The Collision

Author: George Ade

Once in the dim dead Days beyond Recall, there lived a blue-eyed Gazook named Steve.

We refer to the Period preceding the Uplift, when the Candidate wearing the largest collar was the People's Choice for Alderman.

A Good Citizen wishing to open a Murder Parlor needed a couple of Black Bottles, a Barrel of Sawdust and a Pull at the City Hall.

When he opened up, he threw the Key in the River and arranged to have the Bodies taken out through the Alley so as not to impede Traffic in the Main Thoroughfares.

Twelve months every Year marked the Open Season for every Game from Pitch-and-Toss to Manslaughter.

Any one in search of Diversion could roll Kelly Pool at 10 Cents a Cue in the Morning, go to the Track in the Afternoon, take in a 20-round Scrap in the Evening and then Shoot at the Wheel a few times before backing into the Flax.

The Police were instructed to make sure that all Push-Cart Peddlers were properly Licensed.

Steve roamed the Wide-Open Town and spread his Bets both ways from the Jack.

When he cut the String and began to back his Judgment he knew no Limit except the Milky Way. Any time he rolled them, you could hear considerable Rumble.

All the Bookies, Barkeeps, Bruisers, and the Boys sitting on the Moonlight Rattlers knew him by his First Name and had him tagged as a Producer and a Helva Nice Fellow.

Steve heard vague Rumors that certain Stiffs who hurried home before Midnight and wore White Mufflers, were trying to put the Town on the Fritz and Can all the Live Ones, but he did not dream that a Mug who went around in Goloshes and drank Root Beer could put anything across with the Main Swivel over at the Hall.

O, the Rude Awakening!

One day he was in a Pool Room working on the Form Sheet with about 150 other Students and getting ready to back Sazerack off the Boards in the Third at Guttenberg, when some Blue Wagons backed up and Steve told the Desk Sergeant, a few Minutes later, that his Name was Andrew Jackson.

Next Day he had a Wire from a Trainer but when he went to the old familiar Joint, the Plain Clothes Men gave him the Sign to Beat it and he turned away, throbbing with Indignation.

The down-town Books were being raided but the Angoras kept on galloping at the Track, so he rode out on the Train every day in order to preserve his Rights as a free-born American.

One Day just as he was Peeling from his Roll in front of the Kentucky Club, in order to grab Gertie Glue at 8 to 5, Lightning struck the Paddock and laid out the entire Works.

When the Touts and the Sheet-Writers and the Sure-Thingers came to and began to ask Questions, it was discovered that the Yap Legislature had killed the Racing Game and ordered all the Regulars to go to Work.

Steve went back to Town in a dazed Condition to hunt up the Gang and find out what could be done to put out the Fire.

When he arrived at the Hang-Out there was a Flag at Half-Mast. The Roost had been nailed up for keeping open after Eleven o'Clock!

A few Evenings after that he sauntered up to a large Frame Building to look at a couple of Boys who had promised to make 135 Ringside.

A Cannon was planted at the Main Chute and the Street was filled with Department Store Employees disguised as Soldiers.

Nothing doing.

The Governor had called out the Militia in order to prevent a Blot being put upon the Fair Name of the Commonwealth.

With the Selling-Platers turned out to Pasture, the Brace-Box and the Pinch Wheel lying in the Basement at Central Station, the Pugs going back to the Foundry and all the Street Lamps being taken in at Midnight, no wonder Steve was hard pushed to find Innocent Amusement.

He started to hang around a Broker's Office but it was no Fun to bet on a Turn-Up when you couldn't watch the Shuffle. Besides, the Game was Cold and was being fiercely denounced by the Press.

For a Time he kept warm in a Bowling Alley. Drive a Man into a Corner and goad him to Desperation and he will go so far as to Bowl, provided that he lives in a German Neighborhood.

One Evening he went down to see the Walhallas go against the Schwabens, but the Place was Dark.

The Authorities had interfered.

It seemed that the Manufacture of Bowling Balls involved the Destruction of the Hardwood Forests, while the Game itself overtaxed certain Important Muscles ending with "alis," at the same time encouraging Profanity and the use of 5-cent Cigars.

Steve had one Stand-By left to him. He could prop himself up on the Bleachers with a bag of lubricated Pop-Corn between his Knees and hurl insulting Remarks at Honus Wagner, Joe Tinker and Ty Cobb.

When he crawled up in the 50-cent Seats he found the same old Bunch that used to answer Roll Call at the Pool Room, the Sharkey Club, and the Betting Ring.

The Law had made them Decent Citizens, but it hadn't made them any easier to look at.

Steve longed for the Ponies and the good old Prelims between the Trial Horses, with Blood dripping from the Ropes, but when he picked up the Pink Sporting Page in the Morning, all he could find was that the Sacred Heart Academy has wrested the Basket-Ball Trophy away from the West Division High School.

Base Ball is only Near-Sport to one who has whanged the Wise Ikes that mark up the Odds. Steve went to it because there was nothing else on the Cards.

One Day he found every entrance to the Park guarded by a Blue Burly and the Crowds being turned away.

The Health Department had put in a Knock on the Game, on the Ground that the Ball, after being handled by various Players and passed from one to the other, carried with it dangerous Microbes.

The Officials insisted that, after every Play, the Ball should be treated with an Antiseptic or else that each Player should have an Individual Ball and allow no one else to touch it.

The Society for the Protection of the Young had put up a Howl because the Game diverted the Attention of Urchins from their Work in the Public Schools and tended to encourage Mendacity among Office Boys.

The Concatenated Order of High-Brows had represented to the proper Authorities that, as a result of widespread Interest in the demoralizing Pastime, ordinary Conversation on the tail-end of a Trolley Car was becoming unintelligible to University Graduates, and the Reports in the Daily Press had passed beyond the Ken of a mere Student of the English Language.

The Medical Society certified that eight out of ten Men had shattered their Nervous Systems, split their Vocal Cords and developed Moral Astigmatism, all because of the Paroxysms resulting from Partisan Fervor. Either build an Asylum in every Block or else liberate the present Inmates of all the Nut-Colleges. It was not fair to keep the Quiet Ones locked up while the raving Bugs were admitted to the Grand Stand every Afternoon.

Under the Circumstances, a purely Paternal Administration could do only One Thing. It put Base Ball out of Business.

On the very next Afternoon the unquenchable demand for Sport asserted itself.

Steve went into the Back Yard with his eldest Son and looked about cautiously.

"Is the Look-Out stationed on the Fence?" he asked.

"He is."

"Is the Garden Gate securely locked?"

"It is."

"Are the Mallets properly muffled?"

"They are."

"Then t'hell with the Law! We'll have a Game of Croquet."

MORAL: If it is in the Blood, the only Remedy is the substitution of Iced Tea.

[The end]

Cognizant Of Our Shortcomings

Author: George Ade

On the deck of a Trans-Atlantic Skiff, a certain Old Traveler, who owed allegiance to George and Mary, reclined on his Cervical Vertebrae with a Plaid Shawl across him and roasted Our Native Land.

He told the American in the next Steamer Chair that he had been unable to get his Tea at the usual Hour, and out in the place called Minnie- Apples the stupid Waiter never had heard of Bloaters for Breakfast. Furthermore, he had not seen his Boots again after placing them outside the Door in Chicago.

The Houses were overheated and the Railway Carriages were not like those at Home, and the Reporters were Forward Chaps, and Ice should not be added with the Soda, because it was not being Done.

He was jolly glad to escape from the Wretched Hole and get back to his own Lodgings, where he could go into Cold Storage and have a Joint of Mutton and Brussels Sprouts as often as desired.

The Yankee cringed under the Attack and then fully agreed with the Son of amphibious Albion. He said we were a new and crude People who did not know how to wear Evening Clothes or eat Stilton Cheese, and our Politicians were corrupt, and Murderers went unpunished, while the Average Citizen was a dyspeptic Skate afflicted with Moral Strabismus.

Then he retired to his State Room to weep over the Situation, and the British Subject said: "The American is a Poltroon, for he will not defend his own Hearth and Fireside."

A Cook's Tourist from Emporia, Kansas, dropped into the Vacant Chair. When the Delegate from The Rookery, Wormwood Scrubs, Islington S. E., resumed his scorching Arraignment of the U. S. A., he got an awful Rise out of the Boy from the Corn Belt.

The Emporia Man said there were more Bath Tubs to the Square Mile out in his Burg than you could find in the West End of London, and more Paupers and Beggars in one Square Mile of the East End of London than you could find in the whole State of Kansas. He said there were fewer Murders in England because good Opportunities were being overlooked.

He said he could Tip any one in England except, possibly, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

It was his unbiased Opinion that London consisted of a vast swarm of melancholy Members of the Middle and Lower Classes of the Animal Kingdom who ate Sponge Cake with Clinkers in it, drank Tea, smoked Pipes and rode by Bus, and thought they were Living.

Standing beneath the rippling folds of Old Glory, the proud Citizen of the Great Republic declared that we could wallop Great Britain at any Game from Polo up to Prize-Fighting and if we cut down on the Food Supplies the whole blamed Runt of an undersized Island would starve to death in a Week.

With quivering Nostrils, he heaped Scorn and Contumely upon any Race that would call a Pie a Tart. In conclusion, he expressed Pity for those who never had tasted Corn on the Cob.

After he had gone up to the Bridge Deck to play Shuffle-Board, the Representative of the Tightest little Island on the Map took out his Note-Book and made the following Entry: "Every Beggar living in the States is a Bounder and a Braggart."

That evening in the Smoke Room he began to pull his favorite Specialty of ragging the Yanks on a New Yorker, who interrupted him by saying: "Really, I know nothing about my own Country. I spend the Winter in Egypt, the Spring in London, the Summer in Carlsbad, and the Autumn in Paree."

So the Traveler afterward reported to a Learned Society that the Typical American had become a denatured Expatriate.

MORAL: No Chance.

[The end]

The Boy Who Was Told

Author: George Ade

Once there was a Boy who had been told twice a Day ever since he could remember that if he started to go into one of those Doggeries with swinging Doors in front and Mirrors along the Side, a Blue Flame would shoot out and burn him to a Cinder.

Also he had been warned that every Playing Card in the whole Deck was a Complimentary Ticket admitting one to a Hot Griddle in the Main Parquette of the Fiery Furnace.

And every little Paper Cigar was another Spike in the Burial Casket.

With seven or eight Guardians trailing him Day and Night to keep him away from the Lures of the Wicked World it looked like a Pipe that he would grow up to be the Dean of a Theological Seminary.

Across the Street lived a poor unfortunate Lad whose Father was making the Futile Endeavor to take it away faster than the Revenue Officers could put Stamps on it. He was the original Blotter. When they were trying to pry him away from it, he would take a chance on anything from Arnica to Extract of Vanilla.

According to all the Laws of Heredity the only Son was cast for the Part of Joe Morgan.

He is now the Head of a Mail-Order House. When he sees a Corkscrew he pulls his Hat firmly over his Ears and runs a Mile.

The Graduate of the Lecture Bureau may be found in a swagger Club any evening with a Bourbon H. B. at his Right, a stack of Student Lamps at his Left and Two Small Pair pressed closely against his Bosom.

MORAL: The Modern Ambition seems to be to vary the Program.

[The end]

Books Made To Balance

Author: George Ade

Once there was a Husky employed to crack the Whip around a smoky Works that did not offer an attractive Vista from the Car Window, although it blossomed with a fragrant crop of Dividends every time the Directors got together in the Back Room.

Most of the American Workingmen employed in this Hive of Industry came from remote parts of Europe. Each wore his Head entirely in front of his Ears and had taken an Oath to support the Constitution.

It was the duty of the Husky to keep these imported Rabbits on the Jump and increase the Output.

He made himself so strong that he was declared In every time a Melon was sliced, and when it came time to Scramble the Eggs and pull of the grand Whack-Up, he was standing at the head of the Line with a Basket on his Arm.

So it came about that one who started in a Thatched Cottage and grew up on cold Spuds and never saw a Manicure Set until he was 38 years of age, went home one day to find Gold Fish swimming about in every Room and Servants blocking the Hallways.

He had some trouble finding Rings that would go over his Knuckles and the Silk Kind felt itchy for quite a while, but finally he adjusted himself to his new Prosperity and began to deplore the apparent Growth of Socialism.

This rugged and forceful Character, to whom the Muck-Rakers referred as a Baron, had a Daughter who started out as Katie when she carried the Hot Coffee over to Dad every Noon.

When she got her first Chip Diamond and Father switched from the Dudeen to Cigars, she was known in High School Circles as Katherine.

And when Pop got in on the main Divvy and began to take an interest in Paintings, the name went down on the Register at the Waldorf as Kathryn, in those peaked Sierra Nevada Letters about four inches high.

Katie used to go to St. Joseph's Hall once in a while with Martin, the Lad who helped around the Grocery.

Katherine regarded with much Favor a Pallid Drug Clerk who acted as a Clearing House for all Local Scandal.

But say, when Kathyrn came back from a vine-clad Institute overlooking the historic Hudson and devoted to the embossing and polishing of the Female Progeny of those who have got away with it, she began working the Snuffer on all the Would-Bes back in the Mill Town. When she got through extinguishing, the little Group that remained looked like the Remnant of the Old Guard at Waterloo.

Father had to stick around because occasionally the eight thousand Good Tempered Boys on the Pay Roll would begin to burn with Wood Alcohol and the Wrongs of Labor and pull off a few Murders, merely to hasten the Triumph of Justice.

By the way, Kathryn had a Mother who used to hide in a room upstairs and timidly inspect her new Silk Dresses.

Kathryn applied the Acid Test to her People and decided that they never could Belong.

She swung on the General Manager for a Letter of Credit big enough to set Ireland free and went traipsing off to the Old World under the chaperonage of a New York Lady who had seen Better Days.

Now it will be admitted that William J. Burns is Some Sleuth, but when it comes to apprehending and running to Earth a prattling American Ingenue with a few Millions stuffed in her Reticule, the Boy with the mildewed Title who sits on the Boulevard all day and dallies with the green and pink Bottled Goods has got it all over Burns like a Striped Awning.

All the starving members of the Up-Against-It Association were waiting at the Dock to cop the prospective Meal Ticket. Not one of them had ever Shaved or Worked and each wore his Handkerchief inside his Cuff and had Yellow Gloves stitched down the Back, and was fully entitled to sit in an Electric Chair and have 80,000 Volts distributed through the Steel Ribs of his Corset.

As soon as Kathryn began to meet the Roqueforts and Camemberts she discovered that they had Lovely Eyes and certainly knew how to treat a Lady.

Kathryn had been brought up on Philadelphia Literature, and even during her most ambitious Social Flights she had encountered the Type of Man who remains on the opposite side of the Room having trouble with his White Gloves.

She never had been against those Willing Performers from Gascony who wore Red Ribbons and Medals and who rushed over to kiss the Hand and then look deep into her Eyes and throb like a Motor Boat.

This class of Work simply shot her Pulse up to 130 and made her think that she was Cleopatra, floating in the Royal Barge and surrounded by Crawling Slaves.

When a certain Markee crawled into her Lap and purred into her Ear and threatened to curl up on the Rug and die if she Refused him, she simply keeled over with Excitement.

After she recovered, she found herself actually Engaged to the Representative of one of the Oldest Families in the Saucisson District of the Burgoo Province and as manly a Chap as ever borrowed Money from a Toe-Dancer.

She hurried home to keep it out of the Newspapers and to tell those who would listen that American Men were Impossible. Then the Markee came over with his Solicitor and a Bottle of Chloroform and a full kit of Surgical Instruments, and the Wedding was fully reported by the Associated Press.

The Captain of Industry sized up Son-in-Law, and knew that when the Money was gone the Markee could always get a job hanging up Hats in the Check-Room of a first-class Table d'Hote Restaurant.

From the window of her Chateau in the Burgoo Province the Lady Cashier can see the American Tourists going by in their hired Motor Cars. Her Cheek flushes with Delight when she happens to remember that in another Three Months or so, Friend Husband will come home long enough to show her where to sign her Name.

What is more, she has the Privilege of walking out at any time and picking Flowers with the Understanding that she is not to let it be known that she is related to any of her Relatives on either side of the Atlantic.

MORAL: Europeans made the Money and they had a Right to pull it down.

[The end]

The Batch Of Letters, Or One Day With A Busy Man

Author: George Ade

One Morning an energetic little Man who had about a Ton of Work piled up on his Desk came down Town with a Hop, Skip and Jump determined to clean up the whole Lay-Out before Nightfall.

He had taken eight hours of Slumber and a cold Dip in the Porcelain. After Breakfast he came out into the Spring Sunshine feeling as fit as a Fiddle and as snippy as a young Colt.

"Me to the Office to get that Stack of Letters off my Mind," said the Hopeful Citizen.

When he dashed into the Office he carried 220 pounds of Steam and was keen for the Attack.

A tall Man with tan Whiskers arose from behind the roll-top Desk and greeted him.

"How are you feeling this Morning?" asked the Stranger.

"Swell and Sassy," was the Reply.

"And yet, to-morrow you may join the Appendicitis Colony and day after to-morrow you may lie in the darkened Front Room with Floral Offerings on all sides," said the Stranger. "What you want is one of our non-reversible, twenty-year, pneumatic Policies with the Reserve Fund Clause. Kindly glance at this Chart. Suppose you take the reactionable Endowment with the special Proviso permitting the accumulation of both Premium and Interest. On a $10,000 Policy for 20 Years you make $8,800 clear, whether you live or die, while the Company loses $3,867.44 as you can see for yourself."

"This is my--" began the Man.

"Or, you may prefer the automatic tontine Policy with ball-bearings," continued the Death Angel. "In this case, the entire Residue goes into the Sinking Fund and draws Compound Interest. This is made possible under our new System of reducing Operating Expenses to a Minimum and putting the Executive Department into the Hands of well-known New York Financiers who do not seek Pecuniary Reward but are actuated by a Philanthropic Desire to do good to all Persons living west of the Alleghenies."

"That will be about all from you," said the Man. "Mosey! Duck! Up an Alley!"

"Then you don't care what becomes of your Family?" asked the Stranger, in a horrified Tone.

"My Relatives are collecting all of their Money in Advance," said the Man. "If they are not worrying over the Future, I don't see why you should lose any Sleep."

So the Solicitor went out and told every one along the Street that the Man lacked Foresight.

At 9.30 o'clock the industrious little Man picked up letter number 1 and said to the Blonde Stenographer, "Dear Sir."

At that moment the Head of the Credit Department hit him on the Back and said he had a Good One. It was all about little Frankie, the Only Child, the Phenom, the 40-pound Prodigy.

In every large Establishment there is a gurgling Parent who comes down in the Morning with a Story concerning the incipient Depew out at their House. It seems that little Frankie has been told something at Sunday School and he asked his Mother about it and she told him so-and-so, whereupon the Infant Joker arose to the Emergency and said: and then you get it, and any one who doesn't laugh is lacking in a Finer Appreciation of Child Nature. The Busy Man listened to Frankie's Latest and asked, "What's the Rest of it?"

So the Parent remarked to several People that day that the Man was sinking into a crabbed Old Age.

At 10 A.M. the Man repeated "Dear Sir" and a Voice came to him, remarking on the Beauty of the Weather. A Person who might have been Professor of Bee-Culture in the Pike County Agricultural Seminary, so far as make-up was concerned, took the Man by the Hand and informed him that he (the Man) was a Prominent Citizen and that being the case he would be given a Reduction on the Half-Morocco Edition. While doing his 150 Words a Minute, he worked a Kellar Trick and produced a large Prospectus from under his Coat. Before the Busy Man could grab a Spindle and defend himself, he was looking at a half-tone Photo of Aristotle and listening to all the different Reasons why the Work should be in every Gentleman's Library. Then the Agent whispered the Inside Price to him so that the Stenographer would not hear and began to fill out a Blank. The Man summoned all his Strength and made a Buck.

"I don't read Books," he said. "I am an Intellectual Nit. Clear Out!"

So the Agent gave him a couple of pitying Looks and departed, meeting in the Doorway a pop-eyed Person with his Hat on the Back of his Head and a Roll of Blue Prints under his Arm. The Man looked up and moaned. He recognized his Visitor as a most dangerous Monomaniac--the one who is building a House and wants to show the Plans.

"I've got everything figured out," he began, "except that we can't get from the Dining Room to the Library without going through the Laundry and there's no Flue connecting with the Kitchen. What do you think I'd better do?"

"I think you ought to live at a Hotel," was the reply.

The Monomaniac went home and told his Wife that he had been insulted.

At 11.30 came a Committee of Ladies soliciting Funds for the Home for the Friendless.

"Those who are Friendless don't know their own Luck," said the Busy Man, whereupon the Ladies went outside and agreed that he was a Brute.

At Noon he went out and lunched on Bromo Seltzer.

When he rushed back to tackle his Correspondence, he was met by a large Body of Walking Delegates who told him that he had employed a non-union Man to paint his Barn and that he was a Candidate for the Boycott. He put in an Hour squaring himself and then he turned to the Stenographer.

"How far have we got?" he asked.

"'Dear Sir,'" was the Reply.

Just then he got the Last Straw--a bewildered Rufus with a Letter of Introduction. That took 40 Minutes. When Rufe walked out, the Busy Man fell with his Face among the unanswered Letters.

"Call a Cab," he said.

"The 'Phone is out of order," was the Reply.

"Ring for a Messenger," he said.

She pulled the Buzzer and in 20 minutes there slowly entered a boy from the Telegraph Office.

The Man let out a low Howl like that of a Prairie Wolf and ran from the Office. When he arrived at Home he threw his Hat at the Rack and then made the Children back into the Corner and keep quiet. His Wife told around that Henry was Working too hard.

* * * * *

MORAL: Work is a Snap, but the Intermissions do up the Nervous System.

[The end]

The Attenuated Attorney Who Rang In The Associate Counsel

Author: George Ade

Once there was a sawed-off Attorney who had studied until he was Bleary around the Eyes and as lean as a Razor-Back. He knew the Law from Soup to Nuts, but much learning had put him a little bit to the Willies. And his Size was against him. He lacked Bellows.

He was an inconspicuous little Runt. When he stood up to Plead, he came a trifle higher than the Chair. Of the 90 pounds he carried, about 45 were Gray Matter. He had Mental Merchandise to burn but no way of delivering it.

When there was a Rally or some other Gabfest on the Bills, the Committee never asked him to make an Address. The Committee wanted a Wind-Jammer who could move the Leaves on a Tree 200 feet distant. The dried-up Lawyer could write Great Stuff that would charm a Bird out of a Tree, but he did not have the Tubes to enable him to Spout. When he got up to Talk, it was all he could do to hear himself. The Juries used to go to sleep on him. He needed a Megaphone. And he had about as much Personal Magnetism as an Undertaker's Assistant.

The Runt lost many a Case because he could not Bark at the Jury and pound Holes in a Table. His Briefs had been greatly admired by the Supreme Court. Also it was known that he could draw up a copper-riveted Contract that would hold Water, but as a Pleader he was a Pickerel.

At one time he had an Important Suit on hand, and he was Worried, for he was opposed by a couple of living Gas Engines who could rare up and down in front of a yap Jury for further Orders.

"I have the Law on my Side," said the Runt. "Now if I were only Six-Feet-Two with a sole-leather Thorax, I could swing the Verdict."

While he was repining, in came a Friend of his Youth, named Jim.

This Jim was a Book-Agent. He was as big as the Side of a House. He had a Voice that sounded as if it came up an Elevator Shaft. When he folded his Arms and looked Solemn, he was a colossal Picture of Power in Repose. He wore a Plug Hat and a large Black Coat. Nature intended him for the U.S. Senate, but used up all the Material early in the Job and failed to stock the Brain Cavity.

Jim had always been at the Foot of the Class in School. At the age of 40 he spelled Sure with an Sh and sank in a Heap when he tried to add 8 and 7. But he was a tall Success as a Book Pedler, because he learned his Piece and the 218 pounds of Dignified Superiority did the Rest.

Wherever he went, he commanded Respect. He could go into a strange Hotel and sit down at the Breakfast Table and say: "Please pass the Syrup" in a Tone that had all the majestic Significance of an Official Utterance. He would sit there in silent Meditation. Those who sized up that elephantine Form and noted the Gravity of his Countenance and the fluted Wrinkles on his high Brow, imagined that he was pondering on the Immortality of the Soul. As a matter of fact, Jim was wondering whether he would take Ham or Bacon with his Eggs.

Jim had the Bulk and the awe-inspiring Front. As long as he held to a Napoleonic Silence he could carry out the Bluff. Little Boys tip-toed when they came near him, and Maiden Ladies sighed for an introduction. Nothing but a Post-Mortem Examination would have shown Jim up in his True Light. The midget Lawyer looked up in Envy at his mastodonic Acquaintance and sighed.

"If I could combine my Intellect with your Horse-Power, I would be the largest Dandelion in the Legal Pasture," he said.

Then a Happy Idea struck him amidships.

"Jim, I want you to be my Associate Counsel," he said. "I understand, of course, that you do not know the difference between a Caveat and a Caviar Sandwich, but as long as you keep your Hair combed the way it is now and wear that Thoughtful Expression, you're just as good as the whole Choate Family. I will introduce you as an Eminent Attorney from the East. I will guard the Law Points and you will sit there and Dismay the Opposition by looking Wise."

So when the Case came up for Trial, the Runt led the august Jim into the Court Room and introduced him as Associate Counsel. A Murmur of Admiration ran throughout the Assemblage when Jim showed his Commanding Figure, a Law Book under his Arm and a look of Heavy Responsibility on his Face. Old Atlas, who carries the Globe on his Shoulders, did not seem to be in it with this grand and gloomy Stranger.

For two hours Jim had been rehearsing his Speech. He arose.

"Your Honor," he began.

At the Sound of that Voice, a scared Silence fell upon the Court Room. It was like the Lower Octave of a Pipe Organ.

"Your Honor," said Jim, "we are ready for Trial."

The musical Rumble filled the Spacious Room and went echoing through the Corridors. The Sound beat out through the Open Windows and checked Traffic in the Street. It sang through the Telegraph Wires and lifted every drooping Flag.

The Jurors turned Pale and began to quiver. Opposing Counsel were as white as a Sheet. Their mute and frightened Faces seemed to ask, "What are we up against?"

Jim sat down and the Trial got under way.

Whenever Jim got his Cue he arose and said, "Your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, I quite agree with my learned Colleague."

Then he would relapse and throw on a Socrates Frown and the Other Side would go all to Pieces. Every time Jim cleared his Throat, you could hear a Pin drop. There was no getting away from the dominating Influence of the Master Mind.

The Jury was out only 10 Minutes. When the Verdict was rendered, the Runt, who had provided everything except the Air Pressure, was nearly trampled under foot in the general Rush to Congratulate the distinguished Attorney from the East. The Little Man gathered up his Books and did the customary Slink, while the False Alarm stood in awful Silence and permitted the Judge and others to shake him by the Hand.

* * * * *

MORAL: An Associate Counsel should weigh at least 200 Pounds.

[The end]

The Advantage Of A Good Thing

Author: George Ade

Once there was a prosperous Manufacturer who had made his Stake by handling an every-day Commodity at a small Margin of Profit.

One Morning the Representative of a large Concern dealing in guaranteed Securities came in to sell him some gilt-edged Municipal Bonds that would net a shade under 5 per cent.

"I'll have to look into the Proposition very carefully," said the Investor, as he tilted himself back in his jointed Chair. "I must have the History of all previous Bond Issues under the same Auspices. Also the Report of an Expert as to possible Shrinkage of Assets. Any Investment should be preceded by a systematic and thorough Investigation."

Having delivered himself of this Signed Editorial he dismissed the Bond Salesman and went back to his Morning Mail.

The next Caller wore a broad Sombrero, leather Leggings, and a Bill Cody Goatee--also the Hair down over the Collar. He looked as if he had just escaped from a Medicine Show. After lowering the Curtains he produced from a Leather Pouch a glistening Nugget which he had found in a lonely Gulch near Death Valley.

The careful Business Guy began to quiver like an Aspen and bought 10,000 shares at $2 a Share on a Personal Guarantee that it would go to Par before Sept. 1st.

MORAL: It all depends on the Bait.

[The end]

Triumph

Author: Samuel Hopkins Adams 

The months go by--bleak March and May-day heat--
Harvest is over--winter well-nigh done--
And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."

MAY PROBYN

The Little Red Doctor sat on the far end of my bench. Snow fringed the bristling curve of his mustache. He shivered.

"Dominie," said he, "it's a wild day."

I assented.

"Dominie," said the Little Red Doctor, "it is no kind of a day for an old man to be sitting on a bench."

I dissented.

"Dominie," persisted the Little Red Doctor, "you can't deny that you're old."

"Whose fault is that but yours?" I retorted.

"Don't try to flatter me," said the Little Red Doctor. "You'd have licked my old friend, Death, in that bout you had with him, without any help of mine. And, anyway, you were already old, then. You're a tough old bird, Dominie. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here in a March blizzard staring at the Worth mansion and wondering what really happened there three years ago."

"Your old friend, Death, beat you that time," said I maliciously.

The Little Red Doctor chose to ignore my taunt. "Look your fill, Dominie," he advised. "You won't have much more chance."

"Why?" I asked, startled.

"The wreckers begin on it next month. Also a nice, new building is going up next door to it on that little, secret, walled jungle that Ely Crouch used to misname his garden. I'm glad of it, too. I don't like anachronisms."

"I'm an anachronism," I returned. "You'll be one pretty soon. Our Square is one solid anachronism."

"It won't be much longer. The tide is undermining us. Other houses will go as the Worth place is going. You'll miss it, Dominie. You love houses as if they were people."

It is true. To me houses are the only fabrications of man's hands that are personalities. Enterprise builds the factory, Greed the tenement, but Love alone builds the house, and by Love alone is it maintained against the city's relentless encroachments. Once hallowed by habitation, what warm and vivid influences impregnate it! Ambition, pride, hope, joys happily shared; suffering, sorrow, and loss bravely endured--the walls outlive them all, gathering with age, from grief and joy alike, kind memories and stanch traditions. Yes, I love the old houses. Yet I should not be sorry to see the Worth mansion razed. It has outlived all the lives that once cherished it and become a dead, unhuman thing.

That solid square of brown, gray-trimmed stone had grown old honorably with the honorable generations of the Worths. Then it had died. In one smiting stroke of tragedy the life had gone out of it. Now it stood staring bleakly out from its corner with filmed eyes, across the busy square. Passing its closed gates daily, I was always sensible of a qualm of the spirit, a daunting prescience that the stilled mansion still harbored the ghost of an unlaid secret.

The Little Red Doctor broke in upon my reverie.

"Yes; you're old, Dominie. But you're not wise. You're very foolish. Foolish and obstinate."

Knowing well what he meant, I nevertheless pampered him by asking: "Why am I foolish and obstinate?"

"Because you refuse to believe that Ned Worth murdered Ely Crouch. Don't you?"

"I do."

"Then why did Ned commit suicide?"

"I don't know."

"How do you explain away his written confession?"

"I don't. I only know that it was not in Ned Worth's character willfully to kill an old man. You were his friend; you ought to know it as well as I do."

"Ah, that's different," said the Little Red Doctor, giving me one of his queer looks. "Yes; you're a pig-headed old man, Dominie."

"I'm a believer in character."

"I don't know of any other man equally pig-headed, except possibly one. He's old, too."

"Gale Sheldon," said I, naming the gentle, withered librarian of a branch library a few blocks to the westward, the only other resident of Our Square who had unfailingly supported me in my loyalty to the memory of the last of the Worths.

"Yes. He's waiting for us now in his rooms. Will you come?"

Perceiving that there was something back of this--there usually is, in the Little Red Doctor's maneuvers--I rose and we set out. As we passed the Worth house it seemed grimmer and bleaker than ever before. There was something savage and desperate in its desolation. The cold curse of abandonment lay upon it. At the turn of the corner the Little Red Doctor said abruptly.

"She's dead."

"Who?" I demanded.

"The girl. The woman in the case."

"In the Ely Crouch case? A woman? There was never any woman hinted at."

"No. And there never would have been as long as she was alive. Now--Well, I'll leave Sheldon to explain her. He loved her, too, in his way."

In Gale Sheldon's big, still room, crowded with the friendly ghosts of mighty books, a clear fire was burning. One shaded lamp at the desk was turned on, for though it was afternoon the blizzard cast a gloom like dusk. The Little Red Doctor retired to a far corner where he was all but merged in the shadows.

"Have you seen this?" Sheldon asked me, pointing to the table.

Thereon was spread strange literature for the scholarly taste of our local book-worm, a section from the most sensational of New York's Sunday newspapers. From the front page, surrounded by a barbarous conglomeration of headlines and uproarious type, there smiled happily forth a face of such appealing loveliness as no journalistic vulgarity could taint or profane. I recognized it at once, as any one must have done who had ever seen the unforgettable original. It was Virginia Kingsley, who, two years before, had been Sheldon's assistant. The picture was labeled, "Death Ends Wanderlust of Mysterious Heiress," and the article was couched in a like style of curiosity-piquing sensationalism. Stripped of its fulsome verbiage, it told of the girl's recent death in Italy, after traveling about Europe with an invalid sister; during which progress, the article gloated, she was "vainly wooed by the Old World's proudest nobility for her beauty and wealth," the latter having been unexpectedly left her by an aged relative. Her inexorable refusals were set down, by the romantic journalist, as due to some secret and prior attachment. (He termed it an "affair de court"!)

Out of the welter of words there stood forth one sentence to tempt the imagination: "She met death as a tryst." For that brief flash the reporter had been lifted out of his bathos and tawdriness into a clearer element. One could well believe that she had "met death as a tryst." For if ever I have beheld unfaltering hope and unflagging courage glorified and spiritualized into unearthly beauty, it was there in that pictured face, fixed by the imperishable magic of the camera.

"No; I hadn't seen it," I said after reading. "Is it true?"

"In part." Then, after a pause, "You knew her, didn't you, Dominie?"

"Only by sight. She had special charge of the poetry alcove, hadn't she?"

"Yes. She belonged there of right. She was the soul and fragrance of all that the singers of springtime and youth have sung." He sighed, shaking his grizzled head mournfully. "'And all that glory now lies dimmed in death.' It doesn't seem believable."

He rose and went to the window. Through the whorls of snow could be vaguely seen the outlines of the Worth house, looming on its corner. He stared at it musing.

"I've often wondered if she cared for him," he murmured.

"For him? For Worth!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Were they friends?"

"Hardly more than acquaintances, I thought. But she left very strangely the day of his death and never came back."

From the physician's corner there came an indeterminate grunt.

"If that is a request for further information, Doctor, I can say that on the few occasions when they met here in the library, it was only in the line of her duties. He was interested in the twentieth-century poets. But even that interest died out. It was months before the--the tragedy that he stopped coming to the Library."

"It was months before the tragedy that he stopped going anywhere, wasn't it?" I asked.

"Yes. Nobody understood it; least of all, his friends. I even heard it hinted that he was suffering from some malady of the brain." He turned inquiringly to the far, dim corner.

Out of it the Little Red Doctor barked: "Death had him by the throat."

"Death? In what form?"

"Slow, sure fingers, shutting off his breath. Do you need further details or will the dry, scientific term, epithelioma, be enough?" The voice came grim out of the gloom. No answer being returned, it continued: "I've had easier jobs than telling Ned Worth. It was hopeless from the first. My old friend, Death, had too long a start on me."

"Was it something that affected his mind?"

"No. His mind was perfectly clear. Vividly clear. May I take my last verdict, when it comes, with a spirit as clear and as noble."

Silence fell, and in the stillness we heard the Little Red Doctor communing with memories. Now and then came a muttered word. "Suicide!" in a snarl of scornful rejection. "Fool-made definitions!" Presently, "Story for a romancer, not a physician." He seemed to be canvassing an inadequacy in himself with dissatisfaction. Then, more clearly: "Love from the first. At a glance, perhaps. The contagion of flame for powder. But in that abyss together they saw each other's soul."

"The Little Red Doctor is turning poet," said Sheldon to me in an incredulous whisper.

There was the snap and crackle of a match from the shadowed corner. The keen, gnarled young face sprang from the darkness, vivid and softened with a strange triumph, then receded behind an imperfect circle, clouded the next instant by a nimbus of smoke. The Little Red Doctor spoke.

Ned Worth was my friend as well as my patient. No need to tell you men, who knew him, why I was fond of him. I don't suppose any one ever came in contact with that fantastic and smiling humanity of his without loving him for it. "Immortal hilarity!" The phrase might have been coined for him.

It wasn't as physician that I went home with Ned, after pronouncing sentence upon him, but as friend. I didn't want him to be alone that first night. Yet I dare say that any one, seeing the two of us, would have thought me the one who had heard his life-limit defined. He was as steady as a rock.

"No danger of my being a miser of life," he said. "You've given me leave to spend freely what's left of it." Well, he spent. Freely and splendidly!

The spacious old library on the second floor--you know it, Dominie, smelt of disuse, as we entered, Ned's servant bringing up the rear with a handbag. Dust had settled down like an army of occupation over everything. The furniture was shrouded in denim. The tall clock in the corner stood voiceless. Three months of desertion will change any house into a tomb. And the Worth mansion was never too cheerful, anyway. Since the others of the family died, Ned hadn't stayed there long enough at a time to humanize it.

Ned's man set down the grip, unstrapped it, took his orders for some late purchases, and left to execute them. I went over to open the two deep-set windows on the farther side of the room. It was a still, close October night, and the late scent of warmed-over earth came up to me out of Ely Crouch's garden next door. From where I stood in the broad embrasure of the south window, I was concealed from the room. But I could see everything through a tiny gap in the hangings. Ned sat at his desk sorting some papers. A sort of stern intentness had settled upon his face, without marring its curious faun-like beauty. I carry the picture in my mind.

"What's become of you, Chris?" he demanded presently. I came out into the main part of the room. "Oh, there you are! You'll look after a few little matters for me, won't you?" He indicated a sheaf of papers.

"You needn't be in such a hurry," said I with illogical resentment. "It isn't going to be to-morrow or next week."

"Isn't it?" Something in his tone made me look at him sharply. "Six months or three months or to-morrow," he added, more lightly; "what does it matter as long as it's sure! You know, what I appreciate is that you gave me the truth straight."

"It's a luxury few of my patients get. Their constitutions won't stand it."

"It's a compliment to my nerve. Strangely enough I don't feel nervous about it."

"I do. Damnably! About something, anyway. There's something wrong with this room, Ned. What is it?"

"Don't you know?" he laughed. "It's the sepulchral silence of Old Grandfather Clock, over there. You're looking right at him and wondering subconsciously why he doesn't make a noise like Time."

"That's easily remedied." Consulting my watch I set and wound the ancient timepiece. Its comfortable iteration made the place at once more livable. Immediately it struck the hour.

"Ten o'clock," I said, and parted the draperies at the lower window to look out again. "Ten o'clock of a still, cloudy night and--and the devil is on a prowl in his garden."

"Meaning my highly respected neighbor and ornament to the local bar, the Honorable Ely Crouch?"

"Exactly. Preceded by a familiar spirit in animal form."

"Oh, that's his pet ferret and boon companion."

"Not his only companion. There's some one with him," I said. "A woman."

"I don't admire her taste in romance," said Ned.

"Nor her discretion. You know what they say: 'A dollar or a woman never safe alone with Ely Crouch.'"

"My dollars certainly weren't," observed Ned.

"How did he ever defend your suit for an accounting?" I asked.

"Heedlessness on my side, a crooked judge on his. Stop spying on my neighbor's flirtations and look here."

I turned and got a shock. The handbag lay open on the desk, surrounded by a respectable-sized fortune in bank-notes.

"Pretty much all that the Honorable Ely has left me," he added.

"Is it enough to go on with, Ned?" I asked.

He smiled at me. "Plenty for my time. You forget."

For the moment I had forgotten. "But what on earth are you going to do with all that ready cash?"

"Carry out a brilliant idea. I conceived it after you had handed down your verdict. Went around to the bank and quietly drew out the lot. I've planned a wild and original orgy. A riot of dissipation in giving. Think of the fun one can have with that much tangible money. Already to-day I've struck one man dumb and reduced another to mental decay, by the simple medium of a thousand-dollar bill. Miracles! Declare a vacation, Chris, and come with me on my secret and jubilant bat, and we'll work wonders."

"And after?" I asked.

"Oh, after! Well, there'll be no further reason for the 'permanent possibility of sensation' on my part. That's your precious science's best definition of life, I believe. It doesn't appeal to one as alluring when the sensation promises to become--well, increasingly unpleasant."

There was no mistaking his meaning. "I can't have that, my son," I protested.

"No? That's a purely professional prejudice of yours. Look at it from my point of view. Am I to wait to be strangled by invisible hands, rather than make an easy and graceful exit? Suicide! The word has no meaning for a man in my condition. If you'll tell me there's a chance, one mere, remote human chance--" He paused, turning to me with what was almost appeal in his glance. How I longed to lie to him! But Ned Worth was the kind that you can't lie to. I looked at him standing there so strong and fine, with all the mirthful zest of living in his veins, sentenced beyond hope, and I thought of those terrible lines of another man under doom:

"I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day."

We medical men learn to throw a protective film over our feelings, like the veil over the eagle's eye. We have to. But I give you my word, I could not trust my voice to answer him.

"You see," he said; "you can't." His hand fell on my arm. "I'm sorry, Chris," he said in that winning voice of his; "I shouldn't plague you for something that you can't give me."

"I can tell you this, anyway," said I: "that it's something less than courage to give up until the time comes. You didn't give your life. You haven't the right to take it; anyway, not until its last usefulness is over."

He made a movement of impatience.

"Oh, I'm not asking you to endure torture. I'd release you myself from that, if it comes to it, in spite of man-made laws. But how can you tell that being alive instead of dead next week or next month may not make an eternal difference to some other life? Your part isn't played out yet. Who are you to say how much good you may yet do before the curtain is rung down?"

"Or how much evil! Well, as a suitable finish, suppose I go down into that garden and kill Ely Crouch," he suggested, smiling. "That would be a beneficial enough act to entitle me to a prompt and peaceful death, wouldn't it?"

"Theoretically sound, but unfortunately impracticable," I answered, relieved at his change of tone.

"I suppose it is." He looked at me, still smiling, but intent. "Chris, what do you believe comes after?"

"Justice."

"A hard word for cowards. What do I believe, I wonder? At any rate, in being sport enough to play the game through. You're right, old hard-shell. I'll stick it out. It will only mean spending _this_"--he swept the money back into its repository--"a little more slowly."

"I was sure I could count on you," I said. "Now I can give you the talisman." I set on the desk before him a small pasteboard box. "Pay strict attention. You see that label? That's to remind you. One tablet if you can't sleep."

"I couldn't last night."

"Two if the pain becomes more than you can stand."

He nodded.

"But three at one time and you'll sleep so sound that nothing will ever awaken you."

"Good old Chris!" Opening the box, he fingered the pellets curiously. "A blessed thing, your science! Three and the sure sleep."

"On trust, Ned."

"On honor," he agreed. "Then I mustn't expunge old Crouch? It's a disappointment," he added gayly.

He pushed the box away from him and crossed over to the upper window. His voice came to me from behind the enshrouding curtains.

"Our friend has finished his promenade. The air is the sweeter for it. I'll stay here and breathe it."

"Good!" said I. "I've five minutes of telephoning to do. Then I'll be back."

Nobody can ever tell me again that there's an instinct which feels the presence of persons unseen. On my way to the door I passed within arm's-length of a creature tense and pulsating with the most desperate emotions. I could have stretched out a hand and touched her as she crouched, hidden in the embrasure of the lower window. It would seem as if the whole atmosphere of the room must have been surcharged with the terrific passion of her newborn and dreadful hopes. And I felt--nothing. No sense, as I brushed by, of the tragic and concentrated force of will which nerved and restrained her. I went on, and out unconscious. Afterward she was unable to tell me how long she had been there. It must have been for some minutes, for what roused her from her stupor of terror was the word "Suicide." It was like an echo, a mockery to her, at first; and then, as she listened with passionate attention to what followed, my instructions about the poison took on the voice of a ministering providence. The draperies had shut off the view of Ned, nor had she recognized his voice, already altered by the encroachments of the disease. But she heard him walk to the upper window, and saw me pass on my way to the telephone, and knew that the moment had come. From what she told me later, and from that to which I was a mazed witness on my return, I piece together the events which so swiftly followed.

A wind had risen outside or Ned might have heard the footsteps sooner. As it was, when he stepped out from behind the draperies of the upper window those of the lower window were still waving, but the swift figure had almost reached the desk. The face was turned from him. Even in that moment of astonishment he noticed that she carried her left arm close to her body, with a curious awkwardness.

"Hello!" he challenged.

She cried out sharply, and covered the remaining distance with a rush. Her hand fell upon the box of pellets. She turned, clutching that little box of desperate hopes to her bosom.

"Good God! Virginia!" he exclaimed. "Miss Kingsley!"

"Mr. Worth! Was it you I heard? Why--how are you here?"

"This is my house."

"I didn't know." Keeping her eyes fixed upon him like a watchful animal, she slowly backed to interpose the table between herself and a possible interference. Her arm, still stiffly pressed to her side, impeded her fumbling efforts to open the box. Presently, however, the cover yielded.

He measured the chances of intervention, and abandoned the hope. His brain hummed with a thousand conjectures, a thousand questions centering upon her obvious and preposterous purpose. Suddenly, as her fingers trembled among the tablets, his thoughts steadied and his stratagem was formed.

"What do you want with my tonic?" he asked coolly.

"Tonic? I--I thought--"

"You thought it was the poison. Well, you've got the wrong box. The poison box is in the drawer."

"In the drawer," she repeated. She spoke in the mechanical voice of one desperately intent upon holding the mind to some vital project. Her nerveless hands fumbled at the side of the desk.

He crossed quickly, caught up the box which she had just relinquished, and dropped it into his pocket.

"Oh!" she moaned, and stared at him with stricken and accusing eyes. "Then it _was_ the poison!"

"Yes."

"Give it back to me!" she implored, like a bereft child. "Oh, give it to me!"

"Why do you want to kill yourself?"

She looked at him in dumb despair.

"How did you get here?" he demanded.

"Your fire escape."

"And to that from the garden wall, I suppose? So _you_ were Ely Crouch's companion," he cried with a changed voice.

"Don't," she shuddered, throwing her right arm over her face.

"I beg your pardon," he said gently. "Take a swallow of this water. What's the matter with your arm? Are you hurt?"

"No." Her eyes would not meet his. They were fixed obstinately upon the pocket into which he had dropped the poison.

"It's incredible!" he burst out. "You with your youth and loveliness! With everything that makes life sweet for yourself and others. What madness--" He broke off and his voice softened into persuasion. "We were almost friends, once. Can't I--won't you let me help? Don't you think you can trust me?"

She raised her eyes to his, and he read in them hopeless terror. "Yes, I could trust you. But there is only one help for me now. And you've taken it from me."

"Who can tell? You've been badly frightened," he said in as soothing a tone as he could command. "Try to believe that no harm can come to you here, and that I--I would give the blood of my heart to save you from harm or danger. You said you could trust me. What was your errand with Ely Crouch?"

"Money."

"Money!" he repeated, drawing back.

"It was our own; my sister's and mine. Mr. Crouch had it. He had managed our affairs since my father's death. I could never get an accounting from him. To-day the doctor told me that Alice must go away at once for an operation. And to-day Mr. Crouch made this appointment for to-night."

"Didn't you know his reputation? Weren't you afraid?"

"I didn't think of fear. When I told him how matters stood, he offered me money, but--but--Oh, I can't tell you!"

"No need," he said quickly. "I know what he is. I was joking when I spoke of killing him, a little while ago. By God, I wish I had killed him! It isn't too late now."

"It _is_ too late."

Her eyes, dilated, were fixed upon his.

"Why? How--too late?" he stammered.

"I killed him."

"_You_! You--killed--Ely--Crouch?"

"He had a cane," she said, in a hurried, flat, half-whisper. "When he caught at me, I tried to get it to defend myself. The handle pulled out. There was a dagger on it. He came at me again. I didn't realize what I was doing. All I could see was that hateful face drawing nearer. Then it changed and he seemed to dissolve into a hideous heap. I didn't mean to kill him." Her voice rose in the struggle against hysteria. "God knows, I didn't mean to kill him."

"Hush!"

His hands fell on her shoulders and held her against the onset. Energy and resolution quickened in his eyes. "Who knows of your being in the garden?"

"No one."

"Any one see you climb the wall and come here?"

"No."

"Or know that you had an appointment with him?"

"No."

"Will you do exactly as I tell you?"

"What is the use?" she said dully.

"I'm going to get you out of here."

"I should have to face it later. I couldn't face it--the horror and shame of it. I'd rather die a thousand times." She lifted her arms, the coat opened, and the cane-handled blade dropped to the floor, and rolled. She shuddered away from it. "I kept that for myself, but I couldn't do it. It's got his blood on it. When I heard the doctor speak of the poison, it seemed like a miracle of Providence sent to guide me. Oh, give it to me! Is it"--she faltered--"is it quick?"

"Steady!" Stooping he picked up the weapon. "It needn't come to that, if you can play your part. Have you got the courage to walk out of this house and go home to safety? Absolute safety!"

She searched his face in bewilderment. "I--don't know."

"If I give you my word of honor that it depends only on yourself?"

"How?"

"Pull yourself together. Go downstairs quietly. Turn to your left. You'll see a door. It opens on the street. Walk out with your head up, and go home. You're as safe as though you'd never seen Ely Crouch. There's no clue to you."

"No clue! Look down the fire escape!"

He crossed the room at a bound. Beneath him, its evil snout pointed upwards, sat the dead man's familiar spirit.

"Good God! The ferret!"

"It's been sitting there, watching, watching, watching."

"The more reason for haste. Pull yourself together. Forward, _march_!" he cried, pressing his will upon her.

"But you? When they come what will you say to them?"

"I'll fix up something." He drew back from the window, lowering his voice. "Men in the garden. A policeman."

"They've found him!" She fell into Ned's chair, dropping her head in her hands. For an instant he studied her. Then he took his great and tender resolution. His hand fell warm and firm on her shoulder.

"Listen; suppose they suspect some one else?"

"Who?"

"Me."

"You? Why should they?"

"Circumstances. The place. The weapon here in my possession. My known trouble with Ely Crouch. Don't you see how it all fits in?"

She recovered from the stupor of surprise into which his suggestion had plunged her. "Are you mad? Do you think that I'd let you sacrifice yourself? What am I to you that you should do this for me?"

"The woman I love," he said quietly. "I have loved you from the first day that I saw you."

It was at this moment that I returned and halted at the door, an unwilling witness to the rest, only half understanding, not daring to move. I saw the splendid color mount and glorify her beauty. I saw her hands go out to him half in appeal, half in rejection.

"Oh, it's madness!" she cried. "It's your life you're offering me."

"What else should I offer you--you who have given life its real meaning for me?"

He caught her hands in his and held them. He caught her eyes in his and held them. Then he began speaking, evenly, soothingly, persuasively, binding her to his will.

"What does my life amount to? Think how little it means. A few more weeks of waiting. Then the suffering: then the release. You heard Dr. Smith. You know. You understand. Didn't you understand?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Then you must see what a splendid way out this is for me. No more waiting. No pain. Death never came to any one so kindly before. It's my chance, if only you'll make it worth while. Will you?" he pleaded.

"Oh, the wonder of it!" she whispered, gazing on him with parted lips. But he did not understand, yet. He pressed what he thought to be his advantage.

"Here," he cried, suddenly dropping her hands and catching up the bills from the valise. "Here's safety. Here's life. For you and your sister, both. You spoke of Providence a moment ago. Here's Providence for you! Quick! Take it."

"What is it?" she asked, drawing away as he sought to thrust the money into her hands.

"Twenty thousand dollars. More. It doesn't matter. It's life for both of you. Have you the right to refuse it? Take it and go."

She let the bank-notes fall from her hands unnoticed.

"Do you think I would leave you _now_?" she cried in a voice of thrilled music. "Even if they weren't sure to trace me, as they would be."

This last she uttered as an unimportant matter dismissed with indifference.

"There will be nothing to trace. My confession will cover the ground."

"Confession? To what?"

"To the murder of Ely Crouch."

Some sort of sound I was conscious of making. I suppose I gasped. But they were too engrossed to hear.

"You would do even that? But the penalty--the shame--"

"What do they matter to a dying man?" he retorted impatiently.

She had fallen back from him, in the shock of his suggestion, but now she came forward again slowly, her glorious eyes fixed on his. So they stood face to face, soul to soul, deep answering unto deep, and, as I sit here speaking, I saw the wonder and the miracle flower in her face. When she spoke again, her words seemed the inevitable expression of that which had passed silently between them.

"Do you love me?"

"Before God I do," he answered.

"Take me away! There's time yet. I'll go with you anywhere, anywhere! I'm all yours. I've loved you from the first, I think, as you have loved me. All I ask is to live for you, and when you die, to die with you."

Fire flashed from his face at the call. He took a step toward her. A shout, half-muffled, sounded from outside the window. Instantly the light and passion died in his eyes. I have never seen a face at once so stern and so gentle as his was when he caught the outreaching hands in his own.

"You forget that they must find one of us, or it's all no use. Listen carefully, dear one. If you truly love me, you must do as I bid you. Give me my chance of fooling fate; of making my death worth while. It won't be hard." He took the little box from his pocket. "It will be very easy."

"Give it to me, too," she pleaded like a child. "Ah, Ned, we can't part now! Both of us together."

He shook his head, smiling. The man's face was as beautiful as a god's at that moment or an angel's. "You must go back to your sister," he said simply. "You haven't the right to die."

He turned to the table, drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote four words. You all know what they were; his confession. Then his hand went up, a swift movement, and a moment later he was setting back the glass of water upon the desk whence he had taken it.

"Love and glory of my life, will you go?" he said.

"Yes," she whispered.

Not until then did the paralysis, which had gripped me when I saw Ned turn the pellets into his hand, relax. I ran forward. The girl cried out. Ned met me with his hand against my breast.

"How much have you heard?" he said quickly.

"Enough."

"Then you'll understand." His faith was more irresistible than a thousand arguments. "Take her home, Chris."

I held out my hand. "Come," I said.

She turned and faced him. "Must I? Alone?" What a depth of desolation in that word!

"There is no other way, dearest one."

"Good-bye, then, until we meet," she said in the passionate music of her voice. "Every beat of my heart will bring me nearer to you. There will be no other life for me. Soon or late I'll come to you. You believe it. Say you believe it!"

"I believe it." He bent and kissed her lips. Then his form slackened away from the arms that clasped it, and sank into the chair. A policeman's whistle shrilled outside the window. The faintest flicker of a smile passed over the face of the sleeper.

I took her away, still with that unearthly ecstasy on her face.

* * * * *

The glow of the narrator's cigar waxed, a pin-point of light in a world of dimness and mystery. Subdued breathing made our silence rhythmic. When I found my voice, it was hardly more than a whisper.

"Good God! What a tragedy!"

"Tragedy? You think it so?" The Little Red Doctor's gnarled face gleamed strangely behind the tiny radiance. "Dominie, you have a queer notion of this life and little faith in the next."

"'She met death as a tryst,'" murmured the old librarian. "And he! 'Trailing clouds of glory!' The triumph of that victory over fate! One would like to have seen the meeting between them, after the waiting."

The Little Red Doctor rose. "When some brutal and needless tragedy of the sort that we medical men witness so often shakes my faith in my kind, I turn to think of those two in the splendor of their last meeting on earth, the man with the courage to face death, the woman with the courage to face life."

He strode over to the table and lifted the newspaper, which had slipped to the floor unnoticed. The girlish face turned toward us its irresistible appeal, yearning out from amidst the lurid indignities of print.

"You heard from her afterward?" I asked.

"Often. The sister died and left her nothing to live for but her promise. Always in her letters sounded the note of courage and of waiting. It was in the last word I had from her--received since her death--set to the song of some poet, I don't know who. You ought to know, Mr. Sheldon."

His deep voice rose to the rhythm.

"Ah, long-delayed to-morrow! Hearts that beat
Measure the length of every moment gone.
Ever the suns rise tardily or fleet
And light the letters on a churchyard stone.--
And still I say, 'To-morrow we shall meet!'"

"May Probyn," the librarian identified. "Too few people know her. A wonderful poem!"

Silence fell again, folding us and our thoughts in its kindly refuge. Rising, I crossed to the window and drew the curtain aside. A surging wind had swept the sky clear, all but one bank of low-lurking, western cloud shot through with naming crimson. In that luminous setting the ancient house across Our Square, grim and bleak no longer to my eyes, gleamed, through eyes again come to life, with an inconceivable glory. Behind me in the shadow, the measured voice of the witness to life and death repeated once more the message of imperishable hope:

"And still I say, 'To-morrow we shall meet.'"

[The end]