Rope

ROPE

'

ROPE

OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES

ROPE

BY

HOL WORTHY HALL

Author of "THE MAN NOBODY KNEW," etc.

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1922

COPTBIGHT, 1922,

BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

PRINTED IN U. 8. A.

VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
BINOHAMTON AND HEW YORK

ROPE

2130458

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CHAPTER I

AS Henry came blithely into the house with
a heavy suit-case in one hand and a
cumbersome kit-bag in the other, his Aunt
Mirabelle marched out like a grenadier from
the living-room, and posted herself in the hall-
way to watch him approach. There was this
much to say for Aunt Mirabelle: she was at
least consistent, and for twenty years she had
worn the same expression whenever she looked
at him. During that period the rest of the
world and Henry had altered, developed, ad-
vanced— but not Aunt Mirabelle. She had
changed neither the style of her clothes nor the
nature of her convictions ; she had disapproved
of Henry when he was six, and therefore, she
disapproved of him today. To let him know
it, she regarded him precisely as though he

2 EOPE

were still six, and had forgotten to wash his
face.

"I suppose," remarked Aunt Mirabelle, in
her most abrasive voice, "I suppose you're
waiting for me to say I hope you had a good
time. Well, I'm not a-going to say it, because
it wouldn't be true, and I wouldn't want to have
it sitting on my conscience. Of course, some
people haven't got much of any conscience for
anything to sit on, anyway. If they did, tney'd
be earnest, useful citizens. If they did, then
once in a while they'd think about something
else besides loud ties and silk socks and golf.
And they wouldn't be gallivanting off on house-
parties for a week at a time, either; they'd be
tending to their business — if they had any.
And if they hqj^t, they ought to."

Henry put down the bag and the suit-case,
removed his straw hat, and grinned, with a
fair imitation of cheerfulness. He had never

learned how to handle Aunt Mirabelle, and

•

small wonder; for if he listened in silence, he
was called sulky; if he disputed her, he was
called flippant; if he agreed with her, she ac-
cused him of fraud ; and if he obeyed his natural

EOPE 3

instincts, and treated her with tolerant good-
humour, she usually went on a conversation
strike, and never weakened until after the
twelfth apology. Whatever he did was wrong,
so that purely on speculation, he grinned, and
said what came to his tongue.

"Maybe so," said Henry, "maybe so, but
conscience is a plant of slow growth," and im-
mediately after he had said this, he wished that
he had chosen a different epigram — something
which wasn't so liable to come back at him,
later, like a boomerang.

"Humph!" said Aunt Mirabelle. "It is, is
it? Well, if I was in your place, I'd be impa-
tient for it to grow faster."

Henry shook his head. "No, I don't believe

you would. I've read som^here that impa-

^^

tience dries the blood more than age or sor-
row." He assumed an air of critical satisfac-
tion. "The bird that v.rote that had pretty
good technique, don't you think?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "All right,
Henry. Be pert. But I know what made you
so almighty anxious to sneak off on this house-
party; and I know whose account it was you

4 EOPE

went on, too, and I don 't see for the life of me
why your uncle hasn't put his foot down."
She sighed, as though in deep mourning. "I
did hope you'd grow up different from these
other boys, Henry, but you're all of you just
alike. When you get old enough, do you pick
out some pure, innocent, sensible, young woman
that's been trained the way girls were trained
in my day? No. You go and make fools of
yourselves over these short-skirted little hus-
sies all powdered up like a box of marshmal-
lows. And as long as they're spry enough and
immodest enough to do all these new bunny
dances and what not, you think that's a sure
sign they'll make good wives and mothers.
Humph. Makes me sick/'

In spite of himself, Henry lost his artificial
grin, and began to turn dull red. "I wouldn't
go quite so far as to say that." ^

"Well," retorted Aunt Mirabelle, "I didn't
hardly expect you would. But you'll go far
enough to see one of 'em, I notice. . . . Well,
your uncle's home this afternoon; long's he's
paying your bills, you might have the grace to
go in and say howdy-you-do to him." She

EOPE 5

marched upstairs, and Henry, revolving his hat
in his hand, gazed after her until she was out of
sight. He stood, irresolute, until the echo of
her common-sense shoes died into silence; and
as he lingered, he was struck for the ten
thousandth time by the amazing mystery of the
human family.

First, there was his mother, a small and ex-
quisite woman with music in her heart and in
the tips of her fingers ; his memory of her was
dim, but he knew that she had been the maddest
and the merriest of all possible mothers — a
creature of joy and sunshine and the sheer
happiness of existence. And then her sister
Mirabelle, who found life such a serious condi-
tion to be in, and loved nothing about it, save
the task of reforming it for other people
whether the other people liked it or not. And
finally, her brother John, bald, fat, and good-
natured; a man whose personal interests were
bounded by his own physical comfort, and by
his desire to see everyone else equally comfort-
able. Whenever Henry thought of this trio, he
reflected that his grandparents must have been
very versatile.

6 ROPE

He drew a long breath, and glanced up the
stairway, as though the spirit of his Aunt
Mirabelle were still haunting him; then, with a
depressing recollection of what she had said
about his conscience, and with hot resentment
at what she said about his taste, he walked
slowly into the library.

His uncle John Starkweather, who had been
writing at a big desk between the windows,
sprang up to shake hands with him. " Hello,
boy! Thought Bob Standish must have kid-
napped you. Have a good party f "

' ' Fine, thanks, ' ' said Henry, but his tone was
so subdued and joyless that his uncle stared at
him for a moment, and then went over to close
the door. Standing with his back to it, Mr.
Starkweather smiled reminiscently and a trifle
ruefully, and began to peel the band from a
cigar. " What's the matter? Mirabelle say
anything to you?"

' ' Why — nothing special. ' y

His uncle hesitated. "In a good many
ways/' he said, lowering his voice, "Mirabelle
puts me in mind of my father. When he was
a boy, out in the country, he'd had to smash the

EOPE 7

ice in the water-pitcher every mornin', and he
was proud of it — thought a boy that hadn't
earned some of his godliness with an ice-pick
was a dude. Thought what was good enough
for his father was good enough for him, and
sometimes it was too good. Didn't believe in
modern improvements like telephones and
easy chairs and three-tined forks ; didn't believe
in labour-savin' devices because labour wasn't
meant to be saved. Bible says for us to work
six days a week, and if he ever had any spare
time before Sat 'day night, he figured he must
have forgot somethin'. Business- — well, he
called advertisin' a rich man's luxury, and
said an audit was an insult to his partners.
Said he'd welcome a sheriff sooner 'n he would
an expert accountant — and in the long run,
that's exactly what he did. Involuntary bank-
ruptcy— found his sanctimonious old cashier M
been sanctimoniously lootin' the till for
eighteen years." He paused, and eyed his
cigar. "Well, Mirabelle's cut more or less off
the same piece. Lord, I wish she could go
through some kind of bankruptcy, if 't would
shake her up like it did father."

8 EOPE

"It — shook him up, did it?" inquired Henry,
fidgetting.

"Well," said his uncle, "after the crash, I
don't recollect he ever mentioned the good old
times again except once ; and that was to praise
the good old habit of takin' defaulters and
boilin ' 'em in oil. No, sir, he wouldn 't so much
as add two and two together without an addin'
machine, and he used to make an inventory of
his shirts and winter flannels pretty near every
week. And Mirabelle's the same way; she's
still tryin' to live under the 1874 rules." He
came back to his desk, and sat down thought-
fully. "Well, she's been talkin' to me ever
since you went off on this party and as far's
most of it's concerned, I'm not on her side, and
I'm not on your side; I'm sort of betwixt and
between." He looked sidewise at Henry, and
discovered that Henry was peering off into
space, and smiling as though he saw a vision in
the clouds. "Just as man to man, just for the
information ; suppose you passed up everything
I've said to you, and went and got married one
of these days — did you expect I'd go on sup-
portin' you?"

EOPE 9

Henry came down to earth, and his expres-
sion showed that he had landed heavily.
1 1 Why— what was that I ' '

His uncle repeated it, with a postscript.
* * Oh, I Ve always told you you could have any-
thing you wanted within reason that I could pay
for. But from what I been told" — his eyes
twinkled — "wives ain't always reasonable.
And it does seem to me that when a young man
gets to be twenty five or six, and never did a
lick of work in his life, and loafs around clubs
and plays polo just because he's got a rich
uncle, why, it's a sort of a reflection on both of
'em. Seem so to you?"

Henry glanced up nervously and down again.
* ' To tell the truth, I hadn 't thought much about
it."

"Say," said his uncle, confidentially.
"Neither had I. Not 'till Mirabelle told me
you went off on this party because Anna Bar-
klay was goin' to be there. . . . Now I had
pretty hard sleddin' when I was your age; I've
kind of liked to see you enjoy yourself. But
Mirabelle — Now I said before, I ain't on her
side, and I ain't on your side; I had the thing

10 ROPE

out with you once or twice -already, and I guess
you know what my angles are. Only if Mira-
belle's got any grounds, maybe I ought to say
it over again. . . . You been out of college four
years now, and you tried the automobile
business for two months and the bond business
for two- weeks and the real-estate business for
two minutes, and there you quit. You spent
five, six thousand a year and that was all right,
but I admit I don't like the idea of your
gettin' married on no thin' but prospects,
specially when I'm all the prospects there is.
Sound fair to you?"

Henry nodded, with much repression,
"You couldn't be unfair if you tried, Uncle
John."

"Well, you was always open to reason, even
when you was in kindergarten. . . . Now, in
some ways I don't approve of you any more'n
Mirabelle does, but she wants me to go too
blamed far. She wants me to turn you loose
the way my father did me. She wants me to
say if you should ever marry without my con-
sent I'll cut you out of my will. But that's old
stuff. That's cold turkey. Mirabelle don't

E 0 P E 11

know times have changed — she's so busy with
that cussed Reform League of hers, she don't
have time to reform any of her own slants
about things." He rolled his cigar under his
tongue.

"Well, I'm goin' to compromise. Before you
get involved too deep, I want you to know
what 's in my mind. I don 't believe it 's the best
thing for either of us for me to go on bein' a
kind of an evergreen money-bush. And a man
that's earnin' his own livin' don't have to ask
odds of anybody. Don't you think you better
bundle up your courage and get to work,
Henry I"

Henry was twiddling his watch-chain. "It
hasn't been a matter of courage, exactly — "

"Oh, I know that. I don't believe you're
scared of work ; you 're only sort of shy about it.
I never saw you really afraid of more'n three
things — bein' a spoil-sport, or out of style, or
havin* -a waiter think you're stingy. No, you
ain't afraid of work, but you never been
properly introduced, so you're kind of stand-
offish about it. I've always kind of hoped
you'd take a tip from Bob Standish — there's

12 ROPE

one of your own breed that knows where the
durable satisfactions of life are. Just as good
family 's yours.; just as much money; just as
fond of games; — and workin' like a prize pup
in my office and makin' good. He'll tell
you. . . . But if you go get married, boy, be-
'fore you show you could take care of yourself,
and what money I might leave you — oh, I don 't
say you got to put over any miracle, but I do
say you got to learn the value of money first.
You'd do that by earnin' some. If you don't,
then you and me'd have a quarrel. Sound
logical to you?'*

Henry was frowning a little, and sitting
nearer to the edge of his chair. "Too darned
logical/' he said.

His uncle surveyed him with great indul-
gence. " What's the idea?" he asked, hu-
mourously. "You ain't gone off and got your-
self married already, have you?"

Henry stood up, and squared his shoulders,
and looked straight into his uncle's eyes. His
voice was strained, but at the same time it held
a faint note of relief, as if he had contained his

E 0 P E 13

secret too long for his own nerves. "Yes,
Uncle John. ..."

And waited, as before the Court of last
appeal.

CHAPTER II

THE older man sat limp in his chair, and
stared until the ash of his cigar tumbled,
untidily, over his waistcoat. He brushed at it
with uncertain, ineffective motions, but his eyes
never left his nephew. He put the cigar once
more to his lips, shuddered, and flung it away.

"Boy — " he said, at length, "Boy — is that
true?"

Henry cleared his throat. "Yes, Uncle
John."

' ' Who is it I Anna Barklay ? ' '

"Yes, Uncle John."

"When?"

' l Yesterday afternoon. ' '

"Does — Judge Barklay know it yet?"

"No, not yet. He's out of town."

His uncle drew a tremendous breath, and
pulled himself upright. "Boy," he said, "why
in the hell did you ever go and do a thing like
that? . . . Haven't I been pretty decent to you,

14

ROPE 15

the best I knew how? . . . Why'd you ever go,
and — have I been mistaken in you all this while?
Why, boy, I thought you and me were friends."

There was another heavy silence. "I don't
know. It just happened. The way things do
— sometimes. We've always been crazy about
each other."

Mr. Starkweather was looking at and through
his nephew, who was man-grown and pre-
sumably a rational human being; but what Mr.
Starkweather actually saw was the vision of
a little boy dressed in Lord Fauntleroy velvet,
with silver knee-buckles and a lace collar; and
much as a drowning man is supposed to review,
in a lightning flash, every incident of his whole
life, so was Mr. Starkweather reviewing the
life of Henry, beginning with the era of black
velvet, and ending with the immediate present.
That history was a continuous record of dash-
ing impulses, and the gayest irresponsibility;
and yet, when the time came for an accounting,
Henry had offered only explanations, and never
excuses. In his glorious pursuit of the
calendar, he had paid his penalties as royally as
he had earned them; and even now, when he

16 ROPE

was confessed of the most impetuous and the
most astounding act of all his unballasted
youth, he had nothing to say in defence. As a
climax, marriage had " happened" to him, and
he was braced for whatever might happen next.
Presently, Mr. Starkweather, coming out of
his daze, began to wonder if, by this very
climax, Henry hadn't prescribed his own
medicine, and at the same time taken out insur-
ance on his own salvation. For one thing, he
had selected the right girl — a girl with no
money, and plenty of character — a girl who
would manage him so skilfully that Henry
would think himself the manager. For another
thing, Mr. Starkweather believed that Henry
was profoundly in love with her, even though he
tried to conceal his seriousness by spreading it
with a generous helping of light manner, and
modern vocabulary. These facts, together
with Mr. Starkweather's control of the finances,
might possibly operate as the twin levers which
would pry Henry out of his improvidence.
The levers themselves were certainly strong
enough; it was a question only of Henry's re-
sistance. Mr. Starkweather winced to realize

EOPE 17

that by the time the minute-hand of his watch
had gone twice again around the dial, he should
know definitely and permanently whether
Henry was worth his powder, or not.

He leaned his elbows on his desk, judicially.
"I'm pretty much knocked edgeways, Henry
— but tell me one more thing; this wasn't any
bet, was it, or — "

"Bet!" flared Henry, and all the youth went
out of his features.

"Yes. Nobody dared you to go and get mar-
ried— it wasn't any kind of a put-up job, was
it?"

The younger man was righteously indignant.
"Uncle John, I admit I haven't won any medals
for — for some things, — and maybe you think I
am the kind of bird that would — do this on a bet,
or a dare — and if you do think that — I guess
we're both mistaken in each other!"

His uncle's hand went up. "Hold your
horses! You've answered the question. If
you hadn't got mad, I'd have thrown you out
the window. Why did you do it, then ? ... No
— never mind." He looked away. "7 know.
Spring, and impulse and no emergency brakes.

18 E 0 P E

/ know. . . ." He looked back at Henry, and
smiled oddly. "And I was just goin' to tell
you, before you sprung it on me, that if you
cared two cents about that girl, — and me, too,
— you'd want to deserve her — do somethin' be-
sides be a model to hang expensive clothes on."

"Yes,'1 said Henry, also judicial. "I guess
I'm entitled to that wallop."

His uncle nodded. "That one and quite a
few more. Still, you never heard anybody ac-
cuse me of not bein' a good sport, did you?"

•"No, Uncle John. I counted on it."

"Who knows this — besides us?"

"Just Bob Standish. "We took him along for
a witness."

"So! Bob Standish! Hm. I 'd have thought
Bob'd had sense enough to try to stop it. I'll
have words with him,"

"He did try."

Mr. Starkweather rose. "Where's Anna?"

1 'Out in the car. With Bob. ' '

His uncle froze. "Out there? Waitin'
there all this time? For Heaven's sake, Henry,
she '11 be in a conniption fit ! You go bring her
in here — and tell her to stop worryin'. I'm

ROPE 19

sore as the devil, and I'm goin' to make an ex-
ample out of you, but that ain't any reason to
act like a grouch, is it? Sound sensible to you?
Bring her in here. Not Bob — I'll see him
afterwards. J '

She was small and intensely feminine, but
there was nothing fragile about her, and no
slightest hint of helplessness. She was pretty
enough, too, and her attractions were more than
skin-deep ; to the qualities which showed in her
eyes — sincerity and humour and imagination —
there was also to be added sweetness of dis-
position and sensitiveness, which were proved
by the curves of her mouth; and finally, there
was quiet determination, stopping just short of
stubbornness, which was evident in the mould-
ing of her strong little chin.

She came in slowly, questioningly, not in fear,
but merely poised so as to adjust herself to any
style of reception. Mr. Starkweather met her
eyes and laughed — a fat, spontaneous, under-
standing laugh — and blushing furiously, she

20 E 0 P E

ran to him, with both her hands outstretched.
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Starkweather, and
interrupted himself long enough to kiss her,
"I'll say Henry's got a darned sight better
judgment 'n you have. ... Go on and blush.
Make a good job of it. Ashamed of yourself?
So'm I. Sit down there and cringe. You too,
Henry." He himself remained on his feet.
"Funny thing," he said, after a pause. "Only
chance I ever had to get married myself was
somethin ' like this is — oh, I wasn rt a gilt loafer,
like Henry is; I was workin' sixteen hours a
day, but I wasn't makin' money enough. Both
our fathers said so. And she'd have run off,
but I wouldn't. Thought it wasn't respectable,
I guess. Anyhow, it kind of petered out, and
I lost my nerve. Wish to thunder I'd taken a
chance when I had it. Worth it, sometimes."
He whirled on Henry, abruptly. "Well, you
took your chance. Now let's see if you think
it's worth it. If you're figurin' on any help
from me, you got to work for it first. If you 'd
waited, I'd kind of made things easy for you.
Now, I'm goin' to hand you the meanest job I
can think of. It won't be an insult and it won't

E 0 P E 21

be a joke, but maybe you'll take it for both —
until you learn better. ' '

"What is it, Uncle John?"

"I'll tell you when you get back from your
honeymoon. ' '

The two young people stared at each other,
and at Mr. Starkweather. "From our —
what?" asked the girl, incredulously.

"Honeymoon. Oh, you made a couple of
prize fools of yourselves, and if I did what I
ought to, I'd cut Henry off sharp this minute.
But — guess I better make a fool of myself, so
you'll feel more at home." He coughed ex-
plosively. "Besides, you're awful young, both
of you — and damn it, if you don't cash in on it
now, next thing you know you'll be wonderin'
where the time's gone, anyway. No sense in
robbin' you of the best months of your life, just
because you hadn't sense enough to rob your-
selves of it — is there? Oh, I suppose I'm a
kind of a sentimental cuss, but — must be I like
the feelin' of it." He jerked his head toward
Henry. "This is April. Take her off some-
where— Italy? South of France ?— 'till next
August. Then you report back here, all fixed

22 ROPE

and ready to «at crow. Sound fair to you?"

The girl rose, and crossed the room to him.
"Mr. Starkweather — "

"Name's Uncle John," he corrected. "You
married it. ' '

"Uncle John — I — I don't know how to — "
She bit her lip, and he saw the depths of her
eyes, and saw that they were filling with tears.
She gestured imperatively to Henry. "You
know him better — you tell him. ' '

Henry had sprung across to join them. "Un-
cle John, you're a peach! I'll break rock on
the streets if you say so! You're a peach!"

"Well," said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfor-
tably. "If everybody else's goin' to bawl, I
guess it'll have to be contagious. . . . Only
when you get back, you're both goin' to pay the
piper. I'm goin' to make Henry earn his salt,
whether he's got it in him or not; I'm goin' to
make him crawl. That goes as it stands, too;
no foolin'. . . . Look here, don't you want me
to break it to the Judge? Guess I better. I
can put it up to him in writin' twice as good
as Henry put it up to me by talkin', anyhow.
. . . And I'll put an announcement in the

ROPE 23

Herald that'll take the cuss off. Anna, you
hustle up some engraved notices to get around
to all our friends. You know what's in
style. . . . Oh, you're a couple of champion
idiots, and Henry's goin' to sweat for it when
he comes home, but — God bless you, my boy,
and you too, my dear — only how in blazes am
I goin' to get it across to Mirabelle? That's
what bites me the worst, Henry; that's what
bites me the worst!"

CHAPTER III

IN a small office on the third floor of the City
Bank Building Mr. Theodore Mix, broker
and amateur politician, sat moodily intent upon
Ids morning newspaper. For thirty years (he
was fifty-five) Mr. Mix had been a prominent
and a mildly influential citizen, and by great ef-
fort he had managed to keep himself excessively
overrated. A few years ago he had even been
mentioned as a candidate for Mayor, and the
ambition was still alive within him, although
fulfilment was never so distant. But despite
his appearance, which was dignified, and des-
pite his manner, which would have done for
the diplomatic corps, and despite his con-
nection with local charities and churches and
civic committees, Mr. Mix was secretly a bit of
a bounder; and although the past decade or
two he had made a handsome income, he had
contrived to get rid of it as fast as he con-

24

ROPE 25

veniently could, and by methods which wouldn't
always have stood analysis.

Lately, for no apparent cause, his best cus-
tomers had edged away from him ; he was glid-
ing rapidly into debt, and he knew that unless
he clambered out again within six or eight
weeks, he should have considerable difficulty
in preserving his reputation, both financial and
ethical. And like all men in the same position,
Mr. Mix was fiercely jealous" of his prestige;
by long practice he had warped himself into
thinking that it belonged to him; and he was
ready to defend it with every conceivable
weapon.

For the moment, however, Mr. Mix was
querulous rather than defensive. He was try-
ing to place the blame for the past two sea-
sons of misfortune, and when he observed that
Pacific Eefining was twelve points up from Sat-
urday's close, he sighed wearily and told him-
self that it was all a matter of luck. He had
had an appointment, last Saturday at nine
o 'clock, with his friend John Starkweather, and
he had meant to borrow something from him, if

26 ROPE

possible, and to risk a few hundred shares of
Pacific Refining on margin; but he had over-
slept, and Mr. Starkweather had left his office
at nine fifteen and hadn't come back again that
day, so that the profit which might so easily
have come to rest in Mr. Mix's pockets was now
in other quarters.

Luck! The most intangible of assets and
the most unescapable of liabilities. On Satur-
day, Mr. Mix had arrived too late because he
had overslept because his alarm-clock had been
tinkered by a watchmaker who had inherited a
taste for alcohol from a parent who had been
ruined by the Chicago fire — and almost before
he knew it, Mr. Mix had trailed the blame to
Adam and Eve, and was feeling personally re-
sentful. It was plain to him that his failure
wasn 't in any sense his own fault.

As he resumed his paper, however, his
querulousness yielded to a broad sunny opti-
mism, and he turned to the sporting page and
hunted out the news from the Bowie track.
He had a friend at Bowie, and the friend owned
a horse which he swore was the darkest three-
year-old in captivity; he had wired Mr. Mix to

ROPE 27

hypothecate his shirt, and bet the proceeds on
the fourth race, this coming Saturday. The
odds would be at least 10 to 1, he said, and he
could place all the money that Mr. Mix might
send him.

Mr. Mix leaned back and built a stable in the
air. Suppose he could borrow a couple of thou-
sand. Twenty thousand clear profit. Then a
quick dash into the cotton-market (the price was
certainly going to break wide open in another
month) and the twenty would unfold, and ex-
pand, and become fifty. And if a shrewd, cold-
blooded man went down to Wall Street with
fifty thousand dollars, and played close to his
chest, he ought to double his capital in four
months. To be sure, Mr. Mix had been losing
steadily for a dozen years, but he was confi-
dent that he had it in him to be a great and
successful plunger. He felt it. Heretofore,
he had been handicapped by operating on a
shoestring; but with fifty thousand dollars to
put his back against —

His stenographer announced a caller, and
on the instant, Mr. Mix, put on his other per-
sonality, and prepared to silver his tongue.

28 ROPE

The caller, however, came straight to Mr. Mix's
desk, and flipped out one sheet from a large
portfolio. "Say," he remarked brusquely.
"What's the matter with this bill? Ziegler
and Company. Two ninety two sixty — dated
November. ' y

Mr. Mix laughed genially, and offered a ci-
gar. "Why, nothing's the matter with it.
"What's the matter with Ziegler and Com-
pany? Aren't they solvent?"

The visitor lighted his cigar, and mellowed.
"Well it ain't any of my funeral, but Ziegler
he says if you don't settle by the fifteenth, he'll
give it to his attorney."

For the third time in a week, an attorney
had been lugged into the conversation; more
than that, Mr. Mix had received four letters
from two different collection agencies. "In
the words of the Good Book," he said sooth-
ingly, "have patience and I will pay thee all."

"What say? Will I come in next week some-
time?"

"Now, that," said Mr. Mix, with a rush of
approval, "is a first-rate idea. That's first-
rate. Come in next week some time. ' '

ROPE 29

"Right-o. Only Ziegler, he's pretty hard-
boiled, Mr. Mix. . . . Say, why don't you
gimme a check now, and save me from gettin'
flat-footed? Two ninety two sixty? Why for
you that's chicken-feed."

"Bill hasn't been audited yet," said Mr.
Mix, with all the grandeur of an industrial
chieftain. * ' Come in next week. ' '

The visitor went out, and Mr. Mix scowled
at the bill, threatened to tear it, and finally put
it away in a drawer where it had plenty of
companionship. To think that after his life-
time as an important citizen — generally sup-
posed to be well-to-do if not actually rich —
he couldn't pay a trifling account of less than
three hundred dollars because he didn't have
three hundred dollars in the bank. Collec-
tion agencies and the warning of suits — and
impertinence from young ruffians who were
hired to dun him! He scowled more heavily,
and then gave his shoulders an upward move-
ment of rancour and disgust.

And yet — the lines receded from his forehead
— and yet there was always John Starkweather,
and the friend at Bowie. Mr. Mix rose, and

30 E 0 P E

went out to the corridor, and down it to a
door which was lettered with Mr. Stark-
weather's name, followed by the inscription:
Keal Estate and Insurance, Mortgage Loans.
And as he entered, and remembered that thirty
years ago he and John Starkweather had oc-
cupied adjoining stools at the same high desk,
and broken their back over the same drudgery,
and at the same wage, he was filled with an
emotion which made his cheeks warm. Side
by side, only thirty years ago, and separated
now by the Lord knew what, and the Lord
knew why. Mr. Mix knew that he was brainier
than John Starkweather; he admitted it.
Brainier, smoother, quicker of wit, and more
polished. But Starkweather's office handled
the bulk of local realty transactions; it wrote
more insurance than all of its competitors in a
mass; it loaned almost as much money, on
mortgage, as the Trust and Savings. And Mr.
Mix, Broker, was on the verge of bankruptcy.
Luck ! No question about it.

At the swinging gate there was a girl-clerk
who smiled up at him, flirtatiously. "Want to

ROPE 31

see the boss T He 's busy for a coupla minutes. ' '

"All right," said Mr. Mix in an undertone.
"I'll stay here and talk to you."

' ' The nerve of some folks I Think I 'm paid
to listen to your line of hot air? Not 'till they
double my salary. You go sit down and have
a thought. Exercise 's what you need. ' '

Mr. Mix rolled his eyes heavenward. "So
young, and so heartless!" he murmured, and
went sedately forward to the reception room.

The door of the private office was not quite
closed; so that the voices of two men were
faintly audible. Mr. Mix cast about him, made
sure that he was unobserved, and dignifiedly
changed his seat — nearer that door.

"Yes," said a voice which at first he couldn't
recognize. "The deed's recorded. So legally,
Henry owns the property now." Mr. Mix
nodded triumphantly ; the voice belonged to Mr.
Archer, a leading lawyer and Mr. Stark-
weather's closest friend.

"That's the idea." This was in Mr. Stark-
weather's familiar bass. "Now how'd you fix
the will!"

32 E 0 P E

"Why, it was very simple. Your point was
that you didn't want everybody to know what
was going on. So — "

"No. And if I put a lot o' conditions like
that in a will, why just as soon as it was pro-
bated, Henry and Mirabelle 'd both get an awful
lot o' bum publicity. They'd both be sore,
and I'd look like a nut. . . . Naturally, I don't
plan to die off as soon as all this, but better
be safe. I just want to fix it up so Henry '11
get the same deal no matter what happens. ' '

"Very wise, very wise, . . . Well, here's
what I've done. I've changed the will so that
the entire residuary estate is left to me in trust
for your sister and nephew to be administered
according to the trust-deed we're executing to-
day. They can probate that until they're black
in the face, but nobody's going to find out any
more than we want them to."

"Sounds all right so far, but don't you have
to take a trust agreement like that into Court,
too?"

' ' Sooner or later, yes. But you '11 notice that
I've covered it so that unless Henry or Miss
Starkweather says something, nobody's go-

ROPE 33

ing to know until the year's out, and I make
the accounting. Now for the trust agreement
itself — if Henry demonstrates to me that with-
in a year — "

"A year from August first. The lease don't
expire 'till then, and Henry won't be home *till
then. August to August's what I'm goin' to
put up to him."

"Correct. If he demonstrates to me that
within the calendar year he 's made a net profit
of ten thousand dollars from the property — by
the way, isn't that rather steep?"

"No. Man's in there now's made three
thousand and manhandled it. Just horse-sense
and some alterations and advertising '11 bring
it up to ten."

"You're the doctor. If Henry makes ten
out of it, then he receives from me, as trustee,
the whole residuary estate, otherwise it goes to
your sister. And during that trial year, she
gets the whole income from it, anyway."

Mr. Mix was sitting motionless as a cat.

"That's right."

"Well, then, if you'll just read these over and
make sure I Ve got your meaning, and then get

34 E 0 P E

a couple of witnesses in here, we can clear the
whole thing up and have it out of the way."

Mr. Mix heard the scrape of chair-legs against
the floor, and hastily, on tiptoe, he crossed the
room to his original seat, and in passing the
centre table he helped himself to a magazine
which he was reading with much concentration
when the door of the private office opened.

"Why, hello, Mix," said Mr. Starkweather.
"Been waitin' long? Be with you in half a
second. ' '

"Just got here," said Mr. Mix, as though
startled. He returned the magazine to the
table, and was still standing when his friend
came back, in convoy of young Mr. Robert Stan-
dish, his chief assistant.

"Come on in, Mix. Want you to witness a
will."

"Anything to oblige," said Mr. Mix, with
alacrity.

He spoke cordially to young Mr. Standish
and in another moment, to the lawyer. With
due solemnity he carried out the function which
was assigned to him; he would have loved a
peep at the body of the documents, but already

ROPE 35

he was possessed of some very interesting in-
formation, and he kept his eyes religiously in
the boat. Mr. Mix believed that in business and
society, as well as in war, advance information
is the basis of victory; and even while he was
blotting his second signature, he was wonder-
ing how to capitalize what he had overheard.
No inspiration came to him; so that methodi-
cally he stowed away the facts for reference.

"Stay right here, Mix. That's all, ain't it,
Mr. Archer?"

"That's all.'* The lawyer was packing up
his papers. "Good-morning, gentlemen." He
bowed himself away; Standish had long since
vanished.

Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. "Hot,
ain't it?"

"You aren't looking so very fit," said Mr.
Mix, critically. "Feel all right, do you?"

Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together.
"Sure," he said, but his voice lacked its usual
heartiness. "I feel fine. Well, what can I do
for you?"

Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door
(and to see that it latched) began with a fore-

36 E 0 P E

word which was followed by a preface and
then by a prelude, but he had hardly reached
the main introduction when Mr. Starkweather
put up his hand. ' ' To make a long story short,
Mix — how much do you want?"

Mr. Mix looked pained. "Why, to tide me
over the dull season, John, I need — let's see —
He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled
the ante. "About five thousand."

Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk.
"Any security?"

Mr. Mix smiled blandly. "What's security
between friends ? I '11 give you a demand note. ' '

At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drum-
ming. "Mix, I don't quite get you. . . . You've
had a good business ; you must have made con-
siderable money. You oughtn't be borrowin'
from me; that's what your bank's for. You
oughtn't be borrowin' money any way. You
been too big a man to get in a hole like this.
What's wrong — business rotten?"

"Too good," said Mr. Mix, frankly. "It's
taking all my capital to carry my customers.
And you know how tight money is."

"Oh, yes. Well — I guess your credit's good

EOPE 37

for five, all right. When do you have to have
it? Now?"

"Any time that suits you, suits me."

Mr. Starkweather shook his head. "No, it
don't, either. When a man wants money, he
wants it. Wants it some particular day. When
is it!"

"Why, if you could let me have it today,
John, I'd appreciate it."

"Make out your note," said Mr. Stark-
weather, heavily, "Interest at six percent, semi-
annually. I'll have the cashier write you out
a check."

Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his
breast pocket affectionately, bestowed a pater-
nal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr.
Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a
prodigious breath and slumped down in his
chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-
tops.

It was a fortnight, now, since Henry's last
letter. He wished that Henry would write
oftener. He told himself that one of Henry's
impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the
only efficacious antidote to Mirabelle. And he

38 EOPE

needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for
during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been
surpassing herself. That is, if one can surpass
a superlative.

Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the rev-
elation like a man. Like a philosopher. He
was fond of Henry personally; he had objected
to him purely for the obvious reasons. He
agreed, however, with Mr. Starkweather — mar-
riage might awaken Henry to complete respon-
sibility. Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather's
guaranty of it. To be sure a secret marriage
was somewhat sensational, somewhat inde-
corous—

" Humph!" Mirabelle had interrupted. "I
don't know who's insulted most — you or us.
Still I suppose you've got one consolation —
and that's if two young fools marry each other
instead of somebody else it only leaves just
the two of 'em to repent at leisure instead of
four."

Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his
own and the Judge's futile attempts at tact.
Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well
try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took

ROPE 39

another deep breath, and gazed abstractedly out
over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry
would write. Henry had his defects, but the
house was not quite livable without him. Mr.
Starkweather was swept by an emotion which
took him wholly by surprise and almost over-
came him; he sat up, and began to wonder
where he could find some occupation which
would chink up the crevices in his thoughts, and
prevent him from introspection. Eventually he
hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he
pulled himself out of his chair, and went over
to Masonic Hall to meet his sister Mirabelle.
She had been attending a conference of the
Ethical Reform League, and as Mr. Starjk-
weather 's car drew in to the curb, the reformers
were just emerging to the sidewalk. He sur-
veyed them, disparagingly. First, there was
a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably
short of waist and long of skirt, who looked as
though they had stepped directly from the files
of Godey's Lady's Book; he recognized a few
of them, and judged the others accordingly —
these were the militants, the infantry, who bore
the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a

40 ROPE

group of younger women, and of young men —
the men, almost without exception, wore spec-
tacles and white washable ties. These were the
skirmishers and the reserves. At one side,
there was a little delegation in frock-coats and
silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them,
he lifted his eyebrows; some of those older
men he hadn 't seen in public for a dozen years
— he had forgotten that they were alive. But
the majority of them were retired or retiring
capitalists; men who in their day, had man-
aged important interests, and even now con-
trolled them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that
life must have become very insipid to them;
and he further reflected that their place in this
organization must be as shock-troops. They
would seldom go into action, but when they did,
they had the power of consequence to give them
an added momentum.

His sister caught sight of him, and waved
her hand in greeting; and this astonished him
all the more, because since Henry's departure,
she had behaved towards him as though his
character needed a bath.

Mr. Starkweather made room for her.

ROPE 41

* ' Thought I 'd give you a lift back to the house, ' '
he said.

There was an unusual colour in her cheeks,
and her eyes were brilliant. "John, do you
know what I am?"

Mr. Starkweather didn't dare to hesitate.
"No. What?"

"I'm the — president," she said, and her voice
was trembling with pride and bewilderment.

"President? Of the League?"

Transfigured, she nodded again and again.
"The nominating committee reported this
morning. I'm the only candidate. ..." She
stared at him and stiffened. "Of course, I
know you aren't interested in anything helpful
or progressive, so I don't expect to be con-
gratulated. Of course not."

Mr. Starkweather made a dutiful struggle
to be joyous about it, and succeeded only in
producing a feeble smirk. "I'll say one thing
— you've got some money represented in that
crowd. Those old codgers. I didn't realize
it. ... Well, what's your program?"

She unbent a little, and began to recite her
platform, and as she skipped from plank to

42 E 0 P E

plank, her own enthusiasm was multiplied, and
Mr. Starkweather was correspondingly encased
in gloom. As a mere active member of the
League, a private in the ranks, Mirabelle had
made his house no more cheerful as a mauso-
leum; and when he considered what she might
accomplish as a president, in charge of a sweep-
ing blue-law campaign, his imagination refused
to take the hurdle.

Fortunately, he wasn't expected to say any-
thing. His sister was making a speech. She
didn't stop when the car stopped, nor when
Mr. Starkweather climbed down stiffly, and
held open the door for her, nor even when they
had reached the portico of the big brick house.
He told himself, dumbly, that if the world
would ever listen to Mirabelle, it would cer-
tainly reform. Not necessarily in contrition,
but in self-defence.

And yet when he sat opposite her, at lunch,
his expression was as calm and untroubled as
though she had fashioned for him an ideal ex-
istence. He was seeing a vision of Mirabelle
as a soap-box orator; he was seeing humorous
stories about her in the newspapers; he was

E 0 P E 43

shuddering at all the publicity which he knew
would be her portion, and yet he could smile
across the table at her, and speak in his nor-
mal voice. Physically, he was distressed and
joyless, but he found it easier to rise above his
body than above his mind. His smile was a
tribute to a dual heroism.

"Got a little present for you," said Mr.
Starkweather, suddenly. He tossed a slip of
paper to her, and watched her as she examined
it. "There's a string to it, though. — I want
you to hold it awhile."

She looked up, sceptically. "Suppose it's
good!"

"Oh, it's perfectly good. Mix is all right.
Only I don't want you to press him for awhile.
Not for three, four months, anyhow." He
pushed away his dessert, untasted. "You
know why I'm givin' you these little dibs and
dabs every now and then, don't you! So if
anything ever happens to me, all of a sudden,
you'll have somethin' to draw on. Let's see,
I've put about forty in the little trust fund
I been buildin' up for you, and given you
twelve — " He broke off abruptly; his own

44 EOPE

symptoms puzzled him. As though somebody
had tried to throttle him.

His sister had already been sitting bolt up-
right, but now she achieved an even greater
rigidity. "Did you take my advice about your
will? I don't suppose you did."

"I made some changes in it this morning,"
said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably.

"Did you do what I told you to — about
Henry?"

He was struggling to keep a grip on him-
self. "Well, no — not exactly."

"Oh, you didn't?" she said tartly. "Well,
what did you do?"

"Mirabelle," said her brother, "don't you
think that's — just a little mite personal?"

"Well — I should hope so. I meant it to be.
After the way Henry's acted, he don't de-
serve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from
anybody. And if 7Ve got anything to say, he
won't get it, either."

Mr. Starkweather's round, fat face, wore an
expression which his sister hadn't seen before.
He stood up, and held the back of his chair for
support "Mirabelle, you haven't got a word

ROPE 45

to say about it. I've made some changes in my
will, but it's nobody's damned business outside
of mine. ' '

She reached for her handkerchief. "John!
To think that you'd swear — at me — "

He wet his lips. "I didn't swear at you, but
it's a holy wonder I don't. I've stood this just
about as long as I'm goin' to. Henry's my own
flesh and blood. And furthermore he wouldn't
waste my money a minute quicker 'n you would.
He'd do a damn sight better with it. He'd
have *a good time with it, and make everybody
in the neighbourhood happy, and you'd burn
it up in one of your confounded reform clubs.
Well, all I've got's a sister and a nephew, so
I guess the money's goin' to be wasted anyhow.
But one way's as good's another, and Henry's
goin' to get a fair break, and don't you forget
it." He took a glass of water from the table,
and spilled half of it. ' ' Don 't you forget it. ' '

At last, she had perception. "John, you
don't know what you're saying! What's the
matter I Are you sick ? ' '

He was swallowing repeatedly. "Yes, I am.
Sick of the whole thing." His eyes, and the

46 ROPE

hue of his cheeks, genuinely alarmed her; she
went to him, but he avoided her. "No, I don't
want anything except to be let alone. ... Is
the car out there!"

"But John — listen to me — "

He waved her off. "I listened to you the day
Henry came home, Mirabelle. That's enough
to last me quite some time. I ain't forgot a
word you said — not a word. Where's my
hat?" He rushed past her, and out of the
house, and left her gaping after him.

Half an hour later, young Mr. Standish tele-
phoned to her.

"Miss Starkweather? . . . Your brother
isn't feeling any too well, and I've just sent
him home. He looks to me as if he's in pretty
bad shape. Wouldn't be a bad idea to have
your doctor there, seems to me."

She had the doctor there, and before the night
was over, there was another doctor in consulta-
tion. There were also two nurses. And to both
doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Stark-
weather, who knew his destiny, whispered the
same message at intervals of fifteen minutes.
"Don't have Henry come back — don't have

E 0 P E 47

Henry come back — no sense his comin' back 'till
August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I want
him to stay over there — 'till August."

And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr.
Starkweather, who hadn't stirred a muscle for
several hours, suddenly tried to sit up.

"Postman!" said Mr. Starkweather, with
much difficulty.

He was waiting for a letter from Henry, and
when they put it into his hands, he smiled and
was content. He hadn't the strength to open
it, and he wouldn 't let anyone else touch it ; he
was satisfied to know that Henry had written.
And after that, there was nothing worth wait-
ing for.

CHAPTER IV

IT never occurred to Henry, when he came
home in late July, to take his wife to the
big brick house which had been his uncle 's. He
didn 't know whether the house would go to Aunt
Mirabelle or to himself, and for the time being,
it was immaterial; Aunt Mirabelle was wel-
come to possession of it, undisturbed. Except
for his uncle, there would have been open war-
fare between them long ago ; now that the arbi-
trator was gone, war was inevitable, but Henry
wouldn't fight on sacred ground. He preferred
to accept the hospitality of Judge Barklay. The
Judge's house was a third the size, and not the
least prepossessing, and there really wasn't
room for the young Devereuxs in it, but as soon
as you stepped inside the door, you knew that
you were welcome.

He was sorry for his aunt, and he went to see
her immediately, but even in this new situation,
she let him know that she disapproved of him

48

ROPE 49

thoroughly and permanently. She wasn't rec-
onciled to his marriage; she didn't care to re-
ceive Anna ; she implied that regardless of Mr.
Starkweather's express wishes, Henry was a
stony-hearted ingrate for remaining so long
abroad. To be sure, his presence at home
would have served no purpose whatsoever, but
Mirabelle was firm in her opinion. More than
that, she succeeded in making Henry feel that
by his conduct he had hurried his uncle into an
untimely grave; she didn't say this flatly, nor
yet by innuendo, but she managed to convey it
through the atmosphere.

1 'Of course," she said, "you've been to call
on Mr. Archer, haven 't you ? ' '

Henry flushed indignantly. "I hadn't even
thought about it. ' '

' 'Well, when you do, you'll hear some fine
news." Her lip curled. "Your friend Bob
Standish's bought the business. Some of it,
anyway. Bought it on a shoestring's my guess,
— but he 's bought it. ' '

"I didn't know it, Aunt Mirabelle."

"Well, they only closed the deal a few days
ago."

50 ROPE

''Good for Bob!" He was thinking that if
honest toil were demanded of him, nothing
could be more pleasant than an alliance with
this same Standish. His uncle had always of-
fered up Standish, subtly, as an illustration of
what Henry himself ought to be. And it was a
tribute to the mutual affection of all three men
that Henry had never been irritated at Mr.
Starkweather, nor resentful towards his friend.
On the contrary, he admitted that unless he
were himself, he would rather be Standish
than anyone else. He wondered if his uncle
could have planned for him so delightful a pen-
nance as a year or two of happy servitude under
Bob. He must see Bob and congratulate him.
Only twenty-seven, and the head of the most
important concern of its type in several coun-
ties.

Aunt Mirabelle sniffed. "Good for nothing.
He's most as scatter-brained as you are."

Henry declined the combat, and after she
sensed his intention, she went on, with increas-
ing acridity.

"The rest of the whole estate's tied up for
a year in a trust, to see what you're going to

EOPE 51

do with some piece of property he deeded to
you just before he died, but Mr. Archer
wouldn't tell me much about it 'till you came
home. I suppose it's part of the business —
some department of it. If you can make ten
thousand dollars out of it, you 're to have every-
thing. All / get 's a few thousand outright, and
what John gave me in a little separate fund,
and a year's income from the whole estate. I
suppose you think that's perfectly fair and
right and just. Naturally, you would."

In his present mood, Henry was immune to
astonishment. "I don't believe it's up to me
to criticize Uncle John, whatever he did. ' '

"Not under the circumstances, no. You've
got some piece of property — I don 't know what
it is; he didn't tell me; 7'm only his sister —
and he's fixed things so it's just a gamble for
you. You're going to do the gambling; and I
sit back and fold my hands and wait a year to
see whether you get everything, or I do. Even
this house."

"What's that?"

She made a deprecating gesture. "Oh, yes,
if you aren't a good enough gambler, then I

52 E 0 P E

come into everything. It puts me in such a
sweet position, doesn't it? So comfortable for
me." Her smile was bitter; she was recalling
what her brother had said to her at lunch, on
that final day — that he wouldn't listen to her,
because already he had heard the worst that she
had to say. Originally, as she knew, he had
intended to bequeath Henry a fourth of his
property, and herself the remainder; and she
knew that by her too vigorous indictment of
Henry she had egged her brother into a state
of mind which, regardless of the cause of it,
she still considered to be unfathomable. The
memory galled her, and so did the possibility
of Henry's triumph. "Well," she said, "I
wish you every happiness and success, Henry.
I suppose you feel in your conscience you de-
serve it, don't you?"

When he left her, he was aware that the last
tie had been severed.

His friend Bob Standish was a young man
who in the past ten years had achieved many

E 0 P E 53

different kinds of success by the reason that
mere acquaintances, as well as strangers, in-
variably underestimated him. For one thing,
his skin was so tender, his eyes so blue and in-
nocent, his mouth so wide and sensitive, his
forehead so white and high, that he gave the
impression of almost childish simplicity and
ingenuousness. For another thing, he dressed
with such meticulous regard for the fashion,
and he moved about with such indolent amia-
bility, that his clothes and his manners dis-
tracted attention from what was underneath.

And so, at college, a full battalion of kindly
sophomores had volunteered to teach him
poker, and couldn't understand why the profits
went not to the teacher, but to the pupil. Im-
mature professors, who liked to score off idlers
and fat-brained sons of plutocrats, had selected
him as the perfect target, and some of them had
required several terms to realize that Stand-
ish, always baby-eyed, beau-attired and appar-
ently dreaming of far distant things, was
never lower in rank than the top twenty of his
class. Out on the Field, visiting ends and
tackles, meeting him for the first tkne, had

54 E 0 P E

nearly laughed in his face, and prepared: to
slaughter him, only to discover, with alarm
and horror which steadily increased from the
first whistle to the last, that Standish could ex-
plode his muscles with such a burst of dy-
namic energy that his hundred and sixty
pounds felt like two hundred and ten. It was
equally discouraging to learn, from breathless
experience, that when he was in his stri4e he
was as unpursueable as a coyote; and that he
could diagnose the other fellow's tactics even
before the other fellow had quite decided what
to do next.

In commerce, he had merely continued the
same species of career ; and by virtue of being
thoroughly depreciated, and even pitied, by
his customers, he had risen in six years from
the grade of city insurance solicitor to that
of Mr. Starkweather's principal assistant.
And now, as casually as he had ever raked in a
jack-pot from the bewildered sophomores, he
had bought the Starkweather business, and not
on a shoestring, either, as Mirabelle had sus-
pected.

E O P E 55

He had roomed with Henry at college; he
had been his inseparable companion, out of
office hours, ever since; he knew him too well
to proffer any trite condolence. But his sym-
pathy was firm and warm in his fingers when
he shook hands and Henry got the message.

''Thought probably you'd rather not have
me at the train, " said Standish, "so I didn't
come. Eight or wrong f ' '

" Eight, Bob ... Allow smoking in your
sanctum?"

"Don't allow anybody not to smoke. "What
are you doing — borrowing or offering?"

Henry glanced at Standish 's brand. "Nei-
ther one. Every man for himself — and you've
got vile taste. Well, I hear you're the big
boss around here. Please, mister, gimme a
job?"

"Nothing I'd like better," said Standish.
"I've got just the thing for you. Sit over on
the window-sill and be a lily. Flowers brighten
up an office so."

"You basely misjudge me. Didn't you know
I'm going to work?"

56 ROPE

Standish's eyes were round and guileless.
1 1 See any sea-serpents on your way over? I 've
heard there are such things."

"Fact, though, I am. And you know it, too.
I'm hoping it's here."

His friend shook his head. "Not here,
Henry. ' '

"No?"

' ' No, and I 'm sorry. I 'd make you clean ink-
wells and say 'sir,' and you'd get to be almost
as democratic as I am. . . . Haven't you seen
Archer ? ' '

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

' * Oh, just squeamish, I suppose. You sort of
hate to think of the — cash end of it."

"That's right, too. But as long as you're in
the building, you 'd better drop in there. From
all the talk there is, you've picked up a mys-
tery. ' '

"Mystery? In what way?"

"Not for me to say. Go find out. And say —
you and Anna come and dine with me tonight,
will you? I just want to have you all to myself.
Mind?"

ROPE 57

"Not noticeably."

"Good. Seven o'clock. Now get out of here
and <see Archer. 'Come back afterwards, if you
want to; but do that first/'

As if from pressure of business, he projected
Harry into the corridor ; and then, meditatively,
he returned to his desk. Young Mr. Standish
had watched his employer very closely, during
those last few days, and in witnessing Mr.
Starkweather's will, he had sensed, intuitively,
that it contained a stick of dynamite for Henry.

Mr. Archer, who had known Henry since the
Fauntleroy days, greeted him with the proper
mixture of repression and cordiality. "But
I'm afraid," owned Mr. Archer, "I'm afraid
you're going to be a little disappointed."

Henry shook his head. "Then you've sized
me up all wrong, ' ' he said, much subdued. ' * Be-
cause no matter what I get, I'm going to be sat-
isfied that Uncle John wanted me to have it.
Besides, I've apparently got to hump myself, or
I don't get anything at all. Aunt Mirabelle

58 E 0 P E

gave me some idea of it — I'd thought it was
probably an interest in the business, but Bob
Standish says it isn't.'*

4 'No, it's a building. 361 Main Street. But
it's rather more than a mere building; it is a
business. It's leased until next Monday; after
that it's yours to operate. The deed's recorded
now. It's yours outright. Did your aunt tell
you what the conditions are ! ' '

" All or nothing !"

"Yes. Oh, he made a separate provision for
Miss Starkweather ; she '11 never go hungry ; but
the bulk of the estate depends on what you do
with the business in the next year. And strictly
between ourselves, your uncle expected you to
finish with a bit to spare. "

"I know this much; if it's anything he doped
out for me, it's an even bet. It's to make ten
thousand dollars!"

"Yes, and without any outside help except
straight commercial loans — if you can get 'em.
No favours from anybody, and no free keep
from your families.'*

"What building is it, Mr. Archer!"

The lawyer paused to wipe his glasses.

K 0 P E 59

"It's one your uncle took over on a mortgage
last winter. . . . You see, Henry, he'd figured
out what he was going to do with you, and it
would have been this same thing even if he'd
lived. He picked out what he thought would do-
yen the most good — get you in touch with
different people — break down some of your (ex-
cuse me for being blunt) class prejudice — teach
you how many dimes there are in a dollar.
And for that reason he expressly stipulated
that you've got to keep your own books.
That'll give you more of a respect for money
than anything else would, I guess."

"Keep my own books?"

"That's the way Mr. Starkweather began —
only in his case, he kept somebody else 's. But
I warned you to expect something out of the
ordinary."

"Oh, yes," said Henry. "I was all set for
some kind of a low-brow job. What is it — a
garage 1 ' '

"I'm afraid you'll think a garage is fash-
ionable, compared with it."

Henry looked serious. "361 Main? I don't
seem to — What on earth is it, Mr. Archer?"

60 EOPE

"Go down and look at it. Only don't be
shocked, Henry ; because it 's exactly what he 'd
have given you to do, anyway. And then let
me know what your plans are, will you? By
the way — have you any money of your own ? ' '

Henry looked pained. "I'm down to a
couple of hundred. Why?"

"Then you'd better not waste any time. Go
on down and look it over this morning, and let
me know. ' '

"Why— let you know what?"

"Whether you're going to take the dare."

Henry's lips twitched. "Nobody ever beat
me by default yet, Mr. Archer."

"Just the same, I wish you'd let me know
definitely — won't you! Of course, if you
shouldn't feel inclined to go ahead on your
uncle's plan — and that would disappoint me —
you could simply sell out. I hope you won't,
though. I hope very much indeed that you
won't. But — go look at it. And one last
thing, Henry; your uncle put the thing in this
shape so that too many people wouldn't be gos-
siping about it. I mean, if you and your aunt

ROPE 61

don't tell — nobody will. That's all — but let me
know. ' '

Obediently, Henry proceeded down Main
Street to the 300 block. His curiosity was
active, but he was warning himself to be on
guard, for his uncle's sentences, although in-
variably fair and invariably appropriate, were
also founded on a solid base of humour and sur-
prise. Henry remembered what Mr. Stark-
weather had said about coming home to eat
crow, and what Mr. Archer had said about the
comparative aristocracy of a garage, and he
prepared himself for a thunderstroke, and got a
laugh ready. That book-keeping provision was
really clever; Uncle John had palpably framed
it up to keep Henry on the job. But Henry
would outwit the provision. A few lessons in a
commercial-school, a modern card-system, and
he could handle the books of any small business
in no time at all, as per the magazine advertise-
ments. Of course, the crow and the garage
were merely symbols; but whatever the
business might be, and however distasteful,
there was only a year of it, and after that (so

62 E 0 P E

confident was Henry) there was a lifetime of
luxury. He was rather glad that his penance
came first; it would serve to make the enjoy-
ment of his wealth so much more zestful. He
should always feel as though he had worked for
it, instead of having it handed out to him on a
platter, regardless of his personal deserts.
Yes, he would work faithfully, and because the
task would be within his capabilities, (for Mr.
Starkweather was sane and practical, and Mr.
Archer had prophesied a finish with something
to spare) he would end his probation in a blaze
of glory, and Anna would be proud of him,
Judge Barklay would approve of him, and Aunt
Mirabelle would have to revise her estimate of
him. Altogether, it was a fine arrangement,
provided that his business, whatever it was,
wouldn't entirely prevent him from keeping up
with the procession, socially, and playing
enough golf to hold his present form.

He had passed 331 and 341 and 351 and his
heart began to beat more rapidly. This was
almost as exciting as a Christmas stocking in
the Fauntleroy days. His eyes were searching

ROPE 63

among the numbers; there was a four-story
office building (335) and an automobile agency
(339) . . . and next to that — . . . . Henry
halted, and the laugh dried up in his throat.
He had been prepared for anything but the
reality. The ark of his fortunes was a shabby
little motion-picture theatre.

Gasping, he looked up again at the number,
and when he realized that he had made no mis-
take, his knees turned to gelatine, and he stood
staring, fascinated, numbed. His eyes wan-
dered blankly from the crumbling ticket-booth
to the unkempt lobby and back to the lurid bill-
ing— the current attraction was a seven-reel
thriller entitled "What He Least Expected,"
but Henry missed the parallel. With trembling
fingers he produced a cigarette, but in his daze
he blew out two matches in succession. He
crushed the cigarette in his palm, and moved a
few steps towards the lobby. Great Heaven,
was it possible that John Starkweather had con-
demmed Henry the fashionable, Henry the
clubable, Henry the exclusive to a year of this?
Was this his punishment for the past? Was

64 ROPE

this the price of his future? This picayune
sordidness, and vulgarity and decay! Evi-
dently, it was so intended, and so ordered.

His power of reason was almost atrophied.
He struggled to understand his uncle's pur-
pose; his uncle's logic. To break down his
class prejudice, and teach him the dimes in a
dollar, and put him on the level of a working-
man? All that could have been accomplished
by far less drastic methods. It could have been
accomplished by a tour of duty with Bob. To
be sure, Mr. Starkweather had promised him
the meanest job in the directory, but Henry had
put it down as a figure of speech. Now, he was
faced with the literal interpretation of it, and
ahead of him there was a year of trial, and then
all or nothing.

He succeeded in lighting a fresh cigarette,
but he couldn't taste it. Previously he had
paid his forfeits with the best of good-nature,
but his previous forfeits hadn't obliged him to
declass himself. They hadn 't involved his wife.
He hadn't married Anna to drag her down to
this. It would stand them in a social pillory,
targets for those who had either admired them

ROPE 65

or envied them. It would make them the most
conspicuous pair in the whole community:
older people would point to them as an illustra-
tion of justice visited on blind youth, and would
chuckle to observe Henry in the process of re-
ceiving his come-uppance : the younger set
would quake with merriment and poor jokes
and -sly allusions to Henry's ancient grandeur.
Even Bob Standish would have to hide his
amusement ; why, Bob himself had made society
and success his fetiches. And Anna — Anna
who was so ambitious for him — how could she
endure the status of a cheap showman's wife?
And even if she had been willing to ally him-
self with such a business, how could he con-
ceivably make ten thousand dollars out of it in at,
single year? Ten? It would take a genius to
make five. An inexperienced man, with luck,
might make two or three. He couldn't afford
to hire a trained man to manage it for him : the
place was too small to support such a man, and
still to net any appreciable profit. Mr. Stark-
weather had undoubtedly foreseen this very
fact — foreseen that Henry couldn't sit back as
a magnate, and pile responsibility on a paid

66 E O P E

employe. To reach his quota, Henry would
have to get in all over, and act as his own
manager, and take the resulting publicity and
the social isolation. But the business was im-
possible, the quota was impossible, the entire
project from first to last was unthinkable. His
uncle, whether by accident or design, had
virtually disowned him. There was no other
answer.

His laugh came back to him, but there was no
hilarity in it. It was merely an expression of
his helplessness; it was tragedy turned inside
out. Yet he felt no resentment towards his
uncle, but rather an overwhelming, pity. He
felt no resentment towards his friend Standish,
who had bought out the perfectly respectable
business which Mr. Starkweather might so
easily have left to Henry. Mr. Starkweather
had schemed to bring about a certain reaction,
and he had overplayed his hand. Instead of
firing Henry with a new ardour for success, he
had convinced him of the futility of endeavour.
He had set a standard so high, and chosen a
medium so low, that he had defeated his own
object.

ROPE 67

The next step — why, it was to chart his life
all over again. It was to dispose of this ridicu-
lous property, and begin to make a living for
Anna. And there was no time to lose, either,
for Henry 's checking balance was about to slide
past the vanishing point.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to
meet the gravely sympathetic eyes of Mr.
Theodore Mix.

Mr. Mix was fresh from an interview with
Miss Mirabelle Starkweather. Her acquaint-
ance with him was slight, but from a distance
she had always esteemed him, partly for his
mature good-looks, and partly for the distin-
guished manner which had always been a large
fraction of his stock-in-trade, and was now to be
listed among his principal assets. Her esteem,
however, applied to him merely as an indivi-
dual, and not as a debtor.

"I wanted to see you about a note," she said,
primly. "A five thousand dollar demand note
you gave my brother four months ago. He

68 E 0 P E

endorsed it over to me, and I wanted to see you
about it. ' '

Mr. Mix allowed his mouth to widen in a
smile which was disarmingly benevolent. The
horse at Bowie had proved dark indeed, — so
dark that it had still been merged with the back-
ground when the winner passed the judge's
stand — and thia colour-test had cost Mr. Mix
precisely two thousand dollars. Beyond that,
he had paid off a few of his. most pressing
creditors, and he had spent a peculiarly care-
free week in New York (where he had also
taken a trifling flyer in cotton, and made a dis-
astrous forced landing) so that there was
practically nothing but his smile between him-
self and bankruptcy. Yet Mr. Mix beamed,
with almost ecclesiastical poise, upon the
holder of his demand note, and tried her with
honey.

"Ordinarily, I'm embarrassed to talk busi-
ness with a woman," said Mr. Mix. "I'm so
conscious of the — what shall I say? — of a
woman's disadvantage in a business interview.
But in your case, Miss Starkweather, when your

E 0 P E 69

executive ability is so well known and so uni-
versally praised — "

She nodded, and took it without discount, but
she wasn't distracted from her purpose. "I
hope it's convenient for you to pay it, Mr.
Mix."

1 'If it weren't convenient," said Mr. Mix,
soothingly, "I should make it convenient.
When the sister of my oldest friend — a man
who once sat at the same desk with me, when
we were young clerks together — when his
sister is in need of funds, I — "

" 'T isn't that," she said, quickly. "I want
this money for some special reason."

He inclined his head slightly. ' * One of your
favourite charities, I have no doubt. But what-
ever the reason, the obligation is the same.
Now, let's see — I'll have to sell some securities
— when must you have it I "

"Next Tuesday."

Inwardly, Mr. Mix was startled, but out-
wardly he looked grieved. "Tuesday? Now
: — -that is — wait a minute." He created the
impression that he was juggling vast affairs, in

70 E 0 P E

order to gratify a whim of his old friend's
sister. As a matter of fact, he was wondering
what plausible ex'cuse he could give without re-
vealing any hint of the truth. "Is Tuesday
imperative ? ' '

* ' Tuesday by ten o 'clock in the morning. ' '
His face cleared, " You've shared a secret
with me," said Mr. Mix, and although he spoke
aloud, his attitude was as though he were
whispering. " Because I happen to know that
every Tuesday at ten o'clock there's a meeting
of a — a certain organization of which you 're the
illustrious president. Needless to say, I refer
to the Ethical Reform League." He lowered
his voice. "I ask your pardon for the intrusion
of anything of such a delicately personal
nature, Miss Starkweather, but I must tell you
that when a person, such as yourself, even in the
midst of inconsolable sorrow, can't forget that
great principles and great institutions can
never perish, but are immortal, and go on for-
ever— that's true nobility of character, Miss
Starkweather, and I honour you for it. ' '

She touched her eyes with her handkerchief.

HOPE 71

1 1 Thank you, Mr. Mix. Yes, I intend to make a
contribution to our League — in memory of my
brother. You 're — familiar with our League f ' '

He gestured effectively. " Familiar with it!
You might as well ask me if I'm familiar with
the Emancipation Proclamation — the Magna
Charta." And this was accurate; his knowl-
edge of all three was based on hearsay evidence.

"And are you at all in sympathy with it?"

"My dear lady! I was one of the pioneer
supporters of suffrage in this region. I — "

"Yes, I know that, and I know your work in
the Associated Charities, and in your church,
but — how did you vote on prohibition?"

He side-stepped with great agility. "How
would any man of my calibre vote?"

"True, true." She was becoming animated.

"But we've tremendous problems yet to
solve. . . . Do you believe in enforcing the
laws, Mr. Mix? The Sunday laws especially?"

Mr. Mix picked up his cue, and gave thanks
for the diversion. "Dear lady, I am a citizen.
As a citizen, I help to make the laws; they're
made by all of us for our own good. Show me

72 E O P E

a man who doesn't believe in enforcing the laws,
and I won't argue with him — I couldn't count
on his sincerity."

1 ' It's a pleasure to talk to a man like you,"
she said. "I wonder if you agree with our
other ideals. Er — what do you think about
dancing?"

He had a good phrase which he had been
saving up for six weeks. "Dancing," he said,
"is popular because it's so conspicuously inno-
cent, and so warmly satisfactory to the guilty. ' '

"Good! Good! How about tobacco!"

This, too, he side-stepped. "It's a poison,
so the doctors say. Who am I to put any opin-
ion against theirs ! ' '

She was regarding him earnestly, and a little
perplexedly.

"How is it, when in spirit you're one of us,
you've never joined the League!"

"I-Pve never been invited," said Mr. Mix,
somewhat taken aback.

"Then / invite youy" she said, promptly.
"And I know you'll accept. It's men like you
we need — men with some backbone ; prominent,
useful citizens. You sit right there. I've got

ROPE 73

an application blank in my desk. Bead it
over when you get home, and sign it and mail it
to me."

"I appreciate the distinction of your asking
me," said Mr. Mix, with supreme deference.
"And if you have time, I wish you'd tell me
what your aims are. I am very deeply inter-
ested."

He stayed another half hour, and the con-
versation never swerved from the entertaining
subject of reform. Mr. Mix was insufferably
bored, and cumulatively restless, but he was
convinced that he was making headway, so that
he kept his mind relentlessly on the topic, and
dispensed honey by the shovelful. When he
prepared to leave, he tested out his conviction,
and reminded her gently: "Now, in regard to
that note — "

Mirabelle was blinded by her own visionings,
and deafened by her own eloquence. "Well,
we '11 have to take that up again — But you come
to the meeting Tuesday, anyhow. And here's
one of our pamphlets for you to look at in the
meantime. ' '

As he went down the steps, -she was watching

74 ROPE

him, from the ambush of lace window-curtains,
and she was saying to herself: "Such a nice
man — so influential, too. . . . Now if I could
get him persuaded over — "

Mr. Mix, strolling nonchalantly downtown,
was also talking to himself, and his conclusions
would have astonished her. "What I've got to
do," said Mr. Mix, thoughtfully, "is to string
the old dame along until I can raise five
thousand bucks. But where 's it coming
from?"

Then, squarely in front of the Orpheum
Theatre, he met Henry Devereux.

"Good-morning, Henry," said Mr. Mix,
soberly. "First time I've had a chance to
speak to you since. ..." He coughed dis-
creetly. "I don't believe I need to say that if
there's anything I can do for you at any time,
all you've got to do is to say so."

Privately, Henry had always considered Mr.
Mix as a genial poseur, but he knew that Mr.
Mix belonged to the Citizens Club, which was

ROPE 75

the local standard, and that for thirty years he
had been on rather intimate business relations
with Mr. Starkweather. This was sufficient
recommendation for Henry, in the swirl of his
agitation, to loose his tongue.

"All right," he said. "Tell me how soon I
can sell this overgrown magic-lantern outfit —
and what I can get for it — and where I can
put the money to bring in the biggest income —
and where I can get a good job."

Now all this was intended to be purely in the
nature of a rhetorical question: for naturally,
if Henry decided to sell, he would want Bob
Standish to handle the transaction for him,
and to get the commission: and also, if Henry
had to find employment, he would go to his
friend, and be sure of a cordial reception. But
Mr. Mix took it literally.

Mr. Mix started, and his memory began to un-
fold. It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt
out: "And lose your shot at the estate?" but
he restrained himself. He wasn't supposed to
know the circumstances, and as a matter of fact,
as he realized with a thrill of relish, he was
probably the only outsider who did know the

76 ROPE

circumstances. "Why," said Mr. Mix. "Do
you own the Orpheum ? Well, I should say off-
hand it's worth a good deal. Twenty thousand.
The land, you know: the building's no good."

Henry nodded impatiently. ' ' Yes, but who 'd
buy it?"

"Well, now, about that — of course, I'm not a
real estate man — but you could certainly trade
it."

"What for?"

Mr. Mix caught the note of sincerity in
Henry's voice, and Mr. Mix thought rapidly.
He appeared to deliberate, to waver, to burn his
bridges. "Well — say for a third interest in
Theodore Mix and Company. ' '

Henry stared. "Are you serious?"

Mr. Mix almost fell over backwards. "Why,
yes. It's sudden, but . . . why, yes. I could
use more capital, and I want a crack salesman.
I '11 trade — if you 're quick on the trigger. I 've
got two or three people interested so far, but
when it's you — "

Henry took him- by the arm. ' ' Come on over
to the Citizens Club, then, and we'll talk about
it."

CHAPTER V

WHEN Henry went home to his wife and
his father-in-law, he was confident that
he had a very fine bargain ; when he told them
what he had heard from his aunt and Mr.
Archer, what he had seen with his own eyes, and
what he had done with Mr. Mix, he expected
first, sympathy, and afterwards, unqualified ap-
proval. "Within the next five minutes, however,
Henry was sitting limp and baffled ; and wishing
that he had Bob Standish to support him.
Bob, at least, would understand.

"Holy Smoke!" he said, weakly. "I didn't
suppose you 'd take it like that ! Why, I — I feel
as if I'd been run over by a steam-roller with
Taf tat the wheel!"

Judge Barklay had long since forgiven his
daughter, but he hadn't quite forgiven Henry.
"Do you want my honest opinion? I should
say you're suffering from two extreme causes
— exaggerated ego and cold feet. ' '

77

78 E 0 P E

Henry flushed. He had the most profound
respect for Judge Barklay — a man who had
preferred to be a city magistrate, and to be
known throughout the whole state for his
wisdom and humanity, instead of keeping up
his law practice, at five times the income — and
Henry, like every one else, valued the Judge's
opinions. "You don't mean you think I'd run
the miserable little peanut-stand, do you ? And
keep books on it as if it had been the Federal
Reserve Bank?"

"It strikes me," said the Judge, "that both
of us would rather have you run a peanut-stand
than — I 'm using your own analogy — than spend
your whole life eating peanuts. Why, Henry,
your uncle wanted you to be shocked — wanted
you to be mad enough to stand up on your hind
legs and fight."

Henry looked at his wife. "What are you
going to suggest t Hire a snake-charmer and a
wild-man-from-Borneo and an infant pachy-
derm and a royal ring-tailed gyasticutus, and
pull off a side-show after the main tent's
closed?"

E 0 P E 79

"Oh, Henry! Can't you see what a lark it
would be!"

"Lark?" he repeated, hazily. "Lark?
You've got the wrong bird. It's crow."

"No, but Henry dear, you aren't going to be
a quitter, are you 1 ' '

"Wife of my bosom, do you realize what
you're talking about? It would cost a
thousand dollars just to make the place clean.
It'll cost three or four more to make it at-
tractive enough to get anybody inside of it.
And I haven't got the price."

"What's the matter with a mortgage?" de-
manded the Judge. "And you've got a car,
haven't you? You've got a saddle-horse.
You've got all kinds of junk you can turn into
money. ' '

"On a wild gamble? Why, Anna, we
couldn't stay on here with the Judge — that
would be getting help I 'm not allowed to have —
we 'd have to go live in some cheap apartment ;
we couldn't even have a maid for awhile; we
couldn't entertain anybody; we couldn't
have any outside pleasures; I'd have to work

80 ROPE

like a dog; you know what the crowd on the
hill would say — and then I'm beaten before
I start anyway. Quitter! You wouldn't call a
man a quitter if he stayed out of a hurdle race
because he'd broken a leg, would you?"

"Well," said Anna, "I'm willing to live in
such a cheap apartment that the landlord calls
it a flat. And you can't get any servants these
days; there aren't any. And who cares about
entertaining? And for outside pleasures, why
couldn't we go to the Orpheum?" They all
laughed, but Anna was the first to stop. "I'll
work just as hard as you will, Henry. I '11 peel
potatoes and wash the sink — ' She glanced,
ruefully, at her hands — "and if it'll help you,
I — I'd sell tickets or be an usher or play the
piano. Why, Henry, it would be a circus — and
we wouldn 't need any snake-charmers, either. ' '

" And an education," said Judge Barklay.

"And a gold-mine for us — in just one little
year. We could do it; I know we could."

"And if the stupid fool who's had it this last
year could make money out of it," added the
Judge, "and you used any intelligence on it,
you'd come out ahead. John made up his

E 0 P E 81

figures very carefully. That 's the kind of man
he was."

Henry stared at them alternately. "But if
I did fall down—"

"Henry!" The Judge was using a profes-
sional gesture. "What do you suppose your
time is worth, at its present market value?
Don't you think you can afford to risk a year of
it against half a million dollars?"

"But when I've practically closed with
Mix—"

"Sign any agreement?"

"No, he's having one typed."

The judge breathed in relief. ''You're
lucky. You'd lose money if you took a third
interest for a gift, and if you took all of it as a
gift you'd lose three times as much. Because
you'd have to assume your share of his
liabilities. People think he's got money, but
he hasn't; he's broke. He must have picked
you for a life preserver."

Henry's jaw dropped. "What makes you
think so?"

' ' I don 't think so ; I know so. Oh, he 's pretty
shifty on his feet, and he's got a good many

82 ROPE

people hoodwinked — your uncle always gave
him too much credit, incidentally — but his New
York correspondents happened to be clients of
mine when I was practising law, and they've
both asked me about him and told me about him,
inside of the last six weeks."

Henry sat unblinking "Is that — a fact!"
"And if you wanted to sell out," continued
the Judge, with a trifle of asperity, "why on
earth didn't you go to Bob Standish? Why
didn't you go to an expert? And why didn't
you have an audit made of Mix's company —
why didn't you get a little information — why
didn't you know what you were buying? Oh,
it isn 't too late, if you haven 't signed anything,
but — Henry, it looks to me as if you need a
guardian!"

At the sight of his face, Anna went over to
him, and perched on the arm of his chair.
"That's enough, Dad. . . . 7'm his guardian;
aren't I, dear? And he's just upset and dizzy
and I don't blame him a bit. We won't say
another word about it ; we Ve told him what we
think ; and tonight he can have a long talk with

E 0 P E 83

Bob. You'd want to do that, wouldn't you,
Henry? Of course you would. You wish
you'd done it before. You're feeling awfully
ashamed of yourself for being so hasty. And
snobbish. I know you. ' '

Henry looked across at the Judge. " Might
as well have my brains where my hair is,
mightn't I? She sees it just as easy. . . . All
right; we'll let the whole thing ride 'till I've
seen Bob."

His friend Standish, gazing with childlike
solemnity out of his big blue eyes, listened to
both sides of the story, and to Henry's miscal-
culation, at no time during the recital did he
laugh uproariously, or exclaim compassion-
ately, or indicate that he shared any of Henry 's
conclusions :

"Oh, yes," he said, " people might giggle a
bit. But they always giggle at a man's first
shot at business, anyway. Like his first pair
of long trousers. It's done. But how many
times will they do it? A thousand? Ten
thousand? A hundred thousand? At maybe
seven dollars a giggle? For less than that, I'd

84 E O P E

be a comedian. I'd be a contortionist. I'd be
a pie-thrower. Henry, old rubbish, you do
what they tell you to. ' '
* * Would you do it if you were in my place ? ' '
" Would I lie down like a yellow dog, and let
people say I hadn't sand enough to stop a wrist-
watch?"

"I know, but Bob — the Orpheum!"
"I know, but Henry — don't you sort of owe
it to Mr. Starkweather? You wouldn't have
put on this milk-fed expression if he 'd soaked it
to you himself, would you ? ' '

At this precise instant, Henry was required
on the telephone. It was his Aunt Mirabelle;
and even if he had been dining with royalty, she
would still have called him — if she could have
got the address.

11 Henry," she said acidly. "I've just found
out what kind of a building it was your uncle
deeded you. Theodore Mix told me. I didn't
•know your uncle was ever messed up in that
kind of a thing. He never told me. Good
reason he didn't, too. I certainly hope you
aren't going to spread this news around town,
Henry — it's scandalous enough to have it in

E 0 P E 85

the family, even. Of all the hellish influences
we've got to contend with in this day and
generation — "

"Well," said Henry, "it isn't any of it my
fault, is it?"

"That remains to be seen. Are you going
to run that — dive ? ' '

* ' Why,— I don 't know. If I didn 't— ' '

"Oh, yes, you're probably thinking how
selfish I am. You wouldn't recognize a pure
motive if you met one in the street. But to
think of a Devereux — almost the same thing as
a Starkweather — "

"What's your idea? To have me be a jolly
little martyr?"

"There's this much to say, Henry — at least
I'd put John's money to a nobler use than you
ever would."

Henry grimaced. "Your League?"

"Yes, what else?"

He was an impulsive young man, and some-
times he made up his mind by contraries. "I
wouldn't count too much on it," he said cheer-
fully. ' ' I might astonish you. ' '

"You — Henry Devereux ! Am I going to see

86 ROPE

my own sister's son in a polluted enterprise
like—"

' ' You 're going to see your own grandfather 's
great-grandson make P. T. Barnum look a Kick-
apoo medicine man — if necessary," said Henry.
"Only don't you worry about any pollution.
That 's where I draw the line. I 'm not going to
stage one single pollute."
' ' You are going to operate that place t ' '
"Why certainly," said Henry. "And speak-
ing of operations, I've got a hunch the patient's
going to recover. I've just been holding a
clinic . . . Well — good-bye, Aunt Mirabelle."
He turned back to his wife and his friend
Standish. "So that's settled," said Henry,
and grinned, a trifle apprehensively. "We're
off in a cloud of dust. . . . Waiter, where 's
those two portions of crow I ordered four
months ago? The service in this place is
getting something rotten. ' *

CHAPTER VI

ME. THEODORE MIX, sprawled in his
desk chair, gazed with funereal gloom at
the typewritten agreement which lay before
him, unsigned. It was barely twenty minutes
ago that Mr. Mix had risen to welcome the man
who was to save his credit and his reputation;
but during those twenty minutes Mr. Mix, who
had felt that he was sitting on top of the world,
had been unceremoniously shot off into space.
His creditors surrounded him, (and because
they were small creditors they were inclined to
be nasty), he owed money to his New York
correspondents, whose letters were becoming
peremptory, and his brokerage business was
pounding against the rocks. Quietly, over-
night he had located a purchaser for the
Orpheum, and as soon as Henry's name had
been safe on the dotted line, Mr. Mix would
have been financed for many months ahead.
And then came Henry — and Henry, who had

87

88 ROPE

been cast for the part of the lamb, had suddenly
become as obstinate as a donkey. Mr. Mix,
gazing at that agreement, was swept by im-
potent rage at Henry, and he took the document
and ripped it savagely across and across, and
crumpled it in both his hands, and jammed it
into his scrap-basket.

For the moment, he subordinated his
personal problems to his wrath at Henry. He
charged Henry with full responsibility for this
present crisis; for if Henry had simply scrib-
bled his signature, Mr. Mix would have made a
good deal of money. It never occurred to him
that in the same transaction, Henry would have
changed places with Mr. Mix. That was
Henry's look-out. And damn him, he had
looked!

"I'm going to get him for that," said Mr.
Mix, half -aloud. "I'm going to get him, and
get him good. Jockeying me into a pocket!
Conceited young ass! And I'd have been
square with the world, and paid off that in-
fernal note, and had four . . . thousand . . .
dollars left over." His lips made a straight
line. "And he'd have brought fifty thousand

E 0 P E 89

dollars' worth of business into this office — he'd
have had to — he'd have had to hold up his
friends — to protect his ante. Yes, sir, I'm go-
ing to get him good."

Mr. Mix sat -up, and emitted a short, mirth-
less laugh. He frowned thoughtfully: and
then, after a little search, he examined the
pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and
skimmed through the pages until he came to the
paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of
the Sunday ordinances . . . hm! . . . present
ordinance seems to prohibit Sunday theatrical
performances of all kinds, but city administra-
tions have always been lax. Want the law on
the books, don't dare to repeal it, but don't
care to enforce it.

Mr. Mix sat back and pondered. He knew
enough about the motion-picture business to
realize that the Sunday performances made up
the backbone of the week. He knew enough
about the Orpheum to know that Henry's quota,
which under normal conditions would require
only diligence, and initiative, and originality to
reach, would be literally impossible if Sundays
were taken from the schedule. The League's

90 R 0 FE

blue-law campaign, if it proved successful,
would make Henry Devereux even bluer than
Mr. Mix. * ' Three rousing cheers for reform ! ' '
said Mr. Mix, and grinned at the pamphlet.

Another brilliant thought infected him. He
had long since passed the stage in which women
were a mystery to him: he had long since
realized that unless a man's passions inter-
vene, there is nothing more mysterious about
women than about men. It was all humbug —
all this mummery about intuitions and unerring
perception and inscrutability. "Women are all
alike — all human — all susceptible to sheer,
blatant flattery. The only difference in women
is in the particular brand of flattery to which,
as individuals, they react.

Take Miss Starkweather: he had seen that if
he fed her vanity unsparingly — not her physical
vanity, but her pride in her own soul, and in her
League presidency — she blazed up into a flame
which consumed even her purpose in causing
the interview. Once already, by no remarkable
effort, he had been able to divert her attention ;
and it was now imperative for him to keep it
diverted until he had raised five thousand

E 0 P E 91

dollars. And if she were so susceptible, why
shouldn't Mr. Mix venture a trifle further? He
knew that she regarded him as an important
man ; why shouldn 't he let himself be won over,
slowly and by her influence alone, to higher
things? Stopping, of course, just short of ac-
tually becoming a League partisan? Why
shouldn 't he feed her fat with ethics and adula-
tion, until she were more anxious for his co-
operation than for his money? If he couldn't
play hide-and-seek for six months, — if he
couldn't turn her head so far that she couldn't
bear to press him for payment — he wasn't the
strategist he believed himself to be. But in
the meantime, where was he to get the money to
live on? Still, Mirabelle came first.

On Sunday, he fortified himself from his mea-
gre supply of contraband, ate two large cloves,
and went formally to call on her. He remained
an hour, and by exercise of the most finished
diplomacy, he succeeded in building up the situ-
ation exactly as he had planned it. The note
hadn't been mentioned; the League hadn't been
given a breathing-space; and Mirabelle was
pleading with him to see the light, and join the

92 E 0 P E

crusade. Finally, she leaned forward and put
her hand on his arm.

"Two weeks ago," she said, "I told the
League I was going to give it a real surprise
this next Tuesday. What I meant was money.
The money for that note. But I'd hate to have
you sell any securities when they're down so
low. And besides, anybody can give money —
just money. What we need most is men. Let
me do something different. You're one of the
big men here. You count for a good deal. We
want you. I said I'd give 'em a surprise — let
me make the League a present of you." She
bestowed upon him a smile which was a star-
tling combination of sharpness and appeal.
"I'm certainly going to keep my promise, Mr
Mix. I'm going to give 'em one or the other
— you or the five thousand. Only I tell you
in all sincerity, I'd rather it would be you."

Mr. Mix sat up with a jerk. The climax had
been reached six months too soon. "Dear
lady—"

"You can't refuse," she went on with an em-
phasis which sobered him. "We want you for
an officer, and a director. I've taken it up with

E 0 P E 93

the committee. And you can't refuse. You
believe everything we believe. Mr. Mix, look
me in the eye, and tell me — if you're true to
yourself, how can you refuse!"

"That isn't it," he said, truthfully enough.
"I — I wouldn't be as valuable to you as you
think."

"We'll judge of that."

He knew that he was in a corner, and he
hunted desperately for an opening. "And- — in
any event, I couldn't become an officer, or even
a director. I — "

"Why not, pray?"

"I haven't the time, for one thing, nor the
experience in — "

She swept away his objections with a stiff
gesture. "You're modest, and it's becoming.
But either you 're with us or against us : there 's
no half-way about morals. If you're with us,
you ought to show your colours. And if you
are with us, you'll lead us, because you're a
born leader. You inspire. You instill. And
for the sake of the common welfare — " She
paused : he was staring at her as if hypnotized.
"For the sake of the city and the state and the

94 ROPE

nation — " His eyes were wide, and filled with
a light which deceived her. "For the sake of
civic honour and decency and self-respect — "

Mr. Mix cleared his throat. "Yes, but — "

Again, she leaned out and touched his arm.
"Form?/ sake?"

Mr. Mix recoiled slightly. ' ' For your sake ! ' '
he muttered.

"Yes, for mine. The sister of your oldest
friend."

He owed her five thousand dollars, and if she
demanded payment, he was a bankrupt. "Why
does it mean so much to you 1 " he asked, sparr-
ing for time.

"It would be an epoch in the history of the
League, Mr. Mix."

"You spoke about leadership. No one can
hope to replace yourself."

"Thank you — I know you mean it. But no
woman can lead a campaign such as the one
we're just starting. It takes a strong, dominant
man who knows politics. Of course, when we go
after dancing and cards and dress-reform, I
guess I can do all right, but in this campaign — "

ROPE 95

"What campaign is this, Miss Stark-
weather?"

' l Sunday enforcement. ' '

Mr. Mix pursed his lips. " Really?"

She nodded. "Were going to concentrate on
one thing at a time. That 's first. ' '

"Close all the theatres and everything?"

"Tight!" she said, and the word was like the
lash of a whip. "Tight as a drum."

Mr. Mix controlled himself rigidly. "You'll
have to pardon my seeming indelicacy, but — "
He coughed behind his hand. "That might
bring about a very unhappy relationship be-
tween my family and yours. Had you thought
of it?"

"Henry? Humph! Yes. I'm sorry, but I
don't propose to let my family or anybody else's
stand in the way of my principles. Do you?
No. If Henry stands in the way, he's going to
get run over. Mark my words. ' '

His expression was wooden, but it concealed a
thought which had flashed up, spontaneously, to
dazzle him. In spite of his age and experience,
Mr. Mix threatened to blush. The downfall of

96 E O P E

Henry meant the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr.
Mix himself could assist in swinging the bal-
ance. And he couldn't quite destroy a picture
of Mirabelle, walking down the aisle out of step
to the wedding march. Her arms were loaded
with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a
crisp yellow bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he
wanted to snort in deprecation, and he did
neither. He was too busy with the conscious-
ness that at last he was in a position to capital-
ize his information. He knew what nobody else
did, outside of Henry and his wife, Mirabelle,
Mr. Archer and probably Judge Barklay and if
he flung himself into the League's campaign,
what might he now accomplish?

He looked at Mirabelle. Her eyes betrayed
her admiration. Mr. Mix drew a very long
breath, and in the space of ten seconds thought
ahead for a year. The League was ridiculously
radical, but if Mr. Mix were appointed to direct
it, he was confident that he could keep Mira-
belle contented, without making himself too
much of a ludicrous figure. All it needed was
tact, and foresight. "If I could only spare the

ROPE 97

time to help you — but you see, this is my dull
season — I have to work twice as hard as usual
to make an honest dollar — "

"Would you accept an honorarium?"

" Beg pardon?"

"If you took charge of the drive, would you
accept a salary? And give us most of your
time ? Say, four days a week ? ' '

Once more, his thoughts raced through the
year. "Now," he said, presently, "you are
making it hard for me to refuse."

' * Only that ? Haven 't I made it impossible ? ' '

To Mr. Mix, her tone was almost more of a
challenge than an invitation. He looked at her
again; and at last he nodded. "I think — you
have."

She held out her hand. "I've always re-
spected you as a man. Now I greet you as a
comrade. "We'll make this city a place where
a pure-minded man or woman won 't be ashamed
to live. I tell you, I won't be satisfied until
we reach the ideal! And prohibition was only
one tiny move in advance, and we've miles to
go. I'm glad we're going the rest of the way

98 EOPE

together. And it wouldn't surprise me in the
least if you came out of it Mayor. That's my
idea."

Mr. Mix, with the faint aroma of cloves in
his nostrils, backed away.

"Oh, no, I don't dream of that . . ." he said.
"But I feel as if I'd taken one of the most sig-
nificant steps of my whole life. I — I think I'd
better say good afternoon, Miss Starkweather.
I want to be alone — and meditate. You under-
stand?"

"Like Galahad," she murmured.

Mr. Mix looked puzzled ; he thought she had a
cold. But he said no more ; he went home to his
bachelor apartment, and after he had helped
himself to three full fingers of meditation, to-
gether with a little seltzer, he smiled faintly,
and told himself that there was no use in de-
bating the point — a man with brains is predes-
tined to make progress. But he couldn't help
reflecting that now, more than ever, if any echo
of his New York escapades, or any rumour of
his guarded habits got to Mirabelle's ears — or,
for that matter, to anybody's ears at all — his
dreams would float away in vapour. Perhaps it

E 0 P E 99

would be wise to explain to Mirabelle that he
had once been a sinner. She would probably
forgive him, and appreciate him all the more.
Women do. ... It was curious that she had
mentioned him as a possible Mayor. It had
been his dearest ambition. He wondered if,
with his present reputation, and then with the
League behind him, there were a ghost of a
chance. ,

CHAPTER VII

THERE was probably no power on the face
of the earth which could have driven
Henry Devereux to the operation of a picture
theatre, strictly as a business venture ; but when
he once got it into his head that the Orpheum
wasn't so much a business as a sporting propo-
sition, he couldn't have been stopped by any-
thing short of an injunction. Immediately, his
attitude was normal, and from the moment that
he resolved to take possession of his property,
and operate it, he was indifferent to the public
estimate of him. The thing was a game, a game
with a great stake, and set rules, and Henry took
it as he once had taken his golf and his billiards
and his polo — joyously, resiliently, deter-
minedly, and without the slightest self-con-
sciousness, and with never an eye for the gal-
lery.

He was inspirited, moreover, by the attitude

of his friends. To be sure, they laughed, but in

100

E 0 P E 101

their laughter there was no trace of the ridicule
he had feared. They took the situation as a
very good joke on Henry, but at the same time,
because gossip had already begun to build up a
theory to explain that situation, there were sev-
eral of them who wished that a similar joke,
with a similar nubbin, might be played on
themselves. They told this to Henry, they
urged him to go ahead and become a strictly
moral Wallingford, they slapped him on the
back and assured him that if there was jus-
tice in the Sunday-school books, he was certain
to finish in the money; and Henry, who had
provided himself with several air-tight alibis,
found them dead .stock on his hands. He had
known, of course, that he could count on Bob
Standish, and a few of his other intimates, but
the hearty fellowship of the whole circle over-
whelmed him. He knew that even when they
waxed facetious, they were rooting for him;
and this knowledge multiplied his confidence,
and gave him fresh courage.

And yet, with all the consciousness of his
loyal backing, he was considerably upset to
read in the Herald, on the very morning that

102 ROPE

he took control of his property, a seven column
streamer headline which leaped out to threaten
him.

"SUNDAY THEATRES AND AMUSEMENTS
MUST GO!"— MIX

Prominent Business Man Turns Reformer

THEODORE MIX CHOSEN TO MANAGE
CAMPAIGN OF LEAGUE

Pledges Enforcement of City Ordinances to the Letter

His first reaction was one of bewilderment,
and after that, one of consternation. His
friend Bob Standish tried to laugh it off for
him, but Henry hadn't a smile in his system.

"All right, then," said Bob Standish. "Go
see the judge. He'll tell you the same thing.
Mix 's nothing but a bag of wind. He 's an old
blowhard."

"Maybe he is," conceded Henry, soberly.
"But I'd be just as satisfied about it if he blew
in some other direction."

Henry took the paper to Judge Barklay,
who had already seen it, and made his own de-
ductions. "Oh, no," he said, "I'm not aston-

EOPE 103

ished. When a man's in hot enough water,
he'll cut up almost any kind of caper to get
out. There's only two kinds of people who
ever go into these radical movements — great
successes and great failures. Never any aver-
age folks. I'd say it's a pretty good refuge
for him, and you drove him to it.*'

"Well — does he mean what he says there!"

"Not too much of it. How could he? If he
does half he says he will, he'll lose his job.
The town would be as pure as Utopia, and
there wouldn't be any League."

"How about the ordinance he quotes,
though?"

"Oh, that ... it's Ordinance 147. It's so
old it's toothless. The City Council doesn't
quite dare to repeal it — nobody's sure enough,
these days, to get up and take a chance — but
they don't want it enforced, and they haven't
for ages."

Henry frowned. "That's all right. But
suppose they did arrest somebody under that
Ordinance? What would you do?"

"Fine 'em, of course. I'd have to. But
I've never had such a case that I can remem-

104 ROPE

her. There haven't been any arrests. It's an
understood thing."

"Yes, that's fine — as long as everybody un-
derstands it the same way. But maybe Mix
doesn't — or Aunt Mirabelle either."

1 'Oh, I shouldn't worry much."

Henry continued serious. "Oh, I guess I
can sleep nights all right without any pare-
goric, but what right have they got to butt into
the only day of recreation the working people
have? If their immortal souls hurt 'em as
much as all that, why don't they go off and
suffer where they can do it in peace and not
bother us? "

The Judge laughed quietly. "Whence all this
sudden affection for the working man, Henry!"

Henry reddened. "Strictly between the two
of us, I don't like the idea of Sunday business,
anyway. But unfortunately, that's the big
day. . . . But, if you had to work indoors,
eight hours a day, six days a week, maybe you 'd
be satisfied to spend Sundays picking sweet
violets out by the barge canal, but what would
you do when it rained?"

"Of course," admitted the Judge, "it's a

E 0 P E 105

poor policy to have a law on the books, and ig-
nore it. Both of us must admit that. A good
law ought to be kept ; a bad one ought to be re-
pealed; but any law that is valid oughtn't to
be winked at. And if pressure should be
brought on the Mayor to enforce that ordi-
nance, and any arrests are made, why I'll have
to do my duty."

"Yes — and here I'm raising a mortgage and
spending the money on improvements that'll
hold us up for more than two weeks — and here
Anna and I are going to live in a couple of
box-stalls (every time you take a long breath
in that flat you create a vacuum !) — and here
I've been going to the City Commercial School
every afternoon for two solid hours, and study-
ing like a dog every night — and here I've re-
signed from the Golf Club, and everything
else but the Citizens — and if they do put the
kibosh on Sunday shows, why I'll be elected
to the Hohenzollern Club. And the cream of
that joke is that Aunt Mirabelle's outfit 'd get
itself endowed for putting me out of commis-
sion!"

"They won't do it, Henry. These organiza-

106 EOPE

tions always make the same mistake. They go
too far. They aren't talking reform; they're
talking revolution, and people won't stand for
it. These reform crowds always start out
to be a band-wagon, and if they kept their
senses, they could do some real good — and then
they march so fast that pretty soon they find
they've winded everybody else, and there isn't
any parade. All they need is rope. Give 'em
enough of it, and they always hang themselves.
That speech of Mix's has done more harm to
the League than it has good. You go right
ahead with your improvements."

In view of the Judge's official position, this
was in the nature of an opinion from head-
quarters; and yet Henry delayed for a day
or two before he signed his contract for the
alterations. In the meantime, he saw Mr.
Archer and got an interpretation of the will;
Mr. Archer was sorry, but if Sundays were
ruled out, there was no provision for reducing
the quota, and Henry would have to stand or
fall on the exact phraseology. He had another
session with the Judge, and three a day with
Anna, and one with the largest exhibitor in

ROPE 107

town (who pooh-poohed the League, and of-
fered to back up his pooh-poohs with a cash
bet that nothing would ever come of it) and
eventually he was persuaded to execute the
contract.

Through Bob Standish, he negotiated a
mortgage which would cover the cost of the
work, and leave a comfortable balance.
4 'We 're not going to be as poor as I thought
we were," he said cheerfully to Anna who had
put in two hectic weeks on the apartment she
had chosen because it was the cheapest in the
market. " We've got something in the bank
for emergencies, and ten thousand a year is
two hundred a week besides."

Anna was horrified. "You didn't think we'd
spend what we make, did you?"

"Why not! Uncle John didn't say we had
to show them ten thousand in coin at the end
of the year; he said I had to make it — on the
books. We can spend every kopeck of it, if we
want to. And I was about to say that with
six thousand dollars left over from the mort-
gage money, we '11 have a maid after all. Yea,
verily, even a cook."

108 E 0 P E

Anna glanced at her hands — slim, beautiful
hands they were — and shook her head obsti-
nately. "No, dear. Because what we save
now might be our only capital later."

"But we're going to win. We're going to
exert our resistless wills to the utmost. What's
the use of being tightwads?"

"But if we shouldn't win, look where we'd
be ! No, dear, we're going to save our pennies.
That's why I picked out this apartment; that's
why I'm doing as much as I can with it my-
self. It's the only safe way. And just look
around — haven't I done wonders with almost
nothing at all?"

Henry looked around, not that his memory
was at fault, but because he was perpetually
dumbfounded by her genius. Originally, this
living-room had been a dolorous cave with var-
nished yellow-pine woodwork, gas-logs, yellow
wall-paper to induce toothache, and a stark
chandelier with two- anemic legs kicking out at
vacancy. She had caused the Orpheum electri-
cian to remove the chandelier; with her own
hands, she had painted the wood-work a deep,

E 0 P E 109

rich cream-colour; she had ripped out the gas-
logs and found what no one had ever suspected
— a practicable flue ; and she had put in a bas-
ket grate which in the later season would glow
with cheerful coals. Over the wall-paper she
had laid a tint which was a somewhat deeper
cream than the woodwork. .She had made that
cave attractive with a soft, dull-blue rug, and
wicker furniture, with hangings of cretonne in
sunny gold and an echo of the blue rug, with
brass bowls which held the bulbs she had tended
on the kitchen window-sill, with bookshelves,
and pictures from her own home. Especially
by candle-light, it was charming ; and her great-
est joy, and Henry's unending marvel, was that
it had cost so little, and that so much of it was
her own handiwork.

1 'Yes, but pause and reflect a minute," said
Henry. "I've sold the big car and bought a
tin-plated runabout. I've sold my horse. I've
sold ten tons of old clothes and priceless jewels.
Financially speaking, I'm as liquid as a pel-
lucid pool in a primeval forest. And there's
another grand thing to consider; I'm keeping

110 ROPE

my own books, so nobody's going to crack
the till, the way they did with grandfather.
Can't we even have a cook?"

"No, dear. Nobody but me. We've got to
play safe. It's all part of the game. Don't
you see it is ? ' '

Eventually, he agreed with her, and went
back to the Orpheum, where a score of work-
men were busy remodelling the interior, and
patching up the fa§ade. He stood for a mo-
ment to watch the loading of a truck with
broken-seats, jig-saw decorations, and the re-
mains of a battered old projector; he looked
up, presently to the huge sign over the entrance :
"Closed During Alterations, Grand Opening
Sunday Afternoon, August 20th. Souvenirs."
There was no disputing the fact that all his
eggs were in one basket, and that if the Re-
form League started to throw stones at it, they
would find it a broad mark. But Henry had
plenty of assurances that he didn't need to
worry, and so he sponged away the last of his
doubts, and set to work to learn his business
with all possible speed.

It was his first experience with the building

ROPE 111

trades, and he was innocent enough to believe
in schedules and estimates. In less than a fort-
night, however, he came home to his wife in
a mood which she was quick to detect, no mat-
ter how carefully he disguised it.

"Oh, I'm just peevish," said Henry. "The
contractor says it'll take four weeks instead
of three, and cost six thousand instead of forty-
five hundred. But there's no use wearing a
long face about it. If I did, I didn't mean to.*'

Anna slipped out of her big apron, and re-
arranged her hair. "Of course you didn't. I
just knew."

"As a matter of fact," he said, "my face
feels long enough to fit in a churn. Only I
was under the impression that I'd put on a
mask of gaiety that was absolutely impene-
trable. . . . Well, what's happened in the an-
cestral home today?"

She had burned a steak and both thumbs;
there was a leak in the plumbing, and the
family overhead had four children and a phono-
graph. Henry kissed the thumbs, cursed the
kitchen range, and forgot his troubles.

"You're going to ruin your hands," he said,

112 E 0 P E

sympathetically. "Darn it, we can afford a
cook, Anna. Come on; be reasonable."

She shook her head. * * Oh ! And I meant to
tell you the wall-paper's peeling off in the din-
ing room, and the most awful smell of fried
onions keeps coming up the dumb-waiter
shaft."

Henry gathered her into his arms. "Dear-
est, in a year you can have a dipperful of
attar of roses for every fried onion. And
we'll be so rich you can mingle practically on
equal terms with the plumber's wife. . . . Now
let's go put on the feed-bag. And by the way,
I prefer my steak slightly burned — it's more
antiseptic."

He never suspected that ninety-nine percent
of her difficulties were imaginary, and that she
had invented them as soon as1 she saw his
face.

A week later, the contractor brought in still
another schedule, and another estimate; Henry
became Chesterfieldian in his politeness, and
wanted to know if a contract were a contract,
or merely a piece of light literature. The con-
tractor was apologetic, but wages were going

ROPE 113

up — materials were high — labour was scarce —
transportation was uncertain — shipments were
slow —

Henry was angry and disillusioned, but he
knew that belligerence would gain him nothing.
"In other words," he said, genially, " there's
something the matter with everything but the
Orpheum, and everybody but me. I congratu-
late myself. Well, when I do get the job fin-
ished, and what does it cost — not to a minute
and a fraction of a cent, of course, but a gen-
eral idea — what year, and — •'*

"Mr. Devereux!"

"And a guess that's within say, a couple of
thousand dollars of the real price."

"I hope you don't think 7'm making any
big profit out of this. To tell the truth — "

"Oh, 7 know," said Henry. "You're losing
money. Don't deny it, you eleemosynary ras-
cal, don 't deny it. ' '

The man felt himself insulted, but Henry
was smiling, and of course that strange word
might be something technical. "Well, to tell
the truth, we — "

"Come on, now. I know you're an altruist,

114 ROPE

but be a sport. You're losing money, and the
children are moaning with hunger in their little
trundle-beds, but when do I get the job done?"
' ' The second week in September. ' '
"This September? And the bill?"
11 Shaved down so close there's hardly
any — "

" Shave it every morning; it's being done.
But what's your figure?"
" Seventy-six fifty."

There was nothing for Henry to do but to
have a new date painted on the sign, and to
draw on his reserve fund, but at bottom he
was vastly perturbed. He had counted on a
running start, and every week of delay was
a vicious handicap. If he had remotely imag-
ined how elastic a contractor 's agreement could
be, he would certainly have thought twice
about ordering so many changes — he would
have steered a middle course, and been satis-
fied with half the improvement — but as it was,
he had put himself in a trap. Now that the
work was partly done, it would have to be com-
pleted. There was no way out of it. And from
day to day, as the arrears of labour heaped up,

K 0 P E 115

and cost was piled on cost, Henry began to
lose a trifle of his fine buoyancy and optimism.

Also, it was amazing to discover that Anna
was much less self-reliant than he had thought
her. Almost every night she displayed some
unsuspected trait of helplessness, so that he
simply had to shelve his worries, and baby her
out of her own. He adored her, and there-
fore he never questioned her ingenuousness ; he
didn't see that by monopolizing his thoughts,
and turning them entirely upon herself, she pre-
vented him from wasting his energy in futile
brooding, even if he had inclined to it.

He planned to open in mid-September, but a
strike among the carpenters added a few days
to the time, and, by virtue of a compromise,
a few dollars to the account. The building in-
spector wouldn't pass the wiring, and the elec-
tricians took a holiday before they conde-
scended to return. When the last nail was
driven, the last brushful of paint applied, the
final item added to the long statement, the day
was the last Friday in the month, and the total
bill amounted to more than nine thousand dol-
lars.

116 E 0 P E

"Anna," said Henry, reflectively, "it's a
lucky thing for us this world was all built be-
fore we were born. Know that? Because if
they 'd ever started it under modern conditions,
there wouldn't be anything to it yet but the
Garden of Eden and Atlantic City and maybe
Gopher Prairie. . . . Well, I wonder .what's
next?"

"There won't be any next, dear. Nothing
can happen now. And aren't you glad I've
made us economize? Aren't you? Say your
prayers! Say — 'bless Anna'!"

"Not Anna — Polly anna. Glad we econo-
mized ! Why don't you say you're glad it took
two months to do two weeks ' work because that
gave me so much more time to study the game,
and find out how to run the theatre? No, it
goes back farther than that. I'm glad you
caught me while I was so young."

"Henry!"

"What? Don't you remember how you pur-
sued me, and vamped me, and took away my
volition, so I was helpless as a babe — "

"Oh, Henry!"

"Sure you did. Funny you don't remember

ROPE 117

that. Or else — was it the other way around?"

"Well— "

"Well, anyhow," he said, in a slightly lower
key. "I'm glad it happened. . . . And you
stick to me, and you'll wear diamonds yet.
Great hunks of grit, strung all over you. I'll
make you look as vulgar as a real society
woman. That's the kind of man I am. A good
provider — that is, of course, providing."

And on Saturday morning, the Herald told
them that a committee from the Reform League
had waited on the Mayor for the third time,
and delivered an ultimatum.

"Oh, bother!" said Anna. "There's been
something in the paper every two or three
days. It doesn't amount to a row of pins. Dad
says so."

Henry inhaled deeply. "Did you see who's
on that committee? Mix and Aunt Mirabelle,
of course, and if they've got it in for anybody
special, I'm it. Bob says Mix is a grand little
hater; he's seen him in action, and he says to
keep an eye on him: says Mix had lined up a
buyer for the Orpheum, so naturally he's sore
at me. . . . And then a flock of old men just

118 ROPE

under par — I'd say they average about ninety-
seven and a half — but they're a pretty solid
lot; too solid to be booted out of any Mayor's
office. And if they should get the Mayor
stirred up, why, we wouldn't have the chance
of a celluloid rat in a furnace. ... I wish the
Judge were where I could get at him. He'd
know what's going on."

" Couldn't you ask the Exhibitors Associa-
tion?"

"They don't know. The Judge is on the in-
side. Do you know when he's coming back
from his vacation?"

"Not for two or three weeks yet. But IVe
an intuition, dear — "

"Sure. So have I. A year from now we'll
be eating our golden pheasants off our golden
plates with our gold teeth. But in the mean-
time, you better keep your eye on the butcher's
bill. . . . They tell me hash is a great nerve-
food."

CHAPTER VIII

IN years the Mayor was no chicken, but in
politics he had hardly chipped his shell,
so that he was still susceptible to delegations,
and sets of resolutions, and references to his
solemn oath of office. Furthermore, he had
been secretly awed by Mr. Mix's eloquence;
for Mr. Mix, as spokesman of the committee,
had delivered a speech which was a brief his-
tory of both common and statutory law from
the time of Solon and Draco up to the most re-
cent meeting of the City Council. Then, in
addition, the Mayor had been mightily im-
pressed by the personnel of that committee —
chiefly old men, to be sure, but men of immense
dignity and considerable weight in local fi-
nance; and also, for a counterpoise, there was
Miss Starkweather. He hadn't liked the way
Miss Starkweather looked at him. She had
looked at him with the same rigid intensity

119

120 ROPE

with which his wife looked at a fly in the din-
ing-room.

As the door closed behind the last of the com-
mittee, the Mayor drew a prodigious breath,
and walked over to the window, where for sev-
eral minutes he remained in deep thought. He
tried to remember Mr. Mix's peroration :

" Thousands of years ago, Mr. Mayor, when
the race of man was still dressed in skins, and
domiciled in caves, and settling its differences
with clubs and brickbats, there was no insti-
tution of law, — there was no written language.
But as civilization advanced, men found the
necessity of communicating their ideas ; so that
they devised a form of speech which would
enable them to exchange these ideas — such as
they were — about life, and law. And later on,
it was plain that in order to perpetuate these
ideas and pass them to posterity, it was neces-
sary to write them down ; and so there was de-
veloped a written language, and by this method
civilized men through all the ages have written
down the laws under which they are willing to
live. It would be impractical for all of us to
meet together to pass our laws, and therefore

EOPE 121

we elect representatives who make our laws
for us. These laws are binding upon all of
us until they are set aside by still other legisla-
tors, still acting for the whole people, who
have chosen them as their legislative repre-
sentatives. The duty of the executive branch
of our government is to enforce those laws,
whether made yesterday, or made fifty years
ago, or five hundred years ago, and written
down in our law-books. . . . This is our third
conference with you, Mr. Mayor, in regard to
one of those laws. I therefore have to inform
you, in behalf of our committee and our League,
and our whole city (whose representatives in
City Council passed that law for our common
good) that you stand today at the parting of
the ways. You must choose whether to up-
hold your sacred oath of office, or to disre-
gard it. And iwithin forty-eight hours you
will have made that choice, and we shall know
where our duty lies. ... I thank you for your
patience. ' '

The Mayor was one of those who, without
the first atom of sustaining evidence, had long
been vaguely suspicious that Mr. Mix wasn't

122 E 0 P E

always as pious as he appeared in church. He
had noted, too, that although Mr. Mix's name
was frequently listed on committees, yet it
never bobbed up in connection with an ob-
scure cause, however worthy, or among the
names of unimportant citizens. He was con-
vinced that Mr. Mix had an ulterior motive —
political, social, financial — but the worst of it
was that Mr. Mix had come with support which
couldn't be sidetracked.

The Mayor shook himself, and went over to
his telephone ; a few minutes later the Chief of
Police strolled in, and grinned at the disordered
•semi-circle of chairs. "Been holdin' a prayer-
meetin', Mr. Rowland!"

The Mayor was biting his moustache. "Sit
down, Chief. I want some advice. . . . Lord,
I wish Barklay wasn't off on his vacation. . . .
Why, I've just had a threat from this Reform
League. ' '

"Threat? What kind of a threat?"

The Mayor didn't reply immediately; he con-
tinued to chew his moustache. ' ' You know that
fool Sunday law — was passed 'way back in the
year One?"

E 0 P E 123

1 'Sure. 147. Dead letter."

"They say it's got to be enforced/'

The Chief laughed boisterously. "That's a
big order."

"I know it is. The mass of the people don't
want it — never did. But in these days there
isn't a Councillor I know'd put a motion to re-
peal it, or amend it. Probition's scared 'em.
They don't know what the people want, so
they're laying mighty low. . . . Same time, this
League 's getting pretty strong. Mix, and John
Starkweather's sister, and ex-Senator Kaplan,
Richards of the First National, Dr. Smillie of
the Church crowd, old man Fredericks of Na-
tional Metal — know what they handed me to-
day!"

"Let her come."

The Mayor snorted with disgust. "Hinted
if I didn't begin enforcement day after tomor-
row they'd appeal to the Governor. . . . Lord,
I wish Barklay was here."

The Chief grinned again. "I know what
Barklay 'd say."

"What!"

"Give 'em rope."

124 E 0 P E

"We-11 . . . that's easy enough to say."

4 'Easy to do, too."

"I can't see it. But if they go up to the
Governor, with a petition to investigate — and
the state law's pretty rough — and start im-
peachment proceedings — "

The Chief spat contemptuously. ''Shucks,
give 'em rope."

"Well— how?"

"Why, enforce the damn' law — just once.
Spike Mix's guns — he's only doin' this on a
bluff. Guess he wants the reform vote for
Council, or somethin'. Keep it under our bon-
nets, and send out a squad of patrolman Sun-
day afternoon to raid every theatre in town.
Bat 'em over the head before they know it. I
wouldn't even tell my own men 'till I lined
'em up and give 'em their orders. Then listen
for the public to holler."

The Mayor had broken into a high-pitched
laugh; he stopped abruptly. "How many
people 'd there be in all the houses put to-
gether?"

' ' Six thousand. Five of 'em at the movies. ' '

"They'd start a riot!"

ROPE 125

"Oh, I wouldn't pinch the audiences; just
the managers, and bust up the shows. Then
you'd find out if the people want that law or
not. We say they don't, but how do we know?
Let's find out."

The Mayor sat down at his desk, and began
to chuckle. "Chief, that's a bully idea — but
what'd happen on Monday?"

"Happen? When, five, six thousand voters
got put out in the street and their Sunday after-
noon spoiled? Fellows with girls — Pa takin*
the family out for a treat — factory hands?
They'd be a howlin' mob in the Council chamber
on Monday mornin'; that's what'd happen.
And one damn fool law'd be fixed so's the Po-
lice Department 'd know how to handle it."

"It's passing the buck!" murmured the
Mayor, ecstatically. "It's passing the buck
right to the people, by George ! ' '

"Sure. Do we go ahead with it? Want
anybody tipped off?"

The Mayor was hugging his knees ecstati-
cally. "No, we'll make a clean sweep. No
favourites. The bigger haul the better. All the
boys '11 understand. Keep it dead under your

126 K 0 P E

hat. We'll talk over the details tomorrow."
Chuckling, he leaned back and opened his arms
wide, his fists closed. "Rope!" he said.
"Rope! Chief, we'll give 'em a hawser!"

On Saturday evening, Henry gave a special
invitation performance, to which only his per-
sonal friends and Anna's were bidden, and if
he had cherished any lingering doubt of his
place in society, it must have been removed that
night. His friends didn't know the details of
the Starkweather trust fund, but they knew that
Henry's future was lashed to his success with
the Orpheum, and they came to help tie the
knot. Naturally, since the auditorium was
filled with young people who had grown up to-
gether, and with a few older people who had
helped to bring them up, there was plenty of
informality — indeed, a large part of it had been
scheduled and rehearsed in advance. Henry
didn't have to ask any questions; he knew that
Bob Standish was responsible.

With Anna beside him, he had stood for

ROPE 127

thirty minutes in the foyer, to receive his
guests, and as smile after smile encouraged him,
and he heard the steady stream of sincere
good-wishes, Henry began to grow curiously
warm in the region of his heart, and curiously
weak in the knees. Anna moved closer to him.

"I told you so," she whispered. "I told you
so. Everybody loves you."

1 'It isn't me," he whispered back, with un-
grammatical fervour. "It's you."

They stood together, then, at the rear of the
house, to watch the high-jinks going on in front.
Standish had ousted the three-piece orchestra,
and taken over the piano; two other volun-
teers had flanked him, and the revelry began
with a favourite ditty to proclaim that all re-
ports to the contrary notwithstanding, Henry
was style all the while, all the while.

Then, suddenly, there were loud shouts for
Henry and Anna, and they were seized and
dragged to the top of the centre aisle. Stand-
ish swung into the Mendelssohn Wedding
March, and through a haze of rose-leaf confetti
and paper streamers, the two Devereuxs were
forced down to the orchestra-pit. The house

128 E 0 P E

was on its feet to them, and Anna, half -laugh-
ing, half-crying with happiness, was sorting
confetti out of her hair when Standish clam-
bered up on the stage, and waved for silence.
"Listen, everybody. . . . Old Hank Dever-
eux and wife tried to save the price of a ca-
terer, last spring, and they got away with it.
Alas, Hank's a jealous bird, and he was afraid
somebody 'd kiss the bride. Furthermore, Anna
didn't want to get any wedding presents, be-
cause they clutter up the house so. And when
most of your friends live in the same town,
it 's hard to get rid of the stuff you don 't want.
So they buncoed us out of a party. Well, so
far we've given 'em Mendelssohn and confetti.
Any lady or gent who now desires to kiss the
bride, please rise and come forward. . . .
Hey, there ! This isn't any Sinn Fein sociable !
Ceremony's postponed! . . . And finally,
dearly beloved brethren and sistren, we
come to the subject of wedding gifts." He
turned to look down at the Devereuxs, and
some of the levity went out of his voice. "We
thought we'd bring you a little something for
good-luck, old man. It's from all of us. Hope

ROPE 129

you like it. If you don't, you can swap it for
a few tons of coal. . . . There she comes!"

It was a magnificent silver tea-service,
borne down the aisle by the two men who,
next to Standish, were Henry's best friends.

Anna was utterly speechless, and Henry was
coughing diligently. The service was placed
on the piano; Henry touched the cool smooth-
ness of a cream-jug, and tried to crystallize his
thought into coherence.

The applause had died away; the house was
quiet, expectant. From the rear, a man's
voice said: "It isn't like a golf champion-
ship trophy, old man — you don't have to win
it three times — it's all yours."

In the shriek of laughter which followed,
Henry, with Anna in tow, fled to shelter.
"Lights!" said Henry. Abruptly, the audi-
torium was dim. And with Anna holding tight
to his fingers, he sat down in the furthest cor-
ner, and trembled.

For the next two hours, Standish, who was
on one of his periodical fits of comedy, stuck
to his piano, and dominated the evening. He
played grotesquely inappropriate melodies, he

130 ROPE

commanded singing, once he stopped the show
and with the assistance of a dozen recruits put
on the burlesque of an amateur night at a
music-hall. He made the occasion a historical
event, and when at last it was over, and the
guests were filing out to the lobby, he came
to Henry and held out his hand.

' l Big-time, Henry, big-time, ' * he said. ' ' See ?
They're all with you."

Henry cleared his throat. " You 're a peach,
Bob. You got it up."

1 'Oh, it wasn't anything." Standish's cloak
of comedy had fallen away; he looked as lazy,
and as innocent and childlike as ever. "Be-
fore I go — I had a letter today from one of the
big movie circuit crowd. They'll pay you
thirty-seven thousand five hundred cash for the
Orpheum. I've got a certified check for a thou-
sand to bind the bargain. Want it?"

Henry didn't even glance at it. "Put it
back in your pocket, Bob. I wouldn't sell it
for ten times that — not after tonight."

His friend smiled very faintly. * * It 's a good
price, if you care to get out from under. Be-

ROPE 131

tween you and me, I think it's more than the
Orpheum's worth."

" Don't want it," said Henry gruffly.

Standish gazed with vast innocence at Anna.
"Third and last chance, Henry. Otherwise,
I'll mail it back tonight. Just a few hours
from now this place, right where we're stand-
ing, '11 look like a sardine-can come to life,
and you'll be taking in money hand over fist,
and you'll be branded forever as — "

"Oh, shut up," said Henry, affectionately.

Through the jostling, good-natured crowd
which blocked the sidewalk in front of the Or-
pheum Theatre, that Sunday at two o'clock,
a policeman in uniform pushed his way to the
ticket-booth. "Where's the manager?"

The ticket-seller boblx 1 her head backwards.
"First door on the left."

The policeman stalked through the lobby,
and found the door; knocked belligerently, and
stepped inside. "You the manager? Well,

132 ROPE

there ain't goin' to be no show today, see?"

Henry jumped to his feet. " What's that?"

"You heard what I said. No show. Close
up your theatre and call it a day. ' '

Henry turned, for moral support, to his wife :
she had already hurried to his side. "What's
all this, Mr. Officer?" she asked, unsteadily.

"It's police orders; that's what it is, young
lady."

She seized Henry's hand. "But — but when
we've — why, you don't really mean it, do you?"

He dug into his pocket, and produced a tat-
tered, dog-eared pamphlet, folded open at one
of the early pages. He read aloud, slowly:
" 'Whosoever shall fail in the strict observance
o ' the Lord 's Day by any unseemly act, speech,
or carriage, or whosoever shall engage in any
manner o' diversion or profane occupation for
profit—' "

Anna, holding tight to Henry's hand, knew
that argument was futile, but she was a woman,
and she had a husband to defend. Her heart
was leaden, but her voice was stout with indig-
nation.

"But Mr. Policeman! Do you know who I

E 0 P E 133

am? I'm Judge Barklay's daughter. 7 know
all about that ordinance. Nobody's ever — "

He held up his hand in warning. "That's
all right, young lady. If you're his daughter,
you oughter keep on the right side o' the law.
It won't do you no good to bicker about it nei-
ther— you go in there an' tell your audience to
get their money back, an' go on home."

Henry picked up his cigarette. He had no
craving to smoke, but he didn't want Anna to
see that his lips were trembling. "Well," he
said, "there goes the old ball-game. And we've
sold every seat in the house, and thrown away
three hundred dollar's worth of souvenirs, and
the sidewalk's full of people waiting for the
second show. . . . Knockout Mix beats Battling
Devereux in the first round." He did his best
to smile, but the results were poor. "And
when we held off three days just so we could
start on Sunday with a grand smash ! ' '

"Get a move on, young feller. If the show
begins, you're pinched, see? You go in there
and do what I told you."

From within there was a sudden rattle of
applause. Anna gripped her husband's arm.

134 E 0 P E

It's ... it's begun already," she said, breath-
lessly.

The policeman stepped forward. "You
heard me tell you to stop it, didn't you? What
are you tryin* to do — play horse with me I Now
you go in there an' stop it, and then you come
along with me an ' explain it to the Judge. See ?
Now, get a wiggle on."

CHAPTER IX

FROM the moment that he went out upon the
little stage of his theatre until he came
wearily into his own apartment at five o'clock,
Henry lived upon a mental plane so far re-
moved from his usual existence that he was
hardly aware of any bodily sensations at all.
A brand-new group of emotions had picked him
out for their play-ground, and Henry had no
time to be self-conscious.

In the first place, he was too stunned to re-
member that he hated to be conspicuous, and
that he had never made a public speech in all
his life. He was paralyzed by the contrast be-
tween last night and tod^y. Consequently, he
made a very good speech indeed, and it had
some acrid humour in it, too, and the audience
actually cheered him — although later, when he
reviewed the incident in his mind, he had to
admit that the cheers were loudest just after
he had told the audience to keep the souvenirs.

135

136 ROPE

Then, when in the custody of the patrolman,
he went out to the street, his mood was still
so concentrated, his anger and depression so
acute, that he was transported out of the very
circumstances which caused him to be angry
and depressed. He realized, with a hazy sort
of perception, that a tail of small boys had at-
tached itself to the lodestar of the policeman's
uniform; but even at this indignity, his reac-
tion was curiously impersonal. It was as
though the spiritual part of him and the ma-
terial part had got a divorce ; and the spiritual
part, which was the plaintiff, stood coldly aloof,
watching the material part tramping down
Main Street, with a flat-footed policeman beside
it, a voluntary escort behind, and rumour flying
on ahead to all the newspapers. He was actu-
ally too humiliated to suffer from the hu-
miliation.

To be sure, this wasn't by any means his
first entanglement with the law, but heretofore
his occasions had been marked by a very dif-
ferent ritual. He recalled, phlegmatically,
that whenever, in the old days, a member of the

ROPE 137

motorcycle squad had shot past him, and
signalled to him to stop, the man had always
treated him more or less fraternally, in recog-
nition of the fellowship of high speed. The
traffic officers had cheerfully delivered a sum-
mons with one hand, and accepted a cigar with
the other. There was a sort of sporting code
about it; and even in Court, a gentleman who
had been arrested for speeding was given the
consideration which belonged to his rank, and
the fine was usually doubled on the assump-
tion that a gentleman could afford it. But
this was different. A Devereux — which was
almost the same thing as a Starkweather — was
haled along the highway like a common pris-
oner. And if the Devereux hadn't been en-
gaged in that two-for-a-cent, low-class, revolt-
ing business, — and if Aunt Mirabelle hadn't
been Aunt Mirabelle — it couldn't have hap-
pened. The spiritual part of him looked down
at the material part, and wondered how Henry
Devereux could be so white-hot with passion,
and yet so calm.
What would his friends say now? What

138 K 0 P E

would Bob Standish say, and Mr. Archer and
Judge Barklay? And what would Aunt Mira-
belle not say? This was a grim reflection.

During the journey he spoke only once, and
that was to say, brusquely, to his captor:
1 1 Court isn't open today, is it?"

"Nope. But we're goin' to a Justice o'
the Peace. Might save you a night in the hoose-
gow. Can't tell. Orders, anyway."

The Justice of the Peace (or, as he took some
pains to inform Henry, the Most Honourable
Court of Special Sessions) was a grizzled
dyspeptic who held forth in the back room of
a shoemaker's shop, while the rabble waited
outside, flattening their noses against the win-
dow-glass. The dyspeptic had evidently been
coached for the proceeding ; on his desk he had
a copy of the ordinance, and as soon as he had
heard the charge, he delivered a lecture which
he seemed to have by heart, and fined Henry
twenty-five dollars and costs. Henry paid the
fine, and turning to go, stumbled against two
more policemen, each with his quarry. "Just
out of curiosity," said Henry, speaking to no
one in particular, and in a voice which came so

K 0 P E 139

faintly to his ears that he barely heard it,
"Just out of idle curiosity, when the justice
gets half the fine, isn't this court open on Sun-
day for godless profit, too ? ' ' And in the same,
enduring haze of unreality, he paid an addi-
tional twenty dollars for contempt, and went
out to the sidewalk.

He emerged as the focus of interest for a
large, exuberant crowd of loiterers. A cam-
era clicked, and Henry saw that the man at the
shutter was one of the Herald's staff photog-
raphers. A youthful reporter caught up with
him, and asked him what he had to say for
publication. "Say for publication?" repeated
Henry, dully. "Why, you can say — " He
walked half a block before he completed the
sentence. "You can say if I said it, you
couldn't print it anyway."

And although the reporter paced him for a
quarter of a mile, Henry never opened his
mouth again. He was curiously obsessed, as
men under heavy mental pressure are so often
obsessed, by a ridiculously trivial detail. How
was he going to enter that forty-five dollars
on his books?

140 E 0 P E

He had intended to go straight home to Anna,
but automatically his steps led him to the Or-
pheum, where he went into his tiny office and
sat down at his desk. There were two enve-
lopes on his blotter; he slit them, diffidently,
and found a bill from the novelty house which
had supplied the souvenirs, and a supplemen-
tary statement from the decorator.

He opened a fat ledger, took up a pencil, and
began to jot down figures on the back of one of
the envelopes. Already, by remodelling the
the theatre, he had lost two month's headway,
and spent three times too much money, and
if Sunday performances were to be eliminated.
. . . He threw down the pencil, and sat
back spiritless. The good-wishes of all his
friends, last night, had turned sour in his pos-
session. To reach his goal, he should have
to contrive, somehow, to fill nearly every seat
at nearly every performance for the balance
of the year. It was all well enough to have
self-confidence, and courage, but it was better
to look facts in the face. He had oome to an
impasse. Not only that, but overnight his
property, by virtue of this Sunday enforcement

E 0 P E 141

and its effect upon the trade, had seriously
depreciated in value. If it had been worth
thirty-seven thousand five hundred yesterday,
it wasn't worth a penny more than twenty to-
day. And he could have had Standish's certi-
fied check, and got out from under. And he
had thrown away in improvements almost every
cent that he had borrowed against the original
value. He was hardly better off, today, than
if he had carried through his first bargain with
Mr. Mix.

He would have to go home to Anna, and con-
fess that he was beaten by default. He would
have to explain to her, as gently as he could,
that the road which led to the end of the rain-
bow was closed to traffic. He would have to
admit to her that as far as he could see, he
was destined to go on living indefinitely in a
jerry-built apartment, with the odour of fried
onions below, and the four children and the
phonograph overhead. And Anna would have
to go on pinch-hitting for cook, and waitress,!
and chambermaid, and bottle-washer — she
would have to go on with the desecration of
her beautiful hands in dish-water, and the ruin

142 ROPE

of her complexion over the kitchen-stove. The
clothes that he had planned to buy for her, the
jewels, the splendid car — the cohort of servants
he had planned for her — the social prestige!
And instead of that, he was nothing but a frag-
ment of commercial driftwood, and he couldn't
afford, now, to buy her so much as a new hat,
without a corresponding sacrifice.

And yet — involuntarily, he stiffened — and
yet he'd be hanged if he went back and acted
like a whipped pup. No, he was supposed to
be a man, and his friends and Anna believed in
him, an he'd be hanged if he went back and
confessed anything at all, admitted anything.
It was all well enough to look facts in the face,
but it was better still to keep on fighting un-
til the gong rang. And when he was fighting
against the cant purity and goodness of Mr.
Mix, and the cold astigmatism of Aunt Mira-
belle, he'd be hanged if he quit in the first
round. No, even if Henry himself knew that
he was beaten, nobody else was going to know
it, and Anna least of all.

At five o'clock, he came blithely into his liv-
ing-room: and as he saw Anna's expression, his

E 0 P E 143

own changed suddenly. He had thought to
find her in tears; but she was coming to him
with her usual welcome, her usual smile.

Henry didn't quite understand himself, but
he was just the least bit offended, regardless
of his relief. You simply couldn't tell from
one minute to the next what a woman was going
to do. By all precedent, Anna should have
been enjoying hysterics, which Henry had come
prepared to treat.

"Well," he said, "you'd better cancel that
order for golden pheasants, old dear." She
stopped short, and stared at him curiously, as
though the remark had come from a stranger.

"We've got lamb chops tonight," said Anna,
with whimsical relevance, "and fresh straw-
berry ice-cream. And pheasants are awfully
indigestible, anyway. ' '

Henry returned her stare. "What have you
been doing all the afternoon — reading Marcus
Aurelius?"

"No, I haven't been reading anything at all.
I tidied up the kitchen. What happened to
youf"

There were two different ways of present-

144 E 0 P E

ing the narrative, and Henry chose the second.
He made it a travesty : and all the time that he
was talking, Anna continued to gaze at him in
that same curious, thoughtful fashion, as if she
were noting, for the first time, a subtle varia-
tion in his character.

"And — aren't you even mad?" she de-
manded. "I thought you'd be furious. I
thought you'd be tearing your hair and — and
even/thing."

Henry laughed explosively. "Impatience,
as I've pointed out so often to Aunt Mirabelle,
dries the blood more than age or sorrow. Yes,
I'm mad, but I've put it on ice. I'm trying to
work out some scheme to keep us in the running,
and not give Mix too good an excuse to hoot at
us. No — they say it's darkest just before the
dawn, so Pm trying to fix it so we'll be sitting
on the front steps to see the sunrise. Only so
far I haven 't had a mortal thought. ' '

"As a matter of fact," she confided, "I
loathed the idea of our running the Orpheum on
Sundays. Didn't you!"

"Naturally. Also on Thursdays, Saturdays,
Mondays, Fridays, Wednesdays and Tuesdays.

ROPE 145

But Sundays did sort of burrow a little further
under my tough hide. And you know that's
quite an admission for anybody that was
brought up by Aunt Mirabelle." He smiled
in reminiscence. "She used to make virtue so
darned scaly and repulsive that it's a wonder
I've got a moral left. As it is, my conscience
may be all corrugated like a raisin, but I'm
almost glad we can't run Sundays. That is, I
would be if my last remaining moral weren't
going to be so expensive."

"Don't you think they'll probably change
that ordinance now, though? Don't you think
people will insist on it? After today?"

"Guess work," said Henry. "Pure guess-
work. But my guess is that we're ditched."

"Well, why don't you join the Exhibitors
Association, and fight?"

He shook his head. "No, because that's just
what Mix and Aunt Mirabelle expect me to do.
This campaign of theirs is impersonal towards
everybody else, but it's slightly personal
towards me. I mean, Aunt Mirabelle 's sore on
general principles, and Mix is sore because I
wouldn't come up and eat out of his hand and

146 E 0 P E

get myself sheared. We won't fight. We'll
outwit 'em."

"But how?"

"Now that question," he said reproachfully,
"was mighty tactless. 7 don't know how.
But I know I 'm not going to stick my head over
the ramparts for 'em to shoot at. I'm no
African Dodger — I'm an impresario. Maybe
they'll hit me in the eye, all right, but I'm not
going to give 'em a good cigar for it.""

"I know, dear, but how are we going to make
up all that tremendous loss?"

"Sheer brilliance," said Henry, easily,
"Which is what I haven't got nothing but, of.
So I'm banking on you. . . . And in the mean-
time, let 's go ahead with the orgy of lamb chops
you were talking about. I'm hungry."

They spent the evening in a cheerful discus-
sion of ways and means, during which she was
continually impressed by Henry's attitude.
From earlier circumstances she had gathered
that when he was under fire, his rash impulsive-
ness would remain constant, and that only his
jocular manner would disappear; furthermore,
she knew that in spite of that manner, he was

E 0 P E 147

a borrower of trouble. And yet Henry, who
had a pretty legitimate reason to be bristling
with rancour', sat and talked away as assuredly
as though this hadn't been his doomsday.

She left him, once, to answer the telephone,
and when she came back, she caught him off
guard, and saw his face in repose-. Henry
wasn't aware of it; and when he heard her
footsteps, he looked up with an instantaneous
re-arrangement of his features. But Anna had
seen, and Anna had understood ; she sensed that
Henry, for a generous purpose, had merely
adopted a pose. Secretly, he was quite as tor-
mented, quite as desperate, as she had ex-
pected him to be.

Her heart contracted, but for Henry's sake,
she closed her eyes to the revelation, and
resumed the discourse in the same key which
Henry had set for it. Far into the night they
exchanged ideas, and half -blown inspirations,
but when Henry finally arose, with the remark
that it was time to wind the clock and put out
the cat, they had come to no conclusion except
that something would certainly have to be done
about it. "Oh, well," said Henry, indulgently,

148 K 0 P E

"a pleasant evening was reported as having
been had by all, and nothing was settled — so it
was just as valuable as a Cabinet Meeting. ' '

The sight of the silver tea-service, however,
sent him to bed with renewed determination.

In the morning, he dreaded to open his news-
paper, but when he had read through the story
twice, he conceded that it wasn't half as yellow
as he feared. No, it was really rather conser-
vative, and the photograph of him wasn't
printed at all; he read, with grim satisfaction,
that another culprit, somewhat more impetuous,
had smashed the camera, and attempted to
stage a revival of his success upon the photog-
rapher.

He had been fully prepared to find himself
singled out for publicity, and he was greatly
relieved. To be sure, there was a somewhat
flippant mention of his relationship to Mira-
belle, but it wasn't over-emphasized, and alto-
gether, he had no justification for resentment
— that is, at the Herald. The Herald had
merely printed the news; what Henry resented
was the fact.

EOPE 149

He turned to the editorial page and found, as
he had imagined, a solid column of opinion ; but
to his amazement, it made no protest of yester-
day's event — on the contrary, it echoed Judge
Barklay. It said half a dozen times, in half a
dozen different ways, that a bad law ought to be
repealed, a good law ought to be preserved, and
that all laws, good or bad, as long" as they were
written on the books, ought to be enforced.
Henry was mystified; for the Herald had
always professed to be in utter sympathy with
the workingman.

Later in the day, however, he saw the leading
exhibitor in town, who winked at him. ' ' Clever
stuff, Devereux, clever stuff. 'Course, if we
put up a roar, they'll say it's because we've got
an ax to grind. Sure we have. But the
Herald wants the people — the people that come
to our shows — to get up and blat. Then it
wouldn't be the League against the Association
— it 'd be the people against the League, and the
laugh 'd be on the other foot."

"What's the betting?"

" Search me. But Mayor Eowland told me if

150 E 0 P E

we got up a monster petition with a thousand or
two names on it, he '11 bring it up to the Council.
We're puttin' up posters in the lobby."

Henry's heart jumped. "But suppose the
people don't sign?"

"Well then we'd be out o' luck. But there's
other ways o' goin' at that damn League, and
we're goin' to use all of 'em. And that re-
minds me, Devereux — ain't it about time for
you to join the Association!"

"I'm afraid not. I ought to, but — you see,
you're going to make things as hot as you can
for the League — personalities, and all that, and
when my aunt is president of it — "

"But great guns! What's she done to
you?"

"I know, but I can't help that. You go
ahead and rip things up any way you want to,
but I'd better stay out. It may be foolish, but
that's how I feel about it."

"It's your own affair. / think you're too
blamed easy, but you suit yourself. . . . And
about the big noise, why I guess all we can da is
wait and see what happens. ' '

Miss. Starkweather, who met him on the

ROPE 151

street that morning, told him the same thing.
"Some people," she remarked, altitudinously,
''are always getting their toes stepped on,
aren't they? Well, there's another way to
look at it — the toes oughtn't to have been
there. ' '

"Oh, give us time," said Henry, pleasantly.
"Even the worm turns, you know."

"Humph!" said Aunt Mirabelle. "Let a
dozen worms .do a dozen turns! I never
thought I'd see the day when a Devereux —
almost the same thing as a Starkweather — 'd
figure in a disgrace such as yours. You've
heaped muck on your uncle's parlour-carpet.
But some day you '11 see the writing on the wall,
Henry. ' '

He was tempted to remind her of another city
ordinance against bill-posting, but he refrained,
and saved it up for Anna.

"I'll watch for it," he said.

"Well, you better. All I've got to say is
this: you just wait and see what happens."

And then, to complete the record, he got
identically the same suggestion from Bob
Standish.

152 E 0 P E

"I suppose," said Standish, "maybe you're
wishing you 'd taken that check. ' '

"Not that, exactly — but I've thought about
it."

"Strikes me that you're in the best position
of anybody in town, Henry. You've got a
following that'll see you through, if it's
humanly possible.

"Sounds like passing the hat, doesn't it?"

"Oh, no. And the side that scores first
doesn't always win the game, either — I dare
say you've noticed it. It'll come out all right
— you just wait and see what happens."

Henry waited, and he saw. And to Henry 's
dismay, and to the Mayor's chagrin, and to
Miss Mirabelle Starkweather's exceeding com-
placence, nothing happened at all.

The public petition, which had been adver-
tised as "monstrous," caught hardly five hun-
dred names, and two thirds of them were Mr.
A. Mutt, Mr. O. Howe Wise, Mr. O. U. Kidd,
and similar patronymics, scribbled by giggling
small boys. The blue-law was universally un-
popular, and no doubt of it, but the citizenry
hesitated to attack it; the recent landslide for

EOPE 153

prohibition showed an apparent sentiment
which nobody wanted to oppose — Why, if a
man admitted that he was in favour of Sunday
tolerance, his friends (who of course were go-
ing through exactly the same mental rapids)
might put him down in the same class with
those who still mourned for saloons. Each
man waited for his neighbour to sign first, and
the small boys giggled, and filled up the lists.
Besides, there was a large amusement park just
beyond the city line, and the honest workingman
proceeded to pay his ten-cent fare, and double
the profit of the park.

The Exhibitors Association put up its fists
to the Mayor, and the Mayor proposed a pub-
lic hearing, with the Council in attendance.
At this juncture the Reform League sent a
questionnaire to each Councillor, and to each
member of the Association. The phraseology
was Socratic (it was the product of Mr. Mix's
genius) and if any one answered Yes, he was
snared : if he said No, he was ambushed, and if
he said nothing he was cooked. It reminded
the Mayor of the man who claimed that in a
debate, he would answer every question of his

154 ROPE

adversary with a simple No or Yes — and the
first question was: "Have you stopped beat-
ing your wife?"

The Exhibitors held a meeting behind closed
doors, and gave out the statement that nothing
was to be gained by a public hearing. But
they launched a flank attack on the Council only
to discover that the Council was wide awake,
and knew that its bread was buttered on one
side only.

"We are listening," said the Chairman, with
statesmanlike dignity, "for the voice of the
people, and so far we haven't heard a peep. It
looks as if they don't want you fellows to run
Sunday's, don't it?"

The spokesman of the Exhibitors cleared his
throat. "Statistics prove that every Sunday,
an average of six thousand people — "

' ' That 's all right. We 've seen your petition.
And Mr. Mutt and Mr. Kid and most of the
rest of your patrons don't seem to be registered
voters. How about it?"

The Council burst into a loud laugh, and the
spokesman retreated in discomfiture.

For several days, Henry was fairly beseiged

E 0 P E 155

by his friends, who joked him about his arrest,
and then, out of genuine concern, wanted to
know if his prospects were seriously damaged.
To each interrogatory, Henry waved his hand
with absolute nonchalance. As far as he knew,
only six people were in the secret — himself, his
wife, Judge Barklay, Standish, Mr. Archer and
Aunt Mirabelle — and he wasn't anxious to in-
crease the number. His aunt might not have
believed it, but this was more on her account
than on his own.

"Lord, no," said Henry, casually. "Don't
worry about me. I'm only glad there's some
news for the Herald. It was getting so dry you
had to put cold cream on it or it'd crack."

By the time that Judge Barklay returned
from his vacation, the subject had even slipped
away from the front page of the newspapers.
The flurry was over. And out of a population
of fifty thousand, ninety-nine per cent of whom
were normal-minded citizens, neither ultra-con-
servative nor ultra-revolutionary, that tiny
fraction which composed the Ethical Reform
League had stowed its propaganda down the
throats of the overwhelming majority.

156 ROPE

The Judge shrugged his shoulders. " Or-
ganization," he said. "They've got a leader,
and speakers, and a publicity bureau. That's
all. I hear they 're going to use it to boom Mix
for a political job. But you wait — wait, and
keep on paying out the rope."

"That's all I've got left to pay out," said
Henry, amiably.

"Aren't you doing pretty well, considering?"

Henry nodded. "We're doing great busi-
ness— I mean, anybody else would think so.
About a hundred and fifty a week net, for the
first three weeks. And Anna's salting away a
hundred and ten of it. Every morning I draw
a clean handkerchief, and a dime for dissipa-
tion, and she keeps a clutch on the rest."

"Hm! A hundred and fifty. That's good
money, Henry.*'

"Well, that's the only kind we take. But
you can see for yourself what this thing's done
to us. We ought to be averaging two twenty-
five. And we'd have done it, too."

The Judge appeared contrite. "I'm afraid
you're blaming me for bad advice, Henry."

"No, sir. If I blamed anybody, I'd just

E 0 P E 157

blame myself for taking it. But I don't. You
see, even if I fall down on the first prize, I've
got a pretty good business under way. Eight
thousand a year."

"Would you keep on with it?"

"I'd think it over. It isn't particularly joy-
ous, but it sure does pay the rent. Oh, I sup-
pose I'd try to sell it, if I could get a price for
it, but Bob says I couldn't expect a big one, be-
cause so much of the trade sort of belongs to
its — and wouldn't necessarily patronize the
chap that bought me out. He tells me it was
worth twenty when I took it, and thirty now,
and if it weren 't for this law, it would be worth
fifty. That 's all due to the improvements, and
you advised me to put 'em in, and you engi-
neered the mortgage. So I'm not huffy at you.
Hardly."

"Still, you want the big prize if you can get
it. ... Notice what Mix is giving out to the
papers ? He '11 hang himself yet, and if he does,
you won't be too far behind to catch up.
That 's a prophecy. But by George, I can 't help
feeling that Mix isn't in that outfit for his
health. It just don't smell right, somehow."

158 ROPE

The Beform League had jubilantly explained
to Mr. Mix that he was a liberator and a saviour
of humanity from itself, and Mr. Mix had
deftly caught whatever bouquets were batted
up to him. He had allowed the fragrance of
them to waft even as far as the Herald office, to
which he sent a bulletin every forty-eight hours.
Mr. Mix's salary was comforting, his expense
accounts were paid as soon as vouchers were
submitted, he was steadily advancing in Miss
Starkweather's good books, and he considered
himself to be a very clever man indeed.

At the very least, he was clever enough to
realize that his position was now strategically
favourable, and that as long as he moved
neither forward nor backward, he was in no
danger from any source. He had a living
salary, and he was saving enough out of it to re-
duce his indebtedness ; in a year he could snap
his fingers at the world. Furthermore, he
could see no possibility of legislating himself
out of his job before that time — certainly not if
he played his cards craftily, and didn't push
his success too far. And by the end of the

B 0 P E 159

year, he could select a future to fit the circum-
stances.

For the time being, however, it seemed advis-
able to Mr. Mix to make haste slowly; he had
turned an impending personal catastrophe into
a personal triumph, but the triumph could be
spoiled unless he kept it carefully on ice. The
failure of the public to rise up and flay the
League had lifted Mr. Mix into a position of
much prominence, and conveyed the very
reasonable supposition that he was individually
powerful. When a man is supposed to possess
power, he can travel a long distance on the
effect of a flashing eye, and an expanded chest ;
also, it is a foolhardy man who, regardless of
his reputation, engages to meet all-comers in
their own bailiwick.

He had committed himself to the preparation
of an amendment to the ordinance, which should
be more definite, and more cerulean, than the
original, but he knew that if he pressed it too
soon, it might topple back and crush him. The
people could be led, but they couldn 't be driven.
And therefore Mr. Mix, who had naturally

160 ROPE

made himself solid with the reactionaries and
the church-going element (except those liberals
who regarded him as an officious meddler), and
who had actually succeded in being mentioned
as the type of man who would make a good
Mayor, or President of Council, followed out a
path which, unless his geography of common-
sense was wrong, could hardly end at a
precipice.

He became, overnight, a terror to the boys
and young men who rolled dice in the city parks,
and on the alley sidewalks in the business dis-
trict; and this was held commendable even by
the church-goers who played bridge at the
Citizens Club for penny points. He headed a
violent onslaught upon the tobacconists who
sold cigarettes to minors, and this again was
applauded by those who in their youth had
avoided tobacco — because it was too expensive
— and smoked sweet-fern and cornsilk behind
the barn. He nagged the School Board until
there went forth an edict prohibiting certain
styles of dress ; and the mothers of several un-
attractive maidens wrote letters to him, and
called him a Christian. The parents of other

ROPE 161

girls also wrote to him, but he didn't save the
letters. He made a great stir about the
Sanitary Code, and the Pure Food regulations,
and although the marketmen began to murmur
discontentedly — and why, indeed, should the
grocery cat not sleep in a bed of her own
choosing; and why should not the busy,
curious, thirsty fly have equal right of access
with any other insect! — yet Mr. Mix contrived
to hold himself up to the public as a live re-
former, but not a radical, and to the League as
a radical but not a rusher-in where angels fear
to tread. It required the equilibrium of a
tight-rope walker, but Mr. Mix had it. In-
deed, he felt as pleased with himself as though
he had invented it. And he observed, with
boundless satisfaction, that the membership of
the League was steadily increasing, and that
the Mayoralty was mentioned more frequently.
He was aware, of course, that a reform candi-
date is always politically anemic, but he was
hoping that by the injection of good-govern-
ment virus, he might be strong enough to catch
a regular nomination, to boot, and to run on a
fusion ticket. From present indications, it

162 ROPE

wasn't impossible. And Mr. Mix smirked in
his mirror.

Mirabelle said, with a rolling-up of her mental
shirt-sleeves : ' * Well, now let 's get after some-
thing drastic. I've heard lots of people say
you ought to get elected to office ; well, show 'em
what you can do. Of course, what we've been
doing is all right, but it's kind of small
potatoes."

Mr. Mix looked executive. " Mustn't go too
fast, Miss Starkweather. Can't afford to make
people nervous."

" Humph! People that don't feel guilty,
don't feel nervous. I say it's about time to
launch something drastic. Next thing for us
to do is to make the League a state-wide
organization, and put through a Sunday law
with teeth in it. That amusement park's got
to go. Maybe we'd better run over to the
capital and talk to the Governor."

Mr. Mix was decisively opposed, but he
couldn't withstand her. He had a number of
plausible arguments, but she talked them into
jelly, and eventually dragged him to an inter-

ROPE 163

view with the Governor. When it was over,
she beamed victoriously.

"There! Didn't I tell you so? He's with
us."

Mr. Mix repressed a smile. "Yes, he said if
we draft a bill, and get it introduced and passed,
he'll sign it."

"Well, what more could he say?"

He wanted to ask, in turn, what less could be
said, but he contained himself. "You know,"
he warned her, "as soon as we put out any
really violent propaganda, we're going to lose
some of our new members, and some of our
prestige."

"Good! Weed out the dead-wood."

"That's all right, but after what we've done
with the food laws and stopping the sale of
cigarettes to boys, and so on, people are looking
at us as a switch to chastise the city. But we
don't want them to look at us as a cudgel. And
this state law you've got in mind hits too many
people."

"Let it hit 'em."

"Well, anyway," he pleaded, "there's no

164 ROPE

sense in going out and waving the club so every-
body 'a scared off. We ought to take six months
or a year, and do it gradually. And we ought
to pass a model ordinance here first, before we
talk about statutes. I'd suggest a series of
public lectures, and a lot of educational
pamphlets for a start. I'll write them my-
self."

She was impatient, but she finally yielded.
"Well, we'll see how it works. Go ahead and
doit."

"I will — I'll have the whole thing done by
late this spring."

"Not 'till then?" she protested, vigorously.

Mr. Mix shook his head. "Perfect the or-
ganization first, and begin to fight when we've
got all our ammunition. It'll take me three
months to get that ready. So far, all we Ve had
is a battle, but now we're planning a war. I
want to be prepared in every detail before we
fire a single more shot."

She regarded him admiringly. "Sounds
reasonable at that. You do it your own way. ' '

He was feeling a warm sense of power, and
yet he had his moments of uncertainty, did Mr.

ROPE 165

Mix, for even with his genius for hypocrisy, he
sometimes found it difficult to be a hypocrite on
both sides of the same proposition. His status
was satisfactory, at the moment, but he mustn't
let Mirabelle get the bit in her teeth, and run
away with him. As soon as ever she got him on
record as favouring the sort of legislation
which she herself wanted, Mr. Mix's power was
going to dwindle. And Mr. Mix adored his
power, and he hated to think of losing it by
too extravagant propaganda.

There were moments when he wished that
Henry were more belligerent, so that special
measures could be taken against him, or that
Mirabelle were more seductive, so that Mr. Mix
could be more spontaneous. He knew that he
was personally responsible for the present
enforcement; he believed that because of it,
Henry Devereux didn't have a Chinaman's
chance; he knew that if Mirabelle got her
legacy, she would have Mr. Mix to thank for it.
But Henry was too cheerful, and Mirabelle was
too coy, and the two facts didn't co-ordinate.

Certainly there was no finesse in hailing
Mirabelle as an heiress until Henry's failure

166 ROPE

was more definitely placarded. To be sure, she
had plenty of money now, and she was spending
it like water, but he knew that it included the
income from the whole Starkweather estate.
She probably had — oh, a hundred thousand or
more of her own. And that wasn't enough.
Yes, it was time for Mr. Mix to think ahead ; he
had identified himself so thoroughly with the
League that he couldn't easily withdraw, and
Mirabelle still held his note. Of course, if the
League could furnish him with a stepping-stone
to the Mayoralty, or the presidency of Council,
Mr. Mix didn't care to withdraw from it any-
way; nor would he falter in his allegiance as
long as he had a chance at an heiress. He
wished that Henry would show fight, but Henry
hadn't even joined the Exhibitors Association.
It was so much easier to fight when the other
fellow offered resistance. Henry merely
smiled; you couldn't tell whether he were de-
spondent or not. But if he wouldn't -fight,
there was always the thin possibility that he
might be satisfied with his progress. And that
would be unfortunate for Mr. Mix.

ROPE 167

There was something else ; suppose Mirabelle
got her legacy, and Mr. Mix volunteered to
share it with her. He was reasonably confident
that she would consent; her symptoms were
already on the surface. But how, in such
event, could Mr. Mix regulate the habits which
were so precious to him? How could he hide
his fondness for his cigar, and his night-cap, his
predilection for burlesque shows and boxing
bouts and blonde stenographers? It was diffi-
cult enough, even now, and he had eaten enough
trochees and coffee beans to sink a frigate, and
he had been able only once to get away to
New York — "to clean up his affairs." How
could he manage his alternative self when Mira-
belle had him under constant and intimate
supervision?

Still, all that could be arranged. For twenty
years he had gone to New York, regularly, on
irregular business and not a soul in town was
any the wiser; it was simply necessary to dis-
cover what "business" could summon him if he
were married, independent, and a professional
reformer. Mr. Mix, who was always a few

168 ROPE

lengths ahead of the calendar, procured the ad-
dresses of a metropolitan anti-cigarette con-
ference, and a watch-and-ward society, and
humbly applied by mail for membership. An
alibi is exactly the opposite of an egg; the
older it is, the better.

CHAPTER X

WHEN Henry told his wife that he was
counting on her for brilliant ideas, he
meant the compliment rather broadly; for he
couldn't imagine how a girl brought up as Anna
had been brought up could supply any practical
schemes for increasing the patronage of a
motion-picture theatre. Indeed, when she
brought him her first suggestion he laughed,
and kissed her, and petted her, and while he
privately appraised her as a dear little
dreamer, he told her that he was ever so much
obliged, but he was afraid that her plan
wouldn't work.

"You see," he said, "you haven't had very
much experience in this business — "

"Methuselah!" she retorted, and Henry
laughed again.

"That's no way for a wife to talk. When I
mention business you're supposed to look at me
with ill-concealed awe. But to get down to

169

170 K 0 P E

brass tacks, I Ve watched the audiences for four
or five weeks, and I am beginning to size them
up. And I don't believe you can put over any
grand-opera stuff on 'em."

"It doesn't make the least bit of difference
whether it's grand-opera or the movies, my
lord. It'll work."

He shook his head dubiously. "Well, even
suppose it would, I still don't like it. You
don't make friends simply to use 'em for your
own purposes."

' ' Why, of course not. But after you Ve made

'em, you're silly not to let 'em help you if they

can. And if they want to. And if they don't

then they aren't really your friends, are they?

It's a good way to find out."

Henry frowned a little. "What makes you
think it would work?"

"Human nature. . . . Now you just think it
all over from the beginning. All our friends
come to the Orpheum some night, don't they?
They'd go to some picture, anyway, but they
come to the Orpheum for two reasons — one's
because it's a nice house now, and the other's
because it's ours. And sometimes they're in

E 0 P E 171

time to get good seats, and sometimes they
aren't. Well, we aren't asking any special
favour of them; we're just making sure that if
they all come the same night, they'll have the
same seats, time after time. And they'll like
it, Henry."

1 'But to be brutally frank, I still don't see
where we get off any better. ' '

"You wait. ... So we sell for just one
particular performance — say the 8.45 one, one
night a week — season tickets. Boxes, loges,
and some of the orchestra seats. And it would
be like opera ; if they couldn 't always come, they
couldn't return their tickets, but they could
give them to somebody else. And that night
we'd have special music, and — "

"Confirming today's conversation, including
brutal frankness as per statement, I still don't
see — "

"Why, you silly. It'll be Society Night!
And I don't care whether it's movies or
opera, if you make a thing fashionable, then it
gets everybody — the fashionable ones, and then
the ones who want to be fashionable, and finally
the ones who know they haven't a ghost of a

172 R 0 P E

chance, and just want to go and look at the
others ! ' '

Henry laboured with his thoughts. "Well,
granted that we could herd the hill crowd in
there, and all that, I still don't — "

"Why, Henry darling! Because we'd make
it Monday night — that's our worst night in the
whole week, ordinarily — and have all reserved
seats that night, and then of course we'd raise
the prices ! ' '

"Oh!" said Henry. "Now I get it. I
thought it was just swank."

"And it's true — it's true that if you get
people to thinking there's something exclusive
about a shop, or a hotel, or a club, or even a
theatre, they '11 pay any amount to get in. And
our friends don't care when they come, and
they'll love all sitting together in the boxes, or
even in the orchestra."

"Who was Methuselah's wife?" asked
Henry, irrelevantly.

"Why, he had several, didn't he?"

"Cleopatra, Portia, Minerva, Nemesis, and
the Queen of Sheba," said Henry, "and you're

E 0 P E 173

all five in one package. I retract everything
I said. And if I may be permitted to kiss the
hem of your garment, to show I'm properly
humbled, why — in plain English, that idea has
a full set of molars ! ' '

He left the mechanics of it to Anna, who
merely conferred with Bob Standish, and then
with one of her girl-friends, and sent out a little
circular among the high elect; but even Anna
was amazed at the prompt response. The re-
sponse was due partly to friendship, and partly
to convenience, but whatever the reason, Anna
brought in checks for a hundred season-tickets,
and turned the worst night of the week into the
best. As she had sensed, because the insiders
of society were willing to commit themselves to
Monday, the outsiders would have paid four
times, instead of merely double, to be there, too.
It was socially imperative.

"That boosts us up another fifty a week,"
said Henry appreciatively. "And we must
have a thousand in the bank, haven't we? ...
Say, Anna, this bread and cheese racket is all
right when you can't afford anything else, but

174 EOPE

honestly, won't you just get a cook? I don't
care if she's rotten, but to think of you giving
those dishes a sitz-bath twice a day — "

"Not yet, dear. We aren't nearly out of the
woods. Society Night's helped a lot, but we
aren't averaging over two hundred and twenty
yet, are we? That's eighty a week short. So
if we don't think up some more schemes, why,
what we're saving now '11 have to be our capital
next year."

"But when a man has this much income — "

"Yes, and you owe ten thousand on a
mortgage, and the tax bills haven't come in yet,
and you'll have an income tax to pay. . . .
We '11 save awhile longer. ' '

It was greater heroism than he realized, for
she had never lost, for a single instant, her ab-
horrence of the kitchen ; nor was she willing to
cater to her prejudice, and work with only the
tips of her fingers. She had two principal de-
fences— she wore rubber gloves, and she sang —
but whenever she had to put her hands into
greasy water, whenever she scrubbed a kettle,
whenever she cleaned the sink, a series of cold
chills played up and down her spine as fitfully

ROPE 175

as a flame plays on the surface of alcohol. She
detested every item which had to do with that
kitchen; and yet, to save Henry the price of a
cook — now seventy dollars a month — she sacri-
ficed her squeamishness. There were nights
when she simply couldn't eat — she couldn't
draw a cloud over her imagination, and forget
what the steak had looked like, and felt like, un-
cooked. There were six days in seven when the
mere sight of blackened pots and pans put her
nerves on edge. But she always remembered
that Henry was supposed to be irresponsible,
and that a penny in hand is worth two in pros-
pect; so that she sang away, and tried to
dispel her thoughts of the kitchen by thinking
about the Orpheum.

It was in early December that she conceived
the Bargain Matinee, which wasn't the ordinary
cut-price performance, but the adaptation of
an old trick of the department stores. The
Tuesday and Friday matinees were the poorest
attended, so that Anna suggested — and Henry
ordered — that beginning at half past four on
Tuesdays and Fridays, the fifty-cent seats were
reduced at the rate of a cent a minute. In other

176 K 0 P E

words, the Orpheum challenged the public to
buy its entertainment by the clock; a person
who came a quarter hour late saved fifteen
cents, and the bargain-hunter who could find a
vacant seat at twenty minutes past five could
see the last two reels for nothing. It didn't
bring in a tremendous revenue, but it caught
the popular fancy, and it was worth another
thirty dollars a week.

And Anna discovered, too, that the unfinished
second story of the theatre had possibilities.
She had it plastered and gaily papered, she put
up a frieze of animals from Noah's ark; she
bought toys and games and a huge sand-box —
and for a nominal fee, a mother could leave her
angel child or squalling brat, as the case might
be, in charge of a kindergarten assistant, and
watch the feature film without nervousness or
bad conscience. There was no profit in it, as
a department, but it was good advertising, and
helped the cause.

In the meantime Henry, who at this season
of the year would ordinarily have gone to Lake
Placid for the winter sports or to Pinehurst
for golf, was watching the rise and fall of the

ROPE 177

box-office receipts as eagerly as he would have
watched the give and take of match-play in
tournament finals. He kept his records as
perfectly, and studied them with as much zest,
as once he had kept and studied the records of
the First Ten in the tennis ranking, and of all
teams and individuals in first-class polo. To
Henry, the Orpheum had long ceased to be a
kitchen; he had almost forgotten that a few
months ago, his soul had been corrugated with
goose-flesh at the prospect of this probation.
Since August, he had done more actual work
than in all his previous life, and the return from
it was approximately what his allowance had
been from Mr. Starkweather, but Henry had
caught the spark of personal ambition, and he
wouldn't stop running until the race was over.
He wouldn't stop, and furthermore he wouldn't
think of stopping. But now and then he
couldn't help visualizing his status when he did
stop, or was ruled off the track.

He hadn't quite recovered, yet, from his
surprise at the continuing reaction of his
friends. He was deeply touched by the realiza-
tion that even those who were most jocular were

178 E 0 P E

regarding him with new respect. Instead of
losing caste, he seemed to have risen higher
than before ; certainly he had never been made
to feel so sure of his place in the affection of his
own set. And almost more satisfactory than
that, the older men in the Citizens Club were
treating him with increasing friendliness,
whereas in the past, they had treated him
rather as an amusing young comedian, to be
laughed at, but not with. And finally, he was
flattered by the growing intimacy with Mr.
Archer.

"A year ago," Mr. Archer once said to him,
"I used to think you were a spoiled brat, Henry.
Now I think you're — rather a credit to your
uncle."

Henry grinned. "And I used to think some
very disrespectful things about you, and now
I 'd rather have you on my side than anybody I
know. I must have been a raw egg."

* * You '11 win out yet, my boy — Ted Mix to the
contrary notwithstanding."

"Oh, sure!" said Henry, optimistically. "I
don't gloom much — only fifteen minutes a day
in my own room. I got the habit when I was

ROPE 179

taking my correspondence course on efficiency."
Even in these occasional sessions of gloom,
however, (and his estimate of time was fairly
accurate) he never felt any acute antagonism
either towards his aunt or towards Mr. Mix,
he never felt as though he were in competition
with them. He was racing against time, and it
was the result of his own individual effort
which would go down on the record. As to his
aunt, she had been perfectly consistent; as to
Mr. Mix, Henry didn't even take the trouble to
despise him. He carried over to business one
of his principles in sport — if the other fellow
wanted so badly to win that he was willing to
cheat, he wanted victory more than Henry did,
and he was welcome to it. After the match was
over, Henry might volunteer to black his eye
for him, but that was a side issue.

Mr. Mix had said to him, sorrowfully, at the
Citizens Club: "One of the prime regrets of
my life, Henry, was that you — the nephew of
my old friend — should have suffered — should
have been in a position to suffer — from the
promotion of civic integrity."

Henry laughed unaffectedly. "Yes," he

180 E O P E

said, "it must have raised perfect Cain with
you."

"I don't like your tone, Henry. Do you
doubt my word?"

"Doubt it I After I've just sympathized
with the awful torture you must have gone
through? . . . Tell me something; what's all
this gossip I hear about you and Aunt Mira-
belle? Somebody saw you buggy-riding last
Sunday. Gay young dog ! ' '

Mr. Mix grew red. "Buggy-riding! Miss
Starkweather was kind enough to take me out
to the lake in her car. ' *

"That's buggy-riding," said Henry, affably.
"Buggy-riding's a generic term. Don't blush.
I was young myself, once."

Mr. Mix fought down his anger. "You're
very much of a joker, Henry. It seems to run
in the family. Your uncle — '*

"Yes, and Aunt Mirabelle, too."

"What?"

"Oh, yes," said Henry. "Aunt Mirabelle 's
a joker, too. She advised me not to run the
Orpheum in the first place; she'd rather have
had me trade it and go into something more re-

E 0 P E 181

spectable, and profitable. Doesn't that strike
you as funny? It does me."

Mentally, Mr. Mix bit his lip, but outwardly
he was ministerial. "I'm afraid you're too
subtle for me. ' '

"I was afraid of that myself."

"Isn't business good?" His voice was so-
licitous.

Henry was reminded of what Judge Barklay
had twice expressed, and for a casual experi-
ment, he tried to plumb the depths of Mr. Mix's
interest.

"Oh, with a few new schemes I've got, I
guess I'll clean up eleven or twelve thousand
this year."

Mr. Mix shook his head. "As much as that f ' '

Henry inquired of himself why, to accompany
a question which was apparently one of mere
rhetorical purport, Mr. Mix should have shaken
his head. The action had been positive, rather
than interrogative.

"Easy," said Henry. "Come in next week,
and see how we're going to turn 'em away
I've got a new pianist ; you'll want to hear him.
He looks like a Sealyhan terrier, but he's got a

II
it

182 ROPE

repertoire like a catalogue of phonograph rec-
ords. I dare the audience to name anything he
can't play right off the bat — songs, opera,
Gregorian chants, sonatas, jazz — and if he
can't play it, the person that asked for it gets a
free ticket."

"So — to use a colloquialism — you're going
very strong?"

To use another colloquialism," said Henry,
we fairly reek with prosperity, and we're go-
ing to double our business. That is, unless you
Leaguers stop all forms of amusement but tit-
tat-toe and puss-in-the-corner. "

Mr. Mix smiled feebly. "One expects to be
rallied for one's convictions."

Henry nodded, engagingly. "I certainly got
rallied enough for mine. That justice of the
peace rallied me for twenty-five to start with,
and followed it up with twenty more. . . . But
if you want my opinion, Mr. Mix, you '11 lay off
trying to promote civic integrity with a meat-
ax. All you did with that Sunday row was to
take a lot of money away from the picture
houses, and give it to the trolley company and
the White City — white when it was painted.

E 0 P E 183

And if you don't behave, I won't vote for you
next election."

Mr. Mix ignored the threat. "Come to a
meeting of the League some time, Henry, and
we'll give you a chance to air your views."

He reported the interview to Anna, and she
seemed to find in it the material for reflection.
She asked Henry if he thought that Mr. Mix
was deliberately making up to Mirabelle.
Henry reflected, also.

In January, Henry had an interview with Mr.
Archer, who went over his books with a fine-
tooth comb, and praised him for his accomplish-
ment.

"But it only goes to show how the best inten-
tions in the world can get all twisted up,"
said Mr. Archer, gravely. "Here you've done
what you were supposed to do — you've done it
better than you were supposed to do it — and
then because of that cussed enforcement that
neither your uncle nor I ever dreamed about,
you 're liable to get punished just as badly as if

184 E 0 P E

you'd made a complete failure. It's a shame,
Henry, it 's a downright shame 1 ' '

''We're packing 'em in pretty well," said
Henry. "I figured out that if we sold every
seat at every performance we 'd collect fourteen
hundred a week gross. We're actually taking
in about eight fifty. That's a local record, but
it isn't good enough."

"No, you seem to be shy about — three thou-
sand to date. You've got to make that up, and
hit a still higher average for the next seven
months, and I'm blessed if 7 can see how you're
going to do it."

' * Oh, well, I '11 have the theatre. That 's some-
thing."

"Yes, it'll bring you a good price. But not
a half of what you should have had. One
thing, Henry, I wish your uncle could know how
you 're taking it. As far as I know, you haven 't
swung a golf club or sat a horse for six months,
have you?"

"Oh, shucks! . . . When Uncle John went to
a ball game, he always liked to see a man run
like fury on a fly ball. Nine time out of ten
an outfielder 'd catch it and the batter 'd get a

E 0 P E 185

big hoot from the grand-stand. The other time
he'd drop it, and the batter 'd take two bases.
That's all I'm doing now. Playing the percent-
age. And golf takes too much time — even if
there weren't snow on the ground — and stable
feed's so high I can't afford it. The fool horse
would cost more to feed than I do myself."

"And even if the percentage beats you,
you've got something you never had before,
Henry, and that's the solid respect of your
community. Everybody knows you hated this
job. Everybody's back of you."

"Up on the farm," said Henry, thoughtfully.
"There was a field-hand with a great line of
philosophy. Some of it was sort of crude, but
— one day Uncle John was saying something
about tough things we all have to do, and this
fellow chimed in and said: 'Yes, sir, every
man's got to skin his own skunk.' "

Mr. Archer smiled and nodded. "Your year
won 't have been wasted, Henry. And when it 's
over, if you want to get out of the picture busi-
ness, you'll find that you can get a dozen first-
rate jobs from men who wouldn't have taken
you in as their office-boy a season ago. . . .

186 ROPE

Give my love to your wife, Henry, and tell her
for me that I 'm proud of you. ' '

"I'll tell her," said Henry, "but 7 won't be
proud until I 've nailed that skin over the barn-
door.'*

On his way out, he dropped in for a moment
to see Bob Standish. Bob was at his old tricks
again ; and while his competitors in realty, and
insurance, and mortgage loans, made the same
mistake that once his classmates and instruc-
tors and the opposing ends and tackles had
made, and argued that his fair skin and his in-
nocent blue eyes, his indolent manner and his
perfection of dress all evidenced his lack of wit
and stamina, he had calmly proceeded to chase
several of those competitors out of business,
and to purchase their good-will on his own
terms. It was popularly said, in his own circle,
that Standish would clear a hundred thousand
dollars his first year.

He winked lazily at Henry, and indicated a
chair. ' * Set ! ' ' said Standish. ' ' Glad you came

ROPE 187

in. Two things to ask you. Want to sell?
Want to rent?"

"If you were in my shoes, would you sell,
Bob?"

"I can get you twenty-eight thousand."

"That's low."

"Sure, but everybody knows you've got a
clientele that nobody else could get. Are you
talking?"

"I — guess not just yet."

"Want to rent? I just had a nibble for small
space ; you could get fifty a month for that attic
you 're using for a nursery. ' '

"I — hardly think so, Bob. That's a pet
scheme of Anna's, and besides, we need it. It's
good advertising. ' '

His friend's eyes were round and childlike.
"Made any plans for the future, Henry? Know
what you '11 do if you stub your toe ? ' >

"Sell out and strike you for a job, I guess."

"Don't believe it would work, old man."

"Don't you think so?"

"One pal boss another? Too much family."

Henry looked serious. "I'm sorry you think
so. 7 wouldn't have kicked."

188 ROPE

"No, I'm afraid I couldn't give you a job,
old dear. I like you too well to bawl you out.
But maybe we'll do business together some
other way."

As he drove his tin runabout homeward,
Henry was unusually downcast. He didn't
blame Standish — Standish had showed himself
over and over to be Henry's best friend on
earth. But it was dispiriting to realize how
Standish must privately appraise him. Henry
recalled the justification, and grew red to think
of the ten years of their acquaintance — ten
years of continuous achievement for Standish,
and only a few months of compulsory display
for himself. But he wished that Standish
hadn't thrown in that last remark about doing
business together some other way. That
wasn't like Bob, and it hurt. It was too infer-
nally commercial.

He found the apartment deserted. His shout
of welcome wasn't answered: his whistle, in the
private code which everybody uses, met with
dead silence. Henry hung up his hat with con-
siderable pique, and lounged into the living-
room. What excuse had Anna to be missing at

E 0 P E 189

the sacred hour of his return? Didn't she
know that the happiest moment of his whole
day was when she came flying into his arms as
soon as he crossed the threshold? Didn't she
know that as the golden pheasants fled fur-
ther and further into the thicket of unreality,
the more active was his need of her? He won-
dered where she had gone, and what had kept
her so late. Was this a precedent, and had the
first veneer of their companionabilty worn off
so soon — for Anna?

A new apprehension seized him, and he hur-
ried from room to room to see if instead of
censuring Anna, he ought to censure himself.
There were so many accidents that might have
happened to her. Women have been burned so
severely as to faint: they have drowned in a
bathtub: they have fallen down dumb-waiter
shafts: they have been asphyxiated when the
gas-range went out. And to think that only a
moment ago, he had been vexed with her. The
sight of each room, once so hideously common-
place, now so charming with Anna's artistry
and the work of her own hands — her beautiful
hands which ought to be so cared for — filled

190 ROPE

him with contrition and fresh nervousness.

No, she had escaped these tragedies — yet she
was missing. Missing, but now half an hour
late. And downtown there were dangerous
street-crossings, and dangerous excavations,
and reckless motorists. . . . Once in a while a
structural-iron worker dropped a rivet from the
seventh story; and there were kidnappers
abroad. . . . The key turned in the lock, and
Henry dropped noiselessly into a chair, and
caught up day-bef ore-yesterday's paper.

He greeted her tenderly, but temperately.
"Well, where 've you been?"

She had to catch her breath. "Oh, my dear,
I've had the most wonderful time! I've — oh,
it's been perfectly gorgeous! And I've got it!
I've got it!"

He had never seen her keyed to such a pitch,
and manlike, he attempted to calm her instead
of rising to her own level. "Got what? St.
Vitus' dance?"

"No! The scheme! The scheme we were
looking for ! ' '

Henry discarded his paper. ' ' Shoot it. ' '

She waved him off. "Just wait 'till I can

E 0 P E 191

breathe. ... Do you remember what you told
me a long time ago about a talk you had with
your aunt? And she said bye-and-bye you'd
see the writing on the wall?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've seen it I"

"Whereabouts?"

"Wait. . . . And remember your talking to
Mr. Mix, when he said you ought to go to a
League meeting and air your views ? ' '

"Yes."

"Well, I went!"

He gazed at her. "You what?"

She nodded repeatedly. "It was a big pub-
lic meeting. I was going past Masonic Hall,
and I saw the sign. So I went in ... oh, it was
so funny. The man at the door stared at me
as if I'd been in a bathing suit, or something,
and he said to me in a sort of undertaker's
voice: 'Are you one of us?' And I said I
wasn't, but I was thinking about it, and he
said something about the ninety and nine, and
gave me a blank to fill out — only I didn't do it:
I used it for something lots better: I'll show
you in a minute — and then I sat down, and

192 ROPE

pretty soon Mr. Mix got up to talk, — and you
should have seen the way your aunt looked at
him; as if he'd been a tin god on wheels — and
he bragged about what the League was doing,
and how it had already purified the city, but
that was only a beginning — and what a lot more
it was going to do — oh, it was just ranting —
but everybody clapped and applauded — only
the man next to me said it was politics instead
of reform — and then he went on to talk about
that ordinance 147, and what it really meant,
and how they were going to use it like a bludg-
eon over the heads of wrong-doers, and all
that sickening sort of thing — and the more he
talked the more I kept thinking. . . . My dear,
all that ordinance says — at least, all they claim
it says — is that we can't keep open on Sunday
for profit, isn 't it ? "

Henry was a trifle dizzy, but he retained his
perspective. "Yes, but who'd want to keep
open for charity?"

She gave a little cry of exultation. "But
that's exactly what we want to do! That's
what we are going to do. And they can't pre-
vent us, either. We're going to keep open for

ROPE 193

a high, noble purpose, and not charge a cent.
And the more I thought, and Mr. Mix bragged,
the more I ... so I wrote it all down on the
back of that blank the man gave me — and there
it is — and / think it's perfectly gorgeous —
even if it is mine. Now who's Methuselah's
wife?"

On the back of the blank there was written,
in shaky capitals, what was evidently intended
as the copy for an advertisement. She watched
Henry eagerly as he read it, and when at first
she could detect no change in his expression, her
eyes widened, and her lips trembled impercep-
tibly. Then Henry, half-way down the page, be-
gan to grin: and his grin spread and spread
until his whole face was abeam with joy. He
came to the last line, gasped, looked up at
Anna, and suddenly springing towards her, he
caught her in his arms, and waltzed her madly
about the living-room.

When he released her, her hat was set at a
new and rakish angle, and she had lost too many
hair-pins, but to Henry she had never looked
half so adorable.

"Of course," he panted, "everybody else '11

194 K 0 P E

do it too, as soon as we 've showed 'em how—
"What — what difference does that make!"
"That's right, too. ..." He fairly doubled
himself with mirth. "Can't you just see Mix's
face when he sees this writing on the wall — of
the Orpheum?"

"I — I've been seeing it all afternoon.
When can we start ? ' '

"Bight away. Now." He stopped, rigid.
"No, we won't either. No we won't. First,
we've got to see the Judge — we've got to make
sure there's no flaw in it. And then — we won't
let anybody copy us ! "

"But how can you stop them?"
Henry was electric. ' ' What 's a movie theatre
worth on Sunday? When they can't give a
show anyway? I'll rent every house in town
for every Sunday from now 'till August! I'll
have to go slow, so nobody '11 suspect. It may
take a month, or two months, but what do we
care? We'll play it sure. It won't cost too
much, and we've got the cash in the bank.
We've — " He paused again, and looked down
at her, and his voice fell a semi-tone. "I don't
know where I get all this we stuff. I'd have

E 0 P E 195

spent two-thirds of it by this time. You 're the
one that's saved it — and earned it too, by gosh ! "
He lifted her hands, and while she watched him,
with shining eyes, he deliberately kissed the tip
of each of her ten fingers. "That's where the
money's come from/' said Henry, clearing his
throat. "Out of dish-water. Only tonight
we're going out to a restaurant and eat our-
selves logy, and you won't wash a damn dish.
It's my party."

CHAPTER XI

MISS MIRABELLE STARKWEATHER
lifted up her cup of tea, and with the little
finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr.
Mix's good health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright
in a gilded chair which was three* sizes too
small for him, bowed with a courtliness which
belonged to the same historical period as the
chair, and also drank. Over the rim of his cup,
his eyes met Mirabelle's.

" Seems to me you've got on some kind of a
new costume, haven't you?" asked Mr. Mix gal-
lantly. " Looks very festive to me — very/'

For the first time since bustles went out of
fashion, Miss Starkweather blushed ; and when
she blushed, she was quite as uncompromising
about it as she was about everything else. It
wasn't that she had a grain of romance in her,
but that she was confused to be caught in the
act of flagging a beau; to hide her confusion,
she rose, and went over to the furthest win-

196

E 0 P E 197

dow and flung it wide open. The month was
February, and the air was chill and raw, but
Mirabelle could think of no other pretext for
turning her back and cooling her cheeks. And
yet, although she would have perjured herself a
thousand times before she would admit it, she
felt a certain strange, spring-like pleasure to
know that Mr. Mix was only pretending to be
deceived.

"Oh, my, no," she said over her shoulder.
"I've had this since the Flood."

Mr. Mix had also risen, to hand her back to
her seat, and now he stood looking down at her.
She was wearing a gown of rustling, plum-col-
oured taffeta, with cut-steel buttons ; and at her
belt there was a Dutch silver chatelaine which
had been ultra-smart when she had last worn it.
Vaguely, she supposed that it was ultra-smart
today, and that was the reason she had attached
it to her. From the chatelaine depended a sil-
ver pencil, a gold watch, a vinaigrette with gold-
enamelled top, and a silver-mesh change-purse.
At her throat, she had a cameo, and on her left
hand, an amethyst set in tiny pearls. Mr. Mix,
finishing the inventory, seated himself and be-

198 E O P E

gan to tap one foot on the floor, reflectively.
He was a man of perception, and he knew war-
paint when he saw it.

" Makes you look so much younger," said
Mr. Mix, and sighed a little.

"Don't be a fool," said Miss Starkweather,
and to dissemble her pleasure, she put an extra-
sharp edge on her voice. "I don't wear clothes
to make me look younger; I wear 'em to cover
me up."

' ' That 's more than I can say for the present
generation."

"Ugh!" said Miss Starkweather. "Don't
speak of it ! Shameless little trollops ! But the
worst comment you could make about this pres-
ent day is that men like it. They like to see
those disgraceful get-ups. They marry those
girls. Beyond me."

Mr. Mix sneezed unexpectedly. There was
a cold draught on the back of his neck, but as
Mirabelle said nothing about closing the win-
dow, he hesitated to ask permission. "I've
always wondered what effect it would have had
on your — public, career — if you hadn't pre-
ferred to remain single. "

B 0 P E 199

"My opinions aren't annuals, Mr. Mix.
They're hardy perennials."

"I know, but do you think a married woman
ought to devote herself entirely to public af-
fairs I Shouldn 't she consider marriage almost
a profession in itself ?"

"Well, I don't know about that. Duty's
duty."

"Oh, to be sure. But would marriage have
interfered with your career? Would you have
let it? Or is marriage really the higher duty
of the two!"

"There's something in that, Mr. Mix. I
never did believe a married woman ought to be
in the road all the time."

"It was a question of your career, then?"

Mirabelle put down her cup. "Humph! No,
it wasn't. Bight man never asked me."

Mr. Mix's mind was cu tiptoe. "But your
standards are so lofty — naturally, they would
be." He paused. "I wonder what your stand-
ard really is. Is it — unapproachable? Or do
you see some good in most of us?"

Mirabelle sat primly erect, but her voice had
an unusual overtone. * ' Oh, no, I 'm not a ninny.

200 E 0 P E

But good husbands don't grow on goose-berry-
bushes. If I'd ever found a man that had the
right principles, and the respect of everybody,
and not too much torn-foolishness — a good,
solid, earnest citizen I could be proud of — '

Mr. Mix interpolated a wary comment. "You
didn't mention money."

She sniffed. "Do I look like the kind of a
woman that would marry for money ? ' '

"And in all these — I mean to say, haven't
you ever met a man who complied with these
conditions ? ' r

She made no intelligible response, but as Mr.
Mix watched her, he was desperately aware
that his moment had come. His next sentence
would define his future.

He was absolutely convinced, through his pri-
vate source of information, that Henry was due
to fall short of his quota by four or five thou-
sand dollars; nothing but a miracle could save
him, and Mr. Mix was a sceptic in regard to
miracles. He was positive that in a brief six
months Miss Starkweather would receive at
least a half million; and Mr. Mix, at fifty-five,
wasn't the type of man who could expect to

E 0 P E 201

have lovely and plutocratic debutantes thrown
at his head. He believed — and his belief was
cousin to a prayer — that Mirabelle was ab-
sorbed in reform only because no one was ab-
sorbed in Mirabelle. Indeed, she had implied,
a few moments ago, that marriage would cramp
her activities; but it was significant that she
hadn't belittled the institution. Perhaps if she
were skilfully managed, she might even be
modernized. Certainly she had been content,
so far, to be guided by Mr. Mix's conservatism.
He hoped that he was right, and he trusted in
his own strategy even* if he were wrong. And
every day that he continued moderate in his
public utterances, and in his actions, he was a
day nearer to the golden ambition of an elec-
tive office.

He was threatened with, vertigo but he mas-
tered himself, and drew a long, long1 breath in
farewell to his bachelorhood.

"You have heartened me more than you
know," said Mr. Mix, with ecclesiastical sober-
ness. " Because — it has been my poverty —
which has kept me silent." He bent forward.
" Mirabelle, am I the right man?" Almost by

202 K 0 P E

sheer will-power, he rose and came to her, and
took her hand. She shrank away, in maiden
modesty, but her fingers remained quiescent.
Mr. Mix sneezed again, and stooped to kiss her
cheek, but Mirabelle avoided him.

"No/' she said, with a short laugh. "That
don't signify — I don't approve of it much.'*
She wavered, and relented, "Still, I guess it's
customary — Theodore. ' '

Before he left her, they had staged their first
altercation — it could hardly be called a quarrel,
because it was too one-sided. Mirabelle had
asked him without the slightest trace of shyness,
to telephone the glad tidings to the Herald; and
of a sudden, Mr. Mix was afflicted with self-
consciousness. Unfortunately, he couldn't give
a valid reason for it; he couldn't tell her that
illogically, but instinctively, he wanted to keep
the matter as a looked secret — and especially
to keep it locked from Henry Devereux — until
the minister had said : Amen. He admitted to
himself that this was probably a foolish whim,

E 0 P E 203

a needless precaution, but nevertheless it ob-
sessed him, so that he tried to argue Mirabelle
away from the Herald. His most cogent argu-
ment was that the announcement might weaken
their position in the League — the League might
be too much interested in watching the romance
to pay strict attention to reform.

" Humph!" said Mirabelle. "I'm not
ashamed of being congratulated. Are you?
But if you're so finicky about it, I'll do the tele-
phoning myself. ' '

Whereupon Mr. Mix went back to his room,
and drank two highballs, and communed with
himself until long past midnight.

In the morning, with emotions which puzzled
him, he turned to the society column of the
Herald; and when he saw the flattering para-
graph in type, — with the veiled hint that he
might be the next candidate for Mayor, on a re-
form ticket — he sat very still for a moment or
two, while his hand shook slightly. No back-
ward step, now! His head was in the noose.
He wondered, with a fresh burst of self-efface-
ment, what people would say about it. One thing
— they wouldn't accuse him of the truth. No-

204 E 0 P E

body but Mr. Mix himself knew the whole truth
— unless perhaps it were Henry Devereux.
Henry had developed a knowing eye. But
Henry didn't count — Henry was beaten al-
ready. Still, if Henry should actually come out
and accuse Mr. Mix of — why, what could Henry
accuse him of? Simply marrying for money?
If it didn't make any difference to Mirabelle,
it certainly didn't to Mr. Mix. And what booted
the rest of the world ? Why should he concern
himself with all the petty spite and gossip of a
town which wasn't even progressive enough to
have an art museum or a flying field, to say
nothing of a good fight-club? Let 'em gos-
sip. . . . But just the same, he wished that
Mirabelle had been willing to keep the engage-
ment a secret. Mr. Mix: was sure to encounter
Henry, once in a while, at the Citizens Club, and
he didn't like to visualize Henry's smile.

He was in the act of tossing away the paper
when his1 attention was snatched back by a half-
page advertisement; in which the name of the
Orpheum Theatre stood out like a red flag. Mr.
Mix glanced at it, superciliously, but a moment
later, his whole soul was strung on it.

ROPE 205

THE ORPHEUM

Educational Motion Pictures

FREE ! FREE ! FREE !

Every Sunday afternoon and evening

ESPECIALLY HIGH-CLASS ENTERTAINMENT

of instructive and educational features

With Sacred Music
ABSOLUTELY FREE

to all those who present at the door ticket-stubs from
the previous week's performances (bargain matinees
excepted) showing a total expenditure of Three
Dollars.

IN OTHER WORDS

Two people coming twice during the week, in 75 cent
seats, come FREE Sunday

Three people coming twice during the week, in 50
cent seats, come FREE Sunday

A PURELY VOLUNTARY COLLECTION
will be taken up and divided between

The Associated Charities

The Starving Children of Belgium and

The Chinese Famine Fund

This Sunday

206 E 0 P E

THE SWORDMAKER'S SON— an absorbing drama

of Biblical days

Next Sunday

BEN-HUR, in seven reels

NO ADMISSION FEE BEING CHARGED, AND
ALL VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS BEING DE-
VOTED TO CHARITY, THIS ENTERTAINMENT
DOES NOT FALL WITHIN ANY CITY ORDI-
NANCE PROHIBITING SUNDAY PERFORM-
ANCES

THE ORPHEUM
Motion Pictures

Mr. Mix, goggle-eyed, jumped for the tele-
phone, and called the City Hall, but as soon
as the Mayor was on the wire, Mr. Mix wrestled
down his excitement, and spoke in his embassy
voice. " Hello — Bowland'/ This is Mix. I want
to ask you if you Ve seen an ad of the Orpheum
Theatre in this morning's paper? . . . Well,
what do you propose to do about it?"

The Mayor answered him in a single word:
Mr. Mix started, and gripped the receiver more
tightly. "Nothing! . . . Why, I don't quite
get you on that. ... It's an open and shut

ROPE 207

proposition — No, I most certainly am not try-
ing to make a pun ; I 'm calling you up in my of-
ficial capacity. That's the most flagrant, bare-
faced attempt to evade a law — Why, an idiot
could see it! It's to drive the crowd into the
Orpheum during the week, so that — "

He listened, with increasing consternation.
"Who says it isn't a violation? Who? The
City Attorney?" Mr. Mix was pale; and this
was quite as uncommon as for his fiancee to
blush. "When did he say so? ... What's
that? What's his grounds? . . . Repeat it, if
you don't mind — Practically a charitable per-
formance by invitation — "

"Why, sure," said the Mayor. He realized
perfectly that Mr. Mix had the League and
another thousand people of small discernment
behind him, but the Mayor didn't want to be
re-elected, and did want to retire from politics.
"The Orpheum doesn't say a fellow that comes
Sunday has got to prove lie spent the money
for the tickets, does it? Anybody that's got
the stubs can come. They're just as much in-
vitations as if they were engraved cards sent
around in swell envelopes. If you've got one

208 E 0 P E

— whether you paid for the invitation or not, or
if you got it in the mail or picked it up on the
street, you can go on in. And as long's no
money's taken in over the counter, the City At-
torney says it's 0. K. Of course, you can peti-
tion the Council, if you want to."

Mr. Mix was licking his lips feverishly.
"I'm obliged to you for your advice. We will
petition the Council — I'll have it signed, sealed
and delivered by noon today. . . . And if that
don't do, we'll apply for an injunction. . . .
And we'll carry this to the Governor before
we're done with it, Rowland, and you know
what state laws we've got to compel a Mayor
of an incorporated city to do his duty! . . .
This is where we part company, Rowland.
You '11 hear from me later ! ' ' He slammed down
the receiver, rattled the hook impetuously, and
called Mirabelle's number.

"Mirabelle . . . good-morning; have you
.... No, I 'm not cross at you, but — Oh ! Good-
morning, dear. . . . This is important. Have
you seen the Orpheum's ad in the Herald?
Isn't that the most barefaced thing you ever
saw? Don't we want to rush in and — "

ROPE 209

She interrupted him. "Why, no, not when
it 's for charity, do we V '

Mr. Mix nearly dropped the receiver.
"Charity! Charity your grandmother ! It's a
cheap trick to attract people during the week,
so they'll have a show on Sunday in spite of the
law!"

"Oh, I don't doubt there's some catch in it.
That's Henry all over. But if the League went
out and interfered with an educational and sort
of religious program with a collection for
charity, we'd — "

"Yes, but my dear woman, would we sanc-
tion a dance for charity? A poker-party? A
wine-supper? We — "

"But there won't be any dancing or drinking
or card-playing at the Orpheum, will there?"

He lost his temper. "What's the matter
with you? Can't you see — "

"No, but I can hear pretty well," said Mira-
belle. "I'm not deaf. And seems to me — "
She sniffled- "Seems to me you're making an
awful funny start of things, Theodore. ' '

"My dear girl — •"

"What?"

210 E 0 P E

"I just said 'my dear girl.' I — "

* ' Say it again, Theodore ! ' '

To himself, Mr. Mix said something else, but
for Mirabelle's benefit, he began a third time.
"My dear girl, it's simply to evade the law,
and—"

"But Theodore, if we lift one finger to stop
the raising of money for the poor starving chil-
dren in foreign countries, we'd lose every scrap
of influence we Ve gained. ' '

"But this means that all the theatres can
open again ! ' '

"Well, maybe you'd better get to work and
frame the amendment to Ordinance 147 we've
been talking about, then. And the new statute,
too. We've wasted too much time. But under
the old one, we can't go flirting with trouble.
And if all they do is show pictures like Ben-
Hur, and The Swordmaker's Son, why . . .
don't you see? We just won't notice this thing
of Henry's. We can't afford to act too nar-
row. . . . And I'm not cross with you any
more. You were all worked up, weren't you?
I '11 excuse you. And I could just hug you for
being so worked up in the interests of the

ROPE 211

League. I didn't understand. . . . When are
you coming up to see me? I've been awfully
lonesome — since yesterday."

Mr. Mix hung up, and sat staring into va-
cancy. Out of the wild tumult of his thoughts,
there arose one picture, clear and distinct —
the picture of his five thousand dollar note.
Whatever else happened, he couldn 't financially
afford, now or in the immediate future, to break
with Mirabelle. She would impale him with
bankruptcy as ruthlessly as she would swat a
fly; she would pursue him, in outraged pride,
until he slept in his grave. And on the other
hand, if certain things did happen — at the Or-
pheum — how could he spiritually afford to pass
the remainder of his life with a militant re-
former who wouldn't even have money to
sweeten her disposition — and Mr. Mix's. He
wished that he had put off until tomorrow what
he had done, with such conscious foresight, only
yesterday.

CHAPTER XII

NOW although Mr. Mix had shaken with con-
sternation when he saw the advertisement
of the Orpheum, Henry shook with far different
sentiments when he saw the announcement in
eulogy of Mr. Mix. It was clear in his mind,
now, that Mr. Mix wasn't the sort of man to
marry on speculation; Henry guessed that
Mirabelle had confided to him the terms of the
trust agreement, and that Mr. Mix (who had
shaken his head, negatively, when Henry esti-
mated his profits) had decided that Henry was
out of the running, and that Mirabelle had a
walkover. The guess itself was wrong, but the
deduction from it was correct ; and Henry was
convulsed to think that Mr. Mix had shown his
hand so early. And instead of gritting his
teeth, and damning Mr. Mix for a conscience-
less scoundrel, Henry put back his head and
laughed until the tears came.

He hurried to show the paragraph to Anna,
212

E 0 P E 213

but Anna wouldn't even smile. She was a
woman, and therefore she compressed her lips,
sorrowfully, and said: "Oh — poor Miss Stark-
weather ! " To which Henry responded with a
much more vigorous compression of his own
lips, and the apt correction: "Oh, no — poor
Mr. Mix!"

He carried his congratulations to his aunt in
person; she received them characteristically.
"Humph! . . . Pretty flowery language. . . .
Well, you don't need to send me any present,
Henry; I didn't send you one."

"When's the happy event to be?" he in-
quired, politely.

"June. Fourth of June."

"And do you know where you're going for
your honeymoon ? ' '

"I don't like that word," said Mirabelle.
"It sounds mushier than a corn-starch pudding.
And besides, it's nobody's business but his and
mine, and I haven't even told him yet. I'm
keeping it for a surprise."

" Oh ! " said Henry. * ' That 's rather a novel
idea, isn't it?"

"Humph!" said Mirabelle, dryly. "The

214 ROPE

whole thing's novel, isn't it? But I'm obliged
for your coming up here, Henry. I didn 't sup-
pose you had enough interest in family matters
to be so nosey, even."

Later in the week, Henry encountered Mr.
Mix, and repeated his congratulations with such
honeyed emphasis that Mr. Mix began to stam-
mer. "I appreciate all you say, Henry — but
— come here a minute." He drew Henry into
a convenient doorway. ''I'm sort of afraid,
from the way you act, there 's something in the
back of your mind. I've thought, sometimes,
you must have lost sight of the big, broad prin-
ciples behind the work I'm doing. I've been
afraid you've taken my work as if it was di-
rected personally against you. Not that I've
ever heard you say anything like that, but your
manner's been . . . well, anyway, you're too
big a man for that, Henry. Now about this
new scheme of yours. It's my feeling that
you're dodging the law by sliding in the back
door. It's my official duty to look into it. Only
if we do have to put a stop to it, I want you
to realize that I sympathize with any personal

ROPE 215

loss you may have to suffer. Personally, I'm
grieved to have to take this stand against John
Starkweather 's nephew. You understand that,
don't you?"

Henry nodded assent. "Why, certainly.
Your motives are purer than the thoughts of
childhood. The only thing I don't understand
is what all this has to do with my congratulat-
ing you?"

"Oh, nothing whatever. Nothing at all. It
was just your manner."

"Let's come out in the open, then. How do
you think you could put a stop to it? Because
if you could, why, I'll save you the trouble."

Mr. Mix hesitated. "You were always an
original young man, Henry. But if it's my
duty to stop your show, why should I give away
my plans? So you could anticipate 'em?"

"No, I've done that already."

"Now, Henry, that sounds too conceited to be
like you."

"Oh, no, it's only a fact. But here — I'll run
through the list for you. Have me pinched un-
der the ordinance? Can't be done; the City

216 K 0 P E

Attorney's said so, and I saw the Chief of Po-
lice was in on it. Get an injunction? You can't
do that either, because- — "

"Why can't we?"

"Because I've got one already."

Mr. Mix's jaw dropped. "What's that?
How could you — "

"Oh, I got Bob Standish — just as a citizen
tax-payer — to apply for a temporary injunc-
tion yesterday, to test it out. It's being argued
this morning. Don't you want to come over
and hear it ? If I lose, I won't open next Sun-
day at all; and if I win, then the League can't
get an injunction later. . . . What else can you
do?"

"We may have other cards up our sleeves,"
said Mr. Mix, stiltedly.

"Just the place I'd have looked for 'em,"
said Henry, but his tone was so gentle and in-
offensive that Mr. Mix only stared.

He shook hands with Henry, and hurried over
to the Court House, where he arrived just in
time to hear the grey-haired jurist say, dispas-
sionately: "Motion denied."

Mr. Mix swabbed his face, and thought in

E 0 P E 217

lurid adjectives. He wouldn't have dared, in
view of Mirabelle's opinion, to ask for an in-
junction on behalf of the League itself, but it
had occurred to him that he might arrange the
matter privately. He could persuade one of
of the old moss-backs that Mirabelle might be
swayed by her relationship to Henry (this
struck him as the height of sardonic humour),
and the moss-back could go into Court as an in-
dividual, to enjoin the Sunday performance as
opposed to public policy. But Henry had out-
stripped him; and furthermore, there was no
question of judicial favour. The Judge who
had refused the application was no friend of
Henry, or of Judge Barklay. And Bob Stand-
ish's attorney, who by a fiction was attacking
Henry's position, had claimed that the Sunday
show was designed for profit, and that the price
was merely collected in advance. This would
have been precisely Mr. Mix's thesis. Henry's
own lawyer had replied that since there was no
advance in the price of tickets during the week,
there was no charge for Sunday. A ticket dur-
ing the week included an invitation. To be
sure, one couldn't get the invitation without the

218 ROPE

ticket, but where was the ordinance violated!
Would the Court hold, for example, that a gro-
cer couldn't invite to a lecture, for charity, on
Sunday, every one who had patronized his shop
during the previous week? Would the Court
hold that an author couldn't invite to a public
reading on Sunday, every one who had bought
his book on Saturday?

The Court wouldn't.

And Mr. Mix, who knew Henry's income to
the nearest dollar, went home and got a pencil,
and covered sheet after sheet with figures.

Presently, he sat back and laughed. Why,
he had had his hysterics for nothing! Henry
couldn't overcome his handicap unless he
jammed his house to capacity from now until
August. No theatre had even yet accomplished
such a feat. And it wasn't as though Henry
had a monopoly on this scheme; in another
week, all his competitors would be open Sun-
days, too, with strictly moral shows, and no
money taken at the door, and he would have the
same competition as always. And yet, to be
perfectly safe, (for Henry was fast on his feet)
Mr. Mix had better frame his amendment to the

ROPE 219

ordinance, and set the wheels in motion. With
good luck, he could have Henry blanketed by
April.

That evening, Mirabelle found him more ani-
mated than usual; and more lavish with com-
pliments.

Since he had first seen Henry's advertise-
ment, Mr. Mix had been as uncertain of his
prospects as a child with a daisy; he had fore-
seen that it was only a part of a very narrow
margin of fortune which would determine
whether he was to be a rich man, poor man, beg-
gar man — or jilt. Now, however, his confidence
was back in his heart, and when, on Sunday aft-
ernoon, he placed himself inconspicuously in
the window of an ice-cream parlour, squarely
opposite the Orpheum, it was merely to satisfy
his inquisitiveness, and not to feed his doubt.

He had to concede that Henry was clever.
Henry had introduced more fresh ideas into
his business than all his competitors in bulk.
What a customers '-man Henry would have
been, if he had entered Mr. Mix's brokerage of-
fice! Yes, he was clever, and this present in-
spiration of his was really brilliant. Mr. Mix

220 ROPE

could see, clearly, just what Henry had devised.
He had devised a rebate: from a book-keeping
standpoint he was cutting his own prices during
the week (for of course the Sunday perform-
ance was costly to him) but he was cutting them
in such a subterranean manner that he wouldn't
expect to lose by it. Palpably, he thought that
Orpheum stubs would become negotiable, that
they would pass almost as currency, that when
people hesitated between the Orpheum and any
other theatre, they would choose the Orpheum
because of the Sunday feature. But did Henry
imagine that his scheme was copyrighted f Mr.
Mix had to smile. Across the street, there were
fully a hundred people waiting for the doors
to open . . . the doors had opened, and the
crowd was filing past the ticket-booth. The
house would be packed solid from now until late
evening. But when next Sunday came, and all
the other houses, relying upon Henry's triumph
over the City Attorney and the District Court,
stole Henry's thunder. ... It was to laugh.
Week-day business would be spread thin, as al-
ways; people could suit their own choice, and

ROPE 221

have the same Sunday privilege. And this
would knock all the profit out of it.

Mr. Mix retired, in the blandest of good-
humour, and on Monday he visited the manager
of the largest picture house in town.

"I suppose," he said, " you 're going to follow
the procession, aren't you?"

The manager looked at him queerly. "Well
—no."

"Beally?"

"No. That bird Devereux put it all over us
like a tent. ' ' He snorted with disgust. ' * Man
from Standish's office come round here a while
back and asked for a price for the house for
Sundays up to August. We thought it was for
some forum, or something ; and the damn place
was shut down anyway; so we made a lease.
Next twenty Sundays for four hundred and
seventy-five beanos, cash in advance. Then it
turns up that Standish's office was actin' for
Devereux."

The bloom of apoplexy rose to Mr. Mix's
cheeks. "You mean he — do you know if he
leased more theatres than this one? Did he?"

222 ROPE

"Did he! He signed up the whole damn Ex-
hibitors' Association. There's twenty-two
houses in town, and he's tied up twenty-one
and he owns the other. Far's I can find out,
it only cost him about six thousand to get an
air-tight monopoly on Sunday shows for the
next six months."

Mr. Mix drew breath from the very bottom
of his lungs. "What can you — do about it!"

"Do? What is there to do? All we can do
is put on an extra feature durin' the week, to
try and buck him that way — and it won't pay
to do it. He's got a cinch. He's got a graft.
And all the rest of us are in the soup."

Mr. Mix was occupied with mental arithme-
tic. "Tell me this — is it going to pay him?"

"Pay him!" echoed the manager scornfully.
"Six thou for twenty weeks is three hundred a
week. Fifty a day. Twelve-fifty a perform-
ance. Twelve-fifty calls for about twenty-five
people. Don't you think he'll draw that many
new patrons, when he can give 'em on Sundays
what nobody else can? And everything over
twenty-five '11 be velvet. He'll clean up two,
three thousand easy and maybe more. What

E 0 P E 223

beats me is why he didn't get leases for the next
hundred years. We wouldn't have had the
sense to block him."

"I'll tell you why," said Mr. Mix, choking
down his passion. " Because there's going to
be a new ordinance. It'll deal with Sunday en-
tertainments. And it's going to prohibit any
such horse-play as this." He surveyed his
man critically. "Does Henry Devereux belong
to your Association?"

"No, he don't. And he won't either. We
don't want him."

"Then as long as you people can't keep open
Sundays anyway," observed Mr. Mix care-
lessly, "maybe you'd find it to your advantage
to support the Mix amendment when it gets up
to the Council. It'll kill off any such unfair
competition as this."

The manager shrugged his shoulders. "If
it wasn't for your damn League we'd all be
makin' money."

"I'm sorry we don't all see this thing in the
same light. But as long as the rest of you are
out of it— "

"Oh, I can see that. . . . And you and me

224 E 0 P E

both understand a little about politics, I should
imagine. ' ' He grinned wryly. ' ' Never thought
I'd link up with any reform outfit — but why
don't you mail me a copy of your amendment,
and I'll see how the boys take it."

Mr. Mix agreed to mail a copy as soon as
the final draft was completed, and he was as
good as his word. On the same evening, he
read the masterpiece to Mirabelle with finished
emphasis.

"It's perfect," she said, her eyes snapping.
"It's perfect! Of course, I wish you'd have
made it cover more ground, but just as a Sun-
day law, it's perfect. When are we going to
offer it to the Council?"

"Mirabelle," said Mr. Mix, "we've got to do
some missionary work first. And before you
can do missionary work, whether it's for re-
ligion or politics or reform, you've got to have
a fund."

"Fund? Fund? To get an ordinance
passed? Why don't you walk in and hand it
to 'em?"

He shook his head. "I was in politics a good

ROPE 225

many years. We Ve got to get out printed mat-
ter, we've got to spend something for advertis-
ing, we Ve got to — approach some of the Coun-
cillors the right way."

She sat up in horror. "Not — bribe them!"

"Oh, dear, no! You didn't think that of
me!"

"No, but when you said — "

' ' I said they had to be * approached. ' I didn 't
mean corruption; I meant enlightenment."
He rubbed his nose reflectively. "But the cost
is approximately the same."

"Of course, I trust your judgment, Theodore,
but . . . how big a fund do you suppose we'll
want. ' *

"Oh, I should think five thousand would do
it."

"Five — ! Theodore Mix, how could you
spend five thousand dollars for such a thing?
There isn't that much in the treasury ! There's
hardly one thousand."

"My dear, if I were in your place, I'd pro-
tect my ante. I'd — "

"What's all that gibberish?"

226 ROPE

"I said,'7 he corrected hastily, "we've got
too much at stake to risk any failure when a
little money would guarantee success. ' '

"Would five thousand dollars guarantee it!"

"If I had that much in cash, to spend here
and there as I saw the need of it — take one type
of man out to dinner a few times, where I could
get close to him — loan another type fifty dollars
if he asked me for it( and some of 'em would) —
hire detectives to shadow another type — "

"Detectives!"

"Yes. To check up their habits. Suppose
we found a man gambling on the sly; we'd
hold that over his head and — "

' ' Humph ! I don 't like it much, but in a good
cause it may be justifiable."

"And leaflets and circulars and one thing and
another. . . . But if I have to go out and get
permission from a finance committee before I
can let go of a dime, I can't do anything. I'd
have to have the money so I could use it exactly
as I needed it. And if I did, I'll bet I could get
support you never dreamed of. Get outside
people to bring pressure on the Council." He
gazed at the ceiling. "Why, with a leeway of

ROPE 227

five thousand, I 'd even have the Exhibitor 's As-
sociation with us. I'd have — "

"Think so?"

"I know so."

"How?"

"Because long before I was in the League,
I was in politics. When I say I know, I know.
Of course, the Association's help would only
go to show that they see the light in respect to
their own business — it wouldn't cover all the
whole scope of the amendment, but even so — "

"Theodore, you know politics and I don't.
But both of us know the proverb about what
you catch flies with. So we '11* try both methods
together. You can put out the molasses, and
I'll put out the vinegar; and between us, we
ought to get somewhere."

"We can't fail," said Mr. Mix, sitting on
needles.

Mirabelle went over to her desk, and searched
the pigeon-holes. "I've been told, Theodore,
by — people I consider very reliable — that in
August, dear John's money will be coming to
me. ' ' This was the first time that she had ever
broached the delicate subject. "I always

228 E 0 P E

meant to use some of it for the League." She
had unearthed her check book, and was
writing words and figures as angular as
herself. "So really, — this is on account."
She came over to hand him the check, and after
a slight hesitation, she stooped and pecked him
on the forehead, but immediately afterwards
she relapsed into her consistently, non-roman-
tic character. "You better give me an item-
ized account of how you spend it, though, Theo-
dore. You better give me one every day.
We've got to be businesslike, even if we are —
engaged/1

•
CHAPTEE XIII

FOR two-thirds of a year, Henry Devereux
had lived contrary to his independent
taste, and to his education. He had virtually
cut himself adrift from the people he liked
and the pleasures he loved ; his sole luxury had
been his membership in the Citizens Club ; and
he had laboured far more diligently and with
far less respite than his uncle had ever intended.
He had overcome -great difficulties, of which
the most significant was his own set of social
fetiches, and he had learned his weaknesses
by exercise of his strength. He had made new
friends, and brought the old ones closer to him
— and this by virtue of honest plugging, and de-
termination. He was unassumingly proud of
himself, and he was prouder yet of Anna; he
knew that the major portion of his accomplish-
ment— and especially that part of it which had
taken place within himself — was to be put down
to Anna's credit. But the spring was coming

229

230 ROPE

towards them, and Henry winced to think of
it. Heretofore, the message of spring, in
Henry's estimation, had been a welcome to new
clothes, golf, horseback parties, and out-of-door
flirtations; this season, it meant to him a fall-
ing-off in the motion-picture business.

The spring was calling to him, but Henry
had to discipline his ears. His working hours
were from eleven in the morning until mid-
night; he sat, day after day, in his constricted
office, and glued his mind upon his problems.
The Orpheum was still a sporting proposition
to him, but even in sport, there come periods
in which the last atom of nerve and will-power
are barely sufficient to keep the brain in motion.
Henry's nerves were fagged, his muscles were
twitching, the inside of his head felt curiously
heavy and red-hot ; the spring was calling him,
but he didn't dare to listen. The spirit of his
Uncle John Starkweather was waiting to see if
he came to the tape with his head down, and
Henry was going to finish on his nerve.

As a matter of fact, he could easily have
spared an hour of two each day for exercise and
recreation, but he wouldn't believe it. He

ROPE 231

wouldn't yield to Anna when she implored him
to get out of doors, to freshen his mind and
tame his muscles.

The atmosphere of his office almost nause-
ated him; the endless parade of petty details
was almost unbearably irksome ; the book-keep-
ing part of it alone was sx>ul-disintegrating ;
but to Henry, ambition had become a mono-
mania, and to it he was ready to make every
conceivable sacrifice, including — if necessary —
his health. There were days when he told him-
self that he would pay a thousand dollars
merely to have green turf under his feet, blue
sky above, and no worries in his soul — but he
wouldn't sacrifice an hour of supervision over
his theatre. There were days when he felt that
he would give up his chance of salvation
if only he could go away with Anna, up into
the wooded country, for a week's vacation —
but he wouldn't sacrifice a week from the Or-
pheum guardianship. The spring was calling
him — the golf course, the bridle-paths, the lake,
the polo — but Henry had put himself in high
speed forward, and there was no reverse.
Then, too, he was constantly thinking of Anna,

232 ROPE

who without the daily stimulus that Henry had,
was cheerfully performing the function of a do-
mestic drudge. One of his most frequently re-
peated slogans was that if Anna could stick it
out, he could.

While the winter favoured it, his monopoly
had brought him a splendid return, but the
first warm days had signalled a serious loss of
patronage, and Henry couldn't successfully
combat the weather. The weather was too glor-
ious; it called away Henry's audiences, just as
it tried in vain to inveigle Henry. And then
the monopoly had been double-edged; it had
been a good risk — and without it, he wouldn't
have had the slightest chance against the re-
quirements— but it had been too perfect, too
prominent. In the beginning, everybody had
hailed him as a Napoleon because he had van-
quished his little world of competitors ; but now
that his laurel was old enough to wilt, he was
receiving the natural back-lash of criticism.
Naturally, his personal friends were still de-
lighted, the older men at the club were still con-
gratulating him for foresight and ingenuity,
and Mr. Archer was still complimentary and

E 0 P E 233

confident : but the great mass of theatre-goers,
and the mass of self-appointed arbiters of
business ethics, were pointing to him as a
follower of the gods of grasp and gripe. More
disquieting than that, however, were the indi-
cations of a new crusade, led by Mr. Mix, and
directed against the Council. The Mix amend-
ment, which was so sweeping that it prohibited
even Sunday shows for charity, would auto-
matically checkmate Henry; and the worst
of it was that money was being spent with
some effectiveness. Of course, the amendment
wouldn't ever be adopted in toto — it was too
sweeping, too drastic — but even a compromise
on the subject of Sunday entertainments would
be fatal.

Despite the strain, he was outwardly as blithe
and optimistic as usual. When Anna pleaded
with him to take a vacation, he either laughed
her off in his most jovial manner, or riposted
that she needed a vacation far more than he
did, which may have been true; when Judge
Barklay attempted to reason with him, he re-
sponded with respectful humour. He had seen
victory slip within his grasp, and slip out of it,

234 ROPE

so often that he was on the verge of complete
demoralization, but he thought that he alone
was aware of it, and because of his pride, Anna
didn't disillusion him.

Nor did Bob Standish disillusion him.
Standish tried to bolster him up with under-
graduate slang, and to convey to Henry the fact
that all the hill-folk were solidly behind him,
but he knew better than to come out flat with
commiseration. Then, too, Standish was con-
scious of a vague cloud which had come up to
blur their relationship. He didn't suspect for
an instant the true cause of it, which was his
remark, some months ago, that he wouldn't
employ in his office a friend such as Henry;
but he felt it, and was keenly concerned about
it. Nevertheless, his own unselfish interest
never faltered, and he waited patiently, because
he knew that between himself and Henry there
could be no permanent misunderstanding.

Nor did Mr. Archer, Henry's firm friend and
ally (insofar as Mr. Archer could separate his
personality into two separate entities, one of
which was ally, and the other was impartial
trustee) disillusion him, although Mr. Archer

ROPE 235

had also eyes to see with. On the contrary, Mr.
Archer put out numerous remarks which he in-
tended as lifebuoys.

" There was a directors' meeting of the Trust
and Deposit the other day, Henry, and somehow
they got talking about your account. I
shouldn't wonder — if you ever wanted to
change your business — if they wouldn't give
you the opportunity; and if they did, it wouldn't
be so very long before they'd invite you on the
Board."

Henry disparaged it. "What as — deputy
assistant splinter?"

"You've made rather a hit with the older
crowd, Henry. And even if you aren't a rich
man by inheritance next August, I'm not
worrying about your future."

"Neither am I. Not while I've got Anna to
think up my best thoughts for me."

The lawyer nodded. "A girl in a thousand,
Henry. ' '

"That's the worst insult I ever heard!
The population of the world's over two bil-
lion!"

Mr. Archer laughed, but his eyes showed ap-

236 E 0 P E

proval. "It's simply something for* you to
keep in mind, my boy — about the bank. It's a
possible career, unless you want to go on with
the Orpheum. Of course, you'd have to start
pretty low, at first, but you know as well as I
do that nobody's asked to come into that bank
unless he's well thought of."

Henry didn't repeat this conversation to Bob
Standish, because he thought it would sound
too much like saying "Yah!" nor did he re-
peat it to his wife, because he thought it would
sound too egotistical; but on the same day he
collected another item of news which he un-
hesitatingly shared with her.

He said to Anna: "I saw something down-
town that'll amuse you. Cigar store with a
sign in front: Trading Stamps, Premium
Coupons, and Orpheum Theatre Stubs Bought
and Sold. If that isn't a footprint on the
sands of time I'm going to get measured for
glasses."

She laughed a trifle recessively. "I'll be
glad when it's all over, though. Won't you!"

Inspecting her, he realized with a little thrill
of self -accusation, that Anna had worn herself

ROPE 237

out; she hadn't had a day's freedom from
housework, and she had worked twice as hard
as he thought necessary. She was very tired,
and she showed it; but he knew that when
she wanted the year to be over, she wasn't
thinking of herself, but of him. He paid her
the compliment of accepting what she said,
without tossing it back as though she had meant
it for herself. "Well, I told you I'd drag in
the bearded lady and the wild man of Borneo,
if I had to. What's the matter; don't you like
the show business ? ' '

"Of course, we didn't exactly go into it for
fm."

"I seem to remember your calling it a lark,
though."

"I didn't know it was going to be quite as
awful as this."

"Awful?"

"You know what I mean — you're worn out,
and you look dreadfully — and I didn't know
we'd have to do so much — " She fumbled for
the word. "What is it when a man stands out-
side, and tries to make people come in and look
at the snake-charmer!"

238 E 0 P E

4 'Ballyhoo. Would you have wanted me to
stay out of it, if you'd known?"

She deliberated. "It's funny — but I don't
think I would. In a way, it's been good for
both of us. I'll just be glad when it's
over. . . . What sort of house did you have?"

Henry put on his best smile. "Not too good.
Fair."

"If we should fall down, after all we've done
— oh, we can't! Henry, we just can't!"

"I used to know a poem," he said, "that kept
asking the question 'Where are the snows of
yesteryear?' Well, if I could find out, and
have 'em shovelled back in the street, we'd be
in a good position. But as soon as the snow
melted, so did the big crowds. I'll never look
a crocus in the face again. They've croaked
us out of a couple of hundred a week, gross."

"If we should fall down, do you know who
I'd be sorry for? The managers of the other
theatres. We'd just have been dogs in the
manger. And every time I think about it, I
don't feel nearly as smart as I did last January.
Of course, I suppose it was fair enough, but—

"Fair? Oh, yes. That sort of thing '11

ROPE 239

always be fair — as long as there's any business.
Queer, though, when you come to think of it.
We hadn't any grudge against the other
fellows; but they'd have stolen our idea, so we
had to protect it. If they'd stolen our ten
dollar bill, they'd have had to go to jail for it;
but they could have stolen an idea worth ten
thousand, and we'd just have had to stand back,
and gibber. As long as that's fair, then we
were fair. ' '

"I wonder," she said, "if all monopolists go
through the same thing — first, they get such a
wonderful scheme that they hardly dare to go
to bed for fear they'll talk in their sleep:
then they 're crazy for fear it won 't work ; then
it does work, and they think they're the Lord's
anointed; and bye-and-bye they look around
and feel — sort of apologetic."

"Oh. Do you feel apologetic?"

"I'm looking around, anyway."

"You'd better save your energy. Mix's
amendment 's coming up pretty soon, and even
if it doesn't pass, I don't see how we're going
to compete with this weather. It's so abomi-
nably beautiful that it 's — sickening. ' '

240 ROPE

"Oh — Mix!" she said, scornfully. "It gives
me the creeps just to hear his name ! He 's a
nasty hypocrite, and a sneak, and a — How long
do you suppose he'll be hurrying around with
that pious air after he gets his money? Why,
he won't even stay in the League !"

Henry grimaced. "You're wrong. If he
gets his money, he will stay in the League, and
I '11 bet on it."

There was a short silence. "Henry," she
burst out, "everything considered, I believe he
wants your uncle's money more than we do!"

"Whichever one of us gets it, — " said Henry
grimly, * ' — He '11 earn it ! "

When he recalled his previous years of
irresponsibility, he was staggered to realize
how little a fifty dollar bill had meant to him.
It had *neant a casual request across the break-
fast table; now, it meant that seventy five or
a hundred people were willing to pay him a
few cents apiece for the result of his head-
aches ; and the absence of those people, and the

ROPE 241

failure of those receipts, meant the difference
between achievement and bitter downfall.

He had risked everything on his monopoly,
and added six thousand dollars to his quota.
For two months, he had carried the double load,
and beaten his schedule; in early May, he was
falling behind at the rate of fifty dollars a
week. With twelve weeks ahead, he faced a
deficit of a paltry six hundred dollars — and
the Mix amendment was peeping over the
horizon.

He shaved down his expenses to the utter-
most penny; he ruthlessly discarded the last
fraction of his class pride, and in emergency,
to save the cost of a substitute, acted in place
of his own doorman. He rearranged the
lighting of the auditorium to save half a dollar
a day. When the regular pianist was ill, he
permitted Anna, for an entire fortnight, to
play in his stead; and during that fortnight
they ate three meals a day in a quick-lunch
restaurant. There was no economy so trivial
that he wouldn't embrace it; and yet his re-
ceipts hung steadily, maddeningly, just below
the important average. Meanwhile, the sub-

242 E 0 P E

ject of reform crept out again to the front page
of the morning papers.

For nine months, Mr. Mix and Henry had
occupied, mentally, the end seats on a see-saw,
and as Henry's mood went down, Mr. Mix's
mood went up. By strict fidelity to his own
affairs, Mr. Mix had kept himself in the public
eye as a reformer of the best and broadest type,
and he had done this by winning first Mirabelle,
and then the rest of the League, to his theory
that organization must come before attack.
Needless to say, he had found many impedi-
ments in the way of organization; Mirabelle
had often betrayed impatience, but Mr. Mix had
been able, so far, to hold her in check. He had
realized very clearly, however, that Mirabelle
wasn't to be put off indefinitely; and he had
been glad that he had a readymade ruse which
he could employ as a blinder whenever she
began to fidget. This ruse was his amend-
ment ; and although he could no longer see any
value in it for the purposes of his private feud,
yet he was passing it for two reasons; Mira-
belle was one, and the public was the other.
Even a reformer must occasionally justify his

ROPE 243

title; and besides, it wasn't the sort of thing
which could injure the majesty of his reputa-
tion.

On this, then, Mr. Mix had laboured with un-
ceasing diligence, and he had spent Mirabelle 's
money so craftily that thirty five hundred
dollars had done the work of five thousand (and
the balance had gone into his own pocket, and
thence into a disastrous speculation in cotton),
but as the year came into June, he told himself
cheerfully that amendment or no amendment,
he was justified in buying Mirabelle a wedding-
ring. And when a belated epidemic of influ-
enza rode into town, on the wings of an un-
timely spell of weather, and the Health Depart-
ment closed all theatres for five days, Mr. Mix
told himself, further, that the end of his career
as a reformer was in sight, and that the begin-
ning of his career of statecraft was just over
the hill. Once the minister had said "Amen,"
and once his bride had made him her treasurer,
and helped him into the Mayor 's chair, the Re-
form League was at liberty to go to the devil.

Mirabelle had persisted in keeping the
wedding-journey a surprise from him. She

244 ROPE

had hinted at a trip which would dazzle him,
and also at a wedding gift which would stun
him by its magnificence; Mr. Mix had visions
on the one hand, of Narragansett, Alaska or the
Canadian Rockies, and on the other hand, of a
double fistful of government bonds. Mr. Mix
didn't dare to tease her about the gift, but he
did dare to tease her about the journey, and
eventually she relented.

1 i I'll tell you," said Mirabelle, archly.
"We're going to the convention."

Mr. Mix looked blank. "Convention?"

She nodded proudly. "The national con-
vention of reform clubs, in Chicago. Aren't
you surprised?"

Mr. Mix swallowed, and made himself smile,
but it was a hazardous undertaking. "Sur-
prised? I — I'm — I'm knocked endways!"

"You see," she said, "we'll be married on
the fourth and be in Chicago on the sixth and be
home again on the fourteenth and the Council
won't vote on the amendment until the six-
teenth. Could anything have been nicer?
Now, Theodore, you hadn't guessed it, had
you?"

E 0 P E 245

" Guessed it?" he stammered. "I should
say not. I don't see how you ever thought of
it. It 's — why, I 'm paralyzed ! ' '

11 You could be a little more enthusiastic with-
out hurting yourself any," she said sus-
piciously.

"I was thinking. I used to fancy I was
pretty good at making plans myself, but this
beats me. The way those dates all dovetail like
the tiles on a roof. I never heard of anything
like it. Only — well, if you will be so quick at
reading my mind, I was wondering if we ought
to leave town before the Council meets. ' >

"That's mighty unselfish of you, Theodore,
but you said only a couple of days ago you'd
done all you could. And the Exhibitors '11 still
be working — "

"I don't believe they'll work any too hard.
It's taken too long to get under way. If the
amendment passes, you see they'll only have
the advantage of six weeks of fair competition.
I mean, Henry 'd lose only six weeks of his un-
fair competition. And then we've got to see
about getting new quarters for the League,
when our Masonic Hall lease runs out, and — "

246 E 0 P E

"But our advertising '11 be running just the
same, and the League '11 still have its public
meetings, and all. And everywhere I go I hear
the same thing; the people really want this
passed. And anybody can find us a new hall.
I'll appoint somebody. No, you're just as un-*
selfish as you can be, but we'll be back in time.
Truly, Theodore, didn't you guess!"

Much of the jauntiness had gone out of Mr.
Mix, but he consoled himself with the certainty
that in another two months, he would be in a
position to become masterful. The week in
Chicago would bore him excessively, but after
all, it was only a small part of a lifetime. He
reflected that to any prisoner, the last few days
before release, and freedom, are probably the
hardest.

"How could I, my dear?"

"No, you must have thought I'd want you
to traipse off on some perfectly aimless, non-
sensical trip like a pair of sentimental idiots."

"Oh, you know me better than that," he mur-
mured.

"Yes, but I didn't know how well you knew

ROPE 247

me. Sometimes I've been afraid you think I'm
too — gushing."

"Oh, Mirabelle!"

"Just because I chatter along to you as any
innocent young girl might — "

She continued to chatter for some minutes,
but Mr. Mix was absent-minded. He had
chewed the cud of his own virtue for too long a
time, and it had given him a sour stomach. He
was thinking that if her gift to him were in
money (and from her hints he rather ex-
pected it) he might even manage to find, in
Chicago, a type of unascetic diversion which
would remove the taste of the convention from
his spirit. But it was better to be safe than
sorry, and therefore Mr. Mix decided to make
a flying trip to New York, for his bachelor cele-
bration.

To Mirabelle he said that he was going to
confer with his friend, the head of the Watch-
and-Ward Society. Mirabelle promptly volun-
teered to go along too, but Mr. Mix told her, as
delicately as he could, that it wouldn't look
proper, and Mirabelle, who worshipped pro-

248 ROPE

priety as all gods in one, withdrew the sug-
gestion.

"But before you go," she said, "You've got
to do something about the state-wide campaign.
You've got to write the literature, anyway."

Mr. Mix felt that he was protected by the
calendar, and promised.

Before he went to New York, he wrote three
pamphlets which were marvels of circumlocu-
tion, as far as reform was concerned, and
masterpieces of political writing, as far as his
own interests were concerned. He had
borrowed freely, and without credit, from the
speeches of every orator from Everett to
Choate, and when he delivered the manuscripts
to Mirabelle, and went off on his solitary
junket, he was convinced that he had helped
his own personal cause, and satisfied the
League, without risking the smallest part of his
reputation.

On his return, he stopped first at the Citizens
Club, and when he came into the great living-

ROPE 249

room he was aware that several members
looked up at him and smiled. Over in a
corner, Henry Devereux and Judge Barklay
had been conversing in undertones; but they,
too, had glanced up, and their smiles were
among the broadest.

Mr. Mix had an uncomfortable intuition that
something had blown. Could he have been
spotted, in New York, by any one from home!

1 1 What's the joke?" he inquired of the
nearest member.

"Got a new name for you — Pitchfork Mix."
Mr. Mix spread a thin smile over his lips.
"Supposed to be funny, is it?"

"•Some folks think so."

" Where 'd it originate? Let me in on the
joke.'"

"Where would it originate? You're some
strenuous author — aren't you? Didn't know
you had that much acid in your system. ' '

"Author? Author?"

From the table at his side, the man picked up
three pamphlets. One was entitled The Model
Statute, the second was Local Problems, and
the third was Reform and Regeneration. To

250 E 0 P E

each of the three, Mr. Mix's name was signed.
He took them up, and scrutinized them closely.

"Why, what's so remarkable about these?"

"Well, that one on Local Problems isn't so
bad, but you know, Mix, when you come out in
print and tell us that sooner or later you're
going to stop the manufacture and sale of play-
ing-cards, and — "

"What?"

"And stop all public dancing, and — "

Mr. Mix looked moonstruck. "Who ever
said thatt"

"And hand us out sumptuary laws — regulate
the length of women's skirts and — "

Mr. Mix caught his breath sharply.
* * Where 's that f Where is it ? Show it to me !
Show it to me!"

Obligingly, the member showed him; and as
Mr. Mix stared at the pages, one by one, the
veins in his cheeks grew purple. Mirabelle
had edited his manuscript, — thank Heaven she
hadn't tampered with the Mix amendment of
the blue-law ordinance, which Mr. Mix had so
carefully phrased to checkmate Henry, without
at the same time seeming to do more than pro-

ROPE 251

vide conservative Sunday regulation, — but in
the other articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a
wealth of her own precious thoughts, clad in her
own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two
consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the
worst wasn't yet to come — it had arrived.

The other man was amusedly calm. "Well,
you 're not going to deny you wrote it, are you ?
Too bad, in a way, though. Oh, I don't blame
you for getting it off your chest, if you really
mean it — a man might as well come out in the
open — but I'm afraid too many people '11 think
it just funny."

Mr. Mix produced a smile which was a sickly
attempt to register nonchalant poise. "What
do you hear about it ? "

1 1 Oh, what I said. Say Mix, do you honestly
mean all that blood-and-thunder ? ' '

Mr. Mix smiled again, and hoped that his ex-
pression was taken to be non-committal. To
save his life, he couldn't have helped looking
towards the corner where Henry and Judge
Barklay sat, and his fury and chagrin were
multiplied when he saw that they were still af-
fected by humour.

252 HOPE

He went out, with vast dignity^-even the
doorman had a twinkle in his eye — and made
for Masonic Hall. Mirabelle was there, in the
committee room, and at sight of him, she had a
temporary fit of maidenly diffidence. He
wanted to slap her; but he didn't even dare to
use a tone of voice which was more than disap-
proving.

" Those pamphlets — " he began, censori-
ously.

"Oh, yes, Theodore, I took the liberty of
making a few slight changes."

' ' Slight changes ! Sleight of hand changes ! ' '

Mirabelle drew herself up. "Do you mean
to say you criticise what I did? 7 couldn't see
the sense of being milk-and-watery, even if you
could. All I put in was what you've said to
me a hundred times over. We've wasted too
much time already. I thought we'd better
show our true colours."

Mr. Mix stood and gaped at her. Under-
ground politician that he was, he knew that
Mirabelle had utterly destroyed the half of his
ambition. She had made him a laughing-stock,
a buffoon, a political joke. To think that his

E 0 P E 253

name was connected with a crusade against
short-skirts and dancing — Ugh! Not even the
average run of church-goers would swallow it
"Mayor!" he thought bitterly. " President of
Council! I couldn't get elected second deputy
assistant dog-catcher!"

Aloud, he said slowly: "I'm afraid it was
premature, that's all."

"Oh, no, it wasn't! You've no idea how
people are talking about it."

"Oh, yes, I have," said Mr. Mix, but he
hadn't the temerity to put a sarcastic stress on
it. He was wondering whether, if he issued a
statement to assure the public that what was
in those pamphlets was pure idealism, and not
to be taken as his outline of any immediate
campaign, he could remove at least the outer
layer of the bad impression, and save his
amendment from the wreck. He had thought,
earlier, that he wouldn't need that amendment
as a personal weapon against Henry, but the
value of it had appreciated by the possibility of
losing it. As to the state-wide law, Mr. Mix
was totally unconcerned. "Oh, yes, I have,"
he said.

254 E 0 P E

"Don't get too conceited, though, Theodore.
The best part of it was mine."

Mr. Mix's eagle eye saw a loophole. "You
don't think I'm going to take praise for what
belongs to you do you ? " he demanded.

"Why—"

"No, sir!" said Mr. Mix. "Not exactly.
I'm going to tell the truth about it at our next
meeting, and I'm going to send a statement to
the Herald."

"Oh, it doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. Maybe I'm too finicky,
but that 's the kind of man I am. ' '

"You're too generous," she murmured.

Mr. Mix wiped away a stray bead of perspir-
ation, and breathed more freely. With Mira-
belle's money to back him, and the stigma of
those two pamphlets removed, perhaps he had
a fighting chance for the mayoralty yet.

It was a house-wedding, with very few guests,
no decorations, and perfectly digestible re-
freshments. When the last of the party had

ROPE 255

gone down the steps, Mirabelle, in a travelling-
suit which was new in comparison with the rest
of her wardrobe, approached the bridegroom.

"Theodore, I want you to have your gift be-
fore we start. I don't want you to feel too de-
pendent on me. Maybe after next month I'll
make some kind of a settlement on you, but
that's neither here nor there. So ... take it,
and I hope it 's what you wanted. ' '

He took it, and his fingers trembled. A
check? And for what generous amount?

"Well — aren't you going to thank me?"

Mr. Mix tried to speak, but the lump in his
throat prevented him. She had given him what
was the legal equivalent of five thousand
dollars, but it wasn't in the form of a check.
It was his own demand note, payable to John
Starkweather and endorsed by him to Mira-
belle. The word "Cancelled" was written, in
Mirabelle 's angular hand, across the face of it.

CHAPTER XIV

AS Henry and his wife went down the steps,
they exchanged glances and smiled
faintly. " First time I've been in that house
for seven months, ' ' said Henry, half to himself.
"It's a bully old shack, too. I lived in it ever
since I was six/'

"Still, we're pretty comfortable right where
we are, dear."

Henry lagged a little. "That does hurt my
feelings. Of course, I'm so busy I could live
in a dog-kennel and hardly notice it, but when
you have to camp day in and day out in that
measly little joint, and smell everybody else's
corned beef and cabbage, and dig like a general-
housework girl and cook, and manicure the
stove, and peel the potatoes and dust off the
what-not and so on — not that you haven 't made
it a mighty pretty place, because you have—
without one day's vacation since last
August — "

256

ROPE 257

"But I've told you so often, dear, I'm glad
to do it if it helps you."

"It helped a lot. If you hadn't done it in
the first place, I wouldn't have had the cash on
hand to tie up the rest of the picture houses.
But that time's gone by. I don't see why in
thunder you won't hire some servants. And at
least you could pike up into the country for a
week. Why don't you?"

She hesitated, for temptation was strong, and
she was really very tired. "Maybe it's just
because I want to play the game out, too. It's
only two months more."

"And after that," he said firmly, "we're
going to move. I'll have enough to buy a
young bungle-house up on the hill, even if I
don't get anything from Archer. And then
I 'm going to make up to you for this year — see
if I don't."

"Would you sell the Orpheumf"

"Sell it!" he echoed. "I'd sell it so quick
you'd think it was a fake oil-well! I could,
too. Bob Standish sends me a proposition
from somebody about once a week."

258 E 0 P E

' ' Don 't you believe there 's any chance of our
catching up, then?"

"Looks pretty black," he admitted.
"They've got us eight down and nine to go, but
if this amendment holds off we've still got
eight weeks left to think up some wild scheme/'

She squeezed his arm. "I'm not afraid of
the future, no matter what happens. We can
take care of ourselves."

"Sure we can," he said, easily. "Maybe I
could get a job keeping the books for the
League! . . . Seriously, though, I've had two
or three different propositions put up to me
over at the Club . . . but Lord! how I hate
to be licked! Well — let's train our gigantic
intellects on the job, and finish out the heat,
anyway. ' '

She went back to her hated housekeeping, and
Henry went back to his hated theatre, and for
another week they laboured and pinched and
saved, each in a specific purpose, and each in
desperate support of the other's loyalty and
sacrifice.

He brought her, then, the morning edition of
the Herald, and pointed out a telegraphic item

ROPE 259

on the first page. "They must think it's a sure
thing," he said, "and the devil of it is that I
guess they're pretty nearly right."

Anna glanced at the headlines, and gasped.
"Mix elected second vice-president of the
national organization — and pledges twenty-five
thousand dollars to the national campaign
fund! Oh! ... I wish I could say what I
think!"

"If a hearty oath would relieve you, don't
mind me," said Henry. His chin was squarer
than usual, and his eyes were harder. "You
can see what happened, can't you? Aunt Mira-
belle railroaded him through — and the pompous
old fool looks the part — and she let him promise
money she expects to get in August. And I'll
bet it hurt him just as much to promise it as it
does me to have him!"

She threw the paper to the floor. "Henry,
can't we do something? We're only a few
hundred dollars short! Can't we make up
just that little bit?"

"It's a thousand, now," he said. "A
thousand, and we're falling further behind
every time the clock ticks." He retrieved the

260 ROPE

Herald, and abstractedly smoothed out the
pages. "That was a great spread-eagle speech
of Mix's. wasn't it? Talking about his model
ordinance, and what he's going to do next
year ! . . . Nothing I 'd love better than to give
that fellow a dose of his own tonic. But that's
the deuce of it — I can't think how to put it
over. . . . Even if I'm licked, I wouldn't feel
so badly if I just had the personal satisfaction
of making him look like a sick cat. Just once. ' *
"Yes," she said, sorrowfully. "Dad's
prophecy didn't seem to work out, did it?"
"What prophecy was that?"
"Don't you remember? He said if Mr. Mix
only had enough rope — "

"Oh, yes. Only Mix declined the invitation.
He's handled himself pretty well; you've got
to grant that. There's a lot of people around
here that honestly think he's a first-class
citizen. Sometimes I'm darned if I don't think
they will elect him something. And then God
save the Commonwealth! But if they ever
realized how far that League '11 go if it ever gets
under way, and what a bunch of hocum Mix's

E 0 P E 261

part of it is — " He stopped abruptly, and
froze in his place; and then, to Anna's amaze-
ment, he turned to her with a whoop which
could have carried half-way to the Orpheum.
' * Henry ! What on earth is it ? "
Henry snatched up his hat and made for the
door. "More rope!" he said, exultantly, over
his shoulder. "Lots more rope — I'll tell you
tonight!"

He arrived at the City Hall before the record
room was open, and he fretted and stamped in
the corridor until a youthful clerk with spats,
pimples, and an imitation diamond scarf-pin
condescended to listen to his wants. In twenty
minutes he was away again, and he was lucky
enough to catch Judge Barklay before the
bailiff had opened court.

"Hello, Henry," said the Judge. "Did you
want to see me about anything!"

"Bather!" said Henry, who was slightly out
of breath. "It's about a comma."

262 ROPE

"A what?"

"A comma. Where's your copy of the
ordinances f ' '

"On my desk. Why?"

Henry ran through the volume to the proper
place, inserted his thumb as a marker, and held
the book in reserve. " Judge, do you suppose
the voters want any of these fool blue-laws
passed?"

"No."

"Well, who does, then, outside of the
League?"

"Nobody. All we want is a decent city."

'It's simply that the League's got the Coun-
cil more or less buffaloed, isn't it?"

"That's what I've heard, Henry."

"And the first thing we know, the League '11
have put in such a big wedge that it'll be too
late to get it out. If this amendment gets over,
Mix '11 have a show in the fall, and then the
League '11 run wild. Just as they said in those
pamphlets that Mix published, and then
squirmed out of. Isn't that so?"

' ' Very likely. Very likely. ' '

"And yet everybody's afraid to stand up

E 0 P E 263

against it, for fear they'll be called names t"

* * It looks so, Henry. ' '

"But if the people once started a back fire — "

The Judge shook his head. "Mobs don't
start without a leader. "

"I know, but if they ever realized what a
ghastly farce it would be — not even using any
of the League's new notions, but taking what
we've got on the books right now — " He
opened the volume of ordinances, and read
slowly: " 'Whosoever shall fail in the strict
observance of the Lord's Day by any unseenly
act, speech or carriage; or whosoever shall en-
gage in any manner of diversion — ' " Here
he paused impressively. " ' — or profane oc-
cupation— ' He slung the volume on the
desk, and faced the Judge. "Don't you get
it!"

"I'm afraid I don't — quite."

"Why," said Henry, with a beatific grin.
"Why, there's a comma after that word 'diver-
sion.' I've just come from the City Hall. I've
seen the original copy. There is a comma.
'Any manner of diversion' — that's one thing:
'or any manner of profane occupation for

264 ROPE

profit — ' that's something else again, and dif-
ferent entirely. And the Reform League has
been shrieking to have that ordinance enforced
— to say nothing of the amendment. Well, why
not enforce it once. 'Any manner of diver-
sion I' He began to laugh, helplessly. "Oh,
come on, Judge — take the pins out and let your
imagination down. Any manner of — "

The Judge was whistling softly. "By
George, Henry — "

"Can't you see it working? I'm not sure
anybody could even take a nap ! And—

The Judge stepped past him. "That's all
right, Henry. Stay where you are. I'm just
going to telephone Eowland. . . . Hello: May-
or's office, please — " He motioned to his
son-in-law. "Make yourself comfortable — I
shouldn't wonder a bit if these blue-laws
weren't going to get just a little bit — bleached.'*

On his delirious way to the Orpheum, he
stopped in to see Bob Standish, not to share the
joke with him, for Judge Barklay had laid great

ROPE 265

stress on the closest secrecy, but in answer to
a recent message asking him to call.

" What's the excitement, Bob?"

His friend regarded him with the innocent
stare which had made his fortune. "Remem-
ber I spoke to you some time ago about renting
that space over the Orpheum?"

"The nursery? Yes."

"Well, it's come up again. Different party,
this time. Of course he hasn't seen it yet, but
it's a chap who wants about that much space —
might want to enlarge it a little, but we'd ar-
range that; he'd do it at his own expense — and
he'd pay fifteen hundred a year."

Henry deliberated. "It's so near the fin-
ish. ... I don't much care one way or the
other. Who 's the party ? ' '

1 'Bird named McClellan."

"I don't know him; do I?"

"I don't know why you should; never met
him before, myself. Well, do you want to
trade?"

' * I don 't much -care what I do. "

Standish surveyed him closely. "You're
very peppy this morning, seems to me."

266 K 0 P E

"I've got an excuse to be."
1 ' For publication ? ' '
* * Not yet. You '11 see it soon enough. ' '
Standish's eyes dropped back to his desk.
"Well, let's get this lease question off our
chests. If you'll let me handle it for you, I'll
guarantee you'll be satisfied. "
"Would you do it if you were in my shoes?"
"Absolutely — provided you were in mine."
Henry laughed. "Well, Mr. Bones, what is
the answer?"

"Why — this may do you some good. That is,
if you let me manage it for you. But suppose
it's immaterial. Suppose you run out your
string, and win or lose, you know what 's on the
docket for you, don't you? If you want it?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead. IVe had
one or two things put up to me. ' '

1 ' Forget 'em. ' ' Standish pointed at the wall.
"Nice new mahogany flat-topped desk right
there."

Henry's mouth relaxed. "Why — Bob."
As Standish gazed at him, no observer would
have said that this immature-looking boy was
rated in the highest group of local business-

E 0 P E 267

men. To a stranger, the offer might have
seemed insignificant, even humourously insig-
nificant; but to Henry it was stupendous, and
for two widely varying reasons.

"Just to think over," said Standish. "In
case."

Henry's fists were doubled. "It isn't so
much the . . . the commercial side of it, Bob,
but when I know you've always had me down
for such an incompetent sort of — "

"That was before the war. To tell the truth,
old rubbish, last August I couldn't have seen it
with the Lick telescope. Thought you were a
great scout, of course — good pal — all that — but
business; that's different. A friend's one
thing; but a partner's a lot of 'em."

Henry was staring fixedly at him. "I
wouldn't have any money to speak of — "

"Then don't speak of it. I'll name the price.
The price is your year's profit on the Or-
pheum."

There was a little silence. "When did you
get this hunch, Bob?"

"Oh, about last February."

"But it was about then that I came in here

268 E 0 P E

one day, and — and you said you — you said one
pal couldn't boss another. You said — "

"Oh! . . . But as I recall it, you were talk-
ing about a job."

"Yes, and you said you wouldn't give me
one ! And ever since then I've been — ' '

"Idiot!" said Standish. "Is that what's
been gnawing at his tender heart! Why, you
astigmatic fool — why. . . . Stop right there!
Certainly I wouldn't have you for an employe,
but as a partner — that's different. If you
apologize, I'll slay you. Shake hands and
wipe it off your brain. . . Now let's get back
to business. We 've got to have quick action. ' *

CHAPTER XV

AS the train slowed for the station, and a
score of other passengers began to as-
semble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix
sat calm and undisturbed, although inwardly
he was still raging at Mirabelle for making a
spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago
that she had prodded him into activity, ignored
his plea of greater experience in ways of travel,
and compelled him to get the suit-cases out to
the platform (she didn't trust the porter), to
help her on with her cape, and to be in instant
readiness for departure. For half an hour she
had sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat,
an umbrella in one hand and an antique satchel
in the other, and her air was a public procla-
mation that no railroad, soulless corporation
though it might be, was going to carry her one
inch beyond her destination.

By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed
his eyes from Mirabelle 's convention badge. It

269

270 ROPE

was a chaste decoration of three metal bars, two
sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of
blue silk ribbon, with white lettering, and Mira-
belle continued to wear it for two reasons : she
was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his ini-
tial attempt to be masterful, and told her twen-
ty-four hours ago that it looked as though she
belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club.
Since then, she had reproached him afresh
whenever she caught him looking at it. And
inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by any-
one who cast the briefest glance in her general
direction, he had been in hot water from Chi-
cago to the present moment. He couldn't even
escape to the smoking room.

When a man is telling himself that a woman
has made a fool of him in public, and that every
one in the neighbourhood is amused to watch
him, he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a
conversation with the woman. But Mr. Mix
saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and
glowering at a drummer across the aisle, he
beat her to it.

11 Seems to me the League had an almighty
gall to wire you for that three thousand dol-

E 0 P E 271

lars, Mirabelle. If it had been my money, I'd
have hung on to it until I knew what they
wanted it for."

She straightened her lips. "Well, it wasn't,
was it?— So I didn't, did I? ... If I can't
have faith in my own associates, who can I
have it in? And it isn't a gift; it's a loan.
Treasurer said he needed it right off, and there
wasn 't anybody else to get it from in a hurry. ' '
She caught his eyes wandering towards her
gorgeous insignia, and her own eyes snapped
back at him. "And I hope at least I'm to have
the privilege of doing what I choose with my
own money. Don't forget that women are
people, now, just as much as men are. After
the first of August, maybe I'll — "

"Mirabelle. Sh-h!"

' ' No, I won 't either, ' ' she retorted. ' ' I don 't
care to shush. After the first of August, may-
be you'll have your share, and I won't presume
to interfere with you. So don't you interfere
with me. If the League had to have -money, it
was for some proper purpose. And it wasn't
a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn't
trust—"

272 EOPE

''Oh, give it a drink!" said Mr. Mix, under
his breath; and while he maintained an attij
tude of courteous attention, he barricaded his
ears as best he could, and shut Mirabelle out of
his consciousness.

Even in Chicago, he had received bulletins
from the seat of war; they had merely con-
firmed his previous knowledge that Henry was
beaten, thoroughly and irretrievably. A few
more weeks, and Mirabelle would be rich. Half
a million? That was the minimum. Three
quarters! That was more likely. A million
dollars? It wasn't in the least improbable.
And Mirabelle had told him more than once, and
in plain English, that she planned to divide
with him — not equally, but equitably. She had
said that she would give him a third of her
own inheritance. Hm ... a hundred and
fifty to three hundred thousand, say. And what
couldn't he do with such a benefice? Of course,
he would have to profess some slight interest in
the League for awhile, but gradually he could
slide out of it — and he hoped that he could engi-
neer Mirabelle out of it. Mirabelle made her-
self too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle

E 0 P E 273

stuck to her colours, Mr. Mix needn't hesitate
to drift away — that is, after he had received his
settlement. Late in August, he would make a
trip to New York on business — reform business
— and in the glare -of the flaming-arcs, he would
compensate himself for his years of penance.
Mirabelle was sharp, but (he smiled reminis-
cently) in Chicago he had once managed to
hoodwink her; and what man has done, man
can do.

"It's nothing to laugh at, Theodore !"
He came to himself with a start. "I wasn't
laughing. "

1 1 Did you hear what I said ? ' '
"Yes, dear. Certainly."
"Very well. We'll go out, then."
"Out where?"

' ' Out to the vestibule, just as I said. ' '
"But Mirabelle! We're more than a mile
from the station!"

"We're going out to the vestibule, Theodore.
I don't propose to get left."

A moment ago, Mr. Mix had been arguing
that the smiles and sympathy of his fellow-pas-
sengers were cheap at the price, but when he

274 ROPE

rose and escorted Mirabelle down the aisle, he
was telling himself that the old-fashioned prin-
ciple was best — the wife's property ought to
pass under the absolute control of the husband.
He was strengthened in this conviction by the
fact that two fashionable young men in the cor-
ner were snickering at him.

"Home again," said Mirabelle, with a sigh of
relief. "Home again, and time to get to work.
And I'm just itching for it."

Mr. Mix said nothing : he was wondering how
soon he could get to his private cache, and
whether he had better put in a supply of young
onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans.
He hadn't yet discovered whether Mirabelle
had a particularly keen scent : but he would take
no chances.

"Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!"

"I may be married," said Mr. Mix, defen-
sively. "But I'm dashed if I'm blind. . . . Im-
modest little hussies. "We'll have to tackle
that question next, Mirabelle."

The train eased to a standstill : he helped her
down to the platform. The big car was wait-
ing for them : and as the door slammed, Mr. Mix

E 0 P E 275

sat back luxuriously, and beamed at the chauf-
feur. Yes, virtue had its compensations; and
as soon as he had money to his own credit, he
would figuratively take Mirabelle by the scruff
of the neck, and he would tell her just exactly
how to behave, and he would see that she did
it. But for the present — soft diplomacy.

Mirabelle clamped his arm. "Why, what's
that policeman stopping us for, right in the
middle of a block ! ' '

"Search me. . . .'' He opened the door, and
he leaned out, imperially. "What's wrong, of-
ficer? We weren't going over twelve or thir-
teen— "

The policeman, who had brought out a thick
book of blank summonses, and an indelible pen-
cil, motioned him to desist. "What name!"

Mr. Mix swelled, pompously. "But, officer,
I—"

"Cut it out. Name?"

"Theodore Mix. But—"

"Address?"

Mr. Mix gave it, but before he could add a
postscript, Mirabelle was on active duty. "Of-
ficer, we've got a perfect right to know what all

276 E 0 P E

this fol-de-rol is about. I'm the president of the
Ethical Reform League. ' " She flirted her badge
at him. "I'm Mrs. Theodore Mix — used to be
Miss Starkweather. My husband is a personal
friend of Mayor Rowland, and the Chief of
Police. I demand to to know the reason for
this insult!"

The policeman tore off a page at the perfora-
tion, and handed it to Mr. Mix. "Judge Bark-
lay's Court, Tuesday, 10 A. M. . . . Why,
you're violatin' City Ordinance 147. "

Mirabelle turned red. "Now you see here,
young man, I know that ordinance backwards
and forwards ! I — ' ' '

"Try it sideways," said the unabashed po-
liceman. "Ordinance says nobody can't en-
gage in no diversion on the Lord's Day. That's
today, and this here limousine's a diversion,
ain't it?"

Mr. Mix cried out in anguish, as her grip
tightened. "Ouch! It's a damned outrage!
Leggo my arm."

"No, it isn't! Oh, Theodore, don't you see
what it means* — "

E 0 P E 277

"Leggo, Mirabelle! It's a damned out-
rage ! ' '

"No, it isn't either! Theodore, don't you
see? The Mayor's weakened — they probably
read your speech at Chicago — they aren't wait-
ing for the amendment ! They're enforcing the
ordinance — better than we ever dreamed of!
And that means that you're going to the City
Hall next autumn ! ' ' She leaned out and bowed
to the gaping officer. "We beg your pardon.
You did perfectly right. Thank you for doing
your duty. Can we go on, now ? ' '

The man scratched his head, perplexedly.

"What are you tryin' to do — kid me? Sure;
go ahead. Show that summons to anybody else
that stops you."

In the two miles to the hill, they were stopped
seven times, and when they arrived at the
house, Mirabelle was almost hysterical with
triumph. Without delaying to remove her
hat, she sent a telegram to the national presi-
dent, and she also telephoned to a few of her
League cronies, to bid them to a supper in cele-
bration. Mr. Mix made three separate essays

278 E 0 P E

to escape, but after the third and last trial was
made to appear in its proper light as a subter-
fuge, he lapsed into heavy infestivity; and he
spent the evening drinking weak lemonade, and
trying to pretend that it belonged to the Col-
lins family. And while his wife (still wearing
her insignia) and his guests were talking in a
steady stream, Mr. Mix was telling himself that
if Ordinance 147 was going to prevent so inno-
cent an occupation as riding in a car on Sun-
day, he was very much afraid that life in this
community was going to be too rich for his
blood. That is, unless he were elected to be
chief of the community. And in this case, he
would see that he wasn't personally inconven-
ienced.

At half past seven in the morning, Mirabelle
was already at the breakfast table, and semi-
audibly rating Mr. Mix for his slothfulness,
when he came in with an odd knitting of his fore-
head and an unsteady compression of his mouth.
To add to the effect, he placed his feet with stud-

ROPE 279

led clumsiness, and as he gave the Herald into
Mirabelle 's hands, he uttered a sound which
annoyed her.

"For the cat's sake, Theodore, what are you
groaning about T ' '

"Groan yourself," said Mr. Mix, and put a
trembling finger on the headline. As he re-
moved the finger, it automatically ceased to
tremble. Mr. Mix didn't care two cents for
what was in the Herald, but he knew that
to Mirabelle it would be a tragedy, and that he
was cast for the part of chief mourner.

"Well, what's that to groan about? I'd call
it a smashing victory — just as I did last night.
And our being caught only shows — "

"Rave on," said Mr. Mix lugubriously, and
stood with his hands in his pockets, jingling his
keys.

"Certainly! It shows they meant business.
It shows we did. We'll take our own medicine.
And the amendment — " She broke off
sharply; her eyes had strayed back to the
smaller type. "Good grief!" said Mirabelle,
faintly, and there was silence.

Mr. Mix came to look over her shoulder.

280 K 0 P E

LEADING REFORMERS ARRESTED

FOR VIOLATING OWN PET LAW
Police Issue Over 2800 Summonses to Golfers, Pick-
nickers, Canoeists, Cyclists, Hikers and Motorists
including Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Mix

MAYOR PUTS OVER UNIQUE REFERENDUM
TO SEE WHAT PEOPLE REALLY WANT

Special Meeting of Council Called This Morning

Entire City Roused to Fight Blue-Law-Campaign:

Mix Amendment Doomed: Ordinance 147 Sure to be

Modified

Mirabelle collected herself. "What are you
standing around gawking like that for? Find
out what time that meeting is. Telephone
every member of the committee. They won't
have any meeting without us, not by a long, long
row of apple-trees!"

"Save your strength," said Mr. Mix, with a
spiritual yawn.

"Save my strength! Well, what about sav-
ing my five thousand dollars for — for mission-
ary work!"

E 0 P E 281

"The missionary fund," said Mr. Mix,
"seems to have fallen among cannibals. Save
your energy, my dear. This isn't reform; it's
elementary politics, and Rowland's used the
steam-roller. As a matter of fact, we're
stronger than we were before. If they 'd passed
my amendment, a lot of voters might have said
it wouldn't do any good to elect me Mayor;
when all my best work was done beforehand.
Now I've got a real platform to fight on. And
the League '11 have a real fund, won't it? You
put up forty or fifty thousand, and we'll stage
a Waterloo."

"Atfd you can stand there and — oh, you
coward ! ' '

He shook his head, with new dignity. "No,
you're simply lucky Rowland didn't think of
it a year ago. If he had, and — " Mr. Mix
broke off the sentence, and turned pale.

"What's the matter, Theodore?"

Mr. Mix slumped down as though hit from be-
hind. "Mirabelle — listen — " His voice was
strained, and hoarse. "I may have to have
some money today — four or five thousand — "

"I haven't got it."

282 E 0 P E

He stared at her until she backed away in
awe. "You — you haven't got — four or five
thousand — ?"

Mirabelle began to whimper. "I've been so
sure of — of August, you know — I've spent all
Mr. Archer sent me. I — "

As he stepped forward, Mirabelle retreated.
"You've got something of your own, though?"
It wasn't an ordinary question, it was an agon-
ized appeal.

* ' Only a separate trust fund John set up for
me before he died — fifty thousand dollars — I
just get the interest — sixty dollars a week. ' '

Mr. Mix sat down hard, and his breath-
ing was laboured. "Great — Jumping — Jehoso-
phat!" He wet his lips, repeatedly. "Mira-
belle— listen — if they modify that -ordinance —
so Sunday shows are legal again — those other
fellows '11 want to buy back — their contracts —
from Henry. There 's only a few weeks — but if
Henry only raised a thousand dollars — he'd be
so close to his ten thousand — " He reached
for a glass of water and drank it, gulping.
"Henry '11 see that — he's got his eyes open

E 0 P E 283

every minute. . . . We've got to cut inside of
him. Prevent those fellows from buying their
Sunday leases back. Get hold of the man that's
the boss of the Exhibitors' Association. Tell
him we '11 buy a second option to lease the whole
string of theatres for six weeks, subject to our
getting a release from Henry. As- if the
League wanted 'em or something. Offer a big
enough rent so they'll have to accept — so they'd
get more out of us than if they opened up.
Then they can't buy back from Henry — and
he 's over a thousand short. I know he is. And
if you don't do it — " His gesture was dra-
matic.

Mirabelle 's expression, as she wiped her eyes,
was a pot-pourri of sentiments. "Humph!
Can't say I like the idea much, kind- of too
tricky. ' *

Mr. Mix played his last card. "Don't the
ends justify the means ? You and I 'd be philan-
thropists, and Henry — " He watched her
quiver. "And with a fund such as we'd have,
we'd begin all over again, and next time we'd
win, wouldn't we?"

284 E 0 P E

' * Theodore. I 've got fifty one hundred in the
bank. It has to last 'till August. If you took
five thousand more — "

He snatched at the straw. "You bet I'll take
it. It's for insurance. And you telephone to
Masonic Hall and see what's left of the three
grand you wired *em from — "

"The what!"

"The money you sent from Chicago. Get
what's left. Soon as I find out, I'll hustle down
town and get busy."

Mirabelle wavered. "The Council's going
to—"

Mr. Mix gave her a look which was a throw-
back to his cave-man ancestry. "To hell with
the Council!"

For an instant, her whole being rebelled, and
then she saw his eyes. "A-all right," she fal-
tered. "I— I'll telephone!"

Inside of five minutes, she told him that of
her loan, there was nothing left at all. The
money had been wanted for the two-year rental
of a new hall, at 300 Chestnut Street ; the owner
had made a marked concession in price for ad-
vance payment.

E 0 P E 285

" Never mind, then," he rasped. " That's
cold turkey. .Give me a check for every nickel
you've got. . . . And I'll want the car all day.
I want a cup of coffee. And you wait right
here until I get word to you what to do next."

11 Couldn't I even—"

" You stay here ! Far's I know, I'll have you
making the rounds of the hock-shops to cash in
your jewelry. But — " He relaxed slightly.
"But when it's for reform, my dear — when it's
for civilization — the League — isn 't it worth any
sacrifice f ' '

A spark of the old fire burned' in her eyes.
"Humph! Good thing one of us has got some-
thing to sacrifice, if anybody asked me. But
here's your coffee. . . . Don't make such a
horrid noise with it, Theodore."

At noon, he telephoned her two pieces of
news. The Council, fairly swamped with hun-
dreds of outraged voters, had promptly modi-
fied the existing ordinance, and rejected —
unanimously — the Mix amendment. And Mr.

286 E 0 P E

Mix, who had spent three hours in conference,
and in battle, had emerged victorious.

"Thank Heaven, we're safe! . . . And it
only costs thirty-nine hundred. (Five of this
was Mr. Mix's self -granted commission.) I've
bought a second option on every last house in
town. And I'll need the car all afternoon.
I've got to run all over everywhere and close
these deals. . . . What are you going to do?"

"Why," she said with a rueful glance at her
check-book. "I guess I'll go down and see how
soon I can get that loan back. I'm not used to
— putting off tradesmen's bills, Theodore. I
wasn't brought up to it."

CHAPTER XVI

NOW after prolonged debate, and a trial of
irresistible force (which was Henry's
logic) against an immovable body (which was
Anna's loyalty), she had finally consented to
run up into the country for a week's respite
from the hot weather. Before she left, how-
ever, she was first sworn to* secrecy, and told
of the discovery of the lurking -comma, and of
the plan for a militant referendum; she was
properly convulsed, but a little later, when her
practical instincts had had a chance to assert
themselves, she inquired of Henry where there
was any benefit to the Orpheum.

•'Not a bit,'" he -assured her cheerfully.

"Not even in the Council — "

"Dearest, it doesn't -make the difference of
the billionth part of a counterfeit Russian
rouble. ' '

She regarded him curiously. "Are you as
cheerful as all that just because you're getting

287

288 ROPE

back at Mr. Mix I And maybe spoiling his boom
for Mayor?"

Henry said that he was all as cheerful as
that; yea, more so. He was merely snagging
the rope which had already been paid out ; and
it was glory in his pocket, because so many
people before him had found the rope twitched
out of their hands. She thought that this indi-
cation of a vengeful spirit was out of place in
his character, but she forgave it, because at
least it was founded on humour. And when
he took her to the train, she forgave it on
another score, because she realized that not
since last autumn had she seen him so funda-
mentally boyish and irresponsible. She was
glad that so much of his spontaneity had come
back to him, but at the same time she was
puzzled, for it didn't seem altogether like
Henry, as she had analyzed him, to gloat so
thoroughly over mere retaliation, humourous
or not.

On Monday, he met her at the station, and as
soon as she saw him, she remarked again the
extraordinary uplift of his mood. She had read
the Herald, and taken deep enjoyment from

K 0 P E 289

it; but Henry had a hundred unpublished inci-
dents to tell her, — one of them concerned his
own escape from possible complications by clos-
ing the Orpheum, issuing passes good for the
following week; and spending the day in the
library of the Citizens Club — and in her amuse-
ment, and also in her happiness to be back with
him, she didn't notice that Henry was driving
her to the Orpheum instead of to their apart-
ment.

* ' Why, what are we stopping here for, dear ? ' '

Henry's laugh had a pronounced overtone.
"To meet Mr. Archer. I thought you'd like
to be in on it."

"In on what?" She caught his arm.
"Henry! Has something happened ? Has it?"
She stared at him, and as she recognized what
might be hidden behind his expression of ex-
quisite, unreserved joy, she was almost as
frightened as if he had looked despairing in-
stead of joyful.

"It wasn't settled until last week," he said,
still with that wide, speculative smile, like a
baby's. "It really wasn't settled until Satur-
day. And it won't be positively settled until

290 K 0 P E

we've seen Archer. . . . And there he is wait-
ing for us ! I couldn *t get him before — he was
in the country for the week-end."

With no clear recollection of how she got
there, she was sitting in Henry's tiny office,
and Mr. Archer was sitting beside her, and
Henry was standing at his desk, pawing over
a heap of ledgers and cash-books. To Anna,
there was something commanding in his atti-
tude, something more of crest than she had ever
seen in him, even during the early period of
his intrepid youth. And yet she could see, too,
that his hands were a trifle unsteady, and that
his lips betrayed an immense excitement.

"Mr. Archer," he said. "There's no use
waiting until the first of the year. Either
we've made good by this time, or we never will.
Here's the books. They'll show a net profit,
including Saturday's deposit, of ten thousand
five hundred. "

Anna turned weak and faint, and she wanted
to laugh and cry in the same breath, but she

K 0 P E 291

gripped the arms of her chair, and clung fast
to what was left of her poise. If Henry had
a miracle to report, Anna must hear it.

1 'It's a matter of interpretation," he went
on, with his voice shaking for an instant.
"And you're the interpreter. It came up so
suddenly last week that I couldn't get hold of
you. But I took a chance, anyway. . . . Does
a lease count?"

The lawyer looked very sober. "A lease!"

"Yes. If I leased part of the theatre to
somebody, would the income from that count?"

During the resultant silence, Anna distinctly
heard her own heart beating. She looked at
Mr. Archer, and saw that his brows were drawn
down, and that his eyes were distant. Fear-
fully, she hung on his reply.

"That's a delicate question, Henry. You
were supposed to make your profit from the
operation of the theatre."

Henry was tense. "I don't mean if I leased
the theatre. I mean if I leased some part of it
— some part that wouldn't interfere with the
show."

Anna closed her eyes. Mr. Archer's brows

292 E 0 P E

had risen to normal. "Why, in that case, I
should certainly say that the income would
count, Henry. Let's see the lease?"

Anna wished that Henry would come over to
her, and hold her in his arms while Mr. Archer,
with maddening deliberation, glanced through
the long typewritten document — but Henry had
turned his back, and was gazing out of the
window.

' ' Peter McClellan ? What 's he want so much
space for 1 ' '

Henry made no response. There was a long
hiatus, broken only by the rustling of the pages.

"Just a minute, Henry. Some of this is all
right — and some isn't. The space you mention
is what you 're using now for the — 0r — nursery,
I take it. And the privilege of the lessee to
enlarge the upper story at his own expense is
all right." His brows had gone down again,
and Anna shivered. "But even if you've got
your whole rental in advance, you aren't
entitled to claim all of it belongs to this year's
income. As a matter of fact, you actually earn
a twenty-fourth of that whole payment every
month for twenty-four months."

E 0 P E 293

Henry spoke over his shoulder. "You
haven't read far enough."

' ' Oh ! " Mr. Archer laughed, but his voice was
no lighter. "Why, how on earth did you
persuade anybody to execute such an agree-
ment as that!"

Henry faced around. "Bob Stand^sh
engineered it. Told this chap as long as he
paid in advance anyway, to get a bargain, it
wouldn't make any difference to him, and it
made a lot to me. Nine hundred and fifty a
month for July and August and fifty a month
for the next twenty-two months. ' '

"But my dear boy, you still don't earn more
than a twenty fourth of the whole rental each
month. That's ordinary book-keeping. I
should have thought you'd have learned it. It
makes no difference when the lessee pays. All
you can credit yourself in July and August
is—"

"Oh, no, Mr. Archer. There's a considera-
tion. You'll find it on the next page. I'm to
keep the theatre closed every afternoon in July
and August so the lessee can make his altera-
tions to the second story. And the extra price

294 ROPE

for those months is to pay me for loss of
revenue. So it does count on this year's in-
come. Maybe I'm no impresario, but by gosh,
I can keep a set of books/'

Mr. Archer nodded briskly. ''That is dif-
ferent. "Why, Henry, as far as I can see . . .
what's this? 300 Chestnut Street? But the
Orpheum's on Main."

"300 Chestnut is the back entrance," said
Henry. He smiled across at Anna, and she
stood up and came a perilous step towards
him. "Well, old lady," said Henry, and the
same wide, foolish smile of utter joy was on
his lips. "I guess this fixes it. I — "

He was rudely interrupted by the violent
opening of the door. His Aunt Mirabelle
stood there, dynamic, and behind her, in a
great fluster of dismay and apprehension,
stood the chairman of the Quarters Committee
of the Reform League.

"Henry! Henry Devereux! You — you
swindler!" Her speech was seriously impeded
by her wrath. "You — you — you." She flung
a savage gesture towards the little man in the

ROPE 295

background. "You had an agent show him —
show Mr. McClellan — this place through the
back door! — He didn't know I — Henry Dever-
eux, you've got my three thousand dollars, and
you're going to give it straight back to me!
This minute! Do you hear?"

Anna stared at her, and at Henry, and sat
down plump and cried into her handkerchief,
from sheer hysterical reaction.

"Oh, yes," said Henry. "Through the back
door, if you say so. But that's the regular
business entrance. I suppose the agent thought
it looked better, too."

' ' The agent ! That Standish man ! You con-
spired. You — "

Henry's chin went up. "Excuse me, Aunt
Mirabelle, but I didn't know the first thing
about it until Bob Standish told me he had a
client ready to close, and to pay in advance.
I didn't even know your man by sight. I'd
have rented it to anybody on earth on the same
terms."

The little chairman edged forward. "Miss
Starkweather — Mrs. Mix — I knew how you feel

296 E 0 P E

about motion pictures, of course, but how could
7 know you wouldn't even want to be in the
same building with — "

"Oh, dry up!" She whirled on the lawyer.
"Is that fair? Do you call that fair? Do
you?"

Mr. Archer put his hand on Henry 'a shoulder,
and nodded benignly. "To tell the truth, Mrs.
Mix, I can't see where this concerns you per-
sonally at all. It's a straightforward commer-
cial transaction between Henry and Mr. Mc-
Clellan."

"It isn't, either! Mr. McClellan had author-
ity from the League to get us a hall and sign
a lease in his own name. I had the directors
give it to him, myself. And it was my money
that paid for it! Mine!"

Henry grinned at the lawyer. "I didn't
know it until last Saturday. Bob told me if I 'd
make a dirt-low rent I could get it in advance,
and up to Saturday I didn't even know who
I was dickering with."

His aunt was menacing. "Henry Devereux,
if you try to cheat me out of my rightful prop-

EOPE 297

erty by any such flim-flam as this, I ... I
. . . I don't know what I'll do!"

"Oh, don't, Aunt Mirabelle," said Henry
compassionately. "You know I won't be a
hog about it."

Some of the fury went out of her expression,
and Mirabelle was on the verge of sniffling.
"That's just exactly it. I knoiv you won't.
And the humiliation of it to me. When you
know perfectly well if I'd — "

She stopped there, with her mouth wide open.
They all waited, courteously, for her to speak,
but Mirabelle was speechless. She was think-
ing partly of the past, and partly of the future,
but chiefly of the present — the hideous, unneces-
sary present in which Mr. Mix was motoring
serenely about the city, paying out good money
to theatre managers. Mirabelle *s money, not
to be replaced. And thenj — she nearly col-
lapsed!— the unspeakable humiliation of re-
tracting her pledge to the national convention.
Her pledge through Mr. Mix of twenty-five
thousand dollars. How could she ever offer an
excuse that would hold water? And how could

298 E 0 P E

she tell the truth? And to think of Mr. Mix's
place in the community when it was shown — as
inevitably it would be shown — that he had acted
merely as a toy balloon, inflated by Mirabelle's
vain expectations.

" Humph!" she said at length, and her voice
was a hoarse, thin whisper. "Well — you just
wait)— 'till I get hold of him!"

The door had closed behind her: the door
had , been closed behind Mr. Archer, whose
kindly congratulations had been the more af-
fecting because he had learned to love and re-
spect the boy who had won them: Henry and
his wife stood gazing into each other's eyes.
He took a step forward and held out his arms,
and she ran to him, and held tightly to him,
and sobbed a little for a postscript.

He stroked her hair, gently. "Well — Archer
says it's going to be about seven hundred thou-
sand. And I deserve about thirty cents. And
you're responsible for all the rest of it. ...

E 0 P E 299

What do you want first? Those golden pheas-
ants, or humming-birds ' wings ?' '

She lifted her face. "Both — b-because I
won't have to cook 'em. Oh, my dear, my dear,
I Ve 1-loved it, I Ve loved it, I 've loved working
and saving and being poor with you and every-
thing— b-but look at my h-hands, Henry, and
don't laugh at me — but I'm going to have a
cook! I'm going to have a cook! I'm going to
have a cook!"

He kissed her hands.

"It's all over, isn't it? All over, and we're
doing the shouting. No more wild men of
Borneo, no more dishes to wash, no more Or-
pheum. Remember what Aunt Mirabelle said
a year ago? She was dead right. Look! See
the writing on the wall, baby?"

He swung her towards the door ! she brushed
away her tears, and beheld the writing. It was
in large red letters, and what it said was very
brief and very appropriate. It said: EXIT.

CHAPTER XVII

IN the living-room of an unfashionable house
on an unfashionable street, Mrs. Theodore
Mix sat in stately importance at her desk, com-
posing a vitriolic message to the unsympathetic
world. As her husband entered, she glanced up
at him with chronic disapproval; she was on
the point of giving voice to it, not for any spe-
cific reason but on general principles, but Mr.
Mix had learned something from experience,
so his get-away was almost simultaneous with
his entrance.

"Mail!" said Mr. Mix, and on the wing, he
dropped it on his wife's desk, and went on out
of the room.

The mail consisted of one letter; it contained
the check which Henry sent her regularly, on
the first of each month.

She sat back for a moment, and stared out
at the unfashionable street. Mr. Mix was al-
ways urging her to live in a better neighbour-

300

ROPE 301

hood, but with only her own two hundred and
fifty a month, and four hundred more from
Henry, she could hardly afford it, — certainly
not while she gave so generously to the Eef orm
League.

She thought of the big brick house on the
hill and sighed profoundly. She would have
made it a national shrine, and Henry — Henry
was even worse than his uncle. He kept it full
of people who were satisfied to squander the
precious stuff of life by enjoying themselves.
It made her sick, simply to think of Henry.
People said he and Bob Standish were the two
cleverest men that ever lived in town. Doubled
the Starkweather business in two years. Di-
rectors of banks. Directors of the Associated
Charities and trustees of the City Hospital.
Humph! As if she didn't know Henry's capa-
bilities. Just flippancy and monkey-tricks.
And married to a girl who was a walking ad-
vertisement of exactly what every right-minded
woman should revolt against. That girl to be
the mother of children! Oh Lord, oh Lord, if
Anna were a modern specimen, what would the
next generation be?"

302 ROPE

She sighed again, and went back to the lec-
ture she was composing. "The Influence of
Dress on Modern Society/' Suddenly, she
cocked her head and sniffed. She rose cau-
tiously, as one who is about to trail suspicion.
She went to the side-window, and peered out.
From a little grape-arbor on the lawn, there
floated to her the unmistakable odour of to-
bacco— yes, and she could see a curling wisp
of smoke.

"Theodore!"

A pause. "Yes, dear." Mr. Mix's voice
had taken on, some months ago, a permanent
quality of langour; and never, since the day
that he was laughed out of politics, had he re-
gained his former dignity and impressiveness.

"Is that you — smoking again?"

"Why—"

"Are you? Answer me."

"Why— yes, dear — I — "

"Come in here this minute."

Mr. Mix emerged from the arbor. "Yes,
dear?"

She brandished her forefinger at him. "I
told you what would happen next time I caught

E 0 P E 303

you. Not one single cent do you get out of me
for many a long day, young man. . . . Come
in here; I want you to listen to what I've writ-
ten."

Mr. Mix's shoulders sagged, but he didn't
stop to argue. "Yes, dear," he said, pacifi-
cally. "I'm coming."

THE END

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