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Strictly Business by O. Henry

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Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.


More Stories of the Four Million







I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've been
touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and
the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the
long-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your
ideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like

Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better
than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus girls are
inseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back
to New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses
reserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their
step-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew's real name is Boyle O'Kelley. The
ravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first
sale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.
Sothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was.

All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne
and eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving pictures
have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp.

Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the
profession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the
players with an eye full of patronizing superiority--and we go home and
practise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking

Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light. It
seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring bacchanalians
and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk, students and
ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real estate, and
conducting their private affairs in as orderly and unsensational a
manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the chariot wheels of
the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen.

Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true
one is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little
story of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only
the dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of
Keetor's old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of
gloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch--and where I
last saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time
to the minute, as usual, to dress for her act.

The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had
been roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years
with a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes
with songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a
buck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the
bass-viol player in more than one house--than which no performer ever
received more satisfactory evidence of good work.

The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful
performance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order to
give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest Broadway
corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a matinée
offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime of a
minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with that
most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles--the audible contact of the
palm of one hand against the palm of the other.

One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known
vaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and got
his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat.

A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and passed
into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others of the
audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob Hart, "All
the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself," sat with his face as long and
his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for his
grandmother to wind into a ball.

But when H came on, "The Mustard" suddenly sat up straight. H was the
happy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs
and Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;
but she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to
the old man's account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and
ginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed you
ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old log
school-house besides cipherin' and nouns, especially "When the Teach-er
Kept Me in." Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham apron-strings,
she reappeared in considerably less than a "trice" as a fluffy
"Parisienne"--so near does Art bring the old red mill to the Moulin
Rouge. And then--

But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else. He
thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short order
stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of "Helen
Grimes" in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the tray
of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal actor,
grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a play
tucked away somewhere. They tuck 'em in trays of trunks, trunks of
trees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit vaults,
handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call. They
belong among the fifty-seven different kinds.

But Bob Hart's sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He called
it "Mice Will Play." He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever since he
wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception of "Helen
Grimes." And here was "Helen" herself, with all the innocent abandon,
the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that his
critical taste demanded.

After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and got
Cherry's address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty old
house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card.

By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her
hair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have
been playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon's daughter, in the
great (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything.

"I know your act, Mr. Hart," she said after she had looked over his card
carefully. "What did you wish to see me about?"

"I saw you work last night," said Hart. "I've written a sketch that I've
been saving up. It's for two; and I think you can do the other part. I
thought I'd see you about it."

"Come in the parlor," said Miss Cherry. "I've been wishing for something
of the sort. I think I'd like to act instead of doing turns."

Bob Hart drew his cherished "Mice Will Play" from his pocket, and read
it to her.

"Read it again, please," said Miss Cherry.

And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by
introducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the
dialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the
pistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen
Grimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to
all her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on
the sketch's weaker points. That was her woman's intuition that he had
lacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the judgment,
experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that "Mice Will
Play" would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of the
circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings of her
smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with the end of
a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.

"Mr. Hart," said she, "I believe your sketch is going to win out. That
Grimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a
handless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the
Forty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers' Bazaar. And I've seen you
work. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is
business. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?"

"Two hundred," answered Hart.

"I get one hundred for mine," said Cherry. "That's about the natural
discount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every
week under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all
right. I love it; but there's something else I love better--that's a
little country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six ducks
wandering around the yard.

"Now, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me
to play the opposite part in your sketch, I'll do it. And I believe we
can make it go. And there's something else I want to say: There's no
nonsense in my make-up; I'm _on the level_, and I'm on the stage for
what it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I'm
going to save my money to keep me when I'm past doing my stunts. No Old
Ladies' Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.

"If you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all
nonsense cut out of it, I'm in on it. I know something about vaudeville
teams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want
you to know that I'm on the stage for what I can cart away from it every
pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it, where
the cashier has licked the flap. It's kind of a hobby of mine to want to
cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I want you to
know just how I am. I don't know what an all-night restaurant looks
like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at a stage entrance
in my life, and I've got money in five savings banks."

"Miss Cherry," said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, "you're in
on your own terms. I've got 'strictly business' pasted in my hat and
stenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a
five-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap cooking
clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title deeds to
the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on the side
porch, reading Stanley's 'Explorations into Africa.' And nobody else
around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss Cherry?"

"Not any," said Cherry. "What I'm going to do with my money is to bank
it. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I've been
earning, I've figured out that in ten years I'd have an income of about
$50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest some of
the principal in a little business--say, trimming hats or a beauty
parlor, and make more."

"Well," said Hart, "You've got the proper idea all right, all right,
anyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who
couldn't fix themselves for the wet days to come if they'd save their
money instead of blowing it. I'm glad you've got the correct business
idea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this sketch
will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it shaped

The subsequent history of "Mice Will Play" is the history of all
successful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,
remodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and
business, changed the lines, restored 'em, added more, cut 'em out,
renamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger
for the pistol, restored the pistol--put the sketch through all the
known processes of condensation and improvement.

They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely
used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would
occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded
revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of
the sketch.

Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a
real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen
Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and
daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private
secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,
"Arapahoe" Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch
that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,
L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow
Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving
you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case
may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should
want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in 'em.

Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of
play, whether we admit it or not--something along in between "Bluebeard,
Jr.," and "Cymbeline" played in the Russian.

There were only two parts and a half in "Mice Will Play." Hart and
Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always
played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a
panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn
down the gas fire in the grate by the manager's orders.

There was another girl in the sketch--a Fifth Avenue society
swelless--who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine
when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost
his money. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic
state--Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan--of the
Bad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.

And now for the thriller. Old "Arapahoe" Grimes dies of angina pectoris
one night--so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the
footlights--while only his secretary was present. And that same day he
was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just
received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts
for the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.
Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his
(alleged) croak.

"Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed--" you sabe, don't
you? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue
Girl--who doesn't come on the stage--and can we blame her, with the
vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned
in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?

But, wait. Here's the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,
is goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine
is not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop
$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like
the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make
any perfect lady mad. So, then!

They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk
heads (didn't the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the
dénouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a
play unless it be when the prologue ends.

Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?
The box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra hadn't
left their seats; and no man could get past "Old Jimmy," the stage
door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as a
guarantee of eligibility.

Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack Valentine:
"Robber and thief--and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts, this
should be your fate!"

With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber.

"But I will be merciful," goes on Helen. "You shall live--that will be
your punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to the
death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I will
send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have pierced
your craven heart."

And she does it. And there's no fake blank cartridges or assistants
pulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet--the actual bullet--goes
through the face of the photograph--and then strikes the hidden spring
of the sliding panel in the wall--and lo! the panel slides, and there is
the missing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.
It's great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a
target on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the
sketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,
covered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the
same spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same spot,
and she had to shoot steady and true every time.

Of course old "Arapahoe" had tucked the funds away there in the secret
place; and, of course, Jack hadn't taken anything except his salary
(which really might have come under the head of "obtaining money under";
but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New York girl
was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the Bronx; and,
necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson--and there you are.

After Hart and Cherry had gotten "Mice Will Play" flawless, they had a
try-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house
wrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a
theatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,
being dressed for it, swam in tears.

After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed
fountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was what
it panned out.

That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good night
at her boarding-house door.

"Mr. Hart," said she thoughtfully, "come inside just a few minutes.
We've got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to do
is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can."

"Right," said Bob. "It's business with me. You've got your scheme for
banking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap
cook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net
receipts will engage my attention."

"Come inside just a few minutes," repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.
"I've got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a
lot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine--and
all on business principles."

"Mice Will Play" had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten
weeks--rather neat for a vaudeville sketch--and then it started on the
circuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid
drawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity.

Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor's New York houses, said of Hart &

"As square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.
It's a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard
workers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,
straight home after their act, and each of 'em as gentlemanlike as a
lady. I don't expect to handle any attractions that give me less trouble
or more respect for the profession."

And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of the

At the end of its second season "Mice Will Play" came back to New York
for another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was never
any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had his
bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit bank
books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the instalment
plan to hold them.

I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can't believe it,
that many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding
ambitions--just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the
grocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious
to flop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be
allowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that they
often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.

But, listen.

At the first performance of "Mice Will Play" in New York at the
Westphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous. When
she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel, the
bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the disk,
went into the lower left side of Bob Hart's neck. Not expecting to get
it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most artistic

The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy
in which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with great
enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang the
curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and more
or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The next turn
went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell.

The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was
waiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B'ty roses. The doctor
examined Hart carefully and laughed heartily.

"No headlines for you, Old Sport," was his diagnosis. "If it had been
two inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as
far as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,
you just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from any
one of the girls' Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by the
parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you'll be all right. Excuse
me; I've got a serious case outside to look after."

After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he lay
came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a solemn
man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys and maple
sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played. Vincente
had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was their
peripatetic friend.

"Bob," said Vincente in his serious way, "I'm glad it's no worse. The
little lady is wild about you."

"Who?" asked Hart.

"Cherry," said the juggler. "We didn't know how bad you were hurt; and
we kept her away. It's taking the manager and three girls to hold her."

"It was an accident, of course," said Hart. "Cherry's all right. She
wasn't feeling in good trim or she couldn't have done it. There's no
hard feelings. She's strictly business. The doctor says I'll be on the
job again in three days. Don't let her worry."

"Man," said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,
"are you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry's crying her
heart out for you--calling 'Bob, Bob,' every second, with them holding
her hands and keeping her from coming to you."

"What's the matter with her?" asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. "The
sketch'll go on again in three days. I'm not hurt bad, the doctor says.
She won't lose out half a week's salary. I know it was an accident.
What's the matter with her?"

"You seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool," said Vincente. "The girl
loves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What's the matter with
_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you."

"Loves me?" asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which he
lay. "Cherry loves me? Why, it's impossible."

"I wish you could see her and hear her," said Griggs.

"But, man," said Bob Hart, sitting up, "it's impossible. It's
impossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing."

"No human being," said the Tramp Juggler, "could mistake it. She's wild
for love of you. How have you been so blind?"

"But, my God," said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, "it's _too late_. It's
too late, I tell you, Sam; _it's too late_. It can't be. You must be
wrong. It's _impossible_. There's some mistake.

"She's crying for you," said the Tramp Juggler. "For love of you she's
fighting three, and calling your name so loud they don't dare to raise
the curtain. Wake up, man."

"For love of me?" said Bob Hart with staring eyes. "Don't I tell you
it's too late? It's too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married
two years!_"



A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores
you, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.
Therefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not
gold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in his
bottle of testing acid.

Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George
the Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that
quarter, and this is their shibboleth: "'Nit,' says I to Frohman, 'you
can't touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,' and out I walks."

Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets
where a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical
warmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is "El
Refugio," a café and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from
the South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of
Central America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the
cloaked and sombreroed señores, who are scattered like burning lava by
the political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to
lay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist
filibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at
long taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.

In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the
palate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the story
thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the Gallic
chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a fish--bluefish,
shad or pompano from the Gulf--baked after the Spanish method. Tomatoes
give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado bestows upon
it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish piquancy and
mystery, and--but its crowning glory deserves a new sentence. Around
it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity--but never in it--hovers an
ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that only the
Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not say that
garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than as if the
spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that lingers in the
parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in life, "by hopeless
fancy feigned on lips that are for others." And then, when Conchito, the
waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles and a carafe of wine that
has never stood still between Oporto and El Refugio--ah, Dios!

One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen. Perrico
Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The General
was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch waist
and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache of
a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas
congressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.

Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire
his way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that
neighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that
read, "Hotel Español." In the window was a card in Spanish, "Aqui se
habla Español." The General entered, sure of a congenial port.

In the cozy office was Mrs. O'Brien, the proprietress. She had
blond--oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,
and ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with
his broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables
sounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of
a bunch.

"Spanish or Dago?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, pleasantly.

"I am a Colombian, madam," said the General, proudly. "I speak the
Spanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken
here. How is that?"

"Well, you've been speaking it, ain't you?" said the madam. "I'm sure I

At the Hotel Español General Falcon engaged rooms and established
himself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders
of this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the
wonderful golden hair of Mme. O'Brien. "It is here," said the General
to himself, no doubt in his own language, "that one shall find the most
beautiful señoras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among
our beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to
think of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion."

At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became
involved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset
him against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an
inch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He
scrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle
of a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. "Válgame Dios! What
devil's city is this?"

As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded
snipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was
"Bully" McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm
and the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of
the asphalt was "Spider" Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods.

In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the
quicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire.

"G'wan!" he commanded harshly. "I saw it first." McGuire slunk away,
awed by superior intelligence.

"Pardon me," said Mr. Kelley, to the General, "but you got balled up in
the shuffle, didn't you? Let me assist you." He picked up the General's
hat and brushed the dust from it.

The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered
and dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a
caballero with a most disinterested heart.

"I have a desire," said the General, "to return to the hotel of O'Brien,
in which I am stop. Caramba! señor, there is a loudness and rapidness of
going and coming in the city of this Nueva York."

Mr. Kelley's politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to
brave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel
Español they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the
street shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to
whom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a "Dago
joint." All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of
"Dagoes" and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair
thither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation.

An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in
the conspirator's corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were between
them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his mission
to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase arms--2,000
stands of Winchester rifles--for the Colombian revolutionists. He
had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank on its New York
correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other revolutionists were
shouting their political secrets to their fellow-plotters; but none was
as loud as the General. He pounded the table; he hallooed for some wine;
he roared to his friend that his errand was a secret one, and not to be
hinted at to a living soul. Mr. Kelley himself was stirred to
sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the General's hand across the table.

"Monseer," he said, earnestly, "I don't know where this country of yours
is, but I'm for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United States,
though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us Columbia, too,
sometimes. It's a lucky thing for you that you butted into me to-night.
I'm the only man in New York that can get this gun deal through for you.
The Secretary of War of the United States is me best friend. He's in the
city now, and I'll see him for you to-morrow. In the meantime, monseer,
you keep them drafts tight in your inside pocket. I'll call for you
to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that ain't the District of
Columbia you're talking about, is it?" concluded Mr. Kelley, with a
sudden qualm. "You can't capture that with no 2,000 guns--it's been
tried with more."

"No, no, no!" exclaimed the General. "It is the Republic of Colombia--it
is a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.

"All right," said Mr. Kelley, reassured. "Now suppose we trek along home
and go by-by. I'll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date with
him. It's a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky himself
can't do it."

They parted at the door of the Hotel Español. The General rolled his
eyes at the moon and sighed.

"It is a great country, your Nueva York," he said. "Truly the cars in
the streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly
makes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Señor Kelley--the señoras with hair
of much goldness, and admirable fatness--they are magnificas! Muy

Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary's café,
far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn.

"Is that Jimmy Dunn?" asked Kelley.

"Yes," came the answer.

"You're a liar," sang back Kelley, joyfully. "You're the Secretary of
War. Wait there till I come up. I've got the finest thing down here in
the way of a fish you ever baited for. It's a Colorado-maduro, with a
gold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and a
statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I'll be up on the next car."

Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence
line. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout
drops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but
the purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing in
New York. It was the ambition of "Spider" Kelley to elevate himself into
Jimmy's class.

These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary's. Kelley

"He's as easy as a gumshoe. He's from the Island of Colombia, where
there's a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they've sent him
up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He showed
me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank here. 'S
truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn't have it in
thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now, we've
got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us."

They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; "Bring him to
No. ---- Broadway, at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."

In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Español for the General. He found
the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs. O'Brien.

"The Secretary of War is waitin' for us," said Kelley.

The General tore himself away with an effort.

"Ay, señor," he said, with a sigh, "duty makes a call. But, señor, the
señoras of your Estados Unidos--how beauties! For exemplification, take
you la Madame O'Brien--que magnifica! She is one goddess--one Juno--what
you call one ox-eyed Juno."

Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the fire
of their own imagination.

"Sure!" he said with a grin; "but you mean a peroxide Juno, don't you?"

Mrs. O'Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye
rested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except
in street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady.

When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway
address, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then
admitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,
with a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to the
Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known by his
old friend, Mr. Kelley.

"Ah--Colombia!" said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to
understand; "I'm afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.
The President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the
established government, while I--" the secretary gave the General a
mysterious but encouraging smile. "You, of course, know, General Falcon,
that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed requiring
all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this country to pass
through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything for you I will be
glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley. But it must be in
absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said, does not regard
favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in Colombia. I will
have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now in the

The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T. on
his cap stepped promptly into the room.

"Bring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory," said the Secretary.

The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary studied
it closely.

"I find," he said, "that in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is
shipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the
Sultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule
is that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.
My dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of
arms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer's price. And you will
forgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the
Japanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!"

As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his
esteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War was
extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases and
filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse rented
for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to the
Hotel Español, Mrs. O'Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from his
lapel, and said:

"Say, señor, I don't want to 'butt in,' but what does that monkey-faced,
cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?"

"Sangre de mi vida!" exclaimed the General. "Impossible it is that you
speak of my good friend, Señor Kelley."

"Come into the summer garden," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I want to have a talk
with you."

Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.

"And you say," said the General, "that for the sum of $18,000 can be
purchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with
this garden so lovely--so resembling unto the patios of my cara

"And dirt cheap at that," sighed the lady.

"Ah, Dios!" breathed General Falcon. "What to me is war and politics?
This spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to
continue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of
mans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel
Español and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on

Mrs. O'Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the
Colombian patriot.

"Oh, señor," she sighed, happily, "ain't you terrible!"

Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to
the General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented
warehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his
friend Kelley to fetch the victim.

Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Español. He found the
General behind the desk adding up accounts.

"I have decide," said the General, "to buy not guns. I have to-day buy
the insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General
Perrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O'Brien."

Mr. Kelley almost strangled.

"Say, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish," he spluttered, "you're
a swindler--that's what you are! You've bought a boarding house with
money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is."

"Ah," said the General, footing up a column, "that is what you call
politics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best that
one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to keep
hotels and be with that Juno--that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of the
gold it is that she have!"

Mr. Kelley choked again.

"Ah, Senor Kelley!" said the General, feelingly and finally, "is it that
you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O'Brien she



Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says
to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get
too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the
West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in
chunks of roe--you can't count 'em!"

Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of the
Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I
knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice.

I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And
I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of
haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his
nails with a silk handkerchief.

"Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him.

"Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me
that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I've been
saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down trick to take things
from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and fro and
think ever and anon. I'd hate for my mother to know I was skinning these
weak-minded ones. She raised me better."

"Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that
does skin grafting?" I asks.

"Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win to-day.
I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of
Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to
contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well
send their photos to the _Evening Daily_.

"I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers
every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an
O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when
you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my
room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town together, Billy, for the
sake of old times."

Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects
lying about.

"There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,"
says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll
bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are
in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didn't
a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller,
Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John!

"You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold
mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two
hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy
it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,
and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their
money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction
to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter
in Chic--go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of

"Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit
it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor
on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral
Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but
I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town
it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a
hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're
slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess,
taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and

"Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan
correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only
been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a
cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be
a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in
their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms.
They don't look easy to me."

"You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New York's
bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You'll
be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because
they don't send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide
sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears
the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and
Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than a
blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break
the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of

"I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had
been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of farmers
is never so short out there but what you can get a few of 'em to sign
a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at
the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of
self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured
enough to tackle this game."

"Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown
correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River
ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway
who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives!
A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough here
inside of three months to incur either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's

"Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system of
buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the
Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould's doorsteps?"

"Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got, Billy?"

"A thousand," I told him.

"I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of business.
There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't know how to

The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and
stirred with a kind of silent joy.

"We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I know in
the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes
to meet people from the West."

"That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr. Morgan."

"It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few
finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with

The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein brought his
Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr. Morgan" looked some
like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left
foot, and he walked with a cane.

"Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous," says
he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial--"

"Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you gents; I
take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock.
I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of you
guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I--"

"Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!"

"Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I
sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never
knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He
lived in Seattle, New Mexico."

Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane
and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice.

"They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?"
asks Klein, smiling.

"Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent to
Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it
ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that
picture--yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I
cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to--"

"Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the De Vinchy

"What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as big
as the side of the Flatiron Building."

"I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says Morgan.
"The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's Idle Hour.' It
represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank of a
purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to this
country. My collection will never be complete without that picture.
Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours."

Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked
about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what
a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I
thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll
after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue
to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his
admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while he buys 'em.

After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me
and waves his hands.

"Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?"

"What?" I asks.

"Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that pawnshop,
behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein was there. It's the
article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can make
them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and
they're doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues.
What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give for it? Oh, don't make me tell you.
They can't know what it is in that pawnshop."

When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing
there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink.
We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains.

"That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there," remarked
Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl
with the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for it
cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in hurrying
it off the nail?"

The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains.

"That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian
gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,' and
it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired, and it
became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is worn a
great deal now."

At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and
walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started
for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours
Silver comes back.

"Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for it?"

Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover.

"I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's been
in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is this: The
department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for
$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone--that's what I can't



I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes
to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions
of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number.

First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have
free play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper number
of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the well-known
model, will pose for it in the "Lethergogallagher," or whatever it was
that Trilby called it.

Second--the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.
This is magazine-covery, but reliable.

Third--Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade.

Fourth--Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy
and self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout.

Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the
higher criticism has hard-boiled them.

The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of
all our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our conception.
It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented it. Going back
still further to the first spring, we can see Eve choosing with pride a
new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_.

Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth
the theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a
holiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in
the footsteps of Danny McCree.

Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on the
calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at 10.30
Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed his
face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his hard,
smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of soap,
and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot grounder
between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant lot in
Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the front
room of the flat Danny's father sat by an open window smoking his pipe,
with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He still
clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two years
before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off without
permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason that
they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news read to
you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors of the

"'Tis Easter Day," said Mrs. McCree.

"Scramble mine," said Danny.

After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of
the Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur--frock coat, striped
trousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest,
and wing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein's
(between Fourteenth Street and Tony's fruit stand) Saturday night sale.

"You'll be goin' out this day, of course, Danny," said old man McCree,
a little wistfully. "'Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it's fine
spring weather. I can feel it in the air."

"Why should I not be going out?" demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest
tones. "Should I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my
team has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast
you've just eat, I'd like to know? Answer me that!"

"All right, lad," said the old man. "I'm not complainin'. While me two
eyes was good there was nothin' better to my mind than a Sunday out.
There's a smell of turf and burnin' brush comin' in the windy. I have me
tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your mother
had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the hippopotamus--but
let that be."

"Now, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?" asked Danny
of his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. "Have you been taking
him to the Zoo? And for what?"

"I have not," said Mrs. McCree. "He sets by the windy all day. 'Tis
little recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I'm thinkin'
they wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without
stoppin' for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there's lard burnin'
in the fryin' pan. There is not. He says I do not understand. 'Tis weary
days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny. There was
no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes. 'Tis a fine
day, son. Injoy yeself ag'inst the morning. There will be cold supper at

"Have you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?" asked Danny of Mike, the
janitor, as he went out the door downstairs.

"I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the
only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that
I've not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or
else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,

"It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's
nothing in it."

Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into
the heart of the district where Easter--modern Easter, in new, bright
raiment--leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the
blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving
parterres of living flowers--so it seemed when your eye looked upon the
Easter girl.

Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the
background of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands. The
windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most opulent
creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies.

Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked
Corrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him.

"Why, Corrigan," he asked, "is Easter? I know it comes the first time
you're full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March--but why?
Is it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it
out of politics?"

"'Tis an annual celebration," said Corrigan, with the judicial air of
the Third Deputy Police Commissioner, "peculiar to New York. It extends
up to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and
Twenty-fifth Street. In my opinion 'tis not political."

"Thanks," said Danny. "And say--did you ever hear a man complain of
hippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean."

"Nothing larger than sea turtles," said Corrigan, reflecting, "and there
was wood alcohol in that."

Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously
a Sunday and a festival day was his.

The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
and took his pleasure sadly.

The family entrance of Dugan's café was feasible; so Danny yielded to
the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.

"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"

"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new one?
All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"

From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.

A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
pumped hands on the corner.

"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?
Come away with me to church and be cheerful."

"What's doing at church?" asked Danny.

"Why, it's Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin'
you might come around to go."

"What does this Easter stand for, Katy," asked Danny gloomily. "Nobody
seems to know."

"Nobody as blind as you," said Katy with spirit. "You haven't even
looked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it's when all the girls put on new
spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?"

"I will," said Danny. "If this Easter is pulled off there, they ought to
be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain't a beauty. The
green roses are great."

At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke
rapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;
but he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his
theme--resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of
the old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a
wonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth
pew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention.

After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique in
her sky-blue eyes.

"Are you coming along to the house?" she asked. "But don't mind me. I'll
get there all right. You seem to be studyin' a lot about something. All
right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr. McCree?"

"I'll be around Wednesday night as usual," said Danny, turning and
crossing the street.

Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny
stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,
at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep
in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening
that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender
than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and
deeper-rooted than the love of woman--for had he not turned away from
green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny
did not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his
dinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to follow
the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth.

Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight.

"Hippopotamus!" he shouted to an elevated road pillar. "Well, how is
that for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was
driving at now.

"Hippopotamus! Wouldn't that send you to the Bronx! It's been a year
since he heard it; and he didn't miss it so very far. We quit at 469
B. C., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn't have guessed
what he was trying to get out of him."

Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his labor

Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on
the sill.

"Will that be you, lad?" he asked.

Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the
outset of committing a good deed.

"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" he
snapped, viciously. "Have I no right to come in?"

"Ye're a faithful lad," said old man McCree, with a sigh. "Is it evening

Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt
letters, "The History of Greece." Dust was on it half an inch thick. He
laid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of paper.
And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said:

"Was it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?"

"Did I hear ye open the book?" said old man McCree. "Many and weary be
the months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great
likings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. 'Tis a fine day outside,
lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used to me chair
by the windy and me pipe."

"Pel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not
hippopotamus," said Danny. "The war began there. It kept something doing
for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of Macedon,
in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision at the
battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I'll read it."

With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree
sat for an hour, listening.

Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree
was slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man
McCree's eyes.

"Do you hear our lad readin' to me?" he said. "There is none finer in
the land. My two eyes have come back to me again."

After supper he said to Danny: "'Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now
ye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough."

"Who pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?" said
Danny, angrily. "Have I no right to stay in it? After supper there is
yet to come the reading of the battle of Corinth, 146 B. C., when the
kingdom, as they say, became an in-integral portion of the Roman Empire.
Am I nothing in this house?"



The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They
were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth
Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked
at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted
them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues. The
Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture looming
mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood for the
tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by the
winged walking delegate of the Lord.

Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the
Preacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north
wind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a
man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you

The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had assumed for
himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
the rent man and business go to the deuce.

The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's
monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative
monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners fades you must
hear one phrase of the Preacher's--the one that formed his theme that
night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white ribbons in the

_"No man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky."_

Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to the
Potter's Field.

A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless
emulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his
coat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still showed
signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling goose. But,
conscientiously, I must warn the milliner's apprentice who reads this,
expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The
young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for
drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the
one-night bed seekers.

If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family
carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage
is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van
Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year's Eve feather
tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays
and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady's maid. But it is
one of the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty
commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of any
Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas's physical troubles were not few. Therefore,
his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost lady's maid than it
was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent things that his
racked nerves almost convinced him were flying, dancing, crawling, and
wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around the dismal
campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and
a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a
psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by
phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.

The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own
age, shabby but neat.

"What's the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?" asked Thomas, with the
freemasonic familiarity of the damned--"Booze? That's mine. You don't
look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the
lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that ever
made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how
do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale."

The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy

"No," said he, "mine isn't exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow that
Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion of my
unforgiving relatives. I've been out of work for a year because I don't
know how to work; and I've been sick in Bellevue and other hospitals for
months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I was turned out
of the hospital yesterday. And I haven't a cent. That's my tale of woe."

"Tough luck," said Thomas. "A man alone can pull through all right. But
I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it."

Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,
so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that
it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and
pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.

When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became
loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake
of the flying car.

Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the
Preacher's goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,
swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On
both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving
canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with
the lost tire.

One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand
an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save
his pride.

Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled
chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent
sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.

Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner
and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be
suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to
higher denominations.

But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received
the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,
and muttered to himself inscrutable words.

"Strange--strange!" said he. "Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied
that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?"

Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful

"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
Washington Square North?"

"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."

The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.

"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."

Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.

"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots of these
swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess he'll dump me out
when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow,
it's a cinch that I've got that open-air bed convention beat to a

Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself,
to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing! strange!" he
repeated to himself constantly.

When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front

"Be kind enough to enter my house with me," said the sealskinned
gentleman when they had alighted. "He's going to dig up, sure,"
reflected Thomas, following him inside.

There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door
to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness.
Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in
the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy

The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
portières of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman's feet
sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three or
four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet drapery.

Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one
eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor--to find that
he had disappeared.

"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn't
wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights' adventures that you
read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy."

Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated
globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant
electric glow.

With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
portières parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the
room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate
taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy
hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave
him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive
a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah's throne-room advancing to greet a
visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t's_ to be mindful of his
_p's_ and _q's_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat
terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.

"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap.
I hope I didn't break anything. But I've nearly got the williwalloos,
and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the

"That is merely a mechanical toy," said the gentleman with a wave of his
hand. "May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you to
my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with the
psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to the
point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know the
Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North."

"Any silver missing?" asked Thomas tartly. "Any joolry displaced? Of
course I know 'em. Any of the old ladies' sunshades disappeared? Well,
I know 'em. And then what?"

The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.

"Wonderful!" he murmured. "Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you," he continued, "that
there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
that very good fortune awaits you. We will see."

"Do they want me back?" asked Thomas, with something of his old
professional pride in his voice. "I'll promise to cut out the booze and
do the right thing if they'll try me again. But how did you get wise,
doc? B'gee, it's the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
flashlight owls and so forth."

With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the chauffeur,
who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious apartment,
he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by his witty and
genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the cold streets
from which he had been so recently and so singularly rescued. A servant
brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a glass of miraculous
wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop him. Thus half an
hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned motor car at the
door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with another soft
petition for a brief absence.

Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
portières. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.

The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
attendant might have done.

"You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco," said the elder woman, wearily.
"I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I've about
lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it."

"Madam," said the professor, with his princeliest smile, "the true Art
cannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes
requires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the
crystal, the stars, the magic formulæ of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of
Po. But we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean
Chiroscope has been successful in our search."

The professor's voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in
his own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more

"Why, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on
it," she said. "What do you mean?"

"The words were these," said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full
magnificent height: "_'By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall

"I haven't seen many chariots," said the lady, "but I never saw one with
five wheels."

"Progress," said the professor--"progress in science and mechanics has
accomplished it--though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an
extra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I
repeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only answer
the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before your
eyes the proof thereof."

And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise.

"O professor!" she cried anxiously--"When?--where? Has he been found? Do
not keep me in suspense."

"I beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes," said Professor
Cherubusco, "and I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the
true Art."

Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl
when the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side.

"Are you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a
welcome and restoration to favor?" he asked, with his courteous, royal

"Do I look bughouse?" answered Thomas. "Enough of the footback life for
me. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways as
a nut on a new axle."

"My dear young man," said the other, "she has been searching for you

"Great!" said Thomas. "I'm on the job. That team of dropsical
dromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman
like myself; but I'll take the job back, sure, doc. They're good people
to be with."

And now a change came o'er the suave countenance of the Caliph of
Bagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.

"May I ask what your name is?" he said shortly.

"You've been looking for me," said Thomas, "and don't know my name?
You're a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office
gumshoers. I'm Thomas McQuade, of course; and I've been chauffeur of
the Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago
for--well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on
booze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing
in that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.
Now, what's the prize for the best answer to all this?"

To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and
dragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was
opened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,
disillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian's shoe.

As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he
hastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway.

"Crazy guy," was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. "Just
wanted to have some fun kiddin', I guess. He might have dug up a dollar,
anyhow. Now I've got to hurry up and get back to that gang of bum bed
hunters before they all get preached to sleep."

When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of
the homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the
proper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file
in front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals and
something of a wife and child.

"Sorry to see you back again," said the young man, turning to speak to
him. "I hoped you had struck something better than this."

"Me?" said Thomas. "Oh, I just took a run around the block to keep warm!
I see the public ain't lending to the Lord very fast to-night."

"In this kind of weather," said the young man, "charity avails itself of
the proverb, and both begins and ends at home."

And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of
petition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes
still registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in.

In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with
wind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight
toward him from the opposite sidewalk. "Annie!" he yelled, and ran
toward her.

"You fool, you fool!" she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon
his neck, "why did you do it?"

"The Stuff," explained Thomas briefly. "You know. But subsequently nit.
Not a drop." He led her to the curb. "How did you happen to see me?"

"I came to find you," said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. "Oh, you
big fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here."

"Professor Ch---- Don't know the guy. What saloon does he work in?"

"He's a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you
with the Chaldean telescope, he said."

"He's a liar," said Thomas. "I never had it. He never saw me have
anybody's telescope."

"And he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something."

"Annie," said Thoms solicitously, "you're giving me the wheels now. If
I had a chariot I'd have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any
singing and preaching for a nightcap, either."

"Listen, you big fool. The Missis says she'll take you back. I begged
her to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;
and your old room over the stable is ready."

"Great!" said Thomas earnestly. "You are It, Annie. But when did these
stunts happen?"

"To-night at Professor Cherubusco's. He sent his automobile for the
Missis, and she took me along. I've been there with her before."

"What's the professor's line?"

"He's a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows
everything. But he hasn't done the Missis any good yet, though she's
paid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we
could find you here."

"What's the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?"

"That's a family secret," said Annie. "And now you've asked enough
questions. Come on home, you big fool."

They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped.

"Got any dough with you, Annie?" he asked.

Annie looked at him sharply.

"Oh, I know what that look means," said Thomas. "You're wrong. Not
another drop. But there's a guy that was standing next to me in the bed
line over there that's in bad shape. He's the right kind, and he's got
wives or kids or something, and he's on the sick list. No booze. If you
could dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I'd like

Annie's fingers began to wiggle in her purse.

"Sure, I've got money," said she. "Lots of it. Twelve dollars." And then
she added, with woman's ineradicable suspicion of vicarious benevolence:
"Bring him here and let me see him first."

Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As
the two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed:

"Mr. Walter-- Oh--Mr. Walter!

"Is that you, Annie?" said the young man meekly.

"Oh, Mr. Walter!--and the Missis hunting high and low for you!"

"Does mother want to see me?" he asked, with a flush coming out on his
pale cheek.

"She's been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.
She wants you to come home. She's tried police and morgues and lawyers
and advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she
took up clearvoyants. You'll go right home, won't you, Mr. Walter?"

"Gladly, if she wants me," said the young man. "Three years is a long
time. I suppose I'll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars are
giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of bays we
used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?"

"They have," said Thomas, feelingly. "And they'll have 'em ten years
from now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one
hundred and forty-nine years. I'm the coachman. Just got my
reappointment five minutes ago. Let's all ride up in a surface car--that
is--er--if Annie will pay the fares."

On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to
pay the conductor.

"Seems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of
money around," said Thomas sarcastically.

"In that purse," said Annie decidedly, "is exactly $11.85. I shall take
every cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the
greatest man in the world."

"Well," said Thomas, "I guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off
things the way he does. I'm glad his spooks told him where you could
find me. If you'll give me his address, some day I'll go up there,
myself, and shake his hand."

Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.

"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams
of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile
with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.
He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
steps. If it was the _d t's_, why am I so sore?"

"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.

"If I could find that funny guy's house," said Thomas, in conclusion,
"I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."



The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.

It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.

When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:

"Too artificial."

Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.

And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a
well-arrived writer of fiction--a man who had trod on asphalt all his
life, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with
sensations of disgust from the windows of express trains.

Conant wrote a poem and called it "The Doe and the Brook." It was a
fine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had
strayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist's windows, and whose
sole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter. Conant
signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor.

But this has very little to do with the story.

Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next
morning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped slowly
up Forty-second Street.

The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and
hair the exact color of the little orphan's (afterward discovered to be
the earl's daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney's plays. His trousers were
corduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his
back. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,
though in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating
the suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.
In his hand was a valise--description of it is an impossible task; a
Boston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office
in it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay--the rustic's
letter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of the
Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men.

Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw
stranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall buildings.
At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It had been
done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what Coney
"attraction" or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning into his
memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the newsboys looked
bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the way of cabs and
street cars.

At Eighth Avenue stood "Bunco Harry," with his dyed mustache and shiny,
good-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the
sight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman, who
had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook his

"Too thick, pal," he said, critically--"too thick by a couple of inches.
I don't know what your lay is; but you've got the properties too thick.
That hay, now--why, they don't even allow that on Proctor's circuit any

"I don't understand you, mister," said the green one. "I'm not lookin'
for any circus. I've just run down from Ulster County to look at the
town, bein' that the hayin's over with. Gosh! but it's a whopper. I
thought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times
as big."

"Oh, well," said "Bunco Harry," raising his eyebrows, "I didn't mean
to butt in. You don't have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down
a little, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,
whatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow."

"I wouldn't mind having a glass of lager beer," acknowledged the other.

They went to a café frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty eyes,
and sat at their drinks.

"I'm glad I come across you, mister," said Haylocks. "How'd you like to
play a game or two of seven-up? I've got the keerds."

He fished them out of Noah's valise--a rare, inimitable deck, greasy
with bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields.

"Bunco Harry" laughed loud and briefly.

"Not for me, sport," he said, firmly. "I don't go against that make-up
of yours for a cent. But I still say you've overdone it. The Reubs
haven't dressed like that since '79. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn
for a key-winding watch with that layout."

"Oh, you needn't think I ain't got the money," boasted Haylocks. He drew
forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and laid it
on the table.

"Got that for my share of grandmother's farm," he announced. "There's
$950 in that roll. Thought I'd come to the city and look around for a
likely business to go into."

"Bunco Harry" took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost
respect in his smiling eyes.

"I've seen worse," he said, critically. "But you'll never do it in them
clothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw
hat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and
freight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work
off phony stuff like that."

"What's his line?" asked two or three shifty-eyed men of "Bunco Harry"
after Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed.

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