so unmistakable in the atmospheric

A PEOOESSION OF UMBKELLAS

perspective, became an ordinary frock-coat; the
white band of a collar developed into the regula-
tion secular pattern, and the silk hat, although of
last year's shape, conformed less closely in its lines
to one belonging exclusively to the clergy. The
face, though, as I could see in my hurried glance,
and even at that distance, v?as the smooth, clean-
shaven face of a priest — the face of a man of fifty,
I should think, who had spent all his life in the
service of others.

Again came the voice, this time quite near.

"Susette ! Susette !"

The child, without turning her head, waved her
hand in reply, looked earnestly into my face, and
with a quick bending of one knee in courtesy, and
a "Merci, M'sieu ; merci," ran with all her speed
toward the priest, who stretched wide his arms,
half-lifting her from the ground in the embrace.
Then a smile broke over his face, so joyous, so full
of love and tenderness, so much the unconscious
index of the heart that prompted it, that I laid
down my palette to watch them.

I have knovm many priests in my time, and I
have never ceased to marvel at the beauty of the tie
which binds them to the little ones of their flocks.
I have never been in a land where priests and chil-
dren were not companions. These long-frocked
guardians sit beside their playgrounds, with noses
in their breviaries, or they head processions of
boys and girls on the way to chapel, or they follow,
105

THE UNDEE DOG

two by two, behind a long string of blue-checked
aprons and severe felt hats, the uniform of the
motherless; or they teach the little vagrants by
the hour — often it is the only schooling that liese
children get.

But I never remember one of them carrying
such a waif about in his arms, nor one irradiated
by such a flash of heavenly joy when some child,
in a mad frolic, saw fit to scrape her muddy shoes
down the front of his clean, black cassock.

The beatific smile itself was not altogether new
to me. Anyone else can see it who wanders into
the Gallery of the Prado. It irradiates the face of
an old saint by Eibera — a study for one of his
large canvases, and is hung above the line. I used
to stand before it for hours, studying the technique.
The high lights on the face are cracked in places,
and the shadows are blackened by time, but the ex-
pression is that of one who looks straight up into
heaven. And there is another — a Correggio, in the
Hermitage, a St. Simon or St. Timothy, or some
other old fellow — ^whose eyes run tears of joy, and
whose upturned face reflects the light of the sun.
Yet there was something in the face of the priest
before me that neither of the others had — a pecul-
iar human quality, which shone out of his eyes,
as he stood bareheaded in the sunshine, the little
girl in his arms. If the child had been his daugh-
ter — ^his very own and all he had, and if he had
caught her safe from some danger that threatened
106

A PEOCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

her life, it oould not have expressed more clearly
the joyousness of gratitude or the bliss inspired
by the sense of possessing something so priceless
that every other emotion was absorbed.

It was all over in a moment. He did not con-
tinue to beam irradiating beatitudes, as the old
Ribera and the older Correggio have done for hun-
dreds of years. He simply touched his hat to me,
tucked the child's hand into his own, and led her
off to her mother.

I kept at my work. For me the incident, de-
lightful as it was, was closed. All I remembered,
as I squeezed the contents of another tube on to my
palette, was the smile on the face of the priest.

The weather now began to take part in the gen-
eral agitation. The lazy haze, roused by the joy-
ous sun, had gathered its skirts together and had
slipped over the hills. The sun in its turn had
been effaced by a big cloud with scalloped edges
which had overspread the distant line of the river,
blotting out the flashes of silver laughter, and so
frightening the little waves that they scurried off
to the banks, some even trying to climb up the stone
coping out of the way of the rising wind. A cool
gust of air, out on a lark, now swept down the
path, and, with lance in rest, toppled over my white
umbrella. Big drops of rain fell about me, spitting-
the dust like spent balls. Growls of thunder were
heard overhead. One of those rollicking, two-
faced thunder-squalls, with the sun on one side
107

THE UNDEE DOG

and the blackness of the night on the other, was
approaching.

The priest had seen it, for he had the child pick-
aback and was running across the sward. The
woman had seen it, too, for she was already col-
lecting her baskets, preparing to follow, and I
was not far behind. Before she had reached the
edge of the woods I had overtaken her, my traps
under my arm, my white umbrella over my head,

"The Chalet Cycle is the nearest," she volun-
teered, grasping the situation, and pointing to a
path opening to the right as she spoke.

"Is that where he has taken the child?" I asked,
hurriedly.

"No, Monsieur — Susette has gone home. It is
only a little way."

I plunged on through the wet grass, my eyes on
the opening through the trees, the rain pouring
from my umbrella. Before I had reached the end
of the path the rain ceased and the sun broke
through, flooding the wet leaves with dazzling
light.

These two, the clouds and the sun, were evi-
dently bent on mischief, frightening little waves
and painters and bright-eyed children and good
priests who loved them!

108

A PEOCESSION OF UMBKELLAS

II

Do you happen to know the Chalet Cycle ?

If you are a staid old painter who takes life as
he finds it, and who loves to watch the procession
from the sidewalk without any desire to carry one
of the banners or to blow one of the horns — one
of your three-meals-a-day, no heel-taps, and go-to-
bed-at-ten-o'clock kind of a man, then make a note
of the Cycle. The melons are excellent ; the ome-
lets are wonders, and the salads something to be
remembered. But, if you are two-and-twenty,
with the world in a sling and both ends of the sling
in your hand, and if this is your first real outing
since your college days, it would be just as well for
you to pass it by and take your coffee and rolls at
the little restaurant over the. bridge, or the one
farther down the street.

Believe me, a most seductive place is this Chalet
Cycle, with its tables set out under the trees !

A place, at night, all hanging lanterns and
shaded candles on tete-a-tete tables, and close-drawn
curtains about the kiosks. A place, by day, where
you lunch under giant red and white umbrellas,
with seats for two, and these half -hidden by Japan-
ese screens, so high that even the waiters cannot
look over. A place with a great music-stand smoth-
ered in palms and shady walks and cosey seats,
out of sight of anybody, and with deaf, dumb, and
109

THE UNDEE DOG

blind waiters. A place with a big open gateway
where everybody can enter and — ah! there is
where the danger lies — a little by-path all hedged
about with lilac bushes, where anybody can escape
to the woods by the river — an ever-present refuge
in time of trouble and in constant use — ^more's the
pity — ^for it is the unexpected that always happens
at the Chalet Cycle.

The prettiest girls in Paris, in bewitching bicy-
cle costumes, linger about the music-stand, losing
themselves in the arbors and shrubberies. The
kiosks are almost all occupied: charming little
Chinese pagodas these — eight-sided, with lattice
screens on all sides — screens so tightly woven that
no curious idler can see in, and yet so loosely put
together that each hidden inmate can see out.
Even the trees overhead have a hand in the villany,
spreading their leaves thickly, so that the sun it-
self has a hard time to find out what is going on
beneath their branches. All this you become aware
of as you enter the big, wide gate.

Of course, being quite alone, with only my bat-
tered old umbrella for company, I did not want
a whole kiosk to myself, or even half of a giant
umbrella. Any quiet comer would do for me, I
told the Maitre d'Hotel, who relieved me of my
sketch-trap — anywhere out of the rain when it
should again break loose, which it was evidently
about to do, judging from the appearance of the
clouds — anywhere, in fact, where I could eat a filet
110

A place, at night, all hanging lanterns and shaded candles.

A PKOCESSION OF UMBEELLAS

smothered in mushrooms, and drink a pint of vin
ordinaire in peace.

"No, I expected no one." This in answer to a
peculiar lifting of the eyebrows and slight wave of
his hand as he drew out a chair in an unoccupied
kiosk commanding a view of the grounds. Then,
in rather a positive tone, I added :

"Send me a waiter to take my order — orders for
one, remember." I wanted to put a stop to his in-
sinuations at once. Nothing is so annoying when
one's hair is growing gray as being misunderstood
— especially by a waiter.

Affairs overhead now took a serious turn. The
clouds evidently disapproving of the hilarious go-
ings-on of the sun — poking its head out just as the
cloud was raining its prettiest — ^had, in retaliation,
stopped up all the holes the sun could peer through,
and had started in to rain harder than ever. The
waiters caught the angry frown on the cloud's face,
and took it at its spoken word — it had begun to
thunder again — and began piling up the chairs to
protect their seats, covering up the serving-tables,
and getting every perishable article under shelter.
The huge mushroom-umbrellas were collapsed and
rushed into the kiosks — some of them into the one
where I sat, it being the largest ; small tables were
turned upside down, and tilted against the tree-
trunks, and the storm-curtains of all the little
kiosks let down and buttoned tight to the frames.
Waiters ran hither and thither, with napkins and
111

THE UNDEK DOG

aprons over their heads, carrying fresh courses for
the several tables or escaping v?ith their enapty
dishes.

In the midst of this meMe a cab dashed up to
the next kiosk to mine, the wheels cutting into the
soft gravel ; the curtains were quickly drawn wide
by a half-drowned waiter, and a young man with
jet-black hair and an Oriental type of face slipped
in between them.

Another carriage now dashed up, following the
grooves of the first wheels — ^not a cab this time,
but a perfectly appointed coupe, with two men in
livery on the box, and the front windows banked
with white chrysanthemums. I could not see her
face from where I sat — she was too quick for that
— ^but I saw the point of a tiny shoe as it rested
for an instant on the carriage-step and a whirl of
lace about a silk stocking, I caught also the move-
ment of four hands — ^two outstretched from the
curtains of the kiosk and two from the door of the
coupe.

Of course, if I had been a very inquisitive and
very censorious old painter, with a tendency to
poke my nose into and criticise other people's busi-
ness, I would at once have put two and two together
and asked myself innumerable questions. Why,
for instance, the charming couple did not arrive at
the same moment, and in the same cab? or why
they came all the way out to Suresne in the rain,
when there were so many cosey little tables at Lau-
112

I saw the point of a tiny shoe.

A PKOCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

rent's or at the Voisin, on the Rue Cambon, or in
the Cafe Anglais on the Boulevard. Whether, too,
either one were married, and if so which one, and
if so again, what the other fellow and the other
woman would do if he or she found it all out ; and
whether, after all, it was worth the candle when it
did all come out, which it was bound to do some
day sooner or later. Or I could have indulged in
the customary homilies, and decried the tendencies
of the times, and said to myself how the world was
going to the dogs because of such goings-on ; quite
forgetting the days when I, too, had the world in
a sling, and was whirling it around my head with
all the impetuosity and abandon of youth.

But I did none of these things — ^that is, nothing
Paul Pryish or presuming. I merely beckoned to
the Maitre d'Hotel, as he stood poised on the edge
of the couple's kiosk, with the order for their
breakfast in his hands, and, when he had reached
my half-way station on his way across the garden
to the kitchen, stopped him with a question. Not
with my lips — ^that is quite unnecessary with an
old-time Maitre d'Hotel — ^but with my two eye-
brows, one thumb, and a part of one shoulder.

"The nephew of the Sultan, Monsieur — " he an-
swered, instantly.

"And the lady?"

"Ah, that is Mademoiselle Ernestine Beraud of
the Variete. She comes quite often. For Mon-
sieur, it is his first time this season."
113

THE UNDEE DOG

He evidently took me for an old habitue. There
are some compensations, after all, in the life of a
staid old painter.

With these solid facts in my possession I
breathed a little easier. Mademoiselle Ernestine
Beraud, from the little I had seen of her, was
quite capable of managing her own affairs without
my own or anybody else's advice, even if I had
been disposed to give it. She no doubt loved the
lambent-eyed gentleman to distraction; the kiosk
was their only refuge, and the whole affair was
being so discreetly managed that neither the lam-
bent-eyed gentleman nor his houri would be
obliged to escape by means of the lilac-bordered
path in the rear on this or any other morning.

And if they should, what did it matter to me ?
The little row in the cloud overhead would soon
end in further torrents of tears, as all such rows
do ; the sun would have its way after all and dry
every one of them up; the hungry part of me
would have its filet and pint of St. Julien, and the
painter part of me would go back to the little path
by the river and finish its sketch.

Again I tried to signal the Maitre d'Hotel as
he dashed past on his way to the kiosk. This time
he was under one of the huge umbrellas which
an "omnibus" was holding over him, Eajah-fash-
ion. He had a plump melon, half-smothered in
ice, in his hands, to protect it from the downpour,
the rain making gargoyles of the points of the

A PKOCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

ribs of the umbrella. Evidently the breakfast
was too important and the expected fee too large
to intrust it to an underling. He must serve it
himself.

Up to this moment no portion of my order had
materialized. No cover for one, nor filet, nor vin
ordinaire, nor waiter had appeared. The painter
was growing impatient. The man inside was be-
coming hungry.

I waited until he emerged with an empty dish,
watched him grasp the giant umbrella, teeter on
the edge of the kiosk for a moment, and plunge
through the gravel, now rivers of water, toward
my kiosk, the "omnibus" following as best he
could.

"A thousand pardons. Monsieur — " he cried
from beneath his shelter, as he read my face. "It
will not be long now. It is coming — ^here, you can
see for yourself — " and he pointed across the
garden, and tramped on, the water spattering his
ankles.

I looked and saw a solemn procession of huge
umbrellas, the ones used over the tete-a-tete tables
beneath the trees, slowly wending its way toward
where I sat, with all the measured movement and
dignity of a file of Eastern potentates out for an
airing.

Under each umbrella were two waiters, one
carrying the umbrella and the other a portion of
my breakfast. The potentate under the first um-
115

THE UNDEK DOG

brella, who carried the wine, proved to be a
(vaiter-in-chief ; the others bearing the filet, plates,
dishes, and glasses were ordinary "omnibuses,"
pressed into service as palanquin-bearers by reason
of the storm.

The waiter-in-ehief, with the bottle, dodged
from under his bungalow, leaving it outside and
still open, like a stranded circus-tent, stepped into
my kiosk, mopped the rain from his coat-sleeves
and hands with a napkin, and, bowing solemnly,
pointed to the label on the bottle. This meeting
my approval, he relieved the rear-guard of the
dishes, arranged the table, drew the cork of the
St. Julien, filled my glass, dismissed the assistants
and took his place behind my chair.

The closeness of the quarters, the protection it
afforded from the raging elements, the perils my
companion had gone through to serve me, made
possible a common level on which we could stand.
We discussed the storm, the prospect of its clear-
ing, the number of unfortunates in the adjacent
Bois who were soaked to the skin, especially the
poor little bicycle-girls in their cotton bloomers,
now collapsed and bedraggled. We talked of the
great six-day cross-country bicycle-race, and how
the winner, tired out, had wabbled over the Bridge
that same morning, with the whole pack behind
him, having won by less than five minutes. We
talked of the people who came and went, and who
they were, and how often they dined, and what
116

A PEOOESSION OF UMBEELLAS

they spent, and ate and drank, and of the rich
American who had given the waiter a gold Louis
for a silver franc, and who was too proud to take
it back when his attention was called to the mis-
take (which my companion could not but admit
was quite foolish of him) ; and, finally, of the
dark-skinned Oriental with the lambent eyes, and
the adorable Ernestine with the pointed shoes and
open-work silk stockings and fluffy skirts, who oc-
cupied the kiosk within ten feet of where I sat
and he stood.

During the conversation I was busy with my
knife and fork, my eyes at intervals taking in
the scene before me; the comings and goings of
the huge umbrellas — one, two, or three, as the
serving of the dishes demanded, the rain stream-
ing from their sides ; now the fish, now the salad,
now a second bottle of wine in a cooler, and now
the last course of all on an empty plate, which my
companion said was the bill, and which he char-
acterized as the most important part of the pro-
cession, except the pour boire. Each time the pro-
cession came to a full stop outside the kiosk until
the sentinel waiter relieved them of their burdens.
Mj sympathies constantly went out to this man.
There was no room for him inside, and certainly
no wish for his company, and so he must, perforce,
balance himself under his umbrella, first on one
leg and then on the other, in his effort to escape
the spatter which now reached his knees, quite as
117

THE UNDEE DOG

would a wet chicken seeking shelter under a cart-
body.

I say my companion and I "talked" of these
several sights and incidents as I ate my luncheon.
And yet, really, up to this time I had not once
looked into his face, quite a necessary thing in
conducting a conversation of any duration. But
then one rarely does in talking to a waiter when,
he is serving you. My remarks had generally
been addressed to the dish in front of me, or to
the door opposite, through which I looked, and his
rejoinders to the back of my shirt-collar. If he
had sat opposite, or had moved into the perspec-
tive, I might once in a while have caught a
glimpse, over my glass or spoon, of his smileless,
mask-like face, a thing impossible, of course, with
him constantly behind my chair.

When, however, in the course of his monotone,
he mentioned the name of Mademoiselle Ernestine
Beraud and that of the distinguished kinsman of
His Serene Highness, the Grand Pan-Jam of the
Orient, I turned my head in his direction.

"You know the Mademoiselle, then?"

My waiter shrugged his shoulders, his face still
impenetrable.

"Monsieur, I know everybody in Paris. Why
not ? Twenty-three years a, waiter. Twenty years
at the Cafe de la Paix in Paris, and three years
here. Do you wonder ?"

There are in my experience but four kinds of
118

A PEOCESSION OF UMBKELLAS

waiters the world over. First, the thin, nervous
waiter, with a set smile, who is always brushing
away imaginary crumbs, adjusting the glasses —
an inch this way, an inch that way, and then back
again to their first position, talking all the time,
whether spoken to or not, and losing interest the
moment you pay him his fee. Then the stolid,
half-asleep waiter, fat and perpetually moist, who
considers his duties over when he has placed your
order on the cloth and moved the wine within
reach of your hand. iN^ext the apprentice waiter,
promoted from assistant cook or scullion-boy, who
carries on a conversation in signs behind your back
with the waiter opposite him, smothering his
laughter at intervals in the same napkin with which
he wipes your plate, and who, when he changes a
course, slants the dishes up his sleeve, keeping the
top one in place with his chin, replacing the plates
again with a wavy motion, as if they were so many
quoits, each one circling into its place — a trick of
which he is immensely proud.

And last — and this is by no means a large class —
the grave, dignified, self-possessed, well-mannered
waiter; smooth-shaven, spotlessly clean, noiseless,
smug and attentive. He generally walks with a
slight limp, an infirmity due to his sedentary
habits and his long acquaintance with his several
employers' decanters. He is never under fifty, is
round of form, short in the legs, broad of shoulder,
and wears his gray hair cut close. He has had a
119

THE UNDEE DOG

long and varied experience; he has been buttons,
valet, second man, first man, lord high butler, and
then down the scale again to plain waiter. This
has not been his fault but his misfortune — ^the
settling of an estate, it may be, or the death of a
master. He has, with unerring judgment, summed
you up in his mind before you have taken your
seat, and has gauged your intelligence and breed-
ing with the first dish you ordered. Intimate
knowledge of the world and of men and of women
— especially the last — ^has developed in him a dis-
trust of all things human. He alone has seen the
pressure of the jewelled hands as they lay on the
cloth or under it, the lawful partner opposite. He
alone has caught the last whispered word as the
opera-cloak fell about her shoulders, and knows
just where they dined the next day, and who paid
for it and why. Being looked upon as part of the
appointments of the place, like the chandeliers or
the mirrors or the electric bell that answers when
spoken to but never talks back, he has, uncon-
sciously to those he serves, become the custodian
of their closest secrets. These he keeps to himself.
Were he to open his mouth he could not only break
up a score or more of highly respectable families,
but might possibly upset a ministry.

My waiter belonged to this last group.

I saw it in every deferential gesture of his body,
and every modulated tone of his voice. Whether
his moral nature had become warped and cracked
1^0

A PEOCESSION OF UMBKELLAS

and twisted out of all shape by constant daily and
nightly contact — especially the last — ^with the sort
of life he had led, or -whether some of the old-time
refinement of his better days still clung to him,
was a question I could not decide from the ex-
hibits before me — certainly not from the calm
eyes which never wavered, nor the set mouth
which never for a moment relaxed, the only im-
portant features in the face so far as character-
reading is concerned.

I determined to draw him out ; not that he in-
terested me in any way, but simply because such
studies are instructive. Then, again, his account
of his experiences might be still more instructive.
When should I have a better opportunity ? Here
was a man steeped in the life of Paris up to his
very eyelids, one thoroughly conversant with the
peccadilloes of innumerable viveurs — peccadilloes
interesting even to staid old painters, simply as
object-lessons, especially those committed by the
other gay Lothario : the fellow, for instance, who
did not know she was dangerous until his letter of
credit collapsed; or the peccadilloes of the beau-
tiful moth who believed the candle lighting her
path to be an incandescent bulb of joy, until her
scorched wings hung about her bare shoulders:
That kind of peccadillo.

So I pushed back my chair, opened my cigar-
case, and proceeded to adjust the end of my mental
probe. There was really nothing better to do,
131

THE Ul^DEE DOG

even if I had no such surgical operation in view.
It was still raining, and neither I nor the waiter
could leave our Chinese- junk of an island until
the downpour ceased or we were rescued by a life-
boat or an umbrella.

"And this nephew of the Sultan," I began again
between puffs, addressing my remark to the match
in my companion's hand, which was now burning
itself out at the extreme end of my cigar. "Is
he a new admirer ?"

"Quite new — only ten days or so, I think."

"And the one before — the old one — ^what does
he think?" I asked this question with one of
those cold, hollow, heartless laughs, such as
croupiers are supposed to indulge in when they
toss a five-franc piece back to a poor devil who
has just lost his last hundred Napoleons at bacca-
rat — I have never seen this done and have never
heard the laugh, but that is the way the story-
books put it — particularly the blood-curdling part
of the laugh.

"You mean Pierre Channet, the painter, Mon-
sieur ?"

I had, of course, never heard of Pierre Channet,
the painter, in my life, but I nodded as knowingly
as if I had been on the most intimate relations
with him for years. Then, again, this was my
only way of getting down to his personal level, the
only way I could draw him out and get at his real
character. By taking his side of the question, he

in

A PEOOESSION OF UMBEELLAS

would unbosom himself the more freely, and, per-
haps, incidentally, some of the peccadilloes — some
of the most wicked.

"He will not think, Monsieur. They pulled
him out of the river last month."

"Drowned ?"

His answer gave me a little start, but I did not
betray myself.

"So they said. The water trickled along his
nose for two days as he lay on the slab, before
they found out who he was."

"In the morgue ?" I inquired in a tone of sur-
prise. I spoke as if this part of the story had
not reached me.

"In the morgue. Monsieur."

The repeated words came as cold and merciless
as the drops of water that fell on poor Channet
as he lay under the gas-jets.

"Drowned himself for love of Mademoiselle
Beraud, you say?"

"Quite true. Monsieur. He is not the only one.
I know four."

"And she began to love another in a week?"
My indignation nearly got the better of me this
time, but I do not think he noticed it.

"Why not, Monsieur ? One must live."

As he spoke he moved an ash-tray deliber-
ately within reach of my hand, and poured the
balance of the St. Julien into my glass without a
quiver.

133

THE UNDEE DOG

I smoked on in silence. Every spark of human
feeling had evidently been stifled in him. The
Juggernaut of Paris, in rolling over him, had
broken every generous impulse, flattening him
into a pulp of brutal selfishness. That is why his
face was so smooth and cold, his eyes so dull and
his voice so monotonous. I understood it all now.
I changed the subject. I did not know where it
would lead if I kept on. Drowned lovers were not
what I was looking for.

"You say you have only been two years in
Suresne?" I resumed, carelessly, flicking the ashes
from my cigar.

"But two years. Monsieur."

"Why did you leave Paris ?"

"Ah, when one is over fifty it is quite done.
Is it not so. Monsieur ?" — ^this made with a little
deferential wave of his hand. I noted the tribute
to the staid painter, and nodded approvingly. He
was evidently climbing up to my level. Perhaps
this plank, slender as it was, might take him out
of the slough and land him on higher and better
ground.

"Yes, you are right. And so you came to
Suresne to be quiet."

"Not altogether. Monsieur, I came to be near-^
Well! we are never too old for that — Is it not
so?" He said it quite simply, quite as a matter
of course, the tones of his voice as monotonous as
any he had yet used — ^just as he had spoken of poor
124

A PKOCESSION OF UMBKELLAS

Channet in the morgue with the water trickling
over his dead face.

"Oh, then, even at fifty you have a sweetheart !"
I blurted out with a sudden twist of my probe.
I felt now that I might as well follow the iniquity
to the end.

"It is true, Monsieur."

"Is she pretty?" As long as I was dissecting
I might at least discover the root of the disease.
This remark, however, was not addressed to his
face, but to a crumb of ashes on the cloth, which I
was trying to remove with the point of a knife.
He might not have answered, or liked it, had I
fired the question at him point-blank.

"Very pretty — " still the same monotone.

"And you love her!" It was up to the hilt
now.

"She is the only thing I have left to love, Mon-
sieur," he answered, calmly.

Then, bending over me, he added :

"Monsieur, I do not think I am mistaken.
Were you not painting along the river this morn-
ing?"

"Yes."

"And a little child stood beside you while you
worked?" Something in his voice as he spoke
made me raise my head. To my intense amaze-
ment the listless eyes were alight with a tender-
ness that seemed to permeate his whole being, and
a smile of infinite sweetness was playing about his
125

THE UNDEE DOG

mouth — the smile of the old saint — ^the Kibera of
the Prado !

"Yes, of course; the one playing with the
priest," I answered, quickly. "But "

"No; that was me, Monsieur. I have often
been taken for a priest, especially when I am off
duty. It is the smooth face that misled you — "
and he passed his hand over his cheeks and chin.

"You the priest !" This came as a distinct sur-
prise. "Ah, yes, I do see the resemblance now.
And so your sweetheart is the woman in the white
cap." At last I had reached his tender spot.

"No, you are wrong again, Monsieur. The
woman in the white cap is my sister. My sweet-
heart is the little girl — my granddaughter, Su-
sette."

I raised my own white umbrella over my head,
picked up my sketch-trap, and took the path back
to the river. The rain had ceased, the sun
was shining — ^brilliant, radiant sunshine; all the
leaves studded with diamonds; all the grasses
strung with opals, every stone beneath my feet a
gem.

I didn't know when I left what became of
Mademoiselle Ernestine Beraud, with her last
lover under the sod, and the new one shut up in
the kiosk, and I didn't care. I saw only a little
girl — a little girl in a brown-madder dress and
136

A PEOCESSION OF UMBRELLAS

yellow-oelire hat; with big, blue eyes, a tiny pug-
nose, a wee, kissable mouth, and two long pig-
tails down her back. Looking down into her
bonny face from its place, high up on the walls of
the Prado, was an old cracked saint, his human
eyes aglow with a light that came straight from
heaven.

127

DOC " SHIPMAN'S FEE

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

It was in the Doctor's own office that he told me
this story. He has told me a dozen more, all
pulled from the rag-bag of his experience, like
strands of worsted from an old-fashioned reticule.
Some were bright-colored, some were gray and
dull — some black; most of them, in fact, sombre
in tone, for the Doctor has spent much of his life
climbing up the rickety stairs of gloomy tene-
ments. Now and then there comes out a thread
of gold which he weaves into the mesh of his talk
— some gleam of pathos or heroism or unselfish-
ness, lightening the whole fabric. This kind of
story he loves best to tell.

The Doctor is not one of your new-fashioned
doctors quartered in a brownstone house ofE the
Avenue, with a butler opening the door; a pair of
bob-tailed grays; a coupe with a note-book tucked
away in its pocket bearing the names of various
millionnaixes; an office panelled in oak; a waiting-
room lined with patients reading last month's
magazines until he should send for them. He has
no such abode nor belongings. He lives all alone
by himself in an old-fashioned house on Bedford
Place — oh, such a queer, hunched-up old hoiis^
131

THE UNDEE DOG

and such a quaint old neighborhood poked away
behind JefiFerson Market — and he opens the door
himself and sees everybody who comes — ^there are
not a great many of them nowadays, more's the
pity.

There are only a few such houses left up the
queer old-fashioned street where he lives. The
others were pulled dovra long ago, or pushed out
to the line of the sidewalk and three or four stories
piled on top of them. Some of these modern ones
have big, carved marble porticos, made of painted
zinc and fastened to the new brickwork. Inside
these portals are a row of bronze bells and a line
of speaking tubes with cards below bearing the
names of those who dwell above.

The Doctor's house is not like one of these. It
would have been had it not belonged to his old
mother, who died long ago and who begged him
never to sell it while he lived. He was thirty
years younger then, but he is still there and so is
the old house. It looks a little ashamed of its
shabbiness when you come upon it suddenly hid-
ing behind its pushing neighbors. First comes
an iron fence with a gate never shut, and then a
flagged path dividing a grass-plot, and then an old-
fashioned wooden stoop with two steps, guarded
by a wooden railing (many a day since these were
painted) ; and over these railings and up the sup-
ports which carry the roof of the portico straggles
a honeysuckle that does its best to hide the shabbi-
133

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

nesa of the shingles and the old waterspout and
sagging gutter, and fails miserably when it gets to
the farther cornice, which has rotted away, show-
ing under its dismal paint the black and brown
rust of decaying wood.

Then way in under the portico comes the door
with the name-plate, and next to it, level with the
floor of the piazza or portico — either you please,
for it is a combination of both — are two long
French windows, always open in summer evenings
and a-light on winter nights with the reflection of
the Doctor's soft-coal fire, telling of the warmth
and cheer within.

For it is a cheery place. It doesn't look like a
doctor's office. There are dingy haircloth sofas,
it is true, and a row of shelves with bottles, and
funny-looking boxes on the mantel — one an elec-
tric battery — and rows and rows of books on the
walls. But there are no dreadful instruments
about. If there are, you don't see them.

The big chair he sits in would swallow up a
smaller man. It is covered with Turkey. red and
has a roll cushion for his head. There are two of
these chairs — one for you, or me; this last has
big arms that come out and catch you under the
elbows, a mighty help to a man when he has just
learned that his liver or lungs or heart or some
other part of him has gone wrong and needs over-
hauling.

Then there is a canary that sings all the time,
133

THE UNDEE DOG

and a small dog — oh, such a low-down, ill-bred,
tousled dog; kind of a dog that might have been
raised around a lumber-yard — ^was, probably —
one ear gone, half of his tail missing; and there
are some pots of flowers, and on the wall near the
window where everybody can see is a case of but-
terflies impaled on pins and covered by a glass.
No, you wouldn't think the Doctor's office a grew-
some place, and you certainly wouldn't think the
Doctor was a grewsome person — ^not when you
come to know him.

If you met him out on Sunday afternoon in his
black clothes, white neck-cloth, and well-brushed
hat, his gray hair straggling over his coat-collar,
pounding his cane on the pavement as he walked,
you would say he had a Sunday-school class some-
where. If you should come upon him suddenly,
seated before his fire, his gold spectacles clinging
to his finely chiselled nose, his thoughtful face
bending over his book, you would conclude that
you had interrupted some savant, and bow your-
self out.

But you must ring his bell at night — say two
o'clock A.M. ; catch his cheery voice calling through
the tube from his bedroom in the rear — "Yes;
coming right away — ^be there soon as I get my
clothes on" — ^feel the strength and sympathy and
readiness to help in the man, and try to keep step
with him as he hurries on, and then watch him
when he enters the sick-room, diffusing hope and
134

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S TEE

cheer and confidence, and listen to the soft, sooth-
ing tones of his voice, before you really get at the
inside lining of "Doc" Shipman.

All this brings me to the story. Of course, I
could have told you the bare facts without giving
you an idea of the man and his surroundings, but
that wouldn't be fair to you, for you would have
missed knowing the Doctor, and I the opportunity
of introducing him to you.

We were sitting in the old-fashioned office,
then, one snowy night in January, the Doctor
leaning back in his chair, his meerschaum pipe in
his mouth — the one with the gold cap that a long-
ago patient gave him — when he straightened his
back and tugged at his fob, bringing to the sur-
face a small gold watch — one I had not seen
before.

"Where's the silver one?" I asked, referring
to an old silver-backed watch I had seen him
wear.

The Doctor looked up and smiled.

"That's in the drawer. I don't wear it any
more — ^not since I got this one back."

"What happened ? Was it broken ?"

"No, stolen."

"When?"

"Oh, some time ago. Help yourself to a cigar
and I'll tell you about it.

"One night last summer I came in late, took
oflf my coat and vest, huug them on a chair by the
135

THE IHSTDEK DOG

window and went to ted, leaving the sashes ajar,
for it was terribly hot and I wanted a draught of
air through from my bedroom."

(I must tell my reader here that the Doctor is
a bom story-teller and something of an actor as
well. He seldom explains his characters or situa-
tions as he goes on by putting in "I said" and "he
said" and similar expressions. You know by the
tones of his voice who is speaking, and his gestures
supply the rest.)

"I always carried this watch in my vest-pocket.
I carry it now inside my waistband so they will
have to pull me to pieces to get it.

"Well, about three o'clock in the morning — I
had just heard the old clock in the tower strike,
and was dozing off to sleep again — a footstep
awoke me to consciousness. I looked through these
doors" — ^here the Doctor was pointing to the fold-
ing doors of the office where we sat — "and through
my bedroom saw the dim outline of a man moving
about this room. He had my vest and trousers
over his arm. I sprang up, but he was too quick
for me, and before I could reach him he had
slipped through the windows out on to the porch,
down the yard, through the gate, and was gone.

"With him went my mother's watch, which was
in the upper vest-pocket, and some fifty dollars in
money. I didn't mind the money, but I did the
watch. It was my mother's, a present from my
father when they were first married, and had the
136

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

initials 'E. M. 8. from J. H. 8.' engraved on the
under side of the case. When she died I pasted
the dear old lady's photograph inside the upper
lid. I know almost everybody around here, and
they all know me ; they come in here with broken
heads for me to sew up, and stab wounds, and
such-like misfortunes, and when they heard what
had happened to me they all did what they
could.

"The Captain of the precinct came around, and
everybody was very sorry, and they hunted the
pawnshops, and I offered a reward — in fact, did
all the foolish things you do when you have lost
something you think a heap of. But no trace of
the watch could be found, and so I gave it up and
tried to forget it and couldn't. That's why I
bought that cheap silver one. My only clew to
the thief was the glimpse I had of a scar on his
cheek and a slight dragging of his foot as he
stepped about my room.

"One night last autumn there came a ring at the
bell, and I let in a man with a slouch hat pulled
over his eyes and the collar of his coat turned up.
He was soaking wet, the water oozing from his
shoes and slopping the oilcloth in the hall where
he stood. I had never seen him before.

" 'Doc,' he said, 'I want you.' They all call
me 'Doc' around here — especially this kind of a
man — and I saw right away where he belonged.

"'What for?'

137

THE UNDEK DOG

" 'My pal's sick.'

" 'What's the matter with him ?'

" 'Well, he's sick— took bad. He'll die if he
don't git help.'

" 'Where is he ?'

" 'Down in Washington Street.'

" 'Queer,' I said to myself, 'his wanting me to
go two miles from here, when there are plenty of
doctors nearer by,' and so I said to him:

" 'You can get a doctor nearer than me. I'm
waiting for a woman case and may be sent for any
minute. Try the Dispensary on Canal Street;
they've always a doctor there.'

" 'No — ^we don't want no Dispensary sharp.
We want you. Pal's sent me for you — he knows
you, but you mightn't remember him.'

" 'I'll go.' These are the people I can never
refuse. They are on the hunted side of life and
don't have many friends. I slipped on my rub-
bers and coat, picked up my umbrella and my bag
with my instruments in it; hung a card in the
window so the hall-light would strike it, marked
'Back in an hour' — in case the woman sent for me ;
locked my door and started after him.

"It was an awful night. The streets were run-
ning rivers, the wind rattling the shutters and flat-
tening the umbrellas of everybody who tried to
carry one — one of those storms that drives straight
at the front of the house, drenching it from chim-
ney to sidewalk. We waited under the gas-lamp,
138

"DOC SHIPMAN'S FEE

boarded a Sixth Avenue car, and got out at a sig-
nal from my companion. During the trip he sat
in the far corner of the car, his hat slouched over
his eyes, his coat-collar covering his ears. He evi-
dently did not want to be recognized.

"If you know the neighborhood about Washing-
ton Street you know it's the last resort of the
hunted. When they want to hide, they burrow
under one of these rookeries. That's where the
police look for them, only they've got so many
holes they can't stop them all. Captain Packett
of the Ninth Precinct told me the other day that
he'd rather hunt a rattlesnake in a tiger's cage
than go open-handed into some of the rookeries
around Washington Street. I am never afraid in
these places; a doctor's like a Sister of Charity
or a hospital nurse — ^they're safe anywhere. I
don't believe that other fellow would have stolen
my watch if he had known I was a doctor.

"When we left the car at Canal Street, my com-
panion whispered to me to follow him, no matter
where he went. We kept along close to the houses,
past the dives — ^the streets, even here, were almost
deserted ; then I saw him drop down a cellarway.
I followed, through long passages, up a creaking
pair of stairs, along a deserted corridor — only one
gas-jet burning — ^up a second flight of stairs and
into an empty room, the door of which he opened
with a key which he held in his hand. He waited
until I passed in, locked the door behind us, felt
139

THE UNDEE DOG

his way to a window, the glow of some lights in
the tenements opposite giving the only light in the
room, and raised the sash. Then down a fire-
escape, across a wooden bridge, which was evi-
dently used to connect the two buildings ; through
an open door, and up another stairs. At the end
of this last corridor my companion pushed open a
door.

" 'Here's the "Doc," ' I heard him say.

"I looked into a room about as big as this we sit
in. It was filled with men, most of them on the
fioor with their backs to the wall. There was a
cot in one corner, and a pine table on which stood a
cheap kerosene lamp, and one or two chairs. The
only other furniture were a fiour-barrel and a dry-
goods box. On top of the barrel was a tin coffee-
pot, a china cup, and half a loaf of bread. Against
the window — ^there was but one — ^was tacked a
ragged calico quilt, shutting out air and light.
Flat on the floor, where the light of the lamp fell
on his face, lay a man dressed only in his trousers
and undershirt. The shirt was clotted with blood ;
so were the mattress under him and the floor.

" 'Shot ?' I asked of the man nearest me.

" 'Yes.'

"I knelt down on the floor beside him and
opened his shirt. The wound was just above the
heart; the bullet had struck a rib, missed the lungs,
and gone out at the back. Dangerous, but not
necessarily fatal.

140

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

"The man turned Ms head and opened his eyes.
He was a stockily built fellow of thirty with a
clean-shaven face.

"'Is that you, "Doc"?'

" 'Yes, where does it hurt V

" ' "Doc" Shipman — ^who used to be at Belle-
vue five or six years ago?'

" 'Yes — now tell me where the pain is.'

" 'Let me look at you. Yes — ^that's him. That's
the "Doc," boys. Where does it hurt?— Oh, all
around here — ^back worst' — and he passed his
hand over his side.

"I looked him over again, put in a few stitches,
and fixed him up for the night. When I had fin-
ished he said :

" 'Come closer, "Doc" ; am I going to die ?'

" 'No, not this time ; you'll pull through. Close
shave, but you'll weather it. But you want some
air. Here, you fellows' — and I motioned to two
men leaning against the quilt tacked over the win-
dow — 'rip that off and open that window. He's
got to breathe — ^too many of you in here, anyway.'

"One of the men moved the lidless dry-goods
box against the wall, picked up the kerosene lamp
and placed it inside, smothering its light; the
other tore the lower end of the quilt from the sash,
letting in the fresh, wet night-air.

"I turned to the wounded man again.

" 'You say you've seen me before ?'

" 'Yes, oqce. You sewed this up' — and he held
141

THE UNDEE DOG

up his arm showing a healed scar. 'You've forgot
it, but I haven't.'

"'Where?'

" 'Bellevue. They took me in there. You
treated me v^hite. That's why my pal hunted you
up. Say, Bill' — and he called to my companion
with the slouch hat — 'pay the "Doc." '

"Half a dozen men dove instantly into their
pockets, but my companion already had his roll of
bills in his hand. He bent over so that the glow
of the half-smothered lamp could fall upon his
hand, unrolled a twenty-dollar bill and handed it
to me.

"I passed it back to him. 'I don't want this.
Five dollars is my fee. If you haven't anything
smaller, wait till I come to-morrow, then you can
give me a ten. I'm ready to go now; lead the
way out.'

"Next morning I went to see him again. Bill,
by arrangement, met me at the corner of the street
and took me to the wounded man's room, in and
out, by the same route we had taken the night be-
fore. I found he had passed a good night, had
no fever, and was all right. I left some medicine
and directions, got my ten dollars, and never went
again.

"Last month, some two days before Christmas,

I was sitting here reading — ^it was after twelve

o'clock — ^when I heard a tap on the window-pane.

I pushed aside the shade and looked out. A thick-

142

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

set man motioned me to open the door. When he
got inside the hall he said :

"'Ain't forgot me again, have you, "Doc"?'

" 'No, you're the man I fixed up in "Washington
Street last fall.'

" 'Yes, that's right, "Doc"; that's me. Can I
come in ? I got something for you.'

"I brought him in and he sat down on that sofa.
Then he pulled out a package from his inside
pocket.

" ' "Doc," ' he began, 'I was thinking to-night
of what you done for me and how you did it, and
how decent you've been about it always, and I
thought maybe you wouldn't feel offended if I
brought you this bunch of scarfpins to take your
pick from' — and he unwrapped the bundle.
'There's a pearl one — ^that might please you — and
here's another that sparkles — take your pick,
"Doc." It would please me a heap if you would'
— and he handed me half a dozen scarfpins
stuck in a flannel rag — some of them of great
value.

"I didn't know what to say at first. I couldn't
get mad. I saw he was in dead earnest, and I
saw, too, that it was pure gratitude on his part
that prompted him to do it. That's a kind of
human feeling you don't want to crush out in a
man. When he's got tbat, no matter what else he
lacks, you've got something to build on. I puUed
out the pearl pin from the others. I wanted to
143

THE UNDER DOG

get time to make up my mind as to what I really
ought to do.

" 'Very nice pin,' I said.

" 'Yes, I thought so. I got it on a Sixth Ave-
nue car. Maybe you'll like the gold one better;
take your pick, it's all the same to me. That one
you've got in your hand is a good one.' I was
slowly looking them over, making up my mind
how I would refuse them and not hurt his feel-
ings.

" 'How did you get this one V I asked, holding
up the pearl pin.

" 'I picked it up outside Cooper Union.'

"'On the sidewalk?'

" 'No, from a feller's scarf. I held the cab
door for him.' He spoke exactly as if he had been
a collector who had been roaming the world for
curios. 'Take 'em both, "Doc" — or all of 'em —
I mean it.'

"I laid the bundle on the table and said : 'Well,
that's very kind of you and I don't want you to
think I don't appreciate it — ^but you see I don't
wear scarfpins, and if I did I don't think I ought
to take these. You see we have two different pro-
fessions — ^you've got yours and I've got mine. I
saw off men's legs, or I help them through a spell
of sickness. They pay me for it in money. You've
got another way of making your living. Your pa-
tients are whoever you happen to meet. I mightn't
like your way of doing, and you mightn't like
144

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

mine. That's a matter of opinion, or, perhaps, of
education. You've got your risks to run, and
I've got mine. If I cut too deep and kill a man
they can shut me up — just as they can if you get
into trouble. But I don't think we ought to mix
up the proceeds. You wouldn't want me to give
you this five-dollar bill' — and I held up a note a
patient had just paid me — 'and therefore I don't
see how I ought to take one of your pins. I may
not have made it plain to you — but it strikes me
that way.'

" 'Then you ain't mad 'cause I brought 'em ?' —
and he looked at me searchingly from under his
dark eyebrows, his lips firmly set.

" 'No, I'm very grateful to you for wanting to
give them to me — only I don't see my way clear
to take them.'

"He settled back on the sofa and began twirling
his hat with his hand. Then he rose from his
seat, a shade of disappointment on his face, and
said, slowly:

" 'Well, "Doc," ain't there something else I can
do for you ? Man like you must have something
you want — something you can't get without some-
body's help. Think now — ^you mightn't see me
again.'

"Instantly I thought of my mother's watch.

" 'Yes, there is. Somebody came along one
night when I was asleep and borrowed my vest
hanging over that chair by the window, and my
145

THE UNDER DOG

trousers, and my mother's watch was in the vest
pocket. If you could help me get that back you
would do me a real service — one I wouldn't for-
get.'

" 'What kind of a watch ?'

"I described it closely, its inscription, the por-
trait of my mother in the case, and showed him
a copy of her photograph — ^like the one here.
Then I gave him as close a description of the man
as I could.

"When I had described the scar on his face he
looked at me in surprise. When I added that he
had a slight limp, he said, quickly:

" 'Short man — ^with close-cropped hair — and a
swipe across his chin. Lost a toe, and stumbles
when he walks. I'll see what I can do. He ain't
one of our men. He comes from Chicago. He
never stays more'n a day or two in any town.
Don't none of 'em know him round here. Leave
it to me ; may take some time — see you in a day
or two' — and he went out.

"I didn't see him for a month — ^not until two
nights ago. He didn't ring the bell this time. He
came in through the window. I thought the catch
was down, but it wasn't. Funny how quick these
fellows can see a thing. As soon as he shut the
glass sash behind him he drew the curtains close ;
then he turned down the gas. All this, mind you,
before he had opened his mouth. Then he said :

" 'Anybody here but you ?'
146

^'DOC SHIPMAN'S FEE

" 'No.'
"'Sure?'

'Yes, very sure.'

"He spoke in a husky, rasping voice, like a man
who had caught his breath again after a long run.

"He turned his back to the window, slipped his
hand in his hip-pocket and pulled out my mother's
watch.

"'Is that it, "Doc"?'

"The light was pretty low, but I'd have known
it in the dark.

" 'Yes, of course it is — ' and I opened the lid in
search of the old lady's photo. 'Where did you
get it ?'

" 'Look again. There ain't no likeness.'

" 'No, but here are the marks where they
scraped it off' — and I held it close to his eyes.
'Where did you get it ?'

" 'Don't ask no questions, "Doc." I had some
trouble gittin' next the goods, and maybe it ain't
over yet. I'll know in the morning. If any-
body asks you anything about it, you ain't lost
no watch — see? Last time you seen me I was
goin' West, see — don't forget that. That's all,
"Doc." If you're pleased, I'm satisfied.'

"He held out his hand to say good-by, but I
wouldn't take it. His appearance, the tone of his
voice, and his hunted look made me a little ner-
vous.

" 'Sit down. You'll let me pay you for it,
147

THE UNDEE DOG

won't you ? Wait until I go back in my bedroom
for some money.'

" 'No, "Doc," you can't pay me a cent. I'm
sorry they got the mother's picture, but I couldn't
catch up with the goods before. That would have
been the best part of it for me. Mothers is scarce
now — ^kind you and me had — dead or alive. You
won't mind if I turn out the gas while I slip out,
do you, and you won't mind either if I ask you to
sit still here. Somebody might see you — ' and he
shook my hand and started for the window. As
his hand neared the latch I could see in the dim
light that his movements were unsteady. Once he
stumbled and clutched at the bookcase for sup-
port

" 'Hold on,' I said — and I walked rapidly
toward him — 'don't go yet — ^you are not well.'

"He leaned against the bookcase and put his
hand to his side.

"I was alongside of him now, my arm under
his, guiding him into a chair.

"'Are you faint?'

" 'Yes— got a drop of anything, "Doc"? That's
all I want It ain't nothing.'

"I opened my closet, took out a bottle of brandy
and poured some into a measuring-glass. He
drank it, leaned his head for an instant against
my arm and, with the help of my hand slipped
under his armpit, again struggled to his feet.

"When I withdrew my hand it was covered
14S

"DOC" SHIPMAN'S FEE

with blood. It was too dark to see the color, but
I knew from the sticky feeling of it just what it
was.

" *My Grod ! man,' I cried ; 'you are hurt, your
shirt's all bloody. Come back here until I can see
what's the matter.'

"'No, "Doc"— no/ I tell you. It's stopped
bleeding now. It would be tough for you if they
pinched me here. Keep away, I tell you — 1 ain't
got a minute to lose. I didn't want to hurt him
even after he gave me this one in my back, but
his girl was wearing it and there warn't no other
way. Git behind them curtains, "Doc." Sol
Good-by.'

"And he was gone."

149

PLAIN FIN— PAPER-HANGER

PLAIN FIN— PAPER-HANGER

The man was a little sawed-off, red-headed
Irishman, with twinkling, gimlet eyes, two up-
curved lips always in a hroad smile, and a pair
of thin, caliper-shaped legs.

His name was as brief as his stature.

"Fin, your honor, by the grace of God. F-i-n,
Fin. There was a 'Mac' in front of it once, and
an V to the tail of it in the old times, so me
mother says, but some of me ancisters — ^bad cess
to 'em ! — ^wiped 'em out. Plain Fin, if you plase,
sor."

The punt was the ordinary Thames boat: a
long, narrow, flat-bottomed, shallow craft with
tapering ends decked over to serve as seats, the
whole propelled by a pole the size of a tight-rope
dancer's and about as difficult to handle.

Chartering the punt had been easy. All I had
had to do was to stroll down the path bordering
the river, run my eye over a group of boats lying
side by side like a school of trout with their noses
up-stream, pick out the widest, flattest, and least
upsettable craft in the fleet, decorate it with a pair
153

THE UNDER DOG

of Turkey-red cushions from a pile in the boat-
house, and a short mattress, also Turkey-red — a
good thing at luncheon-hour for a tired back is
a mattress — slip the key of the padlock of the
mooring-chain in my pocket and stroll back again.

The hiring of the man for days after my arrival
at Sonning-on-Thames, was more difficult, well-
nigh impossible, except at a price per diem which
no staid old painter — ^they are all an impecunious
lot — could afford. There were boys, of course, for
the asking; sunburnt, freckle-faced, tousle-headed,
barefooted little devils who, when my back was
turned, would do handsprings over my cushions,
landing on the mattress, or break the pole the first
day out, leaving me high and dry on some island
out of calling distance; but full-grown, sober-
minded, steady men, who could pole all day or
sit beside me patiently while I worked, hand me
the right brush or tube of color, or palette, or open
a bottle of soda without spilling half of it — ^that
kind of man was scarce.

Landlord Hull, of the White Hart Inn — ^what
an ideal Boniface is this same Hull, and what an
ideal inn — promised a boatman to pole the punt
and look after my traps when the Henley regatta
was over; and the owner of my own craft, and of
fifty other punts besides, went so far as to say that
he expected a man as soon as Lord Somebody-or-
Other left for the Continent, when His Lordship's
waterman would be free, adding, meaningly:
154

PLAIN FIN— PAPEE-HANGER

"Just at present, zur, when we do be 'avin' sich
a mob lot from Lunnon, 'specially at week's-end,
zur, we ain't got men enough, to do our own polin'-
It's the war, zur, as has took 'em off. Maybe
for a few day, zur, ye might take a 'and yerself
if ye didn't mind."

I waved the hand referred to — the forefinger
part of it — in a deprecating manner, I couldn't
pole the lightest and most tractable punt ten yards
in a straight line to save my own or anybody else's
life. Then again, if I should impair the precision
of my five fingers by any such violent exercise, my
brush would wabble as nervously over my canvas
as a recording needle across a steam-gauge. Poling
a rudderless, keelless skiff up a crooked stream by
means of a fifteen-foot balancing pole is an art
only to be classed with that of rowing a gondola.
Gondoliers and pimters, like poets, are bom, not
made. My own Luigi comes of a race of gondo-
liers dating back two hundred years, and punters
must spring from just such ancestors. No, if I
had to do the poling myself, I should rather get out
and walk.

Pin solved the problem — not from any special
training (rowing in regattas and the like), but
rather from that universal adaptability of the
Irishman which fits him for filling any situation
in life, from a seat on a dirt-cart to a chair in an
aldermanic chamber.

"I am a paper-hanger by trade, sor," he began,
155

THE UNDER DOG

"but I waa brought up on tbe river and can put
a punt wid the best. Try me, sor, at four bob a
day ; I'm out of a job."

I looked him over, from his illuminated head
down to his parenthetical legs, caught the merry
twinkle in his eyes, and a sigh of relief escaped
me. Here was not only a seafaring man, accus-
tomed to battling with the elements, skilled in the
handling of poles, and acquainted with swift and
ofttimes dangerous currents, but a brother brush,
a man conversant with design and pigments; an
artist, keenly sensitive to straight lines, har-
mony of tints, and delicate manipulation of sur-
faces.

I handed him the key at once. Thenceforward
I was simply a passenger depending on his strong
right arm for guidance, and at luncheon-hour
upon his alert and nimble, though slightly in-
curved, legs for sustenance, the inn being often a
mile away from my subject.

And the inns! — or rather my own particular
inn — ^the White Hart at Sonning.

There are others, of course — ^the Eed Lion at
Henley; the old Warboys hostelry at Cookham;
the Angler at Marlowe; the French Horn across
the black water and within rifle-shot of the White
Hart — a most pretentious place, designed for mil-
lionnaires and spendthrifts, where even chops and
tomato-sauce, English pickles, chowchow and the
like, ales in the wood and other like commodities
156

PLAIN FIN— PAPEK-HANGEE

and comforts, are dispensed at prices that compel
all impecunious, staid painters like myself to
content themselves with a sandwich and a pint
of bitter — and a hundred other inns along the
river, good, bad, and indifferent. But yet with all
their charms I am still loyal to my own White
Hart.

Mine is an inn that sets back from the river
with a rose-garden in front the like of which you
never saw nor smelt of: millions of roses in a
never-ending bloom. An inn with low ceilings, a
cubby-hole of a bar next tHe side entrance on the
village street; two barmaids — ^three on holidays;
old furniture; a big fireplace in the hall; red-
shaded lamps at night; plenty of easy-chairs and
cushions. An inn all dimity and cretonne and
brass bedsteads upstairs and unlimited tubs — one
fastened to the wall painted white, and about eight
feet long, to fit the largest pattern of Englishman.
Out under the portico facing the rose-garden and
the river stand tables for two or four, with snow-
white cloths made gay with field-flowers, and the
whole shaded by big, movable Japanese umbrellas,
regular circus-tent umbrellas, their staffs stuck in
the ground wherever they are needed. Along the
sides of this garden on the gravel-walk loll go-to-
sleep straw chairs, with little wicker tables within
reach of your hand for B. & S., or tea and toast,
or a pint in a mug, and down at the water's edge
seafaring men like Fin and me find a boat-house
157

THE UNDEE DOG

with half a score of punts, skiffs, and rowboats,
together with a steam-launch with fires banked
ready for instant service.

And the people in and about this White Hart
inn!

There are a bride and groom, of course. Ifo
well-regulated Thames inn can exist a week with-
out a bride and groom. He is a handsome, well-
knit, brown-skinned young fellow, who wears
white flannel trousers, chalked shoes, a shrimp-
colored flannel jacket and a shrimp-colored cap
(Leander's colors) during the day, and a fault-
lessly cut dress-suit at night.

She has a collection of hats, some as big as
small tea-tables ; fluffy gowns for mornings ; short
frocks for boating; and a gold belt, two shoulder-
straps, and a bunch of roses for dinner. They
have three dogs between them — one four inches
long — well, perhaps six, to be exact — another a
bull terrier, and a third a St. Bernard as big as
a Spanish burro. They have also a maid, a valet,
and a dog-cart, besides no end of blankets, whips,
rugs, canes, umbrellas, golf-sticks, and tennis-bats.
They have stolen up here, no doubt, to get away
from their friends, and they are having the happi-
est hours of their lives.

"Them two, sor," volunteers Ein, as we pass

them lying under the willows near my morning

subject, "is as chuck-full of happiness as a hive's

full of bees. They was out in their boat yister-

158

PLAIN FIN— PAPER-HANGER

day, sor, in all that pour, and it rolled ofE 'em
same as a duck sheds water, and they laughin' so
ye'd think they'd split. What's dresses to them,
sor, and her father ? Why, sor, he could huy and
sell half Sonnin'. He's jist home from Africa that
chap is — or he was the week he was married — wid
more lead inside him than would sink a corpse.
You kin see for yerself that he's made for fightin'.
Look at the eye on him !"

Then there is the solitary Englishman, who
breakfasts by himself, and has the morning paper
laid beside his plate the moment the post-cart ar-
rives. Fin and I find him half the time on a
bench in a cool place on the path to the Lock, his
nose in his book, his tightly furled umbrella by
his side. No dogs nor pimts nor spins up the river
for him. He is taking his holiday and doesn't
want to be meddled with or spoken to.

There are, too, the customary maiden sisters —
the unattended and forlorn — up for a week; and
the young fellow down from London, all flannels
and fishing-rods — ^three or four of them in fact,
who sit round in front of the little sliding wicket
facing the row of bottles and pump-handles —
diviniag-rods for the beer below, these pump-
handles — chaffing the barmaids and getting as
good as they send; and always, at night, one or
more of the country gentry in for their papers,
and who can be found in the cosey hall discussing
the crops, the coming regatta, the chance of Lean-
159

THE UNDEE DOG

der's winning the race, or the latest reports of
yesterday's cricket-match.

Now and then the village doctor or miller —
quite an important man is the miller — ^you would
think so if you could see the mill — drops in,
draws up a chair, and ventures an opinion on the
price of wheat in the States or the coal strike or
some kindred topic, the coming country fair, or
perhaps the sermon of the previous Sunday.

"1 hope you 'card our Vicar, sir — No ? Sorry
you didn't, sir. I tell yer 'e's a nailer."

And so much for the company at the White
Hart Inn.

II

You perhaps think that you know the Thames.
You have been at Henley, no doubt, during re-
gatta week, when both banks were flower-beds of
blossonung parasols and full-blown picture-hats,
the river a stretch of silver, crowded with boats,
their occupants cheering like mad. Or you know
Marlowe with its wide stream bordered with
stately trees and statelier mansions, and Oxford
with its grim buildings, and Windsor dominated
by its huge pile of stone, the flag of the Empires
floating from its top; and Maidenhead with itSi
boats and launches, and lovely Cookham with its
back water and quaint mill and quainter lock.
You have rowed down beside them all in a shell,
160

PLAIN FIN— PAPEK-HANGER

or have had glimpses of them from the train, or
sat under the awnings of the launch or regular
packet and watched the procession go by. All
very charming and interesting, and, if you had
but forty-eight hours in which to see all England,
a profitable way of spending eight of them. And
yet you have only skimmed the beautiful river's
surface as a swallow skims a lake.

Try a punt once.

Pole in and out of the little back waters, lying
away from the river, smothered in trees ; float over
the shallows dotted with pond-lilies; creep under
drooping branches swaying with the current ; stop
at any one of a hundred landings, draw your boat
up on the gravel, spring out and plunge into the
thickets, flushing the blackbirds from their nests,
or unpack your luncheon, spread your mattress,
and watch the clouds sail over your head. Don't
be in a hurry. Keep up this idling day in and day
out, up and down, over and across, for a month or
more, and you will get some faint idea of how
picturesque, how lovely, and how restful this
rarest of all the sylvan streams of England can be.

If, like me, you can't pole a punt its length
without running into a mud-bank or afoul of the
bushes, then send for Ein. If he isn't at Sonning
you will hear of him at Cookham or Marlowe or
London — ^but find him wherever he is. He vrill
prolong your life and loosen every button on your
waistcoat. Ein is the unexpected, the ever-bub-
161

THE UNDEE DOG

bling, and the ever-joyous; restless as a school-boy
ten minutes before recess, quick as a grasshopper
and lively as a cricket. He is, besides, brimful
and spilling over with a quality of fun that is
geyserlike in its spontaneity and intermittent flow.
When he laughs, which he does every other min-
ute, the man ploughing across the river, or the boy
fishing, or the girl driving the cow, turn their
heads and smile. They can't help it. In this re-
spect he is better than a dozen farmers each with
his two blades of grass. Fin plants a whole acre
of laughs at once.

On one of my joyous days — ^they were all joy-
ous days, this one most of all — ^I was up the back-
water, the "Mud Lark" (Ein's name for the punt)
anchored in her element by two poles, one at each
end, to keep her steady, when Ein broke through
a new aperture and became reminiscent.

I had dotted in the outlines of the old footpath
with the meadows beyond, the cotton-wool clouds
sailing overhead — only in England do I find these
clouds — and was calling to the restless Irishman
to sit still or I would send him ashore . , . wet,
when he answered with one of his bubbling out-
breaks :

"I don't wonder yer hot, sor, but I git that
fidgety. I been so long doin' nothin' ; two months
now, sor, since I been on a box."

I worked on for a minute without answering.
Hanging wall-paper by standing on a box was
162

PLAIN FIN— PAPEE-HANGEE

probably tbe way they did it in the country, the
ceilings being low.

"No work?" I said, aimlessly. As long as he
kept still I didn't care what he talked or laughed
about.

"Plinty, sor — an' summer's the time to do it.
So many strangers comin' an' goin', but they won't
let me at it. I'm laid off for a month yet ; that's
why your job come in handy, sor."

"Eow with your Union?" I remarked, listlessly,
my mind still intent on watching a sky tint above
the foreground trees.

"No — ^wid the perlice. A little bit of a scrim-
mage wan night in Trafalgar Square. It was me
own fault, sor, for I oughter a-knowed better. It
was about three o'clock in the mornin', sor, and I
was outside one o' them clubs just below Picca-
dilly, when one o' them young chaps come out wid
three or four others, all b'ilin' drunk — one was
Lord Bentig — jumps into a four-wheeler standin'
by the steps an' hollers out to the rest of us: 'A
guinea to the man that gits to Trafalgar Square
fust; three minutes' start,' and off he wint and we
after him, leavin' wan of the others behind wid his
watch in his hand."

I laid down my palette and looked up. Paper-
hanging evidently had its lively side.

"Afoot?"

"All four of 'em, sor^ — lickety-split and hell's
loose. I come near runnin' over a bobbie as I
163

THE UNDEE DOG

turned into Pall Mall, but I dodged him and kep'
on and landed second, with the mare doubled up
in a heap and the rig a-top of her and one shaft
broke. Lord Bentig and the other chaps that was
wid him was standin' waitin', and when we all fell
in a heap he nigh bu'st himself a-laughin'. He
went bail for us, of course, and give the three of
us ten bob apiece, but I got laid ofE for three
months, and come up here, where me old mother
lives and I kin pick up a job."

"Hanging paper ?" I suggested with a smile.

"Yes, or anything else. Ye see, sor, I'm handy
carpenterin', or puttin' on locks, or the likes o'
that, or paintin', or paper-hangin', or mendin'
stoves or tinware. So when they told me a painter
chap wanted me, I looked over me perfessions and
picked out the wan I tho't would suit him best.
But it's drivin' a cab I'm good at; been on the
box fourteen year come next Christmas. Ye don't
mind, do ye, sor, my not tellin' ye before ? Lord
Bentig'U tell ye all about me next time ye see
him in Lunnon." This touch was truly Finian.
"He's cousin, ye know, sor, to this young chap
what's here at the inn wid his bride. They
wouldn't know me, sor, nor don't, but I've driv
her father many a time. My rank used to be near
his house on Bolton Terrace. I had a thing hap-
pen there one night that — ^more water ? Yes, sor
— and the other brush — the big one ? Yes, sor —
thank ye, sor. I don't shake, do I, sor ?"
164

PLAIN UN"— PAPEK-HANGEE

"No, Pin ; go on."

"Well, I was tellin' ye about the night Sir
Henry's man — that's the lady's father, sor — come
to the rank where I sat on me box. It was about
ten o'clock — rainin' hard and bad goin', it was
that slippery.

" 'His Lordship wants ye in a hurry. Pin,' and
he jumped inside.

"When I got there I see something was goin'
on — a party or something — the lights was lit clear
up to the roof.

" 'His Lordship's waitin' in the hall for ye,'
said his man, and I jumped off me box and wint
inside.

" 'Pin,' said His Lordship, speakin' low, 'there's
a lady dinin' wid me and the wine's gone to her
head, and she's that full that if she waits until
her own carriage comes for her she won't git home
at all ! Go back and get on yer cab wid yer fingers
to yer, hat, and I'll bring her out and put her in
meself. It's dark and she won't know the differ-
ence. Take her down to Cadogan Square — I don't
know the number, but ye can't miss it, for it's
the fust white house wid geraniums in the win-
ders. When ye git there ye're to git down, help
her up the steps, keepin' yer mouth shut, unlock
the door, and set her down on the sofa. You'll
find the sofa in the parlor on the right, and can't
miss it. Then lay the key on the mantel — ^here it
is. After she's down, step out softly, close the
165

THE UNDEK DOa

door behind ye, ring the bell, and some of her ser-
vants will come and put her to bed. She's often
took that way and they know what to do.' Then
he says, lookin' at me straight, 'I sent for you,
Ein, for I know I kin trust ye. Come here to-
morrow and let me know how she got through and
I'll give ye five bob.'

"Well, sor, in a few minutes out she come,
leanin' on His Lordship's arm, steppin' loike she
had spring-halt, and takin' half the sidewalk to
turn in.

" 'Good-night, Your Ladyship,' says His Lord-
ship.

" 'Good-night, Sir Henry,' she called back, he.r
head out of the winder, and off I driv.

"I turned into the Square, found the white
house wid the geraniums, helps her out of me cab
and steadied her up the steps, pulled the key out,
and was just goin' to put it in the lock when she
fell up agin the door and open it went. The gas
was turned low in the hall, so that she wouldn't
know me if she looked at me.

"I found the parlor, but the lights were out ; so
widout lookin' for the sofa — I was afraid some-
body'd come and catch me — I slid her into a
rockin'-chair, laid the key on the hall-table, shut
the door softlike, rang the bell as if there was
a fire next door, jumped on me box, and driv
off.

"The next mornin' I went to see His Lordship.
166

PLAIN FIN— PAPER-HANGER

" 'Did ye land her all right, Fin V

" 'I did, sor,' I says.

" 'Had ye any trouble wid the key V

" 'No, sor,' I says, 'the door was open.'

" 'That's queer,' he says ; 'maybe her husband
came in earlier and forgot to shut it. And ye put
her on the sofa '

" 'No, sor, in a big chair.'

" 'In the parlor on the right ?'

" 'No, sor, in a little room on the left — down
one step '

"He stopped and looked at me.

" 'Ye're sure ye put her in the fust white
house ?'

" 'I am, sor.'

" 'Wid geraniums in the winder V

" 'Yes, sor.'

" 'Red ?' he says.

" 'No, white,' I says.

" 'On the north side of the Square V

" 'No,' I says, 'on the south.'

'"My God! Fin,' he says, 'ye left her in the
wrong house!' "

It was I who shook the boat this time.

"Oh, ye needn't laugh, sor; it was no laughin'
matter. I got me five bob, but I lost His Lord-
ship's custom, and I didn't dare go near Oadogan
Square for a month."

These disclosures opened up a new and wider
horizon. Heretofore I had associated Fin with
167

THE UNDER DOG

simple country life — as a cheery craftsman — a
Jack-of -all-trades: one day attired in overalls, with
paste-pot, shears, and ladder, brightening the walls
of the humble cottagers, and the next in polo cap
and ragged white sweater, the gift of some summer
visitor (his invariable costume with me), adapting
himself to the peaceful needs of the river. Here,
on the contrary and to my great surprise, was a
cosmopolitan ; a man versed in the dark and devi-
ous ways of a great city ; familiar with life in its
widest sense ; one who had touched on many sides
and who knew the cafes, the rear entrances to the
theatres, and the short cut to St. John's Wood with
the best and worst of them. These discoveries
came with a certain shock, but they did not impair
my interest in my companion. They really en-
deared him to me all the more.

After this I was no longer content with listen-
ing to his rambling dissertations on whatever hap-
pened to rise in his memory and throat. I began
to direct the output. It was not a difficult task;
any incident or object, however small, served my
purpose.

The four-inch dog acted as valve this morning.

Somebody had trodden on His Dogship; some
unfortunate biped born to ill-luck. In and about
Sonning to tread on a dog or to cause any animal
unnecessary pain is looked upon as an unforgive-
able crime. Dogs are made to be hugged and
coddled and given the best cushion in the boat.
168

PLAIN FIN— PAPER-HANGER

"A man, a girl, and a dog" is as common as "a
man, a punt, and an inn."

Instantly the four-inch morsel — four inches,
now that I think of it, is about right; six inches
is too long — ^this morsel, I say, gave a yell as
shrill as a launch-whistle and as fetching as a
baby's cry. Instantly three chambermaids, two
barmaids, the two maiden sisters who were break-
fasting on the shady side of the inn gable, and the
dog's owner, who, in a ravishing gown, was taking
her coffee under one of the Japanese umbrellas,
came rushing out of their respective hiding-places,
impelled by an energy and accompanied by an im-
petuousness rarely seen except perhaps in some
heroic attempt to save a drowning child sinking
for the last time.

"The darlin' " — this from Katy the barmaid,
who reached him first — "who's stomped on him?"

"How outrageous to be so cruel!" — ^this from
the two maiden sisters.

"Give him to me, Katy — oh, the brute of a
man!" — ^this from the fair owner.

The solitary Englishman with his book and his
furled umbrella, who in his absorption had com-
mitted the crime, strode on without even raising
his hat in apology.

"D d little beast!" I heard him mutter as

he neared the boat-house where Fin and I were
stowing cargo. "Ought to be worn on a watch-
chain or in her buttonhole."
169

THE UNDER DOG

Fin had his hand on his lips keeping his laugh-
ing apparatus in order until the solitary disap-
peared down the path to the trees, then he leaned
my way.

"I know him, sor," he whispered. "He's a bar-
rister down in Temple Bar. He don't remember
me, sor, but I know him. He's always treadin'
on something — something alive — always, sor, and
wid both feet ! He trod on me once. I thought
it was him when I see him fust — ^but I wasn't sure
till I asked Landlord Hull about him."

"How came you to know him ?"

"Well, sor, he had an old lady on his list two
years ago that was always disputin' distances and
goin' to law about her cab-fares. I picked her up
one day in St. James Street and druv her to Ken-
sington Gardens and charged her the rates, and she
kicked and had me up before the magistrate, and
this old ink-bottle appeared for her. She's rich
and always in hot water. Well, we had it meas-
ured and I was right, and it cost her me fare and
fifteen bob besides. When it was figured up she
owed me sixpence more measurement I hadn't
charged her for the first time, and I summoned
her and made her pay it and twelve bob more to
teach her manners. What pay he got I don't
know, but I got me sixpence. He was bom back
here about a mile — ^that's why he comes here for
his holiday."

Fin stopped stowing cargo — ^two bottles of soda,
170

PLAIN FIN— PAPER-HANGEE

a piece of ice in a bucket, two canvases, my big
easel and a lunch-basket — and moving his cap
back from his freckled forehead said, with as much
gravity as he could maintain :

"I ought to have been a barrister, sor ; I started
as one."

The statement did not surprise me. Had he
added that he had coached the winning crew of the
regatta the year before, laid the marquetry floors
of Cliveden (not far away), or led the band at
the late Lord Mayor's show, I should have re-
ceived his statements with equal equanimity. So
I simply remarked, "When was that, Fin"? quite
as I should had I been gathering details for his
biography — my only anxiety being to get the facts
chronologically correct.

"When I was a gossoon of twenty, sor — maybe
eighteen — I'm fifty now, so it's far back enough,
God knows. And it all happened, too, not far
from that old ink-bottle's place in Temple Bar. I
was lookin' at it wan day last winter when I had
a fare dovm there that I took up in old Bond
Street. I did the sweepin' out and startin' fires.
Wan day wan of the clerks got fired because he
couldn't serve a vn-it on another barrister chap
who owed a bill that me boss was tryin' to collect.
Nobody could git into his rooms, try every way
they could. He had nigh broke the head o' wan
o' the young fellers in the office who tried it the
day before. He niver come out, but had his grub
171

THE UNDER DOG

sent him. This had been goin' on for a month.
All kinds o' games had been put up on him and
he beat 'em all.

" 'I'll do it,' I says, 'in a week's time or less.'
The manager was goin' through the office and
heard the laugh they give me. 'What's this V he
says, cross like. 'Ein says he kin serve the writ,'
the clerk says. 'I kin,' I says, startin' up, 'or I'll
throw up me job.'

" 'Give him the writ,' he says, 'and give him
two days off. It kin do no harm for him to try.'

"Well, I found the street, and went up the stairs
and read the name on the door and heard some-
body walkin' aroimd, and knew he was in. Then
I lay around on the other side o' the street to
see what I could pick up in the way o' the habits
o' the rat. I knew he couldn't starve for a week
at a time, and that something must be goin' in,
and maybe I could follow up and git me foot in
the door before he could close it; but I soon found
that wouldn't work. Pretty soon a can o' milk
come and went up in a basket that he let down
from his winder. As he leaned out I saw his head,
and it was a worse carrot than me own. Then
along come a man with a bag o' coal on his back
and a bit o' card ia his hand with the coal-yard on
it and the rat's name underneath, a-lookin' up at
the house and scratchin' his head as to where he
was goin'.

"I crossed over and says, 'Who are ye lookin'
173

PLAIN FIN— PAPEK-HANGER

for' ? And he hands me the card. 'I'm his man,'
I says, 'and I been waitin' for ye — me master's
sick and don't want no noise, and if ye make
any I'll lose me place. I'll carry the bag up
and dump it and bring ye the bag back and a
shillin' for yer trouble. Wait here. Hold on,' I
says; 'take me hat and let me have yours, for I
don't git a good hat every day, and the bag's that
dirty it'll spile it.'

" 'Go on,' he says ; 'I've carried it all the way
from the yard and me back's broke.' Well, I
pulled his hat ever me eyes and started up the
stairs wid the bag on me shoulder. When I got to
the fust landin' I run me hands over the bag, git-
tin' 'em good and black, then I smeared me face,
and up I went another flight.

" 'Who's there ?' he says, when I knocked.

" 'Coals,' I says.

" 'Where from ?' he says.

"I told him the name on the card. He opened
the door an inch and I could see a chain between
the crack.

" 'Let me see yer face,' he says. I twisted it
out from under the edge of the bag. 'AH right,'
he says, and he slipped back the chain and in I
went, stoopin' down as if it weighed a ton.

" 'Where'U I put it?' I says.

" 'In the box,' he says, walkin' toward the
grate. 'Have ye brought the bill ?'

" 'I have,' I says, still keepin' me head down.
173

THE UNDEK DOG

'It's in me side pocket. Pull it out, please, me
hand's that dirty' — and out come the writ !

"Te ought to have seen his face when he read
it. He made a jump for the door, but I got there
fust and downstairs in a tumble, and fell in a
heap at the foot with everything he could lay his
hands on comin' after me — tongs, shovel, and
poker.

"I got a raise of five bob when I went back and
ten bob besides from the boss.

"I ought to have stayed at the law, sor ; I'd be
a magistrate by now a-sittin' on a sheepskin in-
stead of

"Where'U I put this big canvas, sor — ^up agin
the bow or laid flat ? The last coat ain't dry yet,"
he muttered to himself, touching my picture with
his finger in true paper-hanger style. "Oh, yes,
I see — all ready, sor, ye kin step in. Same place
we painted yesterday, sor? — ^up near the mill?
All right, sor." And we pushed out into the
stream.

These talks with Ein are like telephone mes-
sages from the great city hardly an hour away.
They always take place in the open, while I am
floatiag among pond-lilies or drifting under wide-
spreading trees, their drooping leaves dabbling in
the silent current like children's fingers, or while
I am sitting under skies as blue as any that bend
above my Beloved City by the Sea; often, too,
174

PLAIN FIN— PAPEE-HANGER

■when the delicious silence ahout me is broken only
by the lapping of the water around my punt, the
sharpening of a bit of charcoal, or the splash of
a fish. That his stories are out of key with my
surroundings, often reminding me of things I
have come miles over the sea to forget, somehow
adds to their charm.

There is no warning given. Suddenly, and ap-
parently without anything that leads up to the
subject in mind, this irrepressible Irishman
breaks out, and before I am aware of the change,
the glory of the morning and all that it holds for
me of beauty has faded out of the slide of my
mental camera and another has taken its place.
Again I am following Pin's cab through the mazes
of smoky, seething London, now waiting outside a
concert-haU for some young blood, or shopping
along Regent Street, or at full tilt to catch a Chan-
nel train at Charing Cross — each picture enriched
by a running account of personal adventure that
makes them doubly interesting

"You wouldn't mind, sor," he begins, "if I tell
ye of a party of three I took home from a grand
ball — one of the toppy balls of the winter, in one
o' them big halls on the Strand? Two o' them
was dressed like the Royal family in satins that
stuck out like a haystack and covered with dia-
monds that would hurt your eyes to look at
'em — " And then in his inimitable dialect — im-
possible to reproduce by any combination of vow-
175

THE UNDEE DOG

els at my command, and punctured every few min-
utes by ringing laughs that can be beard half a
mile away — follows a description of how one of
his fares, Ikey by name, the son of the stoutest
of the women, by a sudden lurch of his cab —
Ikey rode outside — ^while rounding into a side
street, was landed in the mud.

"Oh, that was a great night, sor," he rattles on.
"Ye ought to 'a' seen him when I picked him up.
He looked as if they'd been a-swobbin' the cobbles
wid him. 'Oh, me son ! me son ! it's kilt ye are !'
she hollered out, clawin' him wid both hands, and
up they hauled him all over them satin dresses!
And where do ye think I took 'em, sor ? To Han-
over Square, or out by St. James Park ? No, sor,
not a bit of it ! Down in an alley in Whitechapel,
sor, that ye'd be afraid to walk through after sun-
down, and into a shop wid three balls over it.
What do ye think o' that, sor ?"

Or he laimches forth into an account of how he
helped to rescue a woman's child from the clutches
of her brutal husband ; and of the race out King's
Eoad followed by the husband in a hansom, and
of the watchful bobbie who, to relieve a threatened
block in the street, held up the pursuing hansom
at the critical moment, thus saving the escaping
child, half -smothered in a blanket, tight locked in
its mother's arms, and earning for Fin the biggest
fare he ever got in his life.

"Think of it, sor ! Fifteen bob for goin' a mile,
176

PLAIN FIN— PAPEE-HANQEE

she a-hoUerin' all the time that she'd double the
fare if I kep' ahead. But, Lord love ye, sor, she
needn't 'a' worried; me old plug had run in the
Derby wance, and for a short spurt like that he
was game back to the stump of his tail."

When the last morning of his enforced exile
arrived and Pin, before I was half-dressed, pre-
sented himself outside my bedroom door, an open
letter in his hand, not a trace of the punt-poling
Irishman was visible in his make-up!

He wore a glazed white tile, a yellow-brown
coat with three capes, cut pen-wiper fashion, and
a pair of corduroy trousers whose fulness con-
cealed in part the ellipse of his legs.

"Here's a letter from me boss, sor," he blurted
out, holding it toward me. "He says I kin go to
work in the mornin'. Ye don't mind, do ye, sor ?"

"Of course I mind, Pin ; I'll have trouble to fill
your place. Are you sorry to leave ?"

"Am I sorry, sor ? No ! — savin' yer presence,
I'm glad. What's the good of the country, any-
how, sor, except to make picters in? Of course,
it's different wid you, sor, not knowin' the city,
but for me — ^why God rest yer soul, sor, I wouldn't
give one cobble of the Strand no bigger'n me fist
for the best farm in Surrey.

"Call me, sor, next time ye're passin' my rank
177

THE UNDER DOG

— any time after twelve at night, and I'll show ye
fun enough to last ye yer life."

Something dropped out of the landscape that
day — something of its brilliancy, color, and charm.
The water seemed sluggish, the sky-tones dull, the
meadows flat and commonplace.

It must have been Fin's laugh!

178

LONG JIM

LONG JIM

Jim met me at the station, I knew it was Jim
when I caught sight of him loping along the plat-
form, craning his neck, his head on one side as
if in search of someone. He had the same stoop
in his shoulders ; the same long, disjointed, sham-
bling body — six feet and more of it — ^that had
earned him his soubriquet.

"Guess you be him," he said, recognizing me as
easily, his face breaking suddenly into a broad
smile as I stepped on to the platform. "Old man
'lowed I'd know ye right away, but I kind o' mis-
trusted till I see ye stop and look 'raound same's
if ye'd lost the trail. I'll take them traps and
that bag if ye don't mind," and he relieved me of
my sketch-kit and bag. "Buck-board's right out
here behind the freight shed," and he pointed
across the track. "Old mare's kinder skeery o'
the engine, so I tied her a piece off."

He was precisely the man I had expected to
find — even to his shaggy gray hair matted close
181

THE UNDEE DOG

about his ears, wrinkled, leathery face, and long,
scrawny neck. He wore the same rough, cowhide
boots and the very hat I had seen so often repro-
duced — such a picturesque slouch of a hat with
that certain cant to the rim which betokens long
usage and not a little comfort, especially on bal-
sam boughs with the sky for a covering, and only
the stars to light one to bed.

I had heard all these several details and ap-
pointments described ever so minutely by an en-
thusiastic brother brush who had spent the pre-
ceding summer with old man Marvin — Jim's
employer — ^but he had forgotten to mention, or
had failed to notice, the peculiar softness of Jim's
voice and his timid, shrinking eyes — ^the eyes of
a dog rather than those of a man — ^not cowardly
eyes, nor sneaking eyes — ^more the eyes of one who
had suffered constantly from sudden, unexpected
blows, and who shrank from your gaze and dodged
it as does a hound that misunderstands a gesture.

"Old man's been 'spectin' ye for a week," Jim
rambled on as he led the way to the shed, hitching
up his one leather suspender that kept the brown
overalls snug up under his armpits. "P'raps ye
expected him to meet ye," he continued, "but ye
don't know him. He ain't that kind. He won't
go even for Ruby."

"Who's Ruby?" The brother brush had not
mentioned him. "Mr. Marvin's son?"

"ITo, she's Mother Marvin's girl. She's away
182

LONG JIM

to Plymouth to school. Stand here a minute till
I back up the buck-board."

The buck-board is the only vehicle possible over
these mountain-roads. It is the volante of the
Franconia range, and rides over everything from
a bowlder to a wind-slash. This particular ex-
ample differed only in being a trifle more rickety
and mud-bespattered than any I had seen; and
the mare had evidently been foaled to draw it —
a fur-coated, moth-eaten, wisp-tailed beast, tied to
the shafts with clothes-lines and scraps of deerhide
— a quadruped that only an earthquake could have
shaken into nervousness. And yet Jim backed her
into position as carefully as if she had felt her
harness for the first time, handing me the reins
until he strapped my belongings to the hind axle,
calling "Whoa, Bess!" every time she rested a
tired muscle. Then he lifted one long leg over
the dash-board and took the seat beside me.

It was my first draught of a long holiday; my
breathing-spell; my time for loose neckties and
flannel shirts and a kit slung over my shoulder
crammed with brushes and color-tubes; my time
for loafing and inviting my soul. It felt inexpres-
sibly delightful to be once more out in the open —
out under the wide sweep of the sky; rid of
the choke of narrow streets; exempt of bells,
mails, and telegrams, and free of him who knocks,
enters, and sits — and sits — and sits. And it was
the Indian summer of the year; when the air is
183

THE UNDER DOG

spicy with the smoke of burning leaves and the
mountains are lost in the haze; when the unshaven
cornfields are dotted with yellow pumpkins and
under low-branched trees the apples lie in heaps;
when the leaves are aflame and the round sun
shines pink through opalescent clouds.

"Ain't it a hummer of a day?" Jim exclaimed,
suddenly, looking toward the valley swimming in
a silver mist below us. "By Jiminy ! it makes a
man feel like livin', don't it ?"

I turned to look at him. He, too, seemed to
have caught the infection. His shoulders had
straightened, his nostrils were dilated like a deer's
that sniffs some distant scent ; his face was aglow.
I began to wonder if, with my usual luck, I had
not found the companion I always looked for in
my outings — ^that rare other fellow of the right
kind, who responds to your slightest wish with all
the enthusiasm and gusto of a boy, and so vaga-
bondish in his tendencies that he is delighted to
have you think for him and to follow your lead.

I had not long to wait. Before we had gone a
mile into the forest Jim jerked the mare back
upon her haunches and, pointing to a great hem-
lock standing sentinel over us, cried out with boy-
ish enthusiasm :

"Take a look at him once. Ain't he a ring-
tailed roarer? Seems to me a tree big as him
must be awful proud just o' bein' a tree. Ain't
nothin' 'raound here kin see's fur as he kin, any-
184

LONG JIM

ways." "My luck again," I thought to myself.
I knew I could not be mistaken in the outward
signs.

"You like trees, then?" I asked, watching the
glow on his face.

"Like 'em! Well, wouldn't you if ye'd lived
'mong 'em long's I have? Trees don't never go
back on ye, and that's what ye can't say o' every-
thing." The analogy was obscure, but I attrib-
uted it to Jim's slender stock of phrases. "I've
knowed that hemlock ever since I come here, and
he's just the same to me as the fust day I see him.
Ain't never no change in trees; once they're good
to ye they're alius good to ye. Birds is different
— so is cattle — ^but trees and dogs ye kin tie to.
Don't the woods smell nice? Do ye catch on to
them spruces dead ahead of us ? Maybe ye can't
smell 'em till ye git yer nose cleared out o' them
city nosegays," he continued, with a kindly in-
terest in his voice. "But ye will when ye've been
here a speU. Folks that live in cities think there
ain't nothin' smells sweet but flowers and cologne.
They ain't never slep' on balsam-boughs nor got
a whiff o' a birchbark fire, nor tramped a bed
o' ferns at night. There's a cool, fresh smell for
ye! I tell ye there's a heap o' perfumes 'raound
that ye can't buy at a flower-store and cork up in
a bottle. "Well, I guess — Git up, Bess!" and he
flopped the reins once more along the ridges and
hollows of the mare's back while he encouraged
185

THE UNDEE DOG

her to renewed efforts with that peculiar clucking
sound heeded only by certain beasts of burden.

At the end of the tenth mile he stopped the
mare suddenly.

"Hold on," he cried, excitedly, "there's that
scraggy-tail. I missed him when I come down.
See ! there he is on that green log. I was feared
he'd passed in his chips." I looked and saw a
huge gray squirrel with a tail like a rabbit.
"That's him. Dum mean on his tail, wam't it ?
And one paw gone, too. The dog catched him one
day last year and left him tore up that way. I
found him limping along when I was a-sugaring
here in the spring and kinder fixed him up, and
he's sorter on the lookout for me when I come
along. He's got a hole 'round here somewheres."

Jim sprang out of the buck-board. Eumbling
under the seat he brought out a bag of nuts. The
squirrel took them from his hand, stuffing his
mouth full, five at a time, limping away to hide
them, and back again for more until the bag was
empty, Jim, contented and imhurried, squatting
on the ground, his long knees bent under him.
The way in which he did this gave me infinite
delight. No vagabond I had ever known ignored
time and duty more complacently.

We drove on in silence, Jim taking in every-
thing we passed. This shambling, slenderly edu-
cated, and clay-soiled man was fast looming up as
a find of incalculable value — ^the most valuable of
186

LONG JIM

my experience. The most important thing, how-
ever, was still to be settled if a perfect harmony of
interests was to be established between us — would
he like me?

Marvin's cabin, in which I was to spend my
holiday, lay on a clearing half a mile or more out-
side the woods and at the foot of a hill that helped
prop up the Knob. The stage road ran to the left.
The house was a small two-story affair built of
logs and clapboards, and was joined to the out-
lying stable by a covered passage Tvhich was lined
with winter firewood. Marvin, who met us at the
pasture-gate, carried a lantern, the glow of the
twilight having faded from the mountain-tops.
He was a small, thick-set man, smooth-shaven as
far as the under side of his chin and jaws, with a
whisk-broom beard spread over his shirt-front and
half of his waistcoat. His forehead was low, and
his eyes set dose together — sure sign of a close-
fisted nature.

To my great surprise his first words, after a
limp handshake and a perfunctory "pleased to see
you," were devoted to an outbreak on Jim for
having been so long on the road. "Been waitin'
here an hour," he said. "What in tarnation kep'
ye, anyway ? Them cows ain't milked yit !"

"Don't worry. I won't go back on them cows,"
replied Jim, quietly, as he drove through the gate-
way, following Marvin, who walked ahead swing-
ing the lantern to show the mare the road.
187'

THE UNDER DOG

Mrs. Marvin's manner was as abrupt as that of
her husband.

"Well, well!" she said, as I stepped upon the
porch, "guess you must be beat out comin' so fur.
Come in and set by the stove," and she resumed
her work in the pantry without another word.

I was not offended at her curtness. These deni-
zens of the forest pass too many hours alone and
speak too seldom to understand the value of polite-
ness for politeness' sake. The wife, moreover,
redeemed herself the next morning when I found
her on the back porch feeding the birds.

"Snow ain't fur off," she remarked, in explana-
tion, as she scattered the crumbs about, "and I
want 'em to larn early where they kin find some-
thing to eat. Euby'd never forgive me if I didn't
feed the birds. She loves 'em 'bout as much as
Jim does."

Neither she nor her husband became any more
cordial as they knew me better. To them I was
only the boarder whose weekly stipend helped to
decrease the farm debt, and who had to be fed
three times a day and given a bed at night. It
was Jim who made me feel at home. He was the
fellow I had longed for ; the round peg of a chance
acquaintance that exactly fitted into the round
hole of my holiday life, and he fulfilled my every
expectation. He would fish or hunt or carry a
sketch-trap or wash brushes, or loaf, or go to sleep
beside me — or get up at daylight — ^whatever the
188

LONG JIM

one half of me wanted to do, Jim, the other half,
agreed to with instant cheerfulness.

And yet, in spite of this constant companion-
ship, I never crossed a certain line of reserve
which he had set up between us. He would
ramble on by the hour about the things around
us; about the trees, the birds, and squirrels; of
the way the muskrats lived by the sawmill dam,
and their cleverness in avoiding his traps; about
the deer that "yarded" back of Taft's Knob last
winter, and their leanness in the spring. Some-
times he would speak of Mother Marvin, saying
she "thought a heap of Kuby, and ought to," and
now and then he would speak of Ruby with a cer-
tain tender tone in his voice, telling me of the
prizes she had won at school, and how nobody
could touch her in "'rithmetic and readin'." But,
to my surprise, he never discussed any of his pri-
vate affairs with me. I say "surprise," for until
I met Jim I had found that men of his class
talked of little else, especially when over camp-
fires smouldering far into the night.

This reticence also extended to Marvin's affairs.
The relations between them, I saw, were greatly
strained, although Jim always discharged his
duties conscientiously, never failing to render a
strict account of the time he spent with me, which
Marvin always itemized in the weekly bill. I
used often to wonder if he were not under some
obligation to his employer which he could not re-
189

THE UNDEK DOG

quite; it might be for food and shelter in his
earlier days, or perhaps that he was weighted hy
a money debt he was unable to pay.

One morning, after a particularly ugly out-
break in which Jim had been denounced for some
supposed neglect of his duties, I asked him, then
lying beside me, his head cupped upon his saucer
of a slouch hat, why he stayed on with a man like
Marvin, so different from himself in every way.
I had often wondered why Jim stood it, and
wished that he had the spirit to try his fortunes
elsewhere. In my sympathy for him I had even
gone so far as to hint once or twice at my finding
him other employment. Indeed, I must confess
that the only cloud between us dimming my
confidence in him was this very lack of inde-
pendence.

"Well, I got to git along with him for a spell
yit," Jim answered, slowly, his eyes turned up to
the sky. "He is ornery, and no mistake, and I
git mad at him sometimes; but then ag'in I feel
kinder sorry for him somehow. He's a queer
kind, ain't he, to be livin' up here all his life with
trees and mountains all 'round him, aU doin' their
best to please him — and I don't know nothin'
friendlier nor honester — and yet him bein' what
he is? I'd 'a' thought they'd thawed him out
'fore this. And he's so dog-goned close, too, if I
must say it. Why, if it warn't for Mother Mar-
vin, some o' us 'raound here" — and he stopped and
190

LONG JIM

lowered his voice — "would be out in the cold;
some ye wouldn't suspect, too."

This apparently studied reticence only incited
my curiosity to learn something more of the man
for whom I had begun to have a real affection. I
wanted particularly to know something of his life
before he came to Marvin's! — ^twelve years now.
I could not, of course, ask Marvin or his wife for
any details — my intimacy with Jim forbade such
an invasion of his privacy — and I met no one else
in the forest. I saw plainly that he was not a
mountaineer by birth. Not only did his dialect
differ from those about him, but his habits were
not those of a woodsman. For instance, he would
always carry his matches loose in his pocket, in-
stead of in a dry box ; then, again, he would wear
his trousers rolled up like a fireman's, as if to
keep out the wet, instead of tucking them into his
boots to tramp the woods the better. Now and
then, too, he would let fall some word or expression
which would betray greater familiarity with the
ins and outs of the city than with the intricacies
of the forest.

"It was fixed up in a glass case like one Abe
Condit used to have in his place in the Bowery,"
he said once in describing a prize trout some city
fisherman had stuffed and framed. But when I
asked him, with some surprise, if he knew the
Bowery, he looked at me quickly, with the slight-
est trace of offended dignity in his eyes, as if I
191

THE UNDEE DOG

had meant to overstep the line between us, and
answered quickly :

"I knowed Abe Condit," and immediately
changed the conversation.

And yet I must admit that there was nothing in
the way he answered this and all my other ques-
tions that weakened my confidence in his sincer-
ity. If there were any blackened pages in his past
record that he did not want to lay bare even to me,
they were discolored, I felt sure, more by priva-
tions and suffering than by any stains he was
ashamed of.

II

One morning at daybreak I was awakened by
Jim swinging back my door. He had on his
heavy overcoat and carried a lantern. His slouch
hat was flattened on the back of his head ; the rim
flared out, framing his face, which was wreathed
in smiles. He seemed to be under some peculiar
excitement, for his breath came thick and fast.

"Sorry to wake ye, but I'm goin' to Plymouth,"
and he lowered his head and stepped inside my
room. "Euby's comin'. Feller brought me a let-
ter she'd sent on by the stage. The driver left it
at the sawmill. I'd 'a' told ye las' night, but ye'd
turned in."

"When will you be back?" I called out from
between the bedclothes. We had planned a trip
183

LONG JIM

to the Knob the next day, and were to camp out
for the night. He evidently saw my disappoint-
ment in my face, for he answered quickly, as he
bent over me :

"Oh, to-night, sure; and maybe Euby'U go
along. There ain't nothin' ye kin teach her 'bout
campin', and she'll go anywheres I'll take her —
leastways, she alius has." This last was said with
some hesitation, as if he had suddenly thought
that my presence might make some difference to
her. "Leave yer brushes where I kin git 'em,"
he continued, anxious to make up for my disap-
pointment. "I'll wash 'em when I git back," and
he clattered down the steep stairs and slammed the
door behind him.

I jumped from my bed, threw up the narrow,
unpainted sash and watched his tall, awkward
figure swinging the lantern as he hurried away
toward the shed where the gray mare lived in
solitude. Then I crept back to bed again to plan
my day anew.

When I joined Marvin at breakfast I found
him in one of his ugliest moods, vsdth all his
bristles out; not turned toward me, nor even
toward his wife, but toward the world in general.
Strange to say, he made no allusion to his daugh-
ter's return nor to Jim's absence.

Suddenly his wife blurted out, as if she could
restrain her joy no longer :

"You ain't never seen Kuby. She's comin' to-
193

THE UNDEK DOG

night. Jim's gone for her. The head teacher's
sick and some o' the girls has got a holiday."

"Yes," I answered, quietly; "Jim told me."

"Oh, he did !" And she put down her cup and
leaned across the tahle. "Well, I'm awful glad
she's comin', just so ye kin see her. Ye won't
never forgit her when ye do. She's got six months
more, then she's comin' home for a spell until she
goes teachin'," and a look of exultant pride and
joy of which I had never believed her capable
came into her eyes.

Marvin turned his head and in a half-angry
way said:

"It's 'bout time. Little good ye've had o' her
for the last four years with yer fool notions 'bout
eddication." And he put on his hat and went out.

"How old is your daughter ?" I asked, more to
soften the effect of Marvin's brutal remark than
anything else.

"She's seventeen, I guess, but she's big for her
age."

The announcement came as a surprise. I had
supposed from the way Jim had always spoken of
her that she was a child of twelve. The possibili-
ties of her camping out became all the more re-
mote.

"And has she been away from you long this
time ?"

"'Bout four months. I didn't 'spect her to
come till Christmas, till she wrote Jim to come for
194

LONG JIM

her. He alius fetches her. They'll be 'long 'bout
dark."

I instantly determined to extend the heartiest
of welcomes to this littlo daughter, not alone be-
cause of the mother and Jim, but because the
home-coming of a young girl had always appealed
to me as one of the most satisfying of all family
events. My memory instinctively went back to
the return of my own little bird, and of the many
marvellous preparations begun weeks before in
honor of the event. I saw again in my mind the
wondrous curtains, stiff and starched, hung at the
windows and about the high posts of the quaint
bedstead that had sheltered her from childhood;
I remembered the special bakings and brewings
and the innumerable bundles, big and little, that
were tucked away under secretive sofas and the
thousand other surprises that hung upon her com-
ing. This little wood-pigeon should have my best
attention, however simple and plain might be her
plumage.

Moreover, I was more than curious to see what
particular kind of a fledgling could be bom to
these two parent birds — one so hard and unsympa-
thetic and the other so kind and simple. Jim, I
remembered, had always spoken enthusiastically
of Euby, but then Jim always spilled over the
edges whenever he spoke of the things he loved,
whether they were dogs, trees, flowers, or brilliant
young maidens.

195

THE UNDEK DOG

At nine o'clock that night my ear caught the
sound of wheels ; then came Jim's "Whoa ! Bess,"
and the mother threw wide the door and caught
her daughter in her arms.

"Oh, mother!" the girl cried, "wasn't it good
I could come ?" and she kissed her again. Then
she turned to me — ^I had followed out in the star-
light — "Uncle Jim sent me word you were here,
and I was so glad. I've always wanted to see
somebody paint, and Uncle Jim says he's sure you
will let me go sketching with you. I wasn't com-
ing home with the other girls until I got his letter
and knew that you were here."

She said this frankly and simply, without the
slightest embarrassment, and without a trace of
any dialect in her speech. Jim evidently had not
exaggerated her attainments. She had, too, un-
consciously to herself, solved one of the mysteries
that surrounded me. If Jim was her uncle it
must be on her mother's side; it certainly could
not be on Marvin's.

"And I'm glad, too," I replied. "Of course you
shall go, and Jim tells me also that you are as
good a woodsman as he is. And so Jim's your
uncle, is he ? He never told me that."

"Oh, no," she answered quickly, with a little
deprecatory air. "He isn't my real uncle. He's
just Jim, but I've always called him Uncle Jim
ever since I was a little girl. And I love him
dearly; don't I, Uncle Jim?" and she turned
196

LONG JIM

toward him as he entered the door carrying her
bundle, followed by her father with the kerosene
lamp, Marvin having brought it out to help Jim
unload the buck-board.

"That's what ye alius says, baby-girl," an-
swered Jim, "so I got to believe it. And if I
didn't, there wouldn't be no use o' livin' — ^not a
mite." There was a vibrating tenderness in the
man's voice, and an indescribable pathos in its
tone, as he spoke, that caused me instinctively to
turn my head and look into his face.

The light shone full upon it — so full and direct
that there were no shadows anywhere. Whether
it was because of the lamp's direct rays or because
of his long ride in the crisp l^ovember air, I could
not decide, but certain it was that Jim's face was
without a wrinkle, and that he looked twenty
years younger. Even the hard, drawn lines about
his mouth and nose had disappeared.

With the light of the lamp came another reve-
lation. While the girl's cheap woollen dress and
jacket, of a pattern sold in the country stores,
showed her to be the product of Marvin's home
and the recipient of his scanty bounty, her trim,
well-rounded figure, soft, glossy hair — ^now that
her hat was ofF — and small hands and feet, classed
her as one of far gentler birth. There was, too,
as she passed in and out of the room helping her
mother with the supper-table, a certain grace and
dignity, especially in the way in which she bent
197

THE UNDEE DOG

her head on one side to listen, a gesture often seen
in a drawing-room, but never, in my experience,
in a cabin. What astonished me most, however,
were her hands — ^her exquisitely modelled hands,
still ruddy from the fresh night-air, but so won-
derfully curved and dimpled. And then, too, the
perfect graciousness and simplicity of her manner
and its absolute freedom from coquetry or self-
consciousness. Her mother was right — I would
not soon forget her. And yet, by what freak of
Nature, I found myself continually repeating, had
this flower been made to bloom on this soil?
Through what ancestor's veins had this blood
trickled, and through what channels had it reached
these humble occupants of a forest home ?

But if her mother was the happier for her com-
ing, Jim, radiant with joy, seemed to walk on air.
His head was up, his arms were swinging free,
and there was a lightness and spring in his move-
ments that made me forget the grotesqueness of
his gait. I^or, as the days went by, did this buoy-
ant happiness ever fail him. He and Kuby were
inseparable from the time she opened the rude
door of her bedroom in the morning until she bade
us all good-night and carried with her all the light
and charm and joyousness of the day. The camp-
ing-out, I may as well state, had been given up
as soon as I had mentioned it, she saying to me
with a little start, as if frightened at the propo-
sition, that she thought she'd better stay home and
198

LONG JIM

help her mother. Then, seeing Jim's face fall,
she added, "But we can be off all day, can't
we?"

And Jim answered that it was all right, just
as Euby said — that we would go fishing instead,
and that he had spotted an old trout that lived in
a hole down the East Branch that he'd been saving
for her, and that he had tied the day before the
"very fly that will fix him" — all of which was
true, for Euby landed him the next day with all
the skill of a professional, besides a dozen smaller
ones whose haunts Jim knew.

And so the weeks flew by, Euby tramping the
forest daily between us or sitting beside me as I
painted, noting every stroke of my brush and ask-
ing me innumerable questions as to the choice of
colors and the mixing of the tints. At other times
she would ply me with questions, making me tell
her of the things I had seen abroad and of the
cities and peoples she had read of; or she would
talk of the books she had studied, and of others
she wanted to read. Jim would listen eagerly,
with a certain pride in his eyes that she knew so
much and could talk so well, and when we were
alone he would comment on it:

"!N'early catched ye, didn't she? I see once or
twice ye were stumped clean out o' yer boots on
them questions she fired. How her little head
holds it all is what bothers me. But I alius
knowed how it would be; I told the old man so
199

THE UNDEK DOG

ten year ago. Ain't one o' 'em 'raound here kin
touch her."

At night, under the kerosene lamp in the cabin,
she would ask me to read aloud, she looking up
into my face and drinking in every word, the
others listening, Jim watching every expression
that crossed her face.

Dear old Jim! I still see your tender, shrink-
ing eyes peering at her from under your
bushy eyebrows and still hear the low ripple of
your merry laugh over her volleys of questions.
You were so proud of her and so happy in those
days ! So tender in touch, so gentle of voice, so
constant in care !

One morning I had some letters to write, and
Kuby and Jim took the rods and went up the brook
without me. They both begged me to go. Ruby
being particularly urgent, I thought, but I had
already delayed the mail too long and so refused
point-blank — ^too abruptly, perhaps, as I thought
afterward, when I remembered the keen look of
disappointment in her face. When she re-entered
the cabin alone an hour later she passed me hur-
riedly, and calling out to her father that Jim was
wanted at the sawmill to fix the wheel and would
not be back until morning, shut herself into her
room before I could offer myself in Jim's place —
which I would gladly have done, now that her
morning's pleasure had been spoiled.

When she joined us at supper — she had kept
300

LONG JIM

her room all day — I saw that her eyes were red,
as If she had been crying. I knew then that I had
offended her.

"Euby, I really couldn't go," I said. "You
don't feel cross about it, do you ?"

"Oh, no," she answered, with some earnestness.
"And I knew you were busy."

"And about Jim — what's the matter with the
wheel ?" I asked, greatly relieved at the discovery
that whatever troubled her, my staying at home
had not caused it.

"One of tiie buckets is broken — ^TJncle Jim al-
ways fixes it," and she turned her head away to
hide her tears.

"Is Jim a carpenter, too?" I asked, with a
smile.

"Why, yes," she replied. "Didn't you know
that? They often send for him to fix the mill.
There's no one else about here who can." And
she changed the conversation and began talking of
the beauty of that part of the brook where they
had been to fish, and of the rich brown tint of
the water in the pools, and how lovely the red
sumachs were reflected in their depths.

The next morning, and without any previous
warning, Euby appeared in her cloth dress and
jacket and announced her intention of taking the
stage back to Plymouth, adding that as Jim had
not returned, Marvin must drive her over to the
cross-roads. I offered my services, but she de-
201

THE UlTOEE DOa

clined them graciously but firmly, bidding me
good-by and saying with one of her earnest looks,
as she held my hand in hers, that she should never
forget my kindness to Jim, and that she would
always remember me for what I had done for him,
and then she added with peculiar tenderness :

"And dear Uncle Jim won't forget you, either."

And so she had gone, and with her had faded
all the light and joyousness of the place.

When Jim returned the next day I was at work
in the pasture painting a group of white birches.
I hallooed to him as he shambled along within a
hundred yards of me, swinging his arms, but he
did not answer except to turn his head.

That night at table he replied to my questions
in monosyllables, explaining his not stopping
when I had called in the morning by saying that
he didn't want to " 'sturb me," and when I
laughed and told him — ^using his own words — ^that
Euby "wouldn't pass a fellow and give him the
dead, cold shake," he pushed back his chair with
a sudden impatient gesture, said he had forgotten
something, and left the table without a word or
look in reply.

I knew then that I had hurt him in some way.

"What's the matter with Jim, Mr. Marvin?
He seems put out about something. Did he say
anything to you?" I asked, astonished at Jim's
behavior, and anxious for some clew by which to
solve its mystery.

803

LONG JIM

"Got one o' his spells on. Gits that way some-
times, and when he does ye can't git no good out
o' him. I want them turnips dug, and he's got to
do it or git out. I ain't hired him to loaf 'round
all day with Euhy and to sulk when she's gone.
I'm a-payin' him wages right along, ain't I ?" he
added with some fierceness as he stopped at the
door. "What he gits for fixin' the mill ain't
nothin' to me — I don't git a cent on it."

Ill

When the morning came and Jim had not re-
turned I started for the mill, I found him alone,
sitting idly on a bench near the water-wheel. I
had heard the hum of the saw before I reached the
dam and knew that he had finished his work.

"Jim," I said, walking up to him and extend-
ing my hand, "if I have done anything to hurt
your feelings, I'm sorry. If I had known you
would have been put out by my not going with
Euby I would have let the mail wait."

He took my hand mechanically, but he did not
raise his eyes. The old look had returned to his
face, as if he were afraid of some sudden blow.
"I did all I could to make Ruby's visit a happy
one — don't you know I did ?" I continued.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his
knees, his eyes still on the ground. There was
something infinitely pathetic in the attitude.
203

THE UNDER DOG

"Te ain't done nothin' to me," lie answered,
slowly, "and ye ain't done nothin' to Kuby. I
cottoned to ye fust time I see ye, and so did Kuby,
and we still do. It ain't that."

"Well, what is it, then? Why have you kept
away from me?"

He arose wearily until his whole length was
erect, hooked his long arms behind his back, and
began walking up and down the platform. He
was no longer my comrade of the woods. The
spring and buoyancy of his step had gone out of
him. He seemed shrivelled and bent, as if some
sudden weakness had overcome him. His face
was white and drawn, and the eyelids drooped, as
if he had not slept.

At the second turn he stopped, gazed abstract-
edly at the boards under his feet, as a man some-
times does when his mind is on other things.
Mechanically he stooped to pick up a small iron
nut that had slipped from one of the bolts used
in repairing the wheel, and in the same abstracted
way, still ignoring me, raised it to his eye, looked
through the hole for a moment, and then tossed it
into the dam. The splash of the iron striking the
water frightened a bird, which arose in the air,
sang a clear, sweet note, and disappeared in the
bushes on the opposite bank. Jim started, turned
his head quickly, following the flight of the bird,
and sank slowly back upon the bench, his face in
his hands.

204

LONG JIM

"There it is again," he cried out. "Every way
I turn it's the same thing. I can't even chuds
nothin' overboard but I hear it."

"Hear what ?" The keen anguish expressed in
his voice had alarmed me.

"That song-sparrow — did ye hear it ? I tell ye
this thing'U drive me crazy. I teU ye I can't
stand it — I can't stand it." And he turned his
head and covered his face with his sleeve.

The outburst and gesture only intensified my
anxiety. Was Jim's mind giving away ? I arose
from my seat and bent over him, my hand on his
arm.

"Why, that's only a bird, Jim — I saw it — it's
gone into the bushes."

"Yes, I know it ; I seen it ; that's what hurts me ;
that's what's alius goin' to hurt me. And 'tain't
only goin' to be the birds. It's goin' to be the
trees and the gray-backs and the trout we catched,
and everywhere I look and every place I go to it's
goin' to be the same thing. And it ain't never
goin' to be no better — never — ^never — ^long as I
live. She said so. Them was her very words.
I ain't never goin' to forgit 'em." And he leaned
his head in a baffled, tired way against the plank-
ing of the mill.

"Who said so, Jim?" I asked.

Jim raised his head, looked me straight in the
face and, with the tears starting in his eyes, an-
swered in a low voice :

205

THE UNDEK DOG

"Kuby. She loves 'em — ^loves every one o' 'em.
Oh, what's goin' to become o' me now, any-
how «"

"Well, but I don't — " The revelation came to
me before I could complete the sentence. Jim's
face had told the story of his heart !

"Jim," I said, laying my hand on his shoulder,
"do you love Euby ?"

"Sit down here," he said, in a hopeless, de-
spondent voice, "and mebbe I'll git grit enough to
tell ye. I ain't never told none o' the folks that
comes up here o' how things was, but I'm goin' to
tell you. And I'm goin' to tell it to ye plumb
from the beginnin', too." And a sigh like the
moan of one in pain escaped him.

"Twelve years ago I come here from l^ew York.
I'd been cleaned out o' everything I had by a man
I trusted, and I was flat broke. I didn't care
where I went, so's I got away from the city and
from people. I wanted to git somewheres out into
the country, and so I got aboard the train and kep'
on till I'd struck Plymouth. There my money
gin out and I started up the road into the moun-
tains. I thought I'd hire out to some choppers
for the winter. When night come I see a light
and knocked at the door and Jed opened it. He
wam't goin' to keep me, but he was a-buildin' the
shed where the old mare is now, and he found out I
was handy with the tools and didn't want no wages,
only my board, so he let me stay. The next spring
206

LONG JIM

lie hired me regular and give me wages every
month. I kep' along, choppin' in the winter and
helpin' 'round the place, and in summer goin' out
with the parties that come up from the city, helpin'
'em fish and hunt. I liked that, for I loved the
woods ever since I was a boy, when I used to go
off by myself and stay days and nights with noth-
in' but a tin can o' grub and a blanket. That's
why I come here when I went broke.

"One summer there come a feller from Boston
to fish. He brought his wife along, and I used to
go out with both o' 'em. The man's wife was put-
tin' up for some o'.them children's homes, and she
used to talk to Marm Marvin about takin' one o'
the children and what a comfort it would be to
the child to git out into the fresh air, and one
mornin' 'fore she left she took Jed down in the
woods and talked to him, and the week after she
left for home Marm Marvin sent me over to the
station — same place I fetched ye — and out she got
with a tag sewed on her jacket and her name on
it, and a bundle o' clothes no bigger'n your head.
She was 'bout seven or eight years old, and the
cunnin'est young un ye ever see. Jus' the same
eyes she's got now, only they looked bigger, 'cause
her cheeks was caved in."

"Not Ruby, Jim!" I cried, in astonishment.

"Yes, Euby. That's what was on the tag."

"And she isn't Marvin's child ?"

"No more'n she's youm, nor mine. She ain't
307

THE TJITOER DOG

nobody's child that anybody knows about. She's
jus' Euby, and that's all there is to her.

"Well, by the time I'd got her out to the farm,
and had beared her talk and seen her clap her
hands at the chippies, and laugh at the birds, and
go half wild over every little thing she'd see, I
knowed I'd got hold o' something that filled up
every crack o' my heart. And she didn't come a
day too soon, for Jed had got so ugly there warn't
no livin' with him, and I'd made up my mind to
quit, and I would if he hadn't took a streak ag'in
Euby at the start. Then I knowed where my trail
led. And arter that I never let her out o' my
sight. Marm Marvin was different. She never
had no child o' her own, and she warmed up to
Euby more'n more every day, and she loves her
now much as she kin love anything.

"That fust winter we had a good deal o' snow
and I made a pair o' leggins for her out o' a deer's
skin I'd killed, and rigged up a sled, and I'd haul
her after me wherever I went, and when school
opened down to the cross-roads I'd haul her down
and bring her back if the snow warn't too deep,
and when summer come she'd go 'long jus' the
same. I taught her to fish and shoot, and often
she'd stay out in camp with me all night when I
was tendin' the sugar-maples — she sleepin' on the
balsams with my coat throwed over her.

"Things went on this way till 'bout three years
ago, when I see she warn't gittin' ahead fast as
208

LONG JIM

she could, and I went for the old man to send her
to school down to Plymouth. Marm Marvin was
willin', but Jed held out, and at last he give in
after my talkin' to him. So I hooked up the buck-
board and drove her down to Plymouth and left
her, with her arms 'round my neck and the tears
streamin' down her face. But she was game all
the same, only she hated to have me leave her.

"Every July and Christmas I'd go for her, and
she'd alius be waitin' for me at the head o' the
stairs or would come runnin' down with her arms
wide open, and she'd kiss me and hug me and call
me dear Uncle Jim, and tell me how she loved me,
and how there warn't nothin' in the world she
loved so much ; and then when she'd git home we'd
tramp the woods together every chance we got."

Jim stopped and bent forward, his face in his
hands, his elbows on his knees. For a time he
was silent ; then he went on :

"This last time when I went for her she pretty
nigh took my breath away. She seemed just as
glad to see me, but she didn't git into my arms
as she useter, and she looked different, too. She
had growed every way bigger, and wider, and
older. I kep' a-lookin' at her, tryin' to find the
little girl I'd left some months afore, but she
warn't there. She acted different, too — more quiet
like and still, so that I was feared to touch her
like I useter, and took it out in talkin* to her and
listenin' to all she told me o' what she was lamin"
209

THE UNDER DOG

and how this winter she was goin' to git through
and git her certificate, and then she was goin' to
teach and help her mother — she alius called Marm
Marvin mother. Then she told me o' how one o'
the teachers — a young fellow from a college — was
goin' to set up a school o' his own and goin' to
git some o' the graduates to help teach when he
got started, and how he had asked her to be one
o' 'em, and how she was goin' with him.

"Since you been here and us three been together
and I begun to see how happy she was a-talkin' to
you and askin' you questions, I got wbrse'n ever
over her. I begun to see that I warn't what I
had been to her. When we was trampin' and fish-
in' it was all right and she'd talk to me 'bout the
ways o' the birds and what flowers come up fust
and all that, but when it got to geography and his-
tory I warn't in it with her, and you was. That
sickened me more'n ever. Pretty soon I began
to feel as if everything I had in life war slippin'
away from me. I didn't want her to shut me out
from anything she had. I wanted to have half,
same's we alius had — half for me and half for her.
Why, lately, when T lay awake nights a-thinkin' it
over, I've wished sometimes that she hadn't
growed up at all, and that she'd alius be my baby-
girl and I her Uncle Jim.

"Yesterday mornin' — " Jim's voice broke, and
he cleared his throat. "Yesterday mornin' we
went down the branch, as ye know, and she was
210

" 1 ain't got nobody but you, Ruby, don't go 'way from me, child I '

LONG JIM

a-settin' on a log throwin' her fly into the pool,
when one o' them song-sparrows lit on a bush and
looked at her, and begin to sing like he'd bust his
little chest, and she sung back at him with her
eyes a-laughin' and her hair a-flyin', and I stood
lookin' at her and my heart choked up in my
throat, and I leaned over and took the rod out o'
her hand.

" 'Baby-girl,' I says, 'there ain't a bird 'round
here that ain't got a mate ; and that's what makes
'em so happy. I ain't got nobody but you, Kuby
— don't go 'way from me, child — stay with me.'
And I told her. She looked at me startled like,
same as a deer does when he hears a dog bark;
then she jumped up and begin to cry.

" 'Oh, Jim — Jim — dear Jim !' she says. 'I
love you so, and you've been so good to me all
my life, but don't — don't never say that to me
again. That can never be — not so long as we live.'
And she dropped down on the ground and cried
till she couldn't git her breath. Then she got up
and kissed my hands and went home, leavin' me
there alone feelin' like I'd fell off a scaffoldin' and
struck the sidewalk."

Jim arose from his seat and began pacing the
platform again. I had not spoken a word through
his long story.

"Jim," I began, "how old are you ?"

"Forty-two," he said, in a patient, listless way.

"More than twice as old as Euby, aren't you ?
211

THE UNDEK DOG

Old enougb, really; to be her father. You love
her, don't you — love her for herself — ^not your-
self ? You wouldn't let anything hurt her if you
could help it. You were right when you said
every bird has its mate. That's true, Jim, and
the way it ought to be — but they mate with this
year's birds, not last year's. When men get as old
as you and I we forget these things sometimes,
but they are true all the same."

"I know it," he broke out, "I know it ; you can't
tell me nothin' about it. I thought it all over
more'n a hundred times lately. I could bite my
tongue off for sayin' what I did to her, and spilin'
her visit, but it's done now and I can't help it,
and I've got to stay here and bear it."

"No, Jim, don't stay here. So long as she sees
you around here she'll be unhappy, and you will
be equally miserable. Go away from here; find
work somewhere else."

"When?" he said, quietly.

"]N^ow; right away; before she comes back at
Christmas."

"E'o, I can't do it, and I won't. Not till she
graduates and gits her certificate. That'll be next
June."

"What's that got to do with it ?"

"Got a good deal to do with it. If I should
leave now jes's winter's comin' on I mightn't git
another job, and she'd have to come home and her
eddication be sp'ilt."

212

LONG JIM

"What would bring her home ?" I asked in sur-
prise.

"What would bring her home ?" he repeated,
with some irritation. "Why they'd send her if
the bills warn't paid — ^that's what. Marm Marvin
couldn't help her, and Jed wouldn't give her a
cent. Them school-bills, you know, I've always
paid out o' my wages — ^that's why Jed let her go.
No ; I'll stick it out here till she finishes, if it kills
me. Baby-girl sha'n't miss nothin' through me."

One beautiful spring day I swung back the gate
of a garden on the outskirts of the village of
Plymouth and walked up a flower-bordered path
to a cottage porch smothered in vines.

Euby was standing in the door, her hands held
out to me. I had not seen her for years. Her
husband had not returned yet from their school,
but she expected him every minute.

"And dear old Jim?" I asked. "What has be-
come of him?"

"Look," she said, pointing to a shambling, awk-
ward figure stooping under the apple-trees, which
were in full bloom. "There he is, picking blossoms
with little Kuby. He never leaves her for a
minute."

213

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR
—COLOGNE TO PARIS

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR
—COLOGNE TO PARIS

He was looking through a hole — a square hole,
framed about with mahogany and ground glass.
His face was red, his eyes were black, his m.us-
tache — ^waxed to two needle-points — ^was a yellow-^t
ish brown; his necktie blue and his uniform dark
chocolate seamed with little threads of vermilion
and incrusted with silver poker-chip buttons em-
blazoned with the initials of the corporation which
he served.

I knew I was all right when I read the initials.
I had found the place and the man. The place
was the ticket-office of the International Sleeping-
Car Company. The man was its agent.

So I said, very politely and in my best French
— ^it is a little frayed and worn at the edges, but
it arrives — sometimes

"A lower for Paris."

The man in chocolate, with touches of the three
primary colors distributed over his person, half-
closed his eyes, lifted his shoulders in a tired way,
loosened his fingers, and, without changing the
lay-figure expression of his face, replied:

"There is nothing."

317

THE UNDER DOG

"Not a berth?"

"Not a berth."

"Are they all paid for?" and I accented the
word paid, I spend countless nights on Pullmans
in my own country and am familiar with many
uncanny devices.

"All but one."

"Why can't I have it? It is within an hour of
train-time. Who ordered it?"

"The Director of the great circus. He is here
now waiting for his troupe, which arrives from
Berlin in a special car belonging to our company.
The other car — ^the one that starts from here — is
full. We have only two cars on this train — ^Mon-
sieur the Director has the last berth."

He said this, of course, ia his native language.
I am merely translating it. I would give it to you
in the original, but it might embarrass you; it cer-
tainly would me.

"What's the matter with putting the Circus Di-
rector in the special car? Your regulations say
berths must be paid for one hour before traia-
time. It is now fifty-five minutes of eight. Your
train goes at eight, doesn't it? Here is a twenty-
franc gold piece — ^never mind the change" — and I
flung a napoleon on the desk before him.

The bunch of fingers disentangled themselves,

the shoulders sank an inch, the waxed ends of the

taffy-colored mustache vibrated slightly, and a

smile widened in circles across the flat dulness of

218

COMPAETMENT NUMBEE FOUE

his face until it engulfed his eyebrows, ears, and
chin. The effect of the dropping of the coin had
been like the dl-opping of a stone into the still
smoothness of a pool — the wrinkling wavelets had
reached the uttermost shore-line.

The smile over, he opened a book about the size
of an atlas, dipped a pen in an inkstand, recorded
my point of departure — Cologne, and my point of
arrival — Paris; dried the inscription with a pinch
of black sand filched from a saucer — same old
black sand used in the last century — cut a section
of the page with a pair of shears, tossed the coin
in the air, listened to its ring on the desk with a
satisfied look, slipped the whole twenty-franc piece
into his pocket — regular fare, fifteen francs, ir-
regular swindle, five francs — and handed me the
billet. Then he added, with a trace of humor in
his voice:

"If Monsieur the Director of the Circus comes
now he will go in the special car."

I examined the billet. I had Compartment
Number Four, upper berth, Car 312.

I lighted a cigarette, gave my small luggage-
checks to a porter with directions to deposit my
traps in my berth when the train was ready — ^the
company's office was in the depot — and strolled out
to look at the station.

You know the Cologne station, of course. It
is as big as the Coliseum, shaped like an old-fash-
ioned hoop-skirt with a petticoat of glass, and
219

THE UNDEE DOG

connects with one of the most beautiful bridges
in the world. It has two immense waiting-rooms,
with historical frescos on the walls and two huge
fireplaces supported on nudities shivering with the
cold, for no stick of wood ever blazes on the well-
swept hearths. It has also a gorgeous restaurant,
with panelled ceiling, across which skip bunches
of butterfly Cupids in shameless costumes, and an
inviting cafe with never-dying palms in the win-
dows, a portrait of the Kaiser over the counter
holding the coffee-urn, and a portrait of the
Kaiserin over the counter holding the little sticky
cakes, the baby bottles of champagne, and the
long lady-finger sandwiches with bits of red ham
hanging from their open ends like poodle-dogs'
tongues.

Outside these ponderous rooms, under the arch-
ing glass of the station itself, is a broad platform
protected from rushing trains and yard engines by
a wrought-iron fence, twisted into most enchanting
scrolls and pierced down its whole length by slid-
ing wickets, before which stand be-capped and be-
buttoned officials of the road. It is part of the
duty of these gatemen never to let you through
these wickets until the arrival of the last possible
moment compatible with the boarding of your
car.

So if you are wise — ^that is, if you have been
left behind several times depending on the watch-
fulness of these Cerberi and their promises to let
230

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR

you know wlien your train is ready — you hang
about this gate and keep an eye out as to what is
going on. I had been two nights on the sleeper
through from Warsaw and beyond, and could
take no chances.

Then again, I wanted to watch the people com-
ing and going — it is a habit of mine; nothing gives
me greater pleasure. It has made me an expert
in judging human nature. I flatter myself that
I can teU the moment I set my eyes on a man
just what manner of life he leads, what language
he speaks, whether he be rich or poor, educated
or ignorant. I can do all this before he opens his
mouth. I have never been proud of this faculty.
I have regarded it more as a gift, as I would an
acute sense of color, or a correct eye for drawing,
or the ability to acquire a language quickly. I was
bom that way, I suppose.

The first man to approach the wicket was the
Director of the Circus. I knew him at once.
There was no question as to Jiis identity. He wore
a fifty-candle-power stone in his shirt-front, a silk
hat that shone like a new hansom cab, and a Prince
Albert coat that came below his knees. He had
taken off his ring boots, of course, and was with-
out his whip, but otherwise he was completely
equipped to raise his hat and say: "Ladies and Gen-
tlemen, the world-renowned," etc., etc., "will now
perform the blood-curdling act of," etc.

He was attended by a servant, was smooth-
231

THE UNDEE DOG

shaven, had an Oriental complexion as yellow as
the back of an old law-book, black, jet-black eyes,
and jet-black hair.

I listened for some outbreak, some explosion
about his bed having been sold from under him,
some protest about the rights of a citizen. iN'one
came. The gateman merely touched his hat, slid
back the gate, and the Director of the Greatest
Show on Earth, smiling haughtily, passed in,
crossed the platform and stepped into a wagon-lit
standing on the next track to me labelled "Paris
312," and left me behind. The gateman had had
free tickets, of course, or would have, for him-
self and family whenever the troupe should be in
Cologne. There was no doubt of it — ^I saw it in
the smile that permeated his face and the bow that
bent his back as the man passed him. This kind
of petty bribery is, of course, abominable, and
should never be countenanced.

Some members of the troupe came next. The
gentleman in chocolate with my five francs in his
pocket did not mention the name of any other
member of the troupe except the Director, but it
was impossible for me to be nustaken about these
people — ^I have seen too many of them.

She was rather an imposing-looking woman —
not young, not old — dressed in a long travelling-
cloak trimmed with fur (how well we know these
night-cloaks of the professional!), and was hold-
ing by a short leash an enormous Danish hound;
232

The Director of the Greatest Show on Earth, smiling- haughtily, passed in.

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR

one of those great hulking hounds — a hound whose
shoulders shake when he walks, with white,
blinky eyes, smooth skia, and mottled spots —
brown and gray — spattered along his back and
ribs. Trick dog, evidently — one who springs at
the throat of the assassin (the assassin has a thin
slice of sausage tucked inside his collar-button),
pulls him to the earth, and sucks his life's blood
or chews his throat. She, too, went through with
a sweep — the dog beside her, followed by a maid
carrying two band-boxes, a fur boa, and a bunch
of parasols closely furled and tied with a ribbon.
I braced up, threw out my shoulders, and walked
boldly up to the wicket. The be-buttoned and be-
capped man looked at me coldly, waved me away
with his hand, and said "Nein."

Now, when a man of intelligence, speaking the
language of the country, backed by the police, the
gendarmerie, and the Imperial Army, says "Nein"
to me, if I am away from home I generally bow
to the will of the people.

So I waited.

Then I heard the low rumble of a train and a
short high-keyed shriek — ^we used to make just
such shrieking sounds by blowing into keys when
we were boys. The St. Petersburg express was
approaching end foremost — ^the train with the
special sleeping-car holding the balance of the cir-
cus troupe. The next moment it bumped gently
into Oar No. 312, holding the Director (I won-
333

THE UNDER DOG

dered whether he had my berth), the woman with
the dog, and her maid.

The gateman paused until the train came to a
dead standstill, waited until the last arriving pas-
senger had passed through an exit lower down
along the fence, slid back the gate, and I walked
through — ^alone! Not another passenger either
before or behind me! And the chocolate gentle-
man told me the car was full! The fraud!

When I reached the steps of Car No. 312 I
found a second gentleman in chocolate and poker-
chip buttons. He was scrutinizing a list of sold
and unsold compartments by the aid of a conduc-
tor's lantern braceleted on his elbow. He turned
the glare of his lantern on my ticket, entered the
car and preceded me down its narrow aisle and
slid back the door of Number Four. I stepped
in, and discovered, to my relief, my small lug-
gage, hat-box, shawl, and umbrella, safely de-
posited in the upper berth. My night's rest, at all
events, was assured.

I found also a bald-headed passenger, who was
standing with his back to me stowing his small lug-
gage into the lower berth. He looked at me over
his shoulder for a moment, moved his bag so that
I could pass, and went on with his work. My
sharing his compartment had evidently produced
an impleasant impression.

I slipped off my overcoat, found my travelling-
cap, and was about to light a fresh cigarette when
234

COMPAETMENT NUMBEE EOUE

there came a tap at the door. Outside in the aisle
stood a man -with a silk hat in his hand.

"Monsieur, I am the Manager of the Com-
pagnie Internationale. It is my pleasure to ask
whether you have everything for your comfort. I
am going on to Paris with this same train, so I
shall be quite within your reach."

I thanked him for his courtesy, assured him
that now that all my traps were in my berth and
the conductor had shown me to my compartment,
my wants were supplied, and watched him knock
at the next door. Then I stepped out into the
aisle.

It was an ordinary European Pullman, some ten
staterooms in a row, a lavatory at one end and
a three-foot sofa at the other. "When you are un-
wilhng to take your early morning coffee on the
gritty, dust-covered, one-foot-square, propped-up-
with-a-leg table in your stuffy compartment, you
drink it sitting on this sofa. Three of these com-
partment doors were open. The woman with the
dog was in Number One. The big dog and the
maid in Number Two, and the Eing Master in
Number Three (his original number, no doubt; the
clerk had only lied) — I, of course, came next iii
Number Four.

Soon I became conscious that a discussion was

going on in the newly arrived circus-car whose

platform touched ours. I could hear the voice of a

woman and then the gruff tones of a man. Then

225

THE UNDEK DOG

a babel of sounds came sifting down tbe aisle. I
stepped over the dog, wbo had now stretched him-
self at full length in the aisle, and out on to the
platform.

A third gentleman in chocolate — ^the porter of
the circus-car and a duplicate of our own — ^was be-
ing besieged by a group of people all talking at
once and all in different tongues. A mild-eyed,
pinkrcheeked young man in spectacles was speak-
ing German; a richly dressed woman of thirty-
five, very stately and very beautiful, was inter-
polating in Eussian, and a plump, rosy-cheeked,
energetic little Englishwoman was hurling Eng-
lish in a way as pointed as it was forcible. Every-
body was excited and everybody was angry. Stand-
ing in the car-door listening intently was a French
maid and two round-faced, wide-collared boys, of
say ten and twelve. The dispute was evidently
over these two boys, as every attack contained
some direct allusion to "mes enfants" or "these
children" or "die Kinder," ending in the fore-
finger of each speaker being thrust bayonet fash-
ion toward the boys.

While I was making up my mind as to the par-
ticular roles which these several members of the
Greatest Show on Earth played, I heard the Eng-
lish girl say — ^in French, of course — ^English-
French — ^with an accent:

"It is a shame to be treated in this way. "We
have paid for every one of these compartments,
236

Everybody was excited and everybody was mad.

COMPAETMENT NUMBEE FOUR

and you know it. The young masters will not go
in those vile-smelling staterooms for the night.
It's no place for them. I will go to the office and
complain."

The third chocolate attendant, in. reply, merely
lifted his shoulders. It was the same old lift —
a tired feeling seems to permeate these gentlemen,
as if they were bored to death. A hotel clerk on
the Eiviera sometimes has this lift when he tells
you he has not a bed iu the house and you tell him
he — ^prevaricates. I knew somethiug of the lift —
it had already cost me five francs. I knew, too,
what kind of medicine that sort of tired feeling
needed, and that until the bribe was paid the
yoimg woman and her party would be bedless.

My own anger was now aroused. Here was a
woman, rather a pretty woman, an Anglo-Saxon
— ^my own race — ^iu a strange city and under the
power of a minion whose only object was plunder.
That she jumped through hoops or rode bareback
in absurdly short clothes, or sold pink lemonade in
spangles, made no difference. She was in trouble,
an.d needed assistance. I advanced with my best
bow.

"Madam, can I do anything for you?"

She turned, and, with a grateful smile, said:

"Oh, you speak English?"

I again inclined my head.

"Well, sir, we have come from St. Petersburg
by way of Berlin. We had five compartments
327

THE UNDEK DOG

through to Paris for our party when we started,
iall paid for, and this man has the tickets. He
says we must get out here and buy new tickets or
we must all go in two staterooms, which is impos-
sible — " and she swept her hand over the balance
of the troupe.

The chocolate gentleman again lifted his shoul-
ders. He had been abused in that way by passen-
gers since the day of his birth.

The richly dressed woman, another Leading
Lady doubtless, now joined in the conversation —
she probably was the trained rabbit-woman or the
girl with the pigeons — ^pigeons most likely, for
these stars are always selected by the management
for their beauty, and she certainly was beau-
tiful.

"And Monsieur" — ^this in French — again I
spare the reader — "I have given him" — ^pointing
to the chocolate gentleman — "pour boire all the
time. One hundred francs yesterday and two gold
pieces this morning. My maid is quite right — ^it is
abominable, such treatment "

The personalities now seemed to weary the at-
tendant. His elbows widened, his shoulders nearly
touched his ears, and his fingers opened; then he
went into his closet and shut the door. So far as
he was concerned the debate was closed.

The memory of my own five francs now loomed
up, and with them the recollection of the trick by
which they had been stolen from me.
228

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR

"Madam," I said, gravely, "I will bring the
manager. He is here and will see that justice is
done you."

It was marvellous to watch what followed.
The manager listened patiently to the Pigeon
Charmer's explanation of the outrage, started sud-
denly when she mentioned some details which I
did not hear, bowed as low to her reply as if she
had been a Duchess — ^his hat to the floor — slid
back the closet-door, beckoned me to step in,
closed it again upon the three of us, and in less
than five minutes he had the third chocolate gen-
tleman out of his chocolate uniform and stripped
to his underwear, with every pocket turned inside
out, bringing to light the one-hundred-franc note,
the gold pieces, and all five of the circus parties'
tickets.

Then he flung the astonished and humiliated
man his trousers, waited until he had pulled them
on, grabbed him by his shirt-collar and marched
him out of the car across the platform through the
wicket gate, every passenger on the train looking
on in wonder. Eive minutes later the whole party
— ^the stately Pigeon Charmer, her English maid,
the spectacled German (performing sword-swal-
lower or lightning calculator probably), and the
two boys (tumblers unquestionably), with all their
belongings — were transferred to my car, the Pig-
eon Charmer graciously accepting my escort, the
passengers, including the bald-headed man — ^my
229

THE UNDEE DOG

room-mate — standing on one side to let us pass:
all except the big dog, wlio had shifted his quarters,
and was now stretched out at the sofa end of the
car.

Then another extraordinary thing happened —
or rather a series of extraordinary things.

When I had deposited the Pigeon Charmer in
her own compartment (Number Five, next door),
and had entered my own, I found my bald-headed
room-mate again inside. This time he was seated
by the foot-square, dust-covered table assorting
cigarettes. He had transferred my small luggage —
bag, coat, etc. — to the lower berth, and had ar-
ranged his own belongings in the upper one.

He sprang to his feet the instant he saw me.

The bow of the Sleeping-Car Manager to the
Pigeon Charmer was but a bend in a telegraph-pole
to the sweep the bald-headed man now made me.
I thought his scalp would touch the car-floor.

"No, your Highness," he cried, "I insist" — ^this
to my protest that I had come last — that he had
prior right — ^besides, he was an older man, etc.,
etc. — "I could not sleep if I thought you were not
most comfortable — ^nothing can move me. Pardon
me — ^will not your Highness accept one of my
poor cigarettes? They, of course, are not like the
ones you use, but I always do my best. I have now
a new cigarette-girl, and she rolled them for me
herself, and brought them to me just as I was
leaving St. Petersburg. Permit me" — and he
230

COMPAETMENT NUMBEE FOUE

handed me a little leather box filled with Eussian
cigarettes.

Now, figuratively speaking, when you have
been buncoed out of five francs by a menial in a.
ticket-office, jumped upon and trampled under
foot by a gate-keeper who has kept you cooling
your heels outside his wicket while your inferiors
have passed in ahead of you — to have even a bald-
headed man kotow to you, give you the choice
berth in the compartment, move your traps him-
self, and then apologize for offering you the best
cigarette you ever smoked in your life — ^well! that
is to have myrrh, and frankincense, and oil of
balsam, and balm of Gilead poured on your ten-
derest wound.

I accepted the cigarette.

Not haughtily — ^not even condescendingly —
just as a matter of course. He had evidently
found out who and what I was. He had seen me
address the Pigeon Charmer, and had recognized
instantly, from my speech and bearing — ^both,
perhaps — that dominating vital force, that breezy
independence which envelops most Americans, and
which makes them so popular the world over.
In thus kotowing he was only getting in line with
the citizens of most of the other effete monarchies
of Europe. Every traveller is conscious of it.
His bow showed it — so did the soft purring qual-
ity of his speech. EecoUections of Manila, San-
tiago, and the voyage of the Oregon around Cape
231

THE UNDEK DOG

Horn were in the bow, and Kansas wheat, Georgia
cotton, and the Steel Trust in the dulcet tones of
his voice. That he should have mistaken me for a
great financial magnate controlling some one of
these colossal industries, instead of locating me in-
stantly as a staid, gray-haired, and rather impecu-
nious landscape-painter, was quite natural. Others
before him have made that same mistake. Why,
then, undeceive him? Let it go — ^he would leave
ia the morning and go his way, and I should never
see him more. So I smoked on, chatting pleasantly
and, as was my custom, summing him up.

He was perhaps seventy — smooth-shaven — ^black
— coal-black eyes. Dressed simply in black clothes
— ^not a jewel — ^no watch-chain even — ^no rings on
his hands but a plain gold one like a wedding-ring.
His dressing-case showed the gentleman. Bottles
with silver tops — ^brushes backed with initials —
soap in a silver cup. Ked morocco Turkish slip-
pers with pointed toes; embroidered smoking-cap —
all appointments of a man of refinement and of
means. Tucked beside his razor-case were some
books richly bound, and some bundles tied with
red tape. Like most educated Russians, he spoke
English with barely an accent.

I was not long in arriving at a conclusion. No
one would have been — no one of my experience.
He was either a despatch-agent connected with the
Government, or some lawyer of prominence, who
was on his way to Paris to look after the interests
332

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR

of some client of his ia Russisu The latter, prob-
ably. The only man on the car he seemed to know,
besides myself, was the Sleeping-Oar Manager, who
lifted his hat to him as he passed, and the Ring
Master, with whom he stood talking at the door
of his compartment. This, however, was before I
had brought the Pigeon Charmer into the car.

The cigarette smoked, I was again in the corri-
dor, the bald-headed man holding the door for me
to pass out first.

It was now nine o'clock, and we had been under
way an hour. I found the Pigeon Charmer occu-
pying the sofa. The two young Acrobats and the
Lightning Calculator were evidently in bed, and
the maid, no doubt, busy preparing her mistress's
couch for the night. She smUed quite frankly
when I approached, and motioned me to a seat be-
side her. All these professional people the world
over have unconventional manners, and an ac-
quaintance is often easily made — at least, that has
been my experience.

She began by thanking me in French for my
share in getting her such comfortable quarters —
dropped into German for a sentence or two, as if
trying to find out my nationality — and finally into
EngUsh, saying, parenthetically:

"You are English, are you not?"

No financial magnate this time — ^rather queer,
I thought — ^that she missed that part of my per-
sonality. My room-mate had recognized it, even
to the extent of calling me "Your Highness."
^33

THE UNDER DOG

"No, an American."

"Oh, an American! Yes, I should have
known — No, you are not English. You are too
kind to be English. An Englishman would not
have taken even a little bit of trouble to help us."
I noticed the race prejudice in her tone, but I did
not comment on it.

Then followed the customary conversation, I
doing most of the talking. I began by telling her
how big our country was; how many people we
had; how rich the land; how wealthy the citizens;
how great the opportunities for artists seeking dis-
tinction, etc. We all do that with foreigners.
Then I tried to lead the conversation so as to find
out something about herself — ^particularly where
she could be seen ia Paris. She was charming in
her travelling-costume — she would be superb in
low neck and bare arms, her pets snuggling under
her chin, or alighting on her upraised, shapely
hands. But either she did not imderstand, or she
would not let me see she did — the last, probably,
for most professional people dislike all reference to
their trade by non-professionals — they object to be
even mentally classed by themselves.

"While we talked on, the Dog Woman opened the
door of her compartment, knocked at the Dog's
door — ^his Dogship and the maid were inside — spat-
ted the brute on his head, and re-entered her com-
partment and shut the door for the night.

I looked for some recognition between the two
334

COMPARTMENT NUMBER FOUR

members of the same troupe, but my companion
gave not tbe slightest sign that the Dog Woman
existed. Jealous, of course, I said to myself.
That's another professional trait.

The Ring Master now passed, raised his hat and
entered his compartment. No sign of recognition;
rather a cold, frigid stare, I thought.

The Sleeping-Car Manager next stepped through
the car, lifted his hat when he caught sight of my
companion, tiptoed deferentially until he reached
the door, and went on to the next car. She ac-
knowledged his homage with a slight bend of her
beautiful head, rose from her seat, gave an order
in Russian to her Enghsh maid who was standing
in the door of her compartment, held out her hand
to me with a frank good-night, and closed the door
behind her.

I looked in on the bald-headed man. He was
tucked away in the upper berth sound asleep.

"When the next morning I moved up the long
platform of the Gare du Nord in search of a cab,
I stepped immediately behind the big Danish
hound. He was hulking along, his shoulders shak-
ing as he walked, his tongue hanging from his
mouth. The "Woman had him by a leash, her maid
following with the band-boxes, the feather boa,
and the parasols. In the crowd behind me walked
the bald-headed man, his arm, to my astonishment,
335

THE UNDEK DOG

through that of the Eing Master's. They both ko-
towed as they switched off to the baggage-room,
the King Master bowing even lower than my room-
mate.

Then I became sensible of a line of lackeys in
livery fringing the edge of the platform, and at
their head a most important-looking individual
with a decoration on the lapel of his coat. He was
surrounded by half a dozen young men, some in
brilliant uniforms. They were greeting with great
formality my fair companion of the night before!
The two Acrobats, the German Calculator, and the
English bareback-rider maid stood on one side.

My thought was that it was all an advertising
trick of the Circus people, arranged for spectacular
effect to help the night's receipts.

While I looked on in wonder, the Manager of
the Sleeping-Car Company joined me.

"I must thank you, sir," he said, "for making
known to me the outrage committed by one of our
porters on the Princess. She is travelling incog-
nito, and I did not know she was on the train un-
til she told me last night who she was. We get
the best men we can, but we are constantly having
trouble of that kind with our porters. The trick
is to give every passenger a whole compartment,
and then keep packing them together unless they
pay something handsome to be let alone. I shall
make an example of that fellow. He is a new one
and didn't know me" — and he laughed. '
236

COMPARTMENT NUMBER EOUR

"Do they call her tlie Princess?" I asked.
They were certainly receiving her like one, I
thought.

"Why, certainly, I thought you knew her,"
and he looked at me curiously, "the Princess
Dolgorouki Sliniski. Her husband, the Prince, is
attached to the Emperor's household. She is trav-
elling with her two boys and their German tutor.
The old gentleman with the white mustache now
talking to her is the Russian Ambassador. And
you only met her on the train? Old Azarian told
me you knew her intimately."

"Azarian!" I was groping round in the fog
now.

"Yes — ^your room-mate. He is an Armenian
and one of the richest bankers in Russia. He
lends money to the Czar. His brother got on with
you at Cologne. There they go together to look
after their luggage — ^they have an agency here, al-
though their main bank is in St. Petersburg. The
brother had the compartment next to that woman
with the big dog. She is the wife of a rich brewer
in Cologne, and just think — ^we must always give
that brute a compartment when she travels. Is it
not outrageous? It is against the rules, but the
orders come from up above" — and he jerked his
finger meaningly over his shoulder.

The fog was so thick now I could cut it with a
knife.

"One moment, please," I said, and I laid my
337

THE UNDEK DOa

hand on Ms elbow and looked him searchingly in
the eye. I intended now to clear things up.
"Was there a circus troupe on the train last
night?"

"No." The answer came quite simply, and I
could see it was the truth.

"Nor one expected?"

"No. There was a circus, but it went through
last week."

238

SAMMY

SAMMY

It was on the Limited: 10.30 Mght Express
out of Louisville, bound south to Nashville and
beyond.

I had lower Four.

When I entered the sleeper the porter was mak-
ing up the berths, the passengers sitting about in
each other's way imtil their beds were ready.

I laid my bag on an empty seat, threw my over-
coat over its back, and sat down to face a news-
paper within a foot of my nose. There was a
man behind it, but he was too intent on its columns
to be aware of my presence. I made an inspection
of his arms and hands and right leg, the only por-
tions of his surface exposed to view.

I noticed that the hands were strong and well-
shaped, their backs speckled with brown spots —
too well kept to have guided a plough and too
weather-tanned to have wielded a pen. The leg
which was crossed, the foot resting on the left
knee, was full and sinewy, the muscles of the thigh
well developed, and the round of the calf firmly
modelled. The ankle was small and curved like
an axe handle and looked as tough.

There are times when the mind lapses into va-
241

THE UNDER DOG

eancy. ITothing interests it. I find it so while
waiting to have my berth made up; sleep is too
near to waste gray matter.

A man's thighs, however, interest me in any
mood and at any time. While you may get a man's
character from his face, you can, if you will, get
his past life from his thigh. It is the walking
beam of his locomotion; controls his paddles and
is developed in proportion to its uses. It indi-
cates, therefore, the man's habits and his mode of
life.

If he has sat all day with one leg lapped over
the other, arm on chair, head on hand, listening or
studying — ^preachers, professors, and all the other
sedentaries sit like this — then the thigh shrinks,
the muscles droop, the bones of the ankle bulge,
and the knee-joints push through. If he delivers
mail, or collects bills, or drives a pack-mule, or
walks a tow-path, the muscles of the thigh are
hauled taut like cables, the knee-muscles keep
their place, the calves are full of knots — one big
one in a bunch just below the strap of his knicker-
bockers, should he wear them.

If he carries big weights on his back — sacks of
salt, as do the poor stevedores in Venice; or coal in
gunnies, as do the coolies in Cuba; or wine in
casks, or coffee in bags, then the calves swell ab-
normally, the thighs solidify ; the lines of beauty
are lost ; but the lines of strength remain.

If, however, he has spent his life in the saddle,
243

SAMMY

rounding up cattle, chasing Indians, hunting ban-
dits in Mexico, ankle and foot loose, his knees
clutched tightly, hugging that other part of him,
the horse, then the muscles of the thigh round out
their intended lines — ^the most subtle in the modu-
lating curving of the body. The aboriginal bare-
back rider must have been a beauty.

I at once became interested then in the man
before me, or rather in his thighs — ^the "Extra"
hid the rest.

I began to picture him to myself — ^young, blond
hair, blue eyes, drooping mustache, slouch hat
canted rakishly over one eye; not over twenty-five
years of age. I had thought forty, until a move-
ment of the paper uncovered for a moment his
waist-line which curved in instead of out. This
settled it — not a day over twenty-five, of course !

The man's fingers tightened on the edges of the
paper. He was still reading, entirely unconscious
that my knees were within two inches of his own.

Then I heard this exclamation —

"It's a damned outrage !"

My curiosity got the better of me — I coughed.

The paper dropped instantly.

"My dear sir," he said, bending forward courte-
ously and laying his hand on my wrist, "I owe you
an apology. I had no idea anyone was opposite
me."

If I was a surprise to him, he was doubly so
to me.

243

THE UNDEK DOG

My picture had vanished.

He was sixty-five, if a day; gray, with bushy
eyebrows, piercing brown eyes, heavy, well-
trimmed mustache, strong chin and nose, with
fine determined lines about the mouth. A man in
perfect health, his full throat browned with many
weathers showing above a low collar caught to-
gether by a loose black cravat — a handsome,
rather dashing sort of a man for one so old.

"I say it is a shame, sir," he continued, "the
way they are lynching the negroes around here.
Have you read the Extra ?" passing it over to me
— "Another this morning at Cramptown. It's an
infernal outrage, sir!"

I had read the "Extra," with all its sickening
details, and so handed it back to him.

"I quite agree with you," I said ; "but this man
was a brute."

"'No doubt of it, sir. We've got brutal negroes
among us, just as we've got brutal white men.
But that's no reason why we should hang them
without a trial; we still owe them that justice.
When we dealt fairly with them there was never
any such trouble. There were hundreds of plan-
tations in the South during the war where the
only men left were negroes. We trusted our wives
and children to them; and yet such outrages as
these were unheard of and absolutely impossible.
I don't expect you to agree with me, of course;
344

SAMMY

but I tell you, sir, the greatest injustice the TTorth
ever did the slave was in robbing him of his home.
I am going to have a smoke before going to bed.
Won't you join me?"

Acquaintances are quickly made and as quickly
ended in a Pullman. Men's ways lie in such di-
verse directions, and the hours of contact are often
so short, that no one can afford to be either un-
gracious or exclusive. The "buttoned-up" misses
the best part of travelling. He is like a camera
with the cap on — he never gets a new impression.
The man with the shutters of his ears thrown wide
and the lids of his eyes tied back gets a new one
every hour.

If, in addition to this, he wears the lens of his
heart upon his sleeve, and will adjust it so as to
focus the groups around him — it may be a pair of
lovers, or some tired mother, or happy child, or
lonely wayfarer, or a waif — ^he will often get a
picture of joy, or sorrow, or hope — life dramas all
— which will not only enrich the dull hours of
travel, but will leave imprints on the mind which
can be developed later into the richest and ten-
derest memories of his life.

I have a way of arranging my own sensitized
plates, and I get a certain amount of entertain-
ment out of the process, and now and then a Rem-
brandt effect whose lights and darks often thrill
me for days.

So when this unknown man, with his young legs
245

THE UNDER DOG

and his old face, asked me, on one minute's ac-
quaintance, to smoke, I accepted at once.

"I am right about it, my dear sir," he contin-
ued, biting off the end of a cigar and sharing with
me the lighted match. "The negro is infinitely
worse off than in the slave days. We never had to
hang any one of them then to make the others be-
have themselves."

"How do you account for it ?" I asked, settling
myself in my chair, (We were alone in the smok-
ing compartment.)

"Account for what?"

"The change that has come over the South —
to the negro," I answered.

"The negro has become a competitor, sir. The
interests of the black man and the white man now
lie apart. Once the white man was his friend;
now he is his rival."

His eyes were boring into mine; his teeth set
tight.

The doctrine was new to me, but I did not inter-
rupt him.

"It wasn't so in the old days. We shared what
we had with them. One-third of the cabins of
the South were filled with the old and helpless.
Now these unfortunates are out in the cold ; their
own people can't help them, and the white man
won't."

"Were you a slave-owner?" I asked, not wish-
ing to dispute the point.
246

SAMMY

"No, sir ; but my father was. He had fifty of
them on our plantation. He never whipped one
of them, and he wouldn't let anybody else strike
them, either. There wasn't one of them that
wouldn't have come back if we had had a place to
put him. The old ones are all dead now, thank
God ! — all except old Aleck ; he's around yet."

"One of your father's slaves, did you say ?"

I was tapping away at the door of his recollec-
tions, camera all ready.

"Yes ; he carried me about on his back when I
was so high," and he measured the distance with
his hand. "Aleck and I were boys together. I
was about eight and he about fifteen when my
father got him."

My companion paused, drumming on the leather
covering of his chair. I waited, hoping he would
at least open his door wide enough to give me a
glimpse inside.

"Curiously enough," he went on, "I've been
thinking of Aleck all day. I heard yesterday that
he was sick again, and it has worried me a good
deal. He's pretty feeble now, and I don't know
how long he'll last."

He flicked the ashes from his cigar, nursing his
knee with the other hand. The leg must have
pained him, for I noticed that he lifted it care-
fully and moved it on one side, as if for greater
relief.

"Rheumatism?" I ventured, sympathetically.
247

THE UNDEE DOG

"'No ; just gets that way sometimes," he replied,
carelessly. "But Aleck's got it bad; can hardly
walk. Last time I saw him he was about bent
double."

Again he relapsed into silence, smoking
quietly.

"And you tell me," I said, "that this old slave
was loyal to your family after his freedom ?"

He hadn't told me anything of the kind; but
I had found his key-hole now, and was determined
to get inside his door, even if I picked the lock
vsdth a skeleton-key.

"Aleck!" he cried, rousing himself with a
laugh; "well, I should say so! Anybody would
be loyal who'd been treated as my father treated
Aleck. He took him out of jail and gave him a
home, and would have looked after him till he
died if the war hadn't broken out. Aleck wasn't
raised on our plantation. He was a runaway from
North Carolina. There were three of them that
got across the river — a man and his wife and
Aleck. The slave-driver had caught Aleck in our
town and had locked him up in the caboose for
safe-keeping. Then he came to my father to help
him catch the other two. But my father wasn't
that kind of a man. The old gentleman had
curious notions about a good many things. He
believed when a slave ran away that the fault was
oftener the master's than the negro's. 'They are
nothing but children,' he would say, 'and you
248

SAMMT

must treat them like children. "Whipping is a
poor way to bring anybody up.'

"So when my father heard about the three run-
aways he refused to have anything to do with the
case. This made the driver anxious.

" 'Judge,' he said — my father had been a Judge
of the County Court for years — 'if you'll take the
case I'll give you this boy Aleck as a fee. He's
worth a thousand dollars.'

" 'Send for him,' said my father. 'I'll tell you
when I see him.'

"So they brought him in. He was a big, strong
boy, with powerful shoulders, black as a chunk of
coal, and had a look about him that made you trust
him at first sight. My father believed in him the
moment he saw him.

" 'What did you run away for, Aleck ?' he
asked.

"The boy held his head down.

" 'My mother died, Marster, an' I couldn't stay
dar no mo'.'

" 'I'll take him,' said my father ; 'but on con-
dition that the boy wants to live with me.'

"This was another one of the old gentleman's
notions. He wouldn't have a negro on the place
that he had to watch, nor one that wasn't happy.

"The driver opened his eyes and laughed; but
my father meant what he said, and the papers
were made out on those terms. The boy was out-
side in charge of the Sheriff while the papers were
349

THE UNDEE DOG

being drawn, and when they were signed the
driver brought him in and said :

" 'He's your property, Judge.'

" 'Aleck/ father said, 'you've heard ?'

" 'Yes, sah.'

"The boy stood with tears in his eyes. He
thought he was going to get a life-sentence. He
had never faced a judge before.

" 'Well, you're my property now, and I've got
a proposition to make to you. There's my horse
outside hitched to that post. Get on him and ride
out to my plantation, two miles from here; any-
body'U tell you where it is. Talk to my negroes
around the quarters, and then go over to Mr.
Shandon's and talk to his negroes — find out from
any one of them what kind of a master I am, and
then come back to me here before sundown and tell
me if you want to live with me. If you don't
want to live with me you can go free. Do you
understand ?'

"My father said it all over again. Aleck looked
at the driver, then at the Sheriff, and then at my
father. Then he crept out of the room, got on
the mare, and rode up the pike.

" 'You've thrown your money away,' said the
driver, shrugging his shoulders. 'You'll never
see that nigger again.'

"The Sheriff laughed, and they both went out.
Father said nothing and waited. About an hour
before sundown back came Aleck. Father always
350

SAMMY

said he never saw a man change so in four hours.
He went out crouching like a dog, his face over
his shoulder, scared to death, and he came hack
with his head up and a snap in his eye, looking
as if he could whip his weight in wildcats.

" 'I'll go wid ye, an' thank ye all my life,' was
all he said.

"Well, it got out around the village, and that
night the other two runaways — ^the man and wife
— ^they were hiding in the town — gave themselves
up, and one of our neighbors bought them both
and set them to work on a plantation next to ours,
and the driver went away happy.

"I was a little fellow then, running around
barefooted, but I remember meeting Aleck just as
if it were yesterday. He was holding the horse
while my father and the overseer stood talking on
one side. They were planning his work and where
he should sleep. I crept up to look at him. I
had heard he was coming and that he was a
runaway slave. I thought his back would be
bloody and all cut to pieces, and that he'd have
chains on him, and I was disappointed because I
couldn't see his skin through his shirt and because
his hands were free. I must have gotten too near
the mare, for before I knew it he had lifted me
out of danger.

" 'What's your name ?' I asked.

" 'Aleck,' he said ; 'an' what's your name, young
marster V

251

THE UNDER DOG

" 'Sammy,' I said.

"That's the way it hegan between us, and it's
kept on ever since. I call him 'Aleck,' and he
calls me 'Sammy' — ^never anything else, even to-
day."

"He calls you 'Sammy'!" I said, in astonish-
ment. The familiarity was new to me between
master and slave.

"Yes, always. There isn't another person in
the world now that calls me 'Sammy,' " he an-
swered, with a tremor in his voice.

My travelling-companion stopped for a moment,
cleared his throat, drew a silver match-safe
from his pocket, relighted his cigar, and con-
tinued.

"The overseer put Aleck to ploughing the old
orchard that lay between the quarters and the
house. I sneaked out to watch him as a curious
child would, still intent on seeing his wounds.
Soon as Aleck saw me, he got a board and nailed
it on the plough close to the handle for a seat,
and tied up the old horse's tail so it wouldn't
switch in my face, and put me on it, and I never
left that plough till sundown. My father asked
Aleck where he had learned that trick, and Aleck
told him he used to take his little brother that
way before he died.

"After the orchard was ploughed Aleck didn't
do a thing but look after me. We fished together
and went swimming together ; and we hunted eggs
253

SAMMY

and trapped fatbits; and when I got older and
had a gun Aleck would go along to look after the
dogs and cut down the trees when we were out for
coons.

"Once I tumbled into a catfish-hole by the dam,
and he fished me out; and once, while he had
crawled in after a woodchuck, a rock slipped and
pinned him down, and I ran two miles to get help,
and fell in a faint before I could tell them where
he was. What Aleck had in those days I had, and
what I had he had; and there was no difference
between us till the war broke out.

"I was grown then, and Aleck was six or seven
years older. We were ion the border-line, and one
morning the Union soldiers opened fire, and all
that was left of the house, barns, outbuildings, and
negro quarters was a heap of ashes.

"That sent me South, of course, feeling pretty
ugly and bitter, and I don't know that I've gotten
over it since. My father was too old to go, and he
and my mother moved into the village and lived
in two rooms over my father's office. The negroes,
of course, had to shift for themselves, and hard
shifting it was — ^the women and children herding
in the towns and the men working as teamsters
and doing what they could.

"The night before I left home Aleck crawled

out to see me. I was hidden in a hayrick in the

lower pasture. He begged me to let him go with

me, but I knew father would want him, and he

353

THE UNDER DOG

finally gave in and promised to stay with him, and
I left. But no one was his own master in those
days, and in a few months they had drafted Aleck
and carried him off.

"Three years after that my mother fell ill, and
I heard of it and came back in disguise, and was
arrested as a suspicious character as I entered the
town. I didn't blame them, for I looked like a
tramp and intended to. The next day I was let
out and went home to where my mother and father
were living. As I was opening the garden-gate —
it was night — ^Aleck laid his hand on my shoulder.
He had on the uniform of a Tlnited States soldier.
I couldn't believe my eyes at first. I had lost
track of him, and, as I found out afterward, so
had my father. "We stood under the street-lamp
and he saw the look in my face and threw his
hands up over his head as a negro does when some
sudden shock comes to him.

" 'Don't turn away f 'om me, Sammy,' he cried ;
'please don't, Sanamy. 'Tain't my fault I got on
dese clo'es, 'deed it ain't. Dey done fo'ced me.
I beared you was here an' I been tryin' to git to
ye all day. Oh, I so glad to git hold ob ye, Sam-
my, so glad, so glad.' He broke out into sobs of
crying. I was near it myself, for he was the first
one from home I had seen, and there was some-
thing in his voice that went through me.

"Then he imbuttoned his coat, felt in his
pocket, pushed something into my hand, and dis-
S54

SAMMY

appeared in the darkness. When I got inside and
held it out to the light, he had given me two five-
dollar greenbacks!

"I was sitting by my mother the next night
about ten o'clock — she wouldn't let me out of her
sight — ^when there came a rap at the door and
Aleck came in. I knew how my father would feel
about seeing him in those clothes. I didn't know
till afterward that they were all he had and that
the poor fellow was as bad off as any of us.

"Father opened upon Aleck right away, just as
I knew he would, without giving him a chance to
speak. He upbraided him for going into the
Army, told him to take his money back, and
showed him the door. The old gentleman could be
pretty savage when he wanted to, and he didn't
spare Aleck a bit. Aleck never said a word — ^just
listened to my father's abuse of him — ^his hands
folded over his cap, his eyes on the two bills lying
on the table where my father had thrown them.
Then he said, slowly:

" 'Marse Henry, I done heam ye every word.
You don't want me here no mo', an' I'm gwine
away. I ain't a-fightin' agin you an' Sammy an'
neber will — it's 'cause I couldn't help it dat I'm
wearin' dese elo'es. As to dis money dat you
won't let Sammy take, it's mine to gib 'cause I
saved it up. I gin it to Sammy 'cause I fetched
him up an' 'cause he's as much mine as he is
your'n. He'll tell ye so same's me. If you say
255

THE UNDEK DOG

I got to take dat money back I got to do it 'cause
I ain't neber dis'beyed ye an' I ain't gwiiie to
begin now. But I don't want yer ter say it, Marse
Henry — I don't want yer to say it. Tou is my
marster I know, but Sammy is my chile. An'
anudder thing, dey ain't gwine to let him stay in
dis town more'n a day. I found dat out yisterday
when I beared he'd come. Dar ain't no money
whar he's gwine, an' dis money ain't nothin' to
me 'cause I kin git mo' an' maybe Samjny can't.
Please, Marse Henry, let Sammy keep dis money.
Dere didn't useter be no diff'ence 'tween us, and
dere oughtn't to be none now.'

"My father didn't speak again — ^he hadn't the
heart, and Aleck went out, leaving the money on
the table."

Again my companion stopped and fumbled over
the matches in his safe, striking one or two ner-
vously and relighting his cigar. It was astonish-
ing how often it went out. I sat with my eyes
riveted on his face. I could see now the lines of
tenderness about his mouth and I caught certain
cadences in his voice which revealed to me but too
clearly why the negro loved him and why he must
always be only a boy to the old slave. The cigar
a-light, he went on :

"When the war closed I came home and began
to pick up my life again. Aleck had gone to Wis-
consin and was living in the same iawa as young
Cruger, one of my father's law-students. When
256

SAMMY

my father died, I telegraphed Oruger, inviting him
to serve as one of the pall-bearers, and asked him
to find Aleck and tell him. I knew he would be
hurt if I didn't let him know.

"At two o'clock that night my niece, who was
with my mother, rapped at my door. I was sitting
up with my father's body and would go down
every hour to see that everything was all right.

" 'There's a man trying to get in at the front
door,' she said. I got up at once and went down-
stairs. I could see the outlines of a man's figure
moving in the darkness, but I could not distin-
guish the features.

" 'Who is it ?' I asked, throwing open the door
and peering out.

" 'It's me, Sammy — it's Aleck. Take me to my
ole marster.'

"He came in and stood where the light fell full
upon him. I hardly knew him, he was so changed
— much older and bent, and his clothes hung on
him in rags.

"I pointed to the parlor-door, and the old man
went on tip-toe into the room and stood looking
at my father's dead face for a long time — ^the body
lay on a cot. Then he placed his hat on the floor
and got down on his knees. There was just light
enough to see his figure black against the white of
the sheet that covered the cot. For some minutes
he knelt motionless, as if in prayer, though no
sound escaped him. Then he stretched out his big
257

THE UNDEE DOG

black hand and passed it over the body, smoothing
it gently and patting it tenderly as one would a
sleeping child. By and by he leaned closer to my
father's face.

" 'Marse Henry,' I heard him say, 'please,
Marse Henry, listen. Dis yere's Aleck. Yer
wouldn't hear me the las' time but yer got ter hear
me now. It's yo' Aleck, Marster, dat's who it is.
I come soon's I could, Marse Henry, I didn't wait
a minute.' He stopped as if expecting an answer,
and went on. '1 ain't neber laid up nothin' agin
ye though, Marse Henry. When ye turned me
out dat night in the col' 'cause I had dem soger
clo'es on an' didn't want me to gin dat money to
Sammy, I knowed how yer felt, but I didn't lay it
up agin ye. I ain't neber loved nobody like I
loved you, Marse Henry, you an' Sammy. Do yer
'member when I fust come ? 'Member how ye tuk
me out o' jail, an' gin me a home ? 'Member how
ye nussed me when I was sick, an' fed me when I
was hongry, an' put clo'es on me when I was most
naked ? Nobody neber trusted me with nothin' till
you trusted me, dey jus' beat me an' hunt me.
An' don't yer 'member, Marse Henry, de time ye
gin me Sammy an' tol' me to take care on him?
you ain't forgot dat day, is yer ? He's here, Mars-
ter; Sammy's here. He's settin' outside a-watch-
in'. Him an' me togedder, same's we useter was.'

"He got upon his feet, and looked earnestly into
the dead face. Then he bent down and picked up
358

I hardly knew him, he was so changed.

SAMMY

one corner of the white sheet, and kissed it rever-
ently. He did not touch the face. "When he had
tiptoed out of the room, he laid his hand on my
shoulder. The tears were streaming down his
face:

" 'It was jes' like ye, Sammy, to send fo' me.
We knows one anudder, you an' me — ' and he
turned toward the front door.

" 'Where are you going, Aleck ?' I asked.

" 'I dunno, Sammy — some place whar I kin lay
down.'

" 'You don't leave here to-night, Aleck,' I said.
'Gro upstairs to that room next to mine — ^you know
where it is — and get into that bed.' He held up
his hand and begaji to say he couldn't, but I in-
sisted.

"The next morning was Sunday. I saw when
he came downstairs that he had done the best he
could with his clothes, but they were still pretty
ragged. I asked him if he had brought any others,
but he told me they were all he had. I didn't say
anything at the time, but that afternoon I took him
to a clothing store, had it opened as a favor to me,
and fitted him out with a suit of black, and a shirt,
and shoes and a hat — everything he wanted— and
got him a carpet-bag, and told Abraham, the
clothier, to put Aleck's old things into it, and he
would call for them the next day.

"When we got outside, Aleck looked himself all
over — along his sleeves, over his waistcoat and
259

THE UNDER DOG

down to his shoes. He seemed to be thinking about
something. He would start to speak to me and
stop and look over his clothes again, testing the
quality with his fingers. Finally he laid his hand
on my arm, and, with a curious, beseeching look
in his eyes, said:

" 'Sammy, all yesterday, when I was a-comin',
I was a-studyin' about it, an' I couldn't git it out'n
my mind. It come to me agin when I saw Marse
Henry las' night, an' I wanted to tell him. But
when I got up dis mawnin' an' see myself I
knowed I couldn't ask ye, Sammy, an' I didn't.
ISTow I got dese clo'es, it's come to me agin. I kin
ask ye now, an' I don't want ye to 'fuse me. I
want ye to let me drive my marster's body to de
grave.'

"I held out my hand, and for an instant neither
of us spoke.

" 'Thank ye, Sammy,' was all he said."

Again my companion's voice broke. Then he
went on :

"When the carriages formed in line I saw Aleck
leaning against the fence, and the undertaker's
man was on the hearse. I caught Aleck's eye and
beckoned to him.

" 'What's the matter, Aleck ? Why aren't you
on the hearse ?'

" 'De undertaker man wouldn't let me, Sam-
my; an' I didn't like to 'sturb you an' de
mistis.'

260

SAMMY

"The tears stood in his eyes.

" 'Go find him and bring hina to me,' I said.

"When he came I told him the funeral would
stop where it was if he didn't carry out my
orders.

"He said there was some mistake, though I
didn't believe it, and went off with Aleck. As
we turned out of the gate and into the road I
caught sight of the hearse, Aleck on the box. He
sat bolt upright, head erect, the reins in one hand,
the whip resting on his knee, as I had seen him
do so often when driving my father — grave, dig-
nified, and thoughtful, speaking to the horses in
low tones, the hearse moving and stopping as each
carriage would be filled and driven ahead.

"He wouldn't drive the hearse back; left it
standing at the gate of the cemetery. I heard the
discussion, but I couldn't leave my mother to
settle it.

" 'I ain't gwine to do it,' I heard him say to
the undertaker. 'It was my marster I was 'tendin'
on, not yo' horses. You can drive 'em home yo'-
self.' "

My companion settled himself in his chair,
rested his head on his hand, and closed his eyes.
I remained silent, watching him. His cigar had
gone out; so had mine. Once or twice a slight
quiver crossed his lips, then his teeth would close
tight, and again his face would relapse into calm
impassiveness.

261

THE UNDEE DOG

At this instant the curtains of the smoking-room
parted and the Pullman porter entered.

"Your berth's all ready, Major," said the
porter.

My companion rose from his chair, straightened
his leg, held out his hand, and said:

"Tou can understand now, sir, how I feel about
these continued outrages. I don't mean to say
that every man is like Aleck, but I do mean to say
that Aleck would never have been as loyal as he
is but for the way my father brought him up.
Good-night, sir."

He was gone before I could do more than ex-
press my thanks for his confidence. It was just as
well — any further word of mine would have been
superfluous. Even my thanks seemed out of
place.

In a few minutes the porter returned with,
"Lower Four's all ready, sir."

"All right, I'm coming. Oh, porter."

"Yes, sir."

"Porter, come closer. Who is that gentleman
I've been talking to ?"

"That's Major Sam Gamett, sir."

"Was he in the war ?"

"Yes, sir, he was, for a fact. He was in de

Cavalry, sir, one o' Morgan's Eaiders. Got more'n

six bullets in him now. I jes' done helped him

off wid his wooden leg. It was cut off below de

362

SAMMY

knee. His old man Aleck most generally takes
care of dat leg. He didn't come wid him dis trip.
But he'll be on de platform in de momin' a-waitin'
for him."

363

MARNY'S SHADOW

MARNY'S SHADOW

If you know the St. Nicholas — and if you don't
you should make its acquaintance at once — ^you
won't breakfast upstairs in that gorgeous room
overlooking the street where immaculate, smileless
waiters move noiselessly about, limp palms droop
in the corners, and the tables are lighted with imi-
tation wax candles burning electric wicks hooded
by ruby-colored shades, but you will stumble down
a dark, crooked staircase to the left of the office-
desk, push open a swinging, green baize door
studded with brass tacks, pass a comer of the bar
resplendent in cut glass, and with lowered head slip
into a little box of a place built under the side-
walk.

Here of an afternoon thirsty gentlemen sip their
cocktails or sit talking by the hour, the smoke from
their cigars drifting in long lines out the open door
leading to the bar, and into the caffe beyond. Here
in the morning himgry habitues take their first
meal — ^those whose life-tickets are punched with
much knowledge of the world, and who, therefore,
know how much shorter is the distance from where
they sit to the chef's charcoal fire.

Marny has one of these same ragged life-tickets
267

THE UNDEE DOG

bearing puncli-inarka made the world over, and so
whenever I journey his way we always breakfast
together in this cool, restful retreat, especially of a
Sunday morning.

On one of these mornings, the first course had
been brought and eaten, the cucumbers and a
special mysterious dish served, and I was about to
light a cigarette — we were entirely alone — when a
well-dressed man pushed open the door, leaned for
a moment against the jamb, peered into the room,
retreated, appeared again, caught sight of Marny,
and settled himself in a chair with his eyes on the
painter.

I wondered if he were a friend of Marny's, or
whether he had only been attracted by that glow
of geniality which seems to radiate from Marny's
pores.

The intruder differed but little in his manner
of approach from other strangers I had seen hover-
ing about my friend, but to make sure of his
identity — ^the painter had not yet noticed the man
— I sent Marny a Marconi message of inquiry with
my eyebrows, which he answered in the negative
with his shoulders.

The stranger must have read its meaning, for
he rose quickly, and, with an embarrassed look on
his face, left the room.

"Wanted a quarter, perhaps," I suggested,
laughing.

"No, guess not. He's just a Diffendorfer. Al-
268

MAKNY'S SHADOW

ways some of them round Sunday mornings.
That's a new one, never saw him before. In town
over night, perhaps."

"What's a Diffendorfer?"

"Did you never meet one?"

"No, never heard of one."

"Oh, yes, you have; you've seen lots of them."

"Do they belong to any sect?"

"No."

"What are they, then?"

"Just Diffendorfers. Thought I'd told you
about one whom I knew. No? Wait till I light
my cigar; it's a long story."

"Anything to do with the fellow who's just
gone out?"

"Not a thing, though I'm sure he's one of
them. You'll find Diffendorfers everywhere.
First one I struck was in Venice, some years ago.
I can pick them out now at sight." Marny struck
a match and lighted his cigar. I drew my cup of
coffee toward me and settled myself in my chair
to listen.

"You remember that little smoking-room to the
right as you enter the Gaffe Quadri," he began;
"the one off the piazza? Well, a lot of us fellows
used to dine there — Whistler, Eico, Old Ziem,
Eoscoff, Fildes, Blaas, and the rest of the gang.

"Jimmy was making his marvellous pastels that
year" (it is in this irreverent way that Marny
often speaks of the gods), "and we used to crowd
269

THE UNDEK DOG

into the little room every night to look them over.
We were an enthusiastic lot of Bohemians, each
one with an opinion of his own about any subject
he happened to be interested in, and ready to back
it up if it took all night. Whistler's pastels, how-
ever, took the wind out of some of us who thought
we could paint, especially Koscoff, who prided
himself on his pastels, and who has never forgiven
Jimmy to this day.

"Well, one night, Auguste, the head-waiter —
you remember him, he used to get smuggled cigar-
ettes for us; that made him suspicious; always
thought everybody was a spy — pointed out a man
sitting just outside the room on one of the leather-
covered seats. Auguste said he came every even-
ing and got as close as he could to our table with-
out attracting attention; close enough, however, to
hear every word that was said. If I knew the man
it was all right; if I didn't know him, he suggested
that I keep an eye on him.

"I looked around, and saw a heavy-featured,
dull-looking man about twenty-five, dressed in a
good suit of well-cut clothes, shiny stove-pipe silk
hat, high collar with a good deal of necktie, a big
pearl pin, and a long gold watch-chain which went
all around his neck like an eye-glass ribbon. He
had a smooth-shaven face, two keen eyes, a flat
nose, square jaw, and a straight line of a mouth.

"I didn't know the man, didn't want to know
him, fellows in silk hats not being popular with
370

MARNY'S SHADOW

us, and I didn't keep an eye on him except long
enough to satisfy myself that the man was only
one of those hungry travellers who was adding to
his stock of information by picking up the crumbs
of conversation which fell from the tables, and not
at all the kind of a person who would hold me or
anybody else up in a sotto portico or chuck me over
a bridge. Then again, I was twenty pounds
heavier than he was, and could take care of myself.

"Some nights after this I was dining alone, none
of the boys having shown up owing to a heavy
rain, when Auguste nudged me, and there sat this
stranger within ten feet of my table. He dropped
his eyes when he saw me looking at him, and be-
gan turning the sheets of a letter he had in his
hand. I was smoking one of Auguste's cigarettes,
and checking the menu with a lead-pencil, when
it slipped from my hand and rolled between the
man's feet. He rose, picked up the pencil, laid it
beside my plate, and without a word returned to
his seat, that same curious, inquisitive, hungry
look on his face you saw a moment ago on that fel-
low's who has just gone out. Auguste, of course,
lost all interest in my dinner. If he wasn't after
me then he was after him; both meant trouble for
Auguste.

"I shifted my chair, opened the 'Gazetta' to

serve as a screen, and looked the fellow over. If

he were following me around to murder me, as

Auguste concluded — ^he always had some cock-and-

271

THE UNDEK DOG

bull story to tell — ^he was certainly very polite
about it. I could see that he was not an Italian,
neither was he a German nor a Frenchman. He
looked more like a well-to-do Dutchman — ^like one
of those young fellows you and I used to see at the
Harmonie Club in Dordrecht, or on the veranda
of the Amstel, in Amsterdam, They look more
like Americans than any other people in Europe.

"The next night I was telling the fellows some
stories, they crowding about to listen, when
Auguste whispered in my ear. I turned, and
there he was again, his eyes watching every mouth-
ful I swallowed, his ears taking in everything that
was said. The other fellows had noticed him now,,
and had christened him 'Marny's Shadow.' One
of them wanted to ask him his business, and fire
him into the street if it wasn't satisfactory, but I
wouldn't have it. He had said nothing to me or
anybody else, nor had he, so fax as I knew, fol-
lowed me when I went out. He had a perfect
right to dine where he pleased if he paid for it —
and he did — so Auguste admitted, and liberally,
too. He could look at whom he pleased. The fact
is, that but for Auguste, who was scared white half
the time, fearing the Government would get on to
his cigarette game, no one would have noticed him.
Besides, the fellow might have his own reasons for
remaining incog., and if he did we all knew he
wouldn't have been the first one.

"A few days after this I was painting up the
273

MAENY'S SHADOW

Zattere near San Rosario — I was making the
sketch for that big Giudecca picture — the one that
went to Munich that year — you remember it? — lot
of figures around a fruit-stand, with the church on
the right and the Giudecca and Lagoon beyond —
and had my gondolier Marco posing some twenty
feet away with his back turned toward me, when
my mysterious friend walked out from a little calle
this side of the church, looked at Marco for a mo-
ment without turning his head — he didn't see me
— and stopped at a door next to old Pietro Vami's
wine-shop. He hesitated a moment, looking up
and down the Zattere, opened the door with a key
which he took from his pocket, and disappeared in-
side. I beckoned to Marco, and sent him to the
wine-shop to find Pietro. When he came (Pietro
was agent for the lodging-rooms above, and let
them out to swell painters — we couldn't afford
them — ^fifty lira a week, some of them more I
said:

" 'Pietro, did you see the chap that went up-
stairs a few moments ago?'

" 'Yes, signore.'

" 'Do you know who he is?'

" 'Yes, he is one of my gentlemen. He has the
top floor — the one that Signore Almadi used to
live in. The Signore Almadi is gone away.'

" 'How long has he been here?'

" 'About a month.'

" 'Is he a painter ?'

273

THE UNDEE DOG

" 'No, I don't think so.'

" 'What is he, then?'

" 'Ah, Signore, who can tell? At first his let-
ters were sent to me — ^now he gets them himself.
The last were from Monte Carlo, from the Hotel
— Hotel — I forget the name. But why does the
Signore want to know? He pays the rent on the
day — that is much better.'

" 'Where does he come from?'

"Pietro shrugged his shoulders.

" 'That will do, Pietro.'

"There was evidently nothing to be gotten out
of him.

"The next day we had another rainstorm —
regular deluge. This time it came down in sheets;
campos running rivers; gondolas half full of wa-
ter, everything soaked. I had a room in the top
of the Palazzo da Mula on the Grand Canal just
above the Salute and within a step of the tra-
ghetto of San Giglio. By going out of the rear
door and keeping close to the wall of the houses
skirting the Fondamenta San Zorzi, I could reach
the traghetto without getting wet. The Quadri
was the nearest caffe, anyhow, and so I started.

"When I stepped out of the gondola on the
other side of the canal and walked up the wooden
steps to the level of the Campo, my mysterious
friend moved out from under the shadow of the
traghetto box and stood where the light from the
lantern hanging in front of the Madonna fell upon
374

MAKNY'S SHADOW

his face. His eyes, as usual, were fixed on mine.
He had evidently been waiting idv me.

"I thought I might just as well end the thing
then as at any other time. There was no question
now in my mind that the fellow meant business.

"I turned on him squarely.

" 'You waiting for me?'

" 'Yes.'

" 'What for?'

" 'I want you to go to dinner with me.'

" 'Where?'

" 'Anywhere you say.'

" 'I don't know you.'

" 'Yes, that's what I thought you would say.'

" 'Do you know me?'

" 'No.'

" 'Know my name?'

" 'Yes, your name's Mamy.'

" 'What's yours?'

" 'Mine's DifFendorfer.'

" 'Where do you want to dine?'

" 'Anywhere you say. How will the Quadri
do?'

" 'In a private room?' I said this to see how
he would take it. He still stood in the full glare
of the lantern.

" 'No, unless you prefer. I would rather dine
downstairs — more people there.'

" 'AH right— lead the way, I'll follow.'

"It was the worst night that you ever saw.
375

THE UNDEE DOG

Hardly a soul in the streets. It had set in for a
three days', storm, I knew; we always had them in
Venice during December. My friend kept right
on without looking behind him or speaking to me;
over the bridge, through the Oampo San Moise and
so on to the Piazza and the caffe. There were only
haK a dozen fellows inside when we entered.
These greeted me with the yell of welcome we
always gave each other on entering, and which this
time I didn't return. I knew they would open
their eyes when they saw us sit down together, and
I didn't want any complications by which I would
be obliged to introduce him to anybody. I hated
not to be decent, but you see I didn't know but
I'd have to hand him over to the police before I
was through with him, and I wanted the respon-
sibility of his acquaintance to devolve on me
alone. Eoscoff either wouldn't or didn't take in
the situation, for he came up when we were seated,
leaned over my chair, and put his arm around my
neck. I saw a shade of disappointment cross my
companion's face when I didn't present Eoscoff to
him, but he said nothing. But I couldn't help it
— ^I didn't see anything else to do. Then again,
Eoscoff was one of those fellows who would never
let you hear the end of it if anything went
wrong.

"The man looked at the bill of fare steadily for
some minutes, pushed it over to me, and said: 'You
order.'

276

o

73

3

i2

MAEISTY'S SHADOW

"There was nothing gracious in the way he said
it — more like a command than anything else. It
nettled me for a moment. I don't like your but-
toned-up kind of a man that gives you a word now
and then as grudgingly as if he were doling out
pennies from a pocket-book. But I kept still.
Then I was on a voyage of discovery. The tones
of his voice jarred on me, I must admit, and I an-
swered him in the same peremptory way. Not
that I had any animosity toward him, but so as to
meet him on his own ground.

" 'Then it will be the regular table d'hote din-
ner with a pint of Chianti for each,' I snapped out.
'Will that suit you?'

" 'Yes, if you like Chianti.'

" 'I do when it's good.'

" 'Do you like anything better?' he asked, as if
he were cross-questioning me on the stand.

" 'Yes.'

" 'What?'

" 'Well, ValpocelU of '82.' That was the best
wine in their cellar, and cost ten lire a bottle.

" 'Is there anything better than that?' he de-
manded.

" 'Yes, Valpocelli of '71. TUHy lire a bottle.
They haven't a drop of it here or anywhere
else.'

"Auguste, who had been half-paralyzed when
we sat down, and who, in his bewilderment, had
not heard the conversation, reached over and
277

THE UNDEE DOG

placed the ordinary Chianti included in the price
of the dinner at my elbow.

"The man raised his eyes, looked at Auguste
with a peculiar expression, amounting almost to
disgust, on his face, and said:

" 'I didn't order that. Take that stuff away and
bring me a bottle of '82 — a quart, mind you — ^if
you haven't the '71.'

"All through the diimer he talked in monosyl-
lables, answering my questions but offering few
topics of his own; and although I did my best to
draw him out, he made no statement of any kind
that would give me the slightest clew as to his an-
tecedents or that would lead up either to his occu-
pation or his purpose in seeking me out. He
didn't seem to wish to conceal anything about him-
self, although of course I asked him no personal
questions, nor did he pump me about my affairs.
He was just one of those dull, lifeless conversa-
tionalists who must be probed all the time to get
anything out of. Before I was half through the
dinner I wondered why I had bothered about him
at all.

"All this time the fellows were off in one comer
watching the whole affair. When Auguste
brought the '82, looking like a huge tear bottle
dug up from where it had rusted for two thousand
years, Koscoff gave a gasp and crossed the room
to tell Billy Wood that I had struck a millionnaire
who was going to buy everything I had painted,
278

MAENY'S SHADOW

including my big picture for the Salon, all of which
was about as close as that idiot Koscoff ever got
to anything.

"When the bill was brought Diffendorfer turned
his back to me, took out a roll of bills from his hip-
pocket, and passed a new bank-note to Auguste
with a contemptuous side wiggle of his forefinger
and the remark in English in a tone intended for
Auguste's ear alone: ''No change.'

"Auguste laid the bill on his tray and walked
up to the desk with a face struggling between joy
over the fee and terror for my safety. A fellow
who lived on ten-lire wine and who gave money
away like water must murder people for a living
and have a cemetery of his own in which to bury
his dead. He evidently never expected to see me
alive again.

"Dinner over and paid for, my host put on his
coat, said 'Good-night' with rather an embarrassed
air, and without looking at anyone in the room —
not even Eoscoff, who made a move as if to inter-
cept him — Eoscoff had some pictures of his own to
sell — ^walked dejectedly out of the caffe and disap-
peared in the night.

"When I crossed the traghetto the following
evening the storm had not abated. It was worse
than on the previous night; the wind was blowing
a gale and whirling the fog into the narrow streets
and choking up the archways and sotti portici.

"As my foot touched the flagging of the Oampo,
379

THE UNDEK DOG

Diffendorfer stepped forward and laid his hand on
my arm.

" 'You are late,' he said. He spoke in the same
crisp way he had the night before. Whether it
was an assumed air of bravado, or whether it was
his natural ugly disposition, I couldn't tell. It
jarred on me again, however, and I walked on.

"He stepped quickly in front of me, as if to bar
my way, and said, in a gentler tone:

" 'Don't go away. Oome dine with me.'

" 'But I dined with you yesterday.'

" 'Yes, I know — and you hated me afterward.
I'll be better this time.'

" 'I didn't hate you, I only '

" 'Yes, you did, and you had reason to. I wasn't
myself, somehow. Try me again to-day.'

"There was something in his eyes — a troubled,
disappointed expression that appealed to me — and
so I said:

" 'AH right, but on one condition : it's my dinner
this time.'

" 'And my wine,' he answered, and a satisfied
look came into his face.

" 'Yes, your wine. Oome along.'

"The fellow's blunt, jerky way of speaking had
somehow made me speak in the same way. Our
talk sounded just like two boys who had had a
fight and who were forced to shake hands and
make up. My own curiosity as to who he might
be, what he was doing in Venice, and why he was
280

MAENY'S SHADOW

pursuing me, was now becoming aroused. That
he should again throw himself in my way after
the stupid dinner of the night before only deep-
ened the mystery.

"When we got inside, just as we were taking
our seats at one of the small tables in that side room
off the street, a shout of laughter came from the
next room — the one we fellows always dined in. I
had determined to get inside of the fellow at this
sitting, and thought the more retired table better
for the purpose. Diffendorfer jumped to his feet
on hearing the laughter, peered into the room, and,
picking up his wet umbrella, said:

" 'Let's go in there — more people.' I followed
him, and drew out another chair from a table op-
posite one at which Koscoff, Woods, and two or
three of the boys were dining. They all nudged
each other when we came in, and a wink went
around, but they didn't speak. They behaved pre-
cisely as if I had a girl in tow and wanted to be
left alone.

"This dinner was exactly like the first one.
Diffendorfer ordered the same wine — ^Valpocelli,
'82, and ate each course that Auguste brought him,
with only a word now and then about the weather,
the number of people in Venice, and the dishes.
The only time when his face lighted up was when
a chap named Oruthers, from Munich, who ar-
rived that morning and who hadn't been in Venice
for years, came up and slapped me on the back and.
!J8X

THE UlSTDEE DOG

hollered out as he dragged up a chair and sat down
beside me: 'Glad to see you, old man; what are
you drinkiag?'

"I reached for the '82 — ^there was only a glass
left — and was moving the bottle within reach of
my friend's hand when Diffendorfer said to Au-
guste:

" 'Bring another quart of '82;' then he turned
and said to the Munich chap: 'Sorry, sir, it isn't
the '71, but they haven't a bottle in the house.'

"I was up a tree, and so I said:

" 'Cruthers, let me presept you to my friend,
Mr. Diffendorfer.' My companion at mention of
his name sprang up, seized Oruthers's fingers as if
he had been a long-lost brother, and pretty nearly
shook his hand off. Cruthers said in reply:

" 'I'm very glad to meet you. If you're a friend
of Mamy's you're all right. You've got all you
ought to have in this world.' You must have
known Cruthers — he was always saying that kind
of frilly things to the boys. Then they both sat
down again.

"After this quite a different expression came
into the man's face. His embarrassment, or ugli-
ness of temper, or whatever it was, was gone. He
jumped up again, insisted upon filling Cruthers's
glass himself, and when Cruthers tasted it and
winked both of his eyes over it, and then got up
and shook Diffendorf er's hand a second time to let
him know how good he thought it was, and how

MARNY'S SHADOW

proud he was of being his guest, Diffendorfer's
face even broke out into a smile, and for a moment
the fellow was as happy as anybody about him,
and not the chump he had been with me. He was
evidently pleased with Oruthers, for when Cruthers
refused a third glass he said to him: 'To-morrow,
perhaps' — and, beckoning to Auguste, said, in a
voice loud enough for us all to hear: 'Put a cork in
it and mark it; we'll finish it to-morrow.'

"Cruthers made no reply, not considering him-
seK, of course, as one of the party, and, nodding
pleasantly to my companion, joined Woods's table
again.

"When dinner was over, Diffendorfer put on his
hat and coat, handed me my umbrella, and said:

" 'I'm going home now. Walk along with
me?'

"It was still raining, the wind rattling the
swinging doors of the caffe. I did not answer for
a moment. The dinner had left me as much in
the dark as ever, and I was trying to make up my
mind what to do next.

" 'Why not stay here and smoke?' I asked.

" 'No, walk along with me as far as the tra-
ghetto, please,' and he laid his hand in a half-
pleading way on my arm.

"Again that same troubled look in his face that

I had seen once before made me alter my mind.

I threw on my coat, picked up my umbrella, nodded

to the boys, who looked rather anxiously after me,

383

THE UNDEK DOG

and plunged through the door and out into the
storm.

"It was the kind of a night that I love, — a regu-
lar howler. Most people think the sunshine makes
Venice, but they wouldn't think so if they could
study it on one of these nights when a nor'easter
whirls up out of the Adriatic and comes roaring
across the lagoons as if it would swallow up the
dear old girl and sweep her into the sea. She don't
mind it. She always comes up smiling the next
day, looking twice as pretty for her bath, and I'm
always twice as happy, for I've seen a whole lot of
things I never would have seen in the daylight.
The Campanile, for one thing, upside down in the
streaming piazza; slashes of colored light from the
shop-windows soaking into the rain-pools; and
great, black, gloomy shadows choking up alleys,
with only a single taper peering out of the dark-
ness like a burglar's lantern.

"When we turned to breast the gale — ^the rain
had almost ceased — and struggled on through the
Ascensione, a sudden gust of wind whirled my um-
brella inside out, and after that I walked on ahead
of him, stopping every now and then to enjoy the
grandeur of it all, until we reached the traghetto.
When we arrived, only one gondola was on duty,
the gondolier muffled to his eyes in glistening oil-
skins, his sou'wester hat tied under his chin.

"Once on the other side of the Canal it started
in to rain again, and so Diflfendorf er held his own
284

MARNY'S SHADOW

umbrella over me until we reached my gate on tlie
Fondamenta San Zorzi, in the rear of my quarters.
He stood beside me under the flare of the gas-jets
while I fumbled in my pocket for my night-key —
I had about decided to invite him in and pump him
dry — and then said:

" 'I live a little way from here; don't go in;
come home with me.'

"A strange feeling now took possession of me,
which I could not account for. The whole plot
rushed over me with a force which I must confess
sent a cold chill down my back. I began to think:
This man had forced himseK upon me not once,
but twice; had set up the best bottle of wine he
could buy, and was now about to steer me into a
den. Then the thought rose in my mind — I could
handle any two of him, and if I give way now and
he finds I am over-cautious or suspicious, it will
only make it worse for me when I see him again.
This was followed by a common-sense view of the
whole situation. The mystery in it, after all, if
there was any mystery, was one of my own mak-
ing. To ask a man who had been dining with you,
to come to your lodging was neither a suspicious
nor an unusual thing. Besides, while he had been
often brusque, and at times curt, he had shown me
nothing but kindness, and had tried only to please
me.

"My mind was made up instantly. I deter-
mined to follow the affair to the end.
285

THE UNDER DOG

" 'Yes, I'll go,' and I pulled my itmbrella into
shape, opened it with a flop, and stepped from the
shelter of the doorway into the pelt of the driving
rain.

"We kept on up the Fondamenta, crossed the
bridge by the side of the Canal of San Vio as far
as the Gaffe Oalcina, and then out on the Zattere,
which was being soused with the waves of the
Giudecca breaking over the coping of its pave-
ment. Hugging the low wall of Clara Montalba's
garden, he keeping out of the wind as best he
could, we passed the church of San Kosario and
stopped at the same low door opening into the
buUding next to Pietro's wine-shop — the one I had
seen him enter when I was painting. The caffe
was still open, for the glow of its lights streamed
out upon the night and was reflected in the rain-
drenched pavement. Then a bought struck
me:

" 'Come in here a moment,' I said to him, and
I pushed in Pietro's door.

" 'Pietro,' I called out, so that everybody in the
caffe could hear, 'I'm going up to Mr. Diffendor-
fer's room. Better get a fiasco of Chiauti ready
— the old kind you have in the cellar. Whein I
want it I'll send for it.' If I was going into a trap
it was just as well to let somebody know whom I
was last seen with. The boys had seen me go out
with him, but nobody knew where he lived or
where he had taken me. I was ashamed of it as
286

MAENY'S SHADOW

soon as I had said it, but somehow I felt as if it
were just as well to keep my eyes open.

"Diffendorfer pushed past me and called out to
Pietro, in a half -angry tone:

" '^0, don't you send it. I've got all the wine
we'll want,' turned on his heel, held his door
open for me to pass in, and slammed it behind
us.

"It was pitch-dark inside as we mounted the
stairs one step at a time until we reached the sec-
ond flight, where the light from a smouldering
wick of a fiorentina set in a niche in the wall shed
a dim glow. At the sound of our footsteps a door
•was opened in a passageway on our left, a head
thrust out, and as suddenly withdrawn. The same
thing happened on the third landing. Diffendor-
fer paid no attention to these intrusions, and kept
on down a long corridor ending in a door. I didn't
like the heads — ^it looked as if they were waiting
for Diffendorfer to bring somebody home, and
so I slipped my umbrella along in my hand until
I could use it as a club, and waited in the dark
tmtil he had found the key-hole, unlocked the door,
and thrown it open. All I saw was the gray light
of the windows opposite this door, which made a
dim silhouette of Diffendorfer's figure. Then I
heard the scraping of a match, and a gas-jet
flashed.

" 'Come in,' called Diffendorfer, in a cheery
tone. 'Wait till I punch up the fire. Here, take
287

THE UNDEK DOG

this seat,' and lie moved a great chair close to the
grate.

"I have seen a good many rooms in my time, but
I must say this one took the breath out of me for
an instant. The walls were hung in old tapestries,
the furniture was of the rarest. There were three
or four old armchairs that looked as if they had
been stolen out of the Doge's Palace.

"Diffendorfer continued punching away at the
fire until it burst into a blaze.

"In another moment he was on his feet again,
saying he had forgotten something. Then he en-
tered the next room — there were three in the suite
— unlocked a closet, brought back a mouldy-look-
ing bottle and two Venetian glasses, moved up a
spider-legged, inlaid table, and said, as he placed
the bottle and glasses beside me:

" 'That's the Yalpocelli of 'Yl. You needn't
worry about helping yourself; I've got a dozen bot-
tles more.'

"I thought the game had gone far enough now,
and I squared myself and faced him.

" 'See here, Mr. Diffendorfer,' I said, 'before I
take your wine I've got some questions to ask you.
I'm going to ask them pretty straight, too, and I
want you to answer them exactly in the same way.
You have followed me round now for two weeks.
You invite me to dimier — ^a man you have never
seen before — and when I come you sit like a bump
on a log, and half the time I can't get a word out
288

MAENY'S SHADOW

of you. You spend your money on me like water
— none of which I can return, and you know it —
and when I tell you I don't like that sort of thing
you double the expense. Now, what does it all
mean? Who are you, anyway, and where do you
come from? If you're all right there's my hand,
and you'll find it wide open.'

"He dropped into his chair, put his head into
his hands for a moment^ and said, in a greatly al-
tered tone:

" 'If I told you, you wouldn't understand.'

" 'Yes, I would.'

" 'No, you wouldn't — you couldn't. You've had
everything you wanted all your life — ^I haven't
had anything.'

"'Me! — ^what rot! You've got a chair under
you now that will sell for more money than I see
in a year.'

" 'Yes — and nobody to sit in it; not a man who
knows me or wants to know me.'

" 'But why did you pick me out ?'

" 'Because you seemed to be the kind of a man
who would understand me best. I watched you
for weeks, though you didn't know it. You've got
people who love you for yourself. You go into
Florian's or the Quadri and you can't get a chance
to swallow a mouthful for fellows who want to
shake hands with you and slap you on the back.
When I saw that, I got up coiu-age enough to speak
to you.

289

THE UNDEK DOG

" 'When that first night you wouldn't introduce
me to your friend EoscofF, I saw how it was and
how you suspected me, and I came near giving it
up. Then I thought I'd try again, and if you
hadn't introduced Mr. Cruthers to me, and if he
hadn't drank my wine, I would have given it up.
But I don't want them to like me because I'm with
you. I want them to like me for myself, so they'll
be glad to see me when I come in, just as they are
glad to see you.

" 'I come from Pennsylvania. My father owns
the oil-wells at Stockville. He came over from
Holland when he was a boy. He sent me over
here six months ago to learn something about the
world, and told me not to come back till I did. I
got to Paris, and T couldn't find a soul to talk to
but the hotel porter; then I kept on to Lucerne,
and it was no better there. When I got as far as
Dresden I mustered up courage to speak to a man
in the station, but he moved off, and I saw him
afterward speaking to a policeman and pointing to
me. Then I came on down here. I thought
maybe if I got some good rooms to live in where
people could be comfortable, I could get somebody
to come in and sit down. So I bought this lot of
truck of an Italian named Almadi — a prince or
something — and moved in. I tried the fellows who
lived here — ^you saw them sticking their heads out
as we came up — but they don't speak English, so
I was as bad off as I was before. Then I made up
290

MAENY'S SHADOW

my mind I'd tackle you and keep at it till I got
to know you. You might think it queer now that
I didn't tell you before who I was or how I came
here, or how lonesome I was — just lonesome — but
I just couldn't. I didn't want your pity, I wanted
your friendship. That's all.'

"He had straightened up now, and was leaning
back in his chair.

" 'And it was just dead lonesomeness, then, was
it?' and I held out my hand to him.

" 'Yes — ^the deadliest kind of lonesome. Kind
makes you want to fall off a dock. Now, please
drink my vdne' — and he pushed the bottle toward
me — 'I had a devil of a hunt for it, but I wanted
to do something for you you couldn't do for your-
self.'

"We fellows, I tell you, took charge of Diffen-
dorfer after that, and a ripping good fellow he was.
We got that high collar off of him, a slouch hat on
his head instead of his stove-pipe, and a pipe in his
mouth, and before the winter was over he had more
friends than any fellow in Venice. It was only
awkwardness that made him talk so queer and
ugly. And maybe we didn't have some good times
in those rooms of his on the Zattere!"

Mamy stopped, threw away the end of his cigar,
laid a coin under his plate for the waiter and an-
other on top of it for Henri, the chef, reached for
291

THE Ul^^DEE DOG

his hat, and said, as he rose from his seat, and
flecked the ashes from his coat-sleeve:

"So now, whenever I see a poor devil haunting
a place like this, looking around out of the corner
of his eye, hoping somebody will speak to him, I
say that's a Diffendorfer, and more than half the
time I'm right."

292

MUFFLES— THE BAR-KEEP

MUFFLES— THE BAR-KEEP

My friend Muffles has had a varied career.
Muffles is not his baptismal name — ^if he were ever
baptized, which I doubt. The butcher, the baker,
the candlestick maker, and the brewer — especially
the brewer — ^knew him as Mr. Richard Mulford,
proprietor of the Shady Side on the Bronx — and
his associates as Dick. Only his intimates knew
him as Muffles. I am one of his intimates. This
last sobriquet he earned as a boy among his fellow
wharf-rats, by reason of an extreme lightness of
foot attended by an equally noiseless step, partic-
ularly noticeable when escaping from some guar-
dian of the peace who had suddenly detected him
raiding an apple-stand not his own, or in depleting
a heap of peanuts the property of some gentleman
of foreign birth, or in making off with a just-
emptied ash-barrel — Muffles did the emptying —
on the eve of an election.

If any member of his unknown and widely scat-
tered family reached the dignity of being consid-
ered the flower of the clan, no stretch of imag-
?95

THE UNDER DOG

ination or the truth on the part of his acquaint-
ances — and they were numerous — ever awarded
that distinction to Muffles. He might have been a
weed, but he was never a flower. A weed that
grew up between the cobbles, crouching under the
hoofs of horses and the tramp of men, and who
was pulled up and Arown aside and still lived on
and flourished in various ways, and all with that
tenacity of purpose and buoyancy of spirit which
distinguishes all weeds and which never by any
possibility marks a better quality of plant, vege-
table or animal.

The rise of this gamin from the dust-heap to
his present lofty position was as interesting as it
was instructive. Interesting because his career
was a drama — instructive because it showed a
grit, pluck, and self-denial which many of his con-
temporaries might have envied and imitated:
wharf-rat, newsboy, dish-washer in a sailor's dive,
bar-helper, bar-tender, bar-keeper, bai-owner,
ward heeler, ward politician, clerk of a district
committee — go-between, in shady deals, between
those paid to uphold the law and those paid to
break it — and now, at this time of writing, or was
a year or so ago, the husband of "the Missus,"
as he always calls her, the father of two children,
one three and the other five, and the proprietor
of the Shady Side Inn, above the Harlem Eiver
and within a stone's throw of the historic Bronx.

The reaching of this final goal, the sum of all
296

MUFFLES— THE BAR-KEEP

his hopes and ambitions, was due to the same
tenacity of purpose which had characterized his
earlier life, aided and abetted by a geniality of
disposition which made him countless friends, a
conscience which overlooked their faults, together
with a total lack of perception as to the legal
ownership of whatever happened to be within his
reach. As to the keeping of the other command-
ments, including the one of doing unto others as
you would have them do unto you

Well, Muffles had grown up between the cobbles
of the Bowery, and his early education had conse-
quently been neglected.

The Shady Side Inn, over which Muffles pre-
sided, and in which he was one-third owner — the
Captain of the Precinct and a "Big Pipe" con-
tractor owned the other two-thirds — ^was what was
left of an old colonial mansion. There are dozens
of them scattered up and down the Bronx, lying
back from the river; with porches falling into
decay, their gardens overrun with weeds, their
spacious rooms echoing only the hum of the sew-
ing-machine or the buzz of the loom.

This one belonged to some one of the old
Knickerbockers whose winter residence was below
Bleecker Street and who came up here to spend the
summer and so escape the heat of the dog-days.
You can see it any day you drive up the Speed-
way. It has stood there for over a hundred years
and is likely to continue. You know its history,
397

THE UNDER DOG

too — or can, if you will take the trouble to look up
its record. Aaron Burr stopped here, of course —
he stopped about everywhere along here and slept
in almost every house; and Hamilton put his
horse up in the stables — only the site remains;
and George Washington dined on the back porch,
his sorrel mare tied to one of the big trees. There
is no question about these facts. They are all down
in the books, and I would prove it to you if I
could lay my hand on the particular record.
Everybody believes it — Muffles most of all.

Many of the old-time fittings and appurtenances
are still to be seen. A knocker clings to the front
door — a wobbly old knocker, it is true, with one
screw gone and part of the plate broken — ^but still
boasting its colonial descent. And there is a half-
moon window over the door above it, with little
panes of glass held in place by a spidery parasol
frame, and supported on spindling columns once
painted white. And there is an old lantern in the
hall and funny little banisters wreathed about a
flight of stairs that twists itself up to the second
floor.

The relics — ^now that I come to think of it —
stop here. There was a fine old mantel framing
a great open fireplace in the front parlor, before
which the Father of His Country toasted his toes
or sipped his grog, but it is gone now. Muffles's
bar occupied the whole side of this front room,
and the cavity once filled with big, generous logs,
298

MUFFLES— THE BAR-KEEP

blazing away to please the host's distinguished
guests, held a collection of bottles from Muf&es's
cellar — a moving cellar, it is true, for the beer-
wagon and the grocer's cart replenished it daily.

The great garden in the rear of the old mansion
has also changed. The lines of box and sweet
syringa are known only by their roots. The rose-
beds are no more, the paths that were woven into
long stripes across its grass-plats are overgrown
and hardly traceable. Only one lichen-covered,
weather-stained seat circling about an old locust-
tree remains, and this is on its last legs and needs
propping up — or did the last time I saw it. The
trees are still there. These old stand-bys reach
up their arms so high, and their trunks are so big
and straight and smooth, that nothing can despoil
them. They will stay there until the end — ^that
is, until some merciless Commissioner runs the
line of a city street through their roots. Then
their fine old bodies will be drawn and quartered,
and their sturdy arms and lesser branches go to
feed the fires of some near-by factory.

N^o ladies of high degree now sip their tea be-
neath their shade, with liveried servants about
the slender-legged tables, as they did in the old
days. There are tables, of course — a dozen in
all, perhaps, some in white cloths and some in
bare tops, bare of everything except the glass of
beer — it depends very largely on what one or-
ders, and who orders it — ^but the servants are
399

THE UNDEE DOG

missing unless you count Muffles and his stable-
boy. Two of these old aristocrats — I am speaking
of the old trees now, not Muffles, and certainly
not the stable-boy — two giant elms (the same
that Washington tied his mare to when they were
little) — stand guard on either side of the back
porch, a wide veranda of a porch with a honey-
suckle, its stem as thick as your arm, and its
scraggy, half -dead tendrils plaited in and out of the
palings and newly painted lattice-work.

On Sunday mornings — and this tale begins with
a Sunday morning — Muffles always shaved him-
self on this back porch. On these occasions he was
attired in a pair of trousers, a pair of slippers, and
a red flannel undershirt.

I am aware that this is not an extraordinary
thing for a man living in the country to do on a
Sunday morning, and it is not an extraordinary
costume in which to do it. It was neither the
costume nor the occupation that made the opera-
tion notable, but the distinguished company who
sat around the operator while it went on.

There was the ex-sheriflF — a large, bulbous man
with a jet-black mustache hung under his nose, a
shirt-collar cut low enough to permit of his breath-
ing, and a skin-tight waistcoat buttoned over a
rotundity that rested on his knees. He had rest-
less, quick eyes, and, before his "ex" life began
and his avoirdupois gained upon him, restless,
quick fingers with steel springs inside of them —
300

MUFFLES— THE BAK-KEEP

good fingers for handling the particular people he
"wanted."

Then there was the "Big Pipe" contractor — a
lean man with half -moon whiskers, a red, weather-
heaten, knotted face, bushy gray eyebrows, and a
clean-shaven mouth that looked when shut like a
healed scar. On Simday this magnate wore a yel-
low diamond pin and sat in his shirt-sleeves.

There could be found, too, now and then, tilted
back on their chairs, two or three of the light-
fingered gentry from the race-course near by — ^pale,
consumptive-looking men, with field-glasses htmg
over their shoulders and looking like bank-clerks,
they were so plainly and neatly dressed; as well
as some of the less respectable neighbors, besides
a few intimate personal friends like myself.

"While Muffles shaved and the group about him
discussed tihe several ways — some of them rather
shady, Fm afraid — in which they and their con-
stituents earned their daily bread, the stable-boy
— ^he was a street waif, picked up to keep him
from starving — served the beverages. Muffles had
no Sunday license, of course, but a little thing
like that never disturbed Muffles or his friends —
not with the Captain of the Precinct as part
owner.

My intimacy with Muffles dated from a visit I
had made him a year before, when I stopped in
one of my sketching-tramps to get something cool-
ing. A young friend of mine — a musician — was
301

THE UNDER DOG

with me. Muffles's garden was filled with visitors;
some celebration or holiday had called the people
out. Muffles, in expectation, had had the piano
tuned and had sent to town for an orchestra of
three. The cornet and bass-viol had put in an ap-
pearance, but the pianist had been lost in the
shuffle.

"De bloke ain't showed up and we can't git
nothin' out o' de fish-horn and de scrape — see?"
was the way Muffles put it.

My friend was a graduate of the Conservatoire,
an ex-stroke, crew of '91, owned a pair of shears
which he used twice a year in the vaults of a down-
town bank, and breakfasted every day at twelve —
but none of these things had spoiled him.

"Don't worry," he said; "put a prop under
your piano-lid and bring me a chair. I'll work
the ivories for you."

He played till midnight, drank his free beers
between each selection, his face as grave as a judge
except when he would wink at me out of the comer
of his eye to show his intense enjoyment of the
whole situation. You can judge of its effect on
the audience when I tell you that one young girl
in a pink shirt-waist was so overcome with emo-
tion and so sorry for the sad young man who had
to earn his living in any such way, that she laid
a ten-cent piece on the piano within reach of my
friend's fingers. The smile of intense gratitude
which permeated his face — a "thank-Grod-you-
303

MUFFLES— THE BAK-KEEP

have-saved-me-from-starvation" smile, was part of
the evening's enjoyment. He wears the dime now
on his watch-chain; he says it is the only money
he ever earned by his music ; to which one of his
club-friends added, "Or in your life."

Since that time I have been persona grata to
Muffles. Since that time, too, I have studied him
at close range: on snowy days — for I like my
tramps in winter, with the Bronx a ribbon of
white, even though it may be too cold to paint —
as well as my outings on Sunday summer morn-
ings when I sit down with his other friends to
watch Muffles shave.

On one of these days I found a thin, cadaverous,
long-legged, long-armed young man behind the
bar. He had yellow-white hair that rested on his
head like a window-mop, whitey blue eyes, and a
pasty complexion. When he craned his neck in
his anxiety to get my order right, I felt that his
giraffe throat reached down to his waist-line and
that all of it would come out of his collar if I
didn't make up my mind at once "what it should
be."

"Who's he. Muffles?" I asked.

'TDat's me new bar-keep. I've chucked m©
job."

"What's his name?"

"Bowser."

"Where did you get him ?"

"Blew in here one night las' month, purty nigh
303

THE UNDEK DOG

froze — out of a job and hungry. De Missus got
soft on him — she's dat kind, ye know. Yer
oughter seen him eat ! Well, I guess ! Been in a
littingrapher's shop — ^ye kin tell by his fingers.
Say, Bowser, show de gentleman yer fingers."

Bowser held them up as quickly as if the order
had come down the barrel of a Winchester.

"And ye oughter see him draw. Gee! if I
could draw like him I wouldn't do nothin' else.
But I ain't never had nothin' in my head like that.
A feller's got to have sumpin' besides school-lamin'
to draw like him. iN'ow you're a sketch-artist,
and know. Why, he drawed de Sheriff last Sun-
day sittin' in de porch huggin' his bitters, to de
life. Say, Bowse, show de gentleman de picter
ye drawed of de Sheriff."

Bowser slipped his hand under the bar and
brought out a charcoal sketch of a black mustache
surrounded by a pair of cheeks, a treble chin, and
two dots of eyes.

"Kin hear him speak, can't ye ? And dat ain't
nothin' to de way he kin print. Say, Bowse" —
the intimacy grew as the young man's talents
loomed up in Muffles's mind — "tell de gentleman
what de boss said 'bout yer printin'."

"Said I could print all right, only there warn't
no more work." There was a modesty in Bowser's
tone that gave me a better opinion of him.

"Said ye could print all right, did he ? Course
he did — and no guff in it, neither. Say, Missus"
304

MUFFLES— THE BAE-KEEP

— and he turned to his wife, who had just come in,
the youngest child in her arms. She weighed
twice as much as Muffles — one of those shapeless
women with a kindly, Alderney face, and hair
never in place, who lets everything go from collar
to waist-line.

"Say, Missus, didn't de Sheriff say dat was a
perf ec' likeness ?" And he handed it to her.

The wife laughed, passed it back to Muffles and,
with a friendly nod to me, kept on to the kitchen.

"Bar-room ain't no place for women," Muffles
remarked in an undertone when his wife had dis-
appeared. "Dat's why de Missus ain't never
'roimd. And when de kids grow up we're goin' to
quit, see ? Dat's what de Missus says, and what
she says goes !"

All that summer the Shady Side prospered.
More tables were set out under the trees ; Bowser
got an assistant; Muffles wore better clothes; the
Missus combed out her hair and managed to wear
a tight-fitting dress, and it was easy to see that
fame and fortune awaited Muffles — or what he
considered its equivalent. Muffles entertained his
friends as usual on the back porch on Sunday
mornings, but he shaved himself upstairs and
wore an alpaca coat and boiled shirt over his red
flannel underwear. The quality of the company
improved, too — or retrograded, according to the
point of view. Now and then a pair of deer, with
long tails and manes, hitched to a spider-web of a
305

THE UNDEE DOG

wagon, would drive up to Uie front entrance and
a gentleman wearing a watch-chain, a solitaire
diamond ring, a polished silk hat, and a white
overcoat with hig pearl buttons, would order "a
pint of fiz" and talk in an undertone to Muffles
while he drank it. Often a number of these com-
binations would meet in Muffles's back room and a
quiet little game would last until daylight. The
orders then were for quarts, not pints. On one
of these nights the Captain of the Precinct was
present in plain clothes. I learned this from Bow-
ser — ^from behind his hand.

One night Muffles was awakened by a stone
thrown at his bedroom window. He went down-
stairs and found two men in slouch hats ; one had
a black carpet-bag. They talked some time to-
gether, and the three went down into the cellar.
When they came up the bag was empty.

The next morning one of those spider-wheeled
buggies, driven by one of the silk hat and pearl-
buttoned gentlemen, accompanied by a friend,
stopped at the main gate. When they drove away
they carried the contents of the black carpet-bag
stowed away under the seat.

The following day, about ten o'clock in the
morning, a man in a derby hat and with a pair
of handcuffs in his outside pocket showed Muffles
a paper he took from his coat, and the two went
off to the city. When Muffles returned that same
night — I had heard he was in trouble and waited
306

MUFFLES— THE BAR-KEEP

for his return — he nodded to me with a smile, and
said:

"It's all right. Pipes went bail."

He didn't stop, but walked through to the back
room. There he put his arms around his wife.
She had sat all day at the window watching for
his return, so Bowser told me.

II

One crisp, cool October day, when the maples
blazed scarlet and the Bronx was a band of pol-
ished silver and the hoar-frost glistened in the
meadows, I turned into the road that led to the
Shady Side. The outer gate was shut, and all
the blinds on the front of the house were closed.
I put my hand on the old brass knocker and
rapped softly. Bowser opened the door. His
eyes looked as if he had not slept for a week.

"What's the matter — anybody sick?"

"Ho — dead !" and he burst into tears.

"Not Muffles!"

"IsTo— the Missus."

"When?"

"Last night. De boss is inside, all broke up."

I tiptoed across the hall and into the bar-room.
He was sitting by a table, his head in his hands,
his back toward me.

"Muffles, this is terrible ! How did it happen ?"

He straightened up and held out his hand,
307

THE UNDEE DOG

guiding me to a seat beside him. For some min-
utes he did not speak. Then he said, slowly, ignor-
ing my question, the tears streaming down his
cheeks :

"Dis ends me. I ain't no good widout de
Missus. You thought maybe when ye were 'round
that I was a-runnin' things; you thought maybe
it was me that was lookin' after de kids and keep-
in' 'em clean; you thought maybe when I got
pinched and they come near jugging me that some
of me pals got me clear — ^you don't know nothin'
'bout it. De Missus did that, like she done every-
thing."

He stopped as if to get his breath, and put his
head in his hands again — ^rocking himself to and
fro like a man in great physical pain. I sat silent
beside him. It is difficult to decide what to do or
say to a man under such circumstances. His refer-
ence to some former arrest arose in my mind, and
so, in a perfunctory way — ^more for something to
say than for any purpose of prying into his former
life — ^I asked:

"Was that the time the Pipe Contractor went
bail for you ?"

He moved his head slightly and without raising
it from his hands looked at me from over his
clasped fingers.

"What, dat scrape a month ago, when I hid dem
goods in de cellar? Naw! Dat was two pals o'
mine. Dey was near pinched and I helped 'em
308

MUFFLES— THE BAR-KEEP

out. Somebody give it away. But dat ain't noth-
in' — Cap'n took care o' dat. Dis was one o' me
own five year ago. What's goin' to become o' de
kids now ?" And he burst out crying again.

Ill

A year passed.

I had been painting along the Thames, lying in
my punt, my face up to the sky, or paddling in
and out among the pond-lilies. I had idled, too,
on the lagoons of my beloved Venice, listening to
Luigi crooning the songs he loves so well, the soft
air about me, the plash of my gondolier's oar
wrinkling the sheen of the silver sea. It had been
a very happy summer ; full of color and life. The
brush had worked easily, the weather had lent a
helping hand; all had been peace and quiet.
Ofttimes, when I was happiest, somehow Muffles's
solitary figure rose before me, the tears coursing
down his cheeks, and with it that cold silence — a
silence which only a dead body brings to a house
and which ends only with its burial.

The week after I landed — ^it was in November,
a day when the crows flew in long wavy lines and
the heavy white and gray clouds pressed close upon
the blue vista of the hills — I turned and crossed
through the wood, my feet sinking into the soft
carpet of its dead leaves. Soon I caught a glimpse
309

THE UNDER DOG

of the chimneys of Shady Side thrust above the
evergreens; a curl of smoke was floating upward,
filling the air with a filmy haze. At this sign of
life within, my heart gave a bound.

Muffles was still there !

When I swung back the gate and mounted the
porch a feeling of uncertainty came over me. The
knocker was gone, and so was the sign. The old-
fashioned window-casings had been replaced by a
modern door newly painted and standing partly
open. Perhaps Muffles had given up the bar and
was living here alone with his children.

I pushed open the door and stepped into the old-
fashioned hall. This, too, had undergone changes.
The lantern was missing, and some modern furni-
ture stood against the walls. The bar where Bow-
ser had dispensed his beverages and from behind
which he had brought his drawings had been re-
placed by a long mahogany counter with marble
top, the sideboard being filled with cut glass and
the more expensive appointments of a modern es-
tablishment. The tables and chairs were also of
mahogany ; and a new red carpet covered the floor.
The proprietor was leaning against the counter
playing with his watch-chain — a short man with a
bald head. A few guests were sitting about, read-
ing or smoking.

"What's become of Mulford," I asked; "Dick
Mulf ord, who used to be here ?"

The man shook his head.
310

MUFFLES— THE BAR-KEEP

"Why, yes, you must have known him — some
of his friends called him Muffles."

The man continued to shake his head. Then he
answered, carelessly :

"I've only been here six months — another man
had it before me. He put these fixtures in."

"Maybe you can tell me ?" — and I turned to the
bar-keeper.

"Guess he means the feller who blew in here
first month we come," the bar-keeper answered,
addressing his remark to the proprietor. "He
said he'd been runnin' the place once."

"Oh, you mean that guy ! Yes, I got it now,"
answered the proprietor, with some animation, as
if suddenly interested. "He come in the week we
opened — ^worst-lookin' bum you ever see — toes out
of his shoes, coat all torn. Said he had no money
and asked for something to eat. Billy here was
goin' to fire him out when one of my customers
said he knew him. I don't let no man go hungry
if I can help it, and so I sent him downstairs and
cook filled him up. After he had all he wanted
to eat he asked Billy if he might go upstairs into
the front bedroom. I don't want nobody prowlin'
'round — not that kind, anyhow — ^but he begged so
I sent Billy up with him. What did he do, Billy ?
You saw him." And he turned to his assistant.

"Didn't do nothin' but just look in the door.
He held on to the jamb and I thought he was
goin' to fall. Then he said he was much obliged,
311

THE UNDEK DOG

and he walked downstairs again and out the door
cryin' like a baby, and I ain't seen him since."

Another year passed. To the picture of the
man sitting alone in that silent, desolate room was
added the picture of the man leaning against the
jamb of the door, the tears streaming down his
face. After this I constantly caught myself peer-
ing into the faces of the tramps I would meet in
the street. Whenever I walked before the benches
of Madison Park or loitered along the shady
paths of Union Square, I would stop, my eye run-
ning over the rows of idle men reading the adver-
tisements in the morning papers or asleep on the
seats. Often I would pause for a moment as some
tousled vagabond would pass me, hoping that I
had found my old-time friend, only to be disap-
pointed. Once I met Bowser on his way to his
work, a roll of theatre-bills under his arm. He
had gone back to his trade and was working in a
shop on Fourteenth Street. His account of what
had happened after the death of "the Missus" only
confirmed my fears. Muffles had gone on from
bad to worse ; the place had been sold out by his
partners; Muffles had become a drunkard, and,
worse than all, the indictment against him had
been pressed for trial despite the Captain's ef-
forts, and he had been sent to the Island for a
year for receiving and hiding stolen goods. He
had been offered his freedom by the District At-
torney if he would give up the names of the two
312

MUFFLES— THE BAE-KEEP

men who had stolen the silverware, but he said
he'd rather "serve time than give his pals away,"
and they sent him up. Some half-orphan asylum
had taken the children. One thing Bowser knew
and he would "give it to me straight," and he
didn't care who heard it, and that was that there
was "a good many gospil sharps running church-
mills that warn't half as white as Dick Mulford —
not by a d sight."

One morning I was trying to cross Broadway,
dodging the trolleys that swirled around the
curves, when a man laid his hand on my arm with
a grip that hurt me.

It was Muffles !

Not a tramp; not a ragged, blear-eyed vaga-
bond — older, more serious, the laugh gone out of
his eyes, the cheeks pale as if from long confine-
ment. Dressed in dark clothes, his face clean-
shaven; linen neat, a plain black tie — ^the hat
worn straight, not slouched over his eyes with a
rakish cant as in the old days.

"My God! but I'm glad to see ye," he cried.
"Come over in the Square and let's sit down."

He was too excited to let me ask him any ques-
tions. It all poured out of him in a torrent, his
hand on my knee most of the time.

"Oh, but I had it tough ! Been up for a year.

You remember about it, the time Pipes went bail.

I didn't git none o' the swag; it warn't my job,

but I seed 'em through. But that warn't nothin'.

313

THE UNDEB DOG

It was de Missus what killed me. Hadn't been,
for de kids I'd been off the dock many a time.
Fust month or two I didn't draw a sober breath.
I couldn't stand it. Boon's I'd come to I'd git to
thinkin' agin and then it was all up wid me. Then
Pipes and de Sheriff went back on me and I didn't
care. Bowser stuck to me the longest. He got de
kids took care of. He don't know I'm out, or he'd
turn up. I tried to find him, but nobody don't
know where he was a-workin' — ^none of de bar-
rooms I've tried. Oh, but it was tough ! But it's
all right now, d'ye hear? All right ! I got a job up
in Harlem, see? I'm gittin' orders for coal."
And he touched a long book that stuck out of his
breast-pocket. "And I've got a room near where
I work. And I tell ye another thing," and his
hand sought mine, and a peculiar light came into
his eyes, "I got de kids wid me. You just oughter
see de boy — legs on him thick as your arm ! I tell
ye that's a comfort, and don't you forgit it. And
de little gal ! Ain't like her mother ? what ! — 'well,
I should smile!"

314

HIS LAST CENT

HIS LAST CENT

Jack Waldo stood in his studio gazing up at the
ceiling, or, to be more exact, at a Venetian church-
lamp which he had just hung and to which he had
just attached a red silk tassel bought that morn-
ing of a bric-a-brac dealer whose shop was in the
next street. There was a bare spot in that corner
of his sumptuously appointed room which offend-
ed Waldo's sensitive taste — a spot needing a touch
of yellow brass and a note of red — and the silk
tassel completed the color-scheme. The result was
a combination which delighted his soul ; Jack had
a passion for having his soul delighted and an in-
satiable thirst for the things that did the delight-
ing, and could no more resist the temptation to
possess them when exposed for sale than a con-
firmed dnmkard could resist a favorite beverage
held under his nose. That all of these precious
objects of bigotry and virtue were beyond his
means, and that most of them then enlivening his
two perfectly appointed rooms were still unpaid
for, never worried Jack.

"That fellow's place," he would say of some
dealer, "is such a jumble and so dark that nobody
can see what he's got. Ought to be very grateful
317

THE UNDEE DOG

to me that I put 'em where people could see 'em.
If I can pay for 'em, all right, and if I can't, let
him take 'em back. He always knows where to
find 'em. I'm not going to have an auction,"

This last course of "taking his purchases back"
had been followed by a good many of Jack's cred-
itors, who, at last, tired out, had driven up a furni-
ture van and carted the missing articles home
again. Others, more patient, dunned persistently
and continually — every morning some one of
them — ^until Jack, roused to an extra effort,
painted pot-boilers (portrait of a dog, or a child
with a rabbit, or Uncle John's exact image from
a daguerrotype many years in the family) up to
the time the debt was discharged and the precious
bit of old Spanish leather or the Venetian chest or
Sixteenth Century chair became his very own for
all time to come.

This "last-moment" act of Jack's — ^this re-
prieve habit of saving his financial life, as the
noose was being slipped over his bankrupt neck —
instead of strangling Jack's credit beyond repair,
really improved it. The dealer generally added
an extra price for interest and the trouble of col-
lecting (including cartage both ways), knowing
that his property was perfectly safe as long as it
stayed in Jack's admirably cared-for studio, and
few of them ever refused the painter anything he
wanted. When inquiries were made as to his
financial standing the report was invariably,
318.

HIS LAST CENT

"Honest but slow — She'll pay some time and some-
how," and the ghost of a bad debt was laid.

The slower the better for Jack. The delay
helped his judgment. The things he didn't want
after living with them for months (Jack's test of
immortality) he was quite willing they should
cart away ; the things he loved he would go hungry
to hold on to.

This weeding-out process had left a collection
of curios, stuffs, hangings, brass, old furniture,
pottery, china, costumes and the like, around
Jack's rooms, some of which would have enriched
a museum: a Louis XVT. cabinet, for instance,
that had been stolen from the Trianon (what a
lot of successful thieves there were in those days) ;
the identical sofa that the Pompadour used in her
afternoon naps, and the undeniable curtain that
covered her bed, and which now hung between
Jack's two rooms.

In addition to these ancient and veritable "an-
tiques" there was a collection of equally veritable
"modems," two of which had arrived that morn-
ing from an out-of-town exhibition and which
were at this precise moment leaning against the
legs of an old Spanish chair. One had had three
inches of gilt moulding knocked off its frame in
transit, and both bore Jack's signature in the
lower left-hand corner.

"Didn't want 'em, eh?" cried Jack, throwing
himself on to the divan, temporarily exhausted
319

THE UNDEE DOG

with the labor of hanging the lamp and attaching
the tassel. "Wanted something painted with
darning-needle brushes — ^little tooty-wooty stuff
that everybody can understand. 'See the barn-
door and the nails in the planks and all them
knots !' " — Jack was on his feet now, imitating the
drawl of the country art-buyer — " 'Ain't them
natural! Why, Maria, if you look close ye can
see jes' where the ants crawl in and out. My,
ain't that wonderful !' "

These remarks were not addressed to the offend-
ing canvas nor to the imaginary countryman, but
to his chum, Sam Ruggles, who sat hunched up in
a big armchair with gilt flambeaux on each comer
of its high back — it being a holiday and Sam's
time his own. Euggles was entry clerk in a down-
town store, lived on fifteen dollars a week, and was
proud of it. His daily fear — ^he being of an emi-
nently economical and practical turn of mind —
was that Jack would one day find either himself
tight shut in the lock-up in charge of the jailer or
his belongings strewed loose on the sidewalk and
in charge of the sheriff. They had been college
mates together — these two — and Sam loved Jack
with an affection in which pride in his genius and
fear for his welfare were so closely interwoven,
that Sam found himself most of the time in a con-
stantly unhappy frame of mind. Why Jack
should continue to buy things he couldn't pay for,
instead of painting pictures which one day some-
330

HIS LAST CENT

body would want, and at fabulous prices, too, was
one thing he could never get through his head.

"Where have those pictures been, Jack?" in-
quired Sam, in a sympathetic tone.

"Oh, out in one of those God's-free-air towns
where they are studying high art and microbes
and Browning — one of those towns where you can
find a woman's club on every corner and not a
drop of anything to drink outside of a drug-store.
Why aren't you a millionnaire, Sam, with a gallery
one hundred by fifty opening into your conserva-
tory, and its centre panels filled with the works of
that distinguished impressionist, John Somerset
Waldo, R A.?"

"I shall be a millionnaire before you get to be
R.A.," answered Sam, with some emphasis, "if
you don't buckle down to work, old man, and bring
out what's in you — and stop spending your allow-
ance on a lot of things that you don't want any
more than a cow wants two tails. Now, what in
the name of common-sense did you buy that
lamp for which you have just hung? It doesn't
light anything, and if it did, this is a garret, not
a church. To my mind it's as much out of place
here as that brass coal-hod you've got over there
would be on a cathedral altar."

"Samuel Ruggles !" cried Jack, striking a the-
atrical attitude, "you talk like a pig-sticker or a
coal-baron. Your soul, Samuel, is steeped in com-
mercialism; you know not the color that delights
321

THE UNDER DOG

men's hearts nor the line that entrances. The
lamp, my boy, is meat and drink to me, and com-
panionship and a joy unspeakable. Your dull
soul, Samuel, is clay, your meat is figures, and
your drink profit and loss; all of which reminds
me, Samuel, that it is now two o'clock and that
the nerves of my stomach are on a strike. Let —
me — see" — and he turned his back, felt in his
pocket, and counted out some bills and change —
"Yes, Sam" — here his dramatic manner changed
— "the account is still good — ^we will now lunch.
Not expensively, Samuel" — ^with another wave of
Hie hand — "not riotously — simply, and within our
means. Come, thou slave of the desk — eat, drink,
and be merry, for to-morrow we die — or bust,
Samuel, which is very nearly the same thing!"

"Old John" at Solari's took their order — a por-
ter-house steak with mushrooms, peas, cold aspar-
agus, a pint of extra dry — in honor of the day,
Jack insisted, although Sam protested to the verge
of discourtesy — ^together with the usual assort-
ment of small drinkables and long smokables — a
Beina Victoria each.

On the way back to the studio the two stopped
to look in a shop-window, when Jack gave a cry
of delight and pressed his nose against the glass
to get a better view of a small picture by Monet
resting on an easel.

"By the gods, Sam ! — isn't that a corker ! See
the way those trees are painted ! Look at the air
Z22

HIS LAST CENT

and light in it — ^not a value out of scale — ^per-
fectly charming! — charming," and he dived into
the shop before Sam could check him.

In a moment he was out again, shaking his
head, chewing his under-lip, and taking another
devouring look at the canvas.

"What do they want for it. Jack?" asked Sam
— ^his standard of merit was always the cost of a
thing.

"About half what it's worth — six hundred dol-
lars."

"Whew!" burst out Sam; "that's nearly as
much as I make in a year. I wouldn't give five
dollars for it."

Jack's face was still pressed against the glass
of the window, his eyes riveted on the canvas.
He either did not hear or would not answer his
friend's criticism.

"Buy it, Jack," Sam continued, with a laugh,
the hopelessness of the purchase making him the
more insistent. "Hang it under the lamp, old
man — I'll pay for the candles."

"I would," said Jack, gravely and in perfect
seriousness, "only the governor's allowance isn't
due for a week, and the luncheon took my last
cent."

The next day, after business hours, Sam, in the

goodness of his heart, called to comfort Jack over

the loss of the Monet — a loss as real to the painter

as if he had once possessed it — he had in that first

323

THE UNDEE DOG

glance through the window-pane; every line and
tone and brush-mark was his own. So great was
Sam's sympathy for Jack, and his interest in the
matter, that he had called upon a real millionnaire
and had made an appointment for him to come to
Jack's studio that same afternoon, in the hope that
he would leave part of his wealth behind him in
exchange for one of Jack's masterpieces.

Sam found Jack flat on the floor, his back sup-
ported by a cushion propped against the divan.
He was gloating over a small picture, its frame
tilted back on the upright of his easel. It was the
Monet !

"Did he loan it to you, old man?" Sam in-
quired.

"Loan it to me, you quill-driver ! Wo, I bought
it!"

"Eor how much ?"

"Full price — six hundred dollars. Do you sup-
pose I'd insult Monet by dickering for it ?"

"What have you got to pay it with?" This
came in a hopeless tone.

"!N^ot a cent ! What difference does that make ?
Samuel, you interest me. Why is it your soul
never rises above dollars and cents ?"

"But, Jack — ^you can't take his property
and "

"I can't — can't I? His property! Do you sup-
pose Monet painted it to please that one-eyed,
double-jointed dealer, who don't know a picture
324

HIS LAST CENT

from a hole in the ground ! Monet painted it for
me — me, Samuel — ME — who gets more comfort
out of it than a dozen dealers — ME — and that part
of the human race who know a good thing when
they see it. You don't belong to it, Samuel.
What's six hundred or six millions to do with it ?
It's got no price, and never will have any price.
It's a work of art, Samuel — a work of art. That's
one thing you don't understand and never will."

"But he paid his money for it and it's not
right "

"Of course — that's the only good thing he has
done — paid for it so that it could get over here
where I could just wallow in it. Get down here,
you heathen, take off your shoes and bow three
times to the floor and then feast your eyes. You
think you've seen landscapes before, but you
haven't. You've only seen fifty cents' worth of
good canvas spoiled by ten cents' worth of paint.
I put it that way, Samuel, because that's the only
way you'll understand it. Look at it! Did you
ever see such a sky ? Why, it's like a slash of light
across a mountain-pool! I tell you — Samuel —
that's a masterpiece !"

While they were discussing the merits of the
landscape and the demerits of the transaction
there came a knock at the door and the Moneybags
walked in. Before he opened his lips Jack had
taken his measure. He was one of those connois-
seurs who know it all. The town is full of them.
325

THE UNDEK DOG

A short connoisseur with a red face — red in spots
— close-clipped gray hair that stood up on his head
like a polishing brush, gold eyeglasses attached to
a wide black ribbon, and a scissored mustache. He
was dressed in a faultlessly fitting serge suit en-
livened by a nankeen waistcoat supporting a gold
watch-chain. The fingers of one hand clutched a
palm-leaf fan; the fingers of the other were ex-
tended toward Jack. He had known Jack's gover-
nor for years, and so a too formal introduction was
unnecessary.

"Show me what you've got," he began, "the
latest, understand. Wife wants something to
hang over the sideboard. You've been doing some
new things, I hear from Euggles."

The tone of the request grated on Jack, who
had risen to his feet the moment "His Finance"
(as he insisted on calling him afterward to Sam)
had opened the door. He felt instantly that the
atmosphere of his sanctum had, to a certain ex-
tent, been polluted. But that Sam's eyes were
upon him he would have denied point-blank that
he had a single canvas of any kind for sale, and
so closed the incident.

Sam saw the wavering look in his friend's face
and started in to overhaul a rack of unframed
pictures with their faces turned to the wall.
These he placed one after the other on the ledge
of the easel and immediately above the Monet,
which still kept its place on the floor, its sunny
326

HIS LAST CENT

face gazing up at the shopkeeper, his clerk, and his
customer.

"This the newest one you've got?" asked the
millionnaire, in the same tone he would have used
to his tailor, as he pointed to a picture of a strip of
land between sea and sky — one of those uncertain
landscapes that a man is righteously excused for
hanging upside down.

"Yes," said Jack, with a grave face, "ri^t off
the ice."

Sam winced, but "His Finance" either did not
hear it or supposed it was some art-slang common
to such a place.

"This another ?" he inquired, fixing his glasses
in place and bending down closer to the Monet.

"No — ^that's out of another refrigerator," re-
marked Jack, carelessly — ^not a smile on his
face.

"Kather a neat thing," continued the Money-
bags. "Looks just like a place up in Somesbury
where I was bom — same old pasture. What's the
price ?"

"It isn't for sale," answered Jack, in a decided
tone.

"Not for sale?"

"No."

"Well, I rathe? like it," and he bent down
closer, "and, if you can fix a figure, I might "

"I can't fix a figure, for it isn't for sale. I
didn't paint it — it's one of Monet's."
327

THE UNDEE DOG

"Belongs to you— don't it ?"

"Yes — ^belongs to me."

"Well, how about a thousand dollars for it?"

Sam's heart leaped to his throat, but Jack's face
never showed a wrinkle.

"Thanks; much obliged, but I'll hold on to it
for a while. I'm not through with it yet."

"If you decide to sell it will you let me know ?"

"Yes," said Jack, grimly, and picking up the
canvas and carrying it across the room, he turned
its face to the wall.

While Sam was bowing the millionnaire out
(there was nothing but the Monet, of course, which
he wanted now that he couldn't buy it), Jack occu-
pied the minutes in making a caricature of His
Finance on a fresh canvas.

Sam's opening sentences on his return, out of
breath with his run back up the three flights of
stairs, were not complimentary. They began by
impeaching Jack's intelligence in terms more pro-
fane than polite, and ended in the fervent hope
that he make an instantaneous visit to His Satanic
Majesty.

In the midst of this discussion — ^in which one
side roared his displeasure and the other answered
in pantomime between shouts of his own laughter
— there came another knock at the door, and the
owner of the Monet walked in. He, too, was in a
disturbed state of mind. He had heard some
things during the day bearing directly on Jack's
3^8

HIS LAST CENT

credit, and had brought a bill with him for the
value of the picture.

He would like the money then and there.

Jack's manner with the dealer was even more
lordly and condescending than with the would-be
buyer.

"Want a cheek — ^when — now? My dear sir!
when I bought that Monet was there anything said
about my paying for it in twenty-four hours?
To-morrow, when my argosies arrive laden with
the spoils of the far East, but not now. I never
pay for anything immediately — it would injure
my credit. Sit down and let me offer you a cigar
— my governor imports 'em and so you can be
assured they are good. By the way — what's be-
come of that Ziem I saw in your window last
week? The Metropolitan ought to have that pict-
ure."

The one-eyed dealer — Jack was right, he had
but one eye — at once agreed with Jack as to the
proper ultimate destination of the Ziem, and
under the influence of the cigar which Jack had
insisted on lighting for him, assisted by Jack's
casual mention of his father — a name that was
known to be good for half a million — and encour-
aged — greatly encouraged indeed — ^by an aside
from Sam that the painter had already been of-
fered more than he paid for it by a man worth
millions — under all these influences, assistances,
and encouragements, I say, the one-eyed dealer so
339

THE UNDEK DOG

modified his demands that an additional twenty-
four hours was granted Jack in which to settle his
account, the Monet to remain in his possession.

When Sam returned from this second bowing-
out his language was more temperate. "You're a
Cracker- Jack," was all he said, and closed the door
behind him.

During the ten days that followed, Jack gloated
over the Monet and staved off his various creditors
until his father's semi-monthly remittance arrived.
Whenever the owner of the Monet mounted the
stairs by appointment and pounded at Jack's door,
Jack let him pound, tiptoeing about his room un-
til he heard the anxious dealer's footsteps echoing
down the stairs in retreat.

On the day that the "governor's" remittance ar-
rived — it came on the fifteenth and the first of
every month — Sam found a furniture van backed
up opposite Jack's studio street entrance. The
gravity of the situation instantly became apparent.
The dealer had lost patience and had sent for the
picture; the van told the story. Had he not been
sure of getting it he would not have sent the van.

Sam went up three steps at a time and burst
into Jack's studio. He found its owner directing
two men where to place an inlaid cabinet. It was
a large cabinet of ebony, elaborately carved and
decorated, and the two furniture men — ^judging
from the way they were breathing — ^had had their
hands full in getting it up the three flights of
330

HIS LAST CENT

stairs. Jack was pushing back the easels and
pictures to make room for it when Sam entered.
His first thought was for the unpaid-for picture.

"Monet gone, Jack ?" he asked, glancing around
the room hurriedly in his anxiety to find it.

"Yes — ^last night. He came and took it away.
Here," (this to the two men) "shove it close to the
wall," pointing to the cabinet. "There — now go
down and get the top, and look out you don't break
those little drawers. What's the matter with you,
Samuel? Tou look as if somebody had walked
over your grave."

"And you had no trouble ?"

"Trouble ? What are you dilating about, Sam-
uel ? We never have any trouble up here."

"Then it's because I've kept him quiet. I've
been three times this week and held him up — ^much
as I could do to keep him from getting out a war-
rant."

"Who?"

"Your one-eyed dealer, as you call him."

"My one-eyed dealer isn't worrying, Samuel.
Look at this," and he pulled out a receipted bill.
"His name, isn't it ? 'Eeceived in full payment —
Six hundred dollars.' Seems odd, Samuel, doesn't
it?"

"Did your governor send the money ?"

"Did my governor send the money! My gov-
ernor isn't so obliging. Here — don't stand there
with your eyes hanging out on your cheeks; look
331

THE UNDEE DOG

on this — ^found it yesterday at Sighfor's. Isn't it
a stunner ? bottom modern except the feet, but the
top is Sixteenth Century. See the way the tor-
toise-shell is worked in — lots of secret drawers,
too, all through it — going to keep my bills in one
of 'em and lose the key. What are you staring at,
anyhow, Sam?"

"Well— but Jack— I don't see "

"Of course you don't see ! Yon think I robbed
a bank or waylaid your Moneybags. I did — took
twelve hundred dollars out of his clothes in a
check on the spot — wrote it right there at that
desk — ^for the Monet, and sent it home to his
Palazzo da Avenue. Then I took his dirty check,
indorsed it over to that one-eyed skinflint, got the
balance in bills, bought the cabinet for five hun-
dred and eighty-two dollars cash — forgive me,
Samuel, but there was no other way — and here is
just eighteen dollars to the good" — and he pulled
out some bank-notes — "or was before I gave those
two poor devils a dollar apiece for carrying up this
cabinet. To-night, Samuel — ^to-night — we will
dine at the Waldorf."

332

The Fortunes of
Oliver Horn

By

F. HoPKiNsoN Smith

Author of "Tom Grogan," "Caleb West," etc.

fFith full-page illustrations by Walter Appleton Clark

i2mo, $1.50

" The best story Mr. Smith has ever written."

— New York Tribune.

"As a representative story of New York life in the mid-
nineteenth century ' The Fortunes of Oliver Horn ' can
hardly be surpassed. It is in the subtly fine delineation and
differentiation of the characters that Mr. Smith shows his
great technical skill as a fiction writer." — Boston Transcript.

" The story is hearty and refreshing and all right. We
are sure that the reader will be charmed vnth it. ' '

— New York Sun.

" The novel illustrates in the highest degree the remark-
able powers of humor and pathos Mr. Smith has shown in
his former stories." — Nashville American.

" He never succeeded in making a finer portrait than
that of Richard Horn. It is written in a simple, familiar
style that makes it a delight to read, and it has been long
since more charming characters were brought together in one
book. They are all people whom we would be more than
glad to know, and this is a pleasure so rare nowadays as to
be appreciated." — New York Times Review.

" It is a love story which combines not only the love of
the lovers, but of the son for his parents, friends for each
other, companions for companions ; almost every relation set
down in this story is based upon the love of one human for
another." — Cleveland World.

" It shows all the qualities of this amiable and enter-
taining writer, and in addition shares with ' Caleb West '
the personal interest that comes from an obvious infusion ot
the autobiographical element." — Springfield Republican.

" It is in the character-drawing that the author has done
his best work. No three finer examples of women can be
found than Margaret Grant, Sallie Horn, Oliver's mother,
and Lavinia Clendenning, the charming old spinster. ' '

— Louisville Courier-Journal.

" Full of warmth and life, while its characters find a
place quickly in one's heart." — Chicago Record-Herald.

" There will be a general unanimity, and that is in the
cordiality with which readers will recommend it to their
friends." — New Yorlc Commercial Advertiser.

" One of the few really delightfiil and worth-while
books of the year. Its charm does not depend entirely on
the story, though that perhaps is as entertaining as any Mr.
Smith has ever spun, but resides in its exquisite presentations
of characters with whom it is a joy to become acqudnted.
One of our best novels of American life. ' '

— Detroit Free Press.

Charles Scribner's Sons

153-157 Fifth Avenue
NEW YORK

THE
NOVELS, STORIES and SKETCHES

of

F. HoPKiNsoN Smith

BEACON EDITION

MESSRS. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S
SONS have now ready a subscription
edition of the complete writings of F.
Hopkinson Smith, by arrangement with Messrs.
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

Mr. Smith has revised and rearranged his
stories and sketches, bringing those on har-
monious themes into groups and giving his
entire work its definitive form for the Beacon
Edition. New stories not to be found in any
other edition have been added.

Every effort has been made to render the set
worthy of the high position which Mr. Smith
has won in American literature. The plates
have been made by the Riverside Press of Cam-
bridge ; the paper is of exceptional quality with
deckel edges, and bears as a water-mark on each
page the device of a light-house ; the printing
is of the best, and the binding simple and rich.

The name of the edition is derived from the
author's prominence as an engineer and as a
builder of light-houses — the famous Race Rock

Light, among others, the scene of the novel
" Caleb West."

Three new drawings printed in colors adorn
each volume, the first volume having as a
frontispiece a portrait of the author. In addi-
tion to numerous reproductions of water-colors
by the artist-author, the volumes have drawings
in colors by E. A. Abbey, Howard Chandler
Christy, F. C. Yohn, Henry Reuterdahl, J. N.
Marchand, George Wright and E. B. Child.

THE WORKS ARE ARRANGED IN THK
FOLLOWING ORDER:

I. Laguerre's and Well-\Vorn Roads
II. A White Umbrella in Mexico and
Other Lands

III. Colonel Carter of Cartersville and Others

IV. Tom Grogan
V. Gondola Days

VI. Caleb West : Master Diver
VII. The Other Fellow and Tile Club Stories

j3j'|The Fortunes of Oliver Horn
X. The Under Dog

Sold only by Subscription and in Sets
Ten Volumes, cloth binding, - - $15.00
Half Levant, 30.00

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York